#phantomhivemast3r

Shifted through all this to find you Pulling back layers to find through Piecing it all back together Unlearning all of my patterns Finding out what really matters

—Cycles by SVRCINA—

Eddie was dead.

For one terrible, agonizing moment, Richie watched helplessly as his best friend took his last breath, one final quip issuing from pale, blood-stained lips. Richie could only sit there, the world around him disappearing as every cell in his body focused on Eddie’s lifeless form. It seemed like Eddie was merely asleep, head lolled to the side as his chest feebly rose and fell—

With a start, Richie realized that this wasn’t part of his imagination—shallow breaths were issuing from Eddie’s weak mouth, far overshadowed by the noise of the fight nearby. His chest was indeed moving up and down, albeit with great, pained effort.

A giddy laugh escaped Richie’s lips.

“I’m gonna get you out, Eds,” he said reverently, making a solemn vow between them. He stood, not wanting to leave the open wound in Eddie’s torso without the firm pressure of his hands, but knowing the others needed his immediate help more. The sooner they killed this fucking clown, the sooner they could get Eddie out. With a whoop of determination, Richie turned and ran back to the rest of the Losers, only one thing on his mind: get everyone home—alive—as soon as possible.

A few minutes later, the clown was defeated and the walls were starting to shake. Frantically, Richie led the Losers to Eddie’s body and with a bit of maneuvering, he and Ben managed to hoist the smaller man up and on track to the exit. The group worked together to carry—and sometimes drag—Eddie through the crumbling sewers, switching off who supported him when their bodies got too tired.

Everyone took turns but Richie, who refused to let go of his best friend even as his muscles screamed for a break from the added weight. However, Richie pushed through; this pain was nothing compared to the cavernous dark he’d felt when he thought Eddie was gone. Though the sensation had been brief, Richie never wanted to experience something like that again.

In a daze the group exited the sewers, daylight shocking them into hazy awareness of all that had just transpired. Richie wanted nothing more than to run straight to the old quarry and jump off the high cliff with his friends in celebration, screaming with triumph as they’d done twenty-seven years ago.

But Eddie—

His Eddie

—was in his arms, barely breathing—

Barely alive

—but still hanging on despite everything.

Without a second thought the group rushed Eddie to the hospital, where he was quickly escorted into surgery and the rest of the Losers sent to wait on uncomfortable plastic chairs.

While waiting, they were also treated for minor injuries—mainly cuts and scrapes, a few bruised limbs here and there, but nothing life-threatening. It seemed as though Eddie had somehow taken the brunt of the damage for everyone, a fact which twisted the Losers’ hearts in inexplicable gratitude.

Richie only accepted help from the insistent nurses—and an even more insistent Bill—on the condition that he could be treated in the waiting area, not wanting to miss the doctor who came to deliver the news of Eddie’s fate.

And so Richie remained, living in the hospital from the moment visitor hours started to the second they ended and he was ushered out by a harried nurse. His seat in the waiting area was soon replaced with a mildly cozier chair in a private patient room, the nurses working tirelessly around him to make sure Eddie was as comfortable as could be for the state he was in.

When not in the hospital, Richie stayed at the Derry Town House with the rest of the Losers. They’d all decided to remain in Derry for a while, at the very least until Eddie recovered and at the very most for… well, who knew how long. Many of them realized things during their recent adventure that had been buried for the better part of nearly three decades, and they were determined to not to move on with their lives until everything was settled.

Richie, for his part, had finally figured out that he loved the obnoxious, neurotic Eddie Kapsbrak more than life itself. Once the realization hit him like a ton of bricks—sometime between when Eddie had gotten stabbed by Henry Bowers and when the Losers Club finally discovered It’s lair—so many things from his early teen years to now made complete sense. Richie only wished he’d understood his feelings sooner and had a chance to say something before Eddie wound up unconscious in a hospital bed.

Well then, Richie reasoned, he’d just have to tell Eddie once he woke up.

***

It took one and a half weeks for Eddie to come back to life. Richie was dozing in the chair next to the bed as usual, when a low groan nearly made him jump out of his skin. He sprang up and instantly rushed to Eddie’s side.

“Eds?!” Richie whispered urgently. Eddie’s face was scrunched in an expression of discomfort, but that didn’t necessarily mean he was awake. Richie had seen his friend’s face twisted in pain more times than he cared to count over these past few weeks, but after a few seconds Eddie would always lapse back into stillness, further burying whatever spark of hope Richie had that he would ever wake up. This time, however, was different.

“Ugh… Richie?” Eddie groaned, bleary eyes cracking open.

“Hey, Eddie Spaghetti!” Richie answered with a loud, delirious laugh.

He was awake! He was actually awake!

