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thatonegayship · 3 months

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Oh my GOSH, the way I was on the edge of my fucking seat when I read this.

Okay, so I got the notification while I was at work and didn't get to sit down and soak up all the yummy hurt/comfort until like, 11 o'clock at night, and at that point I was hanging on for dear life to get through this sexy update, so of course I made sure to read it again the next morning. I've got my notes with me and much speculation as to what might happen next, as well as varying degrees of delusion fueling my headcanons.

To my beloved Male-Wife-Wife-Male, whom I'd give the seas for, the loving rays of twilight breathing softly upon my cheeks, a sparrow's wounded wing, tended to by the many makeshifts of a fae's toolbox, an evening with you is worth a lifetime without. I pray this letter finds you in good health.

Coming out the gates absolutely SWINGING with this one, are we? The scene sets with Dipper frantically trying to summon Bill directly after fucking his own shit to hell. Some things never change, I guess <3 Immediately in love with the implication, since we already know from context that Dipper was one of the few (if not only) members who didn't really believe in Bill with his entire heart - Didn't think he was real, didn't think he was all-knowing, whatever the specifics.

Which makes it even BETTER to open with him clinging to the hope that performing this ritual will call Bill, and Bill will protect him from the demons chasing after him. It gives this almost ironic flip to his old ideas. He knows Bill is real now, and he thinks he's all-knowing, all-powerful, only because that first fact was confirmed. Where before, he might look for something to defend himself with, even being cornered by the enemy, now he's dissolved entirely into the role of Faithful Servant and tries desperately to conform to his old teachings. He's rolling his eyes and hating every minute, but when Bill does show up, does scare the demons away, it only confirms what the cult told him the first time.

I'm probably reading too much into it, but I love to think that Bill's saving him from the blood ritual in turn solidified a bit of what the priest tried hammering into his head for so long. Bill being real isn't enough to verify the outrageous texts and bad-faith rules set by the cult, but it exists as that bit of lingering proof; well, if that part was true, then how could the rest not be?

(Throwing this in as maybe a cute idea, but do you think it's possible for Dipper to talk to Bill through prayer? As in, instead of writing on his board, or on a piece of paper, he lights a few candles and starts speaking telepathically. Because of their deal back in Faking It, I'm guessing it only works one way; Bill can't step into Dipper's head with a response or start things up with a prayer of his own - not that that'd work, with or without the deal. It's not super good on his knees, and he's not gonna light a thing of candles every time he wants Bill to pass him the remote, but I imagine the few times Bill's gotten so caught up in his own emotions, doesn't notice Dipper trying to shove that whiteboard in his face, and out of frustration he turns to the only other way he knows how to communicate.

It'd make for a semi-effective attention grabber, not to mention his prayer voice sounds like how he remembers his voice sounding, up until his tongue was cut out. Bill surely likes that last detail. Only downside to the whole thing is if Dipper's mind starts wondering, mid-prayer, and ends up sending Bill more than he means to, sort of like if he butt dialed his crush while gushing over how handsome and unobtainable they are to a friend. Very important to avoid those thoughts around your god.)

Love the little breadcrumbs of lore we get about their whole reincarnation deal too, at least how I was reading it. How Dipper's room feels so, so cozy to him. This could be from Bill putting in the elbow grease to create a room safe and comfortable for his poor, traumatized husband, whom he knows so well (LOVE that for him), but I'm equally allured to the idea that the 'guestroom' he's staying in feels so cozy to him because his past lives made it that way. If Dipper prime, and every Dipper proceeding him used that room, chose the wall color, renovated the floors, changed the lighting, tested the mattress, stocked the shelves with magic books - then of course cult Dipper's gonna feel at home!

This idea kind of falls apart when Bill comments on how he hasn't 'settled in' or 'redecorated,' suggesting it hasn't been molded by Dipper's presence, or been given a distinct personality yet, but I suspect Dippers with different life experiences are prone to throwing different flavors in the pot, in terms of decoration. A sailor reincarnation might pick a charming glass-bottle ship on his dresser, as opposed to a botanist reincarnation, who'd want potted plants. Even then, they'd both still agree on some shade of blue, and know with certainty that letting Bill anywhere near it would break it. It's possible that Bill just meant that this Dipper hadn't moved things around to reflect more of him, in the way that he differs from the others. Also him, but not entirely.

