Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dipper is thirteen years old, and the world is conspiring against him.

“This is unfair,” he says.

Ford glances down at him. Dipper’s not tall, per se, and the two of them have been standing on this stupid marble staircase for almost thirty minutes, so, High Council be damned, Dipper’s plopped himself down on the banister. After all, he can’t do his job if his legs fall permanently asleep.

“Life’s unfair,” replies Ford, apparently capable of standing for however long the Council demands. When Dipper first sat down, Ford shot him a look like… like the one he’s shooting him now, actually. Dipper can’t help but straighten his back under his great-uncle’s steely gaze. Then he remembers that he’s in the right, here, and deliberately re-slumps his shoulders.

“Great-Uncle Ford,” says Dipper, hoping his uncle will miraculously wake up to how insane this is, “I don’t want to babysit a weapon of mass destruction.”

Ford exhales heavily through his nose—the more dignified cousin of a sigh. “Don’t think of it as babysitting, my boy. He’s the same age as you. Think of it as… peer leading.”

He, conspicuously, doesn’t say anything on the weapon of mass destruction point. Dipper takes that as a bad sign.

Dipper’s never been in a cathedral before, but he imagines they look something like the Inquisition’s Grand Reception Chamber. It’s all white marble and fluted pillars and quiet intimidation—exactly as immaculate as it is in textbooks. He knows, rationally, that the arched ceiling can be no more than a hundred feet overhead, but looking upwards grips him with a swirling, nauseous vertigo that leaves him clutching the railing.

Under any other circumstances, this would be an honour. Under these, though, Dipper finds himself staring despondently at the sigils carved into the stair beneath his shoes. They’re a nice reminder that all of this does have a point, besides driving him slowly insane.  

There’s a BANG as the massive wrought iron doors at the far end of the Chamber fly open. Finally, Dipper thinks, even as Ford manages to stand up even straighter, hand closing firmly around his grand-nephew’s wrist. Reluctantly, Dipper allows himself to be dragged to his feet.

The Magister is another thing he recognizes from textbooks. All he can think, as the tall woman sweeps to a regal stop at the top of the stairs, is: She looks more human in photographs.  

It’s something about the unforgiving sunlight; something about how pale she is. She looks preserved, bloodless—like if she held still for too long, she might ossify into one of the statues lining the Chamber.

The Magister looks down her nose at him and Ford for a long moment. The light spilling in from the stained-glass windows stains her colourless cheeks prismatic ambers and oranges. Then she spreads her arms wide, face cracking into a smile, and the light pours over onto her teeth. 

“Stanford,” she says warmly. “Good to see you, my dear. How are you?”

Ford inclines his head, ever respectful. “I’m well, Magister. My research is coming along nicely.”

“That’s always good to hear. My apologies for the tardiness.” Her smile seems slightly strained, now. “As I’m sure you can imagine, there was a… complication.”

“Ah, yes. Complications.” Ford nods knowingly, and though Dipper’s right there in the room with them, he can’t shake the sense that chunks of the conversation are going over his head. “I’m familiar.”

“Aren’t we all,” says the Magister. She’s still addressing Ford, but her eyes are on Dipper now, and he suddenly feels grateful that Ford didn’t let him wear jeans. “Is this the boy?”

“Yes, Magister.” Ford plants a hand on Dipper’s shoulder. It would be almost paternal, if it didn’t feel like he’s trying to prevent Dipper from running away. “This is Mason. My protégé.”

Dipper forces a smile as those empty alabaster eyes shift to hm, crinkled with something that might be mirth. “Oh, protégés. I’m familiar with those as well.” She inclines her head. “Tell me, Mason, do you know why you’re here?”

Ford’s grip is a vice on his shoulder. Dipper wants to shake him off, but he knows how that would look, so he just bites the inside of his cheek and focuses on keeping his tone polite. “To be a counterweight?” He hesitates, then—because flattery never killed anyone—adds, “To a… powerful mage?”

Ford’s exact words had been Chosen One. There’s no way Dipper’s saying that out loud, though, Magister or not.

A chuckle rings through the chamber. For a confused second, Dipper thinks the Magister is laughing at him—then he realizes, no, there’s someone behind her. Someone with a grin in his voice.

“Counterweight? Guess that’s one way of putting it! Don’t get me wrong, it’s the wrong way, but hey, baby’s first public blunder, right?” His—the voice is definitely male—tone turns chiding. “C’mon, Clorox, I thought we were done with the false advertisement. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to ruin my bad rap!”

It makes Dipper’s head spin to realize the boy just referred to the Magister as Clorox—that’s some kind of non-magical cleaning product, right? he thinks he’s seen some in the cupboards at Wendy’s house—but all she does is release a sigh, slowly, through her nose. “You see my issue,” she says to Ford, sounding resigned.

The boy snorts inelegantly before Ford can answer. “I doubt he’s allowed to see any issues with you. Never too late to dust off the ole guillotine, eh?”

“There is a certain standard of conduct demanded of my apprentices,” the Magister says, lips a thin, displeased line. “Now, regularly, I would simply replace Cipher, but… extenuating circumstances make that impossible. You know how testy Fate can be.”

Dipper frowns. She says Fate with a gravity, a familiarity, but before he can think on it, she’s continuing. “I need someone to keep an eye on him. Someone to keep him in line. And, Stanford, I’ve heard your protégé is gifted—both in magic, and the head on his shoulders.”

That last bit is pointed at the blond boy behind her—Cipher—but he ignores her, sauntering over to the side of the landing and settling down on the banister. He gives his legs an exploratory swing.

“Mason will, of course, have the best education this dimension has to offer. And he’ll still have plenty of time to spend with you and the rest of the family, don’t worry. Consider this… an all-expenses paid scholarship.” The Magister sounds far too pleased with herself for Dipper’s liking. He wonders how long she spent rehearsing this sales pitch, then wonders why she’s bothering: it’s obvious, at least to him, that whatever she sells, Ford will buy. “I believe Mason will find it quite the opportunity.”

“I understand—” starts Ford, but he cuts off as Cipher slides down the banister—and Dipper was sitting on it, yeah, but that was before the Magister was in the room. Cipher slips off the railing, bouncing to his feet in front of Dipper and Ford.

He glances at Ford and winks. “Oh, don’t make that face, Sixer! No one’s fault but your own if you can’t spit that boot out of your mouth long enough to get a word in edgewise.” He grins at Dipper like he finds the whole situation hilarious, sticks out a hand. “Howdy! Word on the block is you’re my babysitter now.”

Dipper does not find the whole situation hilarious. He’s not sure if he’s allowed to respond, but Ford’s gone stiff and silent beside him, and it’s one thing to insult him, but it’s another entirely to insult his great-uncle. “That’s what I’ve heard,” he says frostily, ignoring the proffered hand. “Must’ve been a mistake, though; I don’t do pets.”

Ford and the Magister look equally scandalized, like they know someone’s out of line but can’t decide who. Cipher, though, laughs delightedly and rocks back on his heels.

“Well,” says the Magister, clearing her throat. “Look at that. They’re.”

The end of that sentence dangles in the air. She can’t quite bring herself to say getting along.

“Wouldya look at that,” Cipher says, still with that insincere grin. “Disappointing two authority figures in one—looks like we have something in common already! We’ll be frolicking in meadows and making daisy chains in no time.” His smile sharpens into something jagged and about as friendly as a kitchen knife. “Y’know. If you last that long.”

Dipper will be damned if this asshole is what kills him, no matter how chosen his mommy might tell him he is. He scowls at Cipher. For whatever reason, that only makes his grin widen.

This is so unfair, Dipper thinks but doesn’t say. After all, he’s supposed to be a good influence now.

He flips Cipher off instead.

Over their heads, Ford and the Magister meet each other’s eyes, and sigh. 

The next day finds Dipper sitting on a wooden bleacher, watching Cipher train.

Training is the Magister’s word. If asked, Dipper would be a bit more creative—complete waste of time, maybe, or watching Cipher destroy random stuff.

Dipper wasn’t sure he believed in destiny before yesterday; now, though, he’s confident he doesn’t. What kind of crackpot force would choose Cipher for anything, let alone cosmic power?

Possibly the same force that thought putting Dipper in charge of him was a good idea.

At least from where he’s seated, on the bottom tier of the deserted arena—an open-air ring with a sandy floor and scorch marks clawing up the walls—he can study Cipher. Seeing as Cipher is determined to pretend Dipper doesn’t exist and Dipper is determined for this whole experience not to be a gigantic waste of time. And, loathe as he is to admit it, there’s quite a bit to study.

Magic users don’t exactly brand themselves Human 2.0. The population is still overwhelmingly non-magical, though you wouldn’t guess it from looking around the Inquisition. Everyone Dipper’s glimpsed here seems to be a mage—which makes sense, he supposes, but still makes him bristle a bit on behalf of the mundane townspeople. On their way to bless town squares and enchant clouds to rain down re-election pins, politicians like to flash plastic smiles and proclaim to the cameras that Everyone is equal! and We’re all human! and Another civil war would undoubtably end in mutually assured destruction, so maybe let’s not!

