Chapter Text
A nagging, familiar voice deep at the back of Eddie’s mind frequently haunts his thoughts. His mother’s voice, intrusive, commanding and cold. One that still gives him pause, enough to mentally battle the figment of her though she has long since passed. That’s dirty, Eddie. Or, You’re too fragile, sweetie. And always, Think of your health, dear. But the number one, chart topping hit that loops most frequently is, No woman is good enough for my Eddie Bear.
There was a time he’d feared the truth of it- because it’s funny to him now, Ma was right all along. There never would be a woman he was meant to spend his life with. It’s only- there was a time when his much less confident voice was terrified to even suggest an alternative.
For years he pushed that part of himself away and buried it deep.
In a fucked up way he did it to please her. He married Myra, despite Sonia’s vocal disapproval, because he was too much of a coward to be honest. One part defiance and two parts fear. Because he could marry a woman he didn’t love as a quiet Fuck you! to Ma, but he couldn’t tell her the truth. No, that was a step too far.
Their marriage worked for a while, he supposes in the end. He wasn’t alone, and that was something. Until it isn’t. Until being alone is the most coveted fantasy he holds in the depths of his resentful heart. He turns to his solitary fantasy, working late nights at the office until he is sure his wife will be asleep by the time he comes creeping in.
Eddie often wonders if Myra had always been so overbearing. If he hadn’t realized it because the looming cloud of his mother’s own controlling protestrations had been too strong and too loud to notice them in her. Myra had a way of encouraging his autonomy from Sonia, but he realized too late that he ran towards her instead. She’d redirected his attention her way. By the time he began to question her manipulative behavior he was at the altar. Too late. He chose to live with the assurance that a wife and companion was better than the solitude and pitiful existence of living for his mother.
Of course, it was all a lie.
To Myra.
To himself.
Eventually, that terrified voice he’d learned to silence so well grew insistent. More confident. Festering within him, screaming to bring light to the misery he’d committed himself to. And suddenly with his mother’s death he could admit to himself how much he’d fucked up by marrying a woman he doesn’t love. It still takes two years for Eddie to act on it. Then it all happened quickly, meeting a lawyer in secret, dividing their assets in a way Myra was least likely to complain. He obsessed over perfecting the terms before bringing it to her. The prenup (his insistence, for obvious reasons) split everything fairly, but he was willing to concede to her more than her share if it ensured an efficient exit. And that’s really all he wants in the end.
Once the paperwork is ready, though one-sided as it is, it becomes easy. A thrill. A new fantasy of freedom finally playing out frequently in his mind. One he can’t wait to turn into reality. Because it will.
Soon.
The day he confronts her, it’s raining. Bleak and cold, just like her. Like their marriage. Like the last bit of shriveled up happiness he guards fiercely within himself. Though he doesn’t believe in omens, he has to admit the rain is poetic. He can smell the wet cement and mud from the open window.
So he tells her, apropos of nothing save commentary on the rain. He simply wants a divorce. Only, she comes unhinged. Truly a state he’d never imagined he’d witness. They’d raised voices in the past, sure. Didn’t everyone in a failing marriage? Tears he expects, but Myra possessed a quiet rage in her rejection of his insistence of a legal separation. She is dark and cruel beyond measure when she realizes his intention is to go through with it.
She packs a bag and leaves for her sister's upstate.
And though he had certainly been ready for a battle, he still never expects, not on their worst day, that he’d end up tied to a chair in the guestroom of his own home because of her.
Dark.
It is dark and cold, just like the day he told her.
His wrists ache behind his back from being bound by rope. His head is pounding.
“Kaspbrak,” the nasally voice that calls out is almost friendly in it’s query. “Kaspbrak,” the man says again. Searching. Tasting the way it feels over his tongue.
It occurs to Eddie then that it’s dark because he is blindfolded. Pulling at his restraints, his heart races, “You motherfucking cock sucker, I will end you! Let me out of here!”
The voice huffs a laugh then mutters to himself, “Why the fuck does that sound-” Eddie can hear him inhale with recognition, “Edward Kaspbrak. What the fuck? Duh! Eddie!”
His blindfold is suddenly pulled from his head. Eddie blinks back the tears burning behind his eyes and allows them to adjust to the dull lighting of the guestroom. The man is sitting on the edge of his bed. Dressed in dark clothing, he’s leaning forward with a ski-mask concealing most of his face. The comprehension of the situation filters through Eddie and with a shiver he realizes he’s being fucking robbed.
“Holy fuck! Is that you, Eds?” The man says. Eddie thinks he’s smiling.
“Eds?” He whispers to himself. It’s familiar. A faint recognition deep inside himself knows that name. He shakes his head as he demands, swallowing back fear, “What the fuck do you want? You want money? I don’t have anything, man! I have suits and like, I don’t know. My wife has jewelry. I have some Omega watches. A Breitling-”
“No, man! I’m not here to rob you, dude. It’s me!” The man pulls the mask from his face. Eddie can see his bright toothy smile and messed dark hair sticking up at all angles. “Richie! Richie Tozier, from Derry.” As Eddie furrows his brow, the man leans in to give him a better look.
“Glasses,” Eddie whispers to himself absently. He isn’t wearing them but even without it’s undeniable, “Holy shit. Richie?!”
“Yeah, man! Small world,” Richie moves to pat his leg in what Eddie thinks is meant as a comfort.
