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alloftheimagines · 5 years

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billy hargrove | heaven-sent | part five

masterlist | series | part four

words: 2k+

warnings: st2 spoilers, violence, hints towards domestic abuse, drinking, smoking, swearing, arguing

disclaimer: i in no way support the actions of billy. i just find his character interesting and want to explore it more with my oc. takes place from season 2. OC is hopper’s daughter. first part taken from the ‘will the wise’ ep.

summary: she’s an angel. he may as well be the devil. one would not exist without the other.

Frances hears her father's shouts before the cabin is even in view. Without thinking twice, she sets off in a run, twigs snapping beneath her feet as she dodges the trip wire. She clutches her camera firmly in her hands to prevent it slapping against her stomach, wind rushing past her as she speeds up.

"You're like Papa!" she hears El scream as she gets closer, and dread causes her heart to drop. She knows her father, knows he won't take well to a comment like that. She can't hear her father's reply, only El shouting a few moments later, "I hate you!"

"... I'm not too crazy about you, either!" Hopper responds.

"Shit," Frances mutters, slowing down to catch her breath. She closes her eyes and inhales, blocking the screams out for a moment before she finally enters the cabin. Neither Hopper nor El notice her despite the creak of the wooden door, too busy screaming at one another.

"Brat," Hopper says, throwing a book at El. El raises a hand to stop it, suspending it in mid-air as blood trickles from her nose. She tosses it back at him forcefully, hitting him in the stomach.

"Hey!" he exclaims in bewilderment, his eyes wide as he looks at El.

"Stop it!" Frances interrupts, finally gaining their attention as she stands between the two of them, her hands held up in caution. "What the hell is going on?"

El ignores her, marching off. Hopper trails behind her, passing Frances without acknowledgement. "Don't you dare walk away from me, kid."

The couch is shoved into his shin by an invisible force and he trips. "Hey!"

The last Frances sees of El before she slams her door shut without touching it is her eyes blazing with anger. "El!" Frances pleads, but it's too late.

"Open the damn door!" Hopper yells, banging on the wood forcefully. "You wanna go out in the world? You better grow up. Grow the hell up!"

A scream erupts from the bedroom, and without warning, the window panes shatter in their frames, shards of glass flying into the cabin. Frances is unable to duck in time and a small piece of glass scratches her cheek. She barely feels the sting, though she can feel the dampness as blood begins to ooze from the wound, and presses her hand to her face in shock. Hopper curses, kicking the wall with his heavy boot before running his hands over his face.

"What the hell happened?" Frances questions when she is able to form a coherent sentence.

"The damn kid went to see Mike today," Hopper sighed, his eyes softening when he sees that Frances is hurt. "Jesus Christ, are you alright?" He's on her in a second, pulling her hands away from the cut so that he can inspect it.

"I'm fine. It's just a scratch." She struggles out of his grip, glass crunching beneath her shoes as she heads to the kitchen and grabs a towel to stop the bleeding. "Look, I know you're just looking out for her, but you need to go easy on her. She's just a kid, and she can't see her friends. Imagine how that must feel."

"Did you miss the part where she blew out the fuckin' windows?" He pointed to the now empty frames dramatically. "What if that glass had hit your eye?"

"It didn't," Frances sighs. "I'll talk to her, okay?"

"No," he shakes his head, rubbing his stubbly chin in frustration. "Let her cool down first. She's ... dangerous."

"She's not dangerous," Frances replies. "She's afraid and alone. She doesn't understand that you're keeping her safe. Just let me try."

Hopper motions to the door dismissively. "Fine, you think you can handle her, Mary Poppins? Be my guest."

Frances treads back to El's door, knocking gently. "El, it's just me," she calls when the door doesn't budge. "I understand why you're mad and afraid. Why don't we talk about it?"

"Go away," El demands after a moment, her voice muffled.

"El, please—"

"Go. Away!"

There's enough power in El's voice for Frances to know that she isn't helping matters and if she pushes her anymore, the cabin might come down in a heap of ash and rubble. She turns to her father, disappointment in her eyes. He shrugs, planting himself on the couch despite the fact that it's no longer in its usual spot. "I told you. She's impossible."

"Cut her some slack. She's been through a lot."

"Yeah, well, haven't we all?" he huffs, sadness flickering over his features. By the time he looks up again, it's gone. "Listen, I'll handle this. You're better off staying in the trailer tonight."

"You sure? I don't mind staying."

"No. You don't need to deal with this. Go home."

Frances nods, placing a hand on her father's shoulder as he puts his head in his hands. "You're doing your best. I know this isn't easy."

He places his hand over hers, rubbing her hand with the pad of his thumb. "Thanks, kid."

She flashes one last, solemn look at the door before making a move to go. Her father's voice stops her. "Hey, Fran. You okay? You look a little pale." He's turned around in his chair, his blue eyes flooding with concern. His cheeks are flushed with the remnants of his rage.

"Yeah," she lies. "Just tired, I guess."

"Look, I know I haven't been all that available recently and we haven't spent much time together. That doesn't mean you can't talk to me. I'm still your old man. I still care about you more than anything else. You know that, don't you?"

"I know that, Dad." She hesitates, worrying at her lip as he waits expectantly. "Jonathan and I broke up."

"Sweetie—"

"No, it's okay. It was a long time coming," she says quickly. "You sure you don't want me to try again with El?"

He looks at Fran and then at El's closed door.

"No. Better give her some space tonight. Go home, kid. Get some rest. Enjoy the peace."

* * *

Frances doesn't head home right away, instead following the overgrown trail to the ravine. She takes a few pictures as she goes, finding solace in the click of her camera, the repetitive action of winding back the film. Shadows loiter in her peripheral vision as the sun begins to set, and she tries to ignore them, ignore the feeling of something encroaching in on her. She's relieved when she gets to the open road, but only for a moment. For the second time this week, she has company. Billy leans against the hood of his car, his back turned towards her as he watches the sun go down. She can just make out the orange glow of a cigarette in his mouth.

Instinctively, her hands find her camera and she captures the view, the soft silhouette of the golden-tinged boy in front of the bleeding, pink sky. The sound of her shutter clicking alerts him of her presence, and she smiles guiltily at being caught. "You mind?"

He shrugs, smirking, though it doesn't quite meet his eyes. "I always knew I was your muse."

She shakes her head at his arrogance, deciding to play along as she crosses the road and meets him by his car. "Well, it's only right since you got it back for me."

He doesn't react, taking a drag of his cigarette. His eyes are focused on the view in front of him. Frances frowns as she realises that they're gleaming with moisture and red-rimmed as though he's been crying. His long, thick eyelashes are moist, too, against the fading sunlight, his lips pink and raw as though he's been chewing them. Atop his cheekbone sits a purple bruise that she knows wasn't there earlier.

"Are you alright?" she questions carefully. His shirt is buttoned up wrong, the cuffs of his denim jacket unrolled and covering half of his hands. His knuckles aren't bruised – if he was hit, it was one-sided.

