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Darrel startles awake with an awful feeling in his gut.
He thinks, for a second, that he must’ve had a nightmare, but his mind is blank and his heart is slow, no sweat - cold or otherwise - on him. There’s none of the usual fresh images in his head that come with his bad dreams, images of loss and helplessness and violence. So, naturally, his next thought is that it’s Ponyboy.
It’s not common anymore for Ponyboy’s nightmares to be all too vicious, ‘specially not with Soda sleeping next to him, but they still hang about. Don’t wake Darry up too often, but if he’s up late or sleeping shallow he’ll hear the shuddering sobs, hear Soda cooing all low and warm like Mom used to, or just wake up with that sort of bone-deep sense that something’s wrong with one of his boys.
Pressing his lips together to hold back a groan, Darry makes to drag himself out of bed. He pulls himself to sit on the edge of the mattress, half-asleep, intent on silently padding to loiter outside his brothers’ room like he sometimes does - just to check on them, to know they’re okay - when his sleep-addled brain catches onto the fact that down the hall it’s all quiet and dark, and the shallow, uneven breathing is right behind him in his bed.
Dallas is crying.
Looks like he’s still deep asleep - wouldn’t be crying if he wasn’t - and clearly it’s him being haunted by nightmares tonight. He’s got the blankets all shoved off him but tangled around his legs as he tosses and writhes, bare chest shuddering with his laboured breathing, lips dry, cheeks wet. His St. Christopher’s tangled too from his restlessness, pulled tight around his throat, and Darry leans right over to gently pull it loose, set the pendant down careful over Dally’s sternum, between the valleys of his ribs. Darry sets a hand right on them next, feeling them far too prominent and how they move with each distraught breath.
“Hey,” he says, low and steady, “Dallas. Baby. Wake up.”
Dallas startles awake with a choked sob. He looks disoriented - looks terrifyingly young, pale eyes wide with grief and terror and confusion - but he calms just slightly when Darry leans over to him and holds him; presses a kiss to the corner of his jaw, then another to the underside, then another to his cheek, repeating over and over, wherever he can reach.
“You’re alright,” Darry promises him, lips against pale skin clammy with sweat. “I’m here, Dal. I got you. I got you, baby.”
“Fuck,” Dally sobs.
It’s clear the exact moment he finds himself, because his hands come up to his face to start harshly wiping away at his tears with the heels, making the already-flushed skin turn redder with the harsh treatment. Darry takes one hand off of him to catch him by his thin, scarred wrists, replace his efforts with kissing at the tears rolling down his cheeks, and though Dally scoffs and gives a token vicious yank at Darry’s hold, he makes no genuine attempts to get him to stop. Just melts back against the bed below him, looking exhausted as tears continue to flow unbidden. He tastes like salt from the tears and sweat, and he’s trembling now, and Darry finally kisses him on the lips, slow and gentle.
It takes a second, but Dally kisses back. He pulls one of his hands loose from Darry’s to get his fingers in Darry’s hair, just holding where it curls longer at the back of his neck, and pulls him in to deepen the kiss. Darry goes, lets Dally control it, lets him drag it on for as long as he needs until he draws back just enough to breathe heavy against Darry’s lips.
“You alright?” Darry asks him lowly, and Dally grins at him all bitter and humourless.
“I’m cool, man.”
Darry kisses him again, knowing better than to argue. Moves across to kiss at his wet cheeks some more too, kiss away the last of his tears.
“How’s a shower sound?” he offers as he goes. “Me ‘n you.”
He glances up through his lashes and sees Dally shake his head.
“You should get back to sleep, man. You got work in a few hours.”
“You think I’m rollin’ over and goin’ back to sleep and leavin’ you alone with your head?” He raps his knuckles gently against Dallas’ temple. “No chance.”
Dally scoffs again. Still, he leans up to kiss Darry again too, like a thank you, before he squirms out from under him and grabs the pack of smokes off the nightstand.
“You want one?”
“No, thank you.”
