Archive of Our Own

Steve Randle liked to think he was grateful for what he’s got. He made decent money part-time at the DX, a gig that also guaranteed him a free lunch when he worked on weekends and a Pepsi when the heat got its claws into him, and he went to a school where he could sprawl out on the bleachers with his buddies during free periods. He carried a knife that kept socs off his back just as well as it peeled apples, and when the blade failed to take care of threats, he had friends who’d throw a punch by his side.

Speaking of friends, Steve had Sodapop Curtis in his life, easy-going and bright, not just a friend but a best friend. He had a girlfriend, Evie, who he dug with just as much fervor, and Fridays were good trouble between his car, his girl, and his partner-in-crime. 

So it didn’t matter that his old man beat on him. So it didn’t matter his mom had walked out when he was a kid, leaving him in a scuffed-up trailer with a man who took his anger out on his face, and it didn’t matter that he was always one bruise away from being a plum, because at least sometimes he had the trailer to sleep in. And even when he didn’t have that, Jack Randle taking things too far with a broken bottle and jagged words, he had the Curtis house, their couch, their fridge. He was grateful, really, he was. 

Wanting more was a quiet passion, and it was irrelevant. Dreaming of having an apartment with Soda after high school, putting a ring on Evie’s finger, opening his own garage, putting his fist through Jack’s teeth– he didn’t say any of it out loud. He’d work, and he’d be okay with what he got.

Steve Randle had known Ponyboy Curtis since the brat was four years old. The first day Soda had dragged him to the Curtis house after school, Ponyboy had been there, hiding behind the skirts of Mrs. Curtis while she did the dishes. Soda had run up and grabbed him, swinging him around and around until the younger boy was squealing in delight. Steve didn’t hate the kid– at least, not right away. 

It didn’t take long for Steve to understand the domestic weave of the Curtis Household. Mr. Curtis was the witty provider, his humor inherited by Sodapop, while Mrs. Curtis was the stabilizing head, her direction best followed by Darry– and of the brothers, Darry was in all respects the eldest, Soda was the glue, and Ponyboy? In Steve’s eyes, Ponyboy was Soda’s shadow. 

Wherever they went, Pony had to be there, too. Steve’s only solace was that the kid stayed relatively quiet unless spoken to directly, but unfortunately, Soda always had something to tell him. As they grew, being the third player in their game of Battleship morphed into being the tagalong to the rodeo or the malt shop– and even then, Steve would tease and snark and bemoan his presence, but it never had any heat.

The brat had gotten him into pockets of trouble throughout the years. Once, Steve had slugged him in the arm when a Volkswagen Beetle drove by, and the kid cried so hard that Mrs. Curtis came running into the yard. Steve remembered his fear that he was going to lose the one good thing going in his life at age ten, but Mrs. Curtis had only asked that he play a little nicer, please. 

On a separate occasion, Steve had accidentally tripped Ponyboy down the porch steps while he and Soda were sneaking out to the rodeo. His teeth went through his bottom lip, and his nose was gushing crimson (Steve knew it wasn’t broken, and if anyone could tell, it would be him) and though he tried to apologize, neither brother would have it. They didn’t go to the rodeo, and it took Soda three days to talk to him again– the longest they’d ever gone without speaking.

Even then: Steve didn’t hate Ponyboy. But he couldn’t deny that, in some measure, he resented him.

Ponyboy didn’t understand how good he had it. It wasn’t just his brothers looking out for him– it was everyone. He won over Dallas Winston, a feat that had taken Steve months of heated interactions, slowly smoothing out the tension with sandpaper until fist fights became nothing more than sly remarks at the other’s expense. He was always going to have Soda, even if he worried his brother into greying prematurely, and Darry would want him no matter how bitter he became, no matter how outrageous and ungrateful he acted. 

Steve tried not to let the kid’s attitude get to him. He was sure it was harder to be an orphan, to know the unconditional love of a parent and lose it, than it was to live with someone who never even cared at all. But damn it, he sure made it difficult sometimes.

Ponyboy got under his skin in a way even Two-Bit failed to do with all his jokes and barbs, simply by rolling his eyes when Darry told him to do his homework. By scowling when he was told he couldn’t go to the movies. By complaining that Darry was pushing him. Steve could not understand what was so vexing about being wanted. 

So when there were days when he’d taken a stray hook from Jack and wanted nothing more than to shoot the shit with Soda and drive until he could stomach living in Tulsa for one second longer, and Soda couldn’t be there for him because Pony was having trouble sleeping, or Pony pitched a fit about god only knows what, or Pony, Pony, Pony– well, Steve was grateful for his life until he was jealous. Yeah, he couldn’t help but resent Ponyboy, just a little.

It didn’t mean he didn’t love him, not that he’d ever say that part aloud.

Thursday evening rolled around, and Steve found himself icing his jaw, sitting in the Curtis family kitchen, and wondering where Jack got off on throwing him around all the time. He found out about Evie– and even though Jack didn’t give a shit about him, he suddenly cared a hell of a lot about the fact he was dating a Black girl. Steve usually didn’t throw punches back at his father. He didn’t find it worth it to argue a point that Jack would only drink and piss out in his memory. 

But no one disrespected Evie and got away with it. 

He moved the bag of peas to his knuckles, trying to soothe the ache he’d felt a hundred times before. There was always something a little satisfying about the aftermath of a fight, the way it left his skin tingling in the places he’d been able to deal the damage by his own hand. His nose was crooked, and he didn’t mind, not when it was proof of what he could withstand in order to keep punching. Evie didn’t mind, either, and that mattered more.

