Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"So, uh, don't get me wrong, this is really nice, but... I think my arm is falling asleep."

Pacifica lets out an agitated huff. Her breath stirs the soft rings of brown hair that curl at Dipper's ear, and he laughs.

"I'm so sorry, Your Highness," he continues, "But I am nothing more than a poor, humble peasant, unused to suffering for your comfort."

For that, Pacifica presses her entire frame even closer to him, trying to weigh him down and make him even more uncomfortable. The arm in question becomes her new pillow.

"That better?" she asks, shooting him a cheeky smile.

Dipper squirms a little and rolls his eyes.

"Seriously, Pacifica, I'm losing feeling in my fingers."

"Wimp," she mutters.

Nonetheless, she rolls off of him. Still flushed and sticky with sweat, the cool of the other pillow is a welcome contrast. Shifting a little, she faces him and wrinkles her nose.

"Better?"

"Much, thank you, kind lady, oh gracious and benign princess!"

Dipper starts to prop himself up to make a show of bowing to her, only to receive a face full of pillow.

"That's right I'm a princess, you ass!" she exclaims, words punctuated by further blows with the pillow.

Caught between her vicious onslaught and a fit of laughter, Dipper is unable to defend himself, and collapses back onto his pillow. After a few seconds she stops, but instead of laying back down, sits further up.

Dipper Pines sprawled out on the bed next to her is a sight that only a few weeks ago she would have said was impossible. Hair disheveled and pushed wildly back reveals the unusual spattering of spots on his forehead, and it's this - not the bareness of his chest, still reddened from exertion, nor the way his legs have tangled with hers under his sheets - this view of his birthmark, that seems to Pacifica the most intimate sign of what has been happening between them. And the thought of that makes her stomach lurch in a way she thinks is pleasant, in a way that is - if she's being honest with herself - far too hopeful. She's Pacifica Northwest. He's Dipper Pines. Neither of them look good in star-crossed.

But there he is, not saying anything, simply smiling up at her as she stares at him. When did her heart start pounding?

Pacifica breaks the gaze, looks past Dipper to the gently glowing alarm clock on his bedside table. She's teased him about it, the first night she'd come over, astonished at the strange relic in an age of smartphones. It's getting late, and she says as much.

"I should go," she says. She turns, bends over, and starts hastily feeling the floor for her abandoned clothing. It would be easier to find them in more than the dim light coming from the desk lamp across the room, but the dark hides from him the blush coating her cheeks. Pacifica finds her underwear and shirt, but her skirt still eludes her.

"Don't leave yet," Dipper says suddenly.

She stiffens, and turns to face him. Dipper is propped up on his side, and while his words had come out strong, he's now chewing on his bottom lip.

"It's getting late," she says, voice soft. "I'm not going to make Edmond drive all the way out here to pick me up in the middle of the night, not when he's already doing so much to keep this away from..."

"He could, uh, always pick you up in the morning."

It doesn't matter now how dim the room is, there's no way Dipper can't see Pacifica's blush. Her fingers toy at the edge of her shirt. She glances down, then up at him again.

"You mean like...?" Pacifica can't even finish, but Dipper nods with wide eyes and a half-formed smile, caught, she thinks, somewhere between anxious and hopeful.

"Yeah. I mean, if that's okay, if you want to spend the night, uh... Here... With me..."

She lets her shirt drop to the bed. The answer is on her lips, but it's not what comes out when she speaks next.

"What about Mabel? When is she coming back?"

Pacifica looks around the small bedroom, and envisions the rest of the apartment beyond Dipper's door, the one he's shared with his sister since summer started, a means of getting used to living on their own and establishing residency for in-state tuition for their upcoming year at college. Even though Mabel's room is all the way across the living room, on the far side of the apartment, there's no way she wouldn't notice that Dipper had company. Pacifica wasn't sure if she was ready for that conversation, not given Mabel's enthusiasm.

"Mabel's staying at the Shack tonight since Grunkle Stan gave her the first morning shift. Wendy's in town so I think they're doing a movie night and since Mabel's so bad at mornings... And with your parents being out of town-" but he cuts off then, realizing his mistake.

Pacifica raises an eyebrow at him and purses her lips.

"Dipper Pines. Did you plan this?"

She lets out a sharp breath and starts to pull on her shirt. He panics, and she almost feels bad for teasing him, but she can't help it - Dipper knocks her off balance so often, it's only fair to return the favor.

"Yes! I mean, no!" he stammers, "I mean, I've been really wanting you to stay over and when Mabel said she was sleeping at the Shack I thought 'great idea, Dipper!', and I was hoping you'd want to stay but I wanted to see you anyway and please don't put your shirt on whenever you come over I always have so much I want to say but then I get too distracted because man, wow, you’re just… and I just... I just thought..."

Dipper groans and hides his head in his hands.

"I'm such an idiot," he says, voice muffled by his fingers.

"And a perv," she says, but there's nothing for it, she's grinning and no matter how hard she tries (not that hard, truly), she can't seem to stop. Pacifica reaches over and pulls his hands away from his face. She leans in and kisses him three times, in rapid succession.

"I like french toast for breakfast, but eggs are fine, too. And I don't function without coffee... Especially if we're going to be up late... Which I hope..."

Her strong front falters when his face lights up with delight. Dipper wraps his arms around her waist, pulling her into his lap, and kisses her.

"It's really okay? You'll stay?" he asks when they finally pause for breath.

Pacifica hums her assent, threads her fingers through his hair, and kisses him back down to the bed.

...

“No no no no no, don’t you dare! Leave her alone!”
The room is pitch black and something is thrashing wildly at her side.

“What do you want? What-?”

She launches herself out of bed and hits the floor, hard. The impact jolts her brain into gear: she’s not in her room, not in her bed. That voice, the panicked screaming, that’s Dipper.

“Dipper!” Pacifica shouts, reaching for her phone. She flips the flashlight on, ready to blind whoever is attacking him.

Dipper’s eyes are stretched wide and staring at something just above his bed. His arms lash out, and it looks like he’s struggling to sit up. He is the only one in the bed, the only other person in the room, in fact.

“Dipper!” she says again. “It’s a dream, you’re okay!”

Carefully avoiding his flailing limbs, Pacifica crawls back onto the bed. She can hear how heavy he’s breathing, and his eyes dart around frantically, blind to everything but whatever he’s seeing in his nightmare. Sure, she’s experienced her fair share of nightmares and sleep paralysis, but the intensity with which he’s trapped in his sleep is frightening. Pacifica slowly reaches out. Sets a hand gently on his shoulder, but does not try to shake him. An open hand smacks at her torso; she winces, but does not let go of him. Instead, she squeezes gently.

“Dipper Pines, you’re in bed, in Gravity Falls, having a bad dream. But it’s not real, and you need to wake up.”

“Whoooseit?” he slurs, and when he turns towards her the motion seems caught in molasses, like his body is only half-responding to his brain.

“It’s Pacifica. I spent the night, remember?”

Dipper stills. Blinks slowly.

“Pacifica?”

“I’m here.”

He lowers his arms, and without thinking she reaches out and pulls one of his hands into hers. Dipper watches the motion, blinks again, still caught somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, still processing. When he raises his head to look at her, she sees clarity slowly seeping back into the hollow gaze.

“I… what happened?” he asks groggily.
“You had a bad dream,” she says, tightening her grip on his hand. “I think you were lucid dreaming, because you were moving around a bunch.”

