Chapter Text
Peter Mitchell was a happy child. He loved the typical things a five year old would like. Planes, cars, dinosaurs. The whole thing. He admired his father, wanting nothing more in life than to be just like his dad when he grew up. His dad was a pilot, a fighter pilot for the US Navy.
The day his father took Peter and his mother on base only proved to solidify his love for planes. There was something so captivating about them. The look his dad gave him that day was knowing, proud. His mother just laughed and shook her head fondly, looking like the happiest woman to walk planet Earth.
It all flipped in an instant, turning Peter’s world upside down in the flick of a switch. Two men, dressed to the nines in military dress uniforms. Peter knows those clothes. His dad wore them for special events; highly important events. The expressions on those two men was something that Peter would never, ever forget. Not willingly. Their faces were full of disgust, cutting eyes full of judgement. It was only Peter and his mother that day. That fateful day. His dad was on a mission, as his mother had said with a complicated look. Peter knew she was lying for his benefit.
Peter couldn’t make out what the two men had said to his mom, what they had said that made her let out a shrilling, grief-filled sound. The men didn’t spare her a second glance, only trekked off the stone stairs and back to their blacked out car. The emotions that raced through Peter that day were still so complicated that he didn’t have a word for it now. He had dashed over to his mother, who was sliding down the now closed door with a heartbroken look, her eyes glassy with unshed tears.
Peter remembers that conversation like it happened yesterday. Like his whole world just stopped moving just to listen into his mothers words.
“Mama?” Peter’s high pitched, raspy voice squeaked out with pure confusion. He was watching his mom cry, sobs wracking through her body with jolts. He had never seen his mother cry like that ever in his life. Not even when her father, Peter’s grandfather, passed away. “Mama? Are you okay? Where’s daddy?”
The last question only seemed to make her cry harder.
“Petey. Oh, my little rock.” His mother, Darla, cried. Her eyes were gleaming with tears, her green eyes sparkling but not with joy. Her smile was empty as it curled upwards. “Daddy’s gone. He’s not comin’ home.”
Peter furrowed his brows together and cocked his head in confusion, “What’da’ya mean? Daddy always comes home.”
“Not this time.” Darla’s voice cracked with uncovered sorrow. “Not this time…”
“He’s—” Peter paused, looking around before settling his green eyes back on his mother. “Where’d he go, then?”
“Your father–He’s—” Darla choked off a sob. “He was fightin’ in the war, Petey. In Vietnam. He was killed.”
“...killed?” Peter breathes, his eyes wider than saucers now. His own tears welling up. He felt his heart stop, skipping multiple beats before it skidded to a tight halt. “He’s…”
Peter didn’t have the heart to continue his words. The rest of that day was spent crying, holding onto each other. Peter had never imagined a world without his father. It’s not something a five year old just thinks about. Not unless there is something severely wrong with them. In his world, his dad was the strongest man alive, unbreakable. He soared above the clouds, untouchable. But he was reachable, all kinds. Especially in a war.
There was no escaping the roughness of war where everyone was out for blood.
They were out for slander, too. Peter quickly learned the brutalness of the world that he lived in. Darla and Peter lived in a military neighborhood that was a brisk five minutes from a US Navy base. Words and gossip spread like wildfire. He’d know with the amount of times he’d overhear one of his mom’s friends come over and they would talk about whoever was pregnant again. The tight, fake smile his mother would shoot the other women was laughable. Darla was never one to participate in slandering anyone.
Everyone and their brother found out the truth about the dangerous, wildcard pilot. Or, what they thought–think–is the “truth”. No one knows the truth. Not even the military. Everyone found out that Kenneth “Duke” Mitchell was a traitor to the United States of America. Darla hadn’t told Peter about that. Maybe she was trying to protect his dad’s image in the eyes of his son, looking back on it now. People around the military neighborhood started throwing harsh, nasty words in their direction. Words that no one would expect a grieving family would have to hear.
Words that plagued little Peter’s mind for months and months.
The military put them on a tight schedule, shoved his dad’s things in Darla’s hands and gave them a date of which they had to be gone. Peter doesn’t know how she did it, but his mom got them a two bedroom apartment. They were out of the military neighborhood within the week.
