(A/N: Yo, personal thanks to @RustyRaineDrops for hyping me up in the comments. Means a lot to me. Honestly, made my day, so thank you <3)

Miriam Pines prided herself on maintaining a clean home. So much so, it was almost in her nature to point out when something was askew in a friendly hostess' own. The messiness could be as nanoscopic as the outwardly turned zipper of a cushion cover. And Miriam, though biting her tongue, would always seat herself on the flipped furniture, graze a finger over its metal teeth; all the while pretending to engage in whatever meaningless drabble her female friends longed to settle for- a widely shared novel, gossip, gardening cheats- but wanting desperately to grab the cushion by either side, lift it, fluff and flip the molded pillow so that its zipper faced inwardly.

As it was built.

As was meant to be.

She was very, very tidy.

It came as little surprise then, when Tony led Dipper up the steps of his childhood home- on all fours, with pudgy smacks of his soft, tan fingers- to find the brunette's old bedroom had been transformed into a designated 'playpen.' The kind with multi-colored shelves used to categorize plastic foods from miniature trucks, from wooden blocks, from half-humanoid figurines, from stuffed animals, from arts and crafts. With a psychological ring of caution tape wrapped around the outlining of the room. Stepping in meant the allowance of a very controlled, very small mess. Stepping out meant the full submergence of tidiness. It meant back to order. Back to organized. Back to clean.

Tony, being the light toddler he was, simply took his mother's obsessive scrubbing as another aspect of adulthood he was yet to understand, instead of the glaring character flaw it was. He only obeyed her, as all good little boys do. Took off his shoes before entering the playpen. Readied a puzzle-piece foam mat with the common print of a little town and its streets. Placed it over the floor almost ceremoniously. Rehearsed. Like tucking in his shirt, or wiping his mouth with a napkin- a bit cleaner. A bit uncharacteristic of a child.

Once the mat was laid out, Dipper watched with half-curiosity as Tony stood, dusted himself off, looked over the simple foam mat, and let out a thoughtful hum. His pudgy hand went to his chin, giving a thoughtful look that was, in reality, not at all thoughtful. It was a practiced expression he'd seen on television. Some way's wedged between what his mother sat him in front of, and whatever John let him view as long as he swore not to tell Miriam. Far too animated a look when he stroked his chin for stubble that didn't exist. And squinted his eyes. And took wide, outturned steps along the foam mat's border.

"Something wrong?" Dipper snorted, shoulder pressing into the door's frame. He watched, mirth in his gaze, as Tony traced the mat's printed map from Main St. to Yellow Rd, one tiny hand on his hip, and pulled a face that was perfectly pretend.

"Uh-huh." Tony noted simply, scratching his head. Dipper snorted again.

"Yeah? What?"

"Ta-fic." The younger remarked, after which he tutted his tongue in dismay.

"Ta-fic?"

"Yeah." Tony lamented, puckering his lips. "Big ta-fic." He pointed down the mat, citing the path from Mole Rd, straight through the heart of town, coming to wrap around at Martha St. The little one shook his head, both hands on his hips now, and looked amazingly distraught. "See?"

Dipper stepped away from the door, letting it shut behind him so he might get a better look at where the child pointed. And of course, the mat was spotless. Even then, when Tony pointed along the roads, he made sure to keep his bare feet off of its resilient surface. Only leaned in and pointed. Dipper did likewise, a short distance from the roads, sure his mother would throw a fit if anything in the playpen was a mess.

"Ta-fic?" He asked again, observing the roads.

"Yeah. Ta-fic jam. Tha's bad."

"Really? Why do you think that?" Dipper offered back. He crouched, taking forced interest in the exterior of the tiny town and its names. As per usual, Miriam wanted her traditional alone-time with Mabel, which entailed lecturing, advicing, and an outright plee to 'come back to Piedmont, love. It's so much nicer in Cali.' Which roughly translated to 'I hate lying to my friends about where you live. It'd be far easier if you would just drop everything and sport a casual suburban lifestyle, just as I'd hoped you would.' Something Dipper was sure to get an earful of when his turn came up.

But for the time, he was on Tony-duty.

"Just 'cause." Tony shrugged. "Dad hates ta-fic. Don't like cars."

"Yeah." Dipper remarked sharply. The way his mouth dried just from hearing little kids refer to John as 'dad' was anything but good. He tried to bypass anything to do with the subject of conversation. Instead, he stuck his finger out, quick to address the streets of Tony's mat. "Does this road have traffic?"

"Yup."

"What about this one?"

"Yea."

"And over here?"

"No. Tha' one has a tiger. See?" The toddler gave a fleeting point towards Peach lane, only to turn on his heels and rip open one of his color-coated drawers. He came back after a moment of rummaging with a tiny plastic goat in his hands. Tony plopped it down, and that was that.

"Well, which roads aren't jammed?"

"None." He replied, arms crossed. "Too much ta-fic."

"How are you gonna drive home, then?" Dipper laughed, leaning onto his elbow. He was still a hair's distance off the mat, just as Tony was, his body made solid so he wouldn't tip onto any streets.

The younger man pondered his question. Real, honest thoughtfulness this time, which looked far different from his other pose. His lower lip was poked out, eyes snapped shut, left hand on his cheek, right snaking its way up to wipe his dripping nose. Tony's head leaned one way, then the other. He curled his toes in, let them rest, before flexing out onto the oak flooring. The boy hummed in high tempo. Low. Varying in length and rhythm until- suddenly- his eyes were flying open. Mouth ajar, arms shooting up, legs jumping out below him as he took to catching air.

"Fly!" Tony cheered, head tilted high, looking at nothing, seeing no one, but imagining everything in perfect clarity.

"Fly? Do you have a jet?" There was a kind of warmth that came from picking at a child's brain. Very soft and new, the way Tony's eyes lit up at Dipper's suggestion.

"Yeah! Yeah!" The little one turned, once again going to extract some toy from his stash. Better not for Dipper to worry about his small, impressionable sibling and the way- despite being excited to play- Tony closed each drawer after opening one. Or the fact that he saw things out of place, and transferred one to another box, already sure of its direction. Or how he was even able to stop- duck his head- and make vague note of each box's labeling to verify he was looking through the right basket.

Or the fact that Tony was only two and, although being a colorful, accelerated young man, still had it in him to work purely within the guidelines of his mother. Dipper tried not to notice. The little boy shot his hand in, only to pull out a bright green toy truck.

"What do you have there, Tony?" A question to which the older already had an answer.