"Peachy," he responds, smoke rolling from his mouth. He offers her a cigarette, looking at her for the first time and faltering. She's forgotten the cut on her own cheek, but she feels the sting of it now as if for the first time. "Are you?"

"Peachy," she repeats, a soft smile on her lips. "No, thanks," she says to the cigarette.

Billy shuffles down slightly so that there's room for Frances on the hood. She leans onto it, glad to take the weight off her feet, her eyes watering against the cold breeze.

"You come up here a lot?" he asks, words muffled by the cigarette. Up close, she can smell a slight hint of alcohol on his breath and realises that there's a bottle of whisky planted on the other side of him. He's not drunk, though, not yet.

"Best place to watch the sunset," she shrugs. "I used to think of this place as my little secret. Guess I'm gonna have to find somewhere else now."

"My company that bad?" His voice is hoarse, as though he's been shouting. Frances can't help but look at him again with concern, and he can't help but refuse to return her gaze.

"Billy, what happened?" she whispers delicately.

"Nothin' you need to concern yourself with, angel. Why? You worried?"

"Wouldn't go that far."

"Please," he grins, "it's cute."

"Shut up," she scoffs, pulling her jacket closer to her torso as the wind picks up again. The valley below is dotted with amber and gold leaves that gleam against the sunset. The dead leaves blow around them, rustling. She takes a deep breath in, her soul soothed for the first time in days. She thinks that perhaps he feels it, too, because for a while neither of them say a word, and neither of them need to. The silence is like a blanket, comforting and warm, safe.

Of course, Billy is the one to break it as he stubs out his cigarette with his boot and shoves his hands into his pockets. "So, you talk to your boyfriend yet?"

"Nope," she sighs. "He's too busy with Nancy."

"Dick," he curses, shaking his head. His tangled, blonde curls ruffle as he does.

"Yeah."

"How long were the two a' you together?"

She exhales, ignoring the lump in her throat. "Two years. Before that we were best friends."

His eyebrows arch in surprise. "Jesus."

"It's not just his fault. I can't pretend like he's a terrible person for doing this to me," she says, and this time she's the one who is unable to meet Billy's eyes. "I've been distant. I basically pushed him right into her. If you don't give a guy what he wants, he's gonna find it somewhere else, right?"

"Doesn't matter what you did, Fran." It's the first time he's called her that, and she likes the way her shortened name rolls on his tongue like honey. "Doesn't give him an excuse to chase after another girl and leave you drunk at a party."

"I wasn't that drunk."

He chuckles. "You weren't sober, either."

Her cheeks flush with colour, and she smiles. "Better he didn't see me like that, anyways. He always hated the way I was when I got drunk."

"Like I said," he rolls his eyes, "Dick." Billy takes a swig straight out of the whiskey bottle before offering it to Frances. "I for one don't give a shit. You wanna go for round two?"

"No, thanks." The sun seems to disappear behind the horizon all at once, and she shivers in the grey twilight. "And neither should you if you're driving. I gotta go."

"I can drive you," he offers, twisting the lid back on the bottle and pulling his car keys from his pockets. "That is, if you're not gonna bite my head off for offering."

"You don't have to—"

"I want to. Feel like a drive, anyway."

Frances sighs, hesitant. He's already holding the door open for her, a small, hopeful smile on his lips. She can still make out the sadness lying just beneath his expression, though, muted and dull, but there.

"Alright," she agrees finally, sliding into the passenger's seat. The leather is cold against her legs. "But only 'cos I'm freezing out here."

"Yeah, yeah," he retorts. "Keep tellin' yourself that, angel."

part six

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trash-the-tozier · 7 years

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The Disappearance of Georgie Denbrough (4/10)

Title: The Disappearance of Georgie Denbrough

Length ~60.8k (~6.9k for this part)

Summary: The summer between junior and senior year of high school, Bill’s little brother Georgie goes missing.

Warnings: It’s relatively canon-typical in terms of content. For this part there’s explicit language, vague mentions of child neglect, vague description of sexual abuse, description of a corpse, lots of gay

Pairings: eventual Richie/Eddie and Ben/Beverly

A/N: just a head’s up: beverly’s dad is in this part! and he’s a huge bag of dicks. hopefully the reddie will make up for it though. also posted to my ao3 here (much more readable tbh) Previous Parts: 1 | 2 | 3

“I got you ice cream.”

Bill watched as Eddie held out a cone with a huge vanilla scoop on it in Richie's direction. He had two, one of them obviously his and already licked on. His voice completely lacked enthusiasm, Stan snorting in amusement, but Bill noticed that Beverly was grinning. Richie gripped at his chest as though he'd just been shot.

“Eds! You shouldn't have!”

Then he leaned forwards, leaned completely past the ice cream Eddie was extending to him, and licked at the one Eddie was holding close to his body. Eddie shrieked and recoiled, and Richie laughed at him.

“That one's mine! I was already eating it!”

“Oh!” Richie's eyes widened with a mock innocence. “My mistake!” He reached for the one Eddie was trying to give him, who snatched it back.

“Nope. Mine now. You get the one with your germs all over it.”

Richie accepted without complaint, licking the ice cream again.

“Hm. Vanilla with a side of Eddie.”

Eddie scrunched up his nose. “You're disgusting.”

Richie just winked.

“Hey guys!” Ben walked up happily, waving. He looked much better today, Bill noted, than he had the days previous, waving back. Beverly greeted him when he arrived, and now they were just waiting for Mike. Bill was feeling near exhausted with anxiety. Everything that Mike had shared with them yesterday had been both good and bad, both fitting and terrifying, and part of him wished he’d never heard it. But he had something to go on now. Georgie hadn’t fallen into the sewer; he’d been taken there. But Betty Ripsom had been taken only a week before Georgie had, and if she was already dead, if the clown really had been holding her body… They needed to find him as fast as they could.

As if in compliance with his thoughts, Mike came into view, riding fast on his bicycle.

“Sorry.” He gasped. “I’m late.”

He wasn’t--they’d never set up a time to meet--but Bill wasn’t about to tell him to slow down, Mike talking in a rush about how he’d had to take a detour because he thought he’d seen Bowers’s car.

“It’s probably free now, though.” He said. “We can cut across the creek to get there.”

Nodding, they set off walking. Beverly walked next to him, Ben on her other side while Stan trailed behind, striking up a small conversation with Mike. Eddie and Richie flitted around the group, bickering lightly like they always did as they finished their ice creams. Bill supposed their banter would be amusing if he was paying it attention, but it was near impossible to distract his mind from the task ahead. Part of him wished he could, but any time that he spent not looking for Georgie always haunted him, coming back to him as time wasted, time he was letting his brother suffer.

Richie ran ahead as the creek came into view. He let out a shout as soon as he reached the edge of the water, throwing out his arms and skidding to a stop so suddenly that Eddie ran into him and nearly fell down.

“What?” Stan asked. They all hurried over, Beverly cursing under her breath.

“Is… Is that…?”

Laying face up in the creek, eyes wide, bobbing lightly as the current rushed around it was the head, torso, and left arm of a girl. She was pale, bloated, and blue from the water, her dark brown hair a mess around her face. Despite all this, Bill recognized her instantly. He’d seen her enough times, looking into her eyes for a moment before stapling Georgie’s missing poster overtop of her own.

