A/N: This doesn't have much of a plot, tbh. Just a one-shot including, but not limited to, Mrs. Mathews, Darry, and a funeral home, with some Keith (that's Two-Bit to us) sprinkled in. Hurt/comfort and angst as always though. That'll never change.

"Come on, Bessie, come on," I begged my old Crosley station wagon as I turned the key in her ignition for the third time. She sputtered and coughed, and I squeezed my eyes tight waiting to hear the hum of her engine. "Come on, Bess, don't do this to me now, girl. Not today."

I turned the key a fraction further and she whirred to life.

"Oh, thank heavens," I drawled in relief. "I knew you wouldn't let me down, babe."

I put her in reverse and was halfway down our drive when Keith came barreling out of our front door holding the casserole I'd prepared for the boys the previous night.

"Ma!" he yelled. "Don't forget this!"

I pressed the brake and thanked my lucky stars that my son always managed to come through when it mattered. I couldn't believe I'd almost left that behind. "Oh, I could just kiss you all over," I praised, taking the dish from him through the open window. "I swear I'd lose my head if it wasn't screwed on."

Keith chuckled. He'd heard that line before. "Thanks for doin' this," he said. "You sure I don't need to come?"

"I'm sure," I told him as I set the dish down on the passenger seat. "You could use a break from all this. I know how hard this has been on you."

He'd gotten home from the Curtis place late last night, drunk and upset to the point of tears. Made my heart ache for those boys. If it was taking this much of a toll on my happy-go-lucky son, I couldn't imagine what they were going through.

"Yeah," Keith agreed softly. "Think I'll try to sleep for a couple more hours."

I smiled sadly at him. "Alright." I reached out the window and gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze. "Love you, kiddo."

"I love you too, Ma," he returned, and leaned into the car through the open window to give me a quick peck on the cheek. "Now go. You're gonna be late."

He sent Bessie and me off with a wave.

xxx

When Keith told me that young Darry Curtis was heading down to the funeral home to make arrangements for his parents all by his lonesome, I decided I couldn't let that happen.

That wasn't something any twenty-year-old should have to do.

So I called him up last night and offered to go with him the next morning.

Because who else did he have?

Keith had told me that the Curtis boys didn't have any remaining family to speak of, but perhaps Lorraine and Darrel had a family friend – someone they'd been closer with – who had already offered to go along. Or maybe someone from Darrel's workplace had taken it upon himself to help the boys with the process.

But when Darry graciously accepted my offer, I knew I was it.

Me.

Me, who would've shown up at the poor boy's doorstep empty-handed because I forgot to put the damn casserole in the car.

Me, who had a wise-cracking son who came by it honestly and really wasn't cut out for grim and serious situations.

Me, who was – I looked down at my watch as I parked in front of the Curtises' house – five minutes late.

"Shoot, shoot, shoot…" I mumbled, and grabbed the casserole dish from the passenger seat. I left Bessie running and hurried up to the front porch, giving the frame of the screen door a light tap.

Darry appeared just seconds later, clad in a button-down shirt and slacks that made him look ten years older. "Hi, Mrs. Mathews," he greeted softly. "Come in, come in."

"Hey, hon," I said as I stepped across the threshold. I pulled him into a side-hug, stumbling over an apology about being late. "I brought y'all a casserole."

"Thank you, ma'am," he said, pulling away from my hug. "If you don't mind, could you stick that in the icebox? I'd like to say goodbye to my brothers real quick."

"Of course."

I was surprised to walk into a clean kitchen. With the past few days those boys had, I wouldn't be surprised if dishes were stacked up in the sink. But the room was spick-and-span and smelled fresh too.

I pulled open the door to the icebox and stuck my casserole in. When I closed the door, my heart skipped a beat when I caught sight of a picture taped to the door.

In the picture, Lorraine and Darrel were posing with their boys and a snowman they all built together. It must've have been Christmas Day last year, when Tulsa got a nearly a foot of snow.

Gosh, they looked so happy. They always looked so happy.

They were the perfect family, especially compared to mine. I was a single mother raising two goofballs that I rarely got to see because I was always tending the bar to provide for them.

I'd be lying if I said I hadn't been envious of them at times.

"You ready?" Darry asked, appearing at the kitchen doorway.

I swallowed down the sudden emotion in my throat. "Yeah, let's go."

xxx

It was a fifteen minute drive to the funeral home, and it was mostly in silence. Darry sat in that passenger seat, stiff as board, unwavering and strong. The kid already looked mature beyond his years and I couldn't help but realize how much he reminded me of his father.

