I didn't think I was going to add to this, but then I thought about some of Darry's perspective on the whole thing. Thanks for reading!

Note: I don't own the outsiders. Obviously.

I can't sleep. Not when the events of tonight play on repeat in my head. My mind's just a broken record, and every ten minutes, the look of that kid's face flashes across my mind. The look in his eyes is searing itself into my memory. I've seen that look before.

Carefully, I untangle myself from Caroline and sit up in bed. Every once in a while, something reminds me of Johnny Cade. Sometimes it's Kathy, sitting with the rest of us and smiling. She's mostly silent when all of us are together on Sundays, but she's smiling. Other times it's Matt, who's constantly pleading for a jean jacket and always showing us one when Caroline drags us to the mall. I remember how that jacket was the only one Johnny owned. Most of the time though, it's my nephew, because he bears the same name and because he's got that same thoughtfulness, even at eight. I had never thought that the thing that would remind me most of Johnny Cade was seeing that look. I never thought I'd see it again.

I'm fully out of bed now, and I know I won't be getting any more sleep. How did I not notice? The kid spends more time at my house than he does his own. Even though he was always smiling, I should've picked up on it. I used to be able to. I could tell if Johnny was hiding a bruise or a limp, and I'd gently remind him that the door was unlocked and the couch unoccupied. Maybe it's because that skill is one I haven't had to use in twenty-two years. The fact that I've had to have that skill still wants to make me throw up.

Sitting Billy down and giving him the speech was familiar. Too familiar. And for a minute I felt like twelve-year-old me sitting on my father's bed next to Pony and Soda. I could smell my dad's cologne as he hugged us. Heard him as he grabbed us and dragged us to his room after Pony asked Johnny what happened to his face.

I haven't heard that speech in thirty-years, but it came back to me naturally; Almost like riding a bike. Some things just stick to you.

I think about how twisted this all is. The fact that cleaning Marshall up tonight felt familiar, normal almost. The fact that giving the speech to my son felt fine. Felt like something I was going to have to do eventually. Even the fact that it's called the speech. For most people, the speech is either drugs, alcohol, or sex. Maybe all three. I wasn't even that disturbed when I saw him sitting there. Angry? Yes. Disturbed? Not that much. I still remember what Johnny looked like when his old man decided hitting him with a two by four was a good idea.

Jesus Christ Darry, I think. The kid smashed his head against the counter. He was shoved, and he smashed his head against a hard corner of a surface, and you're not disturbed. It didn't bother me all that much when I lived there (we knew it was a crappy place, and we moved on), but now I wonder what kind of fucked up neighbourhood we lived in where seeing a kid bleeding and bruised was the norm.

I head downstairs, thinking about maybe getting some work or something done; take my mind off of this. I stop, seeing Billy sitting on the couch, his back to me. "Hey..."

He whips around, letting out a breath when he sees it's just me. "You scared me."

"Sorry," I say as his colour returns to normal. He's looking at the glass of water in his hand as I sit down. Like the clear liquid is somehow interesting enough to merit that thoughtful look he's giving. I lean back into the recliner. "What are you doin' up?" I don't need the answer; I'm pretty sure I already know.

"Couldn't sleep..." He mumbles, still starring at his glass like it's the first time he's ever seen water. He keeps tipping the cup, watching the water slosh and spin around. He always fidgets when he's thinking. Finally, he looks up at me. "Who was it? You said you've done this before... Who was it?"

I sigh. It's not like I didn't know this question was coming. I knew I'd have to answer it sooner or later, but talking about Johnny Cade hurts. "A friend of mine." That's all the answer I'm prepared to give him, all the answer I can handle. But I remember the boy who I used to go get whenever he decided to sleep in the lot. The boy who would hang out in the house with Pony right after our parent's died; who would sit against his closed bedroom door and talk to him. He shouldn't be reduced to a nameless, faceless person. "His name was Johnny Cade, he lived a few doors down. His dad used to beat on him, and he would come over to our house."

I don't tell him how, tonight, Marshall reminded me of Johnny. Reminded me of the time he came over with blood streaming down his face. His father had broken his nose.

"Despite all that, he was one of the kindest people I knew." I almost smile. "A good buddy, too."

Billy nods, and I know he's thinking of Marshall. His best friend is always there listening to Billy's problems or helping him with his math. He's there when Billy needs him and vice versa. Maybe Marshall always reminded me of Johnny, just a little bit.

"I wanted... These last few weeks..." He's struggling, and I can hear the guilt in my son's voice. "He's been doing so well in school lately and I've been doing lousy... I got jealous and... I wanted something to happen so I could be good at something. So I could have something he didn't."

He starts crying, and I immediately move to the couch and pull him into my chest. He doesn't pull away from me, and I gently rub my hand up and down his back. I know he's feeling guilty, and I'm trying to assure him that it's not his fault. Everyone gets jealous and everyone

(sometimes) wishes for mean things. When I was twelve I wished Ponyboy would break his leg or something so he couldn't follow me around anymore. Then he ran in front of a swing and got kicked in the head, earning himself a concussion. I thought it was my fault, and it took a very long talk with dad to convince me otherwise.

"He doesn't deserve this... "

"No one does, honey," I say gently, "But I know what you mean."

This is familiar too, but the last time I was on the other side of it. I was upset about johnny, and my father was trying to console me. I don't know what's harder, this side or the other one.

I've gotten Billy back to bed. After he calmed down some. Now, I'm just sitting in the armchair waiting for the morning. I'll have to check the bandage we wrapped around Marshall's head, make the gash isn't worse than we thought. I'm going to have to come up with a reason why he's here and explain to my other kids that they're not going to ask what happened to his face. And I'm gonna make sure that no one treats him differently.

I've done this before.