A/N: I finally watched IT: Chapter Two this year and when I eventually stopped crying over the ending (damn you Bill Hader) I decided to read the book. Imagine my surprise when I discovered that Richie and Bev have this amazing friendship that they completely left out of the movies. Bev shares Richie's humour and always plays along with his jokes, and Richie treats Bev as an equal rather than the designated girl. They get each other and they love each other in a way that is maybe not fully platonic, but it's pretty damn close.
So, this fic is borne out of my need for more Bev and Richie friendship fic, along with needing a little more closure after Chapter 2. I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it.
Title by Jaymes Young. TW for canon-typical domestic violence.
I'll Be Good (I'll Be A Better Man Today)
PART ONE
Bev's filthy, damp clothes were starting to itch. In retrospect, she probably should have showered before drinking.
Ben had done just that, picking disgustedly at his shirt before beelining for the stairs with a muttered apology. Bill trailed behind, his face pale and eyes distant in a way that Bev really didn't like.
Richie had other ideas. Snagging a bottle of whiskey and a passably clean glass from behind the bar, he sat on the couch and set to drinking himself senseless. Mike dropped to the seat beside him and slid a glass along the table in a silent request. Richie filled it almost to the brim, and Mike downed the whole thing in a few unsteady gulps.
Bev had never liked whiskey. She examined the bar intently, then grabbed a moderately expensive bottle of wine and settled on a barstool. She didn't bother with a glass. Twisting off the cap, she tossed it underarm into a nearby bin and lifted the bottle to her lips, ignoring Mike's startled glance.
Bev had been a big drinker, back in the day. Beer in high school, vodka in college, cheap wine and the occasional gin-and-tonic as she approached mid-twenties. She liked the burn of liquor against her throat. She liked way her muscles loosened and her heart quickened and she became bold, confident, assertive – the idealised embodiment of Bev Marsh, designer that never quite fit when she was sober.
That was before Tom. She rarely drank, anymore.
But in the last thirty-six hours, she'd walked out on Tom and defeated a clown and lost two friends and found four more. Her muscles ached, her throat chafed, and tears pricked her eyes at seemingly random intervals. Her body was wrecked, her heart destroyed. If there was ever a day to get blindingly, nauseatingly drunk, it was today.
By the time Ben re-emerged, Bev's bottle was half-empty and her cheeks were starting to warm. Her eyes travelled over his broad shoulders and strong forearms, taking in the gleam of his damp hair in the lamplight. She hummed appreciatively, then hid a smirk behind a swig when Ben flushed a deep pink.
God, she'd missed him. Without even remembering him, she'd missed him.
I wonder what would have happened if we'd remembered. Would Tom and I have –?
Her skin was littered with bruises, scrapes and dried blood that wouldn't come off no matter how hard she scrubbed, so a casual observer would likely miss the finger marks pressed into her wrists. But Bev couldn't forget, no matter how hard she tried. They burned like brands, shameful reminders of the life that she'd built for herself, the familiarity calling to her in a way she hadn't understood until far too late.
Shame crept into her throat. She drowned it with another gush of burning liquid. Bevvie, you know I –
"Mind if I share? Or should I find my own bottle?"
Ben's tone was carefully neutral, but his eyes betrayed his concern. Concern that was so sincere, so Ben, that she simultaneously, discordantly, wanted to never let him go and to run away to hide amongst people who couldn't read her anywhere near as well.
In the end, she did neither. "I suppose I could," she sighed, snatching a fluted glass from the bar. She tipped her bottle toward it. "Say when."
"When."
The glass was only half-full. Bev shot him a flat look and continued pouring, only letting up when the wine threatened to spill.
Ben stared at the drink, faintly exasperated. "Why did you bother to ask?"
"It's polite."
Ignoring Ben's long-suffering sigh, Bev twisted to check on the boys.
The boys.
The men.
There was a part of her mind that still hadn't adjusted to the idea of them all grown up, that insisted on picking out their thirteen-year-old features with precision. Richie's long fingers and too-wide grin, which he'd grown into against all odds. Mike's warm eyes and beatific smile, steady as ever. Bill – there he was, finally making his way downstairs – with the clear blue eyes and narrow shoulders, forever burdened by a responsibility he'd never been able to shake.
Bill glanced between Mike, Richie and the bottle of whiskey that was disappearing at a frankly alarming pace, then joined Bev and Ben at the bar. "Are they okay?" he murmured.
Bev snorted. "No." She didn't bother to whisper. "None of us are."
Bill's mouth pinched. "Fair." He squinted at the label on her bottle, then at the empty bar. "Did you pay for that?"
Bev waved a hand at the room at large. "I even tipped extra for the wonderful service. Honestly, does anybody work here?"
"Ghost hotel." Bill nodded solemnly. "Someone's r-ripping off my ideas."
Ben laughed, then broke off as though surprised by the sound. "The Attic Room, right? I think I read that one."
"Yeah? What did you think of the ending?"
Burying his face in his glass, Ben proceeded to take the longest draught known to man.
Bev grinned and nudged Bill with her shoulder. "You should put that on the movie poster. A twist to leave you speechless."
Bill smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "M-might just do that."
Bev's levity fled. She ran her eyes over the lines on Bill's face, taking in the deep bags beneath his eyes and the slight tremble to his lips, and felt herself frown. "Sorry, Bill, that was mean. You know we're just joking, right?"
"You think I'm upset that you're besmirching m-m-my life's work? Please. I know none of you have taste."
Bev exchanged a glance with Ben, who looked as worried as she felt, then turned back to Bill. "Then what's going on?"
Bill's smile faded. He looked down at his phone, which he was clutching in a white-knuckled grip. "My phone's been here all day. I have fifteen m-missed calls."
