Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Richie’s bag is slung over his shoulder, the rental keys clutched in a white-knuckled grip, when he hears the scream.

"Guys!"

Self-preservation stalls him for a second, the hiss of It’s taunt – truth or dare, Richie – still fresh in his mind. But it’s Eddie. Screaming for them, for him, and all indecision vanishes. Like a switch in him has flickered on, driving him toward a single goal: Find Eddie, get to Eddie, protect Eddie.

Richie rushes into the hall, eyes scanning frantically. His gaze zeroes in on Eddie, slumped against the wall, blood pouring from his cheek.

His duffel drops to the ground.

"Shit!" Richie exclaims. He drops to his knees and gently, more gentle than he thought himself capable of, tilts his head to inspect the damage. It's a blade-width cut, straight through his cheek. "Shit!"

Footsteps pound up the stairs, followed by Bev's scream.

"Bowers is in my room," Eddie announces, and it would be almost comical, if not for the fresh stream of blood dribbling down his chin. He cringes as Bev kneels beside him and prods the wound.

Even with the implications – Bowers? Henry fucking Bowers, institutionalized before they finished middle school? – Richie doesn't hesitate. He charges to 609, with Ben hot on his heels. Bev stays behind, tending to Eddie, who’s asking "Is it bad?" as if he doesn’t have a goddamn hole in his face.

The hinges on the door creak with the force of him slamming it open. Pieces of the window litter the hardwood, and Ben lunges to it, searching for signs of the intruder. Richie weaves around Eddie's ridiculous amount of luggage and heads for the bathroom. All he finds is a dislodged towel rack, a torn-off shower curtain, and white tiles splattered with red. 

Rage unfurls in his chest, hot and heady, clouding his judgement. All of sudden, the scene at the arcade feels miles away in his memory. All he can imagine is Bowers, wandering through the townhouse, blade in hand, ready to finish the job.

"Car’s still there," Ben breathes in a hushed tone. "We should check the first floor."

The words barely register over the pounding in his ears. Richie nods, anyway, and they each take a half of the inn. Too late does Richie realize that separating may not be in their best interest, since there's a maniac with a knife on the loose. Having a huge, athletic hunk of Ben around would've really worked to his advantage.

Because of course it’s Richie, alone like he was that summer, who finds Bowers poking at the oozing hole in his abdomen, like he hasn’t a care in the goddamn world. His grin is razor-edged as he stares at Richie, unnervingly thrilled to see him again. 

"Well, if it isn’t the lil' fag." Richie hates that he flinches. A grown man, scared of his childhood bully, even twenty years later. "Come running to save your boyfriend?"

His fists clench, eyes drawn to the knife clutched slick between his fingers, coated with blood. Eddie's blood. He notes the stain seeping sluggishly through Bowers’ shirt, a reminder met with a swell of pride. That's my Eds. 

"Little guy put up more of a fight than I thought," Bowers cackles, as if expecting him to join in. "Should've heard him squeal when I got 'im, though. Hey, maybe you will."

A white-hot stab of anger lances through him at the mere suggestion.

"Fuck you," Richie seethes. "Fuck you and your dumbass hair!"

Bowers sneers, then charges. It's the gait of a mindless predator, and Richie just barely prevents the blade from plunging into his sternum, catching Bowers by the wrist. He’s no longer the lanky shrimp he was in youth, but Bowers is no slouch either, and his muscles strain against his strength in a bizarre parody of his and Eddie’s arm-wrestling match.

Tiring of the game, Bowers lets go, only so he can ram his fist into Richie’s face. The blow sends him reeling, his grunt of pain so hilarious Bowers wastes a minute reveling in his terror. So Richie does what he does, whenever threatened or in over his head.

He runs.

Runs for however long, until he ducks behind the nearest wall, searching for purchase, stars dancing behind his eyelids. His hand clasps something smooth. It’s an axe, labeled in case of emergency. This definitely counts. 

Smashing the glass, Richie grabs the axe and waits. Waits for Bowers to stomp towards his hiding spot. He clamps his eyes shut, breathes. This one’s for Eddie.

As Bowers rounds the corner, Richie swings. 

The sick, squelching noise of the axe connecting with skull churns his stomach. Before Bowers hits the ground, he's doubled-over, retching loudly. 

"Rich?" Ben runs into the room, fists at the ready. He skids to a halt. "Holy shit, dude."

"No, yeah, I'm fine. Totally fine," Richie coughs, spitting the taste of bile from his mouth. "I found Bowers."

