#widower au

Did Dipper's soul literally escape the afterlife to yell at Bill about starting the apacalypse? Thats actually hilarious if so, 10/10

It was just a little tiny hehe haha thing I thought of after reading chapter 5! It's so goooodd!!!! I love your work!!

Bill Cipher needs to die.

Dipper slams the stupid, ornate, irritating puzzle box down on the couch cushions, where it bounces, and sits back in a huff.

Some ‘gift’ this is. Knowing Bill, it’s actually a trick. Probably filled with a horrible curse, flesh-eating worms, or a confetti popper that’ll make him jump.

And Dipper’s spent yet another hour with it, getting nowhere. 

A minute later, he picks the damn box up again and double-checks his notes. Three sets of latches and a twisting base like a rubix cube. Halfway through he realized that there’s no mechanical component; the only reason to move the parts is to align the runes on its four sides.

Normally that wouldn’t be much of a challenge. But most of the sigils are in that strange demon language Dipper doesn’t speak. 

He should have expected as much. Bill did say it would ‘keep him occupied’, not that he’d be able to complete it.

Letting his head drop back on the cushions, Dipper heaves a sigh. The triangle-patterned ceiling doesn’t have any more clues than the last time he stared at it. 

Okay, maybe Bill doesn’t need to die for this, specifically. If Dipper wastes his time on the damn thing, that’s kind of on him.

…Besides. He’s earned a pass.

Touching the side of his head lightly, he traces the raised line under his messy hair. The stitches came out days ago, and it healed pretty well. Now that the bruises from being thrown around the van have faded, the only way to tell anything happened is by touch. 

It still feels unbelievable. Like it happened in a dream, or to another person. But there’s physical proof that it’s real, and that makes Dipper feel… uncertain.

Never in his life would he have imagined Bill Cipher would - well - save it. And it’s really getting to him.

Dipper wants to be angry. Part of him remains convinced that there was some trick, some prank that asshole’s pulling, or - he doesn’t know - a really long term scheme of Bill’s that would devastate the planet. 

Then he pictures the broken Fearamid wall, the thin panicked line of the single huge pupil, and the furious monster charging to his rescue. Too genuine to be anything but -

Damn it.

Hating Bill is getting harder every day, which isn’t a good development. It’s definitely not a normal one. Bill probably loves that it’s nowhere near normal. 

…Where is Bill, anyway? 

Dipper sets the puzzle box down again - on the coffee table this time, with a quick scribbled note to certain assholes not to mess with his progress - and checks his phone.

No texts. No missed calls. No bursting into demonic flames because he ignored a message, burning a hole in his pants but not his skin. Which means that Bill, whatever he’s doing, is deeply distracted. 

And definitely up to no good. 

He rises from the couch and checks the window. Far below, demons mill around in the empty statue garden. 

Hmm. A commotion’s been going on in the courtyard for a while; he just didn’t think it was important. Demons squabble like it’s their day job, which it probably is. 

So it’s his job to go and check it out. 

The hallways below the penthouse apartment bustle with activity. Insectoid fairies zip through the air, and slow shuffling slimes ooze their way along the corridors. Off in the distance, the eternal party rages. The bass isn’t as loud in the afternoon, but by midnight it’ll pick up.

Dipper stuffs his hands in his pockets as he walks, hunching his shoulders and avoiding conversation. Today it’s easier than usual. All the suckups are working on Bill’s project instead of trying to schmooze with his mortal. 

Here he is, in the heart of all evil. Dipper wanted to defend his planet from this place, and he’s got it. 

He just didn’t expect it to be like this. 

In his daydreams, he found a way to zap Bill into oblivion. A laser, a curse, a spell. Maybe opened a portal that sucked every demon back into their realm, watching Bill desperately try to cling to a lamppost before being zooped back into the void. Or just punching the bastard right in the eye, shattering him into a million pieces across time and space.

In reality, saving the world isn’t action packed. It’s ninety percent arguing, and ten just asking. 

His days in the Fearamid have slid into a rhythm. Three mornings a week he wakes up lying on a warm plate of gold, and how Bill shimmies underneath without him noticing is a question for the ages. Bill makes up for it by making breakfast. A manipulative gambit, since even a dedicated hater like Dipper can’t find fault with pancakes.

Afternoon brings arguments. They’re keeping them brief for now - mostly because Bill fucks off to avoid having to make more concessions - and in the evening once Dipper’s calmed down, they play a game or watch bad TV over surprisingly good takeout. 

And worst of all, last Saturday Dipper watched a movie with Bill goddamn Cipher sitting in his freakin’ lap. His lap. And Bill’s heavy, being metal and all. Dipper didn’t even complain about it, that’s how messed up everything is. 

Dipper tries to shudder in revulsion, and sulks when he can’t. 

A part of him even thought it was nice. 

Because that’s what Bill’s like. Clever, irritating. Oddly convincing. He greets the mortal living in his home with his strange eye-smile every morning, brightening like the sun. Like he’s the best thing in his day by a million miles.

Dipper glowers, shakes off the mental image, and storms towards the exit. 

Now if he hadn’t conquered the freakin’ world, then maybe things could be nice, or nice-ish. Maybe if someone wasn’t a chaotic madman they could have gotten along. Things could have been…

Well, not normal, Bill’s involved. But close enough to it that Dipper could find some excuse.

There’s a world out there devastated by what that monster’s done. Bill will never truly give up conquering the planet, not for anything. Dipper won’t let himself forget that.

But today, the weather is nice. Warm and not too humid, with little wind to kick up dust from the surrounding barren lands. The demonic invasion’s been on pause for over a month. Dipper can take a little break to stand in the sunlight and on the soft grass, enjoying this all-too-rare bit of peace.

When it passes, Dipper turns towards the commotion, shoulders set. 

Time to get to the bottom of this. 

He meanders through the workers in the field, frowning. There’s an unusual number of demons outside for the time of day. Don’t they prefer darkness? And they’re building stuff.

A bright voice calls out from a pack of commotion. One sweater-clad arm pops up and waves. “Dipper!” 

“Mabel!” Dipper spreads his arms, ready for the hug and bracing for impact. 

As expected, his sister thuds into him for a big sibling hug, swinging as he turns her around. Her sweater leaves glitter on his shirt; he’ll have to make Bill vanish it later. 

 “So… what is all this?” Pulling back, he shrugs in the general direction of some bickering demons. They seem to be arguing over who gets to use the table saw.

Mabel gasps, clapping hands to her cheeks. “Oh my gosh! Let me show you!”

She seizes his hand, and starts running through the commotion. Dipper stumbles on the first step, then hurries to keep up with her pace. 

Mabel chatters about each and every object they pass, waving at demons. Some of them wave back; she always was better with people than him. “Most of Bill’s stuff isn’t up yet, but we got the lights just right! Every color in the rainbow! Plus a few new ones Bill showed me. Isn’t it cool?!”

“No, no, it looks great.” What little he could take in looked… Elaborate, if not really his style. Dipper pulls gently to get her to slow down. “I mean, what’s it for.”

That stops her in her tracks. Mabel turns to stare incredulously. “Uh, the wedding. Duh.”

“Whose-” Dipper freezes, eyes wide. 

Decorations. Seating. Lighting, a stage, speakers nearby, a strange white and black theme to the construction that’s way too tame for a typical demon party. Strangely formal.

Shit. When Dipper hinted that the statue garden could be put to better uses, he’d been using it as leverage to make Bill free the trapped mortals. Bill following through was the last thing on his mind, and now - 

“No.” He breathes. 

“Yes! We’ve been planning this for like, a million years!” Mabel pouts, shaking a finger at him. “Don’t tell me you forgot.”

Dipper doesn’t respond. He stares at the half-built stage in the center of the former statue garden. Seating has been set up in front, while further back it’s roped off for standing room. 

A demon is putting the finishing touches on the arch, precariously balanced on tiptoes as it nails a decoration to the middle. Each blow of the hammer thuds with finality, a judge’s gavel after the sentencing. 

It scrambles back to admire its work. A bright yellow triangle sits proudly at the top of the arch. 

Right next to the blue pine tree.

“Fuck.” Dipper’s legs wobble; he takes a step back and braces himself on the nearest solid object.  “I’m getting married.” 

“Why, Pine Tree!” Says said solid object. “You almost sound surprised!”

Without looking, Dipper smacks this jackass triangle on the side. His palm stings from the force, but Bill just laughs. 

