Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. Jefferson Airplane owns "Somebody to Love."

When the truth is found

To be lies

And all the joy

Within you dies

May 22, 1969

Darry Curtis didn't believe in ghosts, but Dallas Winston sure looked like one standing in the middle of his living room, expression as stony and apathetic as the last time the older man had seen him. Darry never had a problem with Dallas, had defended his name plenty of times, but seeing him in person again after two years out of the blue was . . . something else. Honestly, Darry didn't think it would be this soon. He remembered hearing one day that Dallas had just up and left without saying anything. Of course, he had hinted multiple times in the past that he was going to beat it out of Tulsa, do a bit of traveling . . . but Darry reckoned that he would have at least said something, maybe check in once in a while. Instead, nobody had seen or heard from him in nearly two and a half years. All Darry could recall was Ella Mitchell leaving for college, and Dallas disappearing a week or two after she'd left.

The news had come from Two-Bit Mathews, who had actually gone to look for the blond teenager after not hearing anything about him for a good week. That wasn't exactly unusual for Dallas, but Buck had been the one to relay that Dallas had left town, took the old pickup and bailed one night without so much as saying goodbye. Darry had an inkling that Dallas might return one day, but two years seemed too soon, at least, to him it did.

But Dallas was still Dallas, and he was still an old buddy of Darry's, so he wasn't going to turn him away. The only beef he really had with the former delinquent was the fact that he could have told him and the other guys that he was leaving. Hell, they had already lost Johnny Cade, and even though the guys were getting older, venturing out and doing their own thing, Darry figured it wouldn't have hurt to say something if you were planning an extra long extended road trip. Surprisingly, out of all of them, Ponyboy had been the least shocked, saying something about living with ghosts of the past and all of that nonsense.

Speaking of ghosts . . .

"You planning on staying long, or just passing through?"

Dallas made a face, shrugging a bit. "Like I said, I've been crashing at Buck's, workin' for him to save up for some new wheels. Think that truck has seen the last of her good days." He shook his head. "It would cost more to get her fixed than it would to get something else."

The older man nodded. "So you're passing through, then."

"Something like that."

Now, Darry Curtis wasn't what one would call a stupid man. Quite the opposite. He knew that Dallas Winston wasn't the type to randomly show up at your house on a late Thursday afternoon just to have a friendly little chit-chat and bail again. No, that wasn't it, and Darry knew that. He figured that Dallas had a good excuse for stopping in to see him, and honestly, he already had a feeling what he was going to ask. Then again, Darry could only wonder why, considering that Dallas was already staying with Buck and working for him. It didn't make sense, unless—

He glanced back at him critically for a moment. "How long do you plan on sticking around, Dal?"

The blond ran a hand through his hair, and Darry thought to himself that Dally sure could have used a really good haircut. He'd always kept it longer, never bothering to use grease or oil, so it always had a shaggy look to it, as though he never bothered to even maintain it, and truthfully, he probably never had. But it was longer and more unkempt than what Darry had ever seen it, curling in the back to the top of his shoulder line with the sides below his ears. The front of his hair was falling beneath his brows, wisps of white-blond practically in his eyes. The clothes he adorned appeared as though they hadn't been properly washed in weeks, and in his hardened face, his eyes looked tired.

"Was considering racin' for the Slash J again," came the unexpected response, and Darry's left brow raised in surprise. "Yeah," Dally continued, "Buck's been talkin' me into it, and I figure it's a good way for me to get some extra dough, 'fore I head out."

Well, Darry couldn't say he was exactly shocked, so to speak. Dallas was a damn good racer, especially in the rodeo, and he could stay on a bull longer than most other guys he knew. Buck Merril, however, wasn't what one would deem a good influence, not that Darry had any say about that. Besides, Dallas was his own man, did his own thing, and played by his own rules—always had, too. Other than that, it wasn't like Dallas had any other obligations, so he was free to come and go as he pleased. Darry figured that it could have been worse, as Dallas could have easily gotten himself mixed up in illegal activities to get money, so horse racing wasn't too bad, even if it was the Slash J.

A smirk touched his lips. "Ponyboy will be home some time next week, so you can use Soda's room for the time being . . . unless you'd like to take residence up on the couch. I'm sure you won't miss sleeping with the aroma of Merril's place."

