Chapter Text
She knows a full two weeks in advance, after the housing coordinator had handed her the room assignment with a perky "Gravity Falls, huh? I haven't been there since I was a kid! Is there still that junky old tourist trap?"
Two full weeks of dread as she unpacks the few suitcases and storage totes, as she meticulously applies her makeup before walking down to the nearly-empty dining hall ('It's a little unconventional,' the director of student affairs had said,staring down at the letter placed on her desk, 'we're still technically in Summer term, you know. But since it's you...'. She hadn't even needed to threaten to make a phone call.)
Two full weeks of poring over her textbooks and glancing up at the clock every few minutes, as if they would magically appear out of thin air. She had planned on being out of the room, somewhere, anywhere else on campus when they were slated to arrive, which is why she's thrown incredibly far off-kilter when the door to her dorm - their dorm - swings open three hours earlier than planned.
"Ah, home sweet home!" a voice rings out, just as another deeper voice goes "Mabel, did you actually look at this thing?"
She has just enough time to pull her phone out and look bored before a typhoon of glitter and sunshine swirls through the door.
At first glance, Mabel Pines looks almost exactly like she did six years ago: all sweaters and elbows, a cloud of thick brown hair, a natural rosy glow under the freckles that dot her cheeks. In one hand, Mabel's got clutched what looks like a small Jack Russell terrier; she realizes, belatedly, that the other girl literally has a purse shaped like a puppy. In the other hand Mabel holds a smartphone that has been covered to each corner in multi-colored rhinestones. It looks as though she's been filming her trip to her dorm room, but the phone slowly sinks down when Mabel processes who is on the other side.
"P-Pacifica?"
Pacifica sighs and makes a show of looking up from her phone (as if she hadn't been sneaking looks from the moment Mabel strode in). She leans back a little on the couch of their common area and spreads her arms along the back, her disinterested show of dominance also serving to cover up the book she'd hastily dropped.
"Oh, it's you. What was it? Maple? Mabel?"
"It's Mabel," she says flatly, smile gone from her features. "Sorry to bug you Pacifica, they must have given me the wrong key doohickey. Have a nice day."
Mabel waves the little scanner key card to the dorm and turns on her heel, only to collide with the second person entering the room.
"Mabel, it says here you're rooming with Pacifica North- oof!"
Dipper Pines has pulled a whole head over his twin, which seems genetically convenient given the way Mabel plants herself headfirst into his chest and keeps trying to walk out despite being physically walled in by her brother. From the exasperated look he pulls, it seems like this move is a common one.
Compared to his twin, the years show on Dipper: not only has he pulled far above Mabel in height, but his face has lost the baby-roundness the two used to share. He sports a sensible blue v-neck and jeans, and paired - Pacifica would have never believed it - with his trimmed beard and moustache, he looks more Portland than pubescent.
"Hi, Pacifica," he says, waving slightly over his sister, and even though he's got to be 18 or close to it, Pacifica swears she hears his voice crack, just a smidge.
"Dipper," Pacifica says, letting just the right amount of disdain creep into her voice. Weirdly, he looks confused by her response, and is opening his mouth to say something when Mabel's muffled voice cuts in.
"Oh, so you'll remember his name but not mine."
Rolling her eyes, Pacifica goes back to her phone, tapping out some text to no one. "It's not like it's hard to remember a name that's so stu-"
She cuts herself off, because suddenly they're no longer alone: three adults, one familiar, enter the dorm room. Stan Pines and two people who must be the twins' parents look around the common area for a moment before focusing in on the teens.
"You must be Mabel's roommate!" their mother coos. She glances at Mabel, head still pressed against Dipper's chest, and scoots past them to set a tray of baked goods on the small kitchenette table.
"Is that the Northwest girl?" Stan grumbles. He's carrying a large cardboard box with the words "Knitting Supplies!" scrawled on it, though Pacifica notices the "Supplies" part has been crossed out and written over with "Surprise!".
"What a pleasure to see you too, Mr. Pines," Pacifica says, honey and vinegar, and she stands up to shake hands with the twins' mother.