But the truth is, magic users are different. Visibly, tangibly different: the result of evolution exploding in a million different directions. Ford’s six fingers, the Magister’s albinism; Dipper himself has a scattering of stars across his forehead. Mabel sulked for a full week once she was old enough to realize what that meant—a brother with magic, and nothing stranger about her than braces with elastics that snap if she yawns too widely—until Stan clapped her on the back and offered to teach her boxing so she could still kick Dipper’s ass. (Dipper’s grateful to him for that, mostly.) (Although giving her insecurities a Dipper-shaped target maybe wasn’t the best idea.)

Usually, Dipper hides his mark behind his curls. It’s not like he’s self-conscious, or anything—it’s just better not to advertise if you can avoid it. Looking at Cipher as he strolls around the arena with a quick, easy grace Dipper is simultaneously annoyed by and jealous of, it’s obvious he can’t avoid it.

His eye—the other is covered by an eyepatch, and Dipper’s not going to give Cipher the satisfaction of asking about it—catches the sunlight, glowing like warm honey. The effect is sharpened by his slit pupil. More interestingly, dark designs wind their way along his skin, interlocking like glyphs. They vanish under the sleeves and collar of Cipher’s shirt, and Dipper wonders absently if he’d be able to read them if he could see the full picture.

“So,” says Dipper as Cipher pokes a straw dummy in the chest, carelessly pushing it over, “you’re the Chosen One.”

“Yup!” Cipher pops the p cheerfully, and Dipper frowns. He’s not sure how he thinks a Chosen One should act—he didn’t even know that was a thing until a couple days ago—but he’s confident this isn’t it. Cipher should be serious. Sobered by his destiny, or something. “Prophecy, poorly-worded instructions, fancy schmancy magic—the whole nine yards!”

Dipper narrows his eyes. “Hmm.”

“Hmm what?”

“Hmm nothing.”

“Lemme guess,” Cipher says, rolling his head to shoot Dipper a bored look. “You’re thinking, ‘Why is there even a Chosen One? That seems dumb. What do they need to be chosen for? I bet I could do whatever job this schmuck has, and I could do it without some bullshit destiny bossing me around, because I’m smart and talented and, oh, also thirteen, what a coinkydink.’”

Dipper tries not to let on how spot-on that was. “Well, why do we need a Chosen One?”

Cipher sweeps the feet out from under another dummy. He takes a moment to be vindictively pleased when it hits the ground, then shrugs up at Dipper. “Beats me.”

“What?”

“Sure you don’t wanna say that again? I don’t think they quite heard you in the Mindscape.”

Dipper sits forward, incredulous; the edge of the bench is digging into his legs, but he doesn’t care. “How can you not know? You said there was a prophecy.”

“Yeesh, you think people tell me things?” Cipher pffts. “I told you, I don’t know. And you’d better get used to not knowing, too, if you’re gonna stick around. Welcome to the club! Heck, if I’d known you were coming, I’d have gotten t-shirts printed.”

Dipper is silent in his disagreement. Maybe oblivion suits Cipher just fine, but he’s different. As soon as he leaves for the Shack today, he’s running to the library and taking out every book he can on… whatever this is. Prophecies? Destiny? Unpaid internships?

Cipher knocks another dummy over, and Dipper speaks up. “Are you supposed to be doing that?”

“Nope,” says Cipher, casting him a challenging look. “I’m supposed to be ‘honing my magical prowess.’” Dipper’s not sure why that last part has to be in air quotes.

“So they’re not intended to do…” He gestures to the way one of the dummies has sprawled out, nerveless limbs flung wide, on the sand. “That?”

“Is your phone intended to be a glass brick?” Cipher snipes. He heaves a long-suffering sigh at Dipper’s confusion. “They’re intended to be powered on, genius. You wouldn’t get it; it’s a magic thing.”

He turns away—and now that Dipper looks more closely, he can see faint, ashy runes seared into the backs of the dummies’ wooden heads. They spark an idea.

As Cipher shoves the next dummy over, Dipper extends his leg oh-so-carefully. The toe of his boot brushes against its side as it falls past him, and he concentrates—a jolt of energy runs from his chest, down his leg, into the dead wood. And the sigil on the back of the thing’s head blazes to life.

Unlike its predecessors, the dummy catches itself on one arm before it hits the ground.

Cipher’s back is already turned, so he doesn’t see the way its articulated joints pulse with unearthly energy, the way it rocks lightly to its feet. Dipper—watching raptly, leaning so far over the railing he’s in danger of overbalancing—does. It twists its head to one side, then the other, working out nonexistent kinks, then stalks across the circle.

The dummy makes no sound as it prowls. Its movements have a dancelike fluidity, and Dipper realizes that the things in the ring aren’t dummies. They’re human-sized marionettes.

Foreboding is starting to tug at the back of Dipper’s mind, but before he can intervene, the marionette draws back its arm. And this time, it does make a sound; a tight, metallic clicking, like an old music box wound past the point of comfort. It’s loud enough for Dipper to hear from the stands, and from the way Cipher’s shoulders stiffen, Dipper can pinpoint the moment he hears it, too. Cipher whips around, but it’s too late, and Dipper just sees that lambent eye go wide with surprise before the marionette deals him a backhanded slap across the face.

Hard.

Cipher’s head snaps to the side, and he staggers with the force of the blow. One of his hands freezes, half-raised to his face—an aborted attempt to shield his bad side.

For a moment, all Dipper can do is stare. That was a lot rougher than he intended. He wonders, semi-hysterically, what kind of mentor lets their protégé around such dangerous magical equipment unsupervised. Then he remembers that he’s the supervision, which doesn’t help the hysteria. No wonder Cipher doesn’t like the things.  

“Gods,” breathes Dipper as his mind kicks back into gear. He wanted to embarrass Cipher, not concuss him. He hops over the railing, landing in a crouch, boots sending up puffs of sand where they hit the arena floor. The marionette is standing back from Cipher, too-long arms falling slack at its sides. Its wooden face is smooth and completely featureless, and yet, somehow, patient.

It’s a remarkable, absolutely terrifying feat of enchantment, and Dipper would love a chance to examine those sigils more closely, but thoughts of magic fall by the wayside as Cipher hunches his shoulders.

“Hey, man,” Dipper calls, torn between his desire to stay away from the marionette and his burgeoning guilt. “Are you… okay? I mean, do you need… uh…”

He trails off as, slowly, Cipher pushes himself to his feet. And laughs.

“Whew!” Cipher says once the laughter has subsided, working his jaw. There’s a thin trickle of blood running from the corner of his mouth, but he makes no move to wipe it away. “You’ve got a mean backhand, new guy!” He smooths his shirt down, still shaking his head, and shoots Dipper a glittering smile. “Well, you were kind enough to show me yours. Guess it’s only fair that I show you mine!”

The marionette is shaking out its wrists. Blood still drips down his jaw, but Cipher doesn’t look the least concerned. As it draws back for a second swing, he waves a hand at it, and the marionette goes up in flames.

So does the entire section of bleachers where Dipper was just sitting.

It doesn’t catch fire. There’s no first spark, no steady spread of flames—just a deafening FWOOM, and then the bleachers are gone, swallowed by a wall of fire that might as well have jetted out of the ground.

Dipper is snapped out of his shock when the heat hits him. It bakes off his face, and he stumbles backwards, vision flooded with sudden, searing whiteness. Every breath scorches his throat. He coughs, shielding his eyes, thoughts jumbled and dazzled, jolting around with the cracks and pops of dry wood beams as they collapse.

That didn’t happen. It couldn’t have. It’s not… magic doesn’t…

Even Ford couldn’t just do that much magic with no preparation. There are runes, and rituals, and the equivalent exchange to be worried about, and Cipher is freaking thirteen and just expended enough energy to will an inferno into being and hasn’t even broken a sweat. He hasn’t even bothered to check his handiwork, still examining his nails like he didn’t just cast a spell that takes so much raw energy, if Dipper tried to cast it, he would probably die.

As if hearing Dipper’s thoughts, Cipher finally looks up. He grins at Dipper, teeth gleaming white in the feverish light of the leaping flames, and Dipper thinks, faintly, that he may be in over his head.

The Magister makes it clear that she’s very disappointed in both of them, but especially Cipher, and that frightening Dipper—Dipper opens his mouth to say he wasn’t frightened, thank you very much, but then remembers the rumours that she can read minds, and opts for silence—was an Absolutely Inexcusable Breach of Etiquette. Dipper proposes that Cipher can make it up by letting him study the limits of his power. The Magister gives him a peculiar look, then laughs it off, shaking her head fondly and You really are Stanford’s grandnephew-ing.

Dipper laughs with her and starts brainstorming innocuous ways to sneak an oscilloscope into the Inquisition.

Dipper is fourteen years old, and he’s figured everything out.

He drops a tall stack of books down on the sturdy wooden desk with a satisfying thud, frowning as he flicks through the volume on top, one Species of the multiverse, second edition. “I’ve figured it all out,” he informs Cipher as he scans the age-worn pages. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

Cipher arches an eyebrow up at him lazily. He’s lounging in a chair nearby, legs slung over one arm, somehow giving the impression of sunning himself despite the lack of natural light in the High Library. “Figured what out? How to dress yourself?” He snickers at his own joke. “It’s about time! Those hoodies weren’t doing you any favours.”

Dipper, staunch defender of hoodies, ignores him. He flips the book around to face Cipher, jabbing a finger at a diagram. “I’ve figured out where you get your… specialness from.”

“From?” Cipher snorts. “Please, a little credit where credit’s due. Trust me, kid, you have to work hard to be this special.”

