Work Text:
It wasn't even that high up.
The thought surfaced from the murky depths of Darry Curtis’ mind as he slowly blinked his eyes open, warm dirt pressing hard into the back of his skull. Why was he on the ground? He had been climbing a ladder, toolbox in hand, and he’d slipped and missed a rung–
Ah.
“Shit…” he mumbled, already trying to banish the mental haze by thinking about how he would have to explain this to his foreman. Sorry, boss, I didn’t finish the job on time because I stupidly fell and clocked my head off the ground and had to work two times slower. No, you don't have to pay me for the overtime. Getting one arm braced against the dry grass, he started to push himself up and immediately had to stop when the world spun around him and his vision blurred, almost sending him back to a prone position. His stomach gave a sickening lurch; whether it was from nausea or anxiety, he wasn't sure. He did, however, recognize what he was feeling from his days playing high school football.
Yes, Darry was almost certain that he was concussed.
He sighed– it had to be on the one day he was working alone, too. After a moment, he tried to push himself up again, much slower than before. His head swam and a dull pain throbbed against his temples, but he made it to his feet without immediately toppling over or throwing up, which he counted as an absolute win. There was no chance he could drive home like this, dizzy and at risk of a serious head injury, but there was a small corner store a few blocks away. He could call… someone. Painstakingly slowly, he began the walk to the store, the hot sun beating down on his skin making him even more nauseated.
He must have looked about as bad as he felt, because when the cashier looked up as the little bell on the door jingled when he came in, her carefully-crafted customer service smile dropped. “Are you alright?” Her eyes travelled over his figure as he leaned rather heavily against the doorframe, trying not to sway too much.
“Just need to make a call, if it ain’t too much trouble.” He gestured rather limply to the telephone on the wall behind the counter.
The cashier nodded, still eyeing him warily. “Go on ahead.” Darry walked to the phone, lifted the receiver, and stopped. 918… that was the area code, but why didn’t the rest of anyone’s phone number come to mind? Wracking his brain, he put in the first combination of numbers he could think of that could conceivably have been someone's number. The phone rang twice before he got an answer.
“Hello?” The voice was rough but not unfriendly. He recognized it, thank God.
“Steve?” His voice slurred a little between the ‘S’ and the ‘T’. “You got Soda there with you?” Not that he wanted to bother his little brother to drive him home in the middle of both of their shifts, but he figured he didn't have a choice. He wouldn't ask for anything else, he decided. He could take care of himself after this.
The younger boy’s voice rose with surprise. “Darry? Sure, man, I’ll get him for ya. Somethin’ wrong?”
Darry nodded before remembering that Steve couldn't see him. “Fell. At work. Need a ride home. I’m at the corner store on…” He had to glance at the street sign outside to give the address to Steve. By the time he did, Soda was waiting for his turn to speak.
“Dar? Steve says you fell at work, what happened? Are you OK? I’m comin’, we’ll get ya home, alright?” The rapid-fire questions did nothing to ease his head, but Darry appreciated his brother’s kindness.
“Thanks,” he said simply, and hung up. He stepped outside to sit propped up against the building, eyes closed against the bright sunshine and the fuzzy static in his brain. He hadn’t moved from that spot by the time Soda pulled up. “That’s my car.” He chose to note the obvious as his brother hopped out of the driver’s side to come get him.
“Picked it up from the house you were workin’ on,” the blond explained, putting an arm out for Darry to take so he could help him to his feet. “Figured you didn’t wanna leave it there if you ain’t gonna be drivin’ for a while.”
The short walk to the car and the struggle of getting belted into the passenger seat distracted Darry just enough that he didn't comment on the ‘not driving for a while’ thing. He was surely fine and just needed some rest, he'd been concussed before and gotten through it pretty OK.
At least, that's what he thought until Soda started the car.
He knew he must have gone white as a sheet, because his brother grimaced. “Sorry, Dar. I can’t do anythin’ about the car movin’, but I’ll try and drive slow if you promise to try not to puke on me?”