Dallas grinned in spite of himself. Darry always knew the score.

"Lars, man, you're lookin' good." Steve grinned, nodding at the teen's bandaged legs. They had finally been changed. "Makes you look real tough, kid."

Albie barely smiled, though. He had been recovering real well, but the underlying fact that he might never walk again had been playing on his mind since the moment he had found out. Steve knew, too, and he had been great company since they were allowed to see one another. A part of him blamed himself for it. If he had only been a few seconds— No, he told himself, he couldn't think like that. It would only make things worse for both him and the kid. His stomach wound was healing nicely, and Steve figured ol' Lars must have had some guardian angel looking out for him or something. His legs, however . . .

Steve barely recalled the incident.

They had been running behind Julius Hicks when it happened, well Steve was running with Lars barely hanging onto his back. Explosions, multiple explosions, had taken place all around them, and then Steve and Lars went down.

That was all he remembered of it.

According to Albie Lars himself, he couldn't quite remember too much, either. But one way or the other, his legs had been crushed beneath a tree that had come down during the attack. He had been out cold, though, but the medics warned him that his mind might start piecing the incident together at some point down the road. For Lars's own sake, Steve really hoped that he didn't remember any of it. Hell, the damn kid hardly remembered anything prior to them taking off. Maybe it was better that way, or maybe that's what Steve wanted to believe, but there were also other thoughts plaguing his mind at that particular moment.

Albie knew that Steve was worried about his other friend with the funky name—Soda Curtis. Albie thought Soda was cool, nice as well, and he and Steve always had the best stories to share. Soda was MIA, however, along with another guy from the other group they had been sent in with. The other three had made it to safety. Steve had spoken to them a few times—John, Chris, and Mike—and they were alright. Unfortunately, none of them recalled anything about Soda, or the other missing kid—Tyler.

"I'll bet it does," he replied, and quickly changed the topic. "Heard you're leaving soon."

Steve nodded. "Yeah, in a few days. I have a two week leave." He watched Albie's expression turn for a moment, his stormy eyes seeming to darken a shade. He was clearly upset, and Steve couldn't blame him. "Two weeks . . . fourteen days ain't shit."

Lars nearly chuckled. "You got a girl, right?"

"Yeah," Steve smiled. "Evie."

"How long have you two been together?" It was casual enough, he supposed. From the way Steve sent and received letters, Albie assumed they must have been a thing for quite some time.

A shrug. "High school, so's about . . ." He mentally added the years, surprise blanketing his face for a second. "Five years now."

Lars whistled low. "Damn. You gonna marry her or what?"

Now that took the older boy off guard. Marry Evie? Well, Steve would be lying if he said that the thought hadn't crossed his mind multiple times before. He loved Evie more than anything, and he knew how she felt about him. Hell, five years seemed like a long time to be with someone, especially at their ages, but really, Steve wasn't sure that he could honestly ever picture himself with another girl. He could picture a life with Evie, though, that he was absolutely certain of. He could see a future with her, wherever it was . . . whether it be her doing her thing with her mother's salon, and him finding some job (hopefully with cars) to build something together. To make a life together.

Hell, she was going to be shocked to see him home in the next few days. He had considered on calling her, but decided that surprising her was better. He could see her face clear as day in his mind, nearly smell her perfume . . . Only a few more days.

"Maybe" he finally answered, cocky like. "If she's up for it."

"If I was with a chick for that long, I would have put a ring on her finger already," Lars quipped, a grin on his face. "You're lucky."

Steve chuckled lightly. "If you say so, kid." He patted his leg lightly, offering him a small smile. "You get some rest now."

"Hey, Steve," Lars called, "have you heard anything about Soda?"

The question caused the dark-haired man to pause, his chest tightening a bit. He had asked every day if anyone had heard anything regarding his best buddy, but still . . . nothing. The sound of shots in the distance caused his ears to ring, he could see Soda running beside him before a loud explosion deafened him, his body connecting with a tree trunk . . . Blood was spilling from his nose, Lars was in tears, Julius was yelling at him to go, to get his shit and go . . . Albie had latched onto him before falling unconscious due to lack of blood, and Steve had hoisted the smaller man over his shoulders, running after Julius . . . and then . . .

