Disclaimer: I do not own The Outsiders by S.E. Hinton, or "Letters from the Sky" by Civil Twilight.
A/N: As usual, this ties into all my other fics. Takes place just after Sway.
We were made to never fall away.
Dear Steve.
Good luck at boot camp. I was there when you beat up Ricky (both times), so I know you'll be great.
Love,
Anna.
He writes back, telling her how he takes to boot camp like a pro; the push-ups, jumping jacks, and running coming to him naturally. In reality, seven years of smoking has killed any fitness level he might have ever had. He's lost count of how many times he's puked all over himself after a fifteen mile run.
"Get your shit together, Randle; you're lagging behind again!" Lt. Hall tells him this almost daily.
It's okay. He's getting better, and that's what matters. He might not be a match for anyone when it comes to pulling himself up that damn length of rope, but no one outdoes him when guns are involved. He can pull apart, clean, and put back together his gun - Jackie, named after his mother - faster than anyone else in his platoon.
When he tells Anna that, he almost feels a hint of pride.
Dear Steve.
Kathy's leaving. Got some scholarship or something. Two-Bit's pretty broken up about it. I think he really wishes you were here … I do, too.
Love,
Anna.
He writes back, warns her that he's leaving, too, and not to expect any letters from him for a while. He doesn't know how the mail system works once he's in the jungle, and hasn't brought himself to pussy out and ask anyone yet, either. So he just lets her know it might be a while before she hears from him again.
His last line of the letter is a message for Two-Bit, telling him he's sorry Kathy ditched him, but to keep his goddamn hands to himself.
He makes sure to tell her he's all trained up, completely ready for what's to come, denying to himself that the words he's writing are partly to convince himself. Because he is ready. Completely ready. The chain around his neck gets heavy whenever he thinks he might not be.
Dear Steve.
Be careful. Please. You have to. You promised.
Love,
Anna.
He writes back, an easy letter full of description and bitching. He'd never realised before just how perfect some words describe what they are. The jungle … it's a fucking jungle, and it scares the crap out of him. He doesn't tell her that, but he does tell her about the snake that almost bit him his second day there, and the billion mosquitoes constantly buzzing around his head.
Then he tells her about the green - the trees, the grass, the dark, the bright, the way it sometimes reminds him of her eyes … okay, he doesn't write that, but he thinks it. A lot. He thinks about her a lot, sometimes sure he can smell that summery perfume that always made his crazy …
But mostly he complains. Mosquitoes, heat, rain. Itchy bites, heat rash, constantly wet skin. Crap food, cold food, no food. Idiots who can't shoot to save their lives, and idiots who are too fucking trigger happy.
He's tough, but even he felt a little sick after a guy in his platoon shot a dog just for fun.
He doesn't tell Anna that, but at the very end of his letter, he tells her he misses her.
Dear Steve.
I love you, but try not to be too moody, okay? Make friends … or at least try and find someone you don't hate.
Love,
Anna.
He writes back and mentions Jack. Tells her about Jack's crap poker face, about how he always shares his beans with Steve, and how he smokes more than anyone he's ever met. How he's a good guy, and he's glad they got stuck together on this shitty ride.
But he doesn't tell her that Jack was a River King before being drafted. Or that Jack was the twitchy guy who jumped him outside the DX one afternoon. Or that Jack's constantly offering him the weed he somehow manages to score.
"Randle!" The guy had called happily, sitting next to him on the bus back in Tulsa.
Still glum about just leaving Anna, he had turned to him and replied, "Asshole."
They'd been joined at the hip since.
Dear Steve.
I miss you. I went and saw Bradley yesterday and he's gotten so big. I'm going to take a camera next time and send you a picture of him.
Love,
Anna.
He writes back on soggy paper. The rain - the fucking rain - is worse than anything else and everything else put together. Worse than the mosquitoes, worse than the heat, and even sometimes worse than the constant fear of being killed.
Okay, maybe not that last one, but being wet all the fucking time is really shitty. His clothes are never dry, the paper he writes on to Anna and the guys is never dry, and even his goddamn smokes are never dry.