Ben offers a hand, and together, they (mostly Ben) haul him onto shaky legs. Said legs steer him, as if on autopilot, towards where they left Eddie. His stomach lurches in panic when the hall is empty, calming once he catches sight of Bev, hurrying from her room in search of painkillers.

Propped up on her bed, a thick swathe of gauze taped to his cheek, Eddie looks a little less like a horror-show. He’s even huddled in a fresh, cleaner hoodie, which in terms ignore priorities is so ridiculous, so fucking Eddie "Two Fanny Packs" Kaspbrak, that Richie can barely speak past the lump in his throat.

"Eds, Hey," he says softly, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. He grasps  Eddie's shoulder. "How you doing, buddy?"

"The fuck do you think." The grumble has no real bite, the way Eddie’s wincing. "Shit, that hurts like–"

"A hole in the face?"

"Shut up, Richie, I swear–"

"You two," Bev sighs fondly, and for moment Richie forgets when he is, struck by the deja vu of being near Eddie, his heart pinging with every touch. The nostalgia really kicks in as Bev presses a couple of pills into Eddie's palm, which he dry-swallows with ease.

Richie frowns. "Shouldn’t we take him to a hospital?" 

"No time," she says, regretfully. "We’ve got to meet up with Mike and Bill."

Screw it. Richie is this close to exploding, and at this point, he doesn't care who's caught in the blast. Screw Bowers, the clown, and this whole suicide mission.

The tirade rests at the edge of his tongue, interrupted by the squeak of the front door. 

"Hello?" 

Bev peers at the space beyond her doorway. "That does not sound like the guys."

Richie realizes, belatedly, why anyone besides the Losers would be bad news. The revelation must be contagious, because Ben is abruptly bounding for the stairs.

"Where are you going?" Bev demands.

"Got to take care of that mess."

"Mess?" Eddie blinks, still a little wobbly. It's cute, embarrassingly cute, and Richie resists the urge to pinch his cheeks, mostly because of the, well, injury. 

"Uh, I threw up." Over his shoulder, Richie adds, "Also, I killed Bowers."

The noise that emits from the back of Eddie's throat is way more satisfying than it should be. 

Knocking at their door is your average little girl. Brown hair, grey eyes, maybe like, ten? Richie doesn't know how a ten-year-old should look, actually. To him, she looks like a Nancy Drew character, standing in the foyer of the Derry Inn with a dead body in the next room. It's so hysterical he claps a hand over his mouth to suppress his deranged laughter. 

Ben shoots him a patented beep beep, Richie glare. "Hi. Uh. Can we help you, hun?" 

Caution wavers over the girl’s expression, her hand sliding over her bag’s strap. "I’m looking for my dad," she explains. 

"God, please tell me he doesn't have a mullet," Richie whispers. Ben's elbow connects with his sternum and right, shutting up.

"I’m sorry, there must be a mistake," he tells her. "We're the only people staying here. Are you lost?"

At the top of the staircase, Bev and Eddie finally emerge. The girl cranes her neck to see around Ben’s bulk, eyes wide and delighted.

"Daddy!"

For a split second, he wonders, who’s she talking about? Thinks man, this girl’s really has got her wires crossed. 

Until Eddie seizes up, not in confusion, but recognition. "Mila?"

Richie watches as this girl, this tiny human being, launches herself at Eddie for a hug. He returns the embrace with a distant, shell-shocked expression. 

Bev gathers her jaw from the floor, while Richie’s remains somewhere at sea-level. "Eddie, is that–?"

"You have a daughter?" Ben blurts. Ever the poet. "You forgot to mention that at dinner!"

"I didn't... It didn't come up." His answer is dazed, like the situation won't fully compute. "Mila, what are you doing here?"

She looks up at him to reply and lets out a cry instead.

"Your face!" she gasps. "Daddy, you're bleeding! Are you hurt? Did you get disinfected? What's going on? And who are these people?"

"I’m fine, sweetheart! Daddy’s fine," Eddie placates. He soothes his hands over her hair, and Richie inexplicably burns with envy. "There are my friends."

Her nose scrunches. "You have friends?" 

Which would be the funniest shit he’s ever heard, if the situation wasn’t so serious.

Eddie grasps her shoulders, which seem to shrink under his stare. The whites of his knuckles are stark against her sweater. 

"Mila, sweetie, listen to me. How did you get here?" His voice dips, a burst of terror flashing across his face. "Is your mom with you?"

Quickly, she shakes her head. Eddie wilts in relief, and it's, huh, it’s not the response you'd expect from someone’s adoring spouse.

"Don't be mad," Mila says, faint and beseeching. "I maybe... I maybe used the emergency credit card to buy a train ticket."

