#it fandom

every time you walked down the halls of derry high school, you prayed you'd melt right through the floor.

it wasn't because you were insecure. in truth, you were very secure in yourself. it wasn't because people were mean to you. in fact, most loved you. it was because of them. the same reason that anybody wanted to dissolve into the cracks within the four walls of the place they were supposed to grow up.

derry high school was a monument to beige linoleum and flourescent humming. the air itself tasted stale, a mixture of industrial cleaner, old textbooks, and the faint, metallic fear that seemed to seep from the lockers. for most, the fear was abstract. a fear of tests, rejection, not being enough. but usually, it zeroed in on the ones wearing scuffed boots, a jean jacket, and traveling in a pack.

your own place in the derry ecosystem was secure. you were well-liked in a quiet, unchallenging way that came from being friendly to everyone, but known well by few. you were the reliable lab partner, the one who remembered birthdays, the student who could bridge the gap between the drama kids and the yearbook staff. social fluency was your armor, a way to move through the world without making a target on your back. it was a skill born of necessity, honed over by years of watching and learning. of course, it helped that you were pretty. you wore light, floral colors. your hair was always done neatly, makeup smooth and blended. your mary-janes were always un-scuffed and buckled. your skirt swished around your long legs as you walked, sending the occasional polite smile towards someone or waving quickly to those who said hello to you.

henry bowers, though, was an absolute minefield.

he wasn't just a school bully. he was a force of nature, a low pressure system that darkened the hallways before he even rounded a corner. his entourage - belch huggins, victor criss, and patrick hockstetter - trailed behind him not just as friends, but as a wave of insecurity and fear send towards everyone in their way. their laughter was loud. a jarring, predatory sound that cut through the student murmur and commanded silence. desks were kicked, freshmen were shouldered into lockers, and any sign of perceived weakness was pounced upon with cruel, creative glee.

but you remembered someone different. a boy with grass stained knees and a gap toothed smile, who shared his cherry slushie behind the elementary school bleachers. a blonde haired boy who'd get a fierce, protective glint in his eye if anyone so much as looked at you sideways. as much as you remembered him, he didn't exist anymore. you knew what happened to him, though. he had been buried layer by layer under the weight of his father's beatings and his own hardening heart. you'd watched the transformation happen across the cafeteria, with a profound and private grief. the boy who'd been your first friend had become the thing high school students feared most.

now, you navigated the school with one goal - not to be seen by him. you developed a sixth sense for his presence. the particular cadence of his boots on the linoleum, the change in the air when he entered a room. you wanted no part of it. you wanted no part of who he'd become. a laugh in the wrong direction, a moment of vulnerability caught at the wrong time, and you could be seen. really seen.

and being seen by henry bowers was a complicated, dangerous thing. a cold, blue stare that seemed to strip a person down to the real parts of themselves. not just the positives, but the fear and inadequacy. the secrets they tried to hide. sometimes it lead to taunts, shoves, punches and kicks, but sometimes it lead to nothing at all. just that chilling, empty gaze that felt worse than physical harm. you didn't know which version he'd pick if he was to notice you again. you spent years perfecting the art of never finding out.

today, though, everything would change.

you'd been having bad luck all day. you slipped in the mud and fell into a puddle on your walk to school, so you had to go home and change, making you late. then, you spilled your water bottle in class and soaked your freshly written essay for english literature. in chemistry class, you received your test back, only to realize you got a 0 because you forgot to put your name on it. you had to go beg your teacher for a new grade. luckily, since you were a diligent student, she was willing to give you half.

now, you were walking away from the brick school, lukewarm tears drying onto your face from your shitty day.

you listened to the wind in the trees, the crunching of the gravel under your thick shoes, sighing and hoping your evening would be better. your skirt, a bit smaller than usual because of your rush to get dressed, still swished around your thighs in the wind. but then, you heard another set of steps. boots. heavy footsteps falling onto the ground with the same reverberation that you heard on the linoleum floors at school. you felt something cold slither down your spine - fear.

tilting your head slightly, you caught the sight of him in your peripheral vision. you had only been walking for two minutes before you noticed patrick hockstetter behind you, his tall, lanky and predatory form slinking casually.

fuck. fuck fuck fuck.

being noticed by henry was pretty bad. but he was mean, not perverted. patrick was a whole different animal. the type to grope girls from behind their desks, force them to give him a kiss and slap them if they didn't. the type to follow you home and stand outside your window for an hour just to creep you out. he fed off from it. the thrill was something he enjoyed.

you swallowed hard, feeling your heart speed up impossibly. you felt the adrenaline release, the clammy hands, the erratic breathing. fear. in full swing. you kept your pace steady, a deer trying not to bolt in a predator's sightline. the crunch of gravel behind you wasn't just there; it was synching up, a sinister metronome to your own hurried steps. you could feel his stare like a physical weight between your shoulder blades, cold and invasive.

a shortcut. you needed a shortcut. the usual route home was a straight shot down neibolt street, but that was too exposed. your mind raced, flipping through a mental map of derry's back alleys and cut-throughs. there was a gap in the old johnson fence, a quick dash through the overgrown lot that spilled out onto your street. it was risky - dark, isolated - but maybe better than being stalked in the open.

you made a sharp, deliberate turn left into the mouth of a narrow alley between the drugstore and the boarded-up cinema. the sunlight vanished, replaced by the damp chill of perpetual shadow. the crunch of gravel ceased for a beat, and then, horrifyingly, it resumed. he’d followed.

your breath hitched, coming in shallow pants that fogged slightly in the cool air. you walked faster, your mary janes slipping on the wet, uneven pavement. the alley seemed to stretch on forever, the light at the other end a taunting, distant pinprick.

