Chapter Text
There’s an old adage.
There’s an old adage - a cliche, really, though most are.
There’s an old adage that sits tight between tongue and teeth and tastes like chewed tin foil and goes a little like this: you don’t know what you have until it’s gone.
But gone isn’t quite the right word, not now, not when Pacifica feels as though whatever she had has been ripped out from between her fingers and tossed aside. She clenches and unclenches a fist, imagining she still feels where her mother’s nails twisted into the skin at her wrists. A sinkhole bottoms out in her stomach. Pacifica wraps her arms back around her knees and draws them more closely to her chest. The fraying rug beneath her provides little barrier from the chill of the bathroom linoleum. The vomiting had stopped about an hour ago. She hadn’t moved much since.
“Pacifica!”
“I’m fine,” she groans.
“It doesn’t sound like you’re fine,” Mabel says through the door. It’s impossible to miss the strain that grips her voice.
“Something I ate at the luncheon didn’t sit right with me, and I think I needed to get it all out.” She wills her roommate’s worry to overwhelm Mabel’s otherwise sharp observation; the last thing Pacifica needs is to be caught out in a half-lie. Something hadn’t sat right with her, and she’d scarcely been able to eat because of it, but it wasn’t something she could rid herself of quite as easily as her meal.
From her place on the floor she can see the grime that’s accumulated on the yellowing sealant of the toilet. Flecks of vomit still dot the outside of the toilet bowl, spots she missed when trying to mop up after herself a while ago. A pile of navy hangs out in the corner of her eye, but she doesn’t bother focusing on it for fear of making herself sick again.The shame was not that she hadn’t gotten to the toilet in time, but that the dress she’d worn to the Family Luncheon - newer, blue with a chunky sunflower yellow belt - hadn’t escaped the fleeing contents of her gut. The dress had been the only thing her mother had complimented the entire afternoon. Maybe it was better off covered in bile. Come to think of it, on the floor of a bathroom is where her day had begun, too.
Nerves, not anger, had churned her stomach then, but Pacifica had nonetheless left the pristine bathroom of the luncheon venue with a smile and a fresh coat of lipstick. With fifteen minutes to the start of the meal, most other families had already arrived. Pacifica navigated the clusters of people with the swiftness of a satellite in orbit: cruising by, close enough to be considered part of the atmosphere, distant enough to know she was truly in the void of space. Her heart had blinked in her chest as she scanned the guests circling by the entrance to the ballroom where they were eating. No sign of hostile life, not yet.
Lillian and her family were seated at the table they had planned to share. It was evident in an instant from which parent Lillian took her looks: her father, trim and tall, dark hair silvering tastefully at the temples, looked more like he ought to be on the red carpet of a movie premiere, rather than attending a luncheon thrown by a handful of college-aged girls. The woman at his side was strikingly familiar, though Pacifica has never met her before. Wild curls sprung up over a chic headscarf cut from the same hand-dyed hemp cloth as her mother’s flowing periwinkle sundress. Her wrists were adorned with silver bangles. They clanked against a trim Bulgari watch as she stood and wrapped Pacifica in a wispy hug.
Lillian’s mother was the mother of every one of her childhood acquaintances, from the chunky, free-trade handmade necklace, to the aura of nag champa and Chanel, to the massive diamond on her ring finger (they didn’t come that big in conflict-free). Pacifica choked back a dry heave at the sight; she was sure Lilli’s mother was fine, just lovely, but she could already hear what Priscilla Northwest would have to say about her. There were years of backlog when it came to snide comments about her friends’ parents. To avoid it, she’d eventually stopped making friends.
Greetings and questions and every manner of pleasantry were exchanged, proving Lillian’s parents to be each bit as charming as their daughter. Sure, it had been obvious they were new money and were taking all of the predicted paths while figuring out to do with it, but it didn’t matter when they were just so genuine. When the meal began, Pacifica had felt all the more relieved that her parents, opposite in every way to the adults across the table, must have decided not to show up.
Until they did.
“Pacifica, darling!”
It must be how the heroine in a horror movie felt the moment she realized she was not alone in the basement. Pacifica had no time to react, no time to school her expression into something more accommodating. She turned slowly, with the dread of a killer at her back.
Priscilla Northwest didn't plunge a knife in her, per se, but acrylic talons seemed to pierce through the thin fabric of Pacifica's dress as her mother folded her in a tight grip. Shocked, all Pacifica could do was stare over her mother’s shoulder to meet her father’s gaze.
His smile was industrial diamond made from ground coal. His smile was the shattering of a car windshield; the air was punched from Pacifica’s chest upon impact. Preston raised an eyebrow, expectant.
“Mother,” Pacifica had intoned. She drew back and forced her eyes to meet Priscilla’s. “I wasn't expecting either of you! What a surprise that you could make it.”
“Well, we did RSVP,” Priscilla said, adding a shrill little laugh to the end of her words.
Every muscle in Pacifica’s face shrieked as she shoved herself into a smile. She ushered her parents to their seats, unable to meet the gazes of Lillian or her family as Pacifica introduced her parents. The standoffish hauteur Pacifica had expected from her parents was alarmingly absent as they shook hands with Lillian’s mother and father. Preston placed a hand on Lillian’s shoulder, and Pacifica’s knees buckled as he smiled down at her and said, “We’ve heard so much about you!”
To Lillian's credit, she’d looked as startled as Pacifica felt. Her fumbled thanks lacked her usual cool ease, and Pacifica took solace in the warmth that patters in her chest as Lillian slipped her a concerned glance. All she could hope was that that Lillian had seen the buckle of her smile and the tightness around her eyes and had known.