Bev felt her eyebrows shoot up. Across the room, Mike and Richie went still. "Who from?"
"Audra, mostly. And Freddie Fi-fi-restone." Bill hesitated. "I walked off a movie set to be here. Audra told them I'm sick, but Freddie f-found out the truth."
Richie whistled. "Well, it was nice knowing you, Big Bill." He caught Ben and Mike's confused looks and added, "Freddie has a reputation."
"His reputation has not been exaggerated," Bill muttered. His fingers relaxed, then tightened. "I don't know how much longer I can stay."
The silence was suddenly heavy. A fist squeezed Bev's lungs. "You're leaving?"
"I don't want to." Bill hesitated, uncertainty written in every line of his body. "What if I f-f-f-f-f – fuck!"
Bev settled a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. Inside, she crumbled.
"I don't think you'll forget." Mike's deep voice was soothing. "We killed IT. It should be over."
"No offence, Mike, but your theories haven't exactly panned out so far."
Mike flinched and Bev shot Richie a look, but he was already back to glaring at his whiskey.
Ben, always the peacekeeper, stepped in. "Did you find out anything about our memories in your research, Mike?"
"Greta Keene moved away for college," Mike said after a beat, tearing his gaze away from Richie. "She married a pharmacist in her early twenties, then came home and took over her father's business. She didn't seem to have any difficulty remembering Derry – not that she would tell me otherwise, of course." He caught Bill's eye. "Remember Bradley? Your friend from speech?"
Bill stared blankly for a moment, then blinked with recognition. "I d-do now," he said, audibly discomfited.
Bev sympathised. She'd come to both love and hate the feeling of memories blooming in the back of her mind, filling gaps she didn't know existed. To love the discovery of warmth, of friendship, of childhood bonds that had persisted beyond all odds. To hate that those gaps existed in the first place, that she could lose something so important without even realising.
She hadn't stopped to think that it could happen again.
Bev took a shaky draught and tuned back in.
"Bradley finished high school with me, back in '97. He studied accounting at the University of Maine," Mike was saying. "We kept contact regularly for his first year of college, less regularly in his second, and lost touch altogether after that. It seemed to be typical drifting apart, not – well. Not what happened with you guys."
"So, it was just us, then?" Richie asked, still addressing his glass rather than the room. "We forgot each other as some sort of – what, punishment? For attacking IT?"
"Not a punishment," Mike disagreed. "I think IT was scared of us. It did what it did to keep us apart." He hesitated, then added, "But you guys didn't even realise you'd forgotten. There could be others - how would they even know?"
Bev shuddered. Richie raised his head to look at Mike, his forehead glistening with a light sheen, his lips pressed together tightly. He looked torn. Bev was pretty sure she knew why.
"It doesn't really matter, though, does it?" Bev pointed out, if only to distract herself from her own line of thought. Fuck, Richie. Was he going to be okay, or was Derry going to take him too? "I mean, it matters," she clarified, when all four men stared at her in confusion, "but does it change anything? We can't stay here. We have lives, responsibilities. There's only one way to find out what will happen if we leave, and that's by – leaving."
The silence was deafening. Richie took a nervous gulp of his whiskey. Ben shifted his weight uncomfortably. Mike sat still, face unreadable even to Bev, who prided herself on being able to read people like a book.
Oh, but you couldn't read Tom, could you Bevvie?
"B-Beverly's right." Bill straightened, projecting an air of confidence that he surely didn't feel. "It's not up to us. Not really."
"I can call," Mike offered, "over the next few weeks. Maybe I can give your memories a jolt."
Four heads swivelled toward him, four voices launching into protests that cascaded over each other. Mike you're not – should see the world – don't stay in fucking Maine – this is your –
Mike held up a hand, grinning. "Guys! I'm not staying here forever, I promise. But I need time to sort things out – I can't just up and leave."
"Sure, you can," Richie argued. His hand cut through the air to emphasise the point. "Just hop in your car and go. Or hitch-hike, if you want some real excitement. I did it back in college and only met one serial killer, I swear."
"Richie."
"Okay, maybe two. But we saw at least that every day back in middle school. Whatever happened to Victor Criss, anyway? Bowers, of course, is lying dead on the library floor."
Richie's mouth pulled into a lop-sided, humourless grin.
Bev realised her mouth was hanging open and closed it with a snap.
"Jesus f-fucking Christ," Bill muttered, dropping his face into his hands. "How did we forget a-about Bowers?"
Richie waved dismissively. "We were distracted by the giant murderous spider-clown. S'all good."
"We could call the police?" Mike suggested. "Tell them the truth. It was self-defence."
Bill immediately shook his head. "We left it too long." His self-recrimination was plain to hear. Bev resisted the urge to slap him upside the head and squeezed his hand instead. "Rigor mortis will have s-s-set in. They'll want to know w-w-why we waited so long to call."
Bev was suddenly struck by an image of a young Bill, long-haired and smooth-faced, tapping away on an old-school PC, researching what happens to people when they die. She wondered if he had any inkling that his research would one day be used to cover up a murder.
Oh god. They were covering up a murder.
"The quarry?" Richie suggested, only for Bill to once again dismiss the idea.
"They'll dredge it soon enough. Too r-risky."
Ben straightened. "The clubhouse!"
Bill cocked his head and gestured for him to go on.
Ben turned to Mike. "Does anyone go to the Barrens anymore? The clubhouse looked untouched – I doubt anyone else knows that it's there. If we put him in it and collapse the roof –"
"You can do that?" Bill interrupted. He didn't sound surprised – just curious, a little bit awed. "Without s-specialised equipment?"
Ben shrugged. "It's pretty simple once you know the basics. Someone might find Bowers eventually, but it will look like he died in a cave-in. That place is thirty years old – I'm surprised it lasted this long."
