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Wicked Son

Wooo Steve Randle and his dad character study :) surely not based on real life or nothin (/j/j/J)

Anyhow uh this is mostly Steve angst, with a hint of stevepop if you squint, Steve being an ass, and some very lousy circumstances. Almost a happy ending I think? Well maybe happy’s not right. Human, I guess.

Cross posted to ao3 -

Steve and Dad fight, and Momma resolves it. That’s how it’s always been, and how he thought it’d always be.

-

It’s the year of Steve’s thirteenth birthday that Momma first faints. That’s not so bad on its own, except it keeps happening.

After the fifth incident, she goes to the hospital.

When she comes home, Dad drops her off and drives away, and later Steve will know he’s driving to the pub.

She comes down the walkway and sits on the couch, brows bunched together.

“You okay? What happened?” Steve says, looking up from the model car he’s been sticking together.

She tucks her long dark hair behind her ear, and gives him a hollow stare. “Stevie, kitten,” she says, holding her arms out. “C’mere.”

Steve is too old to be called ‘kitten’- after all, he just got back from holding hands with Sylvia in the park. But something in her voice makes him feel like a little kid again.

“What’s wrong, Mom?” he says, sitting on the couch next to her. She wraps her arms around him, pulling him close. Her hands crawl up his back, sending warm shivers down his spine as she pets him. (Gosh, Dallas Winston would never- real tough now, huh, Randle?) But boy, it’s nice, and he can’t help but lean into it.

“I’m sick,” she whispers into his hair.

Steve’s stomach swirls. “Sick?” he repeats.

Momma trembles, and he feels water on his scalp. She’s tearing up. He can’t remember ever seeing her cry.

“Cancer, baby,” she says softly, and Steve’s heart drops.

“Cancer?” he repeats, and it doesn’t sound real, he can’t quite believe it. In a second, she’ll laugh and tell him she’s joking, because cancer doesn’t- it doesn’t happen to people he knows, it doesn’t. It happens to neighbors, and book characters, maybe, and love interests at the Nightly Double- but Momma? No, no, that- that couldn’t be right…

She hugs him tight. “Breast cancer. Stage two.”

Stage- stage two- is that good or bad?! What does that mean?!

“So what’s gonna happen?” Steve says.

She tells him she doesn’t know.

-

When Dad comes home from the bar, he hugs Steve too, and Steve hugs him back.

“It’s okay, babe, it’s okay,” he says, playing with Steve’s hair. “It’s okay.”

-

“GET BACK IN THE KITCHEN, STEVEN!” Dad snaps, red faced and harsh.

“I AM! I WILL!” Steve yells back, stomping his foot so hard it hurts. God you sound like a girl, he tells himself, scowling. “Why do I need to do the dishes NOW?! I’M LATE FOR SODA!”

“DON'T YELL AT ME, KID,” Dad yells.

“I AIN’T!” Steve’s eyes sting.

“Oh, don’t you start cryin’ about it- just doing the dishes,” Dad scoffs.

“I’m NOT CRYING!” Steve shrieks. He is, but not about the damn dishes.

“You don’t do anything around here anyhow, you can live with ONE CHORE!”

“I do things!” Steve protests, but he’s coming up blank on things he does. “But I told ya, I’ll do the dishes soon as I’m back from the game!”

“No, then your mother will do them, and you’ll get off scot free as usual!” Dad scolds.

“No she won’t, just tell her not to! I’ll tell her not to! Soda’s waitin’, man!” Not just Soda, but all the rest of the Curtises- waiting cos he said he’d be there at five o’clock, and to not leave without him-

“Don’t you man me, kid,” Dad growls.

“MA! Don’t do the dishes!” Steve yells into the living room.

Ma glances up from her spot on the armchair, looking grey and pale. She always looks that way now. “What’s that, kitten?”

“I’m goin’ to Soda’s! Don’t do the dishes, I’ll do em’ when I’m home!”

Dad grabs Steve by the back of his shirt and drags him back into the kitchen.

“Who do you think you are, orderin’ your mother around with a tone like that?!” he snaps.

“I’m- dammit, I’m not! I’m doin’ what you WANT!”

“I WANT you to DO THE DISHES!”

