Whumptober 2020|| Reddie

11. Hypothermia

     Richie bounced on his heels as he dialed Eddie's phone number. After a few rings, the line clicked. "Hello?" Sonia Kaspbrak's voice answered curtly.

     "Hi, Mrs. K! I was just wondering if Eddie was home," Richie said nervously. It was no secret that Sonia was not Richie's biggest fan.

     "My Eddie-bear is out with a few friends," Sonia said disapprovingly. She hated all of the losers, along with the fact that Eddie was so adamant about hanging out with them.

     "Oh." Richie happened to know for a fact that Eddie was not hanging out with the others- Bill was out of town, Beverly was shopping with her aunt, Stan was bird-watching with Ben, and Mike was working on his farm. "Thanks, ma'am."

     Richie set the phone back down on the receiver. He tapped his fingers against the dark wood of the table, thinking. Eddie was probably at the dump, foraging for things he could use for that mechanical project he'd been working on. Once he'd gotten over the fear that he'd step on a nail or something and get tetanus (or, as Richie adamantly called it, titnus), it quickly became one of his favorite places to go. He had never gone alone, though.

     He knew he was probably overthinking it, but Richie couldn't prevent dread from prickling up his spine. Sometimes Bowers or Patrick Hocksetter hang around there. What if . . .

     Richie decided that he would check the dump. Just in case. He was sure all he'd find was the short asthmatic boy, but . . . it couldn't help to check, right?

     He pulled open the front door, a sharp gust of December wind nipping at his exposed skin as he slung on a jacket.

      Immediately, Richie spotted a bedraggled figure down the street. His glasses were already fogging slightly from the cold, but even then he could recognize the boy.

     Eddie Kaspbrak was walking down the street, dripping wet and shivering wildly. He caught sight of Richie and breathed a shaky, "Oh thank fuck."

      "What the fuck, Eds?" Richie asked, feeling almost as shaky as he immediately stripped off his jacket and wrapped around the ice-cold boy. "You're freezing. Why are you soaked? What . . ."

     He led Eddie back into his house, firmly pulling the door shut behind them.

     "P'trick pushed me in th' Canal," Eddie whimpered, eyes half closed. "Th'nk I may have hyp . . . hypothermia."

     Richie nodded, silently seething at what Hocksetter had done, and settled Eddie down on the couch. "We, uh . . . we have to get your wet clothes off."

     Eddie nodded, his breathing sluggish. Richie carefully removed his shirt and pants, trying to ignore the fact that his face was bright red. Richie Tozier you useless gay idiot.

     Some of the color returned to Eddie's cheeks as Richie piled him in blankets and towels. Eddie snuggled against him, teeth still chattering slightly.

     "Rich?" Eddie said quietly, "I sh'd probably have a warm bath or s'mething."

      "Oh. Yeah. Right." Richie stood up quickly and drew a quick bath. He led Eddie to the bathroom and ducked his head awkwardly. "I'll just . . ." He wasn't sure if it was good to leave someone with hypothermia unsupervised- what if Eddie passed out or something? But it didn't seem at all right to stay there. He faced the door, hand on the doorknob, as Eddie pulled the curtains back around the bath. He felt too awkward to even ask- a rare occasion for the Trashmouth- so he simply stood there for a few minutes.

     The sound of the doorbell rang through the silence. "I'm gonna answer the door, Eds. Probably someone trying to sell something."

     "Okay," Eddie called back agreeably. "I'm feeling better now, so that's good."

     Richie moved towards the door and pulled it open, coming face-to-face with Stan and Ben.

     "Hi, idiot," Stan greeted him with his standard deadpan expression. "We finished bird watching."

     "Righto," said Richie, shifting uncomfortably. "So, uh. Sorry, my good chaps, but I must say with humblest of apologies that now isn't the best of times for this. Perhaps another time, gov'nor?"

     "Why? What's wrong?" Ben asked anxiously.

     Richie sighed. "Nothin's wrong, per say, Haystack. Just not the best time."

     "Okay," said Stan shrewdly. "We went over to Eddie's first, but he wasn't home. Any idea where he is?"

     "Well-"

     "Richie?"

     Richie turned around to see Eddie in a brightly colored sweatshirt that was much too big on him. His hair was still plastered to his face, but parts of it curled against his forehead slightly as it dried. Somehow, with the neon sweatshirt, he looked simultaneously ridiculous and adorable at the same time, though Richie supposed that Eddie would look adorable no matter what he wore.

     "I, uh, had to borrow a few of your clothes," he said awkwardly, eyes flickering to the others. "Hope you don't mind."

     "No, of course not!" Richie said in a rush. Stan had a little smirk on his face that Richie didn't like much at all.

     "Okay." Eddie waved a little. "Hi Stan. Hi Ben."

     "Hi, Eddie!" Ben smiled a sweet, slightly clueless smile.

     Stan gave them a pointed look. "What've you two been doing?" he asked, ignoring the glare Richie shot him.

     "O-oh," Eddie shrugged. "I fell into the Canal-"

     "He didn't fall," Richie interrupted. "Hocksetter pushed him, because he's a fucking sick psychopath. Patrick, not Eds."

     "And Richie found me," Eddie plowed on. "And I have hypothermia. And I'll probably freeze to death or die of hypothyroidism- or spend the rest of winter break in the emergency room if Ma finds out."

     Richie sighed, slinging an arm around Eddie. "There's my Spagheds. Always thinking on the fucking bright side. Well . . ." He looked up at the others. "Since you guys unceremoniously barged into my home-"

     "That's an exaggeration, Richie, we did not-"

     "Since you barged into my home, want some hot cocoa? Mom has the best recipe."

     "Sure, that'd be nice," said Stan. He paused. "Unless you and Eddie want to be alone-"

      Stan smiled triumphantly as Richie and Eddie let out sputters of protest.

A/N: Stan the man knows all