I walk over, plop this in front of you, and then abscond. Widower Part 4 here!
Dipper stands at the window, looking out across the wide expanse of Bill’s domain.
He never thought this is where his adventures would end up. Here, in the middle of the most dangerous place on the planet. A monster’s lair.
Outside, the barren ground is dry and cracked, ash and dust blowing in the light breeze. Leafless mutated trees, a few scattered fires, the cracked roads leading out of demon territory - and the one perfect patch of green where the collection once stood.
Tiny spots of color are starting to sprout in the grass. Growing flowers. He really hopes they aren’t the flesh-eating kind, but it’s hard to tell from a distance.
He takes a sip of his coffee, and shrugs.
Eh, it could be worse. A lot of things here could be way worse.
Hell, some of them have turned out tolerable.
Even now he stands in what’s admittedly the nicest place he’s ever lived, with some decent coffee to boot. In the background, the TV chatters on, playing bits of celebrity gossip and catching up on yesterday’s news.
It’s been several weeks of living with Bill Cipher, and his mind is still intact. He spends his days wandering around the most vicious, demented demons on the planet, and they’re all really nice to him. Hell, Dipper doesn’t have a scratch on him that he didn’t come in with.
Who would have thought that in the heart of the Fearamid, life could be this… okay.
He’s got to stay vigilant, though. Even when things seem stable, it’s no good letting down his guard. One misstep and it could all be over.
A familiar name catches his ear, and he turns back towards the TV. The news broadcast, covering an actually pertinent topic.
“-Cipher. With the number of captives, it’ll be some time before everyone’s reunited with their families, but viral videos are already spreading across the internet.” The anchor pauses, as a short clip plays of a young girl throwing herself into her mother’s arms. “A real touching scene, isn’t it, Jake?”
“Absolutely, Diane. Another unprecedented move from the Terror of the West Coast. What bothers me, though - what’s bothering everyone, really - Why is he doing it?”
“That’s right.. For the last month, Bill Cipher has been baffling even the best experts on demonic powers. We’ll have one joining us at the top of the hour to discuss his theories on the Nightmare King’s motivations - and his own personal connection to the problem.”
“Great, Diane. Until then we’ll be covering the latest developments, and asking the tough questions: Could this be a sign of a greater attack, or - as some believe - the beginning of the end for demons on Earth?”
“Pfft.” Rolling his eyes, Dipper grabs the remote and turns the TV off. “Yeah, right.”
God. He wishes it were that simple.
Bill hasn’t given up on the world. A monster like that doesn’t let go once he has something in his clutches, and a planet’s one hell of a prize. Even if he was fully on board, there’s no way to scrape every single imp off the surface of the planet; demons are like mold, they get into the crevices.
The only reason that demons are, quote-unquote, ‘retreating’ is because he wants something else, really badly.
And holy shit, it’s a pain in the ass.
Arguing territory with Bill Cipher is the slowest, most infuriating, and tedious thing on the planet. Every acre Dipper persuades out of him is like crawling through mud. Annoying mud that complains about every mile and keeps asking him about place settings.
It’s not surprising that it’s hard, really. Thousands of people have put up their dukes in this fight, and were lucky to come out of it alive.
But he’s the one making progress.
Dipper feels a smile coming on. He puffs his chest out while Bill’s not here to tease him about it.
He’s the only one, ever, to not just slow but stop Bill Cipher’s conquest. He’s even on the news.
Idaho? Was easy, Bill’d already offered that. Alisonak? Handed over with a bit of fuss. Dipper’s wrestled back more of America than any military operation ever accomplished, and even a chunk of Canada to boot.
And Mabel. Thank hell she’s around; thank everything Bill wanted to make things up in his own strange way. If she wasn’t here, and if she hadn’t read Bill like a book, had her finger right on his nonexistent pulse - Dipper would probably have fucked this up.
She knew what was up well before he could have imagined it. On his list of ‘ways to get under Bill Cipher’s exoskeleton’, emotional blackmail would have been dead last.
It works, though. It works amazingly. For all that the so-called Lord of Nightmares is a terror to the planet, a plague on humanity, and more stubborn than a minotaur -
He achingly, complainingly, eventually caves in for the guy he wants to wed.
The door slams open, and a deliberately loud voice calls out. “Hey, kid, I’m home!”
Ah, yes. Think of the devil and he shall appear. Dipper rolls his eyes, and turns towards his personal obnoxious asshole.
Bill floats in, eyelid raised in his peculiar smile and arms spread wide.
Dipper blocks the incoming demonic assault, and Bill bumps against his palm. Hovers there for a second, then lets his arms drop. Glaring at Dipper’s sleeve like it’s at fault for stopping him.
Oh, is he disappointed? Too bad, so sad. The plan means Dipper has to put up with the guy, but he draws the line at hugging.
Since Bill’s preoccupied, Dipper leans around him to look out the open door, getting a glance of Mabel’s room across the hall. She’s sitting at a table in her PJs, head thrown back in laughter and a teacup in one hand.
“Oof. The way things are going there, you’d think it was her hen night.” The door swings shut without being touched. Bill brushes some residual glitter off his surface - glares at his palms - then lights himself up in bright blue flame. Dust puffs off him as glitter incinerates. “Your sister’s pretty fun when she puts her mind to it!”
True. Also, unnerving. Dipper just shrugs. “I know.”
On one hand, it’s great that his sister and Bill are getting along. If they hadn’t, he’s not sure it would have ended well - but she’s getting nearly the same level of luxury as Dipper, and definitely making more friends.
On the other hand: shit, his sister and Bill are getting along. Who knows how that’s going to end. Poorly, probably. And mostly for Dipper, who’s going to get stuck in between their drama.
Still, could be worse. A lot of things could be way, way, way worse.
Bill Cipher has captured him. The King of Nightmares swept him into his rooms and his life, an inescapable force of nature. An omnipresent, all-seeing being of evil. He’s overbearing, touchy, arrogant, annoying, evil, and needs to be destroyed.
But despite the million problems with his personality and the billion others with his morality - he’s not the worst roommate Dipper’s ever had.
Bill keeps the place pretty clean. He doesn’t smell bad. He has a million board games, even though he cheats like hell at them, and is always willing to play. He doesn’t care a whit about what schedule Dipper keeps or if he makes noise or a mess, always going with the flow.
He even does the dishes for fuck’s sake. How’s Dipper supposed to hate that?
“Not much sleeping at the sleepover, then.” He says, eyeing Bill for more glitter in case he’s sneaked some in just to annoy him.
A dream demon around his unconscious sister sounded like a terrible idea; he only relented because Mabel insisted. Though admittedly, Bill hasn’t poked around in either of their brains, so it was kind of safe-ish.
And, okay, fine. It was nice to have a night without a triangle hovering over his bed.
“PFfft, going to bed at a reasonable hour? Spoken like someone who’s never had a sleepover.” Bill rolls his eye, drifting into better bothering range. “Got a lot of the decorations settled, not that you care.”
“Hm.” True, Dipper doesn’t care. Because they’ll never get to the main event.
A month ago he might have panicked. Now, with experience, all he feels is a bored type of calm.
Bill’s got power, but he’s not as in control as he’d like to be. Nobody else has managed even a tenth of what Dipper’s accomplished, and honestly? He’s smarter than most people anyway.
If winning back parts of the planet is this simple, escaping Bill’s marital clutches will be a piece of cake. All he has to do is put up with the guy in the meantime.
Which isn’t even hard! For all his flaws, Bill is intelligent. Scarily so. His pedantry is fun to bicker with. They share an eerie amount of interests - magic and puzzles and mysteries - and when he’s not bragging his angles off, there’s a decent sense of humor there.
When you get right down to it, Bill’s kind of fun sometimes. If you ignore the evil bits. Enough so that in another world, Dipper could see them -
Not what Bill’s thinking. Definitely not that, not in any way. Dipper’s not even twenty-five, way too young to commit - even if he had a choice in the matter - and Bill’s a freaking evil triangle. Nobody’s marrying anyone here.
But they could, in theory, meet up for board game night, argue for half of it, and he’d still come back next week.
It’s not the world they live in, though. And that’s not Dipper’s fault.
What-ifs. Could-have-beens. They’re not reality, not now and maybe never. Dipper goes back to contemplating the scene out the window, swirling his mug of coffee in the silence.
Wait a minute, it’s silent? And Bill’s here. Those two things don’t go together unless something’s up.
Dipper reels on the demon, just to frown at him. “What are you up to?”
Bill, floating in front of a mirror and comparing entirely identical bowties, blinks at Dipper like he’s surprised. “Who, me?”
“Yes, you.” It’s not like Bill to lose interest so easily. Dipper stalks over to investigate. “Bored of bothering me already?”
“Never,” Bill says, with evident relish. It comes with a pinch on the cheek that Dipper tolerates, if only so he won’t go in for a second. “Just got a lot planned for this evening, sapling! Tomorrow I’ll get your boxers in a total twist.”
Great. Bill and ‘busy’ go together like sodium and water. If you didn’t know better, you might not realize how bad the combination is.
“Busy with what, exactly?”
“Some idiots are driving in on government orders. Y’know, the type that’s concerned about,” Bill makes finger quotes around the words, “‘Borders’, and ‘casualties’, and ‘what the hell I’m up to’. Ha! Like they could get anything outta me!” He chuckles for a moment, then shrugs. “But! We got a big day coming up! Couldn’t hurt to throw ‘em off the trail, ya know?”
Huh. Dipper raises his eyebrows.
He’d heard about some event being planned, hadn’t paid attention to the particulars. The rumor mill in the Fearamid is worse than high school, with about as much useful information. It didn’t seem important at the time.
So, guests. Human guests. And if Bill’s accepting mortal guests from governments, then…
Negotiations with the monster of the west coast are rare, but they do happen. Even if Bill shoots the messenger sometimes, it’s got a better success rate than confronting him. In that there are usually survivors.
More surprisingly - this was possibly the smartest move to make. There’s a world where people took Bill’s actions as weakness. A vulnerability to exploit, mounting up an assault on the Fearamid itself, and that would end up -
With the ‘event’ Bill’s planning? Probably worse than all the others. Combined.
Dipper sips his coffee, eyes narrowing. It’s gone cold; maybe he’ll make Bill refill it for him.
