Chapter Text
It wasn’t like Ginger to act so vicious… Richie thought. The sentence played through his mind on a loop as he rode toward the Kaspbrak house, pedaling furiously. His left hand throbbed sharply when he hit a bump in the road, the sudden jolt sending a small spray of blood to the pavement and splashing on his jeans. Hell if he knew why he was in such a hurry. It wasn’t as if Eddie’s house was going anywhere. But the whole ordeal had left him shocked. It wasn’t like Ginger to act so vicious. Even with the blood dribbling down his fingers it seemed unreal.
It was a weekend in autumn like any other. Richie had finished doing his chores and had set off towards Eddie’s place as soon as he was free, twenty dollars tucked into his pocket. He was rich, and the theater was calling. With any luck, he and Eddie could get seats for something good, and if the rating was high, they might buy kiddie tickets and sneak into see the Good Stuff. He was so busy contemplating his day that he forgot to actually mount his bike for the first two blocks, and by the time he remembered, the Myers’ house had come into view. Richie grinned, slowing down and stopping in front of the white picket fence, whistling softly. He couldn’t pass the house without at least saying hello. He had stopped at the house for Ginger ever since he was ten; it seemed almost blasphemous to ignore her now.
A minute or two passed before Ginger finally appeared, tail wagging tentatively. If Richie had been paying attention, he might have noticed the way her body seemed to list to the side as she approached him, or seen her ears twitch back anxiously as he reached over the fence. But he wasn’t paying any attention at all. Which is why it came as all the more a surprise to him when the plump Pomeranian sank her small, razor teeth into his palm. Richie howled, staggering back in shock and trying his best to shake the snarling dog off of his hand. Ginger’s teeth held fast, and it wasn’t without a great deal of yelling and cursing that Richie finally shook her free, leaving the fur around her tiny mouth stained red with his blood. He lost no time mounting his bicycle and speeding down the street, Ginger still yapping furiously in his dust.
It was only ten minutes between the incident and Eddie’s house, but to Richie it felt like forever. He dropped his bike on the edge of Eddie’s lawn before heading up the front steps, pushing the doorbell with his good hand and waiting nervously, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. It was Saturday. The meant Eddie would be alone, Sonia would have gone to spend time with the other ladies in town to play bridge or rummy or bingo or whatever the fuck else they did at the community center on the weekends. Sonia and her borderline senior citizen girl gang. Richie would be a lot more courteous about the whole thing if it wasn’t so hilarious; but honestly - the thought of Sonia K. sputtering bingo numbers and getting into fights with other women in a confined room over ‘O69’s and what rules were and were not applicable between friends was just… too much. The whole thing was pure comedic gold. And Richie was pretty sure Eddie could appreciate it as such, despite his protests to the contrary. At least it got the old bat out of the house for a while.
The door flew open suddenly, or it might have if not for the five separate locks Richie heard being clicked and rustled from within, and Eddie was there as soon as could be managed, his expression changing from mild irritation and confusion to abject disgust in a matter of seconds.
“Richie! What the fuck happened?” Eddie practically yelled, eyeing the other boy’s bloodied hand in horror. His fidgeting fingers found their way into his fanny pack and within seconds his hands were dripping lemon sanitizer. Richie frowned, trying not to feel too upset when Eddie backed away from him as he entered the house.
“The Myers’ fucking dog happened is what,” he spat, wrapping his hand in the corner of his red flannel. “Goddamn little monster bit me!”
“Ginger?” Eddie choked, disbelieving. “But she’s so nice ?”
“Not today she isn’t.”
Richie plopped himself down at the kitchen table, careful not to make any more than the inevitable mess. He grimaced at the small trail of blood spatters he’d left on the tile, but knew not to worry about them too much. Knowing Eddie, any part of the house within a three yard radius of his diseased and leaking wound would be bleached at least eight times before Mrs. Kaspbrak got back home that night. He contented himself in watching Eddie bustle back and forth between the bathroom and the kitchen cupboards, a stockpile of surgical equipment forming beside the bowl of too ripe pears that never seemed to disappear from the table. At last, Eddie came and took a seat across from Richie, setting the metal bowl of water he’d been carrying down in front of him.
“This is saline,” he said matter of factually, not bothering to look up as he started organizing his supplies. “Dunk your hand in there and try to get the blood off so I can see how bad the damage actually is. Then we can see what we should do.”
Richie nodded, dipping his fingers into the cold fluid obediently as he watched Eddie work. “Am I gonna need stitches, Dr. K?” he asked cheekily, trying his best to hide his discomfort. Eddie didn’t seem to notice.
“That all depends,” he replied simply. “If it isn’t too deep, you can probably get away with just a dressing and gauze. Maybe some glue. I can’t imagine it’s that bad though, given the circumstances.” Richie nodded, watching as Eddie slipped on a pair of blue nitrile gloves. No elaboration was necessary to understand the point Eddie was trying to make. Ginger was a well known fixture of Derry, beloved by adults and children alike. She was spoiled sweet by her owners and generally posed no serious threat to anyone. Most likely the bite itself was more of a graze, bleeding from length rather than depth. Richie might go so far as to suspect he himself had made it worse in the struggle, or perhaps the bike ride over. But when the boys looked into the bowl to survey the damage through pink water and whispers of blood, Eddie’s face grew pale with worry.
