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imaginepirates · 4 years

Text

Found and Kept

A sequal to Scarred and Scared that some of you wanted. Prepare for some fluff, because I can't help myself.

~3300 words

@bonjour-frens @tesserphantom @ilikebritsandbands @viper-official

(I've done it lads. This is original post # 420)

~~~~~~~

"She's a pirate, sir. We caught her trying to get back to her ship and crew. She could be dangerous."

"I'm well aware of how dangerous pirates can be, lieutenant. Send her in."

Even behind closed doors, the voice was painfully familiar. You shifted on your feet, impatient. Either Beckett was about to sentence you to death, or by some miracle, he wasn't. You needed to get it over with. You told yourself it had nothing to do with the fact that if he decided to kill you, it would break your heart.

You'd taken him off the island months ago, and you'd gone your separate ways. You made sure, of course, that he had safe passage back to Port Royal with someone to help him get home. It tore at your heart to leave him in the hands of a stranger, but he assured you that he'd be alright, and he hadn't been lying.

In an attempt to get back to your crew, you'd gotten captured by the Navy. It scared you, but your job had always come with its dangers. If you were hung it was your own fault for being too careless.

The main problem was that you were a woman. There was controversy over your hanging, and you'd been left to rot in a cell for days without an answer as to whether you'd live or die. Waiting was the worst torture of all. Finally, it had been decided that Beckett would determine your sentence. After all, the man had an indiscernible moral code and an ability to give orders without being questioned.

The prospect had given you hope, but it was soon replaced with dread. He could still have you killed; he might not think twice about it. A man with power and a man without power were as different as night and day, and you feared you would find a complete stranger in him.

The doors to his study swung open, and you were admitted between two guards. Shackles chafed the skin of your wrists, and there were mottled bruises all over that hurt with every step you took. The Navy hadn't treated you nicely, but you'd brought it upon yourself with your words and actions. That didn't make the pain any easier to bear.

Beckett sat on a chair with a man to his right. Light dappled through large windows at the side of the room, falling over the familiar outline of his face. His hands were folded in his lap, and a cane was resting against his leg.

"Unchain her." Once the order was given, it was done. The officers exchanged looks, knowing well that Beckett couldn't see them. Their looks implied they thought Beckett was making a poor decision, but nobody protested. "Now," he continued. "I will ask you a question, and I will only ask it once. Your answer will determine your worth to me. Do you understand?"

"Yes, milord," you replied.

There was a flicker, an instant where his expression changed, where his milky eyes got wider and his brows shot up, but it was gone as soon as it appeared. Recognition, you hoped. Please, recognize me.

"Do you know anything about the whereabouts or intents of Jack Sparrow?"

Your heart stopped. This was it for you. You had no idea what Jack wanted or where he was. This was the answer to your question: would Beckett kill you? "No, milord, I know nothing about him."

"Ah. Disappointing. I rather hoped you would. Well, you're of little use, now aren't you?"

"Shall we hang her, sir?" Asked one of the officers next to you.

"Oh, I never said anything about hanging. After all, there are more suitable punishments." He grinned unpleasantly, and your stomach churned. "A pirate most wants freedom. How humiliating it would be to take that away. From now on, this woman will be a personal attendant to me, and she'll do whatever I ask if she wishes to live. If she doesn't, she can take her own life if she so wants. It makes no matter to me. But remember, girl," he addressed you, "death is the only way out."

You didn't know what to think. It felt like he was intent on punishing you, on humiliating you until you hated life enough to die. But part of you argued, and argued, and argued that he wouldn't hurt you. Not the man you knew.

"You're all dismissed. Leave her with me."

"But sir…"

"Don't question me. She won't be giving me any trouble, believe me."

With that, Beckett stood, and with surprising accuracy and agility, hit you hard across the ribs with his cane.

You screamed. It hurt, but nothing was more painful than your shock that he would hit you. The room emptied, and you were left alone on the floor to groan with Beckett standing over you.

"Forgive me." His voice was softer now, and when you looked up, his expression was pained. "I needed to remind them that I'm still as dangerous as I've always been. I'm sorry."

A wave of relief hit you and you took a deep breath, which did nothing for the acute pain in your chest. "Did you have to hit me that hard?" You choked. You still couldn't even bring yourself to your knees, and tears had left red-hot trails down your cheeks.

"In my defense, I couldn't exactly see what I was doing."