There’s money, and then there’s whatever Priscilla Northwest had. She was as radiant as she was plastic, face smoothed and body perked and hair colored to tasteful vibrance. How old her mother was, Pacifica couldn't honestly remember, but even if she could, few would believe her. There was likely an algorithm, Pacifica had mused as her mother took the seat to her left, for calculating the precise curve of her formulated smile. Were it not for the gag that rose in her throat at her mother’s sudden proximity, Pacifica might have considered Priscilla's face the very expression of the golden ratio. Her eyelashes fluttered in long arcs as she measured out the long event hall.
“So tell me,” Priscilla cooed, “Did you girls have an event coordinator come in and arrange all of… This?”
“Yes ma’am,” Lillian said, smile plastered back on, “All of the girls on the social committee helped organize and decorate for the event. Pacifica must have been on streamer duty for a week!”
There was the obligatory titter of laughter from all parties before Priscilla gave the room another sweep and managed a convincing, “How charming!”
One of the wait staff had come by then to bring the Northwests their starter salads. The two glanced to one another and Preston waved the man away. Like some ancient ritual Pacifica had previously never been privy to, hell opened up with the very gesture.
The apocalypse began not with a bang, but Priscilla Northwest’s dainty sniff when Lillian’s mother asked what she did for a living. Conversation flowed with mock amicability. Priscilla and Preston were good at what they did, always had been, even if all they did was find ways to build themselves up while poking holes in everyone around them. Lilli’s mother had bought a winter home in Santa Cruz; Preston knew, he’d sold that very property to the previous owner for $6.8 million the year before the housing crash. Lilli’s father was looking into creating a scholarship program for rising film students; Priscilla had been invited to attend Sundance as a VIP. The arrival of the main course had been the only miracle in sight: maybe Pacifica would choke on an undercooked tomato and finally get the quick death she’d been praying for all day.
Halfway through the meal, Priscilla had set her fork down (food shuffled around but uneaten) and beamed at Lilli and her parents.
“It’s so nice to see Pacifica has made friends with so many lovely girls in Delta.”
Pacifica swallowed whatever was on her fork without chewing. It didn’t asphyxiate her, as hoped, but it did feel as though it might come back up. A lifetime of forced attendance to events filled with aristocratic pricks had taught Pacifica the tone and tenor of a smackdown disguised as a pleasant exchange. A rattlesnake warns an intruder before it strikes; Priscilla was subtle, yet no different.
“Oh, I felt the same way when Lilli joined,” Lilli’s mother gushed, “They really do bond like sisters!”
Side-stepping her comment, Priscilla barreled on, voice still casual. “Pacifica was popular back in high school, of course, but mostly with the boys. It must have been her positively infectious personality.”
She couldn’t tell if it was practiced, but Preston and Priscilla let out the same tinkle of condescending laughter at that. There was no way Lilli or her parents would recognize the jab - for all they knew, she had been well-liked in high school - but the ridicule wasn’t at their expense anyway.
“You over-exaggerate, Mother,” Pacifica says, “I went to an all-girls school.”
Priscilla rolled her eyes and almost managed to sound affectionate when she said, “And that certainly didn’t stop you. Who was that boy who came around every summer…?”
There had been no way to shut down the game they were playing - they were too prepared and had come in swinging. Pacifica had been bracing herself for the consequences of snapping out a sharp ‘I don’t know, you kept me locked in the library every summer’, when Preston let out an exaggerated hum and said, “Oh, you mean the Pines boy? Tenacious, that one.”
The reply Priscilla had planned was cut off by Lilli’s sudden coughing fit. Face red and eyes wide, she’d clearly been in the middle of swallowing something when Preston had mentioned Dipper. Even after catching her breath, her cheeks had stayed a violent red. Lilli didn’t meet Pacifica eyes for the rest of the meal, nor did she say much else.
“You don’t need to take me back to the dorm,” Pacifica had said an hour later. She’d crossed her arms over her chest and stared both of her parents down as they waited for their driver to come around with the limo.
“We don’t,” Preston said, “But we’re going to.”
“I’d rather not.”
“And it’s rather amusing you think you have a choice, young lady.”
She ducked into the back of the limo and slid to the seat farthest from her parents. It was like she was 15 again, staring obstinately out the window as her parents explained why she was no longer going to have a roommate at school. If she was lucky, they would leave her to brood until the limo got back on campus, but she hadn’t been lucky in a while.
“God, that was utterly embarrassing, wasn’t it dear?” Preston asked with a sigh.
“Just atrocious, really. You’d think with what we’re paying to keep Pacifica in the thing, they’d put on a better event.” Priscilla’s gaze had narrowed in on Pacifica then, and she scowled, no longer needing to maintain appearances. “You could have done better. The Northwest name is deserving of being in a higher tier organization, even if you’re not.”
“I like being in Delta,” Pacifica said.
“I don’t,” Priscilla retorted, wrinkling her nose, “I think we’ll have to speak with the some of the other sororities about Spring Rush. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind a generous donation for their selection.”
“I’m not leaving Delta and joining some other sorority, mother! And you can’t make that choice for me!”
Preston jumped in, lips pulled taut in displeasure. “Pacifica Elise Northwest, you do not speak to your mother that way. As your parents, we make your decisions, and this decision will be unquestionably clear when your sorority dues for Spring semester need to be paid.”
“You, you can’t just-!”
But they could. And they would. She buried her hands in her lap and fixed her gaze on some point out the window. Silence reigned for a few minutes, but it wasn’t long until Priscilla started up once more.
“Ugh, Preston, did you see her getup? I don’t care if you’re the best known lawyer in the city, you don’t wear a muumuu out in public.”
There is was, the reaming of Lilli’s mother.
“With all of that money she made from that defense settlement, she should buy herself some taste!” Preston chimed in.
“And him, please. He tries so hard for a trophy husband. ‘Scholarship for art students’? I’m sure he’ll end up having a hand in selecting all of the pretty little ‘filmmakers’ that get to go to college.”