"You what?!"

"It was an emergency!" she shouts. 

"You took a train to Maine without an adult?"

Hypochondria or no, Eddie seems to be skidding towards an honest-to-god aneurysm. Richie recalls the few instances where he gave his parents reason to worry themselves into a frenzy. He couldn’t relate then, and he still can’t now. Seeing Eddie par for his inhaler, Richie itches to grab him, cradle his face like he did when they were kids, but there’s no room for him in this moment.

"How did..." Bev sounds baffled. "She's a kid, who would let her travel alone?"

Mila shrugs. "Amtrak."

"Amtrak?" Eddie chokes. "You know what the statistics are for Amtrak accidents?"

"Well, I wasn't going to fly!"

"Statistically, it is safest to travel by plane," Ben chimes in. 

The girl huffs, supremely unimpressed. "Yeah, and if the plane does crash, I'd die for sure. On a train, I’m more likely to survive."

And it’s so completely, utterly reminiscent of Eddie, everything from the paranoia to how she punctuates her speech with rapid gestures. It hits Richie all at once, like a wave of motion sickness. God, this is Eddie's kid.  

The kid he had with someone else, Richie reminds himself. Who he had with the wife he’s got at home, that he shares his daughter, and his wife – the deluxe family package, white-picket fence included. 

"It doesn’t matter how you did it!" Eddie’s sputter cuts through that detrimental train of thought. "What you did was irresponsible, dangerous– Oh my God, what were you thinking, you could have–"

"I came to bring you home!" Mila exclaims, defensively. "You left a-and–"

Emotions shuffle through Eddie’s expression, the distress gentling into something sadder. "Mila," he tries, but she persists.

"–I heard you guys arguing. Mommy said if you left, it’s over. But if you come back with me, maybe you can say sorry and–"

"Mila!" 

Her mouth closes with a click, teeth clanging together. In the ensuing silence, Ben’s question fills the room.

"You're leaving your wife?" 

Richie glances up so fast he’s in danger of whiplash. Eddie flinches, not making eye contact with anyone. Yet there's no denial. No assurances for the kid, either.

"Honey..."

"So you’re just going to leave?" Mila snaps. 

"I’m not. I mean, I, it's not–" Eddie stops, frustrated, the words garbled under his breath. "You know what, I can't talk about this now! I have to figure out what I'm going to do with you. But oh, we will be talking about this, young lady, starting with your punishment! There’ll be plent of time on the way back to New York, since there will be no iPad, no apps, and no Wikipedia."

"That’s not fair!" 

"Unfair? Unfair?! You’re lucky if your mom will ever let you out of her sight again, after this stunt!" He blanches. "Oh, God. I’ve got to call your mom."

"No!" she shrieks in protest. "She’s going to freak out, please!"

But Eddie nods, resolutely. "I’m calling your mom, then I’m taking you home. Immediately."

He’s already got his phone. The call is answered almost instantly, the voice at the other end shrill and piercing. With a wince, Eddie darts into another room.

"Eddie, wait," Bev calls, trailing after him. Trying to salvage the plan, probably, the plan Richie deserted an hour ago.

Good luck, he thinks, because she won’t convince Eddie to stay in this clown-infested shithole any more than Ben convinced him. Not with the kid in the mix.

Maybe they can carpool to the airport. Maybe he can go to New York, too. Just for a visit. Hide from his agent while the press dies down, you know. While he’s around, maybe he can help Eddie pack his stuff and move, or whatever. Offer him the number of a divorce lawyer? Offer him a place to stay, if he wants, and maybe Eddie will agree, because the hassle of apartment-hunting is, frankly, almost as bad as the sewer clown.

It’s a fantasy that borders on absurd. Or at least, that’s what he thought last night, as he lay in bed, a wall away from his best friend, his first love. Swimming in and out of sleep, his mind restless from the onslaught of childhood memories, Richie dreamt of what it’d be like, him and Eddie, running away together in his rental. 

Last night, it was just that – a dream. Eddie was married, then. Now, the hope is practically bursting from his chest, he feels giddy, like he’s thirteen, carving initials into the kissing bridge.

A hitch of breath catches his attention, his gaze flickering toward the girl, who, in all his excitement, he'd briefly forgotten.

Guilt twists his unbidden smile into a grimace at her stifling a sob, lower lip wobbling, her body hunched in on itself. Whether it’s the discipline or the divorce, or a combination thereof, she looks absolutely miserable.  And not a foot away, Richie’s doing a mental-jig over her newly single dad.

