Paint It Black

Sharpshooter

Disclaimer; I own nothing.

The room was completely dark, only the light from the street lamp managing to find it's way inside through the closed blinds of the window opposite Ponyboy's bed. He turned underneath the covers, unable to find a comfortable spot. The bed creaked from his shifting weight. Next it would be creaking from the loss of his weight as he got up to get a glass of water, and then once again when he got back in.

For weeks now, Ponyboy could find no cure for his insomnia. It had started when Darry worked the night shift for a couple of days, and he'd only be able to fall asleep when he heard the deep thud of his brother's work boots coming up the front steps. Darry had only worked those late hours for a small amount of time, getting back on his normal schedule the next week, but Ponyboy still found himself filled with anxiety, waiting for someone to come home who never showed up.

He wouldn't complain though, Ponyboy didn't want to worry Darry anymore then he had to. And, if he did tell Darry, then Darry'd start putting restrictions on him and get into his business, Was he exercising enough? Doing enough reading and writing? Do you need to see someone about this? The questions would go on, and Ponyboy would have to forget about being out late on school nights. What a drag that would be…

If Soda were only here-

Maybe it was his thoughts keeping him from sleep.

Ponyboy turned once more on his bed, finding a comfortable position that didn't make his elbow dig into his side. He forced a smile onto his face, and started humming. Maybe if he faked being relaxed and careless, his body would stop being so tensed up and finally let him get some shut eye.

What would make him feel the most relaxed? He couldn't hum anything from the radio, it would either be overly cheerful or depressing, so it would probably have to be something from a while ago… Like the song his mother used to sing to him and Soda when they couldn't get to sleep!

He could imagine her voice, strong; yet soft enough the words glided through the air and seemed to float into his ears. She didn't have the best voice, but it was beautiful and true. The muscles in his face were relaxing more, the smile not so forced. He could hear his mother's voice, filling the emptiness of the room with warmth, but he couldn't hear the words, couldn't remember them.

"Damnit."

He sat up in bed, the serenity of her voice broken by his frustration. Why couldn't he remember the words?

Ponyboy stood up, he'd just have to go ask Darry if he knew- No, he couldn't bother him, he'd worked late and would have to get up early tomorrow. He'd have to at least put his mind to rest, so Ponyboy stumbled in the dark over his carelessly dropped items that scattered the floor, to his old wooden desk.

He fumbled around for the lamp, turning it on after finding its familiar cord. Looking around his desk, he tried to find a suitable piece of paper and a pen to write with. The hunt took some time, and he ended up having to use a formally crumpled notebook paper, and a pen nearly out of ink.

Writing to his brother would mean he wouldn't get a response for a while, but it would take the subject off his mind knowing an answer would be coming sometime.

Sodapop,

Should he of put 'dear'? Guess it was too late to think of that now…

How's the weather? Last time you wrote you said it was raining a lot, didn't you? It's pretty hot here; we even had a couple of runners pass out at practice.

He thought maybe he'd mention Darry had to come home early from work a couple days ago because he'd been sick from the heat, but he decided against it. He didn't want to worry Soda about stuff like that; it didn't make much of a difference anyways.

Me and Mark have been hanging out a lot more. You remember him, right? He lives with that guy Douglas, the one who hates me. Still haven't figured out why yet, so I just avoid him. Him, Curly and I went to the Smoking Lounge, because the Corner Pocket was having a tournament, the other night. You wouldn't believe how quick the two of them picked up girls.

He tapped his pencil on the desk, biting his bottom lip and staring at the paper, What should he write next? He didn't want the letter to just be about the song, and he really wanted to ask Sodapop what he was doing over there, but whenever Ponyboy asked him about it, Soda would just say he wanted to here about what was going on at home.

Oh, did Steve write and tell you about the DX? Just incase he didn't, I think you should know it was shut down. George didn't explain why, just told Steve he'd better pack up any of his tools by the next morning and get them out of there. Maybe he was having troubles paying? I don't know, just that Steve was awfully PO'd.

What's funny is the two of us actually applied at the same place, the Shell station on the outskirts of town. He's hoping to be a mechanic there, but it's only my fallback if the music store doesn't work out. I hope it does, because as much of a buddy as Steve is, I don't think either of us could stand working with each other all summer long.

The music store really would be a great place to work, even if some of the guys disapproved. Ponyboy had told them he was applying there for the sole purpose of kicking the owner's ass into playing some good music for once, and fortunately the subject was dropped.

So, anyways, I was wondering if maybe you remembered the song Ma always used to sing to us.

Stay safe,

Ponyboy Curtis

Ponyboy read the letter over, biting down harder on his lip, What if Soda got irritated with just hearing about him? But that wouldn't be like Sodapop, he'd be happy to hear from his kid brother, right? Ponyboy sighed, shutting the lamp off again and heading back to bed.

Hm… Wonder how Vietnam was… Soda said it was really hot, but he still had something like fifty pounds of equipment to carry when he'd 'hump the jungle'. When he got back, Sodapop would probably have a lot more muscle then before. Ponyboy tried to just imagine Soda and his platoon walking through the jungle, weighed down by equipment and complaining to each other, but then pieces of the news would slip in, and they'd suddenly come under attack.

His eyes were finally feeling heavy enough to stay shut, but the images in his mind were making him restless. But surprisingly, after one more trip to the bathroom, Ponyboy fell into a peaceful slumber.

Only minutes after his eyes closed, someone would be walking up the front steps to knock on the Curtis' front door, a telegram in hand titled; The Department Of The United States Army.

A/N:

So this was going to be the beginning of a story, but I decided to just leave it as-is.

I hope it wasn't too cliche.