The way Bill carries himself around Dipper is akin to someone who's owned their fair share of pets in the past. Not like he sees Dipper as a pet, but he knows what not to do when getting him assimilated to his new home. It's so gosh darn cute, reading the ways he tries to make him feel comfortable, even when it's obvious he wants to fast forward to the good part already. I can't imagine how many reincarnations he had to go through before finally learning an inkling of patience. You're telling me Bill brought this cute little mortal to his big, scary lair, gave him his own room, a separate bathroom, a kitchen, a living room, and never once intruded on his space? For a whole week? That's character growth.

The Bill I know would've immediately invaded his personal space and vied for attention until a vase got thrown at his head, and even then, he'd make some corny joke about his aim before falling unconscious. The fact that we get lines like 'not quite looming' should say enough. Bill's had his fair share of scruffy husbands, and he grasps the radical circumstances of Cult Dipper's background. He just rescued a heavily abused, battered and abandoned puppy from the Puppy Killing Factory, and regardless of how much he wants to get around to fetching sticks and wrestling bunny slippers out of his mouth, he knows to take things slow, and at least try to give him some space. And he does!

For a while.

Bill at least realizes that goading him on isn't going to get the desired response, not with Dipper's head all screwed up. Dangling his journal overhead had him kneeling, and begging, and - ugh - worshipping him. That's a script-flipper! I know damn-well in any other context, Bill would've been absolutely over the moon seeing him like that. A much younger, naiver Bill would probably buff his nails and strike a power pose, ask him to kiss the ground he walks on, before reading and burning every page. Pre-Dipper, I mean. Post-Dipper's done some backwards things to his psyche, so much so that he actually looks disgusted at Dipper's choice to kowtow.

Bill Cipher, the all-powerful, all-knowing, revered god of chaos and madness, sees Dipper as an equal. He doesn't want worship. He wants community. He wants to be called a bastard, and a jackass, and an asshole, and get punched in the face when he crosses a line with him. It means nothing to hold power over someone you love and respect, because he does love and respect him, and knowing he's been broken into this meek, seen-not-heard shadow of a person does nothing for his ego, as opposed to before, when he would've basked in the worship. I just love how what Dipper thinks directly contradicts how Bill feels throughout the story. That he has no idea his presence changes Bill. It's so goddamn wonderful.

(Also, side note: What was in that journal? Clearly, not a journal in the same way journal #3 is a journal, more-likely a diary that Dipper calls 'journal' out of embarrassment. I imagine it's filled with the usual teen angst. Bodily changes, conflicting homosexual desires, waning faith in an unknowable deity, and of course, frantic, agonizing pages proceeding his de-tonguing. I'll try not to let my mind run too wild, but I can only imagine the things cooked up in there. Fear and self-loathing and isolation, followed by pages upon pages of scribbling panic.

Maybe, just maybe, a few feeble lines from when he tried communicating with people, who scolded him for losing his tongue in the first place, before shunning him entirely. I wouldn't be surprised if some pages were torn out - ones reflecting the cult, the priest. Things they said were his fault, and that started to feel like were, but god - couldn't be.

I'm overthinking it. It's probably filled with debauchery and impure thoughts, like handholding and a single, torn out page from an old, forbidden dictionary, reading:

Penis (noun): The male genital organ of higher vertebrates, carrying the duct for the transfer of sperm during copulation. In humans and most other mammals, it consists largely of erectile tissue and serves also for the elimination of urine.)

God, I can't even complain about their communication skills this time, Bill was on single-player mode and he hadn't the slightest idea because, womp womp, Dipper thought he already knew. It's no wonder he approaches Bill with his head bowed, hands clasped. He's been raised to believe his god sees everything, and proceeding his 'blasphemy,' the priest went on about Doing Bill's Will by extracting the serpent from its dark and unfortunate dwelling inside of Dipper. Oh, what a shame to witness the decent into sin, from such an innocent follower of the omnipotent Cipher. How the young do stray from truth, and all that other bullshit.

