Notes: Another little AU splinter that may or may not continue. Same vein as "Wake Up Call" let's say.

Because this guy deserved better. Even if it is just to have the chance to banter.

Tried not to bog this down in police procedural details. Artistic license FTW.

Recommended OST: "Walking In My Shoes" by Depeche Mode.


"Full Circle"

K+ (minor language and violence)


Mike Hanlon wasn't the only one who stayed behind.

Victor Criss hadn't planned to. Things had simply worked out that way. For some, the world outside Derry was all too alluring, too tempting to escape into, to get lost in and pretend their wretched little hometown didn't exist in any other form greater than a spot on a map.

Like they had come from nowhere, to find something better.

Never mind that they could make due with what they had right where they always were.

While the thought was always there, practically engraved in the back of the man's mind, he had considered his list of possibilities, and settled for the path of least resistance - that much which he didn't make for himself, that is. Where most of the reformed bully's classmates grew up to move away at their first opportunity, staying behind was comparatively easier for him.

It was. What were the odds he would see most of them again? Dollars to doughnuts the class' upper rungs would sooner book a venue in Haven or Portland to host their ten-year high school reunion, and all the ones to follow, rather than ever set foot in Derry again. And sure enough, by the early 2000s Criss' ear caught word of one such shindig being in the works, and he quietly set aside time off work to attend.

It wasn't like there would be any fewer domestic disturbances to attend to when he got back.

His reception there was much the same as it had been those last few years of high school: look, guys, here comes the noncommital pariah, the only survivor of a once-reputabable group of lowlifes who were responsible for more than their fair share of social upsets and public embarassments.

He may not have always been the one to start them, but he had certainly had a hand in most.

Details of which weren't important, no more to them than they were to himself. He went through most days trying to put them out of his mind, trying in vain to focus on the few good times had in his youth.

The only real dismay Victor felt was in not finding any of the Losers among the reunion attendees.

But then, who was he kidding? Besides being two years his junior, most of them - his for-better-for-worse victims-turned-friends - had left town and gone on to be wildly successful. It wasn't that they looked down their noses at the ten-year-reunion with any kind of snide bitterness.

Simply put, they had better lives to live now, ones that didn't really warrant him being a part of, and he couldn't fault them there.

In the end, they had all proven to be far more ambitious than he, far more determined to find something better.

Or maybe that was the long-repressed repentance talking.

Suffice it to say, following the lukewarm result of this lackluster venture twenty-seven-year-old Victor motored on back to Derry with the intent to continue his simple-yet-somehow-fulfilling career. He certainly hadn't gone through grade school thinking he wanted to be a policeman in this small-minded town. And granted, he wasn't looking to eventually make top dog in that line of work.

But for as long as the department existed in this backwoods place, she had to produce one or two good sons of the law somewhere along the way.

Someone had to take the oath to keep the peace, and mean it.

Against all odds.

And by and large, this went along fairly swimmingly.

Until the latter half of 2016, that is.


"Y'know... when I said 'he could ride along, maybe' I didn't... mean literally."

Anyone looking in through the cruiser's rolled-up, passenger-side window might have thought he had finally cracked. More puzzling was that the soft-spoken, clean-shaven, rugged-looking man didn't look outwardly disturbed. At the moment, he only appeared a tad disgruntled, frowning with dark, furrowed brows into the rearview mirror as he was, jaw set.

Then you would look down and see the receiver to dispatch was still hanging in its cradle on the dashboard.

...You talking to yourself again, Vic?

Lord knows you've spent many a night on the job doing that. Twenty plus years in, and you're still just a petty night patrolman (through no fault of anyone's but your own). Now, yes, that would give anyone cause to hold monologues within the loneliness of their black-and-white cruiser between answering what sparse calls came down the wire now and then.

And to do it consistently, without the aid of a drink, even more impressive.

A reflection of his dark-irised eyes narrowed in the mirror's glass. His hand tightened on the top of the steering wheel, thinking for a second back to his weeks of training, the months of classes he took so long ago. Today, as it was now, it was impossible to not compare to the countless episodes of classic TV police dramas. There was so much similar and - at the same time - so much wrong with how those in his profession were regarded.

By various demographics, over the years.

Dragnet. Kojak. Miami Vice. Hill Street Blues. NYPD Blue. Law & Order. Castle. Blue Bloods.

To name a few.

Please. This isn't TV. The tropes are still there, they just evolved as time has gone on.

Even as law enforcement itself has come a long way in that regard.

That said...

"It doesn't matter if the cameras can see you, or not," Victor went on, seemingly holding his one-sided conversation with perfect ease (when, in truth, his insides were already knotted up past the point of untying). "Never mind that the county budget is so tight my car's one of many on a waiting list to have her's replaced. When I'm on the clock, I'd rather it go without incident."

