Note: Contains SPOILERS for both book and movie! (I assume part 2 for the movie's going to go about the same route) This fic takes parts from both the book and the movie(s) and is set after the end of the main story, but if you've experienced either, you should be fine. This started as a fix-it fic after I finished the book, but has grown into something completely different that I'm a little proud of. ;) Rated T for swearing, dubcon elements (dubcon does not actually occur, but could possibly be construed as such), and violence. Without farther ado, I don't own IT or It and I hope you enjoy!

It's in those early hours a week after they've killed It that he has his first doubts. He knew they couldn't destroy It-not in that other place-that place Outside-but Its physical form was gone, wasn't it?

It's around 1 AM, a couple of hours before he will pass off the microphone to some unfortunate intern with bleary eyes. Maybe Richie will see in the other's eyes the melancholy of knowing their voice will go unheard this early in the morning or maybe Rich will just brush by him in order to ensure at least a few hours of rest before he opens the work day again.

Steve Covall had not forgotten about being 'bushed out on' even after Richie became Rich again (of course that had happened on the plane ride back, hadn't it? Besides that one call from-who was it-Mike?). Rich had two to three shifts a day at the station ever since he'd gotten back from… where was it again? Derry? He shook his head to forget the memories that threatened to pop up from that notion. It didn't really matter when he was working 60+ hours a week. He couldn't even blame Steve after ditching all of the sudden like he did so he had decided to suffer through the next month of all-nighters and just wait for the dust to settle.

But yes, it had been around 1, in that sweet spot after the late-nighters stopped calling and before the insomniacs started. It had been a long time since he was behind the mic at this time and he had forgotten how quiet the station was when it was just him in the booth.

Rich appreciated it somewhat though. He felt he'd been using his Voices non-stop for the past week and welcomed a break (no one would be up to hear him) even if he did hate the silence. He had the music though and playing it as loud as he was, his discomfort was easily drowned out.

It was only in these small hours that he began to lose trust-or at least feel like something was out of place.

It was a giggle in the empty radio station-a fucking child's giggle in the world of grownups-the first time he noticed anything wrong. Richie's head whipped around fast enough to make his neck creak in some old reflex that was hard to kill, but of course there was nothing there, there usually never is when a noise sounds this late at night. Yet..wasn't there a time when there was something there?

Again, Rich shook his head, nervously laughing to himself. It was the sleeplessness, wasn't it? Didn't you start hearing things when you didn't get enough sleep?

It was easy enough to push it aside and internally debate which song should go on next-what he didn't realize was that this debate was anything, but internal.

It was a few days before something else seemed to tip in his sleep-deprived mind, again in those few hours where he finally got that brief respite in using his Voice, yet still felt so utterly alone. He tried to enjoy these hours, but Rich was slowly awakening to a budding paranoia for these few moments he spent alone.

Rich tried to rationalize the sounds (the creaks, the light bumps, even the giggles-surely that was a squeaky floorboard somewhere, surely) as more obvious during the night, as figments of his too-long-awake brain, but he couldn't deny that they seemed to be more frequent once he was aware of them.

There were times that he felt like the air-pregnant with his anxieties and paranoia-was pushing in on him as the walls seemed to recede and the feeling was so terrifyingly familiar that Rich found himself reaching more and more for the tamer music the station allowed in an attempt to calm himself.

He felt the prickles on the back of his neck as if someone's breath was lightly falling there. He knew if he turned, the booth would be just as empty as it had when he arrived, but he was too keyed up to do it. Too stuck in the will I-won't I-will it-won't It—

The phone-set to only ring while the mic was off-pealed suddenly over the sound of the music. It rang loud enough that Rich jumped-something crude stuck in his throat. The initial shock faded into incongruous terror as the DJ stared at the phone. Who the fuck would be calling the station at 2:06 AM? There'd rarely ever been a call past 1:30, past 2 and before 3? That was unheard of.

Rich's hand paused above the phone-who would he hear if he answered? An insomniac requesting a song? Worse, a child's laughter? Even worse, something pooled in his mind-familiarity screaming at him in the muscle memory of his limbs, run, run, run—

Numbly, he saw more than felt his hand close around the receiver and lift it. His eyes flitted nervously around the room and what he saw reflected in the dark glass stopped his blood cold in his veins. His stomach sunk, growing warm somewhere below the floor.

Backlighted by the seemingly far off lights of the equipment (deadlights moving toward him), Richie made eye contact with his reflection, but something loomed behind him-he could feel its breath, could feel moisture and smell It.

Later, Richie wondered-briefly before pushing the memory farther down-if it was a clown, or a lopsided shadow of something he wanted to remember even less if possible.

The vision was gone when he blinked and he almost imagined a popping sound accompanying its disappearance. His eyes stared in that direction unmoving, unseeing, as his mind went blank and a cold sweat broke out along his back.

The next thing Rich was capable of comprehending was the angry voice of the caller, tiny with the receiver so far from his ear. He brought it closer to catch the end of whatever complaint they had.

"—not funny, some prank bullshit in the goddamn middle of the night!" the man on the other end was saying.

"This is Records Tozier, best DJ in LA with KLAD! How can I help ya tonight?" Rich had already slipped back into the identity (safety) of radio host, momentarily forgetting the vision. It was so easy to forget.

"Why are you on so late at night? This some kind of fuckin' prank, man?" The other voice was still angry.

"What do you mean?" Rich was going to continue into one of his Voices or some joke, but the caller interrupted him.

"All that laughing and shit, what the fuck was that? It's not fuckin' Halloween."

Rich's mind went blank for a moment, even as his mouth ran on without him. "No shit, bub. Why don't cha call the clown to see what's up?" He managed to catch up with his mouth before he went off on a worrying tangent. "KNDU and that joke of a DJ's phone lines must be crossing ours, our stations are right next to each other, sorry about that man."

The caller seemed somewhat appeased about the explanation. Turned out, he just wanted some real rock instead of the pansy shit Rich was playing to calm himself. Speaking of calming himself, Rich had to take a few deep breaths as he suddenly imagined hands closing around his neck from behind.

"Tell you what, I'll play you a few hits your way, but I'll have to mix it in, ya know? Most people don't like too much this late at night and I get complaints from management." Rich expertly lied.

"Fine," the caller grumbled. "Surprised you don't get complaints with that creepy line crossing."

Rich offered a nervous laugh as he hung up the phone. He stared at his shaking hand as he brought it back and blindly popped in some AC/DC. He spent the rest of the night, pointedly avoiding the reflective surface of the glass.

Ending Note: I'd love to hear any comments or questions so far. Most chapters will be about this length, but there are two which I may split up. We'll see when we get there. Thanks for reading!