This one shot looks at an event that is only mentioned briefly in my story He Came Home.

A STORM WITHIN

My breathing has just gotten steady, sleep's embrace so close to carrying me away from all this, when the explosions rattle my core and I shoot up, my breath back to it's usual labor, my heart pumping like a race horse. This attack came out of nowhere, and my hands search frantically for my gear, but all I feel next to me is a sleeping kid who ain't got no business being here, dragging us down. I feel their approach and without my weapons and nothing but a grunt soldier who can't do shit as backup, I grab the useless fucker hard and pull him down on the ground. I guess he ain't seen action up close yet and he starts to panic, struggling against me, and I'll be damned if he's gonna get me killed or captured now, after all I've been through. So I wrestle on top, pinning him down, and put my hand over his stupid mouth to shut him up. Why the hell did he just call me Soda when I've been Curtis for so long? Who the hell does this grunt think he is? His fear has him fighting me and he's one strong son of a bitch, but I restrain him with all the force of my weight, and his arms are useless while held hard by one of mine, limbs trapped between our chests. "They found us," I tell him in a rough whisper against my own hand that grips the bottom of his face, "They found us." I'm trying to get him to grasp our grave situation, and too late, he finally stops squirming when I give him a good twist to his wrist.

I can't believe I ever wanted to shave, that I'd waited with baited breath for one whisker, for this pain in the ass job, like a kid waits for Christmas. My razor's made clean under the faucet and I tap it twice on the sink, lean in and try to navigate my lathered face, squinting through the fogged up mirror. I'm starting to think the Bearded One out in the living room has the right idea.

Soda's sprawled out on the couch, and when I hear the "Sock it to Me" girl, I can tell he's watching Laugh-In. My radio, on full blast in my room, competes with the TV and with the banging of pots in the kitchen. It's hard to tell what Darry's cooking up, cause all I can smell is the potent shaving cream that's found its way up my twitching nose.

I rinse my face and double check to make sure I got all my shadow, angling myself in the fluorescent glow, lightly rubbing my jawline. Looks good enough and I hold my towel firm around my waist as I make my way to get dressed.

I'm throwing my t-shirt over my head when I hear Darry call from the bathroom, "Pony, wipe out the damn sink when you're done shavin'." This would normally go in one ear and out the other, along with most of his complaints, but I do listen up cause it happens to follow his announcement, "Suppertime, y'all."

I manage a swift swipe of the sink with some toilet paper and head to the kitchen, where Soda's practically inside the fridge, pulling out the butter and A1 sauce for the table, and three cold ones. I can tell his spirits are up as he pops his bottle open and the beer cap hits his trash can target, when he expertly flicks it from his left hand that's wrapped behind his back. "Show off," I tease and he smiles warmly and hands me my beer.

Darry's loosened up over things like having a couple of beers at dinner. Ever since the State stopped breathing down our necks, and of course, ever since Soda's bus became a dark speck on the horizon the day he left for war. Darry and I weathered Vietnam in our own way, together, in this house for a year, and when you go through something as horrific as that, you can't help but get closer. I can't speak for him, but I'd have to guess when your youngest brother helps pull you out of a full blown panic attack in the bathroom one miserable night, the playing field might just get a little more level. Sure, he's always gonna see me as his kid brother and remind me to clean up the bathroom and stuff like that, but I feel a sense of mutual respect between us now, a somewhat sense of equality. The dynamics have shifted, and nobody but us will ever know the dark shit that went down over the course of that year. Our unspoken pact keeps it locked between us alone.

Normally Darry wouldn't be cooking tonight, but he's been off a couple of days on account of his job site was put on hold; something to do with a failed inspection. He hasn't cooked much in the few weeks since Soda came home, so he volunteered and it looks like he chose to make his specialty, country fried steak and baked potatoes. He never could make the gravy though so we just douse it in steak sauce and it's pretty good. It takes Sodapop a good five minutes to get his potato the way he likes it, slicing and dicing it, slathering it with butter so that it seeps in every crevice he's made with his fork and knife, and when it's finally to his liking, he smiles at its beauty before he stuffs it in his mouth.

