Since starting to work for Bill last winter, Beverly has found herself spending a lot of time on campus at Barton. It feels a little weird, since she's not actually a student here, but mostly that's just in her head anyway. She blends in easily enough, surrounded by people who tend to be close to her age, and on the rare occasion anyone does ask questions, it's simple to just explain that she's a teacher's personal assistant and leave it at that. That's under normal circumstances, though. A student-faculty start of the year mixer is a different story, seeing as she's neither student nor faculty. She's just sort of Barton adjacent, and if she sometimes gets in her head about the fact that most of her friends have gone or are going to college and she isn't, not having any pressure to do so helps her set that aside. She doesn't know what the hell she would do if she did, anyway, and right now, she likes things the way they are.

She just, in all honesty, also likes free food. And for the most part, it's as easy to go unnoticed at an event like this as it would be on a typical day of classes. That's pretty much what she expects to happen, a shortsighted assumption on her part when the point of a mixer is for people to, well, mix.

Which is how she winds up at a snack table, intent on filling her plate with hors d'oeuvres, cornered by a professor from the math department asking about what she intends to major in. Fairly certain that she's not actually supposed to be here, and likewise confident that no one would mind too much but not wanting to take that chance, she draws a blank on how to respond, and winds up stuffing a crab puff into her mouth as if she'd been about to do so anyway. She winces apologetically then, idly gesturing toward her face as if to indicate that she needs a few moments before she answers, just hoping that by the time she manages to chew and swallow, she'll have figured out what to say.

When the ferry finally comes, Beverly is exhausted and blood-spattered, still only half-present. She's far from the only person who dealt with such an altercation this weekend, and she doubts she's the only person who walked away from someone who wouldn't get back up. She doesn't regret it — or she wouldn't, if she could actually remember what she did. Those few minutes are still a blank in her mind, a sensation not wholly unfamiliar. She remembers being dragged from her tent, and the sheer panic in being held down; she remembers her hand finding purchase on a tree branch.

The first memory she has after that, though, is of standing on the beach, holding that branch like a club, her hands and face marked with someone else's blood.

Nothing is going to come of it. She's already been assured of that. All the festival-goers have the same story — an unprovoked attack in the middle of the night, fights that very well may have been kill or be killed. Beverly isn't so sure that's actually what motivated her, but it makes no material difference. It was self-defense. No one could claim otherwise.

That doesn't leave her any less rattled as the boat carries them back to the mainland. Someone has draped a blanket around her shoulders, and in the slight dawn chill, she's grateful for it, pulling it more tightly around herself. The t-shirt she was sleeping in is bloodstained, too. She heard a mention of it possibly being needed for evidence, but that's largely irrelevant. It doesn't change anything. She just wants to get home and get the blood off herself.

With phone signals having cut out so early in their stay, she hasn't talked to Hopper since she left. Somehow, though, she knows he'll be there when the ferry docks. It's an odd thing to be assured of, to have faith in, and yet it's true — both that she does, and that he's there.

Tired, relieved, suddenly feeling like she's about to cry, Beverly steps off the ferry back onto solid ground and heads right for him, still wearing the blanket. She doesn't know where it came from. She can figure that part out later.

Cracking the barest hint of a weary smile, she croaks, "So Pyre Fest really sucked."

It isn't a birthday party.

Beverly has been adamant about that. She's never actually had one before, more inclined to let the occasion pass as little fanfare as possible, and she doesn't intend to change that now. Still, she can't turn eighteen and not do something. It's a big milestone. A huge one, really, and fucking terrifying at that. There's so much she's still clueless about, so much it feels like she's running out of time to make up her mind about.

Tonight, though, she doesn't want to think about that. She just wants to enjoy not being a kid — a little girl — anymore.

