Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Beverly Marsh didn't need cosmic-grade powers of perception to see the impatience was rising in Richie's mind, as unstoppable as a returning high tide. She noticed, but that only served to help her hands move faster. Stripping away the protective packaging and applying the perfunctory anti-bacterial ointment, in what-was-becoming-practiced ease, she wrapped the Band Aid sideways around her friend's hand.

Three... two... one.

The tide peaked.

"Ouch! Careful!"

The downside to working fast was, perhaps, she wasn't as gentle as she could have been.

Then again, Richie's fidgeting didn't help.

Unceremoniously, she dropped his hand. "One more of these, and I'm taking the scissors away from you."

Her comment was met with quiet snickering, as the other Losers overheard, but none of them hazarded a quip.

While the sound rubbed him the wrong way just a bit, Richie pretended to glower as if it were the greatest insult, cradling his left hand as if the minor gash across the palm - now safely bandaged - were a sprain. "Yes, Nurse Marsh."

"How many is that now, anyway?" Because he knew Richie could endure no more than sixty seconds of silence at a time, maximum, Stan was quick to offer a prompting question, for it was better for someone to answer it than hear Richie complain anew.

Frustration was already running high for him today.

Arts and crafts, on a sunny Saturday, at the quarry? It was literally fifty feet that way, at the forest's edge. The air temperature was somewhere just shy of roasting, even in the shade. Wasn't the thought of swimming more appealing?

It was summer for fuck's sake.

Fuming, Richie glanced up, past the rims of his glasses. Typical. Even as he spoke, Stan's attention never lifted from meticulously applying the latest strip of tape to his paper contraption.

Tozier leaned against the tree trunk behind him and slumped back down into a sitting position, retaking his spot among the circle the gathered Losers had formed. His pitiful attempt at a project was utterly ignored, so he watched the others work. Scattered in the patchy swath of grass between them lay a veritable shallow sea of empty tape rolls, crayons and colored pencils, and multi-colored scraps of construction paper.

A set of hardcover books, opened to various step-by-step folding diagrams, sat by Bill's and Ben's feet respectively. Beyond their circle, the group's bikes formed a protective barricade against the forest and any would-be ambushes an unexpected 'attacker' might attempt from that direction.

Up until that moment, though, the only one proving remotely dangerous to their afternoon activities was Richie.

At least in terms of killing the mood.

Considering this, Bill tried to make light of his answer, with a half-smile for good measure. A little ribbing wasn't uncalled for. "Six... I t-think?"

Beverly closed the plastic First Aid kit with a snap, buckling its latch in a motion that seemed somehow-dignified. Too dignified for her to offer any confirmation to Bill's estimate.

Eddie, sitting cross-legged across from Richie, harbored no such reservations. He brushed pine needles from his knee-high socks. "At least. The first was the best."

"Best?" Richie repeated. "Never would'a thought you'd be happy at the sight of me bleeding, Eds."

"Were you so upset that we weren't in for swimming today you just decided to end things with a slash on the wrist, play it off like an accident?"

Richie scoffed, holding out both hands for any interested party's scrutiny. The first nick wasn't quite a slash as Kaspbrak described, but it was an impressive line of red, bound with three pieces of suture tape.

As no one else bothered, Ben leaned over for a closer look at the mounting damage. "Your Mom's gonna have a canary when she sees that."

"Don't worry. I have a story in mind already - I lost a fight with a badger."

"There were five of 'em. I was fightin' them off," Kaspbrak intoned, with dramatic hand gestures to match.

"Really?" Mike paused mid-snip, trimming one side of the tailplane of his paper plane to a more aggressive angle. "You'd sooner admit you lost a fight with some wild animal than tell the truth of this?"

"He just doesn't wanna admIt it's only safe to leave him with the kidDie scissors."

The solemn, yet wisecracking comment, so out-of-nowhere in its delivery, drew immediate laughter, noticeably louder than before. Cackling madly, Eddie fell sideways in the grass, overtaken by mirth. Ben chuckled behind one hand. Even Beverly cracked a smile.

Richie, nowhere near as amused, grabbed the nearest piece of ammo on hand, and fired at the offender.

"No one asked you, Stripes!"

Unfortunately, in his haste, he failed to aim the acorn.

And even more unfortunately for him, it somehow missed the bigger target and struck the smaller one seated at the clown's side.

Rather than build paper planes, Georgie Denbrough had opted instead to practice his nautical knots, courtesy of the Sea Scout manual Ben had found for him. Lacking any string, he was making do with the undone laces from one of Pennywise's outstretched boots.

Engrossed in his task, the little boy did not notice the sailing acorn until it nailed him in the temple with a stinging smack.

"Ah-Ow!"

As quickly as it began, the laughter died off, as Georgie clutched his face and burst into fervent tears. Ben's mouth fell open in mute shock. Mike dropped his scissors, disbelieving outrage writ large on his face, mirroring Bill's. "Richie?!"

Then the uproar ensued.

In the millisecond it took for him to realize the damage he had done and register Georgie's cry, the once-livid instigator found himself tackled by a virtual blur of silver and red. Laid flat on his back, gloved hands pinning his shoulders down, the wind momentarily gone from his lungs, Richie gaped and blinked stupidly at the painted visage growling at him.

Pennywise's face was half-warped, jaw distended in a wide, beastly snarl, dripping fangs poised mere centimeters from the boy's nose.

Somewhere in the background, Richie heard the others rallying to his defense. Their panicked pleas mingled and ran together, leaving no room to guess who said what:

"Pen, no! It's okay!"

"No biting! No!"

Hasty footsteps scrambled their way, twigs snapping underfoot. In the span of a few tense seconds, five sets of hands tried to pry them apart.

"He wasn't aiming at Georgie!"

"Stop, wait!"

Gradually seeming to return to his senses, Pennywise stopped growling, teeth retracting. Very seldom did anything get between him and a target, and the novelty alone was enough to give him pause. One yellow eye, followed by the other, glanced sideways at the person that had boldly grabbed his left forearm.

Bill was frowning, eyes sparkling with anger, but he did not shy away from the monster's gaze. He leaned close and uttered only a single command: "Don't."

The eldritch creature stared down at him, mute, for the longest time, not unlike an unruly lion whose tamer had just cracked the whip. No doubt he was weighing his options: to listen to Bill, or to lash out at him instead. The latter was just as likely as the former.

With a sighing hiss, he finally drew back, letting the Losers drag Richie away to a safe distance. Then, throwing a worried look over his shoulder, he loped back across the clearing on all fours, bells ringing.

Richie's mouth worked twice before he found his voice again, meek and trembling, but there. He could feel his hands twitching uncontrollably, even as the shock melted away. "Yeah, that... that kinda happened."

Eddie and Stanley helped him to sit up. In just as short a second, Eddie's expression went from concerned to critical. Without a missing beat, he smacked Richie upside the back of the head.

"You idiot, he could've killed you just now."

"He didn't think," Stan defended. "Like so many other times I wish he had."

Which 'he' was being referred to was anyone's guess.

"How could I miss...?" Richie murmured, rubbing distractedly at his disheveled hair, still trying to focus. His fast-forwarding emotions had already gone from fearing for his life to being almost amazed. Amazed that he wasn't lying there, a freshly-slain cadaver. "It's like trying to miss a billboard with a shotgun."

Without warning his world exploded in pain again, glasses almost jolting off his face. "Ow!" He grabbed for the back of his skull, shoulders hunched with arms folded protectively over his head. "Eds, enough. I know, I screwed up. You don't gotta beat it into me."

"Just making sure," Eddie deadpanned.

In the awkward near-quiet that followed, Bill sat and waited, steady as a rock in a stream, elbows on his knees. His face was unchanged.

Slowly, Richie lowered his arms and straightened his glasses.

"Sorry, Bill."

Pennywise, meanwhile, was having his own difficulties.

"Bevs, please..."

"No. Stay back." Ten feet away, the redhead stood her ground, sheltering a still-sniffling Georgie behind her jeans. She sidestepped to keep herself between the two as Pennywise tried to weave around her, unsuccessfully. As he ducked in the opposite direction, she steered him aside, as one might an over-inquisitive dog. "No. Not until you say you're sorry."

"SoRry?" He sat back on his heels, face screwed up in abject confusion. "Why? Richie threw it!"

"Only 'cause you don't know when to keep quiet."

Eddie facepalmed. "You ever notice how the same can be said of you, Rich?"

Pennywise bristled again, yanking his arm away from Beverly. He stalked back across the clearing, low to the ground, like a cougar about to pounce again. The edges of his irises were still yellow. "So yOU hurt GeorgIe instEad?"

Stan took half a step back, reaching impulsively for the trunk of the nearest tree, as if meaning to hide behind it.

"Pen, it was an accident," Eddie repeated, trying in vain to highlight the most important fact about this fracas.

Richie threw up his hands, not letting the argument lie. "I wouldn't have come close if you two weren't joined at the goddamn hip everywhere you went. Which seems to be a lot more often than not lately. Anyone else notice that besides me?"

"StiLL, he DIdn'T deserve tHat."

"We already told you, it wasn't on purpose, Doughboy! What, only you are allowed an infinite number of screw ups? I ran out of fingers and toes a long time ago keeping track."

"Shut up, Richie!" Eddie snapped before he could help himself.

Pennywise's eyes flared to a rarely-seen molten orange. "Why, yOu LItTLe- "

"Stop that, both of you, right now!"

Bill's voice finally rose. He stood and marched past the clown, over to his brother's side, draping a protective arm around Georgie's shoulders. The younger Denbrough's arms immediately laced themselves around him. Shiny tear trails marred Georgie's cheeks, and staring up at Bill, his wide, soft eyes were threatening to spill over with more waterworks.

For once, Richie heeded a command to remain silent, and averted his gaze, visibly abashed. Still crouching, Pennywise went as still and mute as a statue, for reasons only his multifaceted conscience could fathom. The forest around seemed just as deathly quiet, as if dreading the next outburst. Seeing what their vicious bickering had resulted in effectively shushed the two of them.

Reticent in the face of such social turmoil, Ben wordlessly stepped up and offered a handkerchief to Georgie, who silently wiped at his still-running nose.

"There's more than enough blame to go around here," Mike concluded, hands on his hips.

Beverly paced, taking in the breadth of the scene before her. Her scowl remained the same, but she seconded Mike's words in a tone that was almost forgiving. "You should both apologize. You, for hurting him. And you, for scaring him."

As unsure looks turned his way, one after another, Bill was decided by a final watery frown from Georgie. He nodded, rendering the verdict. "It's only fair."

Pennywise and Richie exchanged a mutual look of miserable irony before hanging their heads simultaneously. "Sorry, Georgie."

To his credit, Georgie put on his bravest smile, as good as any proverbial olive branch. He wiped the last of his tears away, twisting the plaid cloth nervously in his hands.

"T-that's okay. C-can we fly the planes now?"

They did, but there was little cheer in the sendoff.

Later that night, Richie would muse to himself, drifting off to sleep, staring at his bandaged hands, that at least he had earned his injuries over some kind of fight, even if it wasn't with the animal he claimed it to be.

Around the same time, the creature, lingering unseen in the sewers outside the Denbrough home, considered what remainder of the year he had left, and pondered the newfound wisdom of him keeping some kind of safer distance from the Losers in the interim, indulging in only as much close company as he could trust himself with.

Running with scissors was dangerous, after all.

Chapter Text

Somewhere in the woods west of Derry, a certain germaphobic boy discovered something they had not known waking up that Tuesday morning.

Eddie Kaspbrak didn't know he was afraid of heights.

Until he looked down, and realized he was.

Vehemently.

Honestly, the climb up had been almost fun. It was surprisingly easy, even exhilirating. Eddie was certainly not cast from an athletic mold, but he was pleased at how fluidly it had gone. He was just small enough that weaving his way up through gaps between the various limbs, like some vertically-crawling snake, had made for an entertaining challenge.

The surrounding oak and pine trees were closer to the fifty-foot-tall mark than the monster he scaled. Looking out across the top of the forest, a vantage point he didn't think he would ever find himself in the position to see, that was something else.

Probably as close to flying as you could get while still technically grounded.

Then he made the mistake of stopping, seating himself to catch his breath, then looking down at how far he had gone.

Too far.

Way too far.

Then it ceased to be fun.

Truth.

Why? Why didn't I pick truth?

With fingertips dug in as far as they would go, legs positioned crookedly underneath him, Eddie just managed not to sob, momentarily overwhelmed. His eyes were clamped firmly shut. He took solace in the fact that his reluctant truth-or-dare opponent, Ben, was probably feeling no small measure of guilt at this outcome.

Daring someone to climb to the highest possible branch of the biggest nearby oak tree, to find a green acorn? What had he been thinking? The new kid was probably beside himself with panic, but at this height, Eddie had no way of knowing for sure.

Stan wouldn't climb to his rescue. If anything, Ben was keeping him from having an anxiety breakdown. He was probably off on an unstoppable blather, something like "his Mom's gonna kill us, our parents are gonna ground us, etc."

Richie, per usual, was not helping.

Even if he was picking his way up after their treenapped-cat of a boy.

"Don't wet your pants, Eds, I'm coming."

Arms around the trunk, hands threaded together, Eddie pressed his forehead to the bark, blinked once, and squeezed his eyes shut. The view from above was terrifying enough, without the high-up whistle of wind against his ears, ruffling his short brown hair. Despite these discomforts, the universe demanded he answer Richie's quip nonetheless.

"Keep heckling m-me, Rich, and I can't make any prom-is-es."

His quivering response wavered into sing-songy territory as a merciless gust of wind rocked the oak tree.

Through that, he sensed a stunned pause. His mind could practically see a wide-eyed Richie frozen mid-climb. "You wouldn't."

"Less talking, more climbing, Tozier!" Hanging on for dear life, Eddie ignored the way his voice wavered and piqued, feeling the tree sway noticably. Its wide branches, flush with greenery, were practically sails, made to catch the wind.

"DiD you get it?"

"Get wh- fuck! Really?!" Gingerly, Eddie parted his watery eyes, glimpsing only a silverly blur, clinging to the next reachable branch, directly above his own, before clamping them shut again. "Fuck, man, doing that, the jumpscare thing, you're so not helping."

"And... RicHie is?"

"Hey! I heard that, Stripes!"

Eddie swallowed, scarcely daring to breathe. With his misfiring nerves, he didn't trust himself to make the right call. But he trusted neither Richie or Pennywise to make a helpful difference even less.

"Forget the flippin' acorn, Ding-Dong. This is serious."

"It's okaY. I'lL grab one if you don't." Even if the creature was there only to serve as the counterpoint to Eddie's fear, Pennywise sounded completely at ease, utterly untroubled by this unforeseen development. Given his astral origins, that was not surprising. Why would someone from outer space be afraid of heights?

Would the clown be so nonchalant if it were Georgie stuck here, eighty feet off the ground?

Eddie was almost offended. Almost.

But then, despite his tender age, Georgie knew a stupid dare when he saw one.

And Pennywise was here. Not catching flies like the rest of their captive audience, still on the ground.

"Argh. This is so messed up."

"It's not tHat bad, Eds."

"S-says the guy who crash-landed here eons ago," Eddie stuttered.

"I never craShed."

"No. You skidded to a stop on your face in a primordial swamp somewhere a few billion years ago. Same difference, dude."

"Heh. If it helps you to laUgh at that, go ahead."

Nice of him to give his permission.

Eddie coughed out a laugh. He dared to keep his running eyes open, long enough for the prevailing breeze to dry the wetness away. That done, he got a good look at his would-be climbing partner, brow furrowed. "Dolt. You don't see the danger I'm in?"

Pennywise tilted his head, that god-awful smile ever-plastered across his red lips. He lay draped upon the branch, one arm dangling freely, looking like an insane parody of a jungle cat. Or a trapeze artist. Or both.

Looking down at the stranded boy, he turned over on his back to stare at Eddie, upside-down, mockingly, as his own weight were somehow excluded from gravity's pull. Even the layered collar of his outfit lay flat, as if it were made of wax, able to hold its form no matter which way he was orientated.

"You won'T fall, Eds. I wOn't let you."

"Sure... surrre, you won't," Eddie grumbled into his aching shoulder. He kept picturing his lanky, thin-boned frame, tumbling down the length of the tree, pinballing off branches all the way.

Bones snapping. Skin tearing. Organs imploding.

"I wOn't."

"Right, sure..." The reassurance might have been faked, or genuine. Eddie didn't exactly care. Talking was taking his mind off the initial stabbing terror, bit by bit. He swallowed again. "Any other... useful advice you can throw my way, oh floaty one?"

Hair swishing free in the breeze, Pennywise turned his neck, eying the boy up like some strange flying fox before deciding on the matter. "Hmm. Breathe easIer. You'Ll need your strength for the climb back down."

That... actually kinda makes sense. Which is weird, coming from you. You're the incarnation of not-making-sense.

In contrast, all he could find to say was, "Okay..."

"That," Then Eddie felt a tapping against the back of his hand, numb as it was. "And the bLood is just about drained out of your haNds. You'Ll lose your grip if you don't let them relaX."

"You all right, Eds?" Richie hollered up, still some twenty feet below. But getting closer.

"He'S good!"

"I can answer for myself, Dingbat," Eddie sniped, cautiously flexing his stiffened fingers. Admittedly, he was feeling up to the task. "Richie?"

"Yeah?"

"Tell me again why I came up here."

Just so that I can know I'm not alone in the arena of Acting on Glaringly Stupid Decisions.

"Because you'd sooner do this than tell the truth about your sixth grade math teacher."

"I told you, that story's not fit for children's ears!"

"Not fit, just like your Mom!"

"Beep-beep, Richie," Pennywise barked, righting himself, at last showing something like anger for their ludicrous circumstances. "That's noT helping."

The eyes rolled themselves. Willing himself to breathe deep, banking as much oxygen as his narrow chest could stow, Eddie unwound one arm from the trunk. He winced, working his fingers back to their normal dexterity. Impressions from the bark showed on the length of the skin on his arm, he had held on so tightly.

Just as cautiously, he unfolded the bent leg that he had sat upon for ten nail-biting minutes. There was a rush of warmth as blood returned to the limb, refilling pinched arteries, and the fuzziness of his sleeping foot gradually faded.

"Okay, okay... I think I'm good."

Chiming bells answered him.

"YoU made it up here. Of course you aRe."

"Don't throw caution to the wind just yet, man," Richie lectured. Panting, sweat visible on his brow, he reached up and pulled himself to the next available branch below Eddie. Somewhere along the way he managed to let stray leaves lodge themselves in his hair. A regular Tarzan-in-waiting. "You ready?"

Kaspbrak let his hand ghost over the closed zipper of his fanny pack, still riding at his hip, and thought twice. One pull on the inhaler would be more trouble than it was worth. He hadn't indulged in any on the way up, oddly enough.

Surely the climb down would be easier.

"Yeah, I... Pen?"

The entity righted himself in one smooth motion, crouching upon his branch as easily if it were a balance-beam in the high school gym.

"Hmm?"

"...Find me that stupid acorn, will you?"

The clown's smile turned to a toothy grin. He said nothing, but reached for the next branch overhead and ascended nimbly, all but disappearing into the top third of the oak's foliage.

"Dude's part rabid monkey, I swear," Richie intoned under his breath.

Heh. Not such a bad thing in this case. Eddie thought as they descended together, watching each other's backs as they went.

Chapter Text

"Agh... This is boring, Stan-lEy..."

Stan kept the binoculars glued to his eyes, completely unmoved by his pupil's doubts. Give it time, give it time. That Pennywise had even bothered sticking around this long, rather than wink out of existence, as he was wont to do, said the cosmic entity didn't really find this activity as unexciting as watching proverbial paint dry.

After all, the clown had made a legitimate effort to behave. Whatever legitimate meant for him. Namely, he hadn't tried for one physics-defying prank or jumpscare.

Yet.

"Wow," Stan mumbled, affecting mock offense. His eyes continued to pan sideways, glued to the space where the treetops, overlooking the hiking trail, met the eggshell-blue sky. "We've hardly been here ten minutes."

There was a rustling in the grass, cloth swishing against the blades. Though his bent arms were starting to ache, Stan resisted the temptation to check on his companion. The boy could see it in his head easily enough: Pennywise, lounging on the ground, practically begging for mercy at Stan's feet.

Kinda nice to know that, at least once, he had managed to drive someone else to the point of crawling and bemoaning their unwanted tutelage.

"That's alL? It feels more like houRs."

"Sometimes, that's what it takes. Keep your voice down."

As though he somehow thought it didn't count as his voice, Pennywise gave another melodramatic sigh. Whatever number you could assign it, Stan hadn't bothered keeping count.

Thump.

Stanley silently forgave the bench for the minor lurch it gave at being kicked.

"Why did I agree to thIs?"

"Because Bev said you need the practice."

"At being boRed?"

"No, dummy. Being a good friend, even when it means doing things you don't like." He lowered the binos, took one brief glance down at the silver-suited clown's sullen mien, then pressed them back to his eyes. "Don't look at me like that. Keep playing the sourpuss, and see if I invite you along next time."

"As if this sad excuse for a hobBy can get any more- riVeTing."

Stan snorted what-began-life-as a stifled chuckle, despite logic telling him there was something to be offended at there.

Now you're starting to sound like Richie.

A late springtime breeze stirred the forest around them, blowing along the trail as if it were a veritable wind tunnel. Stan breathed in a dose of the fresh air, savoring it. Even weathering a cosmic being's juvenile misgivings couldn't take away from the effects of that peaceful aroma. Better this than the stuffiness of the high school or the oppressive fugue of the synagogue.

He took little notice of the gloved hand which inchwormed its way onto the bench beside him, and then, with a single darting movement, snatched the birdwatcher's guide away. Hopelessly distracted by the agitated flapping noises that followed, Stan frowned and lowered the binos to his lap.

Pennywise lay sprawled on his back in the grass behind the bench, ankles crossed, birdbook held by its spine above his face. Bells ringing, he made a show of pawing violently through the chapters, blurring his way from cover-to-cover, hardly pausing long enough to appreciate one page from the next.

"What are you eVen lookiNg for?"

Is this really what Dad puts up with from me?

Banishing that comparison, Stan offered an honest answer:

"Page 329, the folded corner."

Pennywise raised a brow at the boy's tight-lipped command, but surprisingly, he skimmed to the aforementioned page, braced his fingers against the text, and gave it a moment's consideration.

"The gyr-falCon?"

Stan nodded. "Largest of the falcons, presents as a silver-white sometimes, rarely seen in the northeast. I thought you'd appreciate it."

If possible, Pennywise looked more critical. Appreciating anything in Stan's choice of target was clearly the furthest emotion from his quicksilver mind.

He blinked. "TherE's a picture of oNe on a clifF. We're nowhere neaR the mountains."

"There's an avian sanctuary south of town. They sometimes turn their raptors loose. The trained ones always give the forest a visit before flying back home."

His understudy glanced at the book a final time, before closing it with a slap.

"You knoW this... hoW?"

Stan rolled his eyes. "It's an easy couple of names off my sightings bucket list, okay? We might get lucky."

Lord knows I can't ever have an easy pass on anything. Even when I try to relax.

Pennywise tilted his head, affecting a puzzled face very much like that of a bewildered Georgie Denbrough. "BuckeTs aren't liSts."

"That'll be your next phonics lesson."

"GoodY."

In an effort to deflect any more impending sarcasm, Stan decided to change tact. He patted the empty bench space beside him.

"Here, sit."

Confronted with the stern command, Pennywise obliged, expression downturned and as full of lines as a dejected bulldog's.

Stan traded his binoculars for the field guide. "Look."

With a look that was the definition of dubious, the clown pressed them to his eyes, oversized hands half-cupped around the lenses, lanyard strap dangling against his chest. He made a single halting and highly-experimental scan of the treeline.

Moments later, the binoculars were handed back.

"They'Re out of focUs."

"What? How?"

Puzzled, Stan lifted them back to his eyes, fingertips gently tweaking the dial between the scopes. He hadn't seen Pennywise readjust anything.

Nor did Stan see the furtive grin that practically drew itself across the clown's face.

"I'vE got a betTer idea."

Stan's breath hitched at the loud pop beside his ear. Clenching his jaw, counting to three, and then unclenching, he lowered the binoculars (for what turned out to be the final time) and frowned at the empty air his otherworldly company had once occupied.

It was a diversion. The lenses were no fuzzier or sharper than before.

Figures. Wait until Bev hears you bailed out. Your eyes will stay out of alignment for a week.

Lesson over, Stan crammed the binos and book back into his waiting knapsack. He started back up the path, inwardly cursing the world for making him walk uphill to the grove where he had stashed his bike.

Unexpectedly, another bursting-balloon pop sounded off. Right beside his head. Heart skipping, Stan covered his ears on impulse, practically jumping three feet backwards.

"What the fff- "

In his panic, he glanced up. His jaw dropped.

The sharp and unforgiving profile of a raptor stared down at him, wings half-flared, perched innocuously on a oak tree branch, some ten feet above the path. Sporting a light gray coat flecked with darker, silvery plumage, it was a gyrfalcon, Falco rusticolus, accurate in every way.

Except for the size.

Most falcons weren't the size of a greyhound.

And the colors weren't a hundred-percent accurate, either. Nowhere in their natural history had any specimen ever presented with vibrant orange primary or tail feathers. Or blue eyes.

Hands catching in shock on his backpack's straps, Stan's feet clunked to a stop. His mind stalled momentarily to match. He blinked. "Seriously?"

The gyrfalcon's head cocked to one side, yellow bill snapping twice, otherwise holding as still as a statue.

That was, until its taloned feet released from the branch, and it dropped like a rock, wings angled back in a textbook hunting dive.

Stupefied, Stan's mind dialed back up to full speed, as a terrified rabbit's might as it acknowledges danger hurtling its way. Spotty flashes of Hitchcock's The Birds and Disney's The Jungle Book vultures danced through his head before he thought to frantically backpedal. His heel caught a stray stick, causing him an impressive stumble, before staggering back to a safe distance.

"N-no, no, stay back!"

With wings flaring, the stooping raptor hit the ground with a soft thump before the boy. The impossibly-huge bird hopped toward him, standing as tall as Georgie, emitting a little keening cry.

Birding doesn't work like this!

Stan would have laughed at himself for the ridiculous timing of that thought, but his mouth said something entirely different. "You got the size wrong!" he blurted out.

The gyr jolted to a stop, rocking forward, then back, unstable on its proportionally-huge talons. If possible, its head tilted even further to the left. Its orange wings mantled, then dropped comically to the ground at its sides.

All were behaviors no normal falcon would ever engage in.

"Awk?"

Nor would a normal one respond so literally to such an out-of-left-field observation.

"The s-size. It's not realistic. Gyrs aren't the size of an eagle."

If it were possible with a raptor's fixed, unemotive stare, for a bird to look confused, then slowly turn smug, Stan would have thought he had gone momentarily bonkers. Particularly at the moment when the falcon's beak split as if it had lips and grinned, the narrow space inside filled with intersecting fangs.

And when it spoke in a high, hissy tone.

"RealiSTic. WhEre's the fUn in thAt, Stan-Ley?"

Stan gulped. No, don't. Do not even think-

His feet betrayed him. One nervous half step back, and the falcon lunged.

"Agh!"

It was like being hit by a very fluffy sack of dirt. Somehow, the raptor had weight behind it. Propelling itself dead-center into the boy's torso, Stan cried out more from shock than fear, arms aflail. His backpack made an ominous crunch as it broke his fall.

Pain danced along his spine before nesting somewhere between his shoulder blades. When he regained his bearings, he realized he was still laid out on the hard-packed ground. The gyrfalcon was perched atop his chest, talons splayed upon his shirt, orange wings held wide.

It was still grinning.

And the thing thought it was charming to boop his beak against Stanley's nose. "Tag, you'Re it!"

Stan coughed, clutching the back of his throbbing head. It paled in comparison to his back. "Not funny, Pen!" he choked, eyes squinting.

"HeH. It's a litTle funny."

"Like getting-sandbagged funny?" Temper flaring, Stan aimed a punch. "How's this for amusing?"

Pennywise actually gave a startled squawk as he was thrown aside. The impact was so jarring, bits of silver down feathers peeled off his form to float upon the breeze.

Stan didn't look to see where the alien landed. He heard a branch snap, followed by rustling leaves. With a grunt he sat up, and twisted around to check his crushed pack, wincing as the movement pulled on his back.

To the side of the path, a man-shaped form pried itself out of the underbrush, cringing and holding its brow in one hand. "Ow... Stan-Ley..."

"No! Don't even start! Look what you've done." To his dismay, Stan found his precious binoculars were no longer intact. One of the lenses had been cracked. And that was all the trigger he needed to unleash a long-festering rant, one he had been harboring for the better part of winter and into springtime.

Pennywise gaped, eyes centered. Whether he was actually astonished at the damage he had done, or simply putting on another act, Stanley couldn't tell.

And he was really tired of not being able to tell the difference.

"Stan, I'm soR - "

"Enough!"

Chucking the binos aside, the livid boy stood up, towering over the clown for once, who all but shrank back into hiding amid the bushes, staring up at him with wide blue eyes.

"I don't know why I thought this would be a good idea, not with you in mind, not at all. Why? Because you have all the impulse control of a two-year-old, a completely ass-backwards sense of humor, and no idea what it means to go too far. You think you can smooth it all over with niceties and balloons and a oh-but-I-don't-know-better, but no! It only excuses so much. At some point, you gotta admit the truth, that you're just not made that way. And no amount of pretending is ever gonna change that, you infuriating, fractal-minded freak."

His piece said, mentally feeling about twenty pounds lighter, Uris made to depart. Already he was considering what meager possessions he might hawk, what chores he might take on, to earn some cash to replace the binoculars. Worse, he was dreading the lecture his father would pull out about professing responsibility for one's belongings.

Spurred on by these maddening thoughts, Stan stomped his way up the trail.

That was, until a meek, halting voice called after him.

"But... I'm tryiNg, aren't I?"

Stan flinched, feeling sharply-pointed claws settle on one shoulder, light as feathers. It took every ounce of his self control to not wrench away, or throw another punch. He stopped, noting with dismay how his bike sat not twenty feet away, resting safely on its kickstand.

Turning his back when he thought it was safe. That was his third biggest mistake today.

He took another breath, grit his teeth, and let it out slowly. Raging emotions aside, he tried in vain to think logically. Keeping up with Pennywise's mercurial shifts in mood took actual effort.

Eyes closed, he breathed in again. "Yes, you're trying, but what gets me is how you seem to try in all the wrong ways."

"How can I know what's wRong if no one shoWs me?"

"Because you just don't seem to understand, even when we try. Or what, we can't tell the difference - with our stupid, primitive, single-wavelength brains? To you, if it doesn't fall under 'food' or 'amusement', it doesn't appear to be worthy of learning. If you would only listen..."

Moments later, after another breeze kicked up around them, Pennywise went on where the unfinished thought had trailed off with one of his own.

"...Is this betTer?"

Stan blinked his eyes open and froze anew, muscles tense. In that minute fraction of time, the entity's voice had seemingly jumped places. A strange, soft clack sounded off beside his ear.

From above and behind him, to one shoulder. Steeling himself, Stan gingerly let his eyes slide sideways, to the right.

A... Pica pica?

The scientific name crossed his mind before Stan had fully realized what he was looking at. A species not at all native to North America.

"How did..."

In some ways, the next bird form was even less accurate than the gyr's had been. But it was considerably less intimidating, and (thankfully) correctly sized. Perched delicately upon Stanley's shoulder, head ducked almost shyly, was a Eurasian magpie. A common sight overseas, the striking black-and-white crow was notable for its intelligence, vocal imitation range, and gossamer feathers.

Stan thought it would be years before he'd lay eyes on one, let alone carry it around on his shoulder, like the pirate and his parrot.

But in this context, it was the parrot who had stolen something.

And again, except for the colors, the bird's feather pattern was right.

Minus the pliable 'lip edges' that no beak should ever sport.

...what's wrong... show me...

"They're... darker than that. And you need to lose the orange."

Before his eyes, the silvery-gray feathers darkened to a shiny black that rippled from green to blue in the light. Along the wings, the bright apricot-colored primaries grew lighter and lighter, finally attaining an off-white shade, complete with webbed edges.

The midnight blue eyes blinked once at him, white nictitating eyelids rolling back, beak parting in anticipation.

No teeth inside.

"That... is better." Then, almost as an afterthought, Stan muttered with a half smile: "Nicely done."

With a little excited flutter of its wings, the avian-lookalike actually cooed at him. Next thing he knew, it was hunkering down against the crook of his neck, leaning in to nuzzle with that long, sharp beak laid flat against his jaw.

Stan flinched again, but only at the tickly sensation he felt.

Inside and out.

Chapter Text

It wasn't often that Bill and Georgie disagreed on anything.

Oh, but when they did, watch out, world.

While arguing at home was simply not an option (per Mom's decree) all bets were off when it came to neutral ground like the Barrens, or 29 Neibolt Street.

Leery of where to approach this potential blow-up from, the rest of the Losers were treading lightly. No one asked anything direct to either boy. Even Richie was showing a rare, almost-cautious side, as long as he was dropping jokes in their presence. Where once they were inseparable, the Denbrough brothers had barely looked one another in the eye all day.

Things came to a head around five o'clock that Thursday afternoon.

"Let's go, Georgie."

"You go, Billy. I'm staying."

"No, you're not. Dad said we both n-needed to be home by six."

"So, go. I'll catch up. When I'm ready."

Bill frowned, lingering in the open, second-floor doorway, backpack held on one shoulder.

Georgie stayed where he was, sitting sprawled among his markers, coloring books, and crossword puzzles. His gaze was angled down, as if there were no other direction to look. For all his sweetness and adoration, the elementary-grade schooler could be a natural stick-in-the-mud when he wanted to be.

Right from the start, Bill could tell he wasn't going to get anywhere. Begging was out the window, let alone reasoning. He would have dragged Georgie home by his ankle if that's what it took. But that would mean enduring a verbal lashing from one or both parents, how dare he be so rough with the precious baby.

For Bill, the verbal beatings were just as bad as the physical.

"BilLy?"

Suddenly, he smelled mints and popcorn, oppressively close. Despite the abrupt, impossible change in the air, Bill didn't so do much as blink. His frown only morphed into a scowl. No doubt the creature now looming over him had sensed the tension when the boys had arrived, two hours prior. Beyond that, he had probably been sensing it the last three days.

For that was a new record in how long Bill and Georgie had been feuding in silence.

"You talk to him."

The red bells on Pennywise's suit gave a short, almost-embarrassed twinkle as the high school freshman shouldered his way past him, headed for the stairs. Befuddled, the slack-faced demon craned his neck around almost one-hundred eighty degrees to watch - again, something no normal human could do (and survive).

Bill wasn't a bluffer. Did that mean he really intended to leave without Georgie?

Georgie continued to scribble aimlessly, not bothering in the slightest to keep the marker's tip inside the lines, even as Pennywise timidly stepped into the room, then crouched down beside him, balanced on pompommed toes, hands threaded together.

"Georgie?"

"Hi, Penny."

The clown blinked, tilting his head. It wasn't often someone else beat him to the punch with a greeting. Not so sharply.

Not to mention, for being two of the best friends either had ever had, that was the first time they had laid eyes on each other yet that day.

"Hi..." Unsure, Pennywise took a rare moment to study the boy. One eye tracked Georgie's coloring hand. The other kept itself fixed on his glowering expression. "Billy says it's time fOr you to leave."

"I don't care."

He prodded the boy's bicep with one finger. "You're gonna be late for supPer."

"'M not hungry."

A frilly arm shot out and pulled him close. Pressing an ear to the boy's head, his captor smirked, and listened. It was as though Georgie were a conduit through which he could hear an empty stomach grumbling noisily.

Perhaps all he needed was a hug?

"NoW, I can telL that's not true."

The smirk vanished as, rather than struggling, Georgie turned in the clown's grip and thrust a fist against his ruffled chest. "Go away, Penny."

Confused, Pennywise let his arm go slack, but Georgie didn't bother to crawl away, letting the limb stay draped across his shoulders like a shawl. The boy reached for the green marker he had dropped, and, still scowling, he grabbed his coloring book with the other, as though he intended to resume coloring, no matter what.

"What's wroNg?"

"Nothing."

"Don't liE to me, GeorgIe. This isN't like you."

"So?"

"So... can I heLp?"

"What do you care?" The boy sniffled, clearly fighting to keep his real emotions at bay. "You don't have a brother. You wouldn't understand."

Pennywise raised a brow. True, he didn't have an actual sibling to quarrel with, per se, but he had the next best thing in the Losers. He wasn't totally without experience as to what it was to fight with someone you loved.

Not... totally.

Gently, with a deftness that belied his size, he took Georgie by the chin, directing them to look at each other.

"Try mE."

It was starting to get dark.

Standing astride Silver's frame, Bill kept one hand on the handlebars. With the other, he held Georgie's bicycle upright. The kickstand had broken off some time ago. Together, they faced 29 Neibolt's front door like an incomplete set of lawn decorations.

Outside the fence, the remainder of the Losers waited on the Denbroughs.

Better to travel in a pack than separately.

Stan clutched the upturned collar of his jacket, nervous eyes taking in the cloudy skies above. "It supposed to rain today?"

"Later tonight, maybe," Mike shrugged. A damp breeze stirred their surroundings, seemingly for effect. Strong winds often surged ahead of an oncoming stormfront. "That's what the radio said."

"How much longer do you think Pipsqueak'll be?" Richie mimed checking his wrist, upon which there was no watch.

"Doesn't matter. We wait until he's ready," Beverly reaffirmed. While the others watched the house, she watched the neighborhood around them. If the past eight months had taught them anything, it was that danger could come from every direction, especially the ones you thought were safe.

Perhaps that was why she was the last to notice the gangly, silver figure who appeared in the yard, directly behind Bill.

Despite how used to his sudden out-of-thin-air appearances they were, Ben gave a start, as did the rest of the gang. "Pen?"

With ears sharp as razors, It heard that from fifty feet away. His head whipped around to stare at him, at them all, with lowered brows. He did not smile, but he wasn't frowning, either. His walled eyes were still blue.

In many ways, it was the most intimidating look in the entity's arsenal.

Today, it carried an unmistakable hold-your-horses vibe.

Impulsively, the group took a collective step back.

Sans Beverly. She stood her ground.

From a distance, she couldn't hear what Bill was saying. But she saw his mouth moving, as though he were frantically trying to explain himself before the creature said anything. With his agitation, the stutter wasn't doing him any favors.

Movement from one of the upstairs windows caught her attention next. Squinting, she could just spy the set of eyes peering out from between a pair of boards.

Georgie?

Whatever argument he was relaying, Denbrough's words seemed to be falling on selectively-deaf ears.

Pennywise simply stared him down, unmoving, for nearly three minutes.

Apparently, Bill relented. Shoulders sagging, he swung his leg, over Silver's back fender, and deployed her kickstand. He leaned Georgie's bike against the old Schwinn before plodding back up the steps and into the house.

Job done, Pennywise folded his arms, and - rather than vanishing - he waited.

Gingerly, haltingly, like they were stepping onto an active minefield, the six remaining youths inched their way back into the yard. The breeze kicked up again, ruffling their hair, jackets, the legs of their pants. Slowly, they fanned out to encircle their mascot from both sides.

He kept staring upward, as still as a pond on a windless day. Not a lock or ruffle blown out of place.

Just as Beverly breathed in to speak-

One of the clown's gloves shot up, index finger raised in a wait gesture.

"GivE them a miNute."

Beverly blinked, mouth snapping shut. Before she could think of what to say, Richie took an experimental step onto the porch.

Striking like a viper, Pennywise snagged him by the back of the neck. "NopE, you stay."

"The heck, man?" Richie blurted out. He twisted back and forth, hands grasping blindly at the arm behind his head, fruitlessly trying to wrench free. "You gonna tell us what's going on or not?"

"I... don't think we need to know, Rich," Ben mused. Catching his eye, Mike nodded in mute agreement.

Stan and Eddie also exchanged a knowing look.

Five minutes later, without so much as a peep between them all, Georgie, followed closely by Bill, emerged from the house. Passing through their phalanx of dumbstruck friends, they wordlessly grabbed their bikes, wheeled them out to the street, and took their seats.

As Beverly leaned to one side for a better look, she saw Georgie's foot lift to set down on the bike's pedal. In the same moment, Bill's hand came to land on his little brother's shoulder. There was a mutual pause as both looked at each other, communicating better in silence than they had with words that day.

Then Bill offered a smile and tugged the sliding backpack strap higher up onto Georgie's shoulder.

Georgie smiled back. And even in the low light, his eyes glistened.

Whatever troubles they had had earlier, they were clearly resolved now.

Beverly breathed out, chancing a look up at their now-grinning guardian.

He winked.

"MuCh better."

Beverly smiled back at him, freckled cheeks flushing just slightly.

"Hurry nOw. StoRm's comin'."

Raindrops began to patter on the house's roof as the group departed.

Until Richie was the last to leave.

"...Anyone gonna tell us what that was about?"

Lingering just a moment longer, Pennywise snorted and shook his head. Being faced with the Trashmouth and his nagging persistence was the perfect period to end today on.

Now all was right with the world.

Pop.

Then Richie was alone in the yard, with only the sunflowers to question.

"Anyone...?"

The yellow flowers nodded in the rising winds, but at what, that was anyone's guess.

Chapter Text

"Your socks don't match today."

Stan frowned, eyes glancing up from the table, while the rest of him remained unmoved. The pencil in his hand stayed pressed to the notebook. "And this is relevant, how?"

"What happened?" Richie smirked, seated upon the nearby kitchen counter (to his own peril; who knew how stable that half-rotten thing was?). His dangling heels bounced off the door in an almost-rhythm: one, then the other, and again. "Is this a new Stanley I'm seeing?"

"No more than I was yesterday, Rich. Don't you have an essay to start?"

"Already did it."

"Liar."

"Yeah, I am," Richie shrugged, leaning back against the window. He wasn't in the mood for denial, except when it came to procrastinating on one's history assignment. "Any other obvious statements you got for me?"

"Here's one - get to work. Or you can get someone else to do your proofreading."

"My, my, fiesty today, rowr," Tozier mimed curling cat claws with his fingers.

"Shut it."

"Never."

"Joy. I can just see what this kinda study session's gonna be like." Making no bones about his arrival at 29 Neibolt, Eddie was the last of the three to make the afterschool rendezvous. He pulled up a chair, dumping his backpack on the floor. "Hiya, Stan."

"Edward." Stan mimed scratching his paper, even if his mind was currently stalled on the next sentence describing the events of Waterloo. As long as neither of them looked too closely, Richie or Eddie wouldn't know the difference.

"Eds, you bring 'em?"

"Be sure to save some for the others this time."

With an overeager leap to rival their missing mascot's, Richie sprung off the counter, pouncing upon the discarded backpack. The zipper opened with a shrill squeal. "Awesome!"

Though his rational voice told him not to, Stan glanced up again at the crinkle of plastic unwrapping. He frowned. "Twinkies? That's your idea of a snack?"

"Hey, it isn't everyday I save up enough to get one for everybody." Arranging his books before him (albeit as slowly as humanly possible), Eddie took the jab in stride.

Richie grinned, the yellow, cream-filled sponge cake almost lifted to his mouth. "You're saying you don't want yours, Stan?"

The pencil was set down with a click. "Give it here."

Though his face fell, abruptly disappointed, Richie handed the still-wrapped treat over. Turning it over in his hands, Stan put together an inspired plan. "Finish your essay, and you can have it."

With the promise of a tangible reward, Richie took a chair. Stan set the pastry down in the center of their pile of books and papers, a prize waiting to be claimed.

Cramming the last of his ration into his mouth, Richie spoke through a mixture of crumbs and cream. "You sure it won't go missing between now and then?"

Eddie pulled a face, silently brushing the more-offending crumbs off his notebook.

"There will be three sets of eyes on it the whole time. Get to work."

Fifteen minutes later...

"Seriously, though, what's with the socks?"

"Richie."

"I have to know! It's driving me mad."

"Does that matter right now?" Eddie blurted out, already exasperated. He didn't need to be told the context of Richie's observation. He could already guess. As with all of them, it was complete nonsense.

And therefore worth arguing about.

"I'm pretty sure it's a sign of the Apocalypse."

Turned out, to Tozier, it did matter very much.

"Oh, for fuck's sake, you can fixate on anything. Last week it was the not-Jesus-face in the soot on the side of the house."

"I'm telling you, it was!"

"Our laundry room's not in the best shape right now," Stan interrupted, primly erasing a misspelled word from his paper. His eyes never wandered. "Dad's had a contractor in there, renovating, after a building inspector told us there were signs of early-stage wood mold. Mom has had to cart our dirty stuff back and forth from the Kleen-Kloze for a week. Things are starting to get mixed up, lost in transit."

Richie's face lit up in devilish delight. "Oh, I bet that doesn't chap her ass."

"So, are you satisfied? It's not what you thought it was."

"Truth is always better anyway. To think, such a disgrace could be taking place under the roof of the Uris household."

"Paper, Richie," Eddie tapped his pencil on the open history book. "Focus on the paper."

"Why? It's not due until Friday."

"Did you forget already, no paper, no Twinkie?"

"I reconsidered. Not worth it." Richie sat back in his chair, hands folding behind his head. He propped a foot on the table's edge, utterly at ease. "Unless... Stan were to up the ante?"

"No." Stan's voice went even flatter (defying all the written laws of physics in doing so). "They're your grades. I could care less if you flunk. You're this close to being held back."

"I'll talk my way through it, Stanny. I always do."

Eddie shook his head. "And if your Dad throws his two cents in? Good luck graduating same year as the rest of us."

"And don't say I didn't ever try to help you," Stan accused, with a dramatic pencil-point to match.

"Hmph." For a fleeting moment, Richie's eyes angled down, appreciating what few sentences he had strung together regarding the Napoleonic Wars. In truth, it wasn't that he didn't grasp the subject. Just that, on a nice day like this, there were better things to be doing. It was only Monday, after all.

"Speaking of help, where's Ben?"

"He's got some overdue assignments to catch up on, turned out he needed more references from the library. He knows better than to bring them around a walking distraction like you, Rich."

"Walking distraction, like your sideshow attraction of a- "

"Shut it, Richie!" Eddie kicked at the other boy's exposed chairleg, ineffective as it was. "Just because you want to skate by with D's doesn't mean I want to."

"Doesn't mean you have to, either, Eds. It's okay to let the books mellow a little bit before hitting 'em."

"That... doesn't make any sense."

"You're welcome."

"I'm almost done here," Stan revealed. Hearing the slow, telltale squeeeak of a chair rocking forward, he grabbed for an empty notebook page, pulling it atop his completed draft. "No, you can't copy it."

"Aw, Stanley..."

"Enough with your whining, man. If I didn't know better I'd say you were doing all this as practice for your next out-whining contest with Pen."

"Well! It's not a skill you acquire overnight, good sir," Richie huffed on his knuckles, brushing them against his shirt. Already his voice was veering into pseudo-aristocratic territory.

"It's not something to really be known for bragging about, either."

"We all have our talents, Mister Uris. Yours is laser-focus in the face of adversity, no matter what your old man tells you."

Caught in the awkward space between feeling genuinely complimented and seriously doubtful, Stan looked at the untouched Twinkie. Then, after a beat of deliberation, he used the tip of his pencil to push it closer to Richie.

"See, Eds? Talking. Works like a charm."

"You're still an idiot."

"Yeah, yeah, moving on..." Richie trailed off, unwrapping his prize.

"And you still can't copy my paper."

"Aw!"

-----

Observing everything from the next floor, unseen in the shadows of the house, the host of 29 Neibolt fought back (what had to be) the fiftieth snort that afternoon. For all the talk about humans changing throughout the periods of their life and growing more mature, Richie didn't appear to be standing a chance.

Upon the arrival of his first guest, an unseen-Pennywise speculated about the look on the boy's face when he sank through the ceiling and onto the table the Jewish boy had proclaimed his workspace, but once he saw Stan unzip the backpack and get engaged in obviously very serious work, he decided to hold back and watch. Pranks could always be made later. It wasn't like the boy had a better opportunity to work at home, the clown concluded with a single look at the mismatched socks.

Stanley was fond of peace and quiet. He deserved the rarity of it when the chance was given.

In the end, Pennywise's decision had proven more generous than he would have thought. Not twenty minutes in — Stan's History notebook was getting impressively filled (Pen pinned a mental note to ask him about what it was later) — a familiar babble from the doorway dispersed the comfortable silence like a gunshot would a flock of birds, making Stan, Richie's polar opposite, roll his eyes at the ceiling, asking all heavens what he had done wrong, to think calling this session together was a good idea. Pen sympathized with him.

Instead of assuming the position in a chair next to his friend, Richie predictably dropped the backpack in the middle of the kitchen, and proceeded to seat himself on one of the counters, his stinging commentary never ceasing its flow.

Stan's rescue was delayed in its arrival just for another moment, though, coming in the shape of little, spiky, sarcasm-armed Eddie. Another-else-armed, too. Pennywise couldn't suppress an almost proud smile at the way Stan used the confection to effectively muzzle the Trashmouth into doing as he was told. Whole fifteen minutes.

Lying down in a more comfortable position, like an idle jaguar, he warped outside the laws of physics. Without a part of him to be seen through a huge gaping hole (invisible to the boys), the clown discovered there was something enjoyable in simply standing by and watching the situation unfold as it normally would, without his presence.

He did frown a bit, however, at the comparison of his ''whining'' to Richie's.

He never whined... he just proved points.

Still, he mused, leaning his chin on folded hands as Stan gave up and shoved the candy at Richie, whose victorious face wouldn't last long, the banter was always funnier to watch rather than actually taking part in.

Chapter Text

Now, Bill Denbrough sometimes imagined that if he had a dog, caring for it would be somewhat like his relationship with It. Or vice versa?

Would both a dog and a cosmic-clown-beast be equally prone to disappearing for days on end, only to come back home, hungry, foul-tempered, smelling of refuse, and in desperate need of a bath?

Probably not. If the dog had had a meter-long, wrought-iron fence post jammed through its skull, there would be no going home for him or her.

Unless it were a zombie dog!

Shut up, Richie-voice.

At that moment, Pennywise only sounded one-hundred percent the part of a wild canine, snapping and growling (as best he could) at anyone attempting to approach him.

They had just gotten their 'campsite' in the front room situated, seven sleeping bags laid out in a row. The eighth was being arranged.

Then, just like a monster out of a campfire story, Pennywise fell out of the shadows.

Literally - fell. The floor gave a noticeable jump.

Dragging himself in through Neibolt's front door, back from whatever mysterious venture he had been on, he had only succeeded only in frightening them all half to death. Wheezing and grumbling incomprehensibly, the beast had sought peace in the nearest available corner in the foyer.

Thankfully, Georgie had been upstairs at the time. Thinking fast, Bill took one look at the situation and pointed to the ceiling. Stan all but flew up the stairs to intercept the curious six-year-old before he saw anything alarming.

Ben followed seconds later, headphones and Walkman in hand, then returned.

Then came the struggle of figuring out what to do.

Pennywise acted half-feral on a good day. Now he was being downright animalistic. How he had come to be in this injured state, none of the Losers knew. And it would be a while before they ever found out, if at all. Instead, they focused on doing what little they could to pacify the pain-crazed entity.

From a safe distance.

So far Bill and Beverly were the only ones to risk creeping closer.

The sleeping bags had been shoved aside, into an unkempt pile on the opposite side of the room. The remaining four Losers stood at the ready, in the freshly-cleared space, spread out in a half circle behind their Alpha and Beta.

To do what - who knew? But it was better than being caught unawares.

"Careful, guys," Mike said, for what-had-to-be the twentieth time.

"What do you think they're doing, brainiac?" Eddie half-whispered, restlessly shifting from foot to foot. Ben stood beside him, eyes shifting just as much. Outwardly, though, the bookworm seemed the most calm. He laid a comforting hand on Kaspbrak's shoulder, and Eddie's shaky breaths settled the slightest bit.

Richie had taken the "safest" vantage point to be found, adjacent to the old loveseat. There was an empty hiding space behind it just beckoning to be used. With one hand on the armrest he plucked at the fraying material, anxious and short of breath.

But he was not so completely without his druthers to resist cracking a joke.

"Jeez, g-guess that 'coon hunt could have ended better for ya, eh, Stripes?"

At that Pennywise gave a spluttery groan, the lower half of his face awash with drool and upward-flowing threads of blood. He lay half-curled in on himself, shaking, one hand splayed protectively over his punctured face. With his still-intact left eye - now a veritable swirl between blue and yellow - he just managed to pull off a glare.

"S-s-S-shuT up, R-RicHie."

Nearly down on his hands and knees, Bill swallowed. It felt like creeping up on a whipped tiger. He was completely without a plan of action. In the months they had come to know this thing, he was still, arguably, the most distant from understanding It. Having Georgie for a brother imbued him with no more special status in the clown's social rankings than the other Losers.

Even if he was their so-called 'leader'.

Beverly had more of a rapport with the creature than he did.

"D-don'T t-oucH me!"

Somewhat more.

Pennywise wasn't totally without sense. Briefly, he seemed to reanimate enough to struggle up to his hands and knees, then his feet, claws half-pulling him up the wall, keeping his distorted face out of Beverly's reach. The far end of the fence post scraped against the old wood, eliciting a tortured whimper from its victim.

Bill almost flinched in sympathy. Who knew what feeling actual pain meant for a cosmic entity?

Undaunted, Beverly followed his half-hearted escape attempt, reaching up to grab the edges of the clown's shredded collar with both hands. "Pen, don't be stupid. We need to do something about that."

"N-no. I-I'lL be f-f-fine."

"Dude, it ain't no splinter that's gonna work itself out if you leave it alone," Richie seconded. "Quit playing hard to get."

"You wouldn't be here if you didn't need the help," Ben pointed out.

Panting, despite his ruined features, Pennywise apparently thought his predicament over and let the logic seep in. He gradually let his claws unhook from the wall, and promptly sank back down on his knees again, leaning against Beverly like a crutch.

Carefully, the others moved in.

"It hur-rts, Bevs."

"I know." She stroked the undamaged side of his wet jaw, never minding the hideous, film-like substance her hand passed through. If she was struggling with bearing her friend's weight, she gave no indication. "Hang tough. Bill has a plan."

No, I don't!

Denbrough swallowed a second time, harder than before, and blinked. It wasn't like Beverly to put him on the spot in such a way, and he wasn't sure to be affronted or inspired. But her reassurance seemed to be keeping Pennywise grounded. If it helped the entity from backsliding further out of his assumed-human element, Bill supposed he could improvise in the time he was bought.

Or he thought so for all of two seconds, until Pennywise took one pointed look at him and squashed that optimism like a bug.

"N-no, he d-d-doeSn'T."

Eddie facepalmed. "Man, now's not the time to doubt the guy about to perform surgery on you."

"Without anesthesia," Richie chimed in, to the ever-annoyed looks of Mike and Ben.

Taking their votes of confidence to heart, Bill exhaled deeply, a cleansing breath, steeling himself. He stepped closer. "I don't care how m-m-much it stings. Just promise me, whatever we do, you won't hurt anybody."

Pennywise's eye darted nervously across each of their waiting faces. The color of the iris continued to pinwheel uncontrollably. "I caN't p-promise tHat."

"You will," Bill repeated, firm.

If you're really our friend, you will.

The creature's once-harsh breathing slowed. He said nothing, but Beverly read his silence for reluctant acceptance. At her nod, they took action, and helped their patient away from the wall, toward the center of the room.

The four arranged themselves in a box around his kneeling form, two for each shoulder. Standing before the patient, Beverly kept her hands gentle, brushing away the crumbling flakes of imitation-skin from the impact point. The post had impaled him straight through his right eye socket, veering off at enough of an angle that the far end protruded from behind his left ear.

Eddie's advice, to study the angle the post had entered from and deciding on the best tactic, would not go ignored. Bill circled the scene, hands flexing. His palms had already started to sweat.

"This is gonna suck, isn't it?" Richie got one last quip in before the end.

Mike patted Pennywise's back as the clown gave a nervous whimper. It wasn't worth the energy to glare at Richie. His own stomach already felt like it had turned outside in. "Just don't lose your grip."

Bill bit his cheeks. Weirdly enough, he was suddenly thinking of Lonesome Dove, and one of the more gruesome bits of that miniseries being the moment in which an arrow shaft had to be removed from Robert Duvall's leg.