So. The jerk’s going to buy himself some space and time to have their little so-called ‘wedding’. And probably going to use it to show off, and be annoying as hell. Badgering and confusing and insulting a bunch of -
…humans. Important humans. Diplomats with connections to major governments who would have to report back major intel.
“Sounds cool. I’m coming with you.” Dipper says.
There’s too much misinformation about Bill Cipher. Too many rumors, too much gossip. Half the things Dipper thought were facts turned out to be fiction, and another third complete nonsense.
He’s seen what this creature is now. More than anyone before.
And if there was ever an opportunity to warn people about Bill - about what he’s really like, and the insane amount of power he wields - this would be it.
“Ha! No you aren’t.” Bill eye-smiles, patting him on the shoulder. “This is demon on human interaction in the not fun way, sapling. You keep yourself cozy here.”
A weak argument; Bill’s not at his best. Dipper rolls his eyes. “I’m not staying cooped up in the apartment all day while you float around bugging everyone.”
Scoffing, Bill waves him off. “Oh, please, it’s entirely politics. Totally on the relative level! You can keep yourself plenty busy for an evening! I bet there’s tons of stuff you wanted to snoop around in and haven’t had the chance.” He gestures broadly over the penthouse, twirling in a circle. “Look for clues! Play with the cursed amulets, dig around in my underwear drawer. Go crazy!”
Shit, Dipper has been meaning to rifle through everything. Maybe -
He shakes off the idea, firms his lips into a line. Tempting, but no. He’s not taking the bait this time.
He needs to be at this thing, no matter what. It might be his only shot to get the word out.
There’ll be a chance. A moment where Bill’s not looking, to catch someone’s eye or whisper in their ear that this demon is a much, much bigger problem than anyone ever thought. This is critical intel. They’ll need it to defend themselves.
It can’t just be Dipper holding this creature back. That’ll never last.
“What if I want to see other humans?” He lifts his chin defiantly. “I’ve been here by myself for weeks. We’re a social species.”
“Bullcrap, kid, your sister’s around! Hang out with her and her new pals or something,” Bill points out, folding his arms. “What do these losers have that you can’t get from her? You don’t know ‘em! You wouldn’t even like ‘em!”
Now Dipper hesitates. “Well,”
The problem with Bill - along with all the chaos and destruction - is that he’s smart. Convincing most demons is as simple as throwing meat in one direction and running in another. Arguments with Bill are like a fighting game where he predicts half the moves and parries the rest.
Thing is, Dipper has a cheat code. Nothing works better in their faceoff than, well… his face.
Bill will cave. He always does.
“Look, I get it! You wanna hobnob with the so-called bigwigs for your social cred or whatever.” Bill floats around him in a circle, almost managing to take Dipper by the shoulders. “But lemme tell ya, kid - the last thing you should do is paint a big ol’ target on your perky behind.” He narrows his eye. “None of ‘em have any reason to play nice.”
Wait, he thinks it’s - oh, come on, they’re diplomats.
Dipper scoffs. Which earns him a glare from Bill, but you know what? Fuck this demon and his condescending bullshit.
He’s spent the better part of a month surrounded by the most dangerous beings in the friggin’ universe, including the ‘bigwig’ himself, and he doesn’t have a bruise to his name. Humans are the least lethal creatures around in a solid hundred miles.
Especially these humans. Ones selected to barter for concessions from a monster who never hands any out. People who have the same wartime motivation to stick a negotiating knife in the bastard whenever they get the chance.
And sure, they probably have guns or whatever to deal with rampaging demons. Dipper will grant Bill that.
But he’s not the one that should be worried.
“I’m going to be there, and you can’t stop me.” He says finally, and folds his arms.
Take that, Bill. Stubbornness has won the day more times than he can count.
That gets him a scoff right back. Bill even sticks his tongue out briefly, peeking past his eyeball. “Oh, please. I could totally lock you up in the dungeon and call it a day! Way easier!”
Dipper says nothing. Only levels a poisonous stare until Bill breaks eye contact, letting out a huff.
“I’m telling you, sapling,” Switching tactics, Bill starts to wheedle. Entreating Dipper with a wide eye, and spread hands. “Poking at these idiots is gonna backfire. You and I are way too close! It ain’t gonna get ya the good attention.”
Dipper looks away, lips pursed, and hears a whine. Good. The Silent Treatment’s getting to him. For emphasis, he meets Bill’s eye again, and raises an eyebrow.
They stand staring at each other, for nearly half a minute. Bill glaring, and Dipper meeting it with equal, tense annoyance.
And, eventually - just like usual - Bill sighs, slumps, and fucking folds.
“Fine. Stubborn asshole. No idea what’s good for ya-” He mutters, mumbling further epithets as he floats around in a circle. He rubs under his eye in thought, then says, “But before I let you put your idiot self on the line, you gotta sign the ol’ dotted.”
Bright white paper bursts into existence, right in front of Dipper’s face. He flinches back, then stares.
The paper - the contract - reads,
In the event of disaster, the undersigned forfeits all rights to defense, including: ‘I had an idea, it just didn’t pan out, ‘it worked on paper’, or any other deferring of blame, while BILL CIPHER reserves all rights to say ‘I told you so’, in perpetuity throughout the universe.
Dipper takes it in his hands. He rereads it twice, but there’s not enough text to hide a trick.
Huh. For a demonic contract, it’s remarkably tame. The intent’s too plain, the pitfalls obvious.
“Seriously?” He asks, dropping the contract and glaring.
“Seriously seriously,” Bill folds his arms, looking miffed. “I know bad ideas, kid! From experience! If this crap goes pear-shaped, you’re not gonna catch me holding the bag.”
“And if I don’t sign it?”
Bill snaps his fingers, and metal shutters slam over the windows, the door, and even over the fireplace. He tilts slightly, in a ‘whatcha gonna do about THAT’ way.
Damn it. All-powerful reality manipulating jerk. He can trap Dipper if he wanted to, maybe could keep him there forever - not that he would, but he’d definitely do it long enough to miss the event.
Under extreme duress, he rolls his eyes, and signs the stupid idiot paper with the brightly lit quill Bill hands him. Dumbest contract ever, but it gets him what he wants. He might not get another chance.
Bill takes it from him, flipping it around and eyeing his signature. His upper eyelid lowers in a frown. Glancing between the paper and Dipper, then back again. Like he didn’t quite get what he wanted, or something’s bugging him.
“Is that all, then?” Dipper asks, as Bill disappears the contract with a flick of his wrist.
That was simple. Too simple. A catch is coming; it just won’t be as formalized.
Bill shrugs, eye-smiling again. He claps his hands once. “Pretty much! But since you’re attending this shindig as my plus-one… I’m gonna give ya this.”
He holds out a closed fist, palm downwards and cupping something. Dipper reaches out to accept whatever he’s offering -
Which was a dumb move, because Bill seizes the opening and his hand in one.
Blue fire bursts over his grip, Bill cacking maniacally as he shakes Dipper’s hand. Magic floods over the deal like a torrent, washing over him in a warm, thick wind.
Swearing, Dipper tries to jerk his arm away and fails. He leans back against the painfully tight hold, bracing himself on Bill’s surface, but he doesn’t budge. It’s like trying to pull out of solid concrete and shoving against the same. Frustration builds; heat rises in his chest.
And all the while, Bill laughs, and laughs, and laughs.
Eventually the fire dies. Bill releases him, and Dipper stumbles back, clutching his wrist.
Stupid. Stupid, he can’t believe he fell for that crap. Bill could have done anything to him just now. Asshole caught him off guard. Probably was warming him up for exactly this, where he’d -
Tilting it back and forth, Dipper warily examines his hand. No burns, no marks. No ‘property of Bill Cipher’, which he was half expecting and is pathetically relieved isn’t there.
He looks up at this asshole, furious. “What did you do to me?”
Every time he thinks he understands this monster, something new pops up. He didn’t agree to shit. That shouldn’t have worked.
“Hey, hey, take it easy! Use that logic you love so much. You didn’t offer me anything, kid. It’s not a bargain.” Bill spreads his arms wide, looking absurdly pleased with himself. “It’s a present!”
Dipper stares. That - technically, yes. They didn’t agree to anything, and Bill said he was- Wait.
“You… gave me something?” Another check, flipping his hand over. Still nothing on his skin. “What was it?”
“Eh, just a little trick in case you - no, no, for when you get into trouble.” Bill sets fists on his angles, giving Dipper a deeply unimpressed look. “I know exactly what your luck’s like, kid.”
Ominous. And hopefully, inaccurate. “You didn’t answer my question,” Dipper points out. He’s still annoyed. That was bullshit.
But this, like most things with Bill, really could be worse. And getting something from a demon,for free, is weird enough to make him curious.
“Oh, it’s this!” Bill says, and prods him on the chest.
A spark like a lit match strikes inside, making Dipper jump. Smacking a hand over it doesn’t help, it’s - not burning, exactly. And when he checks down his shirt, it’s not on his skin. The light flickers and dances inside him, buried in his ribcage and next to his heart.
Magic. Strong magic, too, roiling around in a tight ball of power, a feeling similar but not quite to -
Dipper hiccups. Then coughs, and hiccups again, scowling. This is going to take a minute to get used to.
“When you’re in a pickle, just give that a yank! Burning and incineration, right at your fingertips.” Bill says, adjusting his tie with pride. “Courtesy of yours truly.”
Burning? Fire magic? Oh, great. That’s totally not going to burn Dipper to ashes while he’s at it, since he’s never used that element before.
“When am I-” Shutting his eyes tight, Dipper tries to breathe slowly. Maybe he should, like. Drink a glass of water upside down? Eat a spoonful of sugar? “When would I ever use that.”
“Hey, better to have it and not need it, than need it and not have it!” Bill shrugs, seemingly nonchalant about the lukewarm reception to his ‘present’. “You’ll thank me later.”
Part of Dipper wants to argue. Arguing with Bill is fun, important, and necessary to curb his immense ego. Part of him wants to tell this jerk to take his stupid, possibly self-mutilating ‘present’ back. Something stops him before he says it, though. Because -
Because okay, it is, technically, a little bit kind of cool.
It’ll be a cold day in hell before he tells Bill that, though, so Dipper just shrugs instead.
