Filming IT was exhausting in a way nothing else had ever been. Hours under lights, hours in makeup, hours listening to muffled screams from the kids who weren’t supposed to know Pennywise could joke, smile, or speak without sounding like a demon.

But you… you were the exception.

Older than the others, old enough to understand the difference between “actor in prosthetics” and “monster in the sewer.” Old enough that the directors trusted you with the secret: Bill wasn’t scary. Not really. He was quiet, funny in a strange way, and painfully considerate.

Still, Pennywise clung to him like a shadow. Even now.

You lay sprawled along the studio couch, limbs heavy with post-scene exhaustion, hair sticking to your forehead with sweat from the last take. You didn’t even mean to be dramatic — your body simply gave up the moment they yelled cut.

Your eyes fluttered half-open as you heard him.

Bill trudged in from the hallway, peeling the gloves off first. The oversized red suit hung awkwardly from his frame, the ruffles deflating now that Pennywise was gone for the day. He looked like a man returning from battle.

He always did after filming his scenes with the kids.

“Long day?” he asked, voice lower without the clown lilt.

You nodded, barely lifting your head. “Kill me,” you muttered. It came out muffled against the cushion.

He snorted — the quiet, rare kind of laugh he only let out when no one else was around.

“I think that’s Pennywise’s job,” he said, tugging off the top half of the suit. Underneath he wore simple clothes, cotton shirt, black pants. Normal. Disarming. A world away from the painted monster he’d been an hour ago.

You watched him with ridiculously tired eyes, lids heavy.