Think of the devil and he shall appear; the adage isn’t perfectly accurate, mind. But sometimes Dipper wonders if Bill Cipher’s ability to show up when he least wants it is literally supernatural.

As always, Bill ignores the furious look Dipper gives him. “Nice to see ya out and about, kid. You’re real indoorsy lately, that’s no good! Humans need sunlight! And vitamin D!”

“Were you going to tell me about this at any point?” Dipper hisses. When the hell did this jackass start this crap?

“You mean that we were gonna get hitched? Like I did this morning? Or yesterday at lunch? Or, say, literally every day since you showed up as tribute?” Bill looks unimpressed. He shrugs, spreading his arms wide. “You even suggested the venue, sapling! I just rolled with it.”

“Well-” Stammering, Dipper tries to come up with an excuse. And fails. “I mean, I.”

He just- he didn’t think - he’s been so busy. 

First rescuing his sister, then adjusting to the Fearamid, then whatever the hell is going on with him and his… With Bill. So what if the insane triangle was always going on about a wedding? He goes on about everything from quantum magic to bottling slugs. Picking any one thing out of the ramble is a chore and a half

In fact, the entire concept of matrimony hasn’t crossed his mind in ages. 

Sure, Dipper knew this day was coming. Abstractly. But Bill’s 90% talk, 10% action on a typical day; his ‘plan’ could take years to come to fruition. Like the rest of his ambitions, Dipper placed it in the distant future along an impossible timeline, not…

Judging by the state of the garden, he’s got maybe two weeks.

“This is gonna be the shindig of the century, Pine Tree.” One long noodle arm snakes over Dipper’s shoulders, curving around his neck as Bill floats to his side. “There’s no way that’d slip your mind, am I right?”

God, he didn’t need to rub it in.  Dipper glares at his…

His what? Demon? Technically, yes. Though as appellations go, it’s not very descriptive. 

Bill’s not quite his tormentor. Annoyance isn’t the same as torture. ‘Captor’ might have fit a couple weeks ago, but Dipper’s done him the favor of having that and ‘rescuer’ cancel each other out. Friend? Not when he has to thwart the bastard every day. 

There is… another option. 

One Dipper hasn’t ever thought to use before, because it’s stupid. And insane. And horribly, terribly… Accurate. 

Eye upturned in a smile, Bill gives him a jaunty little wave. His golden surface glows with amusement. 

Bill Cipher. His fiance.

Which is so ‘what the fuck’ in a long, long series of what the fucks, he needs to sit down for a second.

“Hey, bro?” Dropping a tangle of string lights, Mabel leans over, palms braced on her thighs. “You okay?”

“Ah, he’s fine!” Bill motions her back nonchalantly, like Dipper collapses from internal crises all the time. “Look at those little grey cells going! That cute butt’ll be bouncing back in no time.”

Dipper mutters a denial, curling his arms around his knees, and thunking his forehead against them. Said butt, slightly damp and probably stained green from the fresh-cut grass, isn’t going anywhere.

His reaction is perfectly reasonable. The events lived through would catch anyone off guard. Who expects to be kidnapped by Cipher, have their life spared by startling coincidence, then rushed into a magi-legal contract with romantic intentions? Aside from Mabel, who’s wearing the world’s weirdest rose-colored glasses.

The whole situation is pure insanity. Nobody would expect Bill to do any of this. Much less actually commit to it. If anything Dipper’s the most reasonable person here. 

…Who is he kidding. 

For once, Bill was up front about his intentions, literally from day one. It’s just that said intentions were so messed up, anyone might go into avoidance mode.

Dipper simply didn’t want to think about it. If he didn’t think about it, he could pretend it wasn’t happening. Ignoring Bill’s not-so-subtle hints was easier than admitting that he hadn’t found a way out. 

Now the day is here. Or almost here, and with the decorations already decided and the venue half constructed, a hundred demons at minimum just helping set it up and a thousand more probably invited -

In a smattering of days, Dipper’s going to marry a monster.

And he should not have put off getting involved so long, what the hell, he hates these lights. It looks like a college girl’s dorm room. 

Beside him, Mabel stands with her hands on her hips, gazing proudly at the glittering pillars and the streams of rainbow LEDs. Dipper darts a glance out of the corner of his eye, then stares straight forward. 

So not only does he ‘get’ to get hitched to a horrible, insane monster, he’ll need to find a tactful way to make a million last minute changes. Super great.

Off to his right, Bill starts yammering on again. 

“Chin up, sapling, no need to look down!” He nudges an elbow in Dipper’s direction, giving him the huge, exaggerated blink that passes for a wink. “Wait’ll you see the gown I got mocked up for ya!”

Dipper pops up from the ground like a cork from water. “Wait! No. No, no, no.” He holds his arms in an ‘x’. “Veto. I call veto, I am not wearing a dress.”

The guest list is out of his hands, the date is out of his control, and his spouse chose himself - but he draws the damn line at wedding gowns.

“What? No frills? No lace? No swooping down the aisle looking like a particularly disgruntled napkin?” Bill floats back in mock-shock, holding the back of a hand to his top angle. “But it’s so your style!”

Some of the tension seeps out of Dipper’s shoulders, and he lets his arms drop. He knows when Bill’s pulling his leg by now. This is one of the more egregious examples, but he guesses it got him up and alert again.

Flipping Bill off, though, is entirely deserved. “There’s no way you can’t find me a decent suit.”

“Oh, so now he wants in on the planning.” Bill throws his arms in the air, glad to see a particularly stupid farce come to its end. “Jeez, I thought you’d never hold up your part of the bargain, Pine Tree. Dumb move when you’re the secondary star!”

Though he has a point, Dipper must protest. “You’re the party guy,” He prods Bill on the side, for emphasis. “And you love having control. How much were you actually going to let me plan?”

“Details, shmetails.” Bill dismisses that with a little wave, but doesn’t directly respond. Thus proving Dipper right. “Whatever, sapling! Have a seat and we’ll chit-chat about your contribution to the shindig.”

One snap of his fingers later, a table and chairs appear on the grass. A steaming pot of tea, three cups on saucers, and an entire tiered tray of little snacks. Tiny square sandwiches and fancy jam-filled cookies rest on sets of silver platters.

Mabel pounces towards the spread in a heartbeat, dropping into a chair and snagging a handful of cookies. “I didn’t know you could do that.” She says, through the crumbs. 

“What? I make stuff all the time!” Bill floats to his own seat in a huff. “You think pastries are harder than nightmares? As if!”

“Okay, but like,” Swallowing, Mabel scoots her chair in further. The teapot lifts into the air, pouring into her cup. “I’ve never seen you do food.”

Really? But Bill does this all the - Dipper raises a hand, about to interrupt. Then stops. 

Bill can do a lot of things. He just doesn’t do them for everyone.

“What can I say? A guy’s gotta have his secrets!” Bill gives her a huge, overdramatic wink. He beckons Dipper towards the final seat. “Get over here and have some, kid! The drinks are only kinda poisoned!”

“Don’t tease her.” Dipper plonks down on the closest chair. The seats are pretty comfortable, for all that they wouldn’t be out of place in some English noble’s garden party. Bill’s sense of drama is weird sometimes. “She doesn’t get it.”

“But that’s half the fun!” Bill waves his cup in protest, even as Mabel discreetly tries to spit her drink out under the table. “Maybe you shouldn’t be a killjoy.”

“Never.” Dipper folds his arms defiantly. That’s his job. 

That gets a sigh. Bill rolls his eye, huge and dramatic and exasperated, which then turns into a mouth as he downs his cup of tea like a shot. 

Funny. Dipper’s never seen Bill drink something that wasn’t a cocktail. He never would have guessed he was a tea person.

…Before he came to the Fearamid, he tried not to think of Bill as a person. It made things easier.

Hell, now that Dipper thinks of it - the penthouse has a dozen different types of coffee. Rich, and exotic, and strange. The cabinets are fully stocked. But if Bill’s not touching the stuff, then the only reason it’s there is for…

He shifts uncomfortably in his seat. The cushion’s perfectly soft, but he wants to avoid looking at one side of the table. 

“Oh my gosh, and we aren’t even finished!” Mabel bounces in her chair, rattling the table when she bumps against it. “I made up some new plans to make this the most fabulous wedding in the universe!”

With that said, she whips out a notebook. For a split second Dipper sits up straight, attentive - then she opens it, and the spill of glitter and twenty different types of colored marker send his hopes splatting to the ground. 

