A Brother's Devotion

by taekwondogrl006

After Dally and Johnny die, Ponyboy passes out. But what happens while he is unconcious? This is a Darry/Sodapop POV story, about how far a brother might go to stick up for his family.

6. Healing

Kait: *punches air* I own the Outsiders!!! *happy dances*

Dally: *flying tackles Kait and sits on her* No, you don't! We belong to S.E Hinton!

Kait: *pouts* Fine, fine. I don't own the Outsiders. I just own my little wandering into her kickbutt world. Get offa me so I can tell the story, will ya? *shoves at Dally's awesome muscles*

Dally: *grins evilly* Actually, I'm quite comfortable where I am…

Kait: HELP!

Songs for this Chapter: Kryptonite- 3 Doors Down and The Reason- Hoobastank

This is T-rated, for swearing and some iffy flashbacks….

I'm not a perfect person
There's many things I wish I didn't do
But I continue learning
I never meant to do those things to you
And so I have to say before I go
That I just want you to know

I've found out a reason for me
To change who I used to be
A reason to start over new
and the reason is you

I'm sorry that I hurt you
It's something I must live with everyday
And all the pain I put you through
I wish that I could take it all away
And be the one who catches all your tears
That's why I need you to hear

I've found a reason to show
A side of me you didn't know
A reason for all that I do
And the reason is you

-The reason, Hoobastank

Chapter 5- Healing

~Darry POV~

I looked helplessly as Soda strolled out of the hospital, walking quickly into the cool morning air, his head down and his hands shoved deep into his pockets as he walked quickly away, his shoulders set. "Ah, damn it," I seethed, seizing my hair in my hands, as I stood uncertainly in the middle of the hall, nurses and doctors nervously skirting around me, rolling beds with pale, listless patients on them to the side, avoiding meeting my eyes. I had farther bigger problems than them. Two sides of me were arguing, not able to come to a happy median. I bunched my fists up and groaned in frustration, leaning against the wall and thunking my head against the pale yellow wall as hard as I could without punching my skull through the drywall.

One, a louder, more sure voice was yelling, you idiot. Go get your idiot brother, Sodapop before he does something half-assed that gets him thrown in jail!

But another, softer voice that was getting louder and stronger by the moment was screaming, stay. You owe it to Ponyboy. You're the reason he's lying in that bed. You're the reason he's comatose, beaten up and hurt. If you had watched out for him, he would be fine. I growled angrily, rubbing my face in my palms. Then, pushing off the wall, I turned against my better judgment and wandered back to Pony's room.

It was dark when I walked inside, the figure on the hospital bed still limp. A doctor sat by his bed, a clipboard in his hands, busily checking over notes by a puddle of warm light that was coming from the lamp on the bedside table. He looked up, his green eyes widening in surprise as he saw me hesitating in the doorway.

"Er, hi," I began awkwardly, stuffing my hands in my pockets and shifting from foot to foot. What I really wanted to shout was get the hell away from my little brother, but I didn't think that would go over too well so I remained silent, waiting for him to speak. He stood up, reaching out to shake my hand, placing the clipboard on Pony's still feet and walking forward, a real smile spreading across his face.

I looked uncertainly behind me, not quite able to believe that this Soc was smiling so warmly and welcomingly at me. I cautiously stuck my hands in his, shaking firmly. HE had calluses on the pads of his hands, telling me that he was used to working for his living. His smile grew wider as he peered into my eyes. "Well," He said, his eyes twinkling. "I came in to tell you that if all Ponyboy's tests come back negative, he can go home with you tomorrow." I looked at him, not believing my ears. We could leave this horrid place? Really? But my inner happy moment was interrupted by him talking. "Wow, it really is you," he said, still gazing at me. I squirmed away, withdrawing my hand and rubbing the back of my neck awkwardly. I could feel the tops of my ears heating up and reddening, a sure sign I was embarrassed. Who was this dude?