"Where you headed tonight?" Darry asks me as he reaches over the entire table, stealing the butter.

I'd planned on riding with Curly out to Bratcher's house, but he called right when I got the shower running. Told me Joey's dad found his stash and the party got cancelled. "The fucking idiot," Curly had muttered into the phone, then said he had to go cause his mom was throwing a plate or something. I figured I'd go ahead and get cleaned up since the water had already warmed.

"Nowhere I guess," I tell Darry and lean in, forearms on the table. "Plans got derailed." I can't help but sigh my disappointment.

Soda reaches forward and slaps my back. "All showered up and nowhere to go," he says with an understanding look and downs the last of his beer.

"Just as well," Darry says like he's satisfied. "Weather man says there's a big ass storm comin'. Could get some twisters out of it," and he finishes his bite before pointing his fork at Soda. "Don't forget your car windows are down."

Soda, still chewing, leans back in his chair, inspecting a long strand of hair, and tucking it behind his ear. He then brings his fingers up to his scarred eyebrow, as if he's checking that it's still there. With no answer to Darry after several seconds, he wants to make sure he's heard him. "Soda, your windows are down and there's a storm comin'."

Now he looks over at Darry slowly like he's finally processing what he just said. "A storm?" he asks softly and then his eyebrows shoot up. "It's coming huh?" His face clouds over as he looks back and forth at us with troubled eyes. "You have no idea," he says, his voice almost a whisper, and his dark smirk is at once threatening and pitiful.

All is silent and Darry and I catch each other's looks, wild with concern, and we're both poised for some kind of eruption, but the moment passes once Soda seems to realize what he must look like, and works to come back to us at the table, trying to put us at ease with a relaxed remark about how he loves a good storm. With a lightness to his voice now, he says, "There's no better sleepin' weather," and with that, I read Darry's face that says to let it all go, and supper continues on like nothing happened.

After Soda insists on doing the dishes, "I ain't no guest", I head out to his car and roll up the windows for him. The thunder has already started rumbling, but it seems really far away, like we have all the time in the world.

I hop up on the porch steps and light a cigarette, enjoying the sporadic gusts that have the trees swaying, their leaves writhing about, just begging for all the water they're about to receive, and Mrs. Thompson's annoying wind chimes have joined in on the dance.

Darry's come up behind me unnoticed, from closing the screen door carefully, but after a few seconds I can feel him there. I don't even turn around. All I have to do is breathe out one heavy, burdened breath and Darry says softly, "I know."

We don't talk when he sits beside me. Rather, we pass the cigarette between us and look out at the flashes in the distant horizon, lighting up the threatening clouds which would otherwise be creeping in unseen. My radio that drifts out from my bedroom can barely be heard through the closed window, but I can make out a weather warning interrupting the music. When we hear Soda yelling the answers to some TV game show, Darry gives me two strong pats on my thigh to signal our move to join him.

"This guy is dumber than a box of rocks," Soda complains when we enter the living room, his barefeet propped up on the coffee table. "It's Wrigley Field, you idiot," he calls out the answer, his hand outstretched, eyes rolling. He's always had a thing for game shows and this is his favorite one, though I'm not sure why cause it always gets him riled up when the contestants can't hear him through the tv. Darry heads for the ringing phone and I sit with Soda, ready to compete for the fastest answer, like we always used to do. Soda, though he was never a good student, is an expert in trivia. "If it don't matter," he says about his hidden talent, "I'm likely to know it."

"Who was that?" I ask Darry when he walks back in on our ongoing battle of the minds. He takes his hat off and runs his hand through his overgrown hair, then replaces it firmly, one hand on the back and one on the bill. "Aw it was just Sara. She blew a fuse with her hairdryer or somethin'. Wanted to know how to reset the circuit breaker." He shakes his head and chuckles as he sits in his chair. "She don't even know where to look for the fuse box. I told her I'd come help her but she wasn't havin' me drive in the storm."

