I don't own The Outsiders, nor do I own the song Baby Britain, written by Elliott Smith, which lends its lyrics to the title. Thanks to Samaryley for helping beta! Reviews are appreciated! I love concrit!

May 1967

Drink up one more time and I'll make you mine

- Elliott Smith

Ronnie Randle was asleep. Whiskey was tumbling in his stomach, up and down, up and down like waves in an acidic ocean. The newspaper was on the ground, the funnies having been neglected. An empty shot glass was knocked over on the coffee table, and only a small amount of amber liquid trickled out of the glass.

His daughter was at her friend's house, his wife was fast asleep. His son had been gone for three days. Ronnie had been gone for three days, too, sucking down bottles and cans and shots. The more he drank the better he felt. The better he felt, the more it clutched him. He belonged to it. It chased Them away, kept Them from bothering him ever again, from ever hurting him. They were always trying to hurt Ronnie, always trying to persecute him, because They couldn't understand. So he laid on the couch, swallowed in the depths of inebriation, sweet intoxication, and slept it off. Tomorrow would be another day, and maybe he'd listen to that small voice in the back of his head – maybe he'd be sober.

His large belly swelled and deflated with each breath he took and each exhale was a choking snore. He might listen to that voice. But he probably wouldn't.

Outside his house, fully awake, Ronnie's son was fumbling for his keys. The porch light was off and he couldn't find the right key, so he tried three times, swearing each time he stuck the wrong key in the lock. Finally he got the right one and slammed the door shut behind him.

Somewhere in the depths of his waning drunkenness, Ronnie heard the door slam and started out of his sleep. "'Oos'ere?"

"It's me. Hi."

Ronnie sat up. "S'at you, Steven?"

Steve stepped in the dim light of the doorway. He looked at the coffee table and then at Ronnie and looked repulsed. Ronnie had floated the night away in a sea of vodka and whisky, singing to himself and laughing at the funnies until he rolled off into a lumbering sleep, dreaming about Tennessee and being there and not this terrible, terrible place.

"What time's it?" Ronnie asked.

"It's 3 in the morning. What're you doing on the couch?" Steve was angry. Pissed, even. He was looking at the empty handles of Jack and vodka.

"Sleepin', before you slammed the door," Ronnie grunted.

"Pop, go to bed. Go to your bed."

"This is my bed, Stevie. Your ma kicked me out." Ronnie leaned over and propped elbows on his knees, so as to have a resting place for his chin. He looked like a ten year old, sad, pathetic, and defenseless. He thought for a long while about what emotion to feel, and settled on embarrassment. Embarrassment of being told to go to bed by his 18 year old son, of admitting that his wife of 20 years had kicked him out onto the couch, and embarrassment that he'd fallen to temptation again. Humiliation.

Steve sat down next to him and put his arm over his dad's shoulder. "Sorry, Papa."

"Steve," Ronnie said, "I want to tell you something." He looked at his son right in the eye. Cocky, bright eyes that wanted to fight everyone, telling the world to fuck itself, King Steve was in charge. "Please, for chrisstake, don't start drinking. We drink because it's in us. Your Pop-Pop was a drinker. You know what They done to Pop-Pop? They killed him, Stevie, just like They're killing me. Every time he picked up that bottle, it sucked him in and kept him there until he sat there one night and killed himself. He picked up a long rope and tied it round his neck and killed himself.

"It's in us because we're Indian, Stevie. We drink. Please don't." Then Ronnie took his hand off his son's shoulder, where there was a slight red mark shaped like a hand beneath his white shirt. He laid back down and turned his back to Steve. He didn't say goodnight and fell back asleep within minutes.

XxXxXxX

Steve woke up to someone shaking his shoulder. "Go'way."

"Steve." Another shake, a little bit rougher. He didn't move, just buried his face deeper in his pillow in hopes of smothering himself back to sleep. "Steeeve."

Steve rolled over and opened his eyes. They were stabbed by a blinding white light and he sat up. "What?"

Phoebe was staring down at him, looking just as irritated as Steve felt. "Your girlfriend's here."