They had attempted to gain some sort of schedule. Peter was enrolled in school, Darla started a new job, and they were doing everything they could to get back on their feet. Peter was young, but not as naive as most people would’ve thought. He could see how much his dad’s death was affecting his mom. It had more of a mental effect rather than a physical effect.
Physically, she was fine, barely changed. Mentally, she withdrew.
She rarely ever played with Peter as the years went on, she never said she was proud of him as often. The only times she said she loved him was before he left for school and before he went to bed. Even then, it felt half-assed.
Maybe it was physical in the sense that it looked like she rarely slept. The bags under her eyes were vicious, scary. Her eyes lacked warmth and light. The spark was gone. Peter could say he felt the same, he guesses. Since his dad died, all he’s ever wanted was to get on a plane. Being in a plane is probably the closest he’ll ever get to his father ever again.
Peter was naive in some aspects. He figured that that was just his life now. He would come home from school everyday and have to do the house chores because his mom was passed out on the couch, her whole face red and puffy. She stopped hiding her breakdowns a few months after his dad died. What he never considered was that he would lose his mother too. She wasn’t a pilot like his dad, so she’s gonna be with him forever, right?
Oh was he wrong. So, so wrong.
It was the second fateful day. The second day that Peter remembers like the world had imploded. It was far from something he could just forget.
He had come home from school, happier than he had felt in the last three years. He had gotten a one hundred on his test. His third grade teacher, Ms. Jameson, was the nicest teacher he’s ever had. The most understanding. She always looked at Peter with kindness, fondness. Something he hadn’t experienced in a long time. The test was the highlight of his day and he was excited to share that with his mom, hoping it was a way to cheer her up.
“Mama! Mama!” Peter bursted through the apartment door. All the lights were off, plunging the room into a dull gray. The blinds were drawn and the TV was playing on low volume. The man on the TV was muttering something about the recent conflicts in Vietnam. His mom never spoke about Vietnam ever. It was weird that the TV was on, much less on any sort of news station.
He walked through the darkened apartment, turning corners with utmost silence. “Mama?”
No response.
He continued to dawdle, the long hallway seeming to grow ten times its actual size. There was a pit forming in his stomach, his hands grew clammy. No matter what, his mom was always in the living room to greet her son when he got home from school.
“Mama?”
Still no response. Peter’s fingers trembled as he approached her room. The white door was cracked, nothing out of the ordinary just yet. He pushed it open and tiptoed in with a shaky breath. He saw nothing. Maybe she just wasn’t here.
There was no reason for her to be in Peter’s room, so he walked further into the room, heading straight to the bathroom that was connected to his mom’s room. His bookbag felt much heavier, even with only three books in it.
The bathroom door was completely closed, the light was off, as expected. He twisted the door knob and shoved it open harshly, but squeezed his eyes abnormally tight when the door moved. Normally, he’d knock. But his shaky hands and scared brain halted his thinking. When he opened his eyes his whole body paused, every muscle and flowing blood cell. His shaky hands froze. His eyes widened to the point that there was more white showing than green.
His mama was on the ground, one hand laying haphazardly next to her, the other laying across her stomach. Her face was peaceful, the wrinkles gone. But it wasn’t enough to get rid of the tear tracks on her cheeks. Peter dragged his eyes down and took in the blood that was pooling out of her mouth, dribbling down her cheek.
There was a glass amber bottle shattered on the ground near her head. Medicine, Peter knows. There was another bottle, a clear one, the one that his mama uses every night, it was empty. It wasn’t supposed to be, not for another month when his mama goes to refill it. He looked to the sink, his breath stuttering. On the counter was a bottle of Jack Daniels Old No. 7 sitting tall, it was more empty than he’d ever seen it. His mama wasn’t a hard drinker, most of the alcohol being for his dad when he came home.
His dad wasn’t an alcoholic. He used it to unwind, as he’d say.
Peter rushed next to his mama, looking her over with absolutely no clue on what to do. He ran back to the living room, dropping his bookbag on the way, not caring where it went on its way. The rotary phone was sitting with the phone off of the holder, the tan machine was sitting next to the couch. Peter jumped up on the couch and called the only number that he remembered, one of his neighbor’s numbers.