"hey." his voice wasn't loud. just a dry, papery sound that slithered down the alley walls. "pretty girl. don't you know its rude to walk away?"

you didn't turn. you couldn't. your muscles were locked. the swishing of your skirt felt absurdly loud.

his footsteps quickened. he was closing the gap between you, ready to pounce. "i'm talking to you. turn around. let me see that pretty face all cried up. heard ya sniffling."

of course that was why. he loved when girls cried. it was something you'd heard all around from the other girls who'd been unfortunate victims of patrick hockstetter. crying didn't ward him off - it enthralled him. he was sick.

terror, sharp and acidic, flooded your mouth. you broke into a run, the strap of your bag slapping against your side. the alley exit wobbled in your vision.

a hand, bony and strong, clamped onto your upper arm, yanking you to a halt. your bag fell to the ground with a thud, dead weight that patrick obviously deemed unnecessary. he spun you around, his grip like iron. up close, he was all pale skin and hungry eyes, a slick, unpleasant smile on his gleaming teeth.

"now, that's better," he cooed, his breath smelling of spearmint gum. his free hand came up, a finger tracing a line down your damp cheek. "what's the matter, honey? bad day? i can make it better."

"let me go," you managed, your voice sharp and authoritative despite your fear. you'd always been good at masking how afraid you were.

"or what?" he laughed, the sound bouncing off the bricks. "you'll tell? i don't care. i been told on lots of times."

you tried to glare, but you couldn't. the fear was eating you alive. he was stronger, faster. you had no way out.

"i won't tell. i won't say a word. but please, can you just let go?" you pleaded. maybe being nice would help. maybe doing the opposite of what all the other girls had done would have reverse effects.

your voice, shifting from a sharp command to a soft plea, seemed to catch him off guard. he was used to screams, cursing, crying. not soft, desperate negotiations.

"please?" he echoed, his voice a dry whisper. his head tilted, like a bird examining a strange insect. "you're asking nice, huh?"

you held your breath, hope against hope. his grip on your arm loosened slightly, an infinitesimal degree. but the confusion curdled into something more sinister - interest. a new kind of thrill. this was different. clearly something he'd never seen. someone being decent to him when he was being disgusting.

"that's real sweet. cute, even," he murmured, leaning in closer. "but see, when you ask nice.. it just makes me wanna see what happens when you don't."

his free hand moved from your cheek, sliding down to grip the back of your thigh under your skirt, pulling you sharply against him. you gasped, the air knocked out of you, the world narrowing to the feel of his bony frame and the cold dread solidifying in your stomach. your carefully constructed composure shattered.

"stop it!" you cried out, high and panicked. it ripped from your chest reflexively.

patrick's laugh was giddy. "there it is, sweetheart. i like that better," he hummed, reaching up to the waistband of your skirt. "but what happens when i--"

the sentence died off in a choked gurgle.

not by your hand. not by a shout.

henry moved like a shadow given violent purpose. he didn't come from where you could've seen him, but must have come from the other side.

he didn't tackle patrick. he simply appeared behind him, one arm snaking around patrick's throat in a vicious chokehold, the other clamping over the top of his head. it was fast, brutal, and utterly silent save for the scrape of boots and patrick's muffled gasp as he was wrenched backwards and off his feet.

you stumbled forward, free, catching yourself against the cold wall. you watched, heart in your throat, as henry dragged patrick, kicking and clawing at the iron bar of his forearm, back into the gloomy shadow. henry's face was pale, emotionless, eyes reflecting ice. he didn't look at you. his focus was on the squirming form in his grasp.

he slammed patrick face-first into the side of a dumpster with a sickening, wet crunch. patrick went limp for a moment, slumping, a low moan escaping his bloodied face. henry held him up, then leaned close. his voice, when it came, was flat and deadly, carrying perfectly in the silent alleyway.

"you don't look at her. you don't think about her. your fucking shoes don't point in her direction. you got that?"

he gave patrick a hard shake. a strangled sound of agreement or pain was patrick's only reply.

"if i see you within a block of her," henry continued, his voice becoming intimate with its menace, "i won't use my hands next time. i'll use a tire iron. and i'll make sure you're awake for it."

he released his hold, and patrick collapsed into a heap of shuddering limbs on the filthy ground, blood streaming freely from his ruined nose with his predatory confidence utterly annihilated.