"Ah, I don't mean to be rude, but who the hell are you?" I asked, cocking my head and looking at him askance. His head drooped and his smile dimmed a bit, and he looked at me hard, really looked at me. "You-you don't remember me? You really don't know who I am?" I looked back at him, scanning him fully. He was almost as tall as I was, with thick, shiny black hair, lightly tanned skin, and eyes that looked like glittering jade. The only thing keeping him from being almost pretty was a long scar that carved down the right side of his face, roping past his cheekbone and about halfway down his neck, where it suddenly stopped. A memory flew across my mind for a moment.

Boywithdarkhairlaughingeyessmilingyellingbuthishisfacechangednowpaleandscaredbloodeveryohgodsomeonehelppleasedarkcoldbloodonmyhandsguninmyfacedead… I rolled my shoulders and shuddered internally; trying to making the repressed memories go away.

"Ah, no. Should I?" I asked, confused, searching my memory for this strange doctor that was convinced he knew me. He did look familiar in the dream way, a thought that lingers but never really forms… but then I knew.

His name was Keegan.

My mouth moved without me thinking and I blurted, "Keegan? Keegan Ryder?" I internally smacked myself as his eyes lit up, and he seized me by the shoulders and shook me slightly. "You do remember! Darry, I'll never, ever be able to thank you," he said, looking at me with gratitude in his eyes. I was caught off guard by the staggering compassion and thankfulness in his voice, infused with caring. Then it all came back in a blinding rush that almost made me bend in half.

It was December, and cold. I remember how my breath puffed out in chilly clouds, how my hands went numb as I walked to Buck's, the bar about a block or two away from home, owned by Buck Merril, a greaser that usually gave us reduced prices when we came in, or if we tried hard enough and really cared we could wrangle free drinks sometimes, which I hardly ever did. I was walking fast, envisioning the whiskey that would be in my hand in a few moments. I had just had the biggest fight that had ever gone down with Ponyboy tonight, as I was still shaking from some of the things he had said to me, and I to him.

"I hate you! Who do you think you are, bossing me around?" Ponyboy screamed, his fists bunched up, his eyes glinting with anger.

I threw my hands up, exasperated. "Well, it looks like I'm your legal guardian, since
Mom and Dad died. What the hell do you want me to do, Pony? Reincarnate Mom and Dad? You and Soda are all I have now, and I'll be damned if I let you skip out on school. You've got talent Pony, and I will not let it go to waste! You will finish school, you will go to college! Soda and I are working as hard as we can to make sure you have the choice we didn't! Why can't you see that?" I yelled, jabbing a finger in his direction. His green eyes grew wide, and then narrowed into slits as he glared at me.

"To hell with you, Darry! You think I like fighting, you think I enjoy having teachers look at me like I'm simple when I say no, my parent can't come to conferences? I hate it! Don't try to replace them, you can't!" he shouted, and then whirled to the door as we heard it open, then close. Soda strolled in, his cheeks pink from the cold and his nose running. His smile was wide, and jaunty. He had just been out with Sandy, Steve and Evie, coming back from a high school football game they decided to go see. Tossing his jacket on the sofa, he looked up at us, eyes sparkling.

"Hey guys, what's up-"he started, then halted when he saw we were across the family room from each other, faces flushed and breathing angrily. He knew the signs by now of when he had come to verbal blows with each other; he had walked in on them many times before. His smile dimmed, and then faded, quickly replaced with a look of deep disgust.

"Guys, , you damn well better have your heads screwed on straight before the State comes knockin' to put me an' Pony in a boy's home!" he said angrily, his voice low and angry, his arms crossed and his eyes stormy. Then, as quickly as he had come, he ran down the hall to Pony's and his bedroom, slamming the door. Pony looked at me once, and then darted after Soda, racing down the hall and slipping into the bedroom. I could hear Soda's angry voice, then Pony's soothing one, low and muted behind the closed door. Running a hand through my hair, I had grabbed my coat off the rack by the door and left, letting the screen door bang shut behind me. I knew I wouldn't be missed.