Darry watches over Dally’s shoulder as he fishes out a match too, flicks it alight against his St. Christopher to wash himself in a sudden flood of warm orange, and lights the cigarette he’s dangling between his teeth. He inhales deep, like it’s the first time he’s actually breathed since he woke up, and finally seems to relax that last little increment that Darry hadn’t managed to knock loose as he shakes the match’s flame out, extinguishes that bit of light he’d been bathed in and plunges the room back into darkness.
Darry leans close again and hooks his chin on Dally’s shoulder, wraps an arm around his middle to hold him, maybe warm him up a bit, and they stay like that for the duration of Dally’s cigarette. They end up sharing it, though Darry takes all of one drag to each of Dally’s ten, and every so often Darry starts kissing at Dally’s throat and distracting him for a few precious minutes of burning. They’re kissing when it finally burns to the filter, and Darry plucks it from Dally’s fingers to stub it out himself in the bedside table’s ashtray.
“Shower,” he says, and pats Dal’s flank as if to spur him into action before he draws away and finally stands up.
“Gonna wake Soda and the kid, showerin’ at this hour,” Dally argues.
“You’re covered in sweat. You’re shiverin’.”
Dally can’t argue about that, but he sure looks like he wants to try. He wraps his arms around himself, hands holding his biceps, and his face pinches in an emotion Darry struggles to name. It reminds him of Pony, when he’s pitching a fit about something or other, but particularly when that fit boils down to something bitter and tender underneath Pony acting like a little shit. Usually boils down to Mom and Dad.
Darry feels real stupid all of a sudden.
“You don’t wanna go in the bathroom,” he says, and Dally flinches like Darry had taken a swing or maybe hollered right at him. Maybe he hadn’t even realized it’s how he was feeling, but it’s clear it’s true from the way he tenses up even more, and even in the darkness Darry can see his eyes flash with something, see his expression threaten to go all far away, back wherever he’d been fresh out of his nightmare.
But it’s not wherever. It’s New York, age nine or ten or so, in the bathroom of a filthy, tiny apartment in the hours before dawn. Staring at his mom slumped cold and pale in the bathtub, blood dripping from her hand hanging limp over the side. One of Dallas’ dad’s razor blades open on the floor, smeared with red so dark it was black.
Dallas had called out for her - “Ma…? Mama?” - with tears steadily overtaking him. She hadn’t answered. She’d been dead for hours by then, was already going stiff. Dallas, when he’d first told Darry the story, had said she’d probably topped herself right after she’d sent Dallas to bed with the threat that she’d beat him bloody if he got up again, and somehow that part had always hit Darry the hardest.
He’s almost made himself sick before, thinking about Dallas’ last memory of his mother being another threat of violence. Thinking about how that threat was probably only there so Dallas’ mom could kill herself. Wondering if she’d hoped it wouldn’t be Dally who found her, hoped he’d still be in bed when she was found, but it was Dally. Dally had found his mother dead in that bathtub and stayed stood there in that dark bathroom staring at her, hoping she’d wake up, until the sun came up and his dad finally came stumbling in - at some hour Dally hadn’t even been able to guess at in his recounting - still half-drunk, and found the both of them.
“Hey,” Darry says, gentle, and rounds the bed. Dally’s scowling now, brows knitted and lips parted to bare cat-sharp teeth, but he doesn’t lash out when Darry crouches in front of him. He lets Darry put his hands on both of Dally’s bare, bony knees, all mottled with scars and cold to the touch, and doesn’t even curse that he’s being crouched in front of like a kid.
“There’s nothin’ in the bathroom,” Darry tells him. Dally freezes for a moment, like the words are sinking in, before he scoffs, huffing a bitter laugh.
“What, you think I’m stupid?” He leans over and grabs another cigarette out of the pack, and Darry can’t bring himself to stop him. Knows it’ll be worse if he tries. “Know there’s nothin’ there. She’s buried in New York. Prob’ly bones by now.”
Darry spares a moment to think how long it takes a body to rot, and finds he doesn’t know. Doesn’t doubt that seven or eight years is plenty time, though. Wonders briefly if his parents are bones yet, and finds it easier to picture that they are. Side-by-side in the ground, lay like they did in the bed Dally’s sat shaking on the edge of.