"get the fuck up and go home, hockstetter. before i change my mind and kill you."

he stepped over patrick's prone form as if he were nothing more than a sack of garbage. he didn't look back. his entire being was a live wire, every muscle taut, the violence still radiating off from him in waves. you could feel his heat from feet away.

he stopped a pace in front of you. his eyes, which had been so cold and empty while dealing with patrick, were now a turbulent, stormy blue. they darted over your face, your disheveled hair, the red mark on your arm and the tear in your tights. the raw, agonizing conflict was back - fury, shame, and a protectiveness you didn't know still existed.

his hand lifted slightly again, hovering. it was large, capable of brutality you'd just witnessed, but now it trembled slightly in the space between you. he looked at it as if it was a foreign object, then clenched it into a fist and shoved it into the pocket of his jeans.

"you're shaking," he said, his voice low and rough.

you were. you couldn't stop. the adrenaline was draining away, leaving you cold and hollow and stunned. you managed a small, jerky nod.

he looked away, his jaw working. the silence stretched, filled only with the faint scrambling of patrick getting up once he slightly recovered. henry's shoulders stiffened, and he took a half-step to the side, deliberately placing his body between you and the sight of patrick struggling to his knees. protection. subtle, but also obvious in a way.

his gaze landed on your bag, still lying where it had fallen. he moved then, bending to pick it up. he did it with that same jarring care, brushing off the gravel and dirt. when he stood, he didn't offer it. he simply held it, his grip tight on the strap.

"c'mon," he muttered, not quite looking at you. he tilted his head toward the far end of the alley, the one that lead away from the main road, away from prying eyes and away from the direction patrick limped off in. "this way."

it wasn't a suggestion. it was a directive born of a lifetime of understanding derry's shadows. he took a step, then paused, glancing back to make sure you were following. you fell into step beside him, not quite at his side, but half a step behind. he adjusted his pace to yours, just as he'd always done when you were kids.

your chest tightened.

the alley opened into a narrow, weed-choked service road behind the old cinema. the silence between you was a thick, tangible thing.

after a few minutes, he spoke, his voice gruff. "he won't come near you again."

"i know," you answered quietly. the certainty in his promise was absolute.

another blocked passed in quiet. the evening was settling in, painting the sky in bruised purples and oranges. the same shades were settling onto the back of your bruised thigh.

"henry," you said, his name feeling strange and familiar on your tongue after so many years of silence.

he flinched, almost imperceptibly. "yeah?"

"thank you."

he swallowed hard, the motion visible in the corded line of his throat. he stared straight ahead, his profile sharp against the dying light. the wind blew the trees and weeds, creating a scratching sound in the empty back road.

"don't," he said, the word bitten off. "don't thank me for that. it scared you."

the raw honesty of his words, the simple, unflinching admission - it scared you - struck you with more force than anything that had happened that day. he wasn't apologizing for the violence, not exactly. but he was acknowledging its effect. it was a level of awareness you hadn't believed him capable of anymore.

"everything about today scared me," you admitted, your voice quiet but steady. "i fell in the mud this morning. i failed a test. patrick. the.. the alley. my leg hurts. you," you listed them like items, giving each its due weight. "but the first five things were just things that happened. the last one.. you came for me."

he stopped walking. he turned fully to face you. the dim light caught the planes of his face, highlighting the tension in his brow, the soft, vulnerable curve of his mouth he always tried to harden with a sneer like a snarling dog.

"i would've done it anyway. for fuckin' greta or.." he said, the words sounding bland. "any chick."

you shook your head slowly, your eyes not leaving his. "no, you wouldn't have."

the denial hung in the air. henry's jaw clenched, a muscle ticking furiously. he wanted to argue, to spit out a lie that would rebuild the wall he'd torn down when he beat hockstetter's face against a dumpster. the truth was a physical weight, too heavy to lift. he couldn't. he wouldn't have done it for anyone else. he wouldn't have promised murder with a tire iron. he wouldn't have felt the world narrow to a single, white-hot point of rage at the sight of someone else's hands on the girl who was the only person that had been remotely good to him in his life, besides his mother, who left.

he looked away, the admission of his own truth being too much to bear while looking at you. the fight drained out of him, leaving behind a raw, exposed weariness that made him seem younger and older all at once.

"no," he echoed, his voice hollow. "i guess i wouldn't have."

the admission cost him. you could see it in the way he swallowed, in the slight tremor of his tight muscles. he'd just handed you a weapon, the knowledge of his own weakness, and waited for you to use it, like everyone else had.

but you didn't. you just stood there, the silence between you shifting once more. you weren't afraid anymore. you weren't sure you ever had been afraid of henry. maybe of who you thought henry was. but never him. there was an acknowledgement of a bridge that had been burned, and the fragile, impossible idea of building a new one from the ashes.

"you stopped answering my calls. in eighth grade." you whispered.

the words landed not as an accusation, but as a quiet, devastating fact. they cut through the fragile truce more cleanly than any shout could have.

henry’s head snapped up, his eyes wide with a shock that quickly morphed into pain. He hadn’t expected that. not here, not now. he’d braced for fear, for disgust, even for gratitude. not for this old, specific wound, gently prodded.

he opened his mouth, but no sound came out. he looked stricken, cornered by a ghost from a time when the world’s cruelty still had the power to surprise him.