She couldn’t break, couldn’t do it, not there, not knowing that they would see. She’d already lashed out enough, already shown her hand, and they were going to try to take Delta from her. Somehow they’d known about Dipper and Lilli, and had known what they were doing in bringing him up and planting that seed of doubt in her best friend. If Pacifica kept her mouth shut, she might avoid them latching on to anything else she’d started caring about.
“So, Pacifica, why haven’t we heard anything about this Scott?”
Her head whipped around, all semblance of calm one word from fracturing.
“No.”
“He seems suitable,” Priscilla continued, “His parents mentioned you at the last charity ball we attended. Were it not for the boy he’s seeing on the side, I might almost approve.”
“We’re not dating, so there’s no ‘on the side’ happening.”
“Shame. I thought sluts loved getting together.”
The limo purred to a stop in front of her door. She scrambled past her parents and flung the door open before the driver could make his way around and open it. Pacifica had paused long enough to shout, “You must know that from experience!” before slamming the door and running into the building.
…
“Pacifica, you’ve been in there a long time.”
She’s not sure how much time had passed between now and Mabel’s last visit, but it had been long enough for the floor to start feeling comfortable.
“Yeah, I just… think it’s probably better for me to stay close to the toilet.”
“Want me to get you some water?”
“No thanks, I’ve got a glass in here. Thanks Mabel…”
The doorknob turns as Mabel releases it. With the deadbolt in place her efforts at getting in had been admirable, but useless. Pacifica can hear Mabel shift a little outside of the door.
“Let me know if you need anything, okay? You have your phone in there?”
“Mhmm. I’ll call for you or send you a text if I start thinking I’m dying.”
“Okaaaay…”
A minute passes before Pacifica hears Mabel trot away. There’s no click or slam from Mabel’s bedroom door, so she must have left it open in case Pacifica called for her. Were she not ill to her core, she might appreciate Mabel’s attentiveness - yet another unspoken apology, perhaps. They were getting good at those.
Another jolt of nausea races behind her sinuses. Even though the dry heaving has stopped, Pacifica feels far from well enough to leave the bathroom. Gradually, she settles into a position that allows her to lay down on her side and cradle her head in her arms. At least it doesn’t make her feel worse.
…
She doesn't answer her phone the first time it rings. And why should she? It’s 1 am, the tail-end of one of the worst days of her life, and the last thing she wants is to talk to someone - Scotty, one of her sisters, Mabel - whose likely drunkenness will only prove an added weight to her headache. She doesn’t even bother checking her phone to see who it is.
But when her phone rings again she concedes. Flopping over, she grabs the shrieking device and blinks against the screen’s piercing light. Lilli.
“Hey babe, what’s up?” Pacifica says. Unused for hours, her voice comes out more as a croak.
“Pacifica, is Mabel home?”
She sits up, alarmed at the sob in Lilli’s voice.
“I don’t know- are you okay? Let me go check.”
“I t-tried calling her but she’s not picking up,” Lilli says, fumbling over her words. The line seems to turn to white noise as Lilli lets loose a volley of deep, gasping breaths. They punctuate Pacifica’s steps as she crosses the dark living room separating her room from Mabel’s.
“I’m checking now,” she says, knocking on her roommate’s door. “Mabel? Mabel?”
She allows five agonizing seconds of silence before she turns the doorknob. Mabel’s room is unlocked, and her bed empty.
“She’s not in,” Pacifica says, “She must be at a party or out somewhere where she can’t hear her phone. What’s going on, what happened?”
Back in her room, Pacifica shimmies her sleep shirt over her head and pulls on a sweater, all while trying to keep her phone to her ear. Part way through jumping into her boots, Lilli manages to form words again.
“It’s Dipper,” she starts, and Pacifica drops a boot. “I’m at his place and he’s just freaking out, like, we were sleeping and then he, he just wakes up and starts screaming and he won't calm down or tell me what’s wrong and I can’t get ahold of Mabel and he’s still in his room going crazy but I can’t just leave him- I don't know what’s going on-”
Pacifica’s heart restarts and she tugs on her other boot.
“I'm on my way,” she says, “I'll be there in like ten minutes. Meet me downstairs so I can get in.”
Lilli’s breathy, “Okay,” hitches in her throat, and Pacifica’s stomach feels tight when she hangs up.
Pacifica grabs her purse and coat and is already back on the phone by the time the door locks behind her. Mabel’s phone rings to voicemail twice, three times, so she gives up and starts her barrage of texts. The whole ritual feels familiar, and Pacifica has a feeling that the exact same thing is happening to Dipper again.
The cold spurs on her quick pace and worry nips at her heels as she speeds across campus to Dipper’s dorm. Thin clouds cast strange shadows on the sidewalk and trees; she nearly jumps out of her skin when two drunk boys stumble around the corner and let out a warbling whoop at the sight of her. She rolls her eyes and catches her breath and sidesteps them, letting their chatter fade away as she crosses the street.
There’s a small huddle of students smoking a few yards from the dorm's side door. One of them offers their key card to swipe her in, but the door opens at that moment and Lilli’s hazy cloud of red hair pokes out.
“Hey,” Lilli says shakily as Pacifica slips into the little stairwell entrance. Pacifica wraps her into a hug and Lilli’s arms tighten around her like she’d stop standing if she let go.
“Hey. Mabel didn't pick up, but I'm sure she’ll text back soon. Let’s go.”
Dipper is on the top floor, and Pacifica has never felt so tense going up the four flights of stairs behind Lilli. Lilli slips the key to his room out of her coat pocket and lets them in.
Pacifica’s been to Dipper’s dorm room a handful of times - a few times with Mabel, once with Lilli - and not much is different now. It’s teenage messy, dishes piled in the sink and scattered papers in varying states of crumpled making up most of the decor. His roommate, a kid from Texas named Jake, is out, judging by open door.
Dipper is nowhere in their common living area, but the little cries and indistinct muttering coming from his darkened bedroom leaves no question as to where he is.
“I’m going to try talking to him,” Pacifica whispers. Lilli nods, face pale, and gives her hand a quick squeeze. She follows Pacifica to his room, but halts in the doorway for a second before fleeing to the living room.