The woman is tall, with bushy black hair and a pleasantly rounded face. A pair of tangerine colored horn-rimmed glasses perch atop a short, button nose, and the combination of cerulean poncho and red cowboy boots leaves no question as to where Mabel got her 'fashion sense'.
"Pacifica Northwest," Pacifica says, smiling her most charming and holding her hand out.
"Margaret Tyrone-Pines," she says, and her grip is firm when they shake. "This is my husband, William." She gestures to the last man to enter the room, who is, as far as Pacifica can see, effectively a teetering tower of boxes with arms. "And it looks like you already know my Uncle-in-Law," she trails off with a question in her voice.
"Pacifica is from Gravity Falls, Mom," Dipper says.
He looks down at the top of his twin's head, then leans in to whisper something to her. She mumbles back an unhappy-sounding response and lets him gently push her away and spin her to face Pacifica.
"Which room is mine, Pacifica?" Mabel asks glumly.
"The one on the left," Pacifica says, standing up from the couch and picking her purse up from the floor. She's discreetly able to shove her book in. "Well, it was nice to see you, or whatever, but Fall Rush starts in a few days and I have a lot of shopping to do still. Have fun moving - bringing boxes up three flights of stairs must be just awful, I'm glad I had my staff do it for me."
She swans past the Pines family and out the door. She refuses to react when Mabel's voice carries down the hall:
"Moooom, I cannot be roommates with her!"
...
Pacifica strolls slowly down the aisle, stopping occasionally when something catches her eye, pulling it out and scrutinizing it with a well-trained look. She doesn't know if she's ready to commit yet, but she keeps them in her arm regardless. After a few minutes, her arms get heavy, and she wheels back to the small table she's claimed as her own in the very back corner of the Law Library.
Books hit the table with a satisfying thud as she empties her arms. A quick glance at her phone reveals three new text messages from her father's PA, reminding her of the "required Sororities to fraternize with in the upcoming week". Sighing, she powers down her phone and settles in for the next few hours.
...
"How was shopping?"
Almost surprisingly, Mabel is still there, tacking up metallic paper stars in the shape of her name on her bedroom door. A mere courtesy, the question sounds neither friendly nor interested.
Pacifica sets her purse on the table and enters their small kitchen. It's just a few square feet of tile, a stove, a sink and a refrigerator, and it's from there that Pacifica pulls a chilled bottle of water. That and a single pear are all that graces Pacifica's side of the fridge, which she realizes Mabel has ever-so-kindly delineated with a thin strip of colored tape. Mabel's side of the fridge, naturally, is already overflowing with white bread and peanut butter and ketchup and lunch meat and whatever else kind of tripe (Pacifica prefers foie gras) the other girl considered "sustenance".
"Expensive, as always," Pacifica says with a high laugh. Mabel looks over her shoulder to her, and they both realize her mistake at the same time.
"Where are your bags and stuff?" Mabel asks, eyeing Pacifica's purse and her conspicuously empty hands.
Pacifica's mind stutters for a split second, but she's almost immediately back on track, flapping a hand at the other girl with a contemptuous, "Oh, I had them box it up and send it to me. No use paying for designer if you're going to have to carry them yourself."
The feint works, for the time, though Mabel's eyes narrow, and Pacifica makes note that Mabel’s childhood designation as “the weird girl” didn’t mean she was a total idiot.
"So, let me guess," Pacifica says, deftly changing subjects, "you put down Gravity Falls as where you lived so you could get in-state tuition?"
"Yeah," Mabel says with a sniff. She turns back to her door and continues decorating her door. "Grunkle Stan's getting old, and besides, they have a better fashion and design program here."
"Than in California?" she asks, incredulous.
Pacifica must have hit a nerve, because Mabel says nothing. She forcefully sticks another star onto her door.
"So let me guess," Mabel finally mutters, "you put down your parents' names and got in here no problem."
Oh. She's good. Pacifica's lucky that Mabel has her back to her, or she wouldn't have been able to respond so flippantly.
"Yeah, something like that."
"What I'm trying to figure out," Mabel continues, "Is why you aren't in your own apartment or a private dorm or something."
Again, she's fortunate Mabel can't see her. She struggles to sound aloof as she responds with "Father and Mother thought it best for me to experience life with 'normal' people. After all, I've got to know how to interact with the people I'm going to run one day."
"Pft, good to know you've got your priorities straight."
…
The next day she gets a note saying she's got a package waiting at the housing area desk. Mabel, in the kitchen blending something that looks like kiwi and gummy bears, makes a comment about how nice it must be for Pacifica to get her own packages - she's always going to have to share hers with Dipper. Pacifica refrains from any expected snide comment as she's realized over night, much like Mabel likely had, that there was no way of getting out of their rooming situation.
The dress in the box is the first new piece of clothing she's had in almost a year - deep navy with a gauzy silver overlay, draping and the top and meant to be fitted from her waist to her knees. It's gorgeous, and a size too big. Pacifica ponders whether the poor sizing was intentional, or of her father's PA is losing her touch. After all, she knows how much Pacifica is able to spend. There's still time to get it tailored, but it would have to be a rush order, and time means money. She contemplates Mabel's handmade sweaters and puppy purse, and almost asks the girl if there was a sewing machine in one of the piles of boxes her family moved in.
Almost asks. In the end, Pacifica opts for the path of spite and wear the dress to the first major rush event, wrong size and all.
...
She almost leaves the minute she sees Dipper Pines in the corner, red solo cup in hand. He looks like he just freshly stepped off the express train from Dorktown and missed the “Dress to Impress” line along the way: his hair, pathetically slicked back with water, has started raising up in poofy tufts, and the bow tie he’s clipped haphazardly to the buttonhole of his store-brand polo is not only covered in hot pink dinosaurs, but hopelessly askew. Nonetheless, there’s a small circle of brothers from the frat hosting the party that have gathered around him, and they all laugh and go in for high fives when Dipper finishes whatever he’s saying. Pacifica lets the vice president of the chapter put a drink in her hand and usher her into the next room before she lets herself think about how different Dipper looks clean shaven.
Most of the boys from the frat recognize her even though it’s her first time there; more importantly, the sisters from the two or three top-tier Sororities that have been invited to the party come up to her with open arms and the squealing of her name, even though she’s never met most of them.
“Pacifica!” one of them cries out, a fellow blonde a few years older than her. “Can I call you Paz? I know it’s been years, you probably don’t remember but-”
“Uh, of course!” she says, nailing the perfect amount of excited hauter, “From Daddy’s tennis club on the island.”
The truth is, she doesn’t remember the girl whose nametag unhelpfully reads “Janelle”, but Pacifica’s been trained at people and knows crisscross of uneven natural tanning along the girl’s bare shoulders and the heft of muscle in her left arm. Pacifica is, obviously, completely correct, and learns that Janelle is the events chair for one of the houses on her father’s list.
Prospective pledges aren’t technically supposed to drink during Rush Week at these things, but as Pacifica moves from person to person, introducing herself to crowds of people who already know her and allowing herself to be blatantly courted by the members of different sororities, she finds that one hand is never empty as brother after brother brings her cups of warm, foamy beer. There are, Pacifica begrudgingly admits to herself, moments when being a Northwest has its perks, and she allows herself to indulge in it just this once. The evening passes, the music gets louder, and the harsh, constantly nagging voice in the back of her head dials down.
“And so we’re all like, totally blitzed out on my dad’s boat and this fuckwad decides it’d be a great time to throw his iPhone 6 overboard-”
She laughs a split second too late, the beer finally getting to her, but the two boys she’s sandwiched between on the leather loveseat in the great room are too wrapped up in their own story to notice. They’re both sophomores, she thinks, and one of them mentioned interning once for her father’s marketing coordinator, but she hadn’t bothered to remember their generic, just-a-shade-too-north-of-Valley Boy names. What she does remember, though, is the houses and relative chapter positions of the two or three older girls glaring at her from the other side of the room, who are clearly affronted by that rushee talking to our friends even if she is Pacifica Northwest.
“If you’ll excuse me, boys,” she says, slipping off the small couch, “I’m going to get another drink.”
Both of them jump up in perfect unison, stumbling over themselves and each other while offering to fill up her cup. She waves them off with a laugh and a wink and, damn, is she good at this. Winding her way back to the kitchen proves to be a more serious endeavor than expected, continually stopped as she is by requests for small talk and selfies.
