Chapter Text
The bed shifts a little as Bev sits down next to him where he’s curled up, placing her hand between his shoulder blades, her arm resting over his side. He’s not hyperventilating anymore, at least, so there’s that, he supposes. Newly showered and clothes changed and the old, disgusting ones discarded, yet they’re bundled up in the bottom of his bag along with his broken glasses. Still wet, still bloody.
It feels sacrilegious somehow, the thought of throwing them away.
He tugs at the shirt he stole from Eddie’s luggage, buries his nose in the hoodie of it where he’s tugged it under his face. It doesn’t smell exactly like he remembered the Eddie of his youth, but it does smell like him, and that’s all that matters now.
It’s ridiculous, he knows. But the sheets smell like Eddie too and part of him wants to ask Bev to stand up again, buy him a few more minutes of surrounding himself with his scent, something to relearn, get to know. Something to cling to and wrap around himself when there’s nothing else left, something good to keep.
“Do you-” He says, his voice cracking. His eyes are more swollen than they’ve ever been, and he sounds as wrecked as he feels. “What did you see, in there? I know you saw Stan, but-”
Her hand stills momentarily, then resumes stroking his back.
“Us. Dead. So many possible ways, I couldn’t have guessed which-” She begins, and it doesn’t even occur to him at first that she’s defending herself.
“Bev, wait. I don’t blame you,” he says, and he can tell she knows he’s honest because she relaxes considerably. Besides, she wasn’t the one who stepped into the fucking deadlights like an idiot. “I’m just trying to understand.”
Bev pauses to think. He looks up at her for the first time since she came in.
She looks… Tired. Like she hasn’t slept well in decades, like there has been no rest to be had at all. And maybe that’s exactly what this is.
“It’s just pieces. Flashes. Sometimes we got out, sometimes we didn’t.” She sighs. “Stan never did. But it was always his terms. Pennywise never laid a hand on him again.”
“But one of yours happened .” He sees the cogs turn, almost hears the bell ding as she hones in on him.
“What did you see, Richie?”
Richie closes his eyes, inhales Eddie on the sheets. Feels the weight of his arm slung across Richie’s bare waist under warm covers, his head on Eddie’s shoulder on a sofa somewhere, the others speaking around them. Hears his voice in the morning and his singing from the kitchen and even him yelling about Richie’s travel bag, still on the floor after his last gig out of town weeks ago, all things that Richie had fresh in his memory when he came to, Eddie over him, thinking I’ve seen the future, too . Only now he’s beginning to understand it was Pennywise baiting him with something he’ll never get to have.
There’s no arm around him, no surprisingly muscular shoulder to lean against. Nobody being snarky at him about bags or dishes or what to watch on Netflix. No soft snoring in his ears at night. Only Bev’s concerned presence and her hand on his back. It feels too small, too slight.
Richie remembers Eddie’s hand in his as children, holding his last night. Just hours ago, pressing against the w-
“Not this,” he says, and waits for sleep to claim him.
Or Pennywise. Whatever comes first, really. He’ll take it.
Distantly he feels a shift, feels himself get tucked close to something strong and safe as he’s being lifted. It’s not an outer-body experience really, more alike waking up ever so slightly as someone moves next to you. He wonders briefly if it’s his dad, fragments of memories of being carried from the car and into the warmth of the house and the safety of his bed. But the familiar scent- so far away for decades now, yet somehow in his memory like it was yesterday, isn’t there. His nose is stuffy and he can’t smell much at all, but he can tell something’s different. Other.
His mouth tastes awful .
He’s sat down gently, leaned into something soft and warm, cool fingers pressing against his forehead, brushing along his cheek. Fixes his shirt where it has ridden up a little. Then, the presence is gone, and he can feel whatever he’s leaned into begin moving. Only then does he think to look around.
“Where am I?” He mumbles, unable to make anything out in the dark. It feels like he’s in a cave, or a smaller recess of one, being rocked from side to side gently, except it’s far warmer and far cozier than any recess would ever be.
“Quite frankly, I’m not sure,” the voice says, and Eddie scrambles to his feet, only to hit his head on the roof of whatever the hell he’s in and fall back on his ass. The voice chuckles fondly, and a strange calm comes over him. It should frighten him, but it doesn’t. “I’m not It. I helped Bill decades ago. You as well I suppose, but we never spoke.”
It feels familiar. True. The idea that something were to exist to balance out what happened in Derry seems logical , even in the midst of so many unbelievable things.
The chamber continues to shift, and Eddie leans back against the wall of it. It feels stable enough though, warm and strangely welcoming unlike the stone of the lair, and it occurs to him-
“Is Pennywise dead?”
“It is,” the voice says proudly. “You all did good.”
He knows the voice is genuine. Can feel it in his bones, echoing throughout his being. But the unease in his gut remains.
“Did they all make it?” He asks then, bracing for what the answer might be. Last he saw they were all alive, but...
“They did,” the voice says again, and Eddie closes his eyes, exhales heavily as he rests his head back.
“Thank fuck.” He rubs a hand down his face. “I told them, I told them I was the weakest link. I-”
The voice interrupts him.
“Do you remember what It offered you, if you’d left Bill and forgotten about it?”
Flashes of an offer of long life, dying happy and unknowing.
Richie taking a baseball bat to the face of a demon clown.
The undeniable feeling that with the Losers by his side, they were all invincible, even in the face of something this evil.
“I do.”
“That’s how It worked, making bargains for forgetfulness. Always did. It would have worked this time, too, if things hadn’t changed.”
“What changed?” They slow, and the memories come flooding, not unlike the call from Mike. Thankfully someone else is driving this time around when the heaviest part hits him.
