If it hadn't been made clear before, Miriam and Daniel Pines were divorced.

Not just divorced.

Divorced.

Separate homes. Separate states. Separate holidays. Separate kids, which neither twin had been briefed on beforehand. Not that it came as a surprise; hadn't Dipper and Mabel already gone through this before? Hadn't it been just like this the first time- before the split up, the moving states, the step dad- when their parents were often found fighting for their children's favoritism?

Back then, it'd only been subtle things; Miriam's light, but rewarding praise. Daniel's encouraging words. It had raised the two more than their actual teamwork as parents had, which would easily explain why Dipper and Mabel were- one way or another- mildly disturbed. Since they'd been raised by words, not parents, and been given orders, not direction. It had in fact made them very, very odd.

And now was only slightly different from before. Inside their old childhood home, it hadn't occurred to Dipper that the four of them were collectively sharing air they hadn't shared in almost a decade. Which felt both invasive and strangely perverse. Like before, Daniel and Miriam Pines had their own territory, and even their presence mingling after such a period divided felt wrong.

When Dipper and his father entered the house, they instantly broke off into the family living room, away from Mabel and Miriam, who were seated in the kitchen. And, when the two adult's eyes linked, there wasn't so much as a spark between them. Just the subtle glance from one parent to the other; a slight rise of their brow, the identical form of initial shock, followed after by a billowy, silent agreement to stay civil. A distant smile from one, replied to with a light nod of the other's head.

There was peace about their relationship.

Still, a competition.

Miriam scooted a bit closer to Mabel, reaching to pet her hand in what was surely affection.

Daniel pulled Dipper's shoulder against his own as he spoke.

A room away, blocked off by two walls. But, competition.

Daniel sat next to his son on the old, worn down couch in the living room he'd once helped model. He had initially raised a brow at how untouched everything looked; not a thing moved since the divorce. After a time of scanning, he noticed how Miriam had scratched out his face in each family photo, and his curious- perhaps flattered- brow softened humorously. He chuckled.

"Must not've been my good side." Daniel mused, lifting a framed photo he'd been particularly fond of at some point. At least from what he remembered. It had been a closeup of him and Mabel, cheek-to-cheek, now scribbled in with sharpie. Marker bled across his blocked-out face onto an edge of her skin, making the familiar image look messy and worn. His lip twitched at this, and he looked as though he might say something cross. A sniff of the nose, followed by a low laugh when he rubbed a thumb over the frame before setting it back down. "You kids, though. I'm glad she didn't scribble either of you out."

"She wouldn't." Dipper countered, a bit hesitant. Daniel smiled back warmly. A kind of knowledge shone behind those eyes of his, and naivety seemed to be all the more present within the young brunette. Dipper had said it like he didn't believe it. Which made his father ache. Just a little.

"She wouldn't." Daniel confirmed without an ounce of uncertainty. "What's a picture without her kids in them?"

"A picture." Dipper shrugged.

"Just a picture." Daniel corrected. He put a confident hand on his son's shoulder, squeezing it lightly. And, in his gaze, in those gentle eyes of his, Dipper caught the tail end of pride; compassion. When his father's thumb pressed into bone- palm soothing- he could feel the very energy of Daniel's unyielding reassurance. Not necessarily in Miriam's love, but in Dipper's character.

Who would throw out a picture of him? Why, he was the most fantastic man to ever grace God's green earth, that hand told him. Miriam wouldn't dream of it, his fingers reassured. He was the perfect son, spoken through Daniel's palms.

This man could do no wrong.

Dipper shuddered, sliding away from his father's touch, just enough to let those fingers on his shoulder roll off. He kept his impression of indifference up; lips lax and eyes calm, to act as though shying away from physical contact wasn't such a big deal. Which might have been the case back then.

Back in New York, in that crumby one-story flat, when Dipper had been no more than fifteen. He was so young- Daniel thought- in comparison to the man he was currently sharing the living room couch with; who now towered over him by a quarter inch.

Younger still when he reminisced on the time they'd spent sharing that flat, and how much of it had felt so alien. He had only realized too late how unprepared he was to be a single father, and how Dipper had been difficult, and refused to pack his swim trunks for their day trip to the water park, because he felt uncharacteristically sensitive to anyone noticing him wet, half-dressed, or vulnerable. He'd been so nonsensical back then, Daniel decided; all those times he'd tried checking in on his son, only to find the bedroom door was locked, and realizing later on that Dipper's door didn't have one, and he'd simply barricaded it shut. When his son had suddenly dropped his shorts fad; begged his father to take him cloth-shopping for baggy jeans, to which he obliged a bit reluctantly.

What's more, the distance between them was strong. And the single time his father had come up behind him- tapped his shoulder on the couch to see if he was awake- how Dipper had flipped out. Jerked off of the cushions. Knocked his head against the coffee table. Scrambled to his feet, and turned around like a deer caught in headlights. So fast then. When he held that gaze for a few seconds, still drowsy and off kilter, before realizing who it was that had touched him. And Dipper melted on his feet; relaxed. Relaxed some more. Sat back on the couch and soaked into the sofa. Laughed when Daniel asked if everything was alright. Smiled and reassured. Laughed again, before breaking into a raging sob.

He'd reached out then, to place a hand on that shoulder of his, but Dipper pulled back like it'd been a raised fist. The contact died. Those fingers shrivelled away.

Now felt no different. Though they'd built up Dipper's tolerance for touch over the years- sophomore to junior to senior, in each case trying to persuade his son into professional counselling, but the brunette had inherited too much of his mother's self-reliance- some things still felt off limits. Here especially.

Daniel tried to reset his hand on Dipper's shoulder, (perhaps hoping the subtle sliding away had been unintentional) only for the action to be repeated. And his father tested Dipper with a steady gaze. And Dipper tested it right back with his indifferent expression, which might've cracked under the pressure, if Daniel weren't so damn soft with him.

They didn't need words to ask, 'What the hell is this?' What was happening now felt too familiar to be anything but a relapse. Though, hadn't he been just fine around that Bill fellow? Hadn't he been alright with that arm around his neck?

Maybe so, but he hadn't felt quite so dirty then.

Dipper hadn't felt quite so contagious.

"I heard Mr. Arbuckle's retiring soon." Daniel offered slyly.

Forward. Always forward, that Daniel Pines. Dipper's features soured at the comment, eyes looking up then away with disdain.

A psychologist.

Mr. Arbuckle was a psychologist.

"O-kay?" Dipper moved back, giving what his father would consider too much space now, though he'd be able to reach him almost as easily as before.

"I remember you liked seeing him when you were younger."

"I had to see him." Dipper's tone was strained; resentful. It made Daniel's gut twitch an ounce. "For the nightmares."

"Night terrors." His father challenged. Dipper slit his eyes.

"Nightmares." He shot back, arms crossed. "Do you really feel like having that argument again?"

Daniel's gaze, observant as ever, couldn't help but feel those arms over Dipper's chest had been placed as protection. He wasn't a big guy- tall, maybe, but otherwise lithe- so that when he folded either elbow to tuck himself up, Dipper only came off as defensive, not stern, and stubborn, not tough. Still, his father knew when to back off. Because they'd had that argument before, and Dipper's arms had been crossed, and he'd run himself ragged trying to explain to his son that the dreams he'd been haven't weren't normal, and things weren't alright with him, and he should seek help outside of Dipper's school counselor. And Dipper'd gotten defensive; accused Daniel of thinking he was crazy, or wanting to send him away, or felt his son had changed over that one summer.

Daniel had dropped it then.

Daniel dropped it now.

He pulled back a bit, leaning away to view his son properly; waged those crossed arms. Sighed, adjusted his glasses and let it go.

"Alright then. Nightmares." Dipper's face relaxed again, and he returned to neutrality. "And you used to see Mr. Arbuckle for treatment."

"Assessments, dad. Come on." His face went back to souring. A hand wiggled itself out of Dipper's bent elbows, where he promptly tousled his own hair in frustration; he'd always had unruly locks, making for messy bangs he could hide behind when necessary. Looking out from under brown tufts of hair, Dipper's eyes held nothing short of guarded pride. "It wasn't a disease."

Daniel's pause was a bit too long. He licked his lips before speaking again.

"No, no. 'Course not." Another pause; the uncomfortable shift in his seating position, followed by a subtle clear of his throat. "I'm just saying. You seemed a lot better after his visits. Less-." He raised his hand, curling in fingers as though to capture something that didn't yet exist. A word he couldn't quite place. "-Unhappy."

"I wasn't not happy before seeing him."

"You were tired."

"I always am."

"More tired." Desperation spiked through Daniel's voice when he spoke. His body moved in on instinct- to be closer to his son, the object of his yearly concern- before remembering itself with three paces back. "I know you don't like hearing it Mason, but it freaked me out when you came back like that." The fed up gesture he made at his son with those words; it cut Dipper in ways he hadn't prepared for.

"It was one summer, dad." The boy protested with pleading eyes. "I'm fine now. I'm really, really fine, and the last thing I feel like doing for my birthday is having the same conversation about going in for a goddamn diagnosis."

"Mason-." Daniel warned. His son was quick to beat him to the punch.

"'Don't curse,' I know." Dipper leaned his head back. "I'm sorry; I know that. I'm sorry."

They'd had the same conversation again.

That was what he was really sorry for.

Whatever was wrong with him- whatever Daniel wanted fixed- he hadn't figured out, and Dipper still wasn't exactly sure how to.

"I'm not asking for a lot here, Mason. Am I?" Daniel sighed, rolling his head in his hands. "We keep talking about it because I care about getting you help. I don't wanna be all heavy-hearted over this on your birthday, but it's not like I get much other chance to catch up with you, what with your work and mine."

"Dad, please."

"You're acting weird, Mason. There, I said it." Daniel threw up his arms with a laugh, like what he'd said had been some passive joke on his part. But, it was harty. The last words he wanted for Dipper's 23rd birthday. But, he said it nonetheless, and with a peaceful glint in his eye to prove it'd been said, sound of mind.

That seemed to worry the older man even more.

"Why does it feel like you're distancing yourself here? Where's Mabel?"

Daniel tossed his head over his shoulder, knowing perfectly well she was stuck in the kitchen with Miriam. Which felt super wrong. He knew that. Coming in, it'd been a huge red flag when Dipper didn't ask Mabel to join them; he always did. And, perhaps it was Daniel's memory serving him poorly- it wasn't. He was no fool- but, that passing glance between them when they'd crossed the threshold of the kitchen into the living room had been tough and burnt on all sides. Daniel felt it, the way Mabel's eyes caught sight of Dipper and poured with dread. Dipper, dampened. Indifferent, but dampened.

