A/N: It's been way too long. I'm so sorry. Last chap, and it's a little longer than most. Thanks so, so much for all the support. Please review!

Disclaimer: Don't own these characters, they own me. This chapter is dramatic as hell and I'm not even sorry. Like, at all. This is also an ideal time to mention that all chapters of this story are titles of Sublime songs from their first album.

When I first hear my brother's heavy footsteps, my first instinct is to run. To jump out of the window, have a smoke, and come back when Darry's gone.

But I don't. I couldn't possibly do that. I don't need a manhunt out for me on top of everything else.

I guess it's just that time, the time I've been dreading, where I finally face the consequences for my actions. My least favorite part of it all, though I really should have seen it coming. I've said it before and I'll say it again: this is just what I get for palling around with Curly Shepard. It's etched carefully into my brain, so at least next time I talk to him I'll have a sense of foresight.

I stare at whatever's on the television just to pretend I can't hear Darry nearing my room. I pretend I can't hear his tired sighs and heavy walking, and I'm forced to swallow down guilt.

Darry stands in the door frame before actually deciding to take a seat. He looks almost indecisive and then slowly lowers himself into the same pea-green seat Curly was just residing in, his knees popping. His eyes won't meet mine but he says, "I didn't expect you to be up."

I think we both wish I wasn't. "Yeah, I'm kinda tired of the whole drugged...sleep thing..." God, I wish I knew what to say. I've lived with him my entire life and I've never known the right thing to say to him, especially now. I wonder how we can be so alike in ways and so astronomically different in others.

"You and me both, kid." So, common ground. For once. We both don't like me being hurt.

He sighs and I just can't think of a response to that. I wonder how many times we'll be in a situation like this. How many times I'll force them both into worrying about me. How many times Darry will have to be a parent instead of a big brother.

"Darry, I—" I break off suddenly. "How...how long have I been here?" Days have meshed with nights into weeks and so forth. Timekeeping isn't a chore I've been keeping up on in here.

"Three days," he replies gruffly.

My eyebrows knit together. I just don't know which angle I want to go about this. "Darry...I, uh...I'm..." Sorry.

"It's okay." It's how he says it, a soft whisper, that makes me look up at him and makes me notice the dark bags under his eyes, swelled purple. His eyes match Soda's. I know I'm the cause of them.

"No, it ain't, Dar. It ain't."

"You said it earlier. It ain't like you meant to get stabbed."

Thank you, the irrational part of my brain wants to scream, though I know he's just being vindictive. But at least he can acknowledge that this wasn't solely my fault.

But his response doesn't sit well with me. His words are stilted, rehearsed, like he practiced them in front of a mirror. "Yeah, you're right. I didn't, but...I'm sorry I didn't leave a note before I left. I—I know it wasn't exactly a model decision of mine."

"What?" Darry looks offended. There's a strange, half-crazed look on his face. I wish Sodapop was here. "You're a shinin' beacon of responsibility."

The sarcastic tinge to his voice gives me a sinking feeling in my gut. I wish he would just listen to me. He never does. And this time I'm sincerely apologizing to him.

"I get that you're mad. You got every right to be," I continue, ignoring his remark. "And I know it can't always be easy to my brother. And I'm real sorry for that. I am, Dar. And I'm sorry this is costin' money and everything. I know we can't exactly afford this."

The half-cocked look on his face is slowly replaced by a look of grim understanding. And that's almost worse.

"I didn't mean for it to go this far."

"Yeah, well you never mean for it to go far, Ponyboy. But somehow, it always does." His voice is calm, level, when he says it, but it just doesn't take away the harsh effect of his words.

I sit there scolded like a kicked puppy. "Darry, you know I didn't mean for this to happen. You gotta know that." At this point I wonder how mad Darry is, or if he's just yanking my chain and making me learn some type of lesson.

"I know you never mean to. But you gotta...you gotta learn to stop being so reckless." Soda's faint echo and almost warning of stop going self-destruct mode on me clangs through my skull. It makes me wonder if I've secretly got a death wish or if I've just got the shittiest luck in the world. I'll go with the latter. "You gotta learn that there ain't good people out there. You gotta learn to be more responsible for your own actions."

"I know," I whisper, but I'm not sure why I say anything at all.