So here I was, walking down a busy street at eleven o'clock on a Thursday night, steaming mad. If Pony would only listen, I thought. Then we'd get along just fine. Damn boy doesn't use his head, doesn't know when to stop. He just likes to push my buttons. But I would never get rid of him and Soda. They were all I had left, and I would fight for them to the end, no doubt. But Pony didn't see that, I knew. I opened the door to Buck's, letting the noise and warmth wash over me. I stepped inside, the odd red lighting letting my eyes adjust from the darkness of outside. I took off my jacket, draping it over my arm. Walking up to the bar, I saw Buck himself.

Buck was tall, about my age, and as scary as an angry grizzly bear. His hair was cornsilk yellow, and his cool blue eyes pierced right through you, making you feel like he could see through to your soul, read your every thought. Buck Merril was quite the character. He was missing his front teeth, and was easy to push around if you knew how to, but you didn't mess with Buck if you didn't want to end up hurt, bad. He was as tough as nails, made of the same kind of stuff as Dallas. I nodded at him, mouthing WHISKEY. He nodded back coolly, and walked over and whispered into the bartender's ear, jerking his head at me. The bartender, a huge man with quite a few ear piercings and tats, met my gaze and scanned me over once.

I knew what he would see. His gaze would land upon a big man, pretty large muscles, dark hair, icy blue-green eyes, and a gaze that seemed to hold you to the wall. I also knew what he wouldn't see, no matter how hard he tried. He wouldn't see my love for my brothers, the scars on my knuckles from accidently hitting myself with a hammer in my job, from fighting to preserve my family against assholes that would tear us apart. No, he wouldn't see the real me, just unimportant bits and pieces.

He looked back at Buck and said something quietly. The hair on my neck rose a little. I hated being talked about behind my face. Well, in this case, in front of my face. I pretended not to watch them, looking around the bar instead. It was busy, as usual. People were in the corner playing pool, their faces furrowed in concentration. Girls sat on the swivel stools in the far corner by the jukebox, talking loudly, their laughs drifting over the sound of Buck's favorite music, Hank Williams. I hated the stuff. A few guys were playing poker or some card game by a wall hung with pictures and records, the strange light flashing off them and making their occupants look like they were swimming in blood. I had to admit, it gave me the creeps. This was fully a greaser bar. You could tell by the many leather jackets and the way the odd pulsating light slid over the shiny, slicked back hair, the hardened–looking faces, and the wary way the occupants held themselves, like they were expecting to get jumped at any moment. I just shook my head.

I looked over as the hulking bartender came to stand in front of me. He shoved a dark brandy-colored liquid in front of me, the ice cubes clanking against the low sides of the glass. I nodded my thanks, shoving a five-dollar bill at him. He let a brief smile slide across his face, then left, tucking the money into his apron. I shivered slightly. That man gave me the willies.

Sipping my drink slowly and grimacing as the familiar burn slid down my throat, I scanned the room again. One man caught my eye. Maybe because he stuck out like a Corvair in a junkyard, maybe it was the way he laughed, how comfortable he was here. I dunno. But he was different, I could tell at a glance. He was also a Soc, which blew my mind. Either he was completely brain-dead or very, very brave to come here. He was laughing with another man, his head thrown back, and his shoulders shaking with mirth, drawing entirely too much attention to himself. He couldn't have been much older than me. I could see a few greasers glaring at him, but nobody made a move to shove him out of the bar as far as I could see. I rolled my eyes. He was lucky he had lasted this far here without being knifed or jumped. What the hell was a Soc doing here? He was wearing a red madras shirt, with khaki slacks and shiny black shoes, like the ones I had to wear to our parent's funeral. I shuddered at the memory, downing the rest of my drink in one go.

I felt the alcohol race through my system, warming me and setting my head buzzing pleasantly. I slid the empty glass across the counter, shaking my head no when the bartender asked if I wanted a refill. I just wanted to get buzzed, not reeling pickled. The State would take Pony and Soda away so fast my head would spin if I got drunk. I could hold my liquor well, but I didn't want to take any chances. I pushed away from the bar, my thoughts now calm. I could go home and face Pony without yelling, I was sure now.