“Pretty cool, huh? It was part of our old bargain! You’ll take to it like an acidic slime to the pools of Elactisron Six.” Bill says proudly, patting his shoulder. “I know, you’re too excited for words! But giving you a taste of infinite energy is no skin off my nose.”
Not just any magic, then. This is Bill’s magic, the stuff he wields like breathing, a part of him - and he handed it over without needing something back.
Dipper presses a palm over the spot Bill touched. Feeling his heart beat in pace with the flickering light.
“You don’t have a nose,” He says finally, just to have a reply.
And that kicks off a round of bickering, an overlong discussion of demonic senses, and one blocked boop on Dipper’s own - all of which are better than lingering on that.
--------------------------------------------------------
Dipper should have worn something better than a T-shirt.
Elegant, tailored suits. Sleek, glimmering dresses. Well-dressed people milling around with cocktails in their hands, a high burst of laughter from someone toying with their necklace. The circular tables ringed by beautiful people dressed like cutouts from Mabel’s fashion magazines.
Among the throng of guests in the hall, he stands out like a sore thumb. Even Bill’s got a bowtie; he just gets to stand here like an idiot.
Dumb move. He should have let Bill shove him into that weird suit. When he said there were guests coming, it should have been obvious what they’d be walking into.
A different kind of party than the last one, though. More of a… fête?
There are demons, too, but not the crowd Dipper was dragged in front of. A classier bunch has replaced them, with more than the average amount of human-adjacent forms. He eyes them suspiciously, and - Yep. At least one is a succubus, with a dress that’s more cut than fabric.
In public reports, diplomats always go on and on about how they’ve ‘slowed Bill down’ while risking ‘their very lives’. Experiencing ‘nightmarish horrors’ in his ‘Fearamid of terror’.
Dipper scowls at the refreshments table. A jar of martini olives blinks back.
‘Incredible danger’ his ass. That never comes with canapes.
This was supposed to be more like the tribute ceremony; Bill sitting in his throne, mocking the crowd, with scared yet defiant humans challenging him anyway. A scene where Dipper could take his stand. Getting right in Bill’s angles and arguing with him, showing the influence he has to help his planet.
Instead, he walked right into bunch of brownnosing schmoozers sneaking their third cocktail at a fancy dress party.
And Dipper’s shit at parties.
Bill’s doing what he does best - chatting up convincable-looking humans, making things all about himself - while Dipper hovers awkwardly by the refreshments. Like he always does.
So this is ‘diplomacy’ with Bill Cipher. Honestly, he doesn’t know what he expected.
No wonder nothing gets done when ‘fun’ is the name of the game and there’s a free bar. Why piss off the most powerful demon on the planet by pushing the point, when you can enjoy a nice evening with beautiful company?
Though he has to admit - it’s working well for Bill.
He’s got both stick and carrot. Playing nice gets you drinks, you can say you ‘tried’ - while the omnipresent threat of obliteration stops anyone from actually doing it.
Of course, Bill himself doesn’t make compromises. He never has to.
Dipper moves out of the way of a glamorous couple, barging past in their giggling rush to get to the bar. He doesn’t think they even noticed him. How is this dangerous?
…God, he wishes this had been dangerous.
Monsters, mysteries. Deadly trap and puzzles. Dipper could have worked with those, he’s used to risking his life, not - whatever the hell this is.
Reading the room isn’t his kind of thing, and everything’s so… fancy. Important people, all in their groups, gathering in circles to chat and splitting back up at random times.
…If there’s an opportunity to barge in, he sure doesn’t see it.
Okay, a few people have come over to ask if he likes birdwatching. Especially swallows for some reason? A jerk said something about dangling that he thinks was a comeon. Out-of-touch rich people. They should be talking about the massive monster threat and how to stop him.
But the instant Dipper brings up Bill, they all back off with a quickness. Like he’s said the wrong thing, or worse - like he’s the dangerous weirdo, not the triangular demon himself.
He fiddles with his untouched drink, watching Bill dart through the crowd like a golden hummingbird. Flitting from one group to another, hovering in place to chat them up before moving on to the next target. A demon in one of his many awful elements.
…There’s no way he’s going to tell people without Bill finding out, is there. And that’s if anyone cared to listen, which they don’t.
So Dipper sighs, and gives up.
It was a good idea, in theory. Bill better not make fun of him when it technically doesn’t qualify as a disaster.
At least the people-watching is decent. If he can’t make a triumphant stand at a critical moment, he can at least learn.
Among the elegant clothing and beautiful faces, only few stand out. Dipper counts five suited men with sunglasses and earpieces; they stick out almost as bad as he does. Security, for all the good it’ll do them if Bill takes offense.
The rest… he’s not sure. But he knows someone who does. Probably he’s been inside their heads about it.
He catches Bill midway through flying from one group to another. Grabbing his arm as he passes, and tugging him in.
For a split second Bill reels on him with a narrowed eye - then he spots who interrupted him, and it snaps right back to a smile.
“Hey, hey, look who’s finally stopped being a wallflower!” Beaming, he swings around and slings his arm over Dipper’s shoulders. His martini sloshes over the glass and burns a hole in the floor. “Glad to see ya socializing, sapling.”
Scowling, Dipper shrugs off his touch and takes a step back. Socializing is not on his to-do list here. “No, I-” He hisses through his teeth, keeping his voice low. “I don’t know anyone here, okay? It’s awkward.”
“You’re awkward,” Bill replies, with obvious amusement. “Also? I told ya so!” He shrugs, downing his drink in one eye-mouth swig.
“You could tell me who some of your ‘guests’ are.” Dipper retorts. He’s not acknowledging the ‘awkward’; there’s no way to fight against it. “I dunno, like-” He points in a random direction. “That guy.”
“Him? Ambassador from Canada. Nice guy, very polite! Brought the usual delivery of maple syrup.” Bill prods him teasingly. “You two could talk about flannel! Or lumberjack fixations.”
Only one of which Dipper actually has. What the hell was Bill’s last husband like, anyway?
Though that’s one stroke of luck - Bill has no reservations about spilling the beans. At the very least, Dipper can get a better lay of the land.
Bill takes his minor interrogation with surprisingly good humor. Treating it more like a pop quiz than getting sensitive information from a secretive source. He seems to know everyone and every*thing* about them; Dipper’s pretty sure that people don’t discuss their nasty divorces or foot things in polite company.
After a half-dozen rounds of this, Dipper notices that space is clearing out around them. A full six feet of space has opened up, and the tables nearby have shuffled around to leave semi-circles with no seats.
Huh. He guesses having Bill’s attention isn’t actually in demand; who wouldn’t want more secrets when Bill’s dropping them like crumbs from an extra-dry granola bar?
Nobody here, apparently, likes a good mystery. Dipper snorts, taking one, tiny sip of the drink Bill hands him - then pauses.
One person is approaching. A woman slipping through the crowd, and entering the growing gap.
Her solid black suit is paired with a yellow dress shirt. Bright red lipstick that doesn’t match the outfit in the slightest. It oddly reminds him of Bill’s surface when he’s angry; that same attention-grabbing hue.
Her heels click sharply on stone as she stalks in. Long legs, impeccable nails, a devastatingly charming smile. She’s also carrying a big wicker basket full of… stuff?
Dipper narrows his eyes. Then nudges Bill with an elbow, jerking his head in her direction. “Who’s the blonde?”
"What?" Turning to follow his gaze, Bill blinks - then shrugs. "Oh, that blonde. Jane blonde." He waggles a hand. “Eh, just some chick. Don’t worry about it!”
As if saying that makes Dipper worry less. He glares, but before he can really get into it the woman’s right in front of them.
“Oh, great. You again.” Bill eyes their interloper, sounding less than impressed. He eyes the basket, then tilts to one side. “And it looks like you got something there!”
“A gift basket,” The woman - Jane - says, her voice low and smooth. She hands it over, a thing wrapped in plastic and spotted around the sides with silly straws - then claps her hands with a little flutter. “After all, we’re celebrating!”
Bill can’t raise an eyebrow, he doesn’t have one, but the effect gets across. “What’s the occasion?”
Jane winks, and her smile turns as sharp as a knife. “The departure of a hideous, annoying monster from our world.”
Dipper takes a step back, rather taken aback. Whoa, Bill might be ‘retreating’, quote-unquote, but saying shit like that to his face -
But Bill doesn’t glare. Or shout, or burst into flames. If anything he looks bored.
“Uh huh.” Absentmindedly, Bill rips off the plastic and starts picking through the contents. The most prominent object gets plucked off and waved around. “Seriously, pineapple again? You got the wrong yellow guy.”
It can’t be the worst offering though, because he takes a huge bite out of it anyway, rind and all. Juice drips onto the floor and his surface as he chews.
The woman’s smile goes tense, eyes tight at the corners with - anger? Frustration? “Oh no. It’s very much the right demon.” She bites her bottom lip, bright red sliding between white teeth. “The worst one of. All. Time.”
Bill gives her a slow, tired blink. “Still banging on that drum, huh? Suit yourself.” He shrugs, pineapple bobbing in his grip. “Answer’s the same - not interested. Thanks.”
What the hell. Bill never says thanks - and his enunciation was poisonously polite. How did that woman sass Bill Cipher and get away with it? By all rights she should be vaporised by now, but Bill hasn’t -
Alright, no more waiting. Observation is shit.
Dipper bumps against Bill’s side without getting his attention first. It shoves him a few inches to the left, catching him off-guard and making him drop the stupid basket.
“Hey, Bill. Cheer up.” He eyes the suspicious woman. If he leans against his demon, it’s just to keep him from sneaking away. “It’s your party.”
“You know what, kid? You’re right!” Bill brightens, and his arm wraps around Dipper’s waist. With a little squeeze, he waves his half-eaten prize in Dipper’s face. “I even got a tribute! Want some?”
Now it’s Dipper’s turn to lean away as Bill prods at him with bits of spiky fruit. One especially enthusiastic poke leaves a streak of juice on his cheek. “I’m, uh. Not interested.”
“Why, what’s not to like? It’s got sugar! Vitamins! Eats you while you eat it!” While he’s talking, Bill airplanes the offending fruit in front of him. With added jet-engine sounds. “Take a bite, it’ll improve your flavor.”