All at once, Dipper snaps back. The exact moment that her words process is apparent from the way his face pales and his shoulders slump, defeated. He pulls his hand from hers and runs a hand through his hair nervously, and he stares down at the bed, studiously avoiding her eyes.

“Oh. Oh my gosh Pacifica I am so…” he starts, “I can’t believe that happened it’s been months and I thought I was finally… Did I hit you? Please tell me I didn’t hit you!”

Dipper is breathing heavily, rubbing his hands over his face and through his hair and groaning to himself, and she’s fairly certain he’s going to hyperventilate if she doesn’t calm him soon.

“You didn’t hit me, you’re fine,” she says. Scared eyes meet hers, and Pacifica realizes that even though Dipper is awake, the nightmare hasn’t ended for him.

“I don’t-” he starts, but he struggles to continues. The next words come out as a whisper. “I don’t know if this is real,” he hisses.

“Of course it-” but she stops when she sees the look on his face.

Pacifica glances around the bedroom, looking for something, anything that might help. Her eyes settle on her phone, left face down on the bed, still lighting the room. Grabbing the device, she opens the notification tab showing all of the updates from her followers.

“What do bears call a grilled cheese sandwich?” she reads, “Grrrraaaaahhhhhhhgggg! #askingtheseriousquestions #best.”

Dipper looks confused as she lowers her phone.

“Mabel’s most recent status update,” she explains. “Do you really think anything your sleeping brain could come up with could ever be that ridiculous?”

Dipper relaxes, slightly, and he lets out a strained laugh.

“It’s not my brain I’m worried about, it’s B-” he cuts himself off. “No, yeah. No one but Mabel could come up with something so bizarre. Thanks.”

“Does this… happen a lot?” Pacifica asks.

“Not any more. Well, not until tonight. It had been months, and I thought maybe I was over it, getting better, but apparently not…” his words taper out into a grunt of frustration.

This is not the boy who hunts monsters in the forest or sasses her because he can or makes her challenge her parents over every little thing, Pacifica realizes. This boy, the one who invited her into his bed, is very scared, and very hurt, somewhere deep, and the sudden and swift urge to fix anything and everything she can for him overwhelms her.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” he says, and the laugh he looses is strained. “Not even a little bit.”

“Oh. Okay.” She feels lost, wants to take his hand again.

“You probably want to go home,” Dipper says grimly. “I can call a cab for you, or if you want to take my bike back, or I can call Mabel and have her bring the car-”

“No!”

He jumps, not expecting the ferocity of her response. Before he can protest, Pacifica scoots across the bed and slides her arms around his back. Dipper lets her draw him down, and rests his head on her chest.

“I’m staying,” she says firmly. “I don’t care. We can watch a movie or go back to sleep or lay here and talk until the sun comes up - I don’t care, and I’m not going anywhere.”

“I won’t be able to get back to sleep tonight,” he murmurs, “So if you want any rest you should go…”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Pacifica says. She runs her hands down his back in gentle, soothing circles, until she’s made her way down to his hips. “And if it means finding new ways to keep us both up at night, well, I think that’s a burden I’m willing to bear.” She winks, and her fingers dig into the soft skin at his hips, pulling him closer.

“Besides, you’re making me french toast in the morning.”

“Oh I am, am I?” he says with a soft laugh.

“Yeah, you are. And if you’re lucky, maybe I’ll let you make me lunch tomorrow too.”

Dipper nuzzles into Pacifica’s neck, leaving a trail of light kisses from clavicle to ear.

“I think I already am lucky,” Dipper says with a smile.

Chapter Text

Dipper doesn't even care much for Mabel's new flavor of the week when he agrees to her crazy dating scheme. It's not that the love interest in question was problematic, per se, more that the guy - Jim? Jamie? - was even blander and less memorable than the last four people Mabel had dated that summer. No, he agrees to it because he's bored, and he loves his sister, and because he's still (foolishly) holding out some small hope that maybe Mabel is better at matchmaking for others than for herself.

So, he lets himself be herded into Grunkle Stan's station wagon, and does not complain when he's wedged in between Candy and Grenda in the back seat, despite the fact that they are Mabel's friends and therefore she should have to sit with them.

Mabel twists around in the front seat to peer excitedly at them. She drums her hands along the seat back and grins, and Dipper once again reminds himself that he's doing this for her happiness.

"Candy. Dipper. Go on and tell me how excited you are!" she says, barely containing a squeal of delight.

"Yeah, yeah," Dipper says, to which the girls roll their eyes.

"I am ready to meet my soulmate!" Candy exclaims. She leans forward to look past Dipper to Grenda, who has been tapping out something on her phone ever since they got in the car. "If only we could all be as lucky as Grenda, and meet our own super hot very rich boy!"

Grenda has the grace to look slightly apologetic for a split second before bursting out enthusiastically, "Yeah, I know, it's great, right?!?"

"So how is Marius?" Mabel asks, "You two must be coming up on your..." She makes a show of counting on her fingers, even though it's obvious, "Second anniversary!"

Dipper allows himself to zone out as the girls squeal. As much as he's rather not think about it, he can't help the prick of jealousy when he listens to them talk: at the age of fourteen, Grenda has already been in a serious relationship for two years, Mabel has dated about 70% of the eligible population of Gravity Falls, and Candy, well... Candy hasn't killed any of the boys she's met on the internet, yet. Dipper, on the other hand, has never been on a date with someone, and the one time he'd asked, he'd been shut down with such speed that he was fairly certain he'd gotten whiplash afterwards.

Until now. Even though it was technically through the divine hand of Mabel, Dipper had a date. A blind date, essentially set up as a favor to Mabel, who couldn't go out on her own. A triple date, Candy also having been set up with a "magical mystery man". But, a date nonetheless.

If Dipper was lucky, it wouldn't be a complete disaster.

...

Dipper is not lucky.

"Uh, Mabel, quick time out here? Please?" he hisses.

But his sister is already bouncing across the theater lobby, having just spotted Jeff, or whoever, and the friend he brought for Candy. Grenda pats him on the shoulder sympathetically.

"She's not that bad," Grenda says, "Marius and I go over to her house whenever he visits. And she did save our lives that one time."

Her words of comfort fall on deaf ears. Dipper is too focused on the girl standing a few yards away, one hand on her hip.

"Please, try to contain your excitement, Pines," Pacifica drawls as Dipper, slump-shouldered, walks up to her.

"And hello to you too, Pacifica," he says, "So, please tell me, what irreparable sin have I committed, and how is this even vaguely a fair punishment for it?"

Pacifica tosses her head and rolls her eyes.

"Don't get so full of yourself. I'm doing this because I owed your sister a favor."

The both turn to see Mabel and the bundle of other teens they were out with. Mabel was tugging Jeremy, or whatever, over to the snack bar, and Candy was peeling back the eyelid of the small, slight boy who had been brought along and who was, surprisingly, taking it in stride. Dipper and Pacifica glance at one another.

"Don't get any ideas," Dipper deadpans.

The sound that comes from Pacifica might be a stifled laugh, might be a snort.

“This date is going to be weird enough without trying to study the anatomy of your eyeball,” she says.

Whatever Dipper planned on saying comes to a full stop at the word ‘date’. And indeed, Pacifica does look ready for one. It had been two years since they’d spoken - he’d gone to the mansion once after getting rid of the ghost, only to be brushed off by proxy by Pacifica’s butler - and Pacifica’s looks have only become more refined. Her hair is twisted into an intricate bun, and the fit of her turquoise button up blouse and high waisted skirt flatter the curves Dipper is now much more inclined to notice. She’d even put on makeup, Dipper muses. To go on a date with him... or, well, whoever she was expecting.

