Work Text:
It’s dark. There’s no sun, not in this daydream. Nothing but the gentle sway of time rocking him back and forth. Except —
There’s a ringing in his head. Dipper sits up with a groan, opens his eyes, and takes in his surroundings. He sees two images on top of each other.
One is the corner of the Mindscape he’s resting in — a small patch of grass floating over a massive abyss kilometers in diameter. The pit below him is inky black, and the pit above him is studded with stars. Some of them twinkle. Some of them shoot across the sky. None of them know how to stuff gummy worms up their nose.
No one bothers him here. He peers into the darkness below him. None of the other demons bother him because they’ve learned by now what’ll happen if they do.
The other image he sees is of a circle far, far away. He groans as his head rings again. He can see he’s being summoned, thank you very much, no need to read the incantation again. The person summoning him looks small. Not a child, though. Mid 40’s, bad temperament, more money than they know what to do with so they started a cult on the side.
Great.
Dipper stretches his arms, then his wings. He stands up, scratches a funny itch on the back of his head, examines his claws because scratching that itch didn’t hurt nearly as much as he thought it would. He lets out a long, shark-toothed yawn. Licks his lips at the thought of eating the rich.
Eh. Maybe later.
He snaps his fingers, and the answering machine appears in the circle. He can practically hear the angry reds and greens explode into the summoner’s aura when they hear Mabel start singing Disco Girl.
He lies back down and closes his eyes. He has plenty of time to mess with summoners. He’ll do it later. Just five more decades, please. Right now he’s too busy enjoying the serene comfort of absolutely nothing.
Of letting time rush over his prone form.
Of distancing himself from his latest mistake (he’d warned that Mizar that other demons weren’t as nice as him but it was probably his fault too that she didn’t listen).
Of pretending to sleep, pretending to dream, and when he accepts that those would always fail him, of watching people have “falling off a cliff after oversleeping for an exam" nightmares.
The cultist gives up on summoning him, summons another demon, and is quickly turned into solid gold. Dipper smiles. See? He didn’t have to do a damn thing.
On a distant planet, his sister sleeps in a poorly-insulated apartment, ensconced in a bed with her polycule. She’s having another of those dreams where she’s just short on rent money for the month, on the verge of waking up to remember that dreaming had gotten less fun when it started mirroring reality too closely. Back when it was an escape from working in the cobalt mine. Back when she’d fall asleep holding her wife’s hand in the hospital and see her healthy again with her hair grown out. She’s tired, she’s scared, and she doesn’t have time for this.
But Dipper’s unaware. No concerns. Nothing he can’t put off. Just five more decades, please. He doesn’t have to do a damn thing.