If someone had told Dipper a week ago that he'd be waking up Monday morning- bags in trunk, coffee in hand, wheel in grip- for a ten hour drive from Roadkill county to Piedmont, he would have laughed in their face. Not just laughed, but dismissed. Because, if Dipper knew himself, he knew how firmly gripped the soil of Oregon's dirt roads were to the undersides of his soles. He was planted like a tree, roots shot, thick, and soaking away at the nutrients of local land. This pine would not move. It would not.

And, what's more, if a stranger were to inform this young man of who was to accompany him on his long journey-. Perhaps Dipper's stomach would have dropped, the unmarked pale of his flesh growing lighter still in the contrasting view of evening sun, cheeks drained white and fingers numb. The skin beneath his bangs would dampen, as the same occurred between the bends of either arm and pit. He may have grown queasy with food poisoning, despite having skipped breakfast and lunch; some unidentified virus in the lining of his abdomen. And, as all else, Dipper would have fallen ill, pale white and astonished all in one wash of disbelief, standing now only to battle the statement in denial.

But, that was only if he bothered to accept the fact that- yes- he was going to California this morning. And- yes- his horrible lover had decided to come along. Dipper was anything but willing to accept this truth, and so worked to digest it in small doses; starting with Bill's reminder text to have him picked up by six, and followed by the trim blond sliding in, legs crossed, all grinning, before buckling himself firmly into the passenger's seat. The shrill click of metal securing itself within a beaten down buckle gave rise to an extra dose of reality, but he was still all but willing to acknowledge his situation.

What they were planning .

Mabel had opted for a plane ticket at the last minute, despite her unexplainable fear of heights. Maybe out of necessity; a need to get there before Dipper. Or, out of courtesy. To free the car and all its gears, leaving its coffee-tinged scent untainted by bulky, daunting silence. There would be silence. There would be silence still. She was anything but comfortable there, with him, in the mornings and evenings, driving to and from work, stretching but failing to reach for a topic to speak on that they could both relate to. Here now, he and Mabel were two separate beings, and the reality was suffocating.

They were not the same.

They were very, very different.

" Did you bring it ?" Dipper croaked dryly, eyes forced on the road. Or, somewhere else, farther out beyond their current position on the highway. A far off glaze poured over his features, focus seemingly stretched mile upon mile ahead of him. Not at the lane blocked in by two strips of white. The cars bumpering him on either side. Instead, out; far, far out, as though he could see Piedmont in the distance. The house's pretty white paint job. Mom's failed gardening projects. Her minivan in the driveway, parked unsuitably beside a sleek black BMW.

John's .

Bill cackled, jerking his hand down to adjust the seat back. "Bring what, darling?" He sang, arms folded behind his head, eye trained on his partner's ruined expression.

"You know what!" Dipper's patience was just short of non-existent, slamming his fist against the wheel, almost switching lanes. He was quick to catch his temper, to still the shaking of his fingertips, the curling of his lips, the burning, wretched swell in his stomach. Bill was just teasing. Always teasing, he knew that. "The-... stuff ."

"It's called ' poison,' sweetheart."

" Whatever. You brought it, right?" Dipper's hand rose, left placed over right, turning onto US-97. It was only after he made his turn and looked out towards the never-ending stretch of black tar that a mental clock materialised. It would be a long drive without Mabel. Longer still with her replacement being a total dick. Bill clicked his tongue, signalling Dipper's attention.

He held lightly -carelessly- a thimble-sized silver flask, engraved in tiny inscriptions. Not english, not manderian; more spoken through shape and curve than actual dialect. Code, perhaps. It sunk inwards where Bill's chisel had meticulously scribed each bit of passage, yet lacked a shadow from its divots. Instead, a lace of aquamarine colored the tiny trenches of split silver; like flowing rivers through a land of shining ash. A line of white road up where the sun bounced off the inscriptions, and Dipper's throat tightened.

" Happy birthday ." Bill cooed, letting the small container dance between his fingers. He tossed it up, caught it like a trick with his pinky and ring, transferring it effortlessly to the web of flesh that connected his thumb to index, before sliding it back in his pocket like a reward.

"Don't mess with it. Who knows? You might- drop it. Or-or, lose it, and then where would we be?"