Sure, he’s made a career out of being an asshole, and it’d be easier to list the things he wouldn’t do, if it meant loving Eddie the way he’s always wanted. But to stand here, positively elated, in front of a kid whose life is crumbling?

What a dick.

"Body," Ben mouths over her head, and Richie nods. Better not risk adding to the list of childhood traumas.

Bowers doesn't seem as scary. It could be that Richie is bigger, stronger than the scrawny kid he was, and Bowers has barely changed, still an asshole with a mullet. It could be an axe to the head makes everyone less imposing.

Or it could be that Bowers wasn’t what he was really afraid of. 

It isn’t as if Bowers was there, personally sabotaging him with a slur every time he wanted to reach for Eddie’s hand as they walked home, germs and sweat be damned. It was the fear of what everyone else would do, or say, about a boy who touched another boy like that.

"You okay, man?" Ben grunts, once they’ve shoved Bowers into the closet – and, ha, if the bastard could see the irony. "Looking a bit green."

"This town is a nightmare on my complexion," he groans.

Ben chuckles, clapping his back like he appreciates the levity. Richie manages to feel lousy for almost leaving him in the dust. He doesn’t feel quite as bad for planning to do it again.

"Geez, can you believe all this? Eddie, a dad?"

Richie shakes his head. It still hasn’t totally sunk in yet.

"Have you ever considered? Kids, I mean," Ben clarifies.

"Me?" he snorts. "Nah, man."

After witnessing stunt with the kid at the restaurant last night, he supposes Ben has a right to laugh. Still, ouch.

"Yeah. Me, either," says Ben, but it’s hard to miss the wistful note to his voice, and impossible not to know who he’s thinking of.

As if summoned by his longing sighs, Bev appears. It would be pure, romance novel bullshit, if she didn’t appear to them as a harbinger of doom, wrapped in designer clothes.

"Have you seen her?" 

"The kid? No," Richie replies. "We were cleaning up Bowers."

"What's wrong?" asks Ben. 

Bev swallows, and his stomach sinks, before the words even reach her lips.

"She’s missing. We can't find her."

Chapter Text

"Myra, Myra, please, can you just," Eddie stifles his frustration into his fist. "No, I don’t know how she managed it, or why she would–oh sure, it was me, I purposefully left the emergency credit card in a locked drawer because I wanted our daughter to travel state lines, unaccompanied!"

More shouting on the other end of the phone, grating on his already frayed nerves. 

"–well maybe if you didn't smother her–"

Raising his voice pulls the wrong muscle in his cheek, or the right one, if the point is to make Eddie suffer from the twinge of a knife-wound.  

"Don't put this on me," he snaps, even though it is. It is his fault.

Everything from his car-crash to the hastily-booked flight feels like an out-of-body experience. As if he was suddenly awake, after years of being asleep, and now his life was moving at full-throttle.

There’s vague bits of him packing his bags, Myra demanding to know where he was going, what the hell was wrong with him, why wouldn't he talk to her, explain? When the words finally tumbled out of him, the words weighing him down since Mike’s call, maybe longer, they were, "I want a divorce."

Okay, so he hadn’t meant to spring it on her like that. He hadn't not meant to, either. 

And he hadn’t meant for his Mila to hear any of it.

"Sweetheart, I thought you left for your aunt’s already?"

"I wanted you to drive me." She glanced at his suitcases. "Dad, where are you going?"

"Derry," he murmured, distractedly. Toiletries, did he pack enough toiletries? "To Derry, in Maine. I have to– It’s nothing, I won't be gone long. I promise."

Mila pouted, her forehead creased with worry. He pressed a long, lingering kiss there, smoothing the hair back from her brow. "I’ll be back soon," he assured, his smile easy as anything. 

He’s ashamed to realize that his daughter and – ex? – wife scarcely entered his mind since he arrived in Derry. It was as if the same force that made him and the rest of the Losers forget worked in reverse, until he saw his daughter, here, in Derry, and his perspective tilted.

With the resurfaced memories and the murderous clown on the loose, the impending custody battle hadn't been on his mind. Hanging up on Myra, who was now half-convinced he kidnapped their daughter, it was another concern to add to his rapidly growing list. 

"Son of bitch," he yells, throwing his phone against the wall. Kind of dissatisfying, since he bought an unbreakable case, and there wasn’t so much a scratch.

"I know the feeling," says Bev, sympathetically. "When I got Mike's call, it was like I resurfaced after being underwater."

A smile ripples across her face. "You remember how we used to swim in the quarry? And that first gasp of air after being under too long?"

