Chapter Text
Darry was going to be sick.
The grief kept climbing up his throat, curling deep inside his gut- salt in the wound. It had been half a year, and he still hadn’t cried.
He couldn’t, anyway. He didn’t have the time.
Darry’s hand tightened on the handle of his mug, his knuckles pressing into the burning porcelain. He hissed at the sudden contact, but made no move to put the mug down. Too much to do, not enough hours in a day.
He choked down the coffee, painfully, and settled at the table. Bills lay strewn around the surface, a halo against the weathered wood. Darrel rubbed his temples, wishing the perpetual headache to dull just the tiniest bit. It didn’t help that every time he looked at their current financial situation he was reminded they were utterly fucked.
God, what was he going to do? He’d have to pick up at least one extra shift this week, just to keep the water on. And he was supposed to go to Pony’s parent-teacher conference- something he didn’t know how to handle in the slightest, because he wasn’t ready to be a father. He wasn’t supposed to know how to do this. He could walk miles, any direction, through Tulsa, and never find another washed-up twenty year old failure carrying the whole world on his back– because everyone knew Sodapop and Ponyboy were Darry’s whole world. The cards had been dealt, the king and queen viciously removed from the deck, leaving the joker to raise two jacks.
It almost sounded easy, when he put it like that. Except the joker didn’t have a clue what he was doing.
Darry scribbled out some calculations and began a list of necessary expenses for the next few weeks.
Food
Heat
Electricity
Running water
TV
Running shoes for Pony
Birthday cake for Soda
He paused, and in the corner of his eye he saw his dad’s winter jacket, discarded on the arm of the couch. It was the only one that fit Darry now, but it was worn so thin that it barely shielded him from the cold. He had been meaning to get it fixed up, but he just didn’t have the money for it. It would have to wait. Maybe after Soda’s birthday.
The morning sunlight bathed his list in orange, and for a moment Darry was transported back in time to early mornings in the fall. He could practically smell his moms’ homemade apple pancakes. The morning always tasted just like that– pancakes, fresh-squeezed orange juice with way too much pulp at the bottom, and the sweet taste of maple syrup.
If he focused hard enough, he could pretend his mom was still in the kitchen, making that very meal. She’d say “What are you working so hard for, Darrel? You’re still just a kid, let your father and I worry about that stuff,” and she would press a quick kiss to his forehead. And all was as it should be.
Except nothing was the same, not anymore.
The screen door slammed open, and Darry snapped out of his memory.
“Rise and shine, delinquents!” hollered Two-Bit, striding into the living room like he owned the place. Darry quickly folded the list and shoved it in the pocket of his jeans.
“Keith,” Darry said tiredly, willing himself to keep his voice down. “They still have about another hour before Steve picks ‘em up for school, and you know Ponyboy hasn’t been sleepin’ enough ‘cause of his nightmares already. Leave ‘em be for a bit.”
If anyone else had called Two-Bit by his given name, he would have smacked them something silly. But Darry had known Two-Bit since before he was called that, and Two-Bit didn’t have the heart to pry another shred of normalcy out of Darry’s cold, overworked hands.
The screen door opened once again. “Nah, My truck broke down,” Steve said, in lieu of greeting. “We gotta walk.”
“The kid’s still not sleeping well?” Two-Bit asked. “Jesus, it’s been months.”
“He needs to get over the nightmares. He’s not a kid anymore,” Steve snapped. Darry shot him a look.
“Lay off him, Steve. He’s had a rough go of it, and you know that.” Before Steve could respond, Darry plowed on. “Where are Johnny and Dallas, anyway?”
Two-Bit flinched. “Johnny’s folks got bad again. He won’t be in class today. Slept in the lot again, had a real fright. Dally’s been keeping an eye out for any Soc’s lookin’ to take their anger out on some unsuspecting Greaser.”
Darry clenched his fists. God, if he only had the means, he would sock Johnny’s folks something fearful. The kid didn’t deserve that. No kid deserved that. “You see Johnny today, you tell him he can stay on our couch,” Darrel demanded. “I worry about him out there.”
“He doesn’t want to be a bother,” Two-Bit replied.
“Why would he be a bother?” spat Darry, suddenly angry, but he couldn’t quite place why. Not at Two-Bit, certainly not at Johnny, and not even at Steve. He was mad at himself for not having it handled. What kind of person was he if people felt like he was going to be bothered by them asking for help?
Two-Bit and Steve shared a glance, some secret, unspoken language that Darry was never privy to, not anymore. “I don’t know, Dar,” Two-Bit said carefully, “He just knows things are tough for you right now, and-”
“Alright. Okay, I hear you,” Darry interrupted, weariness creeping up on him, washing away all his anger. “Just… please, tell him he’s always welcome here.”
“We will, Dar.”
Later that morning, Darrel made a mental note to hold off on fixing the coat for another few weeks. He pulled the folded up list out of his pocket, smoothed out the creases, and in his neatest handwriting he wrote Blanket for Johnny.