TW: Mentions of violence, abuse, etc. read at your own risk
Disclaimer: I do not own The Outsiders or anything related to the story created by S.E. Hinton.
(Darry's POV)
It was late, and I felt myself just starting to drift off when I was jolted awake by the sound of the front door slamming shut, followed by a quiet "dammit." I wasn't worried that it was a robber or anything; there was reason I left that door unlocked at night, and I figured for whichever of our buddies it was, it was a good thing they had somewhere to go. I got out of bed so I could greet our visitor with an extra blanket and pillow, but when I walked out of my room and turned to see who it was, I stopped dead in my tracks.
"Steve?" I said, as if I wouldn't recognize Soda's best friend. Even behind the fresh bruises, blood dripping from his lip, and his half-closed eye, I could recognize him. Within a second, I could tell he got into it with someone, and by the way he was limping and holding his ribs, he really got into it with someone.
"Hey… didn't mean to wake you," he said in a strained voice. He moved towards the couch, but I wasn't going to let him try to sleep before I got him cleaned up a bit. I quickly made it to his side, put his arm around my shoulders, then gently wrapped one of my arms around his torso. Once we were situated, I guided him towards the bathroom. "I'm fine," he muttered, but he still allowed me to walk him away from the couch.
"There's no point in lying, Steve," I said in a stern voice, and he didn't bother arguing.
We almost made it to the bathroom before I heard another voice. "Steve?" We both turned to see Soda standing just outside the bedroom he shared with Pony. My brother's eyes widened. "Christ, what happened? Who did that to you?"
"The asshole I live with," Steve said.
Soda and I shared a quick glance. My blood boiled; I was furious, and I knew Soda felt the same way. Neither of our parents laid a hand on us, even when we made them mad or did something we shouldn't have, but Steve's dad had a different rulebook when it came to parenting. We all knew Steve's dad had hit him before, but I'd never seen him so bad off. What kind of asshole hits their own kid? Then I remembered that night I lost my cool and hit Pony, and a shiver went down my spine. Right, I'm guilty too.
Soda wordlessly took my place and helped Steve navigate to the bathroom, so I went to grab some extra washcloths, an ice pack, and a glass of water for our injured friend. When I returned to the bathroom, Soda had already turned the light on and had Steve sitting on the toilet with his shirt tossed on the floor so he could clean up our buddy's injuries using our well-used first aid kit. There were already pieces of gauze that had Steve's blood on it, and I felt awful for our friend and the homelife he had. I silently gave Steve the glass of water before wetting the wash clothes and handing them to Soda.
"Soda, I'm fine," Steve mumbled as he tentatively touched his split lip.
"No you ain't," Soda spat angrily. He wasn't mad at Steve, but I had a feeling Steve knew that. I handed Steve the ice pack, and after giving me a small nod, he placed it against his eye. Steve winced, and Soda noticed. "Steve, tell me what's hurting."
"What's goin' on?" I turned around and found Ponyboy standing there, looking both tired and concerned. He flipped the light on, and I squinted at the sudden brightness as he rubbed his eyes. He glanced at the scene in the bathroom before looking back at me.
"We've got it taken care of, Pone," I said, trying to sound confident. I didn't want to lie to him, and I also didn't want him to see or worry about more stuff than he needed to. "Why don't you go back to sleep?"
Being stubborn, he looked around me and spotted what I'm sure was a surprise– an injured Steve being taken care of by Soda, when just ten minutes before, we were all trying to get some sleep. "What happened?" Ponyboy asked nobody in particular, probably just hoping for quick answers.
"It's alright, kid," I heard Steve say, trying to convey the same confidence I pretended to have. "I've been tellin' your brothers I'm fi- ow Soda, you stabbin' me in the ribs ain't helping," Steve said before coughing and whimpering in pain.
I turned around to find Soda poking at Steve's torso, apparently looking for busted ribs. It was easy to see the red marks on his bare skin that were sure to turn into bruises, and it made me wince just watching Soda poke at them. Steve was grimacing, and it looked like it took all the strength he had to not hit Soda for touching his ribcage.
