A short one-shot from the POV of Darry.
I do not own The Outsiders.
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It was a possibility.
Even knowing that much was enough to drive him crazy.
A possibility.
If somebody could call him, tell him the visits were going to stop, the inquests, the inspections...
So that he could breathe... just for five minutes.
Or have a night off- have too many beers and not dread the knock at the door... then perhaps he could deal with all this better.
Christ, being a big brother was hard enough. He had no idea how to be a father... let alone a good one.
He loved them boys. He loved them so much that sometimes he didn't know how to show it- but he loved them. He knew that. He hoped they knew that...
...but social services weren't the sentimental kind. They had a tick list. Nothing more. Who cared if he sat up with Pony during one of his nightmares? Who cared if he made a point of driving the boys out of the neighbourhood at least once a week just to escape and see some green?
A dirty sink? A full bin? That's all social services cared about.
The boys would be safe in an immaculate boys home. Maybe not happy... but safe. That's all that mattered to the tick list.
Not that the boys helped. Not remotely.
Sure, they were young. He envied them that. He'd never felt older.
He shouldn't be worrying about Pony's test scores. A passing interest, yes, but now it was his responsibility to ensure that his grades were solid... otherwise it reflected badly on his parenting skills. Parenting skills... it would be laughable it wasn't so God damn serious.
After 8pm he could begin to relax. 8pm seemed to be the cut-off time for social workers, inspectors to call round unexpectedly...this was when Darry's shoulders would become less tense. He would open a beer [or grab the bottle of whisky if it had been a particularly difficult day]. He could be a young man. A brother not looking over his shoulder.
Unless the boys hadn't come home. Or Ponyboy was reading rather than revising. Or Soda was speaking to Steve about a future rumble...
He was tired. Exhausted.
Who had given him this job? He had remembered both of them being born; he still had the pictures. The goofy grin as he held Soda. The photo with Soda on his knee, Pony in his arms.
Was it then the silent promise was made? The job he never interviewed for? The life sentence?
What if he wasn't the one? He hadn't asked for this. Who would ask for this kind of responsibility?
Yet the most painful thought was the boys being taken away... and it actually being the best thing for them.
They'd have food that was the right colour, at the same time every day. A door that locked. A neighbourhood that didn't scream and shake.
Yet just when he had convinced himself that even if the worse happened it would be for the best... Ponyboy would have a night terror.
He would sit, whispering... well, whispering another language to anyone else listening in. He would stroke his hair. Let Pony hug him round the waist. Let him cry. Rub his back... and then stay until he slept. Let him shout out names, places...sob. Hug him as tight as he could without hurting. Sometimes cry with him... say he would take his pain, his memories... if he could. Then, more often than not, Darry would fall to sleep next to him, an arm wrapped his youngest brother, Soda sometimes joining them, sliding under his spare one, until the morning.
So then he would worry.
Who would do that? Who would understand? Who would speak their language?
Then he knew.
He had to be Superman. He had to fight. For the three of them. Always.