Everything beyond that point felt like a fever dream to Peter. There were multiple people going in and out of his apartment door and no updated information on how his mama was doing. Though he got his answer soon enough as he watched his mom be wheeled out of the building, a tarp covering her. The pitying looks he got from all the first responders was too much. Peter was filled with a type of anger he had never experienced before. A first responder from that day came and gave Peter a letter. A letter that he still has and will keep forever.
“Dear, Peter.
If you’re reading this, it’s because everything became too much. You know what I mean, don’t you? I’ll miss you, Petey. You’re so much like your father and I am confident that you will be just like him when you grow up. He always had this burning determination in him, a determination to prove that he was more than a farm boy from Tennessee. There is no doubt in my mind that you’ll turn out the same. I know these last three years have been hard. And I am so sorry, sweetheart. I am so sorry that I did this. It’s selfish, I know. I can’t even begin to explain how unbelievably unfair this is to you. I couldn’t do it anymore. I’m weak. I wanted the person who made me feel strong and free. I will always be with you, Petey. Even in your hardest moments, believe that. Don’t ever forget that your mommy and daddy love you, okay? Keep this safe for me, huh?
Love you forever, your mama.
I love you more than you know, my little rock. I bet you didn’t know that I call you my little rock because you were a miracle, you were too small when you were born. But, you were stubborn and proved the nurse wrong when she said you wouldn’t make it through the night. The name Peter means rock in Greek, my little rock.”
Peter looked down, catching the small picture of him and his father before it hit the ground. He was five when the picture was taken, his hat tilted to the side just a bit. He says his hat. It was actually his dad’s. It was months before his father was gone for good.
It’s also the only picture Peter has left of his father. Shortly after that, he was sent into the foster care system with barely any time to process losing his mother. It was like losing his father all over again, but this time he had no one. He only had them in spirit, but that wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough. He wasn’t enough, not enough to make his mom stay.
The anger from grief was the only thing keeping him alive at that point. It became foster care house after foster care house. There was no family that wanted to keep him. He was too angry, too reckless. It was mainly the houses where he was placed with abusive assholes that would label him as too angry. Most of the time it was because Peter would argue back. He wound up with more bruises than cuddles. It took the Tennessee foster care system two years to boot him out of their center and into another state’s system. Specifically Oklahoma’s.
It was a long way from home, and Peter’s anger was just lit at the young age of ten years old.
It was the second placement in Oklahoma that stuck, after being with a family in Oklahoma City. They ended up not being able to afford another kid, so they booted him out. Days later, he was given to a man by the name of Greg Randle. Their anger both matched each other. Neither of their fuses burned brighter than the other. Peter hated it. He was dropped off at the run down house without a second glance from the caseworker. She was getting tired of him, he knew.
Just looking at the man was enough to tell him that Oklahoma didn’t care and didn’t put nearly as much effort into it as Tennessee had. The man, Greg, was a drunk. It was clear by the amount of beer bottles that littered the house. Greg himself seemed to be at least in his forties. He could be younger than that, but drinking was never proven as a method to make you look younger.
Since Greg was drunk more often than not, lying to him was easy. Peter decided the second he figured out he was going to Oklahoma that he was gonna lie about who he was. He got enough shit in other homes about being a disgraced pilot’s son. He wouldn’t if they didn’t know. Greg didn’t actually pay attention to the caseworker when she attempted to introduce Peter to him. When Peter introduced himself as Steve, the man bought it. The last house he was at, he was called Jimmy. Stupid name. Not that Steve is any better, but it worked.
He convinced the drunkard that his name is Steve Jacob Randle, born April 15th, 1960. His plan was that the name Peter Joseph Mitchell was to never reach the ears of the people of Tulsa. The fake birthday was just to really sell it. There was truly no way for anyone to know the truth. His real birthday was May 13th, 1960, but who cares?