“What the hell are you doing here? Is this like a- a prank or something? I haven’t seen you in, like, over twenty years. What the fuck? Untie me!” His wrists ache as he pulls against the ropes once again. It doesn’t feel like a joke.
“About that-” Richie sits back on the corner of the bed, decidedly not untying him as he braces his palms on his knees. “What the hell have you gotten yourself into, man? Some bad shit, huh?”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Eddie shakes his head, the only movement he can manage. The pounding in his chest is only second to the confusion he feels trying to understand what is happening.
“Is your mom still around? God, not that I’d want to bring you to her, but fuck, I know you don’t have anyone else.”
“My mom’s dead. Tell me-” Eddie demands through gritted teeth, “What the fuck you’re doing here.”
“So, bad news-” Richie starts softly as Eddie’s eyebrows shoot up, waiting for him to continue. “Someone wants you dead.”
“What?”
It definitely has to be a joke. Some kind of prank. Searching his mind, he does quick math to figure out what year of high school reunion is coming up and wonders if Richie’s sudden appearance could have anything to do with that. He didn’t even graduate from Derry, Sonia pulled him out sophomore year, and it doesn’t make sense, but it’s the only thing that his brain can provide as an explanation, because why the hell else would Richie Tozier have him tied to his chair in his bedroom pretending to rob him?
“Uh, give me a minute, man,” Richie pulls a phone out from an inside pocket of his jacket. Eddie notes it’s one of those athletic zip ups that are perfectly functional but make you look like a douchebag if you turn it into a lifestyle, and he suddenly wonders if that’s the kind of asshole Richie has turned into .
“Oh, sure. Take your time,” Eddie offers sarcastically. “Asswipe! Let me go!” He feels like he’s kicking but his legs are restrained and he knows realistically he’s not getting anywhere. So he yells, “HELP!”
“Ah, ah!” Richie is next to him before he blinks, hand covering his mouth. “I just have to make a call, can you chill the fuck out, man?”
“No, I can’t chill the fuck out! HEL-”
A tie of a gag slips between his lips before he has a chance to realize Richie’s even moved. He pulls it tight, fastening it behind his head. Muffled shouts, barely loud enough to be heard from the next room, let alone outside, are all that escapes.
“Dude. Give me a minute. Christ.” Richie shakes his head and holds the phone up to his ear, muttering to himself, “Come on Jason, you dick.”
With a heaving chest, Eddie watches furiously as Richie paces the room.
“Yeah, it’s me,” he says finally into the phone. “Yeah, yeah it’s fine. I’m in the middle of it. But what’s the intel on this one? Is he fucking over government employees or-” Richie freezes. “What?” His brow furrows, “Wife? A fucking domestic dispute? I told you man, I don’t want that shit.” Rolling his eyes, he continues, “Fucking put Gray on it next time, Jason! I don’t care if I was in the area. No. Next time. No, I got this one. But I mean it, you asshole. I’m done with this shit. I’m done. Starting now!” Richie pushes a button on the phone with a huff and shoves it back into his pocket.
As Richie crouches in front of him, Eddie struggles once again to pull his hands free. Anything to move.
“Okay, promise me you won’t scream? I’ll take this off,” he points to the gag.
Eddie nods with wide eyes. Richie loosens the fabric and when it falls free, Eddie scratches out, “What the fuck is going on?”
“Looks like your wife put a hit on you, dude.”
The words don’t make sense as he hears them. He repeats them over in his mind, still not comprehending what the hell is happening at this moment in his guestroom.
“I’m just gonna let that sink in a minute,” a wave of patient understanding sweeps over Richie’s face.
“A hit? Like-”
“She wants you dead, man. I don’t know how else to tell you.”
“Richie-” Eddie scoffs. “Bro. Come on. Like I’m supposed to believe that?”
“That your wife wants you dead?” He asks genuinely. “I know it’s a lot-”
“Actually, that I believe,” Eddie interrupts. “But, come on, dude. Come on. What the hell is-” Eddie swallows nervously. “You can’t be a-” he laughs at the idea. “No fucking way in hell did Trashmouth grow up to be a hitman."
“Hey, fuck you, dude. You don’t believe me? I mean, I only broke into your house, knocked you out, tied you up, and waited around in your little love nest for too goddamn long for you to regain consciousness. But sure. Fine. I’m lying. The only reason I went to all that effort instead of putting a bullet in your skull is because I recognized your name.”
“Richie,” Eddie says as calmly as he can manage, “Untie me right this fucking second.”
“Okay, so this brings me back to my previous question. Do you have any place you can go? Distant family I don’t know about? Friends you trust on the other side of the country? Like, somewhere you can go to completely restart your life and assume a new identity?”
“What?” Eddie blinks at him before yelling, “No!”
“Okay,” Richie begins pacing, “Okay, right. So, okay- I can work with this.”
“I’m not running away from home, asshole!”
“Yes,” Richie says simply, “You are.”
Trying his hardest to thrash around, anything to maybe loosen the bindings of his arms and legs, Eddie grunts in frustration. Heaving and out of breath, he says, “I’ll go to the fucking police, Rich.”
“You don’t have proof, dude. There’s nothing on this. No trail.”
“I have you.”
Richie laughs, “Fuck you. I’m not turning myself in, dickhead.”
