Hmm 44?
Thanks, baby! Wasn't too sure about it but I think it's okay :)
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Masterlist: here
Prompt: 44. You need to go to the doctor.
Warnings: Violence, blood
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You sat on the hood of the abandoned car in the lot and watched as the rumble unfolded in front of you. You hated fighting- hated participating in anything like this, but you sure as hell weren’t gonna tell Darrel Curtis he couldn’t. He’d lost his parents and two of his best friends in the span of a year. You were sure he had some pent up anger in there that needed to get out and what a perfect place, here, punching the lights outta some poor rich kid from the other side of town.
Skin-against-skin, he’d said before the Socs arrived in their shiny Mustangs with their flasks full of the good, hard stuff. No one’s gonna get hurt.
Yeah, that’s what they always say, huh?
You crossed your legs and sighed, waiting patiently for the fight to be over.
But then, it happened. Your stomach dropped as you saw Darry’s opponent pull out a rusted metal pipe while he was distracted for that split second. The impact against the oldest Curtis brother’s head made a loud clang and he dropped to the dry, hard earth. You sat up straight and cringed.
God, that had to hurt.
C’mon, get up, you silently pleaded with him, but he was struggling. He lifted himself up to his elbows and then his hands, but dropped back down into the dirt, confusion in his eyes. In the light of the bonfire, you could see red blood matting his dark hair.
The gang retreated then, giving into the Socs. They’d just brought too many.
Sodapop was at his brother’s side immediately, trying to hoist him up. You slid off the hood, quickly, and ran to help. You grabbed the other arm and tugged. When you got him to his feet, Darry looked dazed. Thick blood was dripping down the side of his head.
“God damnit,” Soda snarled. “Why can’t they ever follow the rules?” He threw Darry’s arm over his shoulder and together you both walked him to the large, overturned tire. Carefully, you sat him down and moved to inspect his head.
The amount of blood made your eyes well up, but it looked like it was starting clot- a good sign. You felt a hand on your arm and a light tug.
You knelt down to his eye level and he wiped the single tear away from your cheek.
“Don’t cry, baby. This ain’t anythin’ to worry ‘bout,” he assured you, but you still weren’t convinced. The bleeding might’ve been slowing, but it was still pumping out sticky, warm blood. And you’d heard head wounds can really fuck a person up if not treated properly.
“Darry, please, you need to go see a doctor,” you pleaded with him. He brushed you off with a soft laugh.
“I don’t need no doctor,” he insisted. “I been hit in the head tons of times.”
“With a metal pipe?”
“Well, no, but-”
“Your head’s cut up pretty bad, ya know.”
“It is?”
“Well yeah, Dar.” You touched his hair with your hand and showed him the blood on your fingertips.
“Shit,” he whispered and reached up to his head.
“Ah-ah,” you chided and grabbed his arm and forced it back down. You looked at the wound again. “You might need stitches. And you’ve got dirt all over your hands.”
“Shepard can patch me up-”
“Darry.”
“What? He’s done it before. Jesus, I can’t even feel it.”
“What if you got a concussion?”
“Nothin’ I can’t handle.”
“Darry, please,” you begged, exasperated. “If not for yourself, then for me? For my peace of mind?” He sighed.
“Fine, alright,” he finally relented. “Let’s go to the hospital. But I’m tellin’ ya, it’s nothin’ worryin’ your pretty little head about.” You blew out a breath of relief and looked towards Sodapop.
“Go get the truck.”
A few days later, Darry was sitting up in his bed while you silently changed the white gauze bandage sitting over the wound on his head. You were still mad at him, but you couldn’t just not help take care of him. He’d had to take a few days off of work to recover from his concussion while the five stitches in his scalp had to stay in for nearly two weeks.
Soda was at work- had picked up extra shifts at the gas station to make up for the days his older brother had missed, and Ponyboy was at school for a track meet, leaving only you to spend the day in the house, making sure Darry didn’t need anything.
When you finished, you tossed the soiled gauze into the small trashcan at your feet and went to stand up to go start making lunch. Darry firmly grabbed you hands, making you pause, and began running his calloused thumbs over the backs.
“Don’t be mad, baby,” he cooed, and lifted one hand to kiss the tips of your fingers. You huffed and tried to slide your hand out of his.
“You promised me it wasn’t gonna be a big deal,” you pouted. “But you were wrong and you ain’t even apologized to me yet. And here I am, takin’ time outta my life to help you-”
“You know I’m grateful for it-”
“Do you even really know why I’m upset?”
“‘Cause I wouldn’t listen to you?”
“That ain’t it at all.” He watched you, waiting patiently for you to continue. You looked down at your joined hands and heaved a sigh. “I’m mad ‘cause it could’ve been a lot worse if you hadn’t gone, ya know? You could’a ended up with, I dunno, brain damage or somethin’? You gotta take better care of yourself, Dar. If not for yourself, then for your brothers. For me.”
He lifted one hand to your chin or lifted your head up to look at him. He pressed his forehead against yours and the tension in your shoulders faded.
“You’re right,” he whispered. “I know you’re right.”
“You’re stubborn is what you are.” A soft smile tugged at his lips and yours too.
“I’m sorry, baby.”
You leaned forward and placed a gentle kiss on his cheek. He closed his eyes as you did, a barely audible happy sigh escaping his lips.
“Now, lunch.”