PART THREE
The cell door opened, and Richie scrambled to his feet. Standing in the doorway with Officer Brady was Arthur Tran – the lawyer Steve had scrounged up from god-knows-where, who was eating into Richie's life savings a terrifying rate that Steve assured him would be worth it in the end.
At least, that was Richie's interpretation. Steve could be a little hard to parse, sometimes, with all the rage and swearing. It was entirely possible that he'd decided to throw Richie under the bus after all.
"What's up, Doc?" he asked nervously, hating himself as soon as the words were out of his mouth. "I wasn't expecting any visitors."
Officer Brady levelled him with a look that fell just short of a glare. "Good news, Mr Tozier. You're free to go."
Richie's gaze slid to Arthur. He didn't dare to hope. "Really?"
Arthur nodded. "Ms Marsh was able to give her statement this morning. The charges against you have been dropped."
Richie sagged. Bev was okay? The relief rushed through him, almost causing him to miss Arthur's next words. "She provided us with the passcode to her phone, where Mr Rogan left a series of threatening voicemails in the days leading up to the incident. She also has a number of friends willing to testify that she has been a victim of domestic violence for many years." He glanced at Brady, tapping a finger slowly against his briefcase. "Mr Rogan has decided to plead guilty, since all the evidence supports your story."
"If you ignore the 'circumstantial' fact that you've been involved in two major police incidents in two different states in the same week," Brady countered, shooting the lawyer a flat look. "Strangely, my colleagues in Maine insist they hold no suspicions about your involvement in the death of Edward Kaspbrak, despite what happened here."
"As you said: circumstantial," Arthur interrupted. He stood aside and gestured for Richie to leave the cell. "Let's not keep Mr Tozier waiting any longer than necessary."
Richie knew a cue when he saw it. He stumbled out of the cell, tugging uncomfortably at the neck of the jumpsuit he'd already grown used to wearing, and followed Arthur to the front of the station. The smaller man led him into a processing room, which was empty save for a box sitting in the centre of the table.
"Your belongings are in there. I'll give you a minute to get dressed."
He left the room, leaving Richie to stare at the shirt and pants he'd thrown on before rushing to Bev's door, now spattered with bloodstains. He pulled them out slowly and found his phone sitting bleakly at the bottom of the box.
That was it. That was all he'd had on him when he'd frantically dialled 911 and rolled Bev onto her side, tilting her head and begging her to wake up. When his heart had raced and his mind had turned foggy and the minutes felt like hours, and he'd almost collapsed in relief when police cars finally screamed into the motel carpark, two ambulances close behind.
When the police had taken one look at the two unconscious people and his bloodied knuckles, and slapped a pair of handcuffs on him before the paramedics had even whisked Bev away.
His legs shook.
The memories had been racing through his mind on repeat for the last three days, but he'd never really stopped to think about them. The fear of the unknown – whether Bev was okay, if he'd ever be free - had overwhelmed everything else, blurring the memories beneath a desperate refrain of what if what if what if.
But the charges had been dropped. He would be able to walk out the door and visit Bev in hospital and –
- and then what?
Someone rapped on the door. "Are you decent?"
Richie jerked himself out of his reverie. "Just a minute!" Wrenching down the zipper of the jumpsuit, he changed into his clothes and grabbed his phone. He hit the lock button five times before conceding that, yes, the battery was definitely dead, and shoved it into his pocket. "All done."
The door opened and Arthur strode back inside, Officer Brady close behind. Richie couldn't help but shrink back. "What now?" he asked, nervously.
Arthur plonked his briefcase down on the table. "Paperwork." He gestured to Brady, who placed a sheaf of official-looking paper on the table and started riffling through it. "So, I'll need you sign here…"
Half an hour and an endless amount of signatures later, Richie found himself being hustled into Arthur's car, conveniently parked right by the back door of the building.
"Paps around the front," Arthur said to Richie's questioning look. "Better to avoid notice, don't you think?"
"That explains the car," Richie muttered. Not that there was anything wrong with the car. It was a tidy little sedan, clean and well-kept, about as memorable as a fly on the wall. It was also entirely too cheap for someone earning what Richie was paying.
Arthur politely ignored him. "Where should I drop you?"
"The hospital," Richie answered immediately. "I want to see Bev."
Arthur tapped his indicator. "I thought as much."
They spent the rest of the drive in silence, save for the sound of Richie jiggling his leg restlessly against the seat. He opened his mouth to speak once or twice, just to break the unbearable quiet, but closed it again at the carefully smooth look on Arthur's face.
Arthur Tran was a good lawyer, but he wasn't Richie's friend. That much was clear.
It became even more obvious when they came to a stop in the hospital carpark. Arthur didn't bother turning off the engine, instead leaving it to rumble as he put the car in park and eyed Richie with an inscrutable expression.
"I don't know what the truth is here, Mr Tozier," he finally said, just as Richie began to say something wildly inappropriate just to break the tension, "and I don't want to. We both know the Maine police half-assed that case. They never even found Henry Bowers yet seem happy to pin Edward Kaspbrak's death on him based on the word of you and your friends. I've seen a lot of sloppy policing over the years, and this is up there with the worst."
Richie squirmed. "I didn't – "
Arthur raised a hand and pinned him with a look. "As I said: I don't want to know. You didn't hire me to help with that case. You hired me for this one, and this one is about as cut-and-dry as it gets. Tom Rogan is not a clever man. I see a lot of domestic violence in this job, although not usually so high-profile, I'll admit." Arthur's face darkened, and he glanced at the hospital. "But if the Maine case blows up, you could find yourself in hot water. Do you think there's any chance of that?"