Mike looked hopeful. "That could work. People stopped going to the Barrens when they put in walking tracks near the river." He glanced out the window. "We should probably wait until dark to move the body."
Richie twitched but didn't speak.
"We'll need daylight to find the clubhouse," Ben pointed out. "It'll take some time to prepare, too. Can you stay until tomorrow, Bill?"
Bill shrugged. "I'm already in deep shit. What's a little more?" He reached around Bev to clap Ben approvingly on the shoulder.
Sandwiched between then, Bev couldn't help but smile. Despite the fact that she was still covered in dried blood and dirty water. Despite the fact that she was almost through her bottle of wine and a tad unsteady on her feet.
God, she loved them.
All of them.
Her gaze landed on Richie, and her smile slipped. She felt as much as saw Mike follow her line of sight.
"Right," Mike said suddenly, draining the last dregs from his glass and placing it on the table with a clink. "If we're doing this, I'm going to stop home. I need a shower."
"I'll drive," Ben volunteered, eyeing Mike's empty glass. "Bill should come with us. We can go from your place to the hardware store, then out to the Barrens."
"I for one am horrified that I am not invited to the body disposal shower," Richie drawled. His brows drew together, and beneath the sarcasm he did look upset. "Was the gift-wrapping not to your standard? Was an axe to the head an inappropriate method of procuring a body?"
"Beep beep, Richie." Mike pointed at the mostly-empty bottle of whiskey. "That hasn't hit you yet, but in twenty minutes Bev will be peeling you off the floor. We've got this. Get some rest."
Bev raised her hand. "Am I not invited either?"
Ben touched her elbow, feather-light. "It's going to be a lot of heavy lifting," he pointed out. "You're better off staying here." His eyes darted to Richie and back.
Bev nodded. She understood the message – everyone did, judging by the way Richie scowled at his glass and Bill suddenly became fascinated by his shoes. Look after Richie. Well, there were worse jobs.
"Alright," she allowed. "You guys be careful." Impulsively, she planted a kiss on Ben's cheek, smiling as his cheeks turned red again. Grown men should all blush this often, she decided. It was endearing.
Have you ever seen Tom blush? Your husband, Bevvie?
Shaking off the voice, Bev swapped her empty bottle for a fresh one and pushed off the bar. Mike stood as she approached, gesturing her into his seat, which she took with a quick touch of thanks to his arm.
"Call if you need anything," Mike said, softly, and Bev nodded once more.
"We'll be fine," she assured him. "Won't we Richie?"
He turned to face her, and she bit off a noise of surprise. Up close, Richie looked terrible. His eyes were glassy from drink, there were flecks of dried blood behind his ear, and his filthy clothes were sticking to him in a way that had to be uncomfortable. He blinked, the movement drunkenly slow. "Surely we will, M'lady," he said in a jaunty British accent, and Bev rolled her eyes and groaned.
"I know for a fact you're better at Voices than that," she retorted, and twisted the lid off her bottle.
"You've seen my stand-up?"
"Worst hour of my life."
"Oof." Richie dramatically pressed a hand to his heart. "You cut me deep, Shrek. You cut me real deep."
She smiled, swirling the wine aimlessly. "Actually, it was a fun night," she admitted. "The jokes weren't my usual style, but your delivery was on point. I was laughing the whole time."
"Always knew you were a fan, Marsh."
Bill, Mike and Ben left the Town House with a last shouted goodbye, and then it was just Bev and Richie and a creepily empty hotel.
"God, I want a cigarette," Bev muttered.
Richie clicked his tongue in agreement. "I'll bum one, if you're offering."
Bev sunk into the couch, letting her head loll onto the backrest. "I don't smoke anymore." The lie rolled off her tongue, smooth and well-practiced in its simplicity, and for the first time she felt a stab of guilt. "Not often," she corrected. "I only had one pack and it was ruined in the sewer."
Richie scoffed. "Yeah, that'll happen." He fell silent, and Bev's skin crawled. Silence felt wrong on Richie. It was like…like Bill talking rapid-fire without a stutter. Like Ben shouting in anger.
Like Eddie covered in filth and blood.
There was a tiny tear in the label on her bottle. Bev picked at it. "What are you going to do after Bill leaves?" she ventured.
Richie shrugged one shoulder. "Home, I guess."
"Do you have work to get back to?"
"Nah." He curled his lip in what was probably supposed to be a smile but looked more like a grimace. "I don't really want to crack sex jokes about my fictional girlfriend right now."
"Stop the presses. You're not a member of Masturbators Anonymous?"
Richie's head snapped toward her, his gaze sharper than it had been for hours. "How do you know about that?" he asked, apprehensive.
Bev offered a weak smile. "I looked you up on the way here. It was going viral."
"Shit." Richie went to run a hand through his hair, froze when his fingers met filthy strands, and settled for scrubbing his face instead. "Just my luck."
Bev winced. The video doing the rounds on Twitter was grainy but, even so, it was obvious that something was wrong. The stage lights bounced off Richie's sickly white face and sweaty forehead, and his eyes could be seen darting nervously around the room before his voice trailed away. Even before Bev fully remembered Richie, it had been enough to make her worry. "What happened?"
"Mike happened," Richie grumbled. "He called at the worst possible time. I literally hung up the phone, threw up over the fire escape, then walked on-stage. I got twenty seconds into the set before I said the word 'Trashmouth'…it was like flipping a switch. A hundred memories of you guys burst into existence at the back of my mind, all at once." He paused, eyes distant, and took another sip of whiskey. "So, that was kind of distracting."
Bev inhaled sharply. "Jesus. I'm suddenly glad Mike called me at home."
