ain't no love; pt. 1
"ain't no love in the heart of the city"
— miles g morales x gn!reader series
SUMMARY: Miles Morales is just a kid without a father; the Prowler is just a "rotten" vigilante. Both of them start coming into your life — one in the middle of the semester, and the other by total accident.
SERIES MASTERLIST 📼 PART 1 / PART 2 →
chapter summary: [READER POV] The one day you decide to skip breakfast, your deskmate comes in. AP Calc has never been more unbearable — and interesting.
content/warnings: brief mentions of death, depictions of hunger, a little bullying </3
word count: 4.8k
a/n: first series idk what im doing BUT WE ROLL (criticisms accepted lmao) proofread courtesy of @qiuweyballs you're a real one
You were starving. In AP Calc, no less, with probably the least talkative bunch of students in the whole school, the period before lunch. Whoever made your schedule was a monster, and whoever put this class together was even more of a monster. Everyone was dead silent, which was usually fine, but not when your stomach was threatening to detonate a nuclear grumble. Maybe it’d even echo given how big the classroom was. It was too early in the year to have a mental breakdown, though — you’d save that for midterms.
Even the teacher found the silence awkward, muttering to himself as you walked into the dreary classroom. He was a bit of a pushover, Mr. Wellston — a newbie who really had no idea what he was doing besides fixing his unevenly cut hair every two seconds while everyone pretended to know what was going on. God bless AP Calculus; you didn’t even know how to do the starter activity on the board.
But your teacher’s ridiculous inadequacy didn’t matter right now. The most important decision you had to make was what poor soul you were going to look at sideways when everyone turned to the source of the growl. Being nice wasn’t exactly an option when you were 3 seconds away from dying of starvation.
Thankfully, you were at the back, and the only seat next to you was empty. It wasn’t so bad, you tried convincing yourself as other students started to fill up the seats in front of you. Maybe you'd even forget about how hungry you were if you engrossed yourself in "one of the most riveting fields of mathematics", as advertised by your freshman year math teacher. Just one hour. You could hold back your hunger for one hour.
"Attendance..." Wellston murmured, looking around the room without much attention. It was reasonable to assume was here as usual, except for one kid who'd been absent since the first week. "Morales" — you didn't know his first name, not like you had the chance to learn it.
Scribbling down whatever activity there was, a part of you was glad this kid wasn't here today. It was one less person to hear the result of your unfortunate choice to not have breakfast this morning. You'd never spoken to the kid, but everyone knew why he wasn’t here. The renowed "hero", PC Davis had passed away — his dad. It was all over the news: "PDNY OFFICER DIES SAVING A CHILD", around mid-freshman year. You couldn't guess what was going on with the kid almost 2 whole semesters into sophomore year, but you couldn’t exactly think too hard when your pen had barely touched the page, and your other hand was clawing into the side of your shirt.
You were sure your stomach was going to growl, and loud. And your teacher was looking at you. Pretty much every muscle in your face was straining. You probably looked insane, which you’d actually rather be right now. The worst he would make was a bad joke, but the sheer panic that rose in your chest when Mr. Wellston started to walk towards you made your heels dig into the ground, ready to bolt out the class. You were exhausted, anxious, praying to anything you could think of that your teacher would just turn around and stop looking at you and—
Creak... Everyone's eyes, including Mr. Wellston's, turned to the door. You could make out someone with a black jacket — teacher? They wouldn’t let you wear jackets inside. Not important. Water.
"Nice seeing you here, Morales," Wellston said, his expression as unamused as he could attempt. The pushover was feeling confident today.
You drank so much water that it got stuck in your throat for a moment, making you scrunch up your face. "I'd take off that jacket if I were you,” Wellston continued.
The boy obliged with an incoherent mumble, stepping into the classroom and slipping off his jacket. His eyes landed on the seat right next to you. Even if he wasn't looking at you, something about his gaze made you look away immediately. Great. 53 minutes until lunch. Why did he have to show up today? Why did you wake up late and skip breakfast? A part of you was telling you it’d be better to not blame it on this guy either — maybe it was your gut. Ha-ha. Maybe you were insane.
Screeech! The slap of a notebook next to you snapped you out of your mini-spiral. You were now all the more aware of the boy next to you. His attendance was so low that it competed with your will to live, so you couldn’t help but look. His hair was in two braids slipping just past his collar, but that’s all you dared to notice. They were kind of cool, you admitted to yourself. The muttering was quickly shut down by a grating "Focus!" from Wellston, and you tried to get back to your work.
Calculus, calculus... When was the last time you’d gotten a question right? All you could do was keep uselessly pressing the fraction button on your calculator, watching the empty boxes stack up. It felt like he was staring at you. Math, come on, you know math. What was the probability he was looking at you? What if he was just glancing at you? What was his eye colour? Black or dark brown, probably. You could check — if he was staring, of course. Not his eye colour. That'd be weird.
That tight feeling built up in your stomach like the foreshock of an earthquake. You pictured yourself slamming your head into the desk, far too vividly to be normal — like an insane person. No need to traumatise the “new” kid on his first day back.
"Alright class, considering we have a full house now," You stopped yourself from imagining Wellston’s head slammed into a desk. "I suggest you all try to solve this problem. It's the hardest question that's ever come up on Calc BC, and you're getting secret access to it."
Yeah, like you cared. This man did not have a lesson plan, as usual. Now you had to fight the urge to look at the kind of cool kid next to you, fight your hunger like a famished Victorian child and fight the stupid calculations forming a jumbled mess in your brain. You were fighting a lot of things, and losing miserably. Just looking at the question made your brain hurt, and you could see it in the rest of your class too. All Calc BC nerds who were just now realising their mistake in taking this class with this particular teacher, probably. Visions was a scam.
"Does anyone have an answer?" It hadn't even been two minutes; it was like the man just wanted to feel smarter than everyone else. Something about him today was even more annoying than the pitiful jokes he usually came up with ― just because a "new" kid came in? Maybe this was to make up for the first day of class where he totally embarrassed himself mumbling all lesson, the bell ringing overtop of him.
The awkward silence and the slight cocky curl to the corner of Mr. Wellston's mouth made you question why they hired someone who was fresh out of college to teach you the classes that were supposed to get you into college. Your frustration only grew when you were going in circles with your attempt.
"No? Guys, you that you have a midterm soon." Helpful.
"This is more simple than you think." Explain it, then?
"Nobody? Really? Okay, you really should start paying attention, the―"
"Six." You almost forgot about the kid next to you until he spoke up. He put down his pen, giving Wellston an expectant look while the whole class was silent.
"…Six what?"
"Litres per hour."
The man quickly shuffled to his computer. Of course he didn't know the answer either.
"Six litres per hour," Wellston confirmed. No other kid had a chance to retort. Wellston seemed surprised for once. A part of you was surprised too at how simple the answer sounded when it came out of the "new" kid's mouth. You noticed that the boy didn't even have a calculator.
"Well, it looks like you all have something to learn from Morales here," he continued, something almost like contempt in his words. "Do you want to explain how you got that?"
The boy went about explaining it pretty simply, almost like he was reading off of a script. It was concise, different to what you'd learnt. Something about chain rule, which you truthfully had no idea how to actually use because someone didn't bother to go through it properly. Even if you were still somewhat unsure, it sounded easy enough.
"Interesting method..." Wellston murmured, trailing off for a moment. "Well, that settles it then. Do you guys understand how we got six?"
We? This guy... Aside from the fact that he was looking at you a little too much for comfort (probably because you were still clutching your stomach like you’d been shot) you had another reason to be annoyed by this teacher and his stupid hair. Everyone just returned his question with silent nods and mumbles, people taking opportunities to actually look at the calc-wiz.
You took a chance too, looking over at his seemingly unbothered face. You were almost right about the brown eyes. They were more coppery than anything, maybe even a little green. If he was staring before, you couldn't tell, his gaze trailing his desk with disinterest. Why did his eye colour even matter?
Forty minutes of class to go. You felt like you could eat your calculator at this point. The mystery kid didn't seem to need one anyway, and you weren’t getting much use out of it.
BRIIIIIIIIIING!
"The bell doesn't―" The screeching of chairs cut him off.
Like that would work this far into the semester. The Morales kid was already gone by the time you'd stood up. Letting out a drawn-out sigh, you debated between your tiredness and hunger. Would you try to fight to the death to get to the front of the lunch queue? All you wanted was food, maybe a nap afterwards, definitely no more calculus.
That couldn't happen, of course. For some reason, you were the only one left in class. You heard your name, wincing a little as you stopped in your journey out of the door.
"I just want to speak for a moment, spare me a few minutes?" You figured this was coming. It looked like he wanted to speak to you about something all class; his expressions weren’t exactly mysterious like that new kid. You wanted nothing more than to strangle him with his ugly patterned tie as you walked over to him.
Mr. Wellston leaned on his desk by his elbows, lowering his voice as if he was about to tell you something serious.
"You're not doing very well in this class." Okay… not that serious. "It’s the longer questions, I think. FRQs.”
Your grogginess made it impossible to focus on Wellston’s rant, but what you did pick up on was his weird accent. You guessed he wasn’t from Brooklyn, but the way he was talking right now let you pick up on the strange intonation in his voice you otherwise wouldn’t care to notice. Almost European-sounding. First that kid's eye colour and now your teacher's accent... what was it with you and random details today?
"So..." he continued, looking up at you with his head still low. "I'm going to start an extra class after school. I want you to come to it." Okay, this is worse. You couldn't have lunch, and now you couldn't even have after school.
"When is it?" It better not be some unreasonable time.
"Well, I've only got Friday afternoon free. You know how it is, meetings..." If he was trying to be apologetic, or convincing, he was failing at both. "I'll call you in later to discuss it further."
You just nodded, the grip on your backpack tightening. "Okay."
"It's important that you come!”
His voice was drowned out by the flood of students in the hall as you shut the door, turning on your heel to head to the cafeteria. The line was probably impossibly long by now. You couldn't care less about that extra Friday class. Forget college. You'd be a bum, or work at a WcDonalds. You'd probably make more money than Mr. Wellston there anyway. Forget Visions.
Forget that Morales kid who was standing outside the door all that time while you were too frustrated to notice.
You slumped down onto an empty table as you tried to rid your mind of him.
The probability that he'd show up to class with his cool braids and coppery-green eyes again was too low for you to care anyway.
"Soy Miles. Miles Morales."
Calc-wiz, or Miles as you just found out, was also in your Spanish class, and was also sitting directly behind you. It seemed like he was coming into more classes than he had been all semester — good for him?
"Morales… ¿Eres hispano, Miles?" (Are you Hispanic, Miles?) Miles simply nodded while Mrs Hernández flicked through the worksheets, licking her finger to set them down on individual desks. Spanish was one of the classes you actually liked. Apart from your classmates, Mrs Hernández was funny, and a good teacher, even if she was a little strict.
She paused for a moment to look at Miles again, eyebrow raised. "¿Guatemala?"
"Puerto Rico." The woman's raised eyebrow fell along with the rest of her expression, eyes narrowing in disappointment. She was always talking about where she was from, Guatemala. You found it kind of endearing, though you weren't sure if she'd get any teaching done if there was another kid from there.