“B-B-Betty Ripsom.”

“Fuck.” Eddie twisted one of his hands into the back of Richie’s shirt, the other grappling with the zipper of his fanny pack as his breathing became increasingly quick and labored. “Shit.”

Stan stumbled over, but as soon as he looked down into the water he turned his back, his body heaving, and soon he was vomiting in a patch of grass a few paces away.

“We…” Ben looked incredibly pale, his eyes on everything except the body in the water. “The police. Someone. We need to tell someone.”

“I’ll go.” Mike said instantly, jumping on his bike. He was out of sight soon enough, struggling to race through the overgrown grass. Richie had gone over to comfort Stan, rubbing his back as he dry-heaved, Eddie still clutching onto him, inhaler in hand, struggling his breathing under control. Bill continued to look down, the corpse’s wide, dead, cold eyes boring into him.

“Stop!” Beverly took his chin in her hand, wrenching his eyes away. “Stop staring at her, I can’t stand it.”

Her eyes were bright, alive, and warm, though she looked close to tears.

“S-sorry.” He mumbled.

“You just… You looked so terrible. I’m sorry.” Beverly let him go. “I--”

“Georgie was j-just a w-w-week later.” Bill said. “A w-week after s-s-she went missing. A-and… If she’s already d-d-d-d-d…”

He couldn’t get the word out, Beverly meeting his eyes again.

“We’ll find him, okay?” She said fiercely. “We’re going to find him.”

The conviction in her voice made something inside of him crack, and she must have felt it because she pulled him in tightly for a hug. Her arms were around him so strongly that it hurt, but Bill knew that if she let up on her grip, even a little bit, he would fall apart.

The questioning from the police took hours. Most of it was waiting around, instructed not to go anywhere as each of the seven of them had individual statements about their discovery taken one at a time. Eddie couldn’t help but feel that they were suspects now, especially with the way one of the policemen kept glancing sideways at where they were sitting--Mike moreso than the rest of them--as he walked by. Ben patted his arm and told him he was just being paranoid, but the feeling gnawed at him anyway.

By the time they’d all spoken, Betty’s body had been recovered from the water and transported to the station. It was on a gurney and covered in a blue tarp, and in a weird way not being able to see it made it all the worse, watching in silence as it was rolled past. The police offered to call their parents, and Bill was the only one that accepted, thinking that they would want to know. The parents of Betty Ripsom were alerted too, showing up not much later, and they watched as Betty’s mother fell apart, sinking to the floor, her husband kneeling next to her in tears. It came as a relief when Eddie looked at the clock and realized it was half past four. His mother insisted that he be home by five o’clock for the rest of the week, and if he wanted to make it in time, he would have to leave soon.

None of them were upset by his announcement, abandoning the plan to go to Mike’s and pushing it to tomorrow instead. For this, Eddie was glad; none of them--but definitely not Bill, judging by the expression on his face--needed talk of a killer clown after what they had been through that day.

Mrs. Denbrough offered everyone rides home but only Ben and Beverly accepted, Eddie heading out the police station doors with Richie next to him. Eddie hadn’t asked if they could walk together and Richie hadn’t offered, but Richie went all the way up to his front door, comfortable silence keeping distance between them.

“Hey, Eddie?” Richie stopped him before he went inside, placing a hand on his arm. Eddie swallowed.

“Yeah?”

“D’you think you could… Could you leave your bedroom window unlocked tonight?” Richie’s head was angled down, his bangs falling in front of his face, his grip on Eddie’s arm a little tighter than it needed to be, and Eddie’s heart ached.

“Yeah, sure. Course I will.”

Richie gave him a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, his hand trailing down Eddie’s arm and falling to his side.

“Thanks.”

Eddie frowned. He reached up, needlessly readjusting Richie’s glasses.

“You don’t need to thank me. I told you that you can come over whenever you need me, regardless of what my mom says. I meant it, Richie.”

Richie laughed a little.

“Nah. If you really meant it I’d be moving in with you, Eds.”

At a loss for anything else to do or say, Eddie hit Richie lightly in the arm.

“...don’t call me Eds.”

“You love it.”

“Shut up.”

Then Richie began his own walk home, Eddie watching him turn down the street before finally going into his own house. He was in love with Richie Tozier, and it was much more than a little bit.

Richie didn’t usually ask first, when he spent the night at Eddie’s. Usually he just knocked on the window, gripping onto the trellis for dear life until Eddie relented and let him in. Richie didn’t ever say why he was there, but over the years Eddie had been able to guess. Hunger, or nightmares, or a fight with his father on one of the rare nights of the month that the man was home. But this time felt different, and it made Eddie nervous, and before he knew it he’d cleaned the entirety of his already-orderly room. Richie would make fun of him for that.

It was late when Richie finally showed up, opening the window without Eddie’s help, rolling onto his bed and knocking three books off his desk with his foot and laughing at the loud noise they made against the floor. Eddie shushed him violently and whacked him with a pillow, but he was giggling too.

“Hey, Spaghetti Man.”

Eddie took him in for a minute, then his mouth fell open.

“You didn’t.”

“Didn’t what?” Richie was trying to give him an innocent expression but was failing marvelously, the ghost of a smile playing around his lips.

“You did not walk all the way to my house in your underwear!”

“That’s what it looks like to me!” Richie, who was lying on his bed in nothing but his boxer shorts and a huge bag of a t-shirt, lifted his legs up into the air, white and lanky and completely bare. Eddie slapped them back down. “What? It’s hot out there! Besides, I’ve gotta be ready at the drop of a hat for my lover Sonia Kaspbr--”

“Put on pants or you can’t stay.” Eddie interrupted flatly, and after laughing some more, Richie did as he was told. He put on a pair of Eddie’s shorts, and once he had them on Eddie didn’t really know why he’d been so insistent; Richie’s legs were so long that the pants didn’t cover much more than the underwear had, but at least it helped Eddie feel a little less flustered. Richie made a big show of taking off his glasses and getting comfy under Eddie’s covers before turning on his side, facing the window, and Eddie slid in beside him. Their sleepovers weren’t about hanging out, playing games or talking for hours. They were about not being alone.

Still though, Eddie had expected a little more than this. Finally, he decided to ask about it.

“Hey, Richie?”

“Yeah?” Richie turned, seemingly surprised to see Eddie already facing him.

“Could I ask you something?”

“What, how I came to be so devilishly handsome? Well, it was a fateful day in 1976, and--”

“No, no. Shut up.”

Richie seemed to realize that he was trying to be serious, falling silent immediately.

“I just wanted to know…” Eddie didn’t really know how to phrase his question. He went as simple as possible. “Are you okay?”

Richie didn’t know how to answer that. He didn’t really want to, either; the idea behind coming over to Eddie’s for the night was to run away from all of the thoughts that had been consuming his mind during silences, not confronting and actually talking about them. Richie didn’t talk things through. He was on a mission to repress until he died.

