Chapter Text
Dipper knew as soon as Bill possessed his body he would get injured. Too bad he didn’t consider that when shaking his hand.
He never thought much about it until he awoke in his body after the sock opera. The dull pain hit him all at once—bruises littered every square inch of his body, his arm felt broken and stabbed, he was beyond exhausted from Bill chasing Mabel, and he hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep in more nights than he’d like to admit.
He recalled Bill slapping his cheeks, falling down the stairs and making no move to cushion his descent, jamming his arm in a drawer full of forks, running until he collapsed on stage…and he was sure there were more he hadn’t witnessed. The sicko thought pain was hilarious.
He limped up the steps of the Mystery Shack, ignoring Grunkle Stan’s calls asking him if he was okay. It was so wildly out of character for him, Dipper thought he was making fun of him. It was a classic Grunkle Stan thing to do. Bully him at his worst.
He threw himself on his bed as soon as he reached his room. Thankfully Mabel was downstairs salvaging her puppets, so he had some alone time.
However, Dipper didn’t expect to hear heavy footsteps stomping upstairs.
He would’ve locked the door in any similar situation, but he had zero ounces of energy left in his systems. No amount of Mabel juice could replenish his exhaustion.
Stan reached the door rather quickly for a man that old. He knocked twice.
“Hello? You in there, kid?” He called, knowing full-well his great nephew was in there.
“Yeah…” A muffled response came from behind the door.
“Can I come in?”
Dipper didn’t feel like fighting Stan, so he simply let out a hum of approval.
The door creaked open. His uncle mumbled something inaudible, sounding disappointed, and a second later Dipper felt the bed sag next to his sprawled form.
They sat in silence for a moment until Stan understood he would have to start the conversation. “I uh, noticed you were tired in the car.”
“Mm.”
“Rough night?”
“Mm-nn.”
“Oh. Sure seems like it. I mean- it’s not a bad thing, I just…” Stan trailed off. He wanted to say he was worried, but to be honest, heart-to-heart conversations weren’t his strongest suit. And everyone knew it. He tried extra hard this time though. For Dipper.
“Hey, what’s on your arm?” He asked.
Dipper paled. Here we go.
“Let me see.” Stan gently lifted his elbow. Dipper had no strength to keep it in the air or turn his cuts away, so it dangled limply for Stan to see the injuries.
“What the…how the heck did ya get these little impales, kid?” Stan questioned, turning his arm to find hundreds of them.
“Um, forks.” He received a curious look.
“And there’s so many bruises!” Stan’s gaze travelled to his legs and the bit of his torso shown, and there were gashes and too many purpley-brown splotches to count.
“Stairs…”
“And the fatigue?”
“Didn’ sleep.”
Stan went quiet for too long. It was so long Dipper briefly wondered if he broke him. But then he heard a heavy sigh.
“What am I gonna do with ya, kid?” He muttered. Then in a louder voice, “Okay. Here’s what we’re gonna do. I’m getting a med kit and ice pack for your injuries. Next you’ve got to get to fu- flipping bed, and you’re going to sleep for a full day.”
“But-“
“No buts.”
Now it was Dipper’s turn to sigh. He watched lazily as his uncle left the room, then his eyes moved to the ceiling. So much for hiding his state…and he was doing so well! He plastered a smile throughout the car ride when anyone questioned his well-being, only allowing himself to grimace when nobody saw.
Ugh, I knew I should’ve locked that door, Dipper thought.
Grunkle Stan came back relatively fast. Dipper was lying in the same position. With his limbs pointed in every which way, it was easy to have access to his cuts.
Stan was silent while treating him, save for a few groans and “I’m not even gonna ask how this happened.” Dipper didn’t reply, only letting a smirk cross his face because in the end, he sort of got away with it. He didn’t want Stan to find out about Bill, it would only cause more trouble.
“Alright, you’re all patched up,” Stan announced. He packed up the bandaid wrappers from the impales on his forearm.
“That took awhile.”
“Well you’re really beat up. By the way, don’t forget to keep that ice on those bruises.” Stan paused, seemingly in thought. “And definitely don’t tell your sister about this!”
“I won’t,” Dipper reassured, smiling at how highly he thought of his reputation.
“Get some sleep, kid.” Stan was already walking out the room.
“Wait!” Dipper yelled.
“What? The next novel of Gold Chains for Old Men is waiting.”
“Um…I wanted to say…well…”
“Spit it out already.”
“I…thank you.”
Stan looked taken aback for a second, but then his annoyance melted away to a small grin. It was barely noticeable, but nonetheless there. He cared.
“Don’t mention it, kid.”