Work Text:
The only reason I learned to sew was to take in Dipper's shirtsleeves.
T-shirts I leave alone, just because they're already the right length. It's the long sleeves—the button downs and flannels he likes so much—that get tailored.
It's not that bad—certainly not a challenge, and definitely not as degrading as my parents acted like it was. Honestly? As long as I don't think about why I'm doing it, it's almost enjoyable.
I always end of thinking about why I'm doing it anyway.
I don't know what Dipper told his family when the summer ended—it's kind of hard to lie about coming home less one arm. Whatever he said must have been believable because he was back the first weekend in June, just as he'd promised—I mean, if his parents knew what really happened, no matter how slick Mr. Pines can talk or how persuasive Ford can be, I don't think Dipper would have been allowed to set foot in Gravity Falls ever again.
… Full disclaimer, even I don't know exactly what happened to him. My memories of the last days of Weirdmageddon are, surprisingly, few and far between. I guess that's what happens when you're brainjacked by a hellspawn triangle demon… thing. I remember Ford's Zodiac didn't work, and then… everything was over.
As long as it's been, no one is willing to come up with details. Ford did a better job raising me in five years than my parents did in thirteen, and even though I've gotten the "you can come to me with anything" shtick more times than I can count, he changes the subject when he thinks I'm going to bring it up. Mr. Pines isn't much better—definitely less subtle about it. Mabel just looks at me sadly. Dipper promises he's going to tell me one day, but one day is always in the future.
What I can tell you is this: try as they might, there was no way they could have hid that much blood from even the most casual observer.
It's been almost six years, and even though Dipper says he's okay, you can tell the date is weighing heavily on his thoughts. Distracted, anxious, complaining more about phantom sensations—a wristwatch, a cramp in a long-gone hand… It gets better after the fact, and usually come Labor Day it's like it never happened—but in the hell week leading up to it… Well, the world is cruel in its cyclicity.
Fixing the seams of a shirtsleeve? I've mastered that. Trying to keep us both from coming apart completely because of what that bastard Bill did to him? I'm still trying to figure out the stitches for that one.