“Wait.” Eddie reaches down and feels the torn edges of his shirt. Beyond that, smooth flesh. Even smoother than it used to be, the only scars left those only an upbringing with Munchausen’s by proxy can give you. “The fucking clown shishkebob’ed me. I died .”
“You died.”
“I died,” he says, barely a whisper. Eddie heaves a sigh. Thinks about the books he’d checked out from the library that he won’t get to read, and while he’s read enough about near-death experiences to know your mind goes weird places in times like these, Neil Gaiman wasn’t what he pictured for himself. Yet here he is, wondering who the hell names someone Door . “So.” He feels wobbly, even sitting down, clutching the jacket in his hands like it’ll keep him steady. “What now?”
“You helped me. So I’ll help you. A little miracle here and there.” There’s a shift in how they lean, and Eddie can tell they’re moving upward. “I’m bringing you back to them.”
He closes his eyes. Feels the air move across his skin despite the blood and the dirt, feels the stressed beat of his heart and hears the blood in his ears.
“That’s a lot of miracle,” Eddie says.
“There was a lot of wishing,” it says, the shrug audible. “Praying, even.”
The rumbling comes to an abrupt end and Eddie feels the scent of fresh air surrounding them before he can ask what he means.
“You can come out, now.”
He crawls out, the gravel and broken up road underneath his palms as he hits solid ground almost face first, stumbling onto his legs like a newborn deer.
The marks in the dirt around them, the collapsed hole they passed through, all of them nearly five times bigger than what’s in front of him.
“You’re a turtle ,” Eddie exclaims, because sure as fuck. That’s a turtle.
“Yes. No. Both.” The turtle’s face moves, he can tell, but the voice he hears is far too booming for this creature, bigger than usual as it may be.
“But-” Eddie protests. It just looks at him, tilts its head. “Sure,” he says, shrugging in defeat. “None of this makes any sense. Why the fuck not. Pennywise is dead, I’m alive. You’re a turtle and not a turtle.”
“He’s learning!” It chuckles.
“I feel like I’ve learned fuck all,” he admits, hands on his hips.
“You can think of me as a turtle if it helps. I’ve been called worse,” it says, amused.
Something moves in the corner of his eye and he sees the lights of the townhouse, strong in the dark of the night. Ben’s room is lit, then darkened once again before he can see anyone. Something stirs in him, anxiously waiting to get to go inside, to make sure they’re all there, making him unable to stand still.
“Are they all okay?” He asks, eyes still not tearing away from the windows.
“They’re alive and healing at least,” the turtle responds.
“But not okay,” Eddie nods, looking to the townhouse again. “That makes sense.”
“All of the Losers will be, in time.”
“Not all of us,” Eddie corrects him before he can stop himself. “Sorry, I just-”
Something gentle washes over Eddie, an emotion he knows very well isn’t his, like an equal to but stronger than the sense of dread Neibolt always seemed to radiate, warm and reassuring as the turtle pauses his shuffling.
It’s fond, he realizes. The turtle is fond of him .
“Patricia has always believed in miracles.” The turtle’s face doesn’t shift at all, but Eddie can still tell it’s smiling somehow. “Who am I to disappoint?”
Eddie lets out a wet exhale. How has he not noticed he’s crying?
“Oh, thank fuck,” he says, leaning on his knees. The turtle looks on, head tilted. Concern, not curiosity, something almost instinctive in him provides. “Georgie?”
“The Deadlights...” It trails off, and Eddie nods. He never saw them, but he saw enough. Understood enough. Some things you just can’t come back from.
“How can I possibly thank you for all of this?”
“Your firstborn,” the turtle says calmly.
“I-” Eddie staggers. “My what?”
“I’m joking ,” it chuckles. “I couldn’t fight It myself. You did. There are no catches to this.”
“Okay,” Eddie says, lost for words yet again, watching as it begins to burrow again.
“You’ve just re-discovered how brave you really are, Eddie. Don’t stop now,” it says. “Tell Mike and Bill Maturin said thank you,” he adds, then turns away.
“M-” Eddie flails as the turtle, the turtle , THE fucking turtle, slips back underground. “Hey, I remember you!” He yells, hoping it hears him even with its head underground. When it- Maturin , shows no sign of slowing down, Eddie throws his hands in the air. “Couldn’t have led with that?” He sighs.
“E-Eddie?”
He turns, and for a brief moment, all they do is stare at eachother. Bill steps in front of Mike, shielding him, and Eddie can’t even be offended. He knows what this must look like, knows what they must fear.
“H-how?” Bill just barely gets out, gaping.
“Turtle- I. Maturin,” Eddie says incredulously and points to the giant hole in the road, fully expecting them to take up arms in doubt. Instead what he gets is realization dawning on Bill’s face, then on Mike’s as Bill slaps his chest half-heartedly, still staring at Eddie.
“Maturin!” Bill yells with a grin, then takes off toward Eddie. Bracing for a tackle, what he gets instead is gentle hands pulling him into a hug, so warm against the cool air Eddie realizes his clothes are still dirty and torn.
“I’m really dirty still, you guys,” Eddie says, but the waver in his voice betrays him.
“Yeah, it’s you alright,” Mike says with a fond smile as he wraps around the both of them tightly, strong and even warmer. He rubs his palms up and down Eddie’s arms, gently assessing the state he’s in. “Hospital?”
Three days ago, Eddie probably would have gone. Hell, he’d probably ask Maturin to take him there first. Now he just shakes his head, buries his face in Bill’s shoulder.
“Let’s g-get you a shower and some food, then.”
Eddie nods, letting himself be led toward the warmth of the townhouse.