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Darry didn’t hang around Dally much. Most of their one-on-one time came from picking him up from the station when he needed an adult. It seemed like he didn’t realize Two-Bit was an option, because Darry was sure if he did then he would never call the Curtis household’s phone line again. Tonight was one of those nights; somehow, Dally had managed to piss someone off and be on the West Side at the same time, leading to Darry needing to go even further out of his way to go and get him- and just his luck, Soda had the truck for a late shift. He didn’t ever want his kid brother walking alone at night. He also didn’t want himself to be walking alone late at night, but better Superman than a civilian casualty.
Besides, he wasn’t alone anymore, being on his way back and all.
Darry hated the cold, which only served to piss him off more as Dally tried excuse after excuse to shirk the blame off himself. Truthfully, he’d say there was a fifty-fifty chance that it actually wasn’t his fault, but choosing to make trouble out of Greaser territory did nothing to help his case.
“Enough,” he said, the word fogging up in front of his mouth, “Will you quit your yappin’? Yer lucky they ain’t called a rumble over this yet. What the hell were you thinkin’?”
He heard some muttering behind him and whipped his head around. To his immense relief, Dally went quiet under his glare, but he was clearly seething. Darry shoved his hands further in his shallow pockets and faced home again. He shivered. He really should have brought a better coat.
He didn’t have more than five seconds’ warning before the Socs were on him. It was barely enough time for him to duck under the punch coming his way.
“Shit!” Dally cussing wasn’t anything new, but his tone of voice certainly was. That was concerning. Darry would need to have a serious word with him later about messing with the wrong people. He took stock of his surroundings. It looked like there were only three people there. Enough to hurt for sure, but not more than two of the strongest fighters in the Curtis gang could handle.
A punch near his forehead had him seeing stars for a few precious seconds, but he fought to ignore it and blindly flailed around to keep from getting overpowered. Hearing Dally grunt in pain, he whipped around, pushing whoever was on him to the ground.
“Get- off!” he shouted, beating his fists into the man’s back. And when Darry said man, he meant it- these guys had to have been around his age. They were definitely far too old to be beating on a kid who was seventeen.
He picked up the guy on Dally by the legs and peeled him off, throwing him into the grass beside him. That was when the other dude came up behind him and tried to put him in a headlock. Key word, tried, because Darry was over six feet of pure muscle, and he was a fucking twig. He hadn’t even gotten his arm all the way around his neck before he was getting beat up again. His buddy tried to help him, to little avail. Dally knocked one of them real good, making him start to run.
Darry finished the fight with a strong punch delivered straight to the nearest assailant’s sternum. Just as quickly as they’d come up on the two, the three Socs had fully retreated back into the night. After double checking to make sure that everyone was gone, he turned around. Dally’s nose was bloody and his left shoulder looked a little funny. He knew from experience that the worst injuries were usually ones he couldn’t see, though, so he had to ask.
“They get you anywhere bad?”
He got a head shake as an answer. Perfect. He was very ready for this day to not end in a hospital visit.
“It’s late,” he said, “Let’s get a move on. I have work later.”
Dally stared at him like he had two heads, but started walking again after a minute. Darry couldn’t even blame him. He didn’t want to imagine how bad he looked right now. Probably worse than Dally did, if the throbbing on the skin near his temple was anything to go by. After a few minutes, he didn’t feel the need to look back anymore. Dally’s footsteps were getting louder, so he must have been following him just fine.
Glory, his head was really hurting him now. There was no way he’d be able to clock in tomorrow if that punch turned into what he thought it was turning into. As a former active member of his school’s football team, Darry was no stranger to what concussions felt like, and this little hit he took seemed to be heading in that direction more and more as time passed.
“Darry,” Dally said, sounding almost hesitant, “I-”
“Can it,” he snapped. The extra noise was going to do nothing for his headache. Dally stopped for a minute behind him, and if he could’ve done so without throwing up, Darry would’ve turned around to make sure he was okay. Instead, he stumbled a little at the mere thought of making his head move like that. Before he could blink, his companion had shoved himself under his shoulder as a makeshift crutch.
“Jesus,” Dally muttered, but then he fell blissfully silent once more. It was getting harder and harder for Darry to stay balanced, even with Dally’s support, but damn it, they were almost home and he needed to make sure Pony wasn’t up late reading again. He had a test during first period tomorrow. He stumbled again, hearing something that sounded like nope nope nope as he leaned more, putting his full body weight onto whoever was beside him. Maybe Paul would be able to carry him the rest of the way to his truck and drive him home . . .
He blinked, and someone was clapping in front of his face.
“C’mon. Up you go now,” Dally said, pulling him off the concrete. Darry lurched forward. Everything was spinning. Or maybe he was.
“Did I pass out?” asked a voice that sounded vaguely like his own.
“Either that or you nearly sandwiched me into the sidewalk of your own free will.”
Darry swayed, then groaned. He wasn’t even all the way up yet. The raw feeling on the skin of his knees was all too happy to remind him of the fact that they, not his feet, were holding him up at the moment.
