Chapter Text
Miranda had started her list five years ago when her boss had been obsessed with the idea of rebranding his favorite client.
“People are starting to get put-off by the single jokes at his age. He needs a girlfriend, a wife, a fucking roommate for all I care as long as we have a reoccurring character for his jokes. Get on it, Miranda, he likes you. Maybe you can give him dating advice, date him yourself, I don’t give a shit, just find him a woman.”
Richie Tozier wasn’t an easy person to ‘find a woman’ for. And it wasn’t even his eligibility. He was a catch, as much as she hated to admit it. Tall, handsome, rich, funny. Every straight woman’s wet dream if you ask her (at least, as far as she’s heard from straight women.)
Surprisingly, Richie Tozier was incredibly picky.
Miranda wondered if it was a deflection (she’d find herself wondering this for the better part of five years and really hasn’t fully convinced herself otherwise) but Richie was a pretty sincere guy when he wanted to be. He really seemed open to the idea when Miranda had approached him, and was adamant that if some asshole was gonna write all his jokes about his woman, he’d better damn well find himself the best woman out there.
Her boss had more or less forgotten about the request over the years after never moving in any substantial direction, so the list was really more of a pet project at this point. But it was important to Miranda. She’s really come to love Richie as a person and she wanted him to find a little bit of happiness in his life, seeing how sad he was behind the eyes.
It started simply. Miranda asked for Richie’s type, had gotten a simple answer, and begun setting up Richie using this small description. It didn’t take long, nor very many failed dates, for Miranda to realize this wouldn’t be easy.
Miranda was a somewhat obsessive note taker. When she realized Richie had many– many– preferences when it came to women, she carefully tallied each and every one so as to not make the same mistake with the next date she secured. She eventually would be extremely grateful to have started this in a fresh notebook, as she would begin to fill it with every off-handed remark, complaint, and daydream-like pondering that Richie would ever reveal to her.
It was a long, hyper-specific, and nonsensical list.
She’d tried– tried – to understand what the hell Richie meant when he called her one night, way too early into the date, and said “I don’t trust an asshole who’s never broken a bone” but she didn’t understand. She simply wrote it to her list, adding twenty percent more complexity to her endevor and taking at least two years from her life expectancy.
Finding a woman short, brown-haired and brown-eyed, who was clean, funny, could take his jokes but didn’t like his jokes, and every other crazy ridiculous bullet point she had added over the years, and was willing to date Trashmouth Tozier was all around an impossibility as it was, but then Richie had whisked away to Butt-Fuck Nowhere, Maine and had returned with a new lot in life, a new perspective on dating, and even more specific caveats, and now he was out of the closet and Miranda had to hold up his impossible list to an even smaller pool of gay men.
She was at the end of her rope.
Now, looking around the ballroom of important, ritzy LA party-goers, Miranda decides the list is, from now on, more of a… guideline .
Richie Tozier is going to walk out of here with a date or so help her, she’d be filing her long overdue resignation letter and never speaking to Richie again.
So. Small, brown hair, brown eyes. The first things Richie had told her as preference. She can work with that. Skimming the ballroom, there’s quite a few men who fit the bill, some even openly attracted to the male physique (which, not to kinkshame, but gross). Miranda pulls out her Richie notebook–a pocketbook that has reached the final pages–and flips through. Some of these she can scrap, “needs to know medical stuff” being one of the more worthless character-points Richie has always insisted on. “Dimples” should probably be scrapped as well, as it was too specific with everything else—
Miranda blinks, humming in surprise as she looks up and catches sight of a pair of dimples. A pair of dimples on a some-what short, brown-haired, brown-eyed, attractive man.
Bullseye .
Miranda is a believer in destiny, despite the short-fallings and low deals she’s been given in life, and she is reminded of this belief as she walks purposefully towards the man, flipping through the notebook, and sees him with a handkerchief, violently wiping the expensive-looking whiskey glass in his hand, ‘ Neat-freak ’ glaring at her on the page of her notes.
“I’m a slob, Mirandy Pandy. I need someone to balance me out, someone who finds me absolutely disgusting but loves me anyway, makes me want to be better for them. Yin and Yang, that’s what I’m talking about.”
“Eds, what are you doing?”
Miranda stops short, surprised as none other than Richie, dressed to the nine in a Beverly Marsh original and looking incredibly dapper (the expression ‘if I had to pick a guy’ ran through her head), walks straight up to the make-shift dishwasher at the bar before she can managed her approach.