Julius Hicks was dead.

He had been there for a second, only a few feet in front of him, and then . . . another explosion, smoke, ash, dirt . . . it was everywhere, and Julius . . .

Gone.

His eyes darkened, fists curling at his side, his voice almost a bitter whisper. "Get some rest."

Dealing with Pete when he was stoned was one thing, but trying to speak to him when he had alcohol in his system was quite literally something else . . . and Ella was irritated. Sometimes, the older man really drove her up a wall and then some, and honestly, Ella was sick of it. And him. And that stupid, lowdown apartment they had been living in for the past month. Okay, so Ella wasn't pulling the feel-sorry-for-me-card right then; a good part of this had been building up for weeks. The young woman knew that she had gotten herself into this predicament, so she wasn't about to throw any blame on Pete in that sense, but still . . .

"You could clean up, you know," she bit out, motioning around the living room. "I just had this place shining the other day. Now look."

Pete's eyebrow raised, his index finger tapping the neck of the bottle he was holding loosely in his hand. For the past few days, Ella had been getting on his fucking nerves. Oh, sure, they argued, they fought, but in some way, they had always reached a mutual agreement, which was Pete simply telling her to get food or something, but it had always ended the dispute. Lately, she had a damn issue with everything she could find to make an issue out of. Pete was getting downright sick of her and her bullshit. He had offered her a place to stay, not bitch at him about how he lived in it. Dammit.

He took another swig, the vodka warming his chest. "You can make it shine again."

Ella's nostrils flared, a clear sign that she was agitated. "You know what," she responded, an edge to her tone, "you can." Her hand went to her hip. "I'm taking a trip, so I'm not doing—"

"You're doing what?" He was on his feet before he could register moving. "Repeat that."

She glared. "I said I'm taking a trip."

"Like hell you are." He took a step forward, abandoning the drink on the coffee table. Ella stood her ground, though, never one to back away or recoil—she never did like being talked down to. But Pete was livid. Who the hell was she to tell him what she was doing when he was practically her fucking caretaker? "On whose dime?"

Ella nearly snorted. "My own."

Had Pete forgotten that she had worked various jobs before meeting him? Lord, it wasn't like she was dependent on him, save for a cheap roof over her head, and Ella was pretty sure the amount of cleaning and services she had done for him was enough to call things even between them if she split. Besides, she had enough money to bail whenever the heck she wanted to. In some way, she supposed that she owed him some form of gratitude, for the modeling and pictures she had done for him had gotten her a lot of money the past few months. Pete had treated her decently, he had, in some way, but his disregard for anything she wanted for herself was beginning to take its toll, and Ella had had enough of it.

Pete merely stared at her. "So that's it? You're gonna just up and leave with—"He made a face—"fifty bucks to your name?" A sarcastic snort. "Good fucking luck."

The brown-haired girl merely rolled her eyes. Pete was half wasted. "Yeah, Pete," she replied, crossing her arms over her chest. "Fifty bucks."

"Get out."

Those two words were enough to surprise her, but not fully shock her. Ella and Pete fought, they did, but Pete would always come crawling back to her once he sobered up. He never begged for her to take him back, or apologize for the way he treated her, but he would casually ask her out again, and she would accept . . . mostly because it was something to do. Ella didn't love Pete, not in the way he had thought she did, but she enjoyed her work, got along with him for the majority of the time, and she continuously saved up her money. The thing was, once she stepped out of his apartment, she wasn't coming back this time, and she wasn't going to be anywhere around that he could find her. She figured that he could look her up if he wanted to, but she knew he wouldn't. No, Pete was too invested in his work to honestly care if Ella never came back. He would simply find another girl and start all over. Ella knew that she had always been replaceable—it was just a matter of when she decided to leave, or when Pete decided to dump her for good.

Apparently, she was calling the shots.

She looked him over, reaching for her purse on the table. "Fine," she said, and pulled out a cigarette, her expression relaxing. Her carry-on bag was already placed by the door, packed with what little she owned. "Take care of yourself, Pete."