“What do you mean?” He wanted to know how little he could get away with as an answer. Eddie thought for a moment, biting down lightly on his bottom lip.

“Just… You’ve been acting different. Ever since Georgie disappeared, something has been off, and today...”

Richie didn’t know why he thought he’d be able to hide anything from someone as empathetic as Eddie Kaspbrak. Bill was relatively dense when it came to other people’s feelings, and Stan only offered help if he thought a person really needed it. But that wasn’t Eddie.

“It’s just…” Richie let out a breath. He had to actually do this. “When I was little, like six or something, my parents bought me a cat.”

It was obvious by Eddie’s expression that this wasn’t what he’d expected to hear, and Richie almost wanted to laugh. He’d never told anyone about this before.

“I’d thrown a tantrum, because neither of them had been home on my birthday. They’d both forgotten, and I knew they had, and they tried to lie that they hadn’t, but I wasn’t hearing it. So they went and bought me a cat. An attempt to fix it, I guess. I don’t know. They didn’t buy anything the cat needed though, so I couldn’t take care of him. After two weeks, he ran away.”

Eddie frowned, moving as though to touch him before seemingly thinking better of it.

“But… He’s never really felt gone.” Richie said, hoping that would cheer Eddie up a little. “It wasn’t like I saw him die. He just… Went somewhere else. It’s a weird feeling, but I was reminded of it when people started disappearing around here. It’s how I think my parents would feel, if I actually decided to run away. Just… Somewhere else. They just went somewhere else.”

“But now Betty Ripsom is dead.” Eddie said quietly, and Richie nodded.

“Betty Ripsom is dead, and I’m just… I’m scared.” He confessed. “I’m scared for Bill. I’m scared that I’ll disappear, that those missing posters will have my face on them. Betty Ripsom is dead, and Georgie could be dead, and I would be dead, and…” Richie had to stop. His throat hurt, and his eyes were burning. A panic was stirring in his chest, a feeling he’d been fighting to keep in since Stan had shown up outside his door in the rain.

“Richie.” Eddie reached out, touching the side of his face lightly. “You’re right here, and you’re not going anywhere. You won’t disappear, okay? I won’t let you.”

Eddie was looking into his eyes, his fingertips soft against Richie’s cheek, his expression steadfast and completely serious and in that moment Richie had the incredibly strong, inexplicable urge to lean forward and kiss him. He wanted to kiss the breath out of Eddie’s lungs, kiss him until the rest of the world fell away, and it startled him so much that at first, he didn’t notice Eddie moving closer to him.

He started backwards on instinct but Eddie didn’t let him get very far, reaching out with his arms and wrapping around him, pressing his face in the crook of Richie’s neck.

“Ed--”

“Shut up and let me hug you.”

Richie did.

To everyone’s relief, the next day, they properly made it to Mike’s house. It was a large, incredibly old farmhouse, but they didn’t stay inside of it long. After getting everyone something to drink after the long walk over, Mike led them back outside and into the barn. The sheep stared at them as they entered. Stan wasn't afraid of animals per se, but he liked smaller ones better--birds and bunnies, for instance--and felt a little uneasy around any creatures that were larger than a good sized dog. Mike seemed to notice, putting a hand on his back.

“It’s okay, they only bite if you give them a reason to.” He said, which wasn't exactly reassuring.

“Just like me.” Richie tacked on, snapping his teeth in Stan’s direction and winking. By that time, they'd gathered everyone else's attention.

“Is S-Stan afraid of t-t-the sheep?” Bill asked. He looked painfully sleep deprived again, but Stan was glad to hear amusement in his voice.

“No.” Stan snapped, maybe a little too waspishly, because everyone laughed. Mike directed them up a ladder into a loft, Stan climbing up first, eyebrows going up his forehead in surprise. Journals, old books, and loose papers were strewn around in the hay, more of it there than Stan had expected to see. It looked as though it had started to be organized, but given up on halfway through and turned into a bit of a mess instead. He stepped carefully, making his way to an open patch of straw and taking a seat.

Richie climbed up behind him, and as soon as he’d found a seat he took off his Hawaiian shirt, exposing his collarbones and bony shoulders, now just in a tank-top and shorts.

“It's not that hot up here.” Stan remarked, but before he could ask what Richie was doing, Eddie’s head popped up above the landing.

“My allergies--” He began, but Richie laid his shirt out and patted it.

“Already got you covered, Eds.”

Eddie gave him a surprisingly sheepish thank you, and soon they were all seated in a misshapen oval around Mike's stuff.

“It’s… It’s kind of a lot.” Mike said, rubbing the back of his neck a little as he noticed the surprised looks on everyone’s faces. “I haven’t really even looked through all of it, so I don’t know if some of it is useless or not, but I didn’t want to accidentally miss anything important.”

“W-w-we need to find him.” Bill said, swallowing hard. His face was set. “R-Robert Gray.”

“I had the idea last night of putting together a timeline.” Mike said. “It… It would be hard, and I don’t know how long it would take, but…”

“It’s a good idea.” Beverly encouraged with a nod. “Especially if we could map out everywhere he appeared, too. It would give us an idea of where he could be, or if he moves around.”

They spoke like they knew what they were talking about, and Stan couldn’t help but wonder if he was the only helpless one here. Then Eddie caught his eye, his own eyes a little wider than usual, and Stan felt a bit better.

“I… I-I don’t know.” Bill was frowning. “Wouldn’t that t-take too long?”

“Not if we’re all doing it together.” Ben said. He sounded upbeat, a little too much so when considering the task at hand. “I mean, we’re all good at school. Everyone here can read decently quickly, right?”

“I guess.” Richie pulled a book into his lap, looking less than enthusiastic. “I just didn’t mentally prepare to spend my summer pouring over murder files from the little library on the prairie.”

“Before I met you guys, I spent most of my summers in the library.” Ben said, Richie’s eyes going wide with horror.

“Oh no. Nerd alert.”

“Oh, like you’re any cooler.” Beverly cut in. “You’re one of those losers that would stay in the arcade for hours. Let me guess… Street Fighter?”

“Street Fighter!” Richie cried out mournfully, falling back onto a pile of hay behind him. Eddie frowned and began brushing him off as soon as he was upright again. “You any good at the game?”

“Could probably kick your ass.” She answered offhandedly, and Richie's jaw dropped.

“You know Molly Ringwald, if you weren't such a bitch I could marry you.”

Beverly flipped Richie off, but she was laughing.

“So, timeline?” Ben asked, a little louder than he needed to. He was staring at Richie, who didn't notice. When no one objected, he continued. “We’ll write down all of the sightings of him and everything, and if there was some kind of crime that went with it we should write that down too. Mike, do you have a map?”

Mike miraculously supplied one, and they got started. They were silent for the most part, reading quietly, Richie even keeping the fidgeting to a minimum. They would call out anything they came across that seemed important, and someone would write it down. Beverly was marking and labeling the map, Mike was taking down dates, and Stan himself was on death duty.

“Tally marks?” Eddie asked, looking at his paper. “Really?”