In all honesty, he didn’t think he was going to stay in Tulsa as long as he has. He was ten, so he started the school year off in fifth grade. It was in fifth grade that he met Sodapop Curtis. He and Soda clicked, and became instant best friends. They did everything together and were glued to the hip all throughout fifth grade. It wasn’t long until Peter was going over to the boy’s house and hanging out there. Greg never cared, nor was he sober enough to remember. All he cared about were the checks that foster care sent him, which was supposed to go to Peter but actually went towards alcohol.
Peter lied to the whole Curtis family when he first met them; introduced himself as Steve Randle. Since then, he’s been known around Tulsa as Steve Randle, the hot-headed greaser who knew his way around a hubcap better than his own school. Which was a bold-faced lie.
He was known around the East Side as one of the Curtis Gang Boys, Sodapop’s best buddy, mechanic with serious anger issues, and so forth and so on. The character that is Steve Randle has been perfected for a long, long time. Even still. All these lies and all Peter feels is nothing pure, gnawing guilt. The Curtis family welcomed him with open arms, and so did the other four boys. They welcomed Steve Randle in with open arms and he wasn’t even real.
Peter made sure that the character that is Steve is completely different to how he would act as Peter Mitchell. It’s worked so far, he supposes.
The wind picks up as he walks, the chill running over the exposed expanse of Peter’s skin. It’s September, so it’s expected to be cold. The sun was out, the skies were spotty with clouds. An overall beautiful day, or, as beautiful as the East Side of Tulsa can get. He had today off from the DX, it being a Sunday and his boss was a Christian. The actual gas station itself is open, but the mechanic shop is closed. Pete is a mechanic, nothing more, nothing less, and so is his boss. So he has today off.
Sodapop on the other hand? He doesn’t go in on the days that “Steve” has off because, in Soda’s words, it’s boring.
Funnily enough, the two boys have the day off and aren’t hanging out at the moment. Peter doesn’t mind. He likes his alone time to wind back to be Pete Mitchell instead of Steve Randle. Well, alone time that he had before he heard a sharp yelp come from around the corner. Steve knows that yelp anywhere. He’s heard it many times watching Two-Bit and Ponyboy wrestle like fourth graders.
He dashes around the corner, letting his Steve facade fall into place. Down the street he sees Ponyboy with a group of Socs surrounding him, the kid himself with his back on the ground. The blue 1976 Chevrolet Nova gleaming in the afternoon sun. It was a damn fine car, Steve had to admit. He’s worked on many, many different cars at the DX and the Nova’s always belonged to Socs.
It wasn’t long after Steve turned that corner did the other members of the Curtis gang come running to the rescue. Johnny stays with Ponyboy and watches while Steve, Dally, Two-Bit, and Soda all chase after the Socs. The Soc lands a good hit on Steve’s nose, it aching like a stubbed toe.
After the Nova disappears around the corner from where Steve just came from, he’s turning back to go see what the deal is with Ponyboy. Soda is dashing over before Steve even has the chance to see if he’s okay himself. He, Two-Bit, and Dally all start walking over to follow after the brothers, Johnny joining them on the way.
He hears the three brothers bantering with each other, even if it turns into an almost argument between Ponyboy and Darry. Steve never really got in between those two when they disagreed with each other. Darry has done a lot for his two kid brothers and Steve admires that, truly. But if he gave his opinion, would it be coming from Steve or Peter?
He keeps quiet every time.
He watches as Dally approaches the two brothers, Darry having said his piece and moseying on along, back to the Curtis house, if Steve had to guess. He struts over and places himself next to Sodapop, just after Ponyboy asks Dally what he was also wondering.
“What’re you doin’ outta the cooler, Dal?” Pony’s curious and non-affected voice asks, looking at the New Yorker. Dally strolls up, puffing some smoke from his cigarette. Steve guesses he better get his question out.
“Yeah? And what’re you doin’ walkin’ by your lonesome on the street, huh?” Steve breathes hard, squinting his eyes at the kid while the sun glares down on him. Pony shuffles in his spot, barely suppressing an eye roll from what Steve can see.