"Are you?" The question and tone were innocuous, but Richie's gaze was intent as he turned to study her face.
Bev twitched. He can't know. No one knows.
Forcing a smile, she lifted her chin. "Of course," she said lightly. "My next show isn't for another two months. The timing couldn't have been better."
"Hmm." Richie's dark eyes were piercing.
Bev met his gaze firmly.
The moment passed. Richie shook his head and picked up his glass. Bev tore another section off her label and flicked it to the floor, and tried not to wonder why she felt disappointed.
"Anyway," Richie announced to his whiskey, "I might take the long way home."
Bev startled. "You're going to drive?"
"Sure, why not? Old-fashioned road trip. Just me and the road and the open sky."
"Honestly? Doesn't seem your style."
Richie's face softened, a small but genuine smile making an appearance for the first time in hours. "Yeah, it's really not," he admitted. "I'll probably get bored and end up flying. But I will take a few days and just…drive. You know."
Did she know?
She tried to picture it, but all she had for reference was bad movies. Bev had never been on a road trip. It's not safe, Aunt Lydia's voice had warbled in her ear. Not for a pretty little thing like yourself. Why not stay somewhere with the girls?
Of course, she'd travelled for work - across the country, across the globe. From airports to hire cars to fancy hotels, Tom's suitcase stacked neatly beside her own, his hand on her shoulder, his belt on her back -
"Can I come?" she blurted out, far too loud.
Richie's eyebrows climbed. "Why?"
Bev took a deep breath to settle her pounding heart. "You make it sound so inviting," she joked, even as her fingers tore another fragment from the bottle. "The freedom, the fresh air. The serial killers."
To her surprise, Richie grinned. "I should 'ave known, Miss Marsh," he tittered in the voice of an old-timey lady with a vaguely Southern twang. "Y'all've never acted as a lady should. Running off with a man, lookin' fo adventure – why I should tell your Papa, I should."
A giggle bubbled out of Bev's throat and she clapped a hand over her mouth. "That was terrible," she gasped. "Do not tell anyone it made me laugh."
Richie crossed his heart. Bev bit her lip and nudged him with her shoulder.
"But, seriously, though," Richie said, thankfully using his regular voice, "why would you want to come? What about Ben?"
It was Bev's turn to flush, apparently. At least she could blame it on the wine. "I want to be with him," she said, and, huh. She was drunker than she realised. "But I need to figure some stuff out first."
Richie pinned her with a sideways glance. "Like divorcing your husband?"
"Beep beep, Richie." Richie raised his hands and Bev accepted the wordless apology. "But, yes. And, you know, logistics. My company is in New York, so I'm not sure how it would work."
"Seems like these problems would easier to solve from New York."
Richie's smart, Bev suddenly remembered, rocked once more that strange sensation of a memory slotting into a gap that she never knew existed.
"So, you guys have been friends for ages, huh?" Bev scuffed her boot against the grass and stole a sideways glance at Bill.
Smoke drifted lazily from the orange glow of her cigarette. Bill didn't smoke, but he didn't seem to mind.
"S-since third gr-gr-grade," Bill confirmed. "Th-that's when Eddie moved here. But R-R-Richie and Stan have been friends since th-they were to-toddlers."
"Really?" Bev didn't hide her surprise.
Bill grinned, his blue eyes twinkling. "Y-yeah, I know. B-but it works. They fight less than any of us."
Bev took a drag and pondered. Her gaze drifted toward the nearby stream, where Eddie was red-faced and yelling, hands balled into fists and voice reaching a pitch hereto unknown. His words were indecipherable over Richie's loud cackle, the taller boy completely unphased by Eddie's rage. Ben was looking on, bemused, and Mike wore a small smile while he skipped another rock across the water. Stan rolled his eyes and poked Richie in the ribs, then leaned in to say something that made Richie throw his head back in a full-body laugh.
"Is it because they're so different, do you think?"
Bill followed her gaze. Bev watched him watch his friends, loving the way that his brow creased in thought, that he always spoke with deliberation, so careful with every hard-earned word. "Th-they're not that different, yo-you know. Stan's got a w-weird sense of h-humour, but R-Richie always seems to get it. And Richie's perceptive, l-l-like Stan. He's s-smarter than all of us, when he bothers to try." He stopped. Smiled. "'Cept maybe Ben."
Bev's gaze darted to the back of Richie's head as he crouched on the ground, rummaging through the debris at his feet. As he straightened, Bev realised he was holding a massive stone – a good six inches each way, his skinny arms straining to hold the weight. He twisted to study Mike, then made a show of copying the other boy's movement: with an exaggerated wind-up, he tossed the stone with both arms toward the stream. It flew all of two feet and smashed into the water with a heavy plunk, sending a curtain of dirty water washing over both Richie and Stan. Stan froze, then cuffed Richie on the back of the head with a wet squelch.
Bev raised an eyebrow. "That guy? Are you sure?"
Bill took one look at her face and dissolved into laughter.
"They probably would," Bev answered, far too late. She kept her chin high, her voice firm. "But I don't want to go back right now."
Richie regarded her. His dark eyes flitted briefly to her wrists, where the fingerprint bruises were deepening to a bluish purple, and her fingers twitched for the sleeves of the jacket she'd lost hours ago. She stilled them with an effort.
"Alright," he said after a beat. "Come with me, it'll be fun. We'll split a pack of Marlboro's and argue over music, and you can drink me under the table every night. Nothing like a road trip to avoid confronting responsibility, right?"
"Right."
"But you're telling Ben," Richie added gravely. "It'll break his sweet heart to hear that we're running away together. I can't bear to -"
He broke off, cackling, as Bev shoved him ass-first onto the floor.
"-ev? Bev, wake up."
Someone shook her shoulder. Bev groaned and buried her face further into her pillow.