So long as they were quick about it, the momentary increase in their friend's discomfort would be worth the reward.

Ben had seen the same special. Glancing sidelong at him, Hanscom nodded.

Aye God, Woodrow. Let's get it done.

"It's a p-pretty even shot, from each side," Bill concluded. "Any ideas there, Pen?"

It was as close to an up-front question as Denbrough had ever levelled at him. Heck, it was probably the first time he had actually called the eldritch mascot by his nickname. Normally, they had little to no reason to converse, except when it came to Georgie -

Georgie. Dear God, Stan, keep the music playing.

"W-whatever hurts leSs," Pennywise finally stammered. He might have tried to turn his head, before thinking twice.

"So, either w-w-way will do, right?" Bill smiled in spite of the grim response. "From behind, then. Don't b-bite Beverly."

The redhead smirked at him, either in actual irritation or in the sarcastic spirit of gee-thanks.

"Wait!" Inspired, Eddie dashed back to their cluster of backpacks. "That's what we're missing."

Beverly leaned aside as Kaspbrak returned, baseball glove in hand. "Bite down on this."

"W-whY?"

"For the noise," Eddie explained. "You don't want to scare Georgie."

Realization dawning, Pennywise grabbed the mitt and let his teeth dig in.

"Ready?"

A grunt answered him. Without looking away, Beverly nodded a confirming affirmative. Standing behind the patient, Bill grasped the far end of the post, gently as he could manage. He wiped the sweat from his other hand on his shorts. "Ready, guys?"

Mike nodded, braced his feet.

"Three..."

Following the farmboy's example, Richie braced his forearm across the clown's upper back. Mike followed suit.

"Two..."

Eddie pushed on his assigned shoulder from the front. Keeping their patient from pitching forward or back was key. Ben did the same.

"One..."

Grabbing on, Bill closed his eyes, and threw his weight backwards.

"Pull!"

With a horrid, otherworldly shriek, the fencepost started its dreaded exit. Boxed in from all sides, It's form seized up like a vice clenching, a roar of new agony now reduced to a muffled yell, thanks to the leathery gag. Together, the Losers held firm. The iron jarred to a terrifying stop as the leading end caught on the way out, but a final tug helped it break free.

Bill stumbled, suddenly overcompensating, and landed squarely on his rump. The post clanged loudly against the dirty floor beside him.

Collectively, the others released their grip.

Spitting the ruined mitt out, Pennywise clutched his face with both hands, pitching forward at the waist. Beverly instantly knelt beside him, stroking his heaving back, murmuring words of encouragement.

"Fuck, man!" Richie cried, suddenly ecstatic. "You did it!"

Sitting up, Bill took a cursory look at the post and then tossed it aside. The accursed thing would find its way to the Derry landfill tomorrow.

Give credit where credit is due.

"We did it."

"You did the hard work," Ben clarified.

"Nice one," Mike nodded, wiping his hands on his shirt.

"Ha! I can't believe that went so well," Eddie admitted, sitting back on his heels. He was the picture of pleased.

Still on his knees, Pennywise kept his face hidden in his palms. Slowly, his rough breaths grew steadier. He was still shaking, bells tinkling as if they were attached to a running motor, but the worst had passed.

Bill took a knee beside Beverly.

"Pen, you okay?"

Pennywise's head twitched, turned to one side, and then up, at the sound of his operator's voice. Already, he was looking twenty percent healed. Where there once was a gaping hole, a blank white surface had spread to fill the new space, like a primed wall, ready for painting.

"Better already," Beverly smiled, after a preliminary check on both sides of their patient's skull.

Bill didn't turn to see. He was busy being caught in an impromptu staring contest.

"Hey, you in there? Say s-s-something."

Pennywise was blinking the strangest series of blinks Bill had ever seen: first with his left eye, then his newly-formed right, the left again, then both at the same time.

"Loading, please wait," Richie snickered, looking around the clown's shoulder.

Almost like a calibration check, Pennywise's eyes diverged, then centered. As if drawn by an invisible paintbrush, the missing red stripe extended upward from the corner of his newly-healed mouth, crossing his cheek, spearing its way through the middle of his eye.

Then a gloved finger was suddenly jabbed into Bill's face.

"NeVer again."

Caught off guard, Bill gave a laugh anyway.

With his lowered brows and wide blue eyes, Pennywise's mien was the strangest mixture of gratitude and fear ever.

"I won't p-plan on it if you don't."

Just in time, feet came running down from upstairs: one set, followed by a second.

The other Losers stepped back. As mercifully-oblivious as everyone hoped he would be, Georgie Denbrough bounded over and grabbed the still-kneeling clown in a hug, completely disregarding the soft mewl of "ow" he gave, clutching at his temple.

"Penny!" the boy cried. "Where have you been?"

Bill chuckled again, face dropping into his palm.

Yep, kinda like having a dog that found its way home.

But at least they could skip the bath.

Chapter Text

It was as picturesque a day as a Maine summertime fishing spot could get. The creek could be called serene, sliding quietly on by, its undisturbed surface as clear as a pane of freshly-waxed glass. High above, unfiltered sunlight beamed down, radiant as you like, illuminating the stony bed below the softly-flowing water with stunning clarity. Every fish that passed the would-be fishermen by could be accounted for: trout, crayfish, perch.

So far, none of them had bit. Even the mosquitoes flitting about at midday weren't taking their usual doses of blood.

Not even the two people currently struggling through the undergrowth toward the site were suffering from that many bug bites.

They made up for that shortage of discomfort by belittling one another en route.

"I did not!"

"Did too!"

"Did not!"

"Did too!"

"All right. Who did what?" Mike finally demanded, seconding the annoyed glower Ben was levelling at their two newly-arrived fishing 'buddies'. It was so jarring, the uncalled-for shattering of their peaceful scene was practically on par with murder. "And keep your voices down."

Neither boy moved from their spot on the weather-smoothed, sun-bleached log lying parallel with the creek's edge. Despite the calamity, their homemade fishing rods - baited with fresh earthworms only an hour out of the ground - could not afford to be abandoned.

A third fishlined stick stood, crammed deep into the mud beside the creek, utterly unattended.

To his credit, Eddie stepped out of the trees and put the budding argument on hold long enough to stop Richie from crashing into him. He had spotted what it was Mike was apparently so leery about disturbing. Frowning, Eddie held a finger to his lips in warning, pointing with the other hand to a niche in the undergrowth, adjacent to the log.

Pennywise lay curled up on his side, arms arranged under his jaw, eyes closed. He looked hopelessly out of place against the backdrop of Mother Nature, even if he had mastered the act of appearing to truly be asleep. His deep, steady breathing was convincing enough on its own.

Nestled in the crook made by his friend's pale form, Georgie Denbrough reclined against his midsection, legs stretched out before him. The boy's head was tilted sideways and back, supported by the pillow that was the clown's shoulder. His eyes flickered briefly under closed lids, but otherwise he didn't stir.

Somehow, neither of them had been roused awake by the fast-approaching bickering.

Perhaps, after a season's worth of exposure, they were simply desensitized to it, even in sleep.

"Awww..." Tozier mocked, softly as he knew how (which wasn't very). "Well, isn't that just preci- ouch, Eds!"

"Quiet!" Kaspbrak hissed. "Remember the last time you interrupted their nap?"

"Now, counselor, that was never prov- ow, ow, okay! Shit!" Richie fended off a second punch in the arm, still barely managing to keep his voice reduced to a borderline stage whisper. "Christ, had I known we were supposed to sneak our way up here, guerilla-style, I never would've bothered."

Chapter Text

Grinning, Georgie swirled his hand in the creek.

"Aww... they're cute."

And therefore, it was worthwhile to try catching them in a whirlpool of your own making.

Crouched beside him on the bank, elbows on his knees, Pennywise made a sound that was best categorized as half-laugh, half-exasperation. His grin was small and wry to match.

"And very, veRy scared right noW."

"Really?" Astonished, Georgie snatched his hand back, watching as the clear water's rippling surface stilled. Below, a little school of quivering black specks milled about a shallow depression in the sand. "I scared them?"

"To tHem, yoU're the giaNt, GeorgIe. WhY wouldn't tHey be scareD?"

"Oh." Leaning down on his hands, the six-year-old put his face right up next to the underwater nest. "Sorry, guys. I didn't mean it."

"Man. You got him talking to tadpoles now, Pen?" Mike asked, benignly as ever, arms loaded with kindling sticks - an eventual 'tribute' to their intended hosts. He stopped where the tall grass met the sandy bank, smirking crookedly. "Just when I thought you couldn't top sheep."

"But they're so cool." Georgie breathed out, still balancing on his hands, almost in awe. "Who knew frogs started out so... wiggly?"

The homeschooled boy shook his head. "For the most part, they stay that way, kid."

"And you can talk to them?"

Pennywise's blue eyes diverged, thinking of how to put his ability into terms Georgie could comprehend. "Not... exacTly. But I can heaR theIr panic." He affected a disgusted shiver, bells jingling. "It's awFul. All higH-pitched and tiNny. You don'T wish you couLd."

"Because that's all we need to be concerning ourselves with: horrified baby frogs," Richie grumped. Arms loaded down with the same material as Mike, he brushed by on his way to their destination without a backwards look.

Pennywise's grin took on an evil slant, eyes waspish. "Your feaR kinda souNds the same wheN I listen close enOugh, RichIe!"

At this Mike and Georgie both cracked up. Mike even affected a passable falsetto Tozier impression. "No, please. I'm allergic to peanuts. Stay away!"

"Stuff it, clown. I'm not afraid of you."

Richie stopped preemptively, glower readied like a pistol, and aimed upward at the painted, smirking visage that suddenly materialized before him. Backlit against the afternoon sun, Pennywise's eyes shone brighter than the rest of his shaded face.

"You suRe about tHat?"

"I'm sure, doofus. Outta my way."

"Now, now, children, play nice," Beverly called, some fifteen feet off the path, deeper into the trees. "We haven't even gotten to the best part yet, and you're at it again."

"You mean Georgie hasn't gotten to the best part," Tozier replied, lingering to a near-stop to let Mike and young Denbrough catch up. "The rest of us know what a beaver dam looks like."

Together, the three of them pressed onward along the 'trail'.

The clown didn't follow. He simply teleported around, the cheating bastard.

"Yeah, so stow the attitude. You don't need to go ruining things before we've even gotten there."

Hands on his backpack's straps, tasked with carrying the group's water and snacks, Georgie glanced around. Scattered here and there throughout the forest, the bare, pencil-shaped stump of a chewed-down tree jutted out, pale pulp visible against a backdrop of green and brown. Signs of activity that said a family of beavers had set up shop nearby.

This far into the brush, there would be no biking to the site. Georgie was mindful to watch his feet. A twisted ankle wasn't worth going to see a whopping heap of mud and sticks over, according to Richie.

"There it is," Mike pointed ahead, bushel of sticks held easily under one arm.

Georgie squinted, pushing branches aside. At one foot shorter than most of their party, he couldn't spot the dam so easily. "Where?"

"There. See where the creek forks?" Pressing closer, Georgie did. As Mike described, a smelly-looking, low-lying mound of damp earth had seemingly grown up midwater. "Looks like they took the starboard side."

"Wow."

"Wow," Richie repeated, fulfilling his role as afternoon buzzkiller-in-chief. He stood to the side of the trail to let Mike and Georgie pass. "All this way for a 'wow'."

"This lodge is relatively new," Beverly observed. She deposited her payload of sticks at the water's edge. Together, they stood about one-hundred feet upstream. "That's why it's so small. Or that's what Ben said."

Georgie stretched up on his toes. "Think we'll see one? A beaver?"

"Nah, beavers are nocturnal. But this late in the day, we may get lucky."

"To give blood via the Mosquito Collection Branch of the Red Cross." Dropping his sticks, Richie slapped at his neck. "Worst kind of luck ever."

"Or... if you get close enough, you can hear them snore."

"Really?"

"No, Georgie. I'm kidding."

The last to unload, Mike knelt and wiped his hands clean in the water. The air here was cool, but not enough to chill wet skin. "Nice to get away from town for a bit, though, isn't it?"

"Sad. Homeschool, thanks to your Grandpops, you just think this is getting away. You don't know any better."

After washing her hands, Beverly motioned to Georgie, who obediently turned to let her unzip the backpack. From there, she passed out their water and assorted snacks.

A five-mile hike deserved at least a granola bar and some veggies.

Moments later, Pennywise sprang back onto the scene. He stood out as pale and contrasty against the woods as a beaver-afflicted stump. Like the obscene primate he looked like, he crept sideways around a bend in the creek, stopped short until Georgie waved him an all-clear, and then loped back over to the boy's side.

He stopped short, looking down in dismay at the dirtied palms of his gloves. His expression fizzled out like a lit firecracker dropped in a puddle. "Ugh. You dIdn't say it'D be this muDdy."

Leaning against a maple with water bottle in hand, Richie paused mid-swig, frowning. "Where did you think we were going, Dolly, Disneyland?"

"It'll wash off, Penny," Georgie assured his friend, companionable as ever, no matter what Tozier's misgivings were.

Glancing dubiously around at the dark soil the Losers had no qualms sitting in, the cosmic entity opted to stay standing.

Richie downed half his water before replacing the cap, then indulged in a lazy stretch. Not that, for him, there was any way to not make a stretch look lazy.

"So, what's next? You never said, Bev."

"No, I didn't," Beverly affirmed, cagey as you please.

"You gonna share now?"

"No. I'm just glad we... got away for a while."

Picking up on the stirrings of discontent, Pennywise sidestepped around to the girl's side, peering down at her curiously. If any of the Losers had a natural 'talent' for masking their repressed moods from him, she did. Somehow, it took him by surprise every time.

"EverythiNg okAy, Bevs?"

"If she says she's good, she's good, Stripes. We don't need your jacked-up translation."

Behind Marsh's head, Pennywise glared and stuck out his tongue in mute retaliation.

Sitting cross-legged, feigning obliviousness to the two's juvenile jabs, Beverly smirked, resting a cheek against her fist. She seemed at ease enough. With the other hand, she plucked a stick from the bank and began to trace aimless patterns in the mud.

Chewing up the last of his carrot sticks, Georgie glanced between them, apparently waiting for the stalled conversation to progress further. When it didn't, he paused to clean up the empty baggies.

Mike, wisely, came to the rescue with a change of topic.

"You guys all doing okay at school?"

"The usual. How's life on the farm?"

"Busy as ever. Today's the first one in a while that I've had more than a few hours of free time between runs."

"Yeah, you said as much on the phone," Richie recounted, scratching his ear as if in remembrance.

"When I could spare a moment to pick it up."

"Good timing on your part, then," Beverly smiled.

"Bowers or any of his guys played Chicken with you lately?"

Their eldritch mascot stood at the water's edge, arms drawn against his sides, unknowingly looking like the world's most absurd meerkat. His gaze panned around with the unfettered smoothness of a security camera.

Until the game's strange moniker caught his ear.

"ChicKen?"

"It's a game, Pen," Beverly interrupted, before Richie could fire sardonically back. While disappointed to see where their conversation was running, she elaborated, "Two people square off, to see who will blink first. The first to whinge out is the loser."

"Yeah, square off - between a few thousand pounds of metal versus Mike's ricketty ride," Richie remarked, bitter. He had found himself on the the scary side of Belch's Trans Am a few too many times to think there was anything fair or amusing about the contest. And to him, anything inherently-unfunny was just not worth tolerating.

Meanwhile, Pennywise aimed his best question-mark face at Georgie.

The boy stared back at him, then simply shrugged.

"What doeS that haVe to do with farm animaLs?"

"It's named after the chicken's cowardly nature, I think," Beverly deduced. With the stick she had outlined the crude shape of said bird on the saturated bank. One poke, and there was the eye.

Mike's shoulders sagged. "And sickos like Bowers can't get enough of seeing the rest of us cluck in fright."

"Remind you of anyone, Spooky?" Richie asked, pointedly staring the clown down.

Stoic, Pennywise stared right back at him through the sides of his eyes. A flicker of yellow crossed his irises, or it might have been a trick of the sunlight.

Folding his arms around his knees, Georgie looked around the suddenly-tense group. "Henry hasn't hurt anybody lately, though. Right? At least... no one we know?"

Mike rubbed at the back of his neck, feeling more than a little awkward that their talk had gone so sideways. It wasn't what he intended. But then, the lonely farmboy didn't have the most-practiced social sense. "He's... I don't know how to explain it, Georgie, or if I should. I think it's something Bill ought to talk to you about. You ask the three of us, you'll get three different answers."

"Four." Scowling, Beverly held up four fingers for emphasis.

"...Four."

"The only good thing about Bowers is he's not determined enough to follow us all the way out to places like this," Richie waved at their surroundings, then folded his arms. "He sticks to the main drag. Where the easy pickings are aplenty."

"Easy pickings... He looks for people to hurt?" Dear Georgie Denbrough had yet to learn what it was that growing up rough meant you didn't always evolve into the nicest person out there.

"Guy's a predator in the making, if he's not already made," Richie harrumphed. He didn't bother to sugarcoat anything. Kid had to grow up someday. "Almost makes me wish trophy hunting extended to Man sometimes, almost. What was that story in Literature, The Most Dangerous Game? In Bowers' mind, it already has."

"You actually cited something from class?" Beverly sat back, eyes wide in mock-alarm. "Mike. Alert the media."

"Can you do something about him, Penny?" Georgie wondered aloud, craning his head to look at the silver-clad figure towering over him - upside-down against the treetops, as he was from that perspective. "Bowers. He seems dangerous."

Already on guard, Pennywise carefully let his expression slide back to a blank slate. The unsavory parallels between himself and Henry Bowers weren't going over his head. The older Losers knew of the entity's... carnivorous inclinations (is that what Ben called it?).

Georgie didn't. And Pennywise didn't intend to tell him anytime soon, even if the others didn't feel the same call for restraint.

Leave that ball in their park until his year was up. That was the plan.

"I caN do a lOt of thiNgs, but not thAt, GeorgIe." Gloved fingers flexed idly at his sides. "I can'T... make someonE disapPear."

Not in the just-leave-me-alone sense you mean.

"But you disappear all the time," Denbrough pointed out, head swiveling around to better look at him. "You'd always win at our games of hide-and-seek if I didn't make it a rule you can't break."

"And for all the rules the freak breaks on a daily basis, even in terms of existing, he only honors yours?" Richie muttered to himself. "What kinda fucked up nonsense is that?"

Pennywise folded his arms and glanced away from Georgie's probing gaze. This peaceful setting, it wasn't the place or the time to dig another fresh row with Tozier.

"Henry's a product of his environment," Mike broke in. "Everyone is. No one's born evil."

"It only excuses so much," Beverly objected, unknowingly echoing Stan on another nature excursion with their extraterrestrial mascot. "I don't have the best pedigree, but I chose to be decent nevertheless. Bowers chose otherwise."

"Do you think it was an easy choice for him?" Mike mused. "We all know between his Dad and him who's the alpha in that house."

"Alpha," Richie repeated, detestingly. "Couple'a omega bitches, more like."

Beverly shrugged, rolling the stick between her fingers, drawings forgotten. "Who knows? Maybe in his shoes, I would've become the same. Any of us could have. I'm just glad I'm that's not the hand I was dealt."

"Me, neither," Georgie chimed in.

"Or me," Richie admitted.

"Ditto," Mike nodded.

Pennywise simply kept quiet.

Anything he could have said would have been too open to scrutiny.

Just down the bank, ripples appeared in the water, perpendicular to the direction of the current.

Spotting them, the clown pointed. "GeorgIe, look."

Turning over on his knees, the boy did.

Then a small, brown figure emerged. Hobbling across the mud on four paws, it froze at the water's edge upon seeing the group, beady eyes wide.

Then, rather than duck back into the creek, it stood on its hind legs, paws poised, flat tail planked out behind it. Its whiskers worked in time with a trembling nose.

Georgie gasped. Talk of Bowers was instantly forgotten.

"Wow! A beaver kit."

The remainder of their time was spent watching as, against all nature's expectations, the six-year-old tried to befriend the baby beaver with a peace offering of mashed carrots.

Something good had come of Richie refusing to eat his wholesome snack.

Standing back, Pennywise didn't dismiss the talk so easily. He found a nearby elm to lounge against, folded arms propped up upon its lower branch, head resting atop them.

It meant he wouldn't have to look at his dirty gloves.

Dirtied with more than just dirt, that is.

He stayed back, for Georgie's sake, lest his aura frighten the critter away.

Now safely out of earshot, he sighed, feeling more than a little pensive. The alien sound crackled in his throat like a burning flame being snuffed out.

Yes, Richie. If only we came all this way for a 'wow' and left it at that.

Chapter Text

Knowing he was outmatched by at least two feet and a hundred pounds (and that, given his opponent, his odds could change for the even-worse at a moment's notice), a sensible person might have conceded defeat early on.

"I'm serious, Twitchy, give - them - back. Now."

Some days, Richie could be downright unreasonable.

He had cause. While the clown had behaved himself for a new record of five whole minutes, for no fathomable reason at all, Pennywise had spontaneously decided to mix things up, reaching over the boy's head to pluck the glasses right off his face.

Richie, nose buried in the refuge of a Thrasher skateboard magazine, spluttered in dismay as the world went fuzzy and depthless. He reached for the missing frames, processing a second of confusion before the telltale giggling told him exactly where his specs had gone.

"They better not be on your face."

The next five minutes had consisted of this futile struggle.

"Ohh, don't worry - they aRe."

Rendered as blind as a mole finding itself above ground, Richie could only imagine the horror his precious lenses were enduring. Wedged onto Pennywise's oversized face, the temples would be so bent out of shape. What if the nose pads were smudged with paint?

After another minute of uttering wordless noises of anger, the hapless boy gave up the wild, ineffectual batting and prying of his hands. One of the creature's silky palms was laid flat against his forehead, effectively holding him at arm's length and barring any retaliatory assault.

Visiting Neibolt alone had been a mistake.

Richie sagged. "I can't win with you, can I?"

"NopE!"

Pennywise had yet to grasp the intricacies of rhetorical questions, let alone the basic notion that they weren't supposed to be answered.

"Okay." Running through his limited options, Richie drew a tense breath. "Ohh... kay, truce. What do you want?"

"Nothing, nothing aT all," Pennywise chirped, in a lie that was about as transparent as Kenduskaeg mud.

"Bullshit. I just came here looking for a little peace and quiet."

"Heh hee. Now why do I find that higHly unlikely?"

"Of all the people to torment in Derry, you decide to stay here with me. Why?"

"You were the closEst." Richie fumed the clown's juvenile reasoning, but his silence was inadvertantly rewarded. His mind's eye could virtually see the bewilderment creeping across Pennywise's face. "PeAce and quIet. Don't you haVe that at home?"

Not the kind I wanted.

The boy folded his arms in a huff, thinking of all the chores he was ducking. Even if there weren't any of the usual tasks to complete, his mother would surely have thought some up for him - kicking back on the front porch sipping lemonade the whole time.

An insufferable, self-important queen overseeing her one perfectly-groomed subject.

Was avoiding that worth this hassle?

"You tell me," Richie grumbled at long last, addressing himself as much as his unwanted company. While the creature that sometimes called itself Pennywise was the last being in the universe he would confide his personal problems to, young Tozier had sometimes - very seldomly - wondered how that scenario would go. And it would be one set in a world where sanity was part of Greek mythology.

Sensing the entity's waiting for an answer, staring down at him with even-bigger blue eyes than usual, he went on, begrudgingly, "I'm here, as opposed to there. Doesn't that answer things for you?"

"...Sort of."

"What do you mean, 'sort of'?"

"Wouldn't you rather be out with the others?" Pennywise asked, unmoved by Richie's incensed parroting. The complete smoothing-out of his strangely-enuciated words said his visitor was getting somewhere with their inane conversation, though.

"I called around, got a lousy hand of cards to pick from. Mike's got crop work to do. His grandpops'd just rope me into it. Eddie's got a summer cold - for real, for once. Bev's MIA. The list goes on."

"And... there were no other pLaces you thought 'quiet' enough?"

Richie gestured offhandedly at their run-down surroundings. "I would'a called ahead."

Not.

"Oh. That's okay. I wasn't buSy anyway."

He could hear that goofy, jagged smile.

"That's beside - " Richie closed his eyes and clenched his fists, forcing them to stay at his sides, willing himself to remain calm, calm, calm.

How was it this thing could get under his skin so easily?

Probably because, on more than one occasion, the opposite was quite true.

Was this how Stan sometimes felt? Or Mike? Or Ben? Asking legitimate questions of their otherwise-genuine friends, only to get irreverance and sarcasm back?

Mental note: try to do less of that, Trashmouth. Now you know what it's like.

"Liar. Buzz off. I'll make do without 'em."

And you, for that matter.

He trudged back across the foyer (as well as a half-blind person could, without tripping) to his abandoned pile of magazines. Reaching out, he felt for the rotting wall and turned as he sat down against it, folding his legs, weirdly grateful for the simple sensation of some solid wood behind his back. It grounded him in the absurdness of these circumstances, as everything else radiated utter strangeness.

The stack of magazines provided a welcome distraction. He grabbed the nearest issue, flipped to a random article, ignored the fact he had no snowball's chance of actually being able to read it, and pretended to look it over anyway.

Like so many times before, Pennywise seemed to grow impatient with the very thought of being brushed off. With a muted snap of air he merely reappeared to sit beside Richie, limbs splayed about like a shelved puppet's, and he prodded the disspirited boy's shoulder with one gloved finger.

Lips pursed, Richie opted for a sullen sideways glare in response.

"You're just making excuses."

He blinked, magazine dropping into his lap. Suddenly the clown was sounding (and looking) like the most lunatic couch therapist to ever grace the planet.

"The hell are you on about?"

"You didn't think the others would want to hear it. AgaIn. You've all got problems, but you keep yours bottled up. They weren't thAt busy, you just thought they wouldn't want to listen to you... how do you say? Spill your guts."

Richie's face went red. His fingers clenched around the magazine's edges, though he had a sudden overwhelming urge to hit something.

And right there and then, Pennywise was making for a very convenient target.

Remembering his mistake with the acorn at the quarry, Tozier thought twice.

"Spill your guts" was a phrase that took on a whole new meaning when Pennywise was the one to voice it.

Lord knew Richie intended to do nothing of the kind.

Undaunted, feeling bold, the boy made a bludgeon out of his words. "The fuck do you know, Stripes? You never considered friendship was a concept that existed before you met us."

"I learned, didn't I?" Pennywise retorted, in what was the steadiest voice Richie had heard him use yet. "Georgie says it's oKay to talk, even when you think your friends don't waNt you to. People talk at each other all the time. That's how you know which ones are your friends - they'll heAr you out. Make fun of you, sure, maybe. But they'll liSten."

Richie stared, struck mute, the color slowly draining from his face, before arriving at one terrible conclusion. His brain had turned traitor, telling him those words actually made sense.

The creature was far more shrewd, and sensitive, than he pretended to be.

True to his own nature, Richie would sooner vaporize than admit it.

Diversion ever at the ready, he looked away and held out a hand, sighing theatrically.

"Whatever. Give 'em over."

To his astonishment, the halfhearted command was rewarded. He felt the narrow plastic frames drop into his waiting fingers. Stunned, Richie didn't think to place them on his face for a whole fifteen seconds.

Back in focus, along with the rest of the world, Pennywise beamed at him, then zeroed in on the forgotten magazine. No doubt the bright, abstract skateboard designs had caught the creature's eye.

"So! Which one do you like beSt?"

Richie stared, at once humbled and dumbfounded. He didn't even think to try and escape the frilly arm that snaked its way around his opposite shoulder.

He had thought this argument would have endured for another hour, at least. Instead he found himself answering a barrage of questions regarding skateboards, and listing in big, bold letters why getting Georgie one for his birthday was a very bad idea.

Perhaps there wasn't any harm in what was - for lack of a better description - cosmic being intervention.

Sometimes.

Chapter Text

Most of the time, It found the Losers. Not the other way around. To an extent, he was never completely unaware of where they were. Therein lay the perks to being an entity of virtually limitless capabilities. And chief among them (second perhaps only to his shapeshifting) was the ability to teleport.

Yes, that was a fine perk indeed. Should your act fall flat on its face, you could simply hightail it out of there and try again later.

The problem was, that for every supposed perk, there was a drawback. Something to maintain balance, as that damn turtle would always ensure. And for It that meant making certain concessions.

Except when it came to the Losers. If he had done any redeemable thing in his neverending existence, or was going to, it would be seeing those eight children through the year humanity would later call 1989.

No one would remember, much less acknowledge him for it.

But it would be nice to see if he could break the mold. Just once.

Sadly, that didn't change the basic and unforgiving fact which defined his very nature: It needed to feed.

The various corpses floating in limbo in the air above the cistern, he would savor, dice, and save those as long as it took. Nibble just enough to stave off the hunger pangs at their worst. Bite only to keep himself from salivating at every mere whiff of the motley gang who had come to virtually adopt his Neibolt abode as a second home.

Every few months, though, he would crave something more substantial. More satisfying.

More... afraid.

And then, his control was no more.

The first time he caved was - coincidentally - the same day Georgie Denbrough almost caught It in the act.

-----

By day It meant night, actually.

No longer out of practice, successfully shaking off the muddled days it took to fully wake up, this venture hadn't fallen on its face, either.

It almost would have preferred that it had.

Then he could have simply retreated and tried another time.

Instead, reality reared her ugly head at the time he would have least expected.

Serrated mandibles, coated in blood, scissored nervously and the mincing mouthparts beneath stuttered in panic. A nervous rattle shuddered along his exoskeletal form, joints clenching in shock.

G-GeorGie?!

Pitching the fresh body down the well, wholly intending to shimmy down after it, It stopped short.

His diminuitive friend couldn't have intruded at a worse moment. But even if the creature ran now, it would mean explaining himself later.

Ears pricking up at the sound of sneakered feet, weight settling on the creaky stairs, It whirled around, ducking low on its many taloned paws, chittering. White, pupilless eyes the size of basketballs quirked backward.

Catching sight of the boy's shadowed frame, lingering at the top of the stairs, the alien form scuttled for what pathetic cover was to be had, long legs folding into the meager space behind the crumbling top of the well.

The only advantage he had was that night had fallen, omnious and black, and 29 Neibolt House had been without working electricity for decades.

All the better to hide his gruesome transformation. Gradually, the shape of a costumed human took the alien body's place.

His eyes changed last, shrinking, reforming to better fit his face, and adopting their preferred cerulean hue.

Outside, the night was just as dark a blue.

"Penny?" Georgie's thin voice echoed in the vast, rundown basement. His breath billowed into a noticable cloud in the late autumn chill.

Whether his voice wavered out of confusion or concern, It could not sense. Not mid-morph.

"Pennywise, it's just me."

Moments later, It stumbled into view, finally back on two feet, and caught himself on the well's edge. A sliver of moonlight planed sideways through a broken basement window, tracing a jagged contour across his pale form.

If a ghost were given will to reassume its previously-held mortal body, they would probably feel something like It did post-transformation: off-kilter and clunky. He shook himself into the clown form as one might shrug deeper into a coat.

"Ohh, only yOu," he growled, eyes aflare, sounding and looking every bit as chastizing as he felt - toward himself. He had let his guard down. No other human's scent would he be so dismissive of than Georgie Denbrough's.

Dismissiveness nearly had him found out.

He loped closer, brushing disheveled orange locks out of his eyes. "For gooDness' sake, what are you doIng herE? Do you have any iDea what time it... iS?"

His reprimand forgotten before it had really begun, Pennywise abruptly forgot what he intended to rant about, hands folding nervously before him. The look on the boy's face, one of abject worry, stalled him.

He almost stepped back. "Georgie...?"

"W-what's that on your mouth?" Georgie pointed at his tall friend with a mitten-clad hand, eyes wide. The other hand clutched the stairwell railing, so tightly it trembled. "Are you sick?"

Belatedly, blinking back to awareness, Pennywise ducked into the blind space beside the stairwell, realizing in hindsight how this form stood out like a cold candle, even in the darkness. Especially in the darkness.

"N-no, I juSt- " Unthinkingly, he wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve, waxing on a bloody smear from wrist to inner elbow. He spit and grimaced, clotting bits of flesh still congealing between his teeth, crumbs of bone marrow lodged under his tongue. "It's just paiNt, Georgie."

Liar, liar, die in a fiRe.

"A-are you sure? Do you need a napkin?"

At this the creature couldn't help a disbelieving, bubbly laugh.

This kid was innocence personified.

He wiped at his saturated mouth again, head ducked low against his collarbone, back still facing the stairwell. "What are you doing heRe?" he repeated, stubborn in his need to know.

"I came to see you."

Pennywise bristled, ruffles flaring like the quills of an irritated porcupine, before he took a calming breath.

Kind, It. Remember to be kind.

"Is that so?" He risked a glance over his shoulder, eyes upturned, skeptic. "No. You can'T have come all this way, aloNe."

You couldn't have. How would the cosmos even allow that?

Forget the cosmos. What kind of braindead parent didn't keep the front door locked and the keys hidden at night?

Kneeling for a closer look, Georgie stared at him from between the splintering banisters. His mittens rested on the railing, to either side of his forehead. "I did. All on my own."

Pennywise frowned. The boy was being uncharacteristically serious.

"Bill promise not to kiLl you?" he jested.

His visitor ducked his chin. "Bill... doesn't know I'm here."

Pennywise snorted, wiping at his face one last time. "Oh, well, we can't haVe that." The final vestiges of blood soaked into his form like soap drawn into a sponge. Confidence assumed, he made to turn and climb the stairs. "Come on, I'lL see you home."

"Penny, I know."

He stopped short, half-stooped, hand outstretched, like a needle suddenly pulled from a spinning vinyl record.

"You... know whAt?"

Georgie sat on the stairs, hands resting easy at his sides. Only his face was truly tense.

"You're not really a clown."

. . .

The creature let his hand drop to his side, swinging uselessly as if an invisible puppet string had been severed.

Dumbfounded didn't begin to say it.

No. He was a hermit who just so happened to practice a very peculiar lifestyle.

A hermit who was the very reason why so many missing children's corpses ended up in perpetual orbit surrounding a tower of knickknack-centric garbage in the deepest recesses of Derry's old sewer network.

Of course I'm noT! It wanted to cry.

Instead, he let his expression wilt and bit his lower lip, hands wringing nervously once more.

"YesSs...? And?"

What else could he say to that?

Please, don't run. Please, don't rUn.

The hungry, arachnid-esqe aspect of him was still very much poised to strike. It would have liked nothing better than a side dish to go with its main course.

"You're not really... a human, either."

"Noo..."

"Billy says I shouldn't play with you anymore. That you're dangerous."

He's not wrong.

It just managed not to twitch. By what universe-defying backwards logic did he ever let a Turtle soundalike take up residence in his head?

Instead, Pennywise stared meekly up at the boy through the tops of his eyeballs, part beseeching, part accepting. This subject had to be broached between the Denbrough boys at some point. And eventually, between they and himself.

He simply had not seen it going like this, in any sense of the word.

Georgie licked his lips, bit the insides of his cheeks, finally showing some of the jittery nerves the clown-beast could spot a mile away. Through a blindfold. The boy tugged anxiously at the edge of his knit cap.

"I wanted to ask you, for myself. Are you? Dangerous, I mean."

He could have denied it. He could have cited every lie there ever was in the history of intelligent thought. It wouldn't have done him any favors.

What kind of friend could he really have been if the self he lied to create was the one befriended?

"...Yes. I aM."

Contrary to everything else his favorite assumed form aspired to, It's unveiling was anything but theatric. If anything, he deadpanned the delivery. He glanced away, glaring at nothing visible to the naked human eye, and seethed through bared teeth.

He made no effort to disguise the jittering, alien growl eeking its way out of his throat, either.

Georgie blinked once, then twice, before he found his next set of words:

"What... what are you?"

"Does it matTer?" Pennywise asked, tone flat, feeling more and more like bluntness was the key to enduring this tailspin of a revelation. For better or worse, he had to put to words the secret fear he had been harboring since awakening in late September. "I'm whaTever you want to belieVe I am. To someone liKe your brother, that mEans to believe I'm a threat. Fine, leT him. I aM a threat."

He looked pleadingly back up at Georgie, aiming, this time, for the emotional kill. It was a look that said: But I... kind of hoped you'd think difFerent. If you gave me a chanCe.

For the longest time, the boy said nothing. Time seemed to stand still around them, like the world was holding its breath. Even the background noise of the aging house above their heads seemed to creak to a halt.

"And... you've got something on your face, there."

Pennywise balked. The boy's nervousness had vanished, as quickly as light from a broken circuit.

"Georgie, doN't, I-I- ”

Unflinching, Denbrough stood and held up both hands, as one might pacify a spooked, stamping horse. His expression suddenly broke and unveiled a shining grin. "Calm down, silly."

For once, the boy moved faster than he.

The mittens grabbed him by the striped cheeks.

Inwardly, Its' senses went haywire, screaming at him to strike. The close-up scent of food was overwhelming. Warring with them just as strongly was his voice of reason, and he tried his damnedist not to pull away.

Georgie's face fell, after a moment's pause, left thumb stroking the pale skin. "Oh, I guess that was just paint."

Almost as an afterthought, he looked up, directly into the petrified entity's blue eyes: impossibly-wide and dead-centered on him.

"I mean, would something 'dangerous' let me do this?"

Heat rose under the creature's gaze, involuntary, lightening his eyes. What a mess this was turning out to be. To be so close to easy prey, and Pennywise was suddenly reminded of his neglected kill, currently decomposing somewhere at the bottom of the well.

His voice went hoarse. "WelL. Okay, faIr's fair. But you n-neeD to get home now, Georgie." He couldn't dare try to wipe away the spit pooling in his mouth, beginning to drip from one corner as it was. "I can only iMagine what Bill would do, waking up to find you gonE."

"Don't worry, I'll talk to him." The mittens (mercifully) moved from his face to his shoulders. "Can't I stay? Please? Just for tonight?"

Pennywise blinked again, resolve hardening. "No. You walKed this distance in the dark onCe already." He took the protesting boy gently by the arm, steering him back up the stairs, back to the ground floor. Once there, he stooped down to better stare the boy in the eye, drooling noticably. "I'll go wiTH you. I can'T simply- "

"I brought my sleeping bag." Georgie pointed to a previously-unnoticed lump by the front door, a stuffed duffel. Like it held all he possibly needed to stay warm in this filth.

Claws hidden by gloves prodded him along. "No. It's toO cold."

"Not even upstairs?"

The clown shook his head. "Not evEn there."

"What about you?" Georgie's head craned back, revealing his perplexed frown. "Don't you sleep somewhere?"

Pennywise swallowed an urge to sigh, wiping the drool from his chin. Again with asking the painfully pertinent questions. Glancing around, he spotted a timely alternative.

Even as urge after primal urge told him, begged him not to.

It's a bad, bad, baaad idea.

"How about thiS?"

Fifteen minutes later, a makeshift shelter had been erected in the foyer. Overturned furniture created a passible framework for several old blankets to be draped across, keeping the worst of the chill out. Georgie's puffy sleeping bag had been unrolled, curled into a passable nest underneath the tent.

"It's like a fort!"

The lamest in the history of mankind.

Standing back, Pennywise pinched the bridge of his nose, not wanting to detract too much from his guest's enthusiasm. "If you say So..." he grumbled, masking the hungry groans of his humanoid body with a growl.

Moron.

His newfound conscience really needed to learn what it meant to pipe down.

Well. At least this is one missing child who will end up home when all is said and done.

Georgie, in the meantime, crawled inside without hesitation, boots discarded along the way. Hat, coat, and mittens still on, he flopped over, haphazardly worked the zipper up to his shoulders, and effectively cocooned himself inside the polyester sleeve.

Job done, Pennywise rose from a crouch and made to leave.

"Don't go!"

The reluctant host half-turned back to him, affecting a tortured grimace. For more than one reason. "Georgie, pleaSe..."

Now it was young Denbrough's turn to play the begging card. He did so to great success, mittened hands balled up before his face, eyes soft and pleading. He needed not say a word.

Pennywise hesitated, the gravity of that gaze drawing him in again like a wayward meteor. His form was incrementally warmer than the midnight air. And even if he refused, he would spent the next six hours worrying.

He didn't like worrying.

At least, if he stayed, he would worry less.

Mindful to not jostle anything, lest the 'fort' crash down on them both, he crawled in alongside the boy, curling up against his side, draping one long arm across his back.

Georgie snuggled closer instantly, worming his way in with a muffled giggle of triumph.

And Pennywise tried desperately not to think of the meal he was missing out on.

The meal that would be utterly stale and flavorless by the time he was free to reclaim it.

Instead, here he was, like a lion lying down to safeguard a lost lamb, of all things.

Why? Just to see if he could.

He chose to think about that instead.

Guarding the lamb. Not eating it.

Guard, don't eat.

Guard.

He drew a rattling breath, staring straight ahead. Willing his hand to stop shaking, he patted the side of Georgie's head, fingers gently working their way under the cap to knead his hair. "Now, sLeep. We'lL talk to Bill tomorRow, togethEr."

"Promise?"

"...PromiSe."

Chapter Text

Richie smirked, a self-satisfied smirk of it-was-only-a-matter-of-time.

"Why you lookin' so guilty there, Stripes?"

Hands wringing nervously, Pennywise's nearest eye glanced mutely over his shoulder by way of response. The other remained fixed on the prone form before him.

Peering around, Richie's formidable smirk fell into a frown. Against his better judgment, he grabbed the clown by the arm.

"Hey, is he still alive?"

"He's breaThing..." Pennywise squeaked, a miserable peep of a noise that did not sound natural, even for him. "I thinK?"

Alarmed, Richie elbowed the creature aside, took one look down, balked, and spun around.

"Back up! Bill! Back up is needed!" Like he was fleeing some inane, nonexistent shootout between gangbangers and law enforcement, Richie sprinted out of the room. His smoking shadow was all but left behind. "We need back up in here!"

Not that his former-well house hadn't ever been the scene of past wrongdoings, but now, Pennywise was beyond convinced he had made the biggest mistake of his entire existence, there and then. Leaving Georgie alone during naptime, when Bill had specifically asked him not to. He had only been gone for a moment, watching the car pulling a suspicious U-turn at the end of his street.

To come back to this...

A little whine of dismay escaped him, and he bit one of his knuckles. He was as good as hosed.

The slumbering boy looked peaceful enough. Avoiding the indignity that was a rat-chewed mattress, he reclined atop his polyester sleeping bag, his head resting on a pillow made of his own arms. He lay at an angle, back rising and falling with gentle, even breaths. Nothing was outwardly wrong with him.

Or inwardly.

Actually panicking, Pennywise dropped to all fours, then all the way down, flat against the floor, prodding first at Georgie's shoulder, then his nuzzling helplessly at his face. The seven-year-old's thought patterns had all but slipped under his guardian's proverbial radar. It was like pawing through a stack of copier papers, one sheet as blank as the next. No hints as to what was going on between synapses.

Outwardly, his face was just as unreadable.

Pounding feet rushed back up the stairs, echoing like gunshots through the empty hallway.

Richie's frantically explaining voice accompanied them. "...I was only gone for three minutes, max. Came back, and he hasn't- "

Bill, to the contrary, took one look at the scene and promptly burst out laughing.

"He's just napping, Richie."

"Napping the braindead sleep of those who can't even be brought back by love's first kiss." Before a bemused Pennywise could ask, Richie jabbed a finger between the clown's crossed eyes. "Don't try that."

Then he made the mistake of accepting the most impossible of challenges.

"I'll wake him up."

He started off gentle.

"Georgie! Nap time's over."

Nothing.

"Squirt, you hear me? This ain't funny."

Down on his knees, Richie grabbed young Denbrough by the shoulders.

"I know you can hear me."

"Billy, it isn't woRking."

"See? You've even got the Drama Diva convinced you're worse than ever."

"GeorgIe!"

Richie started shaking him.

Insert zany dialogue montage here.

Ten minutes later...

"WAKE UP! Live, LIVE again! I beseech you in the name of our Lord and our Savior! Rise!"

Tozier didn't know what he was saying anymore.

Somewhere along the way, Pennywise had slowly crawled backwards on his hands and knees, away from Georgie, out of the 'preacher's' field of view. There was something vaguely intimidating about the sight.

Arms dropping to his sides, Richie sat back on his knees, ankles numb. He felt something like the world's most ineffective exorcist. His insides felt like half-melted jelly, slowly leeching down into his limbs.

He was actually starting to sweat. Or were those tears of frustration leaking down his face?

Eyes still shut, Georgie finally put an end to the fracas.

He smiled.

And apparently that was his co-conspirator's cue.

Richie's heart stopped.

Vaguely, he heard ringing bells, quickly drawing close. Like a cat about to pounce.

"What's the f- urg!" Not caring who was in the way, he flailed and bucked uselessly as he was grabbed, pulled down, and promptly trapped in the arms of a walking, talking, laughing cosmic insanity. Just as well, they had worn him down before springing this surprise on him. "No! Quit it! Release me!"

Was this what Death's embrace was supposed to feel like?

Or Death's drooling, fifty-third great-great something-something-something cousin? Twice removed?

Pennywise was an idiot. Plain and simple. He somehow thought bearhugging his victims to death was a preferable alternative to being hypnotized, mauled, dismembered, disemboweled, or all of the above, at the same time.

He cackled the whole way through. Even more agitating, the entity was never short on breath to laugh with, either.

"You've seen your faCe. We had you goIng good!"

Somewhere in the background were the muddled voices of Bill and Georgie. Where those nimrods congratulating each other?

"Err, let go! I mean it, stop!"

Richie scowled, eyes squeezed shut. An oversized hand ruffled his already-disheveled hair. "Who's the guilty oNe now?"

"You still are, you overcompensating, dumba- ow! Stop! Too tight!" Tozier struggled for a solid five minutes. Or so it felt. It was like trying to break out of a duct-taped straightjacket sculpted from granite marble.

With a grunt, Richie finally managed to pry his face out from behind the clown's forearm. His glasses were askew, nosepads forced down on the bridge of his nose like a pinching clothespin.

Or was than another unseen poltergeist gnawing at his face?

"Errr... Not nice, Stripes. Not- urph - not nice. In any sense of the word!"

Caught up in their own round of hysterics, the hugging Denbrough boys collapsed on the overcrowded sleeping bag behind them.

With Richie still pinned against his chest, Pennywise fell over and kept on laughing.

"Evil. Evil plan. All of you."

Chapter Text

Pennywise the Dancing Clown was a sadistic bastard.

No matter what he claimed (or didn't claim) to the contrary.

Or perhaps, Bill Denbrough would later reason, it was just the jarring surprise he felt at the time making him think that way.

He wasn't overexaggerating all that much, either. How many rainy afternoons did he get to himself, without anyone else home? Even if there weren't any particularly interesting programs on TV, the peaceful lull of pattering raindrops falling outside more than made up for that.

Then... maestro, cue the attention-craving eldritch abomination.

Leaned back against the cushions, Bill remained seated on the couch, remote control raised, for all of ten tense seconds before he let his arm drop back to his side.

"What do you want?"

The rest of his visitor's face was lost in shadow. Only his unblinking blue eyes stared from over the very top of the television.

Or, it seemed like they were staring his way.

Pointed in two different directions, who could tell?

As thirty seconds of gravid silence answered him, Bill lifted the remote and pressed the power button. He had hit mute first.

The eyes disappeared as the applicance's screen flashed off. The spacious room's overall tint warmed from a muddled gray-blue, full of strong shadows, to a cozy, welcoming yellow, courtesy of the nearby lamps.

"NoThing. What are you uP to?"

Bill flinched, clenched his teeth, closed his eyes. He just managed not to curse.

"Jumpscare j-junkie..."

"WhaT?"

Then Denbrough dramatically clapped a hand over his eyes, head tilting back sharply against the cushy backrest.

Dummy. Did he say that out loud?

Might as well tell the truth of it.

"I-I was just thinking, how R-Richie was saying - "

"That I'm alwaYs startLing the socKs off you aLl, every chanCe I get?"

Bill glanced to his left.

Hands between his boots, knees (somehow) level with his shoulders, Pennywise perched on the couch's armrest. The creature's expression was flat. Fiery-maned head tilted to one side, he was looking up at the boy through the tops of his black-rimmed eyes. But what he claimed, he said it without spite, at least.

Hunched over, he looked a bit like a moody, contemplative spider might.

"I was theRe. I heArd."

You were outside with Georgie.

Recalling that day, Bill couldn't help a wry half smile. He had wondered at the creature's feelings on eavesdropping, if he ever succumbed to it.

Here it was. The Losers' very own cosmic embodiment of Big Brother.

Small wonder why Richie despised him so. The fact that It's favorite form just happened to be a clown was salt in a preexisting wound.

"So you did."

Pennywise frowned at that, dark blue eyes narrowing. They matched the sky outside perfectly. Acknowledging the entity's superior hearing didn't appear to endear Bill to him.

Was it supposed to have?

"Sorry. I know, I'm not b-b-being a very g-good host. But you gave me a s-startle."

A minute ago, I had no idea I'd be entertaining a guest.

"I won'T stay long," Pennywise remarked, unusually forward. He typically didn't keep to a timetable of any kind, much less share that information with anybody. Even as he said it, though, his attention strayed off somewhere to the freshman's left. His hands started to knead together.

"Is everything... okay?" Bill found himself asking out of habit, momentarily forgetting the sheer lunacy that was him, here, talking to an otherworldly creature that just so happened to teleport its way into his living room. "With you?"

Day by day, these situations were becoming less and less bizarre to behold.

Complacency. She had not abandoned them to umerciful Reality yet.

"Yesss. I juSt..."

Bill waited. The clown's behavior had abruptly grown halting and awkward, just like the boy's own stutter. Whereas other people were prone to nonstop "uhs" and "ums", protracting his syllables when he was thinking midsentence was another tell.

"I jusT meant to sssay... thankS?"

Bill smirked. Now there was something he hadn't counted on hearing.

But it answered the "what do you want" part of the equation nicely.

"You popped over to show off how well you're p-p-practicing manners now?"

"For the fence poSt," Pennywise went on like he hadn't heard. Or opted not to listen. "T... thanks for helping. You wweren't suRe at the time, but you helpEd anyway."

Bill nodded. He set the remote aside. He had already done the math. "You told G-Georgie, didn't you?"

His visitor's embarrassed, nearly-sheepish look said everything. His gloves kept fidgeting, fingers plucking at invisible frays in the seams.

"I thought you w-would. It's okay. There hadn't been a good time for me to t-tell him yet."

Slowly, the gloves stilled. "You'Re... welcome?"

"No, that's what I'm sup... never mind."

Sighing, Bill ran a hand over his face. He liked to think he was a tolerating kind of guy. This was how it had been when Georgie was practicing his etiquette. If he wasn't miffed enough to feel like a correction was necessary, Bill simply let it go.

"Are you feeling b-better, since then?"

Now there was a potentially-moot question. While Pennywise played a great deal at looking human, in actuality, he still needed to learn the steps to that dance, what it meant to act it. And with a only thought, the guy could fly apart, morph as easily as one breathed, and rematerialize into any form he wanted. On the spot.

That didn't mean he was immune to discomfort.

"By the time you all laid doWn to sleep, it wasn'T hurting anymore."

"Good."

Bill paused, frowning, and considered asking a risky question.

Then he did it anyway.

Sometimes, it was better not to overthink these things.

"How... can I ask, how did it happen?"

Billowy shoulders tensing up, Pennywise turned to stare directly at him.

His expression had flatlined. Not smiling, not frowning.

And by no means inviting.

"You can."

Wow. Blunt.

Rain continued to hammer the house, as constant as a drumbeat, driving back the silence that ensued.

Until one of them offered a verbal beat to counterpoint it.

Which Bill eventually did.

"You're not g-gonna answer me, are you?"

The stare didn't waver.

"You wouldN't like my ansWer."

There it was, that niggling concern that tickled his nervous system in all the wrong ways. Bill shifted to sit up straighter, smoothed down a pant leg, curled his toes in his socks, trying to seem casual about dismissing it. Two could play the fidget game.

Yep, this was the same lion whom he had helped take a thorn out of its paw.

Figuratively and literally.

But It was still a lion.

"Fair enough."

Pennywise never had shared much about himself, save what he was impersonating. Georgie was either too willfully-trusting or too naïve to ask more. Or both. And the older Denbrough boy's doubts were founded largely on speculation and limited firsthand experience.

But the creature existed. He existed on something. Everything did. The universe was just programmed that way. And no matter what the entity may have denied, something about Its makeup begetted that he stay in Derry for some reason.

"I'm bothering yoU. I'lL go now."

"No, wait."

Equally startled, they stared in newfound alarm at each other.

"I mean... it's r-raining. Georgie's at the d-dentist's. The others are just as cooped up as me, probably d-doing chores. I don't know if you had things to... do. But you can stay... if you want."

At first, Pennywise raised a brow. Weighing his options. Trying to fathom another excuse to depart. Assessing Bill's words for hidden meanings. Any of these things could have flitted through his skull in the next minute that passed.

Then he was staring at the silent television as if it were a museum display he had dismissed early in the tour, only to rediscover it with a blossoming fascination.

"Whattt... were you watcHing?"

Bill smiled. What kind of good human education could the entity have hoped for if he didn't understand TV?

Feeling a touch playful, the boy tossed the remote across the couch.

"Turn it on and see."

Delicately, as if he were handling a sliver of glass, Pennywise picked the device up between two fingertips. He fumbled, grabbed it again, then onto held it with both hands. Then he brought it unnecessarily close to his face, studying the grid of rubber buttons with great intensity, looking something like Ben with his nose crammed deep into a book.

He froze.

Bill stifled an urge to laugh.

"It's the t-top button."

Yeah. The clown was sadistic all right.

Not only for being a welcome intrusion on a lonely afternoon.

But because after learning all he could about it, he hogged the remote.

Chapter Text

Pennywise took one pensive glance down at the unruly mess of fur and, unexpectedly, he had only one thing to say.

"Why?"

"She's a stray, Pen."

If anything, the boy seemed encouraged by his giant friend's lackluster reaction, and Georgie kept brushing.

The tabby-coated cat, now sitting passively before him, revved up in her best fuzzy imitation of an outboard motor, her approving purrs reverberating throughout the spacious room. Several tufts of fur already littered the kitchen floor, as Georgie diligently worked his way through the tangled masses that had formed around caught pine needles and burrs.

Pennywise quashed a sudden urge to shiver, inner ears ringing like a set of tuning forks.

That purring thing was going to get annoying.

Fast.

He clenched his teeth, lacey arms scissoring together across his chest. The next question on his mind, he left unspoken, deciding instead to aim a prompting look at the next-most-guilty party in the kitchen.

Meaning...?

"What?" Bill stood nearby, with one plaid shoulder braced against the kitchen door, hands crammed into his jeans. His smile didn't radiate quite so blindingly as his brother's, but it was there nonetheless. "She kept d-dogging us all the way over here. Either she's a stray without anywhere to go, or a r-runaway with no collar. We c-c-ouldn't just leave her."

"But, we can't take her home with us, so..." Georgie let the sentence hang unfinished, his hopeful eyes peering up at 29 Neibolt's otherworldly landlord.

Given that expression, Pennywise couldn't bring himself to say "no". But that didn't mean he was Loser-bound to say "yes".

The next-best response was...

"For now... fiNe."

Georgie still had the brush in his grasp as he lept over to trap the sulky-faced demon around the neck in a tight hug. "You're the best, Pen!"

Bill produced a handful of money from one of his pockets. "We're off to the p-pet shop for some basics. And to give Mrs. Lockleer her brush b-back. Keep an eye on her for us?"

Pennywise stared back at him - unmoving, unblinking.

It was a silently-murderous look that would send most children who saw it fleeing for the hills.

Clearing his throat, mildly unnerved, Bill stepped back, slowly pivoting in the general direction of the front door. "Okay, then..."

Georgie stooped long enough to bid goodbye to the feline, murmuring a wordless farewell into her whiskers, then scampered back across the room to retrieve his jacket.

Pennywise stopped him at the kitchen's threshold, one wide hand held up to bar his exit. "Georgie?"

The six-year-old bounced to a halt. "Yeah?"

The clown dared a glance at the cat, inanely seated as she was in the middle of the sunlight-flooded room. She was staring him down already. Like a bomb, who wasn't in any way intimidated by him, biding her time, waiting to go off.

Somehow, that was worse than the purring.