“None of your business, smarty pants.” The kid mutters. Steve feels like smirking. Pony and Steve have had their scuffles in the past, mostly just banter. Steve called him a tag along multiple times, back when he was really trying to sell this whole Steve Randle thing. He’s aware that Pony thinks he hates him, but that’s farthest from the truth. Honestly, Steve likes messing with him, getting him irritated. Pony and Steve are a lot, a lot alike. Not that Steve will be caught dead admitting that.
“What do you mean none of my business?” Steve repeats, gesturing with his hands in whatever direction he likes. “It is my business! Look at my nose!”
“It’s huge.”
Steve rolls his eyes, “Smartass. He is a smartass kid.”
Two-Bit looks at Steve with a small smirk, his eyes glinting with the need to laugh. He pushes a rag up to Steve’s nose, to which he bats away to address Dally after having not seen the boy for a minute now. Dally was always in and out of the cooler, he didn’t fear jail. Steve did, but that was because he didn’t want it to disrupt his plan to go to the Navy. Though, Dally’s rough past in New York prompts that attitude, especially after being arrested for the first time at the young age of ten.
“Hey, Dally, how’re you doin’?” Steve catches his breath, peering over to the other teenager. He and Dally were the same age. They both moved to Oklahoma at the same time and everything. Both had intense anger issues.
“Doin’ alright, man.” Dally answers with his thick New York accent. Seems that during his years in Oklahoma, he was never able to shake the New Yorker drawl. Steve is the same way. Everyone liked to comment on Steve’s significantly different accent, what with being actually from Tennessee. The two troubled teens shake hands.
“Thought you were in for about ninety days, Dal?” Pony questions, asking the same question Steve had.
“Yeah, I got out early, man. Good behavior, y’know?” Dally says, twisting his palms together as he shifts in his spot. Steve finds that funny, good behavior. Dallas Winston had rarely ever any good behavior in his past and present.
Steve watches as Dally takes a puff from his smoke, holding it in while he shuffles over to talk to Johnny. Smoking was a habit that Steve stayed far, far away from. Going to jail was not a guarantee, but having medical issues from smoking was a guarantee. If he can help it, he will do anything and everything he can to prevent something from stopping him from joining the Navy.
“Hey, Johnny, man. How you doin’, bro?” Dally sighs as he speaks, moving to walk next to the sixteen year old. Johnny barely huffs, turning around to walk.
“Things would go a lot better if the Socs stayed on the south side of town.” Johnny responds, watching his feet while he walks. Johnny was a skittish kid, much like he was when he was kid, right after his dad passed. Steve related the most to Johnny out of the whole gang. Everyone in the gang knew of Johnny's difficult home situation, his abusive parents and everything. Hell, the whole gang knew about Steve’s own situation, just a watered down version of what it’s like living with Greg.
“Yeah, well, don’t you worry ‘bout that, Johnny. ‘Cause we’re gonna have it out with ‘em sooner ‘er later.” Steve assures him, nodding as he speaks. He feels Soda brush up against him, on his left.
“Sure as hell are. They keep comin’ over to our side ‘a town.” Soda speaks determinedly.
“Damn right, man.” Steve sighs, kicking a few rocks with his mechanic shoes. He and Soda break off a few centimeters from Dally, letting the resident hoodlum talk to Johnny. He feels his nose throbbing with pain from where that one Soc knocked him. He and Soda play from where they sway in their spots, exchanging a few playful punches.
“My nose, man…” Steve huffs, stretching his mouth out to get the aching to subside for a second.
Soda brings his hand up, tilting Steve’s chin up to get a better look.
“Really, Sods?” Steve rolls his eyes. Soda drops his hand.
“It’ll get better, Stevie. It’s gotta get better in case we have a rumble.” Soda smirks.
Steve shakes his head, heading back over to the other four guys with Soda hot on his heels. He hears Two-Bit ask Ponyboy about becoming his personal bodyguard and Steve has to stop the laugh that bubbles up in his chest. The idea of Two-Bit being a personal bodyguard is funny. The man would be cracking jokes more than he’d be cracking heads. He was the gang’s resident joker. Every situation they were in, Two-Bit always had some sort of joke at the ready.