Steve groaned. He walked outside into the living room, and sure enough, there was Evie. She was sitting on the couch, wearing a remarkably sexy skirt that showed off just how curvy she really was. It was modestly cut, but it left little to Steve's imagination as he saw the faint outline of her panties. Her shirt was just as sexy. Her pretty black bra showed right through the light blue shirt, and Steve wasn't sure if it was just because he was so turned on, but her tits were almost falling through the buttons of her shirt.

"Hi, pretty lady."

"'Hi' yourself," she said. She got up off the couch and gave Steve a light peck. For all she was (or wasn't) wearing, he'd been expecting more than a little peck on the cheek. But then he was also quickly reminded that Phoebe was in the room. She gave an irritated sounding cough and stormed out of the room, slamming her bedroom door behind her in a true Randle fashion.

Steve ignored her and took Evie's hand, leading her to his room. "What're you doing here?" he asked. As he asked, he pushed her onto his bed and started to bite at her neck, tracing his lips from her shoulder to ear lobe.

Evie gasped and tried to push him off of her. "I – I wanted to tell you that I –" she inhaled sharply and tried hard to fight the muscle spasm in her neck as Steve traced the area with his lips, caressing every nerve, making her tick. She pushed him off finally, long enough to finish her sentence. She caught her breath while Steve waited. "I wanted to tell you that my dad's just gotten a job promotion and he's having some people from the plant come over for dinner. They're making him the overseer of all the plants in the county. He wants you to come over for dinner."

"Tonight? Why?"

"Yes. At five. He says dress nicely, but casually. And because he likes you, Steve. You should be happy. He doesn't really like that many people."

"Jesus, Evie, when did your dad turn into such a snob?" But Steve didn't really care. He was working the clip out of Evie's hair and nipping her bottom lip. She pushed him back again, though and Steve frowned. "What's wrong?"

"Steve, don't you care?"

"Of course I care. I'll come over. But you just look so pretty." Evie glared at him, but color rose to her cheeks and she bit her bottom lip. Steve started to lower his head back toward her neck, but she moved out of the way.

"Get dressed. I came over because I need your help. Daddy wants to buy some wine tonight. He gave me money."

Steve looked at Evie and felt both extremely annoyed and turned on. Evie could be a downright bitch. But sometimes he liked a chase.

He was about to say something when she leaned toward his ear and whispered, just lightly enough to make the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. "I'll make it up to you."

He liked the sound of that. So Steve pulled his clothes on, irked that Evie was so selfish, but excited nonetheless. She kissed him, nipping his bottom lip, but keeping her tongue to herself, and told him she'd meet him by her car.

Steve walked out a few minutes later, having brushed his teeth, and looked around his living room. His father sat on the couch, watching Jeopardy. He was muttering the answers to himself, telling that stupid woman that she should've gone with a different category. Now the fattie with a lopsided, patchy mustache took the lead.

There was an open can of beer on the coffee table and five more remaining. It would be a long day for Ronnie. He'd tell himself it was for the better.

"Good breakfast?"

Ronnie turned around and grunted. "Picked up your sister 'round nine. Lunch." Then he picked up two beers and tossed them to Steve. "You and that girl can share. Eve?"

"Evie."

"Yeah, yeah. Nice little girl. Listen, 'f your Mama gets home and I'm out, tell 'er I made dinner and put it in the fridge last night. She can fix herself some in the oven."

"I'm goin' out tonight. I ain't gonna be home 'til late. Evie's folks are having company."

"Oh." Ronnie looked at his son and suddenly remembered what he'd told himself he'd say to Steve. "Hey, Stevie, I'm real sorry. For fussin' at you earlier." He fished his bill clip out of his pocket and gave Steve $8. He looked at his youngest son and felt a small lump rise around his Adam's apple. Steve was tall and thin, like Ronnie's father. Ronnie and his older son, Shelly were thickset and muscular. But they had the same eyes, temperamental and heavily lidded, making them look constantly bored. He hoped to God, Jesus and the Holy Ghost that his kid didn't turn out like this, slumped on a couch getting mad at some lady on a trivia show and bribing his son to come home to him. He hoped, just like his dad had hoped. He hoped no handle of vodka would suck Steve's soul out.