"Back at my place, making a new batch." Cipher shrugged. Dipper snapped around to rebuke his nonchalant response, only for Bill's hand to wave him off. " Relax, will you? Yeesh, kid. Not that we haven't gone over the plan a thousand goddamn times at your majesty's request-." He took a moment to bow and gesture. "Couldn't you have a little faith in me? I'm an expert; I know what I'm doing."

The road stretched on. On, and on, and on, Dipper decided. The vessel he drove- not with the wheel, the keys, and the engine, but his skin, bones, and blood- was there for the sole purpose of moving. Not necessarily progressing, it occurred to him. For, looking out at the infinite stretch of paved land, it never happened upon him that his car might reach some place.

It never hit him that, along the way, he might make detours. He would have never foreseen the gaping potholes and awkwardly placed bits of demolished tire. The ripped branches after heavy rainfall, or crossing dear. The toppled stop sign, roadkill, traffic jams. The sliding of ice over tar, beating of dry sun, hailing of dirty winds. It never occurred to him, these things. It never occurred to him back then, in that vessel, that his journey had a destination.

His journey had an end.

Their talk had been short that one evening in Bill's car, Dipper trying fruitlessly to steal himself in the mist of contorting guilt and misery. The rain had slowed, hot and clean with the sun as its backdrop. A few chitters against softened winds- cicadas- made the parking lot feel abandoned, save for the two men currently discussing trains; the undeniable power and speed behind a single locomotive, to which Bill had shown to be openly unimpressed.

He would untie Dipper from the railing, he had decided. Not out of kindness, but of parting. Something so sweet behind saving the same man he intended on ruining. The rush of self-satisfaction when Dipper would look at Bill, starved of compassion and kind, with admiration. Gratitude. Like fattening livestock through an extra portion of fresh oats. They'd suck it down without second thought, only eagre to gobble what came from farming hands, unknowingly stuffed day by day til it looked like they might burst.

They wouldn't so much as squeal then, lying fat on their side, spoiled rotten by generosity. Tail flicking, snout dug into a floor of hay, the creature may lift its head in anticipation for a second helping of wheat or grain. When the usual feeding bag in the farmer's hand is evidently missing, their heads would lower, long lashes fluttering shut in disinterest. To sleep away the extra fat around their midriffs, necks, and backs. Slowly- peacefully- farming hands would pull out a sharpened dagger, and with the smooth glide of silken blade, carve off a portion of the extra weight.

How pleasant, watching the creature eat from his hand. Munch, swallow, fatten. All the while its friends dwindled away, having been bigger than he. It would seem his only constant was the farmer, the barn, the cycling life and death of corn fields, and the odd shing of a sharpening blade. Animals know nothing more than their parameters, and no one else but each other. It's natural to trust the feeding hand. The harvester and his scythe, wacking away at stalks of tall, thriving wheat, orange sun drawing low with a tinge of lavender, hogs and cattle lounging about the farm, watching him work, oblivious to the second meaning behind the swinging scythe.

Bill would untie him from the railing, if only to lower his hand to Dipper's lips; watch those pink arches wrap around a handful of feed, and pet brown curls. Fingers trail plush cheeks, admiring those downcast lashes. Tilt his head by the chin and openly admit to interest. Pull the lips from his palm and instead resettle them against his own, soft to hard, cold to hot, dry to wet, while his other hand worked to fish the gun from his holster.

Because, after much convincing, Dipper agreed to his offering hand.

Kill the conductor.

When?

Monday.

How?

Poison.

Bill, I don't think I can do this by myself.

You won't be.

You'll come?

Wouldn't miss it for the multiverse.

I... I don't know. What if something goes wrong?

It won't.

But, if it does .

I'll take the fall for it.

No-.

Yes.

A pause.

And, you'll be there for me? With me, I mean.

'Course, pinetree.

He shuffled, uncomfortable in his seat, unsure of the situation, lost to the weather, and oddly moved by it. Dipper's chin had lowered to his collar, bottom lip chewed, eyes drawn away, fingers picking at the underside of his nails, fighting the uncanny warmth beneath his chest and suddenly certain just why Bonnie had gone bad for Clyde.

Why are you doing all this?

And, just what Clyde's grin could hide. How those words could mean one thing, while saying something else entirely.

I'm not letting you run from me, sapling.

He placed an objectifying hand on Dipper's thigh.

You're not getting away this time.

Dipper heated. Bill chilled. The same sentence, different meanings. A hunter's oath. A lover's promise. Two very separate statements. So that when Bill was packed, seated in the passenger's side of Dipper's car, his language both spoke ' I want you' and ' I'll kill you ' in the same stanza. Both were oblivious to the other. When Dipper shook, it was in fear rather than anticipation, but really anticipation rather than fear. And Bill's love-lust to blood-lust, but vice versa in actuality. Both reading it wrong, and content in their misconception.

Only one thing rang true for them both. John had to go. A day's work in the lab got what they needed whipped together easily, and Dipper couldn't help but note how every magic potion happened to require an eye of newt. Every single one. He tried to focus on that, and not the ominous black smoke rising from the slender test tube, a puff of smog that looked comically like a skull before fading away. His partner, having strung together an incantation spoken just short of apathetic, lifted the container, swirled it about, checked the color, the smell, and held it to a light before proclaiming ' vuala!'

Perhaps poison was the closest Dipper would get to a bouquet of roses, for as Bill knelt boastfully, presented the few drops of untraceable grime, an uncalled for song drew along his heart. Only a few seconds, before reality crashed over him, and he was washed away by uncontrollable grief and shame. For the better half of this instance, he was doused in appreciation for this dark act. A part in the murder of his assaulter. He took the contents in hand, glass both hot and cold between his fingers, and was overcome with mirth.

Only an instance, followed after by a crack in his grin, the loss of his gaze, and sudden lightheadedness. When he wobbled, he almost crashed to the floor, only to catch himself against a table. Dipper was quick to shove it back into Bill's hand, the simple ' you do it' more than enough. A time would come for their plan, when the drinks would be poured, the vial uncorked, the family seated, and a simple toast in order, so as to sneak a few drops of death into John's cup. So he may slip away hours later, poison docile as a stocking lioness, poison searing through his lower abdomen just before bed.

It would look like a heart attack.

Dipper hoped.

The drive- ten hours, a stop for gas, snacks, and stretching- eventually led down the windy streets of suburban households. The same pristine white coats, coupled under matching red tiles, lined row upon row of maintained lawns. Cut grass. Pretty little mailboxes and the tiny string of vines curling along their poles. Sidewalks chalked, dry and close to catching fire under the baking sun of Cali. Some curtains drawn open; most closed with white linens of cheap veiling, interrupted only by peering eyes momentarially snatching apart fabric to view Dipper's vehicle.

Clean, untouched, and modern, he'd described it once to Pacifica in disdain. The neighborhood was estranged to him, he had discovered not long after returning as a teenager. So alien after months of roadkill county. Of splintered diners and rustic wear. Of pine-threaded bed sheets, wooden flooring, barefootedness, and overt, humble dirtiness. Piedmont felt obnoxiously respectable in comparison, he realized.

There was no fun to be had with their sprinklers, collared cats, leashed dogs, all eyes on whoever dared drive down the road without informing residents, in hopes of making them seem suspicious. ' Community watchers, ' Dipper's mother had deemed them almost dreamily, with a whimsical drift in her tone just short of commendation. ' They're called Karens, mom. ' Dipper had laughed back, ducking quickly when she rose her arm, salad-tosser in hand, and flung the utensil at his head.

Things had been good back then. He couldn't deny it, nor could he regret the experience. Back in middle school, the scenes had been strung together day by day, starting with breakfast and ending with the harsh whisper of either parent trying to argue as quietly as they could. Even then, the evenings seemed nice. The home, content. Secure. Now, each memory came back in snippets- a piece of the whole. Not quite together, but somehow certain in its existence. Now still, seeing the drawn visuals of his past, Dipper couldn't help but think how much clearer things had looked back then. Not like now, muddled as dirty water.

Bill played with the window's control panel, flicking up and down, up and down, not giving a damn the sideways glances he got when, pulling a pack from his pocket and- gaze heavy and almost reluctant- drew with it a lighter. He pressed on the flint roller- fwoosh- leaned in and lit the tip, giving the jogging mid-lifers who covered their noses and mouths a cheeky grin, then a wink, and a chill down their spines.

"Close the window, Bill." Dipper snapped, almost paling as they passed a woman on an afternoon run, who visibly ducked the smog of his cigarette.

"Would you rather the car look like a hot-box?" His partner sassed back. He took another draw of his stick, held, rolled, and blew it at the sky like a chimney.

"Then put it out, jackass." His eyes challenged Bill sharply- scolding- before turning away to tally the house numbers. He'd been away long enough to forget which turns led where, and what landmarks determined the remaining seconds til home. Eight months, to be exact. Some time at the start of Hanukkah, when he dipped in to say ' hi ,' and left before they lit the menorah. John had been given the honor of lighting it that year, and Dipper's mother insisted on waiting for him to return home before they could go ahead with tradition. It had been just enough time to set his gifts aside, kiss mom, kiss Mabel, kiss his half brother and the few relatives he knew vaguely by name, before slipping out and driving ten hours back in a drowsed, shaken daze.

"You're no fun." Bill pouted. Not snuffing the cigarette out on the side of Dipper's car, as was usual. Instead, yanking it from his lips and tossing it near a child's chalk drawing; a mess of color, smears and strokes unidentifiable to all but the purest of youth. ' An explosion, ' adults would call it, only for someone much younger, much sweeter, to shake their head, bend, and correct ' No, Karen. Kitty . '

The action was obviously meant to upset Dipper, by the way Bill's arm flew towards it, fingers extended, eye trained on the sidewalk like a target. It became even more direct an attack when he turned from it, rolled up his window, and, expressing hostile exhaustion, remarked " Happy now?"

"Never." Dipper's car made one final turn.

As all others, the house was white. Pretty, red tiling for a roof. Freshly cut grass, regularly watered. A porch hooding the set of metal chairs seated underneath, as well as a quaint glass table near the railing. Small, dry work of a garden in the front. Peonies, marigolds.

Prickly.

Thirsting.

Dead.

A testament to the woman who sat indoors cooking and cleaning, but never sure of a hobby to fall back on, just as her other likewise housewives did. It would seem she tried, if not forcing herself, to build a lifestyle outside of raising children and organizing the silverware. Writing novels. Blogging. Partaking in a book club or two every once in a while, just to get that nagging Jenevieve off her back.

But, if Mrs. Miriam Pines was to be direct with herself- and she refused to be anything but- it would come as little surprise that she actually enjoyed it. The cleaning. The cooking. The raising. And considered those women who rushed for something to fill their time rather strange. No. Mrs. Miriam Pines. She liked doing the dishes, the laundry, the ordering. Because, much like her son, she found it gave her a sense of authority. She had that much more power over who lived in that house- under her roof- and found that chores gave her so much more than the satisfaction of a job well-done. It gave her control .

So, of course the lawn had been mowed and watered. Of course the minivan had been waxed. Of course the mailbox had a new paint job. The patio swept, and the glass door windexed. And, of course there was a ' do not walk on grass' sign dug into the front, comically seated by a young, tan-skinned toddler currently crouched in the grass by Mabel, who held a bubble wand close to his lips so he might blow into it properly. Dipper's car pulled into the driveway, and both bodies, seated on the lawn, turned up to look at him. Mabel smiled weakly, lifting a hand.

The boy, bare feet planted, toes knitted in bits of wet grass, knees tucked to chin, drool rolling over lips when he tried blowing- dribbled, and only spat onto the wand- seemed to lighten when Dipper became properly parked. Even more, a tinge of curiosity brightened his eyes when he, very politely, very un-articulately, tugged on Mabel's yarn sleeve and inquired ' ah?' with a tilt. The boy's finger went up, pudgy but slimming, to address the mysterious man with a single eye. Mabel paled instantly, her weak toss-up of a wave suddenly dead in mid-air, before going limp, drifting and flopping across her lap when she noticed not only her twin in the driver's seat, but the dapper pirate in his passenger's.

He and Mabel's chests both heaved simultaneously when they discovered in perfect clarity that- yes- Dipper had for real, honest-to-God brought Bill along for the ride. And, if there weren't something far worse about to happen, perhaps he would have had the foresight to understand why that had been a very bad move on his part. Because, there were only so many things Mabel could make out of this picture now.

A simple, ' Mom. John. This is my boyfriend, Bill.'

Her cheeks darkened, rose in color before outright blanching when they stepped out of the car. Again, the little boy pointed, 'ah' -ed, and almost jumped with need-to-know anticipation at the handsome blond making his way towards Dipper's side.

" Don't point, Tony. " Mabel hushed, pulling him to her lap with swift arms. Tony giggled, tossed about, only to wrap his arms around her neck and cuddle into it. His cheek mashed against Mabel's with endearment, his head resting as he watched closely how Bill placed an arm around Dipper's shoulder. And, after what looked like the smaller leaning into the touch, how he eventually shook it off and growled before shooting the two on the lawn a hasty glance. A look away- a step back- until blood flushed Dipper's cheeks, and he couldn't avoid his off-kilted greeting.

"H- hey guys! " His voice cracked, hand shooting for a confident wave, and missing by a mile. The little boy, Tony- age two, going on three- grinned with pearly white teeth, cooed, and pulled his arms from the older's neck to reach for him. Mabel pet his arms down, so he didn't grab, but dangled in her grip.

"You're... here ." She spoke in pale mannerisms, rising from the grass with Tony holding on for dear life. The tight smile across her lips was all she could do to keep from exploding, in time with what little plastic joy could be squeezed into her tone. Mabel's eye twitched, an off center, heavy giggle seeping through her teeth. Her grip around Tony's torso grew almost bone-breaking. " Both of you..."

"Uh... Yup." Dipper laughed back as he rocked on his heels, caught his fist in hand, and looked literally anywhere else. "Thought it'd be nice to- you know... Introduce him."

" Right. " Mabel's expression was unreadable, aside from the sensation of her skin physically holding back whatever sort of meltdown she was about to have. "It's just so... surprising . "

"Well, I know how much you like surp-."

"Don't I?" She cut in, now hugging Tony in such a way it was borderline abusive. He started to whine, slapping the arms that held him frantically.

"Down!" Tony went. "Down! Down! " His little feet kicked out, and for a moment Mabel's features softened. She hissed, loosening her grip before looking back at Dipper with the same harsh, unforgiving expression.

"I haven't been this surprised since the divorce." And, that tight smile. Wasn't it just the worst? She laughed. Dipper tried to laugh, but failed. Bill definitely laughed, and by the way he clutched his chest and pinched the bridge of his nose, it was almost insultingly obvious how humorous the situation looked on his end. An elbow to his side had him fixing his act a bit, if at all. More likely, he couldn't risk missing another second of this train wreck. He cleared his throat, straightened, and outright gestured for them to continue.

For the very first time, Mabel saw exactly what Dipper was seeing in his partner. Her nose wrinkled in distaste, eyes hardening, lip snagging nastily. She huffed, though Bill didn't mind. Her body shifted to rearrange the child in her arms, but quickly came to realize how weighed down it all felt. A snap decision. A look across the street, at the house, her twin, and finally the blond in a suit.

"Bill, would you mind playing with Tony for a minute? I need to have a chat with my brother. " Dipper's heart rose to his mouth, only to plummet and smash tail-first into his stomach. Mabel's gaze was still a slabbed wall that could only be described as ' are you shitting me right now? ' With just a dab of confusion. Tony went from around her waist to being held under either armpit, offered up to the patched man with an overtly half-assed smile. Bill took a step back, looked the kid up and down- grabbing for him, giggling in mid air, still gooey and drooling onto his trucker t-shirt- and made a disgusted expression.

"What is it?" Bill asked simply, to which Dipper's arm went up, slapping the back of his head. He sneered, giving the blond man an even nastier look.

"Our half brother, you jerk. 'It.' Screw you." As quickly as Mabel and he had been on the same page of antagonising Bill, the toddler was handed off- Bill opting to tuck 'it' under his arm like a football- and she dragged him to the side of the house, behind the minivan where no one could see them. Mabel peeked around only once- over the picket fence, around the corner, up, below the car- before finally exploding into a whispery fury.

" What the H-E- double hockey sticks, Dipper? What the actual frick?" Her arms went out in a flurry of disbelief. Hands high, low, sliding down her face, before groaning into her palms.

" I know. I know. Look, I didn't want him coming along either-."

"Then why is he here ?"

"I couldn't stop him!" Her eyes squinted, mouth molding into an 'O' from hearing his excuse.

" Stop him? Stop him from what?! You drove him!"

"I know-."

"Dipper, you can't just bring him without telling anybody!"

She gestured to Bill in the lawn, currently holding Tony by the ankle and poking at his potbelly like something curious. The boy's hair was flipped upside down, as the rest of him was, shirt slipping over his chin, arms dangling when his fingers worked to flick at grass blades and swing himself back and forth. A squeal was heard when Bill raised the boy to become eye-level with the other, Tony's face tilting sideways to have his image flipped right side up. He grinned at him. Bill, for once, did not return the offer, but instead squinted his eye in suspicion.

"I get it. Look-."

"This was supposed to be an 'us' thing, man! I thought you came here to bond!"

" I did-! "

"Why didn't you tell anyone? What's up with you just not telling people about this kind of stuff?" Her expression was hurt, but so was Dipper's now.

"Jesus christ, Mabel! I get it. I can't make the situation any more fucked. I know." He looked behind him, shooting Bill a cautious glance. He was far enough out of earshot to have it said without the other picking up on it, and by the time John was done and dead, what he was about to say would matter so little, it would only be inappropriate to cash in on any empty promises afterwards. Dipper turned back with a pleading look. Lost. Hopeful, but quickly losing face. He rode a hand through his hair. " But-. God. I thought you of all people would have my back when I finally came out..."

Dirty move. Very, very dirty move. But, he was desperate. And, it was his sexuality. Why couldn't he use it to get out of a pickle every once in a while? Just for now, with the way Mabel's expression stretched- stuttered- before softening into something just short of shame.

" I-. " She began, only to whip her head around once more. On her tippy toes, over Dipper's shoulders, noting the way Tony pressed his fingers against Bill's eye patch- slow, hesitant-, only to dig his nails underneath, snatch it off, and gape at whatever he saw on display, before the older cursed and dropped the toddler. Mabel sucked in a breath, knit together her brows and shook her head. " I do. But-. Ugh, Dipper. This just-. Isn't it sort of bad timing? You know, with you and Wendy?"

Dipper nodded, tossing a stalling glance over his shoulder. Bill slid across the lawn, Tony barely out of reach with a newly acclaimed eye patch wrapped around his forehead like a bandana. He'd be so close to being caught when- slip- roll- he was that much farther away.

" ...Yeah. But-. " He paused, gnawing on his lip. He could always sprinkle a bit of pizzazz into his fib. A tear here and there. Maybe a tremble of the lip. Whatever it took to get her off his back. " If not now, when?"

Dipper shrugged his shoulders, kicking some debris from the driveway. It rang true in his life, he knew. But, it was scary to think those words- that sentiment- didn't hold the same kind of weight on her end.

All fears were dashed when she, hesitantly, half-heartedly, shook her head, rubbed the back of her neck, and almost slumped against her mom's car. Mabel suddenly looked exhausted.

" Dipper... Oh by god, you found love. " She covered her face and spoke through her hands. " And it's like-. With a guy, and I'm happy for you, but-. " Her hands slid away. " You really wanna come out for him that bad? Why ?"

He only huffed, let out a weak laugh and nudged Mabel's shoulder.

Bill and Tony were on the lawn now, huffing and sort of smiling, more on the toddler's end than any. The older extended a hand in truce, to which the child recuperated by returning his eye wear. Their hands lifted, lowered and released.

" It's okay if you don't wanna back me up-."

"I'm gonna back you up, Dip. You know that. I'm just making sure you're ready. "

A final look over his shoulder, like he was really taking in the site of his lovely 'boyfriend' currently offering his half-brother a cigarette.

Jesus, what had he gotten himself into?

Still, he pulled off a love struck gaze- fake, but annoyingly natural by the way his features eased into it, as though they made the expression often. When he turned back, he made sure Mabel could pick up on his ' lost in love, don't send for help' vibes. His eyes became far-off, smile weak, twitching but present. He was a master at blushing, and so blood rushed in to make his cheeks rosie and ignorant. Dipper finally hummed at her, grinning ear to ear with what he hoped was longing.

" I love him, Mabel. " Which was total bullshit. But he could get away with it.

Among other things.

" You... love him?" Dipper nodded his head vigorously, not missing the way Mabel's eyes widened at his confession. " Oh my god, you love him..." Her fingers cupped the tip of her nose, and her lips curled up.

He thought he might puke if he had to say it again.

" Yeah, so-. Don't give him any trouble, okay? He and I. We're-. Still figuring things out. I know I shouldn't have sprung it on everyone so out of the blue. It's just-. I'm just excited, I guess. Please don't be mad."

Mabel paused. Cupped her face, tried to calm herself, only to fail miserably before sighing and collapsing to the floor. She knocked a fist against her forehead, mumbling like it was the hardest thing to comprehend. After a moment more of groaning and failing to think rationally, she stood, dusted herself off and visibly relaxed.

" Fine. Love wins. " She sighed, throwing her hands up. But, there was still that look of strain along her features. " But, you'd better work at it. All- ." She motioned to the space around him. " This. You're a real mess, you know that?"

Dipper couldn't help but agree.