There’s only one person at the keg in the center of the kitchen, and he’s leaned over and fiddling with the tap. Pacifica sidles over to someone she vaguely recognizes and chats for a few minutes before realizing it’s taking the guy at the keg far too long to fill up. So she does the only logical thing and goes up to him.
“Need some help there, champ?”
“Uh, yeah, sure. Thanks.”
If Pacifica had been paying attention, if she’d had her wits truly about her, she wouldn’t have been surprised when the kid who turned from the keg was Dipper, but of course she’s a few beers in and has managed to successfully avoid him (was that what she was doing?) up until this point. As such, she is shocked by his doofy half-grin and the way he nervously rubs the back of his neck with one hand while holding the tap with the other.
“I don’t know what strange voodoo this thing operates under, but it’s got me stumped,” he says, and if to prove his point, he presses down on the tap nozzle. A weak stream of foam slugs out and onto his shoe before he can stop it; Pacifica plucks the tap out of his hand with a sharp “Uh, ew.”
She’s not sure if it’s the beer, or their past, or the fact that he’s literally the only boy here whose name she knows, but Pacifica makes what she is sure is a terrible decision and talks to him.
“First rodeo, Pines?”
He watches her as she wraps her hand around the top of the tap pump and plunges it down.
“Yeah,” he says, laughing a little, though his eyes are still fixed on her motions. “I know you’ll find this hard to believe, but I didn’t get invited to many parties in high school and, eh, I’m not exactly a pretty girl who has someone always getting their drinks for them.”
“Really? And here I thought you were some party big shot…” she mutters sarcastically, but it’s meant to be loud and be heard. When she’s done pumping she grabs a cup and pours him a beer.
“Did you catch how I did that?” she asks as he takes the cup from her. “Because I’m not bailing you out again. If you’re going to start showing up at these things-” Pacifica draws a little circle with a finger in the air, “-you’re going to need to at least act like you don’t have some kind of debilitating social disease.”
Dipper laughs.
“Yup. I will walk away from this experience with a newfound ability and the crushing emasculation that comes along with being shown up by Pacifica Northwest at my first frat party.”
He rolls his eyes and takes a sip of his beer. When he pulls the cup away from his face, Pacifica sees that a fleck of beer foam has dotted the tip of Dipper’s nose. She stares at him, letting all of her disdain seep into her face, until he sighs and goes, “There’s something on my nose, isn’t there?”
Dipper pulls up the collar of his shirt and wipes his nose with it; the look of disgust she’s been shooting him deepens.
“Isn’t not having head on a beer a good thing?” he asks, looking down into his cup. “Like, that’s a thing, right? People are all ‘Oh, look at me, I can pour a beer with no head’.” He lets loose a laugh, more awkward this time, as Pacifica continues to stare.
“Ew, I forgot how much of a peasant you were, Pines. I’m going to go before you completely ruin my reputation.”
She pours herself a beer as Dipper responds with a sarcastic, “Oh, right, so sorry, wouldn’t want to get nerd all over you. Though it looks like you’re doing wonders for my reputation.”
Glancing around the kitchen, Pacifica saw a number of people looking between the two of them, sizing up Dipper, whispering behind raised cups.
“Maybe I should just stick around,” Dipper says with a shrug, stepping away from the keg and towards her. Pacifica turns and starts walking away, letting her words drift back to him.
“For the third and final time tonight: ew. Later, dork!”
…
The numbers on her phone float and bob in front of her; she’s not sure if it’s because her head is swimming or her hands aren’t still, but it makes her feel nauseous, a sensation that’s not helped by the slow realization that she’s midway through dialling a number that will not pick up for her. Pacifica curses and clears the screen and pretends to be texting when a few people from the party stumble down the stairs of the house and onto the sidewalk. They all wave goodnight to her but she ignores them, even at the expense of tomorrow’s whispers, which might decry her as a ‘total bitch’. But she’s not a bitch, it’s just that the thought of rapid movement makes her dizzy right now, is all.