“Gross.” Dipper thought they were over the cannibalism jokes. He pushes Bill away, holding him at arm’s length with his palms flat on the surface. “Anything with your spit on it isn’t getting near my mouth.”
“Sure, you say that now, but don’t bet on it lasting! I wouldn’t even wager half a pineapple!”
Awful jerk, always has a retort - “Every time I think you’re as annoying as demonically possible, you push it even further.” Glaring, Dipper gives Bill another push, just for emphasis. “It’s insane.”
“Oh, you.” With a pleased sigh, Bill thumps his whole side up against his unfortunate human’s. “Always finding the right thing to say eventually! Knew ya had it in you.”
As he reaches up to pat his chest, the pineapple smacks against Dipper’s shirt. He ignores it; it’s just what Bill’s like. It’s not even the most annoying thing in the last twelve hours.
Instead, he focuses on the woman, looking for her response.
Arguing with this creature is a skill, and one that Dipper has in spades. Whereas whatever *Jane* was trying clearly freakin’ failed. For someone so professional, that was a total flop. She must be real embarrassed now.
Jane simply smiles, red lips in a smooth curve. That hasn’t changed since the start. The only difference is the shape of it, and a slight tightness around her eyes.
“How does someone like you get close to a monster like this?” She asks with perfect politeness. When she cocks her head, waves of blonde hair topple over her shoulder; she strokes a strand behind her ear. “I’d love to pick your brain about it.”
“Not a chance.” Dipper says flatly. The story’s insane. And frankly even if she did believe him, she sure as hell doesn’t deserve it. “Look, we’re busy, okay?”
A beat passes. Jane says nothing, only nodding once like a fencer conceding a round - then walks off. Her heels click like gunshots on the stone floor.
Bill jostles him then, and for a moment Dipper’s distracted - no, he’s not licking juice off him, even if he did bathe before the party. And Bill needs to stop waving a peach in his face, that landed on the floor, who knows what fluids have oozed on there- so it isn’t until a minute later that he checks back in on the woman.
She stands in the corner of the room, chatting quietly to a tall man in a suit. When her eyes meet his, they go cold and narrow.
A shiver runs down Dipper’s spine. The brief sense of triumph fades. Who is…? He glances down - American flag on her lapel, shit - and hopes he hasn’t somehow burned a bridge.
He has intel. He’s useful.
Bill doesn’t seem bothered by what just went down. Hell, he’s thrilled.
After that little… whatever it was, he’s started clinging to Dipper; one noodly arm wraps up his own like black ivy. He’s also glowing that particular shade of gold that Dipper associates with a great mood, which. Doesn’t annoy him, for once.
That leaves Dipper in the center of the party, with the most important being around literally on his arm, and he still feels like he’s missed something. Like in the mass of people and demons, there’s -
…Someone is missing. Three of them, in fact.
Dipper sees one agent-guy in a corner; another hovers near Jane with a quiet conversation. Three are nowhere in sight.
Well, that doesn’t track. The hall only has two doors leading out - one is the entrance, where the guests came in. With the door shut, nobody’s coming in or out. The other is the one he and Bill went through, and that’s heavily guarded. Demons lurk in the shadows less than ten feet in; nobody’s getting through there.
So at some point, three humans just. Vanished into midair. And if it was demons, he’s pretty sure there would have been screams.
That, or they just went to the bathroom. All at once. That has it be it, right? If one of them did manage to get further into the Fearamid, Bill would know about it. He’s got eyes everywhere, he’s fiercely territorial, and it’s not like he’s distracted by-
Dipper glances over. Bill stops his chatter just to flutter his eyelashes at him. “What’s up, sapling? Like what you see?”
Something’s up. Someone could be sabotaging Bill right in his own home, right under his angles, and Dipper isn’t around to help them pull it off. He’s been here for weeks and - god, how did he not think to do it first?
Damn it, this party is stupid. He’s wasted too much time taking things in when he should be taking action.
If some mortals have broken away from the crowd without Bill noticing, it’ll be easier to strike up a conversation out of his earshot. Hell, maybe he can give them a hand. It’s another chance to let someone know what danger they’re all in. What Bill really is.
Dipper tunes out the latest conversation - half veiled threats, half quiet whimpering from the poor guy Bill’s hovering over - and looks for a chance to escape.
Now that Bill’s got a grip on him, he’s clinging like a warm, triangular mussel to the good ship Dipper. Sneaking away? Impossible. Removing him doubly so. As long as he’s at this party, he’s never going to be out of Bill’s sight.
This is where having free reign of the place? Comes in handy.
He finally manages to break into the conversation, giving Bill some excuse about needing to go back to ‘their place’ because he’s ‘peopled out’. It helps that it’s partially true, too; he’s never been that big on parties.
Bill gives him a look. A long look. One that goes on so long that Dipper starts fidgeting under it.
He’s sure Bill can’t read his mind. Mostly sure. Or sure enough that he hopes Bill won’t notice what Dipper’s spotted - interlopers - and what he intends to do - help them screw up Bill’s plans. That would… not go badly, necessarily. But not great either.
But eventually Bill rolls his eye, and guides him behind the bar. They turn a corner out of sight of the crowd, behind a huge shelf of liquor -
And Bill snaps his fingers.
An opening appears out of nowhere. More reality manipulation, great. He must not have wanted to show it off in front of the crowd, which is weird, but -
No, it’s not that weird, is it? Bill keeps things under his hat. He’s full of secrets. Bragging is for display, but he knows how to be discreet when it’s called for. Or else everyone would know what Dipper does by now.
“Alright, get your cute butt back to the penthouse,” Bill says, grumbling but not too annoyed. “And don’t do anything stupid!”
Jerk. He didn’t need to add that. “I don’t do stupid things.”
“Sure you don’t.” Bill smiles, clearly holding back a laugh. Flapping a hand in goodbye. “See ya back home!”
Grimacing, Dipper turns and stalks out of the stupid party, and away from the stupidest demon in the world.
He breathes in the cool air, finally free of cologne and chatter. Enjoying being out of sight, and out of the crowd, and, yeah, a little bit pleased that he’s privy to another one of Bill’s secret powers. Just because he asked.
Dipper knew it. Bill always caves, the idiot.
And one day, that’ll be his downfall.
He pauses a few steps into, looking back and forth down the long and twisting corridor. Empty.
Just like he thought. In an exclusive event, the guest list is shorter and the riffraff would be kept far, far away from the festivities. Party crashing is only fun when it’s Bill’s idea; he’d never stand for it happening by accident.
Good news is he’s shaken his tail. Bad news - he has no idea where those missing agents are.
The isolated corridor’s a good start, he guesses. From here he can triangulate - ha - the most likely spaces they could have crept into.
Setting up a clandestine meeting will take cunning, and patience. Along with avoiding detection by Bill, which should be easy as long as he doesn’t -
A step on the stone makes him jump, wheeling around to face - oh, shit.
An agent-y looking man in a suit, sunglasses. Looking almost as surprised to see Dipper as Dipper is to see him. Humans shouldn’t be wandering around freely in the Fearamid, so. They have that in common, he guesses.
They stare at each other for a full second, then the agent taps his earpiece, and Dipper straightens up.
Perfect. This is his chance.
Dipper has information about Bill Cipher. Important info, stuff that can’t just linger in his own head. There’s people who need to know what a dangerous, monstrous threat he can be, and this guy looks-
Then the world goes sideways, and he hits the floor hard enough to knock the breath out of him.
For a moment he lies there, stunned. He tries to push himself up, but his wrist gets caught and forced up behind him. Heavy pressure on his back keeps him from rising further, and something shoves his head into the stone floor with a thud.
“Target engaged. Repeat, target engaged.” The agent hisses, low and urgent. “Backup, I need-” Rapid footsteps approach, and the agent lets out a relieved sigh. “Help me get him secured.”
Dipper twists, trying to get away on sheer instinct, and gets his head smacked into the floor again. The black stone walls blur. Wait, this - This wasn’t how it was - shit, this hurts.
A hard impact on his side makes him groan, pain and nausea filling his gut. Trying to roll away gets blocked by a solid weight, then by more hands on his body, then his other arm gets pulled up at an angle that makes his shoulders burn.
He raises his head from the floor - They’re making a mistake. It has to be, he’s not - then immediately realizes moving was a mistake as a wad of cloth forces itself into his mouth. The gag tied quickly behind his head, pulling at his hair and too tight to spit out.
“Almost,” Says another hushed voice. A second kick to his ribs forces the air from his lungs, both arms fully pinned now. Shouting muffled by the gag, Dipper grains and bites down.
What the hell, that was *extra* unnecessary. He’s struggling, sure, but who wouldn’t, this is bullshit - and it’s not like he’s got much leverage here. Fuck, even when demons kidnapped him they pulled their punches.
Then he realizes, as the handcuffs snap into place, and the heavy weight vanishes from his back-
He’s being kidnapped. Again.
He tries to speak out against the gag, shakes his head in a losing attempt to loosen it. This is all a big misunderstanding. They didn’t give him a chance to explain. Ninety percent of the time he’s spent here was working directly against Bill, he’s on their side, why is -
A rough shake rattles him from side to side, and the third agent slaps a hand over the gag to silence him further. Rough fingers dig into his cheeks, nails biting skin.
Dipper stops moving, staring forward. Meeting the eyes of the man in front of him, and seeing nothing but calm, irritated focus - and cold gathers in the pit of his stomach.
What he actually is doesn’t matter. What he’s done isn’t taken into account.
When you’re involved with Bill Cipher, that makes you a target.
Dipper stays stiff as he’s hauled upright. Arms yanked back hard enough to make his joints scream, hissing through the gag. The third agent mutters something in his earpiece, and gives his fellows a nod. Taking the cue, they catch him under the arms in a none-to-gentle grip.
So. Maybe going to the party was a bad idea. Why didn’t Bill explain he was having secret agents at his stupid shindig, or tell* Dipper it going to be -
It wasn’t in so many words, but - now Dipper can’t even complain about that, can he? He’s never going to live this down.
Then he digs his heels in, sneakers leaving streaks as he’s dragged backwards through the hallway. Two agents at either side, practically lifting him from the floor and trying to compensate for balance as he kicks out. The third tags along behind, muttering to someone on his earpiece, keeping up at a jog as they hurry down the corridor.