“I WILL AFTER DARRY’S GAME! Just WAIT! Why can’t you WAIT?!” “BECAUSE I ORDERED YOU TO DO SOMETHING, SON,” Dad roars. “AND I EXPECT IT TO BE DONE. Get back into the kitchen and lose the attitude!”

“I DON’T HAVE AN ATTITUDE!”

“Just clean, kid! You can go to the Curtises’ later,” Dad says, in that voice he uses when he’s done with a matter.

“I can’t later.” Steve grumbles, slamming a cup into the sink, hard as he can.

Crack.

The cup splits down the middle.

Steve goes pale.

Dad peers over his shoulder, looking at the cup.

Voice dangerously low, he says “Get out.”

“Wha-”

“OUT!” He roars, shoving Steve towards the door. “Come back once you’ve learned your damn place!”

Steve bolts outside like a shot. He races down the street fast as he can, wind whipping his face and turning the tear-trails to ice.

He’s never going back, never.

-

Steve comes back home an hour later.

He’d ran to the Curtises’, but by the time he got there they’d already left so that they wouldn’t miss Darry’s game. Soda had left a note on the door- Sory Stevy we gotta go now else Darry’s gonna have a cow! Come over later thoh I wanna see ya.

So Steve had jammed the letter into his pocket and kicked the porch step as hard as he could.

On the way back to the house, he ran into Johnny Cade, hanging out in the old abandoned lot.

Johnny…Johnny was kicked out for real.

Steve had swallowed, an uneasy feeling in his belly. Who the hell was he to be threatening to run away? Next to Johnny, he was in a damn ivory tower.

Suddenly Steve felt very small, very young, and very, very silly.

So Steve waved, but didn’t approach the guy- besides, his face was still red and crusted with salty tears, and he wasn’t so keen on showing that to anyone, much less a (slightly) younger kid like Johnny.

So homeward bound it was. He might head back to the Curtiss’ in a bit. He hasn’t decided.

Back home, Dad’s car is gone. He’s disappeared off somewhere. To the bar, probably, Steve notes as he walks up the way.

Inside, the dishes in the sink are piled up nicely, sparkling clean on the counter.

“Ma? You home?” Steve says. There’s no answer, so Steve heads to the living room. She’s on the chair, asleep.

Steve swallows. Momma’s always asleep now. And when she’s awake, she’s so out of it she may as well be asleep.

Momma shifts in her sleep, resting her head on her other shoulder, and a few clumps of dark hair are left where her head rested before.That’s been happening a lot now too. Her hair’s gone from thick and rich to thin and stringy. Dad shaved it short for her so she wouldn’t notice it so much, but she still notices. All her nice hair products have sat unused for months.

Radiation therapy is a real bitch.

Steve returns to the clean dishes back in the kitchen, and with a heavy heart, he begins to put them away. Lord, he hopes Mom didn’t clean them. She’s so tired…

Maybe Dad’s right. Maybe Steve shoulda just cleaned the dishes. Glory, he’s such a baby sometimes. Soda probably doesn’t cry about the dishes.

“Stevie? That you?” Momma’s weak voice says.

He pops back into the living room. “Hey Ma,” he says.

“Dad’s real mad,” she says, which isn’t much of an observation.

“I know,” Steve scoffs, a spike of anger rising up again at the thought.

“What happened?”

“He didn’t tell ya?”

Momma chuckles, closing her eyes. “Oh, he tried. But you know how illegible he gets when he’s all emotional.”

Emotional? Dad? Steve wants to ask. Instead he says “Huh?”

“Well, you’re the same way, you know. You’re both sensitive.”

“I ain’t sensitive,” Steve says hotly, picturing little Ponyboy Curtis with his books and coddling parents, who cries when Steve teases him, like a complete sissy. That’s sensitive. Steve sure as hell isn’t.

“Hotheaded, then?” she says, a glimmer of amusement in her dark eyes.

“...Fine.”

“Well, you’re both hotheaded. Now tell me what happened this time?”

Steve rolls his eyes, which Momma snorts at.

“He wanted me to do the dishes. And I woulda done ‘em, honest, but I told Soda I’d go to Darry Curtis’s football game with him. But Dad wouldn’t let me get ready, he just kept screamin’ ‘bout the dishes…he just can’t listen, I don’t get it!” Steve says, throwing his hands up.

