Chapter Text
Summer, Twenty-two
Pacifica shoved a to-go coffee container in Dipper’s hand. By the time he pulled into Greasy’s lot to pick her up, fifteen minutes passed as he watched her through the window close up, clock out, and sneak him a late-night-study-sesh coffee.
Gelid air entered alongside her, hitting the boy across the face. A soft smile grew on his lips when she handed him the cup. Opposite, tense lines pulled down her own.
“Here.”
“Thanks. Did you remember the two- "
"Two sugars melted in with one fourth half and half poured before the sugar because it blends better that way. ” Her cadence ticked up in a nasally mocking. The bangles on her arm jingled when she sat down, rattling against each other as she sorted through her bag.
He rolled his eyes and turned the car’s ignition to life. “What happened to the customers always right?”
“What happened to not being annoying when I’ve remembered your order for five years?’ He popped open the small tab on the coffee and took a sip. It was perfect.
“You know me so well." Crunching gravel, they rolled out of the parking lot. Pacifica studied the trees outside the window. Her eyes leaping between branches.
“Of course I do, I’m your wife.”
Dipper smacked his chest in an attempt to restart his heart, suddenly spitting coffee across the windshield and swearing internally how the world began to swim.
“What?”
“I want a divorce.”
“Since when are we married?”
“You guys are married!?” Pacifica screamed and whipped her head around to catch Mabel — perched elbows onto the front seats and wire-headset in hand. The car screeched to a halt
“Why didn’t you tell me someone else was in the car!?” The blonde’s eyes shifted frantically back and forth between Mabel’s cackle and Dipper’s low jaw. The other twin leaned in, waving a finger between the two of them.
“I don’t know how you didn’t notice?”
Her brother's face flooded with heat as he desperately took in deep breaths. Pacifica shifted her eyes, yet calmed her nerves to toss a curl over her soldier, pulling a folder from her bag. It revealed a marriage certificate from a year ago, signed by the two of them.
“We have to not only get a divorce, but we need an annulment.” A shocked laugh fell from Dipper’s lips.
“No.” Pacifica’s eye twitched. The boy continued.
“I mean, there’s no way we are married. We’ve never been married.”
“Yes we are and we need to correct it.”
“ Correct it? ! ” The twins asked in unison. Pacifica sighed and pulled out another envelope. This time, the blood red paper rested heavy in Dipper’s hand. He traced the jagged cut where an opener was and his heart spiraled into his stomach. Eyes wide, he scanned the lines of the enclosed letter. A soft oh escaped Mabel from beside him.
“You need to annul our ‘marriage’ because you’re betrothed?” Manicured nails snatched the paper from his grip and Dipper shook his head. The haunting feeling which washed over him disappeared just as quickly.
He shook his head clear. “Pacifica, you should have no problem getting married because, again, we’re not married.” The girl gritted her teeth and smacked the paper with her hand — bangles like bells ringing through the car.
“Yes we are!” He narrowed in on the document.
“That doesn’t even look real!”
“I’m a lawyer! Why are you arguing with me on this?”
“You’re a criminal justice undergrad watch yourself-”
“Watch myself ?”
“Where would you guys even get married?” Mabel piped up.
“Vegas.” They answered. Pacifica screeched as a series of ' no no no no no’s' fell from the boy’s mouth. His sister gasped. The blonde ripped the coffee back from him.
“Hey!”
“You are a fucking liar!” He reached for the cup — her by extension — but Pacifica turned her body fully towards the window. The cup pressed against her chest.
“So you do remember!”
“This is so embarrassing for you bro-”
“Mabel please!” Sighing, he started the car back up again. Pacifica moved from the window and set the coffee in the cup holder. He didn’t reach for it.
“Look, let's say we got married-”
“We did.”
“Why do you only bring this up now? Why wait till some binding contract finally comes back up to do something about it considering the date-” He grabbed the paper from her hand, flapping it around. “Was mailed to you four months ago!”
The Vegas trip happened a year ago, although neither of them could fully remember the finer details. Sparks of memory came solely from the blurry photos resting in a special album on his phone, but she didn’t need to know all of that. The blonde rubbed her temples and muttered to Mabel for her to sit back down.
“Look.” She reached for the coffee and took a sip. “I didn’t think it was binding at the moment either.”
Mabel moved back in as her brother started back up the car.
“Mabel I can’t see out the rearview-”
“Why wouldn’t you think a marriage certificate in Vegas would be real?”
“I don’t know, just the vibe? I was looking for a place that said they just did marriages for photo-ops. Besides, nothing in Vegas felt real.”
“Preach sweetheart.” Pacifica screamed again as a gravelly voice from the back answered. Dipper swerved, narrowly avoiding an incoming lumber truck.
“What the hell?! ”
“How many people are in this fucking car?” Tears pricked at the blonde’s eyes as she clutched the certificate. Her hands trembled. The car came to another halt on the shoulder and Mabel fell back into her seat with a grunt, landing on her uncle. Pacifica swung her head around to fully see everyone.
“Mr. Pines?” Stan rolled his head and rubbed his eyes.
“What’d I miss?”
Dipper turned off the headlights. Pacifica inhaled deeply before speaking.
“Alright.” She lingered an icy stare on the driver. “Before I continue, is there anyone else in this car?” The Pines glanced at each other — Mabel to Dipper to Stan back to Dipper to Stan and then back to Mabel. The brunette pursed her lips before gasping.
“We left Ford at the gas station!”
Winter, fourteen
Pacifica’s car found the final few bumps in the road as she pulled into the shack parking lot. Killing the engine, she opened the door and crunched the snow