"You treat it like you don't know each other, Mase. You gotta admit, that's weird."

"Oh, so the one time she doesn't feel like trailing my ass-."

"Mason."

"I'll stop now, okay? I promise, I'll stop swearing now." He took a second to recollect himself. "The one time she doesn't feel like tagging along, it suddenly means something's wrong?"

"I didn't say that." Daniel countered, making Dipper scoff.

"Well, what are you saying?"

"I'm saying something's off today, alright? Maybe nobody else is seeing it. Maybe I'm just being hyper-sensitive, or I'm reading the room wrong, but-. Darn it, Mason. Are you alright today? Really? I can't help but feel you're about to do something crazy."

"And there it is." Dipper groaned poorly. "Crazy. You think I'm crazy. Why does it always come back to that?"

"It doesn't. I'm just concerned." Before he could stop himself, Daniel's hand shot out for Dipper's, clasping tightly to the palm still tucked around the brunette's torso. A knee-jerk reaction had Dipper's fingers slicing away, out of his grip, followed after by an excessively guilty feeling in the pit of his stomach when Daniel- hurt, slow, but prepared- backed up again. His father leveled a piercing gaze, to which his son was unable to hold.

"I wish you'd tell me when things are bad, alright?" His hand went out once more before retracting itself.

"Nothing's wrong."

"It feels wrong, Mason." Daniel shook his head with a heavy tilt; he took in a breath, held it, and huffed with near pain. Adjusting his glasses, he attempted to get each word in order; to not screw this up. To not scare his son. "I-. Something feels wrong here. And, I just-. I'm not sure, alright, but I get the feeling you're not yourself right now."

"But I am, dad."

"I know." Daniel ran a hand up his face, pulling with it bits of excess skin that was beginning its slow descent into age. He looked weathered, yet firm. Stressed, but wise. Adjusting his glasses one last time, the older man tried to force it down; whatever it was he wanted to say; needed to. It tired him, this conversation, and his son was nowhere near admitting anything. As much as he wanted to, Daniel just couldn't will himself to pry Dipper open anymore than he already had.

He lifted himself, placing his body one cushion seat away.

"Alright; I know. You're right, you're right." Daniel waved his hand through the air, like it'd all been some hurtful joke he hadn't meant to offend the boy with. "Something's just-. There's a red flag here, and it's got my senses all haywire." He shifted, judging Dipper's body language distreetly through the glint of his glasses. His son was still pale- much too pale- and distant. The allusion of just something being wrong had him tight and inward-pulling. Which wasn't like him. Wasn't like his curious son at all.

"Well, it's not me." Dipper assured, bringing himself in even more. Daniel willed his reaction down at his obvious discomfort. 'It's not me.'

Then who is it?

"It better not be." His father stated in place of what was actually on his tongue. Light, teasing; so much like a poke, and not a punch. Dipper almost eased out of his tightened muscles at the playful tone before remembering himself.

"It's not."

"I know. I believe you."

"I'm serious."

"I get it. You're fine."

"There's nothing-."

"It's alright, Mason." Daniel held up a hand, silencing him.

Dipper had so much left to say, but had sworn off admitting any of it. He wanted to tell him things. He wanted to tell Daniel to stop being so proud of him. He wanted to explain that, though it was nice to know people thought so highly of him, it made his stomach turn each time his father put that hand on his shoulder; pet, squeezed, and smiled, remarking what a great guy Dipper was. Because that wasn't true. That wasn't true at all.

He wanted to say this thing.

Daniel turned away from the brunette, a saddened glaze of his features hidden behind his ever-comfortable mirth. He reached over the arm of the couch to grab at another picture frame. A family photo. Again, with his face scribbled out. Still, he smiled at the snapshot, head leaning into hand when he hummed, pulled it in closer, pulled it back, and passed it off to Dipper.

"This one's pretty nice." Daniel offered. Natural as ever, of course. He was far too calm a person when the moment felt heavy.

"Yeah." Was all Dipper could say to that, taking one long, hesitant glance at the frame before him. Partially afraid of finding some hidden message along the page. Like Daniel might take a pen and scribble down quickly, 'I know you plan on killing John, and it makes me very disappointed.' And pass it his way, sit back smuggly, and watch his son's face crumble at the sight.

The paper was clean. The edges were smooth. Apart from Daniel's exed out face, everything was as should be. Once Dipper's initial paranoia washed away, along with a bit of skepticism, he put the picture down on a coffee table, uninterested.

"You were- what? Seven; eight?"

"Eleven." Dipper corrected, knowingly. His father hummed a chuckle.

"Oh, right. Right, right, right, right, right." He nodded his head. "Mabel hadn't gotten her braces in yet." A finger lifted to point out the little girl's thumb-sized gap, and a wash of fondness came over the twin boy. Then nostalgia. Remorse. Regret. Guilt, for the one person he'd promised every secret to. Dipper's heart weakened. "She used to squirt milk through her gap." Daniel snorted.

"Did she?"

"You don't remember? She went through a whole milk-squirting phase back in the fourth grade."

Dipper did remember.

Acknowledging the good now, though. Acknowledging it felt so wrong here. He pretended not to know.

He paused, shrugged, and looked from his father, who'd dropped his smile once his son stopped watching him.

"Beats me."

And, that hurt Daniel.

That hurt him.

In the room without his face.

Without his presence.

It hadn't occurred to him that Daniel was experiencing a similar sensation of distance, and had only hoped to come to shore through Dipper, who he was unaware was even farther out in the tides than himself. That when he'd brought up the memory, it was in retaliation to his son's pushing away. His 'don't touch me. Don't come near. Don't feel. Don't know. I am not. I simply am not.' Whatever it was that he was not.

Maybe it was explanation enough for Dipper to simply admit forgetting his father could feel so human in such a pathetic way. Feel distance in a home that didn't remember the weight of his body along newly-paneled oakwood. Couldn't remember how many steps it was up, or how many it was down. Or when they'd ever decided on that gaudy shade of orange for the dining room. Didn't know the new man of the house, and couldn't recall when he'd started being the old.

Didn't even get the mild tinge of nostalgia from picking up a photograph and seeing a pair of younger, specticalled eyes staring back at him.

Daniel took a moment too long recovering from his son's words. Even so, he found his voice much sooner than Dipper did.

"'Course not." Bitter; almost bitter. Because, who he'd presumed was a bridge onto mainland had in fact been yet another stranded boat. At the very least, they could've been lost together, but Dipper demanded three waves between them at all times.

His son said nothing. Only stared blankly at the grown man; felt harsh and undercooked and corroding all in a single blow to his head. He was far too good at reading each and everyone of Daniel's faces. He wore many; perhaps for the best. Dipper had grown skeptical of plain smiles.

Pain rode through those cheeks of Daniel's, and Dipper knew he had to get away before his lips could explain what made the brunette so distant, so cold, so unfamiliar- a vulnerability to Bill's plan, which he couldn't risk. Before he'd properly processed his own movements, Dipper found himself standing from the couch.

"I should check up on William; he's probably bored out of his mind."

Daniel looked like he might follow his son when he made a swift exit. And, he could have, knowing full and well Bill had only been used as an excuse to escape the atmosphere; that Dipper just wanted to get away. He could've been petty. Daniel Pines could've trailed the young man he was so fond of, perfectly content in his decision to hurt his son with this heaviness. To hurt him, the way he suddenly felt compelled to do, purely to sooth his own raging frustrations.

Which is exactly why he didn't.

He sat there, cross-legged, watching as his son ascended the steps, supposedly to where Bill was located.

The distinct, burning scent of citrus. Followed by black hair; a body outside of his field of vision before, now moving in closer. Once situated behind the wall, coming in now to slide his back against the hallway paint, and watch Dipper glide upstairs.

Daniel noted John, who leaned against that wall outside of the living room. Who he hadn't caught sight of during their conversation, but had surely been there for most of it. And who looked very, very paranoid of whatever it was they'd discussed. John placed his thumb's nail between his teeth. Almost bit down, before remembering how perfectly round they all were, and relented. He watched that boy bound up the steps.

Daniel felt weirdly uncomfortable, seeing how John saw Dipper. Indifferent, but-. Something else. Though paranoid- for whatever reason- was it too much to say the older man looked strangely- Longing?

The two grown men's eyes locked, and initial movements John had made to follow the brunette upstairs were suddenly abandoned. He simply leaned there, against the wall, casual and plain on the surface, though boiling in turns of flame from within. Here, Daniel couldn't get a read on his intentions.

In part because he refused to believe it.

[...]

When Dipper found Bill upstairs, there was hardly anything to say.

Had everything gone alright with Daniel?

Yes.

Did he crack? Was anybody onto them?

No.

Was he ready to exact his revenge?

Shut up, Bill. Please, just shut up.

What could've been a coddling, warm reassurance, was instead the dreary pain of self-loathing when Dipper's partner, perfectly content, whipped out the vial. And, he smiled the brunette's way. And nodded his head, 'Yes. This is how it's supposed to be.' Pursed his lips and gave Dipper a sloppy, tongue-fueled kiss, by which he was cut short when the smaller reciprocated for only a moment, before pulling back and felt a line had almost been crossed.

Bill acted as though he didn't mind. But, he'd initiated it, as all else in their relationship, and being denied that kind of touch between them was tearing in all kinds of ways. Because, again, his form only grew more human as the days went on. He'd found on their short visit to California that even skin needed caring for, and Dipper's lips or hair or fingers or cheeks seemed to be substance enough to appease the saddening twitches of want that wouldn't calm itself.

To feel was to have. To have was to breath.

It annoyed him. Everything about this situation made him itch in frustration. Bill couldn't stand how easy it was for Dipper to wipe himself out; to suck the very life from his own face. He was his own worst enemy, the way every little thing stuck with him. And, dragging Bill into it? Fuck. Damnit, did he hate that. Now he had to fix things. Bill had to get involved, otherwise his pinetree would just dig himself into a deeper hole. And, where was the fun in destroying something that was already near-finished?

Hard work.

It was hard work.

So, Bill kept his distance when it looked like Dipper might need it. He only spoke in vague terms when addressing their plans, which was easy, considering how cryptic he was to begin with. Still, he despised stepping on eggshells, and the ranging censorship, and the soft-ish tone, and the boundaries.

