A Spoonful of Fear
Pennywise x Reader (with Mary Poppins abilities)
Series Masterlist
As the Losers separate across Derry to reclaim the painful objects tied to their childhoods, you shield them from Pennywise’s attacks until they reunite with every token needed to descend together and finish what began beneath the town.
32. The Tokens
They split up because that's what he wants. You know that as surely as you know how to open an umbrella. It doesn't matter. They're going to do it anyway.
Bill goes first. You feel him peel away from the others at the motel with his token idea already forming; it tugs at you like a thread in your chest. Georgie. You follow. Not visibly at first; just in the way the air thickens around his car, the way the drizzle curves off his windshield, the way the sewers go quiet as he drives past.
He parks on Witcham, where the street buckles a little, where the curb is low and the memories are high. He doesn't get out right away. The shop down the block changed hands three times since 1989, but the sign over the door still says SECOND HAND in flaking paint. A familiar silhouette leans in the window: rusted frame, bent handlebars.
"Silver," Bill whispers.
You stand on the sidewalk opposite the shop door, umbrella already up though the rain is barely a mist. He startles when he sees you.
"Nanny," he says.
His voice is thinner than yesterday. You tilt your head toward the bike.
"Go on," you say. "He's probably been waiting longer than you have."
Inside, the shop smells like rubber and oil and dust. The owner is exactly the sort of old man who would still have a beat-up Schwinn hanging from a ceiling hook and no intention of getting rid of it; until Bill looks at it like that and offers too much cash.
"Silver," Bill says again, running his fingers over the chipped paint on the chain guard.
"What, like the Lone Ranger's horse?" the owner asks.
Bill's mouth quirks.
"Yeah," he says. "Like that."
When he wheels it out, he's thirteen again for half a second, you can see it; knees skinned, hair plastered by rain, yelling hi-ho Silver at a town that did not deserve the hope. He looks up the street. The storm drain waits for him like a mouth.
You don't walk with him. You appear there instead; one step and the distance folds, the umbrella coming down just as your boots hit the curb. The water in the gutter is shallow today. It whispers around cigarette butts and leaves and the occasional scrap of paper.
Bill stops a few feet away. His breathing speeds.
"You d–don't have to," you say.
He laughs once, bitter.
"Yes, I do," he says.
He pushes the bike to the side, leans it against a pole, and steps closer to the drain. The metal bars are rusted, pitted. The dark beyond them is not empty. He kneels.
"G–Georgie," he whispers.
The gutter water shifts. For a second, just one, you think maybe he'll be allowed to do this quietly. Maybe It will leave this one moment alone...
You feel Pennywise's attention slide up through the pipe like a snake. Of course not.
"Bill," he croons, voice from far below, near, nowhere. "Big Bill..."
Bill flinches. His hand curls on the curb.
"Come to play in the rain again?" the voice asks. "Got your little bicycle, got your grown-up haircut, got your shiny new guilt..."
You can't see him directly yet, only feel him pressing against the thin skin of reality right at the lip of the drain, nose almost touching the bars, breath brushing your ankles.
"You weren't there," he whispers. "You left him. You sent him out alone."
Bill squeezes his eyes shut. You step closer, umbrella resting lightly against your shoulder.
"Don't listen," you say quietly. "You were twelve. You were sick. You were a child."
"He wasn't," Pennywise croons. "He was a big boy. Wanted to go out in the rain like the big kids. 'S'okay, Bill, I can do it.'" His voice slips, higher, softer. "'You said you'd go out with me next time.'"
Bill bites down hard on whatever sound tries to rip out of him.
"You weren't there," Pennywise repeats, all teeth now. "And I was."
A scrap of paper snags against the bars, sodden and nearly pulped, but there, in the mess, you see familiar lines: the edge of a folded boat, ink blurring. Bill's hand shoots out. The water surges. A pale, clawed thing grabs his wrist from inside the drain; something that's not a hand, not really, all jointed segments and too-long fingers.
Bill yells, heels skidding on the wet concrete as he's yanked forward.
