Disclaimer: SE Hinton owns, cursing, dark subject matter, etc. Kind of a vague ending. Things will be explained next chapter.

A Homecoming

OoO

"You look like shit."

"Yeah, you try taking a knife to the gut and tell me how you're doing." Nick lights a smoke. Hands it to me. I sigh, inhale. "I feel like hell."

Nick dips low, smearing his face in his hands. "Jesus. I honestly can't believe you're still alive."

"Thanks a lot."

"I'm serious, Curtis. You should be six feet under by now." He raises an eyebrow as I take a drag. Says nothing as I finish the smoke in under a minute.

"I thought they were gonna bring your dead body in and I'd have to break the news. Christ, Curtis I should have—"

"It's ain't your fault, man"

He clears his throat. "So what the hell happened, Curtis? You want to enlighten me a little bit?"

"They knew."

"Bullshit. I told you – you knew – to be careful. To—"

I sit up. The pain in my body kills. I don't know how I'm going to move around. Walk. Breathe. Nick hands me another cigarette.

"I froze, man. I swore I'd never put that shit into my body again and I just froze. I couldn't take it."

He looks ill. Swears. "Real glad to know that you, uh, you nearly got killed, that you nearly blew – or didn't blow – our story for your goddamn principles."

I give him the finger.

"What about that shit that's dripping into your system now? That's not a drug?"

"It's temporary." I lean my head back against the pillows, the warmth from the sunlight streaming through the windows hitting my face.

"You got that look, man."

"Look. What look?"

"That look you always get after talking to the Big One." Nick's nickname for Darry. The Big One. He shakes his head. "That's what done you in. Got you off your game."

I smoke my smoke, keeping silent. Nick's been my friend for only two years, but he knows me about as well as Two-Bit or Steve. "You gotta get him out of your head. He could've killed you."

"Fuck you, Nick." I rub my face. I don't want to talk about any of this. I want to sleep and forget about my broken body for one minute. Blaming Darry won't help either.

"Look, I get it Curtis. I know it was hard. No one could have guessed what would have gone down." Nick rubs his knuckles across the legs of his jeans. The rims of his eyes are red, and he practically whispers, "How bad are you?"

"I'm bad. But not that bad."

"I called Max. We're going home. Soon as you can."

"I can."

Nick nods, his face panicked. Relieved. "You sure?"

"I'm sure. We gotta get the hell out of Miami."

OoO

She laughs as she enters the room. That laugh. The one you could write a story about. One I'm familiar with. Rosie Trafficante, Vinny Trafficante's daughter. She's stands tall, the lone figure in the long white corridor.

"I knew I'd find you here. Knew you'd be alive. You're like a cat. Only worse."

"What do you want Rosie?"

She tosses her black hair. "For you to be dead."

"Lucky you I'm nearly there."

"You're a bastard, Mikey. But I can't say I'm surprised."

Her blue eyes turn to slits. She walks over to the end of the bed, until her thighs touch the rail. "If that's even your real name." Rosie rips the chart off the metal rail at the end of the bed. She reads. She lets out a harsh laugh. A brow is raised. "Really?"

"You read it here."

"I'm sticking with Mikey." Rosie tosses the chart on top of my lap. "They just missed the spine."

"Bad aim."

"This time." Rosie reminds me of Angel Curtis. Except older and a hell of a lot more deadly. Her heels click as she moves to sit in the chair next to me. She crosses her legs, folds her hands.

I sigh, tired. I should fight, beg but it'd be useless. I'm here and it's where I've landed myself. "Why're you here, Rosie?" I don't even need to ask how she's found me. Rosie Trafficante is Miami.

"I want to talk."

"Does it matter? You know where I am. I ain't got a chance."

"I'm glad you realize that. But I also want to know if you realize what you done to me? I trusted you and you ain't who you said you were. I look like a fool."