Thankfully, Bill's repeated disapproval of any attempt to 'Yes, my lord, of course, my lord' his way around his god tells him what he needs to know: That cult WAS full of shit. Bill never asked them to punish one, puny follower for a bit of lip. It was dogma force-fed by a self-appointed mouthpiece, who didn't know a damn thing about Bill aside from how many corners he had, and even that, he counted them, loud and slow, on his fingertips.

The fact that Dipper endured so much pain under the guise of righteousness and was punished only for saying what no one else bothered to think, is both vindicating, and soul crushing. To realize he was right must be so satisfying, but to realize the struggles he endured were then pointless - just torture at the hands of authority - is severely fucked up. I can't imagine the wave of emotions he must have felt once it became apparent his innocence was stolen away for the sake of upkeeping one big, cruel lie.

Slowly uncovering just how deep the damage goes makes some of his more subtle traits more obvious. The mini-Bill, for instance. Now, can I just say that I absolutely adore this premise? Dipper, all beaten and battered by the weight of the world, has this one solace that he holds so close, coming into his new life with no idea what to expect, and not a thing to protect him from it. Does his affection come just from it being soft, or is it the same as when he hid under Bill's bed, and felt weirdly safe? At the back of his mind, is there a part of him that holds onto the plushie because he recognizes it, not only as his god, but his dorky, dumb husband, who loves and protects him - when he's not putting him in danger? I feel like mini-Bill is a lot like the room, how it smells, and how it makes Dipper feel.

I suspect Dipper hangs onto it for more reasons than just being soft. This is an obvious trauma response. Holding onto that piece of his childhood longer than the other members, who found community in their delusion and felt seen under the all-seeing-eye. Dipper keeping mini-Bill is the same as any adult who still sleeps with their old baby blanket or never let go of that well-loved first toy; it's protection, and it's comfort, and it's assurance. It's reflective of the years he lost to the cult, and the innocence he subconsciously still clings to.

Referring back to my previous assumption, this could also explain the little ways Dipper reacts around Bill. Clutching his elbow as they walk down the hall, feeling calmed at the smell of his room. It's three parts reincarnations stuff, but I also feel it's something to do with association, that Bill's this larger, real version of the miniature he likes to snuggle up with. Is it possible that at the back of his brain, his dependance on nice, soft mini-Bill crosses some wires with scary, evil life-sized Bill, until he finds himself cozied up more than he should be?

God, I am never going to finish this post, Jesus Christ. Anyways, I am absolutely head over heels for the whiteboard scene. Poor Bill finally had that long-awaited conversation he's been waiting oh-so patiently for, and he rung it out until there was literally nothing left to ask. The fact that he asked such simple questions too is just such a nice touch. It reiterates that Bill's still just as obsessed with him as he's always been and wants to keep up to date with what might be different with this one, and what's still constant.

Maybe, he even plays a bit of trivia with himself! How Well Do You Know Your Husband: The Game. He is, of course, the reigning champion. Forty-two reincarnations and counting! It also tells me that he's absolutely desperate to get Dipper to talk, and he's willing to go as boring and uninteresting as he needs to. Not that anything about his lovely Pinetree isn't interesting, he's fascinating! The most wonderful anomaly known to man, and he's all Bill's.

To call it 'the longest conversation' Dipper's ever had tells us Bill either drug this out way too long, or literally no one in the cult gave him the time of day, ever. Maybe both! Either way, very sad. Poor guy has zero social skills, and only a literal demon to practice on. If he ever chooses to reenter society, I imagine he's going to be a Very Odd Boy.

I apologize for my thirst, but that WHOLE scene where Bill pries his mouth open with his thumb and traps his chin between his fingers has my fucking ovaries doing the cha-cha slide. I'm sorry, I know it's supposed to be this 'oh shit' moment. It was, just - not for the right reasons. Every night I pray God will put me down like a sickly dog in the streets, rabid for meats off the old wooden cart.

Bill going feral for his husband makes the blood in my body immediately rush to my head, causing my brain to explode in a symphony of gore. Any time Bill takes shit seriously leaves an impression on me; so often I forget not everything is within his control. He had no idea Dipper was hurt like this. He was completely blind-sided by it, and when the truth finally came forth, he couldn't handle it. It's no wonder Dipper coward at the sight, Bill must've made a terrifying image.