You slam the tip of your umbrella down on the curb. The concrete jumps. The water splashes. The grip on Bill's wrist slips, just enough. He wrenches backward, leaving long, red streaks where the claws grazed him. The paper boat tumbles free, spinning out into the gutter.
Pennywise's laughter scrapes up your spine.
"Helping, Nanny?" he asks, voice syrup-sweet. "You know I like it when it hurts. Makes me think I'm paying something back. Little martyr."
"Shut up," you say.
You crouch, fingers dipping into the cold water. Bill reaches too. Your hands meet on the soggy paper. You let him take it. He cradles it like it might dissolve if he breathes too hard.
"I'm s–sorry," he whispers, staring into the dark between the bars. "I'm so, so s–sorry, Georgie."
The shadows ripple. For a moment; not Pennywise's moment, not yours, something in between, a small boy's face floats up out of the dark. Hair plastered. Eyes wide. The wrongness in his mouth ready to bloom into jagged rows of teeth.
You snap the umbrella open between Bill and the drain, the black fabric blotting out the sight. The illusion pops like a bubble.
"Enough," you say into the pipe.
Pennywise huffs.
"Always spoiling my fun," he grumbles. "Run along now, Billy-boy. See if you can save somebody this time."
Bill backs away, the boat crumpling softly in his fist. He looks at you.
"Th–that's enough?" he asks, voice raw. "For...for the ritual?"
You nod.
"It hurts," you say. "That's the point. Take Silver. Take the boat. That's all he's getting out of you today."
He swallows. You walk him back to the bike. He doesn't look back at the drain. You do. A balloon bumps gently against the bars from the inside, as if in farewell. You pop it with the umbrella before it can slip through.
Beverly's childhood home feels wrong before you even see it. You appear half a block away, letting your feet carry you the rest of the way because some ghosts require walking. The building looks smaller. Of course it does. So does the door with the dented jamb, the stoop with the cigarette burns, the window you climbed out of once with a girl who was too brave not to be.
The name on the buzzer is different now: KERSH. You taste the memory before she even rings. Her knuckles tap the button. The intercom crackles.
A small, papery voice: "Yes?"
"Hi," Bev says. "I...I used to live here. I was wondering if I could..." She exhales. "...look around. Just for a minute."
There's a pause. Then a buzz as the door unlocks. You slip in behind her. The hallway smells like boiled cabbage and old tobacco. The wallpaper is different but somehow worse.
An old woman waits at the open loft door; thin, in a faded dress, arms like coat hangers. Her smile is all gums.
"Come in, come in," she says. "We like visitors."
You don't. Something rides under her skin that is not human age. You hang back, lingering near the doorway while Bev steps inside and looks around.
The apartment is almost as she left it, in layout if not in content. Different furniture. Same bones. The corner where the bathroom was. The spot where her father's chair used to be. Her eyes snag on the counter. On the rusty stain there. You remember helping her scrub. You remember it not coming out.
"Tea?" Mrs. Kersh offers. "It's so nice to have company. My father...he used to say, a home is just a story until you fill it up with people."
Bev forces a polite smile.
"N–no, thank you," she says. "I won't be long. I just...left something. A long time ago."
"Oh, yes," the old woman says, smile twitching. "We all leave something behind."
You watch her move toward the little kitchenette, shuffle-turning with theatrical slowness. You've seen bad plays. You've seen good monsters. This is both.
Bev drifts toward her old bedroom. Your storm hums under your skin as you follow.
In the room, the wallpaper is different but the shape is the same. The ceiling still slopes oddly. The window looks out over the same dead tree. On the wall, above where the bed would have been, faint letters are still visible under paint and time.
JANUARY EMBERS, the world is quiet here.
SOME OF THE letters glow.
Bev's hand lifts, fingers tracing the curve of a B, an M.
"Oh," she whispers.
The carpetbag appears at your feet without you needing to summon it. You flip it open with the tip of your umbrella and rummage through until your fingers brush paper. You'd taken the signed page years ago, when this apartment emptied the first time, when you knew she would need to see it later but couldn't yet face it. You hold it out now.