Richie blew out a breath through pursed lips. "I don't think so. Things that happen in Derry…they tend to stay there." Although that might change, now, he thought, although part of him knew that wouldn't be the case. Because it had been sloppy, hadn't it? The Derry police had lived up to their reputation, pinning Eddie's death on the most convenient target and calling it a day. That had to mean something.
Arthur grunted. "Here's hoping. Because this one has been front page news for the last three days."
Wincing, Richie wondered if he still had an agent. He really needed to give Steve a raise. "Right. So you're saying…?"
"Tread lightly, Mr Tozier. The more you stay out of the headlines, the less likely people will go digging into your past."
"Right." Stay out of the headlines. Perfect. How the hell was he supposed to do that?
"Well, I won't hold you up any longer. Give Ms Marsh my well wishes."
"I will." Richie just barely stopped himself from adding sir and managed to extricate himself from the car without further embarrassment. He walked to the hospital entrance, then watched as the little sedan pulled out of the park and joined the traffic on the road.
Stay out of the headlines.
Easy, right?
"Richie!"
The blood drained from Richie's face as he whirled toward the sound. Were the paps here, too? Surely Arthur would have –
His spied a tall, black man jogging toward him and broke into a relieved grin. "Mike! I didn't know you were here."
Mike cut him off with a rough hug, squeezing tight for a long moment before stepping back. He looked Richie over, the worry lines on his face deepening by the second. "I came as soon as I heard. Are you okay? What's going on?"
Richie fiddled with his sleeves self-consciously. Maybe he should have gone to the motel first after all. "They let me go. Said it was cut and dry, the Derry stuff notwithstanding."
"The Derry stuff? What does Derry have to do with this?"
Richie huffed a humourless laugh. "Nothing. It's circumstantial. We just need to make sure it stays that way."
"And you? Do you need something to eat? Some clean clothes?"
"Clothes would be nice," Richie muttered, picking at his hem. "I came straight here."
Mike shrugged out of his coat and offered it to Richie.
Richie stared. "I didn't mean –"
"I know it's not what you meant," Mike said, patiently. "But it'll cover up the stains until I buy you something from the gift shop."
Overcome with a rush of gratitude, Richie accepted the coat and slipped it on. "Thanks," he said. "Really. Thanks."
Mike nudged him with a shoulder. "Come on. Bev will want to see you."
He led the way through the crowded foyer. A few people stared and Richie shrunk back, all-too-aware of his unkempt hair and cracked glasses. But Mike's arm tapped reassuringly against his own and before he knew it the lift doors were hiding them from the crowd. Richie would have crumpled in relief if his nerves toward weren't still zinging from the ordeal.
When the doors opened, it was to a ward that was much quieter than downstairs. Mike led the way, chatting softly about Bev's recovery until they reached her door.
"Guess who I found loitering outside," Mike announced, shoving Richie in ahead of him. "Ta-da!"
Richie shuffled into the small room. Bev smiled from the bed, her face bright despite her pale skin and lank hair. Ben was squeezed in beside her, handsome as ever in a dark blue shirt and slacks, and he grinned broadly when he looked at Richie.
"Richie!" he exclaimed, gesturing for him to come closer. "We heard they were letting you go. Come on in!"
Bev grinned and stretched out her arms out for a hug.
Richie approached the bed but didn't lean in. Instead, he shoved his hands in his pockets and let his eyes rove over Bev's swollen neck, the linear cuts on her arms, the line of sutures on her scalp. "Bev, I –" He broke off, his eyes meeting her own, tears pricking at the edges. He swallowed against a lump in his throat. "I'm so sorry."
Bev's smile faltered.
"I should have gotten there sooner, or done more, or –"
"Richie, stop." Bev's voice was hoarse, whisper-quiet. Richie shut his mouth with a clack.
Bev curled her fingers around his wrist and gently tugged him down beside her. Richie was vaguely aware of Ben getting up from the other side of the bed to give them room, but most of his attention was caught up in trying to find a way to sit without touching Bev, scared of accidentally hurting her.
He felt as much as heard her sigh before she released his wrist to instead wrap an arm around his shoulders, pulling him into her side. "Not your fault," she croaked.
Richie turned toward her, eyes narrowed against what he suspected was coming.
Bev must have read his mind, since her lips twisted into a wry smile. "Not mine, either," she whispered. She rolled her eyes toward Ben and Mike, an exaggerated gesture of faux-annoyance to show that she was parroting what she'd been told. Then she met Richie's eyes and her face turned serious once more. "Tom's."
Richie shrugged his shoulders uncomfortably but let the conversation drop. Instead, he nodded to the sutures. "Are you okay?"
Bev nodded and turned to Ben, who took the hint and cleared his throat. "How much did they tell you?"
"Basically nothing," Richie scowled. "They didn't want to influence my statement."
Ben looked pained. "I tried to visit. They wouldn't let me."
"Did they treat you okay?" Mike rounded the bed to stare worriedly at Richie, his hands clenching and unclenching at his side.
Richie let out an aggrieved sigh. "Three stars at best. I prefer rehab."
Mike's eyes narrowed. Richie dropped the show.
"It was fine," he muttered. "They didn't mistreat me. Just – being locked up is not something I recommend. Okay?"
Mike squeezed Richie's shoulder then turned back to Ben, who took a deep breath. "Bev's throat is healing well," he began, as though listing off an itinerary that he'd committed to heart. "It's swollen, but none of the cartilage is broken so it's just a matter of waiting for it to settle down." He glanced at Bev's head, wincing slightly at the shaved part of her scalp. "The head injury was a lot worse. Tom knocked her against the wall and caused a bleed beneath the skull. It put pressure on her brain, which is why she passed out. As soon as the doctors realised what was going on, they rushed her into theatre and drilled a hole in her skull to relieve the pressure."