"Bev."
"G'way."
"You sure? We brought food."
Her stomach grumbled. Fuck. That was a good argument.
Reluctantly cracking open her eyes, Bev squinted at the figure leaning over her bed and rubbed her forehead. "And aspirin?"
The figure shook his head. Her eyes slowly adjusted to the light, allowing her see his brown hair, his dimples, his strong shoulders. Ben. "Sorry," he whispered. "Hungover?"
"Yeah." Kicking off the sheets, Bev forced herself upright. The movement made the room spin, and her stomach churned uneasily. Taking a few deliberate breaths, she closed her eyes and waited for it to settle. Her head throbbed. "Not the worst I've had."
Ben's brow creased. "Eddie probably brought something," he said, uncertainly. "I could…"
Bev's gut clenched. She shook her head, ignoring the way that it made the room yaw around her. "No." Standing, she crossed the room to her luggage and rummaged around for a fresh set of clothes. Behind her, she heard footsteps.
"Stay," she said quickly, before Ben could excuse himself. "I'll just…" she gestured toward the bathroom and waited for Ben's nod before stepping over the threshold.
Stupid, she admonished herself as soon as she closed the door. You're a grown woman. You love him. Why are you hiding away?
You're a grown, married woman, another voice responded – one that sounded strangely like her father - and she flinched and dressed as quickly as she could.
When she emerged, she found Ben straightening her blankets and leaned against the doorframe to watch. To appreciate the view, sure – she wasn't blind, and Richie wasn't the only one to notice Ben's transformation – but more so to appreciate the action. Had Tom ever made their bed? That had always been her job, although they'd never sat down and discussed it, and he'd never truly forced her. But he liked things to be tidy, and her father had taught her good manners if nothing else (and how to draw, Bevvie, I gave you that and where would you be without it?) so she made their bed and cleaned their kitchen and stowed his shoes and never thought to question why she never saw him do any of it, when he was the one who would be upset if he spied something out of place, his eyes narrowing and lips thin with anger, his large hands reaching for his belt, his –
Ben finished up and turned toward her. His smile faltered. "Beverly? Are you okay?"
Bev swallowed against the hard lump in her throat. "Not really."
Ben took a half-step toward her, then hesitated. "Can I come closer?"
And, God, this man. Bev's heart swelled with more love than she ever knew she could hold, and she smiled despite her shaken haze. "You're the first person who's ever asked me that."
A pained expression flitted across his face. "That's…not great, Bev."
"No," she agreed. She stepped forward, slipping her hand into his. "But it's good now. It will be good." Ben squeezed her hand, but his mouth was still downturned. Bev lifted her chin. "Didn't you say something about food?"
They made their way hand-in-hand to the dining room. The others were already there: Bill gesturing animatedly as he explained something to Mike, who nodded agreement even as he dug through a pile of paper bags. Richie was paying no attention to either of them, his red-rimmed eyes gazing at nothing while he chewed on a mouthful of burger. He'd clearly been awake about as long as Bev.
The scent of greasy bacon wafted across the room, making her mouth water. "Why does that smell so good?" she wondered to nobody in particular, unwinding her fingers from Ben's and approaching the pile of food. "Gimme."
Bill smirked and pushed a meal toward her. "Good nap?"
"Mmhmm." She unwrapped the burger and took a large bite, closing her eyes briefly at the sensation. Fuck. When was the last time she'd eaten? Yesterday, lunch? No wonder her stomach was growling. "What time is it?"
"Seven," Mike supplied, and her eyes widened.
She glanced from Mike to Bill to Ben to the darkened window. "Were you guys out all day?"
Ben gave a half-shrug, already halfway through his veggie wrap. "More or less. We had everything ready by the afternoon, but when we got back you guys were already asleep. So, we just napped until dusk, then went back and finished the job."
Richie looked up. "It's done?" His voice was gravelly, rough with fatigue.
Bill nodded. "It took a bit of scrubbing but the axe is clean, and so is the library. And B-Bowers...Ben made it look good. No one's finding him there."
Richie's whole body began to tremble, and he dropped unsteadily into a nearby chair. "Fuck." Tossing his half-eaten burger to the table, he leaned forward and grasped his hair by the fistful. "Fuck me."
"Rich," Bev breathed, stretching a hand toward him, but Bill and Mike beat her to it. Bill slid his arm around Richie's shoulders while Mike crouched and placed a hand on his leg.
No one spoke, but Richie slowly released his grip and raised his head to catch Mike's eye. "I want to say thanks, but I'm not sure that's enough for literally helping me hide the body. Do you accept gift cards?"
Mike squeezed his knee. "You did it to save my life. I should be the one thanking you."
Richie pulled a face. "Even stevens?"
"I'll allow it." Smiling slightly, Mike grabbed Richie's burger and pressed it into his hands. "But only if you eat. You look terrible."
"And you look like a model, like always. Asshole."
Bev chuckled, drawing Richie's attention. He smiled, genuine if a little shaky, and patted Bill's arm in reassurance. "And that's my last breakdown for today," Richie assured them as he straightened. "It's someone else's turn."
Bill released Richie to fling a finger to his nose. "Not it. I already had mine."
Bev's heart sank. Now that he mentioned it, he did look a little pale. "You did? Are you okay?"
He shrugged and pressed his lips together, hiding their slight tremble. "When I s-saw Bowers. K-Kinda glad you weren't there to see it."
"That's for sure," Mike ribbed, giving Richie one last appraising look before rising to his feet. "It wasn't pretty."
Bill flipped him the bird. Mike popped a fry into his mouth, unperturbed.
"I think we're all pretty shaken," Ben said, placatingly. "It's been a long two days."
