ʀɪᴄʜɪᴇ (beepbeep) wrote in evaluation, @ 2019-12-02 18:06:00 |
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Entry tags: | !rooms: 2: day 7, dc: constantine: john constantine, it: chapter two: richie tozier |
Who: Richie & Constantine (and Stan! As a ghost!)
What: Saying goodbye properly - then later there's a psychic vision or two
When: Day 7, technically, like at midnight
Where: Ted's house, then back to the motel
Rating: PG-13ish, just some tear-jerking stuff
Status: Complete
The house felt like it had fallen directly out of Ikea’s showrooms and was absolutely the tidiest place John had ever seen in his entire life. That included the time he’d popped ‘round to Ava’s, and given she was the most anal-retentive person he’d ever met before, he’d thought her flat would be the pinnacle of neat. Ava Sharpe had nothing on Doctor Toothpaste Ad, though, and John marveled quietly as he prowled through on his way to the bedroom. “Startin’ to think Alexis might be shagging a robot,” he mused, thoughtful. It would explain a lot, including her incredibly high threshold for weird. Not that he wanted to throw stones, here. She was being incredibly kind to give them use of the house for this little enterprise, since John hadn’t been keen to try summoning the dead in the middle of their motel room. For one, the walls were thin. For another, people had been popping ‘round all afternoon, looking for pot brownies. They were well out of baked goods by now, but that wasn’t stopping the visitors and the last thing John’s process needed was a bunch of interruptions. Concentration mattered a lot in his business. Better he didn’t start letting spirits run loose just because someone came knocking despite the late hour. He’d started to put the whole thing off, really, wary of Richie’s sobriety. Everyone handled their intoxicants differently. Constantine wasn’t much for edibles. He preferred alcohol if he was going to fuck his ability to think straight, so mostly he’d spent the late afternoon watching Richie eat his weight in greasy snacks and wax poetic about whatever crossed his mind. That was a broad set of topics, incidentally. Almost impressive, the breadth of rambling he could accomplish when out of his skull. Glancing back now as he lit candles, John arched his brows. “You sure you’re up for this, lamb? Always tomorrow, if you need a little more time.” True, Richie had been stoned out of his damn mind - but he ate a bunch of greasy food, giving into the desire for fatty and salty goodness, and then came down off the high by just letting his body digest and like, sleeping. He did sleep a lot, at least. And talked a lot too. Hopefully he didn’t say something too stupid, but he was pretty sure John would tell him if that was the case. And be gleeful about it. So yeah, he was fine now. Coherent. He maybe needed a shave, given the way the dark bristle crawled up his jaw and pricked his cheeks, but he was well-rested and the medicine bottle blue of his eyes maintained a sharpness he didn’t want to lose for something like this. “I’m sure,” he promised, attempting to get comfortable on the bed - it was fluffy white sheets and pillowcases and a matching comforter that looked (and felt) like a cloud, so he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to be sitting here or not, but. It would do. He sat cross-legged, folding long limbs all pretzel-style. This house really was nice, and Ted seemed too perfect to be real - but Alexis assured them he wouldn’t ask any questions, just please don’t burn the house down because that was rude. Richie supposed he couldn’t disagree with that. “Just, like - don’t hurt yourself?” he added, glancing at John as the candle flames danced and wiggled. John snorted softly as he placed the last of the candles. “Don’t fret too much. This isn’t such a tricky business.” Not for him, anyway. The dead were his earliest successes, for whatever that was worth. He supposed it had been his motivation at work. Spend a childhood trying to figure out how to contact the mother he’d never known, make quick work of speaking to spirits. This wasn’t his first rodeo. Rolling his bruised neck, he eyed Richie and his nest on the bed, then adjusted the position of the mirror. “Right, here we go, then. We’ll be using the mirror as our doorway, since we don’t have anybody ready and willing to go playing host to your mate. Better that way, too. Keeps him on that side and us on this one, and we’re not likely to get any crossover so long as you don’t go touching anything, all right? Not the mirror, not me.” Mirrors were good for this sort of thing. Alexis having a full-length number ready for use made things easy enough, so John stroked his fingers along the surface with a low murmur. The fingerprints left behind warped and rippled, sinking