"All these years y nadie de Guatemala..." (and nobody from Guatemala...) She simply frowned, cracking her knuckles while making her way back to the front. Most of the people taking AP Spanish were Hispanic, just trying to get extra credits, but it seemed like Mrs. Hernández was out of luck when it came to finding her natural favourite. "Vale clase, quiero que miren este articulo sobre―" (Okay class, I want you to look at this article about―)
All that class you felt like Miles was staring at the back of your head, of course. If he wasn't uncomfortably silent, he was conversing with Mrs Hernández, and she came over more than once to talk to him behind you. As much as you wanted to overhear, they were talking too quietly and quickly — and in Spanish. What they were talking about wasn't your business — most likely about his absence. You had also no idea what this article was talking about. It was something about art, but most of the words you were reading were unfamiliar as your highlighter hovered uselessly over the paper.
It had almost been a week since Miles first came in. You constantly saw him get pulled out of class or talking to teachers — except in AP Calc; it seemed like he was doing just fine there. He could speak Spanish fine too, but was behind on everything else. Other than teachers, he never really talked to anyone. You occasionally saw him with his earbuds on in the hallways, but more often his jacket was what got him chased down by teachers; the kid didn’t really seem to care. Good for him. He was probably more ahead of you anyway given the way your studies were going.
“Oye, look a little alive!” You noticed Mrs Hernandéz standing over you, and that your highlighter bleeding through the paper from pressing too long. A half-hearted “lo siento” (sorry) is all you could offer. “Extraño (strange) — What's different today, chicos? Is it because you’ve got a new friend here?” She crossed her arms, eyeing everyone with her brows knitted together.
The atmosphere around Miles was strange. Not only was he known for being missing since freshman year, but also for his late father. It wasn’t a secret, as much as he didn’t talk about it. Everyone could tell from the way teachers whispered to him and how he disappeared to the counsellor’s office that he wasn’t treated like any other student here. In fact, he didn’t even live in the dorms according to what you’d heard. He was quiet, but the rumours were undeniably loud. You tried not to involve yourself — you hadn’t even spoken to him yourself, anyway.
“He’s not the only Puerto Rican. You gonna forget about us, Señora?” The voice made you hold back a sigh. When Rafael started speaking there was no stopping him. You figured it was time; no matter how far he was moved from his friends, he always found a way to talk to them from the other side of the classroom. He was also right next to you. You had a few reasons to want to drop this class, and each of them were all going “yeah” in agreement to what Rafael had to say.
“I think you’ve forgotten that you have an article in front of you, Rafa.” You couldn’t help but crack a smile at your teacher’s words, and nickname. To your dismay, Rafael noticed you immediately.
“You makin’ fun of me, bro?” He turned his head to stare at you.
“Rafael,” Hernandéz warned.
“Nah, Señora, you don’t get it, I should be sitting over there.”
She wasn’t amused by the way he was gesturing to his friends. “I’ll kick you out.”
“Come on man…” He just threw up his hands and sunk into his far too tiny chair. You prayed he wouldn't start rocking on it and make that god-awful creaking sound. Mrs. Hernández simply turned to ignore him and continue with class.
“Why’s he special anyway?” Rafael mumbled to himself. “Famous cause of his dad?”
Tension – it was so thick you could cut it. The only thing that was cutting through it, apart from your Spanish teacher’s rant, was Miles’ gaze. You could feel it burning right through you. It seemed like Rafael, the moron, for some twisted reason, wanted Miles to hear that.
If you had anything to say at all, it was too late to give Rafael a piece of your mind. Considering how quickly he'd shut you down, it would be useless to stick up for some kid you barely knew. Nobody else heard Rafael anyway; it'd just pit everyone against you. Still, a part of you felt bad. Even though you didn’t really know Miles, he was in a lot of your classes. You’d gotten used to his presence over the past week: moving out of the way so he could get to his seat, occasionally picking up each other’s fallen pens, giving unshared glances to see how the other was doing on the work.
He seemed nice enough despite the lack of words you'd exchanged, but when you turned a little to fix your chair, the expression you caught was anything but. It was almost scary, if you could make out anything from his darkened features. There was a strange sense of focus in his eyes, like he was calculating something – deliberating. You didn't try to guess what, keeping silent and trying to listen to Mrs. Hernández talk about the article while ignoring the deadly gaze simmering behind you.
If you were stronger, scarier, more influential, maybe you’d punch one through Rafael right now. Just looking at him was irritating, and it's not like you hadn't thought of it before. Maybe you wouldn’t have to, though, because it seemed like Miles was thinking the exact same thing. As much as you wanted to learn Spanish and not have a fight happen right next to you, it’d be nice if he was able to teach Rafael to shut up instead of the material he didn't seem to care about.
Miles didn’t look particularly strong — he was kind of scary-looking right now, but that didn’t mean he could take on a 6ft tall football player, no matter how pissed off said football player made him. You couldn't tell what he was thinking, but Miles stayed put for the rest of class; it felt like a sniper was right behind you.
The all-too-familiar creak of the chair made you automatically grit your teeth.
“Oy, mi pana, you got gum?” Rafael murmured to you in his worst friendly voice. It was 10 minutes till the end of class, and he was asking now? You still had no idea what pana meant since he moved next to you, but the way he said it always made you feel icky regardless.
You quickly shook your head, getting a sigh out of him. You hoped he’d give up, but he just leaned over to whisper to you. “What do you think of that dude, huh?
“What?”
“Strange, yeah?”
“He’s okay.” Your defence was quiet, but it was the most you could do as you heard Miles scribbling right behind you.
“He’s drawing, dude.”
You looked at him almost incredulously. Rafael just rolled his eyes.
“Why do you care?” Your voice came out louder than you wanted.
“¡Silencio!” You gave Mrs. Fernandez, another one of your muffled “lo siento”s, shrinking into your seat as her eyes locked onto you. Snickering from Rafael’s friends only fuelled the embarrassment surging through your cheeks. Miles shuffled in his seat behind you, followed by the sound of paper being crumpled up. You wanted to crumple up the smug expression plastered on Rafael's face right now.
Class ended with another stack of homework in your backpack, and you were more than happy to leave. Free period — you could get a start on the homework. Or talk to Wellston about that extra class. The thought made you wince, but you didn’t exactly have a choice. You had to see him by the end of the day.
“Ay, Milo!” You turned to see Rafael and his little group approaching Miles’ desk. “What’s good?”
“Nothing.” He kept his voice low, pushing his chair under the desk. The boys just laughed as he got up, a grating mix of malice and mirth.
“Right, right. Puerto Rican, eh?” It sounded like Rafael was just talking for the sake of talking. You were also standing for the sake of standing too, of course.
Miles let out a mumble as a confirmation of sorts. Heading for the door, he was blocked by Rafael.
“Ay, where you goin’? Let’s talk, huh? Got a free period?” You could see Miles’ eyes narrow, a flash of impatience in his demeanour before he let out a breath. Rafael was trying to get a kick out of this. A kick out of some kid with a dead dad.
“Someone’s waiting for me.”
“Huh? What’d you say? You got friends?” The start of more laughs were already forming around Miles.
You didn’t know what came over you. Maybe it was the regret of not saying anything earlier, or the strange intrigue you’d felt since a week ago. Peeking your head through the door, you took a step back into the classroom. “Miles, c’mon.”
The gnawing feeling only intensified as you felt four sets of eyes on you at the same time. You’d rather it be hunger than the anxiety coursing through you at that moment.
“Comin',” he murmured, shoving past the three boys towards the door.
The two of you left the classroom, hearing a faint “what the hell man?” as the door fell shut. Miles lingered behind you as you approached the next turn in the hallway.
“What’s your name?” He’d already stepped in front of you.
No thanks or anything? Well, he didn't really owe you anything. It was "the right thing to do", like the many anti-bullying posters around the school encouraged you to do. God damn Visions.
“You uh… know my name.”
“Wanna hear it from you.” His voice had a little twinge of an accent that you hadn’t noticed before. You tried not to think too hard on it. Too many details for too little of an interaction.
“You’ve gotta introduce yourself first — pretty sure that’s how it works,” you tried to joke, something like embarrassment replacing the lingering anxiety in your stomach.
“I did — in class.” Miles’ face was unreadable, but there was something like amusement in his voice.
“Not to me specifically, though.”
The two of you stood in the hallway as people ushered past you. A freshman almost hit you running past, making the two of you retreat to stand beside some lockers. Damn freshmen. You were a freshman only last year, but shoving past them in the cafeteria wasn’t exactly fun. Miles seemed unbothered, as he usually did.
“You seriously don’t know my name?” you continued, almost frowning a little.
“Let’s say I don’t.” He leaned back against the cold blue metal of the lockers, tilting his head at you. The tiny mannerism only made your embarrassment grow. “What’s your name, pana?”
“…I still don’t know what that means.” The frustrated sigh you let out made the corner of his mouth curl up.
“And I still don’t know your name, pana.” No wonder you didn’t bother to talk to anyone. It seemed like you never had the upper hand, first with Rafael and now with Miles. Truthfully, though, you knew which you’d rather talk to.
“Sounds like a food,” you continued, shrugging.
“Could be,” he pretended to muse. And to think you thought he was nice. You hadn’t decided to be annoyed yet, though.
“You know my name, Miles.” You must’ve looked funny the way you crossed your arms and furrowed your eyebrows, because that got an entertained breath out of him.
“Who’s Miles? Haven’t introduced myself yet.” His smirk wrote guilty all over his face.
“Milo, then?” It was a bit harsh, but his cockiness made you say it without much thought. The apology was written on your face already, and you unfolded your arms, deciding you couldn’t have Mrs. Hernandéz’s sass today.
“You wanna be called pana forever?” He slipped an earbud into one of his ears, the blue light flickering into life. At least you didn’t tick him off.
“Not like I care,” you murmured, trying to take a step away.
“Seems like you do.”
“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” you asked, trying to keep your tone in check as you glanced down the hallway.
“Do you?” You felt like you were talking into a mirror, one that reflected back a person that got all the more mysterious and annoying when you did.
“Yeah, actually.” Mr. Wellston’s class. The thought made your eyes narrow, probably in exhaustion, most likely in irritation. “Need to speak to a teacher.”
His brow raised in mild interest. “You in trouble?”
“I wish. It’s about some extra class I have to take.”
“Calc?” You turned to look at him again, and his expression was more knowing than curious now.
“How’d you guess…?” It sounded more like a statement, your tone more disappointed than surprised. Were you really that bad at Calculus? Maybe you did need this class, especially if calc-wiz thought so.
“…You have lunch today?” he thought to ask instead. For a moment, you were confused, until you remembered calc last week.
“Shut up.” Your cheeks burned, hand balling up the fabric of your uniform. God. Damn it. All.
“Aight, sorry.”
More silence. You should’ve blamed the growling on him.
“Why the class though? You failing?”
“I’m not failing… Just need some help, I guess” Your shrug wasn’t very reassuring.
“Anyone else goin’?” The longer he kept inquiring, the more you figured Mr. Wellston’s attitude was building up.
