Across the Blackened Haze

"Cold wind blows into the skin, can't believe the state you're in; Who are you trying to impress, steadily creating a mess?" - Junip

Prologue


He knew Tim all his life, but he didn't know Tim at all.

He thought back to the night when he was ten and Tim was thirteen. It was the night when the shithead came home (in all honesty, he referred to the drunk as shithead because he wasn't going to start calling him something he never was) more sloshed than usual, and went straight to grabbing and throwing everything that he set eyes on.

It was Angel's little chair at first – that red wooden chair that she'd favored 'cause of the color, the chair that she had Tim secretly, and reluctantly, carve a heart into on the bottom of the seat so no one would know it's there but her – and then everything else.

He was in the kitchen wanting a glass of water when he saw the so-called shithead come in, and though he won't admit it to anyone, he quickly opened the cabinet under the sink (his favorite hiding spot) and snuck in butt first like an idiot, leaving the door an inch open to view the living room from there. He tried real hard to be brave but all he could feel and hear was his heart thumping in his chest; it almost deafened him.

So he missed Tim's footsteps down the stairs. But he didn't miss what happened next.

Tim took even steps to go near the drunk, managing to move his upper body slightly to the left as something solid flew in his direction, and stopped without a word to face the drunk, who was still huffing like a walrus waving his arms around like a damn clown.

From inside the cabinet, all he could make out was Tim's back, his shoulders squared to give him more height. The drunk had fires in his eyes and before he could draw back his arms to give Tim a hard slap, Tim punched him so hard in the face that he was knocked down from the spot. Tim didn't do anything else except turn around to slowly walk towards the kitchen to open the cabinet door.

Tim looked him in the eyes and told him that all was fine, that he could go to sleep now.

He wasn't known to be all one with the memories and the details, but he remembered that night, because that was the night that he realized that Tim was different than most kids in the neighborhood. Tim was tough. Tim had the power to save.

When the Shepard gang came into play somehow years later, he didn't know how it started or when. That seemed to be the case most of the time. No one knew the how's or the when's regarding Tim, but they knew the who and that was explanation enough. (If Tim Shepard sets his mind on something, he manages to get it one way or another.)

Many times he saw how people looked at Tim for their marching orders and for approval after they followed it through. Yeah, Tim'd give them a cool stare and nod, that scar running down the left side of his face, and whoo, Tim looked so tuff, that... well, that was good enough for them.

Sometimes, he would catch Tim at home doing weird stuff like reading the newspaper or drinking coffee, and he just had to say something, anything, to break the ice because it was damn awkward for him to be in a situation like that. If he was lucky, he'd get a smack to the back of the head from Tim. And that was a good thing, because a smack to the head from Tim always seemed to start his day off right.

But he also made a mental note to himself that Tim didn't like to be bothered when reading the newspaper. Whether he remembered it or not was another story.

Other than that, he noticed that Tim was quiet mostly, but also not. He said whatever it was that needed to be said without beating around the bush. He didn't care if your feelings got hurt because he decides to tell you one day: "Ain't nobody that'll run with you, you being as dumb as can be," because you decided to listen to your gut and end up ruining whatever Tim had planned for that day, and you're serious enough to say: "It was that tramp's fault, Tim, I swear! And that Drew too, if he just walked along minding his own business, I…" and you stop because Tim is staring at you with that cool stare of his again, and you realize Tim made you out before you even started talking.

Sure, he was dumb at times (he knew it himself), but he wasn't stupid. He knew the score and he tried hard to fall under Tim's good graces because he knew well enough that if you're part of the Shepard gang, you listen to its king.

Tim was direct and sure, and Tim didn't like it when he would reach out a to grab what he was wanting to grab, and it falls out of grasp mostly because of his younger brother.

It wasn't a surprise for Tim when he heard Curly had gotten caught trying to break in a liquor store – after all this time, kid couldn't even manage to get caught while actually stealing something, but an attempt at one. But it was a surprise for Curly when Tim turned to face him before leaving the house with his usual cool stare and gave him a slight nod, "See you around, kid," before Curly was sent to the reformatory for a while.

And it was the reformatory where Curly was at now, counting off the days till his release from this boring hell, and he bet Tim was getting into all sorts of fun and danger out there. Curly was literally itching to stand side by side with his brother, doing the things that he imagined they would do together if he got out – beating someone up, evening the score, settling a turf, whatever it was that was.

Sure, Tim hardly acknowledged him enough to let him follow him along to do any business in things regarding the gang, but Curly had a feeling it'll be different now.

He put his arms behind his head as he laid down, thinking about his fifteen years with Tim. Curly knew Tim all his life, but if he really thought about it, he didn't know him at all. But that was fine though, because all he needed to know was one thing and that one thing was this: he was damn proud to be a Shepard.

He slowly drifted to sleep as he wondered what Tim was up to now.


Disclaimer: I do not own The Outsiders, or any of the characters in it.

A/N: It is officially the 11th year of my ongoing love over the work created by S.E. Hinton, and I'm celebrating by writing, again, to get away from the heavy burden that I also call life. Hopefully, the love continues for many more years. I respect all reviews and helpful criticisms.