Amused by this, I ask, "You tellin' me she ain't had to flip a fuse before?" but with a sly grin Soda says, "It don't matter Darry. You got yourself a fox with that one. Damn."

Darry just blows it off and picks up the paper, but his smile stays right where it is. Leave it to him to snag the finest. Now that he finally has more time to date, the girls all line up, like they'd been doing nothing but waiting for his return to the field. Darry always had it going on though, so it's really no big deal to him. I look at him tonight and notice a bit of his youth has returned. He looks younger than he did five years ago, like the years melted off of him, now that he's gotten me through school and Soda came home in one piece. My heart beats easier these days just watching his transformation.

Soda is continuing on, pointing at Darry. "I'm tellin' ya Dare, you need to head right over there now and get to flippin' all her fuses, cause that girl is somethin'." I laugh at Soda's remark which draws his attention to me. "What about you Pony? You gettin' any action these days with that little friend of yours?"

Born to seek life's carnal pleasures, Soda's always had his mind on the ladies, and even told us one of the hardest parts of the war for him was going without. I don't know if he was exaggerating, but he said in the beginning it was actually physically painful for him to be without a woman's touch, the feel of soft skin, a woman's smell. Somewhere in the middle of his tour he learned how to shut it off, despite his fear of never getting it back, but as soon as he entered the States, he was ravenous again. He had us all entertained at Pauly's one night when he told us about his first escapade, his re-entry into sexual relations, thanks to none other than Betsy Bratcher, a volunteer more than willing to put Soda back on track. "Y'all," he said with laughing eyes and lighting the cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth, "I couldn't have lasted more than thirty seconds."

Darry and I just shook our heads at him. "That's shameful, Sodapop, " I playfully rubbed it in.

"Don't I know," he responded, his twinkling eyes mischievous. "I pray she keeps her trap shut or I'm toast in this town," he laughed and his wink let us know he wasn't worried in the least.

These days I've gathered that Soda's involved in a fling with some girl he met in his group of hippie friends, but he never talks about her and I never ask. He doesn't seem as lighthearted, in fact there's a sense of darkness about this latest tryst and he's been keeping it under his hat, for whatever reason.

Soda's foot nudges my leg to try and get me to open up about my girl, but I'm not about to tell. Out of the corner of my eyes I see that Darry's are on me, suddenly interested in the conversation. I shrug and say, "Things are pretty good." I look over to Soda, and I casually bite my nail, just to hide the corner of my mouth that's pulling up, threatening to give it all away. For some reason, maybe cause I've worn myself into the comfortable role as the baby, I don't want my brothers to know how experienced I really am.

"Ponyboy Michael Curtis," Soda draws out my name, seeing right through me. "Spill it." But before he can go further, I'm saved by a quick glow of lightening and all the electric life in our house dies suddenly. "Well shit," Soda says at the now darkened television. "We're gonna miss the thousand dollar bonus round."

Darry's off to find the flashlight and round up some candles and he's already slammed into several pieces of furniture along the way, signaled by his gruff curses here and there. I turn to Soda, but he's no longer next to me on the couch. I feel the tremors of violent thunderclaps and the front screen door slams, and now I see that Soda has gone to meet the tempest on our front porch. In the stuttering flashes of lightening, I make out his form, and he looks almost beautiful standing out among the chaos. Like an image from a book I've read. I don't have to see him up close to know his eyes are restless and all his energy running through him matches what the gales brought in. He's always been this way.

Darry's face shines with the moving light as he places the candles on the coffee table, and Soda returns, still fired up by nature's power. "Man, that's a fine one," he compliments the weather. "Lord, it gets me jazzed up good. It's like I'm itchin' for a fight now." He comes up to Darry shadow boxing, and in his fighter's stance he pulls his arm back, throwing a fist, that he slows down mid punch, pretending he's in super slow motion and it takes a good five seconds for Soda to land it gently on Darry's jaw. Then he freezes in this position, and his magnified shadow flickering on the wall behind him shows the perfect form of a boxer.