But... aren't incidents part of your job description?

And responding to them on short notice?

Right now, the look on his unwanted visitor's face - with its petulant scowl and raised left eyebrow - seemed to scream the same question. But out of practiced restraint or simple politeness, to not make such a childish retort out of the otherwise-serious statement, It held off on commenting.

...For all of ten seconds.

"But areN't you happy to see me, VicksTer?"

The officer bristled, sharply averting his eyes, feeling an instant tingle of annoyance creep up the back of his neck. He flattened himself against the driver's seat, staring with newfound determination out the dusty windshield, trying to retrain his focus on the night outside.

Which he did, in short order.

This storage complex's exterior fence wasn't gonna watch itself.

Or, it could - with the aid of its closed-circuit surveilance system. But for the owner, that hadn't proved adequete. They had already endured their fair share of vandalism-related events lately, ranging from simple graffiting to burglary, and someone had to take the unenviable job of lookout.

Some unlucky sap, in other words, was whispered around the station.

Victor had that in his pedigree. Because apparently only saps helped old ladies across the street, returned sniffling kids to their parents along the vast expanse of storefront sidewalks, or rounded up the occasional wayward drunk while off duty.

He had overheard one such grumble about these broken-into units, the latest in a string of supposedly-connected robberies working their way from county to county, and put up his hand.

He could stomach being the squad's resident overcompensator far easier than being imbued with any kind of affectionate nickname as bestowed by this... phantom from his childhood, which had (without so much as a giggle of warning) spontaneously materialized in the back seat of his squad car.

Right out of thin air.

More infruriating was that he was equal parts flabbergasted and bewilderingly happy to see the ghost.

For the moment, the former feeling was winning the majority vote.

"Tch." Against his better judgment, Victor glanced back again. "I don't answer to dumb nicknames."

Hands in his lap, the clown's frown eased, eyebrow lowering it to match its sibling.

Also known as the look of innocent befuddlement that still sometimes graced George Denbrough's visage.

"But... you juST dId."

"Anything that came out of my mouth just now would constitute a response, of some kind. So, ergo, that's kind of a weak counterargument to begin with on your part."

Eventually, Pennywise managed an indignant splutter of a reply:

"Yeah? Well. If it's so- weaK... hmph! It stiLl got you to talk."

Victor tipped his head against the backrest again, staring at the dingy, spotty-fabricked ceiling some precious few inches above his eyes. A basketball player folded into the confines of a jack-in-the-box, that's how he felt some days, very cramped and therefore a touch moody.

Hunched over like he was, resembling a silver-suited chimpanzee, the alien in his backseat was probably - make that definitely - picking up on the same vibes.

"Yes. Because it's rude to not reply when someone's being direct with you, sir. Like Georgie's said a thousand times, and counting."

"Heh. It's also rude to be sNide about your reply. Not very- becoMing, is it, Officer Vickster?"

Deadsense.

Yep. Mike warned me about that.

"Stick a pin in the topic before he gets carried away. Odds are, once it happens, you won't get him to stop chasing his tail. Or be able to hold on to your momentary sanity, for that matter."

Officer Criss valued his well-honed peace of mind, moreso than most else of the material possessions in his life, which had come to include the idea of a wife and kids (to the silent disappointment of any similarly aged bachelorettes around the county, he was sure; a few times he had taken note of the longing stare of woman here and there, oggling his uniformed self from across the way, only for him to turn back to his work and silently rebuff the attention; dames were more trouble than they were reward in his book).

He needed and cherished every last shred of focus he had left. Dealing with the petty-minded public and soothing their troubles, earning and holding onto their trust and thereby ensuring their continued goodwill, inch by painful inch, had become his life's work. And for that he needed a clear head with which to go about his duties.

Then It just had to wake up again.

History just had to repeat herself.

A reiteration of events twenty-seven-years hence, if you will.

"Hmph. Meaning, we still can't win with you, can we?"

"NoPe."

In more ways than one.

Silence reigned for another few minutes before a rustle of fabric chased it away.

"...No. That waSn't me."

Blinking, Victor glanced back once more.

"What? What wasn't?"

Without breaking eye contact, Pennywise gestured in the vague direction of Derry, some ten minutes to their east.

"The one- that one."

What? The call yesterday? The... newest one on the slab?

Eyes closed, Victor glanced away and breathed deep, praying for patience. Focus.

Damn It. He couldn't decide between being assured or feeling ever more suspicious at those words. Yes, the entity's reappearance signified more than just a temporary hiccup to overcome in the course of his night watch.