When they were together, in that guest room all alone, there should have been a level of vulnerability Dipper was expected to supply. But he was all too drained to properly moderate what was enough exposure, and so opted instead for full-blown lock down of intimacy. Bill didn't so much as attempt contact afterwards; only spoke, secretive as ever, of their plans.

"When's dinner at?"

"In about twenty minutes."

"And the toast?"

"Some time after." Dipper shifted, one foot to the other.

Downstairs was Miriam. In her pretty little apron, wiping down the table and setting up plates. Rescuing a casserole from the oven; getting the place mats.

Pulling out cups.

Miriam used to call it 'a little taste,' back when she'd had a go at some of the finer wines in her collection. And, though being the upright woman she was, there was to be a laxness about her character then, in the smooth buzzing of her ears; the calm warmth of her nose. Growing up, it'd only been 'a little taste.' And, she'd called her children over- only on their birthdays, and when they swore to never tell anyone outside of the house- to take a tiny sip from her glass in celebration.

'A toast,' she'd once called it, raising her glass, by which Daniel raised his, and the twins pretended to raise theirs, and acted even the slightest bit tipsy from watered-down wine.

It was a tradition of sorts; European, really, and not at all as inappropriate as the neighbors on her block would call it. That's how she phrased it. She'd smile tightly; allow the drinking. Allow the sip. Until one day, her children became of age, and the tradition of passing her glass from one to the other back to her, was a distant memory, and either twin could simply pour a cup of their own.

A loneliness fell over the scene she'd once associated with family.

Bill asked about seating arrangements, not that Dipper would know anything about that. At some point, it had only been the four of them, with Dipper on Daniel's left, and Mabel to Miriam's right. With him out of the house though, the system was changed, and Daniel might squeeze out from the head of the table to sit by his son, and Miriam might be to the left of John now, and John to the right of Mabel, and Mabel horizontal to Bill. It only made planning an itch harder to scratch, but doable. Bill was a crafty guy, after all.

Sneaking death's blood into wine wasn't a problem.

Still, Dipper felt everything would go horribly wrong.

[...]

Dinner was called, and the kitchen became the dining room, and empty chairs were filled, and glasses were poured. Water glasses. Tony would be sent to bed after dessert, at which point the adults could bust out a bottle of some high-end drink Miriam had hoarded away for the occasion. Until then, they all spoke lightly, and without interest in politics or work.

Not that Dipper enjoyed either subject.

Somehow, in the midst of Miriam's guiding hands, and her proud, expectant smile, she'd miraculously herded everyone around the table how she envisioned it. Her on one end; John on the other. Daniel was horizontal to Bill, who was seated across from Mabel, meaning the girl was also across from Dipper, who'd been unfortunately crowded in by his lover on one side, and his harasser on the other. Dipper to the right of John. Mabel to his left.

Perhaps in Miriam's eyes, it had only seemed appropriate to place them around their stepfather. To that, Dipper really couldn't blame her. She was only ignorant to the situation, as everyone else.

That didn't make the boy any less distressed, feeling whenever the table cloth below his fingers shifted, and John's fists clenched, and he could hear the draw in the man's tone, and smell blunt citrus and lotion and note each and every clack of his spoon against Miriam's plates. And, perhaps John's ankle had only brushed against him by accident. Perhaps he really had knocked his fork off the table, and he did need to pick it up from under the cloth, and the tufts of his hair were brushing against his knee by circumstances only.

Perhaps.

Dipper excused himself a total of four times that night to go to the bathroom, rubbing his face raw with cold water from the sink. When he came back, Bill was a bit closer to the man than before, and he'd leaned his elbows against the thin linens; cocked a smile. Said something charming that had John interested, if not flirtatiously coy. And, it had felt natural, being the person that Bill was, for him to be a tad touchy around the hands, even as his vest-clad chest moved over his plate to get there. Miriam didn't mind, of course. She liked Bill. Everyone liked him.

John brushed a thumb over the card in his pocket, pressing a digit against each corner.

'William C. Angle; Criminal Mind Expert.' With a ten-digit phone number underneath.

If he ever wanted to talk, Bill had said when offering the business card to him. If he ever felt like talking.

Sure; why not? They could talk after dinner. They could talk for hours. They could talk the entire visit; right after cutting the cake. They could talk over the phone, and on facetime. Maybe become regular fishing buddies, and arrange to talk on camping trips.

They could even talk Dipper into joining them; he could get right in the middle of their conversation.

John would smile and reach for his fork, a distance further up; his fingers almost grazing Dipper's, but not quite.

Five times. Dipper excused himself five times that night.

The cake was cut, and slices were handed out around the table. Miriam worked to move the dinner plates out of the way, in place of dessert. She'd lean over her son's shoulder to replace half-eaten string bean casserole with red velvet, followed by a sly peck of the young boy's cheek. Which had warmed him. Only a moment, with the content look she gave- those eyes that were kind on these occasions- before making her rounds along the table to continue her collection of dishes.

She sent Tony to bed.

Miriam swept away the last of the silverware and dishes.

Packed up the cake.

Got out the wine glasses-.

Oh god, wait.

Too fast.

It's skipping.

Things are going too fast now.

Please, slow down.

Dipper's mom was happy to distribute a cup to each seated person. Even Daniel, who half-protested a drink of his own. She was persistent, though. He let it happen after an extra push from her, already beaten down and partially awkward about arguing with his ex.

"Great meal, Miriam." Bill offered, cool as a cucumber in his chair. With one hand, he scooped up a glass. The other was already fishing around in his pant pocket, fetching the vial between his fingers.

Everyone chimed in with their agreeance, aside from Dipper and John. One of which looked like he might pounce, but also might book it if he ever gets the chance to. The other, pale as he was, couldn't seem to work his lips apart in all their chapness. Dipper thought he might excuse himself a sixth time.

"Stop; you're too sweet." Miriam gushed, rubbing her hands against the apron she hadn't yet discarded. She gave her son a parting look at that. And, perhaps he'd read it wrong. Maybe he had. But-. Did it almost look as though her eyes had said 'good choice?'

Dipper didn't have enough time to unpack whatever that expression was; Bill had taken the liberty of passing the glasses around, from Miriam's hands to his to Dipper's to John's to Mabel's to Daniel's.

He'd been right not to worry about seating arrangements; been right not to wonder how Bill would pour the poison with one body separating him from his target. Because, unlike everyone else's empty glass, John's was still a bit damp. A clear residue pooling at the base of his wine glass- probably water- not water. It looked like a bit of moisture from the dishwasher.

Somewhere, in the midst of passing glasses, Bill'd done his part effortlessly. And no one saw it. No one cared about a wet cup.

No one but Dipper.

Because, that wasn't water. It just wasn't. Dipper saw Bill get up from his seat, peaceful as he was- hardly caring what he'd done- and disposed of the now empty vial.

A few fucking drops.

And that would be the end of it.

"Sweetheart?" Miriam placed a hand on Dipper's shoulder, forcing a jerk all through his body. He pleaded with his limbs to stay calm, and they did for the most part, aside from his right leg, which refused to quit its rhythmic bouncing. "You alright?"

"Great." He replied quickly. By this point, it hardly mattered. It hardly mattered how he would look here. It hardly mattered if everyone noticed. They wouldn't remember that wild look in his eyes, come tomorrow. "Just ready to get this over with." He stretched his arms, met with tight, stressed pulls.

If Miriam was offended by his choice of words, she didn't let on to it. Just this once, she decided not to fuss. The woman put her hand on his shoulder, soft as a feather, but firm against light skin. Her eyes were a bit weightier, but not nearly as much as Daniel's, who'd been onto his son since the very beginning. She sucked in a breath- perhaps wanting to say something. But, how could she? She wasn't ever sure what to say to this man; her boy.

Pretending not to notice her son's strangled demeanor, Miriam gave his cheek a light pat.

"Alright, alright." The woman began with a lilt in her tone. A hand went through that hair of his, to which he stiffened reflexively. She sensed the motion and was quick about releasing him; casually, of course. Not to draw attention to whatever... that was. "You feel like doing the honors?" She offered. Like asking a child if they felt like lighting the candles, or cutting the first slice.

Miriam offered the bottle up to him; some french import she'd scrounged her local supermarket for, with the fifty dollar price sticker still pressed at the bottom. Dipper smiled as best he could, forcing down the sudden urge to swallow a mounting lump in his throat.

"Oh." He said dumbly. His fingers paused- hesitated- before forcing themselves ahead to wrap around the neck of the drink. With that, Miriam smiled, giving him a nod of her head, encouraging him on. He popped the cork without it flying off, or causing a massive spill- professionally; not like his first time. 'First' meaning in front of his parents when he was around nineteen. Real first being his sophomore year of highschool, packed up in the crowded lawn of some senior quarterback by the name of Quill Minorelly.

'The honor,' by Miriam's words, was simply to pour everyone a glass. And, it was an honor; just a little. Usually. Not today, of course. Today, it was a nerve racking death sentence.

Bill was first, as everyone would expect, being the guest here, on top of being a self-serving asshole. Dipper stood, leaning left of him so the bottle would tilt against the curve of Angle's glass. A time ago, if he were much younger, it wouldn't have surprised a single soul for this young man to overpour Bill's glass, or knock his cup, or miss the target completely; he'd been clumsy like that.

Dipper was older, though. And practiced with his drinks. Hanging around Pacifica- with her snobbish undertone, and just a wisp of refinement- he'd learned how to pour a glass. If anyone were to ask how it looked, they'd almost argue it was charming when he did. Specifically him.

Here, though. Here, everyone watched very closely, with an uncertainty about their gazes. His hand was trembling where he held the bottle. And his eyes weren't exactly on the glass. And his other arm wasn't at his side, as it usually was, but instead a bit back of his chest, so he could clutch the table for stability.

Miriam chewed her lip.

Daniel folded his hands.

Mabel looked down.

He finished pouring the first glass without incident, feeling still as though he'd spilled the entire content. So much so, he almost apologised. Moving along, he poured Miriam's with exceeding tremors of the wrist, but under control by his flexed fingers. Daniel's, he bumped the bottle against the line of his cup, and Dipper almost lost it. Almost, but not quite. He clutched the glass firmly, using his free hand to help lift the base of the bottle; to stabilize the trembling. Poured, and moved on.

Dipper didn't even look at Mabel. He only tilted the wine into her cup- far less than he'd given everyone else. She hated alcohol, after all.- and moved on to John.