He was tempted to plead his way out of this. But his argument would be flat out silly - sillier. Neibolt wasn't an abode frequently visited by anyone except the Losers, and an ever-changing assortment of rodents. Not the most pristine place, no, but was cat hair really the one missing component? He could not claim he simply did not want a feline around because she was making a mess of the joint.

Still, if it keeps Georgie happy...

"Uhm... What am I supposed to caLl her?"

"Stripes!"

The house's front door had creaked shut again by the time Pennywise's waylaid brain caught up with registering reality.

He's kidding.

He had to be.

Stripes. That's Richie's name for me.

One of many, admittedly. Pennywise was a being fond of picking favorites, and that moniker still stood at the top of Tozier's never-ending list. Georgie knew of it, as did Bill. Did they assign it to this breathing furball as a term of endearment? Or just because it was an easy steal?

Pennywise scoffed and scratched at his hair, impossibly-perched atop an overturned chair, watching as the cat lept about the foyer, her shadow cast along the far wall dancing in time with her movements. Her next order of business, after the preliminary grooming, seemed to be play. Discovering a floor full of dead, dried-up leaves to bat and chase around hopefully meant hours of entertainment would be ensured.

No, don't think like that. The Denbrough boys wouldn't be gone for hours. That was what the cosmic entity had to keep telling himself. And even if they were, any number of setbacks could befall them in that time, and turn their minds around. He hoped so. Anything to make them decide against or downright forget this arrangement. The odds were in the clown's favor.

They are, they have to be.

He was being ridiculous, yes, but that was what he did in this plane of existence, and he did it well.

New movement scuttled by under his nose and he looked down, frowning sharply. "Yesss? What do you want?"

The cat stood on her hind legs, front paws braced upon the chair's inverted back, puffy tailtip flicking to and fro. A tattered bit of brown tree leaf stuck out from between her lips. She made no sound, merely stared expectantly at her unwilling host.

Waiting for what, even he did not know.

"Shoo."

Nothing. She blinked in kind, a lazy, drawn-out motion that let the cosmic being note (most uninterestedly) that she sported one yellow eye and one blue eye.

Pennywise pursed his lips, the irony not lost on him. That's where they got the idea.

"Well, how's that for coincideNCe? Was that performance supposed to be your version of my dancIng, too?"

At that the tabby meowed a yowling affirmative.

He facepalmed, so hard he wasn't surprised at the vague pain of a new dent forming along his brow.

Somewhere in infinity, Maturin was laughing his leathery ass off.

Bound to these circumstances, his anti-entity sighed. The mark between his eyes filled out, back to its previous shape. "FiNe. You want a rEview? It needs work. Now, shOo."

He flitted his way to the second floor, prying a set of yellowed windowblinds open to look out on the street below. To his dismay, it was empty, not a Loser anywhere in sight.

Not even a convenient bystander he might steer not-Stripes toward.

Little cat feet followed him up the stairs.

He didn't sleep. Not in the conventional sense that humans and most other Earth species knew sleep to be. But for every waking year, there always came a time or two to simply unplug and take in the scenery.

Derry was active today, an impossibly huge web of connections, hanging suspended between all of its living inhabitants. Every person stood out to It like a light on a traffic control switchboard. Putting his other endeavors on hold, he let his mind simply drift, floating about like a cork in the ocean, and he surveyed his options. Where would he find his next most likely meal?

Or he would be doing that, barring no distractions.

Something was scratching the outside of the cabinet door.

Persistently. With little fishhooks for claws.

Damn cat.

"Get!"

Striking the door from inside, it swung open with such violence it bounced off its neighbor to clap shut once more.

The cat, her reflexes nearly as sharp as her assailant's, deftly leapt out of the way.

Pennywise lingered long enough to glower menacingly for effect, fangs bared. "I mean iT." Twisted to fit in the tight space under the dilapidated counter (the only hiding spot that seemed feasible from which he could escape her company, without leaving the house), he pulled the door shut again.

The scratching resumed.

"No, for the fifteenth time, I don't have anything for you to eAt. Get."

The cat dove again, rubbing her face against his pompommed boot, then flopped over to sprawl on the dirty floor, meowing plaintively, paws in the air.

Dramatic, ain't ya?

Hunched over the table, Pennywise kept his eyes on his task, intent on finishing the thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle Stan had placed in Neibolt's unofficial 'hobby room'. Fat chance. The feline was determined to make sure that he had no peace. Two hours after the Denbroughs had left, the meowing had started.

Three hours later, she was still sounding off. Like a police siren with no power switch.

What was this animal's problem? Did she not embrace her lot in life? It could be summed up in one sentence: she was destined to prance about, sleep eighteen hours a day, charm gullible humans with her fluffiness, and be the death of all stupid mice. She certainly had the assets for it.

If she really were a stray, she'd know what it was to feed herself.

Lost in pondering a solution, Pennywise belatedly heard the slight tearing sound, and then felt the minute pinch of small, barbed points latching onto his foot. He looked down.

She was gnawing on his bootlaces.

"Stop that!"

She deftly weaved aside of the swinging gray claws, and hissed in retort, seemingly unphased by the once-human-shaped hand's transformation.

Possessively folding his limbs under himself, scowling, he was very tempted to hiss back.

In fact, he was almost ready to do more than that. One quick chomp and this problem would be no more. He could always claim she ran away, out of the Denbroughs' lives as swiftly as she had entered them.

But what if his assumed insides didn't agree with raw cat, and brought the body back up, like an owl pellet from hell? There was a chance it could happen, at precisely the wrong time. How would he explain that one?

Okay, let's try something else...

The rat scurried for the door, limping. For the seventh time, Pennywise intervened. He plucked the rodent up by the scruff of its neck.

"Nooo. NO. You're supposed to kiLl it."

And to think, that he ever been accused of playing with his food. He knew when enough was enough. This took the proverbial cake in comparison.

The cat bounded over, meowing.

The rat squeaked, indignant, as it was twisted back and forth between two fingertips, appraised by the clown's scrutinizing yellow eyes. To be fair, the thing was bleeding, panting, and just about spent of energy. How it had just not given up and succumbed to shock was anyone's guess. A few more runs, and maybe not-Stripes would start to catch on.

Bizarrely, Pennywise was reminded of Georgie in this instance, and all the simple joys the boy had introduced the entity to in the past year. One common and very key point was the fact that in every way, Georgie had provided the example, and then let him try. That was how teaching worked.

Did cats operate that way?

"Do you... need me to sHow you?"

Not-Stripes blinked up at him, licking her lips in anticipation.

The ill-fated rat, hanging limp, gave another terrified round of squeaks, thrashing, sensing what was to come, teeth gnashing at nothing.

Pennywise felt something unpleasant rattle in his throat. It was his many hidden teeth, whirring to back into being like rows of rippling sawbands. Difference was, they were being called forth against their will, sliding and catching on each other like puzzle pieces hopelessly out of alignment. Later, he would describe it as a cold sweat that seemed to leak its way inside him instead of out, and try not to shudder in remembrance.

Yep. This was it, the lowest point of his year.

Best get it over with.

Eyes rolling back, he took one swift bite of the prey in his hand, and vanished.

The rendered rat carcass hung in midair for perhaps two seconds before gravity thought to reclaim it. A small cloud of dust puffed into the air as it hit the stone floor, a horrid, bloody pincushion formerly known as a Norway rat.

The cat set upon it like a starving refugee to a buffet.

Seconds later, her dismayed teacher's hitching voice drifted down from upstairs, and went utterly ignored.

"NeVer agaIn!"

The street was still empty. And the sun was setting.

Seriously, where were they?!

Pennywise tried to fixate on his anger, a battle he was rapidly losing. Anything to keep the horrid memory of the crushed rat off his mind. Half a dozen morphs later, and the taste had been successfully washed from his mouth. Not so easily erased was the awful pop its stringy body had made, impaled at once by so many serrated edges.

As if that wasn't enough, not-Stripes was still - how did Bill say? - hopelessly dogging him. By sound, smell, or some other indescribable sense, she had found her babysitter sulking on Neibolt's highest floor, gazing listlessly out the 'decorative' picture window.

Apparently won over him by that pitiful sacrifice, she strode over to rub her face, neck, and spine against the back of his leg. The accursed purring had started up again, but didn't seem so bad now that the clown knew something worse - her yowling.

She was... persistent, he had to give her credit there.

You and Bevs ought to get along famously.

Instantly, his mood perked up. The lightbulb had gone off.

Not-Stripes gave a plaintive cry as her companion winked out of existence.

"I'm allergic."

Fragile hope evaporated for him like a raindrop in the desert. "No..."

"Sorry, buddy," Beverly patted his drooping shoulder. She kept her distance from the feline, poised as the cat was in the overgrown windowsill, napping off a full stomach. Lured over by the clown's promise of a surprise, and undoubtedly risking some future punishment for daring to sneak off after dinner, Beverly took the introduction to their newest club member well enough.

Taking not-Stripes home with her, that was a shot in the dark. "She's cute, though."

Cute like a hair clog in a drain.

Pennywise pulled a face, fangs visible. As if things weren't bad enough, now he had the idea that Neibolt's growing cat hair collection would prohibit Beverly from visiting in the future. What had he done in a past existence to deserve this?

Beverly smirked at the gangly clown's lowbrow expression. "You don't think so?"

"Have you heard fRom Bill? Or Georgie?" Pennywise changed subjects, lest he drive himself up a wall. Literally. And opt to never come back down. Not even for a bribe of popcorn. "What could be takiNg them so long at a peT store?"

The redhead gave this a moment's thought. Then she ticked off possibilities on her fingers. "The salesperson could be a real chatterbox, plying Bill for every last cent? Maybe they found one of those care books and Georgie's insisting on reading it through first? Neither of them have owned a cat before."

They should've stopped at the hamster. I like the hamster. At least he's in a cage.

Pennywise ground his mismatched teeth, eyes drifting askew. He could count as many alternative plans he harbored on one hand. Anywhere past the ring finger, and he knew there was no turning back. "Would the oThers adopt it?"

"Nah, I wouldn't bet on that. Eddie's probably in the same boat as me, and Rich's and Stan's parents seem pretty anti-animal. Not sure about Ben's step-family. Mike wouldn't have time to look after her."

"Fan-taStic..."

"Why are you in such a tizzy, anyway?" Beverly plucked at his collar, ever-disheveled as it was. The faint splotch of rat blood adorning the front, she hadn't questioned. "I would think you'd be happy to have some company when we're not around."

Tell her. Tell her what you had to do.

Nooo. You'll scare her away.

More likely she'll drop dead laughing.

Humans don't do that. They get better.

Not telling!

Fine, you'll disgust her away.

That's not a verb.

Shut up, Ben-voice!

"Pen?" Beverly tapped the clown's forehead as one might a malfunctioning television set. He was staring straight ahead at nothing, like the reception had gone out. "You in there?"

He flinched at her touch, flopping down to sit against the moldering wall, legs outstretched, arms folding. He stared in the general direction of the cat, but no better ideas for effectively ridding himself of her presented themselves.

"I'm out of idEas."

"What do you mean?" Beverly took a seat beside him, backpack squashed between her and the wall.

"How to get riD of this thing," Pennywise spoke through his teeth. Why not confess everything here and now? "Whatever I claiMed, Georgie would alwayS suspect me. And if he kNew, he would never foRgive me."

Beverly got that sly look she sometimes did when the context of the humans-take-for-granted-daily lesson dawned on her, blue eyes sliding away before refocusing on her inwardly-distraught friend.

"That's it... You need to learn how to share."

He blinked, stupefied. A car horn honked twice in the distance.

As if the world outside was declaring itself in agreement with Beverly.

"WhaT?" he squeaked in a helpless, tiny voice.

"You're afraid of what's going on, like you're being replaced. You're not. Nothing ever could, you dingbat. If you tried thinking different, it'd make things a lot easier than stomaching whatever anxiety you're currently putting up with."

"But I don't waNt to..."

Unsympathetic to his whining, Beverly grabbed his chin, forcing them to look at each other. Her voice took on a firmer tone to better match her icy expression, in contrast to his worried mien. "I don't want to go to school, but I also want to leave this town someday. And that's a lot easier with an education. You want Georgie to stay your friend, you'll make an allowance. As his friend, you'll be happy for him, understand?"

Each word was like a dart striking the board, racking up points. Points like stung like beestings. Pennywise cringed, trying to pull away, but Beverly held firm.

After a two minute staredown, he relented.

"...Aw. Do I have a choIce?"

The Denbrough boys returned the next day, overflowing with apologies. Bill totted over a backpack full of cat food cans, a set of brushes and scissors, and a book on cat ownership (as theorized). Georgie's shopping bag was full of balls of yarn and catnip-scented toys.

Over exaggerating, maybe. But no more than the story of the debacle that was yesterday afternoon did.

"I mean, t-talk about having to beg, borrow, and plead," Bill rambled, as they both worked on arranging their supplies upon Neibolt's kitchen table. "We had to do everything short of commit murder to scrape this much together."

"No stealing, though!" Georgie chimed in. "All bought and paid for."

Arranging the stacks of cans by flavor, it was another two minutes before Bill noticed the unusual condition of the table. Baffled, he rubbed his fingertips together, startled to find no fine layer of dust between them. "D-did you clean this?"

Crouching nearby, Pennywise thought of something smart to say, a la Richie Tozier, and then imagined the disapproving smack Beverly would deliver to his head if she were there. While the Denbroughs were busy unpacking, he had made short work of the dust. His evidence-covered gloves were tucked into hiding behind his elbows.

"MaYbe..."

Having the lesser load, Georgie had turned to greeting not-Stripes, obliging her with a boatload of affection, strokes, and nuzzles.

Watching this ensue, Pennywise's mood deflated back to what it had been eighteen short hours ago, when not-Stripes first trotted into their lives. History was going to repeat itself today. The only thing worse than catsitting against your will had to be being utterly ignored in favor of her.

That was, until Georgie glanced up and spared a moment to embrace his forlorn-faced friend.

"We're sorry we didn't let you know," he mumbled, earnest as ever, despite this being the fifth apology in less than ten minutes. "But thanks for watching her."

And just to complete the moment, said feline bounded over to reinforce the message. She placed her front paws on the clown's bent knee, pupils wide in her dual-colored eyes.

Georgie looked between them, and given Pennywise's stunned silence, a plan formed in his head. He pried a silver-clad arm free, maneuvering it out to a horizontal pose in the air above the feline. "Wait, hold still."

Not-Stripes reacted instantly, pawing excitedly at the red bell, clawing at the braided cord it hung from.

Bill smirked. "That's e-explains why she likes you so much."

Georgie clapped him on the shoulder. "She's all yours, Penny! Keep that up and we'll get her dishes ready."

Thinking of how he could embellish, Pennywise yanked the bell away. Not-Stripes pounced after his hand, claws sunk deep into the encircling frill, hind paws kicking in the air. Moments later, still holding on, she was gently dragged across the floor, teeth sunk into the hem of his sleeve.

"Hah!" He grinned wickedly. "Two can play at this gaMe."

That was the thing about cats. And cosmic spider-monsters-passing-themselves-off-as-clowns.

They won't kill outright, because then they would have nothing to play with.

Food was all well and good, but it couldn't beat companionship.

Chapter Text

Empty? That can'T be.

The uninvited visitor glanced around in confusion, taking another slow sweep of the dank, dimly-lit rooms. Stepping lightly, the floorboards hardly creaked under his ghostly steps. Doors swung compliantly on their hinges, prodded by gloved fingers.

The apartment was empty.

Contrary to everything the boys had said, everything they had warned him of, there was no sign of Alvin Marsh, let alone Beverly. The former, the uninvited guest had no use for, save a good, long-deserved mauling. In actuality it was all the better for the entity not to lay eyes on the janitor. It made it all the easier to keep his temporary promise to do no harm and not "engage the enemy unless absolutely necessary".

Stan was quick to stick a pin in the unmoving silence that followed the Trashmouth's otherwise-grandiose briefing speech. "Honestly, Richie, I think he'll do fine without the marching orders."

"Really?" Richie took an exaggerated double-take at the clown's deadpan expression. He even went so far as to grab their eldritch mascot by the chin. "Have you looked at this guy lately? I can't not make sure he isn't taking this all for a joke."

The latent memory almost made Pennywise roll his eyes. Almost, as eye rolling was a little too obvious a tell of discontent, especially among humans. Rather than stand there and watch things devolve further, the silver-clad creature had fled the scene in the millisecond it took for Richie to look away.

Wasn't it just like the Losers to play off their fretful anxiety by way of petty bickering?

He, the least-serious-looking member of the childrens' ragtag group, had simply offered to check up on Beverly, who was four days AWOL and counting. Who else was better suited to the task than the one who could go unseen and effectively alter the minds of any suspicious eyes that might turn toward the Marsh apartment in the process?

His second-best guess as to where Beverly could be found turned out to be the correct one. The apartment building, on closer inspection, was largely unoccupied. Most of the tenants were out to work, their children scattered among the street's various storefronts along the street below. So at the faint sound of shoes scuffling across the patchwork rooftop, the erstwhile visitor followed the central stairwell up instead of down, flitting from shadow to shadow, and stopped short the stairwell exit, peering around the open doorframe and into the drizzly, late-afternoon haze.

A week's worth of scattered thundershowers had left the air unseasonably cool, gutters awash with decaying leaf litter and mud, the roads dotted with their own motley collection of puddles (some big enough to almost warrant honorary monikers). What rays of sunlight found their way down through the partial cloud cover tended to offset that to a comfortable degree.

But today was tolerable at best, with precious little heat to offer relief from chilly shadows. The missing Loser wouldn't be out here on the roof for her health, as Eddie would say.

Or maybe she would. From what sounds the entity had discerned as emanating from the apartment's pipes, outside now was a more than preferable alternative to being trapped inside the past few nights.

Georgie had explained what being "grounded" meant, and Pennywise had tolerated listening to the explanation insofar as far as what it could mean for Beverly's situation. It was not an unknown concept to him, the practice of adults keeping their offspring holed up in the family domicile as a dual means of enacting punishment and teaching respect for one's elders.

Inwardly, though, the beast felt no shortage of uneasy tension at the thought, worry coiling itself into taut knots throughout his corporeal form.

Being grounded, for Beverly, meant more than the other Losers perhaps grasped at this point. He loathed to think what the last few days had entailed for their absent club member.

Arguably, he knew the most of the ugly truth that was Beverly's home life. Having an eye out and an ear to each pipe linked to every last home across Derry tended to mean virtually nothing went on without It knowing. What he knew of the Marsh household was more fact than the fiction pandered aimlessly about by their immediate neighbors.

In close company Beverly did not confide anything to confirm or deny the suspicions her friends likely harbored, and while the clown was prone to the occasional over-indulgent ramble, Pennywise did his best to not compromise her unspoken wish that he, or anyone, not blather on and on about dirty laundry better left unaired.

Even if his poor impulse control left much to be desired, he could practice at it for her sake, if nothing else.

All these thoughts went sideways from his sporadic attention span at the slight whiff of crackling, ashy smoke that assaulted his nose on reaching the rooftop. He paused at the open door, shrugged the unpleasant smell off, and glanced around, grinning as he spotted a familiar auburn-haired figure lounging nearby, not far from the roof's edge.

She was gazing off into the distance.

Without a second thought, he lunged in for the attack.

"Bevs!"

The bells gave him away.

"Pen!" Beverly scrambled to her feet and barely ducked the outstretched arms that reached to ensnare her. Whirling aside, she stepped out of reach, rounding on the lanky demon with a demand that was half-yell, half-hiss. "The hell did- what are you doing here?"

He almost shrank away, quailing under the girl's livid expression, but he felt more confusion and concern than fear in that moment. He stooped down to her eye level, leaning in for a closer look, eyes gleeful. "VisitiNg!"

Without a hint of bashfulness she lashed out to deal her newfound company a light smack across the face.

"Most people call ahead."

"Eep." The smack didn't hurt, per se, but it smarted enough to derail Pennywise's manic greeting just enough. He took an uncertain half-step back. "Okay, oKay. I'm c-checking on you, that's all. The others were wondering where you were, they sAY you havEn't calLed. I trIEd the pipeS, but you didn't answ- "

He tried to reach out again and she stepped back once more, out of the clown's immediate range, her outraged glare smoothing out into a guarded stare.

"I'm fine. Keep your voice down!"

He clapped a hand across his mouth before more fretful noises could find their way out (one smack was enough, thank you). The concern anyone would hear him was largely moot, insofar as it applied to a cosmic being, and Beverly knew that. But then again, she wasn't wrong for not wanting to draw attention from whomever may hear a very one-sided conversation taking place atop the building.

"That's better." Apparently pleased with his show of compliance, however dramatic, she seemed to relax. But as he waited and held that pose, clearly expecting more, it took her another minute to answer.

"I just needed... a break from things."

The acrid denial stunned him into momentary silence and motionlessness. The hand slid off his face like a raindrop.

Dare I ask... why? He hiked a brow, threading his fingers together before another spastic motion betrayed him, reassessing his approach. Exhibiting frantic concern wasn't doing him any favors, but in his elation to see her physically unharmed, he had forgotten. Turning that realization over in his head, he glanced around as if distracted, then back, eyes slightly askew.

"But... there are better pLaces to take 'breaks' at than here, aren't tHere?"

She held his gaze, declining to respond in favor of putting the cigarette back to her lips. The glowing tip crackled ominously in the tense quiet that followed.

Faced with that wall, he sat back on his heels, content to engage in this momentary staring contest. He had had plenty of practice at them.

Beverly's attire didn't suggest anything outwardly amiss. An outfit comprised of a green, slightly-pilly sweater and threadbare jeans were well suited to the afternoon haze. A thin black headband held the scarlet bangs out of her blue eyes. Aimlessly, she balanced on one foot and leaned back, bracing the other sneaker back against the stairwell shed.

Her behavior - that was another story.

Two minutes later, still nothing.

That was until another unwelcome whiff of burning tobacco jarred Pennywise back to his senses.

Okay. Time for a change of subject.

"Blegh. I see you haven't run out of thoSe."

Beverly's bright blue eyes dropped for just a moment before she half-turned away. "...And I don't suppose you brought any with you."

"Why should I? It's baD for you, Bevs," he stated simply, in a perfect parroting of Georgie's feelings on the same issue. He made an exaggerated waving gesture before his pale face, red nose wrinkling. "The smoke turnS everything yelLow. And I don't like thE smell."

That made her turn back. Beverly scoffed in either abject disbelief or genuine amusement, fighting a half-smile at the absurd notion only to fail miserably. "You, hate the smell of cigarettes? This from a guy who hibernates where the sun never shines in Derry's fine sewer system, since before said system even existed."

"That's difFErent." Pennywise bit back a growl of frustration. This wasn't supposed to be about him, but how else was he going to get her talking?

"Why? You gonna tell me you had no choice?" Beverly paused to flick ashes aside. "But then again, I guess real estate options for some... one like you would be pretty limited."

They weRE. The entity shook his head, repressing an urge to snarl for three different reasons and counting. This was getting off track. Let her have her joke, but his concern wasn't unwarranted. "I just mean, there are so many nice things about you, Bevs. And those aREn't. Why even uSe them?"

Taking one last drag, she dropped the spent paper, snuffing it under her heel. "We all have our vices, Pen. Vices aren't, by definition, good for you. But for better or worse, they help us cope when life gets rough. Friends understand that."

Pennywise couldn't quite muster a convinced reply, settling instead for a noncommittal grumble and a petulant scowl. How just-like-her was it to work a lesson on the tenants of understanding humanity into a conversation with him?

Undaunted, Beverly's smile broadened, and she stepped closer. "I'll try to indulge in them less around you, okay?" She reached in to tuck a loose strand of hair behind his ear. Before he could pull away, unused to this fawning-over, she gripped his striped cheek firmly between her thumb and index finger, and grinned at the annoyed stare and gurgling growl it earned her. "I appreciate the concern, though, you goof. You're getting better at that."

"Hmph." While the touch and the smile it garnered was enjoyable, it didn't quite soothe his gloomy mood. The tension was still there, lurking behind her words, and he wouldn't be content until it had somehow been availed. "I guess you... don't want any coMpany, then?"

The smile faltered. "I didn't say that."

With gentle deftness he pried the girl's fingers off him. "You don't have to." The clown glanced away and put on his best dejected face for greater effect, shoulders hunching forward. "If my being here somehow gets you into more trouble- "

"I'm not in any trouble, Pen. At least, for now." Realizing how hasty she must have sounded, she fidgeted nervously with the hem of her sleeve. Cottoning on to the owed explanation, she caved: "It's all over nothing, really. Dad just... likes to keep me close, make sure the chores are caught up on after he's done with work. These last few days haven't been any different. I only came up here for some air."

There isn't air enough in the apartment, Bevs? Pennywise's gaze narrowed, dark eyes brightening omniously from navy blue to cobalt. He wondered what telltale evidence those green sleeves hid. Repulsive, stale, and musty compared to this, but that's not what you came to the roof to get away from.

"You don't believe me, do you?" Beverly swallowed, reaching up to fidget with a strand of her own hair. "It's all right. I should be free to call Bill or somebody by Saturday. There just hasn't been... a good time."

"...OkaY."

More awkward silence ensued.

What diD Richie call it?

"Bevs, what is eh-wall?"

"What?" She blinked, taken aback by the sharp change in topic, before pondering the alien's enunciation. "Eh-wo... Oh, it's an acronym. A-W-O-L. Stands for 'absent without leave'."

"L-Leave?"

"That's what off-duty military take when they aren't punching the clock. But only when it's permitted."

"Then... why would Richie use it talKing about you?" Pennywise frowned, puzzle pieces clicking together. And he did not like the picture that was being revealed. "You don't need anyone's permisSion to go anywhere."

"Besides Dad's?" Beverly smiled tolerantly, if not a little sadly. "His idea of a joke, I'd guess. We all know they're never in short supply for Rich."

"Hrmph..." The clown ground his jaw in annoyance, sharpening teeth catching against one another. Next he saw the Trashmouth, they might reach an understanding as to what was so not funny about Beverly's social availability. "Joke, riiight."

He gave a startled flinch at the soft blow that knocked into his shoulder, glancing sidelong and up at the girl who was suddenly directly beside him. "Jeez, you're uptight today," she remarked. "So serious - for a change. I didn't think you had that in you."

"Me, neither," Pennywise admitted. "And I don't like how it fEels, but someone had to do soMething."

She nodded. "I overheard Dad answering a few hung up calls the night before last. I guessed that was the others trying to reach me."

"Then why didn't you 'reach' back?"

"I already explained that." She gazed back at him, unflinching at the giant's accusatory tone. "Do you think there was ever a good time for me to try?"

After a moment's thought, the creature heaved another weary sigh in lieu of a reply. He dropped from a crouch into a sitting position, long legs splayed out before him.

Guess not.

"I don't answer to pipes, either," Beverly went on. "You don't think my Dad would think that strange, me talking into the bathroom sink? He worries enough."

"You had all of us worried, Bevvie," Pennywise retorted, hissing the nickname through his teeth as if it were the most repugnant word imaginable. "How are we supposed to help yoU if you won't admit what's going on?"

"How does admitting it make things any better?" Beverly shot back, eyes brightening with anger. "To you, or Bill, or anyone else? Can't you all leave well enough alone?"

He tried not to bristle visibly at her words, but couldn't help giving another throaty growl. Suddenly he wanted nothing more than to slink back to the sewers and pretend the last ten minutes had never happened. It was the difficult moments like this that made him feel practicing compassion was more trouble than it was worth. The Losers all had their troubles, true, and some were problems for which there were no immediate solutions. The worst of which were the troubles they were so attuned and adapted to they did not see the necessity of shaking them.

They did not see how much better things could be.

But Beverly wasn't wrong. She never seemed to be. Say she did admit to the frank hideousness of her situation. What would that change? Her father's behavior? How the other kids at school saw her? And who was to say things would change for the better?

Though Pennywise said nothing, the ire slowly drained from Beverly's expression, looking at him. The inner turmoil playing out in his mind, if not his face, seemed to speak for itself.

She patted the back of his shoulder, a silent gesture of It's-okay-don't-torture-yourself-on-my-account.

"The guys miss me that much?"

He gave a one-armed shrug as the mood deflated further, playing the sudden-disinterest card. "Not really. They're bored, more tHan anything. Georgie, too. He was wonderiNg when you might give him another lesSon on your keyboard."

It hurt to see the girl's face light up at the fond memory, scarcely a week old, but it was more painful to see her pretend to brush it off. Her absence could hardly be dismissed as inconsequential or harmless. What in this realm of existence suggested she simply "be okay" with that?

"Maybe this weekend, we'll work something out. Tell him that for me, will you?"

"...Sure."

"I mean it. I'll be there."

"Pinky swear?"

She gave another disbelieving laugh, even as he raised a hand, little finger extended in offer. "What are you, five?" At his waiting, unmoving stare she forced a long-suffering sigh and smiled again. Reaching over his shoulder, she hooked their fingers together with a tug of finality. "Okay, okay. I swear."

Before he thought to let go, the girl's opposite arm found its way over the clown's opposite shoulder, drawing tight against the ruffles of his collar. He froze in uncertainty, caught in the unexpected grip of a one-armed hug, her chin pressing against his brow. "Missed you, too, you well-meaning dolt."

He could muster no greater response than a single croaking laugh. The admonishment was deserved, but it was pacifying enough that she graced it with a smile as she said it, and he couldn't help grinning back.

Chapter Text

Pennywise frowned.

He was pretty sure it wasn't the sun in his eyes, making this sight seem stranger than it really was.

Seated in the grass, Georgie Denbrough's back was to him. The boy was holding something skinny in his hand like one would a French fry.

"GeorgIe, what are you doing?"

The boy turned. Crouching down, the tall clown looked closer, slowly eased closer on all fours, then balked, jerking backwards on his heels.

New question!

"WhaT? Why are you eating a floWer?"

Georgie smiled. Unbothered, he kept chewing away, a bit of green leaf just disappearing into his mouth. He held another up for appraisal. "It's not a flower, Pen. It's a dandelion."

Gingerly, Pennywise took the plant between two fingers, delicate as silk, held it close to his face for a moment. His frown stretched even further.

"It lookS like a flower."

"But it's not." Georgie held up yet another specimen, a nastier-looking individual, with far more jagged little leaves. "It's a weed."

"Even wOrse," the clown deadpanned, arching a brow. Experimentally, he rolled the stem back and forth between two fingertips, watching the yellow petals twirl. "You aRen't supposed to eAt them."

"Ben says you can."

"BeN?" Pennywise scoffed before he could stop himself. Only good thing about this unwanted revelation was that (for once) it wasn't Richie's doing.

"Yeah, he read it in a book."

Snorting, he dropped the spare dandelion back into Georgie's upturned hand. "And you beLieve everything he sayS?"

"Not everything. Just this. It's like having a salt-and-vinegar chip, after a few tries. They aren't bad, long as you can find one without the bugs."

And just to prove his point, the boy took a hearty, fearless bite out of the second.

Pennywise flinched, gloved hands pressing to his face in dismay.

The horror. The horror that was the truth.

Well, this is what happened when you hung around too long, asking too much.

"GeorgIe..."

"What?" Denbrough's hopeful expression wilted. "I thought you'd want to try one, too."

Chapter Text

It was late in the day. But not so late the shadows could hide all of the horror of what was happening in front of him. Practically on top of him.

Ben Hanscom was convinced. Completely and utterly. This was as close as he would ever come in his life to feeling what it was like to commit murder.

Ignoring the pain in his arms and gut, he struggled to his feet.

He had to put a stop to it.

"Wait, no!"

It almost went unheard. Otherworldly shrieking rent the air.

One half of an unfolding duet, with the screams of its prey.

"No, no, please! I'm sorry, don't- ow-haow! Ow! Let me go! Please, stop! No more!"

"Drop him!"

Stumbling forward, fighting for footing on the slippery, rocky shore of the stream, Ben grabbed blindly for a handhold. This close to the water, there was nothing else to keep yourself upright with. Alien flesh tensed under his hands, vibrating as its owner's chest resonated with a growl of warning and alarm.

The new kid almost fainted at the sound. So bass, it rattled his brain like he was standing on an active subway platform. His vision swam, focus dialing in and out, but somehow, instinctively, his hands kept on grasping.

It was a last resort. This manic, this bloodthirsty, touch was the only way left to get through to It.

"Pennywise, don't!"

Finally, Ben got a grip.

The snarling stopped.

"He's had enough."

Clothes torn, Victor Criss kept sobbing, too hysterical to do anything else. He was pinned on his back, like a fly on a dissecting board. Only a couple minutes must have passed since he was set upon, but he was already a wretched bloody, muddy mess. His torso and arms virtually shone with red. Shiny trails of lifeblood had leaked across the rocks he lay upon, spreading into a horrible, streaked canvas.

His face was streaked with grime, eyes pinched, but still - miraculously - looking up. Pathetically. Pleadingly.

This is what happened when you tried to branch out, to after hapless prey without the team of lowlifes you typically ran with. A scrappy little omega-of-a-bully with no hope of moving 'up' would undoubtedly be inexperienced with hunting alone. Just because you thought the new kid might have some pocket change to pilfer.

Not knowing just what backup your 'prey' was never without.

Not counting on the ambush about to be sprung from under the water.

Not having a chance of escaping once the spindly nightmare had you in Its grip.

Ben winced. Yes, for him, the tumble down the hill had hurt. His shirt stuck uncomfortably to him, glued to his skin by half-dried blood. Cleaning himself up later that night would sting like hell.

But if he had let things go too far, the would-be memory of what could have happened that evening, that would be the real pain to cope with.

"He hurR-rt youu, BeN."

Slowly, with his insectoid-looking jaws bloodied, lined with more teeth than there were stars in the sky, the creature's awful, pale eyes quirked around, zeroing in on the boy who held his foreleg in both hands. There was very little about this tall, gangly eight-legged thing that resembled the silver-suited being who had, contrary to even his own nature, adopted the Losers, when no one else in Derry would.

In the low light, Ben couldn't discern much besides the long limbs, arranged around him like obscene tent poles, and a segmented body, the width and length of a school bus. At the same time, he was terrified. Terrified of looking too close.

The voice alone scarcely resembled Pennywise's, so laden with a peculiar chirrups and hisses as it was.

But he was talking. Talking instead of impaling Criss through the chest with one set of monstrous talons.

He was thinking. Enough to want to make the other boy suffer before dispatching him.

He wasn't that far gone into his fury.

Or so Ben thought.

Without so much as a twitch of notice, the creature struck again, fangs closing upon Criss' already-ruined right shoulder, sinking deep. Rather than rip and tear, It simply held on, keeping the crushing pressure up.

The bully screamed anew, the sound echoing across the forest.

Ben wanted so badly to cover his ears.

Beside him, a three-toed paw reared up, with its wicked claws as long as pickaxes flashing in the sun.

Poised to thrust downward.

To kill.

"No!"

Releasing his hold on the leg, Ben grabbed for the paw's 'wrist'.

By some inexplicable luck, he moved fast enough to grasp the roughly-armored joint in both hands.

Stopping the headman's ax before it could fall.

It froze. The chirring went silent.

"BeN...?"

Mumbling, it sounded like a groan of surprise. Speaking with its mouth full, the apparently-puzzled creature scarcely dared to move. Breath hissed in and out through its narrow snout.

"He's had enough."

"Please, please, n-no more," Criss whimpered, somehow holding on to a sliver of lucid consciousness, adrift in a miasma of pain and shock. His free hand batted feebly at the jaws holding him. "I-I'm sorry... I'm s-so sorry..."

"Don't do this," Ben went on, shaking like a leaf. Through the numbness beginning to grip his mind, he felt sorrow also welling up, behind everything else, about to flush out the rest of his jangled emotions. His eyes stung worse than his damaged skin.

Not in front of me, please.

Not in front of any of us, ever.

You said you're our friend.

A friend wouldn't make anyone see this.

Like so many other times in the last six months, It seemed to stop and think, to consider a Loser's words, no matter what their circumstances. It was usually a charming sight, to watch the being with a clown's face react so earnestly to praise being handed his way, or to reaching an understanding, to promises being made. It was like watching someone younger than yourself learn and appreciate a new lesson they hadn't before.

This insectoid thing in its place seemed to be doing the same.

In the most horrible light Ben had yet seen It in.

There was nothing charming about sheer reality.

Hitchingly, like It was suddenly having trouble operating its own muscles, the jaws flexed. They hesitated to release, then parted.

Criss fell back against the rocks with a soft cry, a shredded hand reaching up to clutch his eyes. As if covering them would blot out his near-death experience.

Ben breathed out explosively, half in a sob. Far from being relieved, he felt like such as much of unkempt mess inside as Criss did outside. He was still clutching at the alien limb, as afraid to let go as he had been to intervene.

Like letting go would undo it all.

Slowly, with a great crackling sound, the armored head craned around and down on its neck, armor plates rasping against one another. Looking back under its own body, upside-down, the creature gazed at the boy sheltered in its shadow with a stoic, almost-palpable sadness.

The eyes slowly turned a milky blue.

"He hurT you. What- w-what elSe was I supPosed to do?"

Chapter Text

"Slow ahead. I can go slow ahead. Come on down and chum some'a this shit."

The words had scarcely left Chief Brody's lips before the shark lunged up from the bloodied waters. What began as uneasy laughter suddenly devolved into a discordant chorus of frightened shouts and yelps. The overburdened couch gave a noticable lurch as no less than three of its occupants jumped to their feet and fled.

Or attempted their best impression of it.

Lounging beneath the audience's feet, almost unforgotten, Pennywise belatedly remembered to get out of the way. His reminder came in the form of a sneaker landing squarely on the back of one gloved hand, even as another foot brushed sideways, threatening to clock into the side of his skull. With a cry that was half-pain, half-irritation the cosmic beast shrunk back into the narrow space beneath the couch, so quick the dust skirt gave a dramatic swish not unlike a disrupted tent curtain.

"...You're gonna need a bigger boat."

Scrambling forward, braving the daunting space between the couch and the television set (for one would think it was dubbed no man's land), Richie jabbed at the VCR's stop button. The swelling movie soundtrack cut out abruptly, screen blanking out as the three-man crew of the Orca scrambled to action. "Time out!"

Eddie, daring a peek over the armrest, switched gears from startled to livid. "Richie, it was just getting good!"

"I know that, but you guys are flat-out ruining it now," Tozier declared, whirling back around, glasses glinting in what late evening light illuminated the living room, via frosty February windows. "Who says you gotta wig-out like little girls at a basic jumpscare like that? Did you see the opening scene?"

Frowning, Bill took half a second to process the outrageousness of the question before dropping back onto his seat cushion. He had jumped to his feet in reflex more than rational thought, but stood his ground even as the others sought to hide. Now that he knew it was all for naught, as the movie ground to a halt more unexpected than any shark attack, indignation set in.

"T-thanks for interrupting the flow, jackass. If we thought w-we'd be being judged on our reactions not being the right ones- "

"You never would've agreed to this?" Richie finished. "Well, excuse me, when I heard you had spilled the beans to Georgie that we were watching JAWS this weekend, censorship would seem to have to go hand-in-hand- "

"Where is Georgie?" Stanley interrupted, voice equal parts meek and concerned, still crouched where he had lept, behind the opposite armrest. He chanced a look around the corner, wide eyes finding only an empty carpet, save for a pair of vacant popcorn bowls.

The four exchanged a moment of stunned, comedic realization before high-pitched giggles began to stutter out from underneath the couch.

Bill's legs snapped up, feet lifting off the floor, as he pivoted sideways and leaned down to grab for the skirt. "G-Georgie?"

"You boys all right in there?" Mrs. Tozier's mildly-concerned voice sounded off two rooms over.

Hanging upside down, hair dangling freely, Bill heard the others fall in around him as he gazed down into the impossible gap that had opened in the floor. The space was the equivilant of a shallow den.

Huddled within was the missing Denbrough boy, shaking with mirth. More intimidating was the great, white, man-shaped backdrop, arms curled protectively around his small friend. Georgie, face buried in the clown's collar, looked up to flash a giddy smile at his brother before clapping a hand over his mouth, stifling his giggles, while doing nothing to hide the laughter in his eyes.

Conversely, Pennywise stared back at Bill with eyes lit by every emotion except amusement.

"We're good, Ma, thanks!" Richie called back, after a moment's delay.

Eddie and Stan timidly resumed their seats to either side of Bill.

Teetering between realities, Richie thought to stand up at the same moment a black, rectangular piece of plastic tumbled out from under the couch. It landed unceremoniously between his hands.

Georgie scrambled out after it, grinning. "Penny found the remote, Richie!"

Pennywise half-crawled out at this cue, emerging as far as his ruffled shoulders, lying down to rest his chin on folded arms. His red lips were still turned down in a scowl, sharp teeth bared ever so slightly.

At what, Richie wouldn't risk a guess there and then, much less a quip.

That hazardous yellow glare promised harm enough to anyone who dared interrupt the film again.

"Turn the movIe back on." The creature sharply craned his head around to an impossible, neck-breaking angle, to glare at the spectators arranged above him. Bill - the closest target - flinched despite himself, but kept his eyes steady. "And Bill?"

"Y-yeah?"

He jumped again as an accusing hand jabbed dramatically into his face. Or it would be considered dramatic, if there weren't for the impossible fact the hand was as formless and jagged as a wad of crumpled notebook paper. His shoe had 'flattened' the entity's hand, like Judge Doom after an unfortunate meeting with a steamroller.

"DoN't step on my hand agAin."

"S-sorry."

"He didn't mean it, Penny," Georgie assured, patting the clown's lacey elbow as one might stroke an agitated dog. "It was just an accident."

"I don't like iNterrUPtions," Pennywise huffed, eyes flushing from murky yellow back to a hazy blue-green, not unlike the waters off Martha's Vineyard. One eye followed Richie's fingers as they nervously worked the remote. The other eye zeroed in on the TV screen as it flickered back to life.

Regarding his 'damaged' hand, he mimed snapping the wafer-thin fingers.

With a subtle pop, they sprang back to normal human form.

"Next time we gO to Ben's. He has a bigGer couch."

Chapter Text

Georgie Denbrough had been convicted without a fair trial.

That was the real crime here.

Pennywise had a half mind to file a motion.

...If he knew what a 'motion' was supposed to do. Or if there was a court to file it with. Or how to file anything. That would help.

Reading over Ben's shoulder at the library wasn't always as fulfilling and useful as the entity hoped for.

Instead, he resolved to visit Georgie.

Distantly, he had heard the argument emanating from the Denbrough household, discordant echoes reverberating into the cistern. One high-pitched voice was being yelled down by two older-sounding voices. One female, one male. Unanimous, for once, together, they said this "was the only way he'll learn" and promptly slammed the door.

Waiting until their footsteps departed, Pennywise peeked out from under the bed.

Bare feet walked by. Dust bunnies under the bedskirt danced, then flew away as the feet approached.

Then Georgie was down on his hands and knees, smiling radiantly at his expected visitor.

"Hi, Penny."

"Hiya," Pennywise grinned back. He tilted his head, eyes bright and inquisitive. And off-centered as always. "Is everytHing okay? It sounded like you were in troubLe."

"I am, still. Mom says I gotta stay in here for a while."

Creeping forward to just shy of the bed's edge, the creature glanced around as if it were the first time he had seen Denbrough's bedroom. No, it was visit number four-hundred twenty or so.

"HerE, for hoW long?"

Georgie turned and sat down roughly, arms folding. When he failed to offer more, Pennywise half-crawled out from under the bed beside him, leaning on his elbows. "What hapPened?"

"Nothing. It's stupid. I forgot to take my laundry out of the dryer."

Pennywise pulled a face, upper lip curling. "That iS stupid."

"I didn't mean to." Georgie shrugged helplessly, palms upturned. "I just forgot, that's all. I tried to tell her, but she and Dad say this'll help me remember next time."

"I don'T see how," the clown groused. Already evil thoughts of revenge were dancing a jig in his head. Pour rubbing alcohol over Mom's piano keys. Tear the power cable out of Dad's sanding machine.

As if sensing the plots being hatched on his behalf, Georgie smiled and reached over, indulging his friend with a scratch above the ear. "It's okay, Penny. I won't be in here forever."

"Long enoUgh." Whereas any other time he would welcome a scratch, Pennywise twitched and leaned away from the boy's hand, frowning. "What am I suPposed to do in the meantime?"

'Twas a crime to let a sunny day like this go to waste.

Now, a more selfish boy may have turned the question around. "You? What about me?" But Georgie Denbrough was not that kind of kid. He bit his lip, tapped his own nose in serious thought. His friend had been nothing if not loyal in the short time they had known each other. Loyalty deserved a reward, didn't it?

"Oh! How about this?"

-----

"This, this is a bAd idea, GeorgIe." Pennywise glanced down, thinking all-too-suddenly of Eddie Kaspbrak, stranded eighty feet in the air. The strong breeze ruffling his orange hair certainly reminded him of it. "Very, veRy bad."

Now the Denbrough home wasn't quite that tall. But opening a second-story window to scale its paneled side was intimidating enough.

The arms around his neck tightened, then Georgie's perky voice sounded off behind the clown's ear. He could virtually hear a smile bending the words.

"But I haven't left the house, have I?"

Freeclimbing out the bedroom window, intending to spend a memorable lunchtime on the roof. And that was after sending his eldritch Sherpa to the kitchen for a snack raid.

Who was this boy?

In a way, Pennywise supposed, this was his own fault. And not only for asking a fated question. Just because the cosmic entity could defy gravity, physics, and every other nameable force of nature to, say, crawl vertically up a wall? That he had felt the need to show that talent off at Neibolt one Friday afternoon?

Just because you could doesn't mean you should.

And even worse, Georgie had remembered.

Momentarily frozen, with gloved hands hooked over the roof's edge, Pennywise wished more than ever that he could facepalm in dismay. The boy clinging to his back, knees dug into his guardian's sides, did so without complaint. He was a lot stronger than his size suggested.

In fact, he was giggling.

"ShH! What if someone hearS you?"

"You'lL make them forget, silly."

"Oh... righT."

Oh, Georgie.

What a story he would have for later.

With a final heave, Pennywise cleared the roof's edge.

Bill's gonna kill me. Yes, he is.

Chapter Text

It wasn't the first time Beverly Marsh had been forcibly removed from the public women's bathroom at the Derry High School. She didn't dignify the thought with keeping track of how many times it had happened. At the moment, she had other concerns.

Like cleaning the blood off her face.

Really, for a pack of cheerleaders, Gretta Keene and her crew acted with twice with the motley, careless abandon the football team ever did.

Ripped from her place before the sink ("Clean girls only, loser."), Beverly had managed to avert doing more damage to herself than they had planned on. Being tossed into the hallway, staggering, she just kept from falling headlong into the set of lockers that faced the door. A glancing blow had still left a scratch across her cheekbone and the bridge of her nose.

Her upper arms would be bruised tomorrow. Another lie to endure.

"Your newest boyfriend rough you up, Beaverly? Or do you just like it that way?"

Those thoughts were neatly put aside, as was the open backpack by her feet. With a compact makeup mirror balanced in her fingertips, Beverly used a meager piece of tissue to blot the blood away. It stung just a bit, but thankfully, she wouldn't need a Band Aid, or stitches. It wasn't deep enough.

Then the screaming started.

Adrenaline racing again, Beverly snatched up her bag and jigged out of the way as the door slammed open. Accompanied by the collective shriek they had suddenly harmonized to, Gretta led the pack back out of the bathroom. They pushed and shoved at one another in their desperation to flee. Their eyes were beyond wild, hands brushing and pawing frantically over their arms, their legs, their backs.

Wait.

Beverly blinked. As did every other bystander who turned to regard the unfolding calamity, or jumped to get out of their way.

Pawing? At what?

There was nothing on them. Their uniforms had looked none the worse for wear.

Eventually, the screaming faded into the distance.

The hallway was empty.

Then, just when she thought the silence couldn't get any more awkward...

"That'S right. Run, you litTle panSies."

Beverly frowned.

The hissy, hitching voice. Mints and popcorn.

She should have guessed.

She glanced sidelong at the intruder-slash-welcome-sight.

With his gloved hand holding the door's edge, Pennywise smirked down at her, complicit in every sense of the word.

And not doing a thing to deny it.

"What did you do?"

He stifled a laugh, painfully unsuccessfully. It sounded like a trap snapping shut. "N-nothIng."

"Pen."

"You shouLd have seen their faces, Bevs." The devilish grin shone more than this eyes.

Then she saw it, movement. Down there.

A little brown something, crawling across the floor. It skittered out from under the door, running against the wall.

"Roaches?"

As if it had heard her, the suspect in question turned her way, then crawled up the wall beside her.

The roach flicked its wing covers twice. There was a tiny chir-chir to match.

Beverly could have sworn the thing was saluting her.

Chapter Text

"What else? How about, try not to rip the guy limb from fucking limb?"

Down on all fours, Pennywise shrank away from the Trashmouth's biting words, cringing visibly in the center of the room. All that was missing was an interrogator's spotlight. He hunkered down so low it was as if he were trying to fold his human form into the smallest possible shape. Like a once-beloved dog, now unfairly muzzled after making the mistake of showing its teeth at one of the family.

From his 'seat of honor' in the foyer of 29 Neibolt House, Ben Hanscom winced sympathetically, running a hand over his face. Being the only one to have seen their monster's misconduct firsthand, two days prior, the other Losers stood about the perimeter of the room, while he sat. As much as he had wanted not to intervene in such a fashion, what had happened at the creek had to be addressed.

The best way to do that was to hold a 'hearing'.

Like it or not, each of the Losers had to cast their vote. Their mascot's blunder couldn't just be ignored.

Richie Tozier, unsurprisingly, was leading the charge against the clown's version of events.

"Criss is still alive, Richie."

"According to who, this lying dipstick?" Tozier spat, rounding on the 'defendant'.

Pennywise winced again, face half-hidden behind his anxiously-wringing hands. If the words weren't hurtful enough on their own, the acidic delivery had him, and therefore everyone, on edge.

Ben frowned. "No, me. I stayed until the ambulance showed up. There was a payphone about half-a-mile down the road. And Pen stood watch the whole time. Criss was passed out, but alive."

Nearby, Mike leaned against the wall beside Eddie, who sat stoic, head held in his hands. Glancing down, seeing Kaspbrak's unchanged expression of mute horror, Hanlon ventured forward to learn more. He didn't want to believe this story was as awful as Pennywise had made it sound.

Through much rambling, involuntary chitters, and stuttering cries, the clown hadn't spared any details.

"Did you stick around long enough to see what happened after?"

Ben sat forward, elbows on his knees. He tried to breathe easy, to hold on to some semblence of control. He just wasn't accustomed being the focal point of everyone's attention, much less as a de facto character witness.

Meanwhile, his insides were doing cartwheels. He swallowed hard.

"I did, as long as I could afford to, out of sight. I heard the paramedics mentioning something about a bear attack."

"A bear," Richie repeated, arms scissoring dramatically with a huff. "Right. A bear that crawled straight outta a John Carpenter flick."

Stanley stood guard by the half-open front door. Guarding against what, only he seemed privy to. One of his hands gripped the opposite elbow awkwardly, as if he were trying to console himself in silence. Half in shadow, he looked appropriately torn.

As yet, Bill and Beverly hadn't had much to offer. They sported similar looks of guarded caution, eyes flicking around in turn as each of their friends voiced an opinion.

Bill stood to Ben's left, arms crossed loosely. He seemed passive enough, but the set of his jaw said everything about which way he was leaning on this 'hearing'.

Beverly stood to the right of the couch, hip resting against the armrest, hands at her sides. Though the clown had aimed several helpless glances her way, the redhead's mien gave nothing away.

"Criss was alive, last I knew," Ben reiterated.

He may not have a functioning right arm, but he'll live.

At that, Pennywise made a strangled sound, more fretful than the Losers had yet ever seen him. He tugged at his collar as if it were choking him. How he felt didn't need to be assessed, with an expression of I messed up writ large upon his face.

Both his off-angled eyes then turned back to Ben, more contrite and bluer than the sky ever knew how to be.

"I'm soRry, it won't haPpen next time."

"Next time?" Richie went off again, eyes blazing behind his glasses. In a bout of fearlessness, he lashed out, grabbing the clown by the cheek, completely livid. "Dude, next time, you won't fly off the handle, chew someone up one side and down the other, just because they tripped one of us up? Don't make us laugh."

"He was only trying to help, Richie," Eddie finally spoke up, unusually mellowly, too. He successfully drew every watching eye in the room his way in the process. Usually he armed himself with sarcasm in times of high stress.

But not today, seemingly.

"None of us could have known that... that was how he would," Mike seconded, as best he could put into words the revelation that their club mascot was indeed a vicious, shapeshifting demon.

For months, they had all suspected, on and off. The evidence had slowly piled up, here and there. Bits and pieces that, alone, meant nothing, meant far too much once brought together.

So much like the Losers themselves.

Now they knew for sure.

Their friend, whatever form he took, was a man-eater.

With a recently-developed appetite for affection.

Now mortified at the thought of losing his friends.

Losing the Losers.

Through his own carelessness.

Or was it overprotectiveness?

Mishaps were bound to occur.

Pennywise cringed, eyes darting nervously. "I s-said I was soRry."

Richie leaned in close, communicating enough with an angry stare: 'Sorry' doesn't put Humpty-Dumpty back together again.

Still caught in the boy's grip, the creature shrank away as best he could, mustering no more than a whimper in retort.

The complete opposite of the snarling, arachnid-like menace Ben had watched erupt from the creek.

"Jeez. Give him some space, Richie, he already feels bad enough," Beverly spoke tiredly, as though her mind were sighing in time with her voice, finally having sorted through as much as it needed to hear.

Begrudgingly, Richie let go, stalking back to take position beside Eddie and Mike. Almost protectively, he stood with feet staggered, and one shoulder thrown out before the other. "Doesn't change the fact we have to do something about it."

"But, we can't do anything about it, no more than he can," Stan hazarded, fingers still kneading his arm. "Right?"

"My baseball bat says otherwise, Uris."

"Jesus, Rich, you're acting like we gotta lynch the guy," Eddie turned angry eyes up at his counterpart.

"You're saying we should just send 'im to bed with no supper, Eds?"

"He was only doing what he thought he could do. He's a predator, and sometimes, he can be a pretty stupid one at that. He didn't know any better."

Eyes averted, Pennywise stayed crouched where he was, safely far enough away from any one Loser, long limbs folded and pulled into himself. He was starting to tremble like there was an earthquake underway that only he could feel. To his credit, he hadn't simply fled the inquisiton when it had begun, despite being more than capable of instantaneous disappearance, and had stuck to his place of 'judgment' for over an hour.

Didn't that count for something?

"We've seen his overreactions before."

"Almost mauled to death for pushing someone down a hill is a bit more than 'overreaction', Stan."

And it wasn't the first time I've taken such a fall. Ben mused, frowning. I would've sooner handed over the money than weather this storm.

But, here they were.

"This is only the first time any of us has really been in the line of fire, though," Mike pointed out, to Ben's silent approval. "I mean, whatever Criss wanted, he made the mistake of picking on Ben when he was alone. Every other time, when we've been together, the bullies haven't tried anything. Why else would Pen have intervened, had Ben not been vulnerable?"

"Oh, yeah. The trick to that is, then, we stick together, every waking moment imaginable. Just how long are we supposed to keep that up?" Richie threw his hands out to the sides, exasperation clear. His simmering anger was gaining steam again. "A few months? Years, after we all graduate? The rest of our lives?"

Their defendant answered before anyone else could fathom their next thought.

"For a yEar."

Beverly, ever watchful, always listening, was the first to hear it. She stepped closer, hesitated, then moved in, crouching down beside him.

"What was that, Pen?"

"A yEar," Pennywise repeated, so softly Marsh had to lean in to hear him. He was half-staring at the floor, abruptly looking even less-than-chipper. "If thaT."

"What do you mean?" Ben squinted.

The creature's long face tilted up, just barely, his odd gaze weighted with too many emotions to name. "I only wake onCe every twenty-sEven years. For a year." With his secret out, he sat back with a dull thump on the leaf-littered floor, arms wrapping around his knees, boots pointed toe-to-toe. "I'Ll sleep again, eventually."

"Not soon enough, if you ask me," Tozier grumbled, under his breath, but deeply enough to still be heard.

Eddie bristled. "No one did. Shut up, Richie."

"Sleep," Beverly echoed, eyes darting back and forth. "Like, hibernate?"

"That'S the word for it, yes..."

"You... don't sleep, at all, before that time?" Stan braved to ask. He took an uncertain step closer.