“No clue. Bet everyone else is gonna join, though. He’ll probably tell everyone anyway.” The people in your class were quiet, but desperate to out-do each other. Maybe the problem wasn’t you, but the fact that everyone else was trying so hard.
“He didn’t ask me.” The corner of his mouth dimpled into his cheek in thought.
“You’re good at calc anyway.”
“Haven’t been here a while, so I gotta catch up, right? Lemme come with.”
You tried to think of what to say as your hand found the back of your neck, but he was already walking past you. Miles looked back at you to see if you were following.
If he had somewhere to be, it didn’t seem to matter. You noted the slight rhythm to his step, wondering what he was listening to, and if his eyes were green or brown. Ripping away your gaze from him before you could chase that thought, you tried to dodge all the freshmen running around as the bell went for next period.
You had more questions than answers so far — both in your backpack to do this period and in your mind. Aside from Miles, you wondered what that extra class would be like, and what Wellston would say. A part of you hoped that Miles would be in that class with you, despite your less than favourable introduction. Maybe you’d figure out why the answer was six litres an hour. Maybe you could be friends.
What was the probability of that? Some questions couldn’t be solved with a calculator. But Miles didn’t need one, after all.
thank you for reading. im so tired of looking at this but its okay part 1 !!! hooray !!! next chapter is miles pov .... need more Substances in my Bloodstream before i post that though LMAO
reblogs appreciated!!!! go back to the series masterlist here or to my atsv masterlist here :)
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Cult Reincarnation part Three! Here's parts One and Two if you missed 'em.
The followers of Bill Cipher are the most blessed of believers. Strong and devoted, they are empowered to overcome all things, through service to their god.
And in times of trouble, the devout always have something to turn to.
Dipper bows his head before the golden image, and tries to force his muscles into a semblance of relaxation.
Worship.
He hopes hating every second of it doesn’t matter. If it works at all.
Praying to a god, in the domain of said god, should technically speaking be overkill. This kind of thing is supposed to reach through the veil between planes, not just partway across a building. The process has a lot of kick to it.
That’s the theory, anyway. Dipper’s working with what he’s got -
But he’s not sure Bill’s all that easy to reach.
No worshiper has ever called for help and received it. There were excuses, of course. Dozens of them. But brushing them off with a ‘not worthy’ doesn’t work when it’s literally everyone.
Either nobody’s worthy, or no help is provided. From what Dipper’s learned about the god himself, it’s the latter.
Probably because Bill doesn’t care about most of them. Maybe because he thinks it’s funny. The third guess - that he thinks helping is boring - is currently leading the pack.
There’s another reason, too. One that’s… technically possible, but Dipper’s trying not to think about it.
No matter what the cause of it, none of those bode well for Dipper’s plan. That’s on top of the fact that summoning Bill is, by all metrics, an incredibly reckless idea.
Still, desperate times call for desperate measures.
Dipper needs a quick way out of an awful situation, and it’s one he got himself into this time.
Focusing on the shape of Bill in the window, Dipper concentrates. Breathing in, then out.
He snaps his fingers, and the candles bloom with bright blue fire, before settling down to the standard red-yellow glow. Despite everything, he spends a brief second admiring the tiny flames.
The magic comes so easily to him now. Studying mysterious texts found in a hideous nightmare realm is another bad idea, but you can’t argue with results. Whoever gathered the books in the guest room must have -
Another wailing howl rings down the corridor. A distant scrabbling echo, the scrape of claws on stone.
Dipper drops to his knees and scrambles to finish his makeshift setup. Something ninety percent cribbed from the ritual he ‘volunteered’ for, minus all the blood.
Rushing through this isn’t optimal, but hell, none of this is. Dipper’s working on a hope and a literal prayer. Being in the guy’s home instead of a dimension away should amplify the effect. Bill might not be able to ignore him, if he’s loud enough.
When the alternative is being devoured by wandering demons, Dipper’s willing to have a bit of faith.
Just a smidgen, though. Enough to make this work.
Another chattering sound, though more distant, gives him plenty more panic-induced belief to work with.
With all the setup done, Dipper claps his hands together. He tries to steady his breathing. The words of the ritual resonate in his mind instead of out loud, which should be good enough considering the god in question.
And he knows Bill, too. Personally, not abstractly. Dipper can hold the image of him in his mind as clearly as if he was standing in the room. The fact that it’s a human shape shouldn’t matter. He’s… ninety five percent certain it won’t.
Now. If he focuses. If he reaches out with sincere effort and desire, pushing with the magic that bubbles inside him - this should work.
He really, really hopes it works.
“You rang?”
His heart nearly leaps into his throat. Jerking up right, Dipper whips around towards the voice.
Where Bill Cipher stands. He’s right behind him and just to his left, as smug and dapper as always. Appearing out of freaking nowhere.
Dipper slumps back down to the floor as Bill wiggles his fingers in greeting.
That’s one hell of a response time. He’d barely gotten started before Bill popped into place.
“Looks like you had a fun little jaunt!” Bill claps his hands together, leaning - but not quite looming - over him. “I wondered where you’d run off to!”
The phrasing makes Dipper wince. That’s not - he hopes Bill didn't really mean that. It would mean he got the wrong idea.
Dipper didn’t ‘run off’, because he’s not stupid. No matter what other people might have said.
All he wanted was a cursory look around. Checking out if there were other ‘apartments’, see if there were any windows. Something brief enough to let him get an idea of what kind of place he was dealing with, then heading back to the relative safety of Bill’s place.
Which might be the weirdest part of all.
That it is safe, for a limited version of the word.
Since being kidnapped, he’s had zero new injuries. Plenty of comfort, reasonable safety, and very little to hide from. Material comforts, not promises that never get realized. Even his room in Bill’s place is the nicest place he’s ever lived, cozy by any definition.
Casting everything aside for the chance at an ‘exit’ is a dumb choice.
Dipper was doing just fine where he was. No running off anywhere. He’s been perfectly fine with his three little rooms, even if it’s a bit limiting.
Technically he has access to four, if you include the living room. But that one usually has Bill in it.
Some worshippers would have bled far, far more than Dipper did, for even the briefest chance at access to their god. Getting their messages to him directly, basking in his radiant golden presence, accessing all his mysteries - a dream that they could hope to think about achieving, one day in the future.
And they’d all be disappointed.
Turns out Bill’s both weirder and more crazy than any scripture made it seem. It’s nothing like… anything, really.
Dozens of passionate sermons on Bill’s infinite wrath, crumbling in the face of him being totally, bizarrely chill with everything Dipper’s done so far. Hours of speeches about his unknowable motives, and infinite grandeur, shattered by watching him pontificate on whether he should wear the ‘cool’ socks today, or the ‘ones with little duckies on them’.
Hell, Dipper watched his god blow up half of a wall by accident and shrug it the hell off - then later get so mad at something on interdimensional television he choked on the gummy bears he was eating.
Years of study has done nothing to prepare Dipper for this, and he was the one looking in forbidden texts.
It’s. Informative. But also, like, a lot.
So for the most part, Dipper decided to hole up in the guest room. It’s easier than parsing the god puzzle, and the alone time is nice.
In the last… few days? More than a week, possibly, he’s had time to read, write notes, take uninterrupted naps, and nothing bad has happened to him. Peace and quiet came at a premium back in the compound. Here, all he has to do is shut a door.
Still, books only last so long to keep someone occupied. Confinement has always made Dipper kinda stir-crazy.
And on the one occasion when Bill wasn’t in the living room, well. Curiosity has always driven Dipper into absolutely dumb actions. Including going snooping again. Maybe a tiny bit of peeking into Bill’s bedroom, because the door was unlocked.
And since that was unlocked, it only made sense to test the knob leading out of Bill’s quarters.
It’s not Dipper’s fault the damn door disappeared the moment he stepped outside.
So really, he didn’t ‘run off’. He wasn’t trying to escape, or even go too far from his room.
He just got bored.
And when that went south, he didn’t have many other options. Turns out the Fearamid is full of demons. He saw that on the way in, but he didn’t truly understand the extent.
Without Bill escorting him, the concept got hammered in pretty much immediately.
The moment he stepped out, he must have caught the attention of damn near every demon in this godawful place. One young human, basically catnip for monsters. The first one showed up within a minute.
Time is strange here, though. It might have been longer.
Dipper has been running for what feels like hours.
“What’s the matter, kid? Trip not as fun as you expected?” Bill gives his shoulder a friendly shake. “Or didja just miss me?”
Dipper shrugs.
Sure, it’s nice Bill showed up. It’s great that he’s not deadly. But he’s arguably a different kind of problem.
A few tugs on his shirt make him reluctantly stand, turning to face Bill. Despite being summoned in his own home, he’s surprisingly upbeat.
“Now I’m guessing you called me - and this is just off the top of my head here - that once you got going, you couldn’t find your way back.” Bill sets fists on his hips, eminently amused. “A little lost lamb like you musta freaked out!”
Before Dipper can do more than shrug, something with way too many limbs scuttles around a corner, filling the hallway with a writhing mass. He surges closer to Bill, heart in his throat.
A moment later the creature spots Bill, and freezes in place. Then, lifting each of its limbs like it’s tiptoeing, it backs all the way up and around the corner. Like it opened a door, saw something twice as horrific as itself - and then carefully shut it again, trying to pretend that didn’t happen.
“Do me a favor, though, and put a little less ‘oomph’ into the magic next time.” Bill pushes a pinky into his ear and twists it around, then pulls it out and flicks it clean. “That crap was loud.”
Dipper nods rapidly. Yep, can do. At some point he started clutching Bill’s elbow, but he’s not about to stop. Not here.
With Bill guiding him, the mazelike corridors present no further problems. Even though they do turn around at least three times, and at one point walk on the actual ceiling, Bill keeps going with perfect confidence in his stride.
There aren't’ any interruptions, either. Compared to mere minutes before, the halls are mysteriously quiet and empty, leaving him and Bill to stroll along, hand on elbow.
When they arrive back at the penthouse, Bill opens the door with a sweep of his arm, and a slight bow that might be mocking - but Dipper’s too tired to be bothered.
So much for the ‘escape’ idea. Running around the Fearamid was nothing but an exercise in terrified frustration.
It would be rational, Dipper knows, to be more upset. But the cult was also a confusing, stupid, terrifying place that held him captive, and back there he could never count on having a hot bath, or privacy, or sleep.
A few weeks ago he would have said the threat of death back home was lower, but now? He knows which one he’d choose, any day.
The one confounding factor is Bill himself.
In the cult, you couldn’t avoid him at all. Always talking about him, if you still were able. Praying to his idols, going to the rituals, chanting and waving your hands like an idiot in the air. Making sure that your every action pleased him. Following all his orders. Every day, some part of your day was spent thinking or acting on his wishes.
Actually being around him every day requires… precisely none of that. He’s so -
‘Different’ would be the wrong word. A being who’s lived for literal eons doesn’t change things up on a dime.
This is Bill Cipher without any convenient ‘reinterpretations’.