Darry was at work, his second job, and Soda was putting in a couple extra hours at the DX, saving up some change for Pony’s birthday. The kid was going to be fifteen, and at that moment he was probably at the library, even though he was on summer break. Steve thought fifteen was an age where he should quit whining, but he reminded himself about the whole orphan thing. 

The phone rang, and Steve let out a groan. He didn’t have to answer, could have let it ring out and let the brothers know that someone had been trying to reach them, but he got up and decided he was family enough to take a message. He picked up the phone.

“Curtis residence,” Steve started, but the voice on the other end spoke immediately.

“Soda? Hey, I need a ride home from the movie house– I was just gonna walk but…”

“It ain’t Soda,” Steve interrupted, leaning against the wood paneling with a raised forearm. To his knowledge, the kid never asked for rides, either too forgetful or too prideful to call home. It drove Darry up the wall.

“Steve?” Pony sounded surprised, if not disappointed. “Is anyone home?”

“If by anyone you mean me,” Steve huffed, “cause it’s just me.”

“Oh.” Pony was silent for a moment, and Steve’s eyes roamed the kitchen, looking for his car keys. “Nevermind then. I’ll walk, I’ll be there soon–”

“No the hell you’re not,” Steve snapped, more bite than he had meant. “I mean, stay there. I’m coming to get you.”

“You really don’t hafta–”

“Stay!”

Steve hung up before the kid could argue any further. He didn’t care if Ponyboy didn’t want Steve to be the one to pick him up. He was never going to leave Sodapop’s little brother hanging. Besides, Steve knew both brothers would deal him a far worse turn than his old man if Pony got hurt walking back by himself and he had the means to stop it.

He tossed the bag of peas back in the freezer, shifting his jaw around with two fingers to make sure it wasn’t getting too stiff. He hated lockjaw, and if he didn’t take care to move the bones around the joints, he was sure a bruised face would be the least of his worries. 

Steve snatched his keys off of the table and launched himself from the porch steps, barely sticking the landing on the dirt coming out of his front flip. He knew he wasn’t particularly graceful, or lucky, and skill was something he saved for the garage, but for a few seconds, he could fly. Darry had taught him to fly. Darry would teach Ponyboy, too, if he wasn’t so damn stubborn.

Jack Randle’s 1956 Ford Mustang roared to life with the first turn of the key, royal blue after a fresh paint at the DX, and by all rights, entirely Steve’s. The car had been on cinder blocks his whole life, left to the elements and trailer park dirt, and Steve watched through the years as most every usable piece was scrapped or stolen. He was the one to go down to the junkyard and find new tires, he was the one who borrowed the DX tow truck to drag it over and keep it in the lot until he could save up enough to fix it. 

He didn’t ask for anyone’s help or charity, not even Soda’s. And after hours and hours of aches, pains, bruises and motor oil, Steve had a running car, and she was a beauty of a thing. Evie didn’t like that Steve called the car a ‘she’, said it felt like she had to compete with a car for his attention. She didn’t complain as much when Steve introduced her to the improvements he had made to the backseat.

The drive to the movie house wasn’t long– what made the walk treacherous was the one-block radius where you had to cross from West to East. You could choose to take the bridge, subject yourself to the thin road where socs loved to hunt for trouble, or the rail yard, which wasn’t the easiest terrain to run across if you were being chased. That wasn’t to mention the number of alleys a guy could get forced into if a car was coming at you fast enough. Yes, driving through the West really was the only way to get around without incident.

Pony needs to learn that.

Steve pulled up across the street from the moviehouse and laid on his horn, two long, one short. The kid had come up with the honking as a signal, like the Shepard outfit’s whistle, but Pony said it should be based on the taps used in Morse code. Steve thought the idea was unnecessarily complicated, and Darry had put his foot down partially when Pony insisted they spell out whole words.

“Too much honking. You want my tires to get slashed?” Steve argued, and so they had cut Pony’s GO signal in half to just the “G”- dash, dash, dot. Long, long, short. 

Ponyboy popped his head out of the theater before slouching over in his purple hoodie, walking casually across the street like he didn’t have a concern in the world.

Steve rolled his eyes. The kid wasn’t fooling anyone, even with the extra couple inches he’d sprouted up and the unmistakable shine of grease in his hair. There was still something about him that screamed I hold the door open for old ladies. Didn’t matter that Steve did that more than Pony did– innocence clung to him in a way it hadn’t for Steve. He was dirty, and he knew it. 

And he was grateful–

“Yo,” Pony greeted as he hopped into the front seat. He didn’t look at Steve.

Steve flexed his jaw and felt something pop. Kid had a way of getting on his nerves that defied logic. “‘Yo?’ How ‘bout thank you? How ‘bout ‘golly, Steve, thanks for wastin’ gas to come and get me.’”

Ponyboy’s signature scowl appeared, and he reached for the car door handle. “I told you not to bother–”

“Whatever,” Steve barked, tearing away from the curb and pulling off a U-turn which Darry would have hated to see executed with Pony in the car. 

He didn’t know if Darry meant to do it, but he treated the kid a little too much like porcelain sometimes. Steve thought it had more to do with the State breathing down their neck than anything, but then Darry would get worked up about Soda taking him to the rodeo, or Steve driving to school too fast. Steve had to bite back, do you think the State’s got people waiting for him at the rodeo? Watching your street?

He held his tongue because if someone gave him custody of a younger version of himself, he wouldn’t have lasted a month. Darry had been parenting for over a year now– something was working, clearly, and it maybe it was his constant anxiety and vigilance. 