“What?” Stan asked back. “I thought I was supposed to be counting.”

“I guess, but--”

“Pennywise.”

Richie’s interruption had everyone falling silent.

“What?” Beverly asked him. Everyone looked up.

“Oh, it’s just…” He picked up and showed the page he was looking at, a piece from the newspaper a few days after the Kitchener Ironworks explosion. There was a happy picture on the top of the crowd before the accident, and the clown was standing in front of a wooden cart with words and a portrait painted on it. Richie pointed as he read.

“Pennywise the Dancing Clown.”

Stan felt unsettled, the hair on the back of his neck prickling. He looked away, only to be faced with Pennywise looking at him from the pages he was holding, and he put them down.

Eventually, the timeline was complete. Stan felt a little less safe in the town he had to sleep in with his paper showing twenty-three dead bodies, and the map looked discouragingly like a scatterplot, but it was done. They sat for a moment, looking over their new evidence.

“Twenty-four.” Ben said, pointing to Stan’s paper. “Betty Ripsom.”

“Oh. Right.”

Richie was making an incessant popping noise with his lips, looking over the map. Stan hit him in the arm.

“Shut up.”

“No, you shut up. I’m thinking.”

“Rare.”

“No, actually shut--oh!”

He pointed to a place on the map. Nothing was marked there, but Stan knew what it was: the road perpendicular to Bill’s where they’d found Georgie’s rainboot.

“...what?” Mike asked after a moment.

“S-sewers.” Bill said softly.

“Sewers.” Richie repeated with a nod. “Look, he has little groups of activity, and they’re all relatively close to a gutter, see?”

“But they’re still all over town.” Beverly said. “He has to have a home base somewhere.”

Nobody had anything good to say after that. Everyone was quiet for a few seconds, then a loud electronic beep was heard.

“Oh.” Eddie quickly pushed a button to silence his watch. Stan knew what that meant; it was time for Eddie's afternoon medication. He went to unzip his fanny pack before rethinking it, tapping Mike on the shoulder instead. “Could I have some water?”

“Of course.” Mike got up quickly, looking around at everyone. “Uh… Should we take a break? Who’s hungry?”

Everyone’s hand went up, and they began descending the ladder. Something fell from Beverly’s back pocket as she got up, she and Stan the last in the loft, and he picked it up to hand it back to her.

“Bev--” He began, looking over it as he spoke. It was a postcard, a confession of love written out strangely poetically on the back. It was from a secret admirer, addressed to Beverly, who blushed pink and snatched it from his hands.

“You dropped it.” Stan said quickly, holding his hands up to his chest, because Beverly looked like she just might start swinging. “I didn’t mean to read it, I’m sorry.”

Beverly deflated a little, seemingly relieved that Stan wasn’t going to tease her.

“I don’t know who sent it.” She confessed. “It showed up in my bag a couple of days ago.” She paused, looking at Stan in what he realized was a prompting manner.

“I don’t know either.” He told her quickly. “It wasn’t me.”

Beverly looked him over. “I didn’t think it was.”

“Oh.” Stan watched as Beverly refolded the postcard with care, replacing it in her pocket. “It might be a good idea to put it somewhere else, though. Or, not carry it around.”

“Why?”

“Well, you might lose it.” Stan pointed out. “And… You’re just lucky I’m not Richie.”

Beverly was silent, and Stan could tell by the vague horror on her face that she was imagining the teasing that would have gone with the trashmouth finding the postcard instead. She placed her hand absentmindedly over her back pocket.

“Let’s just agree not to talk about this, yeah?” Beverly asked, Stan laughing a little.

“Yeah.”

“Are you guys done making out up there?” Richie asked loudly, Stan feeling his face heat up slightly as Beverly stuck her middle finger up over the edge of the loft. Then she climbed down, Stan following after her, avoiding the side eye both Ben and Bill were giving him. They all reentered Mike’s house together. Mike got Eddie his water first, then set out to put together some lunch. Stan wanted to help him but didn’t quite know what to do, feeling quite useless, knowing by looking at his friends’ faces as they also sat around that they felt the same way too.

Before long, everyone had a warm bowl of soup in front of them.

“I, uh… I made it yesterday.” Mike said, slightly sheepish. “Sorry to give you all leftovers, but I figured it would be better than making you wait.”

“It looks great.” Beverly said reassuringly, and it was. Things like soups and stews were low on Stan’s list of favorite foods, but he--along with Beverly, Richie, and Ben--asked for seconds. Ben stared into his bowl for a couple of moments, but when Mike asked nervously if something was wrong, he just shook his head, rubbing at his eyes.

“I just haven’t had food like this in awhile.” He said. “It’s nothing.”

“Mike, and his tear-wrenching soup!” Richie exclaimed, raising his spoon valiantly. Mike laughed, looking embarrassed, nudging Richie with his elbow to get him to stop.

Mike was fitting in with their group, fitting in so well that Stan barely even noticed it. It wasn’t that the group didn’t feel different, because it did, but it felt… Better, somehow. More balanced. Mike seemed realistic and level-headed, something the group had been missing for some time. They needed someone that could withstand Richie’s constant stream of bullshit without losing their minds, because as much as Stan wanted to say that person was him, he knew it wasn’t.

“Bill, you need to give your eyes a rest.” Eddie said. “If you strain them for too long you could go blind.”

Bill had a book propped up against his empty soup bowl, the thing looking rather old and boasting the cheery title “Derry’s Disasters”.

“But we n-need to f-f-find him.” Bill insisted. “We d-didn’t figure that out. We did all that, but we s-s-still didn’t…”

“But we know a lot more now.” Beverly insisted. “We know that he found somewhere to go fifteen years ago, because that’s when the break-ins stopped. He must live somewhere relatively deserted, and if you and Richie are right, and he has something to do with the sewers…”

“My neighbor’s house.” Richie said suddenly, and everyone stared at him.

“W-w-w-what?” Bill sounded incredulous. “Richie--”

“No, seriously! I’ve never seen anyone live there.” Richie sat forward in his chair, beginning to count his reasons on his fingers. “Abandoned house, it’s right across the street from the gutter…” He then ran out of steam, and nobody looked convinced.

“I’ll write it down anyway.” Mike finally said, taking the pen he’d been using from his pocket and pulling a napkin towards himself. “Any other ideas?”

“I think he might live in the woods, really.” Beverly said matter-of-factly. “If no one in town knows him, he can’t live in town, right? And the sewers open up to the woods too.”

Stan could tell by Bill’s face that he didn’t like that idea, but Mike wrote it down.

“What about that house on Neibolt street?” Eddie asked hesitantly.

“What about it?” Stan asked back. “It’s not really in a good spot.”

“But it is abandoned.” Eddie said. “And… It’s creepy.”

That seemed to be the main point in Eddie’s reasoning, Beverly nodding along to his words.

“I’ve never liked that place.” She confessed. “Whenever I walk by, I feel like it’s watching me.”

“B-b-but it’s not--” Bill began.

“If I were a murderous clown, that’s where I would hang out.” Richie agreed.