"No."

When he failed to go on, Beverly dared to ask the inevitable:

"And... we'll see you again, right, in twenty-seven years'?"

"You won't remeMber."

"...What?"

"You won't reMember. Like the boy in the hoSpital, he won't remember. He'll just think it was a bear who atTacked him."

"Oh, did you do a little editing to his memories while you were busy chewing him to a pulp, too?"

"Shut up, Richie."

"It was after, aFterward."

Pennywise kept rambling, eyes down. Whether or not he was heard didn't seem to matter anymore. These words had been apparently been meaning to get out for a while.

Then he glanced up at Beverly, arguably the Loser he held closest to his proverbial heart, besides Georgie. His luminescent eyes gleamed, but who knew if cosmic entities could cry? Did he?

Had this one ever had cause?

"And you won't remember me, because you'lL have grown. It doesn't maTter if you leave Derry or not. People foRget. They always have. THey always will. That's what I do, haVe always done."

Glancing around at them all, he heaved a brittle-sounding sigh and finally stopped shaking.

"It's okay. You'Ll forget, too. And you'll be saFe."

There was a pause.

Then Beverly's arms instantly snaked themselves around his drooping shoulders, surprising them all into new silence with the sudden gesture.

Pennywise's head jerked up, and he glanced sidelong and down at her with newfound apprehension and distress, eyes held even wider.

Ben blinked, mouth dropping open.

Now Beverly was the one shaking.

After the initial shock wore off, as if he were afraid of even touching her, Pennywise let a careful hand settle against the girl's shoulder blade. "Bevs..."

"You idiot," she mumbled into the folds of the silver suit. Her left hand closed against his chest, a fistful of collar ruffles grasped between white knuckles. "You idiot..."

She said little else. And, mercifully, no one encouraged her to offer more.

Until Richie opened his mouth again.

"Great. On top of everything else, you made the lady cry. Proud of yourself, Stripes?"

He never saw the punch coming.

"Ouch!"

Then he was down against the wall, holding his head in his hands.

His attacker stood over him, having moved with unexpected, lightning-like speed.

"For the last time, shut - up - Richie." Eddie seethed, shaking the lingering pain out of his hand. The surprise that he hadn't broken the supposedly-fragile bones wasn't even acknowledged. His voice all but shook with anger. "You insensitive prick."

"Eds- "

"Don't 'Eds' me, man! As if things weren't awful enough..."

Trailing off, voice thickening as he went, Eddie's feet seemed to lead him of their own accord to the center of the foyer. He stumbled at the last step, kneeling beside Beverly, winding his thin arms in alongside her own, over one of the clown's shoulders and under his massive arm.

Ben stood next. The motion pulled at the bandaged scrapes under his clothes, but all too suddenly, he didn't care if more spots of blood ruined another shirt. Caught up in the mutual misery of their situation, he crossed over and took Beverly's other side.

"I never did say thanks, by the way," he mentioned, with a sad smile.

"You doN't- " Looking back at him, Pennywise was cut off by an arm weaving gently around his neck. Ben's hug was given from behind, but the gesture said more about the boy's confidence than anything else would.

He had their mascot's back, in more than one sense of the word.

Mike and Stan, as yet so reserved with their words of support, joined in without question, snuggling in close on the clown's free side. Wordlessly, Pennywise draped a frilly arm across both their backs, too, gently pulling them in tighter.

There wasn't much in the way of outward sobbing. Little sniffles and gasps were muffled against the being's suit, but the desperate way the kids grasped at him and pressed close spoke volumes more.

Bill and Richie hung back, understandably, for their own reasons, disclosed and not.

With five sets of arms around him, Pennywise didn't have the willpower to whine about that. Or the courage.

Two hugs less than a complete set.

Three, actually, as Georgie had thankfully been spared from this raw, painful encounter. Being grounded had actually been a blessing to him, of all things.

That was fine. An incomplete set of compassionate compromisers was the least of what the entity deserved, making the mistake he had.

The mistake of wanting to feel more.

Chapter Text

At seven-years-old, Georgie Denbrough was too young to have made enemies out of anyone. So, to make up for that absence of antagonism, he picked a time of day to dub his nemesis.

Naptime.

"But I don't want to."

Both his parents and big brother Bill seemed to unanimously agree on the matter. That these midday sleeps were necessary for someone as young as he. What was he, four?

No, seven, and counting.

What was worse, they had somehow managed to corrupt his friend Pennywise into believing the same thing. The elder Denbroughs were absolved of that evil, with having the built-in excuse of simply being unable to comprehend the clown's existence. More than once Georgie had found himself in the yard with Dad, or out shopping with Mom, and would unexpectedly spot the eldritch creature lounging in a nearby tree, or waving cheerfully at him from below a shelf. After the first few encounters, he gave up trying to point the clown out to his parents.

No adults in Derry could see him, it seemed.

Bill.

Bill had to be the one to blame. He could see Pennywise as plain as day as his little brother. As soon as he got out of this perdicament, Georgie would track him down and demand answers.

"Penny, I'm not even sleepy."

"No? ReaLly?" Pennywise smirked, as tolerant as ever, only to reach over and unceremoniously pull the pillow out from under the boy's head.

Georgie fell the short distance with an involuntary giggle, scooting back to sit against the headboard.

"You wilL be," Pennywise declared, coming across as oddly serious - so incongrous with his painted features and frilly attire. He reached down to tweak Georgie's nose with one finger. "I've knowN you long enougH."

The boy sat up, determined not to appear tired.

Determined. For Georgie, it was akin to a chipmunk trying to look butch.

"Not today, though! We can still go to the park and be back before Bill finds out we were gone."

"Now, now, that could taKe hours." Leaning over, the clown ruffled the boy's mussed hair (tussling it even further), already having guessed his ulterior motive on the first try. He watched as the flush-faced Georgie defiantly crawled aside from the blanket that had been spread over him.

Even the tiniest bit ill going into August, as Georgie was running a slight fever today, and Bill's orders as to how to treat it had been clear.

Don't let him g-go anywhere.

"I'lL look for your missing racecar, don't worRy."

Georgie crossed his arms, lip jutting out in his best Pennywise-pout impression. "Fine. I won't sleep until you find it, then."

"Hmm," Pennywise feigned a moment of skepticism, fingers drumming on the pillow. "You maY be awake for a long time."

"I won't! I promise. You'll come back and I'll be right here waiting."

At that Pennywise smiled, a look that was somehow both latently-patient and a bit sad. Smoothing out the wrinkles from the pillowcase, he set it at the foot of the bed. "Are you suRe?"

"Uh huh!" Georgie's head bobbed earnestly. "I think it may be over by the merry-go-round."

"...RighT. Okay. One conditioN, then - I catch you sleEping, no piggyback rides for a day. DeaL?"

"Deal!" Forgoing the clown's proffered handshake, Georgie rolled onto his knees and embraced him around the middle instead.

Just as suddenly, the boy found himself hugging empty air. He nearly took a tumble off the bed, hands scrambling to find the edge of the mattress. Frowning, he glanced up at the delicate tinkle of bells.

Pennywise grinned back at him from his new vantage point, halfway out the door, apparently thinking of a gem of a last minute addition. "Ohh, and no leaving the bedroOm."

"Penny!" Outraged, young Denbrough stumbled in his haste to climb off the bed, nearly stumbling on the hem of his pyjamas. The slight fever he was enduring did nothing to help his sudden annoyance. "No fair."

"Sleep tigHt!" With a little mocking wave, the clown pulled the door shut.

Georgie grabbed for the handle, slightly dizzy, his reaction times dulled just enough. He stumbled forward, reaching out ahead of himself, only to be disappointed at hearing the dreaded click of lock tumblers engaging.

"Penny, wait!"

Chapter Text

It started off as a joke.

But, as with so many other of the Losers' brilliant ideas, it went sideways fast.

Before recovering just in the nick of time.

Amazingly enough, Pennywise had been the inspiration, but not the actual perpetrator of said crime. Or, at least, not the only one. Per his usual invasive, teasing self, the clown had taken one look at Bill Denbrough, hunched over his pile of homework at Neibolt's kitchen table, pencil in hand, and thought to do what he did best.

Make a distraction of himself.

Moreso than he already was.

It didn't take much. Just hop on the table, wait, wait for it, then slowly, eeeever so slowly, lean closer and closer. Using just the tip of his index finger, he pushed one half of Denbrough's impressive bangs to one side, revealing the boy hidden underneath.

Bill didn't move for perhaps two minutes. His pencil continued to ply away.

Circle this. Fill in that blank.

Then, finally glancing up, noticing how his overgrown bangs had been parted like a curtain, he frowned.

He glanced up even further.

Head tilted to one side, Pennywise smirked at him, poised, one fingertip still holding the locks aside.

"PeEk-a-boo."

Then, in a textbook example of cosmic bad timing, Beverly Marsh walked in.

She didn't even pause to consider the odd sight. She just asked.

"What are you doing, Pen?"

"Being as sneaky as ever," Bill deadpanned, pencil still in hand.

Pennywise frowned and sat back on his haunches, frilly arms wrapping around his knees.

Pitiful. That had been as far from the overblown reaction he had hoped for as one could get.

So, plan B.

"He neEds a haircut, Bevs."

The pencil was set down with a snap.

"N-no, he does not."

Pennywise snorted with barely-repressed laughter.

There we go!

Looking between them, Beverly's mein gradually took on a smirk of its own. Her own auburn locks were several inches shorter than they had been a week ago. The warming weather had her claiming she had done so to keep cool.

And far be it from her to not do the same for a friend.

Seeing her very visable change in expression, Bill recoiled from the table. "No, don't e-e-e-ven consider it!"

"Quit b-b-b-being a baby, Billy," Pennywise mocked, for good measure. Still on the table, he crept closer, moving almost daintily on fingertips and toes. "How can you sEe where you're going otherwiSe?"

Backpack taken off, Beverly was already searching for a weapon. Any self-respecting high school student kept a basic arts-and-crafts stash in one cargo pocket. Scissors were a must-have. Her fine-toothed comb was her backup instrument.

Bill tensed, half-reaching for the yawning doorway approximately ten feet to his right. His eyes darted very obviously in that direction. Logic told him he had no chance to escape.

But damn if he wasn't gonna try!

Then Beverly gave the command.

"Pen. Sic 'im."

Nope!

In a cosmic blink, the gangly clown had trapped his target from behind, a bearhug-in-reverse, with an arm wrapped soundly across his collarbone, grasping the boy's opposite shoulder. The other hand held Denbrough's elbow, forcing his arm behind his back at an incapacitating, borderline-ouch angle.

Bill gasped involuntarily, belatedly remembering to still his shuffling feet (barely having acted on the impulse he had felt to run). He felt suddenly like that stray sheep who had refused to be part of the herd, scruff-grabbed gently-but-firmly in their attending sheepdog's jaws.

Well, that was the shortest pursuit in known history.

Pennywise gloated anyway.

"GotcHa!"

Shaking her head, Beverly stepped closer.

"You made the mistake when you stopped to think, Bill."

He swallowed nervously, stilling in fear between the gloves that held him. It wasn't that he hated the actual act of having his locks removed. He was more mature than that.

But the thought of being cut against your will?

Where was the justice in that?

He could see where he was walking just fine, thank you. Sometimes it took a little flick of the neck to be sure. A second look if he really wasn't certain. But what about it? Everyone had their tics.

"Is he alwAys this difFcult?"

With gentle precision, Beverly began combing the bangs out. Resigned to his fate, Bill scowled and blinked violently as the fraying tips danced before his eyes.

"Not usually," she replied, seemingly content to carry on a conversation with their orderly- ahem, mascot, as if their unwilling client had suddenly gone deaf. "But God help you if you try to do anything he doesn't sign off on."

"It's for your own goOd, Billy."

"S-so is keeping your personal habits personal," Bill retorted at long last. "I d-d-don't try to t-tell you what shape to take when you're around, do I?"

He struggled, a pathetic ripple of constricted movement. The arms around him didn't budge.

"NoPe. But if it waS for my own good, wouldN't you?"

Despite having a lot to work with, Beverly had already finished brushing. She held the scissors ready, smiling. At either one or both of them, who could say?

Fists unclenching, Bill went almost-deathly still. As much as he so wanted to deny the question being turned around on him, whatever counter-argument he came up with was bound to fall flat. Damn logic for being so... logical.

"I think he'S ready, Bevs."

At the last possible second, Bill's blue eyes rolled upward, fruitlessly trying to see the painted face above his head.

"Who knows what your own good quantifies?"

"QuantiFies," Pennywise repeated, voicing the word like an affectionate scoff. "You wouldn'T begin to underStand."

With great care, Beverly started trimming.

Understand. Kinda like you and your morbid fascination with the same species you've spent so many eons eating. I'm still working on figuring that out.

Bill let it happen, breathing more and more easy. The clown's arms held firm. The delicate snipping was intimidating to behold at first, to see pointed metal angled so aggressively toward his eyeballs.

But Beverly's hand remained steady. She did not rush, stopping frequently to check her progress as she worked from her client's left to right.

A few minutes elapsed. No blood was drawn. No eyes were poked out.

Despite himself, Bill looked up again, eyes sashaying back and forth to track the scissors. The half-inch just above his eyebrows, that seemed to be the goal line.

A trim. Not abhorently short, but still his bangs would stay a decent length.

"Mom's g-g-gonna have a cow when she sees me."

A milisecond later, he wondered just what had possessed him to utter such a thing.

He meant for it to sound casual, but as was typical with Pennywise, anything that sounded too casual needed exposing. And fast.

"HoW do you know she'Ll even notice?"

"...Wishful thinking, I guess."

The contented smile faded a degree from Beverly's face. "She notices, Bill," she reassured him, after a beat of silence. "She doesn't always show it, but she notices."

Bill felt a minor flush of shame. Heaven knew Beverly's 'wishful thinking', with regard to her father, was an entirely different ballgame than his.

Then again, had the clown not brought it up...

"Y'know, Pennywise, you still n-need to learn a thing or two about tact."

"TaCt?"

Yes, you demonic parrot.

"What it is to not offend someone."

"He's only saying what you already know," Beverly jabbed, before her client could direct too much undue attention at the very-attention-addicted being towering over them.

The scissors kept going.

The flush went from shamed to annoyed. Bill's expression went flat to better disguise it. His fingers worked idly at his sides.

"And if you're offended by it, why even bring it up?"

Maybe because I have the faintest, flickering glimmer of hope that things in Derry, and my life in general, are not that bad.

"In the face of impossible odds, I try to be an optimist sometimes, Beverly."

Put that one on a motivational poster, Denbrough.

"TrY another subJect."

Some of the ever-present-levity went out of Pennywise's voice with those words, to Bill's silent approval. Recognizing he had crossed some unspoken line in the sand, he wisely changed gears.

Beverly apparently sensed it, too.

In many ways, her ears were just as sharp.

Had that always been so, or did hanging around It make things appear that way?

The guy was a very practiced and manipulative illusionist.

"Maybe we can sit Georgie down next?" Marsh offered, sounding truly nonchalant. "Then you can point and laugh from this side of the handles. Wield them yourself, even."

"Noo. Georgie wouldn'T stand a chanCe."

Bill smirked despite finding nothing actually funny about the idea. But the way Pennywise said it, so falsely-dismissive...

"It can't be worse than the time you talked him into bringing that beaver home."

Beverly snatched the scissors away before the laughter overwhelmed her, free hand clapping over her mouth. Her bright eyes fell shut, shoulders quaking.

No, sir, you did not just go there!

Pennywise's objection was as undeniable as gray hair in one's old age.

"I diD nothing of the kiNd."

"He said you did," Bill went on. Amazingly, the thought to break out of the gloves' hold didn't occur to him, even as he felt the fingers relax - just by a bare fraction.

"But I diDn't."

"You c-calling Georgie a liar, clown?"

"In the exciteMent, you probably miSheard him."

Underhanded excuse is still an excuse.

"You were there, Beverly," Bill turned back to his 'stylist'. "How 'bout it?"

That put her in an awkward spot. While the hike to the dam had been her perogative, how that day had ended could best be summed up as a group effort. In convincing Georgie to leave the baby beaver behind, and not lure the thing miles away from its natural habitat, back into town, straight to 29 Neibolt House.

Why the darn thing had followed him so far was lost on everybody. Including Pennywise, who had tried every last step of the way to intimidate the waddling thing into running back to the dam.

Why? Was it the reincarnation of some long-lost Denbrough relative? A sudden, once-in-a-millenium case of puppy love? What else could explain it?

For all his accumulated evils, It had nothing that could compare to the sheer lunacy of that evening.

"To this day, I still don't know what that was about, Bill," Beverly finally concluded, with a weary smile to match. The memories were fond, if not beyond-bizarre. Richie mock-charging at the thing. Mike trying to poke it into retreat with a stick.

A most-unhelpful Georgie waving a carrot before its face.

"And neither does Pen. So, can we just call that round a truce?" She gestured toward the abandoned bangs, one sliver of locks still dangling longer than the rest. "I'm almost done."

Heaving an overdramatic sigh, Denbrough blew the stray hairs that had been shed off his face.

"Don'T bring that up aGain."

Nothing was funnier than a cosmic being grappling with a mystery the cosmos would not let them just solve already.

Especially when you couldn't see his assumed-face.

"Why?" Bill grinned. "That's gonna haunt you until the end of time, isn't it?"

"And beYond, if I let iT."

"Which you won't," Beverly intoned, as solemn as any priest. The scissors went back into action. "Right?"

Another scoff: "RigHt..."

Snip.

The last lock fluttered to the floor.

Pennywise let go.

Bill stepped away, ruffling his hair both for function and effect.

He could see better after all.

Seconds later, the remainder of the fashionably-late club arrived on the scene. They stopped at the kitchen door, peering over each other's shoulders with a strange mix of expressions.

Bewilderment. Shock. Awe.

And maybe... just a bit of trepidation.

Richie looked down. He took one prolonged look at the brown tufts scattered about the dirty floor and adjusted his glasses, as though he had seen something wholly wrong.

Bill and Beverly were already seated, just starting to pour over once-neglected homework. They were smiling like a couple of guilty graverobbers after a successful late-night raid.

And Pennywise, crouching on the table between them, chin resting on a gloved fist.

Why was he frowning like it was his lunch money that had been stolen?

Exchanging a glance with Richie, Eddie blinked and breathed a steadying breath. "Allll right, what did we miss?"

Chapter Text

"Spit that out, kid. You don't know where it's been."

With his mouth full, Pennywise intended to do no such thing.

Least of all at his command.

The skinny human limb being furiously gnawed at was just about stripped of flesh and muscle, leaving only the bland, connecting bits of rubbery tendons between wrist and elbow to snap off. It was little more than a skeletal ruin, the blood-stained series of bones.

And at that moment, It was wholly intending to get every last stringy scrap of meat off it.

That was going well.

Until another white-gloved hand reached in and grabbed the morsel by the forearm, and tugged violently as if to reiterate the message.

"Drop it, I said."

Pennywise flinched, startled as the wrecked human hand was wrenched away. Then, just as quickly, it seemed to spring back to life, only to whip back to strike him across the nose. The pain sent his eyes rolling back into his half-morphed skull.

"OuCh!"

"Told ya. Thing's diseased, possessed even."

Growling, with a hand held to his now-aching face, Pennywise let his form settle and smooth out. Exoskeletal patterns danced across the surface of his painted skin, and then he glared daggers over his knuckles at his attacker's smug expression.

"You're disEased, old man."

The shorter Being smirked up at him, showing sharp pirahna teeth. "Now, now. That's not how ya should speak to your elders."

"Elders. Pah. You say that like you're owed some mEasure of respect. I have no respect for copyCats."

His visitor wagged a critizing finger in retort. Not his own - the bones of the dismembered arm continued to rattle noisily against one another.

More impossible yet was how he was seemingly able to puppet the grisly thing with no visible strings.

"Ey, I'll have you know you've got no corner on that market, either, kid. You ever read the papers? ...No? Humans make more of a running joke out of these forms to cover up far more erroneous crimes they commit than you and I can ever hope to compete with."

"Oh, then, I'm totally deVastated," Pennywise sneered, gloved fingers gently kneading the bridge of his nose. With a soft click it reset.

To think, I was a 'copycat' all along.

Insert cosmos' loudest-ever DUH! here.

At last, the ravaged arm was thrown aside, disappearing into the underbrush like a discarded corn dog stick. "Yea, I can tell. You're just crushed."

The visitor flicked dismissively at the alter-being's puffy shoulder, as if he were brushing away time's dust. Unceremoniously, he poked at an arm, making a bell ring in kind. He shook his head, took an exaggerated stroll around the taller Being, looking him up and down.

The disappointment-slash-amusement was clear in his sky-blue eyes.

"Good grief. And you say I'm behind the times. What history book did this disguise fall out of?"

Pennywise bristled.

He was fond of this look.

"In this univerSe? Wouldn't yOu like to know?"

Already, It could tell this was a mistake, one he would probably spend of the rest of the year making up for, dimensional debacle notwithstanding. Beings of their stature were not meant to occupy the same universe for any length of time, much less the same planet. Things became too unstable. For eons he had gone without hearing a whisper of any other Being within lightyears of Earth.

Then, out of nowhere, he came calling, like a long-lost relative you hoped against hope had passed. For weeks he kept rasping and harping on his would-be host to be introduced to this "pack of runts" who had supposedly adopted his alter-self.

Or was it the other way around?

Just Its luck the encroaching entity was of an older, tougher-to-please make. There would be no refusing him either way.

Knowing there would be no peace for him if he didn't arrange some kind of encounter with his Losers, It obliged.

Begrudgingly.

Always begrudgingly.

What he didn't count on was the seemingly-random hunting opportunity that presented itself, mere moments after the Being showed up. Derry, Maine was a veritable smorgasbord. There were some days when the town's lower crust and the outcasts practically fell into the Kenduskaeg.

He made short work of the five-year-old, hobbled as they were by a broken ankle, dragging the headless body off into the privacy offered by the Barrens. Together, alien claws set to work, they had seperated and quarreled over the meager pieces.

Then, after reassuming their humanoid forms, the ribbing and sizing-up had begun.

"So! Tell me, what do ya get up to between feeds? I mean, now that you've officially demoted yourself from almighty cosmic abomination to kiddie club mascot, your schedule must be a lot more, I dunno, free."

"The opposite, actualLy." Pennywise squinted.

Too much, way too much yellow assaulted his eyes. The other Being's guise was almost painful to look at, like an intense, multicolored star: so many bright and gaudy colors that were supposed to resemble a cohesive outfit.

He had really gone all-out in, effectively, clowning himself up.

"Annd...? Don't keep me in suspense here, kid. You've already had more than your fair share of doing that."

"Sooo, I'm greedy with my mysterIes. Sue mE."

"Sue you? Oh! In the court of what, exactly? Conflicting Cosmic Contrivances, Room 107, last door on the right. Gimmie a break."

With surprising strength, the shorter Being reached up to seize his host by the chin, yanking them down to a matching eye level.

It snarled impulsively, clawing violently at the other's offending wrist, eyes half-rolling back.

What was it with this universe and its never-ending penchant for grabbing his corporeal form's face?

"That's right. Show us that growl, kiddy cat. I can already tell you might've been hangin' around 'em a bit too much. I had a sneak peek on the way in. That little four-eyed loudmouth in particular seems to be an amoeba after your own heart."

Frowning, Pennywise tried to pry the hand off his face, with both of his own, grumbling as it refused to budge.

Meanwhile, he really didn't like the look that was crawling over the painted visage opposite his.

"Ya've gone soft. Can't have that, can we? I think... I can help ya out."

The gloves stopped prying.

His mind also ground to a halting stop, pupils dialating in alarm.

"Y'know, strike that. I know I can."

"I don't neEd your heLp, old man. There's notHing to help. You can have your lOok as promised - a look, only - and then you disappeAr. I don't want to see so much as a wiSp of you left in this galaxy by day's end. Do you undeRstand?"

The fingers holding his chin morphed abruptly, dark gray claws taking the place of once-silky digits. The sharpened tips cut into his false-skin, drawing bits of white, flaky imitation-substance that floated away on the breeze.

The old lion with a mane of scarlet leaned even closer, eyes shifting from light blue to a turbid yellow-gold.

His grin spread, blood red and wide enough to rival his alter's in every way. And was full of just as many teeth to boot.

"Oh, yes, kid. As I hope you do, too."

Chapter Text

"You're shitting me."

. . .

A picketed sign might as well have dropped out of the sky, arrowing perfectly down into the dirt, punctuating the silence that ensued. Complete with the message of "Cue the crickets."

"Ahem. Guys? You - are - shitting me."

Finding no willing listeners among his gang of struck-mute friends, Richie Tozier abruptly threw out his arms and bellowed at the sky in general. He had a better chance of finding a response there.

"You hear that, world?! Speak up! If this is your idea of a kick in the pants, it AIN'T funny!"

Bill could have sworn he heard the panicked flapping of birds taking flight in the distance.

"Shut up, Richie," Eddie wheezed out. It was his most pathetic S.U.R. yet, even with his inhaler already held preemptively ready before a gaping mouth.

Mike blinked, shook his head, blinked again. "There are TWO of them now?"

When the red-haired Being finally did emote, he smirked like a cat who had just cornered a mouse.

Scratch that, a whole set of them.

And when he finally did speak, it was in a voice as rough as sandpaper covered with bits of asphalt and tobacco tar.

He leaned down for a closer look, hands on his knees, grinning slyly. "Nice pals ya got, kid. Five seconds, and I'm already wondering which one to take home with me."

Lingering nearby, half-hidden in the dappled shade of a maple tree, Pennywise facepalmed and finally understood. Exasperation, that feeling and everything it stood for.

This was what it was Eddie felt every time Richie said something he inherently didn't mean that deserved a good headslap.

That's so not funny.

Maybe 29 Neibolt House would have been a better choice to serve as introductory grounds. But that also would have meant keeping a potentially-curious neighborhood at bay.

No. It was better they set this encounter in the woods outside town.

Already, he felt like this had been a mistake. There was no shortage of repressed anger radiating from the group of kids, spilling out like the broken seal on a nuclear reactor. Anger and uneasy fear at being duped into assembling for the (seeming) prank of being sandbagged by the discovery their eldritch mascot was not alone in the universe.

Or this dimension of a universe, that is.

Georgie often held the distinction of being the joyful-exception, no matter what everyone else's mood was. And today was no different in that sense. He took to the news like a moth to a light.

Most of the Losers seemed to grow rooted to the spot they stood, huddled together. All that was missing were the practical tendrils of vegetation binding their sneakers to the forest floor.

Meanwhile, the seven-year-old was scampering about the clearing like an overexcited puppy.

And yapping just as much.

Probably why he didn't hear the other Being's declaration of desiring to pick one of them out for a cosmic doggie-bag.

After a few bumbling tries, Pennywise had already given up trying to answer the torrent of questions emanating from Georgie. Five minutes after laying eyes on the other Being, and they were still pouring out like a gushing faucet, unable to stemmed with its handle broken off.

But enough was enough. There were introductions to be made.

He caught the boy by the flapping hood of his jacket.

"Come heRe."

With a sound that was half-laugh, half-squeal, the younger Denbrough stumbled to a stop. Just as compliantly, he let himself be led over, giggling the whole way.

The visiting Being didn't have far too stoop over with him, at least.

"GeorgIe, meet Pennywise."

The smile fizzled. He could virtually hear the proverbial car brakes screeching as the boy's mind jolted to a halt.

Slowly, Georgie looked back, forth, and again between the two Beings-imitating-clowns, hopelessly trying to make sense of the bizarreness unfolding around him.

"But... you're Pennywise."

"So's hE."

"No, he's not. You are, Penny." Georgie grabbed for his tall friend's hip, insistent, as if touching him somehow made the words more true. "You're Pennywise."

Snorting with repressed laughter, their visitor shook his head, folding his stripe-patterned arms. "Nope. That's gonna get too confusin' real fast, kid. Human brains, remember? Try another name."

"I'm open to sugGestions."

"It?"

"Nooo." He pulled a are-you-serious face. "That's even moRe confusing."

"Bob Gray?"

"Who?" Stan blurted out, covering his mouth just as quickly, as if surprised at his slip of control.

"ShuSh, Stanley." He leaned in, a protective hand set on Georgie's shoulder. "You don'T have anything better thaN that?" he demanded in a stage whisper.

Unphased, the shorter Being leaned in just as close. "No more than you got, genius. Think of somethin'."

"I-I... I think we ought to just go?" Bill stuttered suddenly, as if remembering he had a voice to stutter with. "This is... more we-weird than we were counting on."

"Nyh uh!" Georgie spoke up, startling them all. He had seemingly overcome his initial shock in favor of learning more. The curiosity would not be contained. "I want to know who this is."

"Georgie..." Ben moaned, a despairing hand held to his round face. Even his analytical ways were failing him.

"Penny, who is he?" Georgie demanded, unexpectedly switching gears from meek to fierce, and his guardian almost considered stepping away, momentarily intimidated. The tirade of questions was gaining steam again. "Where did he come from? How long have you known him? What do- "

"Kiddo," the visitor interrupted, as gently as he could manage. He squatted down to the six-year-old's level, elbows on his knees, gloved hands folded before him. All too abruptly, he looked and sounded like the definition of patience. "Time out. Let's go the other way around. What's your name?"

"...Georgie."

"Given name George?" the older Being asked, hiking an eyebrow toward Bill. Clearly he had already pegged the two brothers as related without being told.

"T-that's right."

"But everyone calls you Georgie."

"Yeah?"

"And our friend here, I noticed you call him Penny, rather than Pennywise. Ever have a classmate who happened to have the same name as you, or a cousin?"

"We aren't famiLy," Pennywise growled under his breath, impulsively tugging Georgie closer.

The visitor smirked mutely at him, a smug look of easy-bucko-I-didn't-mean-it.

"So... that's why you're both Pennywise." Caught up in almost-solving the riddle, Georgie was mercifully oblivious to the coalescing tension. "Coincidence?"

"Let's just leave it at that, okay?" the visitor finished, smiling a most-disarming smile. "Call your friend by his nickname for now. I'm Pennywise."

"Okay!" Beaming, Georgie grabbed the shorter clown's offered handshake, with both hands. "I'm George Denbrough. Nice to meet you."

"So, now we know each other!"

"Jesus H, Shortstop, I swear, you'll be the death of us all someday, if you aren’t already," Richie mumbled, running a hand over his face, eyes closed.

His exasperation, however profound, would pale in comparison to that of what their twitching, silently-fuming mascot felt, like a static shock compared to the violently-sparking wrath of a Tesla coil. The gloved hand still resting on Georgie's shoulder, he pulled away, hiding it in the folds of his suit before it could morph into visible claws. It was another minute's pause before he mentally recomposed himself sufficiently enough to continue in a civilized manner.

Just like that.

Georgie had all but given his designation away to the other cosmic being in the span of three minutes. Sure, one could argue he only did so out of a case of excited-little-boy-itis setting in. Poking metaphorical holes in the visitor's naming argument, before the rest of the Losers club, would just look and sound like sour grapes at that point.

And he had no idea where to start jabbing, anyway.

He felt something like betrayal already.

The rest of the introductions had gone easy, if one could say dealing with two all-powerful cosmic beings caught in the grips of a budding rivalry would ever go easy.

Beverly Marsh stood as far at the back of the pack as she could manage, gauging each of her friend's reactions as the 'new' Pennywise made a point to address every last one of them. When her turn came, she played into the alien's act of graciousness, as if her status being the only girl of the group made her something like royalty.

He even made a show of kissing her knuckles.

Standing back, the silver-suited Being grew more and more sullen-faced, more reproachful-looking. Every so often Beverly thought she heard the agitated jingle of a bell. If he were a cat, his violently-flicking tail would be a dead giveaway as to all the latent aggression building up in him.

This was her Pen. He couldn't hide icicles in a blizzard.

Thankfully, the others seemed to cotton on to her feelings of intent, of wanting to confide. After about half an hour of 'pleasantries' Bill launched into a little question-and-answer with their new cosmic acquaintance. Mike and Stan stood to either side, offering their own input to keep the redhaired clown's attention. It was all the distraction she needed to sidle away.

While he had started close, hovering like a bumblebee to a flower, Pen now kept his distance. His lanky frame almost blended in with the skinny-trunked poplars and pale birches, an otherworldly sentinel watching from the edge of the clearing. He even tried to appear relaxed, the fingers of one hand scratching idly at the surface of the papery-white birch tree.

Or it had seemed idle, until she took a closer look at the tree, and saw the damage he was doing.

She started simple. "Hey, you okay?"

"Yep." His eyes, though still a dark blue, glowed most menacingly. His upturned, fiery orange mane seemed a shade brighter, too.

All the better to match his smoldering mood.

"I just... wanted to check on you."

"WhY?"

"Because..."

He scowled down at her, fangs showing. "Because, whAt?"

"Because... what did that poor tree ever do to you?"

Belatedly, Pen took notice of the furrows his mantling fingers- that is, claws had wrought upon the innocent, young birch. The wafer-thin bark was peeling at the edges like shredded paper. He snatched his hand away as if burned.

Arms folded, Beverly watched as cloth rematerialized to fit the three claws as they reshaped into human contours.

He didn't relent. He kept on frowning.

"So, you don't need to tell me. I can see for myself that you're not exactly charmed by our... guest."

Pouting, he glanced away. Intentionally mimicking her or not, he also folded his arms.

"If you like, I can help. I just... need more information. And I mean whatever you can tell me that doesn't fall into the usual realm of cosmic-understanding-is-beyond-your-grasp."

"Which isN't a lot, Bevs," he finished, his tone still half a growl.

When he refused to continue, that was when she began to actually feel annoyed, for the first time that afternoon. Her hands went to her back pockets, weight shifting to one leg. "Pen, you can at least try me. Something's clearly eating you."

"No, it iSn't."

"Is, too."

"Is not."

"Is, too."

"Is not."

"Is, too."

"Is not, inFinity. Hah!"

Holding her hands up in defeat, Beverly couldn't help another disbelieving chuckle. He was so easy to dupe, every time. But if he were somewhat cheered up, perhaps he would feel like sharing more.

The pleased-with-himself smile was just what she had hoped to lure out. "You big oaf," she chastised affectionately. Having earned her way back into his good graces, the redhead dove in for a one-armed hug, nuzzling close.

How did you ever get this far in existence?

Through lots of trial and error, she had to guess. That he would never own up to.

The entity offered up no answer, too busy holding her tight in a smothering hug as he was, striped cheek pressed to her head. It wasn't often that she was so outwardly adoring.

"Hey! Little love fest goin' on over there?"

The moment ruined, Pen's voice evolved from a growl to a half-snarl. Beverly almost stumbled as he pushed her away. "Mind your own busineSs, old man!"

"What? I just assumed - "

"Keep your assuMptions on a leash, preferably muzzled, if you doN't mind."

Beverly frowned. Their visitor actually laughed at that, a sound as full of gravel as a dump truck pouring its load. "Okay, okay. Yeesh. Didn't mean to interrupt."

The other Losers looked on with mingled expressions of worry and unease. Even Georgie seemed to detect the underlying thunderstorm of tension brewing. Rolling to his feet, neglecting the half-eaten apple slices from his backpack, he made to cross the clearing and check on his friend.

"Penny, what's - "

"No, GeorgIe." He all but whirled aside, seeming refusing to entertain any form of the little boy's attention. "Go aWay."

Snap.

Beverly blinked, finding empty space where the gangly entity once stood. Exchanging a look with Georgie, she shrugged. I tried.

Just as quickly as the situation had escalated, it deflated, like a balloon filled too fast. As it burst, the tension left with it.

After a moment's silence, the other clown scoffed, shaking his head. To his credit, though, he stood up and backed off, hands up, wisely putting space between him and Bill.

"Hah. A natural drama magnet, am'I'right? Don't fret, kiddos. I'll check up on him."

Pop.

Just as quickly, he was gone, too.

Richie facepalmed in the discontented quiet that followed. As if it weren't bad enough having one teleporting, shapeshifting entity around with a penchant for circus antics.

"Show of hands, guys: today has already been a whole new level of fucked up?"

Six raised hands answered him.

Had he heard Tozier, Pen would have added his vote to the proceedings.

In that moment, though, he wasn't listening to anything. He had only thought getting away from the Losers was the smartest thing he could do. They didn't need to bear witness to his psyche coming apart at the seems, only to help him stitch it back together.

He could do that himself.

Without his alter-self's help.

"Go away includes yoU, you know," he seethed. He was well past drooling, still frothing at the mouth. Safely back in the dark, dank quiet of the sewer cistern, he hardly batted an eyelash at the sound of footsteps where - for the longest time - his own had been the only ones to be heard.

"I know." Practically swaggering, Pennywise ascended the deployed ramp leading into to the caravan car. He leaned against the opened platform frame, one ruffled ankle crossed over the other. "There a problem?"

Eyes white, Pen sat on the floor of the car, arms wrapped around his bent knees. He was still shaking. Holding himself together, both literally and not, he took a rare minute to think before responding. "You had youR look. Satisfied?"

"Yeah, but I gotta admit, it's kinda piqued my interest." Pennywise glanced aside, craning his neck and taking a moment to appreciate the slowly-rotating collection floating above their heads. The freshest additions were not far off in age from the children they had just left behind. "You and them, friends? It's quite the... arrangement."

"Hmph."

"...That's all ya got to say?"

Our Pen finally spared his counterpart a sidelong glare, eyes currently set to a burning orange. "I don't need to explaIn myself to you, no moRe than you do to me."

"How'd you even get here? I mean, as far as pickin' 'em. How did you know they were worth sparing?"

"I didn't."

Pennywise nodded. At what, who knew. But after a moment's pause, he crouched down beside the other Being's huddled form.

"How long since you woke up?"

There it was again, that awfully-sweet tone he had used on Georgie.

He couldn't just not answer it.

"MonthS."

"Annd...?"

"August," Pen snapped, though the word felt almost numb to say. "I have until AuguSt."

Four months away.

Pennywise nodded, stroking his chin in thought. "You keen on... relearnin' a few things between now and then?"

"From yoU? Ohh, no. I've learned about all I can handLe this year."

"And just how much have your buddies learned about you?"

Only what they need to know.

He would sooner take a flying leap into Sol than admit it, though. Whatever he had told the Losers would be forgotten, yes, if not in twenty-seven years time, it would be forgotten as they perished, as all mortals eventually did.

But it wouldn't take away the cosmic taboo he had committed in ever disclosing anything of the kind.

Instead, he tried to stand and stride away.

A blur of color crossed his intended exit path. With a suddenness that took him aback, he almost slipped off the ramp's edge.

Frowning, Pennywise used one clawed hand to knock the feet out from under his reluctant pupil, so smoothly it almost looked casual.

Caught off guard, the taller creature just managed not to topple facefirst off the ramp and into the trash. He did avoid crying out, save for a muffled umph.

Malnourishment made you a lot more delicate than you wanted to think you were.

Claws seized his jaw again, pressing tight against his vulnerable neck. But again, there they were with the face-grabbing.

Put under new pressure, his Deadlights pulsed involuntarily and his throat went dry, uncomfortable heat flushing under his skin.

"Don't pander to me on this, kid. I noticed, your pantry's lookin' a bit bare up there. You're borderline-starvin' yourself on their account."

Pen made a dismissive scoff that came out more choked-sounding than he liked. "So?"

The other's eyes gleamed gold. "So... you know what happens to our kind if you don't hibernate with enough food stored away."

"I knoW."

"Do they?"

"Know? No." As the other waited, apparently-unsatisfied with that, he elaborated reluctantly: "They knoW... about that. They don't know hoW crucial it is."

They can't.

"And again, you're doin' it all for them? Just because they showed you what softies they can be, even to a bloodthirsty demon? Never once considerin' what you'd do to them, in the wrong circumstances?" Pennywise scoffed, holding a hand to his brow, blue-diamonded eyes falling shut in mock-distress. "Wow. Humanity is just as fickle here is as it is my neck of the woods." He looked almost pitying as he turned back to study the younger entity.

"And what's worse, you've let it get to you."

His own claws brought forth, Pen pried the rough talons off his neck in retaliation.

He bared his teeth, as many as he could, never minding how they distorted and protruded from the limited human mouth.

"FiNe. Visiting time's ovEr. You doN't have to stick around and watCh."

They stared at one another, not saying anything, for the longest time. Neither emoted, neither moved.

No hints whatsoever as to what each other's thoughts were.

"Watch thiS, kid."

Pop.

Pen blinked, teeth shrinking out of sight.

Strange.

He thought he would see something.

Something... for which humanity had no sufficient words to describe. A presence of pure, undiluted energy. Like a star impossibly-struck by lighting, an otherworldly hybrid of radiation and electricity. Zapping. Burning. Lashing out with careless abandon.

Consuming anything that drew too close.

Or was snared in its proverbial talons.

An epitome of everything he once thought he was supposed to be.

It could have decimated him, the tower, everything in Derry, a good chunk of this very planet if it wanted.

But just like that, he was alone in the cistern again.

Well, not completely alone.

Hear that?

He was still there. On the peripheral of his host entity's dimmed senses, lurking like a deepwater shark, cruising the muddy, lightless floors in the ocean.

Waiting for scraps from above to fall his way.

The felled entity laid there, cycling deep gulps of air, trying to cool his overheated form's insides, for an even longer time than he cared to acknowledge, before even remembering to stand up again. Eventually, his limbs stopped trembling.

Then, he started pacing. Restlessly. Fraught with anxiety.

"This"? What was "this"? What does that signify?

Late into the night, his mind kept on racing.

What to do, what to do?

Finally, he came up with a comparison.

That line from westerns that Mike and Ben had once acted out, how had it gone...

"This town ain't big enough for the two of us"?

Enough with the wishy-washy "do I, do I not" attitude.

This was his universe.

Those were his Losers.

Time to lay down the law.

School ended in two weeks.

The graduating class' year were scheduled to end a week before. He assumed that more than a couple would-be seniors would go missing the interim. Adolescents on the cusp of adulthood were more satisfying to the pallete. The trade-off was that, at such an age, their fears were harder to root out, to exploit, and therefore they were a challenge to prey upon.

Still, he had a lot of lost ground to make up for. Replenishing the cistern was all the card he needed to convince the other cosmic entity there was no vacuum he could soon inhabit opening up here.

Derry couldn't endure the pressures of two apex hunters could exact in the same realm. Not for long. Too many kids went missing, too quickly, the families would slowly catch on. People would uproot, move in as little as two days' time. The hunting ground here wouldn't replenish itself in another three decades.

Meanwhile, he had to - in effect - stand guard over the Losers. And endure their constant questioning, even when he tried to sway their attention for mutual benefit.

It was already worst with Georgie. The younger Denbrough kept asking where his psuedo-guardian's "friend" had gone since that awkward afternoon in the woods. Pen was willing to forgive the boy's careless mistake of trading their shared name around as if it were a rare baseball card. Clearly, he hadn't mistaken one Pennywise for the other in the long term.

That much, Pen was eternally grateful for.

The rest meant weathering a relentless storm of inquiries he otherwise would never have had to answer.

Still, he did his best.

"Will we see him again?"

Hauled out to sunbathe upon the quarry rocks like a harbor seal, Pen opened an eye at the muffled state of Georgie's voice. There was a beach towel over his head, which the in-practice swimmer worked with both hands, scrubbing furiously as he attempted to dry off. Shrugging off the flicker of annoyance the question brought out in him, the entity sat up, mutely reaching over to touch the boy's arm.

He stilled obediently, smiling even as the edge of the towel obscured his eyes. "Thanks."

"I don'T know, GeorgIe."

A blessed five seconds of silence fell.

"But, you do know, usually," Georgie objected, holding still as his friend gently toweled his hair and bare back. "And, I thought you invited him here."

"He inviTed himself," Pen corrected, willing himself to stay calm. "There's a difFerence."

"Isn't he your friend?"

"We exiSt the same way. That doeSn't make us friends. Are you friends with everyone in your saMe grade?"

"No..."

"Same kinda tHing."

Dried for the bike ride home, Georgie shrugged his blue t-shirt back on. He paused for a moment, then his face popped up past the hem of the neck, like a turtle's head out of its shell. "Would you want to be friends?"

"No."

"No?"

"No."

Each of the other Losers seemed to bring it up whenever he had occasion to visit them, too.

After the indecency of putting them through it, listening was the least he could do.

"Why not?"

The refrigerator door swung shut with a gentle click.

Fingers crawling over the edge, Pen stared down from the narrow space atop the appliance. "Why wouldN't you wanT to be friends with Henry BowErs?"

Eddie balked visibly. "Oh, l-lots of reasons."

"ThEre you go."

"But... if I had no other choice... I'd find something to like."

"There's nothing redeemable about him?"

Though he stood upwind of her on the sidewalk, Pen still waved the scent of cigarette smoke away from his face. Of course she'd bring that up.

"There mighT be."

Beverly squinted at him in the reflection of the storefront window. "'Might be'?"

"I'm not goiNg out of my way to find out."

"There was with you."

"Was whaT?"

Stan half-smiled, almost coy, looking up from where he was scattering breadcrumbs for a quartet of mourning doves in Bassey Park.

"You're a certifiable pain in the ass, Pen. But we've found a way to get along, haven't we?"

"What maKes you think I want to?"

"Forget wanting to." Snapping the padlock closed and testing the chain it was looped through with a firm shake, Mike wiped sweat from his brow, resting the other hand on the closed butcher shop's back door. "It's gotta be easier than what you're putting up with."

"Everything we have in common, we disagRee on."

"So do Eds and I," Richie equipped, the front wheel of his bike hitting the road with a metallic clack. "Doesn't mean we haven't had some fun times."

"He doeSn't even know what it is to co-exist."

"You know that for sure?"

"No, but..."

Reaching the page he had been searching for, Ben turned the library book around, and then slid it across the table.

"Maybe this'll help?"

Pen squinted, using one finger to drag the book closer. The meaning of the circular, black-white symbol (with two dots, almost like eyes) was lost on him. But he knew just who to ask about it.

"What's thaT?"

"Yin and Yang."

The alien's pupils diverted instantly. He turned the crude sketch over in his hands. "Who and wHat?"

"It's Chinese," Bill explained, setting his pencil down on the desk. "It's supposed to represent the c-c-concept of duality: that one half can't exist without another."

"I'm not a haLf," Pen spluttered, indignantly. "I'm a whole."

"No one's s-saying you aren't."

Georgie sat on the edge of his brother's bed, feet dangling in the air. "But if you can't make someone leave you alone, isn't it better to learn how to get along?"

Next he saw his for-better-for-worse counterpart, Pen expected every reaction in the book.

Except the moment when the older entity snickered, grimaced, then laughed uproariously and clapped him on the arm (the next-best backslap-substitute-point to his shoulder).

"You priceless moron," Pennywise guffawed, sagging against the taller Being, practically slapping his knee. "As if I would want to take away your precious babies."

"What...?"

"I meant, watch what'll happen, kid. See what humanity can bring outta you when you let it. I never said anythin' about claiming or even eating your kids, did I?"

It blinked slowly, his expression and arms hanging slack, feeling for all the world like the biggest cosmic equivalent of the village idiot at what he had been.

"You said it yourself: you hate copycats. Doesn't mean I would seriously entertain the notion, not here, not at any time in this dimension's infinity would I. You got 'em all to yourself, you dope."

Duped.

Again.

By his own emotionally-clouded stupidity.

What a joke.

Moments later, their combined laughter echoed up the well, spiraling, entwined into one insane, otherworldly sound, and pealed out onto Neibolt Street.

So much for laying down the law.

Chapter Text

Eddie Kaspbrak never wanted to be a doctor.

"Paging Doctor K!"

After knowing Richie Tozier for as long as he had, Eddie was fairly convinced he would never shake the honorary title. Kinda like Richie himself. It would follow Kaspbrak the rest of his years, regardless of the occupation he actually pursued. All he would be missing was a white coat, clipboard, the stethoscope over the neck, and a Ph. D.

"Doctor K! Stat!"

But that afternoon in May 1989, in 29 Neibolt House's backyard, just after lunchtime, Eddie supposed it was a very good thing he had some meager medical experience.

Maybe that's why he took one look at the sight before him and did not get queasy in the slightest.

"Oh, shit."

Still, not the most encouraging thing to hear your attending physician say upon spotting your leaking form.

That's a lot of blood.

At that moment, Georgie Denbrough didn't care. He was too busy coping with the hurt. Big, round tears had already sprung up from his hazel eyes, and were steadily dripping off his chin by the time Eddie kneeled down beside him.

The little boy was clutching his left knee with both hands. Red rivulets had already welled up from underneath and were spilling over his fingers.

Standing over the scene, growling softly, Pennywise had already caught his man.

And, at least this time, he wasn't out for Tozier's head on a platter.

"What the hell, Ruffles! Put me down!"

His dignity would do instead.

With one clawed hand, the clown had proceeded to grab the attacker by the back of his shirt, hoisting him a clean two feet off the ground. Richie could only kick and dangle like the ornament hanging on a rearview mirror, suspended by the tight cloth of his distressed clothing.

"Shit. Talk about overreacting. I called for help. I said I was sorry. Hey!"

Richie jigged and flailed anew as he was carried away from the scene.

"Take caRe of him, Eds?" Pennywise barely glanced down at their 'medic' in passing. He was too busy glaring daggers at Richie. Clearly, he intended to keep him at bay so the Trashmouth's frenetic interference wouldn't cause more undue panic.

"Y-you got it."

"P-Penny, wait," Georgie blabbered helplessly, reaching after his departing friend with one bloodied palm. "Stay, please."

They disappeared into the open back doorway.

Eddie braced himself as if expecting to hear a crash, potentially-heralding the arrival of a second patient. When none came, he breathed out and set a hand on Denbrough's shoulder.

"It's okay, Georgie. I'll take care of you. Calm down." He looked down. A faint coat of red stained Georgie's leg, a half-dried patch running from the knee, down his shin, just now reaching his sock. "Can I have a closer look?"

"I-it hurts, Eddie, bad." Despite this, Georgie shuffled sideways and tried to roll over, as if he meant to stand up. His eyes darted about like a frightened fawn's. "Just help me get home."

"No, Georgie. Sit. That's not a good idea. We need to get the bleeding to stop first."

Through much gentle handling, he guided the younger boy back to a sitting position. Then he turned to unzipping his fanny pack. There he found tissues, Band Aids, and a travel-size bottle of antiseptic.

Perfect.

"Relax. It probably looks worse than it is."

"Still hurts," Georgie mumbled into his clenched fist. With the other hand, he held his calf muscle, keeping the leg steady as Eddie began to wipe away the blood.

The older boy smiled, feeling almost genial. "I bet it does, but you've got Doctor K now. You're a lot better off than you were a minute ago."

It had the desired effect. Bravely, Georgie gave a shaky laugh, wiping the wetness from his face with the back of his hand. "I guess."

Within seconds, the bleeding had been staunched.

A breeze stirred the long stalks of grass around them as Eddie found the wound itself. It was a sizable scrape, perhaps three inches long, cut crosswise along and beneath Georgie's knee. How it had happened, Kaspbrak didn't stop to consider. Maybe it was from a fall, the deadly end of a sharp stick rearing up out of the grass?

Later. His concern was patching it up.

To his surprise, Georgie broached the subject first.

"It was an accident, Eddie."

Distracted, Eddie filed through the different sized bandages like playing cards. Which one would work best?

"They usually are, kid."

"No, I mean, he didn't mean it."

Eddie's brow furrowed. Georgie was being awfully serious all of a sudden.

"Who... didn't mean it?"

Denbrough gripped Eddie's wrist with sticky, bloody fingers, eyes entreating the other boy's full attention.

"Penny."

Eddie almost drew back, almost yelled in shock. His fingers tightened on the Band Aids. His breath stalled in chest.

"The c-clown did this to you?"

That explained him leaving the scene so swiftly.

"It was an accident." Tears gathered at the corners of Georgie's eyes. His lower lip trembled. "Don't be mad. And don't tell Billy, please."

Which is more important?

Shaking his head, Eddie dismissed the sarcasm, returning focus to the injury. "We'll worry about that later, Georgie." Selecting an appropriate patch, he tore the packaging open.

The tears started sliding down Georgie's cheeks again. In sulky silence, he held his elbows while Eddie treated the gash, as gently as his shaking hands could manage.

Leaning close, Eddie held the patch up against the doctored cut, took one final check that it would cover everything, then gently smoothed it flat with his palm.

Sniffle.

God, what a baby.

Now that was unfair.

Eddie resisted the urge to smack his own skull. Pennywise was important to Georgie, almost as important as Bill. Obviously the kid would react poorly to any situation that cast his friend in a bad light.

"There, all better." With one last pat on the knee, Eddie sat back. "Now, you wanna tell me how it happened?"

"Eds, don't believe him!"

A familiar figure sprinted back across the yard toward them, shirt flapping in the wind.

Georgie's head snapped up. "Richie, no."

"It was me."

Eddie gaped, mind blown for the second time in less than five minutes. "The fff-frig you on about, Tozier?"

"The fff-muck up," Richie barely amended his own words in time, hands wringing. "Georgie getting hurt. It's my fault. I startled them."

Richie Tozier, confessing to a crime Georgie Denbrough had initially attributed to their otherworldly club mascot?

The hell is going on here?

Eddie shot to his feet. "What? That doesn't make any sense. How do you startle a six-foot-something clown with eyes in the back of his head?"

"Ever try? You'd be surprised how easy it is, Doctor K," Richie deadpanned. Then his eyes shifted to the right. "I mean, just look at the guy. He gets as hopelessly distracted as we ever do."

Eddie looked.

Both boy and clown were caught up in their own budding argument.

"He toLd you not to say anythIng," Pennywise was whispering, practically hissing. He crouched beside Denbrough, a gloved hand gripping the boy's shoulder.

Gently, but firmly.

"I know," Georgie whispered just as fiercely back. He jabbed an accusing finger into the tall being's collar. "But it's better if Eddie thought you did it, isn't it? He's been fighting with Richie all day."

"They fight all the tIme, GeorgIe. How did you tHink that would help anything?"

And on and on they went.

Eddie gaped, mouth working uselessly. No sound seemed to want to come out.

Georgie Denbrough, telling a little white lie?

Forget a scrape on the knee.

This was what needed fixing.

Fast.

Before Bill found out.

Chapter Text

Springtime was the best time of year for birdwatching. So many different species returned to Maine from their wintering grounds. Their exhuberant behavior was a thrill to behold. Their plummage was at its most vibrant. Their calls and their songs were never more amazing. More often than not, as the weeks went by, you could watch mated pairs rear their first brood, then forage with three or four fledging chicks in tow.

But there were always casualties.

"Easy, little guy."

Bassey Park hosted several bird feeders and baths. Some, strung in the corners furthest away from the encroaching public, were ideal for getting up close to low-lying nests. There, getting sneak peeks at the eggs and young of various little songbirds that flitted amidst the bushes was reward enough. It was more than worth the scratches and risk of possible allergic reactions to delve in for a firsthand encounter.

Stanley Uris hadn't counted on finding one of the baby chickadees out of their nest.

"Shh, shh, it's okay."

Gently, with both hands cupped as if to lift water from a river, he scooped the baby bird up out of the dirt. Tiny, tiny clawed feet hooked into his skin. Cheeping incessantly, its wings batted ineffectively against the undersides of his fingers. It was so ticklish against his sensitive nerves, Stan had to stop, get a grip on his sudden case of the jitters, and readjust his footing before stepping backwards, out of the underbrush. He didn't dare drop the chick.

He (or she) had already endured a ten foot drop from their nest hole in the trunk of a nearby blue spruce. No need to give its left-behind siblings an encore show.

"Heh. For such a small tuft of feathers, you fell a long way, pretty fast," Stan remarked, gazing up into the branches.

The black-capped chickadee - Poecile articapillus - dared another chorus of high-pitched peeps, its tiny beaked face poking out from between Stan's curled thumb and index finger. He could still feel the flicking of its wings and tail feathers, fanning and mantling restlessly against the skin of his hands. The claws gripped and scratched, but did no real damage.

"Well, I'm not gonna let you go until we figure out how to get you home," Stan mused aloud, squinting against the few rays of sunlight that managed to penetrate the branches above. "There's gotta be a way..."

"Stan-Ley..."

Stan jumped despite himself, dark eyes shuttering instantly. Be nice, Uris. He's been better about that jumpscare thing lately. Somewhat better. Be nice.