“Are you sure it was Ginger?” he asked softly. Richie frowned at his tone.
“I was outside the Myers’ house, Eds,” he said. Perhaps too defensively. “I’ve been biking past that little ball of fluff for like, five years now; I think I’d know if it was her.”
“Well, you must’ve really pissed her off,” came the retort, but it was half-assed as hell and Richie knew it. “Butterfly bandages it is, then. Lift your hand and let’s get it cleaned up. And if you even think about flicking me with that water I’m going to fucking murder you.”
Richie nodded, relaxing as best he could as Eddie played surgeon and he himself looked on. The sour scent of antiseptic hit his nose and he realized bitterly that the movies were now out of the question. Eddie wasn’t going to set foot outside his house until the place was spotless once more. The blow was softened a little when Eddie offered him dinner and tv though, so Richie supposed he could wait. The theater would still be there tomorrow, after all.
By six o’clock, Richie found himself cleaned and cared for and downing lukewarm Campbell’s soup in front of the Kaspbrak’s television. The scent of multi-surface disinfectant was overwhelming and oppressive even in the living room, but it didn’t matter so much when he saw how much Eddie had relaxed after getting an opportunity to tidy things again. Anything to keep Sonia off his case was good enough for Richie. Anything for a chance to avoid his own house for as long as possible was an extra bonus. He’d even choke back the half stirred soup Eddie had microwaved so lovingly (Mrs. K still wouldn’t let him use the oven even now, at sixteen) if it meant he could spend time with a friend. Now if only his hand would stop stinging…
“You should probably consider getting a tetanus shot,” Eddie mumbled, his mouth full of alphabet noodles. “God only knows what got into that dog. The last thing you need is for your joints to lock up. You’ll be walking like you’re in a vice for weeks, maybe forever - who knows? Better to be safe than sorry.”
“Maybe they’ll stick it in my butt like they did with yours,” Richie snorted, grinning as he heard Eddie’s spoon clatter in his bowl.
“I told you not to bring that up, asshole,” he snapped, but again the lack of vitriol in his voice made Richie worry. “I wouldn’t have had to get that shot if you guys had just fucking listened to me, god. You’d think avoiding filthy broken glass would be a no-brainer but I guess it can’t be helped with you dickheads. I should have just left you guys alone but nooo, I just had to go in after you to make sure you didn’t get yourselves killed, and now -- ”
“Alright Eds, chill. It was just a joke, okay? Nobody even remembers that anymore.”
Eddie huffed in response, but when he failed to make a comeback Richie knew he’d chosen to let it go. Which was good, since it was getting late.
“You should probably head home, Rich,” Eddie said finally. “Mom’s going to be home soon and if she sees your hand she’ll have a bird. Plus she’s going to talk my ear off about the other ladies at Group Night and you… really don’t want to be here for that…”
“The sweet sweet sounds of Sonia Kaspbrak -- ”
“Beep beep, Richie.”
Richie chuffed, getting to his feet. “Alright, gimme your bowl then. Maybe I’ll call Ben’s mom to come pick me up or something.”
“Good idea. You don’t want to have to bike with the cut just yet.”
“Nah, and she doesn’t go to geezer club so she’s not gonna bore me to tears whining about how badly she wants to suck off Tom Cruise.”
“God you’re sick.”
“It’s a gift, Eds.”
Nobody came to pick Richie up that night, leaving him no other choice but to bike home in the dark, despite Eddie’s protests that he stay over instead. It didn’t matter how many times Eddie offered to smuggle him into his closet or under his bed, wild horses couldn’t have stopped Richie from getting the fuck out of there before Sonia came home. He waved feebly to Eddie before riding away, remembering to invite him to the movies the next day. Eddie was still watching him pedal away when he turned the corner toward his house, taking the long route if only to escape Eddie’s worried gaze. He was glad that he did. Seconds after redirecting, Richie screeched to a halt, nearly falling off his bike as he rushed to the gutter.
Half digested alphabet soup spewed from his throat down the storm drain, the sudden force nearly knocking his glasses down with it. He sat for five minutes, rejecting everything he could until he tasted nothing but bile, and even then he remained crouched on the sidewalk, dry heaving until he felt dizzy and grey. His hand was throbbing again. Slowly, Richie got to his feet, swiping his lips on the back of his good hand before heading back to his bike. He didn’t dare get back on it, opting instead to walk the rest of the way home. It was slow work, and all up hill, but anything beat getting creamed by some irresponsible driver if he lurched into the street. By the time he reached his house he could barely see straight; his vision clipping as he searched his pockets for his house key and stumbled in clumsily, kicking off his shoes His steps toward the stairs were unsteady, mismatched socks threatening to spill his across the foyer with every step, but somehow he made it up to his room. How that had happened, he didn’t know. That short passage of time seemed to be missing. But no matter.
With his final five minutes of consciousness, Richie stripped down to his boxers and threw himself into bed, vomit still caked to his lips, his curtains still half open. Under the light of the waning moon, Richie’s blood ran cold.