A/N: Yes. Another Shepard fic. Dang I love writing these three. Susie created such dynamic characters in so few words, and it leaves so much room for exploration. After focusing on my Supernatural stories, I figured it was time to visit the Outsiders again. This is set a few months pre-book.

And I feel super terrible. I have two SPN fics that I haven't updated in over a month, but this has been sitting around forever, and I really wanted to finish it and post it. I hope to get the SPN updates soon ... hopefully within the next week, but with the hectic summer, I regret that I can't promise much.

I don't own. WARNING: This is rated T, and it's on the high end of T, in my opinion. There is plenty of swearing. And there's some adult themes discussed. Nothing spelled flat-out, nothing gross, just, it's not light material. They're Shepards.

Agent Shepard

After all these years, I still don't know how to pick locks.

I've gotten into my fair share of trouble. Though Tim's record has gathered more dirt than mine ever will —yeah, thanks to him; he keeps my nose clean— that doesn't make me innocent or law-abiding. People have bled at my hands. I smoke cigarettes bought with someone else's money. It doesn't bother me most of the time; I only steal from douches.

But still no lock-picking.

My sister has locked herself in her room.

Tim on one side of the house, her on the other. As much space apart as possible. And physical barriers. But I can hear them both — there's Tim, down in the kitchen, kicking around cardboard boxes out of the trash; and, closer, louder, Angela, cussing with a vocabulary she wouldn't dare use in front of our brother, voice thickened by angry tears.

Me in the middle. Just as always.

Tim and me, we argue a lot. Too much. But he ain't only my brother; he's my gang leader, too, so I respect him enough. I've got to. It's the way things are. He's older, he's harder, he's Tim. So we don't get on perfect, but we manage.

Same with Angela. Except, with her, I'm in charge. I can boss her around all I want. The perks of being older, for once. She hates it. She swears at me. It's because of me —all right, and Tim, too— that her clothes get skimpier and skimpier. She wants to defy me. Piss me off.

But we manage. We always do.

Tim and Angela, on the other hand, don't.

Always at each other's throats, always screaming so loud the neighbors probably constantly wear ear plugs, arguing no matter even if their argument was already won half an hour ago. They love each other in a hidden sort of way. They don't say it, that's for sure. And while cussing between them has become a term of endearment, I've seen my brother and my sister care.

That's not now.

If Angel were resourceful, she'd be checking out books on Voodoo from the library and making a Tim-shaped doll. But she ain't; so she cries to herself. If Tim didn't have a lecture to give to me, once he cools off, he would be at Buck's, getting buzzed enough not to care. But he ain't.

I've still got that lecture coming.

But, first, to patch up my family, just as I always do.

As long as I can remember, I've been the fixer in my family. Maybe that's something that comes win being the middle kid; Ponyboy said something similar about Soda being the neutral ground between him and Darry.

Somehow, I don't think arguments at the Curtis house get this heated. I don't think Darry has ever cussed at Pony. I don't think Soda has ever needed to pick a lock to get to his kid sibling.

I can complain all I want, but it ain't gonna change anything. This is my life.

I pick up what looks like a safety pin off the carpet and start jamming it into the lock on my sister's door. She won't let me in; she's too busy wallowing in pity for herself. I'm not the one she's mad at, but when she's mad at Tim, Angela decides she might as well include the whole damn world in that equation. Why not? The hate she feels for billions of people are nothing compared to what she feels about Tim in the moments after one of their pissing matches.

After a while, the safety pin isn't going to work. My fingers can use a knife real well, but they're no good for "fine motor skills," as Pony would call this. Ha. Fine, for a criminal's trick.

Yeah, that's probably why Angela can't stand me. I laugh at my own jokes, and they're shitty ones at that.

Instead, I kick Angela's door. "Open up," I say. Loud enough that she can hear me over the din of her ranting. "Now."

"Fuck off."

Oh. She wouldn't have tried that with Tim ... Probably. She drops F-bombs around him all the time, but never directly at him. Because he can explode just as quickly as one of those. But me? She's not afraid of me, her idiot of a brother. I always come in second.

I deserve that, too. I'm not Tim.