“Yeah. Date,” he manages. “You look. Nice?”

Dipper cringes slightly - has he really not gotten any better at talking to girls since he was twelve? - but Pacifica waves him off.

“I always look nice, Dipper,” she says airily. She must see his glare, and though he doesn’t know why she would care, she tacks on a “Thank you” moments later.

“Dipper! Pacifica! Let’s go, the movie’s about to start!” Mabel calls from across the lobby.

They turn to one another. For a split second, Dipper thinks Pacifica almost looks nervous, but the look flits away before he can be sure.

“Do you, uh, want a snack, or something?” he asks, looking anywhere but her.

“No, let’s just go. They’re going to leave us behind if we don’t hurry.”

He follows her over to the rest of the group. Mabel and Candy seem to be getting along with their respective dates with little trouble, and it becomes immediately clear that Pacifica and Dipper are the odd pair out. Grenda shoots him and encouraging smile and a thumbs up, but the smile he returns is watery.

For Mabel, he repeats to himself as they enter the theater, For Mabel.

…

Naturally, Pacifica and Dipper are forced to sit next to one another. Attempting to be a gentleman, Dipper steps aside and allows Pacifica to walk down the row and pick her seat first, so he’s confused when she tugs him in front of her and edges him between the seats until he’s reached the seat next to Grenda. He sits down automatically, and she takes the seat to his right, the very last of their little band of teenagers.

“I like being close to the aisle,” she explains, the in case I have to abandon this sinking ship going unsaid.

Dipper nods. Caught between Grenda and his date, he suddenly feels too big for the small theater seat, as if he might break the arm rests and burst out of it at any moment. He keeps his hands tucked in his lap, wary of the few inches of space between his arm and Pacifica’s. Their shoulders are even closer, and he’s never been so hyper aware of how much his body moves when he breathes. Dipper wonders how long he can hold his breath and what will kill him first: asphyxiation or embarrassment.

From the corner of his eye, he can see that Pacifica looks perfectly calm. Not a hair out of place, no sweat starting to bead on her forehead, no crinkling of clothing from digging anxious fingers. She doesn’t just look perfectly calm, she looks just… perfect.

The lights in the theater dim, then go black as the projector over head kicks on. He’s saved from the thoughts that would no doubt follow by the start of the movie, some overproduced slasher flick conveniently released right before Summerween. From a few seats down, Mabel lets out a frightened squeak, clearly fake to Dipper’s well honed ‘Mabel-bullshit-o-meter’. There’s no doubt that she’s using the scary movie as a strategic tactic to get closer to Jethro, or whatever.

The next thirty minutes are such a convoluted, bloody, gore-fest that Dipper can’t tell which is higher: the number of plot lines, or the body count. It doesn’t take long for his interest to wane (he’s pretty sure he’s already figured out who the axe murderer really is), and soon he’s discreetly glancing around the theater, entertaining himself with the crowd. There’s the typical pockets of teen couples, making out in a way that is frankly indecent for 8:30 on a Wednesday night, the rows of younger kids, whooping and laughing and getting up and dancing around and generally needing some kind of parental guidance, and even a few grandmotherly-looking types, most peeking out from between their fingers any time a scene gets too bloody. One look past Grenda tells him that Mabel and her date have joined the other teens in their amorous adventures. Grenda sits stiff-backed and stares intensely at the screen, trying not to react when an elbow or hand strays into the boundary of her seat. He smiles grimly, feeling her pain, and looks over to his right.

Like Grenda, Pacifica sits straight up in her seat. She’s tucked her hands in her lap, but every few seconds her fingers dig into her legs. Eyes widen and flinch in alternating measure. Her lips press together tightly, and even in the dark Dipper can tell that most of the blood has drained out of her face.

A scream rips through the theater, and on scream, the crazed murderer buries their axe into a scantily clad girl’s skull. Pacifica squirms in her seat, shoulders tense, fingers pressing what must be painfully into her thighs. She looks away as the killer pulls out the axe with a thick squelch, and that’s when Dipper sees the gloss of tears forming at the corner of her eyes.

“Pacifica,” he whispers, leaning in closer to her, “Are you okay?”

The girl nods mutely, eyes fixing back on the screen, but the show of courage lasts only a split second. Another victim yells on-screen, dragging themselves through some murky underbrush as they’re pursued by the villain. The axe glints menacingly, and as the murderer heaves it up above their head, Pacifica lets out a soft and strangled cry of fear.

“Pacifica,” he says again. He reaches out to touch her arm, and she practically jumps from her seat. “What’s wrong?”

She takes a deep breath, and when she turns to face him, her brow is furrowed.

“You try growing up in a haunted mansion with a name cursed by a vengeful, axe-wielding ghost who chases you down every year” she whispers back. Although her voice is quiet, her words hold venom. Her chin juts out and she crosses her arms over her chest.

“Whoa, whoa, I wasn’t making fun of you. Given what you had to go through, your fear of homicidal axemen is perfectly reasonable,” Dipper says, raising his hands to her in appeal.

Her momentarily tough facade flickers with the sound of another loud thunk of the axe in the movie. Wincing, Pacifica breaks Dipper’s gaze.

“Do you want to go? Maybe sit outside or something?” he asks, already starting to get up from his seat.

“No!” she exclaims loudly, and someone from a few rows back shushes them. Nervously, Pacifica glances over to Mabel and the others, but they haven’t noticed. “I can do this,” she continues, more quietly.

“But you don’t have t-”

“I. Can. Do. This,” she repeats firmly.

Dipper sighs and turns back to the movie, but only a few seconds pass before his attention drifts back to her. A single tear tracks down her cheek, but Pacifica’s too busy wringing her hands to wipe it away. It’s clear from how stiffly she holds herself that she’s fighting the urge to shake, to cry out. A cold wave of nerves hit his gut, and he feels so helpless to try and fix anything. The movie barrels on, and really, was in necessary for that many people to get slaughtered with an axe? Surely it had to get boring at some point.

He wants to reach out to her, maybe pat her shoulder or take her hand, or something, but two years of soured silence have already gotten in the way of whatever connection they might have had that night at her family’s mansion. That, and the distinct feeling he gets that Pacifica doesn’t want his sympathy, doesn’t want to be seen as weak. So how can he help her feel better without making things worse?

What was left of the movie’s grasping plot meandered away long before, leaving only gratuitous carnage to wrap it up. The masked murderer has now, somehow, acquired a second axe, and is now charging down a dark hallway towards an oblivious woman at the other end. And then, Dipper has an idea. He leans over Pacifica’s armrest.

“Uh, excuse me ma’am,” he whispers, making his voice as nasal as possible, “I need to axe you a couple of questions.”

Pacifica whips around to look at him, It takes a moment for her to process what he’d said, but as soon as it hits her, her pursed lips begin to tilt into a slight smile.

“No, no, trust me ma’am,” he continues, eyes flicking between her face and the screen, “I’m perfectly cut out for the job.”

“What are you doing?” she hisses at him, but that smile is growing even more, focus shifted from the movie to Dipper, and it only encourages him.

“This will only hurt timber-arily,” he mutters to her as, on screen, the murderer whacks into another character’s back.

This time, Pacifica giggles, which turns into a light snort. She looks at him, eyes wide in mortification, and then a split second later they’re both howling, doubled over and clutching at their stomachs. Dipper almost panics when more tears stream from her eyes, but they must be from relief, or the laughter, or something better than before, as she wipes them away with a smile.