To cheer himself up, he reminds her of that day they spent in his car at the lake. It was pouring outside, but they stayed warm by kissing and touching and fogging up the windows … then he asks her to take a couple of pictures of herself for him, promising he won't show a soul.
There's a smug smirk on his face when he finishes that letter.
Dear Steve.
You're filthy. And you better keep those damn memories to yourself.
Love,
Anna.
P.S. No pictures for you.
He writes back, but doesn't say much. He killed seven people that day, and lost three of his buddies. There's not much he can say. He had promised her he wouldn't hold anything back, but he is. Always will. She can't know about the shit he sees here, and he definitely can't tell her.
He can't tell her about being ambushed; seeing Kenny, who was right in front of him, fall to the ground with blood pouring from his neck; calling for Leroy, the medic, while shoving his hand over the bullet wound in Kenny's neck; shooting, shooting, shooting every Commie he could see; and the blood. Jesus fucking Christ, the blood. It's still on his hands, literally and figuratively.
After it was all over, Lt. Hall had patted him on the back, told him what a good job he'd done, how, if he kept shooting like that, he'd be their top marksman in no time. That made him feel better than it should. Killing those bastards who killed Kenny felt better than it should.
He tells Anna it was a crap day, and leaves it at that.
Dear Stevie.
I'm sorry you had a crappy day. Want something to make you laugh? Danny invited Sylvia to stay with us. Sylvia! Can you believe that? Jesus, he's an idiot.
Love always,
Anna.
P.S. Merry Christmas.
He writes back, grinning like a fool. Living with Sylvia barely compares to the shit he sees everyday, and he's sure Anna knows it, but she's giving him the chance to laugh at her expense, knowing he'll take it. It's definitely enough to make him smile. He can just imagine Anna trying to live under the same roof as Sylvia, and it's even enough to get a small chuckle out of him.
"Something dirty in there?" Jack asks.
He flips him the bird. "Mind your own business."
"Got a picture yet?"
"Na," he says, but quickly mentions it in the letter, a little more seriously this time. Just a picture, any picture will do, so long as it's of her.
"Hey, Randle?" Jack interrupts him again.
"Hmm?"
"Why's your gun called Jackie?"
"Everyone named their guns."
"Yeah, but everyone named their guns after their girl … I know enough about you to know her name's Anna."
He tenses, wanting to tell Jack not to say her name, to never say her name here again. She can't be here, where people kill and get kill, where he kills. She can't be here, in any way, shape, or form.
"Jackie's my mom," he says.
He ignores anything else Jack says in favour of writing to Anna.
Dear Steve.
Two-Bit said to tell you he's planning on borrowing your car tonight. I told him it was okay, but if was going to speed then not to get caught … you don't mind, do you?
Love,
Anna.
P.S. Of course I'm joking, but if this is the only way we have to tease you, then I'm going to take it.
He writes back, pleased by Anna's letter. Sure, the idea of Two-Bit taking out his car pisses him off, but the letter was … normal. Almost like being back there and having Anna take Two-Bit's side instead of his.
And goddamn he misses normal; driving, work, Anna's chocolate cupcakes, Buck's, his car, ditching school with Two-Bit, hassling the kid, the smell of Anna's perfume, his bed, burgers, cold beer, working on cars with Soda, Anna's grin, the Dingo, Coke, pool, poker with his friends, Darry's meatloaf, the Curtis couch, aspirin, changing car oil, fries, milkshakes, fries dunked in milkshakes, Anna's bedroom, Anna's teasing, Anna's kisses, Anna, Anna, Anna …
Now there's other stuff; grass, swamps, guns, bullets, corpses, prayers, letters, mosquitoes, snakes, bugs he isn't able to identify, deadly enemies, fire, rain, sweltering heat, heavy packs, no sleep, strangers, bloody hands, bloody bodies, bloody knives, blood, blood, blood …
He hates that this other stuff is beginning to feel normal.
Dear Steve.
Sylvia is the worst human being in the history of human beings.
Love,
Anna.