Darry removes Soda's fist from his face and tells him, "Soda why don't you start liftin' out back with me." Darry and I have agreed Soda needs some way to channel his wild energy. Darry's hand comes up to squeeze Soda's tattooed bicep. "You're lookin' ripped these days man, you should keep this up." It's a first for Darry to compliment Soda on his physique. He's normally teasing him about his leaner frame, but he came back to us with a stronger and more rugged build.

We settle into the living room, our cozy den of protection right in the middle of the howling winds and driving rain, our shutters banging. My insides couldn't feel warmer as I look at my brothers in the soft light, talking and laughing. This moment is far better than any party at Joey's, and I'm grateful for the storm.

We reminisce, laughing over funny things we did as kids, teasing each other for the childhood embarrassments only we would know about, and it no longer hurts to talk about Mom and Dad. And we do that a lot these days, repeating those familiar and favorite stories that somehow bring them back to life. Sometimes one of us will get up to reenact a scene, imitating Dad, trying to capture all his traits. You'd think Darry would be the best, but it's Soda who has it mastered. We beg him to keep going as he nails every mannerism and we laugh until it hurts.

"Hey, 'member that time Pony threw up all over the tilt-a-whirl?" Soda's laughing before he gets the question out and I'm laughing right along cause I do vaguely remember Dad getting the brunt of it.

Darry's quick to defend me by putting our middle brother in his place. "Soda, what the hell you laughin' about," he says all laid back in his chair, his eyes barely visible under his hat. "I had to share a bed that you pissed in every other night." Soda's laugh spirals into hysterics and his eyes are watering when he tells Darry, "Good. Serves ya right."

Midnight's closing in and Darry starts to gather the empty beer bottles we took down. I look at Soda who seems to finally be tired. I know he didn't sleep last night and I'm hoping tonight he can get some rest. I have no idea why or when, but his t-shirt came off at some point and he now has it draped around his neck like a scarf.

"Did it hurt?" I ask him and nod towards his tattoo.

He looks down and turns his arm slightly to get a better view. "Kinda," and his voice, which earlier held all that spirit has now become its soft and slow drawl. "It was a crazy night." And that's all he'll say about that.

I watch his hands as they roll an unlit cigarette between them, and I can't help but think how those hands were responsible for killing a person. A lot of people I'm guessing. Those hands carried the fate of many men who were taken down by the power they held, right or wrong. Something shivers inside me.

I look up into his eyes that now seem unsettled, peering right into mine. "Pony," he says tenderly, almost whispering. "You were so young when you lost Mom and Dad, man," he says with a heavy sadness, like it just happened. "I've always been so sorry that happened to you."

I'm shocked by this sudden subject, but I swallow hard and say, "Soda, that happened to you too. You weren't much older."

He starts sitting up and leans over to put that same powerful hand so gently on my shoulder, "Yeah, but 13? That's brutal, Pony. Darry and I were so worried about you. Always have been." He's studying my face, and I let the irony sink in. He speaks of our misfortune as if it isn't his own, yet he's just walked out of his own tragedy, the most catastrophic year a person could have, and it's Darry and I who are worried over him.

The moment's over when Darry slaps the doorframe twice and announces, "Don't think the rest of the storms have much punch, so I'm out." Having to go to the cellar's no longer a threat so Darry's job is done. "I'm sure there's gonna be a lotta roofin' gigs openin' up after tonight." He half tips his baseball hat towards us and heads to his bed to get the sleep required for the work he's always known.

I guess all good things must come to an end and I blow out the candles, always mindful now of unwatched fires. I lead us down the pitch black hallway to our bedrooms, but Soda comes in my room instead and lies on top of my covers in the opposite direction, his feet at the headboard, and I feel a peaceful sleep descending, my eyelids too heavy to stay awake to listen to Soda's soft and sleepy voice telling me how comfortable my bed is.