Eddie remembers muggy afternoons, dirty water swimming with bacteria, Richie’s fingers gripped his shoulders, dunking him under, laughing as Eddie sputtered, screeching about the filth he’d just swallowed. The way the sunlight reflected off his too-big glasses, illuminating every feature of his best friend’s face, takes up a particular space in his heart. Eddie swallows, nods. 

Bev stares down at her feet, the smile laced with sadness. "That’s what it was like. I took that first, relieving breath while my husband slept in the next room and I realized... I'd married my father." 

"I know the feeling," Eddie echoes. And it isn't funny, it's actually pretty fucking tragic, but they laugh.

"Eddie," she says gently, reaching for his hand. "We can still fight this."

He draws away, shaking his head. "Bev, I'm sorry. I really am. But this is my kid. I can't leave her."

"The ritual–"

"I don’t have time to complete a fucking ritual," he snarls. "I can't abandon my ten-year-old daughter for some suicide mission." 

"You'll die, if we don't," Bev states, her lip quavering. It isn't a tactic to pull on his heartstrings; it's pure fact, the doomed visions she saw in the Deadlights. "You'll die and you'll break her heart."

Fear curls low in his stomach. He can't decide which option he's more afraid of. "I have to take that chance," Eddie says, both an excuse and an apology. "She can't stay in this town. You know why."

Bev opens her mouth to argue, but there's no argument for that. No child is safe in Derry. 

"Mila!" he calls. She doesn't answer, but that's a given, since he grounded her indefinitely. "Sweetheart, it's time to go."

But this is a risk analyst's daughter. No matter how upset or mad, she doesn't push her parents if she's already in trouble. She's had tantrums, sure, but she was raised by two of the biggest worry-warts on the planet. She doesn't run off in crowds or not come when she's called. Then again, she never took a train on her own before yesterday.

"C'mon, we've got to..." He whirls around, scanning every corner of the room. "Mila?"

The silence is damning. Eddie ignores the prickle of dread that begins at the base of his neck. 

"Bathroom?" Bev offers. 

Eddie frowns. "I'll check." 

"I’ll see if she's with Ben or Rich."

He checks the downstairs bathroom, and every one attached to the bedrooms upstairs, including his own blood-stained one. His stomach churns, cheek throbbing at the grisly memory, yet there's no sign of Mila in any of them. 

Taking the stairs two at a time, Eddie nearly topples into Richie, who catches him by the lapels. His brain’s too much of a live-wire now to think, all he knows is that Richie is here, holding Eddie steady, and he practically collapses into the half-assed embrace.  

"Uh, wha– Eds?" Richie stammers. 

"She's gone," Eddie rasps, his fists trembling where they've bunched in Richie's shirt. "I can't–I can't find her, I've looked everywhere but she–"

Fumbling for the inhaler in his pocket, he startles as Richie grips his wrist instead, the touch an electric shock straight to his gut. 

"Hey! Eds. Look at me."

Look at me, Richie shouts as the clown advances, sharp claws twitching in anticipation. Look at me, Richie begged, and Eddie did, because Richie was safe, he was always safe with Richie.

Just as before, Richie takes his face in his hands, bracketing him in on each side. "We'll find her, okay? I swear to you, we will find her, and then we'll get the hell out of this shithole town forever."

Shakily, Eddie nods. 

"I'll look outside," says Richie. "You stay in case she, uh, wanders back? She can't have gone far, she's like five."

"She's ten," Eddie makes a strangled noise, akin to a laugh. Richie quirks a brow, a smile quirking at his lips. Even after literal decades, it's a wonder how the same person can be a comfort, a balm to the itch of anxiety. 

"Ben's calling Mike and Bill. They're going to search around and meet back here."

"Richie, too," says Eddie, alleviated by the thought. His heart is still hammering, his stomach a pool of thread. "Bev..."

She glances at him, eyes trying not betray her own fear.

"What if It took her?" he asks in a whisper. "Like It took you?"

Her mouth firms into a thin, determined line. "We aren't kids anymore, Eds. We won't let it happen again."

Eddie believes her. He has to believe her. Even if he's never felt more like that scared little kid he was than he does now. 

*

*

*

*

Across the street, there's a couple of kids on skateboards. Just his luck, since Richie recognizes one. 

"Kid! Kid from the Chinese restaurant!"

"Oh boy," he sighs, spotting Richie as waves his arms like a lunatic. One of his friends squints, muttering, "Is that freaking Trashmouth Tozier?"

"You see a girl? About, uh, ye high, long brown hair, wearing a sweater?" Richie gestures hopefully, not appreciating the looks from these pre-teens. "I’m not trying to be weird! Her dad is freaking out and I just need to find her."