Steve took the money that Ronnie handed him. He shoved it in his pocket so that it bunched up and said, "Thanks. See you."

"Bye."

The screen door slammed behind him. Steve went out to Evie's tiny car and sighed. He hated driving that car, let alone being in it, so he let her drive. It was just so goddamn cramped. Evie was just five feet and one inch, so it was a perfect fit. For Steve, though, it was tight and uncomfortable. He was six feet and his legs hit the dash.

They went off, rolling the windows down so that cool spring air pushed its way into the car and filled their lungs. They sped up and down Tulsa side streets, avoiding the main road, if only to save them more time in the car. Evie stuck her left arm out the window while she kept her right hand steering the wheel, like a ship's captain. Steve's arm was out the window as well, his other hand just under Evie's skirt.

Buildings and houses rolled by, projects weaved in and out of view, and stop lights jumped from color to color, working on a melodic clockwork that never failed. Outside the car, people walked by and didn't give a damn about who was in what car going where. Inside the car, Steve felt just the same. He didn't care where they went as long as it was somewhere good. As Evie pulled into the Mohegan Wine and Spirit's parking lot, Steve pulled out his wallet and picked apart the cash his dad had given him. A crumbled up five, a folded up two, and a one dollar bill that was ripped down the middle. $8 less to buy drinks with. He stared at the money. He felt a little bit guilty. It wasn't exactly his money.

"Don't worry. Daddy gave me money. I just need your license."

"I'm happy to serve," Steve said. He got out and opened Evie's door.

They walked in and Evie talked to the guy at the counter. They walked toward the back to pick out some nice bottle of wine. Steve waited up front, uninterested and distracted. He looked around the store. There were lines and lines of neatly stacked displays of wine bottles, cases of beer, handles of vodka and whiskey. It was immaculate, how neatly they'd all been stacked, with such great care. Only to have some poor schmuck like Steve's dad come in and buy a case of beer and throw every bottle on the floor until he tumbled off into some uneasy sleep. He'd fall in and out of that sleep, trying sometimes to climb back out. But then, when he'd make it a little bit closer to the top, he'd slip back down.

Steve walked over a huge shelf and took down a case of Pabst Blue Ribbon. He walked back to the counter and Evie was back with a bottle of wine. She handed Steve a $10 bill and he took out the $5 his dad had given him. He showed the man his license, and a brief fear ran through his head that the man wouldn't believe that he really was 18.

But he slid it back to Steve without another look and rang them up, handing over a yellow receipt with their drinks. He put the beer and wine in the back seat, making a mental note of it to put the beer in the fridge for his dad when they got home. That way, he thought, he won't have to drive home drunk.

XxXxX

Evie's house was fairly spacious. Not too big, but a nice enough Southern ranch, big enough to hold an extra guest room and a nice dining room. There were four of them. There were Evie's parents, Alfie and Lydia, and her older brother, Danforth, who played football for Old Miss. They were nice folks Steve guessed, but he didn't really like them. Evie's family was Red White and Blue middle class. They weren't exactly rich, but they didn't fall on that lower middle class spectrum, either. Steve wondered what kind of guy Alfie Chalmers was. That type who tried to move himself up, stepping on the little guys beneath him. Steve suspected that he was that type.

He shook hands with Mr. Chalmers and hugged Mrs. Chalmers, handed her the bottle Evie'd bought, and then walked up to Evie's room with her, closing the door very quietly behind her so it sounded like they'd kept it open. Then he locked it behind him and walked toward Evie trying to resist any urge to jump on her. She pulled him on top and started to pull at his tee-shirt.

XxXxX

Mrs. Chalmers called up the stairs for Evie to change into something decent for dinner.

"Okay, Mother." Evie walked into her bathroom and came out a moment later in a short little dress that ended just a few inches above the knee. It was black with bright blue and purple flowers on it. She wore a black turtleneck underneath and purple tights.

Steve groaned. "You're gonna run me down, girl."