into the reflection as John closed his eyes and reached. Richie would have to do the actual calling, but John trusted him with that much. Intent mattered here, so hopefully he had the focus enough to picture one friend in specific while John held the doorway to make sure the call connected. So to speak. Don’t touch anything, alright, cool. Richie could handle that. He’d just sit on his hands, on this pristine bed, and everything would be completely copacetic. Except it didn’t exactly feel that way - it actually felt like a flock of butterflies with kitchen knives for wings were beating mercilessly against his stomach, scraping up his insides. He might vomit, but what else was new - he tended to deal with nerves by puking his fucking guts out before getting down to brass tacks. Or maybe he’d just save the puking for afterward. Because if he got through this without shitting himself, he’d be confident enough to maybe try contacting Eddie next - though admittedly that idea was enough to send him scuttling back to the land of Nope, Absolutely Fucking Not. Still, he’d see how it went. He’d asked for this, after all - so he was quiet as he watched John with the mirror, fingers twitching. His heart felt like it was about to splatter against his ribcage it was beating so hard but he closed his eyes and focused. He too reached, tumbling back into the recesses of his memories so he had a solid foundation - the haze cleared, cobwebs dissipating; he smelled stale air and moth balls, the supply closet of the synagogue, forgotten Saturday morning refreshment napkins, the dullness of the pews because nothing shined in Derry - Curly hair and an aquiline nose, razorblades and blood, couldn’t cut it, couldn’t cut it, couldn’t - Richie slid his hands up beneath his glasses, covering his eyes because he was apprehensive about looking. “Stan?” His voice wobbled a little, but he was sure. Sure as anything. The mirror’s reflective surface fogged out completely, filling with a white void that slowly blurred back to an indistinct, formless gray. It resolved slowly, a silhouette pushing through all those shadows until the man peering back from the mirror wasn’t Richie at all. He was shorter (who wasn’t?), a little stooped as if carrying a weight, and the look in his eyes was nothing but a dull shock for being here at all. “Richie?” There was a rasp beneath his voice, disbelief mingled with something like dismay. “Oh, God. Richie.” Jesus Christ on a pogo stick, what even - Richie launched himself at the mirror, forgetting for that split second that he wasn’t supposed to touch anything. Luckily he remembered the golden rule at the last moment, because the way he flailed backward, falling on his ass on the mattress, was almost comical. “Stan - Stanley, it’s...oh my god,” he choked out. He looked at John, then back at the mirror, then back at John, all in this rapidfire what the fuck kind of double take. “Wow, I’ll be damned. You turned out pretty hot.” That was - like, the least brilliant thing he could say to a literal, actual ghost who had been pulled from whatever plane he existed on and back to the land of the living. But give him a minute, he was working up to something better. Standing near enough to the mirror to maintain the doorway, John’s expression was tight with concentration- eyes closed, mouth pressed thin, fingers glowing faintly where they lingered on the mirror’s frame. He gave absolutely no impression of being aware of the exchange; no twitch, no acknowledgement, no fond snicker of laughter at the way Richie flailed like he’d forgotten how his limbs worked. Stan, on the other hand, coughed out a noise that couldn’t decide if it was a laugh, promptly looked horrified at himself, and clapped a hand over his mouth like he could shove the sound back inside. His eyes were very, very wide. “Fuck,” he breathed, finally. It was muffled through his fingers, and he seemed reluctant to pry them away again. But he did. He dragged the hand through unruly curls, clutched at the back of his neck, and blinked hard. “It really is you.” “Yeah, it’s me - “ Like, fucking duh, Richie. Duh. But he was still a little kerflummoxed - even so, he had the presence of mind to realize that John couldn’t hold the connection forever. It would probably get too dangerous, the more the seconds ticked by. Ghosts weren’t meant to just hang out with the living, or at least that was what Richie assumed. He sat up straight, scooting as close to the mirror as he could manage, right at the edge of the bed. “I wanted to see you. I - there’s a lot I wanted to tell you. I mean, you should know - we won, right? We killed IT. For good this time.” At the very least, Stan should know that he didn’t sacrifice himself for nothing. That he too was a lot braver than he thought he