You laughed despite yourself, and then gasped as your ribs protested. "What exactly are you going to do with me?"

"You cared for me once. I hope to return the favor." He extended a hand in your direction, letting you take hold of it so he could help haul you to your feet. "I need you as my eyes. You'll have to guide me while walking, which I can do now without being held up, thanks to you. Every kindness you showed me once I wish to repay in full."

"I thought for a moment you hadn't remembered me," you admitted.

He looked surprised. "How could I forget?"

"You never saw me. I didn't know if my voice was enough."

"The voice that I first woke up to? The voice that fed me and tended to me, the voice that kept me company and taught me to walk? Don't think I'd forget so soon." He tugged at your sleeve, and you gave him one hand while putting the other on his back. "There's a room with a bath a couple doors down. I bet you could use one. And food, and proper clothes. I'll get a maid to tend to you, if you'll let me take you."

You led each other to the washroom. He gave you directions when you got into the hall, and you helped him walk you there. He left and a maid took his place, pitchers of steaming water in her hands.

The bath was sublime, and you luxuriated in it until the water turned cold. You were scrubbed clean by a servant, an experience that made you a little uncomfortable, but that you appreciated all the same.

A silk dressing gown awaited you when you climbed out. It was a deep blue color with waves embroidered onto it. You wondered why Beckett would own such a thing, seeing as it was made for a woman, and what occasions called for its use. The fabric pooled at your feet when you put it on, reaching the floor to cover all but the tops of your feet as you walked. With the warm breeze fluttering through the drapes, you could've been some grecian princess. You certainly felt like one with the silk sitting on your shoulders.

You saw that Beckett partook in all his former duties, though he worked them differently. He dictated letters instead of writing them himself, and had to use a special sort of stamp to sign documents. He was a busy man with all the power in the world back at his fingertips.

He often kept his eyes open, despite not being able to see. Whether it was to unnerve people or to keep himself awake, you couldn't be sure.

You led him when he needed to get from place to place, and were given a tour of the estate by the same servant that had bathed you. This way, you knew where to take Beckett should he want to go anywhere.

You didn't get to talk to him again until the evening, when he sat alone in his study. The sun was just setting, leaving the two of you in darkness. You almost asked why a candle wasn't lit at this time of night, but remembered candles didn't do much for him anymore. You lit one, silently, for yourself instead.

"Is there anything you need, milord?" You asked. You were still supposed to work for him, after all.

"Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't call me that. 'Milord'." He scoffed. "For God's sake, woman, you've spoon fed me when I was too weak to do so myself. You hardly need to be so formal."

You were surprised. "Oh. Alright, then, what would you have me call you?"

"Beckett is fine, thank you." He shifted a little in his chair, settling back. "Have you found everything to your satisfaction? I hope you're taking it easy, I did hit you pretty hard with my cane, which I feel awful for."

"Don't worry about it."

"I'll worry about whatever I wish."

"Well, then, I'm flattered it's me."

"It's the least I could do."

You changed the topic before he said anything more. "I will say that this robe doesn't cover much."

"A shame I can't see, then." He grinned, lip twisted by the burns.

You were ashamed to note that a blush rose to your face, heating up your entire head. "What thoughts are you trying to put into people's heads, exactly?"

He continued to smile. "Oh, let people think what they like. It will keep them from knowing the truth."

You only blushed harder, and failed when you tried to stammer out a response.

"Worry not," he said. "I won't be using you for that purpose."

It was then that tea came in, served on lovely porcelain trays with colorful designs. It had been allowed to cool before being served, evident by how it was put directly in Beckett's hands. You took a minute to enjoy a few sips before continuing.

"How are you?" You asked. Beckett certainly looked better since you'd seen him last, not to mention, he seemed more confident.

"Fine. Why do you ask?" He gave you a challenging look.

"I…" you couldn't mention his blindness without offending him, and you weren't about to ask if he was feeling less insecure. "You look better. You've put on a bit of weight since I took care of you; you hardly weighed anything then. I'm glad to see you recovering."

He exhaled sharply through his nose. "Half of it is that they won't let me go walking. They treat me like I'm made of glass, so I'm made to sit here day after day, and a maid tentatively helps me get from room to room. It's an awful lifestyle."

"I believe you." You would hate to be cooped up inside all day.