"Ros—"

"I figure you for a rat. Or something close." She grabs my wrist, her accent soft and sharp. "So what're you gonna do with all this, Mikey?"

"Nothing. Never."

She considers this. In a quick fluid motion she lights a smoke and takes a long drag. Then, decided, she says, "Because you look like Donnie. That's why."

"What what?"

"Why I'm gonna let you walk outta here. If you can walk, that is." Breath stills in my chest, thankful yet suspicious. Taking favors from Rosie Trafficante is like kissing a snake; you just don't do it. Rosie leans close, her breath smelling like peppermints. "It's those goddamn eyes of yours. I've got a soft spot."

Ever since I met Rosie she's liked me. It's why her father liked me too. Trusted me enough to let me in. His only son – her brother – had been murdered 10 years ago, hence the soft spot. It's the eyes, they both claimed. Donnie had them too.

Her back straightens, face tightening. "Daddy will have a talk with Tony. Believe me. What he did was uncalled for...but still. He did it. Someone ordered it."

The door to the long corridor rattles. Whoever wants in won't get here. Rosie probably has someone out front, barring any nurse from getting in. Not that they would want to get involved anyway. In Miami, everyone's tough. No one cares enough for that.

"They think you're dead. Daddy thinks you're dead," Rosie whispers. "So you know what you do? You get the fuck out of Miami. You don't come back and you hope to hell they don't find out where you live."

Her blood-red nails dig into my arm. "Because they'll really kill you. This time, they won't miss."

OoO

I'm there for three days, healing as best as I can. They stitch me up, wrap me up tight and give me the news. I can walk, but I won't walk right for a long time. The nurse hands me some sort of cane and it's all I can do from chucking it across the room.

It's a goddamn stick. And that's all I'll call it.

The knife, dug into my back and carved across my side and stomach, missed vital organs. Apparently I've had three blood transfusions I don't remember. "Considering everything you've been through," the doctor says, "you should consider yourself lucky."

I keep hearing this word but I ain't so sure what to do with it.

A nurse presses a rosary and bottle of pain killers into my palm. I tell her to keep the pills.

OoO

Nick and I agree on one thing on the drive home: We can never write about this. I tell him about Rosie's visit and while I'm breathing a bit easier, I don't trust her for a minute.

The ride home is painful. Nick's jeep bounces across the country, the roads, and I swear to god my stitches open up about a million times. I can't drive at all, which makes getting home a longer journey. We drive about 18 hours a day, sleeping at rest stations, and eating at drive-throughs. My body kills, stiff and broken, I grit my teeth. It's all I can do not to take a pill. Nick tells me I'm an idiot, to just fucking take the painkillers, but I can't.

"You already had it dripping into your system at the hospital. I don't see why it's any different."

I shift in the seat. "I have a choice now."

"Yeah, the same choice you had when you got a knife shoved into your gut?"

I don't say anything else. He launches into it again as we cross the Texas border. "You're an idiot. You're fucked up, Curtis. You can barely walk and I have no idea how in the hell you're gonna do this without going numb."

"I'll do it," is all I say.

Nick and I don't talk about what's really worrying us. What we'll do if they find us. We may be out of Miami, but we're not off the hook at all.

OoO

We pull into town about two in the morning, three days later. Instead of my place, we go straight to Nick's. I don't want to wake Darry or Liz, and I definitely don't feel like getting into it with my oldest brother.

With the stick, it takes about ten minutes to climb the stairs to his apartment. Nick helps me inside, holding the door open. He offers me his bed but I collapse on the couch instead, seeing his living room the way he left it. Scattered notebooks, pens and an empty carton of Lucky's.

I think of my room at home and miss it.

OoO

I wake and Nick holds up a finger. He's on the phone. Rubbing my eyes, I try to sit up and bite back a curse. Nick mumbles a few more things and then hangs up. "I've been on the phone with Max. Bad news," he says. "We still got jobs. Good news, he agrees with us. He doesn't want us to write the story."

