A/N: Sorry for the wait. Here's a Bill-centric chapter for you all. A glimpse of what we didn't get to see in the movies.

Thank you to those who have followed, favorited, reviewed, or even just read. You guys are the reason I upload at all.


October 15th, 1988

"Georgie?" Bill licked his chapped lips and sat up straighter in his bed, removing his thumb from the walkie-talkie's button, listening. No response. "Juh-Georgie?" Static white noise. He gave a watery, mucus-clogged sniff and brushed strands of sweaty hair from his forehead. "Georgie, cuh-come on, answer me."

It had only been fifteen minutes or so since Georgie had gone outside, hardly long enough to begin worrying just yet. But Georgie always responded immediately. Hell, he was usually the one pestering Bill. And the static…

Georgie had probably gotten the walkie wet and ruined it without realizing, that was all. Their dad would be mad that Georgie had snuck outside without permission and ruined a toy, but it wasn't a really big deal.

Bill swallowed, sore throat working, and set his walkie down on the comforter, next to his leg. He needed to calm down. Georgie would be back soon; he never had much tolerance for cold and rain together and he'd be all played-out before long.

Heaving a sigh, Bill snuggled back down into bed and bunched the covers up around his chin. He'd rest for a few more minutes, then he'd try again. If Georgie still didn't answer well… he'd cross that bridge when he got to it.

The seconds ticked by. Bill couldn't rest, couldn't relax his muscles and stop picturing Georgie returning with a cold as bad as Bill's own. They'd never hear the end of it from their mother then. Without turning over or even opening his eyes, Bill groped around for the walkie and brought it to his lips. "Juh-juh-Georgie?" Nothing.

Already mentally running through the dressing-down he would give Georgie, he flung back the covers and set his feet on the floor. His congested head throbbed with the motion, and goosebumps prickled his skin. "Damn it."

Bill padded over to the window and peered out through the rain-streaked pane. No Georgie. That would have been too easy. He now faced a choice: to sneak out himself and bring Georgie back, risking being caught by their parents on their return; or tell his parents now and endure a lecture while they drove around the neighborhood and looked for Georgie. The decision was easy.

Not bothering to change out of his pajamas, Bill yanked on his jeans, boots, sweater, and rain jacket. He stuffed the so-far-useless walkie into his pocket. His parents were deeply engrossed in a discussion on bills and the budget, so he was able to sneak out the front door with comparative ease. He could only hope it would be so easy to return inside unseen, with Georgie in tow.

His bike was on the porch, propped next to the front door, thank God. He didn't want to be out here any longer than he had to, and with his bike he'd cover ground twice as fast. He carried it down the front steps, rain hitting his hood with a loud rattle as soon as his boot touched cement. Shit, it was really coming down. Water was already flecking his face. Positioning his feet on the pedals was awkward in his rain boots, but doable. Bill chose an arbitrary direction – God knew where Georgie had run off to – and began pedaling.

The tires hissed through the water pooling on the sidewalk and threw droplets up against his back. The seat of his jeans would be soaked. The wind blew rain into the face of his jacket and down his collar. Mucus-clogged lungs unable to work at full capacity, Bill was soon out of breath. His joints ached and his head pounded in time with his pulse. Barely five minutes after leaving the house, he was freezing and tired. And no sign of Georgie. The brat was gonna get an earful.

Bill decided to zigzag through the streets of their neighborhood. Georgie couldn't have gotten far, but Bill had no idea which direction he had gone in. Down one block, then two, then three. Turn. Another three. How far could the little pest have gone? Turn. Four more blocks. Bill's hurried pedaling brought on a bout of wet coughs, and he had to pause and brace his and the bike's weight on one leg to catch his breath. His nose was starting to run too, and of course he hadn't thought to bring a tissue. Not like it would have had a prayer in this storm, though. How much time had passed? Ten minutes, maybe. His parents probably hadn't noticed he was out of bed yet. Scrubbing his nose futilely on his wet, slick jacket sleeve, Bill grit his teeth and resumed pedaling.

The streets and houses ran together into an endless cold, wet, shivering stream. No Georgie. Not even a sign of Georgie. No broken walkie lying on the sidewalk, no crumpled paper boat flattened on the street, no lone green rubber boot peeking out of the grass. Nothing. Anger and worry warred in Bill's mind. He was scared by how Georgie had seemingly disappeared into thin air, then angry when he thought of how Georgie was probably off fine somewhere and completely oblivious of the trouble he was causing, then angry with himself for being scared. And the cycle would repeat itself.

At least half an hour had passed and Bill had gone farther than Georgie could have. Georgie must have slipped past him and gone back home. Or maybe he'd been hiding in the bushes when Bill came outside and let him go on his wild goose chase as some sort of joke. That was probably it.

His parents would have noticed he was out of bed by now. Any hope Bill had of retrieving Georgie and slipping inside unnoticed was gone. He returned home, bracing himself for the shitstorm he knew would come.

His parents were waiting, and his mother came out onto the porch before he had even made it up the driveway. She didn't ask why he was out of bed, or why he was biking around in the rain. The first thing she asked was, "Where is Georgie?"

Bill stopped, bike in hand, one foot on the bottom step. His father came outside to stand beside his mother.

"We've looked all over the house for him," Mrs. Denbrough continued, voice taking on an irritated edge. "Where is he?"

Georgie might have hidden from Bill as a game, but he would not have hidden from their parents. Georgie knew they didn't find that sort of thing funny.

Bill was frozen on the bottom step, bike clenched in his numb fingers, rain dripping into his eyes. Georgie hadn't come home. The first icy edges of panic began to prick at his chest, the first edges of what would become a solid, glacial block that would replace his heart and lungs for the next weeks.

Mr. Denbrough furrowed his brow and bent to peer into Bill's face. "Son?"

Bill felt his eyes burning. This was his fault, this was all his fault, oh God it was all his fault Georgie was missing. "I c-c-c-can't fuh-find him."

Mr. Denbrough straightened, clenching his jaw. Mrs. Denbrough put a hand over her heart as she turned to gaze out into the storm.

"Bill, change into something dry. We're going to drive around and look for Georgie," Mr. Denbrough spoke in the barking tone he used when he was worried and trying not to show it. "Sharon, stay here in case Georgie comes home."

"Zack –"

"Come on, Bill."

"Zack! Should we call the police?"

"Not yet. Bill."

As Bill fumbled with his seatbelt, fingers shaking, wet hair dampening his clean shirt collar, he felt compelled to defend himself. "I told him not to, I tried to stop him, but he wouldn't listen." The lie flowed from him easily, worryingly easily.

"It's ok, son." Mr. Denbrough was hardly listening, thoughts far away, on his missing child.

But it wasn't going to be ok, Bill knew that deep in his gut in a way he couldn't explain. Things had gone horribly, irreversibly wrong and it was all his fault, and he couldn't bear the thought of his parents holding him responsible for it, knowing he had put Georgie in harm's way. So he lied. And as the wipers squeaked across the windshield and the tires ate up the blocks and Mr. Denbrough's knuckles grew white on the wheel, Bill felt that guilt beginning to gnaw a hole through his soul.


The Eater of Children sneezed and turned Its attention back to the leg It was chewing on. Boring.


A/N: Figured the chapter shouldn't be entirely without our favorite clown.