"I was hoping," he said rather softly, "that you would be willing to walk with me? I'm awfully tired of not being able to go out in the garden. I used to enjoy walks, and though I often took them alone, I wouldn't object to your company, even if I had a choice."

"Of course." It would be a good pastime for both of you.

"Thank you." He gave you a rather nervous smile, and you couldn't help feeling affection for the man.

You walked him to his room, one of his hands on your arm, the other on his cane. There you left him to his valets and went off to your own room which you'd been shown earlier. You didn't know what to make of the soft blankets and plush pillows, the fluttering curtains and large wardrobe. It was too much luxury for someone like you, and yet not enough for some. You let your robe slide to the floor and your body sink into the sheets. Enveloped in the first soft, warm bed of your life, you drifted off to sleep, your conversation with Beckett floating around in the back of your mind.

The morning came with new marvels. New clothes- it was another silk robe, and you could imagine Beckett smiling as he decided to give it to you- and a tray of warm food heaped onto plates. Beckett obviously had no intention of starving you, and you dug in.

You were permitted to wander the manor while he worked. You found many places of peace and refuge, and were sad to think that Beckett had little access to them now. A library with massive windows looking out onto the garden stood at one end of the building. A piano sat in one corner, bathed in morning light. A piece of music sat on the music rack as if someone had just been playing them. Comfortable chairs adorned the room, and two french doors led outside. You stayed for a while, letting the sun warm you through the windows and running your hands over the spines of books before you left.

You were back in Beckett's office by midday. He took a break from his work in the afternoons, you were told, and he'd called for you.

"I hope you enjoy the new robe I've found for you," he said when you entered.

There was nobody else there, so you felt a little less embarrassed about the comment than you might have otherwise. "I'll admit that it's comfortable. Showy, but comfortable." This robe was of a light pink with lace at the sleeves. Its plunging neckline and thin fabric kept little to the imagination.

"Oh, I'm sure you've already scandalized most of my servants. Ah, well." He beckoned you over to help him out of his chair. "How about that walk you promised me? I'm sure my complexion could use the sun."

You rolled your eyes at that, but guided him down the halls anyway. You looked forward to spending time with him, you knew. You felt like you shouldn't, but then thought of the affection he showed you, and you enjoyed his company all the more.

"Have you read all the books in your library?" You asked. You were headed there, it having the easiest access to the gardens.

"I admit that I haven't, though I always intended to. I've read most of them by now. It's a shame I won't be able to read them again." He went quiet, and in the silence you could hear his sadness.

"You played piano, too."

"That I can still do. Learning by ear is hard, yes, and I don't have many people to listen to, but it can be done."

"I'm glad for that, at least." You rounded a corner and led him into the room. You had a sudden notion then, and voiced it. "I could read to you, you know. I can read."

He looked at you in interest. "Have you read any of the classics?"

You were ashamed to admit that you hadn't. There was no way for you to have had access to them, of course, but it reminded you of how much you didn't belong to this new life where people were well educated and well-bred.

"I think you'd enjoy them." He furrowed his brow. "Antigone, to start with, I think. You'd enjoy it most. Though it does have a backstory- Oedipus- that you could read, but I have a feeling it would disgust you, and I can't have that be your first reaction to Greek writing."

"You could summarize the backstory for me."

He averted his gaze. "And you'd let me have an excuse to spend more time with you?"

"Only if you let me have the same."

His eyes went wide at your words. He quickly recovered himself, however, and schooled his face into its regular expression. "Antigone is on the second shelf of the third case. If you wanted to grab it."

You got it, leaving Beckett to hold onto one of the solid bookcases. Then you walked him out into the sun, appreciating the warmth. It was an interesting domestic life you were leading now, you reflected. Looking over at Beckett, you found that you didn't mind.

You eventually sat down on a conveniently placed bench. Flowers surrounded you, all tastefully placed. Little fountains gurgled here and there, birds chirped, and a breeze rustled the leaves in the nearby trees.

"Will you explain the story to me?" You asked. "The events before Antigone?"

He did, and gladly. Then you read to him some, which he seemed to enjoy. By the time you finished the first two acts, he was smiling into the sun, eyes closed. You were afraid he was asleep, but he turned to you and thanked you.

In all this time, though you were both sitting on the bench and he had no need to keep a hand on you, his hand rested over yours.

"I was afraid for you, you know. When I left you," you admitted. "I had a hard time letting you go."

He shifted in his seat and gave you hardly more than a whisper in response. "It was hard to go."