Having settled on a good destination for the night — a bar near her house, the sort of relaxed place that lets anyone in and only requires ID from anyone ordering drinks, so those under eighteen can still freely get in and those of age, herself now included, can reap the benefits that come with that — she texts some friends, inviting them to come meet her if they want. For her part, she finds a reasonably sized table to claim, then heads over to the bar. There's something painfully refreshing about not having to aim for a bartender who looks like he won't bother to card her if she looks at him just right. It's even better when she presents her ID as asked, and the bartender, seeing that it's her eighteenth birthday, tells her the drink is on the house.

It's not much of a sign, exactly, and wouldn't be even if she were to believe in such things, ultimately pretty meaningless. Still, there's a tiny little sprout of something that might be optimism inside her. Maybe, just maybe, it will be an okay year.

She shouldn't be so tired. At least, Beverly can't stop thinking so, though she knows that's probably not really how it works. If she was actually asleep for two days, then it seems like it should stand to reason that she should be well-rested, full of energy. But even with a little while having past, she doesn't feel like she was asleep, still struggling to try to make sense of what happened. She was unconscious, but not dreaming. The others were with her, and as far as she can tell, experiencing the same thing. Richie was fucking dead, but he's here now, apparently having just woken up when it happened, despite the rest of them spending days in that other world, mourning him.

Though she's seen him now, she still feels like she's doing that a little. The feeling isn't one that goes away so easily. Even if he's fine now, it still happened, in some way; they all still lived it. It's not the only reason why she's so fucking exhausted, but it definitely doesn't help on that front. Part of her wants to get back in bed, or maybe lie down on the couch and watch stupid TV all day, otherwise doing nothing. She doubts it would matter much to Hopper as long as she's here for him to keep an eye on her. At the same time, she wants to be with her friends, the people who were going through this shit, too. It's all disorienting and nothing quite feels real, and although she doesn't want to make this about her, to admit to how fucked up she is when she's pretty sure the others all have it worse, she thinks the only way to combat that is together.

When she sees Eddie's text — Richie's not dead but he's still an asshole — it's too late for her to actually get the news, but she responds and winds up inviting him over. At least when she gets up to answer the door this time, she's not as sluggish as she was when Richie came by earlier.

"Hey," she says with a thin little smile. "Some morning, huh?"

It's a nice change of scenery, at least. A nice change of crowd, too, if Beverly is honest. The kids in her class in Darrow aren't as bad as the ones at home, at least — no reputation has followed her, the nasty nicknames that occasionally get thrown around less so than the ones she's used to — but things have been uncomfortable lately to say the least, and she could use the break. Of course, that's not why she's here. Come September, she'll be starting high school, and it's customary, apparently, for kids to visit at some point during the school year to get a feel for what it's like before being thrown into the deep end. She doesn't have to do much, just sit and watch and keep her head down, not even bothering to take notes because she's not going to need to know this shit yet anyway. That's probably a good thing, though. Her attention has largely been elsewhere, the Home making it difficult to focus on much of anything except waiting fearfully for what will go wrong next, and getting to mentally check out for a few hours isn't anything she can complain about.

The last bell rings, and she instinctively starts to bolt for the exit before remembering that she's supposed to stop by the office before she leaves, to check in for whatever reason. She reroutes herself, then, before she's gone too far, lingering by the doorway like she's not supposed to be there, when she spots a familiar face inside and starts to smile, a little surprised. "Hey," she says, rocking back on her heels, one hand on the door frame. "Buffy?"

There's something wrong in the Home. That isn't news, of course. It's been the case for weeks now, and Beverly has spent most of that time, since the first nightmare she had about her father, waiting for the other shoe to drop, talking about it with only a very select few people. Making herself sound crazy wouldn't do any good, after all, and there's no telling who might or might not believe her. She's not used to opening up much as it is, and she hasn't exactly made a lot of friends in the time she's been living here, not quite as much of an outsider as she was in Derry, but still not widely accepted, either. Really, she would have been surprised — and more than a little clueless — if anything else were the case.