Breaking the walls, setting the floor on fire - wrecked at the thought of this ideocracy done in his steed. To think, the sort of thing he might laugh at, might revel, was done to Dipper, and he hated it. Anywhere else, I'd call this the first step in a long journey to self-evaluation, but we all know that's not his style. He's mortified, but he's far from changed by it. If anything, his mind works to concoct the most vile, torturous, unforgiving punishment he can inflict on whoever did this to his husband. It's an almost endearing reaction to Dipper's pains, but it's counterintuitive for what he'd been trying to achieve for so long: Make Dipper not intimidated. Great fucking job, chump-shit. The scared him the hell off.

Bill calling him by his first name hit me in the fucking guts. Yeah, you use that intimate title to emphasize your sincerity. Call out to him like a dirty, pathetic rat in a bucket, swimming aimlessly in circles. Just fucking pummel my heart in one word, two syllables, no rubber, fucking raw, 'til my eyeballs explode with tear cum. The first fucking time I can remember Bill calling Dipper by his first name was because he fucking died, are you telling me I'm not supposed to feel something at that? Get real, motherfucker, I'm in this.

Back at it again with the pet comparisons. I always have to keep my bedroom door closed while at my sister's house, because otherwise one of her three cats runs under my bed and refused to leave. I'm assuming this is exactly the same thing, complete with Bill tempting him out with tiny treats and toys he might like. I can't tell which idea I love more: That Bill doesn't yank him out by the back of his shirt because he knows it'll only make Dipper more afraid, or his big ol' shoulders just. Don't fit under the bed. I imagine if he considered scooting under and dragging him out, then he would've had no problem disappearing the bed, but I also think using physical force comes with a lot less implication to magical force. It's the difference between 'hey, I'm bigger and stronger, and making an executive decision on your behalf' and 'I can bend space and time, you have no say in the matter, and no way of escaping my power.' I don't know. Food for thought.

That whole sequence with mini-Bill was just - ugh. So cute. I'm sorry, yes, Bill's a big fat dork, and he'll gladly stoop to embarrassing levels if it means putting a smile on his scared husband's face. Just because it doesn't work doesn't mean he didn't win at least some-what. Come on! He looked at him! That's a cause for celebration! Bill was so, so close.

And when he does come out.

Oh, when he does.

Excuse me while I have a mental break down in the shower over this entire scene. Bill, you should know better than to tempt Dipper out of his safe spot with empty promises! He's been through enough, the poor little scruff is barely hanging onto his sanity, and now you wanna boop his nose and tell him he's just gonna have to figure it out on his own? Not cool, dude. He's been doing it scared this whole time, just chugging along the best he can. Don't go pulling the rug out from under him like that. I don't even wanna say you deserved getting punched in the face like that, 'cause we both know you enjoyed it more than you should have.

Only thing I'll give you credit for is the way you immediately took him by the shoulders and reiterated that you were not mad at him for what happened. And isn't it just so fucking sad that Dipper's been jacked enough in the head to expect unjust punishment? That he knew Bill was mad, and that it involved Dipper, and there was nothing else within range that he could've taken his anger out on, guilty or otherwise. Dipper knew it'd be unfair, but he wasn't working under the premise of Bill reacting rationally. He automatically assumed the penalty would fall on him, the cult's designated punching bag. Because what really was his rationale for Bill losing his marbles over it, anyways? Why did he think Bill was so upset by this? It didn't even cross his mind that Bill might be upset for him.

"It was never going to be okay."

Oh fuck, you're fucking killing me. And with Bill's arms around him, too. He feels so trapped in his own life, succumbing to the idea that things can't possibly get better for him. That somehow, he's only destined for suffering. It's even worse to imagine he's actually OUT of his bad situation, but carries with him the same flinching features, his scarred mouth and frightened eyes. That he's somewhere safe, but still, he looks over his shoulder, and feels the past breathing down his neck. I have nothing to say. I'm just thinking about it intensely.

PYSCHE BITCHES THAT HUG WAS BOMB DIGGETY AND IT FIXED EVERYTHING!!!!

jk again :') Only some things, but that is enough for now.