“There are stains , Richie. Stains ! Aren’t these all rich-ass Hollywood elites? Why the fuck are there stains on the glass?!”
Richie tuts, a signature smirk on his lips as he studies the man. “Eds. Spaghedward. Mr. Spaghetti. These are hardly the ‘Hollywood Elites’ Eddie Spaghetti.”
“If you call me one more of those dumb fucking nicknames I will elite your ass out the nearest window.”
A snort erupts from Miranda gracelessly, and she flips to a different page, finding her note ‘ Can’t like his nicknames. ’
“Well, cause, what then, huh, Miran Miran? I’m just supposed to call them by that forever? Like a pet name?! That’s not the point! You’ll never get it, Miranuel. You’ll never understand.”
“The stick up your ass is deeper than my dick in your mom tonight, Eds–”
“My mother is dead, you phyllistine, and I will fucking bury you with her after I finish fucking your sister on your corpse.”
Miranda can’t keep the cackle in, mentaly crossing two more bullet-points—’ Funnier than him’ and ‘ Doesn’t think your mom jokes are funny. ’ This guy is shaping up to be more than Miranda could have ever hoped for.
“Miranda Panda!” She hears Richie exclaim as she wipes a tear from her eye, pulling herself together and approaching the pair, snapping her notebook closed and putting it in her purse before Richie catches on.
“Hey Richie. Who’s your friend?”
“Eddie,” The man says sharply, clanking the glass to the bartop with force and holding out his hand. “Eddie Kaspbrak, nice to meet you.”
Miranda shakes his hand, still laughing internally. “Miranda Lawerence. The pleasure is all mine.”
“No, no, no.” Richie cuts in, throwing his hands between them. “Wrong, wrong, wrong. Miranda Panda, this is Eddie Spaghetti. Spageds, Miran Miran here is good ole John’s trusty assistant. Best woman I ever knew, besides Bev of course.”
“Bev?” Miranda asks.
“Beverly Marsh? The designer?”
She blinks, taken aback. “Do you know Beverly Marsh personally or are we just assuming I could never measure up? Because, if so, I have terabytes worth of drunk voice memos were you claim I’m your ‘Lesbian Lord and Savior.’”
She earns a guffaw from Eddie, hearty and very pointed, for that. “Holy shit, Bev would love her.”
“How on God's green earth do you know Beverly Marsh, Richie?”
“We grew up together.” Richie shrugs with an easy smile. “Grew up with Spaghedward here, too. There was a whole sultry band of us, a surprising percentage ended up rich and famous. It’s the trauma, I keep telling people. Trauma is the best way to make a name for yourself!”
“What trauma? You never told me about Beverly Marsh, or any other friends you grew up with.”
Richie chuckles, looking a little sheepish. “Like I said, it’s always the trauma. We kind of… forgot each other?”
“‘Forgot each other.’”
“Memory repression.” Eddie says, crossing his arms and nodding frantically. “It’s very common for kids at the age we were to block out traumatic events from their memories. Psychologists say it’s a survival instinct, like a defense mechanism your brain uses to— RICHIE TOZIER DO NOT PUT THAT IN YOUR MOUTH! ”
Richie, innocuous-looking glass of alcohol halfway to his lips, freezes, eyes wide.
“Richie, you disgusting mutt, if you put that filthy glass to your lips you will get strep, or wind up with a staph infection, and I will laugh at you in the hospital when they have tubes running down your fucking esophagus and you can’t run that fucking Trashmouth anymore, do you understand me?”
Miranda wonders vaguely if she should check off ‘ walking medical encyclopedia ’ or not. She thinks she should.
“So, wait, you knew each other as kids, forgot, but then, what, suddenly remembered? Does this have to do with that excursion to Maine?”
Setting the glass down carefully while watching Eddie, as if trying to not incur the wrath of a waiting predator, Richie nods. “Can’t talk much about it, Mirandy, but yeah. We all grew up in Maine. Me, Spaghedwina, Beaverly, Micycle, Stan the Man, Benny Boy, Big Bill—oh, you know Big Bill, right? Bill Denbrough?”
Miranda feels like she’s missing a joke somewhere. “Okay, wait. So you were friends, as a child, with, not only the stunningly gorgeous and award-winning fashion designer Beverly Marsh, but also the world-wide bestseller and People Magazine’s sexiest man alive William Denbrough?”