“I have all these neat things you could throw in!” She points out various parts, pasted over a blueprint scrawled in Bill’s scribbly handwriting. “See,the pillow fort’s over here, and for the petting zoo-”

Dipper stares for a long moment. He clears his throat. “Oh, yeah, that’s…” 

He needs to say something. But Mabel looks thrilled, and she’s alive and happy and -

“It….. sure is a thing.” Dipper pastes a smile on his face. Or at least bares his teeth in a smile-shaped way. “Yep.”

Oh god. Surely Bill isn’t going along with this, right? This looks more like a parade than a wedding, and a Bill Cipher themed one, at that. Even with his ego he has better tast than that. Right?

In a moment of madness, he darts a glance in Bill’s direction - who’s, surprisingly, looking unimpressed. Flattery must not be everything, thank fuck.

Bill catches his eye, and rolls his own. A clear motion of disapproval that has Dipper both pathetically relieved, and rather worried. Mabel put a lot of work into this. They can’t just - 

“Ahem,” Bill interrupts, way too loud. “Screw your plans, Shooting Star! The classy look is way more in vogue these days.”

“What?!” Rising to her feet, Mabel slams her palms on the table. “Hey, glitter’s classy! It’s catching on everywhere!”

“Some people don’t like the rainbow infection,” Bill says, very dry. He cracks nonexistent knuckles, then snaps his fingers. Every light string bursts into flame, trailing dust over the field and assorted demonic workers. “Not lovers, not dreamers, and definitely not me.”

“Hey!”

Mabel hounds Bill’s floating wake as he merrily rampages, pouting and whining and generally projecting a severe case of Little Sister about it. A few demon workers scamper out of the way as a papier-mache heart explodes with a surprising burst of human-looking blood. 

Welp, there goes a ton of her hard work. Vanished in an instant; no wonder she’s upset. Though it does leave lots of space for other decorations to take their place…

Dipper says nothing, and sips his tea. 

Fuck it, let Bill be the bad guy. He’s already a bad guy. 

Passing most of the process off to Bill is… rather fitting, when he thinks about it. Giving him vague instructions, and letting him be the demanding, obsessive asshole about the details? Great, less stuff Dipper has to worry about. 

And less he has to think about this entire situation.

This wedding’s going to happen. There’s no avoiding it. Any efforts now are far too little, and far too late.

But as bizarre as it sounds, and as insane as it seems… 

This actually might not suck.

Dipper’s run the math. As far as major assholes go, Bill’s at least someone he can have a conversation with. He’s never hurt Dipper on purpose, and clearly doesn’t plan to, which alone puts him above some humans in relationships. Plus, fine. He’s smart. And weirdly charming in a demonic way. Also rich in a demonic way, which, yeah, doesn’t hurt. 

If Dipper has to be stuck in a sexless marriage with an obnoxious jerk, he could honestly do worse. 

Besides, it’s not like it’ll be permanent. Because Bill’s a demon.

Demons don’t trap themselves. Period. What looks like an eternal contract will have a sneaky little loophole somewhere; there’s no way Bill would walk into this without giving himself an out. Sure, Bill’s old husband might have been insane enough to stick around, but Dipper? 

The minute he learns where that loophole is, he can exploit it, too. The bond works both ways. 

Depending on how complex the contract is, finding said loophole could take some time. Dipper will have to manage. He can put up with Bill for a while. Or an extended amount of time, if he must. It might even be entertaining. Learning more about demons, finishing the latest season of Ducktective. Sitting across from him at breakfast and arguing about -

No. No, no, no, he has to stay focused. 

This is weird and gross and not what he should accept in a partner, even temporarily.

Bill Cipher is a mad demon king. A shape. A too-clever demon who transforms into a massive terrifying monster, large enough to cup Dipper in the palm of his hand while he shoots eye-lasers at his enemies - 

Dipper forces his eyebrows back down, pressing his lips into a line. 

Maybe in high school he daydreamed about that kind of teamup, but he was thinking more like, a dragon or something. And ‘partner’ hadn’t meant ‘spouse’. 

The conversation has drifted again, this time to the wedding party. Mabel, the newly minted ‘best twin’, settles back down into her seat with a minimum of pouting, eating sugar cubes from the bowl with a thoughtful look on her face. Bill’s skill at manipulation is nothing to be sneezed at. 

“Well, I want a dress,” Mabel says finally, slightly mumbled around cheeks packed with sugar cubes. Then she swallows, and frowns. “Wait a minute. Bill, what are you going to wear?”

Bill blinks several times, very rapidly. “Eh?” 

“I mean,” Mabel gestures vaguely along the lines of his angles. “The tie’s ‘classy’, I guess, but what about, like. A shirt?” She plucks at her own blouse. “And you gotta have pants. You can’t not have pants at your own wedding.”

“Huh.” Bill flicks his bowtie; it spins around rapidly. “You’re saying I should wear something else?”

“She’s right.” Dipper interjects. “I don’t know if you can wear pants, but there’s got to be more than just…” He trails off, gesturing at both articles of clothing. “That.”

“Someone’s picky.” Bill casts a sly glance in Dipper’s direction, almost a smirk. “But now that you mention it… I do have another outfit!”

“Really.” Dipper raises an eyebrow.

Other than the one and only one he’s seen Bill wearing for over a month? Duplicate ties don’t count and he will argue that point.

“Oh yeah! I got a suit.” Bill rubs his hands together, eye narrowed with sinister glee. “One of my old favorites! Just the thing for the occasion. In fact, it’s perfect!”

Yeah, yeah. Ominous statements, foreboding actions. Typical Tuesday with Bill. 

“And I’m gonna try it on right now! Hang tight, guys.” Bill darts from his seat, beaming with delight and adding finger guns to the mix. “It’ll blow your mind.”

“Sure, whatever.” As his idiot demon zooms off behind him, Dipper rolls his eyes. “Knock yourself out.”

This should be entertaining. He’s never seen Bill with pants on before. There’s even odds of him either looking ridiculous or wearing them sideways. Either of which is a chance to make fun of him. 

But instead of heading all the way back to the penthouse and picking a new tie, Bill opts to change right in the field. 

Behind him, there’s the ‘poof’ of one of Bill’s bodily transformations, followed by a triumphant, “Ta-da!”  Dipper can almost hear the jazz hands. 

Mabel’s jaw drops. So does her teacup, hitting the edge of its saucer and toppling over with a clink. 

Yep, he knew it. Bill’s done something weird again. 

“So? What’d’ya think?” There’s a different timbre to Bill’s voice. The shape he’s taken must alter how he speaks. 

“Guh.” Mabel says, more of a swallowing noise than a word. Then she shakes herself, beaming in delight.  “Bill, it’s - it’s amazing!”

Okay, what.

Dipper’s not curious. But he should check if his sister’s been enspelled, or hypnotised, or some other crap. 

Gripping the seat of his chair, Dipper hops it around ninety degrees to glare at his demon for pulling a whole new type of bullshit.

His jaw drops. 

“Well, well, well, well, well.” Bill repeats his prior jazz hands, twice as showily. “What’s wrong, kid? It’s me! In the flesh!”

It’s flesh alright. 

If Bill had become a writhing lump of it, that’d be one thing. Pranks are his thing. Dipper had sterned himself for any jumpscare or grossout Bill could throw at him. 

He hadn’t expected to see a human. 

Dipper takes in the sharp yellow suit. The clean lines of the jacket, the arms so un-noodly that he almost does a double take. The ridiculous bowtie is still present, only now it rests under an angular face, pointed ears, and bright white fangs in a big, big grin.

“Uh,” He says, in one of his weakest performances. “Um.”

Shit, he has to find something to say, and not a compliment. It’d only encourage this.

“Man, it’s been a while since I put on the ol’ meat-suit. Still fits like a glove!” Stalking forward, Bill wags a finger at Dipper’s stumbling attempt to rise. “No, no, don’t get up! I like you just where you are.”

Without any warning, he straddles Dipper’s lap and takes a seat. Swinging his forearms over his shoulders, taking hold around the back of his neck, and grinning with the single most devilish smile he’s ever seen. 

Dipper grunts. Partially from the weight - Bill’s still heavy, just flesh-heavy rather than gold - and partially because he has no other response. He feels unmoored, scattered. Flickering his eye from the angular face to the pointed ears and that smile. It matches the triangular version to a tee, even in this totally different form. 

He mouths a word - stops - and lets out a pathetic little ‘whf’ sound instead. Somehow Bill’s smile widens even further. His thighs flex as he inches his way further onto Dipper’s lap.

Shit. 