He somehow managed not to clench his hands in shock. No need to strangle the fallen nestling in his startlement.

"And I suppose you have a suggestion or two?" he finally uttered through clenched teeth.

"SuggEstion?" Half in a stoop already, Pennywise leaned over the boy's shoulder, expression bewildered. "AbouT what?"

"This?"

"Chee-chee-chee!"

The chickadee's black-masked face ducked back into hiding under Stanley's fingers.

"ThaT?" Pennywise blinked, head tilting, apparently-oblivious to the alarm to which the chickadee regarded him with. "What are you doing wIth it?"

"I wasn't doing anything with it, until a minute ago. I found it under a bush over there."

"And you thOught, picKing it up...?"

With a gloved palm upturned in a yes-please-continue gesture, Pennywise let the thought hang.

"I don't know. I hadn't gotten that far," Stan admitted. He nodded toward the blue spruce. "I'm pretty sure that's the tree it came from. But where the nest hole is- "

"Oh! One seCond!"

All at once, the sudden presence towering behind his back vanished.

Then, with a rustle of flapping wing feathers brushing by his cheek, he was left behind.

Stan's shoulders sagged.

Of course.

The showoff.

Even as a bird, It managed to put on a performance.

Like before, the Eurasian magpie had no business being on this side of the Atlantic. But Stan supposed they were secluded enough back here. There would be no need for him to explain to any fellow birdwatchers what the black-and-white crow was doing, hopping determinedly about the pine branches.

Perching right-side up, sideways, against the trunk.

Chickadee baby still in hand, Stan watched.

Ascending higher and higher, Pennywise jabbed experimentally at several hollows in the bark, prying and gnawing with his beak. He scratched at several with taloned feet. One of the gaps had to be deep enough to contain a nest.

"Just caw twice when you find it, okay?"

Awk!

Or rather, that was what Uris would have expected to hear.

Instead, the magpie kept searching. Flapping. Tapping. Scratching with its feet.

Five minutes later...

He's not having any luck, is he?

Is he really even trying? Or just messing around?

"Chee-chee!"

The nestling thought that a good moment to pipe up again.

"Oh, you think he is?" Stan asked, despite the lunacy that was asking the question of any animal which was very much not a cosmic entity in disguise.

Carefully, he lifted his cupped hands back to eye level. The chickadee's beady eyes bore into his own, unblinking.

"Well, Peeps, you're alone in that arena for now. Unless he finds- "

"AWK!"

Stan jumped again, looking up.

He saw only shadows at first, flitting to and fro behind a foreground of intersecting leaves. Then white, black-webbed wings beat their way through the thin branches, flapping at an almost-frantic beat.

"Awk, awk!"

"Did you find it?" The moment it was out of his mouth, Stan took a half step back. "Wait."

Something wasn't right.

Two tan-and-gray specks flitted after the diving magpie. That is, they flitted rather quickly, bobbing and weaving through the branches with tight, controlled flaps of their stunted wings.

Crying shrilly.

"Dee-dee-deeee!"

And out for blood, it sounded like.

Aw, great.

Mama and Papa.

...Wait.

Why was It running from them?

He was It.

"DrOp it!"

Stan sucked in a breath, eyes wide. "Did you just-"

"DrOp the baBy!"

Now there was a bit of guidance Stanley never thought he would hear and be expected to follow.

Against all better over-analytical judgment, he complied.

And the moment he let go, the tuft of feathers bobbed away, carried by its own jerky wing motions.

Mama and Papa veered off to follow.

Within a second, all three were gone.

Pennywise, free of his outraged pursuers, made an awkward landing on Stan's shoulder, long skinny legs spread wide for balance, wings limp.

Caught off guard, the boy tried to duck aside as the glossy plummage tickled his neck, unsuccessfully, splutteringly.

"Pen, what are-"

"It's noT a nestling," the entity explained, beak clacking with each word, even as his usual tone scratched its way out of the mismatched avian body. With halted, jerking steps, he managed to turn around, claws snagging the polo's striped, salmon-colored fabric, tail feathers fanning out for stability. "It's a fledGling."

So he was paying attention when Stan had explained the difference on a previous outing.

Just learning to fly.

That also explained why the chick struggled so much against being held.

So... it wasn't as helpless as I thought?

"Why did you run from them?" Stan found himself asking instead, dumbfounded for a wholly different reason. He held out an arm in invitation. "You're over five times their size."

Pennywise huffed, a sharp sound when broadcast through an angled beak, and tossed his head, neck feathers puffing out, dismissive. Either he wasn't in the mood to answer, or too ashamed by his instinctually-driven retreat to admit it.

After a moment's pause, he hopped down to a more-comfortable perch on Stan's forearm. "TeLl me you wouLdn't run if two somEthings that smaLl and stupidly-brave tried to peck yOur eyes out."

Magpies were excellent imitators. But cohesive speech was pushing things a little too far.

Self-conscious, Stan raised a finger, about to remind his companion to shush, before Pennywise turned away and addressed the forest at large, cawing for all to hear:

"You're weLcome!"

Then, under his breath:

"Ungrateful fluFf bits..."

Among the other things he inadvertantly learned that day, Stan discovered what a truly-sulky crow would look like.

He scoffed and rolled his eyes at the sight, but offered the magpie an affectionate throat-scratch all the same. Mother Nature may not have had thanks to give, but he did.

Bad mood averted, Pennywise warbled and cooed, half-closed eyes lighting up with a blue hue.

Chapter Text

Growling under his breath, Pennywise glanced over to his left, through the sides of his eyes.

That was all it took.

From there, the bumpy-skinned orange sphere was practically shoved into his face.

Shoved.

Didn't matter if they were polite about it.

"Please?"

He scowled. Maybe it wouldn't have been so bad if he wasn't crouched down at the time. But if he knew anything about what the little boy preferred when it came to their conversations-slash-debates, it was being at the same eye level.

At least then Georgie didn't have to shout like he was trying to reach someone atop a skyscraper.

But past that, that was when Pennywise felt the 'spirit of cooperation' fizzle out of him.

He looked away, arms folding.

"No, GeorgIe."

"Just a taste?"

Pennywise scowled, wiping drool from his chin, eyeline angled off into the distance, unwavering. It wasn't his close proximity to the child making him salivate (though that might have contributed a bit). Rather, it was fault of the memories were assaulting his consciousness. The very tingle of citrus held too near his nose made his lips curl involuntarily.

"No. You didn'T see what happeNed last time."

Georgie blinked, tilted his head, holding the baseball-sized fruit with both hands. If he couldn't get a reaction, could he at least get a story out of the bargain?

"Why? What was it last time?"

With his suit's bells tinging for emphasis, Pennywise shuddered at being forced to remember.

Still, he rattled off an answer.

"KiwIs. LeMons. CucumbErs. CeleRy. The liSt goes on."

If the Losers aren't trying to forcefeed them to me, having them turn up where I least expect is just as 'good', apparently.

"I didn't see any of those. How do I know you're not just making that up?"

It, the cosmic horror from outer space, master of manipulatory illusions, older than the universe itself, who preyed on the fears and flesh of (most of) the children of Derry, Maine every twenty-seven-years.

"You don'T."

Making things up.

Neeever.

And yet, that he hated fruits and vegetables with all the fiery passion of countless burning stars...

Now that took some anaylizing to understand.

Kinda like the attributation of male pronouns to a creature that, by definition, was asexual in every sense of the word.

Human brains. Something about assigning "he" or "she" to whatever was being referred to made it somehow easier for them to grasp, to understand.

But we're getting off track here.

Back to the orange.

Which Pennywise was still turning his nose up at.

Like a snooty cat who found their new brand of food "ohh, most unappetizing".

"Give iT to someoNe else, GeorgIe. You'd just be waSting it, giviNg it to me."

Trying to give it to me. Points for trying.

Nothing worked better on convincing Georgie Denbrough of something than accusing the boy of being potentially-wasteful. 'Twas a sin, wasn't it?

"You don't waNt to lose your boat. Bill's gonna kiLl you."

Georgie frowned, ever reconsidering.

"Well... I am a little hungry."

He rolled the fruit over in his hands, looking thoughtful.

"But there's nothing to cut it with here. Or wash it."

There probably was, in the house. But Pennywise wouldn't ask Georgie to take a chance on that. Any silverware left in 29 Neibolt was decades old, neglected, well beyond its intended lifetime of use.

He couldn't do anything about cleaning off the morsel.

But, what if...

"HaNd it over."

Raising an inquisitive eyebrow, Georgie did.

With one hand, Pennywise held the orange close to his face, examining it with a critical eye. Yes, he could work with that.

The other hand, he morphed it into a crude imitation of a Swiss army knife. All sharp edges and scissoring joints. A regular Edward Scissorhands would-be homage come to life.

He cut horizontally, from both sides. With one clean snip of the knife-like digits, the orange was cleaved into two neat halves atop the clown's gloved palm.

Georgie still marveled at the feat like a novel magic trick (which wasn't far off from the truth).

"Wow!"

Snapping his bladed digits, It's hand returned to human shape. "TheRe, enjoy."

He tried handing both portions over, but to his quiet dismay, the boy only snatched one away.

Then Georgie grabbed the sticky glove, folding Pennywise's long digits back over the remaining orange half, and pushed the dripping extremity back toward the clown.

"Half for you!"

His guardian pulled a face at that, a long, profound frown. The fruit's split molecules were already stinging his senses, they were so tart.

It's gonna be the lemon all over again.

"GeorgIe..."

His pleading tone didn't work.

"C'mon, Penny, it can't be that bad, right?"

And just to make an example of himself, Georgie raised his half in an impromptu toast, then bit deep.

"Mmm! See?"

Pennywise looked down at his waiting sample, going completely still. He ran his tongue across the back of his teeth, uneasy.

Well, there was no getting out of this now.

Sensing Georgie's disappointment had become something like enduring a battery acid burn to the cosmic being.

It would smart long after the initial pain dulled.

And...

He stared down at the sectioned half, felt the juice soaking into his glove. He could almost hear the other Losers, goading-slash-cheering him on.

"What the hey?" Ben would say.

"There are worse things," Stan would reason.

"You only live once," Richie would concur.

"You live every day, you only die once," Eddie would object.

"Better a man than a mouse," Bill would add.

"Is It a man or a mouse?" Mike would ask.

"Better It be a man than a mouse, anytime," Beverly would endorse.

Eyes falling shut, Pennywise lifted the orange to his mouth and bit.

. . .

Nothing.

No ballistic spazzing.

No jolts of unease.

No inherent, uncontrollable repulsion.

It was... surprisingly pleasant.

The pulpy texture, combined with the sharp-yet-sweet taste.

The leaking half of orange stayed clutched in the creature's jagged, oversized teeth. The tips had punctured the thick outer skin with ease.

Experimentally, he gave a little pull on it, tearing off some of the fruit's flesh. The stringy white fibers seperated easily between the pointed fangs. Then he chewed carefully, mouth shut.

He opened an eye, glancing over at his newly-designated 'snacktime partner'.

It was worth the reward.

With a smile to rival the brightness of Sol, Georgie beamed back at him, juice dribbling down his face.

"Told you."

Chapter Text

Someone tapped him on the top of the head.

"What'cha uP to?"

As perhaps the most mellow individual of the Losers, Ben Hanscom wasn't easily startled. Not often, anyway. That didn't stop the likes of Richie, much less Pennywise, from messing with him on an almost-daily basis. The best prank targets were the ones you had no idea what their reactions would be.

"Nothing."

Yeah.

Like that was going to dismiss Pennywise.

In the milisecond it took for Ben to deny his intentions, the entity jumped space, from standing behind him, to lying flat on his stomach atop the long reading table directly before the boy. Legs bent, swinging idly behind him like some mildly-bored toddler's, his smiling face rested easily on folded arms.

"Doesn't loOk like nothing."

"It's nothing," Ben hissed under his breath, a rare show of annoyance, snatching the unfinished letter away. He glanced around the mostly-vacant library vestibule, with its doorway forever-adorned with its INSIDE-VOICES sign. This early in the day, the only other occupant was the attending library assistant, still seated at her corner desk. And her gaze remained pointed at the inventory lists Ben knew she had been surveying for the past hour.

Following Hanscom's line of sight, Pennywise looked back at him, finger raised to his red lips, the question posed unspoken by his askew eyes.

"Yes, I have to be quiet," Ben whispered, so faintly he had trouble hearing himself.

With ears like an owl, the creature could hear him plainly enough. He could even read minds when it was called for.

Which it was very much not right now.

In vain, Ben tried to refocus on the letter he was drafting.

All three sentences of it.

This was already going poorly. Now he really had no chance of finishing it.

Pennywise squinted at the backside of the paper, head tilting further to one side. His eyes narrowed. "Is that foR Bevs?"

"What?" Startled, Ben turned the lined sheet back and forth in his hands. "How did- "

That was new. Who said It could read a paragraph backwards?

Offering an all-too-rare explanation for his actions, Pennywise smirked smugly, eyes bright in the toned-down glow of the library lamps. "I read iT over your shoulder."

Oh.

By now, Richie or Eddie would be fuming and/or frothing with anger. The audacity, the nerve of this thing for daring to interrupt!

Ben, being the tolerant soul he was, found himself smiling at his own folly instead. Jumping to conclusions much, are we?

"It's nothing," he continued to repeat. "Anyway, I can't talk about it here."

He regretted his words the moment they were out.

Gauging by the way Pennywise's expression lit up in anticipation, the entity seemed to take that to mean Ben intended to talk to him about it later.

Which he most certainly did not.

What did the clown possibily know about being a secret admirer?

Key part being the 'secret' part.

"Go. If I talk too much, I can't stay. Library rules."

"Rules," Pennywise parroted, unmoved, and even more unimpressed. "So, work on it aT home."

"I can't."

"Why nOt?"

"You know why not."

"Nooo, no, I don'T."

"No games right now, Pen. Please." Again, even more in vain than before, Ben tried to refocus on the content of his meager letter. I'm distracted enough.

Easing off on the immaturity throttle for just a moment, Pennywise glanced over his billowy shoulder, back at their 'supervisor'. She was looking up now, past the spiky rims of her glasses. While all she saw was an empty table at which one portly boy sat, the whispers into thin air were no doubt drawing her attention.

The letter gave a quiet rustle as it was tapped at.

"Neibolt's freE."

Paper still in hand, Ben looked up. He, too, suddenly saw an empty table. But that didn't mean he was out of the woods. The air felt no different, save for that it was now adorned with the vaguest aroma of mingled popcorn and peppermints.

Its' presence was still there, like a Broadway actor lingering just offstage, ready to jump back into the spotlight at a moment's notice.

Ben pushed his chair back from the table.

Time to take the production elsewhere.

What was worse, to be found out by the potentially-overprotective "big brother" of your crush, or the "little brother" with no proverbial zipper for his mouth?

Ben was having a hard time deciding. But it was no more difficult than finishing his letter, either.

Pennywise could, objectively, be either scenario, contained in the same person. The best and worst of both worlds.

For now, though, he seemed to be behaving fairly civilized about the discovery. Perhaps he was picking up on the genteel vibes behind the idea. Ben was as far from an overdomineering young 'stud' or a leering old man as any male in Derry.

Then again, Pennywise was a safe exclusion from that demographic, despite the gender-identifying pronouns assigned to him. The thing didn't seem to outwardly care about aspects of romance or reproduction in the least. At least, insofar as it pertained to himself.

Beverly's honor was another matter entirely.

"So, it iS for Bevs."

Head in his hands, Ben felt the vaguest since like he had teleported as well. He had left the library, only to take another seat at the table in 29 Neibolt House's kitchen.

"Yeah..."

Crouched on the opposite end of the table, Pennywise looked down.

The unfinished letter sat between them.

"Why noT work on it at hOme?"

"My step-brothers," Ben explained. "I'd never hear the end of it if they saw me."

"So?" The creature tilted his head again. Then, with a half-second glance, he grabbed the discarded page. "Let them taLk. You shouldN't let that stop you from doing somethIng nice for her." Gently, almost reverently, he lifted the letter up for inspection again. What it consisted of seemed less important to him than the very idea it was meant as a gift. "Bevs doesN't get enough nice things."

Isn't that the truth?

Still, Ben had to be tread carefully.

If he made the slightest whiff of trouble for Beverly, he was sure the clown would switch gears from insufferably-sweet-cupid-wannabe to cosmic-terror in a heartbeat.

It didn't have to be about courting, per se. It could just be something nice, from one friend to another.

And if she saw it as something more than that...

Ben sighed. He had seen Bill and Beverly on lunch at school the previous day. And as such, he hadn't missed noticing how close their hands had strayed to one another's at the table.

"Something more" was a long shot.

Therein lay the other problem. Say Ben finished the letter.

Signing it "secret admirer" was as good as saying "Bill Denbrough wrote this".

Tap, tap.

Ben didn't need to glance behind him to see who stood there.

The table was empty, with the incomplete letter sitting directly in front of him again.

"FiniSh it."

Frowning thoughtfully, Ben picked up his neglected pencil.

Well... what else do you have to lose?

By his certain, unclouded tone of voice, Pennywise apparently had part two of the plan already figured out.

It rained the next day.

Beverly Marsh shuttered her umbrella with a sigh, with a gentle shake to disperse the raindrops. Good to be home, as insofar as it meant getting out of the weather. School had been the usual gauntlet of dirty looks and sullied whispers to endure. And now there was a six-page literary assignment expected from her by Friday.

As was customary, she collected the mail from its box before Dad came home. It wasn't much, but the three envelopes there did more than enough damage on their own. Alvin's paycheck would contain just enough to satisfy the three bills, as it always was. What fresh groceries might be-

Wait.

What was that fourth one?

It wasn't even an envelope.

It was notebook paper, folded accordion style, tied elegantly with a piece of red ribbon.

Curious, she unfolded it. Bright blue eyes skimmed back and forth over the contents.

From a distance, hood drawn up against the rain, Ben Hanscom couldn't hope to read her expression. He stood across Main Street, hidden in the shadow cast by a nearby storefront.

Thankfully, he had another set of all-seeing eyes on his side.

After a moment's pause, Beverly vanished into the apartment building.

A moment later, Ben spotted something else, stark white against the gray road. There was an open drain for gutter runoff just outside the apartment building's entrance.

A gloved hand, raised in a thumbs-up gesture.

A blink later, it, too, was gone.

Ben couldn't help a little satisfied chuckle as he departed the scene.

Better to have loved and lost, right?

Chapter Text

"Heh. Look like someone you know?"

Arms held at his sides, Pennywise frowned, one blue eye glancing back over toward the hallway where Beverly waited.

Sort of.

The 'short' answer was, yes. He had been a part of Derry's framework since before there was ever a colonial settlement here. In some way, everything that happened in this town was partially and very, very indirectly his doing.

But the uncanny fact that a decorative former-bowling pin in the corner of the Marshs' cramped 'living room' just happened to be dolled up like a clown?

It was pure coincidence.

As was his sudden, very-fleeting interest in the thing.

What would Richie say to that?

"Hah hah, Bevs." He poked at it with two fingertips, as a cat might prod a mouse's corpse with their paw.

It wobbled dangerously, but did not fall.

The redhead shrugged. "Yeah, it's an ugly thing. Matches the rest of the apartment, doesn't it?"

Pennywise looked back in time to see her disappear around the corner. "Bevs..."

The pin forgotten, he straightened up and followed.

He hoped that comment wasn't meant to be as self-depreciating as he thought it sounded.

She took a seat at her keyboard. "It was nice of you to visit on a rainy day, Pen. But you don't have to stay if you don't want to. We both know how easily bored you get."

Then he was there, leaning in way too obnoxiously close, their faces inches apart, nosing at her like an overanxious pet who hadn't seen their owner for days.

"No, wE don't."

She grinned, pushed his smiling face away. "Okay, Iknow, then."

In this instance, "rainy day" was a very literal description of the summertime weather outside, and not just Beverly's mood. Her window blinds were lowered and drawn, the lamps on at near-midday to compensate for a lack of sunlight. Shadows cast by thick rivulets of water rolled down the pane of glass, well fed as they were by the strength of the storm.

Glancing about, taking stock of his choices for potential mayhem, Pennywise found few viable possibilities. Instead, he primly spun around and sat down on the floor, elbows on his bent knees, with his back against the girl's bed.

Lousy weather. Small wonder why Beverly was feeling low.

She was stuck here.

"ShaMe you don'T have moRe room," he commented, trying to seem purely-offhanded about it. He glanced past her, at the keyboard, taking note of the white keys. "I'vE heard you prActicing. Not bAdly, either."

"You can't dance in here." Beverly was quick to recite the most-recently-instated rule number one, not falling for his butter-up act.

"Aww." Pennywise pressed his gloves to his ears, as if the memory were already paining him. He frowned, lip jutting out. "HonestLy? For the milLionth time, I'm soRry about the plaTe."

"And I heard you the first nine-hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred ninety nine times, thank you."

That had quickly become their most customary exchange, after the entity's first unexpected appearance at the apartment had ended in disaster. After so many offers to fix the damage he had done (only to have them rebuffed time and again), he had begrudgingly settled for offering repeated apologies.

As yet, she had declined to forgive him. And the keyboard had remained untouched ever since.

Who knew if that old Lenox plate had been worth anything, anyway?

Beverly turned sideways, away from her visitor, with her legs crossed, and let her arm hang over the back of the chair. She was smiling, but it was a tolerant smile. Not the genuinely-amused smile he had been aiming to bring out.

Curious.

Pennywise frowned, hands dropping into his lap. "Bevs, what is iT?"

She seemed tense. More than usual.

Glancing around, he took a quick sniff and already figured it out before she had inhaled to answer.

"You'Re out of cigareTtes?"

Beverly grimaced, plucking at the hem of her sleeve. It was the same tic as he had seen that day not long ago, on the rooftop. The slight flush in her round cheeks said her blood pressure was up. "For now. It's not the first time."

Pennywise raised a brow.

Beverly Marsh was a high school student with little to no income. From what he understood, she either stole or charmed her way into this habit that (by local legislation) she wasn't legally old enough to be partaking in.

But that was beside the point. Smokers weren't usually pleasant to be around when they were without their vice.

Bevs, unpleasant? Nooo.

Perish the thought.

Throw it down the Neibolt well, then climb down and stomp it into dust.

Sure, sometimes she had cause to hit him. A slap if she was serious. But it was usually with reason. She always had the best perspective in mind, for everyone, if not herself. She listened when most wouldn't. She comforted others when they were hurting, himself included. She did nothing those awful rumors claimed she said she did.

He may not have always regarded her as a "favorite of his favorites", but as the saying went, he was wrapped around her finger, simply out of principle. Maybe out of no small measure of envy, too.

If he had a tenth the composure she did...

All she would have to do was point to the nearest drugstore and say, "Fetch."

But then, there was his line in the sand. And he was stubborn about enforcing it. Smoking wasn't good for her, body or mind. She could get into real trouble if anyone caught her being a thief, or partaking in the habit. What harm could befall her that the entity may not be able to pull enough strings to undo?

"Don't."

Like coming up for air after a deep dive, Pennywise blinked back to awareness.

Beverly was standing now, scowling down at him. She stood less than a meter away. Her index finger was aimed dead-center between his eyes.

Odd. Usually he was the one invading his mortal friends' personal spaces.

"I know that look. Don't even think about it."

"About whAt?"

"The lecture. I can just see those rusty gears spooling up in your head."

So you can. Aaand?

The creature braced a gloved fist against his cheek and kept pondering - very, very obviously.

What to do, what to do...

He also knew Beverly lived under her father's thumb, in every way except the most literal. Whenever Alvin was around (which was, blessedly, not that often), she obeyed his every command.

"Don't, I said."

Did he not know? What would he have to say about this?

Could there be a way to -

"Pen. Stop it."

Then she took the musing clown by surprise. She had grabbed his face between her hands, palms flat against his temples.

Her clear blue eyes were sharp, fierce. She was also shaking.

He frowned. "Bevs, if you neEd them that bad- "

"I don't." She seethed through bared teeth, breathing tight. "What I need is for you to stop thinking about it, every time you look at me."

But I don't...

Wait.

Forget that half-hearted denial.

. . .

Are you sure your perceptiveness hasn't rubbed off on them? On her, most of all?

Pennywise almost winced.

That was the other thing - Beverly Marsh was far more candid with him than any of the other Losers. Often, he did not understand why. Just because he was actively practicing restraint did not mean he was any better at it now than when they had met, ten months prior. More and more, she seemed to confide in him apart from the rest of the gang.

Was it her way of testing him? Helping him learn?

Or did his very presence just have that effect on her?

Gift her with a heightened ability to sense what most would overlook?

...Maybe it was both.

Bingo!

He knew just what to do.

By some kind of miracle, as he thought of it, he kept his face straight.

"Don'T worRy, Bevs. That's... not what I'm thInking about."

Slowly...

The shaking eased. Her eyes wavered just a bit, searching his expression for any signs of jesting or insincerity.

"It's not?"

"No, not... entiRely."

That's it, lure her in...

"I know there's no talking yOu out of it." Considering her jeweled hands were still on his face, the clinking of her many bracelets just begging to be batted at, he held perfectly still. He wouldn't give into the foolish temptation.

Earnestness was an easy expression to mime, after enough practice.

And a mild influx of Deadlights as projected through hypnotic eyes couldn't hurt.

"But you should also kNow there's no taLking me into it."

Perfect.

There.

"Ever."

Their eyes stayed locked.

She didn't notice the index finger slooowly reaching up to tap her freckled nose until it caught her unawares. Even as she flinched and looked down, the oversized clown made a sudden, swooping grab across her back with one arm. Ignoring her startled cry, he pulled the girl against him, encasing her in a tight hug.

"NoPe, no talking anyBody into anyThing! Not todAy!"

"Pen! Stop it! Right now! Let go, you stupid, overgrown- Pen, what if Dad- "

After about thirty blustery seconds of struggle, Beverly gave up on the insults. She twisted and struggled halfheartedly, slipping against the satin folds of his suit. Trying to pry his arms off, she fought to wrench free, to escape this newest prison she found herself confined to.

The best she had yet known, really.

Gigging madly, Pennywise simply held on.

He couldn't remember the last time he had heard her laugh so much.

Of her own accord.

Eventually, she relented.

Lying sideways across his lap, she grew still, laughs tapering off, finally off her ever-constant guard, for once. Pushing the collar away from her face, she stifled the last few chuckles and breathed deep, lounging in his arms like a cat. She pushed her mussed bangs out of her eyes, smiling an insecure, almost-giddy smile.

"God, enough. Okay. Then... like Ben would say... we're at an impasse."

"You don't neEd 'em, Bevs," her captor stated simply. Then, not so simply, he added: "No more than you tHink you need me to tell you."

I worry. But I shouldn't.

You don't want anyone to worry because of you.

Doesn't mean I can't for you.

"But, I thought you didn't like- "

He reached over, cupping her chin in his gloved palm before it could stammer any more.

With the other hand, he ruffled her short auburn hair into even more of a tangled mess.

An affectionately-induced mess.

"I don't." He grinned broadly. "Doesn't mEan I don't liKe you any lesS."

Do what you will.

No one can tell you what to do, not even me.

He couldn't claim to have changed her mind on the matter right then and there.

But by the way Beverly suddenly smiled again, gripped his shoulder, sat up and nuzzled him, jarring and unpracticed though she was at it, Pennywise could tell he got somewhere with that performance.

Chapter Text

Mike Hanlon's bedroom was the envy of every other student at Derry High.

If only they knew.

If they had his workload, they would realize pretty fast there was nothing to envy.

He didn't have time to see much of it. His grandfather typically kept him so busy he often didn't have the strength to climb the stairs/ladder at the end of the day. Biking back and forth from town had made his legs strong. But that mattered very little when you could barely shuffle over to the couch in the middle of the rustic living room.

He was more familiar with that torn-up, cigarette-burned, coffee-stained couch than his own bed.

And while Mike was tough, his body was just as prone to unexpected illness as anyone else's. He made no bones about it the few times it had happened, not expecting anyone to fuss over him in the least. Right now, it was a fever sapping his energy, not the pumping of his heart and the extertions of his honed muscles.

A fever. That would take care of itself on its own, normally.

Eyes closed, reclining in bed, he tried to make the best out of his dire situation. The pillow was practically a cloud. He sighed and wiped his brow, appreciating the feeling of soft, clean sheets underneath him. A bedroom made out of a converted loft, the second story of the Hanlons' smaller, older barn. The livestock were kept in the larger, newer structure on the other side of the lot.

Best of all, his grandfather had taken one look at him that morning and - wordlessly - closed the door.

He knew things were going too well when Pennywise showed up.

"MikEy..."

The farmboy frowned, feeling something akin to a dog's wet nose prodding his outstretched left hand. Insistently.

"'haT's up, Pen?" he mumbled, still half asleep in a warm fog.

"You oKay? Bevs said you diDn't call."

The phone is all the way over there, man - down the ladder, across the driveway, in the house.

There was no way Mike could have made it without fainting.

Even if he had had a prior arrangement to meet the Losers at the arcade, somewhere he had practically-never been, to "pop his gaming cherry" as Richie put it.

God, Tozier was crass.

Mike cracked his eyes open and glanced over, with a feeble smile to match. "I'm good. I'm just a little under the weather."

He regretted using that metaphor the moment it was out of his mouth.

Peering just over the edge of the mattress like a overly-cautious gopher, suspiciously close to Mike's hand, Pennywise blinked, eyes diverging.

"But... areN't we all?"

The cosmic entity could be painfully literal in his attempts to understand creative expressions of that kind.

"I mean, I'm a bit sick, Pen. You can probably already tell. It's just a fever, with enough of a headache. I'll be fine tomorrow."

At that, he heard bells sound off. He let his eyes fall shut. He didn't need them to see how the gangly being stood up to his full height, no doubt looking the bedridden boy over for any other obvious flaws. To confirm those were gloved fingers brushing softly, concernedly over his sweating brow.

The mingled look of confusion and reluctant-acceptance curving those red stripes into a frown.

Mike could envision it all in his head just fine.

"Is theRe... anything I caN do? GeT you?"

Hanlon almost frowned. Then he thought twice. Pennywise could sense a dismissive, uncaring ploy as obviously as if it were a stab to the back.

How unfair of Mike. When the being was only trying to practice his compassion.

Instead, the farmboy sighed, trying to fathom a simple, easily-handled request.

If he didn't, the clown wouldn't budge. He wouldn't whisk away, back to the rest of the Losers.

He would stay there. Disappointed. Whining.

Interrupting his peace.

"Some tea would be nice."

Mike didn't feel a need to elaborate. Or a reason to be worried. His 'caretaker' was billions of years old. He had been a part of this universe since before humanity's inception.

Surely It knew what it was to heat up a cup of tea.

There wasn't so much as a whisp of air misplaced.

When Mike opened his eyes again, the clown was gone.

He reappeared five minutes later, according to the ticking clock on the bedside table.

Along with the most awful stench -

Mike struggled to sit up.

And not instinctively flee at the same time.

Now perched in a crouch on the righthand edge of the loft's bed, Pennywise primly held the dreaded BIG HUG MUG in both of his hands. Steam was still wafting up from inside it. Whatever scalding heat it was putting off, it didn't appear to bother him whatsoever.

Like his gloves were veritable oven mitts.

To be fair, he waited until after the mug had cooled down before handing it over.

He undoubtedly knew how Hanlon felt about fire. Or the mere reminder of it, with high temperatures.

Still, Mike stared down at the thick, murky substance in unmitigated horror.

He was sweating three times as much all of a sudden.

What did he do, sacrifice a sheep and boil its blood? With a sheared lock of wool for 'flavor'?

Probably.

Or he conjured it out of nothing known to man.

Pennywise, ever pretending-to-be-oblivious (there were no valid excuses for this), tilted his head to one side, completely innocent-faced.

"Was thaT the wRong kind?"

As if he suddenly couldn't sense Mike's raging dismay.

I don't know what kind it is, let alone if it's wrong.

Wrong, wrong, wrong.

All kinds of wrong.

Closing his eyes, Mike put the mug's edge to his mouth. Tipped it back.

Swallowed deep.

It took every bit of stringy scrap of strength and divine willpower he had ever possessed in his life to not hurl.

Vile. Vile stuff.

Indescribable.

"It-t's good." Several violent coughs later, Mike got ahold of himself. The bed shook with the force of the coughs. He wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand. "Really, i-i-it is. Thanks, man."

Half of Pennywise's mouth quirked up in a wicked, little smile.

It was the same kind of not-smile Richie typically had after 'accidentally' riding his muddy bike through one of Georgie's sidewalk chalk drawings.

Like he had known just what he was doing all along...

"ThaT good?"

Okay, enough with the nice-guy act.

Scowling, Mike shoved the cream-colored mug under the clown's red nose.

"You try it. Or you can explain to Georgie why his xylophone needed up at 29 Neibolt Street, smashed to bits."

Chapter Text

It was raining again.

How poetically ironic.

Sitting at his desk, Bill Denbrough stared at the window, watching drops strike the glass. His right arm hung over the back of the chair, his legs were crossed. He looked utterly relaxed.

It was just like they had travelled back in time.

October 1988.

There were two big differences between then and now.

There was a six-foot-something extraterrestrial in his bedroom.

And this was a springtime rain.

An unseasonally-early one. The snow had gone away fast this year. Warmer days were on the way. But it was still early April, too cold to enjoy a rain such as this, whereas in the summer, he and Georgie had ventured out many a time to play in the outdoor showers.

"BilLy..."

The boy scoffed, glanced away.

Yeah, he was being petty about this.

But in light of all that had happened, 'petty' was the least offended he could be.

He barely batted an eye. There was motion somewhere to his right. Bill didn't look close enough to see what it was about.

It might have been a hand. A familiar, white gloved hand, trying to wave for his attention.

Before the motion was aborted, and it pulled away.

Bill frowned. He refused to look the creature in the eye.

At least, at first.

He wanted to hear what Pennywise had to say.

Then he would speak.

Just to be sure he heard everything correctly, Bill would not interrupt.

So he could render a fair verdict.

Most of the Losers may have forgiven their shapeshifting mascot. Each for their own unique reasons, that was more than apparent.

There had been two holdouts at that trial.

One being their stuttering leader.

The other was the Trashmouth.

Richie would come to grips with this in his own way. On that, Bill had no doubt.

Right now, settling accounts between himself and It was more important.

No. That was the wrong way to put it. Truth be told, there was no bad blood between him and the clown.

Drawing lines. Laying down ground rules.

That was more like it.

But first, he had to listen.

"BilLy, will yOu at leaSt look at me? PleasE?"

No. Doesn't matter how well you use your manners now. Earn it. Earn my attention.

There was a rattling sigh, above and behind his head. A rustle of silky fabric, bells tinging, once, twice.

Then, with an unceremonious thud, Pennywise sat down on the floor next to the desk, hunched back pressed to the windowsill. With a sullen expression, he stared up at the freshman with cool-blue eyes, elbows on his knees.

"Is thiS better?"

Looking up at me instead of down? It's a start.

Even if the difference was only in a few mere inches. It was a difference.

Bill shrugged. With his free hand, he rolled a Sharpie back and forth across the surface of the desk. Trying to seem idle.

He was tense.

So was Pennywise. That couldn't be helped. The thing, It, it reflected moods of the beings around it like a mirror can reflect a person's image.

The clown's eyes narrowed, and his head canted to one side like a sharp-eared bird of prey's. "You doN't have anything to say?"

Not yet.

They stared at each other for a beat. Rain continued to patter against the window.

"Your mind's racIng. Even if yoU don't admit it, I can teLl... And I knoW you know that."

So?

"I also know you'Re still... unsure about me. About what haPpened at the well houSe."

And now you're here, to talk, man to... man.

Pennywise scoffed, held a glove to his ruffled chest. "ThiS would be a lot easiEr if I wasn't the one doing aLl the talking."

"You know that?" Bill finally muttered, eyes still locked. Blue against blue. "You think it'd be easier to face me, after you show up unannounced? When you know Georgie isn't here? You think whatever I have to say will somehow absolve you of everything you didn't tell us? What danger we've been in, the whole time we've known you?"

Then, in a rough imitation of so many other occasions he had seen the clown do the same to his friends, Bill leaned forward.

He grabbed the creature by the chin.

So tightly, flakes of white skin cracked under his fingertips and floated away like ash rising from a fire.

"You lied to us, Pennywise."

Cowering.

Denial.

Sorrow.

Heated anger.

Explosive rage.

More lies.

Having his hand bitten off.

Being obliterated on the spot.

Bill expected every reaction except the one he received.

. . .

Nothing.

It drew an absolute blank.

In mind and in expression.

Bill was almost unnerved. Almost. He had been prepared to feel something resitant to touch. Under his fingers, he felt nothing but... cold, vacant space. As if his skin wasn't registering anything, save little else but the barest, shady feeling of flesh.

Like what touching a ghost might have been like.

Wispy flakes of white skin rose, jarred loose by the pressure of his tightly-gripping hand, and disappated, soundlessly.

The rain continued to drum on the windows. Almost like the world itself was trying to say, "Hey, remember us? Life? Reality? What's going on in there that's more important?"

At that moment... making sense of the ordeal before him.

Pennywise continued to stare straight ahead, stare through Denbrough, like the young man was suddenly not there.

Like the clown was no longer there.

Like he had virtually left his form behind.

Like... the light had gone out behind the creature's eyes.

The irises stayed blue, the pupils remaining the same size and shape.

Bill breathed out, slowly, cautiously.

Had he been that acrid, that biting with his words?

He had virtually stunned Pennywise into petrified silence.

Catatonic.

That was the word.

. . .

Well, perhaps he hadn't meant to be that harsh. But harshness was the only way to get through to It sometimes. To convey how serious you were, how outraged.

How concerned.

Truthfully, Bill was concerned.

Concerned for Georgie. The Losers. For It.

But that, being oh so concerned, only solved so much. Just what was he supposed to do? He was their leader, for better or worse.

They had to reign in their mascot. He was the man for the job, right?

How?

How did he even start going about doing that?

He hadn't even been sure when to, if at all.

Pennywise would eventually fall asleep. In perhaps as little as four months' time.

Could they not simply keep their distance from him until then?

Ask Georgie, to keep his distance from the cosmic novelty, just forget the day in October when It had first endeared itself to him, by rescuing his paper boat?

No matter, ultimately.

It would sleep.

Georgie would forget.

They would all forget.

Or so Pennywise had claimed.

Was he even one-hundred percent certain?

Prior to this 'awakening', he hadn't even known himself capable of feeling things like loneliness, compassion, protectiveness.

All emotions the Losers had helped him hone, to cope with.

If he could learn these things, would it not somehow counteract the previously-assumed pattern?

He certainly wouldn't be going to sleep with a full... 'stomach'.

So, he had an unseen hand in everything that took place in Derry.

Would a lack of food weaken that hand's grip? Would the town mend itself? Would the people change, for the better, as It had?

In the end, would that have been enough?

Ever the die-hard optimist, Bill had to hold on to the faintest speck of hope that were somehow true.

For everything that happened, there was always an equal and opposite reaction, wasn't there?

Patterns could change. Evolve. Improve.

It didn't matter how old you were.

What did they say about "old dogs" and "new tricks"?

...Dog.

The debacle with the iron fence post.

Was that meant to be a hint of some kind?

A botched hunting attempt?

A snarling, dangerous, foaming-at-the-mouth hint?

"If you didn't get the hint, Denbrough, you're the dense one."

That's probably something like what Beverly would say.

Nah. Forget like.

It's exactly what she would say.

And she wouldn't leave it at that.

"Who cares how it happened? He sought us out for help. We helped. After you made him promise not to harm any of us."

Which It hadn't.

Eddie had, oddly enough, been the real voice of reason at the well house.

"He's a predator, and sometimes he can be a pretty stupid one at that."

But, a shy few weeks before Ben's attack, when Bill had pressed the entity on the matter, Pennywise hadn't been willing to own up to his mistake.

"You're n-not gonna answer me, are you?"

"You wouldN't like my ansWer."

Remember what we said about 'forget like'?

Now, this was a matter for knowing for one's own good, not of sweeping it under the carpet out of vanity or mere embarrassment.

You're a killer. Someone who takes pleasure in the act of snuffing the life out of others. A sadist, a high-and-mighty thug who takes the weak and the vulnerable. The original thug, if you will.

No, a carnivore. Just doing what you have to to survive, no spite, no malice. Nothing personal about it. No apologies, but no excuses, either.

...A bit of both?

How much of each do you embody, Pennywise?

Black and white. But clearly disproportionate halves. Thrown into a blender, set on HIGH.

Whereas before, they were equal. There was no mixing the two.

Why?

Why the change in attitude now?

Because of some happenstance run-in with a boy and his paper boat?

Was changing who you are suddenly that important, because you had never known anything different? Never considered it?

In the span of billions of years, not even once?

That's a long time to stick to your guns.

Only to set them aside for a grain-of-sand's-worth of time. Maybe less.

Was that all the Losers were to It? A passing fad? A cheap experiment?

Would he simply wake up again and pretend 1989 never happened? Disregard it as a fluke 'run'?

He said they would forget.

Would he?

How could he go on otherwise, without tormenting himself over it until time's end?

All because he wanted to see if he was capable of some 'greater meaning'?

Noble intentions, especially from a bloodthirsty, craven backbiter.

Or so Richie would probably have said.

Who knew what It thought from his side of the equation?

Most of that was above man's ability to rationalize.

Perhaps it was better left an unknown.

But that didn't address Bill's most immediate of concerns.

Time to end this trance.

Those eyes had to be getting dry by now.

"Pennywise."

Heedless of how blankly the red-and-white face seemed to stare off at nothing, Bill let go. As quietly as he knew how, he snapped his fingers beside the clown's ear, then the other, as if he were bringing a subject out of hypnotism session.

In many ways, he supposed that was exactly what he was doing.

Corny as it may have felt.

Were there any myths to compare the feat to, mortals beseeched by their supposed-gods?

Or was this another first for mankind?

"Come on, come back. I know what I want to say."

"YoU do?"

"I think so," Denbrough bit his lip, sat back in his chair. "I... g-gave it some thought. Looking at you, I... I don't know if I can ever fully understand. But I wanted just one thing to be clear, between us. If that were, I think it'd make all the difference."

"NaMe it," Pennywise gasped, almost earnestly. In a blink he leaned forward, crouching on his toes, the halfway point between sitting and literally pleading on his knees. His hands threaded together. "If there's anything I can do, anythiNg I can anSwer- "

"Don't get carried away," Bill cautioned, with a tired, somewhat-regrettable smile. "You may ch-change your tune once you hear what it is."

"Ohh?" Looking just slightly crestfallen, Pennywise's eyes darted nervously. "What... what iS it, then?"

"Georgie," Bill stated, simply. "Were you going to tell him?"

"TelL him...?"

"About you, your hibernation."

". . ."

"You didn't just space out again, did you?"

"I... I . . ."

"Focus, Pennywise. Answer me: are you going to tell Georgie what you told us?"

"...Eventually."

"When?"

"I... hadn't decIded."

"You'll tell him," Bill ordered, as firmly as he knew how to be. "Whatever happens between now and then, you will tell him at some point."

Pennywise cringed and leaned away like he had been scalded by acidic words all over again. "BilLy, I- "

"He doesn't need to know what you are. What you do to... live. But he needs to know, as much as any of us, just how long you'll be around. It's only fair." Denbrough went for the kill: "And if you don't, I'll tell him myself. You wouldn't want him to think me a liar, right?"

"You wouldN't be lying, Bill. And Georgie would never eXpect that of you, anyway," Pennywise replied, voice steady, even as his expression stayed taut and distraught. Uneasily, he gnawed at one of his knuckles, fingers working restlessly. "But, if I teLl him, where does tHat put me with you? You and the otheRs won't... shy away?"

"As long as you mind yourself around us, and around Georgie, there'll be no problem."

"NoNe?"

"You said we'll all forget you, no matter what," Bill reiterated, solemnly, though not without a muted note of sadness. "Instead, just don't leave us with anything to r-regret, okay?"

That much, we can all live with, can't we?

Us, until the ends of our own lives.

And yours, until... whatever the end means for you.

Not much.

But it's something.

Better than what we had before.

And that's what counts.

Chapter Text

"Well. It's this just nice and... dare I say... COZY?!"

Mother Nature was a blessedly-deaf bitch. The downpour absorbed the brunt of Richie Tozier's fury gracefully, a flash of lightning splitting the churning sky with impeccable timing.

Huddled into himself, Georgie Denbrough still flinched and covered his ears, whimpering at the clap of thunder that shook the world around them. It sounded even louder than it should ever rightfully be inside the sewer pipe.

Bill crouched beside him, a protective arm wound over his little brother's soaking shoulders. How they had come to be stuck in the open mouth of a runoff drain emptying into the Kenduskaeg Canal could be attributed to two things: poor planning and plain old bad luck.

Mapping the system for themselves, comparing it to what layouts Ben had gleaned from archives, what Bill had scarcely verified from Dad's office, picking out vital underground 'landmarks' to navigate by, it all had seemed prudent at the time.

Getting lost was just par for the course.

That it all coincided precisely as a midsummer storm broke open in the skies above Derry?

More of the same luck, only worse.

Richie slumped down beside the Denbrough boys, knees bent, his back pressed against the grimy wall.

"Should've never let you talk me into this."

"H-how long do you think it will last?" Georgie choked out, watching with round eyes the cold, surging water rushing by before them.

The rocky banks to either side of the drain were already swamped, impossible to reach without getting swept into the rising rapids (where you were as good as dead). The land there was just as bad, too steep and thickly overgrown to scale, even on a good day.

Branches as thick as baseball bats were already falling prey to the elements, drifting by from upriver, jarred loose to set sail in the violent current.

"Long enough, kid. The way the water's coming up, that fast - ow, okay, Bill, stop!"

Rather than offer the customary "shut up, Richie", Bill had reached over to yank the loose hood of Richie's green rainslicker down past his overmagnified eyes. All the better to interrupt that thought before it could complete its run.

The Trashmouth was still pawing the hood aside when they felt the telltale airborne prickle heralding the arrival of their erstwhile guardian on the scene. The air grew a touch hotter, drier, as if the excess moisture around them had been whisked away.

"Penny!" Georgie immediately dove for cover, threading himself under the clown's waiting arm, clutching at his silvery suit, face nuzzling into hiding under the ruffled collar.

Richie took in the sight with a humorless frown. "Stripes, what a surprise."

Patting Georgie's shivering back, Pennywise tolerated the older boy's lackluster greeting with a smirk. "Admiring the vieW, are we?"

"Oh, totally. Waterfront property, cheap rates, all the rat carcasses you can eat, swept right to your door. What's not to love?"

"W-we're lost," Bill admitted, holding up his folded, tattered excuse-of-a-map for emphasis.

"Heh." Sure not to waste a chance to invade each boy's personal space (the exception being, in Richie's case, simply appearing accomplished that), Pennywise ruffled Bill's dark hair with his free hand, not unaffectionately. His eyes gleamed in the darkness. "Figured that much out for mYself, Billy boy."

"You know a way out, right, Penny?" Georgie emerged from hiding long enough to risk another timid look at the canal, as if he were hoping it had magically subsided, or was an illusion just banished. "You have to."

Richie wiped at his glasses with the back of his hand. Unwelcome as the entity's presence sometimes-slash-always was for him, at least it freed him from having to worry now.

"This is his turf, squirt. 'Course he does."

The flash of unease that crossed Pennywise's expression was as unexpected as it was fleeting. His eyes jigged left and right before refocusing, and he grinned awkwardly, scratching nervously at a tufted lock of hair.

"Uh, about tHat..."

"Dude, don't tell me we're stuck."

"Well, the thing iS, that last junction with the collapsing mortar- "

"Stop." Holding up a hand, Richie pinched the bridge of his nose. "You're saying we gotta wait this out."

"'Fraid so."

"Fff-frig-a-frack."

"WhaT?"

"Censorship, man. Gotta think of the kid."

"Beats having to d-dig or slog our way out, right?" Bill tried for optimism in the face of sheer disappointment. "It's okay. The water w-won't stay high for long."

"We won't be back in time for dinner, though," Georgie objected.

"Oh! I could try findiNg you something," Pennywise piped up.

A tint of green surfaced in Richie's cheeks. His imagination suddenly provided a very vivid mental picture of the finer pickings when it came to eating garbage. Despite his moniker as "the Trashmouth", he in no way aspired to bring a literal interpertation for it into reality.

No matter how hungry he was.

He couldn't tell if Bill was smiling in gratitude or horror.

"Thanks, but no, no, thanks very much, Dolly. I think we can go without the snacks."

"Hmph." With Georgie safely gathered into his arms, Pennywise settled down against the brick wall, booted feet braced against the opposite curve of the drain. He spared the swelling canal a smoldering glare. "Well, at least you'll be dRy here."

Exchanging a resigned look, Bill and Richie crawled over to sit against either side of the creature, wedging themselves in just close enough to enjoy what little warmth their combined bodies would produce.

Outside, the storm continued to bellow and vent her fury.

"Can't you try that radio of yours, Bill?" Richie blurted out, when the silence - punctuated only by Georgie's whimpers and random grumbles of distant thunder - proved unbearable. "Doesn't it have more than one channel?"

"It's a w-walkie, Richie, shortwave. In this weather, the signal wouldn't p-p-pick up anything on the other side of the canal."

"And it's close-banded," Georgie added, earning a startled glance from his brother. "What, Bill? You told me what C.B. stood for."

"Oh, yeah." He smiled fondly after a moment's consideration. "That was a while ago."

"Only about a year, for your birthday," Georgie recalled, toying absentmindedly with Pennywise's wrist frill, gathering and then smoothing the silky fabric between his fingers. "Dad didn't think they'd work so long."

"Bought 'em used?" Richie asked, not exactly interested in the story, but talking about anything was preferable to uncomfortable quiet.

"CheapskAte," Pennywise mumbled, offhandedly, picking up on the repressed anger Bill felt well up within him in that moment.

"No, he wasn't," Georgie retorted. "They still work, don't they? What's wrong with getting used ones? We didn't know at the time."

"He thought that was better than nothing like it, probably," Richie leaned his head against his fist, elbow braced against a folded knee. "At least he sort of got you what you asked for."

"Your Dad doesn't?"

"Not if I don't beg, bleed, and sweat for it first," Tozier lamented. "By then I don't usually want it anymore."

"Like your skaTeboard?"

"Shh-ssha-ut-it!" Richie aborted mid-curse, knowing (and hating instantly that) there was nothing he could do or say to unmake Pennywise's statement.

Bill blinked, glanced at the clown, then blinked again. "Skateboard?"

"What skateboard?" Georgie rephrased, craning his neck to look at Richie.

"Yeah, right, what skateboard, Blabbermouth?" Found out, the spectacled boy mustered the sternist glare in his arsenal.

"ThE skateboard you pointed out in Thrasher the othEr day?"

"Don't know, don't care how you do," Richie muttered, continuing to stare a hole in the slimy bricks above his head. Whatever their perdicament, wherever the conversation went, revisiting his part-confessional at 29 Neibolt House was not on today's agenda.

Thankfully, the clown-beast seemed to figure that out without futher need for hint-dropping. Instead, his teeth gave a little click as Georgie (somehow) squirmed closer against his chest, wedging his hooded head under Pennywise's chin.

For a time, they stared out at the rising floodwaters in silence.

Again.

The thought crossed Bill's mind to double-back and see if Pennywise knew of a longer route to follow out. No one in Derry, much less the world, knew this system better.

Why wait it out any longer? Surely Mom and Dad, otherwise-indifferent as they often were to the brothers, would notice both of their boys were gone from the dinner table.

Until...

"Billy, I'm hungry."

"We're all hungry, kid," Richie sympathized - or his version of sympathizing, anyway. "But I don't care to sample rotting cheeseburger and fungus fries for my dinner."

"RichIe!"

"No offense, Dingles, but that's the best we could hope to find down here. I know you'd give us your best, but the sewer's best is still Derry's worst when it comes to cuisine."

"Not that we won't ap-preciate the thought," Bill interjected.

"Fungus fries, heh heh hee," Georgie repeated, grinning. Maybe it was the potent cocktail of fear and fatigue getting to him, exacerbated by low blood sugar, but the little boy was suddenly giggling like Richie had told the best punchline ever.

Tozier couldn't help a half-smile. "Yeah, gross. With rat blood for ketchup."

"Ewww!"

"With the best, rotten maple leaf salad you ever not want, with greasy, pinecone croutons. Mm! Delish."

Bill rubbed at his eyes, trying (and failing) to banish the mental images that were being conjured up. His empty stomach was seconds away from bringing up bile for no other reason than seemingly-being offended.

"Okay, you can stop there."

"And for dessert- "

"Ugh. No. Beep-beEp, RichIe."

"Aww."

Tozier relented, though he was secretly rejoicing to think he had somehow managed to make the sourfaced clown feel the slightest bit nauseous.

"Well, we gotta do something. Georgie's hunger isn't gonna make itself go away."

"Living with an empty stomach is preferable to a concussion, a serious possibility of drowning, and broken ankles, Rich."

Alas, the glow of good humor faded as quickly as it appeared.

Richie threw his hands up. "I've had it with sitting around, waiting. Stripes, I gotta be honest, you're a pretty lame Lassie stand-in."

"A wHat?"

"I'm saying, a border collie with a rolled-up script in its mouth would get us home faster than you have."

Pennywise exchanged a look with Georgie, one bald eyebrow slowly creeping higher than the other. Mutely, they seemed to agree, to not dare stepping outside the box.

"BiLly says you should wait, I tHink you should liSten."

"Then aren't I just the smartest guy alive for not giving a mere cent what you think?"

"Richie!"

Bracing both hands against the wall behind him, he lurched forward, onto his boots in one smooth motion. There was a flashlight in one of his slicker's pockets.

He had that, and a home to get back to.

Bill could stuff his amateur cartography.

"Forget this. I'm out!"

And like so many other of his failed endeavors, that was the beginning of the end for Richie Tozier.

He kept walking long after their voices stopped echoing after him.

Faintly, it sounded like they tried to follow. At first. Pennywise may well have teleported his way in front of the boy to keep Tozier from separating himself from the group.

But there were the Denbrough boys to watch, too. He wouldn't leave them unattended.

Oddly enough, for being a supposedly-supreme cosmic being, even It couldn't be in two places at once.

Bill probably drew, and therefore stalled, the clown's attention with his borderline-bickering, suttering argument, too. "L-Let him go. Maybe he'll get lucky."

Richie was nothing if not lucky.

Bad luck, good luck. Dumb luck. Worse luck. Didn't matter.

He was walking.

Walking where? Hoping to do what?

Who the fuck knew?

Richie didn't. Not that he'd say otherwise if someone pressed him on it. If he had, he would have started his way in that direction a long time ago.

But he was a man of action, not of words. If he went out, it wouldn't be sitting on his ass, waiting around for Fate to drop the hammer.

Flashlight in hand, he slogged onward.

Already, they had spent a few hours down here. He was sure of that much. Enough time for the storm to break, and wail on and on for an indeterminate length of time. Compared to the Denbrough boys, Richie's parental concerns were a mere shade. It wouldn't be the first time he had trundled back home long after dark set in on Derry.

No dinner. No dessert. No "Where on Earth were you, son?"

He wasn't missing out on much.

It had been that way since before junior high. Before intermediate school. Since he had been gifted his first bike at the age of five, practically.

So long as there was a town to see, things to do, Richie went where he wanted. Not where others told him to go.

Meeting Bill, then Eddie and Stan, had somewhat quashed the gallivanting habit. Richie seldom went anywhere without his three friends in tow, or vice versa. It went from being purely for the fun of one another's company to being a purely-defensive tactic. Sticking together meant you were less likely to get picked on (sometimes).

As they got older, the simple 'getting picked on' evolved into the more-complicated, almost-daily ambush beatings and humiliating public embarrassments that were better off forgotten. Occasionally, Richie found himself playing the lone wolf, and, unsurprisingly, it was much easier to outrun the bullies when you didn't have to make sure your friends were keeping pace.

When they didn't slow you down.

Like now.

Richie stumbled, footing almost lost, catching himself on the wall. Panning the light around, he realized where he was.

It was the same three-point junction Pennywise had claimed was flooded. Wasn't it? With the missing mortar? There was that same wet rock Bill had placed in the gap where a long-missing brick had once been.

Tozier scoffed.

It had lied.

Again, unsurprising.

"And he'll probably keep you dolts waiting there until high noon tomorrow, he doesn't know what he's talking about," Richie mumbled, taking the right fork. "Clown's got a brain the size of a pea, no matter how big his head is."