But revving the engine and causing a smidge of drama on the road by straddling the lanes put a small smile on the otherwise sullen boy’s face, and Steve decided to ignore his attitude.

“Who’d you pick a fight with?” Ponyboy asked about a minute into the drive. They were passing a malt shop, and Steve could have killed for a vanilla shake right about then. He could have gone the rest of his life without talking about his father.

“Why do you think I hadda pick a fight with someone to get this?” Steve challenged.

“I sure didn’t think you asked politely,” Ponyboy replied, forever gunning to be the number one smart aleck.

“Don’t make me drop you on the street,” Steve warned, “don’t think I won’t.”

“You won’t,” Pony remarked brightly, turning his head to look out the window. Steve needed to think of some threats he wouldn’t hesitate to follow through on, lest the kid get too comfortable mouthing off. 

I think it may be too late for that, though.

“Yeah, well, then act like I won’t and put on your seatbelt,” Steve jerked his thumb at the belt he was wearing, and while he expected Pony to roll his eyes, the kid just got quiet and yanked it over himself right quick. Steve almost snarked at him about it until he remembered how Pony refused to sit shotgun for months after the Curtis parents’ death. He more than likely just forgot to put it on and was spooked by his own failure to prepare.

“Why wasn’t Soda home? Didn’t think he had to work evenings anymore,” Pony asked, voice tight. 

Steve didn’t want to ruin Soda’s surprise, so he said, “He didn’t want to spend too much longer at home with your ugly mug.”

“Ain’t got room to talk to me ‘bout ugly,” Pony spit back, and Steve saw him tapping on his jaw out of the corner of his eye.

“Least I can fight,” Steve taunted, his foot getting more ambitious on the gas pedal as he got revved up, “What were you so scared of that you needed to call for a ride?”

“I ain’t scared of nothing!” Pony hollered, his arms crossing over his chest. “Darry told me to call, so I called.”

Steve ran his tongue over his teeth. His mom had been nineteen when she gave birth to Steve, and twenty-three when she ran off, pregnant again. Somewhere out there, he had a mom and a little sibling. He tried to imagine what he would have done had the kid pushed his buttons as much as Pony did.

“Right, ‘cause you always listen to Darry. He’s always braggin’ ‘bout your A’s, but if I had to grade you in using your head–”

“Least I get A’s!”

“You don’t know a damn thing ‘bout my grades!”

“Sure, an A+ in being a lousy greaser with a–”

“We use the same pomade, you–”

“Well I– Steve, pull over! Pull over!”

Steve slammed on the brakes, throwing both of them toward the dash at a too-fast velocity which would have cleaned both their clocks had they not been wearing seatbelts.

“What, what!” Steve cried, rubbing at his chest. Pony was already clicking out of his belt and clambering out of the Mustang. “Ponyboy!”

What did I say? Did I take it too far? Soda’s gonna kill me, and Darry, glory, if he gets hurt–

“Ponyboy, wait, dammit!” Steve curbed his car and jumped out, chasing after Pony. “Pony!”

Ponyboy, trackstar that he was, ran leagues ahead of the other boy before he turned into an alleyway a few stores down, and Steve pressed on, turning the corner right after him.

“Pony, I–”

“Steve, quiet, you gotta talk calm,” Pony hushed him immediately, and Steve wanted to grab his shoulders and shake the crazy out of his head and then slug him one for making him crazy and probably burning rubber off his tires with that sudden stop but Pony grabbed his arm first, and yanked them both into a crouch.

“It’s okay, boy, he looks mean but he won’t hurt ya,” Pony cooed, and Steve finally had the good sense to look up and see a damn dog cowering in the alley just ahead of them.

He whipped his head to the left, incredulity and fury dueling within him. “A dog? You almost made me crash over some street mutt?”

“Don’t mind him, he’s all bark and no bite,” Pony addressed the dog again, before cocking his head at Steve, “He’s hurt, man, look at him.”

Steve grumbled but focused on the dog in front of them. Black and white, medium sized, with long, tangled fur that especially clumped up around its pointed ears. Steve couldn’t tell if the brown patches were natural or layers of dried mud adding their own colorations to its coat. He considered it even more carefully, and Pony was right, a large slash cut through the thing’s muzzle, just above the nose, and between the way it was holding its front paw up and the blood on its hindleg, Steve’s sourness eased a few degrees.

“Okay, so it’s hurt– doesn’t mean we should hurt ourselves tryna get to it!” Steve hissed, keeping his voice down. The dog was frozen in place but trembling, tail tucked between its legs. He noticed if he swung his arm out too far in exasperation, the dog’s teeth would flash through its gums and its ears would flatten. He tried to keep his hands to himself.

“You didn’t hafta break like that, I just told you to pull over,” Pony whispered, eyes searching for something in the dog’s scared face.

“Yeah, screamed it like the devil was chasin’ us. How’d you think I’d react to that?”

“Sorry, boy, he’s not known for his charity,” Pony told the dog, ignoring Steve.

“I’ll show you charity–” 

The dog barked as Pony took a step closer, and Steve stiffened. A hurt dog was dangerous, a kicked thing that only knew how to bite because that was all it was taught to do. Steve could picture the dog lunging– Pony’s throat pulled out by fangs, or his face disfigured by a puncturing snap and savage lunge and Steve stuck his arm out, stopping Pony from advancing.

“Ponyboy, I know you wanna help, but think for a second. Dog’s wild, hurt. It don’t know you from Adam.”