was. The smile that curved Stan’s mouth was genuine and still tinged with sadness, something tremulous in the way he exhaled and dropped his hands again. “I knew you could do it. I knew…” His gaze went distant, just for a moment, and his image seemed to waver before resolidifying. “You guys were always going to be the heroes.” He made a noise that wasn’t really a laugh. It was too fraught, maybe a little pitchy on the backside, but he caught it and swallowed it down. “I’m glad. I really am, Richie, you know?” Because that was all he’d wanted. He wanted to give them their best chance, and that meant not fucking it all up by being there and going to pieces. It was all he’d been able to think about; being the weak link, being the guy who didn’t have it in him to go a second round. Stan had never been brave. “I’m not a fucking hero, I’m just a comedian who doesn’t write his own material and misses his best friend,” Richie said, his voice cracking despite his best efforts - the way he felt, the sorrow, it could strip paint from whatever was left of his soul. The part that hadn’t been injected with a farewell from Pennywise. “But I mean - I get it, Stan. I do. I don’t blame you, I’m not mad - “ Because they were all idiots who loved each other in such a pure, unconditional way - forged with iron one summer due to shared experiences and shared trauma - that they were willing to die for each other too. And some of them had. “I felt you there,” he continued, wiping at his shining eyes. “With us. I mean, how could I not, Stanny? The way to kill that fucking clown was to bully it to death. Something you excelled at.” Letting them down, leaving Patty behind- those were the choices Stan made. He’d known it would disappoint them all. He’d expected anger. There were a whole universe of consequences he’d skipped out on by doing what he’d done. The people living with his choices… they hadn’t deserved that. But the other side of the coin had been giving them their best chances for survival. He couldn’t regret it now, hearing that it had been… something. Maybe not everything. Maybe only a tiny piece. But it was the best he could’ve done, and so he had to be content with it. “You were always so quick,” Stan chuckled, wetly. “I saw you once. In a club, in Atlanta. Do you remember that show?” He hadn’t remembered it. Not until it was too late to appreciate that it would literally be the last time he’d see any of his childhood friends. Come to think of it, he actually did remember. “That literal, actual hole in the wall? Dirty drinking?” Richie asked with a rough laugh - yeah, it was a real cute place. Bluesy and smoky, with the best wings and cheese fries and strong drinks - a very not Stan place, but it had been when Richie was starting out on the comedy circuit. He traveled a lot, staying in beat up hotels and living out of a suitcase - before he was performing in front of sold-out arena crowds and had his own late-night comedy routine he was going to bring to SNL. “I think I saw you there too - because I could never really forget you,” he said, his eyes red-rimmed and leaking tears. Then he became more somber, adding, “We lost Eddie.” He didn’t know how this afterlife thing worked. Though he liked to think Stan and Eddie were together, somehow, someplace. “Yeah, that’s the one,” Stan agreed, nostalgic. “I couldn’t convince Patty to come, which was probably for the best considering how many your mom jokes you made.” He laughed again, thick with tears, and shook his head. “I should’ve talked to you.” At least it would’ve been some kind of goodbye. It would’ve been a brief reconnection, maybe enough to jar memories loose… Maybe not. There were so many what if thoughts and they went nowhere. Done was done. Stan was dead. That wasn’t news to him and he wasn’t angry about it. Mostly he was sad, a little ache that curled in his chest and would never loosen up enough to leave him. He deserved that, he supposed. He drew an audible breath- call it a leftover, all those things that felt normal but were unnecessary now- and exhaled roughly. “I’m sorry. I’d hoped… I thought it would be only me.” Stan huffed. “Guess that’s kind of self-centered.” “It’s - he died a hero, actually,” Richie sniffed, shoulders slumping a bit. He felt tired - because, alright, he was a Loser, he owned up to that. But what made him weary, and feeling it in every dead, dusty bones, was losing people. Like Stan, like Eddie - he understood their reasons, their choices. But that didn’t make it easy. “He saved my life.” The next thing he said, he tried to sort through the sadness in the rubble of his head - to try to find the words to convey everything. “I loved him. Like - in a way that...I loved him before I even knew what love meant,” he choked out, the phrase foreign to his ears; he’d