Dipper feels like a poorly-held toy being dragged by a clueless toddler. Complete with being yanked around awkward corners, pulled at a speed too fast for him to truly find his feet. Trying to slow them down, or struggle away, gets him elbowed hard enough to make it hard to breathe. Another twist and the third agent socks him in the jaw, after which he… kinda needs a moment. That punch was not pulled.
For the first time, Dipper wishes there were some demons around - it might make his new captors think twice about this bullshit - But the halls are empty. Exclusive events, damn it.
Even if there were some around, his captors are focused on fleeing; they’re not going to stand and let themselves be torn to pieces. They charge through the twisting, gravity-changing hallways without pause, barely slowing at at some branching turns, like they know exactly where to -
…They had intel on the Fearamid. Parts of the layout, so they wouldn’t be confused by the construction. Places where there wouldn’t be many demons around to get in their way. It can’t have been Bill, he’s too good at secrets and hates their guts. Wasn’t Dipper, he didn’t get a chance.
Other demons might spill some secrets, but they’d never survive giving out the whole floorplan. The only way to get this much information would be piecemeal, over time. From a lot of sources, convinced with a ton of bribes or arguments, by -
By someone who’s been to these parties before.
Cold certainty spreads through his stomach, already aching and twisted with nausea. Oh, he definitely messed up earlier. He doesn’t know how or why, but he did.
It’s funny, in a way. Three weeks ago he would have done nearly anything to avoid Bill Cipher, and here he is, hoping to hear that obnoxious voice chime in over his shoulder.
Sunlight suddenly makes him squint. Dipper tries to blink away the harsh evening sunlight, and keep the blowing dust out of his eyes.
His captors have left by a hidden passage, almost an entire side away from the main entrance. The bare flat dirt, used as a makeshift parking lot for the visiting dignitaries, blows up and around his captors light wind. His heels leave trails in it. Uneven, struggling lines.
Expensive cars, collecting drifting dust, flow past him as he’s pulled along. Other vehicles are more subtle. Vans and discreet police cars, flanking the more impressive ones, are clearly used by security for the diplomats. The agent trailing behind the first two snaps to attention, running towards an unmarked van and unlocking the back.
For all that this is total bullshit, Dipper has to give them props for efficiency. From tackle to retreat to escape vehicle, this went about as smoothly as it could have. It’s a damn disappointment.
And when he hears a soft laugh to the side, he almost slumps.
Dipper turns to look, grimly unsurprised, as Jane walks casually towards the parking lot. Her eyes cut to him and she smirks, then breaks into a run towards the van.
“Get him in.” She snaps, both in her tone and with her fingers. She nods in another direction, and two other vans Dipper hadn’t spotted earlier start their engines. “The distraction isn’t working. We need to move.”
As her men drag Dipper into the back of the van, backs of his knees banging against the tailgate, she hops up behind them with her heels kicked off, holding them in one hand. She gives him a long appraising look, and smiles. Almost gently, and completely like a liar.
Dipper makes another muffled protest - god he hates being gagged - only to be slammed onto his back on a low steel table bolted to the floor. The handcuffs cut into the small of his back, squished under his own weight.
Jane barks out orders as the remaining agents file into their vans, then slams the doors shut behind them. Her perfect styled hair is mussed from her run, and she tucks a loose strand behind her ear. Blowing out a breath, she asks, “What’s our evac time?”
“Seven minutes.” The driver calls from the front. He adjusts his mirror, separated from the rest of the crew by a low partition.
“Make it five,” Jane snaps. Her white teeth are bared in a grimace. “We need to be out of Euclid’s range yesterday.”
Euclid? The name throws Dipper off for only a moment, before he rolls his eyes.
The shape, euclidean geometry, yes, but c’mon. Surely there was a better code name. Though it’s a decent move. He’s not sure if Bill can actually hear when his own name is spoken, but better safe than sorry.
“Got it.” The driver acknowledges. The engine revs, dirt crunches under the tires as he turns the steering wheel. “Hang tight.”
Several agents - there must have been one or two already in the van, there’s definitely more than three now - flatten themselves against the walls, or grip onto the table. Dipper notes that said walls aren’t exactly safe to hold onto. Or for anyone, considering the sheer amount of weaponry hanging off them on hooks. Guns, more guns - hell, he’s pretty sure he spots a rocket launcher up near the front.
Then momentum kicks in, as the driver slams on the gas and takes off.
Agents cling to the walls, the table, and Dipper himself bounces slightly on the metal surface with each bump, until it feels like he’ll be shaken off. He flattens his palms against it to keep some cushion and friction between it and him.
Jane doesn’t seem bothered. She rocks with the motion, holding on to a hook on the wall and looking down at him curiously. Her head tilts to one side as Dipper rolls in her direction.
“That monster’s fascinated by you.” Her brows lift. “Why is that?”
Dipper bites down on the gag, glaring with the full force of practicing on the world’s biggest asshole. Jane’s mouth twitches, turning down at the corners for a flicker of a second.
“Little boy,” She coos, a mockery of gentleness. Her nails scrape over his cheek to tap at his temple, lips a bright red slash of a smile. “I can’t wait to see what makes you tick.”
If his mouth was free, Dipper would spit right in her face. He settles for a tight grimace, baring his teeth.
This team came well prepared. About as quick and efficient and steady-handed as any infiltration of the Fearamid could be. She must have come to these events for years, dredging up every scrap of information she could to pull this off with ruthless efficiency.
But not all the information about Bill Cipher is out there. Really, you had to be there to see it. And without that, her otherwise perfect plan has one terrible flaw.
There’s no such thing as ‘out of Bill’s range’.
There’s still a way out of this. All Dipper needs is time, and a way to buy it.
The van jostles hard enough that the agents are having trouble keeping their balance - so Dipper wriggles. If he can roll off the table and make a nuisance of himself, that’s a few more precious seconds.
Only a few. Within moments he’s shoved back on, and leather restraints pulled over his chest, around his legs. He lets out a huff of annoyance, glaring up at an agent who doesn’t bother to meet his eyes.
Well, shit. He was hoping they didn’t have any; looks like that was a matter of expedience rather than poor planning.
Testing the straps, Dipper arches up and lets out a muffled curse. Thick canvas, metal buckle. Not fully pinning him with the vehicle shaking like this, that’s good - but not much give either.
It also starts Dipper wondering why these are in the van, a question that makes his stomach turn uncomfortably. Doesn’t seem like standard security equipment.
Okay, quick evaluation. Guns, yes. Secret agents, check. But if they wanted information, they wouldn’t have shut him up. And if they were after anything magical, there’s a distinct lack of anything resembling spellcraft in the van. There aren’t many clues as to what these people want with him.
What Dipper does know is that his instincts are screaming at him that this will be Very, Very Bad, and they’re almost always right.
Whatever he’s going to do, he’s got to do it quick. The restraints refuse to budge no matter how he pushes. And at this speed a few minutes means a few miles away from Fearamid, and from the relative safety of Bill.
…That’s if Bill notices he’s missing. Dipper said he was going back to their room. Bill won’t expect to see him at the party, he might not return for hours and see that he’s gone.
Or what if he’s actually glad Dipper stopped bothering him. Bill, enjoying the break from dealing with Dipper, could take days to think of looking for his mortal, if he does at all. What if he’s tired of living with some smelly human, taking up his space and yelling at him. What if he likes this better. What if he regrets everything.
An agent sways along with the rocking of the van towards the back, peeking through the two small windows. “All clear.”
“Good.” Jane says, primly satisfied. She blows some hair out of her eyes, stroking it back into neat perfection. “Then we’ll have plenty of time to-”
A voice slams through the vehicle; too strange to be human, too powerful to be any mortal creature. It sends ripples of magic through the air, amplifying the sound as it spreads from the Fearamid and to regions beyond.
Bill Cipher, shouting at jet-engine volume, makes Dipper’s ears ring even miles away.
“Fuck it.” Surging up, Jane grabs onto the wall, swinging slightly as the driver makes an abrupt turn. Something clatters to the floor, a clang of metal. “Hold him down. We’re taking the sample now.”
“But-” The last agent stops as she reels on him with a venomous glare. His eyes dart to Dipper, then her. “He’s-”
“I’m not waiting for Euclid to catch up.” The woman lifts something blocky off its mount; Dipper can’t get a good look out of the corner of his eye. “Do it. We’ll dump the body out as a distraction.”
Dipper’s eyes widen. Great, Bill’s aware, super cool. Only that won’t matter when the problem’s happening right now.
With rising panic, he thrashes against the restraints. Turning his head to see what the woman’s up to - can’t get a good look - immediately fails as he’s slammed back against the cold metal of the table. One firm hand on his forehead, and another on the side of his neck.
Guess only one of the agents had reservations. The other two don’t give a shit. Dipper breathes hard through his nose, neck tense as he strains. On the plus side - the very minor one - he can see Jane again. Right in the top range of his vision, and up to no good.
She’s unzipping a bag hanging on the wall. In her other hand, she clutches a heavy electric drill in a well-manicured grip. The open bag jostles as she fumbles inside then draws back with a swear, pressing a finger to her mouth that matches her lipstick.
“Knife,” says a calm male voice above him. A flicker of metal passes over and behind his line of sight. Shit. “Jar’s here.”
A wide, flat container clicks down in front of his face. Dipper squints through blurry eyes, trying to recognize what he’s in for by shape alone.
Sample, she said. Of what? What could they even get from someone close to Bill Cipher, who’s almost entirely magical? He hasn’t mutated Dipper, or turned him into stone. Physical stuff hasn’t happened. And magically, he’s more of a monster of the mind, invading people’s dreams and ransacking their -
“Mhhh!” Dipper shouts against the gag, writhing up and nearly dislodging the hold. For a second. Fuck it, he’ll take any seconds he can get.
Why couldn’t they just take his blood. Take a finger. Take a whole goddamn arm, even, at least he’d survive that.
And Bill’s not going to be happy when he finds Dipper’s body on the road. his cerebellum scooped out of him like ice cream.
Struggling isn’t working; his head smacks into the table again and he glares with full force. His throat already raw from screaming that he isn’t going to stop, clinging on to the single spiteful thought that they’ll *regret this*.