“Don’t raise your voice,” Momma warns.

“I ain’t!” Steve says, but that maybe isn’t true.

“Okay,” Momma says, just to appease him, and Steve suddenly feels even more rotten.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, looking at his ratty tennis shoes.

“You and your father are real similar, you know that, Stevie?” Ma says.

“No,” Steve grunts. How can they be?

“Well, you are. You’re both stubborn. Real stubborn. And hotheaded. And strong.”

Steve glares at the ground. With the tears still drying on his face, he sure doesn’t feel strong. God, he hates that. He hates not feeling strong. He hates crying.

“I just hope that y’all will manage to get along when I-”

“When you what?” Steve says, whipping his head ‘round to stare at her. Lord, she ain’t gonna say “die”- please don’t say “die”-

“When I get moved into the hospital, baby,” Ma says, softly.

Steve’s soul sinks into his shoes.

“You gotta be strong for each other, okay? You gotta.”

“...Okay,” Steve murmurs.

Get along…how the hell are they gonna swing that?

-

The second time Steve is kicked out is the first night Momma spends in the hospital. Dad came home from dropping her off there in a stony silence, face cold and empty. He knocked back a few beers and stretched out on the couch, leaving the door to his and Mom’s bedroom shut and untouched.

That was about when Steve made the awful mistake of sitting down at the kitchen table to do homework. And Dad made the awful mistake of offering to help.

It started out okay.

It devolved.

“You ain’t tryin’, stop bein’ so dramatic,” Dad hisses, as Steve solves another math problem wrong.

Steve’s face burns. He is trying, and he’s trying hard too. It ain’t his fault the damn grade school only taught him the multiplication table to ten.

“Oh, stick a pin in it,” Steve growls.

“Don’t you speak to me like that,” Dad snaps.

“I ain’t! Just give it a rest, why don’tcha?!”

“You give it a rest, kid.”

“I am! It’d sure be easier if ya weren’t breathin’ down my neck!”

“Breathing down your neck?! Now who do you think you’re talking to, son?” Dad says, voice hard.

Steve rolls his eyes. “I just mean gimme space!”

“You ASKED FOR HELP! What am I supposed to do, watch you do it wrong?”

“No! Just leave it be!”

“Stop raising your voice, son,” Dad says.

“I’m not!”

“You are! You just did!”

“So are you,” Steve argues.

“That ain’t yelling, kid! THIS IS YELLING!” Dad roars, the smell of beer hitting Steve like a truck. He pounds a fist onto the table, shaking it so hard Steve feels it in his bones.

Steve recoils, back to his seat in a split second.

“What, don’t tell me yer scared,” Dad scoffs. “My old man used to tie me to the chair an’ smack me round when I got mouthy. You are damn spoiled. You ain’t got nothin’ to flinch for.”

No, no he doesn’t, Steve realizes, face burning redder. Something prickles behind his eyes.

“Oh, don’t you start,” Dad says with a manic laugh.

Steve sinks deeper into his chair. “I wasn’t yellin’ at ya, man,” he mumbles, clenching his jaw. “Just leave me alone.”

“You’re such a child,” Dad snorts.

“Leave me ALONE!” Steve roars, snapping his pencil in two.

“Leave you alone, leave you alone, the little prince needs to cry, huh? Needs someone to feel bad for him? Huh? That what ya want?!” Dad says, and he just won’t shut up-

No, no, no-

“LEAVE ME ALONE!” Steve screams. He squeezes the arms of the chair so hard he almost thinks they’ll break.

“Shut your mouth,” Dad says. Sometimes he gets quiet when he’s angry. A chill runs down Steve’s spine. Dad gets up, and almost calmly, he hauls Steve up by the shoulder.

Steve wants to thrash, wants to fight, but it’s like he’s frozen. He can’t even comprehend what’s happening to him.

And then the floor is racing towards him, and he’s hitting it hard. There’s a shriek, and it takes a second before teve realizes it’s coming from him.

What happened?

Trembling, Dad is standing over him, and Steve knows then that Dad shoved him.

Dad steps back jerkily, and then disappears down the hallway.