Her eyes fill.
"You...you kept it," she says.
"Some things are too important to leave where he can step on them," you say.
She takes it gingerly, smoothing the worn crease. The handwriting is still atrocious. The feelings are still earnest. She smiles, small and broken.
Behind you, a cup clatters in the kitchen. You feel the old woman watching.
"You grew up beautiful," Mrs. Kersh calls. "I had a daughter once. She was beautiful, too. She died."
Beverly goes still. The air in the apartment goes thick, wet. You turn.
The old woman isn't in the kitchen anymore. She's in the shadows just beyond the doorway, body stiff, head cocked too far to the side. Her eyes are wrong. Her skin twitches, like something underneath is deciding how much to reveal.
"Did you keep your daddy's little secrets?" she asks Bev.
Your umbrella is already up.
"Careful," you say.
You're not sure who you're talking to. Mrs. Kersh steps into the light. She's taller now. Naked. Skin loose on long, wrong limbs, breasts swinging, mouth stretching into a rictus grin that goes too wide, teeth too sparse until they're suddenly too many. Her eyes bleed yellow.
"Bevvy," Pennywise whispers through her tongue, old woman's voice warping. "You came home."
Beverly backs up until her shoulders hit the wall. Her breath stutters.
"You're not real," she says, voice shaking.
"Everything in this town is real enough to hurt you," you say.
Mrs. Kersh's body jerks, arms stretching, fingers elongating into claws that scrape the ceiling. Her skin goes grey and blotchy; something chitinous flickers through the gaps. She lunges.
You flick your wrist. The umbrella snaps open between Beverly and the oncoming mass, the fabric absorbing the worst of the impact. Claws rake across it, screeching like nails on a chalkboard.
"Tut," you say sharply. "House rules: no eating the guests."
Pennywise growls, a deep, wet sound reverberating through the room. The old woman's face pushes through the umbrella's shadow, half her body already too big for the doorway, bristling with half-formed limbs.
Bev ducks under the open umbrella, clutching the yearbook page to her chest.
"You wanted to know if the poetry was yours," the thing croons at her. "If he wrote it for you." It laughs, a phlegmy hacking sound. "Who do you think did, Bevvy? The pretty boy with the stutter or the fat boy in the library?"
"Stop," Bev gasps.
You slam the umbrella closed. The shockwave hits the walls. Pictures rattle. The thing that was Mrs. Kersh staggers back a step, limbs spasming, whatever marionette strings Pennywise was pulling yanked taut.
"You don't get to use her voice," you say.
Mrs. Kersh's head snaps toward you. The face melts. Clown peers out through the flayed veil, paint streaked, eyes bright, teeth prominent.
"Oh, Governess," he snickers. "Always chaperoning. Let the girl face her fears."
"She already has," you say. "For years. You're just salt."
He grins wider.
"Salt tastes good," he purrs.
Bev drags herself upright. Her eyes are hard now.
"I know it was Ben," she says.
The thing turns back toward her.
"Do you?" it asks.
"Yes," she says. "And I know you're not real. Not really. You didn't write this." She holds up the page. "He did. And you can't have it."
She backs toward the door. You move with her, umbrella a barrier between her and the thing, between her and the memory pressed into these walls.
"Run along, little lovebird," Pennywise croons through Mrs. Kersh's teeth. "Run back to your little club. I'll be waiting downstairs when you want to talk about your father."
Beverly flinches but doesn't stop. You don't look away until she's out the building, the door slamming behind her.
On the street, she leans against the brick and sucks in air like she's been underwater. You lower the umbrella.
"Token?" you prompt gently.
She nods, fingers whitening on the paper.
"I have it," she says.
"And yourself?" you ask.
She gives you a look that's too old for any age.
"I've had myself a long time," she says. "He doesn't get that either."
You smile.
"Good girl," you say.
The arcade has been closed for years. Richie stands under the cracked neon sign and stares at the dusty glass doors like they're about to swallow him.