The priest was wrong about Bill. Everything he said was at best incorrect, and more likely a bunch of self-serving bullshit. Everything they ever did was stupid and wrong. Bill never cared about what they did, or all the prayers they sent or literally any devotional action. And that’s a true, unshakable fact, because the opposite idea - that Dipper’s mere presence changes Bill’s behavior, even one iota - is laughably outrageous.
Another slight shake. Bill, trying to catch his attention again. He’s raised an eyebrow, examining Dipper’s face as he thinks.
Right, Dipper should - uh. Probably just get out of here. Before Bill does something like get annoyed at his ungrateful guest. Or worse, put on the expectant look again.
With a quick nod, and a ‘cute’ smile, he shuffles out from under his arm, and scuttles for the guest room.
Everything’s just as he left it. The open book. The tidy sheets. The notes he was taking, before he noticed Bill was gone and thought he’d have a tiny look around -
“Haven’t done much redecorating, I see.”
Dipper nearly leaps out of his skin. Shit, what -
Behind him, Bill hovers at a disrespectful distance. His eye is narrowed, and his expression suggests a man who’s not terribly impressed.
“A full week shoulda had you settled in way more.” Bill says, shaking his head in… disappointment? He stalks around Dipper casually, glancing around the room. “Hey, you made the bed! That’s rare!”
Dipper’s mouth works, but that’s an old, dumb instinct. He shuts it, and glares.
Bill wanders around, casually pacing around the small space. A quick check of the bed, yanking out the sheets until they’re messy again - then setting his fists on his hips, looking proud of himself.
Okay. This is new.
Bill’s been around, but he’s never intruded before. Every time Dipper wasn’t sure how to deal with him, he could retreat back to the guest room and be sure that he’d have some space. Quiet, too, aside from the occasional piano playing, drifting through the door.
Now he’s thinking all of that was a courtesy.
Obviously Bill can’t be kept out of what is, after all, his place. He’s simply chosen not to intrude until now.
With supreme confidence, Bill drops onto the bed, tucking his arms behind his head and crossing one leg over the other - yeah. Still his place, and he knows it. He didn’t even take his shoes off.
“Oh!” A bright grin crosses Bill’s face. He rummages under the pillow for a second. “I take it back - you did make one addition to the decor.”
With a grin, he brandishes the stupid plush of himself like he was holding up his firstborn child. Because he is, as Dipper learned, a narcissist.
Ugh, of course he’d find that. Dipper looks away, trying to keep his annoyance off his face.
“Yeah, yeah, glare all you like, kid.” Bill says, wagging a chiding finger. “You’ve been making yourself scarce, but you can’t avoid me forever! At the very least ya need to get those stitches out in a few days.” A smirk. “Though I’d love to see you manage that yourself.”
Dipper can’t argue with that. He does try to stop glaring, but it’s surprisingly difficult.
“What?” Bill sits up, setting mini-Bill in his lap. He raises an eyebrow. “Not got anything to say?”
Obviously not. Dipper folds his arms, and tries not to look at - not an interloper, this is Bill’s. He’s the guest. Getting bothered by it is rude at best.
“But no! Silent as the night is long, and orders of magnitude more boring. This whole time, I haven’t heard a peep from you, Pine Tree. And I've been very patient.” Bill sighs, running a hand through his hair. “What gives?”
Like that’s not obvious, either. Dipper pinches his lips together, tight.
There was a sacrifice. Made in Bill’s name, and for his honor. A devotion bestowed unto him. He can ignore cries for help, but there’s no way Bill didn’t notice that. Just like when he showed at the ritual, or at Dipper’s impromptu summoning. The call would have been too strong.
No, even stronger. With that much blood spilled, it must have been like a signal beacon.
Bill knows what went on. He just didn’t care.
And now he’s being an asshole, just because he can.
“It’s especially irritating when you have plenty of avenues to make a statement.” Bill rises from the bed with a sigh, dropping mini-Bill back onto the pillows. “You just haven’t put in the effort!”
Without waiting for a response, he stalks straight past Dipper and over to the desk. He runs his fingers over the surface, caressing the edge of -
Oh, shit, no.
His journal. That he left out, like an idiot, assuming Bill would never, ever come in here to see it-
By now it’s far too late - he must have seen a bit already - but Dipper hurries over towards him anyway. It’s not like he can shove Bill out of the way, or smack anything out of his hand. The repercussions would - he doesn’t want to think about those; they make him feel so sick.
Bill’s already picked it up, he even turned a page -
“See? You’re literate, sapling! Reading and writing, both at your command.” He rests the journal against where his heart would theoretically be. “Why haven’t you shown any of it off?”
For a lot of very good reasons. For fuck’s sake. Bill’s already intimated that he knows Dipper doesn’t really believe. But he is arrogant, and powerful. A terrible, awful, confusing god.
He can’t be allowed to read that journal, because gods do not like being called ‘assholes’. Even if it’s true.
Though it’s a dumb move, Dipper makes a grab for the damning evidence. Bill’s too quick though; he misses by a mile.
“Oop!” Bill raises his arm high, looking at Dipper with amusement. “Aww, nice try! So close.” With a wink, he dangles Dipper's own personal, very private notebook over his head. Why does this bastard have to be tall, damn it. “What, you want this?”
Dipper grits his teeth. No, he was never going to get it back by force, or speed, or even a quick wit. One young human doesn’t stand a chance.
Desperate times. Desperate measures.
It worked before. It might work now,
Dipper takes a slow breath, and lets it out. Then he shuts his eyes, and kneels.
Above him, he hears Bill’s laugh fall silent. Slightly placated, then. A little more should do the trick.
With a great effort of will, Dipper bows his head, hands pressed together. He can get through this. He can kneel and - kind of sit awkwardly on his foot, he shifts his weight and braces his palm on Bill’s thigh for balance.
He’s about to start praying when something hits him in the head with a thump.
Dipper jerks back, hissing through his teeth. He starts rubbing at the spot, head lowered -
And when he blinks at the floor, a book flops unceremoniously open on the carpet.
Before Bill can move, Dipper snags the journal that was just dropped on him. Tucking it under his arm for safekeeping, and scooting back on the carpet.
“Eh, whatever. Go ahead and keep it.” Bill folds his arms, turning away to sit back down on the bed. Weirdly huffy for a guy who was getting worshiped. Maybe Dipper did it wrong. “Besides! I don’t need to skim through some book to know you.”
Welp, that’s ominous.
Dipper shuffles back over to the desk. He glances over at Bill - looking away, still in his odd sulk - then opens a drawer, drops his journal in, and shuts it with his hip.
Another huff from Bill. By his face he’s not in a great mood, but it doesn’t seem to be actively dangerous.
And he doesn’t make another move for the journal. Even though it’s full of secrets.
That’s one relief. Maybe he considers Dipper’s secrets too boring. Maybe Bill’s not interested in them, beyond using them to antagonize him.
He’s a god, anyway. A demon slash god slash infinite being of pure energy. All human thought should be totally beneath his notice, just like the fleeting human lives that make up his cult -
But that doesn’t make sense, either.
Dipper rubs at his eyes. Silently willing any part of this, at any time, to finally come together.
Because if humans were totally beneath Bill’s notice, why is one of them here? Living in his home, taking up his space, eating his food and breathing his air and getting weird expectant looks. Even for a supernatural being, that’s no small effort.
If it were just about his blood, Dipper could understand that. It wouldn’t be very fun, but he’d get it.
But it’s not. Because none of it has been spilled since the ritual. Because nothing’s been painful or threatening or - okay, a lot of it’s been weird, but nothing like the scriptures said it would be. All the rules Dipper’s learned simply don’t seem to apply.
Bill’s supposed to be -
He’s supposed to be different, is all.
But hee can hardly blame Bill for that. It’s not his fault people got him wrong, or idealized him, or if he’s super weird - that last part was advertised, extensively.
There’s a lot of things that a lot of people are ‘supposed’ to be, Dipper guesses. It never really fits them, in the end.
He just doesn’t understand why Bill’s doing this.
“Don’t think we’re not gonna go over the main pain of the day, either.” Bill gives Dipper a long, annoyed look. “What kinda guy stays at another guy’s place and doesn’t give him so much as a ‘hello’?”
Dipper shrugs, and stuffs his hands in his pockets. He can’t quite meet Bill’s eye.
Okay, technically Bill’s right. That would be rude, if it weren’t for certain circumstances.
“And I don’t mean chanting a prayer, either! You got fully functional hands and a brain.” With a frown, Bill stands and approaches. Dipper backs up against the desk, but Bill stops a couple feet away, hands on his hips. “Why not write a thank-you note or something?”
Oh. Well.
That was always an option. Dipper just didn’t know Bill wanted it.
And why would he? Bill’s a mental god, a mind reader. Always keeping an eye on him. The idea that he just wants to be ‘talked’ to is….
Yeah, another weird thing. Hell, at least Dipper can do that. It might not even be too embarrassing.
Before he can grab a pen and paper off the desk, Bill shoves a whiteboard and marker in his hands. He nearly jumps back, before accepting it with reasonable dignity. Despite having seen it before, Bill manifesting things out of nowhere is remarkably startling.
Now he’s left staring at it. Wondering what he should do.
“Ahem,” Bill clears his throat. “You could start with a, ‘Hi Bill!’ or, ‘You’re amazing, Bill’. Y’know, any kinda standard greeting.” He claps his hands together, grinning wide. “But I’ll give you more points for creativity.”
Dipper glances down at the blank white board, then back up at Bill. He clamps his mouth shut, trying to focus.
That was a joke. Right? He’s, like, 90% the ‘points’ are rhetorical, not literal. How do you get a bad grade in talking to a god? What metric would Bill use to - damn it, he’s overthinking this already.
What would be a good answer. What would be bad? And what’s the horribly wrong one that ends in disaster?
Dipper hesitates, biting his lip. He hears Bill make a soft groan, either impatient or already disappointed.
Great. Yet another chance to fail his god. Just like all the other times Bill waited for something, and didn’t get it. Now he’s going to read something Dipper wrote, words made just for him, and those will be the first words Dipper’s ever said directly to him. They have to be -
Shit. Right.
Another glance up - Bill has his expectant look on again, and somehow it’s even brighter this time. Watching tantalizing treat, held just out of reach - but maybe arriving, in a moment.
Of course. That’s what Bill’s been waiting for.
The only truly wrong answer is not giving one.
Dipper gives a quick smile, and starts scribbling on the whiteboard. He can do this. It may not be great, but he can hardly do worse than nothing.
The instant he puts marker to surface, Bill’s grin somehow widens to an impossible degree, even though it’s the single most boring thing that could be going on in the nightmare realm. He even claps a few times, like a particularly annoying, demonic seal.
His enthusiasm takes some of the pressure off. Even if Dipper can’t bring himself to use the most worshipful greetings, Bill should be pleased nonetheless.
“Lemme see, lemme see!” Bill beckons him closer, eye bright and lit from within.
For a second, Dipper’s tempted to hold the board to his chest, feeling warm in the face. It’s really not a big deal. Bill doesn’t need to make one out of it.
After a second, he turns his head away and the board around, where he’s written a fairly neutral - but still devoted! - greeting.
‘I am at your service, my lord.’
Bill looks down at the board.