He writes back, and he doesn't necessarily agree, but he thinks that Sylvia is a lot worse than most of the guys he spends his days and nights with.
Jack's easy; easy to hang out with, easy to beat at poker, easy to talk to. They doesn't say much, and Jack never pushes, but they shoot the shit and it's good. They can talk about home without having to talk about home. Every night Jack will sit next to him, offer him a joint, then sing "Get off of My Cloud" quietly to himself. Every single night.
Bones - named for his lack of muscle - reminds him of Two-Bit. He looks nothing like Two-Bit - what with his dark hair, dark skin, and lanky body - but there's always a smile on his face, always a joke coming out of his mouth, always a suspicious sparkle in his eyes. He smokes like a chimney and curses like a sailor, and never lets a damn thing get him down. Bones is the kind of guy he likes to sit next to after a shitty day.
Leroy's not much different to Jack most of the time, only without the weed and Stones. He drops his pack wherever he can find room, cracks his back three or four times, then sits talks about whatever enters his mind for about twenty minutes. But then he gets fidgety and agitated. His breathing gets harsh and his hands shake and he doesn't calm down until he opens his pack, takes out all his supplies - bandages, morphine, tourniquets - then methodically repacks everything.
He's odd, but Steve likes him - and not just because he's the guy with the pain meds.
These guys are better than Sylvia, but they're no match for his buddies back home.
Dear Steve.
I have some bad news. Soda enlisted. I don't know what happened, but everyone's so confused and angry. He leaves in three weeks. I hate having to tell you this, but you deserve to know.
Love always,
Anna.
He writes back, telling her it's okay, he already knows. He always saves Anna's letters for last when they get back to base, so he had heard it from Darry, Pony, and Soda himself before hearing it from Anna. Hell, even Two-Bit, who never writes, managed to let him know in a letter that was so clearly full of rage. Soda was coming to fight, there was no ignoring it with five letters telling him so.
One of the last things he said to Soda was that the only thing that could make being here worse, was if one of them was coming with him. Soda didn't come with him, but he's coming now, by choice, and he hates his best friend just a little bit for making it happen.
He pulls out a smoke, and, as always, Jack offers him something a little stronger. This time he doesn't say no.
Dear Steve.
It's so cold! I'm sure it wasn't this cold last winter. I wish you were here. I wish Soda was here, too. He left yesterday … things already seem less happy without him around.
Love,
Anna.
He writes back, tells her about the heat, the sweat, the sunburn. He tells her about the three days of R&R at base, all the poker he's played, the fact that he forgot to put on sunscreen his first day. He tells her about the blisters on his shoulders - Leroy's done what he can for them, but there isn't much - the Zippo he won from Bones, and how he's still waiting on a picture of her.
He knows he's already mentioned it, time and time again, but he tells her about the mosquitoes, the awful food, the snakes, the greenery, the swamps, the blisters on his feet, the rain, and everything else that's trivial enough to write about.
He never mentions Sodapop.
Dear Steve.
Halfway there. I'm not counting down or anything. I don't miss you that much.
Love,
Anna.
P.S. I miss you that much. Please be safe.
He writes back, but doesn't tell her she couldn't have written a better letter at a better time. His promise to not hold anything back is still there, but he breaks it with every letter. He can't tell her the things she doesn't really want to know.
He can't tell her how good it feels to smoke up with Jack every other day, and how he wishes he had started earlier. He doesn't tell her how good it felt to punch Jack in the eye when he caught the bastard sleeping while on sentry duty - because the guy pisses him off at times, a lot, but not enough that he'd rat him out for it; he knows what would've happened if Lt. Hall had found out. He will definitely never tell her how good it felt to get one up on a Commie that had him pinned, before shoving his knife right in his chest.
He won't tell her any of that.
"Time to go, boys," Lt. Hall says,
He gets up to follow, Jack right behind him, and the next hour goes by in a blur; flames, screaming children, smoke and ash. These are their orders, and they're not there to actually hurt anyone, but he's ninety-eight percent sure there's still people in the yellow building at the end.