"A jet." An answer to which the younger only imagined was correct. And one which, no matter the actual title of his toy, would in no way hinder him from cutting the truck through air, circle the corners of his mat, and pretend to soar above traffic. Tony was happy to believe his truck was a jet. Dipper was happy to let him.

The elder observed patiently, arm slung over Tony's organized shelves, as the green vehicle nose-dived- came up- spun around and repeated each action in clunky patterns. He let a little smile stretch against his lips, despite the growing dessert of skin drying his mouth. Dipper was sure to remain calm now. Watch Tony. Tilt his head every so often to peer out the bedroom's window. Wonder when Bill would be back. If he'd be back. Which he surely would be...

But, Dipper could never be certain.

While Tony made yet another decent- blowing raspberries in imitation of a jet engine; drool sliding from his lips- Dipper made quick work of checking his phone: No new messages. Which wasn't a bad thing. Wasn't a good thing, either. Just something else. Dipper looked at the time; a quarter till six.

Exactly when had Bill left?

Exactly when would he be back?

He bounced his leg, scratching his neck. Dipper's eyes almost looked towards the door, but he stopped himself. Not so he wouldn't be tempted to leave. The opportunity to disappear hadn't been an option since arrival. No. Dipper kept his eyes trained anywhere but the exit in hopes of restraining some coincidental pull in the universe. As though, when his gaze finally came up, measured itself, adjusted to the change in perspective, that would be the universe's que.

Things worked by rhythm. The world spun on an axis of stage direction. A finger point. The switching tempo of an orchestra. Change in light and scenery. It all determined when and how. Something as simple as glancing at the door could mean so much more, and it terrified Dipper to think he played that sort of a role in the game. He could stay still, though. He could wait it out.

If his eyes never went up, would John never surface?

A single ding from his phone. Dipper dove for whatever it was, hoping to dispel the strung alarms of his brain. His shoulders rolled back, bunched, and softened by the snapshot depicting a quart of strawberry ice cream and the chummy note to 'sit tight.' Which he would do. He would definitely do it, now that Bill was telling him to. It was infinitely easier that way, waiting now with an objective to relax. An order. It was so much easier to calm down when the act was required. And, maybe Bill knew that.

Whether or not that be the case, Dipper didn't care. It was warming either way, getting the message. It was sweet, reading those words. Despite Bill being a literal omen of chaos and distortion, for a pitifully brief second, Dipper's heartbeat both slowed and raced with those words. 'Sit tight.' Okay, he wanted to reply, but couldn't seem to break from the image sent (a golder wisp of skin had been captured, wrapped securely around the tub of frosted wet-strength paperboard) long enough to respond. His eyes traced the outlining of Bill's nails, the webbing that connected thumb to index, the tendon flexed through his knuckle.

Dipper allowed himself a smirk. Only a smirk. Then a closer look. A slight zoom in. A smile. Marvelled at how the grocery store's lights bounced off his lover's skin, and felt amazingly proud of it. Imagined something domestic. Some warped, alternate dimension in which Bill wasn't Bill. Or, was Bill. Some strange, normal Bill, with a basket slung around his arm, and Dipper's waist pulled in by the other. Which was silly. And impossible, considering who his lover was. Still, it didn't keep the brunette from fantasizing about that hand around his waist. Not groping for body; skin. Just to be close. Just to hold something he valued, and breathe it in with admiration.

He actually laughed at the idea, only to shoot himself with lines of discouragement in how sad it really felt; his fantasy was far more than Bill would ever bargain for. He deleted the photo and left the blond on read for good measure. He didn't care for him enough to reply. He didn't care enough to admit anything. Beg for it. Want, and want more, to be wrapped up in those golden arms. Held in a way that wasn't firm or threatening. There, seated on the floor of his childhood room, noting the changes in order, the misplacement of where his drawers once were, his bed, his shelves- like his presence hadn't only been chased off, but completely erased by John. As though conceiving Tony was in some way a ploy to replace him. To bar him from who he once was, and how he once felt, and what he once hoped in. Punishment for rejection.- Dipper couldn't help but feel his skin burn for something to wrap around him.

"Wanna fly too?"

Dipper was so caught up in his own thoughts, he hadn't even registered Tony's presence before him. He held the green truck out to the elder, smiling passively.

"Heh. That's okay." Dipper's hand patted the toy down to Tony's side. "I'll just watch."

"No." He shook his head, bringing the truck much closer. "Let's fly. Okay?"

"Later." Dipper pressed on. Tony pouted, once again holding it out for him, only for it to be tucked farther away. "I'm not good at flying."

"I'll teach you." He reassured, truck remaining at his side. "I can fly."

"I know. I saw."

"I'm fast."

"You are. Yeah. Super fast."

"So are you." Tony smiled, snagging the shoulder of Dipper's shirt in an upward tug, trying to rouse him into a standing position.

"I still can't fly, Tony." He didn't so much as move from his seat. The toddler huffed.

"Try to."

"Later."

"Why?"

"I just can't fly, Tony." Dipper shrugged, feigning a smile against the weight of his lips. "I can't fly."

Tony stood still. Dipper smiled a moment longer before ducking his head to check the time. Five till six. He hoped- hoped, hoped, hoped- Bill would return soon. No new messages, of course. Dipper hadn't responded to the first text. What would there have been to type back?

"You can." Tony stated finally, looking oddly concerned. "Don't cry. I'll teach you." The grip on Dipper's shirt became firm, and he used far more force to bring him up. He was still much too small to warrant strength of any kind. The adult hardly leaned out at whatever power was used to lift him.

"I'm not crying?" A fact, prompted as a question. "I just don't feel like it." He brought a finger up to tap against his cheek, almost fearful of encountering dampness. But- no. He wasn't crying. The cheek was dry, as were his eyes. Tony just looked at him; a bit unsure. Emotion was a very raw sensation to him. Even without being a child- compassionate, transparent- Tony was simply more tuned to atmosphere. If not by crying, Dipper was surely experiencing some level of pain not properly expressed through tears. He pulled a bit harder, then released.

"You won't fly? Never?" Tony stepped away from the man. Not out of rejection. Rather, confusion.

"Not never. Just not now. I'm tired."

Tony looked away, peering at the green truck in his hands like some deadly weapon. Or a powerful bow. Some valued treasure. All three glances at once, perhaps. It was a truck, that look told him. But, could Dipper not just imagine it was a plane? Could he not just imagine he could fly? Couldn't he just imagine he wasn't tired? Adults were so very strange to Tony.