Something hard impacts right above his temple and he drops, stars swimming through his vision. Jane lets out a tsk of disgust. Wavering between two and one person as Dipper tries to focus again.
“Open the area.” She fits the bit onto the drill with several clicks. She pulls the trigger in a quick test and it buzzes into life, the bone-cutting bit blurring into a silver circle. “I need a clean section of skull.”
And pain blossoms, brighter than the hit to the head. A palm braced next to it to hold him still, meticulously drawing a straight line that slices through skin and leaves a trail of fire behind it.
“Poor baby. Does it hurt?” Jane simpers. She bends forward, hands resting on her knees and smiling with reassuring calm. “It’ll all be over soon.”
Dipper pants through his nose. Tries to focus enough to glare daggers at this monster, and curses as the knife bites in for the second slice. Warmth trickles behind his ear and over the back of his neck, pooling under his ear in a sticky puddle.
She- No. It can’t end like this. It won’t. After dozens of demon battles, a Fearamid riddled with thousands of human-murdering monsters, and Bill freakin’ Cipher himself, this jerk isn’t gonna be the one to finally get into his head.
He’s not going to die here.
Arms straining, body arching, Dipper thrashes against his restraints. The knife slips, clattering against the table, and as it does he turns his focus inward. Deep inside his chest, that warmth Bill gave him still burns. A bright light inside, golden and waiting for him to ask.
Over the shouting of the agents and the swearing of the woman at the delay, cursing them out for losing their hold - Dipper grabs onto that spark and pulls.
And the back of the van fills with screams.
Pressure vanishes. Space opens around him, voices call out in shock and pain. Dipper opens ont tentative eye, then blinks through the rush of bright blue light.
He’s free. Well, free-ish. The hands holding him down drew back like they were burned. One man curses and slaps at his sleeves; the other sobs in pain, arms smoking as he slumps to the floor.
Because they were burned, he realizes. Everything in a circle lit up in flames like it was doused with gasoline - except him.
This isn’t just fire. It’s Bill’s fire, racing through and over him in a torrent of magic, ready to destroy anything that *isn’t* his favorite human. His gift.
With one twist the canvas restraints snap, already charred from the heat. The gag isn’t affected, neither are his handcuffs, but his clothes are intact too and that’s a win right there. Dipper sits up, trying to get his bearings.
Which puts him in the perfect position to see out the back window when the front of the Fearamid explodes.
Blocks the size of buildings tumble as the wall bursts outwards, carried away from the base of the pyramid as if hit by an immense cannonball from inside. The same blue fire pours over them in a river, rolling out like a carpet as Bill Cipher bursts from his lair.
For the barest second, he pauses on top of the pile of rubble. Larger than Dipper’s ever seen him. Weirder and more demonic and furiously red, his shape split into tiers cut with jagged, golden teeth and lolling black tongues. His eye darts this way and that, then lands on the van and narrows.
And he charges after his target on multiple golden limbs, shattering asphalt under each step like a huge and monstrous spider.
A high-pitched scream from someone gets cut off; Dipper doesn’t care or turn to look. One agent lets out a sound that could be a whimper or a curse. Possibly both. The van rves; its engine squeals with acceleration as the pedal hits the floor.
An explosion sounds nearby. Up front the driver lets out a high, wordless shout - then everyone in the back is tossed around as he swerves to avoid some unknown threat.
Dipper moves with the momentum, swinging his legs around and getting his feet back on the floor. For the moment he’s not the focus of attention, which is a good thing. The best thing.
Bill wants attention? He can have all of it this time, no arguments here.
Keeping the fire swirling, Dipper leans against the table for balance. Flame’s a great deterrent for anyone with funny ideas, but he’s not going to be better off if he brains himself with a fall. In a brief moment of stillness, he sneaks a quick peek out the back.
It’s hard to tell from this distance. He has no sense of scale for Bill’s monstrous form, no way to judge exact velocities, and the van’s going hell for leather on a relatively straight highway.
But it looks like Bill’s catching up.
“Shit.” Jane’s voice; Dipper sees her dive past the circle of his fire, towards the back doors. The perfectly styled hair is mussed, her eyes wide but not frantic. “Drive faster, damn it!” Turning towards the last remaining agent, she barks another order. “And get a weapon.”
The agent who’d refrained from holding Dipper had already backed away, flattened against the wall to avoid the flames - but at her order he leaps towards the front to unseat a rifle n from its hanger. Near the back, Jane drags a heavier-looking one off the wall. Teeth bared white against smudged red lipstick.
Then a burst of wind blows through the van as she throws the back doors open, bracing herself against the frame and opening fire.
Ah, yes. The weapons. Dipper had almost forgotten in the rush to keep his head intact.
Normal guns work on most demons, bringing them makes sense. Whatever plan they had, they were also prepared for a fight - But he has a distinct feeling it didn’t account for this.
Dipper ducks down further, kneeling to keep his balance while dust and heat flood in from the tailwind. The two other vans tag slightly behind them, tires leaving streaks as they strain to keep following distance.
And he can see Bill fully now. Moving way faster than anything that size should be able to. Hell, if anything, he’s picked up the pace, multiple arms moving fast enough to nearly be a blur. His limbs crater concrete, loud rapid thuds through the earth Dipper can feel in his stomach.
And as the doors swing open, Bill’s pupil narrows to a barely-there line. With an indescribable sound of sheer anger, his eye starts to glow with solid white light.
…Yeah, okay. Dipper admits: If he were being chased by something that big and THAT angry, he’d also reach for the biggest goddamn gun he could find.
Two loud shots ring out, deep pounding impacts from the rifle. Half a second later it’s joined by the sharp staccato of machine gun fire, close enough that the twin sounds make Dipper’s ears hurt. The support vans must have also caught the memo, or been on the radio, as small pops in the distance sound of more gunfire.
But if it has any effect, Bill sure doesn’t show it. A few sparks clink off his surface without making him blink, ignored in favor of his relentless pursuit. And god, Dipper’s glad that stupid bragging wasn’t exaggeration; he is really hard to harm, it wasn’t dangerous.
In response, he swivels towards the vehicle on his left, shooting a beam of light that cuts it cleanly in half. A second blast shoots up and slightly to the side, and moments later a helicopter pirouettes towards the ground in a trail of smoke.
From up front the driver curses, jerking the wheel and sending everyone in the back thumping to the right. The woman curses, fumbling with her gun, hitting it on the side. Two more rifle shots ring out, then there’s a pause, and a defeated-sounding clatter as the agent hunches over and starts whimpering.
Jane reels on him, swearing with words Dipper thinks are demonic curses, tossing her gun aside and grabbing a fresh one. Only to get cut off as the van shakes with sudden strain, the floor tilts under them - and suddenly Bill’s closing the final distance, quicker than before.
For a moment Dipper’s confused. Then worried, as his jeans slip on a sudden sloping surface - where the hell did they hit a hill, the road was flat - until he remembers, oh, yeah. Infinite energy, incredible power. Ripping the ground up is only a matter of willing it to rise.
Bill can’t blow the van apart, not with Dipper still inside. But he can slow it down.
Tires start to smoke as they churn up the sudden incline. The second backup van crumples under Bill’s palm like a stray soda can, and with about as much fanfare.
The van tilts at a precarious angle, slowing to a crawl as it rides the magically created hill upwards. Beside Dipper, the burned agent lets out a shout as his thin silk suit slips on the metal floor. For a second he clutches a table leg with one reddened, burned hand - then he slides out the open back. Dipper sees the suit bounce once before he vanishes under Bill’s limbs.
Another shot rings out, and something hisses past Dipper’s cheek. Immediately he ducks and rolls under the table, sending out a burst of fire in its direction. A shriek of pain confirms what he already knew - that woman is a menace.
So that’s it, then. If she can’t take out Bill, she’ll settle for denying him his mortal. Maybe Bill should marry her, they’d get on like a goddamn house on fire.
Dipper hunches into a ball, gritting his teeth. He concentrates the flame around him, willing it to rise and spread. The table offers barely any cover, but hopefully she’ll have a hard time taking another potshot. Proven right when she calls him something vile and chucks the gun at him instead.
That needs a response. Preferably something better targeted, but his new magic is slow to react. She’s already clambering over the partition between them and the driver.
Ha, had to run from him, did she? Take that. Dipper watches her slither away with a sense of triumph - until half the table slips past him, and he realizes he’s about to slide out of the van. Where he’d become, at best, a smear on the pavement.
He catches himself with one shoe on the final leg, wobbling in place. And that damned woman still has a gun, because he hears another shot ping off to his right. It’s hell trying to keep his balance and the magic up and not get shot at by crazy women with a chip on their shoulder.
This would be a great time to not be handcuffed. Stupid magic fire gets people away, but hasn’t freed him, he’s definitely bitching Bill out for this later -
Something massive plunges into the back of the vehicle. The table rips off its bolts, knocking guns from the walls, and enveloping Dipper bodily. A sudden sense of motion sending the world spinning - then it stills.
The hand holding him opens up to light, and the still-blue sky.
“Aha!” Bill’s surface heaves with a huge sigh, a sound not unlike relief. His eye, bigger than Dipper’s entire body, turns up that same familiar smile. “There you are.”
Dipper struggles with his uncooperative legs, too shaky to move. He gathers them up under him, leaving him kneeling in Bill’s massive, glowing palms. Shivering, bound, and unable to speak.
“Hey there, sapling,” Bill says, with inordinate fondness. A single finger taps his back with the force of a comforting pat. “We gotta stop meeting like this!”
With a snap, Dipper’s bonds sever. He collapses onto Bill’s palm, hand going straight to his scalp - then flinching back at the sticky, warm mess.
Fuck, his head hurts. Hair matted with blood, some dried into spikes that crunch under his palm. Shit, how bad is it? How much is missing, where did they cut? The idea of touching exposed bone, pushing against the warm hard surface of it is -
Dipper thinks he’s going to be sick. He can’t, though. He won’t. If he pukes in Bill’s hands, he’ll never live it down.
“Hey.” Bill must have spotted the problem; it’d be hard not to, with his neck and shoulder a mess and the still-trickling blood. Still, he sounds oddly calm about it. “Lemme see.”