One of the boys had offered to let her crash at the house, and while she hadn’t said no yet, she was pretty sure, even in her fairly inebriated state, that he wasn’t talking about letting her sleep on the couch. She wrinkles her nose at the thought, because at some point that night she’d accidentally tripped her way into one of the boys’ rooms and ugh, guys were just gross.
It’s well past 2 a.m., and while Pacifica isn’t looking forward to the walk across campus in her treacherously cute high heels, she’s definitely not going to let herself become grain for the gossip mill by sleeping over at a frat the second night of rush. With a groan of determination, she pushes herself up onto her feet and wobbles down the steps.
“Hey, Pa-Pacifica!”
Dipper nearly trips on his way down the steps, and when he hits the sidewalk he’s swaying noticeably.
“What?” she tries to snap, but her words come out mushy.
“Are you going back to Mabel’s?”
“You mean my dorm, the place where I live?”
“Uh, yeah, there.”
Pacifica stares at him for a long second, trying to gauge what was happening. It was difficult, with the world very inconveniently tilted at an awkward angle and her brain operating at the speed of jelly.
“Yes,” she finally said.
The boy runs a hand through his hair, and Pacifica doesn’t know if he’s trying to look cool or just tame the ridiculous floof perched above his head, but both possibilities fail and he ends up pushing his bangs back at a weird angle.
“Can I come? I mean, walk with you? I’m going there anyway.”
Her eyes narrow as she tries to focus on the boy’s face, but it’s slightly blurred.
“You have something on your head,” she says, even though she’s pretty sure she’d told her mouth to say “No.”
His eyes roll up, as if he were trying to look at whatever it was she’d spotted on his forehead. Unsuccessful, Dipper instead raises his hand and wipes it over before going, “Oh, yeah, that’s my birthmark.”
They’ve started walking, though Pacifica isn’t quite sure when it happens. Her second attempt at focusing on his face also fails. They walk in silence for nearly a minute before Dipper, nervous and inebriated, breaks it.
“It’s the Big Dipper,” he says, and with a finger he traces a pattern that completely misses all of the spots on his forehead and ends up confusing her more than she already was.
“Just looks like a bunch of big, dumb dots to me,” Pacifica says with a sniff.
Dipper opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it again, decidedly fish-like in Pacifica’s mind. She can’t help the giggle that escapes, and when Dipper hears it, he looks like he’s just slain a dragon or won the lottery.
The unsteady click of Pacifica's heels is for a time the only sound that follows them as they cross campus. She's resolutely focused on putting one foot in front of the other and not looking at the boy walking alongside her. Only once does she fail: she glances back on him and nearly trips over an uneven slab of sidewalk. She's sure Dipper's about to say something up until the moment she hears him fumble over it as well.
Campus is dark and empty in the early hours, the way Pacifica prefers it. A cool breeze shifts through the trees, causing branches and leaves to play over the orange glow of the lamp posts that line the school's main road. It's enough to draw her mind from the ache of her shoes, her increasing need to pee, and how strange it is that Dipper following her back to her (okay, his sister's) dorm is not strange.
"I was gonna say something about philosophers... and, uh, stars," Dipper says suddenly, slurring ever so slightly.
"Huh?"
"When you... Uh, were talking about dots and, yeah, that. It was going to be so clever."
"Ugh, save the uh... Platitudes for someone who cares. Who is also sober."
She's startled when Dipper lets out a sudden groan.
"I'm way more drunk than I thought," he says, anguished. "Mabel is going to kill me."
He begins slapping his own face lightly, murmuring "Sober, Dipper, sober," under his breath.
Pacifica glances at him, curious. He face swims a little, but for the first time since their walk started, she's able to focus on him. Unlike her companion, she must be sobering up, at least a little.
"Dipper, seriously, if this is your first time drinking, and given what a lame-o you are, it probably is, then you're doing much better than most people."
He runs his hands through his hair anxiously, making it that much more ridiculous, but at least he's stopped hitting himself.
"Hey!" he sputters, "I'm not - but really? Thanks! But also, hey!"
His indignation trails off, but he quickly follows up with, "That's why I'm following you, 'cause Mabel made me promise I'd check in with her after the party. Not because I'm a creeper and am following you. Twin thing, you know? But now you didn't have to walk alone."