“Fine, I’ll say you told me and I got away!” Eddie tries. “I won’t tell anyone I know who you are. They’ll see bruises on my wrists for proof and- and I don’t know, you can take shit. I’ll say I bargained for my life!”
Richie hovers over him with his arms crossed. He takes a deep breath and Eddie can see it now as he leans down. The serious determination set in his glare. The sharp focus of his furrowed brow and clenched, angular jaw. It’s a distinct change and Eddie feels a cold sweat break out on the back of his neck when he realizes it. The Trashmouth he knew when they were children is no longer in the room. This is a man who won’t hesitate to take a life. Eddie knows it in his soul.
Then his face softens. Unexpectedly, he cracks a smile. Richie says, “Have it your way, Spageds.”
Oh, I fucked up, is his last thought before Eddie is submerged into darkness.
While Eddie was in college he dipped his toes into the shallow end of the party scene. Dragged along to random houses by new friends, it was a welcomed reprieve from the sheltering nature of his mother. Never shy to show up, he was, however, apprehensive to trust himself in an inebriated state. The desire to be in control was too strong and it took years before he felt comfortable understanding his limits. But he knew them. He knew just the amount to drink and the ratio of water for proper hydration in order to keep himself from the throbbing headache he’d been unfortunate enough to encounter only a handful of times. So when he wakes to the dull thrum and the feeling of blood pumping rhythmically in his skull, he knows something is wrong immediately.
“Fuck,” Eddie groans, blinking slowly to the soft dim light.
“Oh, hey. You’re awake. I thought you might be out for the night. I was getting ready to move you to the bed.”
“The-” Eddie looks around, confused to find himself in what appears to be a low budget motel. The curtains are drawn, the stock art adorning the walls with equally hideous wallpaper are an eyesore. The flatscreen TV seems to be the only modern amenity in the room. He glares at Richie, who is now wearing glasses looking all the more the Trashmouth Eddie knows, plus a few inches and a few grey hairs. He places a chair in front of him and straddles it to sit.
“Where the fuck am I?” Eddie demands.
“This lovely little lodge is called The Guest House,” Richie gestures to the room using what Eddie assumes is his best Vanna White impression. “We are the aforementioned guests.”
Eddie wants to strangle him.
An attempt to move his arms strikes the realization that they’re still bound behind his back. Inhaling deeply, trying to calm himself and push his fear aside, Eddie grits through his teeth, “Take me the fuck home. Now.”
“Sorry, buddy,” Richie smiles at him apologetically, “We are no longer in The Big Apple.”
“Untie me,” he demands slowly. The throb in his head is growing. He’s starving and his brow is dripping with sweat. Eddie wants this whole fucking nightmare to be over. “Untie me. Untie me! Fucking untie me right this fucking second, Richie!”
Richie leans back as Eddie thrashes around in his chair. “Calm down.”
“Calm down?” He huffs, “You want me to fucking calm down. I’m three seconds away from completely losing my shit, you motherfucker!”
“Aww, that’s right! How is Sonia, my first love?”
“Fuck you!” Eddie yells which he regrets instantly as Richie’s hands cover his mouth before he has a chance to blink.
“I’ll gag you, dude, don’t think I won’t,” Richie’s fingers press hard into the flesh of Eddie’s cheeks, bruising against his teeth. “I will untie you after you understand a few things. Now, will you shut the fuck up?”
Eddie mumbles a Fine! and tastes the salt of Richie’s fingers against his lips.
Putting his hand down, Richie wipes it on the leg of Eddie’s pants before returning to the chair in front of him, “Alright, Eddie baby. Let’s try this again. You cool?”
“Actually, I’m very fucking far from cool, Rich,” his voice shakes hysterically. “I just want to go home, fall asleep in my bed, and go right back to forgetting you ever existed.”
A wounded look flickers across Richie’s face before he schools it into something unreadable. “Eds-
“Don’t you fuckin’ call me that,” Eddie interrupts.
“-you can’t go home. Someone is trying to kill you.”
“You are trying to kill me!”
“It’s not safe.”
“This is literally the least safe place for me to be. Here with you! ”
“Okay, we’ve already been over that, but let’s start there. I’m sorry I was going to kill you. I will endeavour to do my best not kill you in the future. Do you forgive me?”
Eddie furrows his brow, anger and incredulity seep through him in a rush, “No!”
“Okay, well, you still can’t go home. Just because I’m not planning on killing you doesn’t mean someone else won’t finish the job. Your wife knows too much. You know too much. They’re not just gonna let it slide. I’m sorry, Eds, it’s just not safe. While your body is undiscovered they’ll think that I took care of it, but if your wife sees you walking around in your underwear in the living room Fuchs’ll just send someone else. And believe me, you do not want the replacement on the job.”
“Alright, so what’s your great fucking plan then?”
“I’m working on it. But right now the plan is- I’m gonna shower because I’m fucking exhausted from lugging your ass around. You want the TV on?” Richie shifts the chair Eddie’s tied to enough so he has a clearer view of the screen. He finds the remote and flips through the channels. “Oh, bird documentary. You’re not Stan, though. Hmm, he would love this shit. You remember him? Stanley Urine. You two still talk?”
“Uris,” Eddie corrects. “Oh, yeah, Stan. I haven’t thought about him in years,” the memory of him settles warmly in his chest. “That’s right. He had that weird little bird fetish,” Eddie smiles.
“He would beat the shit out of you for saying that,” Richie laughs. Pointing to the TV he adds, “Look, Point Break. That okay for you?