"You can say that again," Bev muttered. Her burger was gone, so she wiped her fingers on a napkin and tore into her fries. "I could sleep for a week."
Murmurs of agreement sounded from all sides. There was a moment of silence broken only by the sounds of chewing and swallowing and the tick tick tick of a clock in the stairwell.
Bill carefully wiped his lips with a napkin and placed It with the rest of the rubbish. His blue eyes were troubled.
Bev frowned. "Bill? What is it?"
He glanced at her, hesitation written across his face, and took a deep breath. "Eddie had a wife," he said quietly, although his words carried easily to the others. "W-we need to tell her."
"What?" Richie exclaimed. His eyes were comically wide behind his glasses. "Tell her about Pennywise? Are you fucking insane?"
"Richie's right," Ben said. Richie thrust a hand at him as if to say see? The smart guy agrees with me. "We don't have any proof."
Bill ran a hand through his hair, making it stick up in all directions. "I didn't mean that we should tell her about Pennywise! But, Eddie's not – he's not coming home. We have to tell her something - otherwise, she'll -"
"The police," Bev interrupted. Richie and Ben turned to her, disbelieving, and she set her jaw. "If we don't report him missing, she will. Eddie probably told her where he was going." The blood drained from Richie's face; Mike's forehead broke out in a sweat. "Besides, Bill's right. We can't just leave his wife wondering. She deserves to know that he's…that he's gone."
Richie flinched, and even Ben looked unconvinced. "We just spent the day hiding a body," he pointed out.
Which – fair. Bev licked her lips. "That just means we need a good story. Bill?"
Bill stared, then dropped his face into his hands and muttered a litany of inventive curses beneath his breath. "Alright," he said, when the infernal tick of the clock had gone on a little too long. "Here's what we'll do."
His plan was simple –stick close to the truth, he said with that same authority that convinced them to follow him into a crumbling old house so many years ago. They were in town for a reunion, but they'd soon split up to explore. Eddie had returned to the Townhouse after lunch, passing Ben and Bev on his way to his room. That was the last they'd seen of him.
"It's definitely better than trying to fix the mess in his bathroom," Ben allowed, "but won't it be suspicious that we waited so long to report him missing?"
Bill shook his head. "Let's say that you knocked on his door last night before dinner, but he didn't reply. You assumed he was sleeping – we were out late the night before, after all – so you left him to it and joined us at Mike's. We all had a few too many drinks and stayed late again. Richie and Bev spent today sleeping it off; the rest of us spent the morning helping Mike with his project for Book Week, then napped all afternoon. It wasn't until now that we realised no one had seen him all day."
"Henry Bowers' escape is all over the news," Mike added. "The police won't suspect four celebrities and a librarian when there's a crazed serial killer on the loose – particularly one who used to bully Eddie back in school."
And that was it. They spent another half hour hammering out the specifics – or, rather, Bill and Mike did, Mike's eye for detail complementing Bill's talent for story craft. Bev offered a suggestion here and there, Ben nodded along to each tweak, and Richie sat silently in his seat, one hand clutching an empty cup while the other tap tap tapped against his thigh.
Bev watched him, worried. At first, he flinched at every mention of Eddie's name; after a while, he merely sat still, shoulders hunching further as the conversation wore on. She hadn't stopped to think about Eddie since she woke up – hadn't let herself, if she was being honest – and she wondered how he could bear it. How Bill could. She forgot, sometimes, that the four of them had been friends for years before they opened their hearts to her, to the lonely new kid, to the home-schooled outcast with a smile that lit up the room. Before the Losers, there was Stuttering Bill and Stan the Man and Eddie Spaghetti (cute cute cute) and Richie "Trashmouth" Tozier, and the four of them balanced each other out in a way that should have made her feel less but somehow never did.
She wondered, suddenly, how it would have gone if it had just been them. Would they have gone after IT, four skinny boys in thin T-shirts, eyes wide with fear, jaws set with determination? Would they have bolstered each other, kept each other safe? Would they have survived?
They wouldn't. She knew it with the same bone-deep certainty that she knew Stan wouldn't show up at the restaurant, that they couldn't break their oaths, and she took a moment to suppress a shudder and send a silent prayer to whatever god was out there that let children form friendships as easy as breathing, that allowed Bill and Stan and Eddie and eventually Richie to like her and love her and welcome her in a way that she'd never known before or since.
Half of their foursome was gone, now, and Bill had the same dead-eyed glaze that he wore after Georgie died. Bev chewed her cheek and wondered how much guilt he was carrying, how long it would be before he finally stopped moving long enough to feel it, and how much more he could take before he found himself crushed beneath its weight.
She wanted to be there for him when it happened - if it happened. But Mike was hovering beside Bill, as he had been ever since they left Neibolt, and he caught Bev's eye and nodded slightly – yes, I see it too, I'll watch over him – so she set aside the worst of her worry and focussed on Richie instead. Richie, whose face was starting to turn green, who was standing up and announcing he needed to whizz, who was disappearing up the stairs before anyone could call out the lie.
Bill was halfway to his feet when Bev waved him away. "I'll go," she said, picking up his phone and pressing it into his hands. "You need to make the call."
"I'll come with," Ben told her. It wasn't a question, so Bev laced her fingers with his and they headed off together.
Richie's door was open. Bev knocked lightly on the frame and didn't wait for a response before entering. His bed was unmade, yesterday's grimy clothes scattered across the floor, and she heard him groan from the direction of the bathroom. Crossing the short distance, she sighed at the sight of him draped across the toilet bowl, face no longer green but disturbingly pale.
"Feeling better?" Bev asked, perching on the edge of the bath.
Richie wiped his sweaty forehead with his sleeve. "I haven't been this hungover in years," he moaned.
