A/N: Thanks for the reviews, guys, I appreciate them. I have my old battered copy of "The Outsiders" in front of me, checking my facts -- the old, old one with the red cover. The book seriously rocks, but we all knew that. I do not own the Curtis boys (except for Danny Curtis, he's mine), Johnny, Dally, Two-Bit, Steve, or the DX station.

Chapter 4: Reunion

Soda had planned to tell Darry quietly that Pony and Cinnamon had come to see him, but when he pushed open the door of the hospital room, the bed was empty. A nurse was changing the sheets.

"Excuse me?" Soda began, and when she turned, he recognized her from one of Darry's frequent hospital stays. "Tracy. Hi. Where's my brother?"

"He's gone for an MRI, Mr. Curtis," she answered.

"Soda," he corrected her, motioning Pony and Cinnamon into the room. "Tracy, this is my brother Ponyboy and my sister Cinnamon. This is Tracy, about the only nurse who can make your oldest brother smile."

"He's not a fan of hospitals," Pony allowed.

"Most people aren't," Tracy said.

Cinnamon picked up Darry's chart from the end of the bed. Tracy took it from her gently. "I'm sorry, that's confidential."

"I'm his sister, and I'm a nurse," Cinnamon said.

"He's an adult, and it's still confidential."

Cinnamon smiled stiffly. "Of course. I'm sorry. It's just – we've been very worried, as you can imagine."

The minute Tracy was gone, Cinnamon picked up the chart.

"I've done that, while Darry's been sleeping," Soda admitted. "But it didn't make a lick of sense to me."

Cinnamon scanned the pages quickly, not wanting to be caught. She gasped when she saw the chemo dosage and the note to resume treatment the following day.

"What?" her brothers asked in unison.

"He's pretty sick," she said softly.

"Yeah, he sure was," Soda said.

"No, he still is." Cinnamon flipped the chart over. "But I don't understand … they haven't even typed him?" When her brothers looked blank, she explained, "At my hospital, if a patient is looking for a donor, there's a big sticker on the chart. And the chemo seems aggressive if he's … oh, no. No. Darry, you blasted idiot." At the bottom of the page, under the list of medications and doctors' orders, it said, "BMT discussed with patient. Patient declined." She tilted the page so her brothers could see.

"I don't know what that means," Pony said finally.

"BMT is short for bone-marrow transplant. He needs a transplant – he … it's like he needs an oil change. The chemo will help, but it won't make him better." Cinnamon replaced the chart and faced Pony and Soda. "Listen to me. He has to have this. If he doesn't have it, he won't get well. That note means the doctor talked to him about it, and he said no."

The door opened then and a burly orderly wheeled Darry into the room. While Soda looked merely relieved to see him, Pony and Cinnamon were stunned. They'd both been to Tulsa for Christmas and Darry had been playing football in the yard with Laura and Pony, his blond hair beginning to gray a bit but still his handsome, rugged self. Now, he sat dwarfed in the hospital johnny, his skin sallow and loose, looking thin and dreadful and … sick.

Pony turned away, tears welling in his eyes. Soda shot him a sharp warning look as Cinnamon hugged and kissed her brother. "Surprise," she said.

"For me or you?" Darry said dryly. Even his voice was weak. He looked accusingly at Soda but his eyes slid past him to Ponyboy, shaking silently against the wall. "Soda. You promised."

"When you're running a fever of 103 and my little girl is calling 911, all promises are off," Soda said cheerily.

Darry stood shakily and Cinnamon waved the orderly off, sliding her arms around her brother's torso. She could feel his ribs. "C'mon, want to get into bed?"

Every step was an effort. When Darry was settled against the pillows, Cinnamon took a minute to straighten the blankets and pour him a glass of water, trying not to notice that he was out of breath. "There," she said. "You should have called sooner, I could have been your private nurse."

But Darry was looking at Ponyboy, who still had his face to the wall. "Pony."

No response.

"Ponyboy. Come here."

Darry's voice was fragile, but still held authority. It was the voice that, as teenagers, Pony and Cinnamon had obeyed, first out of fear, but then out of respect. And Pony obeyed now, taking a moment to run a hand over his eyes and take a shuddering breath before going to his eldest brother's side. He didn't speak, just stroked Darry's hair softly and sniffled.

Soda came up behind Cinnamon and hugged her. He was remembering a long-ago time, and a very sick Ponyboy, delirious with fever, and how Darry didn't leave his side, finally dragging the armchair into the bedroom when he was falling asleep on his feet.