“Nope, none of that,” Dally commanded, voice oddly not Dally-like, “You can go complainin’ once you’re actually in the house.”
“How far is the house?” his duplicate voice asked again as he was shoved up again.
“Just a block. Come on now, Superman. Get that ass in gear.”
“Language,” he slurred.
-
It could have taken hours for them to get there, but Darry wouldn’t have known with the way time was moving for him. Every time he closed his eyes, he’d open them again and be someplace new. It was magical, and it sort of reminded him of the teleportation in those weird sci-fi books Ponyboy had recently gotten into reading. He didn’t really understand the appeal. As the door opened and he was blasted with the warmth of the house, he slumped over once again. He was more than ready to go to bed, and it felt like the covers had just been pulled onto him after a long day of work. He was really sore. Especially his head.
“No- dammit- motherfucker! Get up! We are not doing this again!”
Johnny saw them first. Dally was using all his strength to lower Darry onto the ground without letting his head loll around like a ragdoll’s. He immediately ran over to help, Two-Bit and Soda in tow. Steve ran the other way, likely to go get some ice or the first aid kit.
“Holy shit!” Soda exclaimed, “How cold was it out there?”
Dally sighed. Before he could stop him, Two-Bit managed to grab hold of one of his hands.
“Jesus, Dal, you’re freezing too! Get over here.”
His eye twitched as he snatched his hand away.
“I think I’ve done enough,” Dally snarled, turning on his heel and slamming the door behind him. Darry flinched and let out a whine at the sound. Soda rubbed his arms soothingly.
“Asshole,” Pony muttered under his breath. No one had the energy to tell him off.
Briefly, Johnny narrowed his eyes at the door, but his attention was quickly brought back to the inside of the house when Darry spoke again.
“Soda,” he said, “Can you get Ma? I don’ feel great.”
It was like someone had sucked all the air out of everyone’s lungs in less than a second. Darry was peering at Sodapop through half-lidded eyes, clearly not all the way with them. Johnny could only be grateful that he recognized Sodapop was Sodapop, and not some hallucination of his dead mom.
“I can’t, Dar, I’m sorry.” Soda’s voice was thick with tears.
“Why not?” He was frowning. Was his lower lip trembling? Johnny couldn’t tell. Maybe it was just a trick of the light. He hoped it was, at least.
“I’ll get her,” Pony said abruptly, nearly tripping over himself to get out of the room. Johnny looked to where he’d left, then at Soda, who nodded at him. Priorities straightened out, he left to go look after his kid brother.
-
Ponyboy was crying in his room by the time Johnny got there fifteen seconds later. He didn’t bother with knocking- he just went right in and shut the door behind him.
“I want my Ma,” Pony choked out through his tears.
Johnny sat next to him, not saying a word, but pulling an arm around him and holding on tight. He could cry for hours. Johnny didn’t care. He’d stay.
-
“He’s out like a light,” Soda said, not looking up. From what Keith could see, his eyebrows were pinched up at the top in a way they’d only ever been when Pony and Darry got into it real bad.
“I called my Ma. She said it’s probably okay, but we should wake him up every hour just to be safe.”
Sodapop nodded.
“It’s gonna be okay,” Keith told him. He took longer than usual to respond.
“ . . . money,” he managed to say before he started bawling.
And as much as Keith didn’t want to admit it, he’d been thinking about that too. With Darry as the main breadwinner of the family, it was no secret that everyone relied on him for meals sometimes. Without that income, his brothers could be in serious trouble. He squared his shoulders back, making a decision in that moment.
“Don’tchu worry about that,” he said, petting Soda’s hair, “I’ll take over for him. You just worry about showin’ up on time to yer next shift.”
“Have you ever even been on a roof?”
Keith shrugged.
“If I did it drunk, I can probably do it even better sober.”
Soda let out an indescribable noise that quickly turned into a quiet wail.
-
That was how Keith ended up going to work in Darry’s place the next morning and asking for his boss. He’d only ever heard good things about the man, so he was hoping against hope that he’d be a little reasonable here.
“So,” he said, “Darry got jumped last night, and-”
“Is he okay?”
And boy howdy, that was not the first question Keith thought he’d hear, but he praised the lord or whoever it was that gave out blessings like this and got right to the point.
“He’s concussed. He’s gonna be out for a while. But his family needs the money, so whatever it is you need me to do in order to make that money go to them, I’ll do.”
Darry’s boss looked him up and down.
“I’m an adult,” he added for extra persuasive power.
“You any good at math?”
“Yes,” Keith lied. His (hopefully) new boss nodded.
“It’s real simple. Just addin’ and subtractin’. Count how much of each thing there is and write it down. I’ll show you what each one looks like.”
His shoulders sagged in relief. He could do counting. He could do inventory; he did inventory with his beers every night. What he could not do was go on a roof every day and hammer stuff down, because Two-Bit Mathews had neglected to admit up to this point that he was deathly afraid of heights.