To say it felt-... perverse, standing to the side of his step father was an understatement. Saying it felt wrong approaching this man, and not vice versa, just didn't do the feeling justice. It was like trying to breath underwater. That's exactly how Dipper treated it. His lungs pinched at the base as though the room had been vacuum sealed. When his hands trembled, every hair of his arm stood on end, and his mouth dried out. It was like he couldn't move.

"Careful." Miriam remarked finally, able to sense the unease of her son. Even though he hadn't strayed off course, or spilled so much as a drop on her tablecloth. It had been a bad idea to give him the honors, but taking over the wheel in favor of unstained linens just didn't feel fair to her; it would've only embarrassed him now. So, she let her son serve John, though with an arched brow when Dipper refused to bend forward to reach the glass, instead extending his arms as far as they would go. Like reaching over fire.

Didn't say a thing to her husband when he- Paranoid. Paranoid, but wanting still.- decidedly tipped the bottle a bit farther in Dipper's hands, so he'd get a portion more wine than the rest. And Dipper, shaken, almost dropped the bottle all together, before catching it with fumbling hands.

"Careful." His mother rose a few inches from her seat this time, fingers curling in on themselves. Her voice was a soft hiss. Not angry. Not calm, either. She was famous for her hysterics, after all. And, if her son continued balancing the bottle between sweaty palms that way, she might go into shock. "Please." She lowered back into her seat.

Dipper moved around to pour his own glass.

Miriam willed a smile. Daniel winced.

By now, the bottle was empty. He took a quick look at John's cup, and made out the subtle glaze of poison filming his drink. Not that the older male could tell the difference. It was just a layer of something a bit white. Had the red of his cup looking pale in comparison, but barely.

It made something in Dipper sting.

"Would anyone like to lead the toast this year?" Miriam asked the group as they each cradled their glasses between middle and index finger. She'd always been the one, posed as she was. Who else really felt like standing with some eloquent speech on their tongue? No one ever came to the toast willing to give a toast; which was perfectly fine. She was already rising from her chair after a moment of silence, willing to recite whatever little thing she'd thought up in the moment.

'A toast to Mason and his job,' Maybe.

'To Mabel and her sweetness.'

'To the guest; thank you for making it.'

'To Daniel. You weren't the one for me, and you never will be. Still, thank you for these two. Thank you for the twins.'

'To John.'

To john.

And, maybe they would have raised their cups then, and simply drank to the name alone.

But, as she stood, ready to give her tiny line, Daniel placed a calculated hand on her shoulder.

"I'll do it this year." He offered. Miriam gave a stunned look. Slight disappointment. Slight relief. She rolled his hand off her shoulder, just as Dipper had done before.

"Really?" She asked. Daniel grinned, nodding.

"Really." With that, he rose from his seat, causing Miriam to sink in response.

Dipper didn't notice they were beginning the toast at first, and his hand wasn't even on his glass yet. He'd planned on tuning it all out, just as he'd done every year. His mother's 'Thank you god, for these two. And thank you god they didn't turn out so bad.' He planned on tuning out.

Then, Daniel spoke.

"Alrighty." His father breathed out, clearing his throat. Dipper's back went rigid. His eyes were quick to trail up to the man before him. Glass in hand, face aglow- despite the dead, worried white of his expression- not looking at his son, though casting his voice in the younger's direction.

"I'd like to make a toast." He smiled. And, god. Wasn't that the smile of someone just happy to be around? Wasn't that the look of someone not alone? "Thank you again for dinner, Miriam. You're a hardworking lady."

The woman looked at him. Away. Ashamed in a way that only held regret. She could've murmured a small 'thank you,' if it didn't feel out of place then. Because, it wasn't really her praise to take. It was theirs.

"It makes me happy our kids are, too."

Dipper didn't miss the way his tone shifted when saying that.

'Our kids.'

'They're our kids. They're rare.'

Daniel turned to address his children.

"You two." He began with a smile, as well as a slight lift of his drink. "I don't know how I lucked out like this. I've got no idea where I went right to deserve either of you."

Mabel lifted her head from the odd bend it had been in before, and she looked over at her father. Brows pinched, she put a hand over her heart, letting out a quiet 'aw' at Daniel's words. The glass in her hand was held up a bit more upright.

Dipper sunk down in his chair.

It's not luck, dad. It's not luck.

You have no idea how bad you've got it.

"You're impressive; both of you. Creative and smart. I know you've got a thing about labelling which twin is good at whatever, but it's not like that all the time. You're both great." He waved his hand, batting the suggestion away. "And, I wish you'd let me say that more often than birthdays."

Dipper's stomach cramped.

Don't look at me here. Please, don't be looking at me.

You don't know me anymore. Things are too complicated.

It's not so simple.

I'm not so simple.

Daniel's eyes weren't on his son. They weren't on anyone. Still, it wasn't such a stretch to feel he meant those last words for Dipper specifically. He went on.

"I wanna make a toast, then." He lifted his glass a bit more. Everyone followed suit. Even John, who looked beaten down by this longer-than-two-words speech.

The white film of his drink wobbled.

"To my wonderfully attractive children; I have no idea where you get your looks from."

"My side." Miriam chimed in seamlessly before coughing into her hand and clearing her throat, composing herself. Daniel chuckled.

"Mabel." He addressed his daughter warmly. "A toast to you. You're smart and versatile; not just the wool of your sweaters."

And, the look it put on her face-.

She seriously smiled then, with rosy cheeks and eyes that asked her wine glass 'Really?' To say it looked like no one had ever said something like that to her before was both heartbreaking and wonderfully refreshing to finally hear.

"And, a toast to you, Mason."

Dipper's chest hammered.

His glass wobbled.

His eyes watered-.

No, blink them away.

Don't feel this moment.

Don't be present.

Don't be mindful.

Daniel set him with a soft gaze, and everything about him fell to pieces.

"Your heart's a lot bigger than you let on; never be ashamed of that."

He fell to pieces.

He fell right to pieces.

You have a heart, Mason.

You have a heart.

Use it.

Dipper almost missed the moment entirely, so focused on his father. The way his hand rose just an inch in the air; how his head began to tilt back. How Daniel readied himself to drink to the toast. He almost missed the moment.

But, something struck him.

He was suddenly in the house.

He was suddenly feeling the moisture of his cup, and the anticipation of drink, and the slight hunger, and the closeness, and the cold- the warmth- the cold- the warmth, and every inch of skin that wrapped his body.

And, in a fit of life, he slapped John's drink from his hand.

"Don't!"

Maybe he'd been too excited about it, though.

"Oh-! Well, fucking-!" Wine ran down John's V-neck, and it was like a death in the family. "Damn it!"

"Hey, woah." Daniel put down his glass quickly, having hardly gotten a taste of the fru-fru whatever in his cup. He gave Dipper an incredulous look.

'Why?' It asked, as though a simple answer was enough for forgiveness.

Dipper wasn't sure he could supply one.

"Oh God, Mason. Honey, if you were still feeling dizzy, you should've just-." Whatever Miriam planned on saying next didn't really matter. Not then. Dipper's ears were pounding against waves of blood, and he could feel when his heartbeat raced to the soles of his feet. John growled.

"That wasn't fucking dizziness, Miriam! He fucking did that!" The raven haired man snarled, working fruitlessly to ring out bits of wine.

"By accident, John." She hissed back, hands on her hips, features offended. Perhaps trying not to be offended. Not in front of guests. Her lips snaked in a grimace, nonetheless.

"'By accident.' For fuck's sake; I told you he was gonna be a goddamn problem today!"

"It's a shirt, dear. A shirt." She threw her head back like this was the millionth time they'd had this conversation. "Calm down. You've got another one upstairs."

"It's not about the shirt!" John sounded downright insulted; like insinuating he'd ever get this pissed over some white V-neck was so below him. It wasn't, of course.

It just wasn't what had been bothering him all day.

"He slapped the damn drink out of my hand! Why don't you tell him to calm down?"

Miriam's chest heaved. Now, she could've spat right in his face for that. She could've barked back at him for his stupid tone, and that dumb V-neck she'd always hated.

Not in front of Daniel, though.

That would've been so embarrassing.

She relented, lips curling in before addressing Dipper.

"Mason, why don't you lie down in the guest room? Maybe letting you walk around in this heat was a bad idea."

"That's not what I meant!" Miriam was quick to snap at him.

"What do you want me to say, John?" She threw her hands up, the last of her drink flying free from her cup. "I'm already sending him to his room like a child. What else can I do here?"

"Control your fucking kids."

"Alright, that's enough." Daniel slammed his hand down on the table, making either of the twins jump. Bill hid his grin behind a rim of wine.

'Oh, this family's wonderfully dysfunctional.'

"Don't you badmouth our children." Their father warned with eyes not fit for that gentle face of his. He was a softer fellow around the jaw, with fair hair and a small bump in his throat; the look he gave didn't match those features.

"What? In my house?"

"John!" Miriam snaked between her teeth with clenched fists. Mabel sank very low in her chair, making home in the turtle neck of her sweater. Dipper was slowly creeping out of his initial shock of 'Holy fuck I just fucking did that in front of everyone I just fucking did that.' Bill put a hand on his shirt sleeve and willed his zombie-like body to sit down.

"Don't you police me on how to talk; your son's a problem! He's a damn problem!"

"Oh my god." Mabel mumbled into the neck of her sweater. Her back was now laying in the seat of her chair, knees on the floor, with either hand pulling the collar of her shirt far, far above her head. "Oh my god. Oh my god."

"And I'm tired of you-!" John whipped around to face Miriam. "-Acting like he's a saint! How about instead of gushing over how smart he is, you teach him some respect, like a damn parent!"

"I do-!" She tried, though her voice was defensive, not confident. The initial flame of her conviction had wavered just a bit.

"Shit." John laughed, head thrown back. "Jesus fuck, you're just like your mother!"

"I'm trying my best!" Miriam's voice wavered. "Don't you compare me to her!"

She set her glass down hard enough to justle the entire table. Her arm was flexed with shaking, tight muscles.

Grandma Huldah.

Miriam never talked about her home life; never talked about it.

Not with her children, anyway.

It was right though, to assume she'd been in deep back then. That she'd been put in a place of expectations, and do this, and do that, and don't fail here, and never feel these. And that she'd eloped from it all in hopes of escaping the pressure. And that, despite her best efforts, those teachings were all she knew, and they would have been all her kids would've known if not for the man she'd found in the process.

