-1A/n:I do not own The Outsiders, written by S.E. Hinton, nor do I own Comfortably Numb, written by David Gilmour and Roger Waters, and performed by Pink Floyd. Enjoy.

Come on now,

I hear you're feeling down.

Well I can ease your pain,

Get you on your feet again.

So the guys had been ambushed. And that fucking idiot -- that little son of a bitch had gone back in to save some stupid fucker who couldn't get himself out of the fire in time. Well, Ackley deserved it. What did he care if Carl-dumbass-Ackley didn't give a rat's ass about getting home from that God forsaken country? He certainly didn't. And yet …

Steve Randle paced the tent, looking for something, anything to hit. He kicked a trunk and collapsed on his cot, his head in his hands. His whole body shook with rage, thinking about the sweet revenge he'd get for Carl … the revenge he'd get on Carl for doing this to him. That no good pile of dog shit, screwing him over like this. He'd kill every damn gook he saw for Carl damn Ackley.

Steve lifted his head over the bush after a momentary ceasefire. Nothing there, no noise, no movement. Until - BAM! Steve found himself being pulled back right in time as a bullet soared past him, just missing his helmet.

He breathed out for a moment before glaring at his commanding officer.

"You got shit for brains, Randle? I fuckin' told you to stay the hell down. Don't you ever listen, boy? You ignore your mama, too?"

Steve glared even harder, biting his tongue. "Don't have an old lady, sir. Ain't had one since I was a kid."

"Damn right, Randle. You ain't got no mama out here, neither. You want that pretty girl you write to gettin' a letter home saying you fucking blew your head off?"

He lifted himself off the ground, sitting on his knees. "No."

Ackley gave him a dark stare.

"No, sir. I don't want to die out here, sir." Steve tried, but failed to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

"I like you, private. I don't want to be the one writing home to your daddy, telling him you was killed by some gook's bullet. You hear me?"

Steve glared at the ground, trying to control himself. "Yes, sir."

Ackley shook his head and muttered darkly before scouting out the RTO.

He stood up and began to pace again. What the hell was he doing? What the hell did he want to do? He knew what he wanted to do. He needed to kick something. Make something, someone hurt.

Steve wheeled around and kicked the Army cot, making his pillow and blanket slip a little. That didn't do anything.

Ackley was a fucking pansy, getting himself killed like that. Ackley was a selfish son of a whore who didn't give a shit about anyone. Carl Ackley was dog piss to Steve.

"I gotta take a whiz, man. Watch my spot?"

Steve nodded absently as Wesley crawled off somewhere in the woods to piss.

Steve leaned back on the large rock behind him and lit a cigarette. Thank whatever god there was that Darry Curtis thought enough to send cigarettes in his letters. Otherwise he'd never write back.

He was down to the last damn one. His lucky cigarette. He'd keep it for when he really needed it.

"Spot's safe?" Wesley had come back and now looked down at the spot he'd been sitting in before.

"Ain't no gooks come by while I was lookin' at it. Looks safe to me."

"Cool. Thanks, Randle. You're a good guy."

Steve placed his head against the cool rock. God, guard duty was such a drag. He closed his eyes and wondered when they'd be off. He still didn't get this fucked up time they had in the Army. He guessed he'd get used to it some time.

Steve suddenly jerked his eyes open, seeing Ackley standing across from him, gun in hand, a foggy look on his face.

"Rise 'n shine, Randle."

Steve got up, quickly, dusting his fatigues off. "Fuck," he muttered.

"Don't sweat it. Wesley was dropping off, too. I figured I'd keep you idiots from getting killed by giving him a break. I could use the company, though." Ackley slid down against a tree and opened a battered pack of Camels. "Last light. Want it?"

"Nah, I got one. Thanks, man."

Steve searched through his pockets, pulling out the pack. Oh, God, he needed this more than ever. Lighting the cigarette, he inhaled deeply and fell on the bed.

Ackley didn't really care about anyone. Not even his own damn family. Even Steve wrote home to the old man and Evie. And the Curtises. But did he ever see Ackley write home one damn time?

… Did he?

Steve knocked on the door of the tent.

"Come in."

"Sir, I've got a letter home for you. From your fiancée."

Ackley smiled fondly, taking the letter from Steve.

"I ever tell you about Kitty, Private?"

"No, sir," he said, not really caring to hear, either.

"She's a real trip. Smart as a whip and boy can she cook. Your lady ever cook for you?"

"She makes omelets," he said, shrugging.

"Yeah, well, Kitty, she makes it all. Corn bread, fried green 'matoes, okra. Any Southern cookin' an' my little Kitty knows how to make it." Ackley's eyes lit up with some distant memory. "Mmm, mmm, mmm. I ain't never met a gal like her."

Ackley came back to Earth and shook his head. "Is 'at all you needed from me, Randle?"

"Yes, sir."

"Aight, you get on outta here, 'en. I'll see you in the mess tent in a little while."

Steve nodded, closing the door. How long had it been since he'd written Evie? What excuse would he make this time?

Steve put his hands behind his head, the cigarette hanging loosely out of his mouth. Who else had he seen die out there? … Oh, God, what a sick thought. But he couldn't help it. He'd seen all his guys die. His friends, his brothers, his own goddamned best friend was dead.

But Carl Ackley, he didn't need to be dead. Zimmerman, he'd been shot down. Jones stepped in some gook's booby trap. And Soda, he'd been shot down by some gook in some goddamned ambush or something.

Why the hell was Ackley dead? He never needed to run back in there. He never needed to save that other guy. But he had. Why the hell had he played the damn hero?

Steve closed his eyes as he heard a sharp rap on the door.

"It's open," he said, eyes still closed.

"Hey, man. Randle." It was that shit for brains Burns.

"What do you want, Burns?" Steve didn't even open his eyes.

"I got some smack. You know, the good kind, too. Nothin' cheap. Wanna light up?"

He was about to say he wasn't in the mood, didn't feel like it, but that'd be an utter lie. And waste of perfectly good smack.

"Yeah, sure. That'd be cool."

Steve felt the weight shift to the end of the cot where Burns sat. Opening his eyes, he blinked in the light.

He needed this more than ever. He needed to do this for Sodpapop, for Zimmerman, for Jones, and for Ackley. He needed to do this for all of his buddies. It'd make him feel better, anyway.

There is no pain, you are receding.

A distant ship's smoke on the horizon.

You are only coming through in waves.