“C’mon,” Darry says, and moves one hand from Dally’s knee to take his hand, tangle their fingers together and squeeze. Dally takes another long drag of his cigarette with his other hand, pulls it away before he speaks with a stream of smoke, all low and warning like he’s trying to be scary, like that's ever worked with Darry.
“Darrel—“
“I’m with you. Me an’ you,” Darry says, dead serious. “Just a quick shower to warm you up. Get that sweat off you, ‘fore you start stinkin’ up the joint.”
Dally huffs another laugh, much more sincere this time - almost startled - and kicks Darry halfheartedly in the side for his troubles. Darry smiles at him, warmth smoldering in his chest, and allows Dally one last drag before he pulls him up firmly. They meet in a kiss, Dally’s mouth full of smoke again, and Darry doesn’t let him go even as he leans over to clumsily snuff out what’s left of the cigarette in the ashtray.
The sun’s just barely coming up when they get in the bathroom, a tiny glow of orange in the distance through the window. Darry goes to turn the light on, but Dally’s hand catches his wrist and squeezes hard, so he leaves it off. Navigates mostly from memory to pull the shower curtain back and turn the water on, but stripping in the dark with Dally is familiar. Darry pulls off his vest and his briefs, leaves them where they fall on the floor for the moment, and he makes sure to be the first to step into the tub, like he’s leading the charge.
“Here,” he says when he’s settled, and Dally’s hand finds his again, squeezes, before he follows, leaving his own briefs on the floor with Darry’s.
He warms up quick beneath the water. His skin is all gooseflesh under Darry’s hands as they wander wherever they can touch, coaxing and soothing and distracting, but before long his skin’s smooth again and his shivering’s gone, muscles relaxing. Darry takes the bar of soap that’s pressed into his hands, ignores Dally’s protest that he doesn’t actually catch the specifics of as he starts to wash Dally instead of himself, but Dally doesn’t really seem to mind. He presses close and kisses Darry again as soap-slick hands rub him down, ducks down with a laugh when Darry starts scrubbing at his hair, and hoots quietly with victory - apparently not too worried about waking Soda and Pony - when he successfully wrestles the soap from Darry and declares it’s his turn.
Darry lets him his jollies. Moves around obediently to be scrubbed down, crouches to his knees to let Dally wash his hair - once again misses exactly what Dallas says, but swipes at him regardless with the knowledge that it surely nothing wholesome if it was prompted by Darry on his knees.
“I’m sayin’ you look good like this!” Dally laughs, dodging, but soon comes back to card thin fingers through Darry’s hair and scrub. He’s gentle but vigorous, quickly has foamy white suds almost catching Darry in the eyes.
“You tryin’ to tell me somethin’?” Darry asks him, scrunching his face up to try and avoid his fate. He delights in the sound of Dally laughing again, even if he doesn’t get to see it this time with his eyes squeezed shut. He waits until Dally pulls him forward, gets him under the spray again to wash all the suds away, then opens his eyes again and looks up again as he leans back, admiring the sight of Dallas looking down at him.
“Just that I can’t believe you’ll smell like shit again when you get home tonight.”
“I work. You think you smell good after a rodeo?”
“I smell like victory after a rodeo, baby.”
“Oh, you sure do. That what you smell like after a stint in the cooler, too?”
Darry rises to his feet with his hands on his knees and climbs out of the tub. It’s lighter in the bathroom now, more than light enough to see, and Dally looks like something angelic silhouetted against the window behind him once he turns the water off, pale hair haloed in sunlight. Darry holds up a towel for him, spread out like Darry remembers his mom doing for him, and he smiles all soft as Dally climbs out and lets Darry bundle him up, wrapping the towel around his shoulders.
He only grabs one for himself afterwards, scrubs himself dry as best he can before he hooks it tight around his hips, fast enough that he can grab Dally and guide him back to the bedroom before he gets all too fixated staring at the bathtub in the light.