Bev hummed in sympathy, her own throbbing head and twisting stomach making themselves known. "Me neither. Not since college."
"Since college? I meant, like, three years. You people need to get out more."
"I'll pass," Ben said, faintly disturbed. "The LA lifestyle is not really my scene."
"Your loss." Richie shrugged, then clamped his mouth shut with a bug-eyed look. Bev rubbed the back of his neck while he emptied his stomach once more.
When he was done, Ben offered a glass of water to rinse his mouth, and Richie slumped backward to rest against the wall. "Thanks," he muttered, sliding his glasses back into place. Then he looked up and jolted in mock surprise. "Bev? Ben? If you're here to invite me to a threesome, you should know that I'm very into that."
Ben rolled his eyes; Bev kicked Richie's ankle. "Not if we were the last three people on earth."
Richie pouted. "You guys are no fun." He rinsed his mouth, spat into the toilet, and flushed it firmly. Bev noticed with satisfaction that his cheeks were already a healthier colour.
"We're just making sure you're alright," Ben said, neatly steering the conversation back on track. "You don't look so hot, Rich."
"Mike and Bill are placing the call now," Bev added. "Are you up for it?" It wasn't the most sympathetic thing she could have asked, but the truth was they needed him. To sell the story, to play the role of the worried best friend (no acting needed, she thought, eyeing his rumpled clothes and red-rimmed eyes, no sir, the officer would take one look at him and know that he was falling apart without Eddie by his side, and if it was selfish of her to be glad for the credence that lent to their story then, well, maybe she was selfish.)
Richie met her eyes, then pressed his lips into a thin line. "We're really doing this?"
"We have to," Ben said softly, and Bev found herself nodding.
Richie looked from one to the other, then sighed. "Alright then," he muttered. "What's one more lie?"
Bev frowned, but before she could ask what he meant Richie was on his feet and staggering to the sink. He grimaced at his reflection and pushed his glasses to his head long enough to splash some water on his face.
"Alright," he said again, turning to face them, grim determination lining his face. "Let's get this over with."
It took three days. Three days of interviews, of police officers with professional disaffected faces and the occasional flash of sympathy, of wandering the town, wordlessly avoiding the dilapidated units of Bev's childhood, the abandoned arcade on Main street, Bill's old house on Witcham. They found themselves at the Hanlon farm more than once – the Briar farm, now, but Bev didn't bother to correct it in her head, and Jamie Briar was friendly enough with Mike to let them roam so long as they stayed away from his freshly-ploughed fields.
Until, finally, just half an hour before the light would begin to fade on the third day of their ghostly existence, Mike's phone lit up with Chief Johnstone's name and they all fell silent, staring at the little device that held the key to their futures, the air suddenly thick, their shoulders suddenly heavy with the knowledge of what was about to happen.
Rigor mortis had come and gone by the time Eddie's body was discovered. His leg was shattered, pinned down by a boulder the size of a trashcan; his skull was similarly caved in. Both injuries occurred post-mortem, according to the coroner's final report a month after the fact. Cause of death was likely impalement – a rebar, perhaps, that pierced his back and ran through a lung and tore his mediastinum and broke two ribs on its way out his chest. It had been removed, by Eddie or by Henry Bowers, and exsanguination followed soon after.
The details dribbled out over time: through the sympathetic voice of the Chief, through the preliminary autopsy report, through Myra Kaspbrak's shrill voice over the phone (he can't even have an open casket, do you understand what that means, I don't want any of you anywhere near him ever again), through the final coroner's report that Bev kept unopened for weeks before finally working up the courage to read, her mind unable to rest until she knew everything there was to know. But, for now, there was just the simple statement – We've found him but it's bad news, I'm sorry Mike – and a silent trek back to the Townhouse, and a half-hearted attempt at folding clothes before Bev gave up and tossed them haphazardly into her bag.
A soft knock drew her attention to the doorway, and she summoned a weak smile. "Hi," she greeted, winding a shirt around her hands and sinking onto the bed.
Ben shoved his hands into his pockets and rocked back on his heels. "Can I come in?"
"Of course." Bev shoved her bag further back onto the bed and patted the freed-up space beside her. "What's up?"
Ben leaned back and ran a hand over the edge of her bag. His brown eyes were clear, sharp. "I've been wanting to ask you something, but I don't want you to feel any pressure, okay? You're more than welcome to say no."
Bev rested a hand on his thigh. "What is it?"
Ben took a deep breath, then met her eyes. "Do you want to come with me? I know you have to go back to New York, but maybe after? I'd kick myself all the way to Nebraska if I left without asking."
Bev's heart swelled so large that she worried it would explode. Ben's voice was so earnest, so open – braver than she ever could be. "Oh, Ben," she murmured, leaning against his side and turning his chin toward her with two delicate fingers. She reached up and pressed her lips to his, trying to pour as much love and passion as she could into the kiss.
When she pulled away, his cheeks were flushed and his eyes a little unfocussed, so she figured she'd met her goal. "I can't," she said, softly, and squeezed his hand. "Not yet."
Ben froze, then nodded, his disappointment swallowed in an instant. "Of course," he backpedalled, stumbling over the words. "You have a business, and a husband, and I should never have assumed –"
Bev pressed a finger to his lips to shut him up. "Not yet," she emphasised. "Richie and I are going on a road trip."
In another context, Ben's befuddled stare might have been comical. "Huh?"
Bev's lips twitched. "Well, I think we are," she amended. "We talked about it a few days ago, but he hasn't mentioned it since." She paused, then asked, "Want to come? I can't promise any sightseeing, but I can guarantee plenty of greasy food and alcohol."
"Tempting," Ben said, a bald-faced lie if she ever heard one, "but I can't. I have a stakeholder meeting on Friday. I can't miss it - it's been in the works for months."