The boy shrugs. "She was on the stoop when a couple of girls came by. She looked real upset, so Vicky asked if she wanted to go to the festival."

Festival, perfect. Huge crowds of children, picking out a specific one should be a cinch. He jogs in the direction they point, ignores the discreet snap of a phone camera at his heel. With any luck, the internet will be speculating about his erratic behavior by morning. If he still has a career by then. 

He can't force himself to care. His mind can only focus on so many awful scenarios at once, and child-killing clown plus Eddie's missing daughter currently ranks highest on that regrettably long list. His dirty secret being revealed to his friends, which will inevitably lead down the road of I'm in love with you Eddie and have been since we were young comes as a close second, but it isn't enough to make him bolt. 

Not with how desperate Eddie looked as he clung to Richie. No, there was no running anymore – at least, not until they had the kid safely tucked away in the car. They, Richie repeats, scarcely able to wrap his head around the idea. They're going to leave, he told Eddie, and Eddie didn't correct him, Eddie agreed. Between the spasms of fear, his heart lurches with hope. 

First thing's first, though: He has to find the girl. And he forgot how much girls her age tend to cluster, scattered in groups in around the fairgrounds. Although in hindsight, maybe that's to her advantage. Safety in numbers, right? However, it does make his goal of locating her more like finding a needle in a haystack. 

Weaving through the festivities, Richie searches for his needle – and, after what seems like an eternity, he spots her. She's in front of the candy wheel, chatting to the girl aside of her. Nearly sagging with relief, Richie rushes for them, his fingers curling around her shoulder. "Finally. Hey, kid–"

"Stranger danger!" she shrieks, swinging her foot at his crotch. Richie narrowly misses a direct hit.

"Fucking christ! It’s me, Richie!" Her suspicion doesn’t wane, and it occurs to him, rather belatedly, that they were never introduced. "From the inn? I’m your dad's friend!"

Her eyes narrow, scrutinizing his face, which is, admittedly, kind of sweaty for a guy telling the truth. "Wait, you’re...you're that comedian my dad hate-watches," she says slowly.

Richie boggles. "Hate-watch?"

Mila nods. "He’s seen all your shows, but he thinks you suck.”

The deadpan of her reply punches a laugh out of him. "Yeah, well, he never thought I was funny. Even when we were younger."

"You knew him as kids?" she asks, astonished. Like his childhood is some mystery, a secret her dad's always kept under tight lock-and-key. And there's a very good reason for that, one that's just caught up to Richie.

"Mhm, yup. Speaking of your dad, why don’t we go back to the inn, like, ASAP?"

Richie tries do precisely that, but she digs her heels in the ground, a stubborn twist to her jaw. 

He scowls, hardly in the mood to deal with a tantrum on top of killer clowns and repressed feelings. "He's sick with worry over you; and knowing your dad, that is not an exaggeration. So I will drag you there if I have to–"

A couple squeezing by them shoots Richie the dirtiest look. "Kids, am I right?" he feigns a chuckle, waiting until they’re out of sight before rearing on the girl.

"What about a toy? You want a toy?" He isn't above bribery. Taking her silence as a yes, he guides her toward the nearest game. "Excuse me. How, uh, how much for that stuffed rabbit?"

"Got to play to win, my dude."

"Fan-fucking-tastic," Richie mumbles. He whips around, jabbing his finger at her. "Alright, if I win you one, we find your dad so we can get the hell out of this place. Deal?"

He hands the guy a five and grabs a ball. "Let’s see if all that beer pong in my twenties paid off."

The first balls sails past the target. He's nervous, okay, and being under this much scrutiny, well, that doesn't help his performance any. The second misses the mark, too.  "You’ve got to knock the bottles down," Mila reminds.

"I know," he groans, but his third attempt undermines this statement. 

Another five dollars, and two attempts later, Richie's won her a toy. From the coveted middle shelf, he might add. Mila accepts the sort-of-rabbit-looking stuffy, admiring it with a tiny smile. "I didn’t think you’d actually win," she blurts, and he’s sideswiped by a wave of affection. Which is promptly interrupted by a high-pitched titter. 

To his left, a middle-aged woman clasps her mouth apologetically. "Sorry, I couldn't help overhear. It's just, you and your daughter are the cutest."

Richie jumps to explain, but as it turns out, her comment has short-circuited his brain. The image of him, and Eddie, and his daughter, a family. Out at a fair under less dire circumstances. Him playing a game while Eddie pokes fun at his aim, winning a toy in spite of his heckling. He never pegged himself for a soft touch before, yet he's practically melting at the thought of something so mundane, so domestic. 