“We’re the same age,” Dipper says flatly. He pushes the book at him. “C’mon, you can’t tell me you aren’t at least a bit interested. Read.”

Cipher squints at it, then at Dipper, amused. “Gnomes? Something you wanna say to my face, Pine Tree?”

“What? No!” Dipper pulls the book away, deftly flipping the pages. Some kind of summoning wheel, many-verticied and spidery, glares out at him, lines seeming to glisten dark and wet against the cream paper. The patterns remind him of the ones on Cipher’s skin. Coincidence? I think not. “Here.”

Cipher’s gaze roves slowly across the page. “You… think I’m a demon,” he says. One corner of his mouth twitches upwards. “I’m flattered, really, but don’t you think sacrificing your firstborn to me is moving a bit fast?”

“Not a demon,” says Dipper, arms folded across his chest, “but you might have demonic blood. It’s not unheard of for magic users to have mixed ancestry along the line—heck, go back far enough, and supposedly, something like a quarter of mages’ families have had dealings with fey—and a direct tie a demon might explain why you have so much raw power.” He hesitates, chewing his lip, trying to broach the subject delicately. “Plus, I’m… guessing the Magister isn’t your mom?”

To his relief, Cipher barks a laugh. “Oh, voids, no! Ugh, can you imagine?” He settles back, looking thoughtful. “So, what? You think all this”—he sweeps a hand to gesture to himself—“happened because some demon couldn’t keep it in their pants?”

Dipper wrinkles his nose. “Ew, man. But that is the interesting part.” He flips the book back to face himself, growing excited. “See, realistically, there are only a few select types of demon it could be. Ones known to have… prolonged interactions with humans. Incubi are the most likely candidates, for obvious reasons.” Dipper pauses, tapping his fingers on his chin. “Though I guess that would make you a cambion.” 

“Incubi like the sex ones?”

Dipper arches his eyebrows. “I’m guessing you’ve never seen a horror movie made before 2009.”

But Cipher just winks at him, a shit-eating grin spreading across his face. “Aww, Pine Tree Middlename Pines! You are quite the charmer.” He bats his eye obscenely and clasps his hands to his chest. “Those six little words every girl wants to hear: I think you’re a sex demon. Stop, you’ll make me blush.”

“We can’t discount the scientific possibility,” Dipper says through gritted teeth. He can hear himself slipping into what Mabel has dubbed his Ford Voice—sometimes he does that when he’s stressed, or embarrassed, and right now he’s heading rapidly towards both—but. Well.

Cipher is attractive; even Dipper can admit that.

It would make sense.  

“Ooh, talk scientific possibilities to me,” says Cipher, pretending to swoon dramatically in his chair and knocking a tome off the desk in the process. “You know how that gets my motor going.”

Dipper pushes back from the table, flushing up to the roots of his hair, vehemently glad there’s no one else around to hear what sounds like a cracked porn intro. “Screw you, Cipher.” The blond’s laughter follows him into the labyrinth of shelves.

He can’t discount the scientific possibility of Cipher being a gigantic asshole, either.

Dipper is fourteen and a half years old when he and Cipher work out a truce. A deal, Cipher calls it, but Dipper thinks that’s being a touch dramatic. All it amounts to is lying to authority figures. The Magister will occasionally ask after Cipher—come have a seat, Mason; how is my protégé?—and Dipper will pick the lesser of a dozen evils to discuss.

Dipper had been skeptical about whether it would work. Surely, he’d thought, she could just look out the window and plainly see all the havoc Cipher was wreaking? But no: he’s come to realize calling Cipher her protégé is a bit of a stretch. Unlike Ford with Dipper, the Magister is always off running the dimension, leaving Cipher free to do more or less whatever he can legally get away with—which is probably part of the problem, but whatever.

Come to think of it, Dipper doesn’t think he’s seen Cipher and the Magister alone in the same room since… well, ever. Watching them exchange strained pleasantries in public is one of Dipper’s guilty fascinations; it’s like watching two stray cats duct-taped together attempt to politely (or not-so-politely, in Cipher’s case) chew through the other’s tail to escape.

Cipher had asked why Dipper had to tell the Magister anything at all, and he’d patiently explained that there was no way in hell she’d buy perfect behaviour from him. Begrudgingly, Cipher had to agree, and so their code system was born.

Cipher skipped class, for example, instead of Cipher went to another party in the city and came back drunk and, yes, also skipped class to sleep off his hangover.

He deprogrammed the Inquisition’s golems means He enchanted the fountain to spew blood and scared a foreign dignitary shitless.  

He messed with the organizational system of the High Library means He snuck pastries into Study Hall for the two of us to eat and almost choked on one while laughing, which would certainly be a tragic and unexpected end to the Chosen One, and plus, the joke wasn’t even that funny. 

Thinking about it, that last one’s not so bad. Dipper could probably tell it to her, if he wanted to.

He finds he doesn’t anyway.

Dipper is fifteen and sitting cross-legged on the edge of Cipher’s bed, a book balanced on his knees.

“Baby’s breath,” he reads.

“You know that kid in town that keeps trying to build death robots? Gideon what’s-his-face? Yeah. They look like his hair.”

“Basil.”

“Tastes disgusting,” says Cipher, wrinkling his nose. “I have no idea why so many people think jacking off to it will protect them—unless they want to be protected from Michelin Stars, hah!” His gaze flickers to Dipper. “Seriously, nothing? Not even an eye twitch? Yeesh, tough crowd!”

“Blackthorn.”

“Trying too hard.”

“Rowan.”

“Not trying nearly hard enough.”

Dipper sighs, lowering the dog-eared textbook. “You know, none of those things are magical properties. You’re going to fail this test.”

“Aw, shucks.” Cipher rolls over in the window seat and gives Dipper a dry look. “Guess I’ll just have to fulfill my ‘grand and important destiny’ without knowing how to make kombucha, or whatever this course is trying-and-failing to teach.”

“Herbology,” Dipper corrects absentmindedly. When Cipher had asked—well, more like ordered, in a gloomy sort of way Dipper was pretty sure meant someone had ordered him to ask—Dipper to come up to his room and study with him, Dipper hadn’t known what to expect. Only that it wasn’t this.

He can’t tell if the room is large, or just empty; aside from the bed, Cipher’s room might as well be a prison cell. The uncovered stone walls and floor radiate a chill from outside that has already settled into Dipper’s bones, though Cipher doesn’t seem bothered by the cold. Possibly it’s his magic, possibly it’s a demon thing.

(Either way, Dipper’s noticed that Cipher maintains a constant body temperature of comfortably warm. Seriously. Snowdrifts start to melt when he stands near them too long. Dipper’s not sure how that works, thermodynamically speaking, but it does mean that Cipher has to chug cold drinks really fast. Dipper greatly enjoys handing him iced teas in front of people who aren’t aware of this particular tidbit. He doesn’t consider this too mean. Mostly because Cipher greatly enjoys iced teas.)

Whatever the reason, Cipher doesn’t seem to mind, or even notice, how unlivable his quarters are. Dipper decides he’s grumpy on both of their behalves.

Cipher is lounging in the only other real piece of furniture: a window seat under an expansive picture window. It looks out over town, the buildings and forest dark against the evening sky. The two of them have been studying—though maybe that’s a generous word for it—by natural light so far; Dipper is beginning to consider casting an illuminate charm, but Cipher doesn’t seem to have a problem with the dark, and there’s still enough light for shadows to spill across the stone floor, so Dipper’s allowing himself to enjoy the steadily deepening twilight.

“Potatoes, po-tah-toes,” says Cipher vaguely. He’s staring out the window, looking thoughtful, arms folded behind his head. “If you only had a few years to live,” he asks suddenly, “what would you do?”

Dipper frowns. “What?” And then, stupidly, because that threw him: “That’s not Herbology.”

“Yeesh, at least try to keep up, Pine Tree.” Cipher rolls his eye—and Dipper thinks that’ll be the end of this bizarre tangent, but the blond resettles himself and rephrases the question. “Okay, so, hypothetically speaking, say someone fed you an herb, and it was gradually poisoning you, so you only had a few years to live. What would you do?”

“Why?” Dipper asks, eyes narrow. It wouldn’t be beyond Cipher to twist any answer he gives to justify… anything, really.

“Just curious. C’mon, gimme a little insight into that big, sweaty brain of yours.”

“Well,” Dipper says slowly, as confused by this turn as he is offended by the suggestion that his brain is sweaty, “I guess, if I knew I was going to die… I’d want to spend my time with the people I care about. My sister, my great-uncles. I’d also tell the Magister to go screw herself and leave this dumb scholarship,” he adds, and Cipher snorts softly. “Not that you aren’t lovely company. You’re just… not lovely company.”

“Believe me, the feeling’s mutual.” Cipher tilts his head back, looking at Dipper sideways. “So, that’s it? You’d just, what—go off to sing kumbaya, then la fin, draw the curtains, please RSVP tearfully to the funeral? There isn’t any business you’d want to see finished? Any people you’d want to push down wells?”

“First of all,” says Dipper, wondering why Cipher’s pressing this so much, “because I’m obligated to tell you this, that’s terrible. Second, if there were, I wouldn’t be telling you. Third…” He hesitates, because Cipher’s gone quiet. Really quiet. If he didn’t know better, he’d think Cipher was holding his breath, waiting for the answer. “I suppose I’d want to accomplish something, you know? Leave something behind.”