Then he looks up at Dipper’s face, searching it for something. Then down again.
The smile has slid away, leaving a mix of alarm and disgust behind. Like Bill bit into a donut he’d been saving for a special occasion, and got a mouthful of frog spawn.
The reaction is so unexpected that Dipper’s more baffled than nervous. What, is it his handwriting? A quick check proves it’s perfectly legible.
“Cute, I guess! Give it another shot.” Bill says, and wipes the board clean with two fingers. He laughs, in the tone of someone who’s seen a terrible social gaffe and is glossing over it. “Try ‘Bill’, instead. ‘Handsome’, if you’re daring. A pet name, even!” His smile inches briefly downward. “But ‘bout skip the ‘lord’ or ‘master’ for the next few years. Minimum.”
Dipper slowly turns the board back around, though he does side-eye Bill for a moment. He gets a grip on the marker again, pausing for thought.
What the hell, that was a classic. Every supernatural being likes deference. Especially the powerful ones. Except now the rules have changed up, again, without any rhyme or reason, because Bill just has to be super weird, all the goddamn time.
Not that he’s going to comment on it. If Bill overthinks this ‘no groveling’ decision, he might change his mind.
After a few seconds of deliberation - Bill staring the whole time - he goes with, ‘Hi Bill’
“Much better,” Bill says with satisfaction. He rubs his hands together, smiling wide. “Man, we have a lot of catching up to do!”
He leans in, very, very close, making Dipper lean back against the desk. He clutches the board tight, smiles awkwardly - and hopes this won’t be too bad.
One of Bill Cipher’s domains of power is knowledge. Another is secrets.
With the way Bill asks questions, it’s like Dipper has a bunch that he doesn’t already know about.
Bill wants to know his favorite color - blue - tells him it should be yellow, with a haughty sniff, then erases Dipper’s apology and insists he tell him about his brief trip outside. And about how he likes the penthouse. How he’s found the accommodations - comfy, thank you - and a thousand other minor, dull details. Keeping up with the sheer barrage makes Dipper’s hand cramp, even when he skips out on full sentences.
It’s one of the longest conversations - insofar as it is one - that Dipper’s ever had with someone outside his old cult. Bill, meanwhile, is the god of that cult, and he still doesn’t seem to know anything about it. Or at least he’s asking a hell of a lot of questions about really, objectively, boring crap. At some point, Dipper realizes that eternal smile isn’t there anymore, so it’s probably boring him, too.
“All of that aside - I think we oughta get to the heart of the matter, as it were.” Bill snaps his fingers, and the grin resurges.
Dipper nods. He swallows, throat bobbing, and ducks his head.
Okay. Everything else has been kind of surface level. Now he must be moving on to deeper secrets. Things in Dipper’s head that have never seen the light of day. Or the ones that have, and Bill’s going to dig into them, deeply. Possibly painfully so -
“Why won't you talk to me?” Bill whines.
What?
Dipper runs that sentence back through his head, but there’s no other word for it. The high, nasal tone, the slump of Bill’s shoulders. A look that might be a pout - he’s sulking again, but way harder this time.
But that - Dipper double-checks his board, recalling all his responses. It can’t be something he wrote, that was all pretty bland. So either Bill’s just being weird again, or - something. Another thing.
Damn it. He wishes he had more space to pick this apart, but Bill’s been so close and talking too fast. He didn’t have time to analyze while bracing against the flood.
“Seriously, what are we looking at here?” Bill says, straightening up. He paces around Dipper in a circle, arms tucked behind his back. “Vow of silence? Cause if so, I’m your god, and I say screw that! Pipe up anytime!”
Dipper shakes his head. No. If it was, he would have violated it a long time ago. It’s a weird guess.
It’s weird that Bill is guessing.
“Ethereal binding? A curse, maybe?” The idea must strike him as a fun one, because Bill perks up again. “Now if we’re talking curses, oh man! I’ve got a whole collection! There’s dozens of ways to break those, kid. Hell, depending on type, we could get you patched up this evening!”
Again, Dipper shakes his head. He huffs out a sigh, about to correct Bill’s incredibly wrong assumption -
Then pauses with the marker above the board. Because - well - Bill wouldn’t want to be told the obvious. He should know this already.
Dipper bites his lower lip again, frowning at the blank white space.
Shouldn’t he?
Meanwhile, Bill rattles off more speculations, each one more bizarre than the last. No, he didn’t make a deal with a sea witch, or a harpy. He didn’t wander into the bog of silence, or sell his voice for some magic beans.
By this point he’s not bothering to hold up the board and marker anymore, just so he can shrug better. Without writing down his responses, he has more space to think.
He already knew the ‘didn’t care’ part. An ambivalent, cruel god would hardly have reason to help any easily replaceable mortal. The ‘bored’ part might fit, if Bill wasn’t so bluntly fascinated by the topic. Obviously Bill thinks some suffering is fun, but this ‘conversation’ doesn’t entertain him. It’s something…
There… was a another idea. One Dipper kept to himself.
An assumption, and one that he knows so, so much better than to speak aloud.
Not that he can ever do that again.
Looking at Bill’s face, though. He’s gone quiet, momentarily. Looking back at Dipper with his head cocked to one side. Staring, intensely, like he wants to drill the answer straight out of his brain.
Which he can, he’s Bill freakin’ Cipher. But he’s not doing it for whatever reason, so Dipper just has to roll with that.
At the end of the day, there’s no other conclusion to come to.
That despite the all-seeing eye, the power of a god, and knowing mysteries of the multiverse -
Maybe Bill actually, genuinely, doesn’t...
Dipper has to try a couple times before he gets the letters down without them wobbling too much. He gets them down with careful strokes, board feeling heavy in his hands.
His hands only shake a little when he flips it around.
‘You don’t know?’
“Hey, I know tons, kid! A billion things! I could tell you what I had for breakfast, January 25, 1938! Or what Machiavelli did in his spare time! But that’s stuff I was personally involved in.” Bill scoffs. Then waves vaguely, not meeting Dipper’s eye. “Whatever went on in your little conclave wasn’t on my radar. I might be short on specifics.”
Even though he was already expecting something like that, the admission catches Dipper off guard.
Holy shit, he was right.
Bill genuinely didn’t know. He just said it, though not in so many words.
He just. Said it.
There are things in the world that he doesn’t notice, or - or things that he misses, he’s not -
As Dipper reels at the revelation, he braces himself on the desk. Bill’s arm shoots out, bracing his waist like he thinks Dipper’s going to fall.
And. If this wasn’t for - if this wasn’t from Bill. If he didn’t command it from afar. If it wasn’t his order. Then it was always the people around him, especially the priest, and Dipper didn’t, maybe, do something wrong, he just.
Dipper sniffs, then wipes at his face with his sleeve. Hopefully it looks like he was scratching an itch or something.
Weirdly, Bill’s serious face starts edging towards… surprise? Alarm? He coughs into his fist. “So, about the-”
Dipper waves him off, then realizes that was stupid. He picks up the board again, and scribbles, ‘I can’t.’
“What do you mean you ‘can’t’?”
How is he not getting this? Dipper huffs out a breath, and underlines ‘can’t’. Twice.
Bill rolls his eye, patting the air in a calming motion. “Alright, alright. Straight up incapable! Now are we talking emotionally, spiritually…” It was already weird to see him serious. Now, his expression is far too calm. “Or physically?”
Maybe Dipper shouldn’t admit this. Maybe telling Bill would get someone in trouble, but it’s not Dipper in trouble, maybe never should have been, and momentum carries him forward.
It takes a second to write it. The words keep coming out wrong. 'They said it was for blasphemy’.
"Show me." Both Bill's face and voice are dead flat.
The sharpness of the command stings. Dipper winces, jaw clenching tight.
There’s the first order he’s been given. Until now, Bill hasn’t bothered, and all things considered it could be worse.
But it is an order. Dipper swallows against the nausea rising, and clenches his fists.
Okay. He can do this. It’s been a long time since he took a look in the mirror at that particular sight, but - right, lord of nightmares. He’s probably seen way worse.
Under Bill’s impatient gaze, Dipper carefully sets his board and marker aside. Then he shuts his eyes, points at his mouth, and opens it.
He only holds it that way for, like, a little bit. Exposing this sucks. It makes his mouth dry, and having Bill stare at it makes the twist in his stomach worse. A few seconds all he can stand before he shuts it again.
A low growl rumbles.
Then Bill’s thumb digs into the corner of his mouth, pulling it back and shoving in between his teeth. Dipper tries arching his head away, but Bill turns him back with a commanding grip on his chin. A thumb digs in, wedging his mouth open and pushing his teeth apart. The only choice is to open up or bite him, and it hurts -
Dipper twists his head. Bill holds him still. The helpless ‘ah’ that comes out of his throat sounds strained and weak. Shit, he should just be quiet, it’s not like he’s not used to it at this point.
Continual pressure, Bill’s not giving in - so Dipper relents, letting Bill get his awful kicks out of the sight. Face burning, eyes shut. He’s never liked having to use his mouth since it happened, and Bill keeps staring when he should have only needed a glimpse to know what was wrong.
Bill holds him like that for a full ten seconds. Silent. Staring.
Then he lets go.
Dipper stumbles back, covering his mouth with both hands. Through the rapid blinking, he can see Bill take a deep breath in.
And another one.
Bill’s eye is twitching but otherwise, he’s dead-faced. No more smile, no easy stance. He’s tense and his fingers flex. His eye glows with a dull, burning light.
That’s… not a happy look. Dipper presses his back up against the wall. He blinks rapidly, trying to clear the heat from his own eyes.
When Bill punches the wall, it shatters as if hit with a sledgehammer.
Dipper drops. Legs folding, butt hitting the ground, and pressing his hands tight over his face. Shards of the wall tumble onto the carpet, and blink away into ash, as blue fire burns in the crater; drywall flaking away to reveal more of that same black stone.
“You have got to be kidding me! What kind of bullshit is THIS?” Bill’s voice rings through the room, loud and so angry. He starts pacing back and forth, throwing his arms in the air. “Bunch of half-witted jackasses ruining my stuff! And for what?”
His voice turns strange and deep on some of the words, it resonates in the room, it makes the walls shake.
Dipper shuffles up against the desk, taking shelter from the blooms of fire that seem to be popping up on the walls, and the floor, and - everywhere. It’s trailing along the baseboards, climbing up the corners.
Bill didn’t like that. He really, really didn’t like that. He’s angered his god again and it’s going to be bad.
“And in my name! Under my image! What a laugh!” Bill taps his foot against the carpet, teeth bared, eye glowing a bright, hot red - “They like blood rituals? Oh I’ll give ‘em a blood ritual.”
It feels like the entire building is moving by now, as Bill punctuates his statement with a kick. It tosses Dipper an inch off the ground, sending books and pens toppling to the floor. The door to the kitchen splinters into a thousand quietly screaming shards, before vanishing in acrid smoke. The heat’s rising, Bill’s way too close - and the light’s gone strange and shifting, casting stark shadows in dark black and bright light.
Dipper never should have mentioned anything. Never gone outside, never left his room, never spoken up, the last is a lesson he should know by now. Never should have thought that Bill didn’t have infinite wrath available, how stupid was he.
