𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐎𝐔𝐓𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐒𝐌𝐔𝐓 🦋

taking care of darry after a rumble

《 credits to Castieltrash1 on Tumblr  ☁️ 》

A/N: thank you so much for 1.63k followers! 💞💞💞

You know why he walks home like this -- leather jacket over his black tee despite the sweat dripping down his forehead and the humid temperature outside. After sparing a glance to Soda and Ponyboy and seeing they're mostly unscathed -- courtesy of their older brother -- you turn your attention back to Darrel. His shadowed blue eyes betray the half-smile he sends in an attempt to keep you from worrying. I'm fine. I promise.

Without saying a word, you drag him to the bathroom, forcefully but not holding his hand too tight. His knuckles are probably bruised and bloodied like always, and you don't want to hurt him any more than the rumble already has.

The other boys and their groans become muffled as you close the door and run the sink, searching through the disorganized cupboards for a washcloth.

"I need to check on them," Darrel grunts, reaching for the doorknob.

"They're fine," you reassure, looking over your shoulder to send him a look that says "dare me." You know he's mostly worried about his brothers, like always, but besides a few bruises, you doubt they're in too bad of shape. Soda can always handle himself when he's got Steve by his side, and with Darrel, Dallas, and Two on the front lines, you doubt many Socs get through them anyway.

Your boyfriend sighs, but it's less exasperated and more tired. The water is warmer now, and you're able to soak the cloth quickly before shutting the tap off. Normally, a quick once-over is enough to point out the obvious injuries, but his jacket is in the way this time. You know why. It's not often he puts it on after a rumble, but when he does, it's because he wants to hide something.

"Jacket off, now." His tough facade crumbles for a second -- he almost looks fearful. But, you don't let up, staring at him until he shifts to pull his arms out.

You don't miss the grunt of pain he lets out, but you don't point it out either. Taking the jacket from his dirty hands, you set it on the counter. Immediately, your eyes are drawn to his side. His black tee is already dark, but it's obvious there's a wet section -- fabric clinging to his torso.

Without hesitating, you reach for the hem and tug it up, exposing a cut a couple of inches in length. Darrel hisses as the cold air hits the sensitive skin. It's not too deep, thankfully, but it's not small either.

"Jesus, what happened?" You immediately press your washcloth to the wound, and he lets out a shaky breath.

"Switchblade, I think."

"I thought there were no weapons this time."

"There weren't."

A part of you is about to question if he called the Soc out, but you swallow the words. You know he doesn't want to participate in these rumbles -- doesn't even wanna be a greaser. You doubt he'd willingly start an argument that would lead to an even more violent fight. Maybe if it were Soda or Pony. Not himself, though. Convincing Darrel to prioritize and care for himself is impossible -- you'd have better luck asking Two to sell his old car.

Staying silent, you pull back the washcloth, happy to see the bleeding has mostly stopped, the swelling and irritation declining steadily.

You reach for the cabinet that holds the bandages -- the second to left. The rest of the bathroom might be in disarray, but the bandaids and gauze are always in the same spot. It's a simple patch-up job, considering it's not the first blade cut you've dealt with, but you're as gentle as ever as you cover the wound.

Darrel's stomach tenses and he lets out a little gasp as your fingers softly press against him, securing the bandaid. Worried you're hurting him, you look up from between his legs, eyes wide.