He gets Dallas mostly dried off and dressed in the jeans he had on yesterday with one of Darry’s undershirts, too big on Dallas, beneath one of Darry’s plaid button-downs, even bigger. He gets himself into his work clothes, all too aware that it’s practically the time he’d be getting up anyway, but the clock on the side assures him it’s a real early morning. The type he’s got time to spare on.
“You gonna help me cook breakfast?” he asks, and starts heading towards the kitchen.
Dally huffs as he follows. “You’re puttin’ me to work?”
“Oh, I’ll make a housewife outta you yet, Dallas Winston.”
“The hell you will!”
Darry laughs as a hand cracks across the back of his head, too light to even smart but sending his wet hair into chaos. He heads back to the bathroom to deal with it, gets it as styled as he can while it’s still damp, and when he gets back there’s a steaming cup of coffee waiting for him and Dally’s cooking at the stove, poking gingerly at what looks like it might be bacon pancakes.
“Looks good, baby,” Darry encourages, pressing a kiss to the back of Dally’s head. “Don’t try flip ‘em ‘til they start bubblin’ on the top, like I showed you.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
He retrieves the newspaper from the porch next, and when he returns from that, Soda’s around, looking barely awake in his underwear and a skewed t-shirt, but very interested in what’s on the stove.
“What’s the occasion?” he’s asking. Dally shoos him off.
“The occasion is I’m makin’ pancakes. Now leave off, man, or else you won’t be gettin’ any.”
It’s enough motivation for Soda. He backs off and disappears in the direction of the bathroom, and the house becomes familiar background noise as Darry settles down at the table with his coffee and reads the paper. He greets each familiar figure as they appear - Pony dragging himself out of bed and starting to fuss at his hair, Steve arriving looking for Soda, Johnny appearing at the other end of the table, Two-Bit marching in and gluing himself to Dally’s back with a grin on his face.
“Get lost!” Dallas snaps, elbowing at him, but Two still succeeds in swiping the first successful pancake and eating it from his hand like an animal.
“You’re a damn menace,” Dally tells him, but doesn’t sound all too upset. He even fights to hold down a smile as Two chases the others toward the bathroom and bedrooms with his half-eaten pancake still in his hands, a wave of bickering and hollering following.
Darry folds his paper and takes another swig of his coffee before he rises from his seat, coming up behind Dally to wrap both arms around his waist at the stove.
“The boys won’t let you live this down, if they see you actin’ like you’re soft,” Dally warns him, mostly lighthearted, as he plates another pancake onto the growing pile. Darry smiles at him, heart squeezing. It’s worth it, he thinks. And maybe the others can sense, for once, that there’s something a little bit tender somewhere - or maybe it’s just the protective energy Darry’s sure he must be radiating - because no one says anything as they congregate back around the table, other than Two poking some fun and Steve whooping like he’s seen something he likes.
Dally threatens them both with withholding pancakes, and they quiet down quick.
The pancakes aren’t good - they’re a little oversweet and burnt around the edges, but they’re eaten eagerly by everyone all the same. Darry eats more than he usually does, knowing he’ll be tired early from the very little sleep and the morning he’s had, and he’s gonna need the extra calories if he’s gonna make it through two shifts, but he’d eat that much anyway if just to get that proud little smile out of Dally, practically preening as Darry goes in for seconds. He’s glowing when the plates are all empty across the table, but he also looks distinctly tired in the smile he gives Darry. Leans in heavy when Darry pulls him in for a hug before he heads out.
“Try get some sleep,” Darry tells him, voice low. “It’ll keep you outta trouble too.”
Dally huffs a laugh, like the very idea of being kept outta trouble is funny to him. “What time’re you home?”
“Uh…‘Bout three in the morning, give or take.”
“I’ll sleep then.” He leans forward, bumps their foreheads together, and Darry leans down to catch him in a quick kiss.
“Alright,” he resigns. “I won’t be late, then.”
Dally smiles. “Bet you won’t,” before he tosses himself off Darry and lands heavy on the couch, sprawled beside where Two’s made himself comfortable watching whatever cartoon’s on.
And somehow, Darry walks out of the house, half-tired and already hours into a long, long day, in a real sunny mood.