Despite his ramblings, Tozier's mind didn't stray too far off navigation.

The water ran toward him from the right.

As they had descended, he remembered following the flow down.

Proceeding back uphill, the current was stronger than he recalled. Mindful of the splashing against his shins, how forceful it was, he took the climb slowly.

The next junction, that would be a left, instead of the right it originally was.

"Could be worse," he mused aloud, alone with nothing save the sewer walls. "Can you imagine if Bill had talked everyone into this?"

Then there really wouldn't have been any hope for him to escape.

They would have closed ranks, held him back.

Beverly would have seconded Bill and said little else.

Mike would have tried to keep Georgie calm, keep them all talking, civilized-like.

Ben wouldn't mind either way, a budding zen master he was.

Stan would be pulling his hair out, absolutely beside himself with panic.

Eddie would have to keep his inhaler crammed into his mouth like a diver's respirator.

Thankfully, that was not the case. The entirety of their club wasn't necessary for this venture.

Although, it would have made 'telephoning' one another via the pipes a lot more efficent.

And there would be more of them to watch out for one another if the group split in half.

Perks and drawbacks. As always.

Balance.

As if Fate were honing her sense of humor, with him as the guinea pig, Richie felt his toe catch some unseen obstacle under the water.

Almost causing him to lose his footing.

He slipped again. Stumbling sideways, his free hand splayed out, found a wall. He braced himself, just managing to not pitch facefirst into the gray water.

Impulsively, he checked the frames of his glasses. The temples, snug behind his ears, had wiggled a bit loose.

"Fuckin' sewers. No wonder the 'public' wants nothing to do with them, eh, Bill?"

A hiss answered him.

His flashlight found a rat, clinging atop an old glass beer bottle. A brief second of eyeshine was visible in the pitch blackness.

It scurried away.

For apparently, it did not answer to Bill.

"Wow. Tough crowd."

He kept going.

. . .

Did Pennywise ever grow so bored he started talking to the rats?

Now there was an odd thought.

Odd, in that it seemed bizarrely natural. Like how someone might talk to their dog or cat.

The entity was trying to 'practice' his human mannerisms. Every opportunity he got, seemingly. Keeping pets. That seemed like a good lesson in and of itself.

Stan would concur.

Richie shook his head.

He didn't care, remember?

He shouldn't care.

He needed to think of something to talk about, anything to avail the monotone splashing of his boots, the lonely, echoey gasps of air.

He stumbled, took the left turn as planned.

Kept going.

...Echoey? Is that a word?

The sewers declined to answer.

So he provided his own.

"I'd ask you, Ben, if you were around. But nooo. You couldn't be bothered to go anywhere at all until your extra credit assignment was one-thousand-percent complete. If you want to shove half of it my way, that'd be nice. Already done and ready to turn in, preferably."

Wow, that was a pretty long-winded rant (kinda like his journey was panning out to be). Had it bothered him that much?

Then there was the inevitable.

When was the clown gonna show up?

He had to be fretting by now. Seeing it all in his mind's eye. Keeping track of Richie via some not-echolocation/infrared sense his oversized head seemed to house.

Twitching, practically spazzing, just itching to teleport.

Georgie was probably clinging to his ankle, preventing it.

God, that kid could be a pain sometimes.

When had it been decided that admitting him to the Losers was really needed?

Richie must have missed that club meeting. Or slept through it.

He had cause. Like Bill was never guilty of being unnecessarily verbose.

And not just because of the stutter.

Crash.

His blood went from already-cold to near-frozen.

Richie froze, knees locking up. The air around him grew equally still. He reached for the nearest wall, pointed the flashlight ahead of himself.

Nothing.

The pipe before him stretched off into darkness.

Just empty air.

He swore he could hear his own heartbeat, the sedate thump-thump, thump-thump bouncing off the walls.

Wait.

There, faintly...

Was that... rumbling?

Like an earthquake?

Impossible. Maine was nowhere near a fault line.

Lightning, maybe? That was the sound of it striking, as distorted through an opening somewhere in the line?

An open manhole chute? A maintenance ladder?

That still didn't explain the rumbling...

And how it was getting closer.

Louder.

Then, it was there.

Shaking the very walls.

Already overpowering his hearing, blotting out all else.

No.

No, no, no.

The clown was lying.

He had to have been.

That waterline, over there on the bricks, how damp it still was, this couldn't be the same tunnel that had flooded out.

Barring their escape.

It couldn't be.

Crasssh.

Dumbfounded, Richie took a step back.

Like something out of an Indiana Jones movie, it rolled toward him.

Only real.

Soil-yourself-terrifyingly real.

Spray flew from where the water hit the slimey bricks, bits of foam glowing like yellow confetti in the meager flashlight beam.

Then it roared his way.

A regular underground tsunami.

He dropped the flashlight.

Pennywise hadn't been lying.

He had been telling the truth.

The same kinda awful truth that was that wall of water, flooding the pipe, washing out the very air.

Crashing, surging toward the boy.

Staring, frozen in the crosshairs, Richie hardly thought to lift his arms, to shield himself.

There was nowhere to run.

Well, fuc-

It slammed into him with all the unrelenting momentum of a freight train.

Everything went black.

Moreso than it already was.

Chapter Text

Sometime later (minutes, hours, who knew for sure?), the waterlogged body's still-functioning brain thought it would be a good idea to return to the land of the living.

Lungs, muscles, heart, break time's over. Get back to work!

First things first, the body had to get itself out of the puddle it was lying in.

Richie came to around the same time his arms moved, almost of their own accord, instinctively folding up at the elbows, pushing his hands flat against the ground. He coughed, trying to lift his face out of the water.

Pain, hot and jagged, lanced through him, from the bottom of his spine to the back of his skull. He winced, involuntarily folding at the waist, hands fisting, cringing under the agony. It felt like someone had shoved a blazing firepoker deep into his back.

And hadn't taken it out.

"FF-fuck, fuck, ow. Oww..."

Face pressed to the floor, he waited. He tried to breathe deep, to somehow ease it with every exhale. Even if the pain was unwelcome, it at least took the chill out of his thoroughly-drenched form.

Mercifully, the ache abated quickly. One bit of good news. Carefully, he lifted himself up on his elbows.

Richie breathed out, opened his eyes. Gingerly at first, then he blinked furiously, frowning, wiping at them with the back of his hand.

Hold the phone.

Why couldn't he see anything?

He was awake.

Why was it still dark?

His eyes were open. Achy, sensitive, but open.

Blind.

What was that?

What?

That, over there.

Footsteps.

Were they getting closer?

Wait, there was another sound.

In time with the shuffling footsteps.

Higher.

Tinnier.

Bells.

God - damn - It.

They drew to a stop.

Then the bells tinged again, presumably as the creature crouched down before him.

. . .

"You shouLd've lisTened to BiLly."

Richie scoffed, half-retching at the aftertaste of sewage, in his mouth. He gaped, eyes going wide. How it flowed back up his throat, sickeningly.

He started gagging, coughing.

Vomiting.

And he couldn't stop.

Oh, great.

Everyone, gather around. Tozier's puking his guts out. Let the mocking commence.

Starting with that infernal clown. He would be first in line.

Eventually, the boy's overabused lungs and stomach emptied themselves completely.

Richie coughed one last time, clutched his head, squinting. He lurched aside, away from the putrid stench of his self-made mess. His arms shook.

Ow, that would smart tomorrow.

Time for a quip.

"S-send him over here, he can- ugh, so gross - um, he can t-tell me himself."

The darkness cleared away. Just a bit.

Something off-white, a few feet away, gray against the blackness all around them.

And orange, a crest of orange flames atop its head.

Yep, that was Stripes.

Wait.

Was that... light, up above them?

No time to think about it.

The silvery blur sniffed, very loudly, leaned closer.

Something sweet and rotten wafted against Richie's face.

The smell was bad, but with it came a worse revelation.

Wait. His face.

His naked face.

Reeling back, Richie clutched at his cheekbones, his ears, disbelieving all over again. How had he not realized sooner? He blinked, hard, wiped at his eyes. Blinked again.

No good.

The world around him stayed just as muddled as ever.

"Wh-where are my glasses?"

"GonE."

At least Pennywise didn't mince words on that.

And the word bowled Tozier over like another Derry Public Works tsunami.

Mom was gonna hit the ceiling, punch a new hole through it, shaped just like herself. Just like in a Warner Bros. cartoon.

Impulsively, Richie reached ahead, sweeping his hands back and forth. His very fingertips reached desperately, ghosting hesitantly over sopping-wet concrete.

"T-that can't be."

"'Fraid it is, RichIe."

The hands stilled. Slowly, he glanced up, in the vague direction of the breathy voice.

He had never heard Pennywise speak so... seriously.

The clown was being unusually solemn. Grim, even.

Richie had once thought his sense of humor to be pretty twisted.

He stopped thinking that way about six months ago.

It's Twilight-Zone-warped idea of amusement put the Trashmouth's to shame.

And, most days, they hated each other's guts.

Physical and not.

Didn't he find this perdicament of Tozier's the least bit... funny?

Cruelly funny?

Just a bit?

Richie was suddenly overcome with a powerful, illogical need to ask.

"Why aren't you- "

A wide hand closed on his shoulder, long fingers practically reaching all the way around. Firmly, unquestioningly.

"StanD up, RichIe."

He had never heard It sound so commanding, either.

"Chill." He wiped at his face, wincing at discovering all the fresh scratches adorning it. No doubt he was covered in unspeakable, septic muck that had been glued there by his own dried blood. "It's a bit fast for me right now, man. Give me a minute."

The second hand found his other shoulder.

Together, they grabbed the boy under his arms and lifted.

"Hey, easy!"

He struggled, wriggling like a fish caught on a set of unforgiving hooks.

Protested for all he was worth.

"Hey! I said- "

Suddenly, he was airborne. His feet swung aimlessly. Somehow, his boots hadn't been swept off while underwater. The toes bounced off the concrete below him.

After a few seconds, they found purchase again.

He stumbled as the hands let him go.

"You've had plenty of minuteS. You can't sTay here."

Why the fuck not?

Anger snapped on. Fingers clawing, Richie lashed out at the air before him, feeling more than a bit stupid when his swinging hands failed to hit their target.

"What's your hurry, douchebag? Where are we?"

If only he could see.

"Somewhere you sHouldn't be."

"Agghh!" Richie grasped at his ears in exasperation. "No shit, Sherlock. I wasn't meant to be here from the very beginning." He brushed at his sullied hair, the hood of his slicker long gone. What was this awful gunk on his head? "Fucking Stuttery-Ass Bill. And Pipsqueak. All this, over making some half-assed maps. When I see them again- "

A growl interrupted him.

And that wasn't hyperbole.

A low, undulating growl, forming the words:

"YoU won'T see anyone agaIn iF you dOn't liSten."

Richie's heart went still.

Just briefly.

Forget stern. Forget deadly-serious.

He had never heard Pennywise so angry, either.

Playfully annoyed, irritated, Tozier had already seen that many a time.

But that...

That was long-festering fury right there.

Centuries-long.

...Did he really get under the entity's false-skin that much? So easily?

He held up his hands, a momentary white flag.

"Okay, okay..."

That was met with a heavy sigh. It meant its wielder was pacified, hopefully. Richie felt loose hairs blow away from his face with the force of it.

God, what was that nasty smell?

"I'Ll help you. You can stiLl get out."

Still?

Was something going to keep him there?

His blindness? His half-broken body?

Death itself?

Instead, he asked:

"How? How am I supposed to see where I'm going?"

"You'Ll have to trust me."

Richie facepalmed.

"Trust you? Trust you to play guide dog?"

His rescuer leaned in close.

"Do yoU have any beTter ideas?"

There was that sickly sweet smell again.

Right into his face.

Another odd thought popped outta the swirling carousel that was Richie's frenetic brain.

The smell. Was that... was that the clown's breath?

If he ever smelled like anything in the past, it was like popcorn. And mints. Sometimes both.

This, this was the pungnant odor of rotten something blowing Tozier's way.

A trick of the moist conditions? Maybe, because they were underground, something about the trapped, stale air just made it seem that way. Worse than it really was.

What was the use in wondering?

Mentioning something else that "smelled bad" in the sewers was tantamount to claiming "also, it's wet down here".

Kinda went without saying.

Irrelevant.

"...No."

Richie sighed in defeat, finally letting his shoulders droop. His arms hung limp at his sides.

Let's see where this gets me.

"...Just don't walk me into a wall, man. I've had a rough enough day."

Or was it night, by now?

A gloved hand found his shoulder again.

Gently, almost.

"Hrmmph. Don'T worry."

Richie worried.

With the long, lacey arm serving as his de facto leash, Tozier let himself be led into the dark. Blurry shadows, ranging in every cool color from black to gray to blue, swam before him, mixing into a backdrop more abstract and impossible to discern abstract art.

He kept his eyes half shut. What meager information his soggy mind could handle processing, he would keep it to a minimum.

For now.

Not until they were back where he could see daylight.

Pennywise took short strides, half a step to every two of his reluctant ward's.

For Richie, he still had to walk twice his normal speed to keep up.

From that point on, they said little else. The clown occasionally stopped, made him turn left, turn right, avoid that hole, duck around that spigot.

Don't unexpectedly halt in the middle of the road with annoying questions.

"Where're Bill and Georgie?"

Ahead of him, he heard the boots shuffle to a stop. There was a soft growl, but Pennywise brought out another melodramatic sigh to cover it up.

Mostly.

"TopsIde."

Richie wiped at his dirty face, almost frettingly. Awful, awful feeling. Once he found clean water, he resolved to jump in and scrub like his life depended on it.

In the meantime, he had to figure something out.

Before they found the Denbroughs again.

"How'd you find me?"

"I loOked."

"No, Dipstick. How?"

"With... my eYes?"

"Is that what you call them, or do you really not have a name for the sparkly-magic crap you use to get around down here?"

"WhY do you want to kNow now?"

"I just want to make sure you're not pulling some sick shit," Richie's voice went low, venomous, almost deadpan. Thoughts far darker than his own lack of eyesight had started to needle him. "Now's your chance."

How do I know you're not just gonna finish what the water started?

There was no thoughtful pause.

The glove latched onto his shoulder again, vicelike, pulling him along.

"KeEp up."

Richie stumbled, recovered, and did his best to oblige. He was practically trotting.

Eventually, the ground beneath their feet began to plane upward.

Slowly at first, then steeper and steeper.

Richie's feet slipped inside his flooded boots. He stumbled.

With his free hand, Pennywise kept the half-blind boy from careening headlong into a wall.

Far from being thankful, Richie bristled.

To be so pathetic, depending on someone else to see you out of the shitstorm you yourself had knowingly walked into...

No.

He had known going in. That there was a chance of a washout.

He just hadn't counted on it happening.

And still he went.

Almost died.

But whatever.

Apparently he couldn't be trusted with his own life.

So Fate saw fit to bring him back, with this thing to see him home.

That rubbed Richie the wrong way. All over.

"You must be loving this."

"NoPe." Pennywise's reaction was almost flippant, irritatingly base. "NopE, I don'T."

Confounding clown.

"Why not? Most days, you can't seem to get enough outta working me up. Now you've got me at your mercy and you're not gonna take advantage?"

"NopE."

"Not even a little?"

C'mon. You know you want to.

They started walking again.

"You said it aLready, RichIe. You've hAd a rough day. Why shOuld I bother mAking it worse?"

"Because it's what you get off on."

His guide stopped dead. Two bright yellow orbs turned around on him, flaring coldly.

Richie jabbed a defiant index finger in what-he-hoped was the creature's direction.

"No, don't start with that growling shit. You know what I mean. The jumpscares, the teasing, the undermining. It's constant. You're never satisfied. No one else in the club gets the same treatment I do, from you. Now I go off, get washing-machined through Derry's pus-laden undersides, and you're not gonna make the most of it? What are you playing at?"

Why not sort things out, here and now?

With no one else around.

No distractions, no easy-outs.

No one to put on a show for.

Let's hear it.

. . .

"BeiNg human."

...What?

Slowly, Richie glanced around, blinked violently against his blurred vision. He lowered his arm.

Wait, his vision... was it starting to sharpen up?

"...What?"

Suddenly, he couldn't think of anything else.

It couldn't be that simple.

Not for something known only as It.

Shoulders up, Pennywise was glaring down at him, eyes gradually fading from livid yellow back to cool blue.

There it was, that not-smile, not-frown thing the being sometimes did.

It usually indicated he meant what he said.

"It's not aLl about you, RichIe," he hissed. "I came to find you beCause Georgie and BilLy expectEd me to. Why do I nEed any other reaSon?"

Because you're IT .

Richie wanted to say as much, but all that happened was a useless, voiceless wag of his chin.

Incredulity stole his words.

Watching it happen, Pennywise's red lips spread wide in a sharklike grin.

Minus the dozens of pointed teeth, thankfully. He looked sinister enough without them.

"You're fuNny when you'Re confused, too. Maybe thaT's why. LoudmouthS are always the beSt to tease."

Um... 'thanks for not going there'?

Richie felt his stomach drop, saying instead, "I really don't want to know what you mean by that, man."

That answer had been equal parts satisfying and intimidating.

And on they went.

Tozier no longer needed the hand on his shoulder. As long as he kept sight of those crisscrossed laces up the center of Pennywise's back, he knew he was going the right away.

Gradually, by degrees, Richie felt his tingling eyes drying, clearing up. Past experience told him he would still be uselessly impaired, no matter his improvements now. Without his glasses he was little better than Ray Charles at the piano.

And Ray Charles knew his stuff.

Richie didn't know jack about the sewers.

Except they stunk, and he didn't like them.

"How far down are we, Stripes?"

Enough of the tension.

Maybe a more benign subject was called for.

Something to take his mind off all the diseases he had potentionally been exposed to...

"FaR enough. The water took you a wayS. That junCtion was going to caVe anyTime." The gangly being stopped, tilting his head to listen, eyes upturned and askew. Listening for what, only he could say. And he wasn't too sharing on that front.

Richie wandered to a stop, looking up at him.

Without moving, the clown added. "You weRe lucky to wind up wHere you did."

Yeah. That good, old Tozier luck.

"Why didn't you follow me... before?"

Blue eyes glanced sideways at him.

"Georgie asked me to stay."

"...Just like that?"

"Just lIke that," Pennywise repeated. They strode forward, stopped at a T junction. After a brief consideration, he turned right. The climb remained pointed uphill. "BiLly asked me to go after you."

"And, what? Your own conscience was the tiebreaker?"

"Is that whaT it's called? A consciEnCe?"

"Of knowing right from wrong, yeah, I guess," Richie shrugged. Truthfully, he was a little bewildered, to be the one to show It the meaning of the word. "Georgie... he hadn't taught you that yet?"

"No. Not yEt."

So it was only a matter of time.

Just like him and seeing the sun again.

"Did you... you didn't happen to see my glasses anywhere?"

"I loOked, RichIe. I didn'T." Pennywise paused, glancing back long enough to appreciate how the boy's expression sank. "SoRry."

Not your fault.

Richie scratched at his caked-up hair, checking the impulsive response before it could be verbalized.

"You think you could, later, I mean?"

"They'rE probably broken, Richie. You wouldn'T want tHem back."

Dismissive. So much for hoping we'd moved beyond the pettiness that is us.

Still, the creature had a valid point.

"We're almOst there."

"Almost where?"

Another hundred yards on...

. . .

"HeRe."

They stepped into a room. Or the closest thing resembling one down here, with the corners swallowed up in unpenetrable shadow. It was a virtual underground intersection, four tunnel entrances laid out north-south-east-west. In the center, a metal ladder led up through the ceiling.

Richie squinted. "Where does it go?"

"Above ground. BilLy said it's where they would wAit."

That was the important information, right?

Forcing a chuckle, Richie gestured toward the ladder, bending at the waist in a half-bow.

"After you."

Pop.

The silver vanished.

Richie blinked.

"Cheating bastard." He reached out, felt for one of the rungs. It was cold and slippery to the touch. "I'm supposed to climb this thing, half blind?"

Beats staying where you are, Toze.

. . .

Well, I guess it can't be worse than getting ragdolled, and living through it.

Feeling for the ladder's sides, he lifted a foot. Gauging the space between the rungs, it seemed doable.

In a half-assed, take-a-chance way.

He made it about half the distance.

Then his hand slipped as he made to pull himself up again, exactly as he raised a boot.

Three points of contact, at all times. Wasn't that what Dad said once?

Seconds later, Richie was windmilling his arms, about to topple backwards through open space, onto unforgiving cement.

"F-fuck! Iknewit! Knewitwasabadidea!"

"GotcHa!"

Then, he stopped, midfall. He lay there, impossibly-tilted at forty-five degrees. His feet were still on the ladder.

There was a hand, splayed in the middle of his back.

Right between his shoulders.

Keeping him from falling.

Cracking his skull open. On top of everything else.

Richie blinked, stupidly, hardly daring to breathe, let alone move.

"Sss..."

He couldn't even choke out the name.

With a shove from behind, he reached out, trapping himself back against the metal, gripping the ladder in an awkward hug. He clamped his eyes shut, the better to keep them from stinging so fiercely.

Finally, the impulse to cry in frustration had caught up with him.

"This was a bad idea, Jingles. I can't see where I'm going."

But he had come this far...

"Hmm..."

Pop.

Silence.

Seconds passed.

Then, with a rusty, metallic shriek from above...

"Richie!"

Something went slam.

Then the hatch at the top of the ladder swung to one side, flooding the room with light.

The darkness recoiled as if it had been burned away.

Daytime? Had he been down here that long?

Tozier squinted against it. Distorted as his vision was, he would know those overgrown bangs anywhere.

"Bill?"

Outlined against the blue skies above, Denbrough reached in, clearly meaning to pull his lost friend up.

"Keep going, you're almost there."

A second face joined him.

"C'mon, Richie!"

Georgie.

"WeLl? What are you waiTing for?"

The voice of his 'guide dog' drifted up from somewhere underneath, spurring him on.

Leading from behind rather than in front.

Wasn't that just like It?

Richie didn't dare look down, see how high he really was off the floor.

But something in the back of his head said, this was it. If he climbed up, reunited with Bill and Georgie, Pennywise wouldn't be joining them.

At least... not right away.

He would keep to the dark, the place he knew more of.

Where he was comfortable, at home.

They had had their fill of nitpicking and ribbing today, hadn't they? And then some?

They could always... pick it up again later.

He supposed.

Richie chanced a look down.

With blue eyes, Pennywise's upturned face smirked at him.

Perhaps he had been thinking just the same thing.

"Mind your sTep, TrashmOuth."

Pop.

Mites of dust swirled in the light where he once stood.

Same goes for you, clown.

Chapter Text

There were only so many places it could have gone.

The act of actually finding the little, blue sports car, that much the clown was not worried about.

He was more upset with notion of locking the bedroom door, albeit only a tad. Despite his flippant manner and intent to adhere to the terms of the bet, Pennywise frowned as he had turned the lock.

Then the frown spread further at him sensing a brief rush of muted disappointment radiate through the frame.

He stopped, laid a hand flat against the closed door.

Sorry, Georgie.

But it was the only way to ensure the boy wouldn't leave the house while his otherworldly caretaker was absent.

The kid had once thought it a good idea to chase a paper boat down a flooded street, after all. For fun. It didn't matter if the plan had been a joint effort between himself and his older brother. Left to his own devices while ill, who knew what trouble Georgie would find?

Plucking the other Losers out of their various troubles, playing the siphon for their bad moods, mending their hurts, that was exhausting stuff.

Pennywise supposed he was owed a simpler task - for a change.

For once in his dwindling yea-

No, don't think about that. Not now.

The racecar.

Where was it?

There was no need to look physically, per se. But eyes were easier to imitate than pulling from just raw energies.

Bassey Park offered a wide range of settings and activities for a visitor to pick from. There was the sizable pavilion for hosting events, anything from birthday parties to Fourth of July cook-outs. There were open fields for throwing frisbees and flying kites. There was even a summertime concessions area, where no less than four lunchtruck vendors parked to serve their food and drinks to a needy public.

And then there was the playground, which its usual cast of attractions.

The slides.

The swings.

The towering jungle gym.

A quartet of see-saws.

The monster-truck tires half buried in sandy pits.

The merry-go-round.

That thing seemed... kinda dangerous.

Pennywise scoffed quietly, loitering in the shadows beneath said device. With gloved fingers he shifted through the sand, panning, brushing carefully, digging occasionally. Right now, the spinning metal contraption was idle. The nearest family of four were engaged with playing on the swings.

Sometimes it seemed to spin so fast the riders were in peril of being thrown off. It wasn't as if the thing had an emergency brake. And you could break an arm trying to reach out and snag a passing bar.

Ow.

Pennywise flinched, ducking an inch lower as the giant plate lurched on its pivot point. Someone had raced over and jumped aboard. The metallic reverb it gave off at the impact was not unlike a poor imitation of a gong.

Or so it felt like to his hyperaware ears.

Distractedly, the wincing entity rubbed at the new sore spot at the top of his head.

Merry-go-round.

Sure.

Slinking around underneath it looking for a lost toy it isn't advisable, either.

The Eddie-voice sounded especially deadpan today.

Hunkering down even lower, he crept toward the disc's outer edge.

What would the racecar be doing this far back in the pit, anyway?

"Courtney, look at this!"

Pennywise froze mid-creep, eyes widening.

Oh, no.

A set of sneakers raced by, then stopped. Then the denim-clad legs turned to one side, feet repositioned themselves as the girl stooped down.

Don't say they-

Then a small hand reached down, digging determinedly into the sand, brushing away the grains to reveal a bit of glinting, blue metal.

"Someone lost their Hot Wheels."

"Oh, that's a cool one, too!"

Pennywise's red lips curled up in a mute snarl.

Well. That's what you get for delaying needlessly, dummy.

Shut- no. Hrmph. I guess that's true.

The snarl eased away, and It practiced a deserved eye roll.

Not even in his own head did he have the nerve to disobey a Beverly-voice.

The unseen creature swallowed the saliva already pooling in his mouth, crawled up to the carousel's shadowed edge, like a burrowing spider about to pounce from its lair, and thought fast.

No.

He couldn't just leap out in broad daylight. But what if-

Aw, hell. Don't overthink it! Just go!

If you say so, Richie-voice.

Lost?

"No, hE didN't!"

It struck.

Forgoing a human hand, two slimy octopus-tentacle-like extensions lashed out, wrapping around the girl's ankle.

With a high scream to rival any black-and-white horror classic, both girls fled at Roadrunner-speed back across the sandpit.

The forgotten racecar hit the ground with a barely-audible tink.

Snickering wickedly, Pennywise crawled back into the shadows. Mission objective - complete. The little blue coupe fit neatly in the center of his palm. With a fingertip, he brushed the last few sand particles off its curvy hood.

Too easy.

Now, Stan-voice, why do you have to go spoiling It's victory?

Already, It could hear the frantic girls' hysteric voices, talking on top of one another, pleading with their bemused parents. Mingled with their elders' growing-ever-dismissive thoughts, already the situation was leaning in the creature's favor there.

No, there really was a monster under the merry-go-round.

Now, Shannon, you can't be serious.

We saw it, I'm telling you.

Courtney, we've had the monsters-don't-exist talk already.

Something touched my leg!

Pennywise scoffed to himself. If only they knew.

There was a time he would have done a lot worse.

Occasionally, he still did.

No, there's nothing here. Go on about your day.

A little nudge in the right direction. There's an ice cream cart over that way. Smooth this over with a sundae or three.

Sweets after a good fright. Classic diversion. Never failed.

When normally...

No, don't go there. Nothing about this waking year had been normal.

Not even by Its standards.

And, once another sleep cycle had passed, he was sure he wouldn't change a thing.

Would be.

Would be sure.

Now, back to-

Wait.

Pennywise glanced down, lunminescent eyes narrowing to slits. He froze, taking a second, longer look at the toy in his hand.

Something was different about it.

Different than before.

The racecar. With its metal body, plastic windshield...

Rubber wheels.

Prone to detaching.

Torpodeoed by inane circumstance or simple bad luck, the cosmic entity's good mood sank.

The wheels. One was missing. Front, driver's side.

Georgie, you'd better have gotten some sleep. I don't care about the bet you had at this point. Pen kept you up for hours when you could have been resting. No, I am gonna have a talk with him about that.

That kinda sounded like a Bill-voice's most likely tirade, anyway.

Hours.

It wouldn't take hours to find a missing wheel less than a centimeter wide.

But then... when had it come loose? Upon hitting the sand? When Georgie first set it atop the metal plate yesterday, pretended to run it along the rounded edge like an inverted race track? Could it have happened as it was thrown away by centrifugal force?

Or... even before that?

Pennywise snorted, shook his head, growing disgruntled all over again.

He had found the thing.

Did it really matter what shape it was in?

He could virtually conjure up a new one.

But that wouldn't feel... genuine.

It'd feel fake, phony.

When their friendship was anything but.

No, Georgie would notice. Ask what happened to it.

Stuck at home, nearly-sick. Tied to a stupid wager.

He had already endured enough disappointment for one day.

That mattered.

Especially now.

Mind made up, Pennywise stashed the car at the merry-go-round's rusty base. Then he took to sifting through the dark expanse of sand again, eyes sharp.

Determination's one thing. Foolishness is another.

While it sounded unconvinced, Ben-voice wouldn't say as much. But if the thought had its own face, that would be the look it wore.

Determindedly foolish.

That was about how well you could sum up, not only this excursion, but this new calling of Its' as a whole.

If sparing some eight kids from ever ending up on your proverbial-slash-literal dinner plate could ever be considered a calling.

But therein lay the benefit to being older than time. Who did you ever need to answer to?

Besides yourself.

With his new search turning up empty, It ventured out into the sun.

Shrunk down to a near-invisible size, no one would pay the silver speck a second look.

Biking to Bassey Park, Georgie had kept the racecar in his jacket pocket. Any jarring movement could have pried and loosened the wheel. Say it had fallen out of said pocket on the way. That was a lot of ground to cover between here and the Denbrough household.

He drifted to a stop at the sidewalk's edge, senses wide open. Sets of feet walked by, headed either direction. The cars on the road before him parroted the same movement, bearing their drivers on to any number of untold destinations.

Georgie knows better than to ride on the shoulder, not without Bill or one of us there. Check the sidewalk, man.

Last and never least, Mike-voice, ever, forever helpful.

He wasn't far off.

There, where the curb met the cracking street, wedged up against the remnants of a crabgrass cluster. Two blocks from the house, five from the park.

Really, the boy hadn't noticed by the time he reached the merry-go-round?

Well, if he had, Georgie was too good natured to care, to fuss. Three wheels were just as good for rolling across metal playground fixtures with.

His toy car had still been in his pocket.

That was the important part.

Still, Pennywise thought, back under the carousel, wedging the missing component back onto the naked axle, still worth it.

Once the clown told him what had ensued, Georgie would appreciate his guardian's going the extra mile.

He always did.

"C'mon, Shan, whatever it was, it's gotta be gone now."

Smile fading, Pennywise glanced through the sides of his eyes.

He recognized those sneakers, if not the set of sandals that strode next to them.

Walking back toward the merry-go-round.

Noo... This again? I thought I sent you away for ice cream.

Their voices approached just as quick.

"See? I'll take a look."

"No! What if it gets you, too?"

"Then how 'bout we both look? On three."

How nice of them to give me a countdown.

Oh, well.

He could have one last bit of fun before departing.

"One... two... three!"

He crept forward, halting just shy of the shadow's edge.

Both dropped to their hands and knees. Nervous eyes peered under the carousel.

With his eyes gone white, Pennywise flashed them a razor-toothed smile and waved.

"Boo."

They squealed and scurried backwards so fast, one lost a sandal and didn't even look back to reclaim it. The other girl slipped on her undone shoelaces. All that was missing was a cartoonish dustcloud left in their wake.

Demonic laughter spurred them on, completely uncaring of who heard it.

Five minutes later, the still-shaking girls returned, with an exasperated Dad now in tow.

Together they looked.

Only to find there was nothing there.

Ohh... what happened here?

Glancing around the now-disheveled bedroom, Pennywise bit one of his knuckles.

But it was only to keep from bursting out in manic laughter.

Here, it wasn't called for.

Then, belatedly, the clown thought to step the rest of the way into the room and close the open door. No need for Bill to return home and see this inexplicable mess, not after having to suffer through another unwanted afterschool debate class.

What Georgie had gotten up to in the meantime, trying his darndest not to go to sleep, the evidence littering the room could not even begin to be discerned. It was like a pint-sized tornado had blown through.

Books lay about the floor, splayed open upon their pages. Already gravity had started to bend their spines out of shape.

Along with those were just as many recognizable staples: the LEGOs, the Slinky, the xylophone. All stood overseen by a multi-species herd of stuffed animals.

The closet looked like it had been detonated from within, as an avalanche brought down all the trees on a mountainside.

The drawers of his desk had been pulled out. Scribbled-on, half-crumpled papers had been strawn haphazardly about. Crayons and colored pencils lay unattended among them.

And of all the places to crash, Georgie - still in his PJs, despite all the once-folded clothing thrown about the room like some chimpanzee had raided his dresser - had fallen asleep at the foot of the bed, facing the bedroom window. Curled up on himself like a cat, he was basking in the afternoon sunshine.

Funny. One would think, feeling a touch feverish, that the boy would try to avoid getting warmer.

Still chuckling quietly, Pennywise glanced over at the vacant head of the bed. There, the pillow, sheets, and blanket had been shoved into a useless, rejected wad in the corner.

And, going by the clock in the kitchen, he had been gone all of an hour.

Unbelievable.

He moved closer, easily avoiding the mess with one exaggerated goose step, pausing only to set the recovered racecar back on the corner of the dresser. It stood out like a little blue jewel against all the clutter.

Then, soundlessly, he curled up behind and beside Georgie. There was just enough room to spare if the entity laid on his side.

"Not even sleepy."

You were, just not the way you thought.

Then you figured it out.

And turned into a right little terror about it.

For good measure, Pennywise reached over the boy's shoulder to deal him another affectionate nose-flick. The bells hanging off his forearm gave a soft ting with the sharp movement.

Resting deep, Georgie hardly stirred. His face wrinkled at being touched, or at the sound of the bell, and he mumbled something half-incoherent. His clenched hands, once held balled up before his face, tightened and relaxed.

His mind emitted nothing but the steady, gentle pulse that came with an untroubled sleep.

After venting all of its very-likely-repressed fury on the world around it.

Instead of on the people it knew.

Pennywise ignored the dark realizations lingering, unwelcome, at the back of his mind and smirked instead.

Smart, Georgie. Very smart.

Sunlight continued to stream through the glass, casting its pleasant heat over both of their bodies.

Content to wait, Pennywise folded one arm below his head to lean on.

The other arm he laid across Georgie's shoulder in a half-hug, gloved fingers nestling into the boy's hair.

Forget sleep.

Forget dark thoughts.

Basking sounded good right about now.

Chapter Text

At midnight, there was silence.

Punctuated only by singing crickets and the never-ending drone of frogs.

Until...

"Errr... go aWay!"

Flashlight on, Mike looked up from the book propped against his knees, frowning.

He had moved a short distance from the Barrens campsite. He usually read to help himself go to sleep, but with the others already out, he had taken a seat at the clearing's edge. Reclining against a log, he kept the beam of light pointed down.

Amazingly enough, no light-craving bugs had pestered him in the past thirty minutes.

Then the tiny bells started jingling.

"Something wrong, Pen?"

Looking up, Mike realized how utterly pointless that question had been.

Pennywise had sidestepped away from the other Losers' sleeping bags. His scrunched-up expression was apparent even by starlight, let alone torchlight.

He was being dogged by no less than four luna moths.

Right up in his face.

Not counting all the little speck-like insects that were too numerous to mention.

Oh, wait. Too late.

Did we mention that?

Pennywise blinked hard and flinched backwards, as one brave soul tried to land on his nose. Its green wings fluttered, a harried, excited movement. Weakly, as if he were actually apprehensive of killing the thing, he swept it aside and took another half step in near-retreat.

Only to be set upon by the next moth in line.

Whining, he batted as ineffectually at this one as the first.

"MikEy, maKe them stop!"

Hanlon almost put his book down. Almost clicked the flashlight off.

Then he remembered the escapade with the mug of not-tea.

And he smiled.

Knowing a six-foot-plus clown creature with luminescent eyes was good for something after all.

Chapter Text

An hour later, the sun-basking session ended.

Time to undo the damage.

Then Georgie paused mid-bedroom-clean-up, spying the blue prize sitting atop his dresser. Funny that it had been fifteen minutes before he had even bothered asking, what fate had befallen the precious bit of metal. Fever broken, his face lit up with instant excitement.

The group of stuffed animals, once in his arms, hit the floor as he moved to grab it, to make sure the car was real.

"You found it!"

Across the room, Pennywise paused, half-smirking as he recalled the events at the park, before sliding an open desk drawer shut.

"Did you thiNk I wouldn't?"

"No..."

But the way the boy's eyes slid away, like he were trying to sidle his way out of answering.

Pennywise didn't believe an atom of it.

In an instant, he was crouched down beside the boy, affecting his best pretend-threatening hiss: "LiaR."

Georgie glanced sidelong at him, features taut as he struggled to keep a straight face. Then the clown leaned even closer to his ear, eyebrow raised. "HmMm?"

"I didn't." A moment later, he relented, spinning one of the racecar's wheels for emphasis. "Okay, but only for a second."

This earned him a gentle tug on the ear in reprimand. "Less. LesS than a second."

"What's less than a second, Penny?"

Pennywise frowned, tilted his head, pretending to consider the literacy of that. Timekeeping science was not his forte, wake-sleep cycles notwithstanding. "...HalF? Then half of a half?"

"Ugh." Georgie affected a pained face, held his head in both hands. "No fractions, please. I hate doing those."

The glove let go of his earlobe.

Flick.

"You diD ask."

Denbrough jumped, rubbing fitfully at his 'offended' nose as if it had been punched. "Well, next time, don't answer me."

"I can't not ansWer you, Georgie."

"Yes, you can."

A low, unconvinced hrmph answered him.

"Not when you aSk like that."

Georgie turned around, looked up, and almost stepped back.

Pennywise stood there, half-crouched above him, one hand raised, as if he were about to swear some weird oath.

Wait.

Why was he smiling?

"Like what?"

"ThiS!"

There wasn't much in the way of free space left in the room (even if they had spent the last ten minutes policing up the sharper objects). Caught off guard by the gentle push, Georgie stumbled back and half-fell against the pile of clothing. Arguably, it was a soft landing. He slipped on a disheveled pile of shirts, attempting to get back up.

Then he was pinned. Gloved hands found his sides, tickling mercilessly.

And from there it was all downhill.

"Penny, no! Stop! I- ah-ha-ha! Please, no!"

Immediately, Georgie was reduced to a fit of helpless giggles, kicking and trying in vain to worm his way out of reach.

Oh, the number of times one of their 'disagreements' had ended in this fashion.

He had long ago lost count how many it had been.

They seemed to average one every three days.

Georgie hated fractions, but didn't mind averages.

"N-no- ah-ha-ha-hee! No fair! Ha, no, stop! I can't- Ha-hee-ha!"

Then one of the gloves found his face, holding it easily in the wide span between thumb and index finger, pinching his cheeks.

Not enough to hurt. No, never.

Through his watery, squinting eyes, the boy could just see Pennywise's expression, leering down at him, teeth bared in a playfully-mocking grin.

"Can't wHat, Georgie boy? What caN't you do?"

The other hand never stopped, creeping under the hem of his shirt, fingers fluttering against his ribs.

"I-I-I, e-hee-hee-hee! I-I c-can't, heh, a-a-ssk you anyotherway! Ah, no! N-not there!"

This happened every time.

First the sides, then under the arms. Worse and worse.

No matter how he twisted and wriggled, Georgie could never seem to get free.

The one time he almost had, Pennywise had simply reached out with one long arm, grabbed him by the ankle, and dragged him back across the carpet.

Carefully. Always carefully.

Their tickle fights never actually got anybody hurt.

Bill had worried at first. He thought the creature would be too rough, not know his own strength. Or that Georgie was too fragile, too sensitive to withstand such prolonged 'torture' in the name of harmless fun.

As time went on, with every passing session, he grew less and less concerned.

No one ever complained. No one got an accidental kick in the face. No one suffered as much as a little rug burn.

Were he to come home to this sight, Bill would have simply taken one unbothered glance into the bedroom, and then kept on walking back to his own. Tickling. Nothing unusual about that sight.

Before racing back to do an open-mouthed double-take at the carnage Georgie had wrought upon his belongings.

Finally, the fluttering eased, and the pleasant tremors racing along teased nerves ceased.

Georgie held his sides protectively, almost hiccuping as he gasped for air. Trying to calm down, he slowly went from overblown laughter to muted snickering. He turned on his side, face burying into a once-folded sweater, glancing up with one eye.

He didn't have long to look up at, as Pennywise flopped down beside him, content to wedge his own face up in amidst the expansive pile of clothes. His glowing eyes, still a bright, effervescent blue, peered up from the gap between two shirts.

"You can aSk me anYthing, GeorgIe. You knoW that, yeS?"

"What took you so long, then?" Denbrough blurted out, but not unaffectionately. Already he had lost his grip on the racecar in question. They would find it again, sometime after esuming the bedroom cleanup.

But for now, he wanted a story-slash-explanation.

"So loNg?" Pennywise likely sensed this, and rose up on his elbows. He frowned and braced his knuckles against his striped cheek, forever-exaggerating his changes in expression, in keeping with his chosen guise. "You liTtle imp, I wasN't gone more tHan an hOur."

"Then why lock the door on me? I wouldn't've left!"

"Nooo?"

"No, silly." Georgie sat up on his hands, a bit defensive and not averse to tapping into the leftover outrage he had felt just before naptime ensued. "No, I wouldn't've. You know I wouldn't, and you locked it anyway."

Pennywise flinched at the accusatory finger that prodded his red nose, but otherwise, he was unmoved. "I'm soRry, GeorgIe. MayBe I shouldn't haVe. But if I diDn't, and Billy had come home- "

"That was his idea?" Crestfallen, Georgie's face fell in kind. He went from incensed to disappointed in a heartbeat. To think, he wasn't well behaved enough already, that someone thought that was necessary, least of all Billy. "To lock me up?"

"No, GeorgIe. But he told mE you were to stay home, no matTer what. He was wOrried. If you got sickEr..."

Pennywise trailed off, looking more uncertain with every passing second. His eyes strayed apart, and he slowly eased down to rest his chin on his folded arms.

"If I got sicker, what?" Georgie felt suddenly, ridiculously compelled to ask. He crawled close. When the clown didn't so much as glance his way, he turned around and struggled to get even closer, just managing to thread his way through a gap underneath one massive arm. "What would've happened, Penny?"

After what-seemed-like-forever, Pennywise finally looked over at him.

The grin he sported now seemed almost... pained, almost forced.

But it was there.

The arm lying across Georgie's shoulders lifted momentarily. "It'S okAy. You diDn't, anD I found youR racecar anyway. WiN-win?"

Georgie blinked as his unkempt hair was ruffled, and he said nothing.

Suddenly, he knew. He knew without having to be told.

He just nuzzled in deep, into his favorite place in between Pennywise's chin and ruffled collar.

Wordlessly, the entity let him, arm wrapping back around and underneath the boy's chest.

Georgie kneaded a satin frill between his fingers, letting his moistening eyes drop shut.

Yeah, win-win.

Their wager.

No winner, no loser.

A draw.

That was fine.

Didn't matter if he had been locked up or not.

Neither of them wanted to admit what might have been missed.

It was "win" enough just to be back together again.

Chapter Text

For all his metaphorical strides in the past year, learning as many new things as he had, there are some things about human beings It figured he would never understand.

Particularly the intricacies of what it meant for the male of the species to beat up on one another in an act that somehow signified affection.

Verbally, and often physically.

Richie and Eddie seemed to demonstrate it the most often. Occasionally, they would talk Mike into their roughhousing, but that was a rare occurence. Simply because the homeschooled kid was used to farmwork did not meant he necessarily enjoyed living rough besides.

Besides, wasn't Eddie a bit fragile for that sort of thing? He bruised easily. Paper cuts for others meant stitches for him. Some days one could hardly glance at him without enduring some hysterical lecture about the importance of "knocking first!"

Then again, Pennywise had mistimed that one. Never again would he try to drop in on Eddie, or any of the the Losers, in the morning, particularly when they were in a delicate state of mid-dress.

Oops.

Hearing the story, Richie Tozier's reaction was on par with a grand mal seizure.

If epilepsy caused laughter.

Looking on, his expression bordering on murderous, Eddie had the self control to not wring his friend's neck. His hands stayed where they were, curled tightly around his bike's handlebars.

Handlebars not to be confused with a certain someone's neck, mind you.

Instead, he settled for a scathing remark: "You know, for hating clowns, you seem to get a lot of enjoyment out of having this guy around."

Without waiting for the guffawing to stop (Richie was practically hiccuping now), Kaspbrak rounded on his next target, who crouched between them, expression blank.

"And you, you didn't need to tell him."

"Ha- he- how could he not?" Richie choked out, before the cosmic entity could fathom an answer. "Ruffles, you just made my week."

Caught in limbo between feeling pride at having earned Tozier's hard-won approval (in the way he had least expected, no less) and enduring the wrath of Eddie's fierce temper, Pennywise could only think of one thing to say.

"...You're weLcome?"

This, of course, sent Richie into another uncontrollable fit of sniggering. Within seconds he was wound into a convulsing ball on the ground.

"You-you're- urgh!" Eddie's hands worked spastically into fists before dropping to his sides. The clown's genuinely-innocently-baffled expression seemed to be working on him. The boy had seemingly successfully avoided punching him in retaliation. "Jesus, you're frustrating."

"That, and he's got his Georgie impersonation down pat now," Richie gasped, breathing heavy as he found his lost composure, and kept hold of it. Barely. "I mean, look at that! Shirley Temple couldn't do better."

There was a word for this.

What had Ben defined it as? Being compared to someone of apparent celebrity was a compliment, right?

"Thank yoU?"

Staggering, one last laugh leaving his system, Richie regained his feet. "Okay, dude, stop. We didn't call you here to practice your manners."

"We are a bit early, though." Reclining atop his bike, Eddie glanced at his watch. The change in topic was most welcome, from his point of view. "I don't know how I managed that, but I know Bill has the usual chores to do before he and Georgie can fly the coop."

Pennywise's already-off-center eyes drifted further askew in thought. "Hmm. Should I check on tHem?"

"Nah. Then they really wouldn't get anything done," Richie reasoned, arms folding behind his head. "And if you did, Eds and I aren't going a stone's throw around that place right now."

Pennywise blinked, eyes realigned. "How come?"

"You've seen their parents? If you think it's bad they don't pay enough attention to Bill and Georgie, it's even worse when they do. They're yessir-noma'am incarnate."

"You just made that up," Eddie accused.

"How else can I put it into words Stripes here will actually understand?"

Pennywise frowned, gaze turning flat not at feeling offended, but at thinking of Beverly, actually.

Versus the Denbroughs, there was no contest in who had the less-savory hand of cards. How she had retreated to the rooftop after four days of confinement, and how the entity had learned that, rather than phone her friends, lest they know the horror that was her home life, she thought avoiding everyone was the solution.

"There are worSe parents in DerRy."

Perhaps sensing how he had veered into dangerous waters, going by the clown's unusually-thoughtful silence, Richie wisely recanted. "Yeah, I guess."

"And not just among us," Eddie went on, his expression growing distant. "You gotta wonder, all the missing ones, they can't all be missing because Mom said 'no TV for a month', or Dad left the front door unlocked?"

"You're saying some of them wanted to go missing?" Richie asked. Adjusting his glasses, turning the sun's glare away, he was mercifully oblivious to their gangly companion's fleeting moment of jaw-clenching, gaze darting away almost guiltily. "Maybe. But that can't be said for most, Eds. As much as I hate my home life, I'd hate ending up in a ditch somewhere even more."

Swallowing the bitterness that was thinking an overgrown, rutty ditch was the best place any of the Losers could end up, associating with the likes of him, Pennywise forced a sigh.

"How much lonGer?" he almost growled.

"You know, maybe you should- "

Snap.

That was all the permission Pennywise needed to vanish.

Staring at the now-vacant space between them, Richie took in Eddie's bewildered expression and shrugged, mimicking it threefold. "What got inta him?"

Trundling down the sidewalk, steering his bike alongside Bill's, Georgie swung his leg over the frame, kicked to stand up on the pedals, and listened to Richie's recounting of the last two hours.

Two hours waiting for the Denbrough boys to finish the morning's dishes and tidying their bedrooms, and thus far, Pennywise had not returned.

"I hate it when he does that."

"We thought he was off to see you two," Eddie explained.

"He would have, eventually," Richie concluded. He rode in the street, practicing his role as the embodiment of kinetic motion, weaving aimlessly around a pothole. "Good luck guessing when. Stripes is his own man- beast, demon... thing."

"He's not a thing," Georgie insisted, so automatically and so fiercely the subject clearly brokered no further debate.

Smiling patiently at his brother's over-insisting tone, Bill brushed his bangs from his eyes. "Well, w-we know he'll find us when he's ready. There's no rushing that. Now let's get Ben."

Initially, the plan had been to recruit everyone, to resume the woodworking job that had sprung up, and quickly grown out of control, in the heart of the Barrens. And by 'woodworking' one would refer to the haphazardly-leaning hut made of branches, sticks, old leaf tarps, flattened cardboard boxes, currently standing tall in a thicket of close-growing oak trees.

While the Losers already had their perfectly-imperfect clubhouse in the form of 29 Neibolt Street, the appeal of constructing their own homage out of whatever refuse and building materials that could be cobbled together was too entertaining a project to pass up.

"Project" was too dignified a word for this sight, Stan Uris decided.

"Mess" was closer to the truth.

Completely and utterly.

"Think we should stop 'em?" he mumbled, chin resting in his hand.

While the others toiled, he and Beverly had opted to sit this leg of the construction out. They stood guard over the group's cache of backpacks, lunchboxes, and bikes. Six sets of hands trying to erect what a sorry-excuse-for-a-hut that was were more than enough.

Stanley sat in the crook of an overarching oak root, curving up from the ground like a giant talon, its tip buried in the soil. Claiming to be suffering from a sore back, he kept his hands clean for the sake of passing out snacks later.

Beverly leaned against a nearby pine tree, seemingly unbothered by the possibility of sap dripping into her hair, or staining her clothes. She had taken one look at the boys' endeavor and broken out a cigarette. In no way was she going to be associated with this farce of a structure.

"No, let them have their fun," she decided after a moment's pause. She exhaled slowly. "It's only a matter of time before they lose interest, or run outta nails. Pounding hammers is more work than entertainment."

"I guess so," Stan agreed. He reached up to wipe his nose, a mild dose of allergens having induced the sniffles in him. "Georgie said they were thinking of naming it."

"Really?" Beverly smirked. As if the hut ever would have a chance to reach a completed state, the younger Denbrough was already thinking of what to christen the sorry thing. Oh, to be six-years-old again. "What for? It's not like it's gonna survive the next big thunderstorm."

"Something to remember it by, I guess," Stan shrugged, then thought twice. A twinge ran up his back, just loudly enough to be heard. He hissed and gripped his shoulder. "It's fine, I'm fine." He waved off Beverly's suddenly-concerned fawning, struggling to his feet. "I just need a good stretch."

"What'd you do?" The redhead took a final drag on the cigarette, stamping it out amidst the wet pine needles.

"Nothing, I just slept on it wrong," Stan muttered, twisting his shoulders to one side, then the other. He sighed as something popped and realigned itself, and stopped aching so badly in the process. "Pen needs to lay off with the bearhugs."

"Ohh," Beverly smiled.

That had been a fun afternoon at Neibolt, as per Georgie's instructions, Pennywise had ambushed each of them with an unexpected embrace. The creature claimed it was just a show of fondness on his part, demonstrating to them how "well" he knew how to perform the act, and he was making sure each of them got "a fair share".

Why it mattered so much to him that he spent half a day on such an endeavor, that was anyone's guess.

Except maybe Georgie's.

But the little boy hadn't confirmed or denied anything.

The smile wavered as Beverly blinked, realizing just what was missing from their otherwise-perfect equation.

That was what had felt so out of sorts about this.

And why Georgie didn't look so enthused with the idea of hammering sticks together.

"Pen, he... Where is he?"

What went unspoken was the flush of shame that rose inside her.

I forgot.

I actually forgot.

How?

Feigning a distraction, Stan scratched at his hair. The restrained look of alarm on his face said Beverly hadn't been alone in mistakenly-overlooking their mascot's absence. "Not sure. Richie said he split before they met with Bill and George. And that was this morning."

"Where to?"

"You think Richie wouldn't have told me if he knew?"

Reaching the same conclusion, the pair of sentries slowly glanced around, as if there were unseen eyes suddenly watching their every move in the "seemingly safe" thicket.

Or worse, it was as if none were watching at all.

Not... anymore.

"...Yeah, I don't like that, either."

Wait. Stop. Wait. No!

You don't want to - don't, no! Idiot, I told you to "wait"!

The animal in him wasn't listening anymore.

Almost as if someone had flipped a switch in his psyche, It was back in control, in body and mind.

And it very much liked where this afternoon was going. Nothing he told himself would stop the eager chattering of his mandibles, pre or post kill.

True, this was a major, major backstep on his part. But no one was going to know that. The Losers wouldn't know, and Derry certainly wouldn't care.

And even if they did, they would forget.

Maybe not forgive.

But certainly forget.

In time, he was sure he could even convince himself to forget.

Ribbons of torn cloth, the remnants of a once-pristine baseball uniform, adorned the four-year-old's body like horrid garnish. Facedown in the stream, where she had been driven, It snatched the carcass up in both forelimbs, serrated mouthparts fastened securely to the back of the girl's neck.

Moving quickly on its remaining six feet, he scrambled for the nearby drainpipe.

Back to the sewers, back to the cistern.

Thunder rumbled outside, as if Mother Nature were voicing her wordless displeasure, driving him back underground.

He kept moving.

All the while, the half-spun threads of spiraling, conflicting, ever-intersecting logic (a simpler, saner person might call them his "inner voices") would give him no peace.

Idiot, idiot, IDIOT.

Shut up! I am not!

You weren't that hungry.

Ha! Says you. What's wrong with planning a bit further ahead?

"Further ahead"? Do you not see how skinny this twerp is?

Ohh? What're you gonna do about it, then?

Nothing, if you stick to your word.

My word. My word is my own. I can bend or break it as I see fit.

Bend or break. Hmph!

So you'd do the same to Georgie and not bat an eye? Or Bev? Or Stan?

That's different. They're different.

Sorry, bucko. At the end of the day, they're not that different. Pretend all you want. Ration all you want. You know this small fry isn't gonna keep you satiated for long.

Then what're you gonna do?

He practically threw the body aside upon reaching the cistern. Curling tightly in on himself, he fell to the cold stone floor, quivering talons arranged atop his armored head, creaky joints all atremble.

Three months.

This kill would suffice him for one.

If that. Maybe.

Still, it had to be done. Better to cull some hapless, fourth-born runt whose parents forgot to pick them up from tee-ball practice than hurt the ever-present cluster of eight souls still loitering in the Barrens.

He had his favorites.

Favorites weren't food.

They weren't.

Chapter Text

This kid took himself far too seriously.

That was the gidst of it.

One could argue he had cause. To be so on-edge, every minute of every day. After all, how easy could it be, playing sheepdog to a gang of eight brats who had somehow made the do-not-eat list?

Goodness knew our original It had no such duties to attend to back in his own dimension. Nor had he ever pretended to.

Pretend.

This 'younger' (and certainly dumber) version of himself did a lot more socializing besides what was required. That is, too much. Any socializing whatsoever was to be considered, in itself, a lot more. All because, what, besides their fear and their flesh, humanity also had hugs, kisses, and scratches to offer?

Guh-ross.

Therefore, It would have liked nothing better at the moment than to visibly retch.

But, here in close company, that would be too obvious.

So instead, he smirked at the yarn being spun before him, and rested his cheek on his fist.

"You're kiddin'."

"Nyh uh, nope," the boy - this universe's equivilant of Georgie Denbrough - shook his head vigorously. Sitting beside him at the kitchen table, the kid's feet swung, back and forth, toes barely scraping the floor. "That's what really happened."

"Like love at first sight?"