“Hey, Trashmouth,” Eddie answered back, a bit slowly but with a hint of his usual snippiness. He squeezed his eyes shut for a few seconds and then opened them again, fully turning his head to face the friend at his side. “Man, I feel like shit…”

“You don’t look much better,” Richie quipped back, a huge grin on his face. Eddie rolled his eyes.

“Oh, real nice, Tozier—insulting the guy laying in the hospital the second he wakes up? What did I ever do to deserve such—ouch—pleasant company?”

“Eds, for you the service is complimentary!”

“Fuck you.”

“Fuck you, too!”

Richie continued grin madly, and Eddie’s expression of fake contempt quickly morphed into a bright smile of his own. He let out a sigh, relief washing over his face.

“In all seriousness, Eddie,” Richie began in a soft tone only used when he needed to make a very important point. “I’m glad you’re back.”

“Me fucking too!” Eddie laughed, then winced at the tight pull on his chest. “So, uh… what the hell happened?”

“Do you want the novel or the Spark Notes edition?” Richie raised an eyebrow, noting Eddie’s discomfort. Now that he was awake, it was only a matter of time before the doctors came in to check him over, but Riche hoped they got a few more minutes alone before the chaos began.

“Uh… Spark Notes,” Eddie responded, gingerly examining the intricate tubing and machinery he was connected to. He pointedly did not lift the covers to check the wound on his chest—he’d been having nightmares about its cause constantly and the dull pain in his torso proved that everything had been all too real. “We can let Bill tell me the novelization once I’m out of here, since that’s kinda his thing anyway.”

“Agreed,” Richie said with another grin. He raised a hand instinctively to push a wayward piece of hair off Eddie’s forehead, then froze when his fingers were an inch away. Eddie gazed up at his hand with wide eyes that slowly shifted to meet Richie’s own. With a nervous laugh, Richie pulled his hand back and let it hang numbly by his side.

“Let’s see…,” he began, gazing up at the ceiling thoughtfully and hoping Eddie didn’t notice the red tinge to his cheeks. “Well, after you, uh… you know…” Richie made a vague gesture. “We went back to It and kicked that clown’s ass. Well, okay, it tried to rough us up a little first, but eventually we got the upper hand.”

“How did you kill it?” Eddie asked, his expression full of curiosity.

Damn, Richie just wanted to take that gorgeous face in his hands, lean in, and—

“We bullied it into submission,” Richie explained, ignoring the intrusive thought. When Eddie scoffed, Richie let out a chuckle. “I’m serious! It preyed on our fear, so we realized that if we didn’t have any fear left to give, It would get weak. So we just started insulting the damn thing—we had a lot of material to use—and as we gained confidence, It lost its strength. Eventually It shrunk down to this, like, big-headed… thing and then Bill literally pulled its heart out.”

“Ugh… sounds nasty,” Eddie said, mouth twisting downwards in disgust.

“Yeah, it was hella gnarly.” Richie nodded solemnly in agreement, then smiled again. “But in the end, we killed It—and this time, we’re sure that clown is dead for good.”

“Thank god.” Eddie let out a huge sigh of relief, sinking back into the bed.

“Hey, uh…” Richie trailed off, scratching the back of his head nervously. “Thanks, Eds. For… for saving me back there. If it wasn’t for you’d I’d have been clown food.”

“Don’t mention it,” Eddie said, a kind smile playing at the edges of his lips. His brown eyes were half-lidded with exhaustion, but he pressed on. “Thanks for getting me out of there, even when I was useless.”

“You weren’t useless!” Richie exclaimed, offended that Eddie would even suggest that. Eddie laughed.

“You know what I mean; I’m sure it wasn’t easy dragging my body through all those tiny passages.”

“Well, luckily you’re like half the size of Beverly, so it worked out fine.”

“Wha—I am not!”

Richie snickered at Eddie’s glare, and soon enough Eddie joined in despite the ache in his chest.

They had made it.

They had really made it.

“Hey, Rich—” Eddie began, but was cut off by a sudden banging on one of the room’s windows that looked into the rest of the hospital. The blinds were drawn a few hours ago, but one set of curtains had been wrenched away as Beverly and Ben pressed their excited faces to the glass and smacked their palms against it to get the boys’ attention.

“Geez, guys, don’t give the dude a heart attack the second he wakes up!” Richie called, his annoyance masked by happiness that some of the other Losers knew that Eddie was awake now, too. Eddie rolled his eyes as he watched Beverly and Ben get a stern talking-to from a nurse who’d come running to see what the commotion was about.

“What were you saying, Eds?” Richie asked, bringing Eddie’s attention back to him.