"We didn't even spend that much time here," he mutters. "I mean, I remember it, but it wasn't like...home base."
You lean against a lamppost that flickers uncertainly.
"Not the games you're thinking of," you say.
He cuts you a look.
"Cryptic," he says. "Very comforting."
He goes inside. It smells like dust and old electricity. The machines are dark, some half-gutted, others intact but dead. A stray shaft of light filters in through a broken window, highlighting motes that swim like tiny ghosts. Richie's eyes go to the far wall. To the change counter. To the rusted, neglected box of tokens. He walks toward it like he's on a track he can't see.
You feel the change before he pulls the first token up. The air goes thin. The aisles stretch. Suddenly, the arcade isn't abandoned, lights flicker on, games chime to life, screens flash high scores. Voices swell around you, the gabble of kids and the sharp, older sneer of teenagers.
It's then.
Richie looks down at his hands and sees smaller fingers, bitten nails.
"Shit," he whispers.
You stand just outside the flow of the illusion, untouched. You've walked his memories before. You watch his younger self dart past; big glasses, bigger mouth, quarters clutched in his palm, toward a specific machine.
Toward another boy at the controls. Tall, dark-haired, eyes sharp under heavy brows.
Richie's throat works.
"Eddie doesn't know about this," he mutters.
"I know," you say.
Young Richie bumps the other boy's shoulder, smirking. You can't hear all the words; they're half-swallowed by the arcade din, but you see the friendly shove, the grin, the way they move closer than boys are allowed to without someone making it weird.
Someone makes it weird. A voice from the past snaps something crude and sharp across the floor. The other boy's smile dies. He backs away. Leaves. Richie's face does that thing; it closes down, the joke slides in, the whole part of him that had been leaning forward rolls back.
"Game over," he says now, bitter, watching his younger self fumble a token and let it roll away under a machine.
The present snaps back. The arcade goes dark again. The only sound is Richie's breathing. He crouches and reaches under the long-dead cabinet. His fingers scrabble against something small and round. He pulls it out. A token. Plain, brass, stamped with the arcade's name. His hand shakes.
"There," you say softly. "Found."
He laughs weakly.
"That's it?" he says. "That's the big magical artifact? A coin from the time I almost came on to a guy I liked and backed out because Bowers called me 'faggot'?"
"That's it," you say. "That's the scar."
He turns the token over in his fingers. He doesn't put it away.
"Richie, Richie, Richie," Pennywise's voice sing-songs from somewhere behind the rows of dark machines. "You always talk so much, and you never say the good part out loud."
Richie stiffens. You straighten.
"You're not invited," you tell the dark.
He ignores you. He always ignores you when he's in this mood. A light flickers on over the prize counter. A clown leans against it, casual, elbow on glass, chin in hand. He's smaller here, proportioned to the room, painted smile lazy.
"Grown up, now," he says. "Got your little jokes on TV. Got your little beard to hide behind. But you still don't say it, do you, Richie-boy?"
"Don't," Richie says.
His voice is shaking in a way you've only heard once before; on a sewer ladder, when he'd thought he was going to lose them all.
"Oh, but I want to," Pennywise purrs. "I want to shout it so loud they hear it all the way back in whatever big warm city you've been hiding in."
He inhales theatrically.
"RICHIE TOZIER," he bellows, voice booming off the walls, "LIKES BOYS."
The word hits like a slap. Richie flinches. His hand closes reflexively around the token, knuckles white. You step closer, umbrella angled.
"Enough," you say.
Pennywise's gaze snaps to you. He licks his lips.
"Oh, Nanny," he croons. "Always so protective of your little liar. He doesn't need you to hide him away. He's been doing that all by himself!"
The arcade door at the end of the aisle blows open. Outside, the Paul Bunyan statue on the town green looms, frozen mid-stride, axe raised. You feel it before it moves. The illusion swallows the walls.
Suddenly, Richie is outside, standing at the base of the statue, token in his fist, wind whipping at his jacket. Paul Bunyan creaks. Turns. Steps down. Wood shouldn't move like that. It does. The axe comes up.