His palm draws closer, almost touching Bill’s surface. Dipper sees his reflection in an eye bigger than his entire body. The back of one huge finger nudges his hovering hand away, and a thumb touches his chin, turning his head and bringing the wound into view.
Bill’s eye narrows. Dipper shuts his own. Physics, right; a lens that size is like a telescope, focusing with incredible detail on one puny human. Or a microscope? The pounding in his skull makes it hard to think.
“Ha! Hey, not bad!” Bill says, with more of his usual flippancy. “Nasty cut, sure! But just the one, and there’s barely any bone showing! I’ve seen way worse.” A pause. “Anyone ever tell you you’ve got great skull plates?”
Dipper lets out a sharp bark of laughter. “Not lately.” And he drops back, sitting fully on Bill’s palm with his legs splayed.
Just a cut. Scalp wounds bleed a lot, he knew that, it’s not that bad. He’s fine. Bill wouldn’t - well, he would lie to him, constantly. But not about this.
When he reaches to put pressure back on his wound, he’s surprised to find his hand already full of clean white cloth. And when he holds it against the cut, the strange coolness of it helps with the pain.
“Should be a pretty simple fix,” Bill continues. The world spins as he turns, lumbering back towards the Fearamid. “Hang tight, sapling, we’ll get you-”
A sharp chuff cuts through the air, then fire and smoke explode against Bill’s side and he stumbles to one side. Unbalanced, holding himself up with one arm.
Dipper’s heart leaps into his throat as the hands under him tilt. No, wait, this can’t - they were going to get out of here, Bill shouldn’t -
Then Bill blinks away the ash, and levels a furious glare in the direction of the impact. “Oh, real cute.”
Thank fuck, there isn’t a mark on him. After that, Dipper’s willing to admit it - Bill’s probably invulnerable. He grabs one curled finger and pulls himself up to peek at what he’s glaring at.
Near the wreckage of the van, Hane kneels with the rocket launcher braced on her shoulder. She examines Bill’s undamaged surface. Then sighs, drops the weapon, and stands up. “Well, shit.”
Bill’s eye fires another laser, blindingly bright. Dipper covers his eyes, drawing back -
And where Jane stood, a charred skeleton teeters for a moment before collapsing into a bony heap.
“Moron,” Bill says, voice low with contempt. With a tired-sounding sigh, he starts walking back towards his lair. “Some losers don’t know when they’ve lost.”
“Mh,” Dipper agrees, dropping back on Bill’s palm.
Not that he approves of outright murder. It’s just hard to feel bad for someone who wanted a chunk of his brain. And who couldn’t read a goddamn room. After all that she still thought she could win? Stupid. Serves her right for picking fights with -
“She was hitting on you.” It surprises him how indignant he feels. Before, at the party - How the hell did he miss that? And right in front of him, too? Bill should have zapped her way earlier.
“Yeah, yeah, standard spy seduction tactics. They didn’t work! So save the jealousy for when you’re less bleedy,” Bill covers Dipper with a third hand, sheltering him from the blowing dust and wind. “Hang tight, kid.”
With that said, he lopes back towards the Fearamid. Slower than his chase, but still fast enough that Dipper’s glad for the windbreak of his hands.
He shuffles back, holding the cloth tight to his head and wrapping his arm around one massive finger for balance. Resting his cheek against Bill’s not-flesh is strangely comfortable; the strange material of his being is kinda soft. Pretty warm, too.
The threat’s gone. He can relax a bit, and concentrate on keeping his blood inside his body, as Bill would put it. Hopefully there’s a medic or the equivalent around the Fearamid; Dipper can’t stitch this up himself.
…He shouldn’t have gone to that party.
The people there weren’t interested in what he had to say. He didn’t make any progress, other than learning Bill’s got more than one type of gala up his sleeve. It’s just -
That was supposed to be a bunch of humans arguing politics, or cowering under Bill’s terrifying presence. A place where Dipper could show off what he’s done in front of a patient crowd. It didn’t seem like a big deal. Definitely not like a threat.
Bill told him it was dangerous. Bill.
The guy who thinks the average threat is a type of joke and murder’s like daytime television, he thought going to the party was too risky. That should have been the single biggest warning in the world, blaring out with neon goddamn lights.
But no, Dipper just had to show him up, didn’t he. Thought that if it was a big deal, Bill would have vetoed it from the start, and was smug when he didn’t. If Bill was sane, he would have, except he’s a goddamn demon with a totally skewed view of risks.
Maybe Dipper’s influenced by that, too. He forgot humans are also dangerous. Sometimes extremely so.
Governments aren’t totally stupid. They have a million moving parts. Specialists. People who have trained for at least these twenty-odd years to learn about and take down demons, even at the source. Dipper would smack himself on the forehead for not thinking of it, but that would hurt pretty bad right now.
For all that Bill covered the event in glitz and glamor, nobody sends cowering bureaucrats into a friggin’ demon lair.
That was some high level spy shit.
No wonder Bill allows them over. Intricate games, subtle threats. Daring intrigue. On a normal day, he’d be having a ball with it.
Then Dipper messed it all up. And got kidnapped again, to boot.
Bill’s fingers tuck in slightly as he steps back into the Fearamid, humming a tune to himself. Even with multiple limbs, the rubble makes the ride pretty bumpy.
Dipper wraps his arm around Bill’s thumb to keep himself steady. Bricks rise up behind them and slot back into place, covering up the hole where he burst out in a rush. A few screams from the remaining diplomats give him the impression that the party’s over - and Bill, for once, doesn’t give a dismissive little speech to cap it off.
Instead, he makes his way back to the penthouse. Dipper recognizes the halls, expanding around Bill’s new form like a bubble as he moves. It takes all of a minute before he’s being lowered to the floor, and shakily finding his feet.
Behind him, Bill shrinks slowly, extra limbs and teeth and tiers melding together back to a simple golden shape. Still holding onto Dipper’s arm, and supporting his weight.
“Yeesh, you look like an amateur’s nightmare. I’m talking ‘too much stage blood at a haunted house’ here!“ With a guiding hand on Dipper’s back, Bill floats through the penthouse. “Let’s get you patched up, kid.”
Nodding means moving his head, so Dipper just says, “Fine.” Then, with sudden worry, “Wait, who’s going to-”
“Me! Duh,” Bill gives another little push, eye rolling dramatically. “What, you think I’m too squeamish to put sutures in? I’m insulted.”
“No, I mean,” Dipper pauses for thought. Though he does let Bill walk him towards the door in the back, through into the bathroom. “It doesn’t seem like… your thing?”
“Eh, I gotta give you that one.” A soft push users Dipper into the bathroom, Bill floating in and kicking the door shut. “But I got plenty of practice in your first go-round! You’re always getting into scrapes. And getting scrapes.”
Another nudge urges Dipper to sit on the edge of the in-floor tub. He complies, letting his legs dangle into the basin. Even if he wanted to resist, the adrenaline’s wearing off and his limbs are shaking, like a toy working on low battery.
“Get that outta the way,” Bill insists, pulling Dipper’s makeshift bandage away from his head. He produces a bucket out of nowhere with a flourish, and holds it up with both hands. “Now, I woulda preferred this in a wet-tshirt contest context - but I’m not gonna pass up dunking ya, either!”
“What-” A flush of water runs over the side of Dipper’s head, cutting him off mid-sentence. “Ow, shit.” On instinct, he tries to clap a hand over his cut-
But with his grip on Dipper’s wrist, Bill pulls it back down. “Ah, calm your cute ass. It’s hardly the worst thing to happen to ya.” Another gush of water, and Dipper hisses through his teeth.
Okay, fair point. And this, at least, explains why they’re in the bathroom.
Staying still takes effort, but Dipper does his best. Grimacing as pink trails in the water run down the side of the tub. The ruin of his shirt, already stained beyond saving, spreads out a bloom of red from the shoulder.
Then there’s a poke, a sharp pain like the flick of a lit match, and he flinches.
Bill sighs. “You never make my life easier.” A bit of a grumble, but with that same strange fond tone he takes when Dipper’s being a pain in the ass. “Just hold still, moron.”
Dipper hisses through his teeth in response. Yes, just let the evil mastermind prod as close to his brain as he’s ever going to get. The demon who mutates people for fun, dicking around with Dipper’s flesh, who -
Who was furious when he saw he went missing. Came quite literally running to the rescue. Bill ruined his party, his fun for the evening, and the entire front of his evil lair without hesitating for a second, just to get him back.
“Okay,” Dipper says. And means it, this time.
The next poke still stings, and he can’t see what Bill's doing, but seconds later a chilly numbness spreads from the site. Dipper nearly slips into the tub out of sheer relief.
Bill complains about that. Because of course he would. But through the numbness, his hands work deftly and quickly on... Whatever he’s doing. It feels like getting stitches, though, so Dipper’s oddly unconcerned.
And all the while, Bill keeps talking. A constant stream of thought.
“Man, I really gotta remake the medical suite. Kinda destroyed it after you took off last time.” Deft fingers part Dipper’s hair as a distant pinch-poke trails down his scalp. “But since you’re back, whoo, the trouble is too! Today it’s lacerations, tomorrow broken bones - Probably some nasty curses along the line. I can’t wait to see it!”
“I’m not that much trouble,” Dipper mumbles. Which isn’t his best argument. In that it’s kind of a total lie.
“Sure you aren’t.” Bill brightens in the corner of his eye, with an indulgent chuckle. “Total straightlaced do-gooder here! Never done anything inadvisable in either lifetime!”
That gets a laugh, like he knew it would. Chatting with an insane demon really isn’t as bad as he thought it’d be. Bill’s ambient heat warms his side, pleasant against the cling of his soaked shirt.
“Aaaand there!” With a pat on his head, Bill drifts back and surveys his handiwork. “Another fantastic job by me, if I do say so myself.”
Tentatively, Dipper touches the side of his head. His hair’s wet, but not stickily so, and the skin is closed with a neat line of bumps. Seeing Bill narrow his eye, he drops his hand before he gets a lecture about ‘not fiddling with perfection’.
It’s also good to put Bill in a better mood, because Dipper’s just thought of something. And Bill isn’t going to like it.
“What’s going to happen to the other-” Spies, technically - “Diplomats?”