My eyelids flutter when a long rolling thunder rocks the house and rattles the windows and I realize it's not a dream when two strong hands grip my upper arms and yank me across my bed. My stomach is up in my throat and for one brief moment I assume some intruder has broken in, and I fight the hands and arms that relentlessly pull and tug me over the edge, my head knocking the nightstand and bringing the typewriter Darry got me for graduation crashing right down with me. I squint up in the dark and finally get a good enough look to see that it's Soda, but I can tell he's in a whole other world and I'm scared shitless. "Soda," I try to wake him, even kick at him to wake up, but he forces himself on top of me and tangles both of my arms, locking them up with one of his and then brings his other up, his left hand now roughly covering my mouth. I can't stop instinct and I still fight like hell, thrashing this way and that but he's a fucking beast. I think I can make out his crazed whisper, that somebody has found us. Thankfully I hear Darry coming down the hall, but Soda has managed to twist my right wrist so hard I groan into his hand and go limp.

Darry comes in trying to flip a light switch, but realizing there's still no power he mutters "Shit," then he spots us, the two dark figures on the floor by the bed and he runs over. Already aware of the situation, he immediately starts pulling at Soda's waist, and with Darry now on his back, Soda latches on me harder, while Darry keeps telling him, "Soda, stop it. You're home Soda, you're home."

It's a lot of struggle but Darry, as only he could, manages the strength to pull Soda off, practically dragging us both in the process, but Soda finally lets go and in his low, guttural voice he's instructing me to run. Once I'm free I pull up my boxers that got stripped down my legs when Darry dragged us. I cradle my wrist and stand up, breathing heavy and watch while Darry manhandles Soda in the dark, forcing his arms at his sides by wrapping him up from behind. I can tell Soda's losing strength when Darry jerks him around a bit, trying to shake him out of his nightmare he's trapped in. Though he's being extremely rough, Darry's voice stays soothing all the while, telling Soda it's all okay.

Just then the electricity's restored and the house comes back to life, exactly as we'd left it when the power cut out. So all the harsh lights are blinding and my radio volume is still set to a blasting eleven. Mick Jagger and his backup soul singer are screaming out War….Children….It's just a shot away, it's just a shot away, and the situation has become even more surreal. I watch Darry and Soda in a shock like trance while they fight and Soda cries out at the top of his lungs, "God, no," and it's a long and painful "no" and I'll never hear this song without the savage image of Soda burned into my mind. I can hear the sizzle right now as it's branding my brain.

After his painful cry has left him, Soda slumps forward, still held up by Darry. His eyes have found me, and realizing what's happened they go from ruthless to confused in a split second, and I want to kill somebody for making my brother suffer this way. I think about what those eyes of his witnessed. And my cold chills spread over me as the powerful song screams out against the vile acts and images that must be constantly playing behind Soda's eyes everyday. Darry's now walking him back to his room and I find myself repeating "I'm okay, Soda," to assure him, but my shaky voice is drowned by the woman who's singing out with agony Rape…Murder…It's just a shot away.

My body has nothing left. I lie in my room staring out the window, listen to the birds, Mrs. Thompson's wind chimes and all their happy notes, as if they celebrate their survival of the storm that swept through. They have no idea.

All day Pony and Darry have been fussin' over me, making sure I'm okay, giving me the grace I don't deserve. How many times can Ponyboy forgive me? I came into his bedroom before he was awake and crawled in beside him. Gave him my dog tags. I figured he'd like to have them, cause I sure don't need anything identifying me anymore. He seemed touched.

I fucked up. And I can't scare them like this ever again. I can't unsee everything I saw. I can't undo everything I did. I can't go back to what I was. But I sure as hell can protect them from who I am now.

Just one time. That's all you get Curtis. I can fuck up once. But that's it. Cause while they're forgiving...I'm not merciful at all.

And I found that out the hard way.

A/N: Outsiders by SE Hinton, Gimme Shelter by The Rolling Stones