All he can do now is try and make himself small.
Tucking himself against the desk isn’t working but there’s nowhere else to go. Nothing in this room is safe, and it’s so hot - Dipper tries to breathe steadily but he can’t seem to get enough air.
“I never shoulda left that place intact in the first place!” Bill throws his head back, laughing to himself with a manic grin. “That’s the last time I let a bunch of stupid cultists live with their lungs on the inside.”
Bill punctuates his threat with another kick to the wall, which deforms like putty around him. Bill swears again. He yanks his leg, attempting to pull it out - and hey, the door’s open. Bill never shut it, he’s turned away for now and as long as he’s not looking -
Dipper makes a break for it.
Scrambling on hands and knees on too-hot carpet hurts, but the lower he keeps himself the less likely he’ll catch Bill’s eye again. A frantic couple of seconds later he’s out of the guest room, heart pounding, and he leaps to his feet and runs.
Can’t stay out here. Room’s too open, too many places to be cornered. Can’t be in the open or be seen, can’t remind Bill that the source of his anger is right here with him, so easy to catch and punish.
His brain catches up with him just as his foot hits stone.
Dipper freezes in the doorway, breathing hard - but not stepping out.
Okay, the exit opened easily enough, but he already knows that everything outside is terrifying and horrible and - he glances over his shoulder, at the blue light - it’s not much of an improvement.
With a jerk, Dipper abandons that escape route, and turns back to face the penthouse. The light from the guest room is growing, Bill’s anger surging, and before he storms out Dipper needs a place to hide.
There’s too much space under the piano. He’d never fit in the cupboards, or under the couch, and the fireplace is literally on fire -
But there is one more open door that Dipper’s never been in before.
Bill might not like it, but he also won’t look there first thing and it’s further away from him than where Dipper’s standing right now.
He’s through the door to Bill’s bedroom before he can stop himself - no magical resistance, and no time to think about why - Dipper checks, but there’s no obvious exits, or closets, or even conveniently large wardrobes, why does -
In the distance, Bill lets out a loud, angry incoherent sound. He hears the door slam, open or closed he can’t tell.
As another rumble shakes the Fearamid, Dipper ducks and slides underneath the too-large bed.
Thank hell the bed’s totally oversized; there’s enough space to crawl, so he shuffles up and back, towards the headboard. It’s a little dusty and there’s some clutter he can’t see, but all that is easily shoved aside until he curls up, tight, against the wall and under the frame.
That’s it. As far away as he can get.
Nothing left to do but wait.
It feels like a long time. Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t. There’s no way to tell, with the only frame of reference being his own heart pounding, too fast.
The building has gone still again, which. Hopefully that’s a good sign. Maybe Bill’s calming down. Maybe he’s moved somewhere else. Maybe he noticed Dipper left, and he’s going to hunt him down and -
But it might take him a while. This is a decent hiding space. The blankets draped back down after he slid under, covering any line of sight. And all the light. Everything’s dark, and the cloth and bed muffle all the distant sounds.
Somewhere, Bill lets out a single, furious shout. Dipper winces, but he can’t make out the words anymore. It could be about anything.
After that, there’s silence again.
Simply waiting means he could stalk in without any sign. He can be quiet, he’s basically a supernatural predator, and an ambush - he needs some warning.
Dipper shuffles until he faces the wall, pressing his ear against the floor, listening for the approach - No footsteps. Yet. He can still feel his heart beating at a rapid pace, but he thinks he’s not panting anymore, so. That’s good.
The quiet, and dark, and - for some, incredibly weird reason - the smell of the room itself all combine into a strangely calming effect. Not that it’s safe, because absolutely isn’t; there’s literally only a duvet keeping him out of sight.
It just. Feels a little safer. For stupid, back-of-the-brain reasons, totally irrational. Like an animal retreating into its burrow from a predator, pinging ancient instincts.
Which isn’t rational in the slightest. Not to mention the danger is Bill Cipher himself. Dipper’s putting his faith into a blanket keeping a monster from seeing him, and if it wasn’t so terrifyingly real it’d almost be funny.
This is the best he’s got for now. He’ll figure out the next step later. Whenever that is.
The one positive note is the yelling’s been done for a while now. Quiet is a welcome relief. Even if it’s temporary.
Very temporary, as a sudden commotion starts up in the living room.
By the sound of it, Bill’s stomping around and making a clatter. He’s messing around with objects. Breaking something, maybe. Doesn’t matter, as long as he’s not breaking someone.
More thudding - faster, like a run - then Bill’s voice, loud and slightly breathless. “Hey! Pine Tree?”
A long pause.
Dipper tucks his legs up against himself, wrapping his good arm around them. His other wrist throbs; he holds it close to his chest.
Swearing resumes, at a lower volume - then a rapid thump of a run, before an abrupt stop.
Then Bill shouts again, echoing and distant, as if down a hallway. “Dipper!”
The name rings through Dipper’s nerves like a bell. It’s like being clanged against a metal pot, sudden and shocking, vibrations running through him. He clasps his arm tighter around his legs, and shuts his eyes.
It- maybe that was less angry? Bill, wondering where he went. Dipper’s not in trouble. He shouldn’t be in trouble. It wouldn’t be fair, it wasn’t fair before and it wouldn’t be now, he was just doing what he was told this time - and there’s no way to get out of here. There’s nowhere else to go.
Dipper pushes his nose into his sleeve, face against the fabric.
It’s too much to hope that Bill’s not upset - but he might have taken off somewhere. Found someone else to take his anger out on. A more deserving target.
He won’t be mad forever. Right?. His emotions are flighty, and he’s easier-going than the sermons made him seem. Given enough time, maybe Dipper can uncurl himself from this place, sneak back to the probably-ruined guestroom, and -
Footsteps, again. Close.
Dipper jerks his head up from the floor and he can still hear them, even through the cover of the bed and blanket.
Bill’s not just back, he’s in the room with him.
Stupid, stupid, stupid. Why did he take off, that was the worst thing he could ever have done. The eye of God is always watching, witnessing everything Dipper does.
He can run, and he can hide, but in the end he will always face judgment.
He claps a hand over his mouth and nose. Holds his breath. A few more seconds. A minute. Every moment he can get is precious.
Bill’s shoes on the carpet make a loud, distinctive thump. The sound heads towards the fireplace of the room - then pauses, and turns back to the door. A quick, repetitive path, back and forth. Not near the bed, yet. Bill’s muttering something under his breath that’s too quiet to make out, staying in the room, not leaving, until Dipper’s lungs burn with the effort to keep still. Keep silent.
“Fuck!” Something slams into the bed, a thump on the mattress that sends the frame shaking. Despite all his effort, some air escapes Dipper’s lungs through his nose with a short, high sound. He clamps his fingers over it, but it’s too late.
Silence.
Bill goes still. He’s next to the bed. But he’s not setting everything under the bed aflame, or swearing or yelling anymore. Dipper holds his breath again, daring to hope-
“Aha!” The blankets whip up, letting all the light in - and showing Bill’s huge, sharp teeth bared in a grin. “There you are!”
Dipper turns away. He faces the back wall, he lowers his head.
“I thought you almost ran out again for a sec!” A low whistle. “Be a real shame if you got devoured, kid. I’ve barely even started with you!” There’s a shuffle, like Bill - the god - himself might actually be kneeling, if only to get a better look. “C’mere.”
Dipper shakes his head. Behind him, he hears Bill let out a displeased grunt.
No, he’s not coming out. Not for this. Not even if Bill’s mad about it.
There's punishment waiting, once he emerges. Dipper can handle it. He has before.
But he will not go willingly. He never has.
Obedience truly offers no protection. Bill asked Dipper to tell him. Dipper did as he was told for once. Getting hurt for it is just unfair. Hi only did what he thought was right. That's all he's ever done, no matter what anyone else says, and even if some of it was blasphemous then it sure as hell wasn't any of Bill’s business. He doesn’t even know what was said.
If Bill wants to make a big, agonizing show out of something that upset him, then whatever. He can't be stopped.
But he doesn’t get to pretend it's anything but cruel.
He'll have to drag Dipper out.
Another grunt behind him, and the shuffle of something on carpet. Dipper hears it come closer, then the soft brush of something on his back - he flinches.
“Oh, for-” A heavy sigh, then a retreating scuffle. Bill mutters something under his breath, then, “Under the bed is where monsters live, sapling. By all rights I should join you! Might wanna get outta the way first.”
Dipper doesn’t move, or respond. He remains still, in the desperate hope that Bill will find it boring enough to leave him be.
There’s a pause. A long one, at that.
The silence lingers, for three seconds. Then five. Ten.
“Okay! Okay, I get it.” Bill says. His tone is calmer, though more sarcastic than soothing. “So the little scene earlier got you freaked out. It’d be a pretty poor showing on my part if I didn’t inspire terror! But none of that was about you, kid.” A patting sound, like a palm on carpet. “You’re fine! No cowering needed!”
Yeah, right. Dipper almost rolls his eyes.
Oh, no, of course he’s not in trouble. He just needs to come out so they can have a little ‘talk’, or participate in this one little ‘ritual’. With commentary that never once mentions his name, but says it louder than any words.
It wasn’t true then, and isn’t true now. One of Bill’s major domains is deception, and in plain terms - blasphemous ones - that makes him a big fat liar.
Dipper tucks his chin down further. Bill missed getting hold of his shirt earlier, so he’s sure as hell not offering his hair as purchase. If he wants to wreak vengeance, he better break down the bed or scoot back under.
Either way, Dipper gets the small satisfaction of making him work for it. It’ll almost be worth what follows.
“Seriously!” Bill says, indignant this time. “Cross my heart and hope to rot in a grave, you’re not the guy in trouble.” He waits a beat, then another - then an annoyed groan, as his lies have no effect. “Always a friggin’ skeptic, huh.”
He pauses, then, “What do you want, kid? A bribe, maybe? Do I gotta blackmail you outta there?” A hum of thought. “Okay, both! If you get outta there, I won’t read your dumb journal and will get you something reaaally nice.”
Let him talk all he wants. It doesn’t mean anything.
“You gotta come out eventually, y’know.” Bill continues. Dipper tries to tune out his voice, but Bill’s very hard to ignore. “You can’t live there forever!”
It’s true, Dipper can’t. At some point, he’s going to need water, or to eat, or use the bathroom. All kinds of mortal human necessities.
But until then, he can put off the consequences. Annoying Bill is just a bonus.
Another, louder groan, and then Dipper hears Bill’s shoes on the carpet again. He stands by the bed for a moment, then goes back to tracing the same pacing path, back and forth. Not bored enough to leave, not annoyed enough to pursue. Even the slight reprieve is a surprising relief.
Bill's also muttering to himself again. Mostly swearing, by the sound of it, but Dipper thinks he hears the word ‘stubborn’. Which tracks.
How long will it take before Bill gives up? Will he give up? Dipper’s kept his interactions with him to a minimum; he doesn’t know how much patience Bill has. Or how long it’ll last until the fire blooms under the already stifling bedframe, heat building -
“Ha!” Bill snaps his fingers. Chuckling, too, like he’s just had a great idea.