Dipper's stomach balled up tight, seeing the look of melted pride on his mother's face.

That's not okay.

This isn't her fight.

"Alright, alright." Bill sighed into his glass before setting it down. "Let's not get too excited."

"How about you-." John snapped around without so much as a hitch in his motions. His finger went out accusingly. "-Put a damn leash on your whorish boyfriend?" He jerked towards the boy in question.

It took a second for Dipper's parents to register just who John was talking about.

"Excuse me?!" Miriam growled.

"Oh god, oh geez, oh no." Mabel sank even farther down in her chair until she was completely under the table. She pulled the tight knit of her wool sweater up to her ears, working to block the noise.

Still a better birthday than after the divorce.

This was a close second, though.

" You fucking heard me! Your son's a whore!"

"I am about to-." Miriam's hand went up, balled fist, eyes snapping shut when her lips curled in, and she really had to decide whether or not 'cut off your fucking head' was an appropriate thing to say in front of her kids. She reluctantly concluded 'no.' "You-. Seriously need to check yourself."

"Or what?"

Dipper's body was suddenly wired. Hot, electrified in all the wrong ways when that tone-. His skin burned. John was like a shark now, wading the waters. He'd only shown the tip of his fin against the surface, but even his stance gave off feeding intentions.

There was something about that 'Or what' that made him livid. It made him feel fucking hysterical. Because now, he was feeling everything. Dipper's blood was pumping so much faster, and his eyes took in every bit of detail. The heat under his nails was scorching.

John had just 'Or what'd Miriam.

Who was still wearing a fucking apron from dinner.

Who'd excused herself to tuck Tony in for bed.

Who still put up with the old tradition of giving a toast.

Who'd fucking invented it.

Or what?

Or what?

The hairs on Dipper's neck stood on end, and he was suddenly completely attuned to every last breath John took.

"I'm not about to do this with you." Miriam was suddenly cautious; she seemed to know 'or what,' whether or not she could bring herself to say it. She looked at her husband, steady as she was in that moment, before lowering herself back in her seat. Like the death of a martyr. "Please, just sit down."

As she cooled, so did Dipper's temper. His fists slowly unballed themselves from the table cloth, clenched jaw working to ease out of its tight grip, shoulders loosening those muscles. He tried to breath through his nose, not the grit of his teeth.

John stood there dumbly. Still wet, of course. Shaking in a way that said he wasn't ready to give this stupid thing up. Dipper regretted ever slapping that glass out of his hands for multiple reasons. But, the deed was done, and he'd made his final decision; like offering himself up to a cross. He worked to release the tension of- just- everything.

Dipper let the anger slip away.

He let it go.

John sat back down.

"That's what I fucking thought."

If someone were to inform Dipper he'd re-balled his fist, he wouldn't have noticed. If they'd told him he'd knocked over his chair in his sudden rush to stand, he would have honestly had no idea. When he grabbed the collar of John's still-damp shirt, he hardly registered so much as a drop of wine on his fingers.

That was pretty much how the first punch went down.

Left, then right. John, putting up his forearms after those two consecutive blows.

He'd knocked him out of that chair with the first, and onto his feet with the second. Though dazed, John was already returning fists by the third.

Miriam shrieked, cupping her cheeks in shock when Dipper laid a nasty left hook to John's cheek.

"Stop!" A plate slid itself off the table when the two men knocked into a corner, forcing it to shatter. Mabel let out a yelp from beneath the table.

Still not as bad as after the divorce.

Hell, close though. Closer and closer by the second.

It was a blur, really. And, maybe not justified to chalk up as 'don't talk to my mother like that.' No, no. This had been a long time coming. His body had lept to action before Dipper's brain processed his own intentions.

It was a lot more than defending honor.

This was required on an emotional level.

There wasn't a damn thing Dipper could do about that.

By the sixth fist, they were ramming each other into a wall. Ninth, John was hauling the smaller over by the breast of his shirt. There was a bit of hair pulling in the mix, some ways between knocking Dipper's wine glass off the table, and Bill's unhelpful 'Put 'em in a headlock!'

"You fucking bitch!" John got a grip on the young boy- a damn good grip- and outright slammed Dipper onto the table. Silverware went flying. Tablecloth, yanked halfway to the floor. The empty wine bottle they'd once drank from came crashing down, at which point Mabel decided she was a lot safer above ground.

Okay, okay, fine.

This was at least as bad as after the divorce.

She still clung to hope that nothing would catch fire this time.

The next few punches were all John's.

"Jesus, kid! Fight back!" Bill tried to rouse Dipper.

A knock at the brunette's cheek had his head slamming back on the table, and Bill was suddenly rushing over to pry the larger off.

"Call off your damn bodyguard, you piece of shit!" John growled out, bunching up his shoulders when Bill actually laid onto him. Bill. The refined, smooth-talking blondie.

A patch burned in his pocket, when John remembered that damn business card of his.

'If you wanna talk.'

Motherfucker.

A warm fist against his cheek had John lifting his elbow to block the next couple of blows, meaning Dipper was given permission to swing left, right, and kick.

"Get off of me!" He was a blind, raging mess on that table, with arms he didn't know could follow through like that; didn't know he could knock into a jaw with that level of accuracy.

"I'm calling the police; I'm calling the police." Miriam was in hysterics, yanking a phone from her purse, pacing behind the kitchen aisle like a trapped animal and typing '91-,' before giving up on the last number; closed her phone, gave it a minute, and warned to call again before starting the process all over.

She couldn't, though. Police officers, on her lawn? God, what would the neighbors think?

"You goddamn trouble-maker!" John roared, pulling Dipper farther up the table. "You goddamn whore!" He put his hand on the smaller's neck, gritting his teeth against Bill, who's fingers had decidedly found refuge in his hair and yanked at loose stands.

'That's my line,' he wanted to say, but the blond thought now might be a tad inappropriate.

"This is all because of you!"

Dipper's heart was beating through his ribcage; he couldn't help but feel overwhelmingly present in the moment. The full weight of this grown man pressing into his lower abdomen certainly didn't help the way his hands started trembling in response. He grit it out, though. He stuck with this bullshit decision to fight his aggressor like it was therapeutic.

Fight your fucking problems, damn it.

Let yourself get mad once in a while.

Damn it all; blame this asshole for all that!

"No." Dipper all but yelled, throwing up a fist just for the hell of it. It didn't do shit, of course. He was more physically spent than anything. By the way John's hand just kept tightening around his throat, Dipper felt he might black out if his blood pressure got any higher. "You're- just a creep."

"John, stop it! Oh god, you're killing him!" Which, of course, was only the hyperactive imagination of a mother helplessly watching her son get smacked on. Like a child on the balcony, four feet behind the railing but oh god, they could fall off at any second. Still, it terrified the woman. Terrified Dipper even more in his current state, hearing the outright honesty in her tone. Because, damn it all, didn't it sort of feel like he would die?

He wasn't breathing so well, now that he thought of it.

Bill threw an arm around John's neck. Getting behind him, he yanked him off the kitchen table all together. The last of the cloth slid away.

"Creep? Creep? What did you fucking think would happen?!" John was on his feet, working fruitlessly to wrestle the elbow from around his throat; not squeezing, but keeping him in place as long as he bucked around. Bill's feet tousled over themselves, going whichever way before finding neutral footing to pull the man farther back.

"Damn it, sapling-." Bill cursed, trying to work his other arm around his encaptured fist, barring John's neck in. The raven-haired male was in a fit of mindless scrambling, the way he thrashed in an effort to break free and get another shot in.

"You think I wanted to do that?! You think I wanted to try it?!"

Daniel was farther back, shielding his daughter from what was sure to be the worst birthday ever recorded in Pines history. Arms wrapped around the crown of her head, face still sunken deep within the cave of her sweater, the father could do no more than moderate the two bodies separate from his. He'd already snatched Miriam's phone from hand, working desperately to get the woman to 'Please, calm down.'

But, John was still a snarling wreck, and Bill's hair was ruffled and curling, and her son was starting to prop himself up on the table, rubbing a red handprint across his neck.

Miriam threaded either of her hands through the strands of her bun, giving herself a wild look.

"Daniel." The woman shook, grabbing at the man's sleeve, which was still wrapped around Mabel. "Daniel, do something."

The man looked baffled.

Do?

Do what?

He wasn't even sure how things had started.

Daniel sucked a breath through his nose, looking across the room at the brunette, who was groaning and cupping the side of his bruised cheek.

His son had always been a pacifist, though; like him. Right? When Dipper brought himself up off the table, and wiped a bit of blood from his nose, it seemed like the boy might go right back in on the fight.

Oh, hell.

He was.

"Hey! Hey, hey, hey!" Daniel broke from his daughter, making a quick slide between Dipper, and John who was currently trying to pry away tanned arms from his throat. "Mason!" Dipper attempted a side step, by which his father grabbed his arm. "Don't." He warned sternly, wrapping either arm around his waist.

"Dad, stop-." Dipper's tone wavered, but refused to give way under the sudden pressure of his throat. The grip of Daniel's forearms around him didn't burn quite so bad here. They weren't as suffocating as they might have been before.

But, it wasn't finished yet.

The feeling was still there, passive as it was.

He tried wiggling free of his father's grip. Daniel was stubborn, though; naturally balanced, and rather tough to knock over. So that when he leaned himself back and physically lifted Dipper from his feet, it didn't even phase the man.

"No, you stop." Daniel yanked him to the other side of the kitchen, pulling with him a bit of Dipper's initial pride. "I don't know why you two thought today was a good day to get at each other's throats-."

"Because he's a bastard!"

"Say that to my damn face!" Dipper snapped around at the man currently trying to squeeze his way out from Bill's headlock.

"You're a bastard!" He supplied effortlessly, chest lurking out against the barring of Daniel's arms. "You're a bastard, and a snake, and you ruined my fucking life!"

"Mason, quit it-!" His father tried, tightening his grip. He could feel the very heat of his son like this, rising and rising in ways that shouldn't have been possible. He felt nails dig into the skin of his hairy arms, almost letting go out of sheer pain, though refraining.

Daniel took a quick, passing glance behind him. With Mabel's sweater pulled just below her nose, and either of Miriam's hands over her own face, the outright shock of this moment didn't seem to be lost on them.

"You were asking for it!" The initial strength behind John's skin had melted away, leaving instead a trail of weakened arms and faltering power. Those eyes, though. There wasn't a thing mellow about the burn of his stare. "You wanted me to do it! You tricked me!"