“If?” Ben asked. The joke caught everyone off guard, a grin growing on Richie’s face as he looked over at him.

“Please Benjamin, the only thing I kill are the ladies, with my dance moves.”

“Richie, everybody knows you can’t dance.” Stan deadpanned, Richie’s mouth falling open.

“Mike didn’t!” He exclaimed indignantly, gesturing in Mike’s direction, who was laughing again. Despite misgivings, ‘Neibolt house’ was also written down. They tossed a few other locations around, but none of them made the list, and the conversation eventually devolved into a few less terrifying subjects. Stan kept one eye on Bill, who wasn’t laughing or joining in, staring down at the list in the middle of the table.

“Could w-we still go down and l-look through the sewers?” He asked, finally speaking up. “We s-s-still haven’t g-gotten the chance to yet. I just w-want to look around.”

“Sure.” Beverly allotted instantly, but she was looking up at the clock on the wall with a small frown. “We could meet up there tomorrow; we need to get going if Eddie wants to make it home on time.”

She was right. They cleared their places and thanked Mike for his hospitality, Eddie leaving as quickly as he could to get back into town. Bill and Beverly both departed while Stan was in the bathroom, and when he walked back towards the open front door he heard a strangely serious-sounding Richie talking to Mike. Curious, and knowing Richie would go full goofball if Stan made his presence known, he stilled in the doorway to eavesdrop.

“Hey Michael--can I call you Michael? Is that what Mike is short for?” Richie was asking. Mike was silent for a moment.

“I mean… I guess.” He said. Stan peeked around the corner. Richie was looking at his feet, and Mike looked curious and slightly confused at being talked to.

“I feel like I can trust you. If that's weird let me know now, because I've got a question.”

“I…” Mike was still perplexed. “No, it’s fine. What’s your question?”

Richie’s face was full of hesitancy, a tiny bit of fear in his expression, and Stan suddenly felt guilty about eavesdropping. Moving now would make his presence known and he didn’t want that either, but before he could think of an alternative solution, Richie spoke.

“I… I think I’m in love with someone, and I don’t know what to do about it.”

Mike was silent for a few moments. Richie couldn’t stand still while he waited for a response, rocking back and forth on his feet, stuffing his hands in his pockets before pulling them out again to run his fingers through his hair. Stan waited with baited breath, hoping that Richie would elaborate but knowing already that he wouldn’t.

“You should be sure about something that big.” Mike finally said. “And when you are, you should say something. No sense in keeping something like that to yourself, you know? People like knowing that they’re loved.”

Richie stuffed his hands back into his pockets, nodding a little.

“Thanks.” He said, swallowing and looking down at his feet. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay? Thanks a lot.”

“Sure.” Mike scratched the back of his head and then the moment was over, Richie sticking his head inside the house. Stan shrank back against the wall, but thankfully Richie didn’t look around, just yelling down the hallway.

“Stan! Get your scrawny white ass out here or I’ll leave without you!”

“How about you get your scrawny white ass out of my house?!” Came a responding yell from somewhere upstairs. Richie gave a bewildered laugh.

“God?” He asked back, as Mike clutched his chest in laughter.

“My… That’s my grandfather.” He answered when he could breathe again. Richie nodded a little, and Stan had to hide all over again as he stuck his head inside once more.

“Thanks for housing us, Mr. Hanlon!”

“Go home!”

Ears now ringing, Stan waited a minute or so, hiding until both Richie and Mike’s backs were turned before stepping outside as though he’d just walked up.

“No need to scream my head off.” He couldn’t help but say. “You’re going to give me a migraine.”

Richie winked, grinning. “I tend to have that effect on people.”

Stan just shook his head, thanking Mike again for having them over, and he and Richie made their way down the street. Usually Richie would strike up a conversation, saying something so incredulous that Stan wouldn’t be able to resist arguing with him on it, and they would laugh at each other before parting ways. But Richie was quiet, walking all the way to Stan’s house with him, completely passing the fork in the road that led to his own street. Finally, Stan couldn’t take it anymore. He wasn’t going to ask about Richie’s question--he didn’t want him to know he’d been eavesdropping--deciding to go with a question of his own.

“Hey, Richie… Are you okay?”

It took a beat for Richie to react, blinking as though he’d been pulled from a stupor. He looked Stan in the face for a few seconds before a huge smile grew on his lips, slinging an arm around him and hanging heavily on his shoulder.

“I’m fine! Why do people keep asking me that?”

It was an obvious lie, but Stan didn’t press him on it. Richie would talk to him if he wanted to. They reached Stan’s front door, then parted ways.

Beverly walked Bill home. She knew he didn't need her, and maybe it was a strange thing to do, but if he thought so he didn't say anything. It was a little selfish really, but she knew she would feel better about herself if she didn't let him be alone. Once they'd made it to Bill's driveway, he stopped.

“I h-h-hate it.” He said after a moment. “Can y-you just… Sit outside w-with me for a little bit?”

She nodded and they sat on the curb together. Bill was quiet, not complaining when Beverly took out and lit a cigarette. Then he was quiet for even longer, and Beverly decided to strike up conversation.

“Hate what?” She asked.

“B-being at home.” He pressed his lips together, looking angry. Not angry at her, or angry at his house, even; angry at the world. “After G-Georgie disappeared, being there j-j-j-just…”

“It sucks.” Beverly supplied. She knew it must be an understatement--she couldn’t imagine how Bill must feel--but he nodded anyways.

“M-my parents, they’ve started f-f-fighting all the time. We used to always eat d-d-dinner t-together, but we’ve stopped doing that too. I don’t like l-l-leaving my room, because Georgie’s stuff is still everyw-where; no one can clean it up. No one wants t-to touch it, or even talk about it. A-a-about him.”

Beverly reached out and rubbed his back, resting an easy arm around his shoulders, and he seemed to lean in to the contact without realizing it.

“But being in my room is almost w-worse, just lying in bed… I can’t sleep, I c-c-can’t eat, I… I’m sorry.” He looked over at her. The sun was setting, the orange light catching on the reddish tint of his auburn hair and making it glow. He was handsome, Beverly thought, his cheeks and nose round but his jawline sharp, a green tint to his grey eyes. Her gaze caught on his lower lip, where his injury seemed to have reopened before healing completely, now a red streak that stretched when he spoke.

“Sorry?” She asked.

“F-f-for this. Complaining.”

“I would worry more if you didn’t.” She assured him, sitting a closer and resting her head on his shoulder. Bill’s hand found her waist, holding her, and she rubbed his back a little. “I can’t believe how difficult this must be for you. I’m so sorry.”

He swallowed hard, blinking a couple of times and angling his gaze at the asphalt beneath their feet.

“He h-has this walkie-t-t-talkie.” He said after a moment. “G-G-Georgie, I mean. And he was w-wearing it, that day. A-a-and I know it’s s-stupid, b-b-but…” He stopped, closing his eyes and taking a breath before continuing. “I t-try calling out to him, s-s-s-sometimes. J-just to see if h-he’ll answer. He can’t be d-dead.”