“Dipper?” She keeps her voice light, and scans the shadows in the room for the one she needs. A whimper worms up from the far side of his bed. Pacifica shuffles in, carefully avoiding the nondescript piles on the floor.
“Dipper, it’s Pacifica. You’re awake.”
A dark shape appears over the edge of the bed. The dim light from the hallway catches Dipper’s eyes and the barest features of his face. It’s just enough for her to see him blink slowly.
“Paz?” he rasps.
“That’s a stupid nickname,” she says, “But it’s me, and you’re awake.”
His response stretches out, pulled from the dreamy molasses of his mind. Another blink.
“Dream Pacifica… is always nice to me.”
“Yup, but you’re awake and stuck with mean Pacifica, so suck it up, Pines.”
She shuffles a few more feet before stubbing her toe on some part of his bed frame. The curse slides from her lips, startling them both.
“I’m gonna to turn on the light, okay?”
“There’s a lamp on your side,” he says slowly.
Pacifica’s hand fumbles with the bric-a-brac on Dipper’s nightstand until she finds the switch on the lamp. In an instant, everything is revealed in a soft orange flow.
It’s hard to tell what in the disarray of his room was preexisting and what has been caused by his sudden night terrors: his pillows have been tossed to the floor and his desk chair upturned; a stack of papers was knocked from his nightstand, the sheets half-torn from the bed. Dipper himself looks as though he’s been picked up by a tornado and set back down miles away. She might laugh at the awkward angle his hair sticks up at, or how confused he still looks, were it not for the unexpected bareness of his shoulders.
He’s shirtless - of course, he, no, they had been asleep - and his pale shoulders shudder as he sucks in a breath. Dark marks pepper his collarbone and the hollow of his neck. Pacifica looks away quickly, but it’s not fast enough to keep the wave of sick heat that builds up from her stomach.
“What happened?” he finally asks.
“I don’t know,” she says, “But I think you had those bad dreams again. Lilli called me saying you woke up and were freaking out.”
Dipper’s groan is muffled. She glances over to see he’s buried his head into his mattress. His fingers tangle through his hair and pull in frustration. After a moment he lifts his head until just his eyes peek out. They’re bloodshot and rimmed in black.
“Kill me,” he whines, “Just leave me here to die.”
“Kay, bye,” she says, starting to turn. The motion is slower than it should be, body betraying her. Sense reminds her that Lilli is in the next room, but it is her body, and not her sense, that brings to mind the firm line of his chest against her back. It is her sense that remembers how broken he’d looked that night on her couch, ripples of nightmares still pooling on his features the moment he’d looked at her and said-
“Stay.”
Pacifica freezes. From the shifting behind her, Dipper must be standing. She turns. He’s naked to the waist and staring straight at her. There’s no way to control the blush that surges to her face, but she scowls to try and cover it.
“Please stay, Pacifica.”
There’s genuine need in the furrow of his brow and the set of his lips. When he reaches out to her in supplication, she takes his hand.
“I shouldn’t,” Pacifica whispers as they sit on his bare mattress, “It’s late.”
Nothing else is said as Dipper looks down at their joined hands. The scar on his wrist is partially obscured by her arm, but it doesn't hide the fresh red streaks from where he must have clawed at the image in his sleep. The sound that gurgles up from him is muck and gravel - ugly and dark.
“Stop that,” she snaps. Using her free hand, she grabs his chin and jerks it up, forcing his gaze from the marks. “It’s over, you’re awake, you’re fine. No harm done, except to maybe your bank account for the coffee you owe me after this.”
It works. Dipper gives a dry chuckle and presses his eyes shut. His hand is clammy in hers. She’d like to let go of his hand and press her thumbs gently to his temples, or soothe the worried lines of his brown with her lips. In some other place, some other him, a different her, Pacifica might have been able to draw him out from his nightmares with more than just her unpleasantness. That she proves to him he is awake by being everything Dream Pacifica is not, crushes her.
“You were in this one,” he says, “Which is crazy, because you weren't involved with anything that ever happened. You should have been safe from all of that. But in the dream, we were in your mansion, just like before, buthe was there too. You grabbed my hand and we just kept running and running down hallway after hallway. Finally we got to a dead end, and when you turned around…” Dipper takes a weak breath and yanks his head from her grip. He stares at the far wall. Tears marr the corner of his eyes.
Pacifica gives his hand a tight squeeze, then shakes it, tugging him towards her.
“Just tell me already so you can get over it,” she says. She doesn't flinch, because she doesn't regret the edge in her words, doesn’t regret whatever it will take to pull Dipper out of his fitful funk. Doesn’t regret doing anything she can to make him look less sad. She would even pull him to her, against her chest, hold him until-
“You turned around and it was him instead. In you, possessing you. And there was nothing I could-” he chokes on his words.
“Hey, everything okay?”
Pacifica has dropped Dipper’s hand even before she’s fully turned to face Lilli. For the briefest moment she feels like she’s outside of her own body, looking in on herself and Dipper from where Lilli stands at the door. The scene doesn't look good: the two of them shoulder to shoulder on his bed, hands just untangled, both red in the face. God, she’s in so much trouble, there’s no way Lilli doesn't see right through her.
A yelp punctures the bubbling guilt. The bed rocks violently as Dipper staggers to his feet. All traces of flush are gone, replaced by a stricken paleness as Dipper raises a trembling hand and points at Lilli.
Lost, Lilli looks from Dipper to Pacifica, as if Pacifica had any clue what’s driven the terror out across Dipper’s features.
“What are you playing at, D-”
But then she follows the line of Dipper’s finger to see that he’s not pointing at Lilli, not like that. With a groan, she tugs her hands down her face. Maybe, just maybe it’s her who is trapped in the outlandish dream, and she’ll wake up any second.