Cipher is silhouetted against the fading blue light from the window; like this, Dipper almost can’t make out his eyepatch. “Huh,” he says finally. “Never took you for the trophy-collecting type. Other than that, you really wouldn’t change much about how you live?” He sounds disbelieving. “What about the ole ‘if you want something, better go out and do it while you can’?”

“I don’t think the knowledge that you’re going to die gives you the right to mess with other peoples’ lives,” Dipper says honestly. “What kind of world would we live in, if that was the case? Anyone could use it to justify anything, because everyone dies eventually.”

“Hey, don’t knock it till you try it. You never know when someone’s gonna come along and kick your can for you.”

Somehow, Dipper doesn’t think they’re talking about him anymore. “We’re fifteen,” he says, shaking his head; honestly, Cipher can be so dramatic sometimes. “We have plenty of time.”

Cipher is oddly silent, staring out at the first shimmer of stars in the sky. “Yeah.”

“Though, of course,” Dipper continues sagely, “I suppose you plan to live young, die young, and leave behind an absolutely bereft tutor-slash-handler-slash-potential saint?”

Cipher snorts. “More like live young, die in excruciating pain, and leave my tutor-slash-handler-slash-egomaniac a box of wasps in my will.”

“I’m flattered that you think I’ll outlive you,” Dipper drawls. It’s joking, but Cipher’s response is so matter-of-fact that it takes him aback.

“Well, ‘Chosen One’ isn’t exactly up there with dietician on the list of safest career paths.” Cipher gives a one-shouldered shrug. “An early death is kinda part of the job.”

Dipper isn’t sure how to reply. He hears himself say, “You don’t know that,” though he’s not sure why he’s arguing this, not even sure what he’s arguing—he’s not exactly Cipher’s biggest fan, but it’s difficult to imagine anyone his age dead. The thought makes him feel... weird. Though that's par for the course around Cipher. “I mean, usually in books and stuff, the Chosen One offs the dark lord and gets the girl and settles down for a comfortably suburban life.”

It’ s not what Dipper would consider a fulfilling life, but it’s better than death. Probably.

Cipher pulls a face and verbalizes Dipper’s thoughts. “Eesh. I might prefer the death. Better to die a hero than live long enough to see yourself become a glassy-eyed househusband, right?”

“I didn’t show you that movie so that you could mangle quotes from it to rationalize your own death.” Dipper hesitates, then carefully sets his textbook off to the side. “If you could choose,” he says haltingly, half-expecting Cipher to laugh in his face, for this to all be the elaborate set-up to a tasteless joke, “would you still want to be… you know?”

“It wouldn’t matter. Fate’s a bitch.” Cipher chuckles—it’s dark, with a bitter edge, and Dipper thinks of the raw chocolate Ford sometimes brings back from his travels. “Cosmic forces would make one hell of a theater company. No matter the condition of their conduit, the show must go on.”

“At least you’re powerful?” Dipper offers.

“Yeah,” Cipher agrees, glumly. “But that’s the teensy-weensy little thing about power that they don’t tell you: there’s always someone out there with more of it than you. And you can’t tell who’s the bigger fish until someone gets eaten.” 

It doesn’t feel like Dipper’s comforting Cipher. It doesn’t feel like Cipher’s bouncing ideas off him, either. Dipper’s not sure what this is, only that Cipher is, apparently, not as shallow as he assumed. Which is what he wanted, he supposes, though he was thinking more along the lines of is a fellow BABBA fan than harbours a crushing existentialism.

“Well, if knowledge is power, you’d better watch out.” Dipper lets his voice drop to a campfire story hush. “Because—true story—some of us actually did the reading. Terrifying, I know.”

It’s not very funny, but Cipher bursts out laughing anyways, seeming relieved for an excuse to let the oddly private atmosphere dissipate back into the cool evening air. Dipper catches himself smiling, too. The space between them feels less thorny. Like their hostility is a balloon, and while they weren’t looking, someone came along and let some of the air out.

Cipher blows out a breath, raking a hand through his hair and sitting up. “Yeesh, sorry ’bout that. I didn’t really mean to say… any of that. And especially didn’t mean to step on your toes there. I know being sappy is your department, Pine Tree.”

“Ugh.” Dipper scrunches up his nose. “That’s just… so bad. What did I do to deserve that nickname?”

“Hey, you tell me: you’re the one losing his mind over Herbology, of all things. ’Sides, the alternative is Mason, which—no offense—isn’t exactly better.”

Without thinking, Dipper says, “Just call me Dipper, man. It’s what most people do.”

“Dipper,” Cipher says, testing it out. “Huh. For your…” He gestures to his forehead, and Dipper moves to cover his own in reflexive self-consciousness.

“You know what, actually, just forget I said—”

“I like it.” Cipher shrugs. “Rolls off the tongue better than Mason, anyhow.” He bites his lip, then says, hesitantly, “You can… call me Bill. If you want.”

Dipper finds himself smiling at him for the second time this evening. “All right, then. Bill.”

The name makes Ci— makes Bill seem less like a mythic figure and more like… well, more like a person. More like the boy sitting across from Dipper in the window seat.

“I reserve the right to use Pine Tree, though,” adds Bill. “That’s too good to give up.”

Dipper sighs. “It’s really not,” he says, grimacing, but it’s for effect. He’ll take what he can get.

When Bill turns back to the window, Dipper lets him be, frowning thoughtfully, running a finger over a seam in the blanket. He’s never thought of this Chosen One stuff like that. Like something forced on Bill. He’s always seemed—well, if not particularly enthused about his situation, then okay with it. Staring at the lifeless stone walls, Dipper wonders how much of that is true, and how much is a lifetime of practice.

Against the sprawling purples and blues of the evening sky, Bill is made small—legs tucked up to his chest, eye glowing softly in the gathering darkness, dark patterns running up his arms. Usually the patterns look cool; like tattoos that Dipper isn’t allowed to get (yet). But in this light, they look disturbingly like poisoned veins, spiderwebbing their way to Bill’s heart.

Dipper watches Bill, the Chosen One-in-all-caps—who is capable of destruction on an unprecedented scale, who commands more power than most people will see in their lifetimes—and finds himself feeling sorry for him.

Dipper is sixteen, and Bill wants to fight a dragon.

“Oh no no no, we are not doing that, Bill, are you kidding me—”

“Why not? I’m the Chosen One.” Bill always says that with a twist of irony; like it’s an inside joke, and not a particularly funny one. “I’m basically invulnerable.”

“Sorry to disappoint, Your Chosenness, but mere mortals like me are very much vulnerable,” Dipper points out.

That gives Bill pause. He half-turns, bag slung over one shoulder. “You don’t have to come with.”

“And you don’t have to go at all. This is so incredibly dumb—did you know, dragons can slam their jaws shut with 8 000 psi of force, and that’s not even counting that they can set you on fire from half a mile away—”

Dipper comes with.

He never really had a choice, he tells himself. He returns home tired and dirty and partially singed, and Ford puts a hand on his shoulder and asks him with a grave look in his eye if Bill did this to him—prophecy or not, if that boy laid a finger on you… —and Mabel laughs when Dipper says no. She laughs even harder when he admits they never made it to the dragon, because he almost blew himself up trying to cast a fireproof spell on himself.

What he doesn’t tell them is that turning around after that was Bill’s idea. Or that, when he was lying, dazed, in the blackened scar he’d seared into the ground, staring blankly up into the looming blue sky—as feeling rushed back into his numb limbs and his heart rattled against his ribcage and a cold, queasy trembling started up in his fingers—Bill had knelt beside him and murmured something into his hair, words that slip from Dipper’s memory, until the stinging faded from his skin and the wire around his chest went slack and he could breathe again. Or how worried Bill had looked, just for a moment.

There are some things, he figures, that they don’t need to know.

Bill still wants to fight a dragon. Of course. Dipper doesn’t think he’s getting paid enough for this.

He doesn’t think he’s getting paid at all, actually.

That doesn’t mean he’ll let Bill get himself barbecued, though. That, he’ll do from the goodness of his own heart.

Chapter Text

Dipper is sixteen and a half years old, and the Festival of Lights is in full swing.

The night sky is dark and featureless behind high clouds. A sweet spring breeze whispers along the cobblestones; it sways strands of hanging lights, kicks up the cool mist eddying around Dipper’s ankles, and he pulls his scarf up higher, glancing at the way the light plays off the sides of buildings.

If it were up to him, he probably wouldn’t be here, surrounded by pulsing music and giddy laughter and bursts of illumination. But it isn’t up to him. Tonight is about Mabel. Hence the scarf.

It’s woven with luminescent threads and glows the unearthly blue of deep cave creatures and, he’s pretty sure, looks fairly ridiculous. Everyone he’s seen in the crowd looks like they could be at a rave; he looks like an unnamed extra from a Harry Potter porn parody.

Harry Potter and Two Girls, One Goblet, he thinks glumly, then immediately wishes he hadn’t.

“I’m telling you, you are thinking too small!”

“No, I’m telling you that you’re a monster and shouldn’t be allowed around corndogs!”

“Ladies, ladies. If we fight about this, we’re just giving the corndog vendors free publicity. If anything, they should be paying us for this!”