His voice cracked on the last word, his head hanging, and Beverly rubbed his back again, wanting to comfort him. She didn’t have any words that could help this though, she knew that much. She had no assurances; no promises to make. They could only hope.

Bill’s head rested on her own as the sun went down, and it wasn’t until the darkness had fully gathered around them that Beverly realized she was supposed to already be home. A jolt of fear ran through her, and she removed her hand from around his back. He let go in turn, already looking apologetic, but she didn’t let him say anything.

“Goodnight Bill. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay? Try to get some sleep. For me.”

“Okay.” He finally said, and after smiling and exchanging goodbyes, Beverly made her way home. Dread churned in her gut, and she already knew what was awaiting her. She wouldn’t be lucky again. Her father would be awake, and he would be angry.

He was. She didn’t look at him as she came in, not even when he yelled her name, running past him. He grabbed her by the wrist but she managed to shake him off, making it into the bathroom and closing the door behind her. She locked it with trembling hands, taking the postcard from her pocket, looking down at it. She wanted help. She needed help, but she had nothing of the sort. All she could do was hide the postcard and hope for the best; Beverly didn’t know what Alvin Marsh would do if he found out about her secret admirer, but it was the last thing she wanted.

She stuffed it in the tampon box, a sob escaping her lips as her father pounded on the bathroom door.

“Bevvy! You unlock this door!” He bellowed.

“In… In a minute!” She called back, trying to keep her voice level. It had been a while since she’d heard him this enraged. The bathroom was supposed to be her safe space, but safe was the last thing she felt.

She heard the lock click in the doorknob, and then the door was opened, her father standing in the doorway.

“Bevvy?” He stepped forward, the concern on his face making her skin crawl. He reached out, taking her face in one hand. “Why are you crying? What happened to you? You’re home so late.”

Beverly considered running for the window, but she knew she couldn’t make it.

“I lost track of time, that’s all.”

“Where were you? Who were you with?” His hands moved to her shoulders, trailing down the sides of her body. She was fully crying now, forcing a lie past the lump in her throat.

“Just walking around town with some friends. We went and got ice cream.”

His grip on her hips tightened until it hurt.

“Why would you lie to me?” He asked, his words barely a whisper, leaning in until his lips touched her ear, his liquor-streaked breath ghosting over her face. “You don’t smell like ice cream. You smell like dirty, rotten cigarettes.”

“Daddy--”

“You worry me, Bevvy.” One of his hands was on the waistband of her pants, his fingers trying to get under her clothes. She tried to squirm away, but he held her fast with his other hand. “You worry me a lot.”

It was over in a matter of minutes. It could have been faster, but something new had risen in her and urged her to fight. She'd writhed, clawed and cried, but all it got her was a quick slap in the face and bruises the shape of handprints on her thighs.

“Why did you do that to your hair?”

She was lying on the bathroom floor, tears leaking thinly from behind her closed eyelids. She didn’t respond to the question, but her father wasn't looking for an answer.

“It makes you look like a boy.”

Then he closed the door behind himself and was gone. Beverly curled into a ball, letting herself lay there, letting herself cry. Just like all the other times, she considered calling the police. She considered running away. But just like all the other times, she knew she wouldn't. Instead, her eyes caught on the tampon box under the sink. The top wasn't fully closed, a couple inches of the postcard sticking out, and Beverly thought that maybe her luck hadn't run out just yet.

She pulled out the postcard to look at it again, somehow feeling better and worse all at once. But it gave her the energy to get up off the floor, and when she felt like she could she hurried to her bedroom. She took the postcard with her and stuffed it quickly under her pillow and got into bed, feeling tears stinging her eyes again as her fingers curled around one of the corners.

“My heart burns there too.” She whispered to herself, lying still and trying not to feel the aches in her body, willing sleep to take her.

#it 2017 #reddie #reddie fic #benverly #benverly fic #bill denbrough #beverly marsh #ben hanscom #mike hanlon #stanley uris #richie tozier #eddie kaspbrak #myfic #tdogd

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jrazillashadowworks · 7 years

Text

An Unlikely Visit (Victubia/Games of Fate short)

This is an actual completed short. Victubia short based in the Games of Fate. Itniss, Anakah, and Toshiro (wonderful and amazing oc’s) Belong to @eddeha

If you want to read my original stories which are patreon exclusives and fan fictions like these a week earlier you can become my patron. https://www.patreon.com/user?u=166383

Otherwise, enjoy!

Jittering, a beast prowled the streets, body quivering, his head jerking this way and that. The settling rainy haze clung to his body, but that is not why he quivered so powerfully. In the night, he walked where the light did not touch, for any bystander to quell his necessity would take him off track. Manic eyes searching this way and that, they fell upon a tavern, its sign a glowing beacon in the endless night. Though he had a hard time reading the lettering, his twitching head making it near impossible, he staggered over to the door and wretched it open, a blast of warmth flowing over him.

It did nothing to calm his jostling and as the door clapped loudly shut behind him, all eyes within the small establishment turned to him, and froze. He paid the horrified, muddled expressions no mind as he struggled to the bar to sit next to a woman with long raven hair. Hands hard pressing into the thick wood, the semi overgrown nails dug into it, making an uncomfortable scratching sound.

From behind the bar, a large, dark skinned woman peered at him and regrettably was taken aback. It took her a minute as she looked over the new ‘patron.’ It was a hunched over man with thick, jagged, layered hair as black as the night obscuring his lowered face. His dirty, clothes and grey scarf were ridden with holes, revealing very pale skin splotched in thick black, coal stains. He was extremely toned, muscles clenched as tight as they would go.

Clearing her throat, she pushed back the unsettling feeling in her gut and sauntered over to him, trying to put on her usual courteous demeanor. Staying back a foot, she smiled as best she could, though the unease was clear in her dark eyes, brows twitching slightly. “Welcome to the Quick Brown Fox,” she chimed. “What can I do for you?”

All around them grew silent, save for the crackling fire burning at the man’s back. His head jerked at her voice, tilted just so one strange blackened ear pointed up at her voice. The man fidgeted before jerking his head upwards in one sharp movement that caused her to recoil. Insane, crazed, fully dilated pupils stared her on, jittering as the rest of his face remained expressionless, more stains marring his complexion.

Lips shaking, it looked as if he was trying to speak, but only hisses came out. In the strange movements, she was allowed to see his teeth, each one filed jagged and sharp.

“A-are you one of his erhm…customers?” The bar lady asked, trying to keep her tone light and unfazed by his constant stare, though her heart beat loudly in her chest.

“Thick…Tasty…,” he let out, his voice a strained whisper.

“Scuse me?”

“Thickkk…Tastyyy…”

As he repeated it, Itniss grit her teeth, a blooming anger burning her cheeks and she flicked up a finger near him. “I have just the thing for you.” Reaching down below, she immediately procured a full wine bottle of thick liquid and slammed it in front of his face. “How about this for thick and tasty?”