"When?"

"Later."

He puckered his lips at Dipper; a skeptical pout not unlike Miriam's, but far less condescending. The toddler released him then, fabric slipping from in between his fingers with one slow, hesitant motion. Again, he held the truck out, not saying anything. And again, Dipper lowered it from his face.

"I promise." Dipper took out his phone, entered his notes, and began typing up what looked to be a three-part confession of his undying love- snorting, rolling his eyes, backtracking and rewording, before inevitably deleting the entire article.

I don't even know why I'm writing this it's just so stupid I mean you're you and I'm me it's just so hopeless sometimes I think it's all just so dumb that I'm even trying to be for you what you'll never be for me but-

Tony's toy truck cut through his line of vision, separating screen from man, as his tiny arm made a directed nose dive in front of his face.

"Neeeeaoooowwwww!" He pulled from his lips, having the green object dip and twirl around his site. Dipper craned his neck to get back to what he'd been typing, only for the 'plane' to follow his every move.

"Tony, stop-." He scooted off, only for the toddler to hobble in pursuit on his knees.

"No control!" Tony tried for a terrified expression that only crafted itself into an overtly playful expression. "Oh no!"

"Dude-." The lilt in his tone kept from a stern remark, as well as the way he'd slipped up and called him by a friendly sidename. The little boy placed a hand on his forearm and leaned in for a more full swing through the air. "Quit it."

"I can't!" It swirled around his face again. The truck went up, up, up- Dipper tried sneaking in a few extra words.

I'm just as confused as you are-

"Neeeeeaoooowwww!" He leaned much farther in, stomach now sliding over Dipper's lap and trapping his arms under the weight. Tony turned onto his back, so the truck was on perfect display. "It's gonna crash!"

"Oh, is that what you're doing?" The elder looked down at the boy with unimpressed eyes. However, a slight quake of his lips had him exposed too much around the perceptive youth.

"I'm not." Tony countered a bit saltily. "I need help." Dipper snorted at him.

"I thought you could fly." The truck in his hand became much fasted; more erotic, the sounds louder, Tony's airy screams used to mimic that of the fearful passengers.

"Help! Help! AHHHhhhhhhhh." Tony's toy got closer and closer to the ground. "Crash in 5. Quick!" He shook his hand up and down, emulating the most extreme case of turbulence known to man.

"Tones. Get up, man."

"4..." The child made sure to keep his green truck in the way of the screen, eyes locked on Dipper. "3... Hurry!" Whatever urgency Tony mustered behind those eyes was nothing to the wide, pudgy grin of his cheeks. He snickered quietly, as though letting on how much he was enjoying the game would tip something off to Dipper.

"2..." He continued veeeeeery slowly, waiting for his half brother to reciprocate. The older just looked down at him with an almost-smile, having managed to wiggle his arms out from under Tony. He tried adding onto his little message.

I just hope we can make this work-

"1........." The truck went in front of the screen again, and Dipper huffed.

"If I fly the plane to safety, do you promise to let me finish my thing?"

Tony nodded his head vigorously, smiling much brighter than before, jiggling the clunky plastic before him.

"Promise! I promise!"

Again, Dipper laughed. Sighed. Rolled his eyes before setting his gaze to look down at the child that-.

Held a striking resemblance to his father.

The stiff, clenching burn of his abdomen was lost in the instance he took Tony's green truck, gave it a slight lift, before setting it down safely. To which Tony grinned and scooted from the elder's lap, too oblivious to note the heave in Dipper's chest once he was off.

"You can fly~." Tony poked in a sing-song cheer, prodding the brunette's cheek.

"Yeah, yeah." Dipper waved his fingers away, forcing himself not to feel a burn. He wouldn't feel a burn. Tony's hands didn't sear him. For a moment. Just the tiniest of devouring, skin-breaking seconds, did the off-spring of his assaulter look even an ounce the creature his father was.

No no no no no. His face was far too round. Tony's eyes were doe-like. His gaze was light. His skin was caramel. The tips of his hair were sharp and up, not at all plagued by constricting gel or spray. The boy was young. Not at all John.

Not at all a monster.

"Again?" Tony asked, a bit timidly.

"Later."

"Pleeeeeeeease!"

"You promised, Tones."

The corners of Tony's lips stretched in distaste, but he didn't protest. He sighed, looked up at the ceiling, puffed his cheeks before inevitably blowing everything out and collapsing beside the male twin. He nestled into the bend of Dipper's arm, keeping perfectly quiet for the few moments of peace they had left, watching as each square inch of his half-brother's phone was coded in words the younger couldn't read. Every so often he'd find a particular word that interested him, and would point it out.

Dipper deleted the text, sighing. His second go at it involved more colorful phrases like 'fuck you' and 'eat shit,' as well as more dangerous terms like 'need' and 'admire.' That one was thrown away as well.

Just as Dipper began typing up his third confession of whatever it was that made zero sense sitting around in his head, something changed in the weight of the room. Rather, the air pressure. In an instance, it was heavy. Heavy, heavy, heavy. And he, with his lungs full, heart dropping, hair standing on end without cause, couldn't quite pin the sudden shift. Until it struck him what had sucked the soul from his nostrils.

Tony, lying in the bend of his arm. Dipper, leaning back against his filing-cabinet of a toy box. And, the subtle, subtle creak of feet ascending the stairs. Yes, his hairs stood on end, blood running cold and gut squeezing tight. For whatever reason, the feet coming up those steps felt anything but welcomed. Different from the 'tip tip tip' of his mother. The melodic pounce of Mabel. The gaudy, obnoxious gait of Bill.

Too quiet. Too sneaky. Each creek in each step held out a bit too long, pulling away only a mark before letting on suspicion. And, to the owner's credit, they were in no way trying to be sneaking. It was simply in their nature. Their slimy, two-faced nature to slide between corners unnoticed, yet noticing all. It was completely like them to sound so prowl-ish. A shadow was cast beyond the door, and Dipper's chest broke at the realization that their destination was here.

John knocked once before opening.

"Daddy!" Tony laughed, bouncing up to greet the grown man who stood- Stood. He stood. Dipper tried to remind himself of that. It was all he'd done so far. It was all he could do.

But no matter what, he couldn't help but feel feel feel feel feel the hand on his thigh, the lips on his skin, the tap of rain, the smell of citrus, the road, the radio. The everything.

All at once.

All over again.