Dipper continues, at every opportunity, to make some joke or crack a comment. It reminds him a little of the time he used to spend with Wendy, watching terrible horror films and ripping them to shreds. This is different, though for some reason that twisting feeling in his gut, the warmth rushing to his cheeks, that's the same. Every time Pacifica smiles, Dipper feels the motion mirrored on his face, contagious.

Suddenly, it's not so bad. While she hasn't said anything, Pacifica relaxes back in her seat, leaning in towards him to hear his wisecracks. Their heads nearly touch, and their shoulders do, so that every time she laughs, Dipper's feels it. Dipper carries on, stretching his pun and joke skills as far as he can, and it's a miracle they don't get booted out of the theater.

The movie flies by after that. He loses track of the number of people hacked up by the axe murderer, and instead starts counting the number of times Pacifica snorts instead of giggles, starts making note of the exact degree to which her eyes crinkle closed and its correlation to the size of her smile, tries to estimate just how long her lashes might be.

He's so caught up in staring at her that he's startled when he realized that she's staring back. Her eyes are wide and still a little red from crying. She bites her bottom lip, and Dipper wonders at the fact that he's never noticed how nice her lips looked, or how regal she could look with puffy eyes and smeared mascara and chewed-off lip gloss.

"Dipper?" Pacifica says, and her voice is faint. He leans in a little closer, ignoring the way the armrest cuts into his ribs.

"Yeah?"

Her eyelashes flutter - he didn't even think it was a real thing, fluttering eyelashes, but there it was - and she looks up at him intently. Dipper doesn't know where to look, so his gaze darts from her eyes, to her lips, to her hands, and back. She leans in closer still, until her lips are nearly at his ear.

"I think he missed a pretty big... chop-ortunity," she whispers.

Hideous shouting followed by fleshy thuds fill the theater, drowning out whatever might have been said next. Dipper's heart thuds once, twice, hard, and then he gets it. He laughs, and there's a heat in his belly and a pounding in his heart and he laughs for this funny, unexpected girl sitting next to him.

...

"What a wash!" Mabel gripes as she and the others watch Jimbo, or whatever, and his friend leave the theater. She runs a hand through her hair, heavily mussed, and the crosses her arms over his chest.

"Why wouldn't he want to see me again? I used all of my best kissing techniques and even wore my super lucky ducky bra!" she says with a pout.

Groaning, Dipper rubs his hands over his face. "Did not need to hear that..." he mutters, just loud enough for Pacifica to hear. She chuckles, and his heart races.

Grenda and Candy gather around Mabel, offering consolations and plenty of reasons why that guy was a total loser and not worth her time. Pacifica and Dipper remain on the outskirts, looking from Mabel to one another and smiling.

"Give me your phone," Pacifica says, reaching her hand out to him.

Dipper's halfway through pulling out his phone when he finally goes, "Wait, why?"

Rolling her eyes, Pacifica tugs Dipper's arm and pulls his phone out of his grasp.

"Hey!" he protests, but, curious, lets her continue.

She unlocks the screen and takes a few seconds to tap something in before she hands it back.

"What'd you do to it?" he asks, eyeing the device like it might now be a bomb.

Pacifica sighs and shakes her head. "I gave you my number," she says, exasperated.

Her own phone starts ringing then - she looks at the screen, but doesn't answer. "That's my ride. I've got to go but..." Pacific's eyes dart from his face to the floor, and while he can't fully tell in the odd orange light of the theater lobby, he thinks a blush might be rising to her cheeks. "Text me sometime, okay?" she finishes, the words coming out a bit rushed.

Now it's his turn to blush. "Yeah, of course, okay," he stammers. Apparently it doesn't matter that he's fourteen, nearly fifteen, and through most of puberty - his voice cracks nervously.

Pacifica smiles and starts to walk away, giving him a little wave. He waves back and turns towards Mabel and the others, who are still wrapped up in bemoaning Mabel's terrible date. The quick tap of feet from behind him don't register until the feel of arms wrapped around his waist do; Dipper stiffens at the unexpected touch, and can hardly relax when he realizes who is hugging him from behind.

"Thank you, Dipper," Pacifica says quietly. Her head nuzzles into his back gently, and her arms squeeze around him. His entire body goes hot, and he has to clear his throat once, twice, before he can speak properly.

"Uh, of course, it was nothing, any time."

"You don’t understand… how much I appreciate it. You’re the only person who really knows about… and then you…”

“Really, don’t worry about it,” he squeaks, and it’s not until she lets go of him does he realize that he’s been holding his breath.

Dipper turns to face her, and it seems like both of them are having trouble making eye contact.

“I had a nice time,” she says, “I’ll see you around.”

“Y-yeah, see you me too. Around. I-I mean, me too. See you around.”

Pacifica walks towards the exit and Dipper watches, just long enough to see her cast a glance at him over her shoulder. He fiddles with the phone in his hand, then unlocks the screen. Paz the screen reads, and underneath, her number. Paz? Dipper shrugs to himself. He’s halfway through tapping out a message when he’s interrupted.

“Dipper! Dipper Dipper Dipper Dipper Diiiiiiippppppper!” Mabel squeals. His twin runs circles around him, pumping her fists in the air as she repeats his name. She slides to a stop a few seconds later, entire face lit up in glee.

“Sooooooooooo…” she starts, “How was your daaaaaate?”

“It wasn’t a- it was fine it- we weren’t-”

“Ooooh oh, it’s wasn’t a- we weren’t-” Mabel parrots in a poor approximation of his voice. She punches him on the shoulder, enthusiastic. “Don’t play, bro bro! She gave you her number! And that hug! Hugga hugga, am I right?”

“Mabel, we’re not- just leave it! I had a better-than-anticipated-night, Pacifica and I are friends, and she gave me her number. Got it?”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever you say bro. Just don’t come crying to me when you’re hit with the excruciating pain of Cupid’s arrow!” Mabel says cheerfully.

“Right, like that would ever happen,” Dipper says, shutting down the conversation before it got dangerous.

Mabel rolls her eyes and shoots Grenda and Candy a look that clearly says ‘Boys, am I right?’.

Dipper is saved from any other questioning by the arrival of Grunkle Stan. They wedge themselves back into the car, Dipper this time adamantly claiming the front seat. The girls chatter noisily, and Grunkle Stan looks like he’s about to have an aneurysm, and everything is right in the world. He pulls out his phone, only to see the blinking light of a notification. Pacifca has texted him back. He quickly types out a message and sends it. Despite himself, he smiles when her reply comes less than a minute later.

…

[[2 Weeks Later]]

“Oh my god. This. Is. Miserable.”

Mabel plants her forehead on the counter and groans in frustration. “Just look at them!”

“I feel ya, dude,” Wendy replies, setting her chin in her hand and staring across the field, “And I thought Dipper had it bad for me.”

She shakes her head and pats Mabel consolingly on the shoulder. “Looks like your brother’s just doomed to be awkward.”

“But she’s so clearly into him!”

“You sure?” Wendy asks, cocking her head to the side. “I can’t get a good read on blondie, but you probably know her better.”

“Oh, definitely,” Mabel gushes, “She’s actually, like, laughing at his dumb jokes and stuff. Dipper’s jokes are terrible, so it’s got to be love.”

Mabel and Wendy look out from their Summerween Spooky Snack Bar. Holding a Summerween festival had been Mabel’s brainchild, and when Stan had agreed, the girl went whole hog in the planning and scope of the thing. As such, they’d needed more hands to help with running the thing, and Dipper had, ever-so-innocently, suggested that, maybe, if he asked, Pacifica might help him run the ticket booth. And, to no one’s surprise, she’d agreed.