If Dallas Winston were here and he heard that his best friend's little brother stabbed me he'd laugh his ass off, and then call us both idiots. And if it were Dallas Winston getting stabbed by Tim (which is something that would never happen. Tim's got precision and accuracy like nobody I've ever seen before) he'd be laying in his bed and there'd be no one here to yell at him to get his head on straight. If things were different, if Darry wasn't here to support me, I don't know what I'd be like. Would I be like Johnny with his dark eyes and timid mannerisms? Would I be like Dally, rugged and laughing with a twisted gleam in his icy eyes?

I realize staring out into space while my brother's talking to me may be rude. Everyone hates when I tune out like that but him especially. He likes to be alert, focused, and prefers everyone else to be too. "...just don't use your head. You go out without thinkin' and look where it got you this time."

I hear Sodapop's footsteps before I see him come in, Steve and Two-Bit abounding right beside him. This takes me by surprise; neither of them have stopped by yet and I didn't even expect them to.

"Don't you remember what happened last time you didn't think? You'd think you'd remember, considering it was someone close to—"

I shut my eyes suddenly and will myself to block out the rest of what he's saying. That's a low blow and he knows it. And going by Steve's sharp intake of breath, and Two-Bit's whispered and cautious, "Darry..." they know it too. Because the last time I didn't think, I ran into a burning building and my best friend paid the price. The last time I didn't think, I witnessed someone else close to me crumple under streetlights while they bled out. The last time I didn't think, a Soc almost killed me and his life was taken in barter for mine.

Every time I "don't think" something bad happens. He knows it, I know it, everyone knows it.

"Come on, Dar. That ain't fair." It's that strained whisper again. It grinds out of my throat and pushes past my teeth. I don't want to cry, not in front of all of them, but I just might have to, even though I'm gonna try my hardest not to. Because I'm seventeen and I ain't a bawl baby and why should I be upset? He's right anyway.

The room is stagnant. No one wants to say anything and I can't say I do either. It's weird how everything can be still and quiet but I still feel inert, like my world is spinning off its axis and there's nothing I can do to stop it. It doesn't seem that just three days ago, I was laughing with Curly while we waited in the hospital emergency room.

Darry slides out of the chair and points at me. The ache in my stomach gets more aggressive. "We lost two before. Don't make it three."

I sag back exhaustively against my pillow. The three of them just look at me as Darry walks out.

"Any of you got a cigarette?"

Their hesitant glances aren't overlooked by me. "You, uh...you really think you should be smokin' right now?" Two-Bit is caught in a strange position when he says this. Caught between easy going and responsible. He continues to grow from constant comic relief to somewhat of a parent. If only he'd get a job.

"I'll crack a window. Do me a solid." When I say this, it looks like they all want to.

But then: "Kid," Steve's sharp voice juts in, "you still got tubes in your nose. I think you of all people ain't thick enough to do that to yourself. Well, actually...I ain't too sure about that one either."

I raise an eyebrow slightly at the compliment that bubbles just up to the surface. It comes and goes so quickly I almost missed it, abruptly replaced by an insult. However, even just raising an eyebrow takes effort. "Nice to see you guys too," I snap. I stay sagged against the starch white pillow on my bed. "Look, I got my ass handed to me by Darry already so just lay off, alright?"

"Fine," Two-Bit interjects, and he raises his hands in defeat. "But no smokes. I'll get you a Pepsi."

He hops up, the sound of his worn sneakers flapping as he walks. An ice-cold Pepsi actually sounds fine too but I really need something to take the edge off after such a grueling death match. I adjust slightly to get a better view of Sodapop, whose face is blanched white. He stays quiet.

"I'm real sorry," I say to him out of nowhere. Because I know how much it bothers him when Darry and me fight. No one ever wins.

"It's okay." But he won't meet my eyes.

"No, it ain't," I reply, and with a strange sense of deja vu, I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Vaguely I wonder how many times I'm gonna have to have this conversation tonight. Everyone deflects everything. God forbid we actually talk to each other. "It ain't okay."

"Darry's bein' an ass." He shakes his head and still won't look at me but I wish he would so I could get a better view of his face. "He is, but it's 'cause he's worried, is all. He didn't mean to say that."