"I'm sorry," Pony said finally. "I promised Soda I wouldn't."

"Well, Soda promised me he'd let you two be, so I guess we can see what promises are worth in this family," Darry said.

"Darry, hush," Cinnamon scolded. "Shame on you, not calling us. Look at you. We could have helped. We can help now."

"Not now," Darry said. There was a finality to his voice that frightened his siblings.

Cinnamon sat on the edge of his bed. "I read your chart."

"That's private."

"So sue me." She leaned forward, resting her palm against his cheek. "Darry, you have to do this. You have to try. Pony and Soda and me, we're going to get tested. Maybe one of us will match."

"No."

"You can't stop us," Pony said mildly.

Darry closed his eyes. It tired him to talk. "No, I s'pose not. But I can stop them from doing it to me."

There was a strained, horrified silence, and finally Cinnamon said, "You can't be serious."

Darry didn't answer.

"Darry, it's nothing – it's not even that invasive, there's a tube in your chest –"

"We're going to do more chemo, and see what happens," Darry said stubbornly.

"I can tell you what's going to happen," Cinnamon snapped. "The dose is going to kill you. It's going to make you so weak you'll blow away. Some flu bug will happen by and that will be that."

"Cinnamon Marie, God almighty," Pony said in a strangled voice.

"Excuse me? 'God almighty?' Do you understand what he's saying?"

"See?" Darry said accusingly to Sodapop. "This is why I didn't want you to call them. Pony's got that face and Cinny thinks she's up and gone to med school." He closed his eyes, as if not seeing them would make them disappear.

This was not the time. There was not much time to talk Darry into the transplant, but it could wait a few hours. Cinnamon took a deep breath. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you. I'll let you rest -- I'll be back later. I'll bring you your own jammies, you'll be more comfortable."

"I'm 41 years old. I don't wear jammies," Darry muttered.

"Then I'll bring sweatpants and boxers," she said. "Don't be such a crab apple. And don't try to out-stubborn me, Darrel Curtis."

That brought a small smile. Darry reached out a hand and Cinnamon caught it and kissed his fingers. "I know you're glad we came," she said soothingly. "So stop fussing at us, get some sleep, and we'll see you soon."

Both Pony and Soda kissed Darry's forehead, but he'd already fallen asleep. The three of them tiptoed out of the room and walked slowly down the hall.

"Well, that went well," Cinnamon said, brightly sarcastic. "I should have kept my mouth closed."

"Yes, ma'am," Soda agreed, ducking as Cinnamon swatted at him.

Pony looked around as if he were trying to get his bearings.

"The garage is this way," Cinnamon said.

"It's not that."

"Then what?" Soda asked.

"I was just thinking, you know when the last time I was here was?" Pony said. "The night Johnny died." Stay gold, he thought absently. The snatch of Robert Frost came to him in moments of stress, like a prayer. Like a reminder. It was what he'd called his book, which sat dusty in the bottom drawer of his desk in Salt Lake City.

Cinnamon and Soda exchanged a glance. "You were here later that night, too," Cinnamon said, "after you passed out at the lot. You just don't remember."

But I do, Soda thought. Ponyboy had come back to the house after the rumble and stammered out that Johnny had died. Cinnamon, painting iodine on Two-Bit's shredded knuckles, dropped the bottle and screamed that Pony was a liar, a liar – and then Dally called and a half hour later, Pony was in the hospital, concussed and fighting off a fever of 104, and the gang of eight was six, just like that. Cinnamon, Soda and Darry had spent three days, first at Saint Frank's and then at home, keeping vigil over Pony, as if their mere presence could stave off death.

And it had worked, hadn't it? Maybe it could work again.

"Do y'all realize all that happened in a year?" Cinnamon said suddenly. "Less than a year. Mom and Dad in February, Johnny and Dally in November." Thanksgiving that year had been awful. They'd been invited to Two-Bit's house but refused to go. Darry watched football all day, Soda worked at the DX and Cinnamon and Pony didn't come out of their respective rooms. Cinnamon didn't even get out of bed. Christmas was marginally better. And somehow, after the first of the year, things began to slowly improve. Pony went back out for track. Cinnamon started studying harder. Soda got a raise and Darry cut back his hours. Life became living again, not existing. Gradually, there was happiness and joy, and the memories of their fallen friends and late parents brought tender smiles instead of bitter tears.

"We can do this," Soda said. "We been through worse. Or just as bad, anyway."

"We can do it," Pony agreed. "It's Darry who worries me."