“No, Richie. It’s not okay. I have to fucking piss and I’m sweating through these clothes. My wrists ache like a motherfucker from being tied to a fucking chair all day and, oh yeah, fuck you asshole!”
“Okay, okay!” Richie sighs standing, “Jeez.” Crossing his arms he says, “Alright. New plan. I’m gonna help you to the bathroom. You can piss, shit, shower, whatever the hell, but-” he pauses “I’m gonna be in there the whole time.”
“Do you have a gun?”
“Obviously I have a gun,” Richie scoffs, walking around to the other side of the chair where Eddie can feel the ropes tug on his wrists while Richie makes good on his word and loosens them. “But I don’t need a gun to take you down, shortstop.”
“I’m average height, asshole. Just because you turned into a giant freak doesn’t mean that I’m the statistical anomaly here!”
Richie laughs and Eddie can finally pull his hands free. He rubs around the red rings on his wrists trying to soothe them. They burn from the friction of trying to escape and the angle they were held at makes them ache.
Sighing, Richie’s hands go to the rope at the leg of the chair. “Alright, so I’m gonna ask you something before I untie you completely. Are you gonna do that thing where you try to overpower me and attempt to escape? Like I said, I have a gun, but even if I didn’t it wouldn’t help you.”
Eddie bends over to work on the knot around his other ankle, “Sound pretty sure of yourself. For all you know I’m a master in krav maga.” Both legs break free and he rubs the skin in relief, “Christ.”
“Fiiine,” Richie sighs, drawing it out melodramatically. “Let’s just get this over with, Grandmaster Kaspbrak.” He walks around the chair, positioning himself in front of Eddie.
Eddie stands, massaging his wrists, “What?”
“I want you to come at me,” he bends slightly and gestures at him. “I’m not gonna pull the gun on you. I just need you to know it’s not gonna happen, man. You can try your best to run, realize it’s fucking futile as shit, then we can get ready for bed. It’s been a long fuckin’ day.”
“You-” Eddie stands tall, blinking in surprise, “want me to escape?”
Laughing softly, Richie says, “I want you to try.”
Furrowing his brow, Eddie stares at him a beat then looks around the room, trying to find anything to aid him, “Uh, so, is this like a way to kill me with a clean conscience or something? If I’m fighting you off then you can choke me out without feeling bad?” He takes a step back, giving more space between where Richie is blocking the only exit.
“Choke you out? Kinky, man,” he teases. “But no, dude,” Richie stands and his shoulders go slack. “I don’t want you constantly planning your big move to escape. It’s exhausting- for you, for me- let's get this over with then we can come up with an actual plan.”
“Yeah, and what’s that gonna be?”
“Finding a safe place for you.”
“Oh,” Eddie crouches a little, raising his fists in a stance. As an idea forms, he relaxes and stands straight, appearing to give up. “Actually. I think I’m good. I mean, if you say you’re not gonna hurt me, I trust you. Once a Loser always a Loser, right?”
“Uh, yeah,” Richie eyes him skeptically, standing again. “I mean, I don’t know about you but I take blood oaths pretty seriously.”
“That was insane. During the fucking AIDS epidemic too. How the hell did Bill get us to slice our palms? I don’t really even remember why we-”
“Bowers,” Richie’s eyes dart to the side. “That time after Bowers attacked Mike. Before Neibolt-”
“Fuck,” Eddie sighs, placing his hands on his hips, “that’s right.”
He had forgotten about that summer. More likely blocked it out.
Henry Bowers chasing them down and terrorizing them was no new occurrence but the summer of ‘89 was different. Henry was unhinged, digging a blade into Ben’s flesh seemed like only the beginning. The group often hid in their clubhouse in order to avoid him but when he and Patrick Hockstetter cornered them and nearly dropped Mike down a well, the group was lucky to escape.
With a series of very fortunate maneuvers, Richie throwing his voice and a few fists as well as Bev and Bill launching an attack, Eddie and Ben were able to grab hold of Mike before he fell. But it was a narrow escape. After that they vowed to protect each other no matter what. It was the summer the kids went missing, and they all knew Bowers was to blame, but with no proof (and a father who was a cop) none of the adults would believe them. Not until the incident only referred as Neibolt when they finally had the tragic proof.
It was something Eddie had practiced years forgetting. When he shakes himself from his sudden memory, he grabs the chair in front of him and hurls it at Richie.
“Shit!” Richie dodges it easily. “I thought we were having a moment, asshole!”
Faking to the left, Eddie attempts to run right but Richie grabs him, a bruising grip on his shoulder. In defense, he throws back his fist the best he can manage, connecting hard into Richie’s stomach, doubling him over in a loud grunt.
As easily as Richie makes his plan sound, it is fucking insane. He’s not going to give up his entire life and assume some kind of fake identity living across the country. Someone has a hit on him- his wife wants him dead. Eddie needs to get the hell to the police. He isn’t going to just let Myra walk away with all his assets, not to mention he has work tomorrow-
“You little shit,” Richie coughs. Too quickly, he extends his arm, fisting at Eddie’s shirt and pulls him close.
Eddie kicks as hard as he can but Richie knows how to evade it. Walking him backward to the bed where Eddie is finally able to land a punch across his cheek, Richie tosses him far too easily on the queen mattress behind him.