“Sure,” he got out through gritted teeth. Christ, but the world was spinning. By the time they made it back home, he was absolutely certain that if they hit one more pothole, he was done for. His head felt like it did when he used to get migraines, like it was stuffed full of cotton wool and his brain was knocking against his skull every time he shifted.
“Think you can get inside if I help?” Soda had somehow made it out of the car and around to his side, putting an arm around his shoulders to help him get out. “Steve’s coverin’ for me at work. I told him I was gonna take the day and stay with you instead.”
That got Darry’s attention, even through the discomfort. “Like hell you are– Pepsi, you got a job to be at!” He hadn't quite meant to exclaim it as loudly as he did, and his voice reverberated through his skull in a way that made him squeeze his eyes shut.
“Yeah, but I also got a brother who fell off a gosh-darned ladder today.” Soda squeezed his shoulder, offering up a kind smile. “One of those things is important, and one can wait.”
“I can wait,” Darry muttered, but he let Sodapop help him out of the car and into the house nonetheless.
“Maybe so, but I ain’t gonna let ya.” His brother guided him to the couch. “Now, you gotta tell me what's gonna make this better, ‘cause I never had a fall like that before and I don't know what you're feelin’.”
Darry sighed. Best to get the most concerning part over with. “I hit my head. Probably concussed myself real good, if how I feel is any indicator.”
Soda’s jaw dropped. “Darrel Shaynne Curtis! And you didn't want me to stay with you!” He peered into Darry's eyes, trying to gauge the size of his pupils before looking over his head to take a look at where he’d hit the ground. “Golly, that's a real goose egg you got there. You’re lucky you didn't pass out.”
“Pretty sure I did.” Darry’s voice was dry but not humorless.
Soda shook his head, a tiny smile curving his lips. “I hope you know this means bed rest, and no work this week at least.”
After another half an hour of Darry complaining at his brother about the two of them staying home from work, Ponyboy opened the front door, school bag in hand. “Darry? What are you doin’ home early?” He looked quizzically at his brothers, toeing off his shoes at the door.
“Your older brother here concussed himself,” Sodapop said accusingly, pushing a glass of water towards Darry as if it was going to cure the concussion. “He fell off a ladder an’ still had the nerve to tell me I didn’t need to come home and make sure he didn't work himself half to death.”
Pony’s eyes went wide. “Concussed!! Darry!!” He scurried over, settling down on the couch next to his brother to poke at his head along with Soda. “Jeez, you're lucky it's nothin’ worse!”
Darry waved away their prying hands with a frown. “Y’all cut that out, you hear me? I’m fine, baby,” he said in Pony’s direction, “just gonna be out of work for a few days.”
Sodapop grinned proudly. “Doctor Soda’s orders.”
“As long as you're okay.” Ponyboy sighed. Jesus, but those small shoulders of his looked like they carried a lot of weight– Darry reached up to rub his back gently, hoping he wasn't causing the boy even more stress. “So, what’s the plan tonight then?”
“I’ll cook!” Soda exclaimed cheerfully, hopping up from the couch before he could see Pony mouthing oh please God no in Darry's direction. Soda was an enthusiastic cook, but that didn't mean he was any good at it.
“No need for that. There’s leftover pasta in the fridge,” Darry reminded before Soda could leave the room. If he couldn't cook himself, he could at least spare everyone from Soda’s attempts.
The blond shrugged, deterred for only a moment. “Pink spaghetti it is! Pony, watch your brother and make sure he doesn’t try to get up while I’m preppin’ our gourmet meal.”
Things quieted down after Sodapop entered the kitchen, though the sound of him quietly singing to himself as dishes clattered around was still audible. Ponyboy looked sideways at Darry, clearly a bit lost. “Anythin’ I can do? How’re you feelin’?”
It took Darry a second to answer, exhaustion and pain creeping in at the edges of his mind. “Just a little tired, colt, that's all.” It was an understatement, but it would keep Pony from worrying.
“You’re not supposed to sleep with a concussion,” Pony yelped, and Darry almost laughed.
“How ‘bout you go get one of those books of yours and read out loud for a while? Give me somethin’ to pay attention to.”