"Watch your mouth," I tell her forcefully. I'm not going to put up with this — not when I'm trying to help, damn it! It's my job to mend all the breaks in our family, and my siblings make that job damn near impossible. I don't have to do it; I could let us all go to ruins. But I do it anyway. Because I'm just a wonderful person like that. And then my sister tells me to fuck off.

What I wouldn't give to be Sodapop Curtis. Even with the pansy-ass name.

"You're not Tim," Angela shoots back, her voice shrill. "I can say whatever the hell I want."

"Open the door. I need to talk to you."

"Go away."

I sigh. I'm not Tim, so apparently the ordering-her-around tactic ain't gonna work. I need to try a gentler approach — one less Tim, because he's the last person she wants to talk to right now.

"Hey, kid. You're right, I ain't Tim. So you should have no problem letting me in. I'm on your side, honest."

I'm on her side, all right. But I'm also on Tim's.

When I was a kid, I used to want to be a spy. A double agent. No one would no which side I was on; it would be so tuff, such a secretive job. But what I didn't realize was that I already was one, am one. Between my siblings.

I kiss up to Angela and I kiss up to Tim. I make them both happy, neither one the wiser.

I can't sew for shit, but I patch up our family pretty damn good, if I say so myself.

And my softer tactic works, because Angela opens up the door. Mascara runs down her cheeks. She makes a face at me. "Get your ass in here. And you better not tell Tim."

I don't need to ask what. She's smoking. His cigarettes.

Damn, little girl.

"You can trust me," I say, avoiding having to tell a lie.

My sister smiles at me, grateful and cheeky at the same time. She collapses onto her bed, wiping off some of the dripping makeup. "I'm sorry about this, Curls," she says. "I don't know what the hell I'm doing."

"I don't think anybody does."

Most of the time, I laugh. I joke (badly). I endanger my life to get adrenaline highs, the only high that Tim, though reluctantly, will let me get. That's not now, though. I am in full Fixing Mode.

"No, plenty of people do, Curly. All those Soc girls, they know exactly where they're going and they got exactly the right clothes to go with it and all this damn money and they don't have to deal with douchebag brothers—"

I grin at her. "I think even Socs have to deal with douchebag brothers. Trust me, kid, if we had money, I'd still annoy the hell out of you."

"If we had money, I'd pay a government assassin to off you."

"Why, little sister, aren't you sweet?"

She punches me as hard as she can, though it's not hard. It stings, but I've had much worse. Angela is strong, though her main weapon is her words, not her fists. Except she got that mastery of words from me. She can cuss at Tim 'til she's blue in the face, but a battle of wit belongs to me. No one can beat me around here ... Maybe Two-bit Matthews.

"Go to hell."

"From what I heard you telling Tim, this house itself is hell. So, kid, I'm already there."

"The seventh circle of hell."

"You been listening to Ponyboy when he comes over? 'Cause I'm pretty sure that ain't on the freshman reading list. Then again, you don't read, so—"

"I read, asshole."

"That's debatable." But I lay off of her. I've softened her up enough; now I can get her ready to talk to Tim. "But your reading skills or lack thereof ain't why I'm here, Angel. I want to know just what you and Tim were freaking out about."

"I thought you could hear us," Angela says. She doesn't want to talk about this. But that's too bad.

She's gonna talk anyway, 'cause I gotta do my job. Double agent here.

"Yeah, but I need to hear it from your point of view. Without Tim's backup vocals."

My sister smiles a bit. She likes it when I make fun of our brother. She loves it that I'm on her side. If there is a foolproof way to get to Angela's trust, it's to flatter her or destroy her enemies.

"It's a long story, Curls."

"What else am I gonna do all day?"

She needs no further encouragement. "He heard that I kissed Tony, and—"

Tony.

None other than the eighteen-year-old third in command of our gang.

Well, shit. This will be a hard break to fix, when I want to chew Angela out more than anything else.

"That true?" I ask.

"Yeah, he was a good kiss. But it was just that. Nothing more. And then Tim goes apeshit on me and says that he doesn't want his sister to be a whore, and I told him I'm not, and then he said, 'Next time you're going to kiss Dallas Winston of something, God forbid,' and I said, 'Well, he is hot,' and then, then ... and then Tim."

Yes. Tim. That one word can explain what happened.

I can imagine.

Poor Angela. She's kissed too many for my liking — but that's as far as she's gone. 'Cause she's only just fourteen, fresh and wide-eyed. She's just got a pretty face and nice body, and she knows it. She's also got plenty of guys around her who know it, too. And if Tim and I beat up every boy who made some comment about our sister, we wouldn't even get to sleep. Angela is pretty, and there is nothing we can do about it.

I start to say something sarcastic, or to tell her she needs to stop taking kissing so lightly, though that would make me a hypocrite, and then I see her.

She watches me with huge, scared eyes. Underneath all that makeup meant for a grown woman, she's just a kid. She's still clinging onto the last scraps of her innocence. "I don't wanna be a whore, Curly. I just kissed him. He told me I was pretty, and he grabbed my arm, and I kissed him. And then I left. That's all. I'm not a whore, and I don't try to be one. Am I a whore? Be honest."

I hate that she even thinks these things. No fourteen-year-old girl should ever have to ask anyone that question.

"No, kid, you're not. Kissing don't make you anything. A whore is different, and you're not it. Tim just overreacted. You know him. But you gotta be careful who you kiss, Angel. Some douchebags will want more. Just kiss who you really want to, not everybody who wants you."

I can't believe I'm talking about kissing with my sister.

But it's necessary, if this is what she thinks of herself.

Then, surprising me, she starts crying again. I sit down on the bed next to her and let her get my shirt all wet. I try to comb the tangles out of her hair, but I just end up pulling on them and it hurts her, so I stop and let my hands hang limp. I don't know what to do with a crying sister. Mine is usually strong, too stubborn to let any sad tears fall. If tears do come, they're out of anger, nothing else.

When she's done, she says, "Forget I ever did that."

"Okay," I say. "But, remember, Tim cares. In a roundabout way. He's trying to help."

"Yeah, and he does a fucking terrible job at it."

"You need to calm down enough to talk to him not like a banshee. Seriously, Ange, it's annoying. You broke my ears two years ago with all that screeching."

"Blame Tim. He's an ass."

"And he's an ass that's your brother, so you need to learn to not attempt to murder him with your banshee scream. Murder is still illegal in these parts, you know."

Angela gives me a patronizing grin. "Oh, except you. In fact, the fuzz would thank me if I got rid of you."

"If you've gotten to issuing death threats, I am going to leave." I stand and smack the back of her head lightly. She slaps after me but misses, and I'm out the door with a quick, "I'll deal with Tim for you."

And I will, once I'm ready.

It's a lot to digest.

But I just sit on the stairs, staring at the ceiling. There's a crack in it. This house is crap.

I don't know what to say to Tim. Hell, I didn't know what to say to Angela. I can fix the little things. I'm used to that. But Angela is growing and growing and doing more and more to piss Tim off. When we were younger, I used to have to do this less often. Now it's almost every week I have to pretend to take sides, listen to both of their arguments, smooth things over.

If I could learn to stop cussing and pass high school, being a psychologist would be a breeze after all this. Solve people's problems. Yeah, if anyone wanted a hood for a shrink.

I breathe in, long, and I know that Tim will explode and leave if I wait too long, so I've got to go now.

I traipse down the stairs and find him sitting on the kitchen floor, leaning against the fridge.

"So." I don't know how to start the conversation. I sit down across the room from him, not leaning on anything. Not that relaxed yet.

He raises an eyebrow at me. "So?"

"I talked to Angela."

He blows out angry air through his nose. "Yeah? And she tell you all about what of an ass I'm being? How she is completely justified in everything? How she knows everything and is right and I'm just the most ignorant shit in the world?"

Is that what he thinks she thinks of him?

Damn.

My family is twisted and knotted and just all around messed up. I can undo a little bit of the knotting, but I can never get the thread completely right again. It's been knotted too long.

"No," I tell him. Carefully. I've got to choose my words around my brother, walking on eggshells. Or beer bottles. "Dude, you gotta watch what you say to her."

"Is that so?" He's getting angry at me, too. Not good. I backtrack.