Slipping on my leather jacket, I ran my hands through my hair and started to the door, and pulled open the door. Some of the guys watched me go with blank faces, and then turned back to their drinks. I was only a few feet away from the steps e when I heard angry voices behind me, growing louder by the minute. I turned around, expecting to see two or three greasers arguing over a poker game or a girl or something air-headed and unimportant. Instead, I saw a mob of greasers surrounding the Soc I saw earlier. His friend was nowhere in sight. Probably bailed on him, I thought with a sigh. But the man didn't look scared. Instead, his face was a cool, blank mask as he faced five angry greasers, his posture relaxed but his fists knotted at his sides.

The group of people was slightly in the shadow, shaded enough by the night that a police man wouldn't see them, unless he looked twice. Most policemen wouldn't have anything to do with what they called "greaser country" unless they had a gun and about five other men with them. They were all wimps, I thought with a sudden surge of anger.

I looked over at the bar, hoping Buck or the bartender would interfere, but no such luck. I saw Buck watching through the front window while he was wiping down the counter, a blank look on his face. He didn't care what went down outsider the bar, so long as no one died. The bartender wasn't there. He was probably upstairs with some trashy greaser girl in one of the bedrooms. I shifted, setting my coat on a doorstep. Coats and jackets interfere with your swinging ability, and I had a feeling I'd need it if I got mixed up in this. I ran my hand through my hair again, a bad habit of mine and something I did when I was mad or frustrated. I stopped, my foot halfway off the curb, ignoring the angry yells as cars swerved around me, laying on their horns loudly.

I had been in more than enough rumbles and fights to know that five against one odds isn't exactly the best, unless you're Dallas. I had seen Dallas take on six Socs without blinking an eye. And he had walked away with only bruised knuckles and a black eye. I groaned, turning away from the curb and walking to the fight. I had some sort of compulsion in any sort of situation to help the underdog, and this looked like it was going to top the list of crazy, stupid things I had done to help people.

Mumbling under my breath, I walked over, folding my arms as I looked cockeyed at the group of greasers. I knew a couple of them. Jake, Knots, and Mark were in Tim Shepard's gang, and the other two were Brumley boys. They were a little younger than me, and I probably had ten pounds of muscle on the biggest one of them. I suppressed an internal moan as I saw the expressions on their faces turn from anger to confusion. I might walk away from this, but I probably would be limping. I stepped out from under the streetlight, leaving the warm, reassuring pool of light and stepping into the darkness.

"The hell, man?" Jake said, brushing his dark hair out of his brown eyes, shifting his gaze back to the Soc, obviously longing to start beating the pulp out of the guy. I stepped slightly in front of the guy, blocking him so that if they started throwing punches most of them would land on me. I wasn't doing it for the guy, really; I was doing it for the greasers. We didn't need any bad press; if the Soc died after they were done with him it would kill us, turn the blue bloods of society against us even more. I folded my arms, not budging as the guy tried to shove me aside.

"What exactly do you think you're doing?" he asked through gritted teeth, giving up after he discovered he was unable to push me aside. Not moving my eyes away from the line of muscle in front of me, I muttered back, "Well, I'm saving your ass. Now shut up." Looking away, I saw the boys whispering out of the side of their mouths, scanning over me. I stiffened, drawing myself as tall as I could. They were sizing me up, looking for flaws and weaknesses. I knew they'd find none, I thought with pride. I wasn't the biggest guy, but I was pretty strong and could hold my own. The tension in the air was thick and heavy. People had started crowding around the glass window, their eyes huge as they realized what was going down outside. A few guys in the corner were smirking as they looked at us, talking intently. A sick feeling curdled in my stomach as I realized they were taking bets. I stifled another groan. Great, just great. More attention, that's exactly what we needed. As I had looked away for just a second, the guys saw their opening and seized it. A fist caught my jaw and I fell back in surprise, stumbling. Then I lunged for the nearest person, swinging my fists as fast as I could. The man lunged at Jake and Mark, catching Mark around the neck and tumbling to the ground with them.