Dipper is leaning against a ring-toss booth, trying to ignore the uneasy looks the booth operator keeps darting at him when he thinks Dipper can’t see. With him are Wendy—back in town from college for the weekend—Mabel, and a couple of Mabel’s friends that he’s never seen before. One girl is slim, with glasses perched on her nose and glow bands running up and down her arms; the other is built like a brick shithouse, an effect only enhanced by the comically small party hat balanced on her head.

Dipper’s been spending more and more time at the Inquisition, lately, and it makes his heart pang to realize that he can no longer put names to the faces of Mabel’s friends.

Still. They’re here to have fun, and that’s what he intends to do.  

Mabel and the two girls are locked in intense debate. Dipper’s been listening with half an ear as he competes with Wendy to see what performs better at the ring-toss, her arm or his technically-against-the-rules magic, when Mabel pivots to him, hands planted on her hips.

“Okay, bro-bro, you’re a mage. Settle this for us: if you grant sentience to a corndog, does that make it your slave or your son?”

“Why does the corndog have to be a guy?” booms the burly girl. Dipper would think she’s raising her voice over the clamour, but the way the others cringe and pre-emptively reach for their ears suggest that this is par for the course. “If corndogs were guys, they’d call ’em HORNdogs! HAH!” She pauses. “Should I do standup?”

“It’s not—” Mabel starts, but the slim girl—Katy? Cindy?—interrupts.

“No, no, you are both missing the point.” She turns wide, gleaming eyes on Dipper. “The true question is, can I eat my corndog child? Legally. The morals are not a problem.”

Dipper rolls his eyes, opening his mouth to reply, but then something taps him on the back. He turns and feels himself light up. “Oh, hey, Bill!”

“Well, hey yourself, Pine Tree!” Bill grins at him. Angular shadows slant across his face, cast by a pair of magicked demon horns floating in place an inch above his head. They have an immaterial look to them, as though fashioned from pure energy, and glow the same gold as his eye. “Funny running into you here.”

“Yeah. Small town, I guess.” Behind Bill are a few people Dipper recognizes from classes at the Inquisition: Pyronica, 8-Ball, Teeth. He doesn’t know their real names, and he doubts they know his—they all know each other through Bill, who is, apparently, something of a serial nicknamer.

Hesitantly, Dipper raises a hand to Pyronica. She waves back and hefts up a tray of Pepto-pink sugar balls that look anything but edible, delightedly mouthing, Deep-fried Kool-Aid!

Dipper becomes aware that the girls are staring. Bill and his friends are all mages, and even amid the Festival’s maelstrom of colour and light, they glow. From white-hot hair to Bill’s horns to skin that scatters firelight in hundreds of directions, they make the townsfolk’s impressive decorations seem tacky and dim, like last night’s glowsticks, soon to be discarded and forgotten at the bottom of a drawer. They look like the real deal. Like what the Festival was founded to honour.

Dipper glances down at his own arm, at the refraction charm he decided at the last moment would be fun to ink onto the inside of his wrist, and realizes with a start that that’s how he must look.

No wonder the carnie didn’t prevent him from cheating, he thinks, a little guiltily. The poor man was probably terrified.

But that’s ridiculous. Dipper isn’t scary.

No one has said anything, and Wendy has taken it upon herself to vanish into the crowd, and the pause is stretching out of expectant and into uncomfortable. Dipper pulls himself out of his reverie and clears his throat, gestures behind himself awkwardly. “This is my sister, Mabel, and her friends… uh…”

The girls point to each other. “Grenda,” says Candy, at the same time as Grenda says, “Candy.”

They’re still staring. It’s starting to get uncomfortable.

“Well, Grrandy, pleased to meet ya!” says Bill brightly. That his smile remains fixed in place is a testament to either his self-control or sadism. He raises his eyebrows at Dipper and jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “We’re gonna head over to the Distillation District, if you wanna come along.”

Dipper isn’t immune to the shine of Bill’s magic, and automatically agrees, “Yeah, sure”—then wishes he could smack himself in the face. He shakes himself out of his daze, apologetic. “Actually, I can’t, man. I’m here with my sister.”

When Mabel invited him to come with her, her specific words had been Let’s catch up—and yeah, maybe he doesn’t have anything in common with her friends, but he practically jumped at the chance to ditch her, and that’s a dick move.

Mabel is also staring, but when Dipper glances at her, she snaps out of her stupor enough to shove him roughly in the back. He chooses to interpret that as a Knock yourself out, and flashes her his most grateful, least dickish smile before turning back to Bill. “Never mind. Apparently, I’m free.”  

He heads off with Bill and his friends. The group angles away from the town center, to where the neon gets more jagged, the buildings taller, and soon Dipper and Bill fall behind.

“So,” says Dipper, sidestepping a street performer, “I didn’t know you were officially allowed to come to this.”

Bill grins. “I’m not. Officially.” He nods to Pyronica. She’s bounding along in front of the pack, and as Dipper watches, she surreptitiously scoops up an abandoned, half-finished box of onion rings from a nearby restaurant’s outdoor seating area and sprinkles some of the crumbs on the deep-fried Kool-Aid. With each pinch she adds, Teeth’s expression gets a little more pained. “But Teeth lost a bet, and you know I had to be here for that.”

Dipper shakes his head, mock disappointed. “Think about how heartbroken the Magister is going to be once she finds out you spent the night… hmm. How does ‘making out with one of the mermaids in the moat’ sound?”

Bill presses a scandalized hand to his chest. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“No, no, you’re right. I’m sure the Magister would much prefer I use the word ‘canoodling.’”

They pass a graffiti wall painted in swirling ultraviolet. Though Dipper finds the Festival’s constant cascade of lights a bit overwhelming, Bill seems to thrive on it, the illumination backlighting his golden hair—and Dipper tries not to notice, he really does, but over the past few months, he’s become aware of Bill growing taller, his cheekbones sharper. He’s blond and tan where Dipper is brunet and pale. Dipper supposes he’s also getting taller and leaner, but privately, he thinks he prefers the way it looks on Bill.

Something he thinks might be jealousy flutters briefly behind his collarbone, and he shoves it away. To distract himself, he pokes one of the horns floating above Bill’s head. The contact sends a buzz up his finger, like an electric shock, and he says, “That’s a neat trick.”

Bill shrugs the praise off but can’t quite quash his pleased smile. “Eh, it’s just a modified daybreak curse.” He gestures to Dipper’s neck. “And that’s… a scarf. I think. Wouldn’t want to assume anything!”

“Oh no, by all means, tell me how you really feel,” Dipper says sardonically. “I promise I can take it. But hey, since you’re such a fan…” In one deft movement, he slips the scarf off and loops it around Bill’s neck before the blond can swat him away, laughing.

“Please, I can’t accept this gift without repaying you. Here ya go!” Bill tugs off one of the horns and attaches it to the air above Dipper’s head. They’re both laughing now, Bill’s pupil more dilated than Dipper’s ever seen it, and it crosses his mind to wonder if Bill’s had something to drink.

“Oh man,” Dipper says once he’s caught his breath, “now we look like unicorns.”

Bill grins, nudges his shoulder. “Good. Those’re way worse than demons. D’you remember when we had to convince one to give us directions?”

“And she made you do sudoku for three hours to ‘purify your soul’? Ugh, gods, you’ve never let me forget.”

“Hey, there were, like, a million tiny boxes!”

“Try eighty-one, Bill.”

“That’s even worse.” Bill melodramatically slings an arm around Dipper’s shoulders, and Dipper lets himself be pulled closer, grinning as he reaches up to shift Bill’s remaining horn onto his head. “At least if I’d filled out a million boxes, I could be proud of my commitment to wasting my life. Eighty-one is just… sad.”

“Oh, of course,” Dipper says sagely. “And that’s why you’re rearranging my scarf around your neck. Finally embracing it?”

“Shut up. It’s not sad when I wear it. I make this surprisingly soft scarf work.”

Dipper snorts. “Whatever you say, man.”

They don’t switch back for the rest of the night.

Dipper is seventeen years old when the Magister starts sending Bill out on “missions.”

He’s not sure what, exactly, these quote-unquote missions are, and every time he asks, Bill flashes him a smile that goes slightly rubbery at the edges. Says that he’s sorry, but he’s been sworn to secrecy, and if he told anyone he’d have to kill them. Laughs—too long and brittle to be a joke. Dipper doesn’t join in.

The irony of the situation isn’t lost on him. He never signed up to be Bill’s minder: he should be luxuriating in the Bill-less nights and days, taking solace in the temporary quiet of the Inquisition. But instead of relieved, the times when Bill is gone leave him… antsy. He finds he can’t enjoy the free time, mind too busy churning through all the ways a person can be killed.

He settles in with a novel and his mind thinks, Drowned. He works a shift at the Shack and his mind thinks, Dismembered. He listens on the phone as Wendy vents to him about Robbie’s latest romantic blunder—this is the final straw! I know that’s what I said last time, but seriously, man, this is it—and his traitorous mind thinks, Devoured by a cosmic horror. Yeah, that one could definitely happen.

It hits him, partway through anxiously gnawing a pen in half, that over the years, against all odds, he and Bill have become friends. And that means that sometimes, when Bill’s been back for a week but is still limping and gritting his teeth at stairs, Dipper just wants to wrap his arms around him and pull him close and smooth his hair back and keep him safe and warm. Because that’s what friends do.

And, also because they’re friends, a part of Dipper always dreads seeing Bill again. Seeing the shape he’s in. When he returns, more often than not, he’s battered—tired, bruised, slashed-up. Drenched in blood; too much to possibly be his own.