"Tricked you?!" Dipper laughed at that. Laughed, and screamed, and worked hopelessly to break from his father's modified bearhug. He wanted to break that hold of his. Wanted to break the feeling of arms around his torso, and breath against his bare neck, and fingers digging into his shirt, and the feel of pant legs rubbing the backs of his thighs. He just wanted the feeling to stop. He wanted to get rid of this sensation, once and for all.

"Tricked you?!" He asked again. This time, with vengeance. He thrashed around in his father's hold, suddenly hot and cold and stung and soothed and breaking in all kinds of ways. His eyes vibrated. His skin crawled.

The engine of the car.

The smell of citrus.

The- the rain.

The goddamn repetition.

Dipper was so tired of living that scene.

His eyes watered, and his throat burned, and he thought he might throw up if his words didn't just string along the way he needed them too.

"I was fifteen, you fucking pedophile!"

And his heart sank, and his eyes lowered, and his head bent far enough for his forehead to lean into the arms currently containing him.

And he suddenly felt spent.

"I was fifteen."

"So?!"

Which had been a poor miscalculation on John's part. If he'd paid more attention to the moment, and really thought about where he was standing, maybe he would have realized then that the two of them weren't alone this time.

Things were much slower, all of a sudden.

John thrashed around in Bill's arms after that, still reeling with strings of frustration that wound about his spine. After a time, he realized the room had gone deathly silent; tilting his head up in the blond's hold, John gave a confused look. Miriam had stopped her screaming- thank god- Her fingers had slid from the fronts of her eyes, by which they lay refuge over her trembling lips. Gaze shot, brows high, cheeks tinted pink with a horror near-obscene.

Daniel looked sick to his stomach, still clutching Dipper from behind; those words bounced off the kitchen wall, and the clamminess of his skin was now a damp swamp. His flesh was pale here. His flesh was so pale. He caught note of his son, silent as he was, not moving or breathing or fighting it anymore, as though his suggestive confession had been a knockout.

Because-.

Holy shit.

What grade had Mason been when he moved in with Daniel?

How-?

How old had he been again?

"...No way." Whoever might've looked bad in that room wasn't even close to how Mabel'd taken it. There wasn't necessarily a physical trait to pick out that really set her reaction apart from the rest; pale skin, a sudden tremble of the lip, wide eyes. A bit slumped in comparison, but otherwise the same.

That look, though.

It hardly boggled her now as to why Dipper refused visiting California.

Not at all.

Those three expressions, coupled with Bill slipping his arm away from John's neck, who'd finally gone still, seemed to slap him in the face with what he'd just confessed.

'So?!' The word rang through his ears. Daniel released his son. Miriam took one step back- two forward- curling at the tongue with confusion and disdain. And there John stood awkwardly through the duration of their condescending gawk, suddenly cast away from whatever connection there had been before.

"...John..." Miriam's ghost of a tone slid past her lips, at which point her husband finally drained of every ounce of blood. "What... What's he talking about?"

"Nothing." Wine dried to skin, making his very flesh irritable. He pulled at the collar of his V-neck.

"Bullshit." Bill's near-playful tone cut in. Looking his way, it didn't seem a man nearly as upright could've existed; with his hair smoothed after the scuffle, coat jacket re-buttoned, grin plain and simple. Judgemental. Accusing.

"It's true." John countered. Hardly mattered, of course. They'd heard the dishonesty in his tone. They'd heard the 'So?!'

It was silent a moment longer.

Miriam drew in a hiss.

"I-I... I always thought it was weird; you'd been so avid about getting me out of the house." She paused, pulling whatever breath had escaped her body back; shaken, she wiped her eyes with the fat of her palm. "I never did, 'cause-. 'Cause, what's so fun about going to book clubs? And, sewing circles? And- and goddamn pottery classes?"

Miriam steadied herself against the corner of her perfect kitchen aisle, in her perfect home, on her perfect street, in her perfect town. Where she lived very, very comfortably, and had beautiful children that didn't look like her mother, or any of her abusive siblings, and had a husband with a nice car and a well-paying job and oh didn't he dress so fashionably just oh so fashionable and tall with thick black hair and dreamy eyes so nice to have around but goddamn it all the nice things in life come at a fucking price and that price was fucking disguisting.

"Thank god, I never did." She ran a hand down her face, mortified. "Thank god. Thank god." Tears brimmed at the lids. "I had no idea-."

"Miriam... Miri, no."

"I'm calling the police." She heard herself once, certain she meant it. And, when she knew she meant it, said it a second time more firmly. "Oh my god, I'm calling the police." Miriam shook her head in disbelief. Disbelief, but drive.

"What?" John pushed past Bill and his smug grin; he was now off to the side, picking at the undersides of his nails. "Are you hearing yourself right now? I-. You-. What'll the neighbors say, though?"

Miriam reached for her phone, still clutched tightly between Daniel's sweating hands. He let go without batting an eye, gaze trained on the guilty man before him.

Miriam's fingers found their rhythm, typing all of three numbers in perfect order.

"Miriam-!" John lurched for the woman in desperation, only for a thick, wide palm to slap across his chest. He looked up, and there Daniel was. Or, someone similar. Surely, the blank, shaded jar of features before him wasn't who'd given a toast just before all this. The hand on his shirt flexed, and there was a power behind it- much more than Daniel's broken son's.

"You touched my kid?" And, oh the fury behind those steady eyes. John said nothing, mouth rewired to form all but an 'uh' and an 'um.' Daniel didn't feel quite like a pacifist anymore. "Did you touch my kid?"

The accused man looked back at him, and knew perfectly well he couldn't lie like this; he was cornered on all four sides. Still, he tried.

"I-." John paused, wetting his lips. "I'm not just gonna stand here so you can accuse me." The cold tone, the fuming expression. It didn't match. Nothing about his demeanor matched. He refused to get caught, though. There wasn't a damn thing they could really pin on him, lest he confess to his own evil doing, and that just wasn't possible anymore. Swallowing his own natural instinct to back down, John put a hand across Daniel's chest in mirror, and dragged his shirt collar towards him. "If you've got a problem with me, say something."

He stood firm; tall. Confident in the eyes of that condescending man who'd questioned his moral backbone. But, he wouldn't back down. He just wouldn't.

"Yes? 911?"

John took the collar of Daniel's shirt as leverage, using the very last of his physical strength to shove the man over his own feet, so he'd end up tumbling backwards with a thud. There was a gasp- the initial shock of added violence- and John was turned around, basically on all fours, racing across the kitchen, through the hallway, past the living room, over mahogany flooring, and out the door within the time it took for Daniel to readjust the glasses on his face.

[...]

It was a heavy night.

The police came by for details on what Miriam had described as an assault, as well as the worst toast known to man.

"-And these are a few of his more recent photos."

A comically slim, older police officer leaned in on what looked to be a dimly lit selfie; Miriam held it without shame in her stance.

And all the details were written down, and the few people on the scene took note of what looked to be a struggle on the table, and they all testified- aside from the young man with tousled brown hair; he didn't say much. Just sat on the living room couch, lonely but not alone, with Bill at his side and an arm around the neck.

"You say this man's your husband?" Pen in hand. Book in other. One speaking into their walkie-talkie. There were few lights on that night along the road they lived, with several neighboring heads peeping from their homes to peer at what looked to be police cars on Mrs. Miriam's lawn.

"Well-. Not anymore." She corrected, of course. The man nodded; hummed. Clicked his pen and folded his notebook.

"We'll look into it." And that was all. They cleared out quickly.

And the house was silent again.

Miriam came by with a pack of ice for Dipper's swelling cheek. She sat down in the arm chair.

Mabel had left her shoes in the living room. She put them on, and settled herself on the floor.

Daniel was restless as ever, and when he'd finally run himself ragged, pacing the halls, he eventually found refuge against the living room's door frame.

Only then did Dipper realise they'd all congregate together for him; that they expected intel on the knitty-gritty. But, he wasn't ready for that.

When it became apparent he wouldn't make the first move, Miriam let out a sigh.

"God; I don't know what I'm supposed to tell Tony." She groaned sadly, massaging her temple. "Should I say he went on vacation? Oh, geez."

A pause throughout the room. No one dared speak too soon, in case Dipper planned on slipping something in through the cracks of his trembling lips. He swiped a thumb over the back of Bill's hand, but nothing more. If he'd been worried about his mother noticing this, and noticing the intimate closeness between him and his partner, and how many boundaries this alone crossed, Dipper didn't let on to it. Not that Miriam rightfully cared either way.

She'd assumed as much since he was nine.

"You should say he went to jail." Mabel snarled against the bumps of her knees, curled up as she was, still digesting bits and pieces of the night.

"...Maybe." Miriam replied, grief-stricken. How everything had gone down the toilet in only a night-.

She sighed.

"Maybe. Maybe." A heave of the chest; she rubbed a hand over her face. "What a mess."

"Sorry."

Dipper's voice cutting in was like electric wiring to the house. He spoke; all eyes on him. Miriam ashened, hands flying about in mortification at her son's apology.

"Mason- honey, no. It's-." She smiled crooked, hair released from its tight bun, and with eyes pressed on compassion. A hand was placed on his knee, and though able to feel the radiating heat of her palm on his flesh, Dipper didn't feel so violated by it.

He didn't feel so dirty.

"That- guy. He was a-." She rolled her hand through the air for inspiration. "He was a mistake. Letting you kids around someone like that-. That was-. God. Darling, that was a mess, wasn't it?"

Dipper shrugged, not meeting her gaze.

"I should have never known him." Miriam assured. Everyone seemed to nod their heads at that. "I'm sorry I knew him."

Again, he shrugged.

"Shit happens."

Bill snorted at the human's indifferent tone, still scraped from yelling his longues out. He was a funny one. Funny, and a bit pathetic, but what human wasn't? This one was at least entertaining when he was. Without thinking, he placed a confident kiss to the side of Dipper's face, followed by a ruffle of the hair.

"Adda-boy, babe." He chuckled despite the serious atmosphere, nudging the brunette's shoulder. Dipper smiled back, weak as it was.

"They're gonna catch him." Mabel mumbled in reassurance, despite the dread on her tongue. "Mom gave his licence plate."

"John'll ditch the car." Dipper replied.

"He'll be on foot, then."

"There are plenty of bus stops for him around."

"They can't take him far."

"They'll take him far enough."

"Someone's bound to recognise him."

"Not if it's local news."

"Don't say that, man; C'me on!" Mabel threw up her arms in sudden distress, eyes painted with something like betrayal. Not, of course. Though, it worried her, this monotone reply. This indifferent glance. Dipper was a cop, after all. He understood the movements of criminals; he was familiar with the system.

He talked like there was no way of really finding him.

"It doesn't matter anymore, Mabel. He's gone." And, the nod his head gave; the way his back eased into the couch, eyes closed, shoulder brushing into Bill's chest.

That was not the voice of someone who'd given up.

That was someone who'd overcome.

That was someone who'd started healing.

"Well, yeah. But-." She began, despite her brother's words. Despite his demeanor, mature and broken. It all felt so small, fighting what he felt was alright in this situation. What good would finding John bring? What kind of satisfaction did it give her brother here, drained of his old self, and wanting nothing more than to finally- finally- start a new chapter in life?

Mabel uncurled herself, sitting now with a pout on her face.

"Still..." She sighed, saying no more.

"Someday." Daniel piped in affectionately. Solemn in his features, though warm at the cheeks. He looked over Dipper like some newly found element. "Karma, and all that." Not that a man like him believed in karma. Not that a man like him believed his own reassurance. His son was smart; he knew how criminals circulated, and how the trail could be hot one minute, cold the next. And what was a guy like John wanted for, anyway? Some dinner party scuffle? No. Pointless.

He'd just get away.

"You really think so?" Mabel asked. Daniel smiled, nodding.

"'Course. He's as good as caught." The man reassured with a wink. His daughter lightened at the tone, even against her own developed reality. No, no. She knew as well as everyone else in the room. John was gone.

"Welp." Bill chirped after a moment of silence. He lifted his arms, stretching as best he could in the tightly suited coat of his jacket; Dipper wiggled into the space. "Tonight's been fun, but I think we should be going."

"Going?" Miriam asked, slightly aghast. She readjusted herself in her seat, so her elbows rested heavily on its arm. "What do you mean?"

The question was really meant for Dipper, by the way she'd tossed her voice. And the slightly abandoned expression across her lips. And her need to explain- plain and simple- that she'd spent nearly an hour getting the guest room set up.

Bill spoke on her son's behalf.

"Something tells me we've overstayed our welcome." Bill tilted one knee out, feeling constricted at the hips after a dinner brawl in tailored cotton. He lifted his hand across Dipper's shoulder, whipping it carelessly through the air when he spoke. "Might be best to get away from it all for now."

Miriam's first instinct was to argue it, of course. Why, it was a ten hour drive. It had rained. The police might come back for more questioning. Dipper was probably still in shock, by the looks of it. He needed his family around, now. He needed this.

But, Bill was an intelligent, well-spoken young man by her own standard. When he expressed the need to leave, even her want for mending in the moment died along the tongue. For all else who saw, it seemed as though Miriam trusted him with her son's well-being more than she did herself; it wasn't such a stretch to believe.

'To get away from it all.'

What a terribly bland way of saying to cut ties. That Dipper's childhood home held a bit too much. That the walls still looked of John, and the couch still held his form, and the carpets were sunken in from where he'd once stood. There was an element to the aggressor here that had been carved into California; that reminded him of his presence. And it wasn't completely sane of anyone to expect Dipper to stand from where he was currently seated, with the same eyes he'd had as a child.

What he saw now was a newly rendered house. Rendered, but still not as he remembered it before. The sensation of distance wasn't so much a looming feeling, as it was a reality. He didn't belong to this place anymore, and the stinging need he'd held to still be a part of it hadn't been because he was supposed to be; it was simply himself, stirring in anguish at how many years had been stripped from him, in this home he lost as a teen. This home he was supposed to grow up in.

But, John had been right, then. This wasn't his home anymore. He couldn't imagine himself in this place the same.

"Will you come visit soon?" Miriam still asked. And, obviously Dipper nodded to it. And, obviously he reached for his mother's hand. And, obviously the vulgar trip of skin touching skin began to slide from his person, as all else relieved its weight from him.

"I'll get your coat, then." Daniel replied from across the room, with his eyes misted; he wasn't over this new information; over what he'd learned tonight, or his inability to foresee it. He grabbed Dipper's bomber jacket from the hallway closet, and imagined it to be the cuffs of John's shirt. His fingers dug into the fabric, and that man was still with them, having failed escape.

He sucked in a breath then, handing the coat to his son, and willed his fingers to release themselves. Allowed the strain to melt away, and his knuckles to ease. A bit more time. A bit longer, and he would be alright. The crease in his brow where he'd wrinkled his forehead to bits was already beginning to smooth. Daniel would be fine after this. In time.

Everyone would be fine.

When they stood from the couch- Dipper under Bill's arm, uncharacteristically clingy, cat-like with a purr- so did Miriam from her chair, and Mabel from the floor. A quiet walk from the living room to the door, aside from William, who thought now was the perfect time to hum whatever had jingled its way into his mind.

"Thanks again for having us; your string bean casserole was-." Bill kissed his fingers with a 'muah.' "-fantastic."

Miriam grinned with her hostess cheeks, dusting a splatter from her apron, which she still hadn't removed.

"I'll make sure to write down the recipe for you, next time you're here." An invitation; a plea for this man to come down when he could, everyday if necessary, and drag her hesitant son by the neck of his shirt along if he had to. By the looks of it here, they were attached at the waist.

"Definitely!" Was the man's reply. That seemed to ease the woman. For the time being, at least. She gave her son a hesitant look, but an encouraged one. Stepping away from the door, Miriam watched the too exit the house into humid night winds. There were still the onlooking neighbors of her little street who seated themselves on their porches, free associating what looked to be tire marks on her lawn, and one less car in the driveway.

"I'll..." Dipper tilted his head back to address the woman, his voice a shade unsure; a shade smooth. "I'll see you Thanksgiving."

"And call." Miriam replied curtly. He nodded his head.

"And call."

"Preferably after eight." She added. He nodded again.

"I know. I know. And before six." Dipper supplied, to which the woman beamed.

"If you don't mind."

"I don't."

They looked at each other a beat, not saying a thing. Mabel was a ways behind Daniel, who'd once again propped himself against the doorframe, with Miriam up front, feet planted squarely on the mat like some kind of gatekeeper.

A moment passed, and her features paled softly.

"You can call later if you need to." The smile she gave looked more along the lines of losing balance. Her hands, as they often did out of nervous habit, began to ring out a patch of her apron when she spoke. Perhaps not wanting to say it, but needing to.

And Dipper looked at her like she'd said something incredible.

He turned away, ahead of him, then back at her, as though she might have been addressing someone else.

"-Okay." The boy tripped over his own agreeance. "I'll call when we get back."

"Do that." Miriam encouraged, stepping away from the entrance, returning inside.

Daniel gave Dipper something of a glance; a gift, more so, by the way his expression answered the question of Miriam's demeanor.

'She's learning,' his face said. He too turned away, retreating inside.

Which left only Mabel.

Not crying from the news, as one might expect. Instead, with furrowed brows and a tight upper lip; a drive to do better, wherever she'd failed him before. Though Dipper and Bill were already down the patio steps, some ways up the lawn headed for his car, there wasn't so much as a hiccup in her motions when her legs were suddenly flexing below her; feet tapping along each step, carrying her the short distance, so she could wrap either arm around Dipper's back from behind, burying her nose between his shoulder blades.

Dipper jumped, but didn't shrivel. Instead, easing into the touch once it became apparent who'd captured him here. He allowed his hands to squeeze the elbows which locked his body against hers, turning slightly to get a glimpse of the top of her head.

"They're gonna catch him." Mabel mumbled into the fabric of his back, tightening her grip. She nuzzled her nose farther in. "They're gonna catch him." Dipper wasn't sure how to reply. His simple instincts weren't much to go off of, but they assured him she wasn't asking for one. He willed two extra squeezes from his hands to her arms.

In any other situation, they would have hugged awkwardly. Or, sincerely. In this case, it might have been something completely different from the two. A hybrid, or a bittersweet nothing. But, Bill's arm was still around Dipper's shoulder, and he wasn't so sure he felt like breaking from it just yet. Here, their relationship was different. And, in no way was that a problem.

A kind of separation molded in the space that had once been filled by Mabel's seasonal lovers, now chalked in by a significant other of Dipper's. The separation was sweet though, and it only existed to differentiate them as adults. Where the divide laid was not a scarr of their relationship, but a hole present when they'd finally uprooted the toxicity. Something immature and unforgiving.

Mabel pulled him in closer, laughing into his shoulder.

"You owe me so much boy talk." When she pulled away, smiling with damp cheeks, her eyes shone forgiveness. Time, but forgiveness.

"Please don't." Dipper laughed back.

"I'm already scheduling it in for twin-time." Mabel shot with a wink. She rubbed her nose, dispelling it of drippage. "Oh my god, I don't even know who your celebrity crush is."

"Me, of course." Bill purred. She let out another laugh, despite her sudden need to snivel.

"Oh, yeah. Yeah, that's right." A hiccup in her voice, but a smile on her face. She stepped away from the two, giving her brother a chummy knock on the shoulder. "Nice score, by the way."

Her grin was as genuine as it was selfless. A flash of who she'd once been- young, balanced, and childish- before she too was turning away with a wave of her hand, calling with a turn 'See you at home!'

She shut the door behind her, and the very first thing Dipper did was kiss the man with an arm around his shoulder.

And, kiss down the pavement walk.

And, kiss while they unlocked the door.

Kiss when they got in the car, and while Dipper was putting the key in the ignition.

Because, in all this time they'd been together, he hadn't felt a presence that solely belonged to that one person by his side; it hadn't existed, to kiss, or make love, or hold, and need the one. Up until this point, it had been a package deal of baggage, and a little bit of John was sprinkled against every pair of lips. Those arms had smelled like citrus, and his skin was cut with needles.

Here, though.

Here, they were alone.

Really, really alone.

When Dipper wrapped his arms around the blond's head and forced him to follow in the driver's seat, there wasn't a single person stopping them.

"Happy?" Bill asked between soft lips. The one below him laughed.

"Kiss me again." He did, and his fingers allowed themselves to weave through blond, and his legs wrapped around his torso, and there didn't seem to be a way for them to feel too close. When Bill's hand trailed his stomach, there wasn't such a thing as 'too close.'

"Notice how you're always so nice to me after our little adventures?" Bill pulled away, angling his head to lay a soft kiss on Dipper's bottom lip. Only a second, before the smaller was bending his head forward in a rush, avid about getting full lip contact; he hadn't known how numb it'd all felt before this.