"Sorta," Georgie pulled a half-scrunched-up face, like he couldn't decide whether to be disgusted or convinced first. "But we don't- "

Chuckling warmly, It dealt the kid a soft, harmless punch to the shoulder. "Didn't mean it that way, kiddo."

Pop.

Then there was the sound of bells, striding their way.

"Something I'm miSsing?"

Aaand right on cue.

It raised a penciled-on eyebrow.

"Easy, Mama Bear, we're just talkin'."

Still, a protective arm threaded its way between them, a gloved hand catching Georgie's bicep.

Two weeks, on and off, and you keep actin' like I'm eyin' this one up the most.

Already had mine, thanks. You can keep yours.

"AboUt...?"

Oblivious to the newly-arrived tension, or simply chosing to ignore it, Denbrough glanced between them, radiant smile returning. "The day we met, Penny. D'you remember?"

"Yes."

Oop. Don't think I didn't see that little eye twitch, bucko.

Despite the sheer unnatural nature of this 'friendship', it was strangely adorable to see just how invested this Being had become in one puny mortal.

Even if it was only a passing fancy.

Even if, in Its neck of the woods, things had gone quite differently.

But here and now, it was not wise to bring that up. No, sir.

"I especially liked the part where you scared him, now that was good stuff."

"Where I scared him?"

"Yeah, I'mean, did you even know? Where your boat landed once it went down the drain? Or him, lookin' up, wonderin', 'Now, what's that noise I hear'? Bam! Nailed him right between the eyes, had to've. Laid him out like a rug."

Insert anvil-crashing sound effect here.

"I waSn't scared," Pennywise retorted, as flatly as flat could be.

But the resulting deadpan expression and tone had the desired effect.

Georgie took one look at his gangly guardian, pictured the scene as described, and went into a snickering fit, face held in his hands.

Again, was he amused or ashamed? Who could tell?

"She didn't hit you there, did she, Penny?"

"No, GeorGie. Our buddy here jusT likes to... embeliSh."

"Now, there you go with your five-dollar words again," It remarked, tapping a random sequence of gloved fingertips against the table, if only in pseudo-thought. With the same hand, he gestured at the silvery form that was so totally-opposite to his own. "Are you tryin' to turn into Ben, or is that happenin' all on its own?"

Sniping was just as good at this level as it was from on high.

With the added perk of a third party. Then it was just friendly competition.

Like snapping a wishbone.

Which being would earn the bigger half of Georgie's confidance with this story?

Even if it was only being done to pass the time, to get this version of Itself so riled up was worth the price of admission alone.

If only he'd stop being such a sore loser...

He may see the fun in it for himself.

Just as It predicted, Pennywise gave a noncommital huff and full-body twitch, a mental reset masquerading as an unconscious tic. Perhaps that was why he fancied bells. The delightful tinging did wonders for counterpointing an angry utterance or violent motion.

How wonderful, in how contrived it was.

"Make up yoUr own mind on that, oLd man. We both knOw whatever I say, you'll just twiSt it to suit you."

Oh, you sulky imitation peppermint. Like you aren't guilty of that, too.

"What can I say? Nature of the beast, kid."

Georgie gaped, as if the once-conventional expression were a whole new, fascinating animal. "What does that mean?"

"What it is to be stucK in your ways, GeorgIe."

"Easy, bucko. I'm not meanin' to bash any ears. While you were busy pilin' up Zs, little Denny and I got caught up."

Gasp!

"You were sleeping, Penny?" Georgie glanced between them. To his credit, his eyes didn't get bigger. If anything, they narrowed in newfound contemplation. "You never sleep."

Just because you haven't seen him do it doesn't mean it don't happen, kid.

"I wasn't."

Aand there we have the painfully-predictable retort. Seriously, I could write a checklist for every reaction I've ever gotten out of you. And then a behavior manual to abide by, according to that.

In lieu of pouring more salt on that wound, It raised a prompting eyebrow, glancing up through the tops of his sky-blue eyes.

Two months, and counting... You catnap once, that's how it starts.

"I wasn't."

"What kept you, then?" It grumbled, drumming his fingers upon his cheekbone for effect, feigning a bored restlessness, in spite of the other's dismissiveness. "From the sound of your message, I thought you meant to talk today, not next Tuesday."

Pennywise scowled, lip curling, but it softened as he turned back to his charge.

"GeorgIe, can you... excUse us, for a moment?"

The kid actually gasped.

"That was good, Penny! I should tell Stan."

It snorted with repressed laughter, covering his eyes with one hand, as the kid sprang from the chair and raced out of the room.

"Honestly? They're gradin' you on manners. Oh-ho-ho, that is just as good."

Both palms hit the table with a slam. Dust rose into the air.

"WhaT do you waNt, old timer?"

Grinning, It peeked out from between his fingers.

"Lighten up already, and I might tell you."

Brow furrowing, Pennywise bared his fangs and leaned in close.

"You'Ll tell me anyway."

"All right, all right, but I'm tellin' you before anyone else does, you fit right in with this whole instant-gratification generation."

Pennywise huffed and drew back, crossing his frilled arms.

"This isN't the fifties. Of courSe I do."

"Pft. Well, then, I'm not breakin' any new ground." It gestured with an open palm toward the empty seat. "So climb down off your high horse and let's jaw."

The taller Being's lip curled back in another mute snarl. The challenge in the older entity's motion was as obvious as the nose on his face.

With another twitch, he glanced away.

"On second thought, maYbe I don't wanT to know."

"That about confirms it. You're just as juvenile as your little buddies."

Eyes brightening to a livid orange, Pennywise's outraged stare was the picture of say-that-again.

Deciding they had arrived at the actually-serious topic he had intended, It rose to his feet, hands poised on the table. "I mean it, one of these times, you gonna get into a situation you can't control with them. Through no fault of your own other than you don't know when - to - back - off."

Maybe the talking-with-your-hands and finger-jabbing-for-emphasis were a bit much.

But hey, cosmic-entity-clowns gotta clown sometimes, right?

"I told you befoRe, I don't neEd your help."

"And I'm not here to offer it again to only get snapped at. I just meant to say my piece. I know I can't go a more than a day in my realm without tormentin' somebody over somethin'. You need to loosen up."

He stepped around the table's corner, closed the distance. His gaze was just as intense as his unwilling-'understudy's', regardless of their sheer contrast in height.

"Starvin' yourself from humor can be just as bad for your health as anythin' else, bucko. Jus' remember that. Happy trails."

Vanishing from the immediate scene, with a noise that was less a pop than a crackling snap, It lingered long enough to eavesdrop from outside a kitchen window.

He didn't need to hear what came next.

Georgie Denbrough trotted back into the room, took one look at his grumpy-faced guardian, and bounded over to deliver a side-on hug. The height difference was even more apparent between them, as the boy could barely reach around Pennywise's skirted hip.

The sulky look instantly melted away, as Pennywise belatedly remembered to pat Georgie on the head, smiling that dopey, bucktoothed smile that said all's-well.

Giggling, Georgie grabbed for said hand with both of his own, and led his gangly caretaker back out of the kitchen.

It smirked, tapped his chin in thought.

Well, for better or worse, he had said his piece.

What could be the harm in sticking around a while longer, see how things shook out?

Kid was a kid.

Finding his way.

In his own way.

Meanwhile, he could still use all the help he could get.

Chapter Text

"That's them?"

Juicebox set aside, Georgie sat on the curb. His hands were braced on the grass behind him, as he looked across the street.

Looking on, from the drain beside the boy's sneakered feet, Pennywise glared up and through the sides of his yellowing eyes.

"The saMe."

If he was expecting to hear more from his charge, Georgie was sorry to disappoint. Regarding the two figures roller-blading down the opposite sidewalk, he felt nothing in the way of animosity.

Even if his guardian did.

The straw was back in his mouth by the time Pennywise spoke again.

"You know thEm?"

Georgie paused mid-sip, brow wrinkling just a bit.

Why did the clown suddenly sound so... critical?

"From school, sure. They're a grade ahead of me."

"And?"

"Shannon's... okay. She plays on the basketball team. Courtney, I don't know as much. I think I said hello to her, once?"

"Aaand?"

Georgie's expression went flat. Setting the juicebox aside, he leaned down to address the drain.

Even if, from Penny's perspective, he looked upside-down.

"And they're- girls. I don't know. What else is there?"

Pennywise's eyes flashed orange, the same shade as his hair.

"And they neArly stole your Hot WheEls!"

Georgie glanced up, frowning.

Across the street, both fourth-graders were just passing by. Skating to a near stop, Shannon offered a friendly wave before Courtney urged her to keep moving.

"They did?"

"At the paRk."

As he had been housebound at the time, Georgie didn't quite share in the creature's minor outrage.

Not one iota of it.

"They couldn't have known it was mine, Penny. Calm down."

To that, Pennywise gave a brief, scathing growl. It echoed in the hollow space beneath the road.

And the next Georgie looked, the clown was gone.

No. Don't say he-

"Ahhiiee!"

From no less than three yards around, Georgie and various yard-going neighbors looked up in time to see the a segment of sidewalk before the pair of girls simply vanish, as if a sinkhole had opened up in the earth beneath the concrete.

To which Courtney and Shannon, unable to stop their blades in time, took a headlong tumble into.

They vanished from sight, to a dull thump, before hurriedly clambering back out.

The three neighbors rushed from their homes to console them. As no one else paid it any mind, Georgie tilted his head at the incongruous sound of distant demonic laughter echoing up from the drain.

Heaving a sigh to make Eddie Kaspbrak proud, he facepalmed.

Took another draw on his juicebox.

Really, sometimes weathering his guardian's vindictive side was almost too much.

Chapter Text

It wasn't that he was tired, exactly.

Georgie Denbrough had gotten more than enough sleep the night before, even if Bill had kept him up sharing what meager fishing advice he was in possession of. For Georgie, the prospect of spending an afternoon with Mike and Ben had held more appeal than the actual fishing plan.

And, as with so many other activities that summer, it wasn't that anyone had expressly invited Pennywise along. Fishing stick in hand, Georgie had barely taken one step toward the creek before his vision went dark.

Gloved hands were being held over his eyes from behind.

"Guess wHo?"

Both being a good sort, Mike and Ben took the intrusion well enough. All they asked in return was a minimum of noise, and no splashing. No one was about to try talking the clown into leaving. It would have made as much sense as bringing a hockey stick to a baseball game.

Brows lowering, Pennywise pulled his most disappointed face yet, but - seemingly-forever intent on pleasing his mortal friends - he flopped down on the grass and went virtually silent.

What ensued was... less than exciting.

The water in the creek was crystal clear, cool, and pretty to look at. Peering down at it, Georgie wrung his hands, only to keep them busy and burn off nervous energy. There were so many pretty pebbles and oddities below the surface, just begging to be grabbed. But as they had gone through the 'trouble' of bringing him along, he wasn't about to disobey Mike and Ben.

Even if, in their minds, it was no trouble at all.

Together, they dug up a handful of earthworms.

Mike helped Georgie bait his hook.

Three lines were cast into the water.

And that was when Georgie started to feel sleepy.

The trek out to the creek itself hadn't been that tiring. The Hanlon farm was not that many square miles, even if it was mostly woodland. Hiking it, the boy could think of gym class sessions that had worn him down faster. From playing freeze tag, four corners, and keep away.

Or maybe watching Penny pretend to sleep was what did it (for he didn't, Georgie knew that much from firsthand experience; that first cold sleepover at Neibolt, he had opened an eye to see the entity staring vacantly off into the dark, unblinking; and said darkness under the furniture fort wasn't total, thanks to the glow of said eyes).

Right now, waiting for a fish, it just looked so appealing.

Jamming the baited stringstick into the muddy bank, Georgie excused himself.

There was a gap in the undergrowth Pennywise had, in effect, banished himself to. He hadn't said as much, but he had appeared as instantly-tired of the fishing endeavor as Georgie eventually felt. Without a word, he had slunk away and made a makeshift den out of the underbrush.

Curled up on his side, gloved hands arranged under his face, the clown's dark eyelids stayed closed. They didn't so much as twitch as a yawning Denbrough crawled up next to him, settling down with his back propped against the wide torso, nuzzling up against that poofy shoulder.

One couldn't ask for a better naptime partner.

Didn't matter how long it would or wouldn't last.

Next time Georgie awoke, the other boys' banter could best be summed up as amicable.

Until it wasn't.

"Oh, ye of little faith," Mike was remarking, though any actual offense he felt had to be minimal. He sounded like he was smiling.

"Oh, ye of too much faith in BS cosmic coincidence," Richie rephrased. His voice was a scowl.

"Pen's got nothing to do with how we're not catching anything," Ben defended. Neutral as ever.

"You sure about that, Hanscom? He looks... a little too relaxed, if you get my meaning."

"No, we don't," Eddie seconded. A bit aggravated, but Georgie had heard worse from him.

"Your loss, then. Keep working on that sunburn, Eds."

Georgie blinked his eyes shut, lazily stringing the new information together. His brow furrowed, but overall, he remained still.

When had Eddie and Richie shown up?

"What about those two? They'll be rejoining us at some point?"

"Yeah, seriously, guys. You bored 'em to sleep in record time."

Georgie cracked one eye open, glanced over his shoulder, toward the log/fishing bench.

None of the four other Losers glanced back in turn. Their faces remained turned away, focused on the water.

Richie Tozier. Focused.

Now that was funny.

Georgie didn't see the humor in it, however. He was frowning. He hadn't thought boredom had been the primary cause of this siesta. For him or Penny.

...Had it?

Inadvertantly, Eddie answered the unspoken question with his next offhanded observation.

"He's... been putting up less and less complaint when it comes to protesting a suggestion like that. Anyone else notice?"

He? Me? Or Penny?

"I have," Ben admitted.

"But, we didn't ask him to sleep. We just asked him to keep quiet," Mike clarified.

Penny.

"Finally, right? If only he was like that from the beginning," Richie grumbled. It was no real secret that he and the clown were by no means on amicable terms. Not now, or ever, really.

"Shh! He might hear you."

"Oh, I know he hears me. He hears all of us, all the time, Eds. Except for when he visited you too early that one morning- "

Something bounced off Tozier's skull.

Thwap.

"Don't mention that."

"Ow, okay. Not mentioning it."

"Sleeping, keeping quiet, do we have to say there's a difference?" Ben interjected. "Georgie may not know the signs, but if it starts happening more and more- "

"Just say he's turning narcoleptic," Eddie threw in his own medically-inclined excuse. "That should buy us some time while the kid looks up the definition."

"Bill said not to tell him. Not yet."

"We're running out of days to keep saying that, Ben..."

From that point on, their conversation ceased to be important.

Nar-ko-lep-tick.

One step ahead of you there, Eddie.

Georgie's frown deepened, and he gently turned his head to back to the right.

Expression peaceful, Pennywise continued to doze behind him, chest rising and falling as steadily as any bellows. With ruby lips parted, the gentle in-and-out drawing of air made a slight whistling sound through his teeth every few breaths.

He seemed untroubled enough.

It had something to do with sleep, that big word. Georgie may not have known what it meant, but what were the other Losers saying?

That Penny used to not sleep, only pretend, and now he's... actually starting to sleep?

Not all the time.

Just once and a while?

What did that mean?

For a very fleeting moment, Georgie thought he felt his life grind to a complete stop. It was a weird, frozen feeling. Like the world went on about its business for a few miliseconds, and he was falling behind.

Then, slowly, like an old engine restarting, both fired, caught, and stuttered back to their previously synchronized rhythm.

The satin fabric he laid against was perfectly warm. The grass beneath them was soft. The air around them was toasty, too (the thicket's shade took any baking-hot-sunlight edge right out of it).

But all of that did nothing to help the chill that settled in the boy's chest.

They were making it up. Mike and the others.

They had to be.

Something to scare him with. Kinda mean, in hindsight, but then, they probably hadn't expected Georgie to wake up and listen in. Bill always said things like eavesdropping and rubbernecking would get you in trouble.

One way or another.

But... if that were true, it was a pretty odd thing to be able to time such a scary topic with a random nap on a fishing trip.

Mindful not to jostle anything, Georgie shifted over. The back of Pennywise's long left arm rested beside him, pressing against his right side, bent elbow level with the boy's hip. It was heavy as lead, but after a brief struggle, Georgie managed to thread his hand underneath the frilly bicep, all the better to hug the arm with both of his own.

A flicker of discontent crossed the slumbering red-and-white face. His dark eyelids wrinked, then relaxed. His upper lip curled, mouth corners turning down in a brief, silent grimace before smoothing out.

Georgie watched, waited. He didn't dare blink, lest he miss it.

Waited for his friend to rouse.

Wink at him, smirk, say everything was okay.

Scowl, squint, ask what was wrong.

Either reaction would be such a relief to see.

Anything...

But he didn't.

The nap was for real.

Like an illness, the mite of cold spread from Georgie's chest out to his fingers and toes. He shivered and pulled his legs in, as if bringing them closer meant he would feel warmer.

. . .

So what?

Penny would wake up.

Georgie swallowed and closed his wet eyes, grip tightening.

He laid his head back down on his friend's shoulder, nuzzling deep into the billowy fabric.

He tried to feel warm again.

What a bunch of liars.

Chapter Text

Next time.

Stanley Uris had prayed there would never be a "next time".

He wasn't tough like Ben or Mike. He wasn't wily like Eddie or Richie.

And he certainly wasn't brave like Bill or Beverly.

Some days, he felt like he wasn't anything.

What a gyp.

Fate might as well have slapped a bullseye on his back the day he was born.

Stan was a shy thirteen-years-old. And it didn't seem to matter who he had befriended at all in the interim. Thugs, goons, bullies - one after another, they just seemed to take one look at his curly-haired self and pegged him as deserving nothing but a lifetime of thrashing.

Until one cold, muddy afternoon in May 1989.

He was actually spared that day.

Somewhat.

Spared from having to see too much.

Look away, Stanley.

The creature didn't say as much. With that mouth, it would be nigh impossible.

It simply stared, a split-second of meaningful eye contact. Brown against pupilless white.

But Uris could hear the words, like a invisible command rasping past his eardrums, stabbing deep into his mind.

Like a superficial cut before the actual aputation, delicate scalpels slicing before the bone-cutters were brought to bear.

He didn't stop to think, to consider, to overanaylze.

He just threw an arm over his eyes. Rolled over. Droplets of rain slid down his face.

Appeased, the creature struck.

"No, wait! AGH!"

The screaming ended before it could really begin, with a wet crunch.

Seconds later, it was followed by a distant splash.

The hammering sheets of rain falling around them practically swallowed it up.

Oddly enough, that was when Stan burst into tears. He hadn't cried at being set upon, targeted by a nameless drifter on the outskirts of Derry. He had barely cried out at being driven to the muddy ground.

Only now, with the immediate danger over, did his aching body seemed to catch up with his racing mind. He stammered at first, breathing uneasily, before the tears started to leech from his eyes.

With that first hurdle overcome, then the rest of the sobbing fit followed.

The air around them was chilly. He started to shiver uncontrollably.

A shadow fell over him, as did the musky warmth that accompanied it.

Something brushed across his prone body, lightly at first.

Then there it was, curving over his quivering back and head like an obscene, hellish umbrella.

A wide paw, with three claws. Protectively placed over him.

"You said you wouldn't," Stan wheezed into the earth, sullied arms wound around his face. "Next t-time, you said you wouldn't try to kill."

A low series of grumbling growls answered him. The creature shuffled closer, as did the warmth that surrounded it. The ground have a noticable heave as the heavy body dropped down to lay beside him, curling defensively around and over the fallen boy.

Later, the closest thing he could fathom to compare Its latest form to was a griffin.

A six-legged, half-leather-skinned, reptilian-looking alien griffin.

Like something that was drawn before there was a global consensus on what said creature was supposed to embody.

Blinking away his tears, Stan wiped his nose and looked up.

Less than two feet away, an elongated, leathery face lay on the road, resting on its spare paw. It was vaguely eagle-like in profile, with a broad, proud beak. Countless fangs jutted downward to either side of the tapered jaw.

Two sets of eyes, one situated behind the other, all without pupils or color, stared back at him.

They emoted nothing.

In the springtime downpour, especially at this late hour, there was no light to see by. Stan just assumed it was his own eyes painting It in shades of black and gray.

Gradually, his nerves settled. Then, like needlepoints jabbing outward from under his skin, they started to tremble all over again. He stopped, half-rolling over, already lamenting the filthy clothes he now sported.

The shirt he mourned most of all. Mom had just bought this polo four days ago, with her son's once-promised allowance (a deal reneged on for only the umpteenth time ever).

Now it was ruined.

Along with his trust, seemingly.

The creature's beak scraped against the mud, drawing closer. Nothing about it resembled lips through which the being could speak.

"N-no, don't. Don't come near me with that t-thing," Stan mumbled, almost delirious with denial.

He hadn't thought he would be this distraught.

Perhaps he had underestimated just how badly he had wanted It to keep to his word.

He had been one of the last to commit to the hug that day. Hesitation stayed him initially, as prior experiences made themselves heard again, but then a sensation best known as benefit-of-the-doubt guided him in. He had hoped the communal hug was as binding as a handshake between two businessmen.

Fate didn't give two shits about his hopes, apparently.

"Go away, Pennywise." Unthinking, Stan held up a quivering hand, palm out, and tried to feebly push the smooth muzzle aside. With the other hand, he tried to rise, to prop himself up. "Let me go. I gotta- get home."

There it was, that groaning growl again. So bass and overpowering, especially when you were practically underneath it. Rain continued to waft in from 'outside', pelting the alien face into a watery imitation of itself.

Red trickles still adorned Its jaw. There was a faint smell of copper to accompany them.

The strange eyes quirked, first away, and then back.

Then, appearing to come to a very necessary conclusion, it stood, paws stamping heavily, kicking up muddy footfalls.

Stan gasped. With the heat taken away, he cringed and wilted, shivering almost-violently in the unmerciful breeze. He forced himself to snort, wiping the residual snot out of his nose. It was hard enough to breathe with his nerves running full tilt. He tried in vain to wipe rain and mud from his face, and to find his feet again.

Never again would he take this back road in the spring, not during a thaw. There were still chunks of ice to slip on. Not ideal for walking, let alone biking. The scenic route was not worth the danger it concealed.

He stood, glanced down at himself.

"Oy vey, what a mess," Stan lamented, regarding his soiled clothes.

The griffin lowed again, as if offering its concurrence.

"I meant me, you putz."

At that the beast gave a little shudder, before its breath hissed rapidly, in and out, in and out, like its own choked version of distorted laughter.

"Sure, laugh it up. Just like I'm sure the others will laugh when they hear about this."

Something large prodded at the small of his back, nosing so forcefully he almost tumbled to the ground all over again.

Sighing, Stan swept drenched hair out of his eyes. He hadn't meant to voice that last part. Fatigue was getting the better of him.

He spoke toward the sky in general. What else could it do at that point, fry him with lightning?

If anything, that would be an improvement.

Warmth versus cold.

"I'm sorry, I know. You're trying. But what Richie said, it still holds. You flipped out."

He found his bike on the side of the road. Common sense said there would be no riding it the rest of the way home in these conditions.

Wings mantling, half-held off its sides, the creature padded after him.

It was still groaning.

Still pleading?

Thunder momentarily drowned it out.

Wiping mud off the seat, Stan stopped to glare at the monster again. The freezing rain was good for one thing: it kept his temper just short of boiling over.

"Look, if you're not gonna even bother taking human form so we can talk civilized right now, save it for later. I have to go."

Maybe, if he kept insisting with passion, he could convince even himself eventually.

It wasn't yet.

The creature loped to a stop, clawtips arched against the surface of the road. It seemed to glance away, tailtip flicking in discontent. With the back of one paw, it rubbed at its jaw. Distractedly, almost.

Standing with his bike, Stan could see it was the size of a rhino.

Just as bulky. Just as shortsighted. Just as potentially-dangerous.

Hands on his bike, Stan frowned.

How was he going to dismiss It?

He frowned. "Go- have your supper."

It sounded like something his father would utter, too distracted reading the paper to even appreciate the stellar-graded report card his son had brought home.

The creature seemed to react in much the same way. The beaked face ducked low, eyes wandering back and forth, like they were unsure of where to look.

Oddly, in some very-backwards sense of appreciation, Stan felt the slightest bit empowered by the tame reaction.

"Go on."

It was listening.

Actually listening.

He didn't even have to raise his voice.

Surely It was hungry.

The body in the ditch was only getting staler.

It stared at him with newfound focus, pondering the simple command for all of a minute. The wings stopped rustling. The tail stilled.

Drool began to drip from its maw.

Or that might have been rain. It was falling so thick, it could be freezing before it hit the ground.

Stan swallowed. He felt almost confident again.

Home was only three miles on.

"Thanks for the save, but I'm okay now. Go."

The griffin stood frozen.

Then, out of nowhere, it came to him:

"I won't tell the others."

It bolted.

Not the typical jump-to-invisibility gag either.

The beak parted, thick threads of drool hanging very noticably between the fine-pointed teeth. Then the creature made a single, silent turn and leaped away, back into the dark beside the road.

Stan had started walking away before he realized it. The wheels of his bike made a steady clicking against the gruesome noises beginning to erupt behind him. Taking inspiration, he threw his leg over the frame, jumped up onto the pedals.

The downward slope of the road helped him pick up speed. Working his legs, breathing deep, the exertion got his blood pumping the way it was supposed to, defiantly warming his body against the cold.

There was frost on his eyelashes by the time he reached the outskirts of town.

Whether it had formed from rain or his dried tears, he would never figure out.

Foolish Stan. Getting upset didn't solve anything. There were things about this cosmic misarrangement that were just destined to remained plain old wrong.

No matter what anyone did.

It included.

Chapter Text

The only thing worse than being constantly shoved aside was being constantly set upon.

Some days, Beverly Marsh had trouble deciding which of those two evils she preferred less.

Like now, outside the drugstore.

With Gretta Keene making an uproar for the rest of downtown Derry to witness.

And completely without said Derry's finest policemen in attendance, of course.

Way to be the center of attention, Keene, on or off the basketball court.

Why did it have to involve me?

"Bitch, I know you have them. Give it up!"

Flat against the bricks, held there by the hands on her biceps, Beverly scowled and glanced away. This was taking things to a new level she would have much preferred to avoid. But that didn't mean she had to give anything to her assailant to encourage matters.

As yet, all Gretta had done was growl, follow her target out of the store, and shove her against a wall.

Lame.

Dad had done worse.

"No. You look at me when I'm talking to you."

In hindsight, Beverly would later reason, looking away was the worst and best thing she could have done.

Gretta grabbed her prey, one hand splayed across the mouth, and shoved her face backwards, hard.

Beverly didn't have time to wrench away before her skull bounced off the bricks.

The high, involuntary cry that escaped her, there was no conscious control available to stop it with. Spots danced about and then swarmed before her eyes.

She expected to be roughed up.

Just not to that extent.

Momentarily, her vision went double, then dark.

And when she came back, seconds or minutes later, it was to the sound of an as-yet familiar - and somehow unfamiliar - voice.

"Hey!"

Accompanying the shout, she saw him - a blurry figure stepped out of the forming crowd.

"Lay off!"

Gretta snarled right back.

"Butt out, asshole. This is between me and her."

"Not anymore, it isn't."

Dazed, but no longer completely in the black, Beverly glanced up.

And nearly faded again, in sheer amazement.

Pen?

"And who the hell do you think you are?" Gretta spat, outrage still firing on all cylinders.

Forgotten as she was in those few seconds (and thankfully so), Beverly stared, eyes uncharacteristically wide. The stunning pain in her head seemed to vanish as quickly as it had been inflicted, as if it were letting her get a good look. She would later figure out why, but at the time, she attributed it to the numbing shock of what see was seeing.

That fair-skinned face, she knew it. But that was a disproportioned, round-cheeked, painted version of this. The brows, the cheekbones, the chin - it was a far more mature, clean-shaven slant on the same set of features. Minus the expansive forehead, and with slightly-outgrown, tussled auburn hair (not too unlike her own in shade, though more of a darker, reddish-brown), he was in every way a viable human counterpart to Pennywise the Dancing Clown.

Even his attire wasn't too far off. The gray leather jacket with its flared collar, an off-white undershirt, complimenting a darker-gray pair of denim pants. The single-breasted panels with their white-laced embroidery. The arms of the jacket ended in flared sleeve cuffs, with decorative red laces uncinched at the wrists. And virtually identical to the entity's most-preferred form were the black-and-white boots, sans the red pompoms.

But for as much as she recognized, Beverly didn't.

The stranger standing between them, practically over them, was the last person she would have expected to come to her aid.

Key word - person.

Here. In this way.

In such a public place.

Since when can he... do this?

Then she remembered to blink, to close her half-open mouth.

Pennywise was smirking at Gretta.

With a set of perfectly-normal, human teeth, that is.

But while his mouth smiled, his blue-green eyes said something altogether different.

The dead-on stare. The little head tilt. The smirk. The ominous glinting of the eyes. The off-balance cant in his shoulders.

Then Beverly remembered to breathe out.

The mannerisms were just the same.

It is him.

"Well?" Gretta spat, when the expectant silence became too much.

"Oh, who am I? At the moment?" Offering no more of an answer than that cryptic, cheeky response, the entity-in-plain-sight's disguise grabbed for one of Gretta's wrists.

Apparently, it hurt.

"Ow, hey!"

His smile abruptly dropped into a long frown. "Let go."

She quailed and struggled, for what good it did. With a wrenching motion, Pennywise managed to all but toss her aside.

"Hey, nothing."

Restrained.

That was a restrained reaction, coming from him.

Considering he probably would have liked nothing better than to shred Gretta to pieces on the spot.

The cheerleader kept her feet, now caught in the empty space between them and the throng of onlookers.

Glowering, Gretta stopped fawning over her pulled wrist, vented a furious snort, and moved to strike again. Took a step closer.

Watching her every move, the 'man's gaze never wavered. Without looking, he tossed an arm around Beverly and pulled her to shelter at his side. He took a protective step between them, barking a sharp reprimand.

"Get back!"

"Who the hell is this, Marsh? One of your boyfriends, come to save the day?"

Holding a hand to the back of her head, Beverly didn't dignify that with any words. Nor did she shrink back into hiding behind her defender.

Unknowingly, she just mirrored his glare, through the tops of her eyes.

To his credit, Pennywise figured out Gretta's spiteful queries weren't worth answering, either.

Without being told.

His upper lip curled, half in a snarl.

"What's the problem?"

Gretta fumed. With physical confrontation no longer an option, the girl hurled her accusation out for the world to hear.

"That bitch just ripped us off! I saw her taking cigarettes out the door."

No one in the crowd said anything to confirm this.

But nor was it denied.

Pennywise glanced down at Beverly's impassive face, but, wisely, he didn't wait for his attention to somehow be returned before he resumed glaring daggers at Gretta.

"And instead of phone the police, you thought that made it okay to accost her in the street?"

"Phone them? Over her?"

Gretta tossed her head like an affronted horse, nose in the air. Her hands went to her hips.

"She deserves a little pushing around. She's done it once, she's definitely done it before."

Eyes rolling, the entity tilted his head the other way.

"Oh, really? And where's your proof?"

"Check her pockets yourself, mister. Hell, strip her here, in front of everybody, if that's what it takes. You'll see that I'm right."

Pennywise scowled, dark brows angled even lower. Even without the red-and-white paint, the disgruntled look was still deep and profound, accented enough by his 'natural' features.

Unconsciously, he pulled Beverly even closer.

"All I need to see is a policeman on their way to this scene, so I can report my account of witnessing an assault, committed by yours truly." Deadpanning complete, he glanced to their collective left. "And wouldn't you know it? There they are now."

Gretta's squinting eyes followed the pointing finger back across the street, to which two uniformed officers were indeed stepping out of a squad car.

"Now, what were you saying about stolen cigarettes?"

Beverly's accuser balked visibly.

Cops. That would mean filling out police reports, trouble with the court. Explaining to Dad how she had practically let it happen.

Tarnished reputations.

Gossip to weather at school.

And if it all turned out to be false?

"Grrr, forget it! She's not worth the trouble, either way." Sneering, Gretta leaned in for one last jab. "Get you back at school, instead, Beaverly. No white knights with pretty faces to save you there, remember that."

"What makes you so sure?" Pennywise interjected, flatly. "Keep harassing her, sister, and you'll be seeing this one again soon enough."

Still red in the face, Gretta wordlessly spun on her heel and marched back into the drugstore, without a backwards look.

That dealt with, Pennywise glanced around at the lingering crowd of gawkers. He seemingly didn't need to encourage them to move on. Instead, the two policemen worked their way to either side of the twenty-some people, dispersing them with a few choice, professional-sounding words.

Beverly exhaled slowly, mindful not to make an exasperated sigh of out of it, looking on. As the cops finally turned their way, her rescuer simply waved them off, like shooing away a pair of disruptive kids.

"It's taken care of, guys. Thanks, anyway."

Exchanging a look, both officers drew back and returned to their car.

Finally, with the immediate danger passed, and a whole round of new questions primed for asking, Beverly straightened up. She shrugged her way out from under the arm still fastened around her shoulders.

Then she belatedly rubbed at the sore spot at the back of her skull and spoke up.

"You didn't mean that."

Pennywise glanced sidelong and down at her. At hearing that, his face fell.

His eyes stayed blue.

But his voice started to crack.

"WhaT? Why not? Who's gonNa think twice if some distant couSin of yours has transferRed in?"

Some thirty minutes later, Beverly got her true feelings out.

"...You're kidding."

Seated across from her at the diner, Pennywise snorted in amusement, set both elbows on the table, and rested his cheek against his fist. With the other hand, he mimed checking his bare, watchless wrist.

The passage of time had not gone unnoticed by him.

"Heh. Funny how you say that now, Bevs."

In the minutes that had followed, whatever flux his voice had undergone outside the drugstore had smoothed itself out.

Of its own accord? Or was he simply willing that, with as much effort as it took to keep his current disguise?

Beverly set asking those questions aside in favor of voicing a more immediately-relevant comment.

"You can't pass yourself off as my cousin."

He frowned, wrist dropping back to the table with a clunk.

It sounded as dejected as he looked.

"No?"

"No."

"Well, when- the situation calls for it- "

"Which it won't," Beverly snapped, still on the fence of how to gauge this latest, arguably-weirdest-yet encounter. Idly, she stirred her straw in the ice-filled glass of lemonade before her.

As yet, she had not taken a sip.

Even if the entity had bought the beverage for her (veering ever stranger and stranger in doing so, as he continued to pass himself as perfectly-normal to various townsfolk and their waiter), she wasn't exactly thirsty due to excess chatter.

Where on Earth he had gotten the money, that was also pretty low on the list of questions she intended to ask.

"It's making my head hurt all over again, looking at you... like this," she admitted.

"Why?" Pennywise asked, sounding genuinely bewildered.

Could he just not sense the tension sloughing off her like melting snow?

"You don't... Since when do you..."

For once, she was without a clear idea as to what to ask.

Thankfully, he filled in the gaps with the approximate information.

"Not often." He turned his resting hand over, flexed his fingers, as if he were experimentally testing them for the first time. "And never for very long."

"Is there, a reason? Usually?"

He shrugged. "There's always a reason. I don't strut around like this for show."

It seemed offhanded enough, in the way he said it.

Beverly read between the lines anyway.

And you gave him a good one today, thinking you could swipe that pack while you thought Keene was nose-deep in a tabloid.

Wasn't this pushing things, though?

It was a creature of illusions and subtle manipulations.

Or... he was supposed to be.

Stepping out of the crowd like Clark Kent about to spring into action was not subtle.

All for her sake?

"You didn't have to."

Pennywise glanced up, fiddling with one of the jacket's undone cuffs as he was. It was much the same way Georgie Denbrough toyed with his undone shoelaces.

Hearing that, the cosmic being froze.

Then he raised an eyebrow.

Not smiling, not frowning.

Another recognizable tic.

Houston, say again?

"I mean, thanks for the save, but if you could, couldn't you have done something less- "

Thud.

The booth's unattended silverware tinked with the impact. The ice in the glass rattled.

Beverly almost jumped, almost leaned back in her seat.

He was practically glaring now.

One of his hands had hit the table again.

This time, it was curled in a fist.

"Obvious?"

He spat the word like it had somehow wronged him.

Even if she hadn't had a chance to utter it.

"I did what I had to."

The confusion had vanished. In its place wasn't... anger, exactly. But vindictiveness, and more than a bit of offense, had surfaced in his dour-lined expression. His eyes simmered, but the irises stayed their adopted hue of blue-and-green. No yellow to be seen.

"She was ready to smash your head in."

Beverly kept stirring, stewing, avoiding the heated look, now aimed at her forehead, for as long as she could.

The other half of the thought went unspoken.

But it was heeded all the same.

It wasn't about the cigarettes. It was about everything else.

"Most times, I can take care of myself," she explained. Or began to, before the inenvitable cutoff: "And if I can't, then that's no one's fault but my own. I can't be dependent on you being there to- "

Inadvertantly, Beverly talked herself into more trouble with those words.

And this time, it was the untouched, unappreciated lemonade being pulled away.

"Beverly..."

He leaned closer, looking up through the tops of his eyes, shoulders hunched.

The long-suffering frustration, the look of offense was gone.

Another altogether softer, fonder gaze had taken its place.

Beverly blinked and stared, unable to help the color rising in her face.

She had never seen someone look so serious.

Dead serious.

About her.

"It's not being dependent when I take it upon myself to act in your best interests. Quit selling yourself short. You're no less worthy of help than anyone else is, no matter what that Keene bitch says."

Eyes widening again, Beverly held a hand to her mouth, but only because she didn't know what reaction was appropriate. To frown or to smile, she couldn't immediately decided.

The entity leaned toward the verbose when he was feeling critical. Short speeches weren't unfamiliar territory to him.

But at the moment, the novelty of hearing him cuss so flawlessly - for the first time - was enough to undermine the redhead's defenses.

She must have looked astonished.

Seeming to shake off the mood as quickly as he had donned it, Pennywise rolled his eyes, an nearly-self-depreciative roll, and turned away. He kept his hand curled around the sweating glass. The other fidgeted with the hair behind his ear, pulling at the reddish strands.

Fitfully. Nervously.

As if something alarmingly unpleasant had only just occurred to him.

"Yes, I swore. Don't tell Georgie."

Beverly scoffed, but it was with a smile that she said, "Only if you don't tell him I was knicking cigarettes again."

The one eye she could see swiveled back to stare at her.

"Deal."

The lemonade made a light scraping sound as it was sent back across the table, as smooth as a hockey puck on ice.

Relaxed, secure in the knowledge that they had reached a satisfactory bargain, Beverly indulged in a delicate sip before venturing forward.

"So... this is a new you I'm seeing. Does he have a name?"

With a slow turn of the head, his narrow-eyed look was the definition of saw-what-you-did-there. The irony of a reintroduction was not lost on him.

"You name something, you start to get attached to it, Bevs. Are you sure you wanna know?"

She didn't dwell on it but for half a second.

"I'm sure, dork. Let's hear it."

"Then... this, Beverly Marsh, is Robert Gray. If he's anybody to you, let's just call him a cousin, a few generations removed." Unseen by the other occupants of the diner, he flashed a sly, sharp-toothed smile and a wink. "Because there are worse things to be called, right?"

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

This game was rigged.

And Georgie Denbrough made sure his friend knew it.

He frowned, pushed the spinning arrow away. Using the tip of his finger, as his arms were beginning to shake. At this awkward angle, he couldn't even muster enough strength to toss the instrument free and clear of the multicolored mat.

Placing his hand flat on the yellow dot, he glanced back under himself, through the gap behind his arm.

Pennywise grinned down at him.

He was still keeping both feet and one hand on the mat, but...

His limbs were stretched like taffy, held askew, joints bent in all the wrong ways. His boots stood twisted around, gloved fingers pointed toward his toes. His spine had spun around on itself like a wet rag. Twice.

Georgie frowned.

The creature was practically woven around him like a living pretzel.

For about thirty seconds, there was silence.

Silent, expectant staring.

Then:

"You cheated."

Pennywise snickered, bells tinging.

"I knOw."

He's laughing at me.

At me.

Sighing, Georgie looked up, at the overgrown foyer window keeping them hidden from view. The appeal of this private Twister session had all but petered out already. "I don't see how this is supposed to make me better at the game."

From above, blue, upside-down eyes slowly lowered into his line of sight.

The entity frowned, but only to make it seem like - from the boy's perspective - he was smiling.

"You don't need to be betTer, GeorgIe. Just good enough to beat BilLy next time."

Dejected, Denbrough gave up his awkward pose. It was starting to hurt. He dropped to his stomach with a thud, resting his chin in his hands, legs stretched out behind him.

"And I'm just as lame as when we started, aren't I?"

"Nooo..." Still holding his arachnid-like stance, Pennywise patted the despondent pupil's head with his free hand. "No, you're noT."

Georgie's cheeks puffed out in frustration. "I am. I'm too small. The dots are spread too far apart."

That was the moment when a more-inconsiderate teacher would have said "it's only a game; move on".

Like a retracting tape measure, Pennywise unwound himself. The momentary din of his cracking imitation-bones returning to normal form kept the awkward silence at bay. Seconds later, he reclined beside the boy, balanced on frilly elbows.

"You caN't help that, GeorgIe. But isn't the point of the gaMe to have fun, even if you don't win?"

The boy's feet kicked idly. He traced the edge of one red circle with his finger.

"It's a game, Penny. Games are played to be won."

"Then... if you can't win, why not just enJoy for what it is?"

Well. That's an awfully tolerant message of you. Makes me wonder...

Georgie grinned.

Here was his chance to laugh back.

"Beverly beat you, didn't she?"

Brows lowering, Pennywise scoffed through his buckteeth, glancing away and up as Georgie covered his face, rolled over, and flopped against the clown's arm, giggling madly.

"I stiLl don't know how."

Chapter Text

Eggs had started appearing around 29 Neibolt House.

And they weren't spider eggs, for a change.

Colorful shells, they stood out like neon signs in the dust and detritus.

Didn't mean they were welcome.

Right now, the count stood at eight.

Or did it?

Wait.

Three in the kitchen, two in the foyer, one in the basement, three in the attic.

Nine?!

Hovering over them like a brooding hen, Pennywise stared the multi-colored collection down. As if staring at them alone would somehow solve the mystery. Some days, he almost almost convinced that prolonged exposure to his corporeal self was somehow imbuing the Losers with their own limited time-space manipulation powers.

Today seemed to be one of those days.

How that could happen, he didn't know. But just six shy months ago, It hadn't known himself capable of things like friendship and compassion either.

Or, the more they came to know him, perhaps the kids were just getting sneakier by default.

Yes. That was the more likely explanation.

Sighing, he took another methodical sweep of the room, down on all fours.

There!

Squirrelled away behind the trailing end of a curtain...

"AnotheR one?"

His face fell. Along with the rest of him. The floor practically heaved a nuclear cloud of dust into the stagnant air.

A few hundred physical pounds worth of cosmic entity dropping against the boards, expression distraught, would do that.

"Err... ShoO!"

Found out, the lime-green plastic sphere went bouncing its way into the hallway, clacking hollowly along the floor. The halves seperated as they hit the wall.

There wasn't even any candy inside.

He stalked back over to glare death at the gathered pile of shells again.

The house's second and third floors had no 'set' layout, save perhaps for the hobby room (Pennywise knew better than to alter that, after enduring a few switched knuckles and a lecture from Beverly about the importance of maintaining at least one space upstairs that did not vary with every visit; that, and Stan liked his puzzles to stay "where they WERE").

Point being, Pennywise didn't understand how the eggs kept turning up, when, by all rights, it was his personal domain somehow being infiltrated without triggering any of his transcenedetal tripwires. How do you sneak into space that doesn't exist?

Claws out, Pennywise growled in frustration and took a swipe at the pile of plastic, feeling something like satisfaction to see them scatter like a rainbow of legless mice.

Time to sniff out the culprit.

First stop, the Tozier household.

"Nope. Wasn't me, man."

The epitome of cool under pressure, and with months of jumpscare-enduring experience behind him, Richie barely batted an eye.

Until five minutes later, when he looked down the length of the bed and noticed the fiery-haired clown was still perched there on the footboard's edge, hands between his boots, stonefaced, hunched over like a circus' imitation of a gargoyle.

After a moment's staredown, Richie's eyes dropped back to the comic. "It wasn't."

"Then who coUld it be?"

"Shit, you're serious. Does it really matter?" The clown crossed his arms and waited another five minutes, letting his silence speak for itself. Sighing at the thought of actually considering the inane question, Richie leaned his cheek against his fist. "You try Eds yet?"

Eddie. Damn, damn confounding Eddie. Equal parts fierce and fragile, spastic and thoughtful.

And at that moment - cantankerous and confined to quarters.

"No! What gave you that idea?" Kaspbrak hissed, eyes narrowed. But only because the party he was addressing had appeared via the open slats in his bedroom closet's door. "I've been under house arrest for the past five days. When do you think I had time to sneak over to your crack den?"

"Eddie, is everything all right?"

"Fine, Ma!"

Fingertips braced against the door, Pennywise closed his eyes and tried to ignore the disgusted shiver he felt at hearing Sonia's preemptive wail. That accursed woman. Keep focused, save remedying that problem for later.

"RiChie didn't know, eithEr."

"Figures you'd peg him first." Eddie sighed and yanked the door open a fraction, all the better for the entity to see him roll his eyes. "You sure Bill or Georgie didn't have something to do with it?"

The Denbrough boys stared at him with mutual looks of confusion and despair.

Well, the despair was mostly on Georgie's part, to see his gangly friend so troubled.

"Who could it be?" The boy blinked and scratched his head. Naturally, being so good-natured, he was the only one thus far who took the matter to heart.

Atop the desk, somehow crouching there without disturbing a single article of clutter, Pennywise reached over to prod Bill's shoulder when the older brother didn't say anything for the longest time. "Billy, do you knOw?"

"Maybe." Bill glanced at his visitor through the tops of his eyes. Despite the fright the creature had given them, popping in through the open bedroom window, the older Denbrough wasn't immune to the appeal of a true mystery. "D-did you think of the least likely p-possibility yet?"

"Stop that! You're spooking them."

Visiting the Hanlon farm, Pennywise retreated to the rafters of the stable while the sheep milled nervously below, wrapping himself securely around one beam like a gymnast. A hoof to the posterior, he could go without.

Hands holding the freshly-broken gate shut, lest his charges barrel through it and escape, Mike glared up at his otherwordly intruder.

"I've got my hands full, Pen. Can't help you."

Nope. Definitely not Mike.

Whatever pocket change his grandfather paid him for wages, Pennywise couldn't see the humorless farmboy spending it on prank fodder.

At first, talking to Stanley seemed promising. The weather was ideal for birdwatching. The Jewish boy was in rare form, apparently feeling good about the species he might catch sight of today.

Until, without so much as a Hiya, a navy blue set of eyes appeared out of thin air, magnified tenfold in the binocular's scopes.

"Ahh!"

Stan flinched backwards, practically leaping off the stump, windmilled his arms and dropped to the ground with a umph, feet in the air.

Recovering, he frowned, listened (in that position) to the entity recount his story, and only had one thing to say.

He climbed to his feet.

"You putz."

Reaching up, annoyance overcoming his fearfulness for once, Stan shoved his one-time student's head out of his line of sight.

"I've got better things to do than egg your house."

That left Ben and Beverly.

Oddly enough, they were both found in some proximity to the crime scene, returning to where their bikes had been stowed in the undergrowth by the chainlink fence. Both sported suspiciously-empty backpacks.

And they also bore similiar hand-in-the-cookie-jar expressions when 29 Neibolt's missing mummer materialized in their path with a snap that sent nearby birds fleeing.

They both froze midstep, caught in his imposing shadow.

"Darn it."

Face reddening, Ben looked away from those yellow eyes first. The toes of his sneakers dug into the dirt. He all but looked the part of an unhousebroken puppy, held aloft by the scruff of its neck after its owner had discovered their latest accident. "That's the end of- Pen, ow, wait!"

Despite the boy's blabber of protest, Pennywise grabbed Ben by the sleeve, steering him around to reach inside the still-open backpack.

Inside, one scarlet-red egg.

"Finally!" Beverly, playing her role as Ben's polar opposite, took the discovery in contented stride, hands on her hips. Her eyes sparkled with mirth. "I was beginning to think you'd never get around to us."

Shoulders hunched, Pennywise stalked around to stand in front of them. He glowered at her from under lowered brows, fists clenched at his sides, like a wolf who had finally cornered a wily hare. "It's not fuNny, Bevs."

"It is." Just to spite him, the redhead chuckled, plucking the plastic egg from his hand. She even had the audacity to twirl her hair around one finger. "It is, just not for you. Those calls, oh, you should've heard how Georgie cracked up when we told him."

"He did? I thought he was in on this, too," Ben mentioned.

"He couldn't be, until the end. Pen would've read his mind in a heartbeat." Beverly explained, rambling as if the steaming-mad creature were suddenly not there in front of them.

"Guess so."

Their hapless victim spluttered, words bordering on incoherent, utterly confused as to what to be most furious with, first. "You... she... h-he... whY?"

"What, only you can go klepto when it suits you?"

"Actually, Beverly, this would be more like klepto... in reverse. With Easter eggs in July."

"WhaT?"

"You didn't hear Stan compare him to a magpie the other day?"

Completely lost as to what they were continuing to banter about, the clown hissed in relent and facepalmed. Then glanced up from between his gloved fingers.

At the unblinking stare she received, Beverly shrugged and spilled her motive, or lack thereof. "No, we didn't really have a reason. That's the brilliance of it. But we thought you'd like the colors."

Or perhaps the show of driving the other Losers crazy with speculation was reason enough.

"That doeSn't explain how you hid them without me knoWing."

Though it spoke of his unadmitted involvement in first hatching the plan, Ben's smile paled in comparison to Beverly's. If hers were any more bright it could be like a star going supernova. And it, without a doubt, said she did not intend to deconstruct that enigma anytime soon.

Perhaps It had rubbed off on them more than he himself realized.

Still smirking, Beverly reached up to pat his cheek as one might a befuddled toddler. "Well, we all have our secrets, don't we, pal?"

Pennywise grimaced. Logic and all it stood for flatlined for him in that moment.

Tables turned, she poked him in the nose.

With one sharp nail.

"OuCh!"

"And you know, for all your supposed powers, you're pretty easy to fool."

Chapter Text

Now, after almost seven months of having known It, the Losers Club had figured out a rough list of qualities their adopted mascot embodied and often exhibited:

A childlike tendency to exaggerate and jump to conclusions.

An insatiable flair for dramatics, to act more on impulse than considerate thought.

A penchant for whining until he got his way.

A latent seriousness in times of unease, that never let up until he decided it was time.

A raging temper that tended to burn everything else to a cinder when it was fed enough kindling.

And a tendency to forgo all of these aforementioned traits if it meant simply amusing himself.

Among other carnivorous-inclined qualities the older children had unanimously agreed not to discuss when Georgie Denbrough was present.

But this was being a little extreme.

Even for Pennywise.

"Hold still!"

Stepping through the front door of 29 Neibolt Street, hearing those two words - Beverly Marsh instantly knew there was trouble afoot. She stopped, frowned, and thought to set her bag down on the floor.

But that didn't stop her mouth from impulsively asking.

"What's... going on?"

The sight of the lanky creature, roughly dogpiled onto the floor by the likes of Richie, Ben, and Mike, wasn't in and of itself unusual. Not that long ago, they had spent an entire afternoon mock-wrestling in the yard, challenging one another to see who could stay on their feet the longest.

Why?

Because boys will be boys. No real reason required.

As things progressed, they had managed to rope Pennywise into their antics.

To which he had obliged, if only as an extraterrestrial referee. No one broke a bone or got so much as a black eye.

And as they inevitably had, he had been there to mend the hurts as they happened.

But in that case, no one had lost that much blood.

Not to this extent.

Now, there was a lot more red on them all than there should rightfully be.

Beverly stared, her mind momentarily stalling out.

It was like watching some bizarre, nightmarish rodeo unfold: only instead of a bridled bull, it was one of the clowns trying to be restrained.

Situated to either side, Ben and Mike had the most leverage. With their knees braced against his back, they kept him pinned flush against the floor. His right arm was wrenched around and held there by both their combined set of hands.

The other limb was positioned out of sight, held at an awkward angle, below himself.

Richie, arguably in the most dangerous position, laid across the back of their mascot's legs. His arms wrapped around the being's booted ankles, pinning them together underneath his own chest.

And, of course, there was the shouting. Collectively, they spoke over one another in their haste to pacifiy-slash-restrain the costumed beast. With his remaining hand and feet, he struggled, thrashed, tried to drag himself out from under their hold.

Instead of simply... teleporting out of their grip.

As they all knew he was perfectly capable of.

What was different this time?

"Pen, please, calm down!"

"Dude, stop! You're making a mess of yourself."

"And us," Mike added, turning his shiny-streaked arm over in obvious disgust.

Still loitering at a safe distance, not sure at all where to start approaching the problem from, Beverly glanced around.

The red.

On the floor. On them.

Is that blood?

Why?

Why so much?

For an entity who had assumed physical form only as a means to be visible to his mortal companions, that made no sense.

Before she could make further sense of the clue, Pennywise spotted her. His panicky, panting breaths quieted instantly.

Albeit, not by much. Enough to be downgraded from 'going ballistic' to 'barely under control', let's say.

He stopped struggling so violently, but that was only because the need to cringe and whine overcame him.

"Bevs, somethiNg's wrong."

"No, shit, man. Something's- " Richie interrupted himself, forcing a bucking leg back to the floor with a slam. His glasses jolted in the process, but stayed on. "Shit, ow! Quit fidgeting already."

At that time, Eddie chose to make his entrance.

With a loaded backpack, presumably full of all the supplies he had needed to retrieve from the kitchen. Over time, the club had gathered a hodgepodge of essential provisions to stash there.

"And quit- trying to run. It'll only hurt for a second."

"Nooo..." Pennywise closed his eyes in dismay, giving another useless, spastic twitch. He pressed his temple to the floor, red smearing his pale face. "No, no- it shouLdn't be hurting at alL!"

Why doesn't he just change, throw them aside?

"I mean it, Stripes, calm down. Let Eddie have a look."

"What happened?" Beverly finally asked, taking a knee beside Eddie.

"He slammed himself into a wall, that's what."

"I-I-I did noT."

"No? Then how did... umph, this happen?"

Leaning over his shoulder, ignoring their patient's high-pitched whine of agonized protest, Mike wrenched the once-hidden arm into view.

Frowning, Richie pointed.

"Dude, the evidence speaks for itself."

Beverly's eyes grew round.

No, it doesn't.

Her stomach turned and she almost recoiled half a step.

Eddie saw it. But he never stopped moving, hands busy with readying a half-a-roll of paper towel. Gathering a sizable handful, he thrust it her way.

"Don't act the pansy now, Bev! Put some pressure on it!"

It turned out to be a profound, yawning gash in the once-silver suit. Running from shoulder to elbow, it was as though the wide blade of a machete had winged the creature's bicep, carving a deep trench in his arm. Underneath, dark red continued to bubble up and overflow in thick rivulets. It oozed through the fabric, spreading into a veritable puddle around their knees.

Puddling.

How?

Why isn't it... floating away?

Accepting the makeshift sponge with fumbling hands, she didn't stop to think (with the exception of voicing a silent apology).

She acted, slamming both hands down atop the arm.

Unable to pull away, Pennywise gave a miserable-sounding screech through his clenched teeth, turning his face aside from the gruesome sight. The influx of new pain stilled him momentarily. Mike's and Ben's combined weight kept him from wrenching free. Richie's hold kept him from rising.

Eyes closed, Beverly felt like doing the same.

How exciting. The last thing she thought she would be doing after school today was emergency room volunteer work.

Already, it felt futile. Pointless. There was too much blood and not enough paper towel to contain it all.

She glanced up, trying again to put the facts together. Looking past them, the splashes of red led back across the floor in a chaotic trail, to the opposite side of the room.

There was a telling crimson splatter on the foyer wall. Boards had broken and splintered under the force of some tremendous impact.

An impact she had somehow missed hearing while crossing the yard, presumably.

Frowning anew, Beverly glanced back down at the restrained being.

"Pen, look at me."

Belatedly, he did, expression still taut with discomfort.

"Talk to me. You ran into a wall?"

He winced, blue eyes darting about, but he appeared to hesitate out of sheer embarrassment (or was it confusion?) more than pain.