never heard himself say it before and at first it didn’t settle well because how could be possibly sum up how he felt about Eddie? They were simple words, lacking in colorful prose, but maybe that was okay - be who you want to be, be proud. Those were the words from Stan’s letter, and Richie wanted to try to follow them. Starting like, right the fuck now. “Oh, Richie,” Stan sighed, jerking forward like he’d try to offer some kind of physical comfort- a hug, maybe. He couldn’t. The barrier brought him up short, dragged a sound out of John where he stood nearby, holding that line. Quickly as Stan clocked the other presence, though, he seemed to forget it again. Or he got distracted by more important things. “We knew. I think we knew, anyway. It was… just one of those things. You two, you were something else.” The memories weren’t all there, and the ones that were in place were worn soft on the edges, a picture gone blurry with too much handling. “You deserved better. We all did.” Things could’ve been different, in another life. In another place. But they’d been handed these cards and they’d all done their best in their own way, and now there was nothing to do but move forward. “We all did,” Richie agreed. “But like I said, I’m not mad at you. None of us are. You were still there for us as you’ve always been. And I hope - I hope you’re okay.” He couldn’t touch the mirror itself, but he held his hand out, fingers stretching because the temptation to press against even the edge of that mirror was there. He swallowed the lump in his throat that felt like rusty nails. “I miss you, Stanny.” As he said it, he actually felt a little better - a weight was lifted, one barbell yanked off his chest and tossed to the sky. So that was something, at least. A very important something. People could bitch about their circumstances here all they wanted, complain about being kept prisoner, but for Richie? It gave him this. And that meant more than he could even comprehend. Some of the sadness in Stan’s expression lifted, easing lines around his eyes. “I’m okay,” he promised, softly. “I don’t regret my choice. Knowing you guys were able to finally end it… that’s really all I could hope for.” He reached out as well, hand splayed wide like he’d press it against the palm stretched in his direction. John grunted again, expression twisting with strain. “I love you, Richie. All of you. You did good.” He chuckled, image flickering slightly. “Keep doing good. Live your life and be happy.” There were no second chances or do-overs. No game restart. This was it. Stan wouldn’t take it back even if he could and that was more than a lot of people could say. Richie’s line of vision was blurry - not because he took his glasses off, but because the tears were threatening to overflow and he couldn’t see past them. “I love you too,” he huffed, and he meant that - it wasn’t all fireworks or passion, necessarily, but it flowed with a strength that held steady - like he loved all his friends. “Bye, Stan.” He had to let go now. Stan was okay, he’d said so himself, and it was one box closed - tucked away in Richie’s mind, sealed up where those memories of that curly-haired kid who was good at math could be stored, always. So he did what he’d done to connect their conversation, except the opposite - he reserved it, pushed the warmth of those memories from his immediate thoughts, but still kept them where they belonged. In his head. And in his stupid, sentimental heart. Bye, Richie. It wasn’t really verbal, more like the echo of a whisper as the mirror’s image fogged out again, the crisp lines of Stan’s figure softening and fading like smoke pluming and tattering in a breeze. John wavered, the glow at his fingertips flaring bright gold before he curled his hands in, away from the mirror’s frame. So far as doorways went, that one had closed again- not with a snap, but with a sigh that sounded satisfied. Several of the candles in the room went out as well, pitching them into near darkness. That was all right, then. John didn’t need the light anyway. He tottered over to the bed, temples throbbing, and took a seat that leaned him right into Richie’s space. “Okay?” He rasped, eyes half-lidded. Give him a minute and he’d be right as rain, but holding a doorway stable across universes wasn’t exactly a small feat. Richie nodded, “Yeah, it’s okay - more than okay,” and he wrapped his arms around John to pull him close when he practically slumped like a puppet with cut strings. Kisses all on his temple and the corner of his mouth as Richie held his face, thumb pressed to the hinge of his jaw - and one even right on his mouth, and this one was comprised of passion and gratitude. “Thank you.” What John had done for him was amazing - really fucking incredible, and Richie only