"I don't think they want this kind of happy ending," he says and gestures out toward Derry, slowly waking to the morning and starting its day. Everyone here, so unaware of the events in the sewers, turning a blind eye to the collapsed, old house on Neibolt. Nary a whisper about the children who left and came back, about the thing that tried to make Derry its very own beating heart.
For a second, his skin crawls, remembering the way the slick muscle of the heart twitched under all of their hands. There's power in the memory, power in the visceral reaction, and for once it's not rooted in fear.
He comes back to the present when she speaks again and he lets out a little breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. Tom, the unspoken, angry elephant in the room. Beverly has been a fusion of beauty, mystery, and bruises for as long as he's known her. No one ever had to ask. No one wanted to.
"Maybe it's not meant to stay private," he wagers. "Doesn't sound like he deserves the right to privacy. Can't let the real dicks get away scot-free." He doesn't have to gesture, doesn't have to say bruises or cardigan for it to be laid bare between them. A lick of anger flares in his chest, makes him shift against the post enough to push away, closing some of the distance between them, so they stand shoulder to shoulder. What he does do, however, is reach to tap the half empty pack of cigarettes in her hand, a reminder.
They could all use a few smokes and a few drinks.
"Plenty of little beach towns. Bungalows as far as the eye can see, clear down the coast. Good place to escape for a little while, lay low. I can dig up a few agents. Know a couple of names. Thought about getting one myself for a while. The idyllic writer's hut." He shake his head at the thought, something distant and far. He realizes now that he never chose one because the ocean looked like nothing but a wide, gaping maw that left him unsettled for reasons he couldn't pinpoint all those years ago.
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For a second, his skin crawls, remembering the way the slick muscle of the heart twitched under all of their hands. There's power in the memory, power in the visceral reaction, and for once it's not rooted in fear.
He comes back to the present when she speaks again and he lets out a little breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. Tom, the unspoken, angry elephant in the room. Beverly has been a fusion of beauty, mystery, and bruises for as long as he's known her. No one ever had to ask. No one wanted to.
"Maybe it's not meant to stay private," he wagers. "Doesn't sound like he deserves the right to privacy. Can't let the real dicks get away scot-free." He doesn't have to gesture, doesn't have to say bruises or cardigan for it to be laid bare between them. A lick of anger flares in his chest, makes him shift against the post enough to push away, closing some of the distance between them, so they stand shoulder to shoulder. What he does do, however, is reach to tap the half empty pack of cigarettes in her hand, a reminder.
They could all use a few smokes and a few drinks.
"Plenty of little beach towns. Bungalows as far as the eye can see, clear down the coast. Good place to escape for a little while, lay low. I can dig up a few agents. Know a couple of names. Thought about getting one myself for a while. The idyllic writer's hut." He shake his head at the thought, something distant and far. He realizes now that he never chose one because the ocean looked like nothing but a wide, gaping maw that left him unsettled for reasons he couldn't pinpoint all those years ago.