"Sir?" the woman interjects. "Your little girl's leaving you behind."

Jolting out of it, Richie lunges to catch up with her head-start, catching her round the wrist. He hauls her to a quieter spot, dropping a knee so they're eye-level. "Jesus, you've got to stop that," he wheezes, losing the last bit of patience he possessed. "You get a kick out of this? Making the adults freak out? Your dad is literally on the verge of a heart attack!"

"If he really cared, then he wouldn't leave," she mutters. And Richie gets she's upset, he does, but he also wants to shake her. 

"He isn't leaving you! Him and your mom, they..." Absolutely no way can he tell her Eddie married his mother, and that is super unhealthy for anyone in the equation, especially her dad. "Let's just say everyone might be better off if they're not together."

"You don’t know anything," she snaps. Her shoulders droop, her voice suddenly very, very small. "If they get a divorce, Mommy’ll never let me see him again."

"Listen, she can’t–"

"She can," Mila says bleakly. "I heard her talking, and my Aunt Val, she–she said my mom was artfully cinnamonated, so my dad isn’t really my dad."

"Art–a what?" He's baffled, her words not making any sense, and then he remembers Mike, something he observed at the restaurant last night: None of us have had kids. And all of a sudden, the pieces fit together with startling clarity. "Oh! Oh... I, uh, I think that's called artificially inseminated."

"I don’t know what that is," she huffs.

"I am not explaining." Richie waves it away. "Doesn’t matter! Point is, that’s not gonna fly. He's still your dad, as far as you or any judge is concerned."

His assurance doesn't have the comforting effect he was going for. She sniffles, nose beginning to run, staring at him as if he's got the solution tucked somewhere under his shirt. So Richie does what he does best in a crisis: starts talking out his ass. 

"Don't cry, okay? I won't let your mom take you away from your dad, I promise. I'll get him the best custody lawyer C-list celebrities can buy." He flips her a thumps-up. "I’m a comedian, remember? I pay lawyers like I pay the monthly phone bill.” 

Mila pulls a crumpled tissue from her pocket, wiping at the snot under her nose. "You–You'll really help me?"

"I care about your dad," he says in earnest. Simpler than confessing he's fucking in love with him, anyway. He should leave it at that, except some absurd part of him wants to say it aloud, to someone. Or at least as close as he can get without actually saying the words. "I’d do anything to make him happy."

She blinks wetly, her round eyes roving over his face. 

"That includes dragging you away from this carnival kicking and screaming, if I have to," Richie adds, smirking. "But if you come quietly, I'll throw in some funnel cake."

Grudgingly, Mila smiles. "Funnel cake’s over here," she offers it like a truce, and, to his surprise, takes his hand as they walk.

Richie allows it, since now she can’t slip away. Definitely not because the weight of her little hand in his ignites some dormant instinct in him. He uses his free hand to send Eddie and the gang a text, assuring them that everything was fine, they were on their way back to the inn.

"Why'd you say we?" Mila asks, apropos to nothing. 

"Huh?" he starts, almost dropping his phone.

"Before. You said, so we can get the h-e-double-hockey-sticks out of this town." She tilts her head. "Are you coming with us?"

"I … am also leaving, so, yeah," he says, vaguely. 

"Why?" 

"It's cheaper to split a cab?"

She scrunches her nose. Despite there being no genetic link between the two, he's reminded of Eddie. "No, I mean, why are you leaving?"

"Look," says Richie, heavily. "I know you're probably curious about the place your dad grew up, but trust me, this place is a freaking nightmare."

On cue, a gaggle of children run past, cheering with delight, waving streaks of cotton candy through the air. "Today is an exception," he tells her, right as one of those knock-ff carnival clowns shuffles by, honking his stupid red nose. His whole body lurches, his heart leaping to his throat. Mila watches his reaction, her lips an 'o' of understanding.

"Are you scared?"

Richie doesn't answer, trying to still his rapid pulse.

"When I get scared, I use a trick," she persists. "You've got to make your fear reeeally small. Imagine it smaller, and smaller, and smaller until you can fit it in your hand."

Seems kind of dumb, but Richie plays along. "And then what?"

"Then you smush it," she replies. "Like a bug."

"Ugh, you squash bugs with your hands?" Richie makes a show of ripping his hand away. She giggles. 

"Once," Mila admits. "It was so gross. My dad almost threw up."

"Almost?" Richie scoffs. "Please, I've seen you dad do the full rodeo."

She looks way too ecstatic at the prospect of hearing that story – Richie is probably way to ecstatic to be telling it – but as they approach the funnel cake stand, her expression wavers. "Vicky!" she shouts, and a girl in line turns, her bizarre birthmark on full display. 