“Ben’s a famous architect, too.” Richie says. “And crazy fucking hot. I would say there was something in the water, but I drank that water and look at me.”
“Didn’t you get on a ‘Hot 100’ list this year?” Eddie huffs, elbow jutting into Richie’s side, which is when Miranda notices how close they’re standing.
“I got on an ‘Influential’ list for being a toxically masculine dude-bro and coming out of the closet. Honestly, I can’t believe I didn’t get a Nobel.”
Miranda snorts. “Haven’t finished dueling those out, you still have a chance. So with all these rich influential friends, Eddie, what is it that you do?”
The glare Eddie directs at Richie comes before Richie even has time to react, before Richie snorts and chokes violently, doubling over and coughing between hysterical giggling.
“You’re a piece of shit, Rich.” Eddie shakes his head, turning back to Miranda with an eye roll. “I’m a risk analyst. Not famous, not even especially high-up or anything, but it’s a good job and it pays well.”
She hears Richie begin to snore from his bent position, to which Eddie smacks the back of his head.
“The job was invented—”
“Before fun, yes Richie, you’ve mentioned.” Eddie interrupts, practically snarling.
Miranda feels a smirk cross her lips as Richie stands, meeting her eyes. “You know, Rich.” Miranda begins, staring him down. “I distinctly remember you telling me you wanted a partner with, and I quote, ‘a boring office job.’”
Richie’s eyes widen in horror as Eddie stutters a laugh, blinking up at Miranda with disbelief. “He did not say that.”
“He did.” Miranda grins. “In fact, I wrote down exactly what he said in my ‘Richie’s Dream Boy’ list.”
“No.” Richie says, voice shaking. “Fuck you, Miranda. No. We are not doing a run down of the list in this, our house of God.”
“ There’s a list?! ” Eddie cackles, tears forming in his eyes. “Rich, why does she have a list?!”
Miranda giggles as Richie flounders. “I’ve been trying to set him up for years but he is so. Fucking. Picky!”
“I don’t come into your lesbian dojo and critic your ikea furniture, Miran.”
“You have absolutely done that to the fullest extent of the word ‘literally’ so this is only payback, Richie.” Miranda says sullenly as she slowly reveals the notebook from her purse.
“Oh my god , let me see that!” Eddie practically squeals, snatching the book from her hand. “Richie’s perfect girl checklist.’ That’s hysterical, you crossed out the ‘girl’ and everything. How much do you want for this?”
“It’s not for sale until I match Richie up with the perfect guy.” Miranda answers sadly, taking the notebook back. “I can show you a few of his bullet points, though.”
“ Miranda, you whore .”
“Okay, so we have the normal ones like ‘age appropriate’---” She mentally tallies that one as well, remembering Eddie is the same age as Richie. “Funny–though, I believe you said, specifically, ‘She’s gotta be funnier than me, Miranda Panda! I can’t be the interesting one in the relationship!’” Eddie laughs at that, shaking his head at Richie, who looks ready for the ground to swallow him. “Feisty, but I have an addendum here that says ‘I want her to roast me. Like, I want people to think she fucking hates my guts. I’m not kidding Miranda.’”
“Fucking Christ, Rich!” Eddie chokes, still guffawing. “No wonder you're single.”
“Oh, you have no idea.” Miranda groans, flipping to a different page. “Do you remember this one, Rich? ‘Has to have broken a bone.’ Why? Why, Richie?”
Richie huffs, crossing his arms. “I stand by that, people who haven’t broken a bone are untrustworthy.”
“You haven’t broken a bone!” Eddie exclaims with disbelief.
“Case in point!”
Miranda laughs, glancing back at Eddie. “Have you broken a bone, Eddie?”
Richie chokes, coughing violently and turning away while Eddie nods. “Sure, snapped my arm when we were kids. This asshole decided to set it for me, too. As if he had any idea what he was doing.”
Hm .
“It worked out fine, Eds.” Richie says through his choking. “Aren’t you glad I was there?”
“ Fuck no, you over-grown hobo. I would rather swim in gray-water– again –than intrust medical emergencies to you, fuckwad.”
Like, I want people to think she fucking hates my guts.
“Hey, Eddie.” Miranda begins, glancing momentarily at her notebook. “Would you consider yourself a ‘homebody’?”