At the moment, the two are steadfastly looking away from one another after Dipper had accidentally grabbed her hand while they were both reaching into the cash box for change. It’s the third or fourth iteration in the cycle that night: laughing, talking, jokes; sudden accidental expression of affection; complete and utter embarrassment and denial. Mabel gives them four, maybe five minutes before they reset.

“This is so frustrating,” Mabel rages once more, and the expression on her face is so fierce that the tourist who had been approaching the snack bar begins to back away slowly. She flails her arms aimlessly, and begins to crawl over the counter. Wendy throws her arms around Mabel’s waist and starts to tug her off, but Mabel struggles.

“JUST KISS ALREADY!” Mabel shouts, but the sound is, somehow, drowned out by the noise of the festival.

“Whoa, Mabel, relax,” Wendy says, finally succeeding in pulling Mabel back to the ground. “Look, sometimes you’ve got to let these things happen naturally. The all-in, headfirst approach works for you fine, but this is Dipper we’re talking about. Dipper with Pacifica Northwest. It might take them years, who knows. But let them figure it out themselves.”

“Noooo!” she wails, collapsing back onto the counter. “I don’t care what it takes, if I have to trap them on a boat and pay fish to sing for them, or, or-”

“Mabel. Mabel. This is not The Little Mermaid. Let your brother be. He’s doing okay on his own. See?”

They look over. Dipper and Pacifica have restarted the cycle, back into the comfortable, if not vaguely flirtatious joking stage. In the lull of customers, Pacifica has pulled out her phone, and is showing Dipper something. The screen lights up their faces - they’re both smiling, laughing - and Dipper leans in close to her to get a better view. He very carefully places one hand on Pacifica’s arm, and rests his chin ever-so-lightly on her shoulder. It lasts until the end of whatever they are watching, after which Pacifica turns to look at him. Both jump away, blushing, and the cycle continues.

Wendy slaps a hand across Mabel’s mouth, muffling whatever she was about to shout.

“They’ll get there,” she says.

Chapter Text

"Well, well, well, look who we have here..."

Dipper froze. A pair of lacy leggings still hung from one outstretched hand, and he held flashlight in the other. His mouth hung open, a comically delayed expression of shock.

"I knew this is where you'd wandered off to, Pines. Could you be more transparent?"

Pacifica rolled her eyes. Dipper still hadn't recovered from her unexpected intrusion, though intrusion wasn't really the right word, considering he was the one sneaking around in her room. As if she wouldn't notice when he suddenly disappeared from the banquet hall and failed to show back up. Given the unusual disarray of her room, she figured he must have had a good ten minutes on her. Her hands curled into her fists, the unfamiliar press of acrylic nails biting into her palms. It was going to take forever to get her books and notes back into place.

With a blink, Dipper finally sprung back into action. He dropped her leggings and stomped over to her. He stopped less than a foot away, straightening as much as he could to force her to look up at him.

"Where's the Journal?" he demanded.

"Where'd you get you suit?" Pacifica shot back, arching an eyebrow. "It's almost nice enough to look like a designer knock-off! Though I guess it's better than showing up in a leotard. Was your sister planning on competing in the Olympics tonight? I'm afraid she's going to be terribly disappointed."

"Drop the snotty rich girl act, Pacifica," Dipper said with a snarl, "You may think you're all grown up now, but you're still the same sheltered, eccentric weirdo you were when you were thirteen!"

She hated it, but she was taken aback by his comment. She faltered, not much, but just enough for him to act. He pulled at the turquoise gem atop his trademark bolo tie. A split second later, Pacifica raised her arms, forming an x-shape in front of her face. Her wrists faced out, towards him.

"Wh-" Dipper started, and he cut off his question with a curse. As his eyes widened,Pacifica took in his expression of shock with satisfaction. Served him right.

"What, did your journal not mention the sigils for protecting yourself from telekinetic forces? Or how a combination of leprechaun wax and ground fairy scales creates a barrier to all non-corporeal forces and makes a, um, actually pretty nice eye-shadow?"

Uncrossing and lowering her arms, she glanced down at the symbols marking each wrist. Hurriedly scrawled on with her eye-shadow brush as soon as she realized Dipper was missing, the symbols were a defense she hadn't tested until then. According to the Journal, she didn't need to have blocked her face with them, but the reaction had been too strong.

"No, no I can say my journal definitely did not mention those things."

He pursed his lips, sour, and took his hand off of his bolo tie.

"Looks like we're even, Pines."

"Looks like. Funny, that it'd take two magical objects to reduce us to mere mortals," Dipper said with a sigh. He placed a hand on his forehead dramatically, then immediately snapped into a grin.

Despite herself, Pacifica relaxed ever-so-slightly. Almost four summers worth of bickering, power plays, and occasional, loosely worded death threats between them had made Pacifica aware of when Dipper was serious or looking to play. Fickle as he was, the switch regularly flipped between the two.

"And there's no chance you're going to give me the Journal?" he said.

"Nu-uh," she said firmly.

"Not even as an, I dunno, early birthday gift?"

"You're birthday's a month and a half out. Besides, it's my birthday. Which, I might add, you are currently ruining."

Dipper let out a laugh and ran a hand through his hair. She glimpsed briefly the birthmark responsible for his trademark nickname, the one he was still resistant to sharing in public. Too vain, really.

“Duh, of course, how could I have forgotten? It’s not like your parents put on the most extravagant waste of time and space and proceeded to invite the most reputable members of Gravity Falls society-”

“Which is why I still don’t understand what you’re doing here,” Pacifica shot back, but Dipper was unphased.

“Which really seems like a worthless endeavor,” he continued, “given how your parents don’t even care much for you. So what was the goal of tonight: a vague excuse to fraternize and show off your family’s wealth, or a piss poor attempt by your parents to make you seem like you’re up to their standards?”

There was no remorse or second thoughts as Pacifica suddenly closed the few feet of space between them and slapped him, hard, across the face. In fact, she felt even better as the red mark from her hand welled up on his left cheek, and liked it so much that she decided to leave another one on his right side.

“Wha-?” Dipper began, eyes glassed over in shock and pain.

“How dare you speak to me like that, Dipper Pines,” Pacifica spat, drawing up to her full height which, in heels, put her eye-to-eye with him. “How dare you come into my home, lurk around my room, and then insult me to my face on my birthday.” She put her hands on his chest and pushed him away, then stepped up and kept pushing him until he was splayed out against her bedroom wall.

His words had cut, fast and deep, filleting her from inside out. The tears pooling up at the corners of her eyes were born of rage and hurt: rage, because he’d gone too far, broken that tenuous line of hateful friendship they’d built; hurt, because in the end, he was right, and was the only one who would ever be honest about it.

“Pacifica, I-” he put his hands up in front of him, pleading and trying to fend off her assault. “Pacifica, I didn’t mean it, not any of it, you know I think you’re beautiful, and wonderful, you know how I feel-”

“If you didn’t mean it, then why did you say it?” she cried, and the tears spilled over.

“Pacifica!”

Dipper’s face had gone pale and his eyes wide as he realized his mistake. His hand lifted up to his bolo tie, an instinctive reaction, the only way he knew to solve a problem. Pacifica smacked his hand away from it, even though she knew it wouldn’t work on her anyway.

“If you didn’t mean it, then why did you say it?” she said again, face contorting in anger. Pacifica ran her hands through her hair in frustration, not caring about the layers of hairspray and bobby pins meant to keep it in place.

“Because-” he started, but she cut him off.

“I’ll tell you why, Dipper Pines. It’s because you think the only way to get what you want is to bully it out of someone. It’s because you think everyone in the world was put here to cater to your every whim and bend over at your every need. It’s because you’re so dense and self-absorbed that you can’t even see the people standing right in front of you!”

She tore her hands out of her hair and slammed them down on his shoulders, pulling him to her. Before he could react, Pacifica smashed her lips against his. Dipper parted his lips instantly, and their teeth clicked together painfully as each attempted to tangle their tongue in the other’s mouth. More anger than lust, more frustration than affection, they pressed their bodies close and kissed violently.

“I hate you,” Pacifica hissed as she pulled away for air. Dipper stared back at her, pupils blown wide and whispered, “I know,” before capturing her bottom lip with his teeth.

“I hate you,” she said again, some time later when her words had become more heaving pant than speech.

“I need you,” he said, the last word trailing off into a moan as she bit up his neck.

“I hate you,” she sighed while he licked a stripe from ear to clavicle and further down, following the deep neckline of her dress.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. He paused and pulled away. Dipper gasped for air as he stared at her, looking just as disarrayed as she felt. Everything about him - the stiff way he held himself up, the deep, wide black of his eyes, the clenching of his hands into fists just inches away from her - screamed hunger, a deep need. But he held himself back.

“I’m sorry,” Dipper said again. His chest rose and fell rapidly, and his hands unclenched and clenched again, but he did not reach out to touch her.

“That doesn’t make it better, Dipper.”

She wanted to kiss him again. She wanted to punch him in the gut, smack him in the face, for making her feel that way. When she was thirteen, Pacifica had sworn to herself that she wouldn’t get involved, not with Dipper Pines, that she would never reciprocate the feelings he claimed to have for her. But she wanted to kiss him, again.

“You’re right,” he said with a sigh, “And you know I don’t concede when I’m wrong. Ever. Forgive me?”

They’d been fighting long enough for Pacifica to sense, immediately, when Dipper was pulling out the charm. His body relaxed, his mouth tipped up into the faintest of smiles, and that thing he did with his eyes… she wouldn’t fall for it.

“No,” she spat, crossing her arms over her chest. “Live with the knowledge that you’re an unforgivable ass, Pines.”

Dipper shrugged slightly. “Fair enough. Kiss me?”

Pacifica heaved a sigh and took up the burden of kissing him once more. They stood there for minutes, kissing and biting and feeling one another, though perhaps with less ferocity than before. Reflecting on it later, Pacifica would almost think that Dipper’s kisses were sweet, tender even, if he were capable of such feelings.

“Dipper!” a voice called out.

Stiffening, Pacifica pushed Dipper away and beelined for her desk. She pulled one of the drawers open, looking for something to defend herself, but Dipper had made a mess of everything before she came in.

“Dipper? Where are you, brother?” Mabel shouted, clearly wandering up and down the hallway. It didn’t seem as though Dipper’s twin had figured out where they were yet, but she imagined it wouldn’t take long.

A hand touched Pacifica’s shoulder, and she jumped despite herself. It was, obviously, Dipper, and he pulled a thick crystal wand that looked suspiciously like the one she owned out of his pocket. He handed it to her, not even having the decency to look apologetic about what he’d stolen. Dipper wrapped his arms around her waist, pressing his chest against her back, and tipped his lips to her ear.

“I’ll take care of Mabel,” Dipper whispered. A split second later, his tongue darted out to lick along the shell of her ear. “You’ll be fine, I owe you that much. It is your birthday after all.”

Pacifica nodded. Her heart was racing, an uncomfortable mix of fear of Mabel and delight at Dipper’s closeness.

“I’ll burn this house down if I have to,” came Mabel’s voice in pleasant sing-song.

“You need to go, now,” Pacifica hissed in panic, “And get her away from me.”

“Pacifica, turn around and look at me,” he said.

“Go!”

“Just do it, Pacifica.”

Reluctantly, Pacifica turned to face him, still encircled by his arms.

“I did it, now go!”

Dipper stared at her intently. His arms tightened, pulling her impossibly closer, and he gently pressed his forehead to hers.

“Pacifica, I love you,” he said slowly.

Mabel’s footsteps stopped abruptly, right outside Pacifica’s door. Pacifica twisted her head to the side so that she could see the entrance to the bedroom.

“Yeah, yeah, fine,” she said distractedly, biting on her bottom lip. “You’re still a conceited ass who made me cry. Now go.”

“But-” Dipper protested, looking pained.

“We’ll talk about it sometime when I’m feeling less like I’m about to be murdered,” Pacifica said, still fixated on the door. “Go, before she figures out where we are and actually does burn the house down.”

“Ugh, why did it have to be you?” Dipper muttered, dropping his hands from her waist. He turned and started towards the door. “All of the girls in the world, and I had to fall for you.”

“Buh-bye!” Pacifica whispered, clutching her wand in one hand and waving him off with the other. She started to edge to the other side of the room, out of range of the door.

“Happy Birthday,” he sighed. Straightening, Dipper glanced back at her, and then pulled open the door.

“Mabel, keep it down!” he said to the girl in the hallway.

Pacifica couldn’t see Mabel from where she was standing, pressed up against the wall. Dipper’s body blocked her view, and was hopefully blocking Mabel’s as well.

“Where did you go? You know I don’t like it when you leave without telling me.”

“I went to go look for the Journal, obviously,” Dipper said as he closed the bedroom door. For the next few seconds, Pacifica could still hear their conversation, though it was muffled.

“Can’t you just forget about that dumb thing?”

“Uh, no. World domination is happening, Mabel.”

“I thought you’d gone off with that stupid blonde bimbo,” Mabel spat.

They’d walked too far down the hall for Pacifica to hear Dipper’s response, and it was probably for the better. As soon as she was sure Mabel was gone, she slumped to the floor, knees suddenly deciding they were done for now. Pacifica took a few slow, deep breaths, trying to wrap her head around what had just happened.

And then it hit her. Truly hit her, what Dipper had said. Her heart started pounding again, a very different emotion this time.

“Why me?” she asked, lifting her eyes to the heavens. “Why me?”

Chapter Text

When Dipper Pines finally rejoins the world of the waking, it is with the kind of pounding headache that typically sends people to the land of the dead. His first attempt at cracking open his eyes is an utter failure. He tucks his head back into his pillow and reconsiders the merits of living. Water. Water is nice.

Slowly, he begins to take inventory. Two feet, ten toes. Two hands, only five fingers on each, so he'd probably managed to avoid bodily harm and interdimensional travel. Good. His eyes are still gummed together though. Dipper's beginning to think Mabel is involved in whatever is happening to him.

And then it hits him, his answer from the heavens: he's hungover, very hungover, and Mabel is 100 percent involved. Most likely person to blame, too. What had even happened last night? Mabel had taken him and Jake to some club...

Dipper sits up, eyes still closed. His head spins, but his stomach holds steady. Not as bad as he thought, then. What a night it must have been, though. The times where he'd get that drunk were few and far between, and given how he's feeling now, Dipper's happy for it. He cracks open one eye. The second follows groggily moments later.

And that's when it happens. In reality, he's not sure what actually happens first, but two things happen: he hears a sleep-laden sigh, and a warm hand lands on his bare chest.

Dipper startles. Were it not for the headache threatening to split his skull in two, he likely would have made enough commotion to wake up the girl sleeping in his bed. As it is, the blonde curled up on the pillow next to him only shifts slightly. Her eyes remain closed.

Okay. Alright. Well, that's not something he remembers happening last night.

Shoulder length strands, not-quite-gold in color, obscure the girl's face, but he doesn't need to see her face to tell from her bare shoulders that there's a very good chance she's naked underneath his navy blue bedsheet.

And now that he's thinking about it, he, too, is very naked. A creature of habit, Dipper doesn't need to extrapolate much about what his lack of the usual pajama pants says about what happened. If only he had any recollection whatsoever to back it up.

Taking pains not to disturb the guest in his bed, he lowers himself back onto his pillow. Dipper doesn't want to wake her, but he also can't quite make out her face behind the curtain of mussed hair. He reaches out and softly brushes some of her hair out of the way.

It's a miracle she doesn't wake then, because Dipper yelps. He recognizes that face, or at least thinks he does, because even after nearly nine years with absolutely zero contact, he's pretty sure he'd know Pacifica Northwest just about anywhere. If his twelve-year-old self had known that the very next reunion with her would be in his bed, Dipper's pretty sure his preteen self would find a way to get him locked away.

Dipper very slowly rolls over to the side of the bed. He’s got to get out: he needs some water, and needs to talk to Mabel, and maybe a psychiatrist, and he needs all of this before the panic attack he feels wheezing up his lungs hits him. The bed creaks ever-so-slightly as he sits up and begins to raise up.

"Where do you think you're going, Pines?"

He freezes halfway through standing up. Three things hit him all at the same time:

1. That is, without a doubt, the voice of Pacifica Northwest.

2. Hearing that voice is starting to bring back a trickle of memories he'd thought were going to be forever lost to his blackout haze.

3. He has no idea how to answer her question.

Dipper sits back down and turns slowly to face her. Pacifica has propped herself up, and is staring at him expectantly. He’s struck by how she can look so different and so familiar all at once. Her blonde hair, much shorter now, frames her soft, rounded face. Despite the smear of makeup around her eyes, the way her eyebrow arches up, the way she stares at him, is just as piercing as it was years ago, just as haughty. The sheet covering her has slid off, revealing her bare chest. It seems like all of the blood in his body rushes two places at once. From the way she smirks when his face reddens, he can't help but wonder if the exposure is intentional. She's certainly not making any motion to cover herself back up.

"Because it had better be to get me breakfast," she finishes. She's still smirking, and he's still completely motionless with shock.

They stare at each other for what seems like a very, very long time.

"Really, Dipper?" Pacifica shakes her head, eyes rolling to the heavens.

"Okay, fine. Take a few minutes to let your system reboot, or whatever. I need coffee."

His mouth opens and closes a few times, but words refuse to come out. He hadn't had enough time to process what must have happened last night, and now Pacifica - Pacifica Northwest - is slipping out of his bed and yes, she is as completely naked as he thought she would be, and she's walking towards his bedroom door. Dipper knows he needs to say something, desperately, but he'd short circuited as soon as she'd spoken, the sound triggering the first flashbacks of the night before: her voice, hoarse and breathless, moaning his name in between gasps.

"You have a roommate?" she asks, hand already on the door knob.

Yeah, but I don't know if he's back yet, Dipper tries to say.

"Yeah," he manages to rasp.

"He speaks!" Pacifica exclaims, lifting her hands in mock praise, "When I said I'd make you speechless last night, I didn't mean through the next day, too, though I'm flattered."

"Oh," Dipper squeaks. He resists the urge to bury his face in his hands or, better yet, dive under the sheet and pretend he no longer exists.

She rolls her eyes again and bends over to start grabbing clothing from the floor. Dipper's, well, everything twitches in interest at the view, and if he could just stop being a complete and utter idiot, he thinks he could maybe, barely, salvage this shipwreck of a morning.

Pacifica half-hops into the black leggings she must have worn the night before, then shimmies on Dipper's abandoned shirt. The white v-neck, just shy of too large, dips down low enough to reveal the shadow of cleavage and pools gently at her hips. Dipper swallows, hard, and if Pacifica notices the reaction she says nothing before opening his door and disappearing in the direction of the kitchen.

Breathing harshly through his nose, Dipper collapses back on the bed. He turns over and groans miserably into his pillow. A thick scent hits him: a mix of sweat, his deodorant, and something floral that he instantly recognizes as her perfume. The image of Pacifica's head arched back, his lips canvassing the long expanse of her neck, washes over him. The snippet from the night before does little to alleviate the growing pressure in his groin, and he gets the feeling that when, or if, he finally remembers everything that happened last night, he'll be utterly ruined.

He forces himself to sit up again. The fact remains that, by some incredible amalgamation of alcohol, luck, and possibly even supernatural interference, the Pacifica Northwest is in his apartment, wearing his shirt, making coffee in his kitchen. And he is, so far, doing a spectacular job at doing nothing about it.

"Okay, think Dipper," he mutters to himself, "What happened last night?"

Final exams ended yesterday. Mabel had insisted on a night of celebration, dragging Dipper and his roommate out to party with her cadre of fashion design students. For as artsy and sophisticated as Mabel's friends all insisted on being, they partied like animals, and after the fifth or sixth shot, things started going hazy.

His brow furrows and he rubs at his temples, as if it might straightened out the mush of memories and pull more answers from what he lost after blacking out. There had been another room in the club, off to the side of the dance floor, that he'd stumbled into while in pursuit of a bathroom. Pacifica must have been there, in a private room with her own party. Dipper thinks he remembers telling a joke, laughter, the offer of more shots, but he wouldn't put it past his brain to be fabricating its own solutions.

"Dipper, stop being lame and come get some coffee," Pacifica calls from the kitchen.

It's useless. He doesn't remember what happened next, how Pacifica ended up in his bed. Not that he's necessarily upset about it; it's more the missing steps in whatever progression took them from distant childhood acquaintances to, well, whatever they were now, that's got him bothered.

Standing, Dipper shuffles around until he finds a pair of sweatpants on the floor. They do little to hide his current state - his body seems to lack any of his brain's hang ups about the situation - but he suspects that continuing to hide in his room is the more awkward of his two options.

"Hey, about time. Cream and sugar? Or do you take yours black?" Pacifica wrinkles her nose slightly with the last question.

It's like that slight, innocuous motion was a secret switch with a direct plug in to his circulatory system, because his heart starts pounding something fierce.

Pacifica's leaning up against the counter next to the sink, somehow looking perfectly at home amongst the flickering fluorescent light and dingy, laminate floor. She's managed to procure two clean mugs from the spartan kitchen Dipper shares with his roommate, and she sips from one as she watches him watch her. He can't help but wonder when she grew up and shed the halting pretension she'd battled with when they were younger; right now, Dipper felt like he was still twelve, nervous, and sweaty.

"You look good, in that shirt," he says, "In my shirt."

Belatedly he realizes his response was about as far from the question she'd asked as was feasible. A split second later, though, Dipper finds he doesn't mind. The flush that creeps up Pacifica's neck and into her cheeks, the way she suddenly breaks eye contact with him and mutters, "So, sugar, yeah?" is absolutely worth it.

"Yeah," he breathes, but then he clears his throat and tries again. "Yeah, sugar. Thank you. How'd you know?"

She turns away from him to stir a few spoonfuls of sugar into his mug. He sits at the kitchen table. There's a pause, long enough for Dipper to notice, and he tries hard to spend it focusing on the situation at hand and not on the way Pacifica's leggings cling up her thighs.

"You may have mentioned it last night," she says. Her voice is suddenly too light, too casual.