Okay. Not that long, then.
Before he can curl up even tighter in the cramped space, he hears Bill’s thudding footsteps -
Running out of the room?
Dipper waits for a moment. He squirms around enough to tilt his head, checking the space left from Bill raising the blankets. Nothing there.
It’s too much to hope that Bill’s truly gone. He’ll be back. By his exclamation and sudden exit, he’s preparing for some dubiously good idea. He’s going to…
To…
Something.
For a moment, Dipper almost wishes he had hung out with Bill more. Talked to him, or, well. Wrote something to him. Maybe then he’d have a better idea of what’s going on in that insane, convoluted head of his. It’s not burning Dipper out, apparently, or convincing him through lies. But that just leaves a giant blank space he can’t fill in with useful information.
It barely takes a minute before the sound of Bill storming back in breaks his train of thought.
Since Dipper knows a scheme is being pulled, he’s sorta prepared. He hopes it won’t hurt, or not hurt too badly.
“Alright.” Bill returns to his previous position, standing by the bed. His breathing has slightly picked up, like he ran all the way somewhere and back. “How about this, then?”
Dipper doesn’t respond. He can tell Bill’s getting back down to peek under the bed; the shadows show it, there’s a scuffle on carpet.
Then, Bill’s voice. Higher pitched, somewhere in the range of cloying and deeply annoying. “What’s wrong, Pine Tree?”
What.
“I heard that someone is reaaaal upset!” Bill continues, with the same godawful tone. “Why don’t you come out and have a big cuddle with your-” A pause, a quick ‘eugh’ - “Squishy little friend! Mini-Bill!”
Okay, what.
Dipper turns away from the wall out of sheer morbid curiosity.
The first thing he catches is Bill - looking annoyed, until he sees Dipper turn to look and instantly brightens. He’s crouched by the bed, looking sideways under the frame, one arm extended, and he’s wiggling the stupid Bill plush.
Dipper stares at it. Bill jiggles mini-him some more, making the black legs and arms flop around like the most noodly of puppets.
Bill dashed off like something was urgent, but it was really only just across the penthouse. Then he dug that out from under Dipper’s pillow, and ran back like he’d just had an amazing idea.
It’s so…
Dumb.
With a playful whistle. Bill makes the puppet’s arms rise up like it’s offering a hug, clapping its little hands together.
In fact, Bill Cipher - is a goddamn idiot.
It’s the same phrase that always occupies a part of Dipper’s brain, only this time instead of the shame, the self-recrimination, and the memory of pain - he kinda feels like he wants to laugh.
God. That’s. Vindication, isn’t it. Even while he’s in danger, it feels really, really good.
Bill catches him watching, and all his smugness returns in a rush. “Ha! Knew this would work.” He says - in his normal tone, thank fuck. “Your - ugh - little friend is waiting, kid! Come give ‘em a kiss!”
Alright, that’s enough.
Dipper makes a swipe for the plushie, but Bill’s quicker on the draw and he misses by inches. That also brought him perilously close to Bill-range - he retreats before Bill can swipe right back.
Too bad. He’s not getting out of here yet. Being under the bed has been safe, so far. He can’t give that up.
Bill groans, slumping down onto the carpet. He lies on his side, turning Mini-Bill around to glare like somehow it’s the reason Dipper didn’t give in.
“Fine. Fine! Take your dumb toy, if he makes you feel so much better,” Bill says, mockingly. With a wordless sneer, he flings the plush in Dipper’s direction and flops down on his back. “He’s stupid anyway.”
Mini-Bill lands just far enough away that Dipper has to shuffle forward to grab it. Bill doesn’t move from where he’s lying, giving Dipper enough time to scoot back against the wall and bring it to his chest, holding tight.
Yes, it’s dumb that Bill got this. Yes, it’s also dumb that Dipper’s glad he got it, and he knows it’s totally stupid, but having the one soft thing in his life in his arms again does make him feel better.
He checks Mini-Bill - still intact, undamaged - then back at the regular-sized version.
Bill lets out a derisive snort, but doesn’t speak. He folds his arms over his chest.
That… was nothing like Dipper expected.
That can’t have been his whole plan. Right? There’s another plot. Deception that he hasn’t seen yet.
On the carpet, Bill lies flat on his back. He’s glaring at the ceiling. One finger taps an impatient beat on his bicep. And while there’s no smile on his face, he doesn’t look angry, exactly, even though his brow is furrowed. It takes a second for Dipper to parse.
Bill. Actually looks…
Tired.
Not physically, of course, there’s no sweat on him. Simply like he’s run out of energy, and needs a moment to recharge. Like someone poked a pin in an inflatable plan, one he put a lot of work into, and now he needs a minute to sulk.
Which means he’s not up to anything just yet.
Dipper squeezes Mini-Bill a few times. It’s soft and clean. A quick check proves it doesn’t even smell like smoke from all the burning; the guest room must be pretty intact.
After a moment, he wriggles onto his stomach, plushie tucked between his shoulder and ear.
But he slows down, and stops. Bill’s eye is on him again, half-lidded. Contemplative.
“What a shame. My human’s decided to dwell with the dust bunnies.” Bill lays the back of a hand dramatically against his forehead, though his eye stays firmly on Dipper. “And here I was, just about to tell ‘em the real reason he’s here.” The barest flicker of a grin, quickly repressed. “Guess he’ll never learn it now!”
Okay, that's a temptation. Dipper glares, but it only makes Bill’s smile creep into a grin.
And… fine. It’s effective, too.
Whatever. Bill was right, earlier. Dipper really can’t stay under the bed forever. It’s cramped and dark and uncomfortably tight. It’s only been about half an hour and parts of him are already sore.
And if he’s got to get out, then now’s as good a time as any.
He rolls onto his stomach, and inches forward, before pausing with a jolt as Bill scrambles up to a sitting position. But he doesn’t go for a grab. He just… watches, with a weird amount of anticipation. When he sees Dipper hesitate, he starts patting his knees.
Great, Bill’s not just stupid, he’s a dork.
Yet another difference from doctrine. The list is getting really long - but Dipper’s okay with that.
It could totally be worse. Way worse.
Crawling his way out is way harder than it was getting in. Without the energy of panic, it’s kind of a pain in the ass. Hiding in a barely accessible place seemed like a great idea until he had to get himself out.
It’s a far less eventful exit than he pictured. More awkward than anything. Also, the sideboard is lower than the space under the bed, and Dipper hits his head on it with a - well, he can’t swear. But he wants to.
“Having trouble, kid?” Bill says, sounding amused. He gets to his feet, grinning wide. “No problem. Lemme get that for ya!” And snaps his fingers.
Light floods over Dipper. So does space, in an alarming amount.
He glances around, where there’s no frame or legs or mattress or - where the hell did the bed go?
“Up you go!” Bill takes hold of Dipper’s arms, pulling him to his feet. “See, that wasn’t so bad, was it?”
Dipper looks behind him - no, the bed wasn’t turned over, or anything. He can’t see a blanket or a shred of wood around. But if Bill he can make things out of nowhere, he can get rid of them too, and -
He. Probably could have done this the entire time.
“Hey,” Bill says. He catches Dipper’s attention again with a little shake, holding onto his upper arms. “Listen up, ‘cause you weren’t earlier - You aren’t the guy I was mad at, kid.”
A brief, hesitant nod. Yeah. Okay.
By now Dipper’s pretty sure that’s the case, or everything else wouldn’t make sense. But the way he - with the punching, and the yelling, the distorted reality -
“No, really! I wanted you in mint condition, sapling. I’m mad at whatever empty-headed asshole decided they should perform an objectively stupid surgery! ” His smile flickers into a grimace, sharp teeth very white in his face. “Someone made a real dumb call.”
On that, they can agree. Dipper nods, one sharp motion. He sniffs, and swallows.
Bill’s smile is back, but not the standard version. This is a thin thing, with tension around his eye.
Though Dipper hasn’t been here long, he has learned a few things. One of them is how to read the variations of ‘happy’ that Bill puts on. It’s a clear cover for other emotions, running just below the surface
Right now, Bill’s still mad. He’s furious.
But like he said - it’s not at Dipper.
This is anger with no immediate outlet, burning underneath his skin. His eye is focused elsewhere, off into the distance over Dipper’s left shoulder, like he can see the person he wants dead but just can’t reach them. Yet.
And Dipper knows exactly how that feels. For exactly the same reason.
There’s something they can both agree on. It was totally bullshit. Unfair and cruel and - and Bill himself had nothing to do with it, he’d never have ordered it done. Maybe Bill would never have said Dipper deserved to -
Dipper takes another, longer, sniff. Clears his throat, blinking rapidly. No, can’t - not the time for that. Dwell on it later, not in front of a friggin’ god.
Bill clears his throat, smile shifting ever so slightly. “Hey hey hey! Easy, there.” He winks, sliding his hands up to pat Dipper’s shoulders. “I, for one, think a little vengeance is in order. And since it was your tongue, I’ll even let you pick the method! How’s that sound?”
That sounds… violent. Gory and chaotic and - knowing Bill - filled with maniacal laughter.
Some deep part of Dipper even likes the idea, but he knows couldn’t go through with it. Even thinking about it makes him feel so, so tired. And awful. Pre-grossed out by the blood. There’s been too much of that already.
Still, he nods again, which makes Bill cheer up. The prospect of future chaos, whenever that may be.
Though if Bill tries following up on that, it’ll be pretty hard to pull off. The culprit was last seen dead on the steps of the altar.
“Welp!” Bill claps his hands together. “Can’t say this was a total shitshow! I learned a lot about you today.” He cocks his head to one side. “More than I thought I would.”
A dismissal. According to Bill, everything’s wrapped up.
As he takes a step back, Dipper grabs him by his shirt. It stops him right in his tracks. For a single, stuttering heartbeat, Dipper thinks he’s fucked up, again.
“Oh? Not done with me yet, are ya?” Bill purrs, clearly delighted. He spreads his arms wide. “What’s up, sapling? Miss me already?” He ruffles Dipper’s hair in a rough, annoying way. “I haven’t even gone anywhere!”
No, that’s not it. Dipper frowns, and shakes his head. Though it doesn’t dislodge Bill’s hand, he ignores it
There’s a lot of things Dipper doesn’t get about this place. How it works. Where, exactly, the hell he is. But ever since he was dragged from reality and brought to a weird god’s realm, he’s mostly wondered why.
Why him. Why then, why bring him here in the first place, why stitch him up and feed and house him. Why not earlier, damn it.
And Bill just beckoned him out with a clear, though indirect, offer.
He doesn’t get to back out of it that easily.
“Do me a favor, will ya?” Bill says, slow. He moves in fast enough that Dipper has to back up this time.
Wow, they’re, uh. Really close now. Dipper has a close-up view of Bill’s collar, before a touch on his chin lifts his head.
“If you’re gonna invade my room, sapling.” There’s a twinkle in Bill’s eye. “You should get in the bed instead of under it.”
