AN: Hello, Kats and Kittens! How're things? This story just sort of . . . fell out of my brain. Cranium leakage . . . I must get that fixed. Anyone know a good plumber? Well, I hope you enjoy nonetheless. I'm rather proud of it . . . I'm pretty sure, anyway. I'll let you decide. :)

Disclaimer: I do not own the book (novel?) The Outsiders. I do not own the characters of the book (again . . . novel?) The Outsiders.

Because He's Steve Randle

"Hey, Kid, where's Soda?"

He grinds the words out before the slam of the screen door can be heard, and I tighten my jaw, not wanting to turn from the television. For once in my life, I have the house to myself. No Darry, no Soda, no Two-Bit, Dally, or Johnny. And definitely no Steve Randle . . . Until now.

"He ain't here," I reply curtly, knowing that these words will most likely drive him out of the house. "Boss called him in. Somebody couldn't work, so he's gonna pull a double shift."

"How 'bout Darry?" Steve inquires, sticking his hands in the pockets of his worn jeans.

"Just left for the grocery store. We're outta beer and chocolate cake mix."

"So you're here all alone, then?"

Why's he so interested in me anyway? It's not like we ever get along. I'm just some stupid kid he doesn't have time for, and he's just some dumb car mechanic I can't stand.

"Wouldn't be if you moochers would stop drinking and eating over here all the time. Damn grocery bill's been wracking up, and Darry barely makes enough to-"

And, suddenly, he has my shirt bunched in his fists, and he's pulling me from the couch and slamming me against the wall. I always knew he had it out for me. I mean, all those threats about catching me alone one of these days . . . I didn't think he was serious. But I must have done something to piss him off recently, because that look in his eyes . . . I've never seen anything like it before.

His breathing is weird, and he won't stop looking at me . . . But that's all he's doing, really. Breathing and looking. And then his grip loosens, and his hands slither across my chest and around to my back until his arms encircle me, until I'm pulled right up next to him, and our noses are barely a centimeter apart. He leans in, finally, abruptly, and his lips are on mine, hot and wet with spit . . .

And I can think of nothing more to do then kiss him back.

His fists are bunched again, but this time they're tugging at my thin, white shirt, pulling it over my head and mussing my hair. I would yell at him, tell him he ruined what took me almost half an hour to get right, but his lips are, suddenly, there again; pressing, squeezing, needy, desperate. For some reason I can't deny him, and I don't as his tongue forces its way into my mouth.

My hands are on his shoulders, and my fingers dig into them, causing a small whimper to escape his throat. He's everywhere, now, his fingertips gliding over my chest, my back, my stomach, and soon they find their way to the belt buckle right below my navel. I gasp and break the kiss, panting and staring into his lust-filled eyes. He isn't scared. He's never scared. Because he's Steve Randle. Why should he be?

"Christ," he pants, shaking his head slightly and closing his eyes. "Christ, no, you're just a kid. What the hell am I doing? What the fuck do I think I'm doing?"

He pulls away, but I latch on tight, and he looks at me curiously.

"You started it."

My voice is breathy, and my body begins to tremble. I feel as if I'll keel over if I let him go, and he must know because his arms are there again, strong and warm, encompassing.

"God, Pony, you can't even begin to understand any of this," he tries to explain, but all I can focus on is the fact that he actually said my name. He never says my name . . . At least not on purpose. His accent is deeper than mine, grittier. Soothing. His family comes from a long line of southerners, I think.

"I understand enough," I reply defiantly, putting on my best tuff look, but it only makes him chuckle. Why is it whenever I'm trying to be serious people think it's funny? And then we're down the hallway, and he's pulling me into my bedroom and locking the door behind us. My stomach twists and flutters, but I don't show the anxiety wracking my body. I don't show it because he's Steve Randle.

And he turns to me one last time, leaning against the door with his head cocked to one side as he says, "You're sure? Cause I don't know what's gonna happen . . . And if it does, I don't think I'll be able to stop it." I puff my chest out, another attempt at looking older than I am that only makes him laugh.

"I could stop you . . . If I wanted to," I defend myself.

"Sure," Steve smirks, and then I'm on my back on the bed, and he's crushing me, stradling me, trying to undo my belt buckle while shoving his tongue down my throat. My arms wrap around him, my fingernails digging into the muscle on either side of his spine. He groans into my mouth, finally getting my pants undone and pushes them down over my thighs, but that's as far as they'll go . . . It'll do.

He grinds his hips into my own, and I arch my back, gasping. Shit, I hope Darry and Soda don't get home anytime-

"Hey, Pony! Come and help with these groceries!"

"Fuck!" Steve curses under his breath, jumping off of me and pulling me up. Quickly, he buttons my pants up again, slicks my hair back to an acceptable greasy forest of blonde strands, and grabs me a flannel shirt from my closet. I open my mouth to thank him, but he covers it, shaking his head and quietly making his way to the window on the other side of the bed. The handle of the door jiggles slightly, and both Steve and I freeze.

"Ponyboy?" Soda's voice asks softly.

"Uh," I stammer, thinking of an excuse. "I'm getting dressed. Just a minute."

A soft laugh from the other side of the door is followed by a response, "Since when are you so shy? Come on, Pony. Open up. I'm all sweaty, and I need to get a new pair of clothes." Steve looks to me desperately. Soda will hear the window if it's opened, and he'll wonder what I'm doing opening a window when I won't even unlock our bedroom door.

"W-What're you doing home so early? I thought you had to work late," I stall, motioning the older boy to hurry up and take his chance. Suddenly, with a sharp jiggle of the handle, the clicking sound of the lock coming undone seems to echo through the small room, and the knob twists, revealing Soda's exhausted face.

"Ricky decided he wasn't going to play sick after all," he says, his eyebrows lifting in surprise as he finds Steve near the window.

"Hey, Steve," he greets cheerfully. "What're you doing here?"

"Well . . ." Steve pauses, completely dumbfounded for a few seconds. "I was . . . waiting for you, of course. Why you gotta be workin' all the time?"

Soda smiles that winning smile of his and begins to strip out of his sweaty, oil-stained clothes, finding a clean outfit and lazily pulling himself into it.

"Someone's gotta pay the bills around here," he replies, sitting on the bed and tying his sneakers in triple knots, just the way he likes them. "Darry can't do it by himself, and if Pony, here, is ever going to get outta this crap town, we need to keep saving for his college fund."

A silence falls over the room, awkward for, seemingly, only Steve and myself.

"You staying for dinner, Steve?" Soda asks casually, standing and turning to his long-time, childhood friend.

"No," the other boy replies almost a little too quickly. "I, uh . . . I gotta get home. Dad's making pancakes, and if I'm not there, he'll likely pass out and burn the whole kitchen down." He leaves, and it is all I can do to restrain myself from running after him and begging him to stay. Soda turns to me, and for just a moment his smile wavers.

"Everything all right, Pony?" He places a hand on my shoulder and I look to him innocently.

"Sure," I force my lips into a smile, stretching them almost painfully. "Things are swell."

"Good," Soda's grin resumes his face. "Darry and I brought in all the groceries." He leads me towards the door. "Which means you get to put them all away."

And so I find myself wishing that Soda had walked in on us. But that could never happen. Not when I'm with Steve.

He is, after all, Steve Randle.

AN: Questions? Comments? Vague disregard to any or all words written and established in the mind of one who has no sanity?

Well, Kats and Kittens, that's what I've got. Don't maim me. It's not my fault my brain leaks. :(
Anywho, I'm pretty sure I have an idea for another chapter.
Anyone interested/cricket chirp/ ANYONE?