Richie laughs, “Fucker,” breathy and light, but it sounds like an endearment. Like he’s proud and they’re only wrestling in the clubhouse.
But they’re not kids.
Wondering briefly if maybe Richie would actually hurt him, Eddie begins to panic. He’s already regretting the fight as Richie is climbing on top of him, pinning him with his legs and gripping tightly to his already tender wrists above his head. His hands must be huge, Eddie thinks, feeling the way they wrap entirely around. Trying to kick once more, a feeble attempt at one last escape, he knows he’s well and truly beat. Richie’s stronger, faster, and simply better than him at this. He’s done this before and he’s good.
Chest heaving, Eddie stares up at him wide-eyed, waiting for Richie’s next move. Somewhere in the back of his mind, with the bounce of the mattress, fond remembrances of horsing around in Eddie’s bedroom are unearthed from his memory. Richie always was better, even then. Wrestling for play in Derry had been dangerous for an entirely different reason though, and now the same man that made Eddie’s heart pound when they were kids was pinning him down once again.
In Derry it had been simply frustrating, but now Eddie is scared. He can’t help but be. This Richie isn’t anyone he recognizes. The precision and execution of his moves, it is beautiful really, but dangerous.
“Are you gonna stab me now?” A scratching whisper is all Eddie can manage. Richie’s legs are so firmly pressed against him and he needs it to stop.
“I got something right here I can stab you with, Eds,” Richie leers, grinding further down into him. Eddie almost welcomes death at that point as he blushes while Richie continues to say, “I’m talking about my dick.”
It's a step too far.
Eddie closes his eyes and internally starts counting out deep breaths.
“I’m fuckin’ with you, Eddie. Shit. You okay?” Richie pulls back, rolling off of him he positions himself next to Eddie. Grabbing a tight grip around Eddie’s forearm, Richie pulls him to sit, the mattress bouncing as they go. “Are you gonna throw a chair at me again? Run away?”
“Like I’d even be able to make it out the door?” He spits bitterly. Hanging his head in his hands in defeat, Eddie takes a deep breath. “Shit, I have like-” it’s harder to breathe, “medication and shit I need from home.”
“Oh! That’s right!”
Lifting his head slightly, Eddie watches Richie scamper, a goddamn scamper like he wasn’t just whipping out his Bruce Lee moves on him, across the room to dig through a duffle bag. Eddie glares at him as he returns with an earnest smile, looking at him like he’s expecting praise.
Tossing him the small bag, Richie says, “I took everything with your name on it. I remember Mrs. K kept you on a tight regiment. I even found your inhaler. You still need that, dude?”
The frost in Eddie’s chest warms slightly as he pulls out his inhaler, inspecting it enough to be satisfied before taking a puff. He feels better instantly, “I’m not trusting a single pill from you.”
Crossing his arms, Richie’s eyebrows lift, “Look, I’m not gonna poison you. Fucking inefficient as shit when you have a gun. Not that I blame you for questioning it, but that’s just not my style.”
For the first time since this whole thing started, Eddie feels curious. “What is your style?” He still can’t believe that the jokester- the pain in the ass, Richie Trashmouth Tozier, wound up doing something like this. That he was capable of it. He was a bit of a dick but always sweet, deep down. Sensitive in a way that he was quick to cover with a joke. To even ponder that he’s possibly killed several people sets a shiver down Eddie’s spine.
“I’m not about to spill my M.O. here, Eds.”
“Don’t fucking call me that, dude,” he blanches. The sweet endearment bestowed upon him as a child feels wrong now. Yeah, as kids he begrudgingly toterated, perhaps even liked the special attention the name provided, but now? The kind of person Richie is, whoever he turned into, Eddie doesn’t want it.
“Come on, dude,” Richie walks toward the bathroom and gestures for Eddie to follow. “I’m fucking wiped.”
Eddie is too. Despite his bouts of unconsciousness, the day had been full of far too much excitement. He wants nothing more than to fall asleep and deal with convincing Richie to let him go in the morning. Because that’s all he can do at this point. Brute force was never his forte, but weedling down he can manage.
Richie waits for him with his arm extending an invitation to the bathroom. Reluctantly, Eddie goes.
“You’re really gonna watch me, man?” He asks, perturbed.
“Uh, yeah,” Richie replies, like he’s an idiot. “I’m not gonna let you find a weapon, or, I don’t know- tap morse code on the pipes or some shit.”
Scoffing, he shakes his head and rubs his still sore wrists. Eddie walks to the toilet seat, lifts it and relieves himself quickly without further commentary about how much of an idiot he is to think he could make a weapon out of soap and cheap towels. He nearly moans at how good it feels to get the pressure off his bladder, though. Washing his hands quickly, he glares at Richie leaning against the door frame, before turning to the shower. Any temperature just on the side of burning feels perfect, so he adjusts the water and once again glowers back at Richie.
Richie is avoiding eye contact too intently which speaks to just how much he’s paying attention in the peripheral.
“Don’t murder me while I’m naked. If I have any say in this, Rich, let me die with my clothes on.” He gets a chuckle out of Richie for that, not what he was going for, but it eases the tension between them.
“Noted.”
Taking one last deep breath, he pulls his shirt over his head. With resolute determination, he quickly pushes his jeans down, boxer briefs and all, and steps out of them. Waiting a moment for a smart ass remark that never comes, Eddie turns to the shower and finally steps in.