“Oh, for- What do you care? One of ‘em tried to off ya, kid!” Bill floats in front of his face, waving his arms. “You can’t tell me that gets you upset! You’re nearly as vindictive as I am!”
Dipper frowns. Okay, yeah, it doesn’t bug him that much - but there’s something more important in play.
“Just the one. And it’s-” Trying to think is still difficult; Dipper rolls his wrist, trying to will the words to come up. “Stick. Carrot. You know?”
If Bill goes ahead and slaughters everyone at that party, there will be repercussions. And if anyone learned what he’s planning in the next few weeks, there’s one hell of an opportunity to screw him over.
Despite being inarticulate, Bill catches on instantly. “Oh, that. I know what you’re going for - and trust me, I’m familiar.”
Ah. So Bill did have the same train of thought. Dipper’s got this. And for some reason he’s smiling.
“So you’re… not going to murder them all, right? I mean. Big day coming up.” Being specific is important with demons. And he’s learned some new terminology for it too - Dipper grimaces. “The last thing we need is someone getting… ‘cute’.”
“Yeah, yeah, way ahead of you there. They’ll stew in the dungeons for a day, then be real grateful it didn’t end up worse.” He sighs, setting fists on his angles. “You and your morals.”
“It’s practical.” Dipper insists. Keeping their wedding day free and sparing lives. Everyone wins. Bill has to see he’s right.
“You’re a nerd.” Bill retorts, though it isn’t much of one. Thus proving Dipper is right, and he’s very clever. Vindictive is fun, but it isn’t always smart.
With that settled, Dipper can -
He pauses, and plucks at his shirt. Even by his standards it’s ruined.
In fact, he’s bloodstained everywhere. Dust ground into his clothes from what blew into the van. He should change. And… clean up, or something. But he’s tired, aching, and moving feels impossible after all the, well. Everything.
The sound of rushing water makes him look up. Bill, turning the tap on the tub; it fills with water, already rising towards his shoes. God, it’s like he read his -
Though he hasn’t before. Probably he isn’t now. Dipper doesn’t have the energy for suspicion, not in a rare moment when his demon’s being helpful.
“Hey!” Bill protests a shoe being tossed in his direction. He catches it, glares, and tosses it over his side. “If you’re using me for target practice, at least make it something cool. Like knives! Or blowing kisses!”
Dipper fumbles with his socks, until finally just toeing them off and letting them fall in the bathwater. “Or rocket launchers?”
He knows he shouldn’t say it when he says it. It just came out. Because - because he’s tired, and his stupid shirt isn’t cooperating. Getting it off without messing with his stitches is a whole ordeal.
Bill drifts over, looking unimpressed. “Ugh, don’t start. It was never a thing, kid! Some people just can’t take ‘ew, super gross’ for an answer.” He crosses his arms in an ‘x’. “No matter which way you slice it, that was harassment. I’m the victim here!”
Okay, that’s - Dipper’s mouth works but he can’t find words. Bill’s just - that’s… okay, on a technicality, if you’re insane, then -
While he’s processing that, Bill takes advantage. Pulling his arms straight up, and in one quick motion yanking his shirt off and casting it aside. “Ta da!” Adding jazz hands, like he’s pulled off the tablecloth trick or something.
Dipper lets his arms drop, lips pressed in a thin line. Two can look unimpressed at a stupid move, and that definitely counted. Bill just beams back at him.
One day he’s going to get used to these antics, he swears. Bill can’t surprise him forever.
Still, he feels gross. He aches all over, and a bath sounds fantastic right now. The warm water lingers like an unspoken invitation, tickling his toes.
Just before he undoes his fly, he hesitates. Glancing over at Bill.
Who’s floating off in a corner and messing with some towels. He’s folded one into a duck, and another into a headless body, looking pleased at his work. Conveniently distracted.
Seizing the chance, Dipper casts off the rest of his clothes and sinks gratefully into the warm, pleasantly-scented water.
Details are hard to see under the bubbles. Odds are Bill’s seen his share of naked humans in dreams; another one won’t blow his mind. Why would a triangle care when they’re incompatible anyway?
“Pretty nice, huh?” Bill pops up behind his shoulder almost on cue. Dipper’s too tired to flinch, but he does shut his eyes. “Appreciate the luxury, sapling. You’re not getting this kinda treatment anywhere else.”
Arguably accurate. Still annoying. Dipper decides it’s not worth bickering about just yet.
“Mh.” He mumbles. Making words is hard. Sounds are easier. Dipper shuts his eyes, leaning against the tub and soaking in the warmth. Muscles he didn’t know where tense loosen slightly, with a lingering ache.
Warm water sloshes over his bloody shoulder. A cloth being dragged - Dipper jerks upright. Shit he nearly drifted off, how bad would that be - then turns to stare.
Bill waves a washcloth at him, glaring like he’s offended. “Wasn’t kidding about the haunted house look. Your meat leaked everywhere.” He says, by way of explanation. “So much for being better about bathing this time ‘round.”
With that said, Bill goes back to what he was doing. The washcloth smacks against the back of Dipper’s neck like a rebuke as he sets to work. Wiping away crusted trails and the sticky bits stuck to his skin until the trails of water run pink. Bill dips the cloth again, and keeps scrubbing the last trickles of blood from his neck.
Dipper shifts in place. Even though he should get away, he can’t find the will to move. He turns, not daring to look Bill in the eye in sudden embarrassment. “You don’t have to-”
“Cram it, or I’ll cram this up one of your nostrils.” Bill waves the washcloth threateningly before slapping it back on his shoulder. “You can’t tell me what to do.”
Shuffling in place, Dipper debates whether he’d actually do that - probably not, considering all the trouble he went through keeping him intact. But he takes it in the spirit it was meant, and shuts up.
It’s strange. What in his life hasn’t been, since he met this creature? But sitting here, letting Bill Cipher clean up his blood and turn the tap on to add more hot water. Dashing in a little soap to make hallucinogenic-looking bubbles. Being taken care of by a monster who has no sane reason to do it.
…Dipper’s not even his husband, for fuck’s sake. This is stupid. Built on a lie and sustained by a delusion. All he’s done is make trouble for Bill, the not-fun kind, and he hasn’t even been nice. He’s screwed up. Bill blasted open his own Fearamid and took a rocket launcher to the face because Dipper couldn’t read between the lines and be smart about the whole damn thing.
Eventually Bill drifts away, tossing the washcloth in Dipper’s direction. “See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?” He plops down to sit at the edge, dipping his feet into the water. “I ain’t doing it all for ya, though. You gotta finish the rest.”
Dipper stares as the cloth sinks into the water. It drifts into his hands, an inevitable sink like paper falling through the air in slow motion.
Then he takes a deep breath, and admits, “I screwed up.”
He waits for the oncoming onslaught of ‘I told you so’s, hunching over in the water.
There’s a beat. A moment where Bill pauses, almost statue still - but he just shrugs.
“Eh, you wouldn’t be you if you didn’t try punching above your weight class.” Bill kicks the water idly, flicking some bubbles in Dipper’s direction. “Diving into the deep end with some major players, and surviving? Not too shabby, considering. And hey, how often do I get to do a high-speed chase?” He lights a fire in his hand, then extinguishes it with a closed fist. “Next time you’ll incinerate them before I get to have any fun.”
Dipper nods. He doesn’t have a response. Though his face is flushing, hot from an emotion he can’t place.
That - there’s a contract. He signed it and everything. God, Bill he has every right in the universe, in perpetuity, to mock him for this. To yell at him taking risks, for screwing up, for being stupid -
And he’s making excuses for him.
Dipper doesn’t know why that hits him so hard. Or why it makes his chest feel tight, heat building behind his eyes. Relief, partly, but also, just - He swallows through a lump in his throat, blinking fast.
It’s fine. He’s okay. Terrible things could have happened, but didn’t. Bill is a terrible thing, and does terrible things. But never to him.
Bill, meanwhile, suddenly seems to find the towels deeply fascinating. He snaps his fingers, changing their colors, their fluffiness levels. The headless body animates and totters around. Leaving Dipper plenty of space to breathe, and sink further into the water.
Okay. Bill’s an asshole. There’s no questioning that.
But Dipper’s been an asshole right back. He’s argued every point, even when it wasn’t necessary. Made himself maybe more of a nuisance than he should have been. He could probably leave fewer dirty dishes in the sink.
And between the two of them, only one made the right calls today to keep Dipper’s brain intact.
Bill seems to have recovered, because he’s talking again. Going on about vengeance, and fire, and how superheating parts of people’s bodies makes the best explosions. Circling around the basin as he lectures. “So as I was saying, a real cool way to make a guy’s head explode is-”
Dipper grabs his side as he passes by. Then, as Bill twists in surprise, gets a hold of his other one.
“Eh?” Bill blinks, patting the backs of Dipper’s hands like he’s not sure how they got there. “What’s this?”
“Shut up.” It doesn’t matter that Bill didn’t say much, because he should always shut up, forever. Dipper grips him tighter, and pulls him in.
For a being made of metal, Bill’s surprisingly light. Must be his floating thing. It makes him easier to push around. Even though he’s struggling, his flailing arms feel more like pool noodles than anything with power.
Dipper shoves him down six inches and sets a grip higher on Bill’s angles, where it’s easier to get his arms around him. And hugs him, even though the edges kind of dig into his biceps.
Sudden silence. Metal, warm against his cheek. Dipper breathes in, then out again. Under Bill’s surface, alien organs thrum in a strange, irregular tone, underlaid by rapid beat.
Touching Bill, on purpose, is strange. But not bad. Kind of interesting, actually; maybe Bill feels the same way about humans. Driven by curiosity, always wanting contact. Dipper hopes he gets why he’s offering it, but just in case -
“Hey.” He says, though it’s faintly squished against Bill’s front. He shifts position, nose bumping against an edge. “Thanks.”
Bill makes a sound like ‘fmgl’, but doesn’t speak. Well, shit, if Dipper knew this would shut him up, he’d have done it way sooner.
It’s not so bad, living in the Fearamid. Or with Bill, who’s strange and infuriating and intriguing in equal turns. And though it’s weird to think about - insane, probably. Possibly even delusional -
Dipper might be safer than he’s ever been before.
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