His baby brother perked up. “I can do that!” He rummaged around in his school bag and came up with a surprisingly well-kept copy of ‘To Kill A Mockingbird’. There was a bookmark near the middle, but he opened to the first page anyway. “When he was nearly thirteen, my brother Jem got his arm badly broken at the elbow…”
Darry let his eyes close as Ponyboy read through the chapter, not asleep but– as strange as it felt to say it– relaxed. The gentle cadence of the book mixed with the familiar racket of Soda in the kitchen was loud enough to be soothing without overwhelming his oversensitive brain, and it almost felt comforting to know that he was surrounded by so much care. He wouldn’t admit it if his brothers pried at him for it, nor would he ask for it, but Darry liked being fussed over when he was sick or hurt. It brought back memories of his mama, all sweet smiles and gentle hands as she took whatever problem was hurting Darry and made it better.
“Special delivery!” His thoughts were interrupted as Soda entered the room balancing three plates. “One for me, one for Pony, and one for the wounded soldier.” Darry realised that his spaghetti was noticeably a lighter, less lurid shade of pink as his brother nodded at it with a smile. “Figured if you were feelin’ nauseous still, you wouldn't be up to stomachin’ that much food dye.”
“Thanks, li’l buddy.” His voice was quiet as he took a bite. It felt strange to be cared for, but a good kind of strange.
Dinner came and went, and Darry let his brothers do the housework around him with a surprisingly small amount of protest. Dishes were washed and put away, leftovers were boxed up and placed in the refrigerator, and by then there wasn't much else that needed doing. He figured he’d get up and try to head to bed, considering his brothers were busying themselves tidying up. It couldn't be too hard to stand and walk on his own, could it?
Based on the wave of vertigo that sent him straight back to his spot on the couch, it could. He sat down hard enough that Soda came running in, still covered in soap suds up to his wrists. “You didn’t try to get up on your own, did you?”
Darry was busy trying to work up the courage to try again. “I can do it, Pepsi, you're busy.”
Soda dried his hands on his jeans and hurried over to take Darry’s arm. “Not too busy to keep you from splittin’ your skull open.” He guided his older brother through the dining room and the kitchen to his bedroom, helping him to sit down on the bed. “Don’t you dare try and get up, savvy?” His words were serious, but the soft grin on his face stayed put as he left the room.
“Savvy.” Darry did what he could to shuck off his jeans and slide into bed while Soda was out of the room. He made a pretty pathetic effort, in his opinion, but by the time Sodapop came back with a cup in hand he was sitting up under the covers.
“Brought you some mouthwash, Dar, I didn't think you’d be up for brushin’ your teeth.”
On a normal day, Darry would have protested, would have made himself stand up and walk to the bathroom so he could brush his teeth without inconveniencing his brother. But today wasn't a normal day– he didn’t think he could protest anymore. “...Thanks.” He took the cup and swished some mouthwash around in his mouth like it would clear the fog in his head.
“Don’t worry about it.” Soda offered him a smile, taking back the cup when he was finished. “We just wanna help you, Dar. We love ya.”
The three words hit like the impact of the ground coming up to meet him again. We love ya. Darry hadn't heard that in a while. “Love you too, li’l buddy,” he said after a second. “You ought to get to bed. Work in the morning and all.” And not because I’m trying not to cry about being loved and cared for.
“Alright, alright,” his brother caved. “But you come wake me up if you need anything, OK? I’ll get Pony to bed too. You just focus on restin’.” He crossed to the hallway, hand on the door. “‘Night, honey.”
A nickname normally reserved for Ponyboy. Christ, Darry really was going to cry. “‘Night, Pepsi.”
Sodapop closed the door, and the room plunged into a comfortable darkness. Darry closed his eyes at the sting of tears that pooled from a mixture of exhaustion, pain and relief. That was how he fell asleep in the end: eyes squeezed shut, pain throbbing silently in his skull, mind full of thoughts about how his brothers had helped him today.
Darry didn't dream, but he didn't much mind. Even in the less-than-ideal circumstances, it was nice to feel relaxed.