Bill gleefully throws bowling balls at Dipper’s train of thought all the freakin’ time, and the bastard’s finally bowled a strike. Stringing a sentence together feels like trying to push frayed thread through a tiny needle. 

…But if he can’t manage a sentence, it means Bill won. Fuck that. 

It’s a new body, an unexpected body, but just a body. He can handle this like any other problem, breaking it apart into simple, easy facts. 

Sweat beading on his forehead, Dipper forces himself to look up, and meet that wicked golden gaze. 

Bill’s really warm. Breathing, too, that’s new for this shape. A bigger shape, all skin and muscle and bone. It makes Bill softer on the outside, and he smells oddly good. Bright and metallic… something. Cologne? Shampoo? Which he would use on his skin and on his - Chest, with - shirt. It’s very smooth, maybe silk? Dipper doesn’t know where to put his hands. Somehow they ended up on Bill’s waist. 

And he has a waist. One that’s warm through the very thin cloth, with his arms resting heavy on Dipper’s shoulders. Muscles flex under his touch as Bill leans in, cackling low in his throat.

“Not gonna bother asking what you think, sapling.” Bill says, toying with the fine hair at the back of Dipper’s neck. “I already know!”

His touch sends little shocks down Dipper’s spine, making him suddenly alert. He sits up straight as a board, gripping at the silk shirt for something to hold onto. 

Bill starts outright laughing. And that, at least, helps Dipper regain focus out of sheer spite.

What is - Why is - Shit, he needs some help here.

Slowly, Dipper twists his neck around to face his sister, speaking through gritted teeth. “What is happening.”

 “This is gonna be great in the wedding album.” Mabel takes a picture, cruelly ignoring his plea. How could she desert him in his time of need? “Ooh, Bill! Do a pose!”

“I am model material!” says Bill, with even more pride than usual. He lifts one arm off Dipper to preen, slicking back his hair. “Though I can’t take credit for the design! That was your brother.”

With that confusing statement, Bill leans forward, putting them both literally off-balance as the chair tilts. Then smiling slyly, arching his back and his neck, striking a pose. As he moves, his thighs shift over Dipper’s and catch on his jeans, friction dragging at the cloth.

The chair teeters uneasily on two legs before Dipper lurches forward and slams it back down, using the momentum to shove this asshole off his lap. 

The good news is Bill apparently can’t float in this form; he falls like any mortal being would, eye wide in alarm. The bad news is it barely stops him; he catches himself with surprising agility. Just one shade too quick to be truly human. 

“Hey! What gives?” Seeing a pout, so clear and human, almost gives Dipper pause. 

“What is this?” He snaps back. His hands clench into fists. “You’re… what the hell, Bill.”

The annoyed look is almost worth how dumb he sounded. Bill rolls his eye dramatically. 

“It’s my new outfit! Duh.” He brushes off some invisible specks from his sleeves. “See? Pants and everything, just as requested.”

“No, I mean-” Dipper hesitates, not entirely sure what he means, but sallies forth anyway. “This isn’t fair.”

“Oh?” Bill arches a brow, smile sharpening like the predator he is. Sensing weakness. “Fair in what way? Do go on!”

Taking one look at the obvious verbal trap, Dipper decides that discretion is the better part of valor. And for preserving his dignity.

Gritting his teeth, he says nothing. Only turns on his heel and stomps back towards the Fearamid. 

He’s got better things to do. More reasonable ones, like solving an impossible puzzle and ignoring this insanity and - okay, fine, he needs to regroup for a second. Gather his thoughts. Before he can argue with Bill about this, the strategy has to be foolproof. 

Said regrouping immediately fails.

Dipper groans at the sound of footsteps behind him. Because Bill’s following him, like he always does. Why didn’t he take that into account?

This is no good. He clearly can’t think straight.

“Aw, don’t get your boxers in a twist, sapling! What’s up?” A hand on his shoulder, larger than before and firm in its gentle pats. He’s close now, hovering just behind him. “Tell ol’ Bill your deepest, darkest, most intimate thoughts!” 

Dipper t-shirt feels damp on his skin. Bill’s stupid ambient heat must be worse now that he’s bigger. A full-sized human radiator. 

But he needs a response, and quick, before Bill comes up with an answer only he likes. 

With his common sense vacationing in the tropics, Dipper hisses, “You saw me naked.”

Which… is true, but not in the way he makes it sound. Washing blood off him after stitching up a head wound is a far cry peeping on someone through a window with binoculars. Though in Bill’s case, it’d have to be a telescope. It’s just…

He hugged Bill like that, because, well. He kind of deserved it, and it didn’t seem wrong at the time. Now Bill’s made it weird.

“Right back atcha, kid!” says Bill, with annoying technical correctness. He bats his eye coyly, hands clasped by his cheek.  “Or were you looking for a tour of the new ‘fit? My my, I didn’t expect you to be so forward!”

“I-” Seeing a triangle nude is so far from seeing a human nude that it’s not comparable. Or… wait, that’s not fair to Bill; even if his shape’s weird, he was naked.  It just doesn’t feel fair, because -

Dipper hesitates for a moment before he defaults to, “Shut up.”

Damn it, he’s better at talking to Bill than this. He didn’t stumble even half as much when they met, and that was in front of a thousand demons and a threat to his life. 

It’s just - he looks at Bill, the sharp smile and smooth skin and he’s so - Annoying. 

He’s always been a pest. Of course he’d transform into the most jackass, stupid thing possible. The spark of irritation in Dipper’s chest mirrors the fire magic Bill planted within it. Something hot and alive that makes him want to grab this jerk by the lapels and shake him until - 

“Oh yeah?” Bill leans in, using his stupid height to loom, with a slash of a smile spread wide on his face.  “Make me.”

The grin only grows as Dipper steps into the looming. Then flickers in surprise as Dipper ducks down, followed by an indignant squawk as shoulder meets stomach, and he’s flipped to the ground in a martial throw.

This time Bill hits the grass with a thud, butt-first. He blinks up at Dipper, eye wide and lips slightly parted. For the first time, a genuine human sulk crosses his angular face.

Dipper stares at the ungainly sprawl with surprise. He hadn’t expected that to work. He’d thought that Bill would like, shapeshift his way out of it, or be immovably heavy. 

But a human body must come with human vulnerabilities. Bill’s quick to react, but not instantaneous. He can be overcome by something fast, smart, and unexpected. Dipper was in the right position to do exactly that, and thus toppled the conqueror right on his ass.

For a brief, shining moment, Dipper puffs out his chest with pride.

Ruined instantly by Bill springing to his feet with his unfair agility, and tackling him back like an asshole. 

“Hey!” Even caught off guard, Dipper’s no stranger to a brawl. As Bill tries to grapple him around the waist in turn, he gets an arm under his and hunkers down for balance. “Nice try, you jackass.”

“Takes one to know one!” Bill replies, sounding way too happy for Dipper’s liking, and makes a spirited and nearly successful attempt to pick him up. 

And that, as a matter of dignity, cannot stand.

Dipper goes limp just long enough for Bill to fumble his hold, then lunges into a tackle. Clods of turf kick up under his sneakers and Bill’s annoyingly hard-tipped sharp shoes. 

He has to admit, even as Bill tries to hook him behind the leg and Dipper seizes a fistful of silk shirt, that this, at least, feels fair. 

Sure, Bill’s strong. Cheatingly strong, his weird body powered by his infinite triangle energy. But this is where years of experience fighting demons comes in handy. Some of the monsters Dipper’s fought had way more limbs and infinitely more deadly intent. Bill’s only given himself the normal set, and he’s got a vested interest in keeping Dipper alive. 

Most of all, though. Bill’s… soft. 

Compared to metal, that is. Under the ridiculous suit, Bill’s flesh yields in a way gold doesn’t. 

As they struggle, Dipper can feel solid muscle underneath skin, and the tendons in Bill’s wrist flexing under his palm. The arch of Bill’s ribs heave as he breathes, half with exertion and half with laughter. Wrestling the bastard takes everything he’s got, muscles burning and heart pounding in his chest. 

In different circumstances he might have been outmatched - but Bill’s too single-minded. The stupid bastard keeps trying to pin his wrists to the ground, an ambitious goal but a shitty wrestling move.  His next attempt leaves Dipper slightly breathless, ducking under his arm and popping up behind his back.

Bill makes a disappointed sound, staring at where his target was - and the distraction means Dipper can get him in a headlock. His first lunge locks forearm around neck, but Bill grabs on and twists in a way that sends them tumbling over each other down the short slope of a hill. Limbs flailing, elbows and knees jabbing in an attempt to gain advantage.

By sheer luck, Dipper ends up on top. He braces himself on hands and knees, straddling Bill’s waist and blinking in surprise, before realizing the perfect situation he’s found himself in. 

Bill’s grin has only widened during their rolling descent. It’s downright gleeful, with fangs in it. “So-”

Before he can speak, Dipper rips up a handful of the turf and smacks it right in his open mouth. “Take that, asshole.” Another handful of grass gets tossed into his eye as Bill spits and coughs. “And this!”

Over Bill’s spluttering and protests of ‘what the hell!’ and ‘that’s pretty- pffph- rude, asshole!’, Dipper ruthlessly throws whatever he can reach right in this dumb jerk’s stupid new face. 

“What’s wrong, Bill?” He smacks another palmful of greenery right on the jerk’s forehead, grinding it in with the heel of his palm. “Eat your vegetables.”

The only response is a garbled swear, ruined by Bill turning his head to sneeze out some grass. He thumps Dipper on the calf, hard enough to sting but too halfhearted to bruise.

Dipper wipes his hands off on this asshole’s shirt, and starts to smile. 

He may not have destroyed Bill, or torn down his Fearamid brick by brick. But Bill did not win this bout, even when the odds were stacked in his favor.

The body under him heaves as Bill groans. Leveling a glare at Dipper that would kill a lesser man, and probably has. The effect is somewhat ruined by the green streaks on his face, and the ruffled mess of his previously-perfect hair. 

Bill, in fact, looks stupid. 

Dipper starts laughing. “Nice try, Bill. You couldn’t get away from me.” He says, grinning in triumph. Jabbing this asshole between the ribs, for emphasis. “I got you.”

Bill’s glare fades as he stares at the human straddling him. The corner of his mouth quirks up. 

“Yeah.” With a sigh, Bill lets his head drop back onto the grass. “Guess you did, sapling! Expect horrible vengeance later.”

And of all the things Dipper’s dreamed of- heroism, fame, solving mysteries and saving the world - 

Hearing Bill Cipher say he got got, by Dipper, tops the list.  No, this fight wasn’t for the fate of the world. And yes, it was petty and dumb and mainly plant-based.

But fuck the context. He won. 

Dipper sits back on Bill’s thighs, raising his arms in triumph. The warm summer sunlight soaks into him, as Bill Cipher lies surrendered - temporarily - beneath him. 

Despite his loss, Bill's smiling. It doesn’t mean anything, since he’s always doing that in one form or another.

But this one’s… strange. 

It's hard to put a finger on why. Something about the curve of it, along with the relaxed body beneath him. Bill’s smile holds a warmth that has nothing to do with his power; too subdued to be smug, and too fond to be mocking. 

Suddenly Dipper wonders if he should have gone easier on him; there’s dirt and stains and - he strokes an errant blade of grass off Bill’s cheek with his thumb, feeling oddly guilty. Bill moves up into the touch, eye fluttering shut. 

“Now kiss!” Mabel says, followed by the blink of a camera flash even though it’s freakin’ daylight, why did she -

Dipper jolts upright. Beneath him, Bill shuts his eye and swears.

Shit, wait, how - Dipper’s elbows are green with stains from where he rested them in the grass beside- He felt Bill’s breath on his face, and - and you know what? Bill needs mouthwash, because he smells like dirt and plants. 

Getting up is another struggle; Dipper nearly trips trying to scramble off this gross demon without stepping on him. Then reverses course and tries to stomp on Bill’s chest as he leaves, but he fumbles it and nearly faceplants in the dirt. Standing has never been this difficult before, he looks like a dork. 

Eventually Dipper staggers off on shaky legs, wiping his hands on his shirt. He backs up two steps, while Bill blinks up at the sky, blank-faced.

God, he - why is he here. Everything was under control, he doesn’t have opinions on a wedding he doesn’t even want. His sister’s the enthusiastic one, why didn’t he let her just have this? Why is -

“Aw, you ruined it.” Mabel sighs, lowering her phone. “That was, like, perfect!” 

On the ground, Bill slowly turns his head towards her. The usual smile is flipped, lips turned down in a frown bigger than Dipper’s ever seen, eye wide with furious indignance. 

“Mabel, what-” Dipper rubs at the bridge of his nose. So many questions, and he still hasn’t gathered his thoughts - “Why are you taking pictures?” 

“For the wedding scrapbook, duh.” Mabel sticks her tongue out at him, pointing to her phone. “So you can remember all the good times!”

“But-” Protesting is pointless. Hasn’t he already learned that? Dipper grits his teeth, sucking in a breath.

Bill coughs, then holds an arm up, pointing at the sky. “While Shooting Star here has a point…” Still eying Mabel, he bares his teeth in something only resembling a smile. “She’s gotta work on her timing.”

With that said, he rises to his feet, brushing dirt and grass off his shirt. He turns towards Dipper, gaze meeting his - 

“I gotta go.” Dipper blurts, and marches back towards the Fearamid. 

Yep, everything’s normal. For a given definition of normal. His job’s done and he’s done and he’s gotta go. 

As he leaves, a tingle between his shoulders tells him Bill’s watching him. A gaze he can almost feel, burning with vicious intent. 

Dipper walks faster. Maybe jogs a little. But if anyone asks, he’s definitely not fleeing. 

Stupid. How could he be so stupid. 

Better to have stayed in the penthouse and let Bill get on with things. Better to let Mabel have her little decorations that made her happy. Definitely shouldn’t have got into a fight with Bill Cipher, no matter how survivable it was, because it’s just - 

He should never have encouraged this. Any of this.

After that first day when he learned of Bill’s delusion, Dipper should have made it absolutely clear that he was not Bill’s reincarnated husband. He should have brought it up all the time. Made it a point in every conversation like an annoying notification, until it finally broke into that metallic excuse for a brain. 

But instead, he shut up about it. Because it made things easier. 

It made sense. He was trying to save the world, and Bill wouldn’t listen to him if he thought he was arguing with some random guy picked up in the woods. Only the delusion that Dipper’s somehow a dead guy gives him any leverage to sway that demon’s mind. 

And now there’s no way to correct course. Like the wedding, it’s too little, too late. 

Bill won’t believe him. His ego, his delusions, and maybe his sanity depends on it. And if he did change his mind, it would destroy every bit of progress Dipper’s made. The entire world would suffer because he couldn’t keep his stupid mouth shut. 

Once he makes it back to the penthouse, he slams the door and leans against it, shutting his eyes. The back of his head thunks against the wood.

Damn it. Stupid Bill. Stupid Mabel, playing along with his crazy ideas. Dipper knew those two would encourage each other in the worst ways, and he’s not fucking helping any of that either. 

The carpet squishes under his shoes until he kicks them off, tottering over to the couch and collapsing into its comfy confines. 

Here, it’s quiet. Dipper can take a breath, rest his face in his palms, and breathe out slow. 

The trip from outside wasn’t that long and he didn’t go that fast, but his heart keeps pounding anyway. 

The good news is, here in the penthouse, he’s safer than out in the field. With any luck, Bill will be too busy redoing the arrangements to come bother him. A temporary reprieve.

For years he’s studied that creature. Learning the ins and outs of his powers - which, okay, turned out to be pretty limited - and taken notes on the shapes Bill twisted himselfinto. But to see him wearing a one that’s not for violence, or comedic violence…

That was never in the news. 

Where the hell did Bill get it? Did he make it up on the spot? Design it just to get into Dipper’s head and rattle things around? When did he-?

Dipper looks up. The chair, high-backed and four-legged. Bill likes to float in it. And in the kitchen, the stone counters, the wooden table, and more chairs that Bill’s bottom angle never touches. 

Slowly, he rises from his seat. He flings open the door to the bedroom - big, king-sized mattress, and pillows - then the one to the bathroom - tub, shower, sink. 

None of them at triangle height. 

Well, shit. 

Of course. Bill had a human form all along. It explains everything.

This bed, shaped and sized for a human. The vanity, the bathroom, all fitted with human-normal necessities. Even these dressers, filled with pants and shirts too big for Dipper and definitely not tailored for a triangle. 

Dipper yanks the drawer of one open, picking the first folded shirt he sees and holding it up for inspection. Bright red, a perfect match for Bill’s more monstrous form. Half the buttons are missing. 

Tentatively, he lifts it to his face and takes a sniff. And there’s Bill’s cologne, faint under the must of disuse. He sees him in this shirt, a flashbulb image of Bill wearing it along with dark pants and a lazy smirk, leaning against the bed in this room, with his features cast in light and shade from the fire. 

Dipper realizes he’s been staring at the wall, perhaps for too long, and drops the shirt like it’s venomous.

Damn it. He needs to get a hold of himself.

Yes, it was crazy. Sure, Bill was a touchy weirdo jerk. Dipper walked into an already chaotic situation, made utterly insane by Bill throwing in some totally new bullshit. 

And so what? He should be used to that by now. Ninety percent of the stuff Bill pulls these days barely has him batting an eye. 

Why is this bothering him?

Dipper shuts his eyes. Analysis is his specialty. Dissecting the problem, breaking it into tiny, manageable parts.

In his mind’s eye, there’s the normal version of Bill, triangular and strange. Floating in the air, waving and eye-smiling at him, always glad to see him. 

And, yeah, that’s fine. It doesn’t fill him with hate, which is a failure on Dipper’s part, but it doesn’t bother him either. A familiar, annoying, admittedly entertaining guy. 

There’s also Bill in his monstrous form. Huge and terrible, many-limbed and many teethed and red as blood. That should upset him - if it weren’t for the corners of that massive eye softening in relief, and the comforting warmth under his shaking legs.

Stupid, life-saving asshole. Under no circumstances should he feel safe near a monstrosity, but, well. A little late for that. He’s mad that he can’t be mad about it, or punch him in his stupid-

Face. 

That awful face. Now that it’s in his head Dipper can’t get rid of it. 

Bill looks so… human now. Standing tall and proud, snappily dressed and grinning with bared white teeth. The weight of him in his lap and the feel of him in the headlock, giddy and laughing and filled with wild energy. And lying sprawled in the grass like the ridiculous asshole he truly is, wearing a strangely gentle smile that said -

Dipper’s head snaps up in realization. 

Shit. It’s not about the human form. 

It’s about not having a filter.

Triangles don’t have faces. Bill’s expressive, but it only goes so far. His emotions need translating from one species to another, something Dipper’s gained a lot of practice with over the last few weeks. 

But now, instead of plugging Triangle Expression 5 into his equation and solving it with Human Expression 27, everything about Bill shoves itself right in his face. By being on a face. 

No wonder he’s off-kilter. The tap has turned from a carefully measured trickle to a firehose blast. Bill’s bizarre charm, unfiltered, is so immediate, so familiar that it’s impossible not to -

Dipper smacks his forehead against the dresser, holding the back of his neck. He’s got to stop thinking like this. Stop thinking, period.

What he could really use is a distraction.

So for the dozenth time in a day, Dipper ends up back on the couch, holding the puzzle box in his hands. Sure it’s frustrating, but it’s easier to be mad at an inanimate object than the… everything. 

The tiers of runes click around as he twists, moving smoothly and forming meaningless shapes. Given enough time he might stumble on the right combination, if only by sheer chance. To unlock it with knowledge requires things that Dipper just doesn’t know. 

It’s such a goddamn Bill present. Handing him something complex and frustrating and this close to being solvable that he can’t fucking leave it alone for the life of him.

God, and doesn’t that describe everything that’s happened, ever since Bill took him in instead of killing him. 

Sometimes Dipper feels like he was handed a cursed amulet. A devastating artifact he was oath-bound to destroy, lest it devastate the world. Only then he found out it doesn’t have to ruin everything around it, if you can stand its personality. And it protects him from all harm, and gets along with his sister, and is actually pretty funny sometimes, in a weird way. 

Turns out tossing evil gold into the lava is just as hard as they say in books.

Cursed jewelry doesn’t hold a candle to the evil of Bill Cipher. He’s conniving and manipulative. Immortal and powerful and full of plots. After a couple months of cohabitation, he’s probably found every weakness Dipper has, and a dozen he never knew about. 

The bastard’s even using them already. Evidence abounds. With the new clothes and the board games and this asshole puzzle trick. There’s a dozen types of coffee in the cupboard. Bill keeps finding out things that he likes, and tries to talk to him about them, like it’s important. 

And here’s Dipper, who’s made more plans about how to destroy him than for his own stupid wedding. Even though Bill needs to be eliminated some way or another, because he’s an asshole, doesn’t ignoring something so important make Dipper kind of an -

The next twist he tries catches the tip of his finger, pinching it hard enough to bruise, and Dipper swears.

Nothing’s working. This puzzle fucking sucks. 

He grips the box hard, putting enough force behind it to make something creak inside . Frustration builds in his chest, a bright spark of heat that rises to his face and rushes through his limbs.

Under his fingers, the puzzle box starts smoking. 

“Shit.” He draws back the magic as quick as he can. Damn it, why did Bill even give him this power if it was going to leak out everywhere, that stupid, manipulative, irresponsible - 

Then he stares, eyes wide, as the first set of latches unlock. 

A door slams, and Dipper nearly jumps out of his skin. He fumbles the puzzle and it tumbles to the floor under the coffee table. 

“Iiii’m home!” Bill strides in, wearing a plastic bag like it’s a designer purse and a grin too wide to be human. “How’s it goin’, kid?”

“What? I-” Dipper shakes himself, rising to his feet. “Fine.” God, of all the - he really didn’t need to see this jerk right now.

Also, Bill looks smug. That’s never a good sign. 

With everything else that happened today, it’s a really bad sign. 

Dipper backs up to keep the couch between himself and this monster. Then further, nearly tucking himself behind it as Bill steps closer. He narrows his eyes.  “What are you up to?”

Bill pauses, tilting his head. His smile is replaced with a more contemplative look. “The usual. Why?”

“Don’t play coy.” This whole day has been frustrating. Dipper does not have the patience to put up with more bullshit.  “I know you’ve got some… insidious plot going on, or you wouldn’t have-” He motions in Bill’s general direction. “You know.” 

And maybe Dipper isn’t sure what he means by that. But fuck it, let Bill fill in the blanks. 

Bill raises an eyebrow. “Ah, yes. The insidious plot known as ‘burritos’.” He holds up his bulging plastic bag and shakes it. “Or didja not notice the time?”

Dipper’s stomach growls. Stupid organs, ruining his perfectly good and definitely rational argument. 

And now that he checks the window, the sun’s long since set; he spent more time on that puzzle than he thought. The lights in the former statue field are dimmed, but they’re white and blue and yellow rather than the old rainbow setup. Bill must have spent time rearranging before coming up to bother him.

Squinting with suspicion, Dipper scoots further into the open. There’s a savory smell drifting from the takeout bag, so. That’s not a lie at least. 

Bill jogs the bag invitingly, a smile on his face. It’s so like trying to tempt a pet out with a treat that Dipper considers grabbing it and throwing the damned thing right in this asshole’s new face. 

“I know, I know, I’m very dangerous.” Bill keeps his tone light, but every part of him oozes smugness. “Smart, strong, snappy dresser, I got it all! But there’s no need to cower yet.”  

And that deserves a scoff, so Dipper provides one. “Oh, please.” He steps fully out into the living room and lifts his chin, projecting all the confidence he can. “You’re no threat to me.” 

For anyone else, insulting Bill’s danger level would be lethal. Dipper’s seen it before in the Fearamid, on rare occasions. But he should be insulted. Take that, asshole.

Bill’s face falls. His scowl is deadly enough, and Dipper expected that. Scoring one on this jackass is always great.

But instead of snapping back, there’s a pause. One just long enough for him to realize - wait, Bill’s not going to…?

Dipper watches with slowly dawning astonishment as color rises into Bill’s cheeks. His eye narrows. A growl builds low in his throat, and he clenches his fists - then finally he turns away in a huff. 

“So this is the thanks I get!” Bill throws his arms in the air, nearly launching the takeout in the process. “Infinite power and knowledge and free food, and this dumb mortal can’t acknowledge it.”

Dipper rushes after him. “No, no, wait. You’re a huge threat, to like. Literally everything that exists.” He lifts his hands, ready to catch any errant food missiles, jogging them in the air. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

And there’s the downside of messing with Bill’s pride. Maybe he doesn’t want Dipper dead, but he could still ruin dinner. 

“Hmph.” Bill lifts his chin, crossing his arms and swinging the takeout around in the process.  “Sweet words won’t get you carne asada.” 

It takes a few minutes to reassure this idiot that yes, yes, he’s very scary and evil and awful. Dipper’s intimidated and would never challenge him, and besides, he’s too conniving to ever trick. 

Dipper has to pause for breath, and also for his sanity. This is what his life’s come to. If only he could decide whether it’s worse that he’s learned to flatter Bill’s ego, or that doing it requires being blatant goddam liar. Just like Bill himself.

Once that ordeal’s over, their evening ends up pretty typical. They settle down on the couch, and Bill turns the TV to the episode they left off on last night. Bill wolfs down his food just as quickly in this form as in his triangular one, and it’s twice as disturbing. 

Dipper tears his eyes away from the massacre going on beside him, and focuses on his own food. Disturbing images aside, he’s hungry and the food is good. 

He chews slowly, only half paying attention to the mystery Ducktective is quacking his way through. Another night, same as the last. A repeat of previous ones, with the only difference being - he’s not going to look over, he already knows what he’ll see. 

But the routine is soothing, in a way. It’s surprising that Bill even allows himself to have one, but. Maybe it’s like the coffee. It’s not for him. 

“You’re quiet,” Bill says, with a hint of suspicion. “I woulda thought you’d be all over the logical fallacies.”

“Hm.” Damn it, he’s been caught. Stupid Bill, watching him all the time. Dipper feels a little bit of pride, though. That Bill Cipher gets antsy when he thinks Dipper’s up to something. “Maybe I’m just used to how bad this show is.”

Shrugging, Bill tilts his glass with a salute. “Suit yourself, sapling!” A bottle floats over and refills the martini glass he’s holding with something violet. Bill catches him looking and grins. “What, you want one?”

When did he start-? Right, Bill likes a drink in the evening. Sometimes Dipper joins him, but - He looks away and clears his throat. “I’m good, thanks.”

“Hey, you do you!” Bill shrugs, and downs his drink. 

Okay, there’s one difference in their routine. Bill’s had more than two and it doesn’t look like he’s stopping. 

There’s something strange about his behavior tonight. Bill keeps tapping on his thigh, studiously keeping his eye forward. At one point he starts to stretch, arms spread wide - then glances over and stops. And has another sip of his drink. 

Dipper tries to ignore it. He needs to ignore it. If he lets every little quirk get to him, it’ll drive him insane. This monster, this - demon, his… 

Fucking hell, his fiance. 

The word still makes him squirm. Dipper leans up against the arm of the couch, away from the asshole next to him. 

 He’s exploiting a madman. Justifiably so, Bill’s a bastard. Definitely lying to him. Dangling a carrot at the end of a stick that will never, ever be dropped from its string, and even though Bill deserves every last awful thing that happens to him, Dipper, unfortunately, has a conscience. 

But they’re so close. He can’t stop now.

It’s fine. Things will be okay. This is still workable, all Dipper has to do is tolerate him and not encourage him any more than he has to. And once the world is safe, then…

He can almost imagine it. No more demons. No more fighting. And while he’s not naive enough to think that everything will be hugs and rainbows and peace, maybe Dipper could go back to hiking, and have a little place in the woods. Something cozy, warm, where when he’s tried he can collapse onto the couch and watch bad TV with -

A voice cuts through his thoughts. “Well, well, well. I know when someone’s on the verge of dreamland! What wiped you out?” Bill sounds amused. “Need me to carry you to bed?”

“What?” Dipper jolts upright, blinking fast. He just shut his eyes for a moment, cripes, no need for Bill to start whipping out threats. “No, fuck you, I’m fine.”

He rubs at his face, trying to rouse himself. It doesn’t work. The arm of the couch looks just as tempting as moments ago, aside from the annoyance nearby. 

…He should go to bed. 

It’s just another night in the Fearamid. He’s survived dozens of those. It’s not like he’ll suddenly be flooded with nightmares and madness in REM now, after weeks and weeks of perfectly normal sleep.

The absence of a lie is a truth on its own. Bill is, by his own omission, not a threat. 

Dipper glances at him out of the corner of his eye, then frowns at the crumpled tinfoil remains of dinner. 

He should still be cautious. 

Before Bill can get in another jab, Dipper rises up and marches into the bedroom. Moments later he emerges with a stolen pillow, and one of the comfier blankets.

Bill watches him curiously, head cocked to the side. “What’re you up to?”

“What does it look like?” Dipper throws the pillow down with too much force. It bounces off the couch and flops onto the carpet. “I’m sleeping on the couch.”

The look of sheer bafflement on Bill’s face is almost funny. “Wait, wait, wait a minute.” He raises a hand, frowning in not-quite objection. “You’re taking the couch instead of kicking me outta bed?”

“It’s your bed.” Dipper points out, suddenly embarrassed. Was that an option? He has some power, sure, but… “I’m not sharing.”

“What?!” And there’s the offended look he was expecting. Bill rises to his feet. “What was wrong with what we had going? I didn’t hear any objections! Aside from that first day when you were still getting settled in.”

Yeah, obviously. It was either let him crawl under the sheets or hover ominously over his head. Between the two, having a pointy hot water bottle seemed the better option. It didn’t seem like a big deal when he was a flat piece of metal.

Things are different now.

“Well- Look. With you being…” Dipper waves at the face, the arms, the… all of him. “We can’t do that anymore.”

“Why?”

“Why would we? You’re like…” How does he get this across to an insane interdimensional being? “A guy.”

Three seconds pass. Bill blinking in confusion, Dipper holding firm. It takes a while for reality to sink in for the being who came from outside of it, but he’s clever enough to get the obvious. Bill starts blinking more rapidly. 

Then he sighs, full of exhausted tolerance for one of the stupidest statements he’s ever heard. 

“Kid. Sapling. I’m literally the same guy.” He motions over himself, arching an eyebrow. “If I was gonna try any funny business, my shape sure as hell wouldn’t stop me.” 

Dipper opens his mouth - then shuts it. The heat in his face rises, making the tips of his ears burn.

Okay. That… is a mental image he did not need. How would that even - 

He shakes it off, glaring at Bill’s suddenly sly grin. And flips him off for good measure.

Fine. He was wrong; nothing’s different. The body may have changed, but the person inside is the exact same, down to every last obnoxious inch. His words, his actions - everything is stuff he’d absolutely do as a triangle. 

More importantly, Bill really doesn’t see why this is different. To him it’s just an outfit. A new shape doesn’t change how he acts more than putting on a new shirt would. 

And though he hates to admit it - Bill’s annoying, overbearing, and touchy, but never in a bad way. Creepy, but not a creep. There’s no reason to think that would change.

The only one acting weird about this… is Dipper. 

He groans, running a hand through his hair. Rationally, this should be fine. It just feels weird. And he’s used to weird. 

Though… he could still argue Bill out of it. Convince him they shouldn’t share a bed until… their wedding day or something. A clever point or two and he’d have the entire bed to himself, with no strange strong body lying next to him, softened from its shapeshifting and warming the sheets. 

“Fine.” The word comes out before Dipper can stop it. Shit, no taking that back - he barges past it, narrowing his eyes.  “But I don’t want to hear one - not even one - ‘sleeping with you’ joke.” 

The brilliant smile Bill gives him is the widest yet. Dipper looks away before he has to wipe it off that jerk’s stupid mouth.

“Aha! You’ve been sleeping. I’ve just been hanging out.” Bill slides past him, picking up the pillow and blanket along the way. “I woulda made that joke ages ago if it was accurate.”

Now it’s Dipper’s turn to blink in confusion. “Wait, do you not-”

“So it’s totally chaste, even on a technicality.” Bill declares, tossing the pillow towards the open bedroom door. Before it hits the carpet, it rises and floats back to the headboard, fluffing itself along the way. “Besides, who wants to overnight on living room furniture? You’ll blow your back out.”

“Throw.” Dipper corrects. Usually Bill’s better with slang than that.

“Whatever.” Bill slings the blanket around his shoulders like a cape, flaring it out dramatically. “Get your butt to bed, kid! Those eyebags could be used for trench warfare.”

Dipper snatches the blanket back from him and storms into the bedroom. Letting Bill lead the way will only egg him on. 

He gets ready for bed. This, too, is routine; brush teeth, change clothes after making sure any errant demons have left the room. Open the door to let said demon back in so he doesn’t start scratching at the wood. Bill hovers as he always does; not approaching, but staying close enough that Dipper feels that golden eye tracking his every move.

Eventually, he slips under the sheets. Eyeing Bill warily, he pulls them up to his waist. And just so Bill really won’t get any funny ideas, he stays sitting up and throws in a glare. 

“Nighty night, sapling! Sleep tight!” Bill’s grin stands out in the light, the rest of him silhouetted in the doorway. “I’ll be busy for a bit, so don’t wait up!”