"You told him?"

"I told him."

It's a relief. That Max is on our side. Although, considering the circumstances, he better be. He sent us into it.

Nick swivels on his chair, face white. "Curtis…" He swallows hard, I see what he wants. "I never should have—"

I pull out a cigarette. "It's okay. Let it go, Nick."

He makes a fist with his hand, brings it to his mouth.

OoO

I keep an internal checklist of the things, the lies, the worries, I can't tell my brothers.

1. I don't smoke. No, really, I'm stone-cold sober.

2. The pain I'm in is cakewalk. I've got it down pat. No pills, no need.

3. I'll walk normal again. One day, I'll run.

All of these things are a lot easier to hide than what I really have to tell them.

4. Miami. The story. God. I don't even know how to lie about this one. I won't even try. For their sakes and mine, I can't.

OoO

Liz is home. She lets out a little scream when I walk through the door. "Oh my god." Her hands fly to her mouth.

I give her a grin. "I don't look that bad do I?"

She's trying not to tear up. "No," she says. Nick hovers by the door, holding my bag. His face tells me he wants to get the hell out of here before Darry gets home. "You're just – you're just here." Liz touches my face, my shoulder. Lowers her voice. "Darry's such a mess."

I prop myself up on the stick the hospital gave me. "Where is he?"

It's when she sees the stick that she starts to cry.

OoO

Darry's on his way. Liz is whipping up some sort of dinner. Nick's long gone, off to meet Max and give him the off-the-record version of our story. Better him than me. I don't have the energy to talk.

In the bathroom mirror, I evaluate the damage. I pull my shirt up. The left side of my stomach is raw and red, deep jutting scars and stitches. It hurts to stand straight. The doctors were right. Everything that could have gone wrong just got missed.

I've already determined this won't ruin me. I'm not bitter or regretful, just chalking it up to experience. I was stupid. I got hurt. I'll learn. I goddamn better.

I'm not worried about healing, because I will. I've been through worse. I just keep reminding myself of that. It's how I can cope without falling to pieces, thinking about what I've lost. Right now, I'm just worried about getting back to basics. To my job. To my life. To staying alive.

The thing that bothers me is that I need a goddamned stick to right myself. If I don't use it, I limp. I don't know what looks worse. I try not to think about it. I stare at myself at the mirror; I look so much like Sodapop. Tugging my shirt down, I sit on top of the toilet seat. I cover my mouth, breathe into my hands.

OoO

He's there when I get out of the shower. I can hear his deep voice floating through the hallway. In bare feet, I pad into the kitchen. Mid-conversation, Darry and Liz break off. He stares a moment, worry crossing his face, and then grabs me up. I wrap my arms around his broad back and squeeze him the best I can.

"You never should have left," he says. "I never should have let you."

OoO

"Are you sure I can stay here?" I ask, in the middle of unpacking. "I don't want to—"

"Stop it," Darry says. He watches, lingering in the doorway of my old room. "This is your house."

Darry looks older than I remember, I can tell by his face. The thin lines across his forehead and around his mouth. Though he's still as muscular as ever, his shoulders have a distinctive hunch that tells me he's tired. He also hasn't lost that look that tells me he'll take care of things, that he's in charge; the minute I arrived he brought it out of retirement.

The smell of spaghetti filters through the air, and I realize how hungry I really am. I haven't eaten a full meal since before the hospital. Liz is getting dinner ready while Darry hovers. He has questions, I know that. I'm just not sure about the answers I want to give.

"Soda coming over?"

Darry's nod is sharp. "You bet."

"How's he doing?"

"How do you think, Ponyboy?"

I wince as I try to sink onto the bed. Darry crosses the room, grips my elbow and gently lowers me down. I get the feeling this won't be the first time someone does something like this and I'm already beginning to hate it.

"I'm sorry. For everything."

"I don't want you to be sorry. I don't want to talk about this now."

