Disclaimer: I don't own The Outsiders

As usual, Darrel is sleeping like a log. Once he finally turns in, that's it. Plenty of times, a teething baby in my arms or a feverish toddler on my hip, I could have cheerfully kicked him awake, but now I just let him sleep and use the time to sort out my own thoughts.

Sometimes, if I don't drop off, I get up and walk about. Doesn't always mean I'm overly worried about something, but it sure is useful to have the house to myself, if I am. Usually I stop just by the boys' doors, catch the sound of their steady breathing, let myself know that they're okay. Turn off Ponyboy's light and put his book aside, if he's fallen asleep reading.

Tonight, I've made a cup of coffee. It's weak, my only concession to the fact that I know it won't help me sleep. As I head for the couch, I all but trip over a stray sneaker. Don't need to check the size to know who it belongs to. Only one, though. Where did I see Soda kicking them off?

If he's left it outside, it'll be ruined.

I go over to the door, pulling my robe tighter in anticipation of the cold night air. As I step onto the porch, flicking the light on so I can see, a figure moves on the old couch there. I don't know who jumps more, me or him.

"Christ Al..!" He stops half way through when he realises it's me. Truth be told, I was ready to cuss at the surprise, myself. I wonder if that would have shocked him.

"What in the world are you doing here, Dallas?" I ask him.

He shrugs inside his leather jacket, hunched away from me. "Restin' up," he says, as if this makes any kind of sense.

"You must be freezing, come inside." I want to know why he won't turn around.

"Nah, s'okay."

I guess he's been drinking. I make the few steps between us and hold out my coffee cup. He looks up at me. I try real hard not to react.

He has the beginnings of a black eye, it's already swelling shut. At some point his nose has been bleeding, because he's smeared the dried blood across one cheek.

He takes the coffee and sips it gingerly. I wonder if his lip is hurting too.

"Dallas, honey," I say gently. "You need to come inside."

He shakes his head stubbornly. Stubborn boys, I can deal with. I simply walk away.

I get as far as the door before he says, "Mrs C?"

I wait.

"Is anyone else up?" It about kills him to climb down, I can hear it in his tone.

"No, not at this time of night," I tell him.

"It ain't midnight yet, is it?" he asks for some reason, edging up carefully. Ribs too, then.

"Not quite."

He comes into the front room. I close the door quietly behind him and point him to the couch.

I have a very well used first aid box. Luckily, I restock regularly.

I've done this for Dallas before, more than once, but usually the others are around, also needing antiseptic and cotton wool, and they're razzing him and he's kidding back, still on an adrenaline high from whatever fight they got into.

After the aspirin, I clean up his cheek and give him a cold wash cloth to hold to his eye. I realize what's different, what's been nagging at me this whole time. His hands. His hands are clean. No scuffs on the knuckles, no bruises. No blood apart from where he'd wiped his nose. No fighting back.

"Dallas, what happened to you?"

The shrug again. He's shivering still. I pull down the throw from the back of the couch and he lets me put it over his shoulders.

"Why d'ya do this?" he asks, out of the blue.

"What? Running repairs on people who turn up on my doorstep?" I say lightly, but he's looking at me fiercely, he's not wanting a flippant answer. I pack the first aid supplies back into the box.

Then I'm honest with him. "I can't imagine not doing it. I can't imagine why anyone wouldn't..." The haunted look in his eyes stops me. He's known enough people in his life without any impulse to help, to be kind. I'm the odd one out.

He's glancing at the clock all the time. Five minutes to twelve. His mouth twists in a bitter smile and he shakes his head.

"Why are you checking the time? You're not going out again." I'm firm.

When he looks at me, it's as if his eyes are betraying him, as if he really wants to be looking anywhere but at me.

"It's my birthday."

I stare in surprise.

"I'm waiting for the fucker to disappear, for it to be tomorrow."

I can't even begin to fathom this. The boys didn't mention the date, maybe they don't know.

"Made a mistake tonight." His voice is getting sleepy. "Shouldn'ta gone there. Shoulda remembered he likes to mark the day I ruined his life, in his own special way. Actually, I got a little lit, ya know, kinda forgot the date myself. Was only gonna pick up some gear." He eases back against the couch, wincing, closing his eyes.

I'm not really sure how I'm sitting so still. I want to be yelling at the sky with how unfair this is. I try to imagine Darrel raising his fist to one of our boys , on his birthday, because it's his birthday. I feel a little sick.

Despite all the patching up, the band aids, the antiseptics, the one thing I have never done is hug this boy. Dear God, how he needs a hug. I don't think he would let me.

He shifts against the couch, trying to get comfortable. I nudge him to lie down and pull the throw over him like a blanket. He's very tired and his eyes hardly open as he moves. I kneel on the floor and move his hair from his face, smoothing it back gently. He doesn't stir.

"Happy Birthday, Dallas," I'm whispering, so as not to wake him. "This is where it changes. This time next year, on your eighteenth birthday, things will be different. I don't know exactly how, but this matters. You matter. By this time next year, I'm going to have found a way to make things different." I'm promising something to myself.

I turn out the light and leave him sleeping.

If you haven't read my other stuff, 'That's What You Get' will tell you whether he was really asleep or not.