TW: mentions of suicide, cut wrists, insanity and mental illness.

Bill knows Stanley isn't coming back, but he still sits at home for hours on end waiting for him to get home from work. It had been two months and he was still broken. He'd started writing a new book, but it had been hard as he kept hearing, seeing and feeling Stanley. He wasn't okay. He felt himself slowly spiraling into insanity and didn't feel comfortable telling anyone about it.

Bill was typing when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked at it and noticed a bloodied wedding ring he knew belonged to Stanley. He turned to look behind him to see his late husband standing there.

"What'cha writing?" He asked as he bent down and wrapped his arms around Bill's shoulders.
"I'm writing a novel about what happened to us in Neibolt."
"Are you keeping everything the same?"
"Yeah. I'm only writing what happened to us in '89."
"You should write all of it."
"Why?"
"Would probably be a bigger hit. Like a coming of age story."

Out of habit, Bill turned to kiss him on the cheek, but the second his lips made contact, his late husband disappeared. He looked around confused, shook his head and carried on typing, thinking that maybe he was just tired.

Later that day, Bill was sitting on the couch watching tv when he heard a knock at the door. He stood and ran over. He opened the door to see Stanley standing there with a wide smile.

"I left my key in the bedroom," he smiled, "so I was locked out."
"Stan..."
"What? You look like you've seen a ghost."

Bill wrapped his arms around the Stanley only for the ghost to fade into black, thin smoke in his arms. He stepped back and slammed the door. He gripped the sides of his hair and closed his eyes. Bill pressed his back against the door and sunk down.

"I'm not crazy, I'm not crazy, I'm not crazy, I'm not crazy, I'm not crazy," he kept repeating over and over again.
"Bill?"

Stanley's voice cut off his rambling.

"Wh-what?" He looked up to see Stanley standing there.
"What are you doing? Get up," Stanley held out his hand.

Bill took it and let the ghost pull him to his feet.

"Why are you doing this to me?"
"Doing what?"
"You keep appearing! Am I going crazy? You're...you're dead! You're haunting me and I don't know why-"
"What are you talking about? I never left? I've always been here."
"What?"

Bill's eyes moved down to Stanley's wrists to notice the blood stains on his shirt sleeves kept growing larger. Blood dripped down onto his hand and slowly rolled down his fingers. He focused on the blood as it dropped. The first drop hit the floor and the ghost faded into the black smoke Bill had seen not to long ago.

"I need help," he clutched his hair again, "I need to call someone."

Bill just needed groceries. His fridge and pantry were empty, so when he left for his first therapy session, he dropped by the supermarket first.

As he was leaving the store, he got swarmed by paparazzi.

"Bill Denbrough!" One called, "is it true that your husband killed himself?"
"How are you coping?"
"How do you know Richie Tozier?"
"When was Stanley's funeral?"
"What did you wear to the funeral?"
"Is he really dead?"
"How are y-"
"Stop!" Bill yelled, "Stan is dead, is that what you want to fucking know? Leave me alone."

Bill climbed in his car and slammed the door shut. He quickly stuck the key in the ignition, put the car in drive and speeded straight out of the parking spot. The paparazzi had to move out the way or they would've been hit by his car. He slammed down the accelerator and drove at lightning speed down the road trying to get away. He looked in his rear view mirror to see the paparazzi following him. He turned down side streets and weaves between cars.

"Slow down, Billy. You're going to get hurt."

Stanley's voice filled his head. Bill's eyes widened, but he didn't slow down.

"I don't want you where I am when you're too young."
"You were too fucking young, Stan. Don't give me that bullshit," he muttered to himself.

That's when he saw it. Out the corner of his eye, Stanley was sitting in the passenger seat. He turned fully to see the ghost of his husband strapped in next to him. He was wearing the same outfit Bill had last seen him in. Long stone coloured pants, a brown belt and a pale blue long-sleeved shirt tucked in his waistband. A navy blue Yamaka clipped to the back of his hair, his curly dirty-blond hair hanging loosely by his ears and black watch around his wrist. The longer he looked at the wrists the more and more cuts he saw. Red lines forming all the way up Stanley's arm as tears filled the figures eyes. The blood soaked through the shirt and dripped onto his stone coloured pants, but Bill couldn't turn away.

"Slow down, Billy."
"You're not real," he whispered.
"Be careful."
"You're not real," he said in his normal voice.
"If you don't stop the car, you'll kill us both."
"You're not real!" He yelled.
"Stop before you kill yourself!"
"How is this any different to what you did?"
"I told you, I never left! Stop the car, Bill!"

The figure faded into the chair and Bill turned back to face the road to find he had ran a red light. He turned his head back to the now empty chair to see a car speeding at him. His eyes widened and he pressed himself against the drivers door as he helplessly watched the car grow larger. He heard a loud crash, felt glass pierce his skin and then everything went black.