“Never mind,” Eddie said with a light shake of his head. He pointed to the pair outside the window. “Can you please get those two in here before they break the damn glass? This hospital bill is already going to drain my bank account and I’m not adding that window to my tab…”

“Yes, sir!” Richie replied with an ostentatious salute, then moved to open the door and allow Beverly and Ben into the room, the pair screeching with excitement.

They all collapsed on top of Eddie, who accepted their affection with a grunt of surprise and then did his best to hug them back until the burly nurse pulled them away by the scruff of their collars. Eddie met Richie’s gaze over Beverly’s shoulder and Richie gave him a smile so full of pure joy that Eddie felt as though he might cry. Then, he got a good look at Ben’s face and saw that there were already tears down his cheeks, and that was it—with shuddering breath, Eddie let out a sob and held out his arms for his three friends to fall into them again.

Finally, after twenty-seven years, they were safe.

***

Read Chapter 1 on Tumblr. (You are here.)

Read Chapter 2 on Tumblr. [TO BE RELEASED]

“My dear, close your eyes for a moment; I have something for you,” Aziraphale said softly. Crowley raised a curious eyebrow but obeyed, noting the nervous excitement in the angel’s expression.

“Didn’t know we were exchanging presents early; isn’t our anniversary next week?” Crowley asked and heard Aziraphale’s faint laughter from the other room.

“Yes, but your present arrived early and I just got so excited that I simply couldn’t wait. I hope that’s alright?” The angel’s voice was close again, and Crowley felt the couch cushion sink slightly as Aziraphale took a seat next to her.

“’Course it’s alright, as long as you’re okay with getting your gift on our actual anniversary?”

“Of course, dear! Now, hold out your hands.”

Crowley did so and a large, square object was placed in her open palms. She cracked her eyes open and saw a wrapped present, complete with a fancy golden (obviously lovingly-miracled) bow on top. Eagerly, she ripped away the colorful paper to reveal a framed picture of a circular sky full of constellations. Above the star chart was a very familiar date, while the inscription beneath read: “The Very First Day of the Rest of Our Lives.”

“Angel, what…?” Crowley breathed, staring at the picture in awe.

“It’s a star chart of the sky on the Sunday after the apocalypse-that-wasn’t,” Aziraphale clarified, wringing her hands nervously. It was hard to read the expression on Crowley’s face; she looked happy, but there was also something in her eyes that the angel couldn’t pinpoint. “I… I know that it might not be entirely accurate—it was created by humans, after all, not an all-powerful being like yourself who helped make the stars—but I just thought it might be a nice… memento, I suppose, of when we officially started our lives on our own side.”

“Oh, Aziraphale… I love it.” Crowley’s mouth split into a huge grin as she leaned over to give Aziraphale a peck on the cheek.

“Oh, wonderful!” Aziraphale returned the smile, giggling when Crowley trailed light kisses up and down her neck. “I wasn’t sure it was the right gift, you know, so—”

“Angel.” Crowley sat up and placed the picture on the nearby table, then met Aziraphale’s gaze. “You’re the most thoughtful being on this whole blasted planet, and even though I’ll love anything you give me, this is definitely at the top of the present list so far. So stop fretting and just kiss me, will you?”

Aziraphale laughed again, a pretty blush spreading across her face.

Book

Aziraphale knocked three times on the door to Crowley’s apartment before letting herself in.

“Hello, my love!” she called out, smiling when her demon’s familiar voice sounded from the direction of the bedroom.

“Hey, Angel, I’m just finishing getting ready—I’ll be out in a few. Make yourself at home.”

Aziraphale made her way towards the living room. What used to be a cold, sparsely decorated space now seemed a little cozier with the addition of a few bookshelves. Aziraphale’s eyes scanned the room, seeing if there were any new books to read while she waited for her love to finish getting ready. Her gaze landed on the glass coffee table, where one of those e-readers rested close to the couch.

A “nook,” or something to that effect, the angel thought with a slight wrinkle of her nose. As one might predict, she was not the biggest fan of electronic books; in her mind, nothing could beat the scent of parchment and the heavy weight of a favorite story in your hands. However, she did have to concede that e-readers had their uses, especially for people like Crowley whose eyes sometimes played funny tricks and made it difficult to read standard print.

Curiously, Aziraphale picked up the tablet. She wondered what Crowley might be reading these days, or if this was just another device she used for scrolling through social media and starting futile online arguments. She soon managed to turn the device on and the screen lit up, revealing an open web browser.

Ah, just as I thought, Aziraphale mused, then quickly gasped as she processed what she was looking at.

The browser was open to an unassuming search engine, which was currently displaying results for “gemstones meaning eternal love & devotion.” With shaking fingers, Aziraphale gently pressed the search bar, thanking the Lord above that Crowley had shown her how to use basic website search functions on one of her many, many lessons on technology.

The most recent result that popped up was “best ideas for wedding rings.”

Aziraphale felt a flood of love through her corporation so powerful she swore that she began to glow. She carefully turned off the tablet and replaced it on the table, deciding it best not to bring up the fact that she’d been snooping.

It was good timing, for she soon heard Crowley coming down the hallway and couldn’t help an absolutely radiant smile from crossing her face.

The Dowling Residence, Before the Not-pocalypse

“Look, Nanny—a shooting star!” Warlock bounced on his feet excitedly, pointing up at the sky as a bright light rocketed towards earth.

“Very good, my little devil!” Crowley said, giving the boy a tired smile. It was, admittedly, rather late for a six year old to be out at night, but Warlock had insisted on eating ice cream too late and the chef had decided to adhere to the request rather than risk a tantrum. This had earned Warlock praise from his nanny for “forcing the humans to bend to his will,” but an unintended consequence came in the extreme sugar rush that shortly followed dessert. Crowley tried many things to make Warlock sleep, but was at the end of her limit and decided to take the boy out to look at the stars as a last resort, thinking maybe getting out of the house would tire him easier.

“Momma says that you’re s’pposed to wish on shooting stars,” Warlock said, sitting down on the bench next to his caretaker (a miracle, the demon thought). Wide blue eyes bored through dark glasses and the boy asked, “What do you wish for, Nanny?”

The question took the demon off-guard. She didn’t usually wish for things; if she wanted anything, she could simply use her powers to get it.

Well…, she thought, frowning slightly. Almost anything.

“I bet I know what you wished for,” Warlock said with a knowing look much too mature for a boy his age.

“Oh, is that so?” Crowley asked with a raised eyebrow. Before she could ask him to elaborate, a figure clad in tan and pale blue appeared from the direction of the greenhouse.

“Well, hello there, dearies; I thought I heard you two out here!” Aziraphale said in the overdone accent she’d adopted for the Sister Francis persona. She wore a beaming smile and Crowley couldn’t help the way her normally-tight expression melted slightly at the angel’s presence.

“I knew it,” Warlock whispered, quiet enough for only Crowley to hear.

“Hmm?” the demon said absently, trying unsuccessfully to focus on the boy at her side. She hadn’t seen Aziraphale in a few days due to busy schedules, so encountering her oldest acquaintance was a welcome thing, especially on a night such as this.

“Nothing,” Warlock responded in a sing-song tone. He grinned and gave his nanny a quickly hug, briefly gaining her full attention. “I’m feeling kinda tired now; I’m gonna go to bed. See you in the morning, Nanny Ash!”

With a wave to Aziraphale, Warlock dashed off towards the house.

“Warlock, what—ugh, that child,” Crowley groaned, rolling her eyes when she was sure the boy made it safely inside.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you,” Aziraphale said in her normal voice, coming to a stop at Crowley’s side. “I just heard the two of you chatting and thought I’d see what was going on since it’s so late…”

“No, it wasn’t you, Angel.” Crowley sighed and rolled her shoulders, preparing to get up. She glanced at Aziraphale and paused, then settled back into the bench and patted the seat next to her. “Well, since you walked all the way over, you might as well sit and chat for a bit.”  

“That sounds lovely.” Aziraphale smiled and took a seat. She looked up and let out a gasp, pointing towards the sky. “Look, dear—a shooting star! Oh, did you make that one?”

***

Warlock watched his nanny and gardener from his bedroom window until Sister Frances took a seat on the bench, quite a bit closer to Nanny Ash than most people would dare. Satisfied at a job complete, he closed the curtain and crawled into bed, a grin on his face.

Crowley loved Aziraphale’s eyes. One might think, between the two of them, the demon’s eyes were more interesting. However, if one actually asked said demon, she would immediately disagree.

Crowley’s eyes were a symbol of danger, a warning of someone not to be messed with, and an easy way to gauge her excitement (depending on who was asked). They were the focal point whenever they were on view, and therefore Aziraphale’s eyes were often overlooked.

Crowley would say that this was quite a shame. If one stared into Aziraphale’s eyes, really looked, they would see an unending depth of love—love for all living beings, love for books, love for a particularly scrummy meal at the Ritz, and even love for a demon, of all things.

But there was more—oh so much more.

There was compassion for those less fortunate, adoration for those closest to her, and kindness for those that needed a little miracle. These are all the things Crowley would say, and so much more, when asked why she loved her angel’s eyes.

Of course, not being very adept at words at the best of times, Crowley would find it hard to actually articulate this when asked to describe the love of her life. She would ponder the question, lips pressed together in thought, before her smile softened and she said the only thing she could think to describe everything revealed in the those bright blue depths: