Dipper leaned against the frame of the doorway, his gaze advancing from the rickety, battered crate to the cramped cage haphazardly balanced on a wooden plank beneath the iron base. He twirled his finger on the leather strings of his bolo tie in a vain attempt to preoccupy himself from acknowledging the nagging feeling of hesitation twisting his insides into knots. His tightened frown softened into a neutral, fine line as he exhaled sharply through his nostrils, until finally steeling his resolve to take the first step beyond the door’s sill, and cleared his throat to garner the attention of his family’s tearful, demonic underling, who suppressed his sobs into a respectful and fearful silence.

Bill’s triangular form stiffened, and the arm he was nursing was visibly brought closer to his small body in an anxious but defensive clutch. Muttering a grunt as soft as a whisper when a pointed corner caught itself between the bars, he swiveled and morosely trained his pupil on the boy’s knees rather than gazing at his owner directly. The demon raised his injured arm to the ridge of his eye and aggressively swiped the cascading beads of tears trickling in uncoordinated zig-zags against the sunken reliefs of his brick markings.

Dipper’s eyebrows furrowed in mild disgust, but the sensation was short-lived as he bit the inside of his cheek and approached the cage in a series of paced strides. Folding his knees, he unhinged the lock and ordered, “Come out.”

Bill twitched but nodded slowly.

“Look at me,” he berated, “when I address you.”

Bill recoiled from the boy’s abrupt indignation, his iris sheened with a film of tears steadily dribbling from the inner corner of his eye. Dipper, however, sucked his teeth for allowing his aggression to overcome him.

“I,” he began with a sigh, a tired drawl following his tone, “I didn’t mean that.”

Reaching into the cage, Dipper scooped Bill from the base, who instinctively flailed in his grip, and waited patiently for the demon’s panic to cease. Lolling his head to the side, he balanced Bill in his palms and pressed his forefinger and thumb together to readjust the tiny, skewed bowtie. “Show–” Dipper counted down from ten in his head before amending the beginning of his question, “Will you show me where she got you this time?”

Bill blinked a few times, but yielded and raised his arm to display his severed wrist expelling wisps of black mist in his body’s attempt at self-regeneration. Dipper’s heart clenched in his chest, but was outdone by the guilt burdening his shoulders over his lackluster attempts to eliminate Mabel’s knife throwing routine from their shows. Dipper’s forced indifference waned as he asked with a subtle touch of worry lacing his voice, “How much does it hurt?”

Bill averted his pupil. “Just…a bit,” he lied.

Unconvinced, Dipper released his grip. “Hover for me, Cipher.”

Although a nervous tremble coursed through his small legs, Bill rose in midair and bobbed slowly in his stationary levitation. Dipper fished the bandage from his pocket and winded the glittering cloth around the injury, to the length of his arm, and twisted a loose ribbon on the connecting junction of the limb to the demon’s blue-tinted body. He offered a brief mumble of an explanation of the infused healing properties extracted from the glimmering wings of the forest fairies, and in response, Bill’s lower eyelid scrunched in mingled revulsion and awe, but with enough willpower he repressed his shudder.

Dipper feigned a cough, shuffling his weight from one foot to the other. “I’ll be going now,” he offered in their shared silence, “your hand should be regrown by tomorrow.”

A big, watery glob formed in Bill’s eye in sincere gratitude.

Dipper assumed the poor lighting flickering with the last of its energy caused the minor disorientation in his eyesight, but for a brief moment, he could have sworn Bill radiated with a golden glow.

Dipper bit down on his bottom lip, scowling as his granduncle situated the circular, wooden wheel on a pedestal and cackled at the demon wildly weeping aloud over the restraints binding his limbs. Stan regarded Mabel with an enthusiastic pat on the shoulder, and his senile chuckle blared in the boy’s ears as his anger reached a fever pitch.

“Knock’em dead, kid,” he snickered. Darting a hardened glare at his nephew, Stan shook his head in exasperation and left the arena.

Mabel performed her usual theatrics by greeting the incoming audience members and elaborating her routine in delighted detail. She reveled in their praise and excited applause, and giggled when an overeager member in the stands suggested the bodily target of her aim.

She intentionally swung her knives between Bill’s legs, her falsified cheeriness echoing from the speakers of her microphone set as she honeyed her orders in a demeaning manner to muffle Bill’s piercing yelps.

­Mabel cupped her hand behind her ear, “What’s that?” she hummed amusedly, “Get him in the eye, you say?” Faking a moment of pensive consideration as she tapped the tip of her knife against her chin, her frown broke into a malicious grin. “You got it!”

Bill pleadingly glanced at Dipper.

Dipper grounded his teeth.

Mabel flaunted her flexibility: raising one leg, the upper half of her body dipped in an arc to the floor, and her egotistical smile generated the roars of the entranced spectators. In one swift, fluid motion, she shot forward and swung her weapon with a blinding velocity that silenced her audience in anticipation.

When Bill clenched his eyelid shut, Dipper tightly gripped the pendant on his necktie to manipulate the course of its direction to a far-off ring within the circle.

Neither Mabel nor her audience said a word but rather had their jaws slacken in surprise.

“What my sister failed to mention earlier,” he interjected, “was that this was the last our knife throwing performance. Not all together, just with this demon, but we have a bigger and better beast to replace him.”

Leisurely shuffling past the discarded knives littering the stage, Dipper released the hinges of the buckles and situated Bill over his arm. “You won’t be disappointed,” he assured.

Mabel tried to regain her audience throughout the following acts, though the nervousness in her voice and unsteadiness of her practice caused some of her spectators to leave in disinterest. Dipper actively avoided his granduncle for the remainder of the show and hid in the safety of the wilderness. He attended to the demon still shaken from the earlier scare – sentiments was never his expertise, so he distractingly inspected the undergrowth brushing against the toe cap of his shoe while Bill gradually regained his composure.

Eventually, Bill made a sound similar to sniffling before setting his tiny hands against the back of the boy’s palm.