"We couldn't stay there."

"No." He sighed.

"We're together again, though. And not stuck on a stormy little island in the middle of nowhere."

"It's true that we've found warmer weather." He didn't look pleased as he said it. There was a new tension in his shoulders and he stared forward instead of looking at you.

"What's bothering you?"

He opened his mouth and closed it again like he'd meant to speak. Finally, he said, "If ever…if ever you wish to leave, I can have it arranged that your going away gets looked over."

"Why would I leave?"

"Surely you're more at home with your crew," he said sourly.

"I haven't seen them in months. Besides, crews are always changing. There's no guarantee I'll find all the same men that I left."

"You'll stay, then?" The hope in his voice and expression weren't well hidden.

"Of course. I am fond of you, I hope you know."

"Oh." It was all he said, and he returned to staring out over the gardens. The sun was slowly slipping down to hang heavy over the horizon. "I'm fond of you, too."

You turned to him then and placed a hand on the side of his face, gently making him look at you. "You aren't used to affection, are you?"

"No," he breathed. He must've known how close you were to him, and when you placed a light kiss on his cheek, he gasped.

"You don't mind, do you?" You were afraid you were getting ahead of yourself.

"I just wish I could return the favor," he answered.

"Maybe it'll be easier this way." You leaned in again, this time slowly pressing your lips to his. He stiffened in response, but soon melted into your touch. Each kiss was slow and hesitant, like you were waiting for the other to pull away. One of his hands found your hair, and the other your waist. Both shook just enough to be noticeable to you, and you pulled him closer to make sure he understood that he had no reason to be nervous or afraid.

"I think," he mumbled against your lips, "that I've found another use for you. If you don't mind."

You smiled and assured him you didn't. "A strange situation for both of us, but good."

"Better than good, I think." And for the first time since you'd met him, he smiled, truly smiled.

He's right. Better than good. Much better than good.

#potc #pirates of the caribbean #drabble #cutler beckett #lord beckett #beckett #sequal #request #x reader #drabbles #writings #writing

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kasprak · 7 years

Note

for the angst prompt: reddie “can you come get me?”

because you’re young, he’s a gun (x)

→ word count: 2,152

→ teen richie and eddie, hurt/comfort, richie gets into trouble

→ warnings: angst, swears, mentions of violence due to homophobia

Eddie stared up at his ceiling with bloodshot eyes. His face was pale and blue in the light that leaked in from his bedroom window, making the shadows under his eyes all the more noticeable. It was late. He didn’t know how late, exactly, but it was too late for this shit. He lay sprawled on his back, all his blankets and covers sitting in a twisted heap on the floor beside him. One hand rested on his stomach and the other underneath his pillow, enjoying its coolness.

The phone’s gonna ring again, he thought to himself.

The phone rang again.

“Fuck me,” Eddie groaned, and rolled off of his bed in one surprisingly fluid motion. He’d been expecting this. The phone had been ringing for the last twenty minutes. It would ring, and ring, and ring, and then stop for what felt like five heavenly seconds at best, and then it would ring again, somehow louder than before. He kept hoping his mom would finally wake up and answer it. He loathed answering the phone like he loathed Henry Bowers, or hornets, or going to the hospital. If it were one of his friends, it would be a different story. But he couldn’t be sure it would be one of his friends. It could be a telemarketer from another time zone, or some twisted serial killer (he wasn’t sure which he feared more). Sonia Kaspbrak’s bear-like snores drifted through the house, and when the phone rang for the nth time, the thought of being murdered suddenly didn’t seem so bad.

Eddie pulled on his house coat and padded across the room, his slightly oversized flannel pants dragging on the floor. He stopped at his dresser, took the watch that was resting on its surface, and fumbled with it for a few seconds until he managed to get it on. 1:28 am. He closed his door gently and paused outside his mother’s room, listening for a lull in her snores. Nada.

The phone stopped ringing when he was halfway down the stairs. He made it the rest of the way and ambled into the kitchen, feeling the cool linoleum under his bare feet. “I swear to god if I came down here for nothing…” he muttered scoldingly. Just my fucking luck. He was about to sit at his kitchen table when the ring came again, and he nearly jumped out of his skin. Muttering a string of curse words, he rushed over, nearly knocking over his chair, and fumbled the phone out of its cradle. Deep breaths, Eddie, it’s probably just a creepily persistent wrong number.