He tries not to think about it, though. He looks left and sees the jungle; looks right and sees an empty field; ahead of him are the flames, smoke, and ash; behind him, the screaming men, women, and children, running down the dirt road to get away from the fire. To get away from them.
"Good work, fellas," Lt. Hall says, not sounding entirely happy about it, and Steve will never tell Anna that he was minutes away from burning down a whole village while writing this letter.
Dear Steve.
Here's your stupid photo. I wasn't going to sit and pose for you, so you can thank Evie's parents for getting her a camera for her birthday (she went through a bit of a phase). She and I secretly got a little tipsy at dinner that night and decided to gang up on Danny while cleaning up.
Love,
Anna.
P.S. She and Joey got engaged last week!
P.P.S. I miss you.
He writes back and tells her he had been hoping the photo would have a little less Danny, and a little more of Anna's skin. He can't really complain, though; it's been seven months since he last saw her, and any picture is enough to make his chest feel tight.
And it's a good picture; Danny's hair and cheeks are covered in soap suds, there's a pile of dirty dishes behind him, and he's scowling down at Anna. She's looking at the camera, laughing, and it makes him smile. The picture is slightly blurry - he guesses because Evie was as drunk and giggly as Anna seems in the photo - but it's still good. It's Anna and she looks happy.
It's a good photo. He folds it in half and slides it inside his helmet.
Dear Steve.
You don't get more skin until you come home. I hope you're doing okay.
Love always,
Anna.
He writes back, telling her the things he normally hides.
He tells her how he wants to go home, how much he misses her and Bradley and the guys and everything. He tells her how much every fucking step begins to hurt after two straight days of walking through jungle, swamps, dusty roads. He tells her how he dreams about her some nights, the edges of the dream turning red until blood starts dripping from the sky, drenching her like it has everything else in his current life.
He tells her about Bones, and how he died. He tells her about the gunshot wound to the stomach, and the blood flow that couldn't be stopped. He tells her about the seven and a half hours of screaming, howling, and weeping Bones went through before he finally passed on.
And the whole time he writes, he grips the necklace she gave him tight in his hand. The cross makes impressions in his palm and fingers, and he's pulling so hard that the chain digs into the back of his neck. But he doesn't tell her that.
He know he'll feel bad after - bad for his words and his malice - but he's angry and high, and he makes sure to be angry and high when he sends the letter off.
Dear Stevie.
I'm sorry. I'm really, really sorry. I know there's nothing I can say or do, but know that I love you, and that know matter what you write me, I'll always write back.
Love always,
Anna.
He writes back as soon as he gets the letter at base, feeling like a real shit. He doesn't apologise for the letter, but he tells her he never should have sent it, that he regretted it the moment he did, that he wishes he could take it back. Then the letter is ripped out of his hand and a voice behind him starts yelling.
"Oooh, you writing to your girlfriend, huh?"
He's knows the voice, and it makes his throat close up in a way he refuses to think about. But then again, maybe he doesn't know the voice - it's been months, after all - and he's just imagining things. He stands and turns slowly, and his breath leaves his body slowly.
"Soda."
"Heya, buddy!"
"Jesus Christ," he says.
He forgets about the letter in Soda's hand, forgets about all the crap he said in his last letter to Anna, even forgets about Anna for a moment. Forgets the jungle, the heat, the healing cut across his forehead. It's just him and Soda. Him and Soda.
Soda laughs, loud and happy, then grabs him in a bone-crushing hug. He hugs back - because how could he not? - and there's a lightness in his chest he hasn't felt in too fucking long.
He pulls away to give Soda's shoulder a punch. "What the fuck, man? You enlisted?"
Soda has the decency to look ashamed. "I just had to. Things at home weren't the same with you, Johnny, and Dal gone … I had to get out."
"So you came here?"
Soda scowls. "C'mon, man. What're the chances of us running into each other here? Really?"
"Slim to fucking none."
"Exactly. Let's make the most of it."