Richie blinked, then clapped a hand to his mouth as his stomach lurched. He couldn't tear his gaze away from the line of sutures.
Bev wrapped her fingers around his wrist and squeezed.
Ben continued. "Other than that, there's a few bumps and bruises but no broken bones. She was stepped down from ICU this morning and the doctors say it's unlikely she'll have any further bleeds. Bev's going to be fine."
Bev was going to be fine.
Bev had a hole in her skull.
Bev had a freaking hole in her skull.
Richie's stomach heaved, and he threw himself at the bathroom just in time to empty it into the toilet. He heard someone say "I thought that might happen" as the door slammed shut, and when he finished upchucking, he rested his sweaty forehead on his forearms and wondered if ten AM really was too early to go to bed.
He groaned, closing his eyes, and almost missed the soft click of the door.
"Hey, man, you okay?" Ben's voice was gentle, as though handling something fragile. Richie twisted just enough to shoot him a flat look, which Ben apparently took as an invitation to approach. "Don't take this the wrong way, but you look rough."
Richie wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and dragged himself upright. "No shit."
Ben inspected the floor, then shrugged and dropped onto the cold tiles. "There was an officer here this morning. He said they're closing the investigation."
Richie nodded. Brady had said the same thing.
"Which means we're free to leave."
Richie jerked in surprise. "Surely Bev isn't ready to be discharged?"
"No," Ben agreed. "But the doctors say she's stable enough to be transferred."
Fingers clenched tight around Richie's heart. "When are you leaving?"
"Not today," Ben assured him, reading the panic in Richie's eyes. "We were never going to leave until you were cleared."
Richie understood the unspoken word. "So, tomorrow?"
Ben's hands twisted together. "Probably. Bev's itching to put as much distance between her and Tom as possible."
That made sense. Richie couldn't begrudge them that.
"And I know you've got a life to get back to in California and you probably don't want to, so no pressure at all, but…did you want to come with us?"
Richie blinked, stunned. "To Nebraska?"
"New York."
"To stay with you. And Bev."
"With me while she's in hospital. Maybe with Bev as well while she looks for an apartment."
"…I'm pretty sure I've had dreams that start like this."
Ben gave a long-suffering sigh. "I've invited Mike, too, you dope. He's going to stay for a few weeks once he's finished with Derry."
"If you're trying to dissuade me, that is not going to work," Richie pointed out, waggling his eyebrows. "Mike is a very attractive man."
Ben's lips tugged in a faint smile. "If that girlfriend of yours is real, she might have a thing or two to say about that."
"Huh." It struck Richie that Ben didn't know. "Bev didn't tell you."
Ben's smile faded. "Didn't tell me what?"
Richie's gut churned and he glanced uncertainly at the toilet. Well, if he was going to throw up, at least he was in the right place. He licked his lips nervously. "She didn't tell you that the girlfriend is fake." He paused, dropping his gaze to the tiles, and – oh, fuck it. Just do it. "And, um. Well, if she was real, she'd be more of a boyfriend. You know. Cause I'm gay." His voice shook, but he could barely hear it over the pounding of his heart.
"Rich. It's okay."
Richie swallowed against a lump in his throat and glanced up. "Is it?"
"Of course." Ben leaned over, smiling softly, and nudged his shoulder. "Love's love, you know? Thank you for telling me."
Richie made a small noise and looked away, overwhelmed. His hands trembled, and his vision was a little hazy – were those tears?
He scrubbed them away and took a deep, calming breath. Then another. One more, and he began to smile.
He'd done it.
He'd told two people, and nothing had changed. Was this how it was supposed to be?
"Rich?" Ben's voice was gentle. "You okay?"
Richie nodded and leaned against the wall. He didn't trust himself to speak.
Thankfully, Ben seemed to get the message, and he straightened and clapped his hands together. "So, New York," he said brightly. "What do you say?"
Richie hesitated, then shook his head. "Actually, there's something I have to do first."
Four days later, Richie was once again behind the wheel of his flashy rental, top down and bass thumping as the wind tugged his curls. A town was approaching fast and he let up on the accelerator, savouring his last few minutes of being alone.
Just him, the road, and the open sky.
He hadn't always been so comfortable being alone. There was one summer after Eddie moved to town but before Pennywise, when Henry Bowers had shot up and developed a new brand of cruelty to go with his height. It was the first summer that he'd targeted their little group – the boy with the stutter, the Christ-killing Jew, the sickly child, and Richie. The kid who couldn't shut up if his life depended on it.
It was the first summer Richie had known fear. Oh, he'd been scared before – of heights, of sudden bangs and shadows in the night. But the fear of that summer was different. The perpetual, unshakeable paranoia of being hunted. The pain blossoming in his cheek, his stomach, his legs, as Henry Bowers rained blows from above. The sudden realisation that he could hurt. That he could die.
His only solace was his friends. They must have noticed his clinginess, but they never questioned him. They never complained that he was always hanging around them, never wanting to be on his own even for a moment.
But time went on and in his childish mind the seasons felt like years. Summer faded to Autumn, he outgrew his clothes, and somewhere between the browning of leaves and the first signs of snow, the fear slowly faded until one day he found himself walking home by himself, whistling a cheery tune, not a care in the world.
He'd been okay with being alone after that.
Which was lucky, considering he'd grown up to spend a good chunk of his life alone. He had friends and a few partners here and there – the less said about Sandy, the better – but for the most part he lived alone, he ate dinner alone, and he slept alone. And somewhere along the line, he'd learned to be okay with his thoughts.
Over the last three days, his thoughts had been full of hope.