“Hello?”

“Eddie!” The voice on the other end was all too familiar, and apparently very excited to hear his voice. Relieved, even.

“Richie?” Eddie’s dumbfounded tone quickly switched to frustration. “Richie! I swear to god if you’ve been trying to prank call me this whole time I will come over there and fucking strangle you with your own phone cord —”

“C-can you come get me?” Richie’s voice sounded shaky, and Eddie felt his heart twinge unpleasantly at the sound. He sounded scared and a bit like he’d been crying, and even worse, he added a timid, “Please?”

Eddie’s tongue pressed to the side of his cheek and he rubbed at his neck, casting a cautionary glance towards the stairs. He lowered the phone from his ear, listening for his mom. Surprise, surprise, she was still out cold. He raised the phone back to his ear. “What happened?”

Richie hesitated, Eddie could hear it in the hitch of his breath. He hated how distant his voice sounded right now. Crackling, full of static, miles away. Hell knows where and hells knows in what situation, in what state. “I’m at that one payphone, sort of near the train tracks? I, uh,” he said, and then in a more ashamed tone, “I got into a fight.”

“Shit,” Eddie exhaled, shutting his eyes tightly, “Okay. Stay right there. I’m on my way.”

He hung up immediately, just catching the beginning of a ‘thank you’.

Eddie stared at a chip in the wallpaper for a few seconds, trying his best to collect his thoughts and form some sort of plan. His mom noticed things. Too many things. She would notice that the gas in her car was missing, or that his shoes were dustier than the day before… and if she woke up in the middle of the night and found him gone… he could kiss his friends and freedom goodbye.

Fuck it.

He turned, snatched the car keys from the kitchen counter, and grabbed his jacket. He placed his bathrobe on the hook in its place, and was out the door seconds later. He braced himself against the wind and climbed into the driver’s seat of his mom’s Mercedes Benz. The keys were in the ignition before you could say ‘grounded’. He didn’t look back.

The drive there was tense. He could drive, sure. Mike let him borrow his truck for impromptu lessons as much as possible. They would spend a couple hours working on parking, reversing, turning, the works. Mike was a lifesaver, since those occasional Saturday afternoons were the only real practice he could ever get. After all, his mom was deathly afraid of letting him drive, a shame because he was good, actually, damn good. A real natural, even if he didn’t technically have his license. ‘You could make a living out of this, y’know,’ Mike commented once. Eddie only stuck out his tongue in disgust. Sounded like hell.

Don’t worry, Eds, Richie’s voice echoed in the back of his thoughts, one day you’ll be tall enough to reach the pedals. This only made him more nervous. He could only hope that, whatever was going on, he wasn’t too late.

The train yard couldn’t come quickly enough. He checked near the phone booth first, but wasn’t particularly surprised to see that Richie hadn’t stayed put. He knew he wouldn’t, and kept on driving until the tracks themselves came into view.

As he drew closer, his headlights fell on a familiar figure. Richie was facing away from him, sitting on the train tracks with his knees pulled up to his chest. Small trails of wispy smoke billowed from his lips, and from the lit cigarette poised between his fingers. Eddie sighed with relief, and parked a few feet away. Richie tilted his head as the sound of gravel crunching beneath Eddie’s shoes grew louder.

“Hey,” he said simply. There was an almost guilty quality to his voice. Richie still faced away from him, clearly hiding something. Eddie shivered and yawned all at once, and through his yawn he replied with a ‘hey’, just as simple. Eddie kneeled beside him, ignoring the fact that he was getting his pajamas dirty. Not saying another word, he reached out and gently cupped Richie’s chin in his warm fingers, turning his head towards him.

“Holy shit,” he breathed.

Richie’s bottom lip was split and puffed into a pout that Eddie had to admit was still somehow attractive. Dried blood clung to his skin in a dark trail that led from his left nostril to his upper lip. Thankfully, it didn’t look broken, but still damn near. His right eye was bruised a deep purple. Richie smiled apologetically, his cigarette hanging from his lips. He reached up with a trembling hand and removed it from his mouth, grinding the ashes into the rocks beside him. His knuckles were bruised and bloody. “Pretty cool, huh? Battle scars,” he mused.

“What the fuck happened to you?”

Richie’s lip twitched, and then he grinned even wider. “You should see the other guy.”