Steve’s heart races.

There’s a thud, and Steve pictures something being thrown in Dad’s room.

Steve sits up and leans against the wall, brain still feeling jumbled and head still feeling dazed. He wants- he wants to throw something. He wants to hit someone. He wants to scream. You hurt me! How could you hurt me! He pictures himself bleeding out from a knife wound like that chick Two-Bit Mathews saw at the Dingo, and madly, he thinks then he’ll be sorry. He winds his fingers through his hair and tugs, hoping the sting will bring him back to Earth. He wants Momma.

It feels like just a second, but the clock hand has moved, and it must be at least ten minutes later.

Dad pads back into the room in his socks. Weirdly, all Steve can think is wondering if the folks who made those socks knew they’d be worn by someone who’s just shoved his child.

“I think you’d better go have a sleepover with Sodapop,” Dad mutters.

Steve blinks, still thinking about socks.

“Steven. Go to Soda’s tonight,” Dad says, and it’s an order.

Steve gets up, back to the wall, and all but runs to the hall. Irrationally, he wonders if the folks who made his socks knew they’d be being worn by a pathetic, ungrateful baby. Somehow, in the moment, that bugs him even more than being kicked out.

-

Dad picks him up in the morning. They drive home in stony silence.

There’s a pink box on the table, and Steve glances up at Dad questioningly.

“I uh…got donuts,” Dad says gruffly.

“Oh. Thanks,” Steve murmurs.

“Yeah,” Dad mutters. He goes to his room.

Steve almost doesn’t eat one, but then he pictures the sweet cream and chocolate and can’t resist.

He eats a chocolate custard donut alone at the dining room table. He sorta wishes it tasted bad, because he feels bad, but it doesn’t. It’s great.

It’s the first of many.

-

It’s a lousy night in April that Steve turns seventeen.

Well, okay, it didn’t start out lousy. It actually started pretty okay. Steve drank a few beers- his birthday gift from Two-Bit- and got kicked outta a few bars, and now he’s found himself waitin’ in a tattoo parlor with Soda and Two-Bit Mathews.

“You think I should get a soda bottle?” Soda jokes, pointing at a picture in the binder.

“Oh yeah, Darry’d love that,” Two-Bit snorts.

“Not if he never knows,” Soda grins. “Watch, I’ll get it on my ass, he’ll never find out.”

“Except it’ll slip your mind it’s secret and you’ll tell him by next week, ya ditz,” Two-Bit teases, clapping Soda on the back.

“Not if you don’t let it slip first, motormouth,” Steve says. “Gimme that.” He snatches the binder, flipping through it. “You think a switch’d look tuff?”

“Where?”

“Uh…Shoulder, maybe?”

“Naw, no one’d hire ya with a knife on yer shoulder, ya hoodlum,” Two-Bit says, flicking Steve’s forehead. “‘Sides, you really wanna have to hide that from the folks of every gal you ever take out?”

Steve frowns. That’s a rare good point from Two-Bit. “Alright, alright, point taken. How ‘bout a Mustang?”

“Naw, you’re scared of horses!” Two-Bit says.

“I ain’t scared!” Steve snaps. “I just- ain’t no gear to make horses chill out is all- ‘sides, you seen what they did to Soda’s leg?”

“Aw, it was just a torn ligament, buddy, but it’s real sweet to know ya care,” Soda says, batting his eyes dramatically.

“Oh, shuddup,” Steve rolls his eyes.

“I dunno, if you’re scared of horses, maybe ya shouldn’t be gettin’ a tattoo- I hear needles are a little bit scarier than ponies,” Two-Bit jabs.

“Oh, come off it, tattoos ain’t so bad,” Steve says dismissively.

“Oh right, like you’d know,” Two-Bit scoffs. “I forgot, yous practically the illustrated man, huh?”

“No, I’m serious, I got two as is,” Steve says, glancing up from the book. “This is gonna be number three.”

Soda raises an eyebrow. “Since when?” he says incredulously. “Why the hell don’t I know ‘bout this?”

“I dunno,” Steve shrugs. “I mean, I’ve had ‘em since I was ‘round fifteen, you know.”

“Your old man let ya?!” Soda says in disbelief.