He likes Two-Bit, the nickname doing good every day. Steve’s met his mother and sister a few times, nothing past a handshake and award smile, though. Two-Bit’s dad was no longer in the picture, but they, meaning him, his mother, and his sister, are doing good for themselves. Steve wishes Two-Bit would do more for himself, like putting forth more effort into school. He was an eighteen year old junior with an alcohol problem. It hurts to think about because he is a great guy.
Steve sighs heavily, stopping just an inch away from Dally.
“I was thinkin’ how ‘bout you and Sylvia to game with us tomorrow night?” Steve wipes his nose as he asks the question.
Pony gazes over to him and Soda and Steve already know what the kid is about to say.
“I wanna go.” The kid states with furrowed brows. Steve feels Soda slump slightly at the knowledge of having to turn his little brother down.
“Oh, well, we’re takin’ Evie and Sandy.” Soda says through a resigned sigh.
Steve loves irritating the kid, so of course he had to add on, “Which means no kids allowed.”
Pony pushes his lips into a thin line, sarcastically, “Big deal.”
Wasn’t really the reaction Steve was shooting for, but he’ll take it.
“No, no, no. I’m gonna go hunt some action.” Dally declines the offer, moving some rocks around with his boot. “Little kids are allowed.”
Ironic given the seventeen year old doesn’t particularly like kids, as Steve’s witnessed in the past.
“Oh, man, we’ll go with ya, Dal.” Johnny buts in, moving to be right beside Dally. Johnny, Dally, and Pony all get in a little huddle so Steve takes that as his sign to go back to his alone time. Except Soda drags him over to the run down car that they’ve taken a liking to. They used to hang out there after school before Soda dropped out.
“So what’s the plan for tonight?” Soda questions, jumping up to sit on the hood of the car.
Steve leans against the hood, right next to Soda, “No clue, man.”
“I was hopin’ we could go on a double date to the drive-in.” Soda suggests and Steve sighs. Internally, he doesn’t want to go on a date at all. His relationship with Evie Daniels was doomed from the start. She’s the sweetest girl Steve’s ever met in this city, past all the money differences. But she fell in love with Steve, the guy Peter was posing as. Plus, when he goes to join the military, he isn’t gonna see her anymore.
He doesn’t want to get attached.
“Yeah?” Steve breaths, smirking. “Let’s go to the drive-in, then.”
Soda grins manically, nodding as he jumps down from the hood of the car, dapping Steve up on the way. The two turn the dap into a half-assed arm wrestle, which just turns into playful smacking.
“I gotta get home, Stevie.” Soda says through a beaming smile. Steve nods.
“Check this out, buddy.” He says before climbing onto the hood of the car, doing a front flip off of it. He didn’t land it. He went face first into the grass. He laughs awkwardly as he stands back up, rubbing at the back of his head before scampering off to where he came from before Pony got jumped.
Steve doesn’t go home. Greg was home yesterday and he told Steve he was kicked out. The man never actually sticks to his word. He needs Steve for the foster care check that he gets. Steve wouldn’t go back if it weren’t for all his personal belongings being up in his room at Greg’s house. The abuse is horrible, and Steve would do anything to get out. But, if he moves houses again he could lose his progress at school, all his aviation classes would be for nothing. He likes to give the narrative to the gang that the abuse he suffers is just getting kicked out, nothing more. It’s far from the truth, but they don’t need to know that. If he had to give them an idea, he’d say it’s about the same as Johnny. That’s where all his current anger comes from. He’s long since accepted that his parents are never coming back. The abuse comes from the fact that Greg has pretty bad PTSD from Vietnam and his wife walked out on him.
No shocker there, Steve snorts to himself.
His parents were never abusive. In any sort of way ever. Steve likes to think that the sunsets he sees on the way home from work are his mom, her happiness at being reunited with her one true love again. One day, Steve wants to be up in a plane in those sunsets. This type of thinking isn’t tuff, according to Greaser standards, so he’ll be damned if he even breathes a word of this to anyone. Ponyboy is probably the only one who would entertain those thoughts, if he and the kid had a better friendship, if you can even call it a friendship.
In the end, he winds up at the lot, daydreaming about what life would’ve been like if his parents were still here, still here to wrap him up in warm hugs with reassuring words.