"I like a knight in shining armor." He joked with a snort, cupping Bill's warm cheek. He was smiling so hard now, it was a wonder his lips still felt plush against the other's. "I like you."

"You what?" It caught Angle off guard, not that he'd ever show how much. Outside, it had just been a slight infraction; like stepping on something he didn't know was there. Passing, not really all important, but something he acknowledged. Inside though, those words had burned, and they burned in a way he'd never felt before. It was soft and craving; like the very curve of Dipper's hips.

And, holy hell.

Was that the worst feeling in the world.

Because-.

Oh, fuck.

His heart twitched, instead of what sat between his legs.

Not good. Not good.

He kissed the smaller again, hoping to shut up whatever other nonsense he felt like dragging him in with.

That-. That had felt too human.

"No, I-." Dipper began after a shake of the head. Something about the hesitant want in his eyes said otherwise. Still, he shook his head. "I'm just kidding. I'm kidding. That was a lie." He pulled from those lips, giving the sharp ridge of Bill's cheek a smooch. Then another. Another and another, until he found himself helplessly drawing his tongue up the side of his face. Like a joke, but definitely not. "I'm talking crazy. Ignore me."

Bill gladly did.

When he pulled Dipper up from his pressed space against the driver's seat, into his lap, it was as perfect as it was forgettable. And his partner was already undoing the first three buttons of his shirt, like he didn't mind doing it in the car, in his old hometown. He didn't. He really, really didn't.

Because Bill was great.

Bill was so, so great here for what he'd done today.

When Dipper was cornered on the table, he was there.

When he'd needed Bill for this- for all this mess- he was right by his side.

He wanted to thank him for that; to apologise for every instance he'd refused to be obediant. Dipper pulled from those lips, coming in only to breath against Bill's ear.

"What do you want from me?" His chest heaved, skin damp, suddenly shivering at the bare rhythm of his partner's heartbeat. "Just say it, and it's yours." Dipper's other hand was against his neck, pressing circles where strands of blond sprouted. When Bill looked at him- perhaps not believing it himself- there wasn't a doubt of the lengths he meant to go for his thanks.

"What's got you so sweet?" He chuckled, lifting his hand to press a hard thumb against the brunette's cheek; Dipper's mouth came rolling open in response, whether or not it was really being asked of him, as he snaked his tongue to lick a line up the arch of Bill's palm.

He was being very sweet tonight.

"I missed you." Dipper got closer, riding his fingers up and down the back of Bill's neck like some sacred treasure. It made him laugh, tug him in for a kiss under the jaw, and pull back.

"Oh, yeah? What'd you miss about me?" Which had only been a joke, really. He'd only meant to tease his partner with it, because surely he meant something along the lines of 'Just being with you' or 'Talking, like we always do.' What he hadn't expected was for Dipper to raise a brow the way that he did, and with a subtle wag of his hips, like a dog. Fuck, like a dog. He pulled Bill back in.

"Your fat cock."

It took Bill exactly eight seconds for his brain to boot back up.

"...Wow." Seemed like an appropriate comment, and it had to have been, because Dipper only became more excited by the statement. He actively worked to undo the bottom two buttons of Bill's shirt, although there were still about three in the middle. It didn't matter at the time; Dipper got a good feel of his chest, as well as a swipe at his waist. He was good. He was so, so good.

"Just say it, Bill. Just tell me what to do." Whoever was sitting in Angle's lap- because no way in hell this could really be Dipper- began to suck on his neck like hard candy. That seemed to snap his partner out of it, who before this was honestly shocked out of his mind. Hell, though. His partner was acting slutty, no shame in it. Bill definitely didn't feel like missing out on it. "I need you to control me."

There was no way of him ever recovering from this.

Either of them.

This was a jump in their relationship, because whether or not Dipper would ever admit it, he'd unintentionally communicated with his partner. Which was supposed to be intimate. A lot more intimate that just fuck-buddies.

He was undressed when it came to defenses.

Bill ate it up.

Was it really so wrong to love how vulnerable Dipper had made himself?

Was it really such a problem that he'd offered this?

Nah, not at all. Bill took either of his arms under Dipper's legs, and outright flipped him into the driver's seat. The brunette shook his head from the sudden swirl of his brain.

"You drive; there's a Hotel 7 somewhere on Oakland."

[...]

Give it maybe a week; John had found himself out of bus money, stranded in New Mexico.

Holding it up in a shitty two-star motel someplace bordering condemned. When he turned the faucets, the water ran a washed out brown. His sheets pricked him in ways that had been confusing upon the first night of his stay, before eventually realizing the place was infested with chinches. He'd ripped the sheets off then in a fit of distress, and rightfully slept with a wine stained V-neck for warmth.

By the third day, he'd lost his citrus aroma, and instead started to stench of crusted linen and morning breath. There wasn't a razor to be found for his five o'clock shadow, nor a comb for his splitting hair. John worried himself raw, every so often peeking out his motel window, certain the feds were onto him. He spent hours doing nothing but pulling and working at his hair, raged by stress and anxiety, until sometime that night when he took a look in the mirror and found he'd removed several patches of thick black hair.

He screamed.

By the fourth day, he was a hermit. Chinche-infested blanket cast over the bald spots of his head, eyes glazed over from the unretainable time used to keep watch on the streets below. A cop car drove by, and he dove for his mattress. A knock at his motel door, and he cussed at the cleaning maids to leave him alone; part of the reason it smelled so putrid by the sixth day.

By the seventh day- his current situation- John was at his wit's end. He was unemployed now, of course. There'd only been the money he enjoyed flashing in front of co-workers in his pockets when he high-tailed it that night. No credit card, which may have been a good thing in the end. They could track him, maybe. With satellites and stuff.

John honestly didn't know the facts, but he couldn't bear thinking things could've been better if he just had a little more money.

Another knock at the door; the motelier, with his cheap 15 dollar suit, and his gut sticking out through the elastic of his pants. They'd gotten complaints from his neighbors on the smell. Not to mention the obsessive window-peering; one woman in particular said he'd been eyeing her up from his bedroom. Word spread through the maid staff that he was a lousy tipper; they'd caught wind John was short on cash.

When confronted, the man tried turning on his charm for the motelier. He lifted an elbow to press cunningly against his door frame, and his dripping B.O. assaulted the poor old man. When he cracked a smile, his teeth were yellow and placked with sodium from six packs of shrimp ramen. On top of that, he hadn't eaten a proper meal in days. "Proper" meaning balanced, as he'd certainly gotten his fill of calories in that span of time. Noodles and half-off cookies and chips and fifty cent sodas; his skin was oily, and his gut had popped.

The motelier said he had until this evening to move out.

An hour before his eviction, John cracked in two. Howling and raging and wripping the copy-and-paste renaissance painting from his wall. Cussing out Miriam, who was a stiff, unapologetic clean freak. Cussing out Daniel, her goody two-shoes ex who felt like acting the hero just to win her back. Cussing out Mabel, who he'd treated like his own, but hadn't been given the same affection. Cussing out Dipper, obviously, who was nothing but a no-good cock-sucking cum-slut, acting innocent for the cameras.

He knocked the lamp from his bedside, the TV from its stand, ripped out all the empty drawers, and smashed the motel mirror; what were they gonna do? Charge him? He was already flat broke. John continued his rampage, going so far as to turn his rage onto his own possessions. Ripped his wallet right in two. Took either of his muddied Comfort Craftsman Boots, and slammed them against the wall. He took the only pair of jeans he owned, and started tearing off belt loops.

Which is when he gave pause.

Noted the white business card peeking from his pocket.

If he even wanted to talk.

If he even wanted to talk.

Hell yeah, he wanted to talk. In fact, he had a few choice-words for the guy. That William-whatever. He had a whole lot he felt like getting off his chest.

Without thinking, or really considering the consequences, John fished his phone out. Almost dead by now, considering he hadn't snagged his charger in the chaos. It was fine though. There were plenty of bars.

The numbers were neat and printed for him, so he wouldn't have the opportunity to stop his obsessive typing to peer at the numbers- decipher a one from a seven- and realize it probably wasn't a good idea to call this man.

But, he did.

And the other end rang. And rang. And rang, before picking up on the forth.

And when John listened to the other end, and called out to Bill for being such an asshole, and started screaming at him to come face him, or pick him up damn it, or be a man and admit the stupid bitch had it coming, there wasn't so much as a sound on the separate line.

Simply the numbing buzz of static; the grip of loneliness.

John pressed his ear close after his little episode, still huffing and sweaty from what was left of his anger. He checked the intact clock on the floor; a few more minutes, and they'd be up there to escort him out.

The entire experience had been pointless. Bill had probably given him a faulty number as some kind of practical joke. Maybe he had stuff like that; fake business cards for people he planned on fucking over later.

John began to pull the phone from his face, when a tiny mumble caught his attention.

"Hello?" His rugged, cracked voice called out to the receiver.

There was a low grumble from the other end; some hardened, dark force of vocals that sent an odd chill down his spine, waging at his tailbone before riding back up to his shoulders. He swallowed thickly, trying again.

"HELLO?" John called out again. Not loud, but aggressive. No answer; he readied his thumb against the phone's power button.

Which is exactly when it happened.

A final, numb static, unlike anything he'd ever heard. The trade of volume for soul, when this odd sound hit an octave unlike any other, and the vibration was felt along every cell of John's person. His skin was electric, hairs standing on end when it felt as though his own phone had attached itself and imported its being into him. His eyes bulged, nostrils flaring in sudden convulsion, with limbs refusing to ease.

And slowly, very slowly, John's skin faded in color. Starting at the base of his feet, rising to the crown of his head. A literal sweep of color, leaving behind white flesh. Not pale. White. As though suctioning the pigment from his very being, the catalyst his phone in hand. A sort of mist arose around the edges of flesh and their dying light, which was promptly sucked in by the phone's screen.

John let out a cracked gasp, but nothing more. Head thrown back, eyes rolled, the skin of his cheeks ripping in two as his jaw flexed to greet his adams apple. His hair, thick and full, fell out. What had once been no more than a crease of the forehead became full-blown wrinkles. And his tone, shock as it was, sounded older and older and older as it went on.

By the time his phone had sucked him dry, John was no more than a pile of ash.

[...]

Bill's phone dinged; a text.

One unopened inbox, from an unknown caller.

He smirked.