“He’s in pain, Steve. And he’s really scared, like when Duke…” Pony got lower, and the dog followed him with his brown eyes.

Steve remembered Duke, the Curtis family’s old yellow cur dog. He was an aging thing by the time Steve was around enough to really get to know him, but he was a tolerant dog who did not mind Pony clinging to him or following him around the yard. Steve vaguely recalled a summer afternoon where they had all been playing cowboys, and Ponyboy made Duke his horse.

Steve also remembered the day Duke got hit by a car right out on their street.

“Duke was a docile housepet. We don’t know this dog, Pony, it could have like, rabies, or something.” Steve pleaded with Pony to understand, but he knew he wasn’t beneath throwing the kid over his shoulder and dragging him back to the car if he wouldn’t hear reason.

“Everyone wants help when they’re hurt and scared.” Pony edged a little closer, pushing through Steve’s arm barricade.

“Not everyone, Pone,” Steve argued. The kid wasn’t listening. He was talking to the dog again.

“Hey, little buddy. My name’s Ponyboy, this here is Steve. I noticed you got some hurts that need tending to, and I was wondering if we could tend to them,” Pony showed his hands, “I ain’t got nothing to hurt ya with. I just wanna help.” He spoke softly, he moved slowly, and Steve watched as he inched step by step toward the snarling beast– he kept telling himself he could move fast enough, if he had to. He could stop something bad from happening.

But a minute ticked by, then two and three, and Pony eased ever carefully to the dog with his reassurances until he was right there, and Steve’s muscles were bunched like springs ready to fly over, and–

The dog was licking Pony’s hand.

“Here, that’s a good boy, nice boy, thank you,” Pony clucked at it, and he dropped fully to his knees to scratch at the dog’s head. The dog, tired from its running and hurting, laid down and seemed to soak up the positive attention Pony was giving it, with Pony scritching his fingers all over its coat.

“Christ almighty,” Steve muttered, deflating a little himself. He was still drained from his fight with Jack, and from spending too much time worrying about the thoughtless kid in front of him. 

“Steve, come here and give him a pet so he knows you’re okay,” Pony instructed, and Steve figured the kid would leave faster if he complied, so he made his way over. 

He tried to move like Pony did, but he was clunkier, less delicate, and he ended up crossing the last few strides on his knees. “Hey, pup.” 

The dog sniffed at him, and Steve wondered if it would snarl again or deem him otherwise offensive or hostile, but it dropped its nose, head braced against the concrete.

“Do I just–” Steve’s hand hovered over the dog’s ears, and Pony nodded at him, so Steve sunk his hand into its fur. “Oh, he’s soft.”

“Yeah, head’s harder to get matted,” Pony informed him, and Steve snorted. Obviously.

Emboldened by the dog’s acceptance of him, Steve started to prod around the areas where he could see injuries. Pony was already dabbing the bottom of his shirt around the muzzle gash, so Steve moved like he would around a horse and began inspecting the bloody fur around his flank.

The wound was harder to get to, and he had to stop everytime the dog flinched, but to Steve it looked less like a wild animal got to the thing and more like a knife had been taken to his flesh.

“Someone did this,” Steve announced, holding his front paw and noting the slice carving up the dog’s leg.

“Yeah,” Pony agreed, sounding somber. Then his face flickered, hardening before Steve’s eyes. “Who the hell would do something like this?”

“You could guess for hours ‘n still be wrong, Pone. Kid’s get jumped all the time in this city, you think a dog’s safe?” 

Pony shook his head. “Just not fair. He didn’t do nothin’.”

Steve didn’t know how to handle a wounded dog and an upset Ponyboy– hell, he barely knew how to deal with either on their own– and he rose to his feet, brushing off dust.

“I don’t know what to tell ya. That’s just how it is. Now, what are we gonna do about…” Steve trailed off as Pony looked up at him expectantly. “No. Ahhh, no. No, I know what you’re thinking and he is not going in my car.”

“Steve, c’mon, we can’t just leave him here!”

“Dog’s gonna stink up my seats, and get blood everywhere– and drool, cause dogs can’t keep their damn mouths shut– and I’m not gonna have that.”

“Man, I’ll put my hoodie down, and I’ll hold him in the back and we just gotta get over the bridge ‘n we’ll practically be home. Don’t be heartless.”

“I ain’t heartless!” Steve crowed, banging on his chest. “Ponyboy, he’s a dog. They’re scrappy, he’ll be fine.”

Pony’s pleading eyes narrowed, and Steve knew he was getting ready to say something calculated and cruel and Steve would have no choice but to give into that ugly instinct he had to escalate it until they were brawling it out in the alleyway in front of some hurt dog. Pony opened his mouth, but he didn’t get the chance to speak.

The dog was growling; he just wasn’t looking at Pony or Steve.

“Well, what do we have here?” 

Both boys swiveled to face the newcomer, and a smartly dressed boy in a green madras shirt and slacks greeted their eyes at the maw of the alleyway. 

“Oh, great,” Steve groaned. He might have guessed a bored soc would be the one to go after a dog. “Y’know, if you’re that aimless without school in the summer, you could try the friggin’ pool.”

The soc laughed, and he shoved his hands into his pockets. It was hard to see his face, shadowed as he was by the buildings they were nestled between, brick walls blocking the start of a sunset. Pony was oddly quiet next to him.

“You’re one to talk, grease. Like you don’t get your kicks from brawling just as much as any of us,” the guy advanced, tapping on his jaw. Steve was tired of people assuming shit about him because of his face. 

Even if it was true.