At least she hasn't been entirely alone with this now. At least she has Eddie, however faded both of their memories of what happened back home might be. That clown, that thing, It changed shape depending on who saw it. The same fucking thing seems to be happening all over again now, and she doesn't know where to start with any of it, only that the nights she sits upright and has to muffle gasps because she's had a dream about her father that she doesn't remember falling asleep before or waking up after have grown more frequent, and that the sense of unease seems to permeate the entire fucking place. If nothing else, it's proof that it's not just in her head. Then again, it might be better if it were.

Everything carries on, though, in some vague approximation of normal. It all stays in the back of her head, but it isn't overwhelmingly present; she can do normal shit like finally get her turn in the shower without worrying about what might go wrong.

As it turns out, that's a mistake.

Her clothes and her towel folded, she steps under the shower before she turns it on, expecting a burst of cold water before it starts to warm. What comes out instead, the spray seeming so much stronger than it should, is hot and sticky and red, drenching her almost immediately, the taste of copper too heavy in the back of her mouth. The ground slick, her balance off from the sudden shock and then terror of it, she slips, hands fumbling with the edge of the tub just in time to hold some of her weight as she sinks down, scrambling backwards as best she can as if that might get her away from the blood. She should turn the shower off, she should do something, but she can barely see, let alone move or fumble with handles. This time, there are no vines, no voices, but all she can think is that it's just like before, that It is back, her heart hammering against her ribs.

There's a strange noise in the air. It takes her moments longer than it should to realize that she's screaming.

Leave all phone messages for Beverly Marsh here.

"Swear it," Bill says as he gets to his feet, a shard of discarded broken glass in his hand. "Swear if it isn't dead, if it ever comes back, we'll come back, too."

No one says anything, but no one needs to. They're all thinking the same thing, and Beverly knows it. She doesn't know if what she saw, that glimpse of their older selves back in the cistern, was a premonition or merely the work of her imagination, but it doesn't matter. For now, they've won. The details of it seem further and further away, hazy like a dream, but while they can't bring back any of the kids who were taken and killed, they have that victory. Maybe it will be enough. She hopes it will be enough. But if it's not...

Beverly gets to her feet without hesitation, and within a moment, the others do, too, standing in a circle and watching as Bill uses the sharp edge of the glass to slice his palm open, wincing as he does. One by one, he goes around to all the rest of them — Richie first, then Eddie and Mike, Stan and Ben, until finally he's standing in front of her. She holds out her left hand for him, uncurls her palm, and manages to barely flinch as he cuts hers open in turn, blood dripping hot and sticky and red down her fingers as Bill rejoins his place in the circle and reaches for her. They all follow suit, a silent promise, a pact made in blood, the Losers Club bonded together for good. It's not like it actually makes a difference, really, but she likes to think that there's meaning in it even so, and not just because of what they've all tacitly agreed to. All they're doing is holding hands; she can only imagine some of the comments this might have gotten under other circumstances. But it's about them as much as anything else, a heavy finality in the air, a typical September afternoon carrying the last vestiges of summer weighed down by how much things have changed, how much they've changed.

And for her, at least, it's a good-bye.

For a long few moments, they stand there, clutching each other's hands, until finally, they let go. Stan is the one to break the silence then. "I gotta go," he says. "I hate you."

It looks like Bill might take it seriously — like they all might — except then he's smiling, and the rest of them are, too, and for one moment, everything feels right again, normal. When she thinks back on Derry, this is what she wants to remember — not her father, not the clown, not the cistern, but the seven of them, the others the only real friends she thinks she's ever had, or at least the first in a long time.

If she could bottle up this moment, save it somehow, cherish it, just like the postcard that she knows now was left by Ben, she would. Instead, she'll just have to try to remember.

They gradually start to disperse after that, going back the way they came, sharing intermittent hugs, until finally, it's just her and Bill sitting in the grass, a million words unsaid between them. She wouldn't know where to start; it's a good thing, then, that he does.

