A/N: This is a repost. I edited Pony out of this so as to better fit it with Back Home Again, by IAmOnlyMe, with which it is connected. You won't be disappointed if you read her story, so I strongly suggest that you do. Certain situations or characters, even just referenced ones, belong to IAmOnlyMe.
Disclaimer: No such place as Clearview (the facility used as a background in subsequent chapters) exists as far as I am aware. (If it does, then it's not the one I'm using.) I don't feel comfortable writing about a real psych facility, mostly because they all have their own specific rules and procedures. By creating my own, I now have a reasonably versatile setting to work with.
Also, I do not own The Outsiders. Thanks go to S.E. Hinton for generously loaning out her characters
Prologue
Stepping out of the Tulsa International Airport with a duffel bag slung over his stiff shoulders, a limp in his step, and a thoughtful frown on his weary face, he quietly embraced home. Home—where the sun was bright but the wind blew and there was not a jungle of which to speak. Where the only other people in the vicinity were not dressed alike in uniforms and fatigues. Where he was his own person, not answering to the bark of orders, but simply to the call of his feet, carrying him wherever they decided.
Where Steve Randle felt as alone as ever.
The only other person that would have understood—understood how different he had become; how he had been changed by knowing and seeing and doing things; understood on a different level entirely than even the best he could hope to expect from his friends and certainly more than his father—was gone. Gone, just like that. Gone in an ambush that had wounded and maimed and killed, and even seen to the imprisoning of combat soldiers in places such as Hanoi. Steve had narrowly escaped one of those grisly fates, retreating with Sodapop Curtis carried tightly in his tired, heavy arms, but Soda had barely lived more than a day and Steve was not permitted to stay with him by his side. The last thing Steve ever heard escape from Soda's lips, turned up at the corners in a lopsided and terrified and masking smile, was a pained curse, preceded by, "I promised h-him. Steve, tell 'im I didn't mean to. I couldn't help it. Tell...tell him I tried to keep my promise..." Nodding quickly, silently, Steve's hands had hovered above Soda's bleeding chest, unable to touch him for fear of injuring him further, until they finally rested on his arm, sliding down to grip his dirty, limp hand. The dust off came and that was the last Steve ever saw of Soda in the waking realm.
And even though that was behind Steve as he walked briskly down the Tulsa street in his uniform, the sun beating down on his back and the wind blowing his hair from his cold, hard eyes, the sound of the wind and the cars on the street and the people in those cars was lost on Steve's ears—he was drowning in the sound of Soda's voice.
He realized, though, with dawning apprehension, that he didn't really want to get where he was going. He slowed his brisk pace to little more than a charitable shuffle.
Where am I headed? he wondered. Why don't I wanna be there, wherever it is? What's the hell is wrong with me?
Where was home? Was it the house in which he had officially lived for eighteen years, but would very soon be moving out of? Was it the house in which he had unofficially lived for just as long? Was any of this home? Had home changed?
No, he decided, it was me.
But that couldn't be helped.
He had always been aware, often glancing over his shoulders several times as he walked, but his awareness had reached new heights. Every twig snapping caught his attention. Every sinister looking character was a possible threat—some were disguised, meaning to ensnare him just as they had in the depths of a hot, muddy jungle. The fresh air seemed so strong and foreign in his nostrils. Even the gentle flapping of his jacket was not lost on his senses—the way it moved when dry, swaying ever so slightly, versus the clammy feeling of clothes sticking to his body. He remembered the general consensus amongst the men as being that they would never feel properly dry and clean again.
Until Steve looked up at the small building in front of him, his aimless mind not in sync with his wandering feet, he still was not sure where he felt most comfortable. Until the large, dirty, slightly tilted letters of the DX sign entered his line of vision, Steve was beginning to believe that such a place was nonexistent.
Hesitantly, he crossed the asphalt, walking closer and closer to the entrance.
Almost ... almost there ...
Steve's feet stopped so quickly that the rest of his body barely caught up, and he swayed until he regained his balance. What if it was different? Could he handle that disappointment just yet? Was he ready?
No, he wasn't.
He turned around and sighed, feeling a certain helpless frustration that he was beginning to know so well creep up his back, inching closer toward his face, where a dull flush was starting to grow.
"Coward," he growled quietly, his pace quickening as he walked toward the only other place he had considered in his quest to find "home"—the Curtis residence.
Before he had finished mentally calling himself every name in the book—wuss, loser, et cetera—he reached the house and ran up the front steps, his feet pounding hard against the boards of the porch. He inhaled deeply as he raised his fist to knock on the door, then realized, with mingled shock and horror, that it was the first time he could remember doing so. He tried to force his hand to grasp the doorknob, turn it, but he couldn't, and so he knocked anyway.
Darrel Curtis answered the door, looking very tired, and blinked several times before he reached out his hand and pulled Steve inside, smiling.
"You stopped writing," he said accusingly. "We thought you were dead."
"I'm not," Steve replied awkwardly, shifting on his feet under Darry's intense gaze.
Even as relieved as was Darry was that one of them had come back—versus half, or none—they both knew that, though Darry had actually prayed several nights for both, when push came to shove, Steve took a backseat to Soda.
Steve decided to acknowledge this.
"Look, I know I wasn't what you were hoping—"
"Don't be silly, Steve," Darry said quickly, and the subject was dropped.
"Where're Two-Bit and Pony?" Steve asked, sounding wholly uninterested as he viewed the half open box on the kitchen table.
Darry sat down at the table, motioning for Steve to do the same—which he did, eventually—and answered. "Two-Bit hasn't been around for a few days, since that came"—he nodded towards the box—"and Pony is… Well, that's hard to say."