“Yeah. You do that,” Dipper says, eyes narrowed. He waits until the door shuts before dropping back onto the sheets. 

Bill can do whatever he wants. Does do whatever he wants. And if he wants to stay up and have a few more martinis instead of plopping down on the mattress, Dipper’s going to rest much easier.

It still takes him several tosses and turns while sheets slowly burrito him, until he finally falls asleep.

------------------------------------------------------

Dipper wakes up thirsty. 

He frowns into his pillow, trying to decide if it’s worth fully waking up to get a drink, or to snuggle back down and be dry-mouthed in the morning. 

Super comfy though. Soft sheets. Cozy bed. The weight of leftover sleep lingers, ready to drag him back into slumber at a moment’s notice.

For a few seconds he thinks he might manage to drift off, but the discomfort is too much, even when he hugs the body pillow tighter.

Plus, there’s this weird noise that’s kinda bugging him. 

Usually the penthouse is pretty quiet. The bass of the demonic party doesn’t make it through the stone walls, and the crackling of the fireplace is comforting if anything. But tonight, there’s a weird, intermittent buzzing. A sound neither mechanical nor organic, coming from just above his head.

Fine. If Dipper has to get up, it’s two birds, one stone. Get a drink and figure out what the hell that godawful racket is.

The second he lifts his head, he knows things are fucked. 

Dipper recoils, propping himself up on one elbow.The warm thing under him is not a body pillow. Stupid assumption. There isn’t even one of those in the bedroom. 

A demon is in his bedroom, and he’s resting on that body.

Bill Cipher lies peacefully on the sheets, ungelled hair spread across the pillow like a halo. From a fallen angel, because he’s evil. This jerk must have crawled in with Dipper in the middle of the night. At some point he changed into pyjamas, and now his oversized shirt has spots of drool on the shoulder, coincidentally where Dipper was lying moments ago.

Also, he snores. He’s doing it right now, the bastard.  It’s just quiet enough that Dipper didn’t wake up from it running in the background, and loud enough to be impossible to ignore while awake.

Bill didn’t do that when he was a triangle. All the more reason to kick this asshole out of the bedroom, and -

Okay, technically it’s Bill’s bedroom. And his bed. Dipper offered to take the couch, but no, he let this bastard convince him that it’d be perfectly fine to keep their prior arrangement. That he’d totally keep his hands to himself.

And that was a lie, because Dipper sure as hell didn’t crawl on top of him on his own. 

His arm and his thigh are slung over this stupid human form, clung on like a koala. He retrieves his other arm from under this jerk’s head without bothering to be gentle, letting Bill’s idiot skull thump back onto the pillows. 

He glares, and flips the bastard off. When that doesn’t get a response, he pushes on his shoulder to shake him. 

Bill rocks a little in place and keeps snoring. His breathing stays calm and even; his heartbeat doesn’t pick up under Dipper’s palm. If anything he looks more comfortable, wiggling the tiniest bit to snuggle in for the ride.

This absolute jackass. ‘Doesn’t sleep’, he said. Another lie, he’s dead to the world and snoring up a storm, like being pushed around by a human in the middle of the night is par for the course.

Great. Just great. 

Dipper would drop back down in a huff, but that’d land him right back at square one. 

Yelling at this idiot will have to wait until morning, or whenever Bill gets up. For now, Dipper still needs some water - and to get out of this demon’s grasp. 

A glance over his captor shows that there is a glass of water on the bedside table. Likely placed there by Bill himself, ready for rehydrating himself after tonight’s martinis. It’s close. Pretty convenient.

But that’s a bad option. One, because Bill’s mouth has probably been on it, and two, he’d have to scramble over the bastard. There’s been way too much contact already. 

So, to the kitchen it is. Once he gets out of here. 

Dipper’s first attempt at escape fails when he backs into Bill’s arm. As if sensing his motives, it latches tight around his waist. Dipper lets out an ‘oof’ at the pressure. 

The second attempt - prying Bill’s arm away, then absconding - is ruined when Bill groans, rolling onto his side and capturing him with both offending limbs. The movement leaves Dipper lying face-to-face with the jerk and twice as pinned. 

“Damn it, Bill.” Glaring won’t work when this asshole’s conked out, but he gives it the old college try. “Let me go.”

A crinkle forms between Bill’s impeccable eyebrows. “Nooo.” The word trails off in a sleepy whine.

Oh no, he’s denying Bill something he wants. Dipper’s so not used to that. He shoves this stubborn dickhole back, and only gets drawn back in for his efforts.

“You can’t.” This time Bill’s speech is clearer, though still thick with sleep. The corners of his mouth have turned down, so unlike his usual grin that it’s hard for Dipper to look at it. 

“Can’t what?” Dipper asks, both exasperated and, fine, a little curious. 

A conscious Bill might evade his every question, but this is a different story. With his defences down, he might let something slip. 

“Can’t go.” Bill insists. His face drawn tighter in what looks like… wait, is he hurt? What’s going on? “Don’ leave again.”

Oh. 

He’s dreaming of his husband.

It must be the body. Something about being here, in a form that has more sensitivity than metal, and a human lying next to him. The sense-memory must be sharp enough to cut into even Bill Cipher’s subconscious.

Bill’s mistaken, of course. But there’s nothing to be done about that. Dipper can’t change his mind, and he has no dream-manipulation powers. Bill’s morning’s going to be pretty rough. 

Hell, he’s already looking unhappy and that’s without the hangover. The wrinkle between his brows has deepened, his face drawn tight. Dipper resists the urge to put his thumb on the crease and smooth it out. 

Then he takes a deep breath, and sighs. 

“I’m not leaving. I’m getting some water.” He bops Bill lightly on the forehead. Weirdly, that stops the frowning. “Either let me up or I’m stealing yours.”

“Mmh,” Bill hums, in what could be contentment or unconscious agreement. Either way his deathgrip loosens. Dipper’s slightly more free than before. 

It takes some effort, but with a few nudges he manages to roll Bill onto his back. One clinging arm slips from him, enough for him to wriggle out and take to his heels, get away from this monster and perch himself in the living room -

Dipper pauses, propped up on Bill’s chest.

If he fully gets out of bed, it’s likely Bill will wake up. And that feels… 

Actually, he’s just going to steal his water. Let that jerk wake up with a headache and have to storm off to the kitchen for his cure. That’ll serve him right. 

Getting to his target is easy, when Bill’s completely conked out. Dipper army crawls over his unconscious demon, wiggling over to the other side. Bill doesn’t even stir when Dipper digs an elbow into his chest, or when a human’s perched over him with almost all of his weight. Being treated like terrain actually loosens his grip, leaving him holding onto the back of Dipper’s shirt. 

Dipper snags the glass, lying with his stomach on Bill’s chest, and chugs. God, he needed that. Thirst slaked, he sighs, then rolls off and lies on Bill’s other side. 

He hears a soft grunt behind him, and the sheets shift. An elbow drapes over his side, and something nuzzles between his shoulderblades. Dipper shuts his eyes. 

This isn’t his fault. He knows that. He didn’t capture himself and wrap himself up like a present to be dropped right in front of Bill’s feet. He absolutely didn’t ask to be born with the same features as a long dead nutcase. 

But he has been encouraging this madness. Letting Bill dream up whatever he wants, to keep him passive. He’s saving the world, it’s the best thing he’s ever done, and it’s all built on a lie.

And not one he can keep up. 

Dipper’s just some guy, not the idealized memory of a man long dead. But now there’s no escape. The routes that lead away from disaster closed off a long, long time ago. 

Eventually, the cracks will show. Either the novelty wears off, and Bill’s delusion will pass - or the rose-colored glasses will finally fade, and Bill will notice everything. There’s a billion things that separate the man in his bed from the person he... cared about. 

On that day, Bill’s going to realize that his husband truly left. To say he’ll be upset is an apocalyptic understatement. 

If they had managed to seriously hurt or kill Dipper, Jane wouldn't have died!

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. 

He’s totally got this. 

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…

Diplomats. Of course. 

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. 

Now that is a chance. 

“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.

X_________________

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.”

Infinite energy? 

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. 

This is…a party. 

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.

No such luck, though. 

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?”

…Right. 

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 - 

…Shit. 

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. 

“WHERE IS HE?!”

“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.”

Body. 

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.

For Bill, that is. 

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 - 

Wait a minute.

“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.

And that was stupid.

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!”

“Shut up.”

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. 

…He deserves something. 

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 -

Part One is here, and Part Two is here.