-
Darry awoke to two large green eyes staring at him.
“Mornin’, Pony,” he mumbled into his pillow. The eyes blinked owlishly.
“It’s the afternoon.”
Was it? Darry really didn’t know.
“Don’t worry about work. Two-Bit says he has it handled. Whatever that means.” Ponyboy grimaced. “Actually, maybe I shouldn’t have said that. Someone responsible has it handled.”
He hadn’t even thought about work. That punch must’ve messed him up more than he thought.
“You can’t read. You have a concussion.”
Darry sighed. It looked like he’d be breaking his daily crossword streak. Pony shuffled around for a pen.
“Help me do these,” he said, forgetting immediately that his brother wasn’t supposed to read anything and shoving the paper in his face. He closed his eyes and looked away.
“I can’t read,” he reminded him. Once he heard the shifting of pages less loudly, he opened his eyes again.
“ . . . right. I’ll just say them, I guess.”
-
Sodapop tapped his fingers against the front counter again. It was really starting to grate on Steve’s nerves.
“Pony’s watching him,” he said lightly. He was fighting to control his annoyance. It wasn’t like it was Soda’s fault his brother got busted up. Soda sighed anyway.
“I know,” he replied, “I’m just worried. I need to step up right now. I dunno how I'm s'posed'ta do that.”
It was Steve who sighed this time.
“Look,” he said, “I do half the shopping for y’all’s meals anyway. Lemme handle groceries. Jus’ make me a list and I’ll swing by the store after my shift.”
Soda’s smile reached his eyes a little more than it did before.
“Thanks,” he said.
“Anytime.” It wasn’t really like Steve was doing anything he didn’t usually do anyway.
-
“Dal said he din’ wanna see no one,” Buck said, not really caring.
“That’s real nice,” Johnny told him, pushing his way inside anyway.
As he made his way up the stairs to Dally’s room, he thought again about the look in his eyes as he stormed out. It was a look that was about as forgettable as it was likely to occur; the closest thing Johnny had to a name for it was shame.
I’ve done enough, he said.
Something about the way he phrased it didn’t sit right with him. He knocked on the door, then opened it anyway as Dally yelled fuck off through the inch of wood. He was facing away from the entrance, so all Johnny could see was a mess of blonde hair. It was enough for him to know he was right in paying him a visit.
“Darry’s fine,” he started, “So-”
“Fuck off!” Dally shouted at him, as if that would actually do anything.
“Now you an’ I both know I get told worse on the daily, so why dont’cha drop that attitude and tell me what you did that got Superman so banged up.”
Dally sighed. Once Johnny set his mind on something, he couldn’t be deterred, and he knew it.
“I was fuckin’ around on the West Side. Got thrown in the cooler for a night.”
It was strange, hearing something Dally normally said with unmatched pride instead be said with unmatched regret.
“So you called Dar?” Johnny prodded. Dally nodded. He closed the door behind him.
“Well, shoot, Dal, why didn’tcha just say that? It ain’t nothin you haven’t done before-”
“The guys who jumped us. I was messin’ around with them. I slashed their tires.”
Johnny whistled. “Slashin’ tires on the West Side? What got you all pissed off at ‘em?”
Dally shook his head, and Johnny knew he’d never tell anyone. That was fine. He knew now what he needed to know to get him out of that damned bed.
“Well, he’s up and runnin’, and he was askin’ for ya earlier.”
It wasn’t technically a lie. Darry had been asking about Dally, but he also wasn’t fully in his right mind. He decided to omit that part, though. Dally didn’t move.
“Come on. You owe him.”
Finally, he shifted. If there was one thing Dally Winston hated more than anything else, it was being in debt to someone else.
-
“How’s your shoulder?”
Dally froze. That wasn’t the question people usually asked him after a fight. It should’ve been something like what the fuck are you doin’ here or what in God’s name were you thinking or something else along those lines. Certainly not how’s your shoulder.
“S’ better than your head,” he muttered, looking away from Darry.
“I’d laugh at that if it wouldn’t make me want to drug myself to sleep,” he replied dryly. There was that Darry humor again. It never quite made sense to anyone but him.
Dally gave him a curt nod and left the room. Johnny came in just after.
“It was you who did that, wasn’t it?” Darry asked from his bed. Johnny nodded, and he smiled.
“Thanks, Johnnycakes. I can always count on you.”
-
Darry woke up again to the smell of chicken broth. He hadn’t smelled it since his parents died. For a minute, he thought he was in a dream, but then he turned his head and saw Sodapop there, holding a bowl, dimples in his cheeks.
“I made you soup,” he said, “I found Pa’s cookbook the other day. I know this helped during football season.”
Warily, he sat up, peering at the color of the liquid in the bowl.
“Normal color,” Soda swore, “But I can’t say anything about the noodles Pony an’ the gang are eatin’ downstairs.”
“Thanks,” he said quietly, “I know this is a lot.”
“Not for you, it ain’t," Sodapop told him, "Never for you."