So they do. They team up to hustle the newer guys at poker, they chain-smoke and shoot the shit for a couple of hours, and they introduce each other to their friends. Soda takes a real liking to Leroy, and Steve teases Soda about the kid who follows him around like a lost puppy.
"That's Freddy," he says. "He's a good kid, but nervous. Really damn nervous."
Steve doesn't blame him; eight months in and he's still fucking nervous every damn day. But with Soda sitting next to him, talking shit about the old days, he doesn't feel so bad.
Dear Steve.
I think my brother is in love with Sylvia. Excuse me while I puke.
Love,
Anna.
He writes back, tired, exhausted, and sore, but still on too much of a high from seeing Sodapop, too excited at telling her about Soda, to complain. They lost two of their guys that day, he has a shrapnel wound in his shoulder, and Jack's started smoking something a hell of a lot stronger than pot since Bones died, but he doesn't give a shit.
He saw his best friend. That's all that matters.
Dear Steve.
I can't believe you saw Soda. I just can't believe it! I showed everyone your letter - Ponyboy, Darry, Two-Bit - and you should have seen their faces. Hearing from you that Soda is okay sure made their day. I'm really glad you got to see him.
Love,
Anna.
He writes back and tells her more stuff about seeing Soda; stuff he had forgotten in his excitement last time. And he feels good; he saw Soda, Jack just lit up a joint for them, his time in the jungle is slowly coming to an end … he feels pretty damn good.
"I got something a little harder if ya want some," Jack says, the same offer he makes every night as he hands him the weed.
"Na, I'm good, man."
And he really fucking is.
Dear Steve.
I'm glad you're doing so well! I really miss you, and I might be counting down the days until you come home. You've been so wonderful and brave over there - I sure am proud of you.
Love always,
Anna.
He writes back, but Leroy's dead and it's not much of a letter. He sends it anyway, telling her that Leroy had gotten in the way of a lone grenade, that he had been thrown into thatch of vines as thick as his body, that when they got to him he was missing the most of both legs.
He doesn't tell her about the blood or the smell or the sight of those scraggly stumps, and not just because he doesn't want her to know about it. He can't bring himself to write about it - can barely bring himself to think about tit.
He really liked Leroy. The guy was kind of weird and finicky, but he sure knew how to patch up a wound.
Already at base for some R&R, he sends the letter as soon as he finishes it. He heads to find Jack just in time to see another platoon arriving. He watches for a while, taking in their haggard faces, torn and filthy clothes, limping and bloody bodies, and wonders if that's how he and his buddies look when they arrive.
Then he sees Freddy, the kid who worships the ground Soda walks on, and he grins. Losing Leroy sucks, but seeing Soda again would be fucking amazing.
Freddy doesn't see him until he's right in his face.
"Hey, man, where's Soda?"
Freddy looks up at him with dazed, red-rimmed eyes. "Gone."
"Gone?"
The kid points over to the body bags that will be picked up later that night and sent to base. There's a few more than usual today, and he hates that Leroy is one of them.
"Gone," Freddy says again. "Dead. Those fuckers shot him right in the heart."
He says nothing, but ten minutes later he's puking like he hasn't since boot camp. That night, when Jack offers him more than just the dope, he takes it without a word.
Dear Steve.
I'm so sorry about your friend. Leroy sounded like a great guy.
Love,
Anna.
He doesn't write back.
Steve.
I heard about Soda, and I know Darry sent you a letter to tell you. I'm so, so sorry. I don't know what to say. I'm just so sorry.
Yours,
Anna.
Dear Stevie.
I hope you're okay. At least physically. Two-Bit's not taking things so well.
Love,
Anna.
Dear Stevie.
I haven't heard anything to tell me otherwise so I'm going to assume you're not hurt. I miss you, and I miss your letters. Please write back.
Anna.
Steve.
I don't care how often you ignore my letters, I'm going to keep writing. You better be okay. Not being okay is unacceptable. If you're ignoring my letters, that's fine, just be safe. I'll see you when you get home
Love always,
Anna.
We won't have to be scared.
A/N: Reviews would be wonderful. A million thanks to Sam and K. Nefertiti.