"dad stopped letting me use the phone. after i.." left a message on that woman's answering machine posing as her dead kid.

the memory, sharp and ugly, clawed its way out of the dark. it wasn't the full truth, but it was the part that mattered, the part that explained the answering machine. the rest - the late-night calls, the whispered cruelty to a grieving mother, the one twisted skill patrick hockstetter had that henry, in his deepest misery, found fascinating for a week - that was a shame so black he'd bury it with him.

he couldn't look at you. his gaze was fixed on a broken bottle glinting in the weeds. "he took the phone out of the wall. smashed the machine. said it was a.. a faggot's toy." he swallowed. "i never heard any messages."

the confession was a softer, lesser evil. it painted his father as the monster (true) and him as a victim (only partly true). it was the version that might let you keep looking at him without seeing the rot he sometimes feared was in his core.

he risked a glance at your face. you were just listening, absorbing, your expression unreadable. the silence stretched, and henry felt the old, familiar panic rise: the need to fill it, to shock, to push you away before your silence became condemnation.

"so," he said, the word coming out too sharp. "you got your answer. i didn't get your calls 'cause my old man's psycho and i was.." he trailed off, unable to name what he was becoming. "you were better off. trust me."

it was the same thing he'd been doing for years. the protective cruelty. but it sounded feeble now, even to him.

you took a step closer.

"but that's not fair. you didn't give me a choice." you hummed, frowning.

he shook his head, a bitter laugh bubbling from his lips.

"you woulda chosen wrong. you always did."

the words hung in the air, colder than the evening chill. but you heard the tremor beneath them, the echo of the boy who used to whisper secrets under the bleachers, who believed he wasn't worth choosing.

"you don't know that," you said, your voice soft but unwavering. "you never gave me a chance."

he stared at you, the bravado crumbling from his face, leaving only a raw and bewildered ache. "why would you choose this?" the question was sharp. "look at me. look at what i am. i'm everything you hated. you'd be stupid as fuck to choose anything i got."

"i am looking, henry," you took another step, closing the distance until you could see the flecks of lighter blue in his irises, the faint scar through his eyebrow from a fight. "i've always been looking. and i'm not stupid."

"i know you aren't. so go home. be smart." he hissed.

"stop it, henry."

"you stop. you're being a dumbass."

"you're the one being a dumbass!" the words burst from you, not a shout, but a firm, frustrated exhalation. they hung in the air, shocking you both. it was the kind of thing you'd yelled at him when you were kids, scuffling over the last cookie or a cheated board game.

henry blinked, the harsh mark of his anger fracturing into surprise. no one talked to him like that. not anymore. they cowered, lied, pretended he didn't exist. they didn't call him a dumbass straight to his face if they liked their teeth. he was a threat. a monster, the source of anxiety.

"you think pushing me away is smart?" you continued. "you think spending your whole life making sure no one gets close is some kind of genius plan? its not. it's the dumbest thing i've ever seen. and i watched richie tozier try to lick a frozen lamppost."

a sound escaped him - a choked, rusty thing that was almost a laugh. it was cut off instantly, but the damage was done.

he rubbed his hand over his mouth, trying to wipe away the traitorous reaction. when he lowered it, his expression was exhausted, all the fight gone out of him. "what the hell do you want from me, y/n?" the question was a plea, stripped of all pretense. "i don't.. i don't know how to not be an ass. i'm good at it, it's all i got."

"it's not." you said stubbornly.

henry's lips curled into a bitter smile as he shook his head again, irritation flooding back into his body. his frustration was tangible, making him an unseen form of anger, but not violence. a dam that was about to break through. he groaned.

"you sound fuckin' stupid. again."

you quirked your eyebrow, inhaling sharply to retort.

"yeah, well, you--"

you couldn't get another word out. his body was flush against yours in a second, the smell of engine oil from the shop he worked at occasionally, his aftershave, and the same spearmint gum you smelled on patrick (they must've shared earlier at lunch) flooded your senses.

the kiss wasn't gentle. it wasn't questioning. it was a collision. a desperate, furious argument made with lips and teeth and the hard press of his body against yours. it was everything he didn't know how to say and the only way he felt he could shut your mouth.

for a single second, you froze. the shock of it short-circuited every thought.

then, instinct took over. not fear, for once. not the urge to push him away or avoid him. something older, deeper. the crush from sixth grade. the nights you rode your bikes through the empty streets and you admired his blonde hair in the wind. the times you'd iced the bruises he got from his dad as he cried silently. the shared snacks. the innocent hugs. your hands, which had been hanging limply at your sides, came up. one fisted in the worn denim of his jacket, gripping tight as if he might vanish again. the other flattened against the solid, frantic beat of his heart through his thin t-shirt against his warm skin.

you kissed him back.

his hand, which had come up to cradle the back of your head, gentled, his fingers tangling in your hair. the press of his mouth softened, became searching, almost reverent.

it was the most terrifying and honest moment of his life.

he was the one who broke it, pulling back just enough to rest his forehead against yours. his breath was ragged, a shuddering gust, mingling with yours. his eyes were squeezed shut, as if he couldn't bear to see your reaction.