But did he really feel the need to bring the topic up was necessary?

"I didn't say it was, Pennywise."

"You thought it might bE."

Criss sighed. His exhale was almost a growl to match. "God, man, don't you know what it is to tune out what you don't want to hear?" He twisted around in place, half-glaring over his blue-clad shoulder. "You show up unannounced here, and then try to you hold it against me for thinking a recent rash of- of problems might or might not have anything to do with you?"

Somehow, someway, they always do.

You're gonna go on into eternity toiling and tormenting yourself about it?

Fine. That's your call.

But eternity need not include right now.

I doubt you turned up on Bev's hospital bed downright asking her to start guilt-tripping you.

Why do you have to be that way with me?

And just how the middle-aged man remembered, Pennywise seemed to pause and consider the nonverbal as much as the words thrown at him, no matter how they were said. His gaze dropped and angled away.

"Hmph. You'Vvve got a point."

Ting.

Without ceremony, an arm shot out, leveling itself across the policeman's shoulder like the barrel of a rifle.

Victor flinched, squinting at what the gloved hand held.

Even in the near dark, he recognized the packaging's silver highlights.

A Hershey bar?

Despite himself, he couldn't help an amused snort, dramatically clapping a hand over his eyes. The change in the air betwen them, and subject therefore, was so abrupt.

Way to avert the conversation, indeed.

"Can't. That might constitute a police bribe."

"A bribe? To turn your eye from wHat?" Pennywise asked. Briefly, his gaze and attention both seemed to avert outside - not toward the storage units, but nighttime forests beyond. "...Nooo. I don'T think your- hoodlums are gonNa bite tonight."

"You know this for a fact, Jack?" Victor quipped, feeling a bit easier for making it, like settling into an old, if kinda-unwelcome, familiarity - a strange imitation of one he had underestimated just how much he had latently missed. "All you've got right now is... suppositional evidence. You think just because my car's sitting here in plain view outside the gate, they're gonna take one look and say, 'nah, some other night'?"

Eyes affixed, Pennywise's head tilted to one side like a dog's - one who had heard a peculiar sound and didn't know what to make of it.

Such a novice, he was. Still.

Pretending or not.

Slowly, his arm retracted.

"You know otherwiSe?"

"I do. This is my fifth stakeout, in three nights. Haven't been here the last two, and the property owner's had no trouble. You pull three in a row, then pop up again once they assume you've given up the chase."

"...That woRks?"

"Pft. We're not dealing with criminal geniuses here. I know my tactics, and this one has netted more than a few lockpickers mid-break-in."

"All by yoursElf?"

Scoffing, Victor picked up the receiver by means of demonstration. "One call, and I've got two backups less than five minutes away."

If not closer.

"Oh." Pennywise blinked once, letting the bigger picture settle into place. Then he started up again: "...What if they're on a nap breAk?"

Victor felt his lips twist in a smile that was not quite a smirk. He supposed he should feel irritated by the line of inquiry. But again, in a strange way, he had missed hearing it, however briefly they may have known one another in 1989. George Denbrough had carried that torch on long after August came and went.

Remembering to miss something.

There was an odd one to find yourself doing.

"Jesus. You could go on forever with these questions."

Like a regular grade schooler.

Perhaps he sounded a bit too harsh in saying so.

It was no secret around the station the rookies hated the thought of being talked down to by Criss in such a way. He was firm, but fair, didn't let anything slide. And that included calling his understudies out on their habits, unconscious quirk and not.

Pennywise's upswept locks and neck ruffle drooped in time with his woeful expression. "And you'd rathEr I didn't."

Sighing, albeit more lightly than before, Victor turned away from the meek-seeming sight, belatedly thinking to fold his arms across his chest.

No. He needn't continue to remain a hardass about this. Why not make something pleasant out of the encounter, just a bit, instead of staying so rigid and aloof?

Lord knew the Losers were probably dealing with much the same kinds of mixed feelings. Mike summoning them back to Derry - that much was anticipated. Victor had known of the encroaching date, much in the same way he had heard of his impending high school reunion. He had stood back from this rendezvous in much the same fashion, thinking his presence was almost unwelcome among the circle of eight.

Until a phone call from Richie Tozier, staying at the Town House with the rest as he was, came through.

Guess who's back, Blondie?

Yep! And he's looking for you as much as the rest of us.

And half in jest, half somehow-meaning it, the older man had suggested the aforementioned ghost come find him on watch, to sit in on the stakeout.

Of course It had heard the conversation in full, and jumped at the chance to reconnect with his fellow outcast.