Steve, feeling the need to say something, anything, something, said simply, "Oh." After a moment or so, however, Steve realized what Darry had said. "Wait, what?"
"Pony took off. Haven't seen him in a while."
"Oh. Alright."
There was a time, they both knew, when they had understood each other when they could, and respected each other when they couldn't. One or the other always applied. There was a time when they had been close—when their whole outfit had been thick as thieves and completely in sync. That time had passed. Now, there was a terrible force separating them. Conversation was awkward. Everything was awkward. Neither man really knew the other.
Darry regretted every minute of it.
For a few minutes, neither said another word, until the front door slammed and Two-Bit's voice filled the house, saying, "I bet you missed me, Dar."
"Sure, Two-Bit. C'mere a sec."
"What's this ab—" Two-Bit stopped short as he entered the kitchen, and then was silent. "Holy Hell," Two-Bit finally said, leaping into the room and pulling Steve into a thoroughly un-masculine hug, ignoring the wall that had been built by what Steve knew and they didn't—never would, thank God. "When did you get here? When did you get back? Your tour was up months ago! What took you so long?"
"I got shot," Steve began to explain, and suddenly the room froze, silent—and Steve couldn't understand, because it was routine; just the way it was. He was alive, wasn't he? They couldn't even tell, could they? He cleared his throat and continued. "So I had to make a detour to Japan and rest a little while before they could ship me home."
"Uh, where?" Two-Bit asked nervously, visibly looking over his body as though he could see through his clothes and detect wounds. "Anythin' serious?"
Tonelessly, Steve told them, just as the doctor had told him, "In the leg, and in the abdomen, but that had a clear exit wound and it didn't damage any organs in its trajectory so it's healing up just fine. They both are. Just twinges a bit when it rains."
Two-Bit stared openmouthed at Steve. Darry looked troubled.
"You're okay?"
Steve nodded, that indifferent expression still about his features.
"What's that?" Steve point to the box, and Darry gestured for him to pick it up.
Steve studied the box carefully.
WAR DEPARTMENT
PHILADELPHIA QUARTERMASTER DEPOT
2800 South 20th Street
Philadelphia 45, Pa.
---
OFFICIAL BUSINESS
Inside of the box was another box, this one white. He lifted the cover from the box and set it down on the table, revealing a navy blue case, which read PURPLE HEART in gold lettering. Steve smirked and lifted the case, running his fingers over the letters. He saw that there was a medium sized card underneath the case, and he picked it up.
Beneath a seal of an eagle and a star were these words:
ARMY SERVICE FORCES
PHILADELPHIA QUARTERMASTER DEPOT
PHILADELPHIA, PA.
It is an honor for me to forward this decoration which is being sent to you by direction of The Adjutant General of the Army
ROLAND WALSH
BRIGADIER GENERAL, U.S.A.
COMMANDING
Steve placed the card back in the bottom of the box and opened the case. Inside was a heart shaped medal with a gold border, one and three eighth inches wide, containing a profile of George Washington. Above the profile was a small coat of arms, with three red stars and alternating red and white lines. Turning the medal over, Steve read:
FOR MILITARY MERIT
Sodapop Curtis
Steve slid the case back into the box and that box back into the shipping box, and looked at Darry expectantly.
"Did they come with it?" Steve asked softly, still looking at Darry, not unkindly.
"Yeah," he said.
Darry shoved his hand into his pocket, and pulled it out clutching a jingling chain.
Steve nodded, and Darry gratefully tucked Soda's dog tags back into his pocket.
"I never get why they send those," Steve noted, with a touch of amusement in his hoarse voice. "Especially posthumously. When you're dead, do you care?"
Darry tensed a little.
Steve said in a solemn, distracted voice, "He didn't mean to not come back, obviously—he wanted me to tell Pony that. He wanted me to tell him that he was sorry he broke his promise. That he really did try. It was just something he couldn't help … and neither could I … But I guess I ain't exactly in a position to do that now, am I? Seems kind of cliche, now that I think about it. I never figured Soda would go with a cliche." He laughed bitterly, a slow, guttural sound, then said quietly, to himself, "I was kind of hoping I wouldn't have to have lied to him. Guy's gettin' wasted in front of you, you like the idea of bein' able to do something out of respect. But that's the end of that."
Once, Steve had been alive with energy and verve, but now, Two-Bit noticed with growing dismay, he looked tired—so tired he could rest for a hundred years and not be satisfied.
"You look sort o' peaky, Steve," Two-Bit said at last. "You sure you're alright?"
"Yeah, I'm fine. I think I'll just change and check out the city, the old haunts."
He stood from his chair, jerked his head toward the bathroom, and Darry nodded. As Steve disappeared into the bathroom, Darry and Two-Bit noticed how skinny he had become. He had always been lean, and he was still muscular—presumably from constantly lugging around all that heavy gear and equipment—but since he no longer slouched his frame seemed even thinner. He had definitely lost some weight.
The pipes rattled in rapid succesion and a crash was heard from the bathroom.
"You alright, Steve?" Darry asked quietly through the door.
Steve's muffled reply was a flustered, "Yes."
Darry walked back towards Two-Bit and muttered, "I don't think this just got any easier."
Two-Bit nodded, his eyes oddly stormy.
Steve, still in the bathroom, changing into some jeans and a tee shirt he had managed to find before he left—he would still have to gather his possessions from his father's house, though, if they were still there—fixedly watched the blood run from a shallow cut on his hand. He quickly disposed of the broken glass from the bottle he had knocked over.
No. Things had not gotten any easier upon Steve Randle's return to his life. His real life, before the interruption, was gone, and so he prepared to settle in to Phase Three, where worlds collided.