“ No , Miranda, do not even think about it.”
Eddie blinks, looking between the two of them. “What? Oh, is that on the list too? Why do you want a homebody?”
Richie flounders, a blush growing on his face as he stutters nonsensically. Miranda grins.
“After he came back from Where-The-Fuck-Ever Maine, he calls me and goes,” She clears her throat, doing a terrible Richie impression, “ Miran Pie , turns out, I’m a big fat fucking homo. Also, I don’t want to date any more extroverts, they’re the worst. Come on, what sounds better, going out and getting wasted, or staying in and folding laundry with the right guy?”
“ Folding laundry? ” Eddie gasps, and there’s a look in his eye, a light that gleams with disbelief, and Miranda recognizes a bit of that star-struck look fans often get when Richie says something funny or glances in their direction for 2.5 seconds.
Face growing increasingly red and completely unable to form words at this point, Richie sends Miranda the most desperate, helpless look she’s ever seen.
Laughing to herself, because she might be slightly heartless, she decides to take pity on her friend. “John is over in the next room, Rich. He wanted to talk to you about a possible Netflix deal.”
Looking relieved, Richie vacates the area without even glancing at Eddie, his face still bright red.
“Never, in a million years, did I think I would hear Richie Tozier say he finds folding laundry romantic.” Eddie huffs, watching Richie retreat with a sparkle in his eye.
This will be fucking easy.
“Me neither.” Miranda sighs, taking Richie's place against the bar. “Hey, you want to play a game while Richie talks business? It’ll embarrass the shit out of Rich.”
Eddie laughs, raising an eyebrow at Miranda. “If it involves that fucking list, I’m in.”
Miranda calls the bartender, ordering two tall long islands–specifying to use the cleanest glasses he has–and pulls Eddie to an empty table in the corner of the room. “Okay, we’re going to go through the list, and every one we match we take a sip of our drink.”
Eddie grins, “Oh fuck, Richie would hate this. Let's do it.”
They sit, positioning their glasses in front of them and the notebook between them, and she opens to the first page.
“These are free-bes. First thing Rich ever told me, he wants a girl with brown hair and brown eyes.”
Eddie raises his eyebrows as they both take a sip. “Didn’t realize Richie even had a type. The only person he ever talked about growing up was my mother.”
“Short.” Miranda reads off. “Pocket sized, if I remember what he said correctly.”
Eddie doesn’t drink. Miranda shoots him a look.
“What? I’m of average height ! Compared to that bean-pole I’m short but–gah! Fine!” He takes a drink.
Miranda flips the page, reading off verbatim “Dimples are a must-have. Drink, Eddie.”
Eddie drinks with an eye-roll, but there’s a weird pointed look in his eye. “How long ago did you start this list?”
“Five years ago. Every time I set him up on a date there was always something wrong with her–other than, in hindsight, the lack of correct anatomy. I wrote it all down because I can be kind of neurotic about note-taking.”
“So, before he remembered Maine.” Eddie ponders lowly, seemingly more to himself.
“Okay, next, ‘health-oriented.’”
“Really?”
Miranda laughs. “He said someone needed to watch what they eat, since he never would.” She raises her glass and takes a sip as Eddie does the same. “Age-appropriate. He did not appreciate me setting him up with a twenty year old, as if he didn’t used to give off those vibes.”
Eddie chokes down a laugh as they both drink. “Well, I’m glad on top of everything else, he’s not a scumbag in that way.”
“Funny. Actually, it says specifically, ‘Funnier than me’ so I think we can both drink to that.”
Eddie chuckles, shaking his head as they drink.
Miranda flips the page. “Doesn’t like the nicknames.”
“What?!” Eddie giggles, sipping his drink. “Actually, no, that doesn’t surprise me. I knew the nicknames were specifically targeted to piss people off.”
“Doesn’t like ‘your mom’ jokes.”
“But that’s his bread and butter !”
“Trust me, I know!” Miranda exclaims, taking a sip with Eddie. “He called me after a date and said, ‘Miranda Bananza, she laughed at a ‘ your mom’ joke! I know that’s my forte, but my forte sucks!’”
“At least he’s self aware.”
“Okay, okay. Neat-freak is next and I know I don’t know you that well, but I get the feeling you’re drinking to this one.”