A sigh. Ella was going to have to find a place to crash for the night before bailing the next day. Damn, she sure wished that she had her mother's old Impala—too bad it had broken down a year ago, calling it quits for good. (Honestly, Ella didn't have the kind of money to repair what needed to be fixed at the time, and had to sell it for cheap.) Perhaps, she would call Evie, or Jan, later in the evening to let someone know that she would officially be on her way home within the next twelve hours. Lighting the cigarette, the girl inhaled deeply, a small smile beginning to form on her lips as she humorously recalled packing more than half of Pete's grass in her bag.

Oh well.

She was out the door before Pete could say anything else.

It had been quite some time since Mary set foot in the Curtis house. Darry looked the same as he always had, she thought. He was tall and handsome, but his expression looked more tired. Mary knew that he was worried about a lot of things, not in the way he used to be, but more profoundly. She could see the lines forming around his eyes, the alertness that took over his face whenever either one of his brothers were mentioned. But Mary could also tell that he was proud of them both, especially Pony. On the other hand, the raven-haired girl could see with innate clarity how worried everyone was about Soda, and Darry profusely expressed it.

He had seemed surprised to see her standing on the porch, not that Mary could exactly blame him. The last they had spoken to each other in person was when Soda came home briefly after boot camp. It seemed like ages ago, the awkward feeling in the atmosphere only intensifying it. Darry and Mary had spoken a few times here and there, nothing ever in-depth, but she had stood with him and Ponyboy both times when Soda had left. She didn't want to think about it then, though, especially after Darry had relayed that he had gotten a letter from him just two weeks ago. She didn't show how hurt she was, either, didn't want anyone to see her sweat.

Especially with the likes of Dallas Winston lounging on the couch in the living room.

Now, that was a surprise Mary wasn't expecting. She remembered Dallas Winston alright. Everything about him nearly terrified her at one point in time—not so much anymore. To look at him then only made her realize how silly she had been to find him so . . . scary. But those eyes . . . they were still icy and bitter, and Mary didn't like to stare at him for too long. She discovered, if only then, that it wasn't actually Dallas himself that intimidated her, but what lurked in the shadows of his face and swam in the pools of his eyes that made her nervous.

Still . . .

She never had a direct issue with him. She had greeted him, welcoming him back in town with a small nod, which he had returned, not bothering to say anything to her.

Her attention returned to Darry as he cleared his throat. "Would you like some coffee?" he offered, his voice low but polite.

Mary nodded. "Coffee sounds nice. Thank you."

He got to work on setting up a pot, the only sound being the television in the living room. Mary wanted to ask what Dallas was doing back in town, but she figured it really wasn't any of her business. Besides, Dallas was a friend of the Curtis family long before anyone knew of Mary, and she wasn't going to go prying where she didn't need to.

"Is something on your mind?" Her eyes snapped over to Darry, taking in his barely noticeable concerned countenance, and he jerked his chin toward her hands. "Your hands have been trembling like that since you got here."

Glory, he was straight to the point. "It's just that—" She paused as Dallas stepped into the kitchen, a cigarette dangling from his lips. "Since my aunt passed, I've been a bit on edge." It wasn't exactly a lie, she thought, but she needed to compose herself, and quickly.

"What'd she die from?"

Now, Dallas Winston never had a problem being direct with anyone, and Mary DeVaney was certainly no exception. The blond didn't really know too much about her, except that she was the girlfriend of Sodapop, and whatever spell she had cast over him was probably the best thing that ever happened to him, especially after that whole bit with Sandy. Dallas didn't think too much of Mary, though, mostly because he didn't really know her, didn't care too, but something was off about her. He could tell that Darry saw it, too, even though the girl was trying her best, which was pretty pathetic, to conceal whatever it was that was bothering her.

Her eyes lowered for half a second. "Food poisoning."

Either she was lying, or her aunt's death was severely affecting her, and Dallas was going to assume the former, especially remembering that old washed-up bitch. Oh, he had heard plenty of stories about her witch of an aunt, so he couldn't imagine somebody, even the woman's niece, being that upset over her death—good riddance. So, he guessed that there was more to the story of Mary DeVaney. He wasn't sure he exactly cared, but . . . she was still dating Soda . . . and Soda was still his buddy . . . which meant that he could make her his business if something about her rubbed him wrong.

"Damn," was all he said, voice unsympathetic.