"I mean, just, don't go batshit. That whore comment you made? She's crying, Tim. Our sister is lying on her bed fretting her pretty little mind about whether she's become a whore. She's fourteen, Tim. She's just a kid. I want to hate you for doing that to her."

But I don't hate him. That's the problem. He raised me, pretty much. I can't hate him.

He looks at me for a long moment, then just says, "Damn it."

I keep silent. It's the safest bet. I just lock my eyes on him and wait. His words. I need to plan my game plan off of his.

I hope he'll be rational.

Then he stands, slowly, and looks down at me. "That's the whole point. I don't know how to talk to a fourteen-year-old girl, Curls. I don't even remember what being fourteen meant. But I know I was worse than her. I want to protect her, but she never listens. And that pisses me off, and sometimes I just want to strangle her. So I yell. How else am I supposed to handle it? Huh?"

Tim glares at me like he wants an answer. I choose not to give him one, just let him rant.

"If she don't listen to me when I'm yelling and sure as hell serious, then you think she's gonna listen if I'm all soft and nice? Respect isn't earned through being flimsy. She's gotta understand that she can't go down this road."

I sigh.

I don't think I can do this. Can't fix this one.

"Look, Tim. Just take it down a notch. She hates you yelling, so she yells back. But it messes her up. Next time, just try being nice, okay? Somewhat? Cool the fuck down and talk to her. She's a Shepard, man. She don't fancy being told what to do. She wasn't born to be bossed around."

He grins at that. "Yeah, I guess."

"You don't guess, you asshole. You know. And don't ever call my sister a whore again."

He grabs the newspaper, crumples it up, and chucks it at me. "She's my sister, too. You watch it, Curly. Don't push it."

I laugh at him.

Laughing is best when dealing with Tim.

"I can't believe you didn't chew her out," he says after a pause.

"I wanted to, but that's not how you get Angel to listen. I know she shouldn't have done it. Hell, I'll help you kick some Tony ass. But you gotta butter her up, you know?"

Tim shrugs.

He leaves.

I sit on the cracking linoleum.

I think I want to retire.

At fifteen. I've done enough work for this damn family. And I'm not getting paid. If I got paid like a real agent, we'd be living in a mansion.

Not we. Me. I'd be living in a mansion with fucking gold-leaf wallpaper, not having to deal with Tim or Angela. They could come for holidays.

Then I snort. What am I thinking? If I had a mansion, they'd be living there. I could never tell them to get out. They're annoying as hell, but they're family. And they'd have earned me that money.

But I ain't getting paid and I never will. I'll be stuck in this crappy town for the rest of my life. Fixing my crappy family's stupid problems.

Then I stop wallowing in my own misery, because I hear something odd.

Footsteps, heavy, ━Tim's━ on the stairs.

Interesting.

I inch towards the door so I can hear better, and I listen. The walls are paper thin; it's not that hard.

Tim knocks on Angela's door.

Oh, God. What is he doing?

She yanks it open, says, "What Curls ━ Oh. It's you. Get out."

"Can we talk?"

I imagine her staring. I know I can't believe my ears.

"About?"

Then, in a rush, Tim vomits words. "You're not a whore, you're just pretty, Curly is a shithead, and you shouldn't have kissed Tony. That's it. I'm done."

"What the hell?"

She's just as confused as I am.

Tim goes down the stairs. "I said I'm fucking done, Angel!" he yells. "That was it! Weren't you listening?"

"You said it too fast, idiot!"

But he doesn't hear that, because the door swings shut behind him, and Tim has left.

Angela calls down, "Did he just leave?"

I don't answer. She knows.

"Oh, my God, I am going to murder him. He thinks that's an apology? Oh, my God. That's pathetic."

I just watch the clock's second hand tick, and I know my family is pathetic. Me included. What is this? I'm no double agent. I fixed nothing this time.

But, all the same, I can't register what happened.

That was Tim's attempt at 'sorry?'

We're worse than I thought.

And then, I can't help it, I laugh.

Too much.

More than I've laughed in a long time, because, damn it, we're confusing and pathetic.

But sometimes there is nowhere I'd rather be living than here, in this pathetic house with these pathetic people.

Upstairs, Angela is ranting to her walls.

I laugh, and suddenly I think:

Mission accomplished. Agent Shepard out.