This time he’s unable to hide the moan of satisfaction he feels from the heat overtaking him. The pressure is somehow ungodly perfect against the dull ache of his muscles. He washes quickly, grimacing at the motel soap and the residual scum it leaves behind. Trying to ignore the screaming in the back of his mind warning him about Athlete’s Foot or other germs the shower undoubtedly contains, he knows it’s better than marinating in his dirty clothes any longer.
“Don’t drop the soap, Eds,” Richie calls over the sound of running water.
Popping his soapy head out, Eddie growls, “Why, are you watching me?”
“Hard not to with the show you’re putting on,” Richie smirks back.
Eddie flips him off then returns to rinse the soap as quickly as possible. He’s pretty sure Richie can’t see shit, but the idea that he may be watching has Eddie’s heart pounding faster. Finishing up, he turns the faucet off and calls out, “Hand me a towel, dipshit.”
“No need to be so modest,” but Richie quickly hands over a bleached and scratchy towel by flopping it over the shower curtain rod.
Eddie grabs it thanklessly and dries himself the best he can manage before wrapping it around his waist. As he pulls open the curtain, Richie wolf-whistles at him.
“Okay just- you can fuck off,” he rolls his eyes, flipping Richie off once more.
“Gladly,” Richie returns a toothy grin.
“How are you still like this? How the fuck have you not changed since high school?”
“I am full of youthful exuberance,” he agrees, to Eddie’s annoyance.
“Not what I meant, asshole. You’re still immature,” Eddie counters, stepping carefully from the shower. He eyes his dirty clothing with a grimace, loathe to put the sweat soaked fabric anywhere near his now clean body.
“I have a clean shirt you can wear,” Richie offers.
Eddie thinks about refusing him, but looks back to the offending pile on the floor and bites sarcastically, “You mean you didn’t think to pack me a change of clothes when you kidnapped me from my home?”
“Can a forty year old man be kidnapped, Eds? I know with how small you-”
“Jesus Christ,” Eddie interrupts, hand slicing through the air, “Shut the fuck up and go get me a clean shirt!”
Richie smirks at him but says nothing more before doing as he’s told.
Eddie briefly considers making a run for it, wondering if he could get out the door in time. He grips the towel around his waist and sighs. There will be a better time. One when he’s fully clothed and wearing shoes. He’ll wait until Richie’s guard is down and escape then.
Grabbing his boxers from the floor, Eddie examines them before pulling them back on. A shirt from Richie is one thing, but he’s not about to share underwear with the man.
He steps out of the bathroom as a ball of fabric hits his face. With a scowl he holds it up to say, “You do not have a Frankie Says Relax shirt in the twenty-first century, Richie.”
“Sadly, not anymore. You do.”
Taking a deep breath, Eddie pulls it over his head and sighs. It’s too big by far, hem falling past his thighs covering his underwear, but it smells clean so it’ll do for the night. “I’m not wearing this tomorrow so we better figure some shit out. Why’d you grab my meds but no clothes?”
“Because as I was hauling your deadass weight out the door I remembered you used to set that little alarm on your watch. Your medicine was always a huge fucking deal. I’ll pick you up some shit in the morning.”
Eddie rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue further. Perhaps if he can convince Richie into letting him come along he’ll be able to get away from him then.
“Look, I need to shower,” Richie tilts his head considering him. “So you can either be tied to the bed, the chair, or the toilet.”
Evening out his temper, Eddie points to the bed with resigned reluctance. Walking over to it he shakes his head and jumps on. With a feigned bravado he crosses his legs in a relaxed lounging position. He tucks his hands beneath his head, and says with a knowing smirk, “Tie me up, Rich.”
“Fuck,” Richie blinks back at him owlishly, waiting too long before moving into action. “Gonna get me half-mast seein’ you all trussed up on the bed like this, Spageds.”
The pause and the way Richie looks at him makes Eddie’s face heat up. “Is that what does it for you these days?” Eddie’s no longer sure he’s teasing when he asks.
Richie starts at his ankles, wrapping the rope tightly enough to sting, no longer protected by a layer of denim, then anchors it to the leg of the bed. “Only for you, Eds,” he replies, moving to Eddie’s wrists next. And Eddie finds himself offering them much too easily. Something he tries not to examine too closely.
There’s a residual fear in asking the question that pops into his mind next. Like maybe he already knows the answer, or hopes he does anyway. Like he had always hoped he had known when they were younger but was truly too afraid to ask. Despite the increase in his heartbeat, he’s determined not to be afraid of the question any longer when it slips out from his lips before he has a chance to hold back.
“Are you gay?”
“Uh-” Richie stammers before admitting slowly, “Yes. Is that gonna be a problem?”
“If I say it is, will you let me go?”
Richie rolls his eyes and moves away from the bed. “No.”
“Then why ask, man?”
Scoffing, Richie bites, “Because it’d be a really big fuckin’ disappointment if you grew up to be a fag hater like Bowers. Shatters my world view of you.”
Eddie laughs. He’s not about to waltz out of the closet in commiseration, but he understands that guttural fear deep in his soul. It’s what drove him to stay in a loveless marriage to a woman for countless years. He shakes his head and replies, “I don’t give a shit who you fuck, dude. I’m more offended about your kill count. Please never tell me that, by the way. You fucking murder people. Why the hell would I care where you stick your dick?”