"had to make you stop talking. you ain't a good listener."

you laughed breathlessly.

"i might try to listen even less now."

a shaky exhale warmed your skin as the last of the rigid tension in his shoulders dissolved.

"wouldn't blame you," he murmured, his voice low. his eyes were still closed. he looked younger like this, stripped of all the defenses you hadn't let him use. "i talk a lot of shit."

"you do," you agreed, your thumb tracing the threads of his shirt. "i'm sure i could give you a run for your money, though. i learned some stuff."

a low, genuine chuckle rumbled in his chest, the vibration humming against your palm. it was a sound you hadn't heard in years - unforced, uncynical.

"yeah?" he said, finally opening his pretty blue eyes. they crinkled at the corners with an almost-smile. "what'd you learn? how to call a guy a dumbass in five languages?"

"six," you corrected. "and how to tell when someone's being a fake asshole to keep me away from them."

he hummed.

"smart girl. always were."

the compliment, so simple and sincere, was probably the nicest thing henry had said about someone for years. it warmed you from the inside, melting the last chill from the alley.

"you aren't so bad yourself," you said softly. "when you want to be."

"didn't wanna be. easier to play dumb."

you didn't argue. you didn't try to tell him he was wrong. you just reached up and touched his face again, your fingers tracing the lie of his jaw, feeling the tension there. you knew what he meant. the avoiding you, pretending to be the monster his father expected, because being vulnerable had been too dangerous. abandoning the boy who loved cherry slushies and loved his best friend.

"must have been exhausting," you murmured.

he exhaled, leaning into your touch, the safeness of it flooding him with a feeling that was so rare. his eyes drifted shut again, this time softly. "yeah," he whispered, the word ragged. "it fuckin' was."

for a long moment, you just stood there in the quiet service road, embracing him. two kids who'd gotten lost, finding their way back to the same map.

when he opened his eyes again, they were clear. resolved. "i'm done playin'," he stated, his voice low but firm.

"good," you said. "i really missed you."

he smirked sheepishly, rolling his eyes. it was as if the statement embarrassed him slightly.

"sappy. can't lie, though," he said, his voice raspy. "i missed you too. thought of ya every day."

thought of ya every day. it explained the cold stares in the hallways - not hatred, but a tortured form of protection. he'd been seeing you, missing you, every single time. not plotting to bully you.

a lump rose in your throat. you didn't trust yourself to speak, so you just nodded.

he cleared his throat, the vulnerability making him shuffle his boots awkwardly. "alright, alright, doll. enough of this.. feeling shit." he tried to sound gruff, but it came out fond. "let's get you home. your old man's gonna think i kidnapped you."

he walked you home, his hand a warm, calloused anchor in yours. this time, the silence was companionable. the kind of quiet that exists between people who don't need words to understand each other.

at your doorstep, he didn't let go. he turned to face you, but as he did, his eyes caught your leg. the shimmery purple bruise in the rip of your tights from patrick's hand. he hadn't realized it was there.

his throat burned with disgust and fury.

his entire body went rigid. the softness in his eyes vanished, replaced by a cold, lethal fire. the same one you'd seen in the alley when he made patrick eat dumpster. the grip on your hand tightened for a second, a reflexive spasm of rage, before he forcibly relaxed it.

he didn't speak. just stared at the violent, ugly splash of color against your skin. his jaw worked, teeth grinding so hard you almost heard it.

"henry," you said softly. "it's okay. it doesn't even hurt anymore."

"it's not okay," he laughed, his literal psychopathic tendencies flashing in blue irises. "that's.. he was one of mine. i let that.. that thing walk around with me. and he put his hands on you and left a fucking mark."

you frowned, reaching for him. he didn't pull away, but he stiffened. you put a hand on either side of his face, tracing your thumbs gently along his cheeks.

"you're here with me now. and i'm okay. you told me he'd never touch me again and i believe you." you said, reassuring him. "the bruise will heal. it'll go away and there will never be another one."

your words were a balm, but they couldn't reach the depth of the poison in him. you knew patrick would see henry again before the end of the night. but still, he leaned into your touch, his eyes closing. he was listening, but also calculating.

"yeah," he murmured, the word a low concession. "it'll heal." his eyes opened, and the calculation you saw there was ice-cold, precise. "but he's gonna take a little longer to."

he took your hands from his face, not pushing them away, but holding them tightly, as if he needed the anchor. "you believe me. good. now i gotta make sure he believes me. all the way down to his bones, the dense fuck."

there was no rage in his voice now. no psychopathic flash. this was worse. this was the calm, terrifying certainty of a predator who has identified a threat to its den and is methodically planning its elimination.