Miranda looks up when Eddie doesn’t respond and finds him looking at her with wide eyes and disbelief. “Neat-freak.” He mutters, blinking rapidly.
“Yeah, he’s always been really set on the whole ‘opposites attract’ thing.
“Right.” He says quietly, taking a sip of his drink. He stares off into the distance, a pinch in his brow as he seems deep in thought.
The line has been cast, the hook caught. Now I just gotta reel him in.
“We can probably skip this middle shit, it's just a bunch of ridiculous caveats like ‘can’t have a good relationship with their parents’ or ‘likes video games but fucking sucks at them.’ Oh, my favorite, ‘walking neurosis.’ What the fuck does that even mean?”
Eddie’s eyes only widen more, watching her incredulously. “And these… These were all from… Before Maine?”
“Well, yeah. Everything after Maine is a lot more mushing and romantic. Like ‘needs to be my best friend first.’ How am I supposed to set him up on a blind date that way? He’s fucking ridiculous.”
“It’s just… Call me crazy, but…” His voice is shaking, his eyes darting everywhere. “Doesn’t it seem like they’re all…”
Miranda laughs, “I was kinda thinking it seems like you were made in a lab in order to match this list. That, or this list was written for…”
Oh.
Oh.
Fuck.
Miranda feels she made a mistake.
This list, these caveats, they aren’t crazy unrealistic expectations for a man that Richie would never meet.
This is Eddie . To a ‘ T’ . Miranda remembers them mentioning ‘repressed memories’ and realizes, knows in the pit of her gut, all these years Richie has been trying to find a person that measures up to the boy in his subconscious, the boy he didn’t remember. The boy that, from where Miranda is sitting, was very obviously Richie’s first love. And Miranda just revealed all of that, without his permission, to that very boy.
She’s a terrible person and she’s made a huge mistake.
“Well,” She laughs nervously, desperate for some way to salvage the situation. “You can’t match every one, right? Like, a big one on the list, the biggest one really: ‘Gay Male’.” There. This can be saved.
“Well, I don’t match that one.” Eddie sighs, his brows pinched.
“There, see?”
“But you should really include bi males in that. Kinda leaves out a lot of guys, doesn’t it?”
Miranda blinks, “Oh. Yeah, I didn't think about that. So… I mean, if I change it, do you…”
Eddie picks up his drink and takes a sip.
Well. Well. This night is a lot more interesting than she ever could have expected. She wonders what her wife will say when she tells her this story.
“I never wrote it down, but…” She starts slowly, studying Eddie’s nervous expression. “Another big one would be ‘Attracted to Richie.’”
After a moment’s hesitation, Eddie sips his drink. Miranda’s smirk is wide and unstoppable.
“I should probably go.” Miranda sighs, obviously to the surprise of Eddie, who looks up at her with big eyes. “My wife will be wondering where I am. Have a good night, Eddie. Tell Richie I said I quit.”
Eddie stutters into a laugh, smiling in goodbye as Miranda leaves, the notebook still sitting squarely in the center of the table. She wouldn’t need it anymore, she thinks.
After she goes home, showers, and crawls into bed to watch true-crime with the love of her life, she gets a call.
“You absolute bitch !”
“Good evening, Richie.” She laughs.
“You quit?! What do you mean you quit?!”
“I was going to quit ages ago. John’s a piece of shit and has never paid me as much as I deserve.”
“Well, yeah. Obviously. But I’ve been telling you to quit for years, why now?!”
“I was only staying on until I found someone to go with that ridiculous list of yours. Now you don’t need it or me, so, I quit. How is Eddie, by the way?”
“You bitch .”
“Did he read through the rest of it?”
“ Yes , and he’s been so fucking smug you have no idea.” There’s laughter in the background, and Richie grunts. “Ow, babe, okay fine, jesus. Eddie says he wants to invite you and Kiera over, he’ll cook. He’s a great cook, you should say yes.”
“Yes of course.”
“He also wants me to thank you, but I don’t think the sting of betrayal has quite worn off yet.”
“Poor you.”
“Also, why is ‘can take a joke’ crossed out?”
Miranda laughs. “We both know you love upsetting people.”
“Fair. Anyways, you’re a bitch, I hate your guts, dinner is on friday, tell the misses I said ‘what’s good babygirl.’”
“Absolutely not. Goodnight, Richie.”
“Night Miracle Whip. Love you.”
“Love you, too, Rich.”