He'd come out to Bev and Ben, and they accepted it in stride. He'd come out to Mike, who merely smiled and patted his shoulder in a way that could have been condescending but somehow wasn't and thanked him for trusting him.
It had taken two more days to work up the courage to tell Bill, despite everyone's encouragement. Richie toyed with the idea of not telling him – he'd gone thirty years without, after all – but it felt wrong, now, keeping something from Bill and Bill alone. And he was sure – well, pretty sure, anyway – that Bill wouldn't mind, so as terrifying as the thought of losing his oldest living friend was, he'd psyched himself up, paced around his motel room, practiced his speech in a low mumble while his finger hovered his finger over Bill's name –
And then he'd chickened out and sent a text instead.
It was a nerve-wrecking two hours before Bill replied, and the only thing that stopped Richie from melting into an anxious boneless puddle was the knowledge that his message hadn't yet been seen.
But, eventually, his phone beeped and Richie's heart jumped into his throat as he pulled over to the shoulder of the road and slipped the car in park before reaching for his phone. Bill's message was simple: I figured that one out a long time ago Rich :) Love you. Glad you're telling people. I'll give you a call tonight.
Richie blinked, reread the message, then chucked his phone on the passenger seat and swore loudly. "Fucking Bill knew? Oh, fuck off."
He was so busy grinding his teeth that he almost forgot to be relieved.
Bill called as promised, and it was a comfortable conversation full of 'remember when's and 'hey, didn't you once's and the occasional good-natured 'fuck you,' and when Richie hung up he felt lighter than he had in years.
Which is why, as he approached the town and followed the red line on his GPS to a low-set house with a white-picket fence, bright shingles and an oddly unruly lawn, he found himself scrolling through his contacts and clicking on Bill's name.
He picked up on the third ring. "Hey Rich." In the background, Richie could hear someone shouting, the beep of a car horn. "You okay?"
Richie shot the car console an affronted look. "Do you expect me to be in trouble every time I call?"
"Considering your recent history, it's a safe bet." The noise was fading now, Bill moving away somewhere quieter.
Richie chewed his lip. "Are you on set? I can call back later."
"No, it's fine. They don't need me for this bit. What's up?"
"Oh, you know." Richie drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. "I'm in Trainor. Am I doing the right thing, here?"
There was a pause, then the sound of Bill letting out a long breath. "Honestly, I don't know. Eddie would say no. But I think Stan would appreciate it."
"Stan killed himself rather than see us again." Richie tried to keep his tone even and failed miserably. "Maybe he'd want me to stay away."
"You know that's not why he…did what he did."
"I don't know, and neither do you. Neither of us have seen him in twenty years. Maybe he was happy and wouldn't want us intruding on his world."
"I hope he was happy." Bill spoke with the same quiet assurance that he'd developed far too young. "But he was happy with us, too. He would have m-missed you if he'd remembered."
Fuck.
Richie really needed to stop listening to Bill.
"Okay. Okay, fuck. I'm doing this, then."
"Alright. Good luck, Rich. Let me know h-how it goes."
"Oh, I'll let you know. You're paying my hospital bill after Patty Uris unleashes hell all over me."
"Okay, Richie. I'm hanging up now."
"Bitch."
"Same to you."
There was a click, then the music restarted on the radio. Richie cut the engine and grabbed a box from the passenger well. Taking a deep breath, he cracked open his door and started up the path.
Despite the overgrown lawn, the house had a welcoming feel. The deck was inviting, with a smattering of cushioned chairs and two little tables, potted plants dotting the edge. Cheerful green paint lined the front door and the windows, which were thrown open to entice a breeze inside. A home-made ornament chimed in the wind – Patty's work, Richie assumed, and wondered what she was like.
He was still wondering when the door opened, revealing a middle-aged woman with dark hair twisted into a bun backing her way onto the deck. " – be sure to bring some around tomorrow, okay Pats? Don't you worry about a thing. I'll – oh, hello." The last two words were unenthused, and her eyebrows drew together as she spied Richie. "Can I help you?"
Richie smiled in a way that he hoped looked somewhat polite. "I was looking for Mrs Uris?"
The woman returned his smile, but it didn't reach her eyes. "If you're from the papers – "
"I'm not," Richie cut in hastily. "I'm – I was an old friend of Stan's." He shifted the box into his left hand and stuck out his right. "Richie Tozier."
A new voice floated out from the house as the woman's eyes widened. "Cat? Is something wrong?"
The woman – Cat – stared at Richie's proffered hand as though it might bite. "Patty, did Stan ever mention being friends with that horrid comedian? The one he used to watch on Netflix?"
Richie gaped. There was a moment of silence as Cat watched him with a deeply suspicious gaze, then Richie doubled over in laughter. "Jesus, fuck," he choked out between cackles. "You have zero chill, lady. Can I quote you in my next show?"
Cat frowned. "No, you certainly may not."
Still chuckling, Richie wiped a hand over his eyes and straightened. "Oh, shit. And here I thought Southerners were supposed to be polite."
"We are," Cat sniped, "when the company calls for it."
"What's going on out here?"
Richie's head snapped up so fast he heard a crack. Standing at the entrance to the house was a woman with light brown hair and deep blue eyes. There were laugh lines on her forehead, deep bags beneath her eyes, and a weariness clouding her otherwise pleasant face. Richie's amusement immediately vanished.
Cat took a step closer to her friend. "It's nothing, Patty. A man claiming to be an old friend of Stan's. I'll deal with him – you get some rest."
Patty's mouth pinched. "I've had enough rest for a year." Her piercing gaze made Richie shift uncomfortably. "You're Richie Tozier."