"henry," you said, your voice firmer, trying to break through the grim focus. "you can't... whatever you're thinking. you'll get in trouble. real trouble."

a faint, humorless smirk touched his lips. "trouble's my middle name, sweet cheeks. but this ain't about trouble. this is about sending a message so fuckin' clear, even a sick freak like hockstetter can't misunderstand it." he let go of your hands and cupped your face, his touch suddenly, shockingly gentle. "you're my line. he crossed it. there are consequences. that's just how the world works."

he said it like he was explaining gravity. an immutable law. a new law that since you'd come back into his life, he'd implement ruthlessly.

when your father's silhouette filled the window, henry glanced towards it, his blue eyes now relaxed. he didn't step away from you, he simply reached for your hand and squeezed, offering a rough looking smile.

"your dad's watching," he said, his voice low and utterly calm. the fury was gone, replaced by a focused, operational readiness. "gettin' dark. time to go inside."

"henry," you said, still concerned about patrick's fate. "please--"

"i'm not gonna kill him," he interrupted, a strange amusement on his scarred face. the promise was blunt, but it was truthful. "i'm not gonna get put away after i just got my girl back. we're just gonna.. talk. 's all. talk."

the word talk, coming from henry bowers, was even more sinister than a death threat. it was a euphemism that promised a world of pain. but the other part - my girl - echoed in the space between you, a claim so profound and possessive it stole your breath.

the porch light flickered on, a sudden, harsh interrogation.

"y/n?" your dad's voice called, muffled but polite. "you out there?"

henry's eyes didn't leave yours. his amused smile didn't falter. he leaned in, lips brushing your ear warmly. "do your homework. put ice on that leg. i'll see ya tomorrow."

he pulled back, giving your hand one final, grounding squeeze. then, with a startling shift in demeanor, he turned toward your father, who was now a stern silhouette in the golden doorway. henry's posture changed - not slouching, but straightened with respectfull stiffness. he took a step back from you, putting a non-threatening distance between himself and the doorway of your home.

"mr. l/n," he nodded towards your father. "just walkin' her home. town's fulla creeps after dark." his voice was humble, different than you'd heard it at school.

your father's expression was unreadable, a mix of paternal concern and the deep lines of skepticism. he looked from henry to your face, searching for honesty.

"i see," he said, his voice careful and neutral. his eyes dropped to the rip in your tights, the hint of purple beneath the mesh. "everything alright, sweetheart?"

"yes, dad," you said, your voice steadier than you felt. "henry walked me home. i.. i took a shortcut and tripped. he helped me."

the lie was flimsy, but you were going to stick with it until the situation was less tense. your dad's eyes lingered on henry for a moment. henry didn't fidget. he met the look with a calm, open expression that was utterly disarming. a true testament to all of the facets of his deep personality. the performance of a lifetime.

finally, your dad gave a slow nod. "alright. thank you, henry. we appreciate you seeing her home."

the 'we' was pointed, a re-establishment of the family unit, a subtle reclamation. henry just nodded again, that same respectful dip of his chin.

"no problem, sir. g'night."

he gave you one last look, a quick, private flash of those stormy blues that held a universe of promises and apologies. then, he turned and walked down the path. he didn't swagger. he just walked, a tall, solitary figure disappearing into the twilight, leaving behind the scent of engine oil, aftershave, and a silence that felt both relieved and charged.

your dad waited until henry was completely out of sight before placing a heavy arm on your shoulder and leading you to the kitchen. he gestured for you to sit at the table while he grabbed you an ice pack.

when he returned, you knew he'd seen the lack of the truth.

"you want to tell me what really happened?" his voice was soft.

you frowned, biting your lip.

"dad.."

"now, y/n. please and thank you."

the "please and thank you" was your father's secret weapon. it was the phrase he used when the situation had moved past parental concern and into the territory of seriousness. it meant the truth, the whole truth, was non-negotiable.

you took a deep breath, the scent of henry still faint on your clothes. you looked at your dad's worried, loving face and knew you couldn't continue to lie.

"patrick hockstetter.. that weird kid all the girls talk about from school?"

you watched the recognition - the horror. he'd heard the whispers at town council meetings, the worried murmurs from other parents. patrick hockstetter wasn't just a bully; he was a quiet, unsettling rumor given flesh.

"he followed me. trapped me in the alley behind the old cinema."

your dad's hand, which had been resting on the table, clenched into a fist. the knuckles went white. "did he hurt you?"

"he tried. he grabbed me. he.." you gestured at your leg, the memory of patrick's hand on the back of your thigh making your skin crawl. "he was saying disgusting things. and i couldn't get away."

the air in the kitchen grew thick with a parental rage so potent it was almost a smell. your father took two paces toward the back door, as if he might go out and hunt patrick down himself that very second. then he stopped, matering the impulse with a visible, shuddering effort. he turned back to you, his face a mask of anguish.

"and then?" he asked, voice still gentle.

"and then henry came." you saw your dad's jaw tighten at the name. "he came out of nowhere. he.. he pulled patrick off me. messed him up a little.. told him if ever looked at me again, he'd do worse." you didn't soften the words. your father needed to hear the brutal, unfiltered truth. "patrick ran."

your father was silent for a long moment, absorbing.

"he walked you home." he acknowledged.

"yes. he picked my things up. he was.. quiet. not like at school. he was just henry. like he used to be when he came to run around in the sprinklers with me that summer." you looked down at your hands, twisted in your lap. "he said sorry. for everything. for patrick."

your dad sank back into his chair, thinking.