wished he had something to offer in return besides just think he was the cat’s pajamas, and do whatever he could to show that. “I’m exhausted and I’m sure you are too, so as soon as you feel up to it we’re going back to our mostly sturdy bed.” Well, they hadn’t broken it yet even if there had been a few close calls. “Mm. Give me a few,” John mumbled, lips moving against Richie’s mouth. He felt vaguely like he’d put his brain through a sieve, but it wasn’t the worst thing he’d done by any stretch of the imagination. That weariness would fade given a little recovery time, and the way Richie sounded made it worth the effort and then some. There were still flickers and flashes of gold in his eyes, the faint tingle of power at his fingertips. He squinted at Richie, burrowing in closer like he could borrow all that warmth he felt whispering at the edges of his awareness. Nice to encounter a spirit that wasn’t pissed right the fuck off about being dead. John couldn’t say that happened too often. “Seemed nice,” he added, sparking fingertips stroking across a tear-stained cheek. The burnished gold in John’s eyes, crackling at his fingertips, it was all pretty mesmerizing. Richie nuzzled into his hand, the expression on his face both tearstained and adoring - and also probably something close to ‘fuckin’ mess,’ so he would just avoid looking in that mirror now that Stan’s image had faded away into the ether. “Yeah, he’s great. Kind of bitch though,” Richie snorted a laugh. But no, Stan wasn’t mad about being dead - he knew what he did, he had his reasons. Mostly, Richie just wanted to tell him it was okay, that he understood even if he didn’t have to like those reasons. “I’m glad he’s fine. The afterlife doesn’t suck, right?” It probably wasn’t solid gold toilet seats and being fed grapes while on a chaise lounge, but you know. As long as it wasn’t eternal damnation? The afterlife as a concept was too broad to pin down. There were layers and levels and more options than people really understood. Everyone got all bogged down in above and below, courtesy of a lot of religious fuckheads harping on it endlessly for long enough that the nuances got lost. Even Hell wasn’t all one thing all the time, at least not from John’s experience. “Nah,” he murmured, “Doesn’t have to. Kinda like life, it’s what you make of it.” He shifted a little, trying to pull himself upright, away from leeching off of Richie’s body heat and the stronger line of his shoulders. Exhaustion sucked at him, but John could shelve it for a while longer. They needed to tidy up a little, since Alexis had been good enough to give them the privacy for this, and make sure to lock up behind. “Here, help me up and we’ll get the rest of the candles.” Burning down Doctor Ted’s fancy digs wouldn’t win them any points, he was sure. Once they returned to their room, they could both pass out - already Richie was looking forward to it. “I got you, angelface,” he promised, gripping John’s arms and pulling him up - he could use Richie for support as long as he needed to, in order to feel steady enough to walk. When his stubborn warlock actually was steady, Richie collected a few of those candles to bring back with them. The flames were snuffed out, smoke drifting toward the ceiling. “That gold’s kind of cool though. Could you even hear us talking while you held open a telephone line like a boss?” There was a little wobble that John would push right past, ignoring the way his knees didn’t quite want to lock in place. Who needed that, anyway? Perfect posture was for toy soldiers, not for the world-weary. “Mm. Not in words, so much. Mostly in tone. Would’ve pulled the plug if anything started feeling panicky.” Eavesdropping wasn’t polite, and frankly he’d needed all of his focus to keep that line steady between them. John had always enjoyed a particular knack for the dead, but this wasn’t reaching across the proverbial veil, as usual. It was an even greater distance. But on the upside, he was pretty sure he had a general idea of which way Richie’s original universe might be lurking, out there in the great beyond. Blowing out the rest of the candles after clicking the light on, John eyed the room for anything out of place. Rumpled covers, check. Mirror, slightly askew but no more interesting than it had been on the showroom floor, check. No scorch marks, no lingering oddness. He nodded, gesturing Richie ahead. “Out we go. I’ll let Alexis know she’s free to come back whenever.” Once Alexis was told that, her response was did you two finish your weird Ghost pottery session? That is so 90s, but alright, if her new party bus friends were done at Ted’s house they’d come back. There were other places to go in Schitt’s Creek besides sitting in your own place wallowing - honestly, she didn’t get why