“It’s your shirt, Lilli,” Pacifica sighs, “And I'm sure if Dipper were capable of using his words, he’d tell you as much.”
Dipper’s hand drops and he nods, looking to the ground instead of either girl. An assortment of sounds makes it past his constricted throat, but none that become coherent.
Bewilderment dominates Lilli’s face as she stares down at the oversized, neon green sorority shirt acquired from some philanthropy event a year or two ago. In bold black, their letters overwhelm most of the front: ΨΔΨ. Pacifica wants to undergo sublimation, drift away from this whole embarrassing mess before she inevitably has to connect the dots for Lilli.
"I... I don't get it," Lilli says, tugging at her shirt and looking back to Dipper, "The... color? The...?"
Pacifica glares at Dipper; as bad as she feels for him, as understanding of his trauma as she is trying to be, it was never supposed to be her responsibility to explain to Dipper's almost-girlfriend why nighttime exposure to triangles sets him off.
"You haven't said anything about this to her?" Pacifica asks flatly. Dipper shakes her head. Instead of embarrassed, though, his brows furrow and he raises his head, looking guarded. She can tell he's not going to be any help, and she's half-tempted to leave him to dig himself out of this mess. But she knows Dipper is too dazed to explain, and more than that Pacifica knows how impossible it is to try and unknot years of anguish in a few sentences. So she scrambles, for him.
"It’s the Delta sign…” she starts, trying to work something out, “Back when we were kids, Dipper had a really bad experience with..." and then Pacifica has to stop. Because she can taste the tenor of the words even as they are forming at the back of her tongue, and it tastes like coffee grounds and pine needles, like dust and dirt - something Lilli would never understand. How does one explain Gravity Falls? How could she possibly tell Lilli the truth without her turning and labeling them both insane? Monsters, ghosts, real, live demons that haunt dreams and summon nightmares - those kind of things don't exist outside of that nowhere town. There's no question why Dipper hasn't brought it up to Lilli in the past. How could she?
You know what I like about? he’d said, You’re so completely unfazed by it. And Dipper had trusted her.
"It's okay if I tell her?" Pacifica continues, knowing that she's going to continue regardless of how Dipper responds. Dipper's startled eyes don't come with words, and she's granted her loophole.
"Gravity Falls is a logging town, right? Well, when we were like... eleven or twelve, Dipper was in this awful accident up at one of the mills,” Pacifica pauses, giving herself enough time to gather her thoughts. She’s been trained to tell a lie since birth, but it’s harder now that it matters. “I wasn't there, but it was all over the news, and Dipper had mentioned it before... he was exploring the hills on the outskirts of town, and ended up at one of the mills that was closed for the season.”
Glancing at Dipper, she can see the fear draining from his form. It gives her a bit of momentum. She takes a breath. All throughout school, she’d been taught how to present, how to compel with her words. This is no different.
“Well, you know Dipper, he's too curious for his own good, so he starts poking around, and somehow ends up getting caught in one of the saw machines. I don't know if you've ever seen one, Lilli, but over the saw tables, there are all of these warning signs: big, yellow, triangle shaped. There are tons of them, all showing images of what happens if you get caught in the machines. Obviously Dipper managed to get out, but spending a couple of minutes trapped in some old, dangerous machine, staring up at those signs when you think you're going to die..."
"Traumatic," Dipper breathes.
It's a stupid story. It's an awful lie. Pacifica is lucky her family owns most of the mills in town, lucky her father had mentioned it just that afternoon, lucky that Lilli seems tired and confused and just freaked out enough to believe it for the moment. She nods slowly, still trying to wrap her head around the story.
"So yeah," Pacifica finishes lamely, "Sometimes, at night, Dipper has bad dreams and freaks out, with or without triangle-shaped stuff. But the shirt must have set it off worse once he woke up."
And then she catches her mistake as Lilli's eyes narrow a flicker.
"Mabel told me," she adds, hoping it sweeps away whatever doubts have risen in her friend's mind, "Sorry, Dipper."
Dipper just nods, looking a little shell shocked at the awkward turn.
Lill straightens, and pulls off her shirt in one smooth motion. It's hardly the first time she's seen Lilli strip - they've gotten ready together for plenty of parties in the past - but somehow Dipper's added presence makes it uncomfortable. Pacifica looks away as Lilli turns her shirt inside out and slips it back on, Delta symbols no longer visible.
"Better?" she asks softly, staring at Dipper.
"Yeah," Dipper manages.
Looking between Dipper and Pacifica, Lilli hesitates. She digs her phone out of the pocket of her sweatpants and stares at the screen. Pacifica doesn't think she's ever seen Lilli look so tired, so worried.
"I'm going to go," she says, "I don't think it's a good idea for me to stay."
The protest Dipper offers is weak, incomprehensible, unconvincing. It sparks an unnecessary thud in Pacifica's chest; she can't keep herself from comparing his response to the soft need with which he asked her to stay. As she sits in the near-center of the room, still on Dipper's bed, between him and her best friend, Pacifica wonders if he will ask her to stay again. She wonders if she'll say yes.
Lilli opens her mouth to say something, then changes her mind. She affixes her gaze on Pacifica. The expression Lilli foists on her is neutral, impossible to read. Pacifica gets the sense that Lilli is waiting. Whatever she is waiting for, she doesn't give it long.
"Bye," Lilli says a minute later. She leaves the doorway and starts shuffling around in the living room, likely gathering her purse and putting on her coat. Pacifica sits. Dipper stands. Neither move to see Lilli out, or change her path, or explain. The door to the dorm slams shut.
It's just the two of them.
She should say something - should have said something a minute ago, to Lilli, to Dipper, anything. But it's too late for Lilli, and now Dipper is staring at her. His jaw has gone slack and his shoulders cave in.
“Thank you,” he says, “I thought for a minute that you were going to-”
Pacifica cuts him off. “I understand why you didn’t tell her the truth, but you should have at least told her something. How long have you two been sleeping together? Three, four months now? And this has never come up?”