It wasn't a question. Richie swallowed against his suddenly dry throat and shifted the box in his hand. "Yes, Ma'am." Wait, would she be offended by being called ma'am? Oh, well, too late now. "Stan and I grew up together in Maine."
Cat scoffed, but Patty merely looked at him with that same unreadable gaze. "Why are you here?"
Was she angry or suspicious? Richie tightened his grip and wondered, not for the first time, if he should have gone to New York with Ben. "A few of us had a little reunion recently," he explained, watching Patty carefully for any hint of recognition. Her expression remained stony. "I heard what happened. And, uh, I found some old photos of us? I thought you might like them."
Cat's eyebrows shot up. Patty glanced at the box, her cheek twitching.
Richie tapped his foot nervously. "This was a mistake, wasn't it? Shit, I'm sorry, I'll just –" He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder and took a step back. "I didn't mean to –"
"Wait!" The frantic tone of Patty's voice brought Richie to a halt. Her face, so composed just a moment ago, was all wide eyes and tight lines – naked and desperate.
Once she was satisfied that he'd stopped, Patty turned to her friend. "Thanks for visiting, Cat. I'll see you tomorrow."
Cat pressed her lips into a thin line, clearly unhappy. "Are you sure? I can stay – "
"No, go. I'll be okay."
Disgruntled but knowing a dismissal when she heard one, Cat gave Richie a final warning stare and walked to her car.
And then it was just the two of them.
Richie stared, for once at a loss for words.
And then Patty stepped aside. "Well, I suppose you'd better come in. How do you take your coffee?"
Walking into Stan's living room felt like getting a glimpse behind the curtain. There was a table full of flowers near a window – technically on display, but Richie couldn't help but feel that they'd been tucked away in the most unobtrusive place possible, as far out of sight as Patty could manage without throwing them straight in the bin. There was a table scattered with empty coffee cups and half-finished paintings and – Richie gulped and jerked his head away, desperate to dash the image of the stack of pamphlets sitting near one edge, displaying a funeral date and a photo of a man that was unmistakeably forty-year-old Stan.
His gaze landed on the coffee table, which was covered by an almost-complete bird puzzle, and this time Richie couldn't hold back a choking noise. The rustling from the kitchen immediately stopped.
"Oh. I'm sorry, I know I should clear that up. I just haven't been able to bring myself to do it yet. He was working on that just before – well."
Richie swallowed and shook his head. "Don't apologise." Tearing his eyes away, he looked at Patty and summoned a weak smile. "He always did like puzzles."
Patty hesitated, then nodded. "Yes, he did. And birds." She handed Richie his coffee and picked up her own, then led him over to the kitchen table, swiftly moving the pamphlets out of the sight before sitting down.
"His dad gave him binoculars for his tenth birthday," Richie recalled. Then he huffed, a corner of his lips pulling up in a smile. "He was so protective over them – wouldn't even let me touch them. It was around that time that he banned me from birdwatching with him too. When you can shut up for more than five minutes, you can come." He could picture it perfectly: Stan, with his neatly tucked shirt and carefully combed hair, bird book under his left arm and binoculars around his neck, staring Richie down with pure, immovable stubbornness. No, Richie couldn't come. Well, he'd just have to find something else to do. Yes, Bill was allowed to come, because Bill didn't scare off all the birds in a five-mile radius.
God, Stan. The ache of missing him intensified.
Patty was watching him, Richie realised, her suspicion tempered by a hint of curiosity. "You went birdwatching with him?"
"We did everything together." Richie fiddled with the edge of the box. "Him, me, Bill and Eddie. Derry was a shithole, but we had each other."
"Derry." Patty rolled the word around in her mouth, as if testing it out. "Stan mentioned it once or twice. But he never really talked about it."
Richie pressed his lips together and wished Bill was here. Or Mike. Someone who would have had the foresight to think up an explanation before rocking up on a widow's doorstep with a box of photos and a vague desire to soothe a hurt that could never heal.
"It's strange," Patty continued. Was he imagining it, or was she watching him a little too closely? "I went to write his eulogy and didn't have anything to say about his childhood. Eighteen years we've been married, and I couldn't think of a single story. Don't you think that's odd?"
Yep, Richie definitely wasn't imagining it. Her stare had changed. Her sharp blue eyes were predatory, watching him carefully for any signs of a lie.
Damn, Stan, Richie marvelled. You really found your match in college, huh? Hell yeah.
Out loud, he made a non-committal noise and popped the lid off the box. "This is for you," he said, pulling out a thumb drive and handing it over. "I had all the photos digitised a few days ago but I thought you might like to see the originals, so, uh. Here you go." He nudged the box toward her, then settled back into his seat.
Patty raised an eyebrow, but either her curiosity got the best of her or she was just too polite to call him out on his less-than-subtle evasion – either way, she followed Richie's lead and drew a yellowing photo from the box. Her face instantly softened, and she touched it lightly with a finger.
Richie peered at the photo and snorted. "Goddamn, we were goofy-looking kids. We would have been – what, six?" His memory was hazy, but little Richie's gap-toothed grin and Stan's ridiculous poof of curls placed them in the first couple of years of elementary school. "Our families used to go camping together every year. That would have been one of the very first trips."
"Your parents were friends?" Patty glanced up curiously.
"Uh huh - since before we were born. My dad used to go to Temple sometimes, so he knew Stan's folks from there. Then when we were born around the same time, our mums started hanging out."
Patty frowned. "I didn't know you were Jewish."
Ah, there it was. The note of disapproval. That answered that: she'd definitely seen Richie's show.
"I'm not," Richie assured her. "My dad was, but my mum was Catholic, so that's how they raised me. These days, though, I'm more into turtle-gods."