“I don’t murder them. I’m not a serial killer. I don’t have, like, trophies. They’re bad guys, man. They’re not soccer moms jonesin’ for the next hit of pumpkin spice. They’re, you know, fuckin’ mobsters and shit.”
“Once again do I need to reiterate that you were going to kill me? Me! The worst thing I do is forget to pay my parking fines on time, asshole.” Richie pulls the rope tightly, finishing his wrists. “Ow,” Eddie glares.
“I wasn’t supposed to get you. I already told you that. It was a mix up,” he walks away.
“So, one of your buddies would have killed me and that’s better? How many other fucking mix ups have there been over the years, Rich? Huh? You ever think of that? Do you normally get to know the people you kill or just take your bosses word for it that they’re ‘bad guys’?” Eddie calls after him as Richie flips him his middle finger and walks into the bathroom, leaving the door open wide.
Eddie waits until he hears the sound of the water running before trying his restraints. They’re secure, just as before. He wasn’t expecting to get anywhere but his heart falls all the same. Point Break is still on and Keanu Reeves is playing a game of chicken, about to jump out of a plane. The desire to focus solely on the movie is overwhelming but Eddie can’t stop himself from thinking about anything other than the desperation he feels for his current situation.
Myra wants him fucking dead. He knew she could be a bitch but he never expected this of her. Maybe he was cold in the way he told her he wanted a divorce, but this? Then again, she warned him. She told him if she couldn’t have him, no one would.
“Fuck,” it’s barely a whisper as he bangs his head on the pillow, holding back tears.
He thinks about Richie next. The boy he yearned secretly for in his final years at Derry before his mother packed them up and moved away. Avoiding the way he felt for him back then hadn’t been easy but the alternative was much worse. Just as it was now, but again for such vastly different reasons. Back then he’d never dared to hope, but now that he knows Richie is gay too he can’t help but wonder how in any other circumstance maybe they could have given it a shot. Maybe Richie had been carrying the same torch that he had so often fantasized about back then? In another life, maybe they could have been happy.
Eddie can admit he’s ashamed at the way his body reacts to seeing him now. All broad shoulders, muscular and toned. And he’s strong. He’s so fucking strong, the way he threw him on the bed like it was nothing- shaking his head, he hopes it’s all just a residual response to a teenage crush.
Clenching his eyes shut tightly, Eddie allows himself a brief moment to mourn what Richie has turned into. There’s an overwhelming certainty that knows it’s all related to what happened that summer in the Neibolt house when they found Georgie. Richie never was the same after that. But Eddie never would have expected this. He wonders if he had done more for him back then, maybe this wouldn’t have become his path.
The water turns off and he pretends not to listen intently to the sound coming from the bathroom. When Richie finally emerges, Eddie’s head turns towards him without thought. His hair is damp and Richie’s wearing light blue striped boxers and a long sleeved shirt with the head of a kitten wearing a birthday hat printed in the center. Eddie scoffs a laugh at it as Richie pushes up his sleeves and walks toward the bed with intention. He quickly works at untying the rope on his ankles.
“You ever talk to Bill?” Richie asks conversationally, as he moves to Eddie’s arms. He leans over and Eddie can smell the same cheap motel soap on his skin that he had used on his own.
“No,” Eddie replies. “I have a few of his books, though. After I moved I kind of, you know, lost touch with everyone. Do you talk to him? To any of them?” His wrists break free and Eddie rubs them while he sits up. He doesn’t even think as he shifts over enough and Richie climbs onto the bed next to him, both leaning against the headboard.
“No, man. I haven’t talked to him since, shit, that summer I graduated, I guess? That’s right. I remember Bev was the first to move. Then you. Ben wasn’t too long after that. It was just me, Mikey, Bill and Stan for a long time. Mike wasn’t at school, though, remember he was homeschooled? After we turned sixteen he was always working at the farm.” Richie sighs, “Bill and Stan both had jobs that kept them pretty busy too.”
“What did you do?” Eddie asks, genuinely curious.
“I-” Richie looks down, offering the mattress a sad smile, “I don’t know, man. I found ways to keep busy.”
“Apparently,” Eddie can’t keep his eyes off of him, the way his muscles move as he crosses his arms, his dark hair falling over his brow, and the glasses. They aren’t quite the same, no longer magnifying his eyes, but they’re similar and Eddie’s heart aches with the fondness he feels for him. “So, what the hell happened to you?” He asks softly.
“After Georgie-” Richie starts, then takes a deep breath, “After Bowers, I couldn’t sleep. You remember, right? You remember the nightmares?”
Of course he remembers. The tap of his window late at night was burned into his mind for years after he left Derry. Many late nights he’d be accompanied by Richie climbing into his room and into his bed. “Yeah, Rich,” Eddie says simply. He always told Eddie the nightmares had eased when he wasn’t alone.
“Right so, after that I started to get just fucking obsessed with being able to protect myself.”
“I remember you were pretty good at throwing a knife.”
“That was just the beginning. After you left I got my parents to buy me a gun. I told them I was hunting. I guess I was. I got good. Really good.”
“With those four-eyes of yours,” Eddie teases, bumping his shoulder into Richie’s.
“Fuck you. I’m farsighted, bitch. I can’t see shit up close, but my distance vision is perfect,” Richie smiles back. “I use contacts mostly. But anyway, I got pretty good with a gun. I met this guy who sort of helped train me. After I dropped out of college I went back to Derry, ran into him again, he knew a guy, hooked me up with a job, and here we are.”