Stifling another derisive chuckle, to think he had ever been displeased that the scenario had played out exactly so, Criss sat back in his seat, reaching over his shoulder with open, upturned fingers. His riveted eyes never left the diveway. Nowadays, the blonde locks he once sported were kept cropped far shorter, alomst in a crewcut, per regulation. And mostly because he didn't need to waste time trying to see around them.

Yes, he could use a distraction to help tick down the minutes until the repeat trespassers showed up again, with their padlock cutters and pickup trucks at the ready.

You'd rather he bug out?

No.

Not really.

"Depends... Stripes. That candy bar still on offer?"

Ti-ting.

Plastic packaging landed in the officer's hardened palm with a soft thud.

"Ask away."


"Police! Freeze!"

"Ha, fat cha- ahh! Shit!"

Sprinting for the fence, at the far side of the lot, the second suspect made the mistake of turning to try and gloat mid-escape. His partner in crime had had the right idea, to jump at the sound of an artifically-amplified bark, and promptly took off at the first whoop of a siren. Clouds of dust still hung in the beams of the headlights where the perp's racing feet had passed by moments before. He shimmied to the top of the barbed-wire fence, yanked himself over with leather gloves, and was gone.

(Leaving his slower compadre to promptly sell him out by the following morning.)

Nosing the cruiser's front end around a garage corner, the better to see their surroundings by, Victor opened his door to step out, arms positioned over the window, gun drawn and aimed.

"Your final warning!"

Behind him, the cruiser's rear passenger door banged open and thumped shut, jostled as it had been moments earlier by the animal suddenly escaping from inside.

The same hand that had opened it morphed into a canine's paw to match the other three, and for a precious few minutes, Officer Criss wasn't completely alone in his task of apprehending the criminals mid-burglary.

Snarling, It whisked ahead of the trailing black-and-white, moving faster than any fully-grown Belgian Malinois (the very same breed a younger Criss once daydreamed about owning) ought to. The slower of the two fleeing men didn't turn to see the dog's unusually-bright off-white coat, flashing through the yellow high beams directly toward him, much less notice the amberish red mask adorning its snout, framing amber-yellow eyes.

He scarcely noticed the jittery, jagged shadow that raced forth, merging with his own on the ground ahead. By the time his ankle was violently yanked out from underneath him, he had his mind on other matters.

And when the canine lookalike grabbed his pants by the shin and began savaging it between his teeth, tearing and yanking and growling, the thrashing burglar had already quailed.

With leg wrenched back, his own momentum pitched him forward into a flailing heap.

"Owmph! N-no, p-ple- ow! Ah-gh! Agh! Okay, st-op-p! I-I gi-give! Ahow!"

Skirting around the sedan's open door, Victor didn't stop to let himself ponder the ludicrousness of this assist, or balk at the blood being drawn. He thought only briefly of his attack in the creek some three decades earlier, where it had been him pinned under the same monster's teeth. Occasionally, he woke from an ever-more-rare nightmare of that evening, only to remind himself he had lived through it, learned from it.

The monster then had spared him because (contrary to the very definition of 'monster') It had listened in another way to Ben Hanscom.

Just like tonight, It was listening again.

He had gone from honorary sheepdog to a quite literal police dog. This had been as much the officer's idea as it was not, through making idle conversation. Victor remembered mentioning the Derry Police Department still had no officially-standing K-9 unit, and to his complete unsurprise this seemed to directly inspire the entity's latest gambit. Again, an ever-more-minimalized budget had hurt the force there, too.

Just this once, the shapeshifter could help make up for that shortcoming.

Victor couldn't help smiling to himself. It was nice to know he had some backup here and now, while his fellow night watchmen - snoozing slumped over their steering wheels, unable to hear or simply ignoring his calls for assistance - came back to the land of the living.

"Pen, stop."

The curt command flew out on its own, with a bizarrely natural ease, as if he had said it a thousand times already. With one last chomp and bark, It sidestepped away. Taking a knee beside the thrashing man, Victor holstered his gun, caught one, then both tattooed wrists. He cinched them into place behind the man's back with a pair of cuffs.

Before he could stand, to wrench the perp to his feet, or say much else, the still-capering dog beside him gave a high whine.

Against his better judgment (for what did it know anyway), Victor paid his improvised partner a fleeting glance.

What? What was wrong no-

His answer took the form of a slobbery series of frothy licks to the face, eyes, nose, and all. Somewhere beyond that, he thought he glimpsed an avidly-wagging tail. The whining turned to short, earnest, puppy-like whimpers.

And Victor couldn't help a very unprofessional-sounding laugh at the attack he found himself under all over again.

For very different reasons.

With his free hand he spared his friend a welcoming scratch behind the pinned-back ears.

Yeah, okay, okay. Missed you, too, buddy.