Patty mouthed turtle-godsand placed the photo on the table. She reached into the box for the next one. "The Losers Club," she read aloud, and Richie felt a smile creep onto his face.
"Yep, that's us." There was a note of pride in his voice that Richie didn't bother to hide. He leaned over and pointed them out one by one.
"Is that all of you? Who took the photo?"
Richie squinted. "Ah – my mum, probably? That looks like my old living room. But yeah, it was just the seven of us. All capital-L losers."
Patty winced. "That's a terrible thing to call yourself."
Richie shrugged, water off a duck's back. "We heard worse every day in that fucking – sorry – town. Might as well own it."
Patty pressed her lips together thoughtfully, then nodded. "I suppose you might." She returned to studying the photo. "That's Bill Denbrough, isn't it?" she asked. "The author."
Richie glanced at her. "You've got a good eye. Are you a fan?"
"Oh goodness, no." She sounded faintly horrified; Richie made a mental note to warn Bill later. "Those books are far too violent. But Stan always liked them – he has a whole shelf for them in the study." She frowned. "Had." She shook her head, annoyed at the slip.
Richie grimaced. God. Eighteen years of marriage – he couldn't even imagine. Richie felt like he was falling apart at the seams and he and Eddie hadn't even been – well, anything, really. Friends, he hoped, but did one day of friendship make up for more than twenty years of absence? He wasn't sure.
"I don't know how you're doing this," he blurted out. "Just. It's Stan, you know." He made a gesture, hoping to convey the Stan-ness of the room. "I miss him so much, and I don't even know what he was like all grown up. You're doing so well – which isn't to say that you're not struggling, I know you are, of course you are, but you're dressed and you're here and you're so put together and – it's incredible, is all I'm trying to say."
Patty's face became increasingly mask-like as he rambled. "You think I'm doing well?" she echoed. She stood abruptly, her chair scraping the floor, and pressed her fists to the table. "I haven't gone into the ensuite since it happened. I barely eat. Cat makes a point to visit each day to make sure I at least get out of bed."
Richie opened his mouth to apologise, but it was too late: Patty turned on her heel and stormed out of the room. He stared wide-eyed at the doorway, wondering if he should leave, but before he could come to a decision she was back.
"But do you want to know what's worse? What's really driving me crazy?" she continued as though she hadn't been interrupted. She slammed a bundle of envelopes down on the table, her chest heaving. "He left letters. One for me, and six for people that I've never met. That I've never heard him mention."
Richie's heart stopped. His gaze fixed on the envelopes. He could just make out Ben Hanscomin neat cursive beneath Patty's fingers, and an icy hand gripped his lungs.
"My husband walked upstairs and killed himself while I was sitting at this table booking us a holiday. He didn't say a word to me, but he wrote letters to six strangers and left them for me to find. So, tell me, Richie. Why did he write these letters? Why don't I know anything about Stan's childhood? Why didn't I think to ask? What the hell is going on?"
The silence was deafening.
Richie licked his lips, then licked them again. Swallowed. Tried to tear his eyes away from the envelopes, failed, then decided he was probably better off looking at them than at Patty anyway.
"I don't – " he began, faintly, only for Patty to pull out the chair directly in front him and drop into it, forcing him to meet her gaze.
"Don't lie to me," she ordered, and now the heat was gone from her voice, leaving only steel. "Whatever you think you can't say, whatever Stan didn't think he could tell me – I need to know. Please." Her voice cracked on the last word, and Richie winced.
"I won't lie," he promised. He dropped his gaze and traced a nervous pattern on his thigh. Honesty didn't come easy to him, but Patty deserved it. Now that he was here, he was certain that she did. "But I don't think you'll believe the truth."
Patty didn't hesitate. "Try me."
The story came out hesitantly, then in a flood. He told her about Derry – the harsh winters and long summers, the Kenduskeag and the Barrens and the downtown strip. The kindness of Officer Nell and the cruelty of Henry Bowers. The malignant indifference of too many adults.
He told her about IT. He watched her carefully, waiting for the moment that she would turn on him, throw him out of her house or accuse him of lying. He waited for the anger, for the shouting, for the tears. But Patty just sat quietly, her eyes never leaving his face, taking it all in. He told her about that summer, about Georgie, about the painting, about the sewers. He told her about it all.
When he finally finished, the silence was deafening. His coffee sat cold by his elbow and Patty seemed to have forgotten all about hers. She inhaled deeply, finally letting her gaze drift from Richie's face to the box full of photos to the envelopes beneath her hand, and then she sighed. "So, it's true," she murmured, almost to herself.
Richie's eyes widened. Instead of the disbelief he'd expected, she sounded – relieved? "You've heard this before," he realised.
She nodded. "I told you Stan wrote me a letter. But I didn't know what to make of it. It sounded insane. I wondered…but, no. Now I know the truth." She looked up sharply. "Thankyou for giving me that."
Richie nodded, his throat to dry to talk. His gaze drifted back to the envelopes on the table. "What were you going to do with those?"
Patty clicked her tongue. "I hadn't figured that out - none of you are exactly easy to access. Bill Denbrough strikes me as the type to read his own fanmail, but I doubt you do." She slipped one envelope from the pile and held it out to Richie. "But you're here, now, so."
Richie stared at it, frozen. Slowly, hesitantly, he reached out and took the envelope from her hands. Written on the front in an unfamiliar, neat hand, was Richie Tozier.
He couldn't take his eyes away from his name. "Stan remembered," he realised, suddenly.
Patty tilted her head. "You sound surprised."