“Sure he did. He felt all bad ‘bout kickin’ me out, he woulda done anythin’ I told him to,” Steve smirks darkly.

“Prove it,” Two-Bit challenges, cocking an eyebrow.

Steve glances back and forth, making sure everything’s clear, before tugging the hem of his wifebeater outta his waistband. He peels it upwards to expose his chest, revealing the pink-ish-red lines he got under his pecs.

“See?” he mutters, nodding down at them.

“The hell is that?” Two-Bit says.

“Yeah, man, what’s that s’pposed to be, a shark attack?”

Steve flushes, and yanks his tank top back down. “Look, I don’t wanna delve into it much, okay? It’s…it’s just…my ma, y’know, she’s all sick and whatever…”

“Yeah…and?” Soda says, pulling up Steve’s tank again to poke one of the lines. Steve recoils in shock, but he reluctantly lets Soda trace them.

“Well she don’t want me sayin’ this, but I reckon y’all don’t care- the cancer’s in her uh…chest, right?” Steve starts, trying to ignore the intense warmth he’s getting in…regions from Soda’s touch.

“Right, her tits’re infected,” Two-Bit says crassly.

“Sure,” Steve scowls. “Well, they tried to get rid of the cancer by cuttin’ ‘em off. It didn’t work though ‘cos the cancers in her uh…lymph system? God, I dunno how it all works, all I know is that they took her chest an’ left her with a pair of lines like these here lines, and she still has cancer anyhow,” Steve explains. “But I mean, she hates it. Makes her feel real ugly. So I got ‘em printed on me, too…So she ain’t alone,” he mutters. It sounds real silly when he says it out loud.

But Soda smiles. “Hey, uh, that’s kinda sweet, Stevie.”

“Ya think?” Steve says, blushing- although that could be ‘cos Soda’s still running his feather-light fingers all over Steve’s chest, which is so dizzyingly nice that it’s making him sorta see stars. He hastily pulls his wifebeater back down before he has time to think about that one.

“Yeah. It’s real thoughtful. Still can’t believe your dad letcha, though. My dad would-” Soda’s voice cuts off, and he gets real pale. “-Uh.”

“Yeah, well, my dad don’t give a damn,” Steve says, crossing his arms. He sneers at the thought, and takes a quick swig of Two-Bit’s beer. “Not even a bit.”

“At least he cares enough to know he’s doin’ you wrong,” Soda says charitably. As if he knows anything about it.

A flash of white-hot anger burns in Steve’s chest. “That ain’t care, that’s guilt, man. He only cares ‘bout what Momma wants and booze and all the ways I ain’t good enough for anythin’,” Steve spits. Soda’s eyebrows bunch together worriedly.

“That ain’t true, Stevie-”

“Oh, shuddup Sodapop, you don’t know what you’re talkin’ ‘bout!” Steve snaps. He’s not even sure why, but next, he says “You’re real lucky your old man was such a damn saint. You got someone to look up to, so ya think everyone’s fathers are heroes. That’s your problem, Soda-” He whirls around and clenches his firsts. “Christ, I wish my old man had died back when he was forty-two like yours, back when I thought he was a hero too. But he didn’t. ‘Cos he’s pathetic! You dig me, don’tcha, Two-Bit?! Your old man left ya, you know what I’m sayin’!”

Two-Bit shakes his head slow, and looks past Steve at Soda with a vaguely sick look on his face.

“You shut your trap, Steve Randle,” Soda says shakily.

Steve’s heart sinks. Soda’s on the verge of tears. Because of him.

Already regretting everything, Steve turns to look back at Soda.

Soda’s eyes are watering, and he’s shrunk in on himself on the chair. But in his trembling voice, he pushes on. “It don’t matter that my Pa was a hero. I don’t give a hang- and you know why? Because he’s dead, Steve!” Soda’s shoulders shake. “He’s dead, and I ain’t never gonna see him again- I ain’t never gonna tell him about this, about tonight. I ain’t…” He sobs, and hides his face in his hands. Steve has to tear his eyes away.

He hates when Soda cries, and he hates himself for causing it!

Two-Bit cringes, and rushes to wrap his arms around Soda, and Steve knows that should be him, and he wants to hug Soda too, but he can’t move.