"I don't know if I should be disappointed you're not creeping on me or flattered," Pacifica says, though she's pretty sure she meant to say something like "stop being a gross weirdo". Dipper's chuckle is soft and somewhat nervous, but he doesn't say anything else until they're hiking up the stairwell to Pacifica's dorm room.
"You know... I'd always wondered..." his voice is light and wavering. Pacifica with two or three fewer beers would have been able to predict what was coming, but as has become the trend that night, Dipper Pines manages to surprise her.
"I thought we really got along that one night, you know? At the mansion with your parents' party? I mean, you pretty much saved my life and I'd kind of thought after that... That we were cool or something. I guess it was too much to expect to hang out but... I dunno, I was just wondering... Why after that..."
She bites the inside of her cheek and prays his rambling question will last until they get to the door of her room, because even sobering up she's too drunk for that and of course Dipper would lack any kind of sense or tact or-
"Where have you been, young man?"
Pacifica nearly sinks to the hallway floor in shocked relief. Mabel is standing outside of their room, hands on her hips, glaring at her brother. Her question had been quiet, though it looked like she wanted to yell, but the force of her words carried down the hallway just fine. Dipper pales and tugs at his collar, but doesn't stop walking.
"Get inside," Mabel hisses, "And we are going to have a long talk, mister."
The bright, cartoonish kitten that adorns Mabel's knee-length night shirt and the fluffy lime green socks she's wearing do nothing to soften the severity of the way she stares Dipper down. He hangs his head as she moves from the door to let him enter the room. Nonetheless, Pacifica can't help but admire the absurdity of the moment: as Mabel turns around and stomps back inside, the little white pom-poms on the heels of her socks shakes manically. Pacifica giggles, and immediately regrets in when Mabel snaps back around to glare at her.
"You too, young lady," she says, pointing into the living area. "Let's go."
Pacifica rolls her eyes and enters, heading straight for her room before Mabel can start in on her. Through the thin dorm walls, Pacifica can hear them talking - Mabel's voice raises, upset, while Dipper's low tones are conceding, apologetic.
She pulls off her dress and leaves it in a heap on the floor. Pajamas are a tank top and shorts that double as workout wear - she reaches for her makeup removing wipes, but then hesitates, figuring she's already letting the Pines twins see her in the level of disarray. Best to keep up a semblance of appearances.
"Mabel, I'm perfectly fine," Dipper is saying as Pacifica pads barefoot into the living room.
"Yes, I drank more than I thought but it was a party. You can't tell me you're actually surprised."
"No..." she says forlornly. "I guess I just got worried and all up in my head that something would happen."
Pacifica opens the fridge and pulls out bottled water and that pear she'd been meaning to eat. As much fun as it might be to stay and watch the Pines drama unfold, she remembers she's got lunch 'interviews' at one of the houses tomorrow. Funny, how they plan those.
"But you need to be more careful!" Mabel says, temper starting to flare again. "You're underage, and if the cops had come, or the university people, or what if you'd gotten into a drunken monkey fist fight with a frat bro, your arms are like noodles-"
She's clearly getting herself worked up, and no amount of Dipper's calming seems to be working. It's Pacifica's cue to retreat to her room, and her hand is on the door knob when Mabel spins to face her.
"And you, Pacifica!" she says, sounding scandalized. "You shouldn't be out drinking and partying underage either. Those kinds of things are supposed to be all sorts of trouble for young college girls, and while some frat bender is probably more your scene than Dipper's, that doesn't mean you should feel peer pressured into-"
What was it with those twins and rambling?
"Later, Mabel," Pacifica says, starting to tune her out. She's opening up her bedroom door and stepping in when Mabel asks:
"And what about your reputation? Upholding the honor of the Northwest family name?"
She stops dead. Slowly, she turns to look at the twins. Mabel is staring at her fiercely, but Dipper's behind her, already reaching for his sister's shoulder. Something unexpected must cross Pacifica's face, because Dipper's eyes widen and Mabel's strong front flickers.
Afterwards, she'll castigate herself for slipping, for letting the alcohol interfere with her sense. But in the moment, she says the exact words that run through her mind.
"Fuck the Northwest family name," she says flatly. She slams the door to her room, and locks it.