"You all packed for Portland?" he asks, finally breaching the subject that she hasn't wanted to yet. She doesn't mind leaving. She's glad to be leaving. That doesn't mean she likes the thought of not knowing if or when she'll see any of them again.

"Yeah, pretty much," she replies, a fleeting look of ruefulness crossing her face. "I'm going tomorrow morning."

"How long will you be gone?"

"My aunt, she says I can stay for as long as I want, so..." Beverly trails off there, thinking she doesn't need to say it outright. She won't be coming back here, not anytime soon. It's not that there isn't anything for her; it's just that she can't live the way she's been living. A fresh start, a different guardian, not having to come home afraid every day, it's worth what she'll be sacrificing in turn, but that doesn't make the latter easy.

Bill is silent, too; he knows what it means. This is it, the end, or an ending, a last chance to say anything they want to. While there are, maybe, things she'd have liked to hear, that isn't really what matters, which is, maybe, what prompts her to speak again.

"Just so you know," she starts, pausing as she glances up at him, "I never felt like a loser when I was with all of you." Instead, for the first time, she'd felt accepted, cared about, not ridiculed or merely the product of rumors. They all came for her when she was taken. That means something, one more detail not to want to let slip through her fingers.

Bill looks away, though, and he doesn't say anything. For a moment, she doesn't, either, until she starts to get to her feet. There's no sense in waiting for something that won't happen. There's probably no sense in starting something they'll never be able to finish, either. "See you around," she says, though they both know that's not true. He does turn to her then, but he doesn't say anything, and he doesn't try to stop her from going, so she doesn't hesitate anymore, starting back down the same path the others left by, resigned to letting that be their good-bye.

By the time she's a good distance away, she isn't expecting Bill to come running after her. She definitely isn't expecting him to pull her close and kiss her, soft and sweet and everything she's hoped for. They aren't in third grade anymore, and this isn't a school play. No, it's something real, and before she can help herself, she's smiling broadly, paying no mind to the blood on her hand when she reaches for his face to draw him into another kiss. It's still short-lived, but a little more sure this time, and at least, if nothing else, they'll have had this. At least she gets to know that it wasn't just her after all. It's worth having done this knowing that she might not see him again for a long time to have someone look at her the way Bill is looking at her now. No one else ever has before.

Hand still on his cheek, she looks at him for a long moment, smiling again this time when she says, "Bye." Even then, she hesitates, wanting so much to make it last while she can. She doesn't need to say anything, though, doesn't want him to, so finally, quickly, she turns away, leaving before she can regret having to do so. He couldn't leave her with a better good-bye than that. She'd like to hope that maybe the same is true for him, too.

It's all she can think about as she hurries away, her lips still warm and all the rest of her, too, until suddenly she isn't anymore. The air isn't the warmth of late summer; it's freezing, her unclothed arms drawing tightly around herself, and the once-green trees are now bare. Hell, even the path, she doesn't recognize. This definitely isn't the way back into town. What it is, though, she doesn't have the first idea. All Beverly knows is that she doesn't trust it, going completely still where she stands, her eyes wide like she's waiting for something to happen. It can't be real, but if that's the case, then what does that mean?

She really doesn't want to think about the first possibility that comes to mind.

As a mother with a young child walks past, Beverly is about to ask for help, only the woman picks up her pace as soon as she opens her mouth to speak. Well, she might not know where she is, but some things haven't changed. She'd roll her eyes, except she's still lost and confused and really damn cold, starting to shiver as she continues forward along the path. Maybe she'll find someone more willing to be helpful. Just in case, though she knows full well that going back the way she came isn't going to be a possibility, she glances over her shoulder, hoping to see Bill still behind her. He isn't there, though, which means none of the others are likely to be ahead of her.

She's in this alone, apparently. And though Beverly tells herself that she's faced far worse things than this, whatever it is, she can't keep how unnerved she is from showing in her expression.