Darry placed a mug of coffee on the table in front of Mary. "You want milk or sugar?"

"Milk is fine," she replied, holding her hands together almost tightly. She felt uneasy under the weight of Dallas's stare, like he could see right through her. And then she did something she didn't expect, her chest tightening up. She was standing before she could even register moving, nearly knocking the mug of coffee over in the process. "I'm sorry," she uttered out, and neither Dallas or Darry missed the unevenness of her voice. "I didn't realize it was so late. I . . . I have to get home."

She hardly glanced back at either of them before she ushered out of the kitchen and through the living room, the screen door banging closed a second later.

Dallas's brows furrowed.

"Curtis, you awake?"

Soda cracked his eyes, wishing to God that he hadn't. Everything was burning, every fucking muscle in his body felt like it had made contact with an oncoming truck. Soda wished that he was anywhere but there. This was hell. And by golly did he wish that he was dead. Fuck, but death would have been a mercy gift at that point. He couldn't tell how long it had been since he had been sent on that operation with Steve, Hicks, and Lars, couldn't remember the last time he had eaten something good, couldn't remember what normalcy felt like, and shit . . . he couldn't tell if he really was dead half of the time.

He blinked, his vision clearing up. "Tyler?"

"Yeah, man," the brown-haired kid answered. "You okay?" he pushed, his eyes expressing concern. He glanced quickly over his shoulder, lowering his voice as he spoke next. "You took a pretty good hit, how's your head?"

If he had been hit earlier, Soda had zero recollection of it. All he was aware of was the fact that he had been split from his friends some time ago—it could have been days, weeks for all he knew—during an attack, he had hid for a while after outrunning some Vietnamese soldiers, and then he had accidentally bumped into Tyler Redelle, who was also hiding out. As luck would have it, the two of them had been captured and were officially prisoners of the Vietnamese. They had been beaten half to death, starved, caged up, and much worse. Soda wasn't sure at this point if he was dreaming or if any of it was reality. He felt better that Tyler was there, but he knew the other kid was just as scared as him, not that they were about to admit it.

Touching his head, Soda winced slightly. "Fuck."

Tyler's face scrunched. "You gotta giant lump on your forehead, Curtis."

Before Soda could respond, a shot was fired in the darkness, the bullet bouncing off of the bar beside both him and Tyler. They had recoiled, more shots ringing out around them, the dirt flying up in their faces as they were taunted without mercy. Neither one of them had time to process the makeshift door being opened only a moment later, rough hands locking around their arms in a vice-like grip and pulling them hardly to their feet. They were being screamed at in a language neither one of them understood, and then they were practically being dragged out into the open.

Soda never wished harder for death.

Evie felt bad for Mary, really she did.

At least she had taken her advice and went to see Darry. What Evie wasn't expecting, however, was for the younger girl to divulge that Dallas Winston was a guest at the house. When Evie questioned her about it, Mary had relayed that she didn't want to inquire, figuring that it was none of her business, which Evie assumed was correct—not that she would have done the same. Then again, Evie was much bolder than Mary was, more outspoken, too.

Unfortunately, Mary had gotten news that had upset her, as she seemed rather putt-off that Soda had written letters without including her, or bothering to send her anything. Evie thought about writing Steve to ask if Soda was alright, at least for Mary's sake.

Well, she thought, body relaxing against her mattress, that was two calls she hadn't expected in one day, not that she minded. It had been great hearing from Ella, and the fact that she was coming back to Tulsa the following morning, or starting her journey back anyway, had Evie excited. She missed her old friend and was looking forward to her company. She didn't want to tell her over the phone, but she was real glad to hear that Pete Rhodes was no longer in the picture. Evie just didn't think that he suited her friend, especially with how things had gone down between them. Besides, Ella didn't need to do the type of "work" he was offering; she was better than skimpy pictures of herself in a junk magazine.

To each their own, though.

With a sudden jolt of stark realization, Evie nearly fell off of her bed, brown eyes broadening as a very sudden thought crossed her mind.

Oh Lord.

Ella was coming back to Tulsa.

Dallas was in town.

Don't you want somebody to love?

Don't you need somebody to love?

Wouldn't you love somebody to love?

You better find somebody to love

Thank you so much for all of the feedback on this story! It's always appreciated! :3