Bev rested her head on Ben's shoulder, drinking in his warmth as he pulled her close. "I called a divorce lawyer yesterday," she murmured. "She told me I should wait at least six months before starting a new relationship to avoid accusations of having an affair. I told her they wouldn't be wrong."
"Bev, I -"
"I don't want to wait six months." She pulled away just enough to meet Ben's worried, cautiously hopeful gaze. "But I need a few days to get my head straight. To pretend I don't have responsibilities. To farewell Rogan Marsh, since I probably won't get much in the divorce."
Ben's mouth became pinched. "You can't give up your company for me."
"I should have divorced him years ago. I'm giving it up for me."
"Still. I can wait, Bev."
She shook her head. "I'm tired of waiting."
And that was the simple truth, wasn't it? The words felt right on her tongue in a way they so rarely did - I just fell over playing tennis, I'm so clumsy sometimes, yes, Tom, I'm so sorry, I won't do it again – and she closed her eyes and leaned into him and drew a deep breath, in, and out. "I love you, you know that, right?" she mumbled, and felt her whole body relax for the first time in decades when he said three little words right back.
Bill flew out that night and Ben the next morning, and then it was just Richie and Bev standing next to his outlandish rental, trying to figure out how to farewell Mike without breaking down for the third time that day.
"Are you sure you don't want us to stay?" Bev asked again, eyeing the worry lines on Mike's forehead and the way he shoved his hands deep into his pockets, curling in on himself. "I hate leaving you here."
"I know," Mike replied, and to his credit there was no hint of annoyance at the repetitive questioning, just fathomless depths of patience. "I promised the Board I would stay another four weeks. I intend to stick to it."
"I could stay another four weeks," Richie offered, although there was a restless edge to his voice. Still, Bev was sure that he would do it if Mike asked.
"You hate it here," Mike pointed out with an easy grin. "You hated it even when we were kids."
"Absolutely true, but also beside the point."
Rolling his eyes, Mike straightened to his full height. "Seriously, guys. I'm a functional adult. I'll be fine."
"And you'll call us?" Bev tapped her foot nervously. "If we start to forget. I'd rather be back here remembering than out there forgetting. I can design clothes just as easily from Derry."
Richie gave her a sideways glance. "I'm not sure Derry is ready for my brand of stand-up, but it's a short leap from comedy to logging. I can finally get in shape."
Mike squeezed Richie's bicep doubtfully; Richie jerked his arm away. "I'm not in shape now, dickhead," he grumbled. "That's my whole point. Do you guys fucking listen when I talk?"
"No," Mike said. "And, yes, Bev, I'll call. I'll bring you back if it comes to that, and we'll see if we can figure something else out."
"You'd better." Bev surged forward for a hug, then reached out blindly for Richie's shirt and dragged him in as well. "Love you, Mike."
"Love you both."
"Do I have to say it too? I feel like it'll be weird if I don't."
Chuckling, Bev freed one of her hands to slap Richie upside the head. She clung to Mike with the other, not yet willing to let him go.
"We'll see each other again soon," Mike promised, his lips moving against her hair. "Four weeks, and I'll be following you to...where are you guys going, anyway?"
"West," Bev said, at the same time as Richie said "South."
They all froze. Then Bev dissolved into giggles and had to extract herself from the boys to wipe her eyes. Richie watched her with bright eyes and a broad, genuine grin, while Mike looked between the two of them with fond exasperation. "Functional adult," he repeated, pointing to his chest. "You two, on the other hand...I give it six hours before you're bailing on this half-assed plan and heading for the airport."
"Fuck you," Richie said, good-naturedly. "The guy who's never left Derry does not get to lecture the guy who regularly tours the country on road trips."
"Yes, because you do so much of your own planning for those."
"Richie!" Bev cut in, holding up a hand. "Don't get in a dick-measuring contest with Mike; you'll lose. And, Mike," she ignored Richie's indignant squawk and swung to the taller man, then hesitated. Her prepared insult dissolved on her tongue at the sight of his sparkling eyes, his amused smirk. "Get the hell out of here as soon as you can, okay?"
"I promise, Bev." Mike shoved her gently toward the car. "Now, go."
Sniffling, Bev rounded the car and lowered herself into the passenger seat. She slammed the door, clicked her seatbelt into place and slipped a pair of sunglasses over her eyes. Richie mirrored her behind the wheel and when the engine rumbled to life, she met his eyes in a silent, knowing exchange.
They raised their hands in farewell, and then they drove.
Away from the Townhouse, where she had held an old postcard and looked into Ben's eyes and known love. Down Main Street, where she stole cigarettes and walked curiously to a group of boys who never called her slut, never called her bitch, who she would never, could never have guessed would become the most important people in her life. Around the corner to Up-Mile Hill, down which she had sailed countless times, her hair streaming behind her, her skinned knees steady beneath her favourite pair of overalls, a joyful shout on her lips and hope in her heart. Through the intersection to Kansas street, where the ground dipped away to her right, tidy gardens and cracked pavement giving way to leaves and vines and branches and streams and laughter and horror and a simple, child-like innocence that she had once thought lost.
Goodbye Derry, she thought, and was surprised by the fondness of the thought, the edge of grief. Derry was fear, and hurt, and I worry a lot and a blood-stained mirror and death. But it was also childhood, and fun, and laughter, and friendship, and boys she loved more than life.
Richie reached out and clasped his fingers loosely around her own. She held on tight.
Thankyou, she said silently, sending the thought to the Barrens, to the quarry, to the town at large. Thankyou for giving me them.
And then they were through the last of the suburbs, gabled houses and rows of driveways growing smaller in the rear-view mirror, the street beneath their wheels straightening onto a well-worn highway, and then they were gone.