Maybe it says something about Bill that he doesn’t offer explanations. Maybe it says something about Dipper that he doesn’t ask.

On the times Bill comes back with broken bones, Dipper has to bite his lip to maintain a respectful silence in front of the Magister.

He can’t stop Bill from getting hurt. He does the second-best thing: he gets very good at healing magic.

Every time he’s forced to use it, his blood boils.

Dipper is eighteen years old, and his bed is gone.

If he’s up late studying, he usually foregoes the hour-long trek into town and crashes at his room in the Inquisition. He didn’t intend to stay the night tonight—he kept telling himself that he’d leave for the Shack any moment now, just after this page, one more minute—but now it’s three in the morning, and he figures it’s been a few too many minutes for that. It’s not entirely his fault, though; the last few hours were spent studying sleep charms.

They’re known colloquially as sleeping beauty charms, and while it’s true that they’re cast with a kiss, Dipper’s pretty sure no Disney movie could ever make him want to tear his hair out like this. Because they deal with the mind, sleep charms are notoriously mercurial. The exact point of contact varies based on the relationship between the caster and the recipient. Dipper thinks it’s stupid that a spell should be so subjective—the index in his textbook goes on for three agonizing pages, detailing increasingly esoteric types of relationships, and he only hopes that he’ll never have to cast sleep on a fuckbuddy-turned-estranged cousin; not only because that sounds horrifying, but also because he has no idea what a French Eskimo kiss is and doesn’t particularly want to—but he’ll be damned if he can’t learn this.

Even if it’s three in the morning and his bed at the Inquisition is gone.

No: not gone. Eaten, somehow, by some kind of… magic termite thing? He tells himself that’s a problem for tomorrow-him, who will, hopefully, be less tired, or at least have more caffeine in his bloodstream.

For now, Dipper stands in front his sad, splintered bedframe, more sawdust than wood by now, and groans.

Bill peers at the wreckage around the stack of books in his arms. “Damn,” he whistles. “Something really hated that bed.”

He didn’t have to carry Dipper’s books for him. Dipper was going to levitate them up to his room—he’s spent so much time at the Inquisition that he no longer thinks anything of using magic like a third arm—but it’s been thirty hours since he last slept, and when he stood up, blinking hard to make the High Library stop tilting, he’d barely managed to muster the concentration to flutter the pages. Bill had just laughed fondly, scooping them up in his arms before Dipper could protest—and then either Bill teleported them or Dipper’s more sleep-deprived than he realizes, because the next thing he remembers is climbing the stairs to the dorms.

So now they’re here. In Dipper’s room. Where his bed has been eaten.

Dipper usually loves magic. Situations like this, though, remind him why so many people regard it as a pain in the ass.

“Well,” he says matter-of-factly, “guess that answers the question of whether I’m sleeping tonight. Might as well bite the bullet and find out how you make a fuckbuddy into an estranged cousin.” He reaches for one of the books in Bill’s arms, but the blond dances out of reach, shooting him a pointed look.

“That’s a no-go, Pine Tree. You’re practically dead on your feet.”

“Am not.”

Bill arches an eyebrow, and slowly, deliberately reaches out a finger, pushing ever-so-lightly on Dipper’s chest. Even with plenty of time to dodge, that’s all it takes to make him stumble.

“Rude.” Dipper frowns at Bill, steadying himself on the wall. It takes more concentration than he cares to admit. “That… was on purpose.”

Bill rolls his eye. “Sure it was. You still gotta sleep before you ‘on purpose’ your way down a flight of stairs.”

“Okay, that was one time,” Dipper defends. He’s loath to admit it, but Bill might actually have a point: now that he’s been pulled out of the read-copy-memorize flow of work, he’s noticing for the first time the thin, slicing headache behind his eyes. “Besides, there’s nowhere to sleep,” he says pointedly. “My bed bit it. Well, more like it bit my bed—it being whatever is making those ominous chittering noises in my mattress—but you get it.”

He hesitates, reconsidering the walk to the Shack. “I guess I could head home.” It’s not that far, really, and the forest is more dangerous at night but not by much, and the town is well-lit enough—

Bill levels him with a flat look. “You’re kidding.”

Dipper does his best to bristle, but only manages a weak glower. “It’s not like I have any other options,” he retorts, although deep down, he knows Bill is right—there’s no way he’d make it that far. He feels like a strong wind could knock him over. Bill already did.

Bill frowns, rubbing his chin. His gaze takes on that faraway cast it always does when he’s thinking. “I guess you could bunk in my room.”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” hedges Dipper. It’s purely performative: he already knows how this conversation is going to go, already knows what Bill is like once he gets an idea in his head.

“Mm, pretty sure I do. Making sure you don’t get yourself jumped in an alleyway when you can hardly stand feels like one of those non-negotiable moral things.”

“Okay,” Dipper says, then rushes to add, “if it’s not imposing—”

Bill’s sigh manages to be both exasperated and magnanimous. “Pine Tree, I’m the one who offered. Less stammering, more sleeping.”

“I—uh.” He snaps his mouth shut. “Right.”

And that’s how, far too quickly for his sleep-deprived brain to process, Dipper finds himself standing in the middle of Bill’s room in his pyjamas—a shirt and pants; he’s basically fully dressed, not about to sleep in his boxers in the same room as Bill—shifting his weight awkwardly from foot to foot. He glances around as he waits for Bill.

Over the years, Dipper has made a point of persuading Bill to add personal touches to his room. He’s pleased to note that a rug now covers most of the naked stone floor, a couple star charts tacked to the walls in lieu of posters. He flushes a little when he sees, propped up on the desk—Bill has a desk now, a nice one, made of dark, glossy wood—the puzzle cube he enchanted for Bill, back when he was still learning to imbue items with magic.

Bill strolls back into the room. “Sorry for the holdup,” he says, flopping onto the bed, bouncing a little on the mattress. “You wouldn’t think getting changed would take long, but apparently everything does at three AM. I have no idea why you like being awake this late.”

Dipper is too preoccupied with staring to answer. Bill is sprawled out on the bed, and wearing pyjama pants and an old t-shirt that says, I survived my trip to the Blood Mountains with my mind intact! Please don’t ask me how!, and he thinks his brain short-circuits for a second as it, once again, shifts his worldview two inches to the left.

Bill scoots over to the far side of the bed and burrows under the covers, curling up to face the wall. Dipper’s so wrong-footed at the sight of him in pyjamas that it takes him a moment to realize that, with Bill on the bed, there’s nowhere for him to sleep.

“Um?” he ventures.

“Mm-hmm?”

“There’s, um.” It sounds stupid out loud, because the bed is right there, and Dipper wants nothing more than to flop down onto that plush mattress like Bill did, but… “There’s nowhere for me to sleep?”

Bill snorts against the pillow. “I’d offer you the couch, but… well, you know.”

Dipper does know. Bill’s not allowed to have couches in his room anymore. Not after The Incident.

His hesitance must colour the air between them, because Bill props himself up on one elbow to face him. “Don’t know if you’ve noticed, but this bed is, like, a double king size. It’s ridiculous.” He flashes Dipper a lopsided grin. “Gotta say, though, you’re the straightest guy I’ve ever slept with!”

With that bit of teasing, their rapport re-establishes itself, and Dipper’s shoulders relax even as he rolls his eyes wryly. It doesn’t matter that they’re both in pyjamas, or that they’re about to crawl in bed together, or that Bill’s hair almost glows against the dark sheets. They’re just a couple of friends sharing a bed out of awkward necessity.

He’s going to joke, Just try to keep your hands off me, but Bill rolls back to the wall and murmurs, “Any day now, Pine Tree.” His voice is rough with sleepiness, and the quip fizzles and dies on Dipper’s tongue.

“Right,” he repeats instead. He eases himself down onto the bed. Bill wasn’t kidding; with them lying at opposite sides, there’s several feet of empty space between them. Still, lying this close to Bill—not doing anything, just… lying—makes him jittery. He feels awkward, all of a sudden. Were his thoughts always this loud?

Stop it, he tells himself firmly. Bill’s one of his best friends. He can totally share a bed with a friend without making it weird.

Bill doesn’t turn to face him, but Dipper can hear his sigh. “Are you just lying on top of the covers?”

Dipper stares straight up at the ceiling. “Maybe.”

“C’mon, kid, don’t be a martyr. Pull up some blanket.”

“Still the same age as you,” Dipper reminds him, but he tugs the sheets over himself and tries to ignore how the pillow smells like Bill’s shampoo when he turns his face into it, then tries to ignore the revelation that he, apparently, knows what Bill’s shampoo smells like.

It’s just for one night. He’ll stay on this end, and Bill will stay on that end, and in the morning, he’ll place an order with the Inquisition fabricators for another bed. A single bed.

“Night, PT. Don’t let the bed-eating bugs bite.”

“Goodnight, Bill,” Dipper says. He shifts onto his side, thinking morosely, There’s no way I’ll be able to sleep.

But the hour is late, and the pillow is cool, and Bill’s breathing is a steady rhythm in his ears, and five minutes later, he’s sound asleep.

Dipper wakes up to birdsong.

That’s how he knows he’s slept in. Usually, he’s up before sunrise—awake in time to watch dawn bleach the last of the stars from the sky after a night of restless tossing and turning.

