Reddie Oneshots

the time and space between us

holyyyyyy fuck. best fix it fic. ten outta ten
on ao3 by piginawig

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Richie was on his knees in front of him, tightly holding his shoulders.

"Hey, man," he croaked. "You're gonna be fine, okay?"

Eddie was cold, and he could no longer feel the giant wound that went straight through him. Richie was in front of him, but he was a little hazy, going in and out of focus.

"I know," he whispered. He could taste the blood coating his throat and tongue and tried not to think about it too hard. This wasn't so bad. Richie was close. He got to see his friends one last time. He was spilling blood, but he thought maybe that blood, his life blood, contained all of it - all the confusion, and the doubt, and the fear. His mother's voice drained out of him, his worry drained out, his filter. Suddenly the idea that he'd spent so much of his life coasting, living with feelings he didn't feel and fighting fears that weren't his own left him bitter, but then the bitterness drained out of him, too.

Maybe dying wasn't so bad.

"I gotta go, okay? But I'll be right back. Eddie, stay with me, okay? Stay with me." Richie's voice was desperate, and Eddie opened his eyes one last time, to give himself one last look at blue eyes behind dark framed glasses, at pink lips and stubbled cheeks and messy hair. He watched as Richie stood and ran toward the others, and then he closed his eyes.

Dying was just like falling asleep.

And then he woke up.

He squinted in the bright light, brought a hand to shield his eyes, and pushed on the ground to stand up, only stopping when his fingers slid through blades of grass. He realized quickly he was propped up against a large tree, one that seemed achingly familiar. Slowly his eyes adjusted, and he realized with a jolt that he was in his childhood backyard in Derry. He looked around at everything littering the ground; he saw pop-up soccer goals, a plastic basketball hoop, a swing set, and a playhouse. He remembered them only vaguely; once his father had died his mother had thrown everything away. He wasn't to play outside anymore; he was allergic to the grass and the pollen and it would irritate his asthma and all those toys were a terrible accident waiting to happen.

At the thought of his asthma he reached instinctively for his pocket, only to find his inhaler gone. Suddenly he remembered tossing it into the fire, suddenly he remembered Richie in the deadlights, he remembered –

He looked down his front, shocked to find himself in his white tee and blue jacket and jeans, in perfectly pristine condition. He reached up slowly and put a hand to his cheek. The knife wound was gone.

Before he could freak out about it too much, the back door opened and two little boys came running outside, yelling unintelligible things at each other, breathless giggles filling the yard. With a pang in his chest he watched himself and Richie, no more than five years old, dash into the playhouse. The back door opened again and his breath hitched as his father stepped outside, followed by Wentworth Tozier.

"What the fuck," he murmured, frozen in place. He looked back toward the playhouse, where a tiny Eddie and Richie were laughing. Was this it? Was this where you went when you died? He turned back to his dad, sitting next to Wentworth on the porch swing. His dad was pale and skinny, and Eddie remembered that. That was how he looked in the months leading up to his death.

"Race you to the swings!" The young Eddie yelled gleefully. The boys tumbled out of the playhouse and took off running toward the swing set. The little Eddie didn't even notice the grass stains on his knees. They both took a swing and kicked off, egging each other on to go higher higher higher! He heard a quiet, deep laugh and turned to the sound, finding himself smiling as he watched his dad laugh at his own childhood antics.