"henry bowers," he said finally, the name heavy in the quiet kitchen. "his father's a mean son of a bitch. the apple doesn't fall far, they say."

you opened your mouth to protest, but he held up a hand.

"but," he continued, his eyes wise and tired, "an apple can roll. sometimes it rolls a long way from the tree when it's given the right push." he sighed, rubbing his forehead. "just.. be careful, okay? that boy's got a world of hurt in him."

you nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat. "i know, dad."

he kissed the top of your head. "get some rest."

but you didn't. you sat by your bedroom window, the ice pack melting against your skin, and watched the street. the night was still. when you went to sleep that night, you dreamt of him. just like you had many nights before.

when your alarm went off at 7:00, you got dressed quickly, forgoing the usual, careful outfit for comfortable jeans and a sweater. you threw your hair up into a ponytail, not bothering with curlers. at 7:43, you stepped onto your porch.

you took the long way.

and there he was, leaning against the old stone wall at the park entrance, exactly as promised the night before. tall, blonde, scarred up. a cigarette hung from his lips, smoking into the wind, and his eyes caught yours quickly. they scanned your outfit, noticing the differences.

"no skirt today?" he hummed. his voice was a low rasp, sandpaper-soft in the quiet morning. the cigarette bobbed as he spoke. his gaze wasn't a leer; it was an observation, a cataloguing of a change that mattered to him.

"not today," you said, stopping in front of him. the air between you was different in the daylight. less charged with desperation, more solid with this new, fragile reality. you were henry bowers' best girl.

he took a final drag, then flicked the cigarette into the gutter, crushing it under his boot with a twist of his heel. "cute." he smirked, tugging at your sweater. "shame, though. wanted pat to see the reason he got his second ass beating."

you rolled your eyes. he'd already delivered the first in the alley. the second.. it was the 'conversation' from last night. the one that left his knuckles raw. he hadn't just protected you; he'd sent a follow-up message. you were hoping he wouldn't follow through, but you were foolish for thinking it.

"you paid him a visit," you said, a statement. your mild irritation disappeared when henry's cold fingers reached for yours without you asking for it. a first move. not typical for him.

he shrugged, chuckling a little.

"he sees you, he sees me. he sees my hand comin' for his teeth. was gonna let it go, but the bruise pissed me off."

you scoffed.

"i told you that--"

"i know what you told me, doll. you told me it didn't hurt and it'd heal and all that shit," he interrupted, his voice slightly losing its playfulness. "but i saw it. on your skin. from one of my boys." he tilted his head slightly towards you, as if making sure you wouldn't slip away. "i can't let that go. the talkin', making nice, the long way home.. that's all for you. but that?" he gestured to your leg. "that needs a different language. and hockstetter only speaks one."

you glanced down at his hands. his knuckles were split, dried blood littering them from where he hadn't bothered to clean. you traced your fingers over the split gently, soothing.

"you forgive me?" his voice softened, but the teasing edge returned. "or do i gotta get on my knees?"

the image was so absurd that as hard as you resisted, a giggle escaped you. his eyes crinkled at the corners with genuine amusement.

"there it is," he murmured. "knew you weren't all pissed off."

you shook your head, still smiling, your fingers still tracing the ridges of his damaged hands. "i'm not. just don't want you to go getting yourself hurt for me."

his free hand came up, cupping your chin with surprising confidence. he forced your gaze to his face. "trust me. he looks way worse."

"didn't doubt it." you sighed.

he chuckled again, more air than noise, but real. he liked your lack of doubt. he liked that you didn't flinch from the evidence of what he'd done. his thumb stroked your cheekbone, a rough, tender caress.

"you're somethin' else, you know that?" he said, his voice a low rumble. "most girls'd be screamin' at me to stop, callin' me an animal."

"you are an animal," you said, but there was no bite in it. it was just a fact, one you were learning to accept. an animal, but not a cold-hearted one. one with some redemption still left in him. "the best kind, though."

he smirked again. "oh yeah? what kind?"

"the type with really nice arms in a muscle tank."

a loud, genuine laugh came now, shocking you both. it was a rich, full sound you hadn't heard since childhood, completely unrestrained. he threw his head back for a second, shoulders shaking, before he reined it in, but the wide, delighted grin remained.

"jesus christ," he wheezed. "that's what you got from all this? my arms in a tank top?"

you shrugged, feeling your own face heat with a blush. "i'm a simple girl, bowers, with simple needs. protection, loyalty, nice biceps. you're three for three."

he shook his head, still grinning, a lightness in his expression you'd thought was gone forever. "unbelievable," he let go of your chin to tug playfully at your ponytail. "alright, simple girl. let's get your simple ass to school before i gotta have another 'conversation' with a truant officer."

he kept hold of your hand as you walked, but the mood had shifted. there was a giddy easiness between you. he'd shown you the darkness, and you'd not only accepted it, but made him laugh about it. it felt like a miracle.

as you approached the school, the usual tension began to creep back, but was different. you were different.

