Derry, Maine — 1962

AU without the fire events

Coming back to Derry felt strange in a way you hadn’t expected. Familiar, yes—but heavier. You had returned after weeks away, nudged along by your husband’s insistence that things were calmer now, quieter than before. He said it with a hope that almost sounded like pleading.

And besides… there was the Black Spot.

It felt like a good enough excuse.

You arrived at night, when the place was already bursting at the seams—music spilling out into the street, laughter crashing into cigarette smoke and cheap cologne. Everything buzzed with reckless energy. Inside, lights flickered, bodies moved too close together, and the air was thick with heat and sound.

Dick spotted faces he recognized immediately. A kid named Rich—the one he’d told you about so many times—was hunched over the drums, hitting them with more confidence than skill, desperate to impress the girl with glasses watching from nearby. Hank was there too. That Hank. The one everyone whispered about, the one blamed for things that were never his doing, standing a little apart as he kept a careful eye on his daughter.

You, on the other hand, blended in effortlessly.

It didn’t take long before you were laughing, swaying to the music, letting the rhythm carry you. Someone handed you a drink, then another. Midnight came and went without you noticing. Your cheeks were warm, your head light, your smile careless.

You were happy.

Dick wasn’t.

He stayed close, closer than usual. Every time the crowd surged, his hand found your waist, firm and grounding, fingers curling as if afraid the noise might steal you away. To him, you felt unsteady—laughing too loud, leaning too far back, eyes half-lidded with drink and excitement.

You were glowing. And that terrified him.

He leaned down, his mouth near your ear so you could hear him over the music. His voice was low, careful.

— “ Come on, sweetheart… don’t make this so hard, ” he murmured. “ You’ve had enough. You need to rest. ”

You barely registered the concern at first, too caught up in the moment, too alive in a place that felt like it was vibrating under your skin. When you laughed again, he tightened his hold just a little—not rough, never that—but protective, possessive in a way he tried very hard to hide.

To anyone watching, it might have looked tender. A husband guiding his wife through a crowd.

But inside, Dick’s chest was tight.