She hates the words as they come out of her mouth, and she hates the way he recoils in surprise. It’s untenable, the way they’re trying to maintain this friendship by skirting around each other. So she has to be forceful, or they’re going to cross a line.
“We normally don’t spend the night,” he mutters, and she can’t deny there’s guilt lacing his voice, “Tonight was an accident. A mistake.”
She stands up. His sheets are mostly pooled on the floor, right at her feet. Between him and her is a scattering of textbooks and paper clips, clothing, some food wrappers. The corner of a foil wrapper glints out from one edge of the sheet. For not the first time that night, Pacifica feels sick.
It’s immature, she knows, but she kicks at the sheets with her boot and turns to go.
“You need to talk to Lilli,” she says.
“I want to talk to you.”
“You’re better now, right? Then we’ve got nothing to talk about.”
She has to do it, because Dipper is still shirtless, and Lilli is not doubt starting to see what’s going on, and Pacifica will fall asleep - in his bed, next to him, arms around his waist - if he asks her to stay.
“Do you want to… hang out a bit longer?” Dipper asks. He crosses the room, taking advantage of her hesitation, and makes a grab for her wrist. She dodges his reach and makes it to his bedroom door. He doesn’t say the magic words; the spell doesn’t hold.
Pacifica doesn't turn to face him when she says, “That would be a mistake.”
…
Home safe
She starts to send Lilli the text, reconsiders, and deletes it.
Types it back out. Sends it. Doesn’t get a response.
…
It’s somewhere around 3:24 that next day when Pacifica idly considers looking up the world record for staying in one’s room and avoiding all human contact. Her phone has been buzzing most of the day, and after the first hour or so of swiping away texts, she chucks her phone into her dirty laundry basket on the other side of the room and puts all her attention into the reading for her law class.
She’s not even all that surprised when the pounding comes at her door. No, the emotion that limps up is annoyance, followed by a huff of guilt. Pacifica’s doing a piss-poor job of acting like everything is fine, but it’s not like everyone had to freak out about it. Just because she feels like the scum of the earth doesn’t mean anyone else should be feeling back for her. The years have shown she can take care of herself. Just fine.
“Pacifica!” Scott bellows. As he hammers her door, Mabel joins in, switching between, “Pacifica, open up!” and “Sorry not sorry!”
“Go away, I’m fine!” Pacifica shouts back. She wriggles in her bed until most of her head is covered by pillows.
“I’m not leaving you alone until after formal, maybe the morning after, when I drop you back off here wearing my clothes!” Scott is still yelling, and when he finishes, Mabel picks up with a series of catcalls and whistles.
“Ohmigod, Scotty!” Pacifica shrieks. The past few months - and their last party together - have taught her that he’s only half-joking about her spending the night. After last night, maybe it’s what she needs.
As soon as the thought becomes cogent her brain slams to a stop. Between the rock that wants her and the hard place she shouldn't want, Pacifica has nowhere to go. In light of that, staying in bed remains her best option.
“It’s almost four, formal starts at 7, I know your ass doesn't get ready that fast, so let's get going.”
“I'm not going to formal,” she says. Her words aren't that loud, but Scott's offended gasp lets her know he heard.
“That’s how the terrorists win! Pacifica Willhelmina Northwest, do you want the terrorists to win?”
“Yeah, the terrorists!” Mabel echoes, sounding increasingly excited about everything happening.
Scott doesn't know her middle name. Scott doesn't know her middle name, or her parents, or anything about ghosts, or demons, or strange birthmarks, or dresses at the bottom of trash chutes. Pacifica knows who she should want.
She doesn't, but she still gets up and opens the door.
…
For spending the past 24 hours as a shambling disaster, Pacifica looks good as she crosses the threshold of the Delta house, and Scott seems determined that she not forget it. He keeps an arm around her waist and a hand at her hip as they meander through the large living room, chatting with the other girls and their dates. Scott’s contact is persistent through their first dances, touch tightening to slide her body to his. The first kiss is dropped a drink later, and lands along the skin between collarbone and neck.
Between the drinking and the dancing, the multitudes of people filling the floor, it’s not long until the living room gets unbearably house. Pacifica draws him to the adjoining dining room, hoping to cool down and chat with some of the others there. The first time he leaves her side is to get her another drink from the kitchen.
Janelle, in her year, is just complimenting her dress - aubergine, long-sleeved, knee length - when they start hearing the shouts.
“Look, man, back off and chill out!”
Pacifica’s smile sinks as her heart bobs up to her mouth. She knows the first voice, and no doubt she’ll recognize the returning call.
“I don’t know what fucked up game you’re trying to play, but you need to stop.”
“Game? Get a grip! We’re friends, and have been for ages.”
The crowd feels near-choreographed as it parts to let her past. The world slows as she approaches the kitchen, but even though it takes centuries for her to cross the threshold, she still can’t seem to catch her breath. She sees Scott’s lips curl, his mouth move, and the words come a half-second later.
“Like you don’t want mo-”
“Scotty? Dipper? What’s going on?”
It’s only to two of them in the kitchen, though she can feel one hundred stares from every connecting room and hallway. Lilli is nowhere in sight, and Pacifica wonders if that’s why Scott decided to pick this fight, now.
They shake the scowls off of their faces in an instant, but they can’t seem to go back on the squaring of their shoulders or the puffing of their chests. Their reactions are simultaneous and identical, and it makes Pacifica want to be done with them both. Dipper wrangles a smile first.
“Hey Paz,” he says, giving her a little shrug, “Sorry, Scott and I were discussing the upcoming student council elections, I guess things got a little heated.”
She rolls her eyes and glares at Scott, who, taken aback, is nodding along with Dipper’s story. One hand has been curled into a fist at his side - it relaxes when he realizes what she’s staring at. Hands on hips, she looks at them both, uncertain who to cut down first. Both, she decides, at the same time.
“Look, I don’t know what it is with you two thinking I need either of your egos speaking for me, but I am perfectly capable of making my own decisions, or not making any decision at all. You,” she says, swinging around to Scott, “Do not get to choose for me. And you-” she turns to Dipper, really fixes her stare on him, and falters.
The formal requirement of Fall Formal had clearly been impressed on Dipper, if his pressed and fitted black slacks and slim cut burgundy blazer were any indication. His hair had been styled again, and Pacifica was beginning to suspect that Mabel or Lilli had taken pity on him and finally taught him how to do it himself. He certainly hadn’t gotten ready at Mabel’s, and after last night, there’s no guarantee Lilli had agreed to help him today. But if she had, then without a doubt she had run her fingers through his hair, setting the curling strands in place, and had slowly buttoned up the dress shirt under his blazer. There’s no thought, no effort, in the sudden switching her brain undergoes: Pacifica sees herself standing in Dipper’s disorderly bedroom, fingers tracing the line between shirt hem and skin, fastening buttons with the care she’ll lack when popping them open hours later.
She’s screwed, but damned if she won’t be pulled into one of the worst decisions she’s ever made without attempting a fight. It will be some fluke of fate if Pacifica doesn’t fracture at least one of the tenuous connections she’s made in the past months. If it has to happen, she wants to at least have some say in who, how, but the way Dipper is looking at her makes her think she won’t.
“You…”
How long has she been silent, stumped between words? Both of them stare at her expectantly.
“You really should find your date.”
The words sound like they’ve been punched out of her. Dipper raises an eyebrow and her heart sinks - he doesn't believe her, not for an instant. He starts to say something, only to be cut off by Scott.
“And if you decide you want to stick with yours, I'll be back in the other room,” Scott says to Pacifica with a frown. There’s more bite in the words he says than how he says them, and the trailing of his hand down her back, across the lace inset that allows his skin to graze hers, lacks the possession it had before.
To say the silence that follows is simply uncomfortable would be akin to saying the Arctic is simply cold; Pacifica shivers.
Dipper leans up against a counter, swirling the drink in his hand. She picks a crumb of something off of her sleeve. Refilling her drink is an option, but the open mixers sit on the counter Dipper currently occupies. It would be a good show of her own restraint to walk right up and fill her cup.
“Do you… want me to...” Dipper starts, “to make you a drink?”
“Yeah, sure.”
She walks over to pass her cup to him, studiously avoiding any brushing of fingers at the transfer. Without another word Dipper reaches past the line of sodas and grabs a handle of rum and a carton of grapefruit juice. He makes it the way she likes it, the way he’s been making it at parties for the past month.
“Thanks,” Pacifica says as he hands her cup back. One sip proves it’s perfect: tart, not too strong, and a good excuse to not talk until she can finally get a handle on her words.
“Lilli’s upstairs, by the way,” Dipper says. He pours a long count of vodka into his own glass, adding to whatever was already in there. “Trey stood Lauren up and then broke up with her over text. Lilli and some of the other girls are on sister watch. Da’sean and Greg have been sent out to bring back ice cream. Do, uh, most major Greek events involve tears at some point in the night?”
The conversation sticks to neutral ground, safe and comfortable. The kind of conversation friends would have, Pacifica decides as she too leans up against the counter, and they are just friends, after all.
“It’s pretty par for the course,” she admits with a chuckle. She’s contributed her fair share of tears and dramatics to Greek events. “There’s a certain degree of intensity that comes out of living, dating, and socializing within the same tiny pool of people.”
Dipper nods at the end of her sentence. He rolls his cup between his hands and shifts his attention through the kitchen’s open entrance and into the bustling living room. Whether by intention or chance, no one has come back into the kitchen since the start of Dipper and Scott’s screaming match. She should leave and find Scott.
“Seems to me… that uh…” Dipper loses whatever he was about to say. She looks up at him, curious, as he looks down to her.
Without warning or prompting he lays a hand on her arm. It must ground him long enough for the words to come out in a rush.
“Seems to me that you’d be better off dating non-Greek.”
His voice rings in her ears and his hand still rests on her arm. Jaw slack, Pacifica gums at words that won't come out. She really, really should leave and find Scott, or go upstairs and help Lilli, or anything.
“Dipper! Look, we can’t be doing this! Just stop!” Pacifica wants to sound firm, but she hears her own voice rise - she’s begging, now. The grain of will she’d been trying to maintain had been lost somewhere along the way, and if he kept going on like this, she was going to fuck up.
“Has anyone told you tonight that you look incredible?”
“Yes, my date!” she says sharply, ignoring the flush that rolls over her body at his compliment. Dipper rears back - confused, maybe hurt - when she jerks away from his touch. He reaches out again and she bats at his hand. It’s for the best. Pacifica picks up her drink and beelines for the living room, but Dipper crosses the kitchen in three long strides and manages to cut her off.
His face matches his blazer as he takes a deep breath and says, “I wish you would talk to me about what’s going on.”
“I wish you would leave me alone tonight,” she snaps back. Her heart races in time with the beat from the music in the other room, and shakes her just as hard. Main exit no longer open to her, Pacifica spins around and charges for the door that leads to the back yard. Dipper isn’t able to stop her, but he does follow.
Without her coat the mid-October air goes straight through her skin, but to go back inside ceases to be an option when Dipper closes the door behind them. The vast back yard is taken up by a few giant trees and a wide, wooden deck that’s gone ignored tonight because of the weather. As such, the only light comes from a single naked bulb right over the kitchen door and from the narrow window in the door itself.
“Fine, so I leave you alone tonight. And then when I come and try to talk to you tomorrow, what? It’s suddenly going to be all resolved? Or are you going to tell me to leave you alone again?”
“Maybe. Maybe I shouldn’t have to tell you more than once.”