"Grab his legs! Grab his legs!" I shouted, trying to punch Knots in the face while keeping the two Brumley boys off my back. It wasn't easy, I remember. I gagged at one of the Brumley guys wrapped his hands around my neck and yanked, pulling back with all his strength. I choked, losing interest in beating on Knots and more on saving my own life. A blurred figure flew up from my left, and my eyes followed it, whipping around. The man showed up, his cheek bleeding but looking exhilarated. Somehow he had knocked out Mark and Jake. They lay in a limp heap by the stairs, pale and still. I did a double take but kept trying to free my neck. This guy didn't look big enough to knock out Ponyboy, much less two almost full-grown men. His face hardened, and his fist flashed, and I felt more than heard the Brumley boy's head snap back with the force. Lee, I think his name was. I fell to the hard cement, gasping and massaging my throat. Black spot swam in front of my eyelids and my vision dimmed. After I had heaved in as much air as my lungs could hold, I bounced back up, slightly unsteadily.

He was circling with Knots and the boys, his eyes alight, breathing heavily, obviously running off pure adrenaline. I scanned him over once for any big bloodstains or gashes but found none. I was impressed and even felt grudging respect for this stranger who had the nerve to walk into an outsiders bar and hang out. He had guts, that was for sure. I was so intent on watching the boys to make sure that they didn't play dirty that I didn't even see the man sneaking up on the Soc. When I did, my eyes went straight to his left hand, in which he held a switchblade, glinting in the moonlight. I couldn't see his face. Just that knife, the light flickering off it like a torch.

I gasped, unable to find words to express my fear for the man I didn't even know.

It was my fault. If I hadn't gasped, he would have been fine, I could have pushed him away or something, I dunno. I beat myself up every day over what happened. I wish I could go back and change the past, but I can't. When I gasped, I wished I could take it back from the air, shove it back into my mouth. I froze, biting my tongue so hard it bled. He whirled around…

The shadow guy smiled, his lips pulling up over his teeth in part snarl, part grimace. The knife flashed down.

I saw, the knife flying toward his cheek, but I heard his scream of pain as he fell, his eyes wide in disbelief as his hands fell to his side, confusion clouding his eyes as his head flopped back limply.

The greaser, whoever the hell he was, slunk back to the shadows, glad, in his eyes, that he had evened the score.

I flashed to his side as he fell, blood gushing in rivers down his face. My breath caught in my chest as I glared up at the stunned greasers I counted along my friends, my allies. I sent them my coldest glare, and in my harshest voice I said, "I'd get out of here before I send you straight to hell." Then, turning back to the boy, I pressed my hands to the slash mark on his face, hoping, praying he wouldn't die. When I looked up, the Brumley Boy's and Tim Shepard's gang was gone.

Blood flowed, wet and warm, over my trembling hands. I shook him gently, checking his bloodied neck for a pulse as I tried to keep my own breathing even. God, there was so much blood. I could feel a faint pulse in the slick skin in his neck, and I breathed in relief.

"Hey. Hey kid, can you hear me? Please, answer. Don't die!" I shook him slightly, and he whimpered. Like a kicked dog. Okay, that was good, I tried to tell myself. Pain meant being alive. It was good to be alive. His breathing was becoming shallower, and his tanned face had drained of color, besides for the crimson liquid flowing freely, unhindered. I darted over, scooping up my jacket, and then pressed it to his face, checking to make sure he could still breathe.

I picked him up, feeling my bruised body protest as I staggered under his deadweight. Blast, he was heavy. I looked to the bar, seeing about one hundred people staring at me, open-mouthed. This was clearly a first in their books, a greaser saving a Soc. Keeping my hands pressed to my jacket, I yelled hoarsely to the bar, "Call an ambulance! Now!" A girl, tears flowing down her face, nodded, and ran to the nearest payphone, shoving a quarter into it. She spoke into the phone rapidly, her hands white-knuckled around the receiver. I heard her soft voice flowing, hiccupped with tears. I felt like crying, too. How did this happen? Only a couple of hours ago I had been eating blue eggs and some sort of purple bread (it was Soda's night to cook,) with my brothers, and we had been teasing Sodapop about his hot date that night with Sandy, breaking out in laughter when his ears flushed red and he blushed. Now I was holding an unconscious, dying man. I had a feeling of my heart in my ears and sat down on the pavement, the man still cradled in my arms.