"I am." The pieces were coming together now, and Richie swallowed against a lump in his throat. "The rest of us remembered slowly. A bit here, a bit there…It wasn't until we'd been back in Derry a full day that we had all the pieces. But Stan – he wrote my name. All of our names. He told you about Pennywise." He glanced upward, realised Patty looked confused, and backtracked a little. "When I got that call from Mike, I threw up backstage and completely bombed my set. It was – disconcerting isn't a strong enough word, so excuse me, but it was fucking weird as shit, having all these memories pop up out of nowhere. And the fear – this feeling of utter terror – it was overwhelming. But I couldn't remember what caused it. I didn't remember IT at all until after I was already in Derry."
"But Stan remembered." Patty picked up the thread, glancing once more at the letters on the table and tracing Ben's namewith a delicate finger. "He remembered everything, all at once."
"Yeah. No wonder he…fuck. Fuck, Stan. Maybe if it had come back slower –"
"But it didn't." Patty cut across Richie firmly, her eyes snapping. "Don't you dare finish that sentence. I've spent the last week going over every maybe and what if under the sun. I can't handle another one. So, don't."
Richie shut up.
He eyed the envelope a moment longer, then carefully placed it inside his coat pocket. "I'll read it when I get back to the motel," he said in response to Patty's questioning look, then nodded to the others. "Do you want me to take those off your hands?"
She glanced between him and the letters. "No," she decided. "He left this to me, and I want to see it through. But I could use some addresses."
"Of course." Hesitating, Richie held out a palm and took a breath. "I should take Eddie's, though. He, uh. He didn't make it."
Patty's brows drew together, her eyes reflecting his hurt. "I'm so sorry."
Richie's eyes pricked with tears which he quickly scrubbed away. "You're not supposed to be comforting me," he muttered.
"Why not? We've both lost people. If we can't comfort each other, then who can?"
"I'm not the guy that people come to for comfort."
"Well, it's never too late to start." Patty reached for the box and shuffled through the photos until she found one of Stan and Eddie. She took in their smiles, her face soft, then handed it to Richie. "Tell me about them. What were they like?"
Richie swallowed. Glanced at the photo, then at Patty. "Both of them?"
"Please."
Patty was a good listener. She laughed at all the right moments, asked all the right questions. She squeezed his hand when it started to shake, offered stories of her own when Richie's voice started to crack. She made a fresh pot of coffee, and when the afternoon dragged into evening they dug into casserole that her neighbour had provided the day before.
When he left, there was a spring in his step that had been missing since Derry. He promised to visit again the next day, and he was surprised to find he was looking forward to it.
Don't forget. We're losers, and we always will be.
Richie closed his eyes and took a deep, shaky breath. It took everything he had to not crumple the letter in his hand.
Jesus fuck, Stan.
He missed him so much it hurt. Patty had shown him photos so now he had an image to go with the ache – a pleasant face with a soft smile and thin, wire-rimmed glasses. Curly hair that he never did learn how to tame. Faint scars on his temples and laugh lines on his forehead, and a face that radiated warmth.
He'd had a good life.
He'd thrown it all away to try to save them.
"Godfuckingdamnit."
Richie grabbed the closest object and threw it as hard as he could against the hotel wall. His shoe hit the wall with a pathetic thump.
Be who you want to be. Be proud.
Had Stan known, back then? If anyone knew, it would have been Stan. He'd been there for every big moment of Richie's childhood – every birthday, every sleepover, every black eye and broken bone. Why hadn't he said anything?
Be who you want to be.
Well.
That was the crux of the problem, wasn't it? Richie had no idea who he wanted to be.
There was comfort in familiarity. The temptation was strong to go back on tour, to stand on stage and rattle off a bunch of other people's jokes. He liked it, after all. Liked commanding the attention of an entire crowd, liked being the person who made them laugh, helped them forget about their troubles for a while. And he was good at it. So what if he used a ghostwriter? Stand-up was an art, and he'd refined it long ago.
But old habits could fester – Bev and Eddie were proof of that. The older he grew, the harder it was to differentiate between his on-stage persona and his real personality. Did he like who he was on-stage? If he wasn't that, then who was he?
His ringtone interrupted his thoughts and Richie immediately grabbed his phone, glad for the distraction. Bev Marsh lit up his screen, and he cocked his head curiously and put it on speaker.
"Hey Bev, how's the hospital?"
"I'm out! Thank god."
Her voice was raspy but strong, and so, so cheerful. Richie couldn't help but smile. "Yeah? Then how's the love shack?"
"Oh, it's rocking - twenty-four-seven sexcapades. I haven't had a workout like this in years."
"Just as I always dreamed. Do me proud, Marsh."
Bev laughed. "I'm only staying with Ben because I still need help, remember? I'm not fit to do anything exciting right now."
"You know, the more you say it, the more convinced I am."
She laughed, then broke off into a coughing fit.
Richie's levity fled. "You okay?"
Bev's coughing gradually subsided. "I will be. Throat's still a bit touchy."
Richie glanced at the letter, then tore his gaze away. "Sounds like a good time to practice my set. You're a captive audience who can't heckle me – exactly what I always wanted."
"Save me."
"Alright, that's fair. Hey, what do you think about voice acting?"
Bev paused. "That's…how have you not done that before?" Her amazement shone through despite the rough voice. "That's perfect for you."
"Ex-cuse me, I have in fact done it before," Richie retorted. "You never watched Sausage Party?"
"Funnily enough, no."
"Your loss." Richie bit his lip before answering her actual question. "The thing about voice acting is that there's no immediate feedback. On stage, you can feel the audience reception, right? People laugh or they don't, and you can try things out to figure out what works and what doesn't. But in a recording booth, there's nothing. Just you and a box, trying to do something that you think will be funny, but you won't know for sure until eighteen months down the track."