Eddie only frowned in response. He stood up suddenly, and began to walk away, storming off as fast as he could. Richie’s head whipped around and he rose to his feet. His long legs carried him to Eddie faster than the short boy could escape. “Eds, I’m fine, really,” Richie laughed, “I can barely feel a thing. It was just some stupid homophobe again.”

Eddie spun around, scowling. “You’re not fine! Look what he did to you!” he shouted, hitting Richie’s chest, not hard enough to hurt but hard enough to show how angry and helpless and frustrated he felt. Not with Richie, but with the world. And then, not knowing what else to do, he threw his arms around Richie and hugged him as tightly as he could. “This isn’t fucking fine,” Eddie whispered into his shoulder.

When he let go, his hand slid down and interlaced with Richie’s. Wordlessly, he tugged him towards the passenger’s seat, and helped him in. Though he hadn’t mentioned it, Eddie could tell by the way Richie walked, slightly bent over, that he had taken a few good licks to the stomach.

“Buckle up,” he reminded him before closing the door. He walked around the front of the car, and as he did so, Richie watched in smitten admiration at the way Eddie absentmindedly traced his fingers along the hood. When he reentered in the driver’s seat, Richie was still staring.

Eddie was too busy thinking to notice.

As they pulled out of the train yard, he gripped the steering wheel and focused his eyes ahead, hard. His brow was furrowed and he kept chewing his lip, a detail only Richie would notice. Richie watched him intently, wondering what was going through his head, and Eddie could see in the corner of his eye that Richie’s face, though out of focus, was worried. He kept his eyes trained on the road ahead of him, refusing to return the gaze.

He was afraid he would burst into tears if he did. The silence was suddenly tense, and Eddie wanted it to stop but couldn’t bring himself to look Richie in the eye. He knew it wasn’t really his fault, but resented him in some small, weird, confusing way for scaring him like this.

The quiet stretched on too long. Richie decided to break it.

“I’m sorry, Eds,” he said softly, turning to face out the window, “I shouldn’t have called you.” Eddie was about to say something when Richie pressed on. “I, uh, heh, put the coins in and I dialled your number first, and there was no answer, obviously. And then I thought, well, ‘I should call one of the others. Maybe Bev will pick up. Or Ben, or Mike. He has his truck’. But…” He shook his head and shrugged limply. “I don’t know, I just kept calling you.”

Eddie glanced at Richie this time, then reached out and touched his shoulder. The contact was brief, Eddie didn’t like to drive with only one hand, but it was enough. Richie turned towards him again, and their eyes finally met. “I’m glad you called me,” Eddie said in a warm voice, and smiled a bit sadly, “And I’m not mad at you. I just, I-I, I worry about you so fucking much. I don’t like seeing you get hurt and —” Eddie interrupted himself with a sudden snort of laughter. “— God, I sound exactly like my mom.”

Richie laughed loudly, clapping his hand over his mouth. “Oh my god, you do.” He didn’t mean it in a cruel way, and Eddie knew, and grinned in spite of himself.

“Shut up! That’s like, my worst nightmare.”

“Aw, I don’t know, I think you acting like your mom is kind of hot. She’s a catch.” Eddie howled with laughter and made a gagging noise, wailing a small ‘gr-o-o-oss’. Richie reached out and pinched his cheek as Eddie fought him off with one arm.

“Are you trying to make me crash this car?”

“Then we’ll have matching shiners!”

They both laughed for a long time after that. Eddie had half the mind to realize it wasn’t even funny because the joke was funny, but because they were both tired as shit. According to the little digital screen of his watch, it was almost 3 am. They kept laughing anyways.

Richie’s house was close by.

“Seriously though,” Eddie said, “if you’re going to get the shit kicked out of you, call me first.”

“Why?”

Eddie flashed him a devilish grin. “So I can come back you up.”

Richie grinned at his lap. His house came into view, and then it was gone. “Eddie, you missed -”

“I know,” Eddie said, not missing a beat, and kept driving forward, “Sleep at my house tonight.” Richie blinked at him, half-smirking, not sure how to take this. Eddie looked at him with raised eyebrows and shrugged. “What? It’s the only way I can keep you out of trouble.”

Eddie watched the road from then on, and Richie watched him, wondering with a stupid sort of giddiness — despite the ache in his skull and the blood on his tongue — what he ever did to deserve a boy like that.

#reddie #stories never change #richie tozier #eddie kaspbrak #it 2017 #it stephen king #hurt/comfort #angst #very brief mention of homophobia #it fanfiction

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