Dipper's head sinks, and he lets his forehead smack the wood of the table. He groans, the pain not helping the deep ache of his oncoming hangover.

Pacifica sits down across from him, presence signalled by the creak of a chair and the click of two mugs. He looks up at her through his fingers. The expression on her face is unreadable, which unfortunately means he knows exactly what she's thinking.

"Pacifica, I..." he falters. Taking a deep breath, he starts again. "Pacifica, I barely remember anything from last night. I am so sorry, I- I don't even really remember coming home-"

Her smile is small, tight, and he wishes for all the world that he could have back that cocky smirk she'd shot him in bed.

"I figured that might end up being the case," she says, "You were pretty trashed last night."

Dipper is sure this is how he dies: spending the rest of his life groaning as he tries to sink into the kitchen table. They'll find his bones, years later, still rooted to the spot in shame.

"To be fair though, so was I," she continues.

Silence reigns for the next few minutes as the two sip on their coffee, studiously avoiding letting the other see the glances they sneak. Whatever momentum he'd had when the morning started - which was purely reliant on Pacifica, he realizes - is rapidly declining, and if Dipper doesn't say, or do, something, he's going to lose the chance to keep Pacifica here. When he shifts nervously, he feels the sting of his back, scraped raw from her nails. He would not mind feeling the sensation again.

A faint beep ripples across the quiet. Dipper recognizes the low battery alert coming from his phone, and looks up to see the device, left overnight on the couch. He gets up and grabs it, dismissing the alert only to reveal what seems like one thousand unread messages, primarily from Mabel.

DipDop where u is?

Dipper, serously, wher did u go?

U R WITH PACIFICA THAT IS PACIFICA NORTHWEST

WAt r U dOING WUTH PACIFICA caN i HANG OUT IN THHE VIP ROOM

im coming over anywy u rude

...

Y DO U KEEP DISAPPEARING

if u dont come back im fucking jake

hes going 2 b my roommate instead

Get it?

dip u went home w her didnt u

DIPPER PINES YOU WENT HOME WITH PACIFICA NORTHWEST

FINE YOU LEFT ME NO CHOICE YOURE ROOMMATES MINE

be safe dipper use protection and be nice to her. love ya.

Dipper sighs and tosses his phone back on the couch. His brain is not up for dealing with Mabel, especially not given his current predicament.

"Well, thanks for the coffee I made," Pacifica says abruptly. She stands up. Picks up her mug. Sets it back down again.

"Clearly I should go. I'm going to grab my clothes and leave before this gets any more awkward."

She retreats back into his room, leaving Dipper to panic silently. By his estimate he has about 45 seconds to fix this, because if he's even vaguely close to interpreting Pacifica's attitude when she woke up this morning, she wants to leave just about as much as he wants her to go - a fact that he has, so far, done a miserable job expressing.

"Don't be an idiot," he mutters to himself, starting towards his bedroom.

Pacifica comes out then, looking disheveled in last night's dress. She threads a hand through her hair and glances at Dipper before beelining for the door.

"Uh, yeah, so bye," she says hurriedly as she passes. She's not looking at him.

"Pacifica, wait-"

Dipper reaches out and manages to take loose hold of her wrist. She stops and raises an eyebrow.

"I, uh, I meant what I said. About the shirt. You looked really good in it."

However aloof she's attempting to look is undermined by the blush that once again overtakes her cheeks. Dipper is struck by the thought that he'd like to make her blush over and over and over again.

"I know I'm gorgeous, Pines," she says, with all of the venom she can muster, "And the compliment is duly noted but-"

"But I'd like to see how amazing you look out of it," Dipper sputters out, barely keeping his words straight. "Again."

It takes all of his willpower not to look away from her. Without a doubt they must both sport matching red faces. Pacifica doesn't say anything.

"Any time in the range of now to the near future, if possible," he continues, figuring he's already dug the first six feet of his grave anyway. "If you want, I mean. If that's uh, if that's okay."

She pulls her hand out of his grasp, and his heart sinks. Of course she wouldn't want to stay, he'd had an amazing night he couldn't even remember and had totally ruined it and was the absolute worst at trying to fix the situation-

Her purse hits the floor with a soft thump. Pacifica crosses her arms over her chest, and it's likely just his imagination, but his imagination is convinced that she's moved a little closer, is leaning in towards him.

"I'm listening."

Dipper chews on his bottom lip. Last shot, make it worth it.

"I was wasted last night. Absolutely gone. But that doesn't mean that I wouldn't do what we did last night when I'm sober. Multiple times. And then some. And then make you a proper breakfast."

"And breakfast? What a charmer," she says with a huff, but she's taken a few steps closer to him. Dipper gently takes one of her hands, then the other.

"Pacifica, I don't remember much from last night, and I feel awful about that. I want you to take me back through what happened last night, because what I do remember was, ah," Dipper has to pause here, because just the thought makes him breathless, and Pacifica's proximity isn't making it much easier. He pulls her closer and shifts one hand to her waist, the other to cup her cheek.

"Was?" she asks, but she doesn't let him finish, because her lips collide with his a heartbeat later. And this, this is familiar, a sensation no amount of alcohol could ever redact, and when Pacifica's tongue swipes across his lips he parts them as if he's done it one thousand times before, because he has, or was at least well on his way to it. Each kiss brings back more. He can see her in his mind's eye: lit in sharp profile by the strobing club lights, reaching out to pull him onto the dance floor; doubled over giggling as he frantically struggles to unlock the door to his apartment.

With a gasping breath he pulls away.

"Was incredible," Dipper finishes.

"Same," Pacifica breathes, and she swoops back in for another long, deep kiss. They pull each other closer, hands roaming.

"Wait," he says, some dizzy time later, "Are you implying you don't remember everything either?"

She tries and fails to look offended, instead slipping into a small, shy smile.

"I remember like 90 percent of last night," Pacifica mumbles begrudgingly.

"Uh huh..."

"Okay like 85 percent!"

Dipper can't help it, he pulls her as close as possible and showers her in kisses - lips, eyes, nose, cheeks, ears, neck - until she's laughing, squirming against him in a way that sends a flare of heat straight through his gut.

"Hopefully it's all good, then," he says, "and you forgot all of the times I definitely made an idiot of myself."

Pacifica wraps her arms around his neck and pulls him down slightly to look him in the eye, serious.

"Oh, you were the perfect gentleman," she says, "Impressive, really, you'd think you were brought up wealthy with all of those manners."

He makes a face, unsure if he likes the way her teasing is starting to cut, but her next words stop him short.

"The perfect gentleman, Dipper, until you slammed me up against your bedroom door and proceeded to rip off every piece of clothing I came with."

Dipper is very aware of Pacifica's fingers, brushing lightly at the skin just under the waistband of his sweatpants. Her lips move up his neck, and she leans into him until her teeth find purchase on his ear lobe. She nibbles and sucks gently and his knees practically buckle under the sensation.

It takes every strain of cogent thought he still possesses to direct his hands to the hem of Pacifica's dress. Dipper takes his time pulling the garment off, indulging in the soft, hot skin under his palms. Her breathing cuts to short pants, and it's not long after that she's unfastening her bra as he tugs off her leggings. Gently, Dipper tugs Pacifica towards his bedroom, then not-so-gently pins her against the door, one hand stretching her hands over her head, the other hooking onto her underwear.

"Remind me again," he gasps into her ear, "what exactly happened after that. I seem to have trouble remembering."

Pacifica smirks.

"I think I can help you with that."

...