Dipper deserves to cry his eyeballs out on Bill's shoulder and leave nasty snot on his shirt for a million years, and Bill can keep up those gentle back rubs 'cause you know that poor baby needs them. Speaking of, notice how Dipper calls Bill weird for rubbing his back and doesn't fully register it as a hug until a good long while into it? Oh, that was NOT just some nerdy cluelessness, my boy has next to no familiarity with physical affection.

Just thinking back on it, Dipper can't remember the last time he was held. He didn't call Bill weird for hugging him, he called him weird for rubbing his back, because he didn't register it as a hug. He fucking forgot people rub each other's backs, because it's been that long for him. He literally thought Bill was just being weird. Jesus Christ. Please, please, please get this guy some proper touch, his skin's absolutely starving for it. I refuse to call this an over analysis, I'm right. I'm so right.

God, I'm SO close to the end of this. Lemme get my thoughts together. Let's see.

OH! Since we're over the emotional hill that is Dipper's entire fucking life, let's laugh Bill chucking in innuendo point-blank in Dipper's face without so much as a stutter in return. It hadn't occurred to me before, but damn. That is a LOT of power out of reach, now. Any Dipper even slightly more informed would've gone weak in the knees, maybe stumbled back into a wall, turned red as a tomato. This Dipper just looks confused.

Sad, but - also kind of useful! Bill's working with a fourth of his usual tricks; can't even insinuate a bit of hanky panky without going over the birds and the bees, first. Ugh, can you imagine Bill explaining the birds and the bees to poor ol' Dipper? He'd better do a damn good job if he wants things to move forward.

I'm assuming sex ed was pretty heavily frowned upon in Bill's cult, which kind of has me wondering whether Dipper was born there or abducted. Either way, the fact that he has no idea what Bill's talking about when he suggests getting under the sheets tells me the priest, and everyone else, failed him in sex ed. It'd be a miracle if Dipper even knows men can have sex with each other, and don't just lock their desires away in the janitor's closet of their heart. He's going to be absolutely floored when he learns the specifics.

(Giving myself another teeny tiny weeny whiny headcanon, since I'm so freaking special, but when Dipper starts getting over his whole Worship and Fear thing, I doubt it'll take long for him to register that Bill, despite being annoying, is also pretty... um. Attractive. He doesn't have words like 'hot' or 'sexy.' There's no vocabulary for when Bill whips off his shirt and Dipper gets a good look at his back muscles, or he comes out in nothing but a towel around his waist, or even winks at him, in a way that - for some reason - doesn't have him rolling his eyes. What does he call it when Bill combs a hand through his hair, lounging on the couch with his shirt half-buttoned up? Why, handsome, of course. Beautiful. Bill is so, so beautiful, isn't he? Dipper just wants to. Hold him. Very tightly.)

(Another one! Sorry, I'm speed running now, but another headcanon I have for this is that Bill's plans for revenge may or may not involve a bit of necromancy. So, the priest died bleeding out on the cult steps. So what? He's gonna bring that sucker back, again and again and again, until he finally gets bored and turns him into a living piece of furniture. This is what he wanted after all, right? To be with his god? How lucky he is!)

(Alright, last one. Say the whole re-tonguing thing takes a bit longer than a couple of hours, maybe some sewing. I think it'd be pretty dang cute for the two of them to learn some sign language. I'll bet Bill's already at least half-fluent in it, if not completely, and he'd be more than willing to teach Dipper if it means they can have conversations more efficiently now. He'd absolutely swoon at how quickly Dipper picks it up. Smart little guy <3)

Overall, it's clear Dipper's life proceeding this is going to be a tough adjustment, but not one he can't get through. He's already seen through the lies of the priest, and despite the many steps back, the hard part's over, and maybe he can finally let his guard down a bit *ahem* and fall in love *ahem.* Hmm? Who said that? Anyways, Bill's got his work cut out for him, making a new tongue that fits that spiteful little mouth, and I salute his valiant efforts.

WOOO! We've reached the end! I hope it's sufficient payment for all the magnificent work you've done thus far. You are, as always, an amazing person with a fantastic talent, and you have not squandered it on this fandom. This is such a creative route to take the ship and I am on the edge of my seat anticipating a fantastic ending to their complicated, but undeniably charming story! You sir, are a talented little rascal. Amen.

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.

#billdip #love ya!#Awesome awesome amazing awesome #gonna lay face down in my bed now

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