“Tough talk for a guy coming into an alleyway without any back-up.” Steve shifted his feet, readying himself to throw a punch. Next to him, Pony drew up to his full height, a few inches shy of Steve. It wouldn’t be long before Ponyboy got taller than him.

“Who said I didn’t have back-up?” The guy turned his head and yelled down the street. “Found a few more mutts!”

Within seconds, three more socs made their way to the alleyway and clustered around the entrance. Steve felt his stomach sink. They were boxed in.

Steve tried to do some quick math. Socs were ill-matched fighters on a good day, so long as you weren’t being jumped and could anticipate the punches. Steve reckoned he could take out two, no problem. He didn’t know about Ponyboy.

The kid hadn’t fought anyone to his knowledge since the last time they had a rumble, and even then, he’d paired up with Johnny and tag teamed their way through the fight. He’d never fought with Ponyboy without Soda or Darry also being at their backs, and they never let Pony get clobbered if they could help it.

He didn’t like the odds. He didn’t like that this was going to end badly on his watch, and there was only one thing he could think to do with the socs advancing like they were.

“Pony,” he said lowly, “I’m gonna draw them to me, and you’re gonna book it for help, savvy?”

Pony didn’t say anything. Steve felt himself growing frantic, thinking Pony was retreating into that weird space in his head where no one else was invited. He jostled the kid with his elbow. “Pony!”

Pony sucked in a breath next to him.

“Which one of you cut up the dog?”

Steve looked sideways at the kid, surprised by the edge in his voice. He sounded… older. His shoulders were slouched, jaw set and eyes forward.

“What?” One of the socs laughed, and Steve recognized him from his chemistry class. He had needed the teacher’s help getting the bunsen burner to work. What a joke.

“Which one of you pieces of trash,” Pony reiterated, clipped words like he wasn’t sure they spoke English or not, “hurt this dog?”

The guy in the green shirt smirked, shrugging his shoulders. “What about it? I’m about to do a lot worse to you.”

The socs were only a few yards away, and Steve was quickly losing his window to get Pony out of there. Behind them, the dog was standing and snarling and doing a pretty alright job of pretending like he hadn’t just been bleeding out on the ground getting coddled.

“Okay,” Pony said simply.

There were two hits Steve was aware of before all hell broke loose. One, Ponyboy lunging across the divide and sending a fist that cracked into Green Shirt’s cheek. Two, Steve’s jaw hitting the floor because no way Ponyboy Curtis threw the first punch before him.

Then the fight was on. Steve approached the group, trying to come off as the bigger threat, while Ponyboy ducked under the responding swing from his mark. Steve didn’t think to pull punches– this wasn’t a brawl so much as a threat to both of their lives. Steve could see it in that guy’s eyes the closer he got to them: he didn’t care about pain, neither the kind he caused nor the kind he felt himself.

Steve decked a boy with curly brown hair, fist striking that soft part of the skull between the eyebrows, and the guy stumbled back, falling ass first onto the concrete. Steve had no time to remark on his weakness, because lackey #2 was upon him, and he had the good sense to avoid Steve’s right hook. He advanced, narrowly missing the jab sent for his nose– not the nose, not the damn nose– and plowed into the guy’s stomach with a breath-stealing hit. The soc curled over the impact, and Steve didn’t waste a second sending his knee up to greet his lowered face, pushing him further away from his friends.

A kick to the back of his knee had him stumbling, and he wasn’t able to block the hit directed to his chest as he whirled around to face the next opponent. The guy he had clocked straight to the ground was looking at him with a bleeding nose and a quickly forming bruise across his forehead. Steve spat onto the concrete, goading the soc into advancing.

The idiot let out a shout as he went to take Steve with a wild swing– sloppy in form and force, Steve thought this kid had never seen a fight in his life– and Steve stepped out of the way before laying him out with a haymaker to the side of his head.

The second guy was climbing back to his feet, but Steve looked around for Pony, and spotted him trying to hold off the two other guys. He was still on his feet, though his eye was swelling up and his lip was bleeding something fierce. Steve knew Ponyboy could fight when he had to, that opening punch proving his will, but they had him in the corner and it wasn’t looking good. The damn dog was there too, biting at Green Shirt’s ankles.

“Get back, bitch!” The soc roared, kicking the dog with a stiff leg that sent it skittering across the ground.

“Hey asshole!” Pony shouted, seconds before tackling him onto the pavement in a display of strength which would have made Darry’s eyes water with pride. Steve wanted to help, but his mark was advancing again, and Steve had to focus on making sure he stayed down so he could get over there. It didn’t take much with the other boy so winded from his last strikes, and though Steve took another jab to the jaw and ran the dictionary’s list of swears out of his mouth from the pain, Steve brought his KO count to 2.

“Steve!” Pony cried from over his shoulder, and Steve nearly twisted his ankle booking it to the back of the alley. Green Shirt was off the ground and pile-driving his fists into Pony’s stomach as the other lackey held Pony up from under his arms, back braced against the brick. Pain faded into fuel, everything in his vision narrowed to that lousy monster and his heavy hands and Steve snapped his leg up in a high kick that sent his foot into the soc’s teeth, getting him off of Pony.

“You alright?” Steve asked, panting from exertion. The guy holding Pony dropped him, readying his fists to take on Steve, and Pony caught himself along the wall, wrapping an arm around his stomach.

“Ugh, yeah,” Pony coughed out, stomping his foot so that it crushed the soc’s toes. The soc howled and went to lunge at Pony, but Steve slammed him into the wall, bashing his head against the brick for good measure. He crumpled.