He’s aware, in a vague, still-mostly-asleep corner of his mind, that he should probably get up. But he’s so comfortable. The rooms at the Inquisition are kept just south of glacial—even in summer, he finds himself layering on sweaters and shivering under the thin covers—but now, even though the covers are down around his waist, he’s tangled with something warm, parts of it around his shoulders and along his chest and between his legs. Paired with the cool air, it feels wonderful.

Eyes closed, he nuzzles further into the warmth. Even the scent is comforting: woodsmoke and ozone and fresh air, like the sky before a summer storm. It reminds him of the scent that follows Bill into every room he enters, and there’s the missing piece—whatever this is, it belongs to Bill. Dipper shifts his hips, noting the steadying weight against him, and drowsily promises himself that he’ll return Bill’s blanket later. He’s not sure how it wound up in his bed in the first place, and maybe pressing himself into it like this is a bit embarrassing, but it’s not like—

His eyes snap open as recollection floods back.

He’s not in his room.

His bed is a pile of toothmarked mush on his bedroom floor.

And, most prominently, this is not a blanket.

It takes his groggy brain a moment to realize there’s only one other thing the comforting warmth along his front can be, and he freezes. This is embarrassing. No, this is mortifying—and it’s made worse by the fact that, even though Dipper now knows the weight around his shoulders is Bill’s arm, he still doesn’t really want to move.

He tenses, then realizes that makes his legs tighten around Bill’s and stops moving, holding his breath. He stays petrified like that for a moment. Slowly, though, he becomes aware of the regular rise and fall beneath him, and oh gods that’s Bill’s chest—but at least that means Bill’s still asleep.

Cautiously, he lifts his head. Over the course of the night, he and Bill must have both shifted, because they’re lying in the middle of the bed. It’s with a flush that he sees they’re closer than he thought, practically curled around each other: his arms are wrapped around Bill’s chest, their legs inextricably tangled together. He has no idea how they managed to do that in their sleep, but at least their hips aren’t flush against each other.

Not that he needs the extra space. There isn’t a problem. There’s a chance that overthinking it is going to create a problem, though, and with how close they are, wouldn’t that just be the icing on an already-awkward situation. 

To distract himself, Dipper focuses on the window. The light spilling in from it falls across Bill’s face in bars, his hair mussed and unstyled and godsdammit, he’s looking at Bill again, but he thinks he gets a pass—Bill’s breath fanning across his collarbone is a bit attention-consuming.

Seeing Bill like this, face unguarded in sleep, makes Dipper feel like he’s intruding on something. He skirts his eyes away, and his gaze catches on where Bill’s t-shirt has ridden up, exposing an expanse of smooth skin broken by intricate black lines.

They aren’t exactly like the patterns on his arms: these seem more tailored to his body. Some follow the sharp lines of his hipbones; a few vanish beneath the waistband of his pyjama pants, almost like a happy trail. Dipper’s never seen them before, and unconsciously, he shifts closer, lightly tracing his fingers over them before he knows what he’s doing.

Bill huffs in his sleep, and Dipper jerks his hand back like he’s been burned, face flaming. This is— this is probably super weird, right?

He really should just get up. He knows it. But as he goes to extract himself, Bill stirs, curling toward him with a small, sleepy noise of protest, and Dipper feels something yawn open in his chest. He hesitates, looking down at Bill.

It would be a shame to wake him; they were both up ungodly late last night. Plus, if he’s the first one up, he’ll have to explain why they were so close, and he has no answers other than I woke up with your thigh between my legs, which—no. Even thinking about saying that makes him grimace. 

Gently, Dipper sets his head back down on Bill’s chest, who murmurs something content-sounding and draws him closer, nose brushing the top of his curls. Dipper’s eyes slide shut as he lets himself relax into that steady warmth. Listening to the birdsong coming in through the window, Bill’s soft, even breaths, and the slow thud of Bill’s heart beneath him, he finds himself drifting off again.

He can stay like this. Just for a little while.

Dipper is nineteen years old, and someone knocks on the door to the Shack.

“I’ll get it!” chimes Mabel. She sets her knitting to the side and bounces out of the living room in a swirl of loose wool. Dipper hears the door swing open, then a gasp.

Dipper cranes his neck to look around her. He sees nothing, then a glint of blond hair, a flash of luminous sclera—and holy crap, is that Bill?

Bill is leaning heavily against the doorframe, one hand clamped over his left side. “Heya there, Shooting Star!” He manages a wobbly smile. “Lovely day for ritualistic blood sacrifices, huh?”

Then he slumps forward.

Dipper’s out of his chair before he realizes it, his book abandoned on the floor, catching Bill in his arms on instinct. He’s surprisingly light. Surprisingly… wet?

Dipper adjusts his grip, and Bill blinks owlishly at him. “Oh, hi, Pine Tree! Come here often?” He laughs.  It’s tight and breathy, like he’s not getting enough air, and that’s when Dipper realizes that Bill is shivering against him. It’s a frigid winter night, and sleeting, and Bill’s only wearing a button-up shirt that’s soaked through, the fabric plastered to his skin. The way his collar looks like it’s been torn open sends warning bells ringing in the back of Dipper’s head.

“Um,” Dipper asks, finally finding his voice, “Bill, what are you doing here?”

Bill’s fingers flex on the back of Dipper’s shirt like a reflex. He doesn’t say anything, but Dipper hears the pained hiss that escapes through his teeth. He glances to Mabel, confused, who shrugs and drops her gaze to Bill. Then her eyes go wide, and she claps one hand over her mouth. The other slowly comes up to point at Bill’s side.

Dipper, still carefully supporting most of Bill’s body weight, tilts his head to see. And freezes.

He’s seen Bill injured before. Seen him sore, and exhausted, and limping. He wouldn’t say that he’s ever gotten the stomach for it—it makes his heart contract painfully, every time—but at least he’s used to the regular wear and tear the Magister puts her protégé through.

This, Dipper knows, without even looking closely, is worse.

Something dark is seeping into the fabric of the shirt. No, not something; Dipper knows exactly what this is. And Bill was clutching his side, but. Shit. Shit. There’s so much.

He suddenly becomes hyperaware of how he’s holding Bill. Of the injuries he must be jostling, just keeping him on his feet. “Bill,” he says, pulling back to look the blond in the eye—and it surprises him a little, how low his voice has gone, how deadly serious. “What happened to you?”

“Second Maw,” Bill mutters. He sways in Dipper’s arms and chuckles weakly, forehead thunking against Dipper’s shoulder. “Turns out you were right, PT,” he murmurs into Dipper’s collar, and ice creeps into Dipper’s veins. “I am part demon. Yay me.”

The Second Maw. Bill has mentioned it to him, in passing—some bargain-bin cult with bizarre ideas about fire and brimstone and cutting demons open to achieve eternal life. They’d laughed about it, then.

Dipper’s not laughing now.

“Mabel,” he says, any trace of levity long gone. “I need you to get a blanket. And gauze. Lots of gauze. And… I don’t know, Polysporin.”

She nods wordlessly, white as a sheet against the wallpaper—Dipper knows she’s seen Bill before, but never like this, and she can’t stop staring. Then the directions seem to click in her mind, and she turns, hurrying out of the room and away from the bloody scene.

It’s a good thing Dipper’s room is on the first floor of the Shack, because there’s no way Bill is making it up the stairs in his current state. He collapses onto the bed without complaint when Dipper lowers him to it. He’s worryingly pale, and the front of his shirt is almost entirely red, and when Dipper settles onto the edge of the bed, causing the mattress to dip, he flinches. “Sorry,” he mumbles immediately.

“Don’t worry about it,” Dipper reassures him, though he can’t imagine what Bill’s apologizing for. His eyes are trained on Bill’s bloody chest. With trembling fingers, he quickly unbuttons the shirt, peeling the fabric away to get a look at the wound, and draws in a sharp breath.

Vicious gashes are slashed up and down Bill’s sides, forking over onto his stomach like glistening lightning. Something is familiar, almost artistic about the placement, and Dipper wants to vomit as he realizes what.

Someone has very deliberately attempted to hack Bill open along the lines on his skin.

One of the cuts runs right down the middle of Bill’s abdomen, neatly bisecting his pelvis. Any deeper and he’d have been gutted. Like a fish, Dipper thinks, and swallows back a wave of nauseous rage.

Later. He can be angry later.

He can be furious.

—but right now, Bill’s shivering is intensifying. Dipper rips off a length of gauze, folds it into a makeshift compress, and presses it to the worst of the bleeding. 

Bill’s entire body tenses. His hands curl into instinctive fists, energy flickering around his fingers, and Dipper swears he can hear a sharp crack as the tang of ozone subsides as quickly as it came, as Bill forces himself to relax.

He gently increases the pressure, and Bill whimpers in a way that is distinctly un-Bill-like. “I know,” Dipper says in a low voice, wincing, “I know, it hurts, it’s okay, I’m here.” He’s not fully aware of what he’s saying, murmuring comforting nothings as they come to him. His free hand finds itself rubbing soothing circles in the nape of Bill’s neck.

After a moment, he pulls the gauze away. It’s already soaked through with blood, and a tug of urgency pierces his calm veil—ideally, he’d try to stem the bleeding more before healing, but hard to kill as Bill might be, he only has so much blood to lose.

He spreads his hands above Bill’s chest and focuses. The air ripples slightly, like a heat haze, and he curves his fingers, wrapping the spell around Bill.