"Run," you tell Richie.
He does. He bolts across the green, dodging imaginary townsfolk, the statue's giant boots shaking the earth behind him. Pennywise's laughter booms from the statue's carved mouth.
"Small, small, small," he sings. "Tiny little clown who thinks he's big enough to take up space. You're going to die with that mouth still shut, Richie-boy. Nobody will ever know you. Nobody will ever love you."
You flick your wrist. Wind slams into the statue's knees, knock-kneed lumberjack staggering. He stumbles, one massive step going wide instead of landing where it should; right on Richie. The axe whiffs the air above Richie's head as he dives behind the park bench. He hits the grass, rolls, comes up gasping.
You pop into the space beside him, umbrella between him and the oncoming giant.
"You don't get to crush him for that," you tell Pennywise.
The statue glowers down. Pennywise's face peels out of the wood grain, an obscene knot of teeth and eyes just under the carved beard.
"Oh, but I do," he says. "It's his favorite."
"You're not killing him for being brave in the one way he never got to be as a kid," you snap. "He's got other things to die for."
Richie makes a noise that might be laughter, might be a sob.
"Not helping," he mutters.
"Stay down," you order.
You swing the umbrella up. For a second, it's the size of the world, a black dome over Richie that extends far beyond the bench. The statue's axe hits it with a thunderclap. The world goes white.
When the ringing in your ears fades, the giant is back on his pedestal, frozen and harmless. People stroll by as if nothing happened, their dog's leash a bright line cutting the green. Richie lies on his back in the grass, staring up at the sky. The token is still in his hand.
You look down at him.
"You're not all right," you say. "But you're alive. That'll do for today."
He swallows.
"You're not going to...say anything?" he asks, voice small.
"To who?" you ask. "To the others? To him?"
"I..." He scrubs at his face. "I don't... I'm not..."
You crouch.
"You don't owe anyone a speech," you say. "Not me. Not them. Not him. You owe yourself honesty, but you can take your time getting there."
He looks at you. There's a wetness at the corner of his eyes he's not ready to name.
"You always knew how to make me feel better," he says.
"Of course I do," you say.
You tap the token.
"Now, put that somewhere safe," you tell him. "And Richie?"
"Yeah?" he asks.
"You're allowed to be loved. By anyone," you say.
He looks away.
"Tell that to the clown," he mutters.
"I'm telling it to you," you say.
The pharmacy hasn't changed enough. The shelves have. The brands have. The man behind the counter is new, younger than the one who sneered at Eddie's mother all those years ago. The smell is the same; antiseptic and perfume and stale gum.
Eddie stands in the aisle with the inhalers, hands shaking as he reaches for the familiar box.
"It was water," he mutters. "It was just water. It was always water."
"Placebo is still a real effect," you say mildly.
He jumps.
"God, don't do that," he snaps. "You can't just...appear in the exfoliant like that."
"You're the one who went to the scene of the crime," you say. "You thought I'd let you do it alone?"
He snorts.
"Yeah, because you love me so much," he says.
"I do," you say.
He looks at you, startled.
"What?" you ask. "You thought I stuck around for your mother's charming personality?"
He huffs out a laugh that's mostly panic. He grabs the old-style inhaler from the back of the shelf; the one in the metal canister, the exact brand he used as a kid.
"That it?" you ask.
His shoulders tighten.
"No," he says.
He glances toward the back hallway.
"Of course not," you sigh.
The basement door waits, slightly ajar.
He swallows.
"Okay," he tells himself. "Okay. Just down and up. Just a quick—"
"That's what they said at the Titanic," you say.
"Not helpful!" he hisses.
He goes anyway.
The basement smells like damp and chemical cleaner. The light is bad. The shadows are worse. He moves down the stairs slowly, every creak under his feet a gunshot.
"You don't have to see him again," you say.
"No," Eddie says. "I probably do."
You admire him for that. You hate that you have to.
The shelves down here are older, holding boxes nobody upstairs remembers, bottles with faded labels, dust on the caps. The sink at the back drips, brownish water leaving rusty trails.