I stared into the darkness of the alley, glad for something solid and unchangeable that I could cling to. Until the ambulance came, it was my lifeline to sanity. Remembering, I reached into his back pocket, feeling around for a wallet or driver's license. Feeling a slab of leather, I flipped it out, looking at a smiling picture of the bleeding man in my arms. Keegan Ryder, it read. He was nineteen, so a year younger than I was. I shuddered, then slid his wallet back into his pocket, tucking it away safely. That could have been me. My head snapped up as I heard the wail of sirens screech around the corner. Not moving, I watched them as medics spilled out of the car like water over dirt. I shifted Keegan, watching as my coat darkening as it became slick with his lifeblood.

"Take him, save him," I ordered, thrusting him at the closest stunned-looking medic. "I-ah.." The confused doctor said as I turned away, shoving my hands into my pockets to hide the shaking. I was no longer the guy who fought for Socs and underdogs, the Darry who held a Soc until help arrived. Now I was the greaser who had two younger brothers to help, and a bone to pick with two different gangs. No, this wasn't the time for a tearful words exchange. I started walking away, towards home.

"Sir!" A man called, watching as they loaded Keegan onto a stretcher carefully, shouting orders to each other. "Sir, what do you want us to say when he wakes up?" Without breaking stride, I shouted over my shoulder, "Tell him he shouldn't go places he doesn't belong." Then, not looking back, I went home. But I never forgot the face of the young, foolishly brave Soc from a year ago.

Blinking hard as I came out of my flashback, I staggered a bit as Keegan threw his arms around me, then let go, looking slightly embarrassed as pink flushed his cheeks.

"Sorry about that. It's just that- you left, and I never got to say a proper thank-you." I waved this away, my eyes now fixed on his scar. I motioned with my hand to his scar. His eyes followed my hand. "May I..?" I let the unspoken question hang between us in the air for a minute. May I touch your scar? He nodded with some unspoken emotion in his dark eyes. "Of course." He inclined his head toward me, and I hesitantly stroked my fingertips over his ropy scar. It twisted, thick and slightly purplish, the scar tissue not fully healed. I flinched back slightly, withdrawing my fingers and moving away to sit on Pony's bed.

"So, what are you doing here, Keegan?" I asked, playing absentmindedly with Pony's hair. The strands tickled my palm as I brushed my hand over his short hair. He needs a shower, I thought, but once I heard Keegan's voice I felt my mouth drop open.

"I came to tell you that in repayment for saving my life, I have paid Pony's medical expenses for this visit, and for any medicine he might need afterwards in after affect of this trauma." I froze mid brush as I processed this, and then fell over myself talking.

"Keegan, I- you don't have to feel the urge to- paid? In full?" I stuttered, feeling the rims of my eyes draw up with liquid. I wiped it away hastily, my eyes not leaving his face. He fidgeted for a moment, then went to Pony's head, pushing hair away from his face, and picking up his clipboard. Walking to the doorway, he stopped, silhouetted in light, looking like my own personal angel.

"Darry, you saved my life. It's not guilt money, or anything, I promise, "he said, his eyes and voice sincere. "Think of it as me repaying my debt." Then he walked away, smiling back at me as he turned the corner and vanished. I cradled my head in my arms and cried for the first time since Pony came back. My family was going to be okay. Then I shot up. Aw, shit! Where was Soda? Then I took off down the hall to save my brother from whatever he had managed to get himself into this time.

Hi guys! Sorry it took me like forever to update! *rolls eyes* I had a ton of homework, but I have a long weekend starting Thursday, so hopefully I can put out the next chapter! This one's Sodapop's POV!! R&R guys!! Thanks so much for reading!

Love kait

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