“It’s okay, Little-Curtis, buddy,” Two murmurs, and Soda’s sobs slowly begin to subside. He buries his face in Two-Bit’s leather jacket shoulder.

They’re ungracefully interrupted by a tattoo artist poking his head into the room.

“Which one of ya am I takin’ today?” he says, not even seeming to notice Soda’s teary eyes.

“Uh…me-” Steve starts.

“Y’know what- no,” Two-Bit says, standing. “I’m goin’ first. Randle, you can have your turn after ya…sort things out.” He outs a hand on Soda’s shoulder. “That okay by you, Sodapop?”

Soda shrugs, but doesn’t stop Two-Bit from being ushered away.

Alone with Soda now, Steve picks at his lower lip till it bleeds, and looks at the checkerboard-tile flooring.

“What d’ya think he’s gonna get?” Soda finally asks.

“Huh?”

“I mean, ‘cos I’m thinkin’ it’ll be a switch.”

“...But won’t that keep him from gettin’ employed?” Steve echoes Two-Bit’s point from earlier.

“Well, sure, that’s exactly it. It’ll give him a reason to be such a bum!” Soda jokes, laughing. Steve laughs too, surprised.

When their laughter subsides, Steve finally meets Soda’s eyes. They’re still red-rimmed, but less watery, and their usual warmth is back.

“Sodapop, I’m sorry. ‘Bout what I said and all,” Steve says, feeling sort of stupid.

Soda’s lip curls a bit, a mix of emotions crossing his face, before he seems to settle on sheepishness. “Well, good.”

“…yeah,” Steve mumbles.

“I’m sorry too,” Soda says, squeezing Steve’s knee.

“…Huh?”

“I’m sorry yer dad’s…I’m sorry…” Soda manages. “I’m sorry you ain’t got no heroes.”

“Oh,” Steve says, and his voice comes out high and soft. “No…it’s…no…I mean…I shouldn’t…It ain’t like I’m Johnny or nothin’…”

Soda gathers Steve up into his arms. “Still,” he murmurs. He doesn’t say more. He doesn’t need to.

Steve hugs Soda back, wishing he wasn’t such a lousy friend, wishing he could forget the waver in Soda’s voice, wishing he hadn’t caused it, wishing he wasn’t such a goddamn jerk. He wishes for a lot, sitting there in Soda’s arms that night.

It’s so unfair that Soda’s hero of a father is dead. It’s so unfair that Steve’s father’s alive. They sit there in the tattoo parlor until Two-Bit’s out again and it’s closing time, cozied up like a pair of queers.

What a pair they are. Two sad, angry, crybabies.

-

When Johnny and Dally are gone, Dad pays for the funerals.

“I’m so sorry, son,” Dad says softly, and for a second, Steve loves him more than anything in the universe.

They don’t fight so much anymore.

They don’t talk so much anymore, either.

But Steve hugs Dad that day, standing in the cemetery. He hugs him tight. And Dad pets his hair like he used to, back before he hated him.

Steve cries, and Dad lets him. “Sorry,” Steve sobs, voice all muffled in Dad’s shirt.

“No,” Dad sighs, resting his chin on Steve’s head. “No. Oh Lord…Steven…don’t be sorry…”

“I’m sorry,” Steve babbles, thanking God that no one else can see him. His shoulders shake, and he tries to step away, but then he feels Dad’s arms around him.

“It’s okay, son, it’s okay,” Dad murmurs. He doesn’t smell like alcohol, which is such a stupid thing to notice, but Steve notices it anyhow.

Steve can’t stop shaking and crying and shaking and crying, and Dad holds him.

Distantly, Steve notes Johnny and Dally’s folks aren’t here, and he wonders how he could possibly hate his dad by comparison.

And for all Dad’s I’m sorries and it’s okays, just beneath it, there’s an unsaid thank God it isn’t you. Steve can tell by the desperate look in his brown eyes, the gentle way he’s cradling him like he’s made of glass. Thank God it’s not my son in the ground. Good glory.

If Steve died, Dad would show up at his funeral. Steve’s certain of that.

Sometimes that isn’t enough. But today, at the cemetery, watching them pile dirt on the bodies of his friends, it is. Today it is.

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