"I-I did do, do that, but it wasn't- I only- as I- I tried to step through the waLl."

His rambling explanation utterly failed to satisfy Eddie.

"What? Then, how did- even- moving at that speed, how does this injury make any sense? That's blunt force trauma one-oh-one. Lacerations like this don't happen from hitting something flat!"

Kaspbrak's thought process blurted itself out before he realized, with a shake of the head, what physics-defying madness he was putting into words.

Paper towel at the ready, he added his grip to Beverly's, in what little space there was above the wound.

"The hell is- you took a fence post through the head and lived, dude. I was there, but- How are you- this is- now, you're- you're bleeding like a-a normal person would."

All over the floor.

All over us.

Pennywise's dark eyelids clamped shut.

"I doN't know, EdS."

"So, what the hell are you waiting for, man? Fix yourself up!"

He coughed, half in a sardonic, disbelieving laugh.

"I can't, RichIe."

"What do you mean?"

The entity's eyes opened to angry orange slits, angling back over his right shoulder. Despite the pressure sitting on his lungs, he choked out another patchworked answer: "I mean, that's wHat's w-wrong, Ben. I tried, I'm stiLl trying, but- nothing's- You don't h-have a word for it. Nothing's- right. Nothing's- l-listeNing."

"Listening," Tozier scoffed. "Kinda like you aren't to us, right now?"

"Let go." The entity coiled - with what little room to spare he had - and gave another ineffective thrash, bogged down by their weight. With every new bout of fight, he seemed weaker for it, less lucid. His once-frantic breathing slowed even further, as did his words. "Get off me, please. Bevs, please... That'S not- not- h... he-elping..."

Beverly glanced up.

More and more, he sounded dizzy. Light-headed.

"Pen?"

"G-get... 'at's not..."

His voice slurred, fading to a near-stop.

Impulsively, Beverly reached forward, laid on hand on his cheek.

"Pennywise."

At her touch, his eyes diverged and rolled back, transitioning from orange to a blank, lifeless white, and slipped shut. His face went slack, tipping sideways to lie against the saturated floor.

Just as suddenly, the house around them fell silent.

After a few tense breaths, Richie dared to release his grip first. Uncaring of the half-coagulated puddle surrounding them all, he crawled forward on his hands and knees, to see for himself what the other Losers were quietly gawking at.

His brow furrowed.

"Did he just... pass out?"

"Heh. With this much blood loss, I'm not surprised," Eddie quipped, wide-eyed as a jackrabbit. While his hands stayed in place, he was glancing around uneasily at the ocean of mess. Ordinarily, the germaphobe would be rattling off the number of bloodborne pathogens they were all undoubtedly being exposed to.

But considering the 'nature' of their patient...

Though her fingers were sticky-wet and slippery, Beverly tightened her hold on the clown's arm. The smell of copper was everywhere. The warmth pulsing beneath her hand seemed less and less.

Pulsing.

But that would mean-

Her hand moved from his face to his throat, delving past the blood-soaked ruffles, feeling for the skin underneath with two fingers.

Still kneeling against their patient's back, Ben frowned. He stood slowly, cautiously.

"Beverly, what's wrong?"

It felt like stating the obvious.

Until Beverly stopped to consider just who's heartbeat she was checking for.

"He has a pulse."

"Well, of course he do- " Richie froze mid-comment, magnified eyes blinking comically behind his lenses. He just remembered who they were referring to. Exchanging a look with Eddie, he amended his words: "No, he doesn't."

Mike stopped mid-rise. "He's not... supposed to?" he asked, just to be certain what he was thinking was matching up with the others' thoughts.

"He's not 'supposed' to anything, Mike," Ben clarified. He stooped again, placed a shaking hand against the clown's mussed, fiery hair. "This corporeal form's an illusion. Besides what he looks like, the little things like blinking, swallowing, breathing, it's all done for show."

"Then, if it's for show, why is he still- "

"Turn him over."

The four boys jumped at Beverly's command. Heedless of the blood, they rolled their friend's limp, unconscious form over, onto his back, pulled him aside from the wall.

Tried to ignore the next leg of the bloodtrail that was left behind.

Beverly knelt again and leaned down, put her ear next to his unhinged mouth.

"He's still breathing."

Good thing? Bad thing? The hell is going on here?

"A tourniquet, that's what we needed. Damn!" Rooting through the backpack again, Eddie's latest search came up short.

"So what now?" Richie blurted out. He was the first to let go, and to stand up. And even then, he rested bent forward, hands on his knees. "I mean, do we leave? Do we stay? What's supposed to- "

"We need to get the bleeding to stop."

The vines had never been completely cleared from the foyer windows. Eddie raced over, slipping on wet shoes, and pulled four strands down. Raced back. Weaving them into a makeshift cord, he wove it around, tying it off just above the still-leeching wound.

Mike sighed, climbed to his feet. "Why didn't we do that from the start?"

"It was out of my reach." Eddie wiped his brow with the back of his hand. The motion left a warpaint-like smudge across his pale skin. He didn't appear to care. "And, for starters, you saw how he fought us on it. Like he didn't want the help. I've never seen him so freaked out."

After witnessing what she had, Beverly felt the numbness of adrenaline finally ease. Tears stung her eyes.

None of us have.

"Ben had to kick his leg out from under him," Richie explained, at a prompting look from Beverly. "And even once he went down, well, you were here for the rest."

"What about now, though?" Ben asked, palms spread. "I mean, none of us can even go anywhere looking like this."

"Homework's gonna have to take a number 'til we figure this shit out, Hanscom. Don't get ahead of yourself," Richie lectured, waving a finger pseudo-seriously.

"Looking like..." Beverly murmured, before remembering. She shook her head. "I don't think that'll matter. No one can see the blood but us."

There was some validity to the idea.

As Bill had once put it:

Our reality isn't their reality.

"Oh? Who wants to step outside and find that out first?" Richie hiked a thumb over his shoulder. "Easy. Just let me go fetch us a random bystander. 'Pardon me, good sir, would you mind telling me if you can see all the demonic clown blood covering my person right now'?"

"I'll stay," Beverly volunteered immediately.

Still on her knees, she willed the stinging in her eyes to go away. Grabbing the last few clean sheets of paper towel, she tried to wipe her bloody handprint from Pennywise's cheek.

He didn't stir.

Complete shutdown.

She had an inkling, a shadowy wisp of a thought, of what was going on.

Stemming from something only she was yet privy to.

Was it- possible?

Well, if something like It was as real as the sun in the sky, anything was possible.

But to share her theory with the others right now, it would be too much to explain.

And if she was completely wrong...

Well, let's not entertain that thought quite yet.

Without looking away, she asked, "Richie, you've got the least on you. Think you can scrounge up some more supplies?"

"For what?" Tozier spat, expression flat.

"For us. We're staying the night."

"It's a school night, Bev."

Like you planned on doing your assignments, anyway.

Hand on his hip, Mike facepalmed. "So, go if you want. I'll stay, too."

For that, Beverly looked up and gave a thankful little smile.

School nights were of no concern for a homeschooled kid such as himself.

Eddie heaved a sigh, grabbed for the discarded backpack. Zipping up the open compartments, he slung it over his shoulder.

Taking his meaning, Richie shook his head.

"Okay. We'll come back, bring what bandages we can find. Some water and snacks. A wheelbarrow full of towels. And the biggest bottle of bleach in the world. Dunno if it'll do any good, but I'll be working on my eulogy all the same."

He held up a bloody hand before any of them could voice the inevitable closing thought:

"Yeah, yeah, I know. Shut up, Richie."

Chapter Text

"He's gonna have a hell of a hangover."

"Small wonder why, after you bumped his head on the last step like that."

"Well, I didn't almost drop his leg and send us all falling back down to the ground floor, either."

"Guys..."

Tiredly, Beverly sank back against the wall. Her aching knees thanked her for it. But it was with some greater sense of relief that she regarded the sight of Pennywise, stretched out on the old mattress (feet hanging off the edge, because of course it was too small), bandaged up and safe. Arguably, she had done the most work, besides Eddie and Mike. Between hauling him upstairs, cleaning up what blood hadn't dried, and dressing the wound, they could at least look forward to falling asleep due to sheer exhaustion.

Exhaustion.

If and when he woke up, Beverly wondered if Pennywise would exhibit much the same feelings.

During said trauma treatment process, she had come up with a plausible comparison for said entity's uncharactertistic injury, and what it entailed.

A split seam. A rupture.

Like a doll played with once too often. The impact was the last straw. Its stitching had come undone, stuffing spilling out.

But once it was patched up, it would be as good as new.

Or so she hoped.

How the liberal amount of blood had not stained anything, but evaporated from the scene like water, that was an encouraging thought. It vanished from their clothes, the floor, the walls.

Like it was never there.

Even the smell seemed to dry up.

The worst damage done seemed to be having to cut away the left sleeve of the suit. Underneath was a very human-looking arm, with skin as deathly-pale as the entity's assumed face, with a bicep muscle that had just about been cleaved into two lateral halves.

To his credit, Eddie hadn't balked at seeing it. He dove in with both hands to wrap it up tight. Stitches were a foregone conclusion. No one was interested in delving that far into frontier medicine tonight.

Mostly because they didn't want their friend to wake up screaming.

He had scared them enough for one day.

Then the waiting game began.

Beverly opted to take first watch.

But in reality, she intended for it to be the only watch.

Procuring five sleeping bags, the rest of the party arranged theirs in the hall. Richie cracked jokes while they indulged in a cheese sandwich dinner (as, understandably, no one was in the mood for lunchmeat) and attempted to get some schoolwork done.

Beverly declined to join them. Instead, she spread her bedroll on the floor beside the occupied mattress. By flashlight, she managed to finish a few assignments, feeling drowsier and drowsier. Listening to the slow in-and-out lull of Pennywise's dozing breaths was relaxing in its own right.

The old house, once ever present with its never-ending clamor of groans and creaks, had remained silent.

And despite her best efforts, around eleven o'clock, Beverly remembered drifting off. While she laid safely bundled in the sleeping bag, she kept her head propped up on the mattress' edge.

For it was all the better a vantage point to observe her slumbering patient-slash-friend from.

She fell asleep looking at his closed eyes.

Sometime in the early morning, her vigil paid off.

At first, she woke to the sound of rusty mattress springs, creaking.

Then, to the motion of weight shifting around nearby.

And last but not least, there came a little, trembling cry and a heavy thump, as if a sleeping child had just taken a tumble off their bed in the night.

Beverly laid there, and didn't dare to move too much, too fast. She blinked the sleep from her eyes, pupils wide in the oppressive dark. Blindly, she felt for the flashlight tucked into the sleeping bag's side.

Off in the shadows, she could hear fabric rustling, hands and feet shuffling against the dusty floor. Boots scuffling, dragging.

Then there was another thump.

A groan.

Yawning, she was as far from afraid as one could get.

The monster slinking around in the dark was no monster to her.

"Pen, ahem, is that you?"

A shaky-sounding giggle answered her.

Tiny and unsure of itself.

"Not... not anymore."

And far from being disturbed by the scratchy, unfamiliar-familiar voice, she was comforted.

This wasn't the mascot as her greater club knew him.

This was just another one of his forms.

One that, as yet, only she had seen.

Finally, she found the flashlight, sat up, pushed the power switch.

Scanned around the room until she found him, huddled in the corner.

He had kept the costume. That she noted right away.

But she could tell, the side-on profile was definitely not that of Pennywise.

The healthier-toned skin. The stringy, reddish-brown hair.

This was someone only she knew.

He was shivering, head angled down against his collar, face shielded against the flashlight's glare. His injured arm with the missing sleeve was folded in his lap, adorned with its blood-soaked bandage. His right arm was curled defensively atop his knees, its still-gloved hand clutching his shoulder.

He lifted his head, opened his eyes.

"I told you, something was wrong, Bevs."

Just in time to see the glow get swallowed up, almost disappear entirely. She glimpsed the last vestiges of yellow vanishing from his irises, drowned out by a iridescent blue-green hue.

And far from looking happy to see her, the sorrow writ on his face broke her heart all over again.

"W-what do you mean?" Rolling free of the sleeping bag, she crawled closer. "This isn't wrong. I remember. This is Bob Gray, from the diner, right?"

"No." The entity's new eyes went wide before clamping shut again. He bared his teeth - again, very unremarkable, human teeth - and growled. In disappointment. In frustration. "N-no, this isn't me. This isn't right. This is wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong."

Impulsively, he moved to stand, to get back on his feet. "This is not how it's supposed to happ- owww." Before safely realizing it, putting weight on his bad arm brought him down again. He cringed and held his elbow, taking a pause to glare resentfully down at the injury. "That's wrong, too."

Beverly waited until he was comfortable, sitting on his knees, before speaking again.

"Well, Pen, whatever happened, you did a number on yourself."

Scared the hell out of us in the process.

But that goes without saying.

"Are you... feeling okay?"

The glare he sent her way was as intense as it was unexpected: edgy, vicious.

Like a feral dog with its hackles up, teeth bared.

When all she had done was extend a hand for a comforting pat.

"I feel wrong. What more do you need to know?"

Rather than be intimidated by this mysterious response, Beverly frowned, crept closer. She felt like taking on that dare.

Tempting fate, maybe.

But she wanted some answers.

Bob Gray scowled back at her.

The flashlight beam, held as it was under his chin, did his deep-lined complexion no favors. With the facepaint gone, the high contrast shadows stood in its place, bringing out the rough angles.

Rough, compared to the round, almost-plucky features his original form sported.

"Define 'wrong'."

Mutely, he stared at her for quite some time, then - forced by the real, legitimate need to blink - he looked away, thought about it for even longer.

Beverly didn't bother to note how much time went by.

She simply waited.

Her patience paid off.

"Wrong, like... being stuck in a shirt that's too small. You can move, but not like you used to. Or with shoes on that aren't the right size. You can walk, but you have to mind your step more than you should. Like you could accidentally step out of the shoe, or step on the side of your foot and fall."

Rambling on, sifting through his thoughts aloud, seemed to help.

He glanced up, a terrible realization dawning on his face.

"Stuck. That's the word."

Beverly blinked as mismatched hands grabbed her by the shoulders. His eyes went wide again.

"That's it, Bevs. I'm wrong, and I'm stuck."

Eureka, right?

He was just the same as before.

At once so childlike and so overdramatic.

It didn't matter whose face he had.

She smiled, what she hoped, was a reassuring smile.

"So... get unstuck."

Your episode's passed.

Easy as 1-2-3?

He frowned.

The simple reasoning behind her words, that he didn't need overpowered perception to see.

"Ohh, if only it were that easy."

The now-wholly-corporeal entity let go of her as quickly as if he had touched a boiling hot kettle. Shoulders hunching up behind him, he regarded his two open hands with outward revulsion.

"Why isn't it?"

Blue-green eyes glared up at her again. "Because it isn't, Bevs. And you know better than to ask me these things." Distractedly, he plucked at his collar, the remaining sleeve of his suit. He pulled at the frill, its corded bells. The thing which had once fit him so well now seemed baggy and drab on that closer-to-normal frame. "This is still the same. That's not right, either."

Slowly, methodically, Beverly worked through her checklist of questions.

Eliminating possibilities.

Narrowing down avenues.

"Did you... expect that to change, to fit you?"

He crawled back to another corner, the flashlight beam following his every move.

There, at the opposite side of the mattress, were a pile of discarded rags and bandage remnants.

Rooting through it with one hand, he declined to answer until he had found what he was looking for.

The suit's missing sleeve and glove.

"It should have. This is supposed to be as much a part of my form as anything else."

"So, why didn't it?"

"Maybe... no. That hasn't happened in- " He cut himself off, toying with the fingers of the glove. Then, frowning, he compared it to his current hand.

Unceremoniously, he pulled off the right one. Tossed them aside. Then he held his hands together, palm to palm, as if to make sure they matched.

That done, he pulled at both of his ears. Traced his eyebrows. Poked his own cheeks. Stuck out his tongue.

It was rude to stare. But Beverly couldn't help watching with a sense of awe and amusement. He was examining himself in the same way one might study a new outfit they had tried on for the first time.

Troubling as it might have been for the entity, she recognized the process for what it was.

She waved for his attention. "Pen?"

"Hmm?"

He paused, glanced up, index finger poised at the tip of his nose.

As if he were making sure his eyes were centered.

"Stop making faces and come here."

Glowering, he slunk down on all fours (his left arm no longer paining him as badly, it appeared) and crept over to crouch before her.

The gloves were left behind.

Intentionally or no, they served him no greater purpose now.

She stood the flashlight on the floor between them, balanced on its end, and crossed her arms. "Look. You can keep your secrets, if that's what they are. But for now, if you're... trapped like that, you may as well make the most of it. And for starters, that means getting the others familiar with you."

He scowled, raised an eyebrow.

Thinking twice of how confusing that must have sounded to him, Beverly slapped her own forehead, corrected herself.

"This new you, that is."

"You... thought about this for a while already, haven't you?"

It wasn't an accusation, the way he said it. The gentle, softspoken tone was almost hushed, amazed.

Like he was confounded by the notion Beverly had (save for a few, indescribable aspects) virtually predicted such a mishap.

Confounded, in the best possible way.

"Richie and Eddie told me how it started, how scared you were. No, don't deny it." She raised a finger as he opened his mouth to protest. "It's okay to be scared when you're hurting. It's only natural."

"I-I suppose, but..." To that, the creature didn't have an immediate answer. He sat back on his heels. His fingers kneaded together, nervously almost. "But, this, it's not natural, Bevs. Not for me. I don't even really remember the last time it happened."

"It has? Before?"

His gaze went beyond-distant. "A long, long time ago. Before Derry. When the continents of this planet were still one landmass." He held a fist to his brow, wincing. "It hurts to think back that far."

"I can't even imagine, right?"

Hand still raised, he smirked knowingly, looking sidelong and up at her. "Wouldn't stop you from trying."

Beverly tilted her head. "What were you stuck as that time?"

The shadows on his face stretched as he frowned again.

"Oh, why? So you can tease me about it? I don't think so, Miss Marsh."

Beverly smiled at the perfunctory nose-flick the once-clown dealt her.

"Probably some small, single-cell speck of nothing."

"Hmph." He tossed his head, dismissive. "Think that if you want. I'm not confirming or denying anything."

Then the smirk melted away, as his eye noticed the bloody bicep dressing once again. Briefly, he toyed with a frayed strip of gauze tape before glancing back at her.

"No one was there to patch me up that time. How'd you know to?"

"I didn't. It just seemed like the right thing to do. I figured, if you had a heartbeat, it wouldn't do to let your blood just run out all over the place. You'd be needing it for later."

The smirk reappeared.

"That, and it was probably a slip hazard," he admitted.

"Smelled bad, on top of that."

He practiced an eyeroll a la Stan Uris. "Sorry. Can't help you with that part."

"I guess."

Then the smirk became a smile, conveying a silent thank-you to wrap up their latest round of banter on an amicable note.

"I'm sorry for the worry I caused you, then. All of you. I just- it's been so long since a split has occurred, I didn't recognize the signs."

Split.

So the condition has a name.

"And your first hint was not being able to pass through the wall?"

"Exactly."

Gently, she reached over to adjust the bandage's fraying bit of tape, smoothed it down.

"Yeah. Think you can avoid doing any more of that in the near future?"

"Ohh, no promises there. You don't know what it is to have this to cope with." He tapped a finger against his temple. "Bad enough sometimes when it isn't reformatted to fit a- a brain like this. Sometimes, it just does what it wants."

That much about you hasn't changed, then.

"Well, if you have any say in the matter, try convincing it to mellow out for a while. This isn't your first time. And while I can see you aren't completely helpless, but that doesn't mean you're totally self-sufficient, either."

"No, I'm- you're right. Pretty much stuck between those two."

"Rock and a hard place?"

"Huh?"

Explain that one to him some other time.

"Any idea how long it'll be before you can morph back?" Beverly asked instead. Having some kind of timetable would help them plan accordingly. "I mean, the others will pitch in and help. But we can barely take care of ourselves some days."

"You don't need to remind me," he sighed, gaze drifting away. "I'll think of something. Starting with- " He looked down at himself, at his missing sleeve. "A change of outfit."

There we are.

A nice, simple problem to begin with.

Then they could move on to the bigger ones.

"Hm..." Beverly tapped her chin, thinking. Well, he's on the tall side. None of us are really equipped to loan- wait.

Then, as the lightbulb went off, she snapped her fingers. "Got it. Follow me."

Chapter Text

Beverly Marsh was many things.

Tough. Cagey. Resourceful.

But, when it came to letting her choose his temporary wardrobe, was she really the Loser most qualified for the job?

It stared into the mirror.

Robert Gray stared back at him.

A showered, rebandaged, with-hair-brushed iteration no less.

Without breaking eye contact, the entity tilted his head. Weird. He didn't think he looked half as irritated on the outside as his human glamour actually displayed.

The question currently lodged at the front of his mind seemed like something his host should be asking.

But she wasn't.

So he did.

"Are you... sure this is okay?"

Beverly's voice hummed before sounding off from the next room over. She was busy filling a backpack with a few sets of clothes, after all.

"Sure? Yes. Okay? Not really."

Gray scoffed. His blue-green eyes went half-lidded.

Beverly sounded hurried. Dismissive.

And she had seemed so confident going up the stairs. She hadn't balked on crossing the threshold of the apartment with a fretting him in tow. In no uncertain terms, she steered him into the bathroom.

He tidied himself up. A set of clothes awaited him, draped across the bathroom's drying rack, by the time he pulled the shower curtain back.

Beverly had seemed pretty sure of it all. May as well call her out on supposedly-recanting now.

"Well, doesn't that just fill me with confidence?"

"He won't miss those, trust me."

I ought to trust that about as much as Stan trusts Richie.

But for Beverly, the entity would make an exception.

He always seemed given to, for her.

Hands still braced on the bathroom sink, Bob glanced down at himself.

"What about the ones you're packing now?"

He heard a door close. Persumably a closet door.

He must have sounded uneasy.

Even from afar, Beverly's assuring tone eased said misgivings. "No, really. It's fine. He practically lives in his work clothes. These haven't been touched in years."

"And if he comes home?"

"I told you, he won't, Bob. There was a septic backup at the hospital this morning. That'll keep him busy for at least day, maybe two. But just to be safe, we'll get you back to Neibolt soon enough."

Bob.

Not Pen, not any affectionate nickname.

She called his form by its name.

Even after that day outside the drugstore, then later at the diner, she hadn't managed it before they parted ways.

He looked up at his new reflection and frowned.

Well, I guess that does it. I'm no longer to be excluded from your father's feelings on the matter of 'guests'.

Rule number one:

No boys in the apartment.

Rule number two:

No boys in the apartment.

Rule number three and onward:

You get the idea.

He was no boy. Technically, this body was a little too mature-looking to be called boyish. Compared to the Losers, he arguably now appeared as the oldest, the closest to looking like a young, young man.

And that was appropriately so, given the cosmic being's age. There wasn't an empty field in existence big enough to possibly fit all those zeroes.

If he had had any luck with regard to this circumstance, it was that his current look wasn't too far off in build from Alvin Marsh.

Borrowing some of the man's casual clothes, though...

Again, technically, he wasn't.

Beverly was offering.

Once they were being neglected.

Now they were being repurposed.

Standing there with the black sweater and slacks on, Bob stomached the newly-permanent reality as best he could. There really wasn't any going back from here. The maimed silver suit and its accessories would be kept for secondhand material, if nothing else now.

The boots would do fine. Just had to lop the pompoms off.

Bob stuck his head out into the hallway, hand resting on the doorframe.

Beverly was walking by with a stacked armful of shirts.

"What if he does?"

She stopped, glanced up at him. "Relax. And knock it off with the impressions. I can tell already - the first was your Richie, and now you've gone 'Eddie' on me."

Good ol' Bevs. Quick as ever.

That was worth a reward. He may as well elaborate if she had figured out the basics. The name 'Robert Gray' had meant a lot of things over the years, but this latest version was as with-the-times as he could manage.

"They're not meant as impressions. For better or worse, Bevs, this form is an amalgam of all of you. In its behavior. Does it really matter who I should like at any given time if it means it's easier to pass for 'normal'?"

"I suppose not. Just don't go walking through any more walls, and you'll be fine."

"Or ditches?" he added, flatly. The memory of a little slip-up they had endured en route to the apartment had not left his mind yet. She had steered him the wrong way. And it was worth a dramatic finger-point. "Yeah, I still think you did that on purpose."

"Sorry." Beverly didn't laugh outright. But the twinkling in her eyes betrayed the repressed amusement. "Just seeing if your night vision is any better than mine."

Bob sighed, shook his head. "I assure you, it isn't. Just as inept, just as ill-suited, with all of your limited human facalties to go with it."

"That was Stan talking vicariously through you, wasn't it?"

"At this point, I'm just glad you're finding something to laugh about," the guest deadpanned. Even if he didn't see the humor in his present situation, Beverly was keeping things light in his stead. "This is all so... out of nowhere."

"Like when you eat lunch with someone, then two days later, you can't get out of bed?"

"I'm not sick, Bevs. Just- off-kilter."

She tilted her head.

"More so than you already were?"

Bob scoffed, hand dropping to his side.

I guess I deserve that.

"Kinda like the others will be, once they see me. Do you think they'll..."

Beverly waited. But when he failed to finish the thought, she supplied her own word:

"Approve?"

Taken aback that they voiced it at the virtually same time, they stared at each other in astonishment for perhaps a minute.

Then she explained.

"I won't get your hopes up, but I don't want to say they'll embrace the idea, either. Not right away. We've all wondered about it, since meeting you. If you ever had cause to take human shape- more human shape. Pennywise doesn't count."

Bob closed his mouth, glancing away. Absently, he scratched at the neck of his on-loan sweater.

How strange, to hear her refer to his last persona in the third person.

Even if he himself sometimes made a habit of it.

It.

Then again...

With a name like that, what right did he have to find anything strange?

Amazingly enough, there was an old, denim jacket to spare, even if it was a touch too small to be buttoned up. Without it, the outfit felt too one-dimensional. Bob drew the line at Beverly's suggestion of him donning a tacky pair of cheap sunglasses, though.

And he protested it every step of the way back to 29 Neibolt Street.

The sun was just coming up, painting the front of the house in rosy-gold shades.

Almost cheerily.

Stepping inside the broken-down fence, Robert Gray felt nothing remotely like "welcome home" at the sight of it.

Backpack weighing on her, Beverly lagged behind. She had opted to carry the clothes, and he whatever meager groceries could be spared from the Marsh kitchen.

And she was still trying to make her point about the damn sunglasses.

"But you're supposed to be in hiding."

He sighed, ran a hand over his face. "For the hundredth time, I'm not in hiding, Bevs. Just laying low. Hiding would imply I have someone to hide from."

"But Greta knows you. And everyone who saw you on main street."

"Did I mention the little favor I did, wiping their memories after the fact?" He drew to a stop at the edge of the porch, turned back. "I can do that, you know."

"So, why the white knight routine?"

"Oh, you know me, Bevs. I've always had a weakness for causing a- s-s-scene!"

He turned back aroud, intending to stride up the stairs and up to the door.

And he almost tripped over the person standing there.

Wide brown eyes, set in a very familiar face, stared up at him.

He managed to wheel aside, stumbling at the last moment, one hand thrown out to catch and steady himself against the porch railing.

"Oh! Hiya, Georgie."

With the other hand, Bob grabbed his own throat in shock.

The greeting had slipped out before he could catch it.

Beverly, leaning sideways to peer around him, didn't jump so noticably.

On the contrary, she looked happy to see him.

"Georgie, hi! Bill brought you, too?"

Denbrough merely blinked, eyes still locked on Bob's face. It was as if he had gone deaf, too caught up in appreciating the 'stranger' standing before him to answer her.

In the span of maybe four seconds, he had figured out what was what.

And who was who.

"Penny?"

He breathed the name out, soft as velvet.

Bob flinched like he had suffered a gunshot at point blank range. A slight tearing pain in his arm certainly made it feel that way.

But despite his body's instinctive need to get away - to get far away, don't come back for a while - his treacherous voice cracked accordingly.

His lips even pulled up into a shaky smile.

"Heh. For beTter or worSe."

"Penny, what happened?" Far from being intimidated by this appearance, Georgie stepped forward. He grabbed the denim jacket's lapels, as high as his hands could reach. "You're- you're- "

"What aRe you- ahem. What are you doing here, Georgie?" Massaging his throat, Bob forced the inflections away. The most difficult part of this encounter was behind them, departing as quickly as it had arrived. No need to remain confused on who he was meant to be embodying.

Georgie said nothing more. He kept staring, gaping.

Bob glanced through the sides of his eyes.

As quickly as his little friend had seemed to peg his identity, the entity had figured out this was no coincidence.

"This is your doing, isn't it?"

Beverly shrugged, smiling an easy smile.

"I had Eddie phone the others last night, when he and Rich were gone on that supply run. Said to meet up before class. But they didn't know about what."

"About what, indeed."

Another voice joined them.

Even if its owner lingered in the open doorway, eyes round.

Bob recognized them instantly, gave a little sarcastic wave in greeting.

"Hey, Stan."

Behind Uris, no less than three other faces crowded the entry further on.

Stepping onto the crowded porch, Beverly waved them all in.

"Guys, inside, please. There's no need to make a spectacle out here."

Turned out, inside, the whole of the club had been assembled. Backpacks lined one wall of the foyer.

Feeling a bit like a freak put on display, Bob stepped past their owners, almost to the center of the room. He thought far enough to discard his backpack of groceries, then turn back and gaze down at the mismatched crowd of kids.

Beverly stood back, smirking.

Seven sets of eyes stared up at him.

And there was silence until Bob finally rolled his owlish eyes and glanced away. Sarcasm boiled just under the overhang of his frontal lobe.

Well, isn't this just nice and awkward?

I cannot say I'm surprised.

So why bother?

"Dude," Richie squeaked, arms slack. He had an unfair advantage over looking shocked, compared to the others. But no amount of cleaning his glasses would change the sight before him. "You look- you're- "

"He looks like a man. Like an actual man." Ben blinked several times.

"B-but how? S-since when- "

Sensing the others' reactions would be more of the same ramblings, Bob stepped forward, brows lowered.

At that moment, he didn't care if it meant stomping on Bill Denbrough's words.

"Y'know, I'm still here. And you can talk to me, not at."

Half the club took an uneasy step back.

Save for one small body that threaded his way past them.

Bounding his way right to center stage.

"Penny, no."

Bob flinched and shrunk away from the finger that jabbed into his nose. He resisted the uncalled-for urge to crouch, a purely submissive habit he typically gave into around the boy.

"No?"

"Change back. Right now."

Georgie had overcome his initial disbelief.

And decided for himself that he wanted his friend, as he knew him, back.

Stat.

Bob winced, hands wringing. Already he felt his composure slipping once more. While he would have liked nothing better than to honor that demand, he still felt too... snug. Too trapped by the contours of this current guise to dare change anything.

Not if it meant bleeding that much again.

He had told Beverly as much upon waking up.

A 'split' was not something he could force his way out of.

It had to happen on its own time.

"Georgie, he can't."

Thankfully, she was quick to jump to the entity's defense.

Georgie's head whipped around, looking up as she stepped forward to join the rest of them.

"W-what do you mean, Beverly? Of course he can. He can turn into whatever he wants, whenever he wants."

"Not this time," she said, gently, then addressed the group at large. Utterly unintimidated, utterly confident where they weren't. "Guys, this is Bob. Robert Gray. Unless something tells us otherwise, he's... Pennywise's human counterpart."

"You're shitting me," Richie wheezed, laughter finally taking hold. "I mean, seriously? This? This is what came of that freakout he had yesterday?"

"He freaked out?" Stan asked, eyebrow raising almost to his hairline. "That hole in the wall over there have anything to do with it?"

"Oh, a lot," Mike deadpanned. "You missed the fun part."

While half the club deliberated, the other half zeroed in on their remodeled mascot.

"You changed, but a different kind of change?" Eddie asked. "Is this... permanent?"

Bob scoffed, crossed his arms, leaning back on one leg. "As permanent as a temporary tattoo is, Eds. It'll wear off."

"When?" Georgie piped up. Timidly, he stepped up, reaching ahead with a shaky hand. With it, he grabbed the edge of the denim jacket. "Penny, if there's anything we can do- "

"Just accept it for what it is, Georgie. I have."

"How did it happen?" Georgie kneaded the old, worn denim between his fingers. "I mean, I know you can change anyway. What makes this different?"

"It's... too much to explain before school." Bob blinked, realizing just what he had passed the blame of explanation off on. "School. Bevs, what were you thinking? You all have classes today."

And now they all have to worry about me, on top of your usual troubles.

Usual troubles...

That I can't do anything about in this form!

Why didn't that occur to me sooner?

"I don't," Mike pointed out, oblivious to the trapped soul's new inner turmoil, hand half-raised. "Lucky thing, too- Eddie said that dressing should be needing a change in a few more hours."

"We took care of it at the apartment, Mike." Beverly spared the farmboy an appreciative pat on the shoulder, before depositing her backpack with the others. "He should be okay until tonight."

"And it's Friday," Bill opined, neutral as ever. He had crossed his arms somewhere along the way. Then, with comedic timing, he glanced up at his watch. "Thank God."

Bob fretted, unnoticed, for another reason. He spared Georgie an uneasy look, to which the seven-year-old smiled.

There must have been something in his distraught expression that convinced the kid.

This wasn't something to shun.

This was worth understanding.

He took his friend's hand in both of his own.

"It'll be okay, Penny. You can have the day off."

"So. D'you have any ideas?"

Sitting at the kitchen table, Bob looked up, chin resting in his palm.

For the rest of the Losers, it was off to school.

Mike stood, alone, in the doorway.

No doubt he was ducking work on the farm to stay at Neibolt for the day. Work for which his grandfather would not be happy that he had skipped out on.

He seemed ready to help anyway.

Ideas?

"About what?"

"What to do about you, your situation," Mike gestured toward him, shrugging. "I mean, I don't know what the process involves, but it can't include sitting around on your ass, pouting."

"I'm not pouting."

"Stewing, then. I get them mixed up sometimes."

"Mikey..." Bob sighed, wrist dropping against the table with a clunk. Distractedly, he rubbed at his sore shoulder. The dried bandages crackled even from under layers of cloth. "There isn't really a manual for this, or a textbook, or a guide, or anything. I've spent every waking minute since yesterday trying to think of some plausible fix. But I'm afraid if I don't know, no one else in this universe would."

Hanlon ventured closer, brow furrowed. Besides taking in the entity's new appearance without any distractions, Bob thought it was a considerate look.

Considering what few options there were to pick from.

Opting for the most promising of them, Mike smiled. He snapped his fingers, as Beverly had. "I know. Let's go to the park."

"The park?" Bob repeated, squinting.

What good would that do?

"Yeah, I'mean, you've been there before, with Stan. Birdwatching. If you can't change back into Pennywise, maybe you can change into something else?"

"Like a bird?" Bob deadpanned. While he knew he should have been thankful for the suggestion, it felt like a dud.

"Would it hurt to try?"

"You were here yesterday, Mike. You're that eager to relive it?"

"Hey," Mike's smile didn't waver. "You said yourself- there's no telling what may or may not happen. But you can't let that get you down in the meantime."

It's not what might happen 'getting me down'.

It's what could be getting the others while we wait.

Or who.

Bob didn't say as much. Mike was trying to be of help, even after suffering more than his share of slings and arrows. It wouldn't be fair to shoot the kid down for trying to be a good friend.

Not fair, not decent, either.

He tried to relax.

Admittedly, walking around in public was not so daunting, once you got going. So long as you kept your eyes to yourself and didn't act too out of the ordinary.

Bob couldn't help glancing around, almost exaggeratedly so. He was too used to being able to see everywhere, at all once. Crammed into this fleshy prison, the world around him just wasn't the same. His eyesight felt weak, and his ears were stuffed with cotton.

Maybe, Beverly's sunglasses wouldn't have been so useless after all.

More than once, Mike had to steer him back on course.

"Here, your treat," Hanlon joked, sliding a plate onto the picnic table in front of him.

Eyebrow raised, Bob sniffed and resisted the urge to push it away. The prospect of food agreed with his human insides, if not his mind. It wasn't his meager allowance being spent on a hotdog and fries in Bassey Park.

"Thanks, Mikey."

In no time, he had made a proper mess of his hands. Ketchup and mustard smeared his fingers.

Chuckling quietly, Mike offered a paper square next.

"Napkin."

"If you insist."

Wiping his hands clean, Bob tried to ignore the sun on his back. It felt weird enough being stuck in one form, never mind out in broad daylight where there was no place to hide.

Sitting beside him, Mike worked on his fries. "Bev wasn't kidding. You seem... pretty normal. I kept thinking I'd need to do things like show you how to chew, tie your boots- "

"How to use the bathroom?" Bob blurted out, flatly. He had been around long before indoor plumbing was even a concept, and there were far worse things to be afraid of then bowel movements. "Give me some credit, Mike. I'm no invalid."

Mike snorted, unable to stifle his smile completely. "Sorry, I didn't mean it like that."

Bob rolled his eyes. "You were headed there. Admit it."

His companion declared the second verse: "Admit it, forgot it."

Then simultaneously: "Already quit it."

Together, they glanced at each other, scoffed, and openly ridiculed the inane exchange.

As they always found themselves doing.

"Honestly, how did that stupid saying catch on so fast?"

"Richie wrote it, that's how," Mike laughed into his palm. "Probably the only real worthwhile contribution he'll ever to make to society. So, we made it our own."

"Better our one-note Loser society, than none at all, I suppose," Bob agreed, French fry dangling from his lip like an imitation cigarette. It served to take the pseudo-grimness out of his statement.

"Kinda like you. Could you have picked a more pathetic bunch of kids to make your posse?"

Bob took the fry from his mouth, set in back on the plate. Just as quickly as it had lightened up, the conversation turned hefty and serious in turn. "You're by no means pathetic, Mikey. None of you are."

Hanlon smiled again, with no small measure of gratitude.

"And we know our own when we see one. No matter what face they have."

To and from the park was only an hour walk. By foot.

Mike forwent his bike in favor of keeping pace with Bob.

They talked more on the walk back to Neibolt Street than to Bassey Park.

It felt easier now.

"Y'know, if you were okay with that, you think you'd be okay with a little handyman work?"

"What do you mean?"

Later that day, Bob was sorry he asked.

Beverly was the first to return from school. She smiled at him, and it was as good a sight to come home to as any. "What happened?"

Sitting at the kitchen table once again, Bob held the ice pack to his forehead, hissing at the feeling of cold. The bruise wasn't quite a black eye, but one hoof to the temple was enough to convince Leroy Hanlon the 'new guy' wasn't farmhand material.

"Sheep and I don't get along, it seems."

Richie didn't have much to complain about there. Only thing that mattered to him was that he got a good laugh out of the story that was Mike's failed apprentice.

"Now I know you missed your calling as a rodeo clown for a reason."

Eddie was next. Shrugging off his patient's protesting whines, he donned a pair of rubber gloves. Then he undid the dressing to treat the entity's once-cleaved arm with a homemade remedy of peroxide and salve.

Bob bit down on the empty sleeve of his jacket, to stifle his cries.

"Well, you've got some kind of healing action happening. Without stitches, there's no way this would be holding together so easily."

"Ugh. I could've told you that without unwrapping anything, Eds."

"Or you could've fibbed and I wouldn't know the difference," Kaspbrak smirked. "Until you needed a fresh bandage. Then what would I think of you for not telling the truth?"

"You'd probably think, the airhead lied to me. Again."

"And you'd be right." Rewrapping the arm, Eddie's hands were far more gentle. "But I know you'd only say so to keep me from worrying so much."

Georgie was still feeling a bit critical.

But that was nothing compared to Bill's icy, ever-suspecting stare.

The Denbrough boys worked on their assignments together, as was customary. Sitting on the foyer floor, side by side, knees practically touching, they talked. They would compare notes, trade ideas.

Complain about the wrongs their teachers had committed.

Normally, Pennywise would join them, usually only to watch the brotherly antics unfold.

Today, Georgie made an exception for Bob.

For as many multiplication questions, picked at random, the entity could answer correctly, he would stay.

A weird stipulation, but creative at least.

"Seven times... nine?"

"Sixty-three."

"Three times... eighty-nine?"

"Two-hundred sixty-seven."

"Eight times... fifteen?"

"One-hundred twenty."

"He can c-clearly run the numbers, Georgie," Bill finally interrupted, hopelessly taken away from his history essay. "What are you trying to prove?"

Solemnly, the younger Denbrough glanced sideways at the eldest of their three, sitting cross-legged beside him, a hand over his closed eyes. "Penny always gets them right. Without even looking."

Bob smiled, peeking out from between his fingers.

"We're never gonna finish this one," Stanley sighed, leaning on the hobby room table.

Bob stood, palms flat beside the thousand-piece puzzle, its borders already done. Each piece was no more than two centimeters square. The picture being assembled was a waterpainted version of the Great Wall of China, a almost-mosaic of greys, reds, and blues.

One third complete.

It may as well have been the Great Wall of Uris-Doubt.

"Would you sooner go back to studying the Torah?"

Gray flinched, belatedly remembering to catch the minute puzzle piece that bounced off his chin.

"Keep looking, Stripes. You always find them faster than I do."

Ben, oddly enough, seemed to be the only holdout. That is, in terms of accepting their club mascot's temporarily-premanent humanoid status.

He didn't say as much. But the newly-borrowed book the erstwhile 'new kid' was reading, titled The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, gave Bob reason to pause thoughtfully before passing by the open bedroom door.

You're not two people.

You're the same thing.

"Thing," Bob mused aloud, arms crossed. He was leaning against the rickety, boarded wall, heedless of the danger posed by splinters (or possibly falling back through it).

The backyard, this late in the day, was already dark. He was busy, resigning himself to the idea he would be spending the night in this rundown ruin. Ordinarily, it was of no concern to a hypersensitive, empowered being such as he.

Today was the least ordinary day he had endured since waking last year.

A thing.

You can pretend otherwise all you want.

Doesn't change the truth.

While the Losers Club toiled about their various school assignments and finalized weekend plans, he took the time to mope.

Like it or not, Mike, sometimes we all have to.

Perhaps it took being trapped in one form, and not knowing when he might shake the condition, for It to appreciate what he so often took for granted.

For even cosmic entities could become complacent with their lot in the universe, it seemed.

That said...

"Bob, stay."

He felt every bit like a disobedient dog, pining dramatically as their owner tried to depart.

At the same time, the entity didn't care.

Beverly was going back.

Back to the apartment.

The apartment that may as well have been on another planet.

He couldn't sense anything. Couldn't hear, couldn't see.

Couldn't know if she would be in danger-

Stupid, of course she will be. She's going 'home'.

For her, home is synonymous with danger.

"Will you at least let me walk you there?" he tried to bargain.

He followed her to the front yard's edge.

The rest of the club had already departed.

She had been the first to return, and the last to leave.

Beverly rolled her eyes, tolerant as ever of his whiney counterarguments. She bent down to lift her fallen bike back onto its tires.

Her necklace dangled with the motion, key and feather charm glinting in the evening light. It was still there.

"You'd be seen, Bob. It's not a good idea."

He leaned close, almost over her shoulder. "No more than me borrowing your Dad's clothes was. You- "

Her free hand gently clapped itself over his mouth.

"Shush."

Shoulders sagging, he obeyed.

Still let his eyebrows turn down in disappointment.

Regarding his woebegone reaction, Beverly shook her head, deployed the kickstand of her bike. Hand still in place, she explained, seemingly unbothered by how their day had come full circle.

That they were having this conversation twice.

"You're fretting over nothing. I told you, most nights it's 'grab a beer, watch the game, pass out and go to work in the same clothes the next day'. He won't even think to touch the dresser."

"What if he does?" Bob asked, muffled as it was by her palm.

Please. Please don't let anything happen to her.

Idiot. Who are you talking to?

Not so long ago, you were your own self-fulfilling promise.

Now you're outta the equation.

The torment must have read on his face.

"He won't."

Lips pursing, Beverly let go of his mouth to stroke his cheek.

"It'll be fine, Bob. This is just another one of those times you tend to overcompensate when it comes to worrying. Like when Georgie went with his class to the overnight stay at the museum. You worried for him, and he was fine the whole time?"

He was with his classmates. And still, I watched the whole time. You didn't know I did.

And now, you're chosing to ignore the very real fact I can't do the same for you.

Timidly, the trapped entity curled his fingers over her wrist.

His eyes never strayed.

"It's not... overcompensating when it turns out to be necessary."

Finally, her expression seemed to darken. Just a touch. A slight creasing around the eyes, a near-glance away at nothing. Her freckled cheeks tightened briefly.

Then she was back, defenses shored up.

Not sign of discontent behind those clear blue eyes.

He would feel better if he could see something there.

Some glimmer of fear.

Of trepidation.

So he would know she was on her guard.

Moreso than usual.

But that's not Beverly's way.

"I guess we'll just have to see, then, won't we?"

She moved to throw a leg over her bike.

Before he could think to take a step, one of her fingernails jabbed his nose.

"Stay."

He stood there, looking at the empty street, for a long time after she left.

He couldn't sleep.

He stayed up, pacing the floors. The stairs.

Trying to wear himself out.

Eventually, it did.

He laid there, on the old, repulsive mattress, letting his aching muscles and sore feet rest.

Eyes open.

His mind wouldn't let him doze off.

Perhaps it was a side effect, as Eddie often lamented. How a side effect of medication could oftentimes be worse than the ailment it was supposed to treat.

Being stuck in human form.

When your very essense was the epitome of freedom, of not being contained.

It had thought he had a grip on that notion. His self-control wasn't the greatest, no, but if Beverly could handle his frenetic episode and the resulting-neurosies it brought out in him with such grace, why couldn't he?

Was he really that... fickle?

It just does what it wants.

Like Beverly.

She always did what she wanted.

When she thought it was safe, when the risk was worth the reward.

Like going home tonight.

She could have stayed. No doubt there were some nights she snuck away while Alvin lay passed out on the couch.

And stayed away.

Her father 'worried'.

But only insofar as when Beverly was under the same roof.

He didn't dare misbehave in public.

That's what their own private little slice of hell was for.

In comparison, 29 Neibolt must have seemed like heaven to Bevs.

Speaking of Neibolt...

The house itself had remained silent all day.

Was it any coincidence the creaking resumed as its last remaining tenant prowled down the stairs and stalked away into the moonless dark?

It may have been all for nothing.

Somehow managing not to become lost in the trek to Main Street, Bob had plenty of time to think.

Think about what to do.

What to say.

Wait.

What was he going to do?

He was... just a man, with only the clothes on his back.

No illusions at his disposal. No beastial forms to resort to.

Derry's nightlife paid him no mind, thankfully. Clad in black and blue, he all but melted into the dark. Avoided the streetlights.

Took the side streets.

He stopped short in the alley below the apartment, hand on the bricks, listening.

...Nothing.

Well, of course he wouldn't be able to hear anything from down there.

His shoulders hunched again, mouth twisting in half a grimace. He brought the other hand to his mouth, gnawing at a bent knuckle.

Stay?

Go?

Stay, then go?

Go, then come back?

He forced a sigh, willing his racing mind to slow down, to think logically.

This wasn't helping.

Not himself.

Not Beverly.

Indecisiveness was a choice in itself.

What good was he doing any of them, being so impulsive?

He could already see it, hear it.

Beverly scolding him for trying to play the hero.

It wasn't a hero.

It was It.

And she would expect him to understand that.

Besides Georgie, she was the one person whose expectations he wholly intended to meet.

The next morning, as most of the club assembled in the back yard, Bob saw the evidence of his error.

And, true to his old form and the new, Bob whined and fawned accordingly.

"Bevs..."

He found her loitering in the front yard, below the once-intact picture window. Cigarette almost spent, she glanced over her shoulder at him, then down at the bruise at the base of her neck. It was just visible, peeking out from under the tee-shirt's collar.

Her eyes glanced back up, but she said nothing.

Not at first.

"It wasn't about the clothes."

He had changed said clothes. Straying away from yesterday's overly-dark colors, he had found a gray tee-shirt, a looser, darker-gray overshirt and blue jeans.

The folded-up sunglasses were in his back pocket.

Friday had been cool compared to this Saturday.

The air was warmer.

And at the same time, he felt colder for it.

Not about the clothes.

"No shit- agh." Bob cringed, as his brain pulsed with a very real throb of frustration.

Frustration, at being so inept, so in the dark.

So unable to change anything.

He couldn't help a throaty growl as Beverly moved to step closer. He held up a hand.

"DoN't."

Gazing up at him, looking more worried for her friend and not for herself than the entity would have liked, Beverly stamped the cigarette out. She waited until things grew quiet again before speaking.

"He's over it, Bob. There shouldn't be any problem tonight."

"I should hope not," the entity sighed, emotions and voice steadied, hands dropping back to his sides. "If this is what it means for me to be stuck, I only wish it doesn't last too long."

Beverly tried to lighten things up.

Even if it was with a total misfire of a joke.

"Relax. You can't let that eat you up."

"She actually said that?"

Richie's response seemed genial enough, as if his companion was proving to be no real distraction. Meanwhile, his hands never strayed from the buttons. His eyes never lost track.

The metal pinball continued to bounce about the enclosed tray.

At that moment, leaning on said machine with his arms crossed, Bob didn't know what had possessed him to confide as much to Tozier.

Maybe it was the fact that the club's resident jokester simply had a knack for brushing off the overly-serious.

In his own way, Richie was good at coping with such heavyhanded topics. Probably better than anyone else would be, in certain regards. And he wouldn't let naysayers' doubts keep him from a good time.

Right now, Bob needed to hear some senseless banter.

If only to offset the gravity of everything else.

"Dude, normally, you're the one who does the most- eating," Richie stopped, flicking the pinball back to the top of the board with expert timing. "When she says, don't let something get to you, that's Bev's way of telling you to close your trap."

Nicely.

"I gathered that much," Bob deadpanned, fingertips drumming on one elbow.

Dealing with it is another matter.

"So, sounds to me like you need a distraction. Get a hobby. I've got mine. Bev plays keyboard. Ben reads. Stan counts birds." With another successful flip of a paddle, Richie glanced up, grinning as if his next three words were a dare: "Take your pick."

The cistern.

He actually missed the cistern.

Not only for its grisly pantry.

But because there was a whole tower's-worth lode of distractions down there.

Then again, venturing back into the sewers wasn't good for Bob's mortal-minded immune system. So that wasn't an option.

Nor was visiting any of the Losers at home.

Teleportation.

Yet another ability he had taken for granted.

Trudging back from the arcade (having inadvertantedly discovered he was no dartboard wizard, as Richie "soundly whipped" him for seven straight rounds), Bob was reasonably happy to run into the rest of the gang.

Until he wasn't.

Bill actually looked a mite panicked.

Pedaling hard, Denbrough had to dig his heels deep into the road before Silver came to a complete stop. His knuckles were white against her handlebars.

As white as his face.

"Bev's gone."

"Gone, shopping? What's so bad about that?"

Whereas before he felt suffocated by distress, now Bob was thoroughly confused.

And well on his way to feeling worried.

Leaning around the building's corner, looking at the plate-glass-fronted supermarket across the street, he had figured out Bill's meaning before Richie's question could be answered by anyone else.

Alvin.

Alvin was with her.

Since when does that man go shopping with his daughter?

Since... never.

"When did this happen?" Bob hissed through the side of his mouth.

From below and beside him, Bill dared a look for himself. "About a-an hour ago. Alvin turned up on Neibolt Street. He didn't see the rest of us, upstairs in the house, but Beverly, she- she was- "

"Out there, smoking," Bob finished, voice thin and lame, knees almost going weak.

Alvin hates it when she smokes.

He's told her to stop.

She says she has, before.

He's caught her, knows she was lying.

And now he's... taken her shopping?

What gives?

Whatever domestic ploy the janitor was pulling now, it had to be because a worse fate awaited Beverly, once they returned to the apartment.

Unless...

No.

No, that was too crazy to consider.

Looking on, the rest of the gang stood in the alley, mute, with their bikes ever at the ready.

Only Richie dared to call the entity out on his fraught-slash-ponderous expression. "You thinkin' of doin' something, Stripes?"

"Something," Bob repeated, distant-sounding even to himself. His palms felt clammy. "Before they go back to the truck. We have to do something."

Before he could descend further into his would-be-ravings, someone grabbed the sunglasses from his pocket. Gray couldn't help a startled yelp as he was unceremoniously yanked down by two sets of hands - Eddie and Bill.

Sunglasses at the ready, Richie threaded them onto the entity's startled visage.

His blue-green eyes disappeared behind the black lenses.

And in his high, falsetto-British voice, Tozier declared:

"Get in there!"

Chapter Text

Infiltrating the supermarket was easy.

Getting his friend's attention was not.

It took a few minutes, and he almost lost track of his target, growing more agitated with the possibility they would depart the store before he could intercept.

Then, there they were.

"Bevs."

Peering around an end display full of greeting cards, Bob cleared his throat, lowered the sunglasses down the bridge of his nose, and tried again.

With a little more appropriate volume.

"Beverly."

Behind her, Alvin Marsh straightened up from where he had been scanning magazine covers. A half-filled shopping basket sat by their feet.

Forgetting its importance instantly, Marsh glanced Bob's way, instantly, frowning over the top of his daughter's head.

Almost glowering.

He was still in his work clothes.

"You need something, buddy?"

The entity felt his breath stall in his chest.

He put the glasses back over his eyes.

Well, this is as far ahead as I thought.

...Run with it?

"Uhm, just saying, hi, sir."

"Hi?" Marsh spat. He wheeled around, all but pushing Beverly aside to make his way closer. "Hi, meaning, you're eyeballing my daughter?"

Bob tried not to cringe. While they stood at practically the same height, he could already tell he was outmatched. Up close, it was clear. Alvin Marsh had the husky, tried aura of a man who had seen one or two barfights.

Maybe he hadn't started nor ended them, but he got a fair share of swings in.

"Hey!" A rough hand clapped itself over the cowering 'teen's' shoulder. "You go deaf just as fast? Answer me when I'm talking to you."

"Daddy, it's fine."

Thank you, Beverly. Thank- wait. No, what are you doing- stay out of this!

Unspoken as this thought was, she did nothing of the kind.

Bob managed not to quail as Beverly stepped over to stand between them.

"It's okay. This is Robert. He's a friend from school."

"A friend, huh?" Marsh rounded on her, smiling a very sarcastic smile. "A few-grades-above-you friend? Why haven't we met before?"

Bob balked. The hand moved from his shoulder to the sunglasses' temple. "Let's have a look at him, then."

"N-no, please, I- "

The lenses were lifted. The entity cringed. The fluorescent lights bloomed around him before dying back to a tolerable luminosity.

Alvin sneered. "Well, now I see why you need these. Look at your mug. With that lazy eye, it's no wonder you keep 'em hidden."

Lazy...?

Bob felt himself shiver in dread.

Eyes diverging.

Not a good sign.

No.

Not now.

"Daddy!" Beverly seethed, snatching the glasses back. "You're being rude."

"I'm the rude one? Doesn't matter if you do or don't know this boy, Bevvie. No one trying to beckon you away without me knowing can be up to any good."

To be fair, the man wasn't raising his voice more than any other shoppers. Merely speaking heatedly.

But the nature of their exchange was already drawing a few curious stares.

A few too many.

Bob swallowed, blinked his off-centered eyes shut. "I'm sorry, Bevs- Beverly. I-I'll just go."

He was starting to feel warm.

Warmer.

What else can I do?

Any more and- no, no, why now ?

He almost committed to the idea. He almost thought to walk back out.

To face down the other Losers, demand they come up with a different plan.

Then Marsh opened his mouth again.

"You do that, punk. And don't come sniffin' around my door anytime soon. Wherever she knows you from, my girl's done with you."

Bob had just thought to turn away, then froze.

Slowly, he opened his eyes.

Your girl?

Slowly, the entity felt his hackles rise.

Heat spread under his skin, growing hotter.

Your girl.

The way Marsh said it.

Your girl.

Talking about her like she's not there.

Playing at being a 'good father', but no one knows what you do to her behind closed doors.

The jeering she puts up with, with no one to turn to.

The half-rotten food she has to eat.

The filthy apartment in which she can't wait to escape.

That bruise on her neck isn't anyone else's work.

You don't deserve to call her your own.

"Is she?"

Marsh's brows dropped. He scowled.

"Come again?"