"Yeah, but he did." My voice permeates throughout the hospital room, touching everything from my cannula to the faded denim strands on Steve's favorite jacket. I hate how adult it sounds, how in control I seem to be when I happen to feel the exact opposite. Now it's me who can't look at my brother. "Don't he know that I know all that stuff already?" I ask, though I'm not sure who it's directed to. "I know I don't use my head, and I get me and others in trouble. And I make everyone worry. It's just somethin' he's gonna have to get used to." I say it all in one hushed breath and afterwards in pull my blanket up closer to my face.

"Christ," Steve grunts and sinks into that damn recliner and my eyes snap in his general direction. "You gotta stop bein' so goddamn hard on yourself. Shit."

"Pony, calm down," Soda instructs. I didn't even know I needed to be calmed. There's just a throbbing in my gut and in my head and I've let Darry down again and I'm not sure what to do. "You gotta just breathe."

"Sorry," I say when I finally do. "For now I'm blamin' it on the drugs. I'm pumped full of 'em."

And Steve says, "Safe choice." And then Two-Bit walks in without my Pepsi and Steve gets out a ratty deck of cards and shuffles them expertly between his fingers and they start plotting ways to kill Curly Shepard.

I'd never admit it but I'm touched.

Though sometimes the fierce protectiveness throughout the gang alarms me, it's nice to know that I have people who'll watch out for me, and play cards with me even when I feel like rotting away in this bed.

"We could poison him," Two-Bit suggests innocently and Soda laughs. I stand by in this conversation, a random onlooker. I'll admit I'm more curious about this topic than I'll let on; excited to see just how creative they can get. "I saw it in a movie once. A guy gets poisoned and he tries to figure out who did it. Curly would never know."

"That's stupid, Two-Bit," Steve says at the same time I say, "You know, I can fight my own battles. He ain't exactly our enemy, and it ain't wise to start shit with Curly."

"He, uh, he did stab you."

"It was an accident." Jesus, am I the only one who can grasp this information? Sometimes accidents happen. They don't happen to Tim or even Dallas before he died but it happens with Curly and it definitely happens with me. If they didn't I wouldn't be here.

"So fuckin' what?" Two-Bit snorts, and the Pepsi is long forgotten in my mind. "Should we call a rumble or somethin'?"

"No. No."

"Why are you defendin' him, huh? If someone accidentally stabbed me I'd kill 'em." Steve gives me a pointed look as he says this. There's a ferocious spark in his eyes, and he looks the way he does when he's about to rumble.

"'Cause he's my buddy. Ain't you guys got no concept of loyalty?"

"'Course we do."

"Then leave him alone. Bigger fish to fry, man."

Steve looks like he may say something but he doesn't. Instead he shuffles his deck of cards and finally starts dealing them. The cards fall on to my lap and I hardly make the effort to pick them up. I appreciate the company but I wish they'd just leave. I just want to go walk around the halls or go to sleep.

I don't see Darry the entire next day, but Soda tells me he's just trying to cool down. Good. I'd rather him do that than come back here with an unmistakable rage.

But he comes back a day later and informs me I'll be able to leave in two days. This is fantastic news but I wonder how long we're going to make small talk before one of us brings up what happened a few days ago. Despite my best efforts I find that I'm not mad at Darry like I was before. I realize now that it was just a mixture of adrenaline, lack of sleep, and a caffeine overload that made him say those things.

Darry's voice is undulating when he says, "I ain't too sure how to say this but...I'm real sorry. I, uh, shouldn't have said the things I did."

Yeah, he really shouldn't have. But an apology is not expected from him and I almost flinch. "It's okay. I don't blame you for bein' mad, Dar. We can just put this behind us."

The answer is satisfactory to him, because he gives me one of those almost teary-eyed smiles that make me feel like my heart is getting ripped out of my chest, getting twisted with an innate sense of guilt. It's a smile of pride.

So I'm willing to put this behind me.

Darry has never been one to express his feelings. He's a more physical type. I'm more than willing to go against myself and cut him some slack here. I wish we could talk it out but if he don't want to, I don't either.

The Graduate is playing on TV and I could almost melt into my bed. A nurse comes by to check on whatever's getting pumped into me and brings me a tray of lunch. It's a bowl of Campbell's Chicken Noodle Soup and red Jell-O.

I feel like I'm stuck in a rut. We made up but the situation doesn't feel resolved. In the back of my mind I wonder where Curly is. I could use his help right now.