His gaze did not move for a full thirty seconds before finally glancing down at the bottle. Snatching it up in one movement, he knocked it back, and gobbled down its contents, streams of crimson lining down his chin, splattering against his clothes. It coursed down his throat, filling him with a very familiar and powerful sensation. A contorted, grin stretched across his face as he finished. Slamming the bottle down, his eyes lit up and sharp brows shoot all the way up his forehead, lost under the matted bangs. “More…”

Now she really did step back, wishing she had a weapon on her, a shudder going down her back. “What the hell are you?”

“More!” he demanded, frenzied.

“There isn’t more… Please leave.”

“Always…more…”

“Leave now,” she hissed, turning her chin up. “Before this gets ugly…”

“Give…me…more!”

Looking over the man, but keeping him in her line of sight, she looked for the woman at his side but she had long gone, no doubt scared off by his outrageous outbursts. Itniss then scoured the back table for the group that should be in their usual spot, and inhaled sharply when she realized it was empty. “Fuck.”

Finally, another intruded, a familiar voice that immediately calmed the bar maiden. “What the devil is going on Itniss?”

Turning her head, she saw Anakah standing on the last stair. “We have a rowdy…insane customer,” Itniss replied. “A little help please…”

The Greyhound stepped onto the landing and joined alongside them, nose crinkled in irritation. “Get the hell out,” she sneered.

The man let out a chuckle, dark and borderline animalistic. “Anakah.”

Brows furrowing at the mention of her name, she reached out and grabbed him by the scarf, jerking him strongly to her, face to face. He did not fight it but stared deep into her good eye. Anakah’s features softened out of sheer disbelief. “Y-You were supposed to be lost to the mines…”

Placing a hand on her forearm, he shuddered. “Boss.”

It took her a moment to collect herself, grip loosening. “Don’t call me that.”

“You…Left…Me…”

“I had to,” Anakah replied after a brief, strained, silence. “You couldn’t be tamed.”

He had seemed to have gotten more used to his voice, a slight surprise, he admitted. “Am I not Greyhound?”

Noticing his garbs, it only slightly resembled what was once a Greyhound uniform. “Give him a couple more bottles,” she directed at Itniss before focusing back on him. “But then you leave. You are no longer a Greyhound.”

A wave of confusion washed over his face, as his grip on her arm tightened, nails digging into her skin. His face twitched into insanity, mouth moving over muted words. Snapping her hand away from him, she stepped back, leaving him to convulse on the spot. “I am Greyhound…” He barked at her before growling.

“Ah shit,” Anakah breathed, knowing all too well what was coming next.

“I AM GREYHOUND!” Falling on all fours, the man’s body pulsed with magic, an invisible blast spurring out, knocking all things around him over as a gripping roar shook the entire tavern. His form burst forth in a light that once dimmed revealed him for what he was.

Standing before them all was a rather large, bristling, black furred wolf, long jaws jittering before a row of jagged, messy teeth. His paws, clawed at the floor, scuffing, etching deeper into the wood with each twitch. Burning eyes glared at his former leader, a long, dull tongue lashing out over his snout.

“You will stop this,” Anakah demanded, one arm outstretched with a fist bawled up at her side. “Kale…”

The wolf lowered, legs stretching out as a thick, ragged tail flicked side to side, intimidatingly. A low grumbling growl escaped between his clenched teeth. Shoulders sticking up, the wolf launched off of the ground, aimed directly at Anakah, claws outright. Sidestepping, the Greyhound dodged expertly, stepping away from the bar as Kale scrambled across the floor, sliding violently, before jumping to face her again, snarling.

He launched, lost to the burning frenzy that urged on his manic attacks. He had but a second to notice before her fist collided with his snout, knocking him back, roughly on his side. It was a powerful punch that rocked his vision, blurring his surroundings. Shaking it off, he darted side by side, as Anakah moved around the room, keeping poised and defensive. They danced, each of his attacks missing. He bounced against tables and chairs, toppling everything over to a symphony of crashing sounds, but he did not let up. Everyone within the tavern kept out of the way, not getting between the fearsome bouts, moving opposite of them and watching on in horror. In the heat of the moment, Itniss ran up the stairs to grab one of the others.

Anakah, leapt back towards the fire place, feeling the sweltering heat lick at her back. “Again, Kale…Get out! This is my final warning!” Stepping onto the rug, she prepared for his last charge for which she would using his momentum, force him into the fire.

Stalking ahead of her, the beast watched her, plodding sideways, head leaning down. Back arching, he prepared to lunge again, this time, he would go for her throat. With a pattern unable to discern, he frantically moved this way and that, hopping and snarling, slobber sloshing to the ground. Feeling the tension in his muscles, he let a shiver roll throughout his form, a current of power coming off him, causing his fur to rise and ruffle. An extra measure.

Blasting off his hind legs, he shot at her at a blistering speed near untraceable by the naked eye. Anakah immediately guarded, and was miffed as the beast vaulted over her to latch onto the wall behind, cleaving the wallpaper. As she was spinning to look at him, he tackled her to the floor at a powerful velocity that tore the air from her lungs. His claws clutched down on her arms and legs, jaws snapping open to form over her throat, fangs digging into her skin, dribbles of blood escaping. With his monstrous gaze on her, he let a surge go throughout his body, uncountable tendrils of blue sparks rising off his body, hissing and crackling.

Pinned to the floor, Anakah felt a blasting wave of electricity pulse into her, convulsing all her muscles to lock up. Neck vein pulsing, she gnashed her teeth, seething through the pain. “Loyal,” the wolf let out in a low, guttural growl.

In what looked to be her final moment, the sudden, sharp, metallic sound of a blade releasing from its scabbard, dissipated the fierce lightning that clung to her, leaving only twinges of lingering agony as the beast pounced off of her. Landing a few feet away, Kale stared at a curved blade that now hung over the fallen Greyhound protectively. “Get off of her, Bitch tits!”

Kale backed away towards the door, snout scrunching up as rabid foam clung to the corners of his mouth, body still sparking flickering blue light. But then his form calmed, the magic waning until he was but a normal, ragged wolf yet again. Something in his eyes had changed, softened, and he looked to Anakah before meeting Toshiro’s gaze, the man’s body ready to strike a final blow with his blade.

The beast whimpered, a horrible whistling, like that of a beaten dog, before turning heel on them and darting out the door, back into the night. Toshiro stepped over Anakah to give chase but was halted by the woman, who had gripped his pants leg. Though tingling vibrations still kept her floored, she held on tight, her resolve, unflinching. “Let him go,” she breathed, her countenance unbelievably stern.

Toshiro lips quivered in irritation, brows furrowed, but he sighed heavily, lowering his sword. “Fine. However, should there be a next time. I will end him for good.” Helping her to her feet with one quick jerk and then giving her his shoulder, his expression hardened to that of the steel of the very blade he carried. “That pity is going to get you killed.”

“Shut the hell up,” she huffed as he helped her across the wrecked room, kicking things out of their way with a grunt.

Itniss, watched the two disappear back upstairs before taking in the horrible state of the tavern. Mumbling under her breath, she headed to the door to peak out into the night to make sure he was gone. “Seriously, what the hell was that all about?”

#Victubia #fan fiction #Games of Fate #My writing

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