Evie giggled and walked over to where Steve was lying on her bed. Every movement she made, every step she took made Steve's heart beat faster still. He didn't mind noticing that her cute little ass was accentuated by the dress. She pulled Steve off the bed and wrapped her arms around his chest. He bent down and kissed her, and then picked her up, tossing her on her goose-down mattress. Evie stuck her tongue out at him and fixed her long red braid back.

"Sometimes you're a real ass, Steve."

"Sometimes." Steve laughed and smacked Evie's little butt. He couldn't help it. She smacked him back, on the arm and a little harder than was playful.

They walked downstairs for dinner, where the Masons were sitting in the dinning room. Mr. Mason was in charge of the plant for which Mr. Chalmers worked. His wife was making small talk with Mrs. Chalmers when Steve and Evie introduced themselves. Mr. Mason turned to Steve, his bushy mustache specked with tiny bits of steak. "Steven," he said. He had a thick Southern gentleman's accent. "What do you plan on bein' when you get outta college? Assumin', that is, you plan on going?" Mr. Mason eyed Steve.

Steve finished swallowing his steak and almost choked on it. "Y-yes sir, I do. I'm not sure what I want to do yet, though. I'm good with cars, but I do pretty good in English. Dunno how I could incorporate those two together."

"Well in English."

"Sir?"

Mr. Mason looked at Steve. "You do well in English, not good. And I do hope you pursue a profitable career. Part of life is to live happily, but it doesn't hurt to have some money to speed up that process." Mr. Mason smiled.

"Yes, sir."

And Steve knew what kind of man Alfie Chalmers was. The kind who was happy improving the quality of his life with needless necessities. Steve didn't dislike him, exactly. He, for one, would never pass up a quick buck. But he couldn't deny feeling a little … incompetent? He didn't know.

They sat down to eat dinner around six o'clock, and by seven-fifteen, dessert was brought out. The Masons were gone by 10 and Mr. Chalmers' promotion set in stone.

By eleven, Mr. Chalmers had gone to bed, and there were three unopened bottles of vodka in the liquor cabinet. By twelve-thirty, when Evie and Steve left that night, half a bottle had been drunk. Mrs. Chalmers was fast asleep in the guest bedroom.

XxXxX

Evie pulled into Steve's tiny driveway and for a moment, she looked sick. Then she let out a tremendous sigh and a rush of smoke floated out of her mouth. She passed it to Steve for one more puff, but it was done, so he tossed it out the door. Steve reached into the back seat and grabbed the case of beer he'd gotten earlier that day and followed Evie to the front door.

"What's that for?" Evie said.

"My dad." Steve propped his knee against the wall and tried to find his keys to open the door. He finally got it unlocked and held it open for Evie.

While she went off to his room, Steve walked to the kitchen and put the beer in the fridge. There was another case in there, but it was almost empty. He took out the two remaining bottles, then tossed the box on the floor. Then he checked if his father was awake.

The blue TV light was flashing, and Ronnie was half asleep. He wasn't paying attention to anything around him, just his slow, shallow breathing and the occasional flicker of light people that would shoot across the wall from the television. He sang a song to himself with his eyes closed.

"Papa?" Steve walked into the room and leaned over his dad.

"Hey, buddyroo."

"I'm going to bed. Goodnight."

"What time is it?" Ronnie opened his eyes, but he had to close them almost immediately. The TV cast a bluish tint on Steve's face. It scared him.

"It's 2:30. Did Mom come home?"

"Nah. Her dinner's still in the ice box, though, so don't go pickin' at it. Hear?"

"Yes'ir. Night, Papa." Steve got up and picked up an empty bottle and put it on the coffee table. Ronnie's jacket was on the ground. He picked that up and hung it on the coat rack. Then he turned the TV off.

He wondered if he should've gotten those beers. But Steve pushed it out of his mind when he walked down the hall and into his room. Evie was on his bed and down to almost nothing. It didn't matter anymore that his father was swimming in a sea of vodka and beer or that he'd just fueled his old man's habit. He forgot all that and approached Evie.