The only time either of us spoke was when we pulled into the funeral home parking lot and Darry cleared his throat to say gruffly, "Thanks for doing this, Mrs. Mathews. I really appreciate it."

"Don't you mention it, sweetheart. Happy to do it."

xxx

I thought Darry would need me.

I thought this because if I had been put in shoes, I wouldn't be able to hold it together to choose caskets, and flower arrangements, and eulogies for the tombstones.

Not at twenty years old.

Probably not even now.

But Darry, God bless his heart, marched into that funeral home, shook hands with Roy the funeral director, and displayed multitudes of strength that I hadn't seen in a long time.

His voice never wavered, his hands never shook, and he made seamless and modest plans for his beloved parents. All I did was sit there and offer support with a gentle hand on his knee.

xxx

As we were leaving, all of that changed.

We were headed back in old Bessie about five minutes out from the funeral home. "Hon, I think your parents would have been real proud of you," I told Darry, breaking the silence. I glanced over in his direction. "You handled all of that very—" I broke off suddenly when I realized that Darry was leaning his cheek against Bessie's window and had a thin layer of sweat decorating his brow. He didn't look well. "Darry? Sweetheart?"

I heard Darry audibly swallow. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Mathews," he said shakily. "I'm just… I'm not feeling too good all of a sudden."

My chest clenched with sympathy. "That's okay. Let me just pull over, get you some fresh air, huh?"

"Okay," he breathed. "Sorry."

Heart pounding, I pulled off to the shoulder, wishing we were near a tree that could offer some shade from the summer heat. But there was nothing but farmland in all directions.

Darry opened the passenger door as I rounded the car. He had already slid his legs out of Bessie, elbows pressing hard into his knees and holding his head in his hands. Folded into himself like that made him look all but five years old, and my knees felt weak as I realized that the man I'd seen in that funeral home – the man making arrangements for his dead parents – was just a façade crumbling into the young boy in front of me now.

There was a string of saliva hanging from Darry's parted lips. He spat it into the pebbly ground and shuddered hard. He was trying to resist, I could tell by the way his fingernails were digging into his scalp.

"Hey," I said quietly, inching closer, not caring that I might be in puking territory. I was careful not to touch him, not sure if he wanted to be touched. "It's okay, Darry, you can be sick if you need to be, hon."

Apparently, that was all the permission the poor boy needed.

xxx

"S-Sorry," Darry breathed once the vomiting had ceased. His hands were hiding his face. They were shaking now. His voice was wavering now.

"Kid, you have nothing to be sorry for," I returned, daring to grip his shoulder gently. "Take some deep breaths. Try to relax a bit for me."

He nodded jerkily.

I wished I had a bottle of water to offer him. Something. Anything.

I took a few steps away from Bessie to give Darry some space.

I didn't ask him if he was alright. I knew that he wasn't. I didn't try to tell him everything was going to be okay. I didn't know that it would be. I just watched him take deep, shuddering breaths as tears fell from his eyes.

The pain that was palpable in the air and had an eerie presence. It felt familiar.

I was suddenly reminded of myself at twenty-two years old, left with a three-year-old and a newborn to raise on my own. I was reminded of that incredible weight on my shoulders, that feeling that I was unequivocally alone, that encompassing sadness that the man I loved, still loved, had deserted me. Had deserted his family.

I knew that those circumstances – what I had gone through 15 years ago – couldn't fully compare to Darry's. But there were parallels. Parallels that I understood, that I could empathize with.

"Hey," I said softly, when it was apparent that Darry wasn't settling, that he was still keyed up.

He lifted his head then, met my eyes for the first time since I'd stopped the car.

"C'mon," I said, holding a steady hand out to him. "I think you need to walk it off."

Darry nodded and grasped my hand. And together, we started walking slowly down the road.

xxx

The walk worked for Darry like it used to work for me. Each step was grounding, rhythmic, something to focus on rather than grief and pain.

Our steps aligned together, Darry's breaths started to slow, his sniffles died off completely.

He was the one who stopped first, then looked back at old Bessie.

We were about a quarter mile away from her.

"Ready?" I asked, eyebrows raised.

He nodded, straightened up, his strong demeanor dominating once again.

"Okay." I put a hand on his back, and nudged him slightly. "Let's get you back to your brothers."

xxx

When I arrived home that afternoon, I woke Keith up just so I could hug him tight.

Fin.