At first, nothing happens: blood still burbles, dark and sluggish, from the gashes, and for a heart-stopping moment, Dipper thinks he’s going to have to watch his— watch Bill die in his bed.

Then the bleeding slows, slows, slows as the spell takes, until it stops altogether. The cuts glow a soft blue as things begin to knit themselves back together. Dipper pushes a hand through his hair and sits back, feverishly glad that Bill’s body responds so well to his magic.

He sits forward to examine his handiwork. The gashes are no more than raised scar tissue now. Even that should be gone come morning—Bill might be the Chosen One, but Dipper’s a damn powerful mage.  

Still, there’s nothing he can do about the blood loss. He’ll just have to hope that whatever inscrutable thing that makes Bill extra-tough will pull him through.

Dipper twists the cap off the Polysporin and begins to spread it over the fading echoes of the wounds. They may be closed over, but infection is still an issue—plus, he has the sense that if he doesn’t have something to do with his hands, they’re going to start shaking.  

Bill’s eye slides open. His breathing is already more even, the pained lines of his face smoothed over, and he wordlessly watches as Dipper coats his stomach in salve. After a moment, he clears his throat, opening his mouth, and Dipper starts talking.

“What,” he says, voice intent, not meeting Bill’s gaze as he works, “were you doing? What were you thinking? Did anyone even know where you were?” He daubs salve on a healed laceration running above Bill’s hipbone, perhaps a bit too roughly—he’s slightly unsteady, and he has to work to keep his voice from wobbling. “Gods, Bill, you aren’t invincible. You can’t just… just go off, and get into trouble, and…” He swallows, drags his eyes up to Bill’s. “I don’t… Why head here?”

Bill is uncharacteristically subdued, gaze trained on the quilt as he picks uncertainly at its lace edging. After a moment, he says quietly, “I… didn’t know where else to go.” He grimaces and moves to sit up. “Ugh, that sounds so toss-a-coin-to-your-orphan. Y’know what, I can just—”

Dipper gently but firmly grasps him by the shoulders, keeping him from moving any further, or—gods forbid—standing up. “You better not be about to say ‘leave.’ Lie back down, man. You’re going to jostle your…” Wounds sounds cliché, but he doesn’t know how else to describe the mess of lacerations criss-crossing Bill’s skin. What he does know is that Bill is not about to step back into the cold night like this.

Bill huffs, but allows Dipper to settle him back against the pillows. “Seriously, I’m fine now. Spick and span. Right as—” Speaking must jostle his ribs, because his face goes tight with pain, fingers clenching on the bedspread. “—rain.”

Dipper gives him a flat look. He’s not going to dignify that with a response.

Neither of them speaks for a moment. As the first roll of gauze runs out and Dipper reaches for the second, Bill breaks the silence, huffing out a laugh that’s far too small for him. “Sorry for making you work overtime. Sheesh, the Magister’s gonna have a field day with this.”

“Screw the Magister,” Dipper snaps, and Bill blinks at him. He looks genuinely lost, and Dipper pulls back, incredulous. “You were almost eviscerated by a cult! I’m not…” He shakes his head. “Bill, I’m not mad that you snuck out, or picked a fight, or… or whatever you were in the city doing. I don’t care about that. I care that you were hurt. I just… shit, do you have any idea how close you came to— to—”

His voice wavers, and isn’t that perfect; Bill’s the one who’s been slashed within inches of his life, and here Dipper is, losing his crap. He takes a shuddering breath and wraps his arms around Bill’s shoulders, mindful of the mostly healed wounds as he pulls him into a hug. “You scared me,” he whispers into Bill’s hair. “I care about you, asshole.”

Bill’s silence seems startled, but after a moment, he tentatively reaches forward—“Don’t lift your arms,” Dipper mumbles, “you might tear the new tissue”—and settles his arms around Dipper’s waist, leaning into the hug. He opens his mouth, likely to make some comment, then pauses and shuts it again.

They’ve been friends for years—Dipper’s healed Bill more times than he can count—but they’ve never embraced like this before. It feels like they’re getting dangerously close to some unnamed thing, but for once, Dipper doesn’t care, too dizzy with relief at the feel of Bill against him, alive and okay.

“Pine Tree?” Bill murmurs after a moment. His forehead is resting against Dipper’s shoulder, and he turns his head slightly to speak into Dipper’s neck.

“Yeah?”

Bill’s hands tighten around Dipper’s waist, like he doesn’t want to let go, even as he reluctantly says, “Think I’m going into shock.”

He’s still shivering slightly, and Dipper breaks the contact to grab a hoodie from his dresser. “Here,” he says, passing it to Bill. Bill tugs it over his head without complaint, and Dipper notes approvingly that his movements appear relatively pain-free.

Then he pauses. Gently, he reaches forward, gathering up Bill’s wrists and pushing the sleeves up. The skin is chafed a raw, angry red, almost completely worn away in places, and he hasn’t yet asked Bill for specifics of what happened, but now a new detail presses itself into his unwitting mind: Bill, tied down and struggling.  

Anger flares once again at the back of his throat, but Dipper tamps it down. Instead, he lightly brushes his fingers over one wrist, then the other, letting his magic soothe the chafed skin.

Bill shivers, gaze fixed on his hands in Dipper’s. “…thank you,” he says quietly.

Dipper doesn’t think: one of his hands comes up to brush Bill’s hair back and lingers there, cradling his face. “I’m serious, man.” There’s a feeling welling up in his chest that he can’t place, let alone put into words, so all he says is, “Don’t worry about it.”

Bill must’ve been right about shock kicking in, because his words are starting to slur together. “You’re so nice,” he murmurs, turning his face into Dipper’s hand. “Mm. And you’re helping me.”

He sounds wondering, like he doesn’t know why Dipper’s still here—and it makes Dipper’s heart break, a little, but he smiles down at Bill, lightly brushing the pad of his thumb across his cheekbone. “Of course I am,” he says softly, teasingly. “You’re the Chosen One. You’re not allowed to die on my watch.” He pulls back, a bit regretfully. “Now, is it okay if I put a sleep charm on you? The healing will take better if you’re resting, and you’ve had a long evening.”

Bill’s bright eye is watching Dipper, head pitched slightly to the side, like he’s considering something. He scrunches his nose up thoughtfully, then agrees, “Okay,” snuggling down into the pillow, and Dipper has to chuckle.

He takes a moment to be grateful that he spent so long mastering sleep charms as he briefly mediates on how to approach this. He can knock a stranger out with a polite peck on the back of the hand, so… He leans over and presses a comfortably platonic kiss to the crown of Bill’s head.

Nothing happens. There’s no rush of soothing energy, no mental click of a spell snapping into place; just the metallic scent of rainwater and Bill’s shampoo.

Pulling back, Dipper frowns. He tries Bill’s forehead.

Still nothing.

He could just leave—Bill will probably fall asleep soon, charm or no—but now he’s starting to wonder if there’s something wrong with his magic. That should’ve worked. He’s done sleep charms on friends before, and it’s never taken anything more than this.

Hesitantly, all too aware that, drowsy or not, Bill can still send him flying across the room in a fireball, he moves to deliver a cautious kiss to Bill’s cheek. Only Bill tilts his head at the exact wrong moment, and their lips slide against each other.

The spell slips out of Dipper’s mind as he freezes. Bill blinks up at him, surprised, but doesn’t pull away. When Dipper’s thoughts catch up with his body a moment later, he jerks back.

“Pine Tree?” Bill sounds vulnerable. Like he’s worried he’s done something wrong, and Dipper wants to laugh.

“I’m,” he stammers, trying not to let his gaze flick down to Bill’s lips. “I wasn’t—I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

A smile plays around Bill’s mouth. “Less stammering, more sleeping,” he echoes softly.

Then he’s tilting his head up, and Dipper finds himself leaning in, and their lips are pressing together. The kiss is chaste, lips barely moving against each other: Bill’s mouth is soft and, now that he’s been healed, warm. One of his hands comes up to bury itself in Dipper’s curls, like it’s been waiting for permission to touch, and just like that, there’s a click in Dipper’s mind as the sleep charm settles. A cool-side-of-the-pillow energy builds in his muscles, then flows from him into Bill, who sighs contentedly against him. Dipper pulls back.

Bill’s already relaxing, his hand dropping from Dipper’s hair as the spell coaxes him under, but he grins drowsily at Dipper. There’s a definite blush high on his cheeks—which is honestly kind of impressive, considering how much blood he’s lost. “Sheesh,” he says. “If this is what happens, I might have to get almost-disembowelled more often.”

“Don’t even joke about that,” Dipper warns, but he’s smiling back. He doesn’t think he could stop if he wanted to. Good thing he doesn’t want to.

Bill’s eye is sliding shut, his breath evening out. “See you tomorrow, Pine Tree,” he murmurs.

As Dipper carefully tucks the quilt around Bill, realizing now that his pulse flutters with more than adrenaline, he wonders, How long? How long have I…? Has he…?

He can’t come up with an answer. He thinks it was a gradual thing, like colour bleeding into the sky at dawn: moments flowing into each other like water, shifting an inch a day, until, years later, he stands miles from where his point of origin with no idea how he got there.

Well. He has some idea.

And they have time.

He brushes a hand across Bill’s forehead, smiling softly for no one in particular. “See you tomorrow, Bill.”