The Leper is waiting. You smell him before you see him; rot, sickness, the sour stink of fear shoved into a corner and left to stew. He steps out from behind a rack of outdated supplements, skin grey and hanging, sores blooming across his face, eyes wet.
"Eddie," he wheezes. "Help me..."
Eddie freezes. His breath shudders in and out of his lungs.
"This is not real," he says.
"It's real enough," you say.
The Leper lurches toward him, dripping, clutching a filthy syringe like a bouquet.
"Your m–mother was right," he gurgles. "The world is d–dirty. Filthy. Full of g–germs. You can't breathe out there."
Eddie's hand clutches the inhaler. His knuckles are white. He doesn't run. He doesn't stand tall either. He trembles. But he stays.
"No," he says.
The Leper cocks his head.
"W–what?" he rasps.
"She was wrong," Eddie says, voice gaining strength with each word. "I didn't die when I left. I didn't die when I kissed a girl in a sewer. I didn't die when he b–broke my arm, and I'm not going to die because some clown in a skin suit spits on me in a basement."
The Leper snarls. He lunges.
You flick your fingers. The air thickens between them, slowing the impact just enough that when the Leper hits Eddie, it's like being shoved by a drunk, not a truck. Eddie goes down anyway. The Leper collapses on top of him, reeking, mouth opening wide. A torrent of black, viscous bile spews out; projectile vomiting straight at Eddie's face.
You snap the umbrella open over him. The bile hits the fabric with a splat and slides off in foul-smelling streams.
Eddie shrieks.
"So do I," you say, nose wrinkling. "Honestly. This is beneath even him."
Pennywise laughs through the Leper's collapsing throat.
"Oh, come on," he cackles. "It's funny."
"To who?" you snap.
"To me," he says.
The Leper convulses, then shrivels, folding in on himself like a rotten balloon. Eddie scrambles out from under the umbrella, gagging. He stares at the mess, at his own shaking hands, at the inhaler clutched there.
"This is my token?" he demands, voice high. "My childhood asthma and a sewage slip'n'slide?"
"It's your fear," you say. "That your body will betray you. That the world is poison. That you're too weak to survive what everyone else can. It's a lie you were fed, and you swallowed it."
He lifts the inhaler. His fingers hover over the mouthpiece. He could throw it away. He doesn't. He slips it into his pocket.
"It was water," he says again.
His voice is steadier now.
"Doesn't mean you didn't feel better when you used it," you say. "You don't have to hate every version of yourself you've ever been."
He takes a breath. He climbs the stairs. You follow, wiping the umbrella on the steps as you go.
Ben has always gone back to the library in his head. Today, he goes to the school. The Derry High halls echo under his footsteps, emptier now, the shine of fresh evil worn off the lockers. The photos in the trophy cases have changed. The smell of gym socks and chalk has been replaced with industrial cleaner and teen perfume.
You appear beside a row of lockers, umbrella resting on your shoulder like a walking stick.
"Wrong library," you say.
"They moved the archives," he replies. "Some things stayed."
He finds the yearbook office at the far end of the hall, the door locked. Locks don't like you. You tap the knob with the tip of your umbrella. It clicks.
Inside, boxes line the wall; old volumes stacked like bricks. He runs his fingers along the spines until he finds the right year. He pulls it down. His hands leave little sweat marks on the cover. He flips through. He remembers every page without knowing how.
There.
BENJAMIN HANSCOM.
One picture.
Too-soft face.
Too-round body.
Eyes already looking somewhere else.
His breath hitches.
Beverly's handwriting streaks across the margin: Your hair is winter fire...
His fingers brush the ink. The room goes hot.
"I thought it was Bill," a voice says behind him.
He tenses. The air smells like strawberry shampoo and cigarette smoke. He turns.
Beverly stands in the doorway. Young. Hair long. Eyes bright. Wearing the dress she had that summer, the one she'd worn to the quarry, the one that had hung big on her shoulders.