John didn't so much as glance at Dipper. Only stooped down to rustle the hair of his son with hands that engulfed Tony's head. He was poised to seem natural. Everything about him was casual and exact, to the point it could've been that he didn't recognize his own step-son after so many years without contact. Which might've been the case- should've been- if not for the heavy gaze John threw up at him once. Held it, made sure it seared Dipper's jeans to the hardwood floor, before letting it drop.

"Hey, buddy! Thought I might find you up here." John smiled cheerily, with a white toothiness that cut Dipper from a distance. He hadn't moved from his spot on the floor.

"We flew!" Tony responded without context. Without explaining the traffic jam on his foam mat, or the green truck, or what would've been a plane crash. And, John didn't ask to know.

"Did you? Wow, kiddo. That must've been a real adventure." He rustled Tony's hair again. A bit rougher this time; a bit impatient. "Sounds like you and Dipper had a lot of fun." Looking up. Heavy, heavy, heavy, heavy, heavy. Laying bricks along his chest, his throat, his lap. Stay there, it said. After all those years- no contact, never on speaking terms- he still had it in him to lower the glass cup over Dipper's head and keep him trapped like a bug. Suddenly, things were heavy. They were heavy.

"Yeah!" Tony laughed, shaking the hand from his hair. He picked at the tips so they'd stand up and spike again. "With this!" He held out the truck. John laughed.

"Tony, that's a truck."

"Nu-uh! Jet."

John rustled his hair more firmly now, pressing his head a bit so the added weight would make Tony's face duck. He didn't say anything more of the flight, the jet, the roads, the crash, or the son. Once Tony's eyes were away, Dipper thought John might give him another heavy look. Already, he felt like his chest might crumble under the pressure of what had been laid over him. Anything more, and he might shatter into pieces.

The man didn't, though. Only smiled, looking down at Tony, but with a glance that was so close to stealing a peek, it bordered distasteful. No. Not bordered. Was, Dipper reminded himself.

"Good on you, little man."

Dipper examined his phone again. No new messages. No snapshot. No update. And his fingers were trembling too hard to type out a simple text.

"Wanna play?" Tony asked, forcing whatever was left of Dipper's spirit from his own body. Because sweet, sweet Tony wanted to play with his father, who'd seemingly just gotten off work. And his father might just do that. He might just play airplanes. He could dig through the toy cubbies, touch whatever Tony had touched, rearrange things the way he wanted them, and that was so very like him. He might clear traffic, but what was the rush?

He could play a completely different game.

"Later, Tony."

Later.

Later.

Later.

Dipper felt suddenly perverse for speaking those very words only moments before. And even more when Tony gave an otherwise identical reaction to his first rejection. The same look. The same let down. Dipper felt ill in all forms.

"When later?"

"Tomorrow."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

Like that, Tony looked both turned down and unsurprised. The toddler sighed, casting a single glance over his shoulder at Dipper. It seemed he might ask once more. Might give it another go and plead with the brunette to play pretend. Which would've been a perfect excuse. It would've been the perfect exit out. He could suggest playing downstairs, around family. He might even convince Miriam to let him take Tony out to the park. If he'd only ask.

The boy's mouth opened- readied a plea- and closed before looking away.

"Okay..." Tony groaned, head dropping just an ounce. John let out a friendly chuckle, bending on his knee to meet the child.

"Hey. Chin up, guy. We'll goof off later." His eyes went up. The space above Dipper's head. The left of him; the right. Never exactly landing on him, but certainly locking him up. The splintered glint in his eye produced a moldy taste in Dipper's mouth. "In the meantime, you didn't happen to order ice cream, did you?"

The brothers' ears perked up. A moment of lifted weights in the room. Flying, flying, flying when those words escaped John's lips, and a strange, gurgled hope bending its way through Dipper. Bill was surely in the house, then. Most likely kissing up to Miriam; in the kitchen, the dining room, the living room. But, there. With ice cream. With the car. With the poison.

"Yeah!" Tony cheered.

John opened his mouth, and the very breath he pulled seemed to wrestle the oxygen from Dipper's lungs.

"Thought so." He put his hand on Tony's head for the millionth time, with something that wasn't one bit fueled by love. Rather, a practice. A party trick he could pull out in front of others. That sensitive, friendly touch that promised things. Promised later. It gave reassurance. It prohibited doubt in himself as a father. It convinced without delivering, and in each one of his fingers he lied about caring for what he was touching.

John smiled.

"There's some guy in a suit waiting for you downstairs. Better hurry before all the ice cream melts, champ." The hand in Tony's hair carded through strands of raven threads before promptly removing itself, as though John much preferred his fingers resting along his own waist, or fiddling with the dial of his watch, or nonchalantly sliding across the v-neck of his T. Which he did. John couldn't seem to keep his hands off himself for too long.

Tony giggled up at the man. He stepped beyond his father's legs and made one decisive move to exit the playpen, only to quickly back-peddle.

"My toys." The little one went, noting the otherwise clean floor, scattered softly in mat pieces and his single truck. Miriam would become frustrated if she had to pick up after him. Tony took a step to reenter the room, only for John's long legs to block his path.

"I'll pick them up for you, squart. You just head downstairs." Didn't put his hand in the young boy's hair this time. Instead, strained a smile across his lips that crusted over into a grimace, before taking the initiative and patting Tony outside. "I'll only be a minute."

A sliver of Tony's gaze was caught between door and frame as John pulled the knob in, a click signalling complete privacy beyond the wall of oak. Before closing, Dipper's eyes met the younger. Something might've been communicated between the two, considering the way his expression squeezed in distress. But, he was only a boy. Young as he was, the look Dipper gave wasn't one Tony understood. It only confused him again, when he noted the fear in the older's eyes, the tremble of his shoulders, and a glassiness about him that might otherwise destroy him. It lasted only an instance before they were split up, and John let out a sigh.

His back faced Dipper, stagnant in his position before the door. Like a statue. Hard as stone- stiff. Immovable- but seemingly lax in its posture. Some casual greek lounging about the palace of Julius Caesar. The dainty mold of aphrodites or Apollo, knelt and sprawled softly in the wake of an audience. They may have looked to bend under a fleeting gesture, only to find that, up close, they were pale white, carved, cold and unyielding to the touch, chiseled from marble and as lifeless as they were heartless.

John didn't so much as face Dipper when he spoke.

"You came." He mused casually, head lifting and twisting just short of glancing behind him. "Miriam told me you'd planned on making the trip, but I didn't believe her. Thought you'd chicken out again." John laughed, shaking his head.

For the life of him, Dipper couldn't find what was so funny. Not in the slightest. It felt like a high stakes hostage situation. It felt like he might fall to pieces if John kept adding so much weight to the room. His top lip was already glued to his bottom, and his hands felt tied to his back. Every bit of skin that slid against each other, instead of releasing itself, became sticky and rough before webbing together like rope. It was like he'd cocooned himself in his own flesh.

He contemplated shooting a text Bill's way, and was sure he could muster the humility necessary to cry for help. His hand lowered, reaching for the phone now tucked beneath his thigh.

One floor.

Bill was one floor away.

"You'd gotten so good at avoiding me over the years." He spoke, and Dipper's hand went limp. He curled his fingers around the device, but nothing more. It was the equivalent of lifting a concrete brick. The floor became a magnet he was unceremoniously drawn to, despite the way he seemingly fought against it in his mind.

"Was the drive over okay? You bump into any traffic? Interstate 5's a bitch and a half, let me tell you. Must've been rough, making that kind of a trip just for a birthday... You never were a party person." John made a casual move to turn, with that sharp, self-serving smile, and those greedy, beaten eyes, and the way he couldn't keep from striking a pose, or drawing his tongue across his teeth.

Or have Dipper completely, entirely cornered. Just as he'd always liked it.

The brunette remained still, ever-aware of the ques. A tilted ear in his direction. A slight twitch mistaken for his gesture to continue. John took anything and everything as a plea to hear more of him; people went out of their way to hear him. It was hardly the case. Hardly. If all it took to keep the man's mouth shut was a quiet, unresponsive step-son, Dipper was sure he could shift into stone at will.

The world didn't really work in ques. The earth was sporadic and unpredictable. There was no rhythm. There never had been. There never had been. There never had been. It was all a ruse Dipper simply imagined into existence, if only to convince himself of control. Ques meant action. Actions led to consequences. And consequences were inherently awful. So, he refrained from ques. He refrained from actions, which led to consequences, which led to death. He was certain they did.

But, the world didn't seem to care what Dipper had to say on the matter. It didn't seem to dance in clear-cut lines of 'step here' and 'move there,' because that path would always lack adventure. He was sure the earth didn't work in ques then, because despite keeping quiet, and despite not moving, and despite refraining from a direct glance in John's direction, the adult still found an opening to speak.

"So." He began, leaning his weight against the door. "Seven years, huh? How's it been?"

Didn't speak. Didn't respond. Hoped to refrain from breathing, if it meant stalling a conversation.

Confrontation.

"Mabel says you've got a girlfriend now. How's that working out for you? Everything you'd hoped it would be?"

A second of peace. Silence. John's silence. He drew a hand through his hair before continuing.

"And a job too, huh? As a CSI agent?" John whistled, rolling his eyes. "Fancy. You'll have to show me around the facility one of these days."

John's back, pressed firmly against the oak panelling of the playpen's door, sagged and straightened as he willed himself upon supporting legs. The way he moved about the room- coy, planned, cautious- appeared all if not unnerving. He was a good distance from Dipper. Just close enough to twist the knob, but far enough away to keep every part of the brunette out of his hands. Still, it felt much too violating when the raven-haired man slid a hand over the corner of what Dipper was currently propping himself up against. Like a proxy. Like he was transfering the touch.

As though electrified, Dipper jerked away from the cubbies, back ridged, hands firm, feeling far less heavy for the short, freeing frames it took him to do so. Instead, something light. Far, far too light. Not flying. But, being tossed up in midair without protection or plan. No parachute. No catcher. Not where he was, up and up and up, away from the cubbies, but now falling at the sensation of attendance. A kind of awareness he'd hoped to keep John from seeing; letting him know Dipper could hear him, had heard him, and would continue to listen. He'd given a que.

"Oh, for fuck's sake. Calm down. I'm not gonna rape you."

Which was impossible to believe, even though a large portion of him hadn't even considered it. But, with the way John had said it. It was on par with 'I'm not a racist, but-.' They were in the same categories. All of it. It was all the same. The pretense. The before and after photos entirely different. Because, what came from the mouth was destruction. The lips were a weaponizing human trait. Best to equip it with a silencer. Best to disguise what they meant with what they'd introduced it with. A good first impression to downplay very, very poor intentions.

I'm not gonna rape you.

Perhaps not now.

But then.

Back before.

In that house.

That car.

If he hadn't packed his bags as soon as he had, the damage might have been far less reversible.

A hand on the knee was all it had been. A pair of lips. Fingers brushing his hips.

Transformed. Shifting. Becoming.

A fist in his hair. Knuckles-deep in the teenage boy. Hand prints around the neck; the throat. A perverse, never-ending stream of touch-touch-touch whenever Miriam was out, and Mabel was with friends, and Dipper was still too ashamed to address the sexual nature of their forced relationship.

Things could have turned out far, far different back then.

"I know." Dipper croaked in a strangled, breathy tone not unlike being throttled. He swallowed to wet his lungs, only for it to come off as all the more anxious. John placed his foot forward, poised on getting a bit closer, only for Dipper to note the motion and take three scrambling scoots back, bumping his shoulders into the room's heater. The older man groaned before retracting his advance, readjusting himself a distance away.

"Could've fooled me." John clicked his tongue. "What the hell is this? You look like the poster child for domestic abuse."

Dipper laughed. Short, pained, with a head shake in disbelief. It all felt so surreal. Being in that room with the grown man, now grown himself. Back then, it'd only been John. With his car. His wallet. His hands. An adult, praying on the flesh of youth. Before, it might have been easy to devoir the young, vulnerable teen. It might have been possible to get whatever it was he'd craved, for whatever reason desired, for whatever reason needed to feel up and demolish. For whatever reason. Dipper would never understand what John had been thinking all those years ago, when things had still made sense.

The world works in patterns.

The earth turns by schedule.

Things were far too muddled now. The room was foggy and diluted, Dipper's very breath dropping through his stomach and pulling him down. Sinking into hardwood flooring. Sinking into the past. He'd thought he was older now. Dipper had banked on being older. He only sat, though. He only sat, keeping from direct contact.

"Look at me." John continued with splintered, creeping sizzles in his tone. "Look at me."

"What'll happen if I do?"

Sinking, sinking, sinking.

Heavy, heavy, heavy.

A muffled voice came from the wooden flooring below him. Miriam, giving her speech on public appearance and social expectations. Mabel, countering it with her own flimsy points. Bill, trying his best to remain charming in both women's eyes by keeping a foot in either of their courts. Giving his approving agreeance like a parasyte suckling for blood. Dipper could hear it all. He wished like nothing else that they could hear them as well.

"My God. Nothing!" John spat, outright insulted by the brunette's cynical inquiry. "I just wanna talk without feeling like you expect me to pull some shit. Christ. Give a guy a break. It hasn't been easy for me either, you know."

That.

That struck Dipper's interest.

"And, how exactly has this situation fucked you over?" A sudden bitterness. Venom. The clutching, boiling build of vengeance in his stomach when Dipper acknowledged- Yes. He knew- the audacity of what John had just said. The irony of complaining how hard it had been on John. How John had to face himself in the mirror after what he'd done. How it was John that had to work through the trauma of it all. Poor, poor John, trapped in his own skin, unable to escape the touch, the rain, the smells, the sounds.

Was it even possible for a man like him to be made aware of other people's pains? Could he experience empathy? Could he understand the crawling, ripping, slitting agony of being touched? No. Not the way Dipper had. Never like that.

"Don't." John snarled. "Don't act like you're the only victim here. Don't say it like you didn't know what you'd been doing all that time."

"I didn't 'do' anything." Dipper refrained from looking at the man, not so much out of fear, but out of spite. He curled his fingers into fists, willing himself to his stumbling feet. Again, he felt lighter. Lighter, light. Almost flying, but not. The blood rushed from his brain, and he found solace in the discombobulating sensation.

"Oh, bull! The first day I met you, you were all over me."

The first day they'd met.

Miriam and her shiny new boyfriend. A tactical arm around her waist. Her hand playing with the curling hairs that stuck from his V-neck. And Dipper, a distance off, watching them hawkishly from the kitchen table, eyes peeking up from his novel to observe in secret.

Not to look condescending.

Certainly not to admire.

Simply to compare what John seemed to be, and what Daniel Pines had been. A bit taller. Suave, definitely. Clean, pressed white teeth, and jeans a bit too tight. A bit too young as well, if Dipper was honest. Not like something his father would wear. No, that man had always known to dress his age. He knew when to release his younger days, lest he become a balding man in his 60's, still banging to music from his generation in a crop top, cut off jeans and some flip flops.

That wasn't John, though. John was fit; 'young.' Young as a man willing to marry someone with kids could be. He'd never get old. He'd never age. He'd never go bald. Not him. He was Apollo. He was immortal, from the way he talked to Miriam like a celebrity. He cradled her waist a bit too chummily. That'd been Dipper's first impression. He had been too close to mom. That man- having paid for dinner, taken the scenic route home- was six feet deep in Miriam's bubble, and she hadn't bothered to push him out. Hadn't even made a fuss about entering the house with shoes on.

Which was very unlike her.

He watched them from a distance. At the dinner table. By the counter. Getting a glass of water from the sink. Always throwing subtle, observant glances over his shoulder at the two adults currently on the couch. Just talking. Miriam, flittering. John, leaning. His arm around her shoulder. The other on her thigh. And, if something were to go sour, who would be in charge of preventing foul play?

Dipper, of course.

So, yes. Those eyes had been all over John. His hair. His hands. His shoes. For all the right reasons.

John would catch the younger staring and force Dipper's eyes away. Little did he know that the man himself didn't care for such reserves. He kept watching. Admired the small of his back. How he could collect Dipper's shoulders up. The soft, pale skin behind his knees. Little things. Cute, young, malleable. John found it all very alluring, the way he caught Dipper's eyes shifting off him just as he'd gone to look again. Appetizing, it'd seemed. But, not at all a challenge.

Until the nights.

The nights. The nights. The nights.

When Miriam would lead them to her room, falling back onto a well-made bed, John saw it. The similar curve of their lips. The slender line of their chins. The lovely, lovely indent of their hips. When they made love, it was never Miriam under him. It was never her.

"We didn't even talk the first time we met!" Dipper's eyes came up. He saw the cold, spiralling depths of a heartless man. John surely never grew old. Not him. Or, more so, not in his memory. For, the man standing in front of him was certainly older. Young, by John's own standards. Always young. But getting to a point where the lines along his mouth would become permanent after a time. He was a shade paler. Just barely. Definitely not close to crumbling to dust, but on the verge of age. On the edge of noticing changes he couldn't hide. But, John was still a handsome, built man.

For now.

"Where the hell do you get off thinking I even wanted that from you?!" Dipper took a step forward, then two back. It was ever-teetering pain, stepping away and feeling light, light, light only to step ahead and sink, sink, sink. He settled for the middle-ground.

"Get off? Get off?! You were playing fucking mind games!" John advanced this time, his long legs carrying him the short distance that separated the two.

Heavy. Heavy. Heavy.

Dipper stood, but stumbled.

"Walking around the house, looking so goddamn-!" He bared his teeth like a beast before turning, cursing, and slapping one of the figurines placed neatly on the shelf to the floor. When he turned back, John looked like he might...

There wasn't a word to describe what he looked like he might do.

"So goddamn there! You were always there! And all day long, it was shorts and T-shirts, shorts and T-shirts! Do you have any idea what that does to a man?" He put a hand on his chest, and the slight spark of self-pity in his gaze was outright ridiculous.

"I was never trying to-!" Another step. John was close. Too close. Like six feet inside Miriam's bubble. With the same energy. The same drive of intent. He saw it in John's eyes, where he meant to take the advancement. Dipper tried to side-step the cornering, when the man's bulky shoulders boxed his body in.

"You were!" He grabbed him by the wrist, jerking it about, yanking him around before dumping the feature like a puppet's strings. "Stop acting like a fucking saint. Stop searching for a way to look innocent. I know what you were trying to do. You liked all that damn attention, I'll bet. You liked when you made me think of you-." John's arm slid high above Dipper's head, making it so their bodies became that much closer. His hand slipped between the brunette's legs.

A left hook to the jaw. John, stumbling back, cradling his chin, snarling and gaping at the boy. Dipper, heart jack hammering, staring bug-eyed, back slouched, arms extended to grasp at bits of wall, like he might bolt, or break, or scream, or die. His fist had connected perfectly with the man. He'd done it. He'd fought back.

And he wished more than anything that he could reverse it.

John didn't react right away. Just rubbed the swelling bump, nursing the pain, feeling wronged and slighted even more than before. He took one step left, then right, shifting weight from either feet. John contemplated going at it once again. Trying to intimidate Dipper. That hand had only been the starting line. He hadn't even gotten around to squeezing at anything before the little shit had freaked out on him.

John decided against cornering Dipper again. He had vague recollections of when he'd done it a time before. On the road, rain pouring down, no place to go. It'd surely been a blessing at the time, headed off to pick the freshman up from school, lube in pocket.

He'd caged Dipper up against the door, and the boy retaliated. Bad idea. Bad idea. He shouldn't have been so hasty. John needed to back up.

"You..." He trailed off for a moment, massaging the bump more firmly. It would bruise, yellow, and disappear. No reason to make a fuse out of things. "You're a real handful, you know that?"

He straightened himself, noting that his jaw not only popped when he spoke, but that Dipper had sent spit flying from his mouth to dot the breast of his shirt. It felt all the more annoying, looking at the boy hunched up, shaking on his feet like a caged animal, but still with that ferocity in his eyes. That warning to stay away. John certainly wasn't the one in danger here. Dipper didn't have a right to act afraid.

He was the real monster.

"All these years, you've been off..." John waved his hand through the air. "Fucking around. Doing your own thing, while I've been out here with your OCD of a mother."

"Don't call her that-."

"Don't get offended. I call 'em like I see 'em, okay?" He sighed, combing a hand through his hair, looking amazingly weathered at the angle. "I always get stuck with the crazy ones."

"Then how about you leave?" Dipper snarled.

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"I'd love that." A step forward. A lurch back. The fleeting press of when John's hand had placed itself on his-... It burned. It hurt, and it seared through flesh. Where he'd touched him. An add-on to the already long list of lines John had crossed without permission. Wrist. Leg. Crotch.

"I'm sure you would. You're just dying to see me go. You were always so cold to me. I never had a chance; a snotty bitch like you would never give a guy like me a chance."

Oh, the pity. The stuffy, unjustified pity. Dipper snorted, straightening his posture just an ounce, enough to look him in the eye.

"A guy like you? What? A molester?"

Which had been the wrong thing to say. A blow below the belt, as John would attest to. Definitely not something he deserved to hear. Not something he wanted tagged on his fancy, tight jeans. His V-neck. His clean-shaven jaw or slicked hair. John took a step forward.

"I'm not a damn molester."

Dipper laughed again. Less broken. Afraid, but put together. The moment John had begun to expose himself with those pathetic features, he'd lost a portion of his looming persona. It was present, but not as pressing. It didn't suffocate the boy as much.

"Call 'em like I see 'em, right?" He smiled despite the wavering of his lips. Dipper thought he might be able to pull himself to a complete stand, when John grabbed the figurine he'd knocked to the ground- some space-cadet-type, with a detachable raygun and helmet- and quickly slung it against a bit of wall to the left of Dipper. Pieces of plastic popped apart and rained down like broken glass.

"Shut your mouth." Like that, John was back to his hysterics. His 'It was hard for me, too.' His 'You knew what you were doing.' His 'You'd been asking for it. I tried it because of you.' "Shut your damn mouth before I do something you're not gonna like."

A warning far, far too late. It was all suddenly so ridiculous, so silly, it made Dipper feel light, light, light again. Just a little. Enough to lift all the way from his hunched posture. Enough to look the man in the eye. Enough to see the hypocrisy; the comical lack of self-awareness. Almost laugh again, double over in giddy pain, and bust a tear from the strain. But, didn't. Couldn't. Not when John finally collected himself, cleared his throat, and tried with every muscle to compose what was left.

"I'm onto you, kid. You and your shitty facade." He took a step forward- two- and Dipper, for the millionth time, sank. "I don't know why you came back... But if you think you're gonna get me to fess up to anything, you're crazier than your mother."

"What are you talking about?"

John threw his head up, acting as though he'd been knocked back from the sheer stupidity of it all, though staying silent. He sucked in a thick breath, squeezing his eyes shut before speaking.

"Don't... play dumb." He brought his head forward, trying to calm his adrenaline. "Seven years? Seven? And, all of a sudden you feel like waltzing back for a birthday party?" John laughed. "Yeah, sure. Look, champ. You can rope together all the support you want. You can be Miriam's pressure golden child, and Mabel's twin, and Tony's object of idolization, and what's-his-face-downstairs' whatever-the-hell-you-guys-are, and Daniel's only son. I don't give a damn. If you came back here to 'expose' me, well I'm sorry, but you wasted about 80 bucks on gas."

Dipper kept himself from correcting the man. Kept from giving a suggestive, taunting reply. Kept from outright admitting that John had (to his credit) definitely been right to assume he was there on business, but absolutely wrong on what kind. He sucked in a shaky breath, body switching on him with every stretch of muscle. Light, heavy, light, heavy. It was both exhilarating and terrifying to know that the man in front of him was completely off. A good guess, but wrong. And, the brunette wanted so badly to rub it in his face, while simultaneously losing his original motivation to confront the man at all.

Blood would be on his hands.

Dipper would find himself in a completely different cage.

"That's... You're assuming things."

Would it be so bad if Dipper didn't correct him? He was telling the truth, there. It had been an assumption. It had also been wrong, and he knew it was. But, the direction John was taking it covered for what had actually been planned. The way Dipper countered him made the phrase sound cornered, secretive and frightened, on account that he in fact was. It played in his favor, though. The tone, though not confirming anything through words, confirmed everything by mood.

John's features darkened in effect, noting the shaken attempt as deflecting his theory.

"Holy fuck." He whined. "All this time, and you never got over it? What the hell is with you? You're almost 23, and you're still licking your wounds?"

Maybe it was alright to let him think otherwise. Maybe it was important to teach him this lesson.

"I was a child-."

"'Was.' As in not anymore. You have a job, for christ's sake. You pay bills. Don't you have anything better to do than harassing a fucking father?"

Maybe it was okay to give him that kind of surprise. Maybe, just maybe, the blood on his hands would be a touch sweeter than the rest.

"You harassed me!"

"No, I didn't!"

Three more steps, and they were back to where they'd been before. Close. Way too close, with Dipper backing up, and John's whole fist slamming the wall beside his head. The brunette flinched, but remained standing. By what? No idea. Perhaps the anger he felt from John's words. Perhaps the knowledge that backing down was impossible. Perhaps knowing the man was much taller, and much bulkier than the smaller, meaning he had to maintain whatever remained of his fury. Despite feeling he couldn't throw the same kind of punch this time, knowing John was most-likely prepared for it.

And, he...

John looked so much angrier than before.

"Ahem."

The two men's eyes, though locked on each other intensely, quickly snapped up at the added voice, perched casually against the door's mouth. Bill stood there, shoulder pressed into frame, smile wide, arms crossed with an odd tightness unlike his usual form.

"Should I have knocked first?" He asked, cocking a brow. John was quick to force a distance between himself and the brunette. Palms pressing into Dipper's chest, shoving off of him, he treated it as though the smaller had come onto him. John was quick to check himself for peaking out hairs and wrinkles in his clothing. A frantic comb of his appearance- his persona- before gleaming at the blond with pearly white teeth.

"Oh, no no no. You're fine. Me and my... We were just having a talk." John cleared his throat, gesturing a hand at the clearly shaken body still pressed against the wall. Dipper's breathing hitched, expanded his chest, before releasing itself in fast sporadic puffs. He looked at Bill once- the blond shooting him a look just short of 'Is everything alright?- and shook his head. His partner's smile hardened.

"A pretty loud one, matey. Miriam asked to make sure nothing was on fire." Bill chuckled.

"What? Nah. Just a disagreement is all." John balled up his fist, coughing into it with discrete uneasy. He made his way across the room, giving Dipper the space necessary to ease up from the wall. "You're the guy with the ice cream, right?" John extended a hand out to him. Bill took it sharply; smiling, giving a firm, sturdy squeeze to his five digits.

"William." He replied in curt mannerisms, without his usual add-on of whimsical play or 'But, please. Call me Bill.' He simply took the hand, shook, smiled and released. "I work with your step son."

"Oh, yeah? I'll bet he's the best in his department."

Bill gave Dipper another side-glance. He was standing straight now, dusting himself of nonexistent dust, using the cuff of his shirt to wipe his eyes. Something Bill tried not to notice.

"Eh. He's not as smart as he looks."

John laughed. Dipper didn't say anything of it.

"You don't say." The man continued to chuckle despite himself. He tossed a glance over his shoulder in hopes of seeing the brunette in a state of silent irritation. But, alas, he was off to the side, staring blankly out the window, pretending the two men didn't exist. "I'll have to quiz you later, then. I'm sure he's a real card on the job."

John reached a hand out, clapping the other man on his back with a friendly, overly-pleased smile. Bill mimicked the other's with a slight tilt of the head, as well as a twin hand on John's shoulder.

"He is." Bill agreed, nodding his head. "We can talk more about that over a couple of drinks, yeah? I heard Miriam would be whipping up something special for the twins tonight."

"Ah, the toast. Of course. It's tradition."

Bill's stretching, pulling cheeks couldn't help but rip to their absolute limit. He pet the man's shoulder, giving him a firm tap.

"We'll talk then." His eye was facing John, but his attention was on the small body beyond him, chin tilted up at an odd angle, skin pale, trying to catch a glimpse through the window of a plane flying overhead. With a glassy, apathetic gaze. "Would you mind giving me and my partner a sec? The boss just rang me up on a few misplaced documents, and Dipper was the last to handle them. Work-related crud."

John paused before giving his reply.

"Uh... Yeah. Yeah, yeah, yeah." He shook his head. "Not a problem. I gotta go... check up on Miriam anyway. You two just- talk work, alright?" John shot Dipper a dangerous look, only to find the brunette was still staring out the window. "I'll see you downstairs." John made an unconfident move for the door, only to feel Bill's hand slap against his chest, forcing him to a halt.

"Wait." Bill emphasized his words with a smooth flick of his wrist, extending a hand out to the man. John looked down, and between the blond's fingers was what looked to be a rectangular card in fancy print. "Take this." He paused before carefully removing it from Bill's hand, and reading out loud what was written.

"'William C. Angle: Criminal mind expert'?" John gave the man a queer expression, followed by a weighted look to the card.

"My card." Bill informed with just a little too much spice in his tone. He tapped a finger at the bottom of the white paper, and willed a coy smirk. "If you ever feel like-." Bill paused, shrugging. "-Talking. Just gimme a ring."

"Talking?" John asked, one brow snapping up in inquiry. The wisp of a grin danced across his lips when Bill nodded right back, with a shot of something curious.

"If you'd like." He responded in a tone sure of its intentions. John looked him up and down, pursed his lips, squinted his eyes, before allowing the grin of his mouth to bend into a smug beam.

"I'll think about it." John tucked the card away in his jeans and turned on his heels. He cast one final look over his shoulder before exiting the room, a shit-eating grin scrawled nastily over his features.

Once the man had finally exited, Bill let the smile on his lips drop. He took a second to himself- sighed, ran a hand through his hair- before addressing Dipper, still looking out the window.

"You think he jerks off in the mirror?" Bill asked, not at all joking. Dipper let out a soft snort despite the shudder of his spine.

"Probably." He laughed through a sniff, turning reluctantly from what once was his bedroom window. Bill cringed once his partner was fully spun around, nose tinged pink and eyes reddening.

"Please don't tell me I have to fix that, too." He groaned, pulling a hand down his face. Dipper only smiled, weak as it was.

"No. I'm just-. I'm not sure. He's just really, really terrible." Dipper's voice wavered brokenly. He closed his eyes, brow furrowing as he massaged his temple in distress.

"More than me?"

The sky had started to get that orange tint about it. What lasted of the sun was a bright yellow ball sitting precariously along the line of earth's crust. A flock of shaded birds flew overhead the house, just outside the window, and Dipper couldn't help but feel it.

Lighter, lighter, lighter.

He snorted again, scrunching his nose cutely.

"Does it intimidate you?" Dipper willed himself ahead, happy when Bill's neck was wrapped securely between his arms.

"Me? Not at all." Bill brushed the comment aside as easily as it had been prompted. He looked as though there truly were no one as perfectly treacherous as he, and was undoubtedly pleased by it. "He's got nothing on me. I'm the only man who knows how to push your buttons, aren't I?"

Bill let it happen. Dipper, beaming warmly. Soft, porcelain nails grazing the flesh of his cheek bones. A shift in his gaze, followed by the smaller's arms clinging his neck more tightly. He pressed onto his tippy toes to lay a smooth, welcomed kiss across the blonds lips.

Which is when he fell apart. Cried into the kiss before placing a hand across Bill's chest and willed himself away. Dipper clasped a hand over his mouth; shook, rang his own head, and wept as he stepped back, a distance too far from the touch. And Bill, if he weren't so well maintained, weren't so damn composed, might've tried to stop the separation.

"I just-." He began in a whispery, wrecked tone. He paused, balling a fist against his skull and banging once in frustration. "I just feel really dirty right now. I feel dirty..."