"There you are!" exclaims Vicky. She tugs at her mother's pant leg. "Mommy, that's my friend, can she stand in line with us?"

"If her dad says it's fine," her mom responds, barely glancing up from her phone. 

"Oh, he's not–" Mila begins. Vicky's mom does glance up then, if only to glare warily at Richie, and he makes cutting motions until Mila stops.

"Go on, uh, sweetie," he says pointedly. "I'll watch you from here. Me, your dad."

"Riiight," she responds, with an exaggerated wink. "Um. Can I have some money, Dad?"

He shells out a few bucks, clamping down the strange, bubbly feeling at being called that, even if facetiously. He doesn't have long to linger on it before her actual father is colliding into him, his face a mask of panic.

"Eds!" Richie yelps, gripping him by the elbows. "What are you doing, I said we'd meet you at the house?"

Shaking his head, Eddie gasps, "I couldn't wait. I had to see she was alright."

Richie gestures to her in line, watching Eddie's body untense with a huge, shuddery exhale. "Rich, I don't know how to thank you."

His stomach quivers for a decidedly more adult reason this time. Before Richie can reply, Eddie wraps his arms around him, molding his body against his. It's a proper hug, not the rushed, clumsy bit of clutching they did earlier. The air vacates Richie's lungs, along with his ability to think. 

"D-Don't worry about it, man," he manages, muffled by Eddie's hair. He resists the urge to inhale the scent of him. Too soon, Eddie's pulling away, but that's only fair, since he's making a beeline for his daughter. Richie decides to hang back, to let them have this moment, alone. 

Because as much as he imagines it differently in his head, this is a family affair. 

*

*

*

*

"Mila!" 

Whirling around in line, Mila's heart simultaneously leaps and sinks at the sight of her dad running toward her.

"Daddy, I'm sor–" The rest of her apology disappears into his shirt, smelling faintly of her mom's fabric softener, and also, a little like sewage. She winces, wondering where's he been searching for her. "How, ah, much trouble am I in?"

"Sweetie, I'm just glad you're safe," he chokes out, and hugs her so tight it hurts. "You're safe, now that I've got you."

"I'm okay. Richie was with me." She beams shyly. "He's kind of funny."

Her dad grins. "Only kind of?" 

"Only kind of," she laughs, showing off her rabbit. "He won me this!"

"What a coincidence," her dad croons, stroking the fabric of its ears. His eyes flick to Mila, the grin expanding. "I've got something for you, too."

Excitement bubbles in her belly, simmering when he shows her the gift. "A balloon?"

Probably the brightest red balloon she's ever seen. Mila twists the string around her fingers, watching it bob above their heads. 

"Not just a balloon." Her dad's voice is low, so low she has to inch closer just to hear. "This balloon is special, it's magic."

"Magic?" she repeats, uncertainly. "You told me magic wasn't real."

"You're going to have to learn sooner or later, kiddo." His cheery tone never falters, and for a second, she swears... That it isn't her dad, who's talking. Even though he's standing in front of her, it's his exact voice as he says, "Daddy doesn't always know best." 

*

*

*

*

"Richie!" His neck snaps up at the call of his name; it’s one that he’d recognize anywhere, and the blood freezes in his veins. Because it can’t  the case, yet it’s clearly–

"Eddie?"

He skids to a stop in front of Richie, wheezing for breath.

"You've got her? Oh, God, she's got to be freezing, she didn't dress for Maine weather at all," Eddie frets. The gradually-dawning horror must show on Richie’s face, because he's pausing, a frown tugging at his lips. "Why are you staring at me like that? And where is she?"

Richie gapes uselessly, which only deepens Eddie's frown. "C'mon, spit it out already," he prods.

"No, you don't understand. You already..." He tenses, eyes shooting wildly to where he last saw the two together.

Both of them are gone. 

"Fuck. Oh, fuck."

He twists frantically, as if that'll make it easier to spot what's no longer there. 

"They were–and you–!"

"Rich, what the hell are you talking about?!" Eddie shouts. "Where's Mila?"

"She was here!" Richie yells. "And you were here, too! I saw you, I talked to you, man, and then she..."

Catching a glimpse of something in the distance, Richie sprints through the milling crowd, his pulse echoing too loudly to hear Eddie's cries. He could be wrong. He wants to be wrong. 

"No, no, no, no–"

It's her stuffed rabbit, abandoned on the ground. And hovering above it in midair, the bright streak of red that caught his eye.

A lone, floating balloon.