Bev paused. "Yeah, okay. I can see why you might not like it."
"But on the other hand, there's a lot less pressure. I'm not playing myself – or an asshole, playboy version of myself. Someone else writes the words, and if it crashes and burns then it's probably not my fault."
"You did say you needed a break."
"Yeah. So that's what I was thinking. Line up a few voice acting gigs and use the time to figure out what the hell I'm going to do about the stand-up."
"What are you going to do about the stand-up?"
Richie laughed humourlessly. "Hell if I know. The whole asshole persona never bothered me before, but being around you guys…you guys remind me who I am. Shut up, I know how sappy that sounds. My point is, I don't know that I want to be that other guy anymore, but I don't know that I'm read to be me either. Is this making any sense?"
"It makes perfect sense," Bev replied, seriously. "I think we all lost ourselves for a while, there. Now that we have each other, we're able to get ourselves back on track."
Be who you want to be.
"Except for Stan."
A beat. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. I think…I think he'd be disappointed in me, Bev."
"Honey, no. He wouldn't."
Be proud.
"He was true to himself. Patty, she's…god, she's one of us. I gave her all of your numbers, by the way, so keep an eye out for a text from her. She told me it was Stan's idea to move to Georgia, and his idea to start his business. His dad warned against it, but Stan did it anyway. He lived the life he wanted, and it was good. He'd want me to do the same."
"So, what are you going to do about it?"
Be proud.
"I'm going to make a change."
THREE MONTHS LATER
"Richie!" Bev threw herself at Richie before the door was fully open. He stumbled backward with an oof, then dropped his bag and wrapped his arms around her in return.
"Bev!" he gasped. "Are you trying to hug me or kill me?"
Bev laughed and loosened her grip. "Depends. Did you leave your gag gift at home?" Releasing him for a better view, she stepped back and looked him up and down.
"Who said I bought a gag gift?"
Bev arched an eyebrow and Richie sighed. "Fine, I'll leave it in the car. But you and Ben and your depressingly vanilla sex life are missing out."
"I can't imagine how we'll cope."
"See, that's the problem. Lack of imagination. Where is lover-boy, anyway?"
"He's out the back with Mike." Bev took Richie's bag while he removed his coat. "I'll show you your room, then we can join them."
"Bill and Audra aren't here yet?"
"They're in the kitchen." Once his coat and boots were stowed safely away, Richie took his bag and gestured for Bev to lead the way. She chatted as she walked, explaining the layout of the house and the recent changes Ben had made, before finally swinging open a door to reveal a tidy bedroom. "And this is your room."
Richie whistled, craning his neck. "This place is four bedrooms? What was Ben doing here by himself? Wait - don't answer that." He dumped his bag into a corner and eyed Bev critically. "You're looking well."
"Yeah, well." Bev tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and fought to keep the smile off her face before giving up and letting it show. "Life's pretty good."
"Not going to take me up on my guest room offer, then?"
Bev blinked, then reached out to squeeze his elbow when the reference clicked into place. The conversation felt like a lifetime ago. So much had changed since then – Tom's attack and subsequent arrest; the media frenzy that had followed. Moving into Kay's apartment and travelling upstate on weekends, Ben clearing out half of his closet but never asking her to use it. Daily posts on the group chat, twice-weekly phone calls to Richie, and a burgeoning friendship with Patty Uris that was already more precious than most of the relationships Bev had forged in her adult life.
The nightmares were still there.
She would still hear their voices, sometimes – stupid bitch and are you still my little girl and I worry a lot – and the hair on her arms would rise and her shoulders would tense and Ben would understand that he wasn't the person she needed right then and he wouldn't be angry about it, he'd just call Richie or Bill or Mike or occasionally her therapist, and the action alone would be so contrary to what she expected that the voices would fade, driven away by the force of his kindness.
Later, when she would hold him and assure him that she loved him, that she was sorry she couldn't turn to him, Ben would tug her close and tell her that he didn't mind who she saw so long as she saw someone, that he only wanted her to feel safe.
She'd move in with him eventually. She leaned into Richie's side and said "You know, I don't think I'm going to need it at all," and smiled when he wrapped an arm around her and replied, "Well, good, because I'm pretty sure my cat pissed on the mattress," because she was starting to realise that she could always count on Richie to make her laugh, to pick her up when she fell, to help put her back together again.
"Hey, I saw your EW interview," she commented, peering up at him. "How does it feel to be out and proud?"
"Oh, you know, no biggie," Richie said dismissively. Bev rolled her eyes hard enough that he could see even from this angle. She smiled when she felt his chest rumble beneath her cheek. "Or, you know, completely terrifying. Hence why I'm freezing my ass off in bumfuck Nebraska, where nobody knows my name. Christmas in California next year, I'm calling it now."
"But you did it."
Richie paused. "I did." He sounded proud.
"And the world didn't end."
"Well, I have to retire the 'your mum' jokes."
"Oh no, however will we cope?" Bev said flatly.
Richie laughed, only to he interrupted by a shout from downstairs. "Richie! Stop hogging Bev or I'll drink all the beer!"
Bev giggled and pulled away.
Richie huffed and shouted toward the stairs: "Touch it and you're dead, Denbrough!"
"Come on," Bev said, grabbing Richie's hand. "Everyone wants to see you."
Richie gripped her hand tight, and they made their way downstairs.
Healing was never easy.
There were tears and panic attacks, and hours spent in therapy. There were divorce lawyers and interviews, rumours and court hearings. Nightmares that felt real, days that felt fake, long-repressed fears that tripped them unawares.
But no matter how far they fell, or how hard they cried, they always had each other.
That's what made it work.