Steve grinned, feral and sharp with his crooked teeth. Whole lotta socs gonna be walking around with concussions this summer. 

The sound of metal popping came from behind him, and Steve saw Pony’s one good eye widen.

“Knife!” He alerted, and Steve turned fast on his heel to witness Green Shirt advancing on them with a switchblade grasped in his fist, dark eyes twitching as he scanned between Ponyboy and Steve, like he couldn’t decide who deserved to be cut first.

“Greasy trash like you are no better than dogs,” he muttered, and Steve was happy to see he was missing a front tooth, “I got no problem sticking either of you.”

“You’re fuckin’ crazy,” Steve told him, in case no one had the good sense to tell him prior, and he kept his arm in front of Ponyboy, ready to take any incoming blow. 

“And you fuckin’ smell. Just like a street mutt– I wonder, will you whine the same too?” Green Shirt twirled the blade in his hand. “Let’s find out.”

Steve could only think to shove Ponyboy to the ground as the knife was thrusted toward them; he kept his eyes open, always wanting to see the blow that killed him. It was the same with Jack, or any opponent in a Rumble– Steve would be able to see it coming. He just wanted to see it coming.

So he saw when the knife did not plunge into his chest. He saw instead the dog’s open jaws as he latched onto the soc’s arm and bit down like he would the neck of a prey animal. 

Green Shirt screamed, the knife dropping from his grip, and he tried to yank his arm away but the dog was holding tight, fangs digging into flesh. Blood covered the soc’s skin, and very quickly the dog’s face, and Steve took the opportunity to swing Pony’s arm around his neck and get them to the opposite wall. 

Steve surveyed the alley, the young one booking it out of the there while lackey #2 wobbled over to green shirt and the fallen boy. The dog released his arm, and Green Shirt turned tail and ran, leaving the two unsteady socs to gather themselves and avoid eye contact with Steve as they scrambled to follow suit.

Steve let them retreat. He had more immediate concerns.

“Ponyboy, glory, are you good?” Steve had two hands on either side of the kid, looking him up and down. Ponyboy was worse for wear, his face injuries still developing, and Steve could only pray he hadn’t busted a rib from the way he was getting pounded on.

“Don’t worry ‘bout that,” Pony waved him off, sweat forming along his brow. “The dog, is the dog okay?”

“Is the dog– your priorities, kid, you’re crazy,” Steve sighed, his pain making itself known in the aftermath of adrenaline. The dog clambered up to them, and Ponyboy smiled, which only made his lip bleed worse. He sank to the ground, arms out, and the dog crowded in close, licking at Pony’s face until the kid was laughing.

Steve was disgusted as they were all covered in blood and as he had told Ponyboy, they had no idea what sorta diseases that mutt was carrying, and he really oughta tell him off for risking infection and getting them into so much trouble but then the dog was wiggling out of Pony’s embrace and jumping all over Steve.

“Hey, why’s he doing that!” Steve cried, and Pony let out a laugh that turned into a cough within seconds.

“He likes you. He just saved your life, Steve,” Pony told him, and Steve regarded the dog, red-faced and filthy, and decided he really rather liked him.

“You did, didn’t you, buddy,” Steve conceded, and he sank to the ground next to Pony. The dog alternated between licking one of their faces while the other got hit with his swinging happy tail. Steve couldn’t help it– he laughed, too.

They stayed there longer than Steve would have liked, but neither of them really had the strength to move just yet, and the dog was losing steam as much as they were. It was Ponyboy who roused them.

“C’mon, you can’t really see the sunset from here,” Pony grunted, using the wall to pull himself up. Steve snorted. No, it wasn’t the worry of his brothers or his need to take care of himself that got Ponyboy to stand– it was the friggin’ sunset.

“Figures,” Steve said, and he began the horrific task of getting to his feet. 

They moved slowly out of the alley, the dog stuck to their heels every step of the way.

“There, much better,” Pony said, eyes roaming over the sky. 

Steve didn’t really get it. The sky was usually blue, and then sometimes it was orange and pink and yellow. Big whoop. Sometimes, his skin was white, and sometimes it was purple and blue and red. Big whoop. Things changed color.

Ponyboy looked at sunsets like they were trying to tell him something. Steve decided he must really be exhausted, because he let the kid stare for a good while longer than his sense told him to.

“C’mon, your brothers are gonna be upset if we don’t get you back,” Steve chided, and Pony blinked out of his trance. He nodded, yawning, and headed toward the car like it was his idea to leave.

Steve wondered if the socs thought the car was too nice to belong to some greaser trash because it was untouched and waiting for them to drive home with. Or maybe soc code extended to protect vehicles more than it did kids and dogs.

“Steve…” Pony got his attention just as he was about to get in the driver's seat.

“What, kid?”

“Are you gonna let…” Pony trailed off again, gesturing at the dog. Steve rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, dog comes too.” Steve hopped behind the wheel while Pony let out a delighted yell, and then they both scurried into his backseat. Steve mentally shed a tear, thinking about his seats, his nice seats, and how Evie was going to have to deal with dog smell and fur until he could find the time to deep clean the whole interior.

Steve didn’t bother telling Pony to buckle up when he had his arms fast around the dog, and besides, he felt like he’d gotten his kicks aplenty that day. He drove slow, obeying traffic laws.

It was only five minutes once they were clear of the bridge, but Ponyboy still found the time to slump over and fall asleep. The dog, too. Steve huffed– Soda was going to have to get him out of there, cause Steve most certainly was not.

