𝐆𝐎𝐍𝐄, 𝐆𝐎𝐍𝐄 / 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐊 𝐘𝐎𝐔

ᴠᴇɪɴᴛɪᴏᴄʜᴏ

They all gather in the kitchen in the morning.

Standing around the dripping coffee pot, they listen as Mike relays his ideas of how to get into Sam's house. A window. A basement. The back door is the last choice. It's all straightforward; they get in, they find Eddie, they get out. All the what ifs and questioning are pointless. It's all going to come down to their ability to keep quiet and use their brains.

"We should wait until after midnight," Mike says, looking at each of them, his gaze lingering on Richie. "If we go too early, someone might be awake in the house."

Richie nods. Makes sense. "Maybe we should walk from your house," he suggests to Mike, Stan nodding and Bev shaking her head no.

"I think we should keep the car as close as possible," Bev explains as she grabs the coffee pot and pours some into four mismatched mugs. "In case we need to take Eddie to the hospital."

Jaw clenching, Richie doesn't comment on that.

They agree to leave the car hidden near one of the orchards, and then they each head off on their own to wait out the day.

Longing for the solitude, Richie hides himself in Eddie's room so he can think through the worst of the outcomes in peace. All it does is get him worked up, agitated, and he ends up cleaning and arranging whatever seems out kof place. Cleaning isn't really his thing on his best days, so while rearranging the bookcase, he gets lost looking through Eddie's collection, handling each book with the same care he's watched Eddie handle them with over the years. There are pages dog-eared and highlighted in certain books, he notices, particularly in The Outsiders and That Was Then, This Is Now. Reading through some of the highlighted bits kills more time than he's expecting, and just as he's reading through Johnny Cade sticking Bob Sheldon with a switchblade, Bev knocks on the door and tells him that Mike made dinner.

He's still tired, and not feeling too hot after being exposed to the cold last night, so he declines and settles down in the bed for a nap he hopes will make him feel somewhat ready for tonight. Though, he already knows, nothing is going to prepare him for whatever the hell they're getting themselves in to.

Sleep is impossible, so he continues to read, glancing at Eddie's watch on the bedside table every now and then. The hours are dragging by. Maybe if he could bring himself to go and talk to one of his friends the time might go by faster, but he's not up to it. Of all the times he's never been able to shut his mouth, it's a little unreal that he can't think of something random to talk about with any of them to keep his mind occupied. His fever is getting worse, and the itch in the back of his throat has come back with a vengeance. Only a while longer, and then he has to get up, no matter how shitty he's feeling.

A little after midnight they all pile in Richie's car. Bev takes the keys from him again, and Richie allows it, climbing into the passenger side and sighing heavily.

"Here," Bev says shortly, holding her hand out to him, her fingers curled around a dark object that fits inside her palm.

He can see what it is before he reaches out to take it; she drops it into his open hand, the weight a solid, cool mass against his heated skin. As he flicks the notch on the side the blade springs free, and the long, sharp edge is thrown into light by the streetlamp just outside the window. A shiver goes through Richie, and he hopes, against all odds, that he doesn't have to use this thing tonight.

"Thanks," he says, voice wavering with uncertainty as he folds the blade back into place, then tucks it into the front pocket of his jeans.

Bev turns the key in the ignition and the engine hums to life, the screech of a belt ripping through the air as she says, "I really hope you don't need it."