some people griped so much. Nevermind that she had been one of those people once upon a time. Anyway, the walk back to the motel was uneventful yet felt a lot longer than it needed to - probably because as soon as Richie opened the door to Room 7 he set the candles down in a safe spot (would they need these later, for Eddie? Once he worked up the nerve to even go down that winding, depressive road) and then flopped onto the bed. “Fuckin’ Christ, what time is it?” he rumbled, sitting up halfway to pull his sweater off and toss it, along with helpfully toeing shoes off. His jeans were a different issue, he pathetically wiggled out of them a lot slower than he usually did because effort, but as soon as he did, he was taking his glasses off and pulling back the covers so John could come be the big spoon. Two steps in the door and John was shedding layers every which direction; shoes that way, jeans the other, sweater chucked aside so that it hung oddly off the table they’d already cluttered with odds and ends, candles included. Fuck it. If he got wax on that monstrosity, it wouldn’t be any great loss. “Late,” he mumbled, clambering into bed and immediately curling around Richie, tugging and maneuvering him in close until they were settled in a way they both liked. Sue him, he wanted to put himself between Richie and the door, and Richie didn’t seem to mind being treated like he needed protecting, so. Good. Done. “Or early. D’nno.” He pressed a kiss to Richie’s shoulder and gave up on trying to keep his eyes open. The steady thrum of pressure at his temples wasn’t going to ease up until he slept, and tomorrow morning would bring a fresh round of fuckery, so they might as well call it here. Sleep, and start again fresh whenever they felt equipped for it. Personally, John was aiming for somewhere around noon. Noon was an ideal goal. Richie wouldn’t be mad about ten or eleven either - mostly, he just wanted to be dragged down into the oblivion of sleep. It did happen - his consciousness ebbed, his mind went into some kind of free fall as darkness and warmth cloaked him. Then Richie was out, blissfully. For awhile, anyway. A few hours. He wasn’t actually dreaming - or if he was, they were normal dreams. Random images, calm waters. But then all of a sudden he was unceremoniously yanked out of that and dumped in front of the haunted house they just came from - it was both a reminder and a vision; he could hear the old pipes singing, the ancient floorboards, the wooden panels, corridors that were droughty. Cold air seeped under the doorways like the frigid tide on a wintry beach, bitter winds rattled the windows - he didn’t go back to the past. If he had, he’d have seen the house as they left it, clean and clear of ghosts. But he went further ahead, stepping up to the front door and turning the knob. There was a creeeeak as the door gave way - In the bed, he thrashed - probably accidentally knocking John in the stomach with a sharp elbow - before going completely still, eyes snapping open yet he saw nothing. They were clouded over with hazy white, observing a world that wasn’t this one. Exhausted, John sank right into dreamless sleep. There was nothing going on behind his eyes, only the calm, quiet darkness that promised all the rest he could possibly need to recover from the evening’s work. That, of course, didn’t last. It couldn’t with the way Richie was abruptly wriggling like a live wire in his arms, and John whuffed out a displeased grunt of pain when an elbow caught him. “Richie,” he mumbled, dragging himself up into a safer position, away from flailing limbs. In the dim glow of the bedside alarm clock, he could just make out the otherworldly white of staring eyes, and he groaned all over again. “Ah, fuck. All right. Whenever you’re ready.” Visions weren’t meant for interruption, at least not without a backlash. Better avoid that, so John sat up and waited, knuckling at dry, gritty eyes and trying not to fret too hard as the minutes ticked on and Richie didn’t come back to himself. It didn’t take too much longer. But it was similar to when he’d been caught in the Deadlights - lots of images flashing by on a reel, little chance to make sense of them. The problem was that he didn’t know how to tell his subconscious or whatever to slow down and actually let him look - instead it was some kinda picture show on crack, and all he could do was go with it. He’d just taken a step into the house again, the place tainted by old Reginald Carstairs, when he was yanked back into... Christmas. Candy canes and elves, toy cars and chocolate bars. Lots of assembly lines, really, clanging and banging as presents were put together; the scent of freshly baked holiday cakes and cookies filtered in and he saw blinking lights in all sorts of colors, ho