What, like. Hide under the blankets? Literally, next time? Dipper guesses that makes… some kind of sense. In a nightmare realm, made of thoughts. Shifting spaces, lingering ideas - maybe it actually does protect you from monsters. That’d be strange, but…
Damn it, this place better not run on metaphors, or that’s going to be really annoying to parse.
Also, Bill’s giving him a weird look. He stares forward, lips tucked in, like he didn’t say what he meant to, or a great line didn’t land.
Wait. Was that a joke? Weird god-demon humor? A reference? It could - no, he’s getting distracted. Letting Bill change the subject lets him get away without answering. He gives Bill’s shirt another tug, insistent.
“What’s up?”
Oh, for - Maybe Bill should put some of that infinite knowledge towards remembering what he said three minutes ago.
Dipper holds his hand out flat, scribbling an invisible pen on his palm. Thankfully Bill gets that hint; another board snaps into existence, and Dipper takes it not very gently from his hold.
It only takes a second to write it out, though Bill keeps trying to lean over the board for a peek.
‘Why am I here?’
“Oh, that.” Bill says airly, looking up and to the side. He’s avoiding Dipper’s gaze. “Y’know. Reasons.”
Dipper takes a deep breath, and lets it out. Okay. Secrets. Another of Bill’s domains, he gets that, but still. He underlines the question, twice.
“Boy, you’re real curious arent’cha?”
Yes, he is. How much more obvious could it be? Dipper taps the end of the marker on the board - then sighs, and writes a quick addition. ‘Please’.
“How polite!” Bill’s smile turns mocking, squeezing Dipper’s shoulders. “Wanna add a ‘pretty’ to that?”
That- Fine. Dipper grits his teeth. After the day he’s had, he can handle one last awful thing. For answers.
The marker smudges from the pressure as Dipper painstakingly scrawls down the word.
“Hm.” Bill’s eye narrows as he hums in thought, He rubs his chin, head tilting to the side. Taking his damn time, too, as he looks Dipper over like he’s evaluating a rather expensive purchase.
It never hurts to look presentable in front of a deity, when it comes to something important. The best he can do is stand up straight, and look attentive. Bill shouldn’t mind. He should just spit it out already.
“The reason you’re here, mortal…” Bill says, drawing the sentence out, word by word. He smiles, something slow and sharp, as his thumb strokes over Dipper’s cheek - then pinches it. “Is for me to know, and you to wonder about!”
What?
Fucking what?
As Bill draws back, Dipper’s mouth works, no sound coming out. Another yank on Bill’s shirt does nothing except make him laugh.
It’s not funny. It’s important, it’s - Heat rises into Dipper’s face. His shoulders inch up towards his ears.
Bill can’t just do that. Not after today. Not after everything Dipper’s been through, the demons, the tantrum, the stupid talk to get him out of the bed. The totally humiliating plea. Dangling this in front of him, the reason he’s been kidnapped and confused and basically alone this whole time, then taking it back?
Nothing ever goes right for Dipper when it comes to his awful god, and - and the laughter stings. Embarrassment burns and rises on the coattails of all the other bullshit Dipper’s dealt with today; there’s heat in his chest and a knot in his stomach.
That’s not what he said. It’s not fair.
He can’t just do that.
“Yep! You’re not getting that one outta me. Nice try, though.” Bill taps his finger against the end of Dipper’s nose, making him flinch. “You’re never gonna gue-”
Rational thought doesn’t have time to catch up before Dipper’s fist meets Bill’s face.
It lands, painfully, in the juncture of his head and neck. With more of a thud than a crack - but it does jerk Bill’s head to the side, and that’s a minor win.
Or would, be, if it had the right effect.
Bill looks surprised and totally unhurt, while Dipper’s knuckles definitely sting from the contact. He shakes them to get some feeling back. What the hell, how durable is that bastard -
His brain, screaming from the background, kicks in again.
Dipper grips his hand tight as shame rising higher in his chest, a burning tide. It feels like he’ll choke on it.
Stupid, stupid stupid. How could Dipper be this dumb, he’s in the realm of a god, helpless, powerless, at the mercy of his whims - and if Bill wasn’t mad before then he’s definitely mad now.
God, this always happens, Dipper does something stupid, he stupidly defies god’s will, and there’s always consequences, no matter how he fights.
He looks up at Bill, chest heaving. Bill looks right back, rubbing his jaw - and starting to smile, wide. Showing those dangerous, predatory teeth.
No way to get out of here. Leaving the penthouse means other dangers, and leaving the realm is impossible. Even if he could, Bill’s got a memory a million years long, and he put a knife in the priest’s chest so casually that it was like putting it back in a drawer.
But Dipper can avoid him, for a bit. Along with all other awful things he found out today, he learned that fact.
He turns on his heel, ready to make his second run of the day.
It fails almost instantly.
One step into his retreat, Bill seizes him by the waist and drags him in, too quick by far. Strong, too; kicking out doesn’t work, hitting him again doesn’t work, he struggles against the tight grip and it only makes Bill let out a terrible, cackling laugh.
Arms come around him, then, drawing him in too close to even hit the bastard anymore, or struggle effectively. They squeeze so tight it’s nearly hard to breathe. Dipper feels a warm grip on the back of his neck, firm and relentless.
God. He never stood a chance against Bill, did he. Too strong, too quick. Too weird to understand, or placate. Nothing was going to be clear, or forthright, or helpful or safe.
Escaping the cult didn’t matter, all of Bill’s previous patience didn’t matter, things are alway going to turn against him and ruin his day and his life. It doesn’t matter where Dipper is, it’s always going to be like this.
It was never going to be okay.
The strangled noise that escapes his throat sounds so much worse than a normal person’s. A wordless, helpless sound he can’t stop, there’s too much frustration and anger and sheer exhaustion, and Bill’s holding him really right, up against his chest. Dipper headbutts his shoulder in one last attempt at escape, then just. Leaves it there.
Bill can retaliate whenever he wants. Dipper can’t fight right now, he just - He needs a minute.
The minute lasts. And passes.
Also, Bill’s shirt is really soft, so it doesn’t hurt when he rubs his face against it. Fuck, and now he’s getting it wet - but actually, fuck Bill, he’s the one who caused all of this.
Absolutely everything is Bill Cipher’s fault, even if indirectly. Dipper hiccups, then wipes his nose on the soft cloth.
It’s all soggy and gross now, he screwed up again -
But no, Bill deserves it. He hopes it sucks for Bill as much as it does for him, trying to stop his chest from heaving. Bill could have let him go and avoided this, but no, he’s stuck in his arms. Let that asshole get all damp.
At some point Dipper started clinging back, but that’s only because he couldn’t go anywhere else. Bill hasn’t relented even in the slightest, this entire time. He’s stroking a palm up and down Dipper’s back in a slow, warm rhythm because he’s super goddamn weird.
Much like living under the bed, this, too, can’t last forever.
Eventually Dipper sighs. The breath is shaky. Still more solid. He doesn’t have any more to let out.
He’s. Still pretty embarrassed, but he can’t see Bill’s face and he’s not dead. Two okay points in what’s otherwise been… not the worst day of Dipper’s life. But maybe in the top ten.
The hand playing with the hair at the back of his neck slows. Then it strokes through his hair again, and down. Bill pats him between the shoulders, letting out a low sigh.
“Aw, look at you. All torn up ‘cause the answer wasn’t handed to ya on a silver platter.” Bill pats his back a couple more times. “Man, are you full of fluids!”
A little squirming manages to free Dipper from Bill, at least by a few inches. Bill gives him a once-over, then pushes a handkerchief into his face.
It’s too late to pretend none of that happened. Or cover up, for dignity’s sake. Or back up, for that matter. With his cover totally blown, Dipper takes the damn thing so he can stop ruining Bill’s shirt, and wipes his face.
“Tell ya what. You had yourself a big day, and your poor human brain’s probably way too overwhelmed to be of use, sooooo…” Bill says, drawing out the word slowly. Smug, again, despite his snotty shoulder and too-close human. “I guess I can part with one hint.”
Dipper looks up. Bill meets his gaze with a grin, totally unbothered. Oddly unbothered.
It’s… it’s like he truly doesn’t mind that his shirt is ruined because some random human’s having a fit, or that he’s been bothered by pointless crap ruining his evening. Bill looks…
Well, he’s… not amused, exactly. Something less snide, and downright impossible to place.
“Truth is…” Bill leans in close, and winks. “You’re special, sapling.” He lingers for a moment - then squeezes Dipper again, slightly more gentle. “Have fun working out what that entails.”
Special.
Sure, it’s a hint. One that’s sorta true. With everything else that’s happened, denying it outright would throw all of the other hints out with the bathwater. But…
Dipper, of all people. Special.
It’s one hell of a word choice - and it’s totally, classically Bill.
With just one word, Bill implied a secret with deep importance. Saying that, deep down, Dipper has something nobody else does.
Because of course he did. It’s about the allure.
Everyone wants to be important. Being important to a god, triply so. It’s the carrot at the end of a long, long stick. A temptation. Doesn’t Dipper want to know why he’s ‘special’? Wouldn’t it be cool if he was? The intrigue is exactly why it’s so dangerous.
His first instinct was right. Bill is an asshole. And a big fat liar.
Dipper blows his nose into the handkerchief, sniffing again. Looking awed at the ‘reveal’ would be the right response, but he’s too tired to play along. And by the look of it, Bill doesn’t mind that either.
“Gross,” Bill says, but his smile doesn’t alter a fraction. Dipper can’t see any other emotion behind it, for once. He reaches up, thumb smoothing some hair behind his ear, before his arm slips around Dipper’s waist. “No amount of special stops you from being organic, unfortunately.”
Yet more Bill, revealed. A liar, an asshole - and definitely the type of guy who can’t leave an insouciant comment unsaid. It’s completely unsurprising.
Even though he doesn’t need to, Dipper blows his nose again, just to watch Bill make a face. He rubs at his eyes, trying to dispel some of the lingering heat.
It doesn’t matter though, Dipper guesses. Bill’s always going to be really goddamned weird and erratic and insane. A person that no amount of learning enables you to entirely predict.
He’s just going to have to work around it. Somehow.
With a smile, Bill starts up his slow petting again. His arms are warm, and that inhuman strength isn’t so bad when it’s just. Holding.
It’s been a long time - or, how long has it been? Years, maybe… god, Dipper can’t remember the last time someone just-
He takes a slow, shuddering breath. Bill goes very still for a moment, then he squeezes Dipper around the back, with both arms. Not hard, just tight enough to be kind of…
Wow. Okay.
This is a hug. Bill might lie about it later, but there’s literally no other word for it.
Dipper turns to rest his forehead on Bill’s dry shoulder, and listens to him chuckle. He can feel his chest moving under his hand, and the steady beat of an inhuman heart.
There’s a secret here. One about Dipper, and what he means. Bill’s partially revealed it, and he wants Dipper to work out the rest. Best thing to do would be to get on that immediately.
But he’ll have time for that later.
He can stay here for a bit. Until Bill gets bored with this part too.
Dipper lets out a sigh, and lets himself relax. He feels the slow stroke start up on his back again, and a low contented hum. This warm body, firm under his arms.
Even if it’s a lie, it makes Dipper feel like he’s special. Just for a moment.
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