He knows, absolutely, that this is not her. Beverly is across town, clutching that same page. It does not matter. His heart still stutters.
"You wrote this," she says, stepping closer, bare feet silent on the linoleum. "You wrote it for me."
He swallows.
"Yes," he says.
She smiles. It's wrong. Too wide. Too toothy. Too hungry.
"You loved me," she says.
He feels thirteen again.
"I still do," he says before he can stop himself.
Her smile twitches. Her eyes bleed yellow.
"There it is," Pennywise purrs through her mouth. "The little fat boy heartbeat. All thump-thump for the girl who never looked at you. Never kissed you. Never chose you."
"Shut up," Ben says.
He hugs the yearbook to his chest like a shield.
"You had your chance," fake-Beverly whispers, circling him. "You watched her pick the other one right in front of you. You sat in the library and bled over your poems while they shared all their little secrets and you got to be the friend."
The walls of the room pulse. Lockers appear where shelves were, closing in. The temperature climbs. Sweat beads on his forehead.
"You still think you don't deserve the good thing," Pennywise hums, "so you build yourself a life where you're admired but alone. Big shot. Big buildings. Big empty bed."
Heat licks up the walls. Flames. Smoke. The classroom door seals. He's back in the summer of his worst dreams—trapped, lungs burning, the smell of his own fear blending with the stink of roasting flesh.
"Same old story," the voice croons. "You die alone, little Ben. No one comes. No one loves you enough to—"
The window blows open. Cool air slams into the room, gusting the flames sideways. Your umbrella punches through the illusionary glass like a spear, glass reforming itself around the fabric as you haul it up and open it, sucking the smoke out in a sucking rush.
"Stop trying to burn him," you snap. "You're not allowed to barbecue my boy."
Fake-Beverly turns, face melting. Clown underneath, grinning through her features.
"You can't keep him," Pennywise sing-songs. "You can't keep any of them."
"They're not mine," you say. "They're theirs. And you're not getting to dictate his ending."
Ben coughs. The fire dies down around him, reduced to embers. He clutches the yearbook page. The ink doesn't run.
"Ben," you say. "Look at me."
He drags his eyes away from the monster wearing his crush's skin.
"What do you know?" you ask.
His breathing evens.
"I know she didn't write it for Bill," he says, voice rough. "I know she read it and thought of me, and that's...that's enough. It has to be."
"Good," you say.
The fake Beverly hisses, lips peeling back from jagged teeth.
"You'll always be second choice," she spits.
Ben's jaw tightens.
"Maybe once," he says. "Not anymore."
He steps back. The walls of the school room slide back into place around him. The flames vanish. He's just a grown man in an empty office, holding an old yearbook, breathing hard.
You lean against the stack of boxes, umbrella hooked over your arm.
"Well done," you say.
He swallows.
"This is enough?" he asks, tapping the autograph.
"For the ritual?" you ask. "More than."
"For...me?" he adds, quieter.
You consider.
"It's a start," you say. "You can stop punishing yourself for not being someone else now. That'll help."
He nods. Tucks the page carefully inside his jacket. Leaves.
Pennywise lingers in the corner shadows, wearing Beverly's face like a mask, watching him go.
"Jealous?" you ask him.
He giggles.
"Of a big lonely building man?" he scoffs. "Please."
"You wish they'd loved you the way they loved each other," you say.
He bares his teeth.
"And you're any different?" he asks. "You're savoring this. Their hurt. Their bravery. Their little almost-kisses."
"I'm watching my children walk through fire," you say. "I don't have to enjoy it to be proud."
He snorts.
"Keep telling yourself that," he says.
Mike doesn't need to hunt.
His token sits on his desk in the library, smooth, heavy, worn.
The rock.
The same one Beverly hurled into Henry Bowers' head that day in the field. He picks it up sometimes, thumb tracing the chip in the surface, remembering how it felt to be saved by a girl with a good arm. You sit on the edge of the desk as he turns it in his hands.
"Feels like cheating," he says.
"That you already have yours?" you ask.
He nods.
"I've been sitting with this for years," he says. "The others...they've had the luxury of forgetting. I never did."