"alright, listen," he said, his voice dropping as you hit the edge of the school property. "the shit you're gonna hear today... it's gonna be nasty. about me. about you. about what they think we did or didn't do." he squeezed your hand. "you look 'em dead in the eye and you don't say a goddamn word. let 'em wonder. let 'em be scared of what they don't know."

"you've given this speech before," you observed.

"never to anyone who mattered," he admitted. then, he straightened up, the mask of unapproachable toughness settling over his features like a helmet. "my shop's on the other side. i got shop class last period," he hummed. "i'll be at the fence at the bell. don't make me come find you."

with that, he let go of your hand. but instead of walking away, he did something that sent a fresh wave of whispers through the students loitering in front of the school doors.

he leaned down and kissed you.

it wasn't the same as the alley. it was firm, deliberate, and over in three seconds. a public brand and declaration. when he pulled back, his eyes were blazing with a fierce pride. proud of himself for being authentic. for letting you back in. proud of himself for finally having something good.

"see you at later, gorgeous."

then, he was striding away, not looking back. he left you there with the taste of spearmint and tobacco and the imprint of his lips on yours. you were the center of every astonished stare in the yard.

you took a deep, steadying breath, feeling the weight of his kiss like a suit of armor. you remembered his advice. you didn't smile. you didn't frown. you just lifted your chin and walked through the whispering crowd, your head high, your expression unreadable.

let them wonder. let them be scared.

you caught the gaze of patrick hockstetter, who'd quickly been left behind by henry, belch and vic. he looked worse than before. the sight of him was a cold splash of reality. patrick stood alone, leaning against the brick wall near the bike racks, a pariah twice over. one eye was swollen shut, a grotesque rainbow of purple and yellow. a butterfly bandage held together a split on his eyebrow. he held himself stiffly, as if breathing hurt.

but it was his expression that chilled you. the predatory hunger was gone, replaced by a hollow, sullen terror. and when his good eye met yours, that terror spiked into pure, unadulterated panic. he flinched, looking away immediately, shrinking into himself as if trying to disappear into the bricks.

the message was received. you were no longer prey.

inside, the whispers were a living thing, clinging to the lockers and trailing behind you.

"…saw him kiss her right out there…" "…bowers? seriously? is she insane?" "…heard what he did to patrick…" "…she's dead meat, she just doesn't know it yet…"

you walked to your locker, ignoring it all. when you spun the combination, you found a small, folded piece of notebook paper wedged in the vent. you pulled it out.

in that same blocky, careful script:

don't eat the cafeteria slop. meet me at the east fire exit. 12:15. -h

a smile touched your lips. he'd planned ahead. he was bringing you lunch.

you tucked the note into your pocket, the paper as precious as a love letter. the morning passed in a blur. teachers glanced at you with new curiosity. girls you barely knew shot you looks ranging from pity to outright envy. boys gave you a wide berth, their eyes skittering away nervously.

when the bell for lunch rang, you didn't go to the cafeteria. you walked to the rarely-used east fire exit, your heart doing a funny little flip.

Hh was already there, leaning against the wall, a brown paper bag in one hand. he'd changed out of his shop coveralls into a clean, grey t-shirt that did, in fact, show off his arms quite nicely. he saw you and pushed off the wall, that private, soft smile that was only for you touching his lips.

"took you long enough," he said, handing you the bag.

you peeked inside. two decent-looking ham sandwiches, a bag of chips, two cans of coke, and two perfect, red cherries placed carefully on top.

"you made these?" you asked, touched.

"stole 'em from the teacher's lounge," he corrected, completely unashamed. "better ingredients. c'mon."

he led you out the door and around the corner to a small, hidden alcove formed by the auditorium wall and a stand of overgrown bushes. it was private, shaded, and quiet.

he sat down on the sun-warmed concrete, patting the spot next to him. you sat, your shoulders touching. he opened his coke with a sharp pssht and took a long drink.

for a few minutes, you ate in comfortable silence, the ordinary school sounds fading away. it felt bizarrely normal, like a thousand other lunches you'd shared as kids, just with more scars and a heavier understanding hanging between you.

"see hockstetter?" he asked casually, taking a bite of his sandwich.

"yeah."

he nodded, chewing. "good. he see you?"

"he saw me."

another nod. a satisfied glint in his eye. "good."

you picked up one of the cherries by its stem, twirling it. "you didn't have to do all this, you know."

he looked at you, his expression serious. "yeah, i did. this," he gestured between the two of you with his coke can, "this is the good part. the part i gotta get right. the other stuff…" he shrugged, his meaning clear. the violence, the intimidation, that was the old language, the background noise. this - the quiet sharing of stolen sandwiches - this was the new thing he was trying to build. and he was treating it with a focused, solemn intensity.

you leaned your head against his shoulder. he stiffened for a second, then relaxed, his arm coming up to wrap around you, pulling you closer.

"best lunch i've ever had," you murmured.

he rested his cheek against the top of your head. "don't get used to it. teacher's lounge might beef up security."

you both laughed, a soft, shared sound in your hidden little world. outside, the rumor mill churned, and patrick hockstetter nursed his wounds, and the whole school wondered.