"I'm barely touching you," Soda said as he pressed down on Steve's skin again.
Steve hissed in pain. "Shit Soda, would ya stop?" Then he coughed a little and struggled to regain his breath.
Soda shot me a worried look. "Dar, I think at least one is broken. You think he needs to go to the hospital?"
"No, I don't-" Steve started, but Soda didn't let him finish.
"Shut it, Steve," Soda said as he glared at his friend. He looked furious, but again, it seemed like Steve knew he wasn't the one Soda was angry with. "I'm not gonna let you drop dead because you can't breathe."
There was a heavy silence in the air around us, and after a moment, Steve spoke quietly and carefully. "I can breathe, Soda. It's fine."
Before Soda could respond, I took a step towards them and crouched down. "We'll take you to the hospital if we need to, savy?" I didn't leave time for an argument before I reached out and pressed my fingers where Soda's had been. "Take a big breath."
As Steve inhaled, not only could I feel bones shifting a little, but the painful expression on his face was easy to see, even though I was sure he was attempting to hide it. "I think you have two cracked ribs, Steve. Maybe three."
The moment Steve let out a small sigh and grumbled something about busted ribs, there was an obnoxious knock on the front door. All of us were quiet as we turned towards the noise. A few seconds passed, and Ponyboy started slowly walking towards the door.
"Don't answer it, Ponyboy" I said a little too harsh. If someone's knocking on our door, especially at this hour, it means they're not one of us. "They can come back tomorrow."
"I won't," I heard Ponyboy mutter nearby. "I just wanna see who's at the door."
Then I turned back to look at Steve, who had brought the icepack back to his eye. "We'll wrap your ribs with a bandage. There's not much else we can do right now."
"Maybe he should go to-" Soda started as we began wrapping Steve's torso, but Steve cut him off.
"I ain't goin' to the hospital," Steve said through gritted teeth. He was obviously in pain, but he let us do our best of giving him medical attention.
Out of the blue, I heard the front door slam open against the wall, which was followed by Ponyboy's nervous voice. "Mr. Randle, please-" my brother stopped short as I heard some type of commotion in the living room.
The instant I heard that, I saw red.
I jumped to my feet and rushed towards the living room. That's when I heard Steve's dad drunkenly respond. "Where is he?" That asshole is looking for Steve, probably just to beat him more.
Ponyboy and Steve's dad both came into view as I approached. "He ain't here," Ponyboy said with a scowl, somehow confidently lying to a drunk man who had pushed him against the wall. The lamp on the floor explained the noise I heard, but I couldn't care less about a lamp; the fact that Mr. Randle had shoved Ponyboy against the wall and had a hand on my brother's shoulder my priority.
"You're lying," Steve's dad slurred. "Tell me where he is, or else."
He brought his other hand up, and whether it was to point at Pony or to hit him, I didn't care. If I thought my blood boiled before, it turned into lava the moment I spotted Steve's dad threatening Ponyboy.
I would break his hand before I let him do anything to my brother.
In one move, I separated Pony and Steve's dad, whom I then shoved against the adjacent wall, loving the fact his head bounced off of it. "Don't you ever lay a hand on my brother!" I shouted.
To his credit, Mr. Randle hardly flinched at my words. "He's lying to me. I'm here to see Steve." I could smell the alcohol on his breath.
"That's not going to happen," I said as coldly as I could, pushing him into the wall a little more with my arm that was against his neck. I got close to his face so he could see the anger in my eyes. "You beat your own son, and then you dare to come in here and threaten my brother?!"
Again, Mr. Randle didn't seem as scared as he should've been with how serious I was being. "Yeah, so what?" Steve's dad slurred. The strong smell of alcohol on his breath was sickening; almost as sickening as the thought of him beating the tar out of Steve on a regular basis.
As dangerous and as cold as possible, I replied. "Now you have to deal with me."