"Not much of a luxury," you say. "More a delayed payment plan."
He smiles grimly. The library is quiet. Too quiet. You feel the disturbance before you hear the footsteps on the stairs.
"Old friend incoming," you say mildly.
Mike frowns. Then the elevator dings. Henry Bowers' reflection flashes in the metal doors as they slide open.
"Hanlon!" he hollers, knife already in hand, hair wild, eyes wilder.
You stay seated on the desk, umbrella propped across your knees. This isn't your fight. Not yet. Mike stands. The rock is already in his palm.
"I was wondering when you'd get here," he says.
Henry roars and charges. The library shelves lean in, watching. You hum, very softly, nudging the air just enough so Henry's lunge is a fraction off; his knife passing inches from Mike's ribs instead of into them.
Mike's arm snaps up. The rock meets Henry's temple with a crack that echoes. Henry stumbles, eyes rolling.
"You never did learn," Mike says.
He doesn't finish him. He doesn't have to. Gravity helps. Henry goes over the stair rail, falling between the stacks, body hitting the lower level with a crunch and a silence.
You exhale.
"Nice throw," you say.
Mike looks down at the rock, then sets it carefully in the center of an empty table.
"Token," he says.
"Trauma," you translate.
He shrugs.
"Same thing," he says.
The clubhouse is more memory than structure now. The woods have grown up around it; the boards are damp, the walls half-fallen in. The ladder is gone.
You appear at the edge of the clearing, watching as they all pick their way through the underbrush. All five of them this time. They need this one together. The opening gapes in the earth like a mouth.
"Jesus," Richie mutters. "I remember this being...less gross."
"It was never less gross," Eddie says.
Ben goes down first, then Bill, then Richie. Eddie hesitates, then follows. Beverly stands at the lip for a moment, fingers brushing the trunk. You stand beside her.
"He loved you so much," you say.
"Which one?" she asks.
"All of them," you say.
She nods. You both go down.
The clubhouse smells like dirt and mildew and old sweat. The low ceiling forces them to hunch. Their carved names are still in the beams; their old treasures are half-buried in dust and spiderwebs.
Ben digs in the corner where they used to stash things. His fingers close around plastic. He pulls it out.
A shower cap. Blue and white, elastic gone slack.
Beverly's breath catches.
"Stan," she whispers.
You can almost see him there; meticulous, anxious, proud of his hair even when he pretended not to be. You remember him stuffing the caps into a box, explaining, "Spiders. You never know," and Richie teasing him about it until the first time they really saw one.
"Token," Bill says softly.
"For someone who's not here," Ben answers.
They pass it around. One by one, they touch it. The plastic crinkles under their fingers. You feel the web tighten; the ritual drawing its lines, each artifact a little ember of pain and love. Pennywise stirs far below, tasting the gathering.
"You're doing it," he whispers inside your head, delighted. "Calling me right into your little circle. You want me, nanny."
"I want you hurt," you reply.
"And you want me close," he sings.
You ignore him.
"Everybody got everything?" you ask aloud.
Bill touches his pocket.
Boat.
Beverly, her jacket.
Poem.
Richie taps the coin hidden in his fist.
Eddie's inhaler bulges against the leg of his jeans.
Ben's page is tucked close to his heart.
Mike's rock rests in his palm.
Stan's shower cap sits in the center of them all, fragile and ridiculous.
They're ready. You aren't. You'll never be. You grip the umbrella tighter.
"Then let's go teach an old monster some new tricks," you say.
The kids who once built this clubhouse would've cheered. The adults they became just nod, grim and set. The storm aboveground rolls in over Derry, thunder grumbling like a hungry thing. Below, another hunger wakes fully. You stand between. You've always stood between. Now you have to decide how far you're willing to go to keep both sides breathing.
🎈🩸🤡🎈🩸🤡🎈🩸🤡🎈🩸🤡🎈🩸🤡
Want to be pulled into the tag list? Drop a “TAG ME” below… I promise it won’t bite. Probably.