He pulled up in front of the Curtis residence and threw the Mustang into park. He was spinning out, his jaw on the verge of locking and sore beyond comprehension. Fear wiggled just beneath all that– he wanted to crash on the couch. Jack was only going to throw him around if he went back that night.

But what if Soda and Darry blamed him for Pony getting hurt? Steve rested his head against the window, thinking he might have to spend the night in the lot.

“Steve!” Shouting from the porch had Steve straightening and twisting the keys out of the ignition. He rubbed at his head, stabbing himself with the keys now clenched in his fist, as he went to open the car door.

He must have been moving slow, because the door opened before he could even get his fingers around the handle.

“Steve, where’s– is that a dog?” Sodapop Curtis was leaning into the car, tapping Steve on the cheek. Steve roused enough to nod, groaning.

“Don’t be mad–” Steve started to defend himself, but Soda turned his eyes back on him.

“Mad? Glory, I’m so confused, I didn’t think to be mad yet.” Soda grabbed Steve's hand and hauled him out of the car, catching him by the shoulder when he started to careen forward. “Woah, now, keep it together for me?”

Steve grunted, and Soda left him holding onto the door while he went around the car to Pony’s side.

He looked in on his little brother, and then shot Steve a look over the top of the car.

“He knocked out or just asleep?”

“Asleep. Maybe woulda seen him with more life had he not wanted to stop and see the friggin’ sunset.” Steve wanted a cigarette. And a fresh bag of frozen peas. And to get the bleeding dog off his seats.

“Sounds like Pony,” Soda relented, then flinched away, “Woah, what this dog growling at me for?

“Give me a second– and give him some space,” Steve instructed, limping around to stand next to Soda. Even his feet hurt. His feet had no business hurting.

“It’s okay boy, Soda’s good people,” Steve tried to assure the dog, and whatever bond they’d forged over fighting for their lives together seemed to be enough to calm him. The dog dropped his head back into Pony’s lap, licking at the kid’s fingers.

This stirred Ponyboy, and the kid’s unswollen eye fluttered open. “Whazzup?”

“Whazz up? ” Soda cried out, hands going to his hips like Mrs. Curtis always did. “You sure as hell need to tell me that!”

“Fair,” Pony yawned, his head pressing into the leather seat. “Yeah, we uh, we got a dog now.”

“Yeah, Pone, I can see that,” Soda smacked a palm against his forehead, “Oh, Darry is not gonna like coming home today.”

Soda became a one-man emergency ward, hauling Ponyboy, Steve, and the nameless dog into the house. He briefly tried to get Pony to let him treat the dog outside on the porch, but he gave in far too quickly to Pony’s pleas. For once, Steve didn’t even begrudge the kid’s stubbornness.

Soda poked at sore ribs and poured rubbing alcohol onto every bleeding wound– for a while, the house was filled with hissing and barely contained shouts of protest. Steve’s jaw was just shy of being busted, and he was back where it all started, sitting at the kitchen table with a bag of frozen vegetables on his face. This time, Pony sat in the other room, a bag of his own draped across the right side of his face, icing his split lip and black eye all at once. The dog was asleep at his feet– he hadn’t let Pony do too much to him, despite their trust. Pain was a hard thing to think around, and Soda didn’t want Pony to get hurt trying to make it better.

At least everyone had stopped bleeding, though Pony’s purple hoodie was crumpled on the floor, leaving his bruised abdomen exposed for all eyes to see. It didn’t look good- Green Shirt hadn’t pulled his punches– and Steve knew the kid must have been in a world of pain, but he was dozing like it wasn’t too bad.

Soda sat next to Steve after throwing a blanket over the kid. The dog didn’t even stir.

“Alright, what’s the story?” Soda asked, weariness apparent in every line on his face.

Steve propped his elbows on the table, leaning into his hands. “Short, then long.”

“Fine with me,” Soda agreed.

“Pony called to get a ride home from the movie house,” Steve started, looking at Soda’s face. He was waiting to see when it would shutter up and grow distant. “So I went to get him. We were close to the bridge when he yelled at me to pull off, so I pulled off.” Steve didn’t mention how hard they had to break to achieve that.

“Then, uh, we found this bleedin’ dog in the alleyway. I didn’t wanna mess with it,” Steve fixed Soda with a look, trying to convey how hard he tried to avoid this, “But Ponyboy was like, the dog-whisperer.”

“He’s good with animals,” Soda hummed, a small smile playing on his lips. Steve knew he was thinking about Mickey Mouse, because a part of Soda was always thinking about that horse.

“We were talkin’ about what to do when four socs cornered us in the alley– and Soda, I swear, I was tryna get Pony outta there but he’s stubborn as sin, and once he knew they hurt the damn dog– man, he threw the first punch. Then it was on.”

“Four on two? Just you and Pony?” Soda’s eyes widened, and Steve plowed through.

“For most of it, yeah,” Steve said.

“Whaddya mean, most of it?” Soda was looking at him skeptically, and Steve jerked his thumb toward the couch.

“Well, then the dog got involved. That evened it out a little.”

Soda didn’t tell him to get out. He didn’t tell him off for getting his brother hurt. He doubled over laughing, slapping at the table in disbelief and glee.

“Hey now, that’s a first! We got the dang street animals fighting for us!”

“Yeah, don’t know what we woulda done with that mutt. Coulda been a lot worse,” Steve lamented, not feeling quite as spirited, “Kid hadda blade on him.”

The mention of a knife sobered Soda up, and he brought up his hand to chew on his nails. Steve knocked it away.

“Quit,” Steve told him. Soda rolled his eyes.