"Oh yeah, we're gonna talk," Darry says at my surprised glance. "Just…now isn't the time. I want you to relax."

"I need to tell you Darry…I need to—"

"Tonight. We'll talk tonight."

As he leaves, his broad back disappearing, I'm suddenly so nervous to tell my brothers anything. But I'll tell the truth and it has to be enough. It has to be.

OoO

I'm on the porch, resisting the urge to smoke when Sodapop's truck barrels over the curb and screeches to a halt. My cocky brother hops out of the truck and strides fast to me. "Goddamn," he says. "Goddamn it, I'm so mad at you right now."

He still looks the same – dark eyes, handsome face, though his smile is sad. He wraps an arm around my neck, drawing me close. "When Darry called, I thought you were dead. You know that? I fucking had a heart attack."

"I know. I'm sorry."

He touches my face, pulling me in. "Just—oh, Pony. I love you, kid. I really do."

OoO

Seeing everyone's reaction to it is worse than actually using the stick.

When I come to dinner, Soda's eyes get big and then bigger, like he hadn't realized just how bad it was. He looks at me, and his eyes are full of horrified questions that I'm beginning to get scared myself. Finally he clears his throat, helps me sit down, and tells Liz thank you when she pours him a drink.

She pours all of us one.

OoO

It's late. Liz has cleaned up and gone to bed. The three of us sit in the living room, the TV on mute, the tableside lamp casting the only glow.

Three drinks in and I don't even know how to begin. The truth is scary. They can't help me but I need them. Hell, Nick and I both do. We're going to talk about it and that's fine. All of us are working up to it. It's in the air.

Finally, in between talking about Two-Bit and Kathy, and Darry's new business, Soda says, "Ponyboy…" His eyes move to Darry and his voice hardens, tries not to catch. "What the hell happened to you?"

I can tell they've discussed who would ask this, and decided on Sodapop, who's struggling to wear a neutral face. He's sitting on the ground, back against the wall, legs pulled up. He sips his scotch. It's weird how adult we are.

"The story…" I begin, "The story wasn't about what it was supposed to be about..."

Darry twists in his recliner. He doesn't say anything.

"Remember…it was the story about the drug overdoses here?" Darry swears and I know what he's thinking. "Well, at first it was okay," I say. I move my hands into a ball. Squeeze. Release. "We were just trying to get a lead on the supplier…and Nick and I thought we had that…but then…"

I rub my brow, remembering how all of a sudden it had dawned on Nick and me what we had really stumbled into. I shift on the couch, uncomfortable, the stitches giving a twinge.

"We met the wrong people. And then it was too late to get out. I couldn't get out. I got involved in something I shouldn't have." My voice sounds flat and recorded. "The story was…It was no good."

Darry says, "What happened in Miami, Ponyboy?"

"I did something bad, Darry. I did something wrong."

Darry looks at Sodapop. Needing it, Darry finishes his scotch. Readies himself. "What?"

"That night in the alley…I screwed up. I gave myself away. They offered me something I shoulda took, Dar. But I didn't…I really should have but I didn't." I close my eyes. Open them. I swallow the rest of my drink. Soda's face is paste.

"I tried. Tried to too late. Hell, I didn't even say no. But I hesitated too long. And they—they knew," I finish lamely. "They just knew. And then…" I trail off. They know the rest.

Darry takes it well. He nods. "Okay, okay, Ponyboy…"

There's still one thing they don't know. "Darry…"

Soda sucks in a breath. "Who's 'they'?" he asks, like he's terrified to know. And he should be. "Who'd you get involved with?"

I cover my mouth, afraid to go any further.

"Ponyboy…"

"Vinny Trafficante."

"Jesus," Darry says, "Jesus."

I bury my head in my hands. "He's gonna find out who I am and he's gonna fuckin kill me."

OoO

EEEEEEEEEE.

Ok.

Please read and review. Pardon typos.

XO,

Feisty