“With you holding me hostage.”
Sighing deeply, Richie says, “Look, you’re not my hostage-”
“Oh, so I can leave?”
Ignoring him, Richie continues, “You’re free to go as soon as you understand exactly the depth of shit in which you are in, Eddie my man. That guy that trained me? He’ll come for you if you go back home. He’s fuckin’ psycho as shit and he does it for fun. There’s no calling him off.”
“So what the fuck am I supposed to do, Rich? I can’t just abandon my life. All my savings. My entire career?! I don’t even have my social security card. I can’t do shit without proof of who I am.”
“Okay, how about this- how about you just give me a few days to figure it out? I can talk to Fuchs, tell him I didn’t actually kill you and you’re off limits. He’s not gonna like it but I’ll front the money so he’s not out from the hit and he should be fine. But you gotta give me some time here, man. It’s not as simple as just calling it off. Gray is a fuckin’ psycho and if he hears you’re getting away he’ll show up at your house just on principle.”
“You told them I was dead?”
“I panicked! I said I took care of it.”
Eddie thinks about that for a moment, eyeing Richie skeptically. He might be able to do that, spend time with Richie like old times. “Just a few days?” He asks.
“A week tops. Okay? Just think of it like a fucked up vacation where you’re getting to know your old friend Trashmouth.”
It’s not a bad idea. At the very least he can pretend to go along with it and if he changes his mind then surely he’ll find a way to escape. “Fine,” he says reluctantly. “Don’t kill me in my sleep, though.”
“No naked killings. No sleep killings. Requests noted.”
“I’m starving,” Eddie says, changing the subject.
“Oh, yeah!” Richie leaps from the bed and over to his bag. He pulls out what appears to be a gas station sandwich and throws it at Eddie.
Eddie stares at it, sealed in his lap. The meat has been sitting out too long and his mind is getting ready to lecture Richie about the bacteria growth. But his stomach growls and he holds up the sandwich. “This all you have?”
“Yep,” Richie says around a mouthful of his own.
“I really fucking hate today, Rich,” he sighs, opening the package and takes a bite.
Richie laughs, “You’ll live.”
“I better.”
It’s not great but Eddie’s hungry enough to eat the entire thing. He doesn’t have a toothbrush but Richie gives him his toothpaste and Eddie manages to use his finger and a washcloth. He feels disgusting but there’s nothing that can be done so he rinses his mouth and goes back to the bed.
Climbing under the covers, Eddie reaches over and turns off the lamp on his side of the bed. The light from the television still glows softly in the room. When he turns back, Richie’s holding a hand up and Eddie scowls when he recognizes what’s dangling from his finger.
“Handcuffs? You fucking serious right now?”
“Thought we could get a little kinky tonight, Eds,” Richie fires him a wink.
“Would you stop fucking calling me that?” He’s eternally grateful for the cover of darkness in the room to hide his blush as Richie once again grabs his hand. “I agreed to your plan, okay? You don’t need to do this.”
“I’m not just gonna take your word for it, sorry dude.” Clasping the cool metal around his wrist, Richie lingers too long with Eddie’s hand before attaching the other side to his own.
“Where’s the key?” Eddie asks.
“I swallowed it.”
“Very funny,” he fires back sarcastically.
“Chill. It’s tucked away in my bag.”
“You better not fucking lose it.”
“I’ll just pick it if I do. I might pick it anyway if I’m too lazy to dig out the key.”
“Now you’re just flexing,” Eddie shifts down and tries to settle into his half of the bed, kicking the blanket enough to get comfortable.
“No, this is a flex,” Richie smiles, lifting his free arm, “You were looking for tickets to the gun show, right, Eddie baby?”
“Shut the fuck up!” Eddie throws a spare pillow at his face, hoping he’s distracted enough to ignore how much Eddie did enjoy the show. “Go to sleep, asshole.”
He tries to settle away from him, leaving his arm out to the side enough where he’s not entirely comfortable but it would be better than being tied to the bed (which he had initially feared it may come to, or worse, the floor). Holding his eyes shut too forcefully to really attempt sleep, Eddie feels the bed dip and shift and move as Richie adjusts himself under the covers next to him. He hears the click of the remote and the remaining light fades, the room now thrust into darkness. A blanket of security from all the thoughts running rampant in Eddie’s mind.
The noises from the cars pass outside and normally Eddie would never be able to sleep in such a circumstance. But it’s late, and he’s tired, and his muscles fucking hurt. His body craves sleep.
“Goodnight, Eds,” Richie says softly next to him.
“Night Rich,” he replies, and it almost feels like their old sleepovers. He wonders out loud, “You still get nightmares?”
Richie is quiet too long before he answers, “Sometimes. I’ll try not to kick you.”
It’s Eddie’s turn to hold the silence. It’s late and they should sleep but he has to know, “What happened in Neibolt before we got there?”
There’s a long pause before Richie sighs, “I’ve never told anyone except the cops. But, if you don’t try to run away from me in the next couple days, I promise I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”
Eddie’s stomach jumps a little at the idea of it. It’s something he's always wanted to know, always too afraid to ask, and now it's almost enough to make it worth it. “Okay, Richie. Goodnight.”
He should probably try to fight it longer, but the crash of adrenaline is too strong and sleep overtakes him easily.