The day they let me out is a good one. I've got strict instructions not to exert myself and a big container of prescription pills, but it's okay as long as I get to be outside for once.

When I get out of bed, I'm unsteady on my feet and Sodapop brings me clothes to change in to, which takes some time but I appreciate it anyway. It takes me a while to get used to walking again, the stitches in me feeling like they're gonna rip apart; the nurses were pretty gung ho about me not doing that whole walking thing for a while, so the adjustment period is initially rough. They make me sit in a wheelchair while Darry signs me out.

The summer air attacks my senses and more than anything I can't wait to be back in a real bed. I feel like I've been in that place for weeks, months. Years, even.

I tell them I don't need the wheelchair, and Rhonda, the nurse from earlier, looks at me in scrutiny for a second and then helps me up out of it.

"I trust that you're not gonna be roughhousing too badly, huh, Ponyboy?"

"Of course not." I force a smile.

"You watch out for those brothers of yours," she says, and she winks at me.

That's about the time where I realize that my hospital stay is over.

Soda and Darry stay close to me as I walk out to the truck, probably ready to catch me in case I decide to go topside randomly in the parking lot. And wouldn't that just be swell. I want to tell them not to worry, that I feel better than I have since this entire thing went down. But I don't. I let them hover because that's just what they do.

By the time I get to Darry's truck I'm worn out, which is annoying because how am I going to run track when I can't even make it ten feet without feeling like I ran a marathon? It catches me off guard when I lean against the car window, which feels cool against my burning skin, and start to drift off.

Soda shakes me awake and when I walk in, I slide into my bed, reveling in the fact that the sheets smell more like fabric softener than bleach and antiseptic.

Everyday I get stronger. Despite Darry's being against it, I go walking around my high school's track. I'm not exactly ready to start running laps yet, but I want to be able to soon. It's only been a month; I don't blame Darry's hesitation.

I walk home in the blazing heat, and when I get inside, I see Darry poring over college paraphernalia. The University of Oklahoma was the best deal; I got a full ride. Darry was proud. I'll be attending in the fall.

"It's weird, Pony," he says, staring down at it in admiration. "It's weird how you did it. You made it this far."

I don't know if that's an insult but I bite anyway. "What do you mean?"

"Just that I'm proud of you. I...uh, I always knew you'd make it. But seein' it happen makes it so...real."

"I get it," I reply, because I do. "And I wouldn't have gotten there without you."

He gives another one of those smiles.

I'm sitting on my porch a few weeks later when Curly Shepard walks up.

I stuff a smoke in my mouth. "Funny seein' you here."

He bums one from me, leaning over as I light it. "I been makin' myself scarce."

"I don't blame you," I say knowingly. I really don't. He knows he wouldn't be able to take Darry, and even though Curly ain't a coward, he ain't necessarily a provoker. He's got his moments where his head is screwed in place. "You're lucky you ain't in prison right now." If it ain't for stabbing me, it'd be for something else.

He acknowledges this with a dismissive wave of his hand. "You doin' okay, Curtis? You good?"

"I'm good." In fact, I'm better than good. "What about you?"

"Real good," he replies. "One of the guys in my brother's gang is comin' back from 'Nam, so I guess it's a good day."

"I'd say so." I take a long drag on my cigarette, watching the smoke drift away more than I watch him. His hair is smoothed back with too much grease. He shifts on the porch, keeping his cautious eye on the door. I know exactly what he's doing. "Darry ain't home, by the way."

"What, you think that fuckin' matters to me?" he almost yells, trying to defend his last shred of ego, but I can see the way his shoulders slouch in visible relief.

We laugh about it. About how different things are. Like I didn't get stabbed and Curly's not an idiot. It's a friendship I cherish, where we can not talk for months and then it's like there was no time gap at all. We bullshit through a pack of cigarettes before Curly stands up.

He's a walking and talking Murphy's Law, where if something can go wrong, it will, and in the worst possible way. But that's okay, because I am too. Maybe that's why we get along so good.

Curly Shepard turns to me, and his eyes are bright with the ghost of laughter.

"So, there's this bar just outside of town, and I'm hopin' I can win some dough in pool on Friday night...and they're ain't gonna be no knives or heaters involved. You in?"

I just groan into my hands.