Just outside the door is a rickety wrought-iron bench accompanied by a planter that’s been used as a makeshift ashtray since as long as Pacifica can remember. Dipper drops onto the bench heavily, grunting with her words. She braces herself on one of the deck’s railing, keeping a good distance between them.
“Listen, Northwest, we made a friendship truce, and I don’t think this is how friends talk to one another!” Dipper taps the bottom of his cup against the bench, agitated. She can see him staring at her through the near-dark.
There is no way they’re not circling around the same point. After last night, Wednesday, after weeks and months of this back and forth, each of them is just waiting for the other to say it. So she says it.
“You’re right,” she says, “This isn’t how friends talk to one another. This isn’t the kind of thing people who are just friends do.”
Dipper’s head bobs up and down, because it’s impossible to disagree and useless to pretend.
“I want to talk about last night,” he says, voice hard.
He bows his head, waiting but not watching. Holding his plastic cup with both hands, Dipper stares down into its murky contents like he’s staring down a wishing well. The rim, she notices, has been chewed to an uneven edge. It had to have been an evening-long endeavor. Pacifica finds her gaze drifting to Dipper’s lips. The anemic light that flickers on them through the window of the kitchen door is just enough to highlight the white of his teeth as he worries at his bottom lip. She still hasn't responded.
Dipper runs his thumbs up and down the side of his cup for a moment before lifting it. He takes three, four, five deep chugs, and when he starts to tap out a rhythm along the edge, the sound is louder, hollow. The beats fall in step with the bass of whatever song hums through the walls, a sound Pacifica had drowned out until now. With the return of the music comes the resurgence of voices to her ear - laughter, shouts, off-key singing - all a testament to the number of people packed in the Delta house, people who could come right out of that kitchen door and see them, or overhear the confession at her tongue. She glances to the door.
“It’s not a good time,” she finally says.
The crunch that follows is loud enough to make her jump. Startled, Pacifica whips around to face Dipper and nearly drops her drink. He still clutches his cup in one hand, but he’s slammed it up against the brick of the house. It’s crumpled between his fist and the wall, and she can see the dark trails of whatever concoction he’d been drinking streak down through his fingers. His eyes meet hers and they narrow a fraction. His shoulders rise and fall in spasmodic jerks.
“It’s never the right time, is it?” he grits out.
Dipper springs to his feet and drops the crushed cup on the ground. His face darkens - likely red, though impossible to tell - and he clenches his jaw. At over six foot, it’s not hard for Dipper to loom over her. He’s toeing the line of crowding her, body six, maybe seven inches from hers, and without thought he rocks up and down, a frantic motion. There's enough room for her to slip away. She doesn't.
“Fine. You don't want to talk about last night. Then let’s talk about Wednesday.”
Pacifica trembles. It's got to be in the 40s, cold enough for her to regret leaving her coat inside, but the words he hurls at her are all heat. After fixating on yesterday for so long, remembering Wednesday night is like looking through a pair of thick, warped glasses: everything on the other side is blurred, and too much time with it starts to give her a headache. But she must have said something in the car that has him clenching his fist at his side.
“I know I was a drunken idiot and you had to come all the way out to pick my sorry ass up,” Pacifica says. It’s vague enough. “Sorry.”
He waves her words off. “I'd never hesitate to do that for you,” Dipper says. It requires no prompting, and shows no hesitation, and Pacifica can feel that warm tension in her chest - the one she’s been trying to beat back down all week - beginning to rise.
“But that’s not what I'm talking about,” he continues, fixing her with a stare. “I'm talking about in the car, right before we got to your dorm. You said you and Scott weren’t a thing, and then you brought up Lilli.”
Pacifica remembers. Her mouth had felt tacky with gin and everything she’d wanted to say instead. She glances up at him and finds his gaze locked on her. Dipper has gone still. The air seems much, much warmer.
“Yeah,” Pacifica says, “She’s great.”
Dipper nods. “I know,” he says, but he leans in towards her anyway.
“Anyone would be lucky to get a chance with her, she’s like, the nicest person in the world. And cute, too. Older girl…” Pacifica is babbling, because Dipper is reaching out towards her, settling a hand on her waist. She forgets how to breathe. This is happening. Even with every time she’d tried to lash out, derail the train, it’s still happening.
“Why did you bring her up in the car?” Dipper murmurs. For as loud as the party inside is getting, she feels like his voice has completely taken over her brain, because it’s the only thing other than her heartbeat that she can hear.
“You brought up me and Scott.”
“I did. You said you two weren't together.”
“We’re not.”
One of her hands is on Dipper’s shoulder. It had to have happened at some point while they were talking, but how or when is a bit of a mess and she can’t quite get her thoughts together with their bodies practically touching.
“And then you told me it was ‘okay to admit it’ - I assumed you meant admit my feelings for Lilli.
She nods weakly. She is acutely aware of Dipper’s other hand, which now rests just at the juncture between her neck and her shoulder, the same place Scott had kissed her before. Dipper’s touch sears it away.
“Lilli’s not the one I want to be here with, Pacifica. And I think you feel the same way. About Scott.”
This is a bad idea, with one thousand disastrous consequences. This is the thing she told Mabel she was going to get over, to leave in the dust. Dipper gently tugs her against him, and she follows. If anyone were to come out, to see them-
“Mabel told you,” Pacifica says, stalling for time. She’s got to focus, but Dipper bows his head and presses his forehead to hers.
“Told me what?” he asks, and his confusion sounds genuine.
“How I feel about you,” Pacifica breathes. It’s a shock that he can even hear her, but the moment the words are out he tenses and squeezes her hip. He’s close, and Pacifica can smell on him spice and heat.
“No, you said it yourself. We’re not ‘just friends’. So,how do you feel about me?”
“It’s not a good time,” she says instead. His face dips towards hers - she feels the brush of his lips at the corner of her mouth when he says, “It’s never the right time, is it?”
And as if to prove his point, Pacifica presses her lips to his.
...