“I can’t help it sometimes.”

“You told me to tell you to quit. So, quit.” Steve moved his jaw around, feeling the tightness getting worse. He’d have to take more aspirin soon.

“Guess it’s true, then, what they say? A dog’s a man’s best friend?” 

Steve smirked. “For now. Just wait til he’s pissin’ on the rug, then we’ll see what kinda names Darry will call him.”

“Oh, glory, Darry’s gonna be home any second,” Soda got to his feet, looking out the window like he was expecting him to be there at the fence. “This is gonna be a heck of a thing to explain.”

“I got this,” Steve assured him, “Everything’s fine.”

One Darry-sized blowout later, the boys were gathered in the den with the dog laying at Steve’s feet. Soda, Pony and Steve took up the couch while Darry stood in front of them, hands steepled against his nose.

“Now, listen to me when I say this, Ponyboy, ‘cause I need ya to understand well and truly I am not bein’ a bad guy when I tell ya we cannot afford a dog.”

“Oh, but Darry–”

“Do not oh, but Darry me right now! Pone, y’know I love dogs much as anyone in this house, Duke was with me since I was born– but I can barely afford the three of us. There ain’t a way for me to provide for another mouth like that.”

“I’ll get a job! I can work and use the money for–”

“Ponyboy, I appreciate the wantin’ to take responsibility for it and all’at, but how would you work a job and do track and keep your grades up? There ain’t enough hours in the day, not without you overextending yourself.”

“You do it all the time!” Pony protested, crossing his arms. Darry pointed a finger at him.

“Exactly! It ain’t pretty, so why would I want my kid brother doin’ it, too?” 

Steve watched the back and forth with tired eyes. This was not the first argument he’d been a witness to in the Curtis household, it would hardly be the last. But this time, part of the argument was about something he had a stake in, just as much as Ponyboy.

“I can help.”

Three heads turned to look at Steve Randle, who was surprised to hear his own voice join the fray. He cleared his throat.

“I can help pay. For the dog,” Steve felt the need to clarify, even though it was obvious what he meant.

Darry’s eyebrows went up to his hairline. “Why would you wanna do that?”

“Dog really helped us out, I guess,” Steve considered, “I’d hate to lose him.”

“She,” Darry corrected, which left Steve blinking.

“She? Why’d ya think the dog’s a lady?”

“Ain’t got no bits. Don’t tell me I’m the only one who checked?”

Steve turned to Ponyboy, who shrugged. “Ain’t my business.”

“Fine, okay– I’d hate to lose her. Whatever.”

“Whatever? Steve– are you a little bitter that you were saved by a girl? ” Ponyboy goaded him, and Steve would have slugged him had he not been so busted up already.

“No! A dog’s a dog,” Steve was glad he had the melting bag still wrapped around his face because it was doing the good work of hiding his blush. “The point is, Darry, let ‘im keep the dog here and I’ll help pay for her. I’ll buy like, the food and stuff.”

“Leash and bowls?”

“Sure, that too.”

“How ‘bout brushes and clippers? You gonna get the doggy shampoo to clean this mutt up?”

“Sure, yeah, fine! I’ll buy the dog all that crap, so you gonna let her stay or what?”

Darry stared at him, long and searching, but he wasn’t going to find any doubt. For some reason, Steve wanted this dog. There was no way to keep her in the trailer– there was barely room for Jack and Steve when he let him live in his own dwelling– and a dog would be another reason to get hit. 

But Steve wanted the damn dog. And part of his paychecks, which he had been carefully tucking away to daydream of his life with Evie and Soda and the garage and the apartment, would now be spent on making sure the dog had a place in all of that, too.

“Fine,” Darry threw up his hands, “Dog can stay. But we’re not gonna be calling it ‘Dog’ so someone better think of a name.”

Steve and Pony turned toward each other at the same time. Steve knew he was going to get mad at the kid again, and they would butt heads and snark at each other til the cows came home, but he was loath to admit that he admired him now, just the slightest bit. He was stubborn, and sometimes it was stupid, and sometimes it was brave.

“What if we call her Lady?” Pony suggested, and there was a prolonged groan from the guys around him.

“Real original, Pone. I thought you were a writer,” Darry said.

Even Soda laughed, “We’re gonna be runnin’ after her down the streets yellin’ ‘HEY LADY’ and people are gonna think we’re harassin’ women.”

Steve shrugged. Name’s didn’t seem like something to get caught up on. “Yeah, Lady’s fine.”

Ponyboy beamed in the face of his brothers’ loss, and Steve laughed until his jaw hurt and he was just sitting there gripping Soda’s shirt and shaking in silent amusement.

“We got a dog!” He crowed, and Ponyboy let out a whoop in response, hugging Soda first, then launching himself at Darry. 

“Watch your stomach!” Darry chastised, but he brought his arms up around his kid brother and let him stay there, anyway. Lady jumped up with all the activity and started barking, and he knew that was going to drive Darry crazy, and that Ponyboy and Darry were destined to fight about the dog, but she was partially his dog and she wasn’t going anywhere. 

Soda bumped his shoulder against Steve, and the house was warm and loud and big enough for all of them, and Steve was grateful. He knocked his shoulder back on Soda, focused on the gratitude instead of the mess they had made of his Mustang and–

“Oh, no,” Steve groaned, and Soda put a hand on his arm.

“What, you in pain, buddy?”

Steve shook his head. “No it's just- Evie was jealous of the car– you think…?”

Soda chuckled, leaning down to scratch behind Lady’s ears.

“Ah, good luck with that, Steve.”