Reddie Oneshots

What REALLY happened after It Chapter 2 (Pt. 5)

i get confused very easily so for those of you who do aswell, basically old richie and young richie switched timelines and now there in the same time line
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"What the fuck!" Eddie shouts, wrenching his hand free from Bill and Bev and diving into the middle of the circle, barely catching Richie's body before his head hits the coffee table. "What the fuck! Richie! What the fuck!"

"Is he breathing?" Bev asks, relatively calmly, which isn't saying much. "Eddie. Focus. Is he breathing?"

Eddie puts his ear down to Richie's mouth. "He's breathing," he confirms. "But like. Not a lot."

They manage to shift Richie to the couch, Stan leaning nervously over them, taking the glasses from Richie's limp hand and putting them on the side table, brushing his hair out of his eyes. Mike frowns down at his paper. "That — wasn't supposed to happen," he admits. "I don't know — "

Eddie's glare is so vicious it's surprising that cuts don't open up on Mike's cheeks. "Well, figure it out! Someone get my bag, I have my inhaler and an EpiPen in it, just in case."

"What on earth is an EpiPen going to do?" Ben points out. "He's not having an allergic reaction to magic."

"Shut up, Salad Boy," Eddie snaps. He brushes Richie's unruly hair off his forehead and slips under him so that his head is resting on Eddie's lap.

"Eddie," Bill scolds, firmly but not unkindly. "Come on, man."

Eddie blows a long breath out of his nose. He lets Bev rest her hand comfortingly on his shoulder and budges up to make room for Stan to take a seat on the far end of the couch, lifting Richie's feet up onto his lap. "Sorry, Ben," he mutters penitently. "I didn't — I don't know why I always — sorry."

"It's okay," Ben forgives, easy as anything. He shrugs. "It's Richie."

Mike looks up from his papers. "Okay, good news and bad news," he announces. "The good news is that he's not dying. The bad news is I think I know what happened."

They all look at him, waiting. Bev bunches the sleeves of her sweater in her palms as she balls her hands up into fists. She doesn't know who she wants to take a swing at, but it's definitely somebody.

"I thought his blood would be enough," Mike tells him, looking somewhat sheepish. "To represent ... this Richie. But it — technically, it was Other Richie's blood, so — we had two totems, both of Other Richie. Instead of anchoring them both here, it just ... sent him."

"Sent him?" Eddie repeats, voice cracking. He tightens his grip on Richie's hair and then soothes it down again. "Sent him where?"

Mike looks up from his document. His eyes fall on Richie's face for a moment before he finally looks at Eddie. "Well," he says, "if I had to guess, I'd say nineteen eighty-nine."

-

twenty-seven years earlier or simultaneously,
depending on your conception of the nature of time

Richie blinks at himself. Himself, his real actual body, standing at the foot of his bed, looking furious.

"Is that really what I look like when I'm mad?" he asks, unable to think of anything else to say. "I look constipated."

"You are constipated!" Old Richie — Young Richie? Young-as-Old Richie? — shouts. "Constipated with stupidity and general suckass!"

Richie struggles up to his elbows, finding his glasses on the table and adjusting them onto his nose. "Nice burn," he mutters. "Can you — Jesus Christ, can you stop pacing? You're giving me a headache."