ho ho. Like he’d been dumped into Santa’s workshop at the North Pole and - “Shit,” he gasped, hitting good old Earth with a mental crash. Well, hell. It took him a second to reorient himself, then he just melted into the mattress, hands reaching out for John since he was a good grounding force. “Okay, that was - weird.” “There you are,” John sighed, gripping one of the hands that stretched out, searching in his direction. “All right, you’re all right. Take a minute.” Yawning, he tugged Richie into his lap, more or less, and carded his free hand through wild, dark hair. He still had a headache, and whether or not that was a side effect for Richie, the contact wouldn’t hurt. Anyway, it was soothing enough for him, the steady drag of fingers back and forth across the curve of Richie’s scalp. “Talk through it whenever you’re ready.” Or if he didn’t want to talk at all, that was fine too. No pressure either way. The clock blinked an accusatory 3:47 at them from the bedside table, and John would’ve given it the finger if he had a spare hand. But he didn’t, so it was safe. For now. “Mmm,” Richie sighed; he took this opportunity to straddle John, a knee on either side of his hips, and pressed his lips to the sharp angle of the man’s jawline. He felt like he slotted there nicely, body heat and warmth and comfort and all that sappy junk. Of course, he had sleep crust in the corners of his eyes and couldn’t see shit because his glasses were on the bedside table, but. Whatever. It felt pleasant, was the point. “I saw the house,” he murmured. “The Carstairs place. Remember how we left it all pristine and airy after we killed the zombie dude? It wasn’t like that, it was back to the way it looked all haunted. But it wasn’t just like, a dream. I was going in, we were going in - like we’re gonna be back there someday.” The next part was just completely batshit crazy. “Then I saw what looked like Santa’s Workshop. No joke. All of it is fuckin’ weird, but not...bad.” Except the house potentially could be - he’d been glad to leave it behind, so to see the past as the future was a trip and why wasn’t there some kinda clairvoyant around here to offer insight? “Go back to sleep,” he added, gently tugging on John’s hair. “We don’t have to be up for awhile.” While Richie spoke, John anchored hands on the small of his back, splaying fingers out wide enough to feel the bumps of the other man’s spine. Through his palms, he could feel the low thrum of Richie’s speaking voice and the way he breathed, and it was all very steadying after what had been a rude awakening. Probably worse for Richie, though. Visions were a bitch, or so John understood it. “Another round in the haunted mansion,” John sighed, “Let’s hope the fuck not.” The first visit had been problematic enough. Going again? That sounded exhausting... though not as disturbing as the idea of Santa’s anything. Seriously. Santa. Christmas. Elves. John loathed the holidays. There were few things he hated more than Christmas cheer and those endless, damnably cheerful songs that kicked up sometime in October and didn’t shut up until the year turned over again. If he ever landed in purgatory, it would probably involve a mall at Christmas, so God fucking forbid. Another yawn and he nuzzled into Richie’s throat, still warm from sleep. “Rather that than Christmas, though. Mm. Hate Christmas.” “No one hates Christmas,” Richie snorted, nipping at John’s lower lip once he pulled his face free from its hiding spot. He added a kiss there a second later, and a swipe of his tongue to soothe any imprints made by those crooked teeth - but he hadn’t nipped very hard. “Except maybe you, angelface.” But yeah, what the actual fuck. He wasn’t going to turn it over right now, it was too late and he was too tired. Maybe if he was a better seer he’d keep a notebook and pencil handy to draw whatever he saw as soon as his body snapped out of vision-lock, but he sort of sucked at this so you know what he was gonna do? Go the fuck back to sleep. Right here, in John’s arms, see you in the morning. Much later in the morning. “Always gotta be different,” John agreed, voice slurring and dipping back into sleep. It didn’t sound like a vision that promised blood, gore, and the impending apocalypse, so he couldn’t rouse any sense of urgency right this second. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he’d have better questions. Probably. Or he’d have forgotten this whole thing. But hopefully not. If Richie’s brain wanted to cook up a sneak preview, the least John could do was try to help him puzzle through it. His eyes drifted shut again, fingers going lax on the other man’s back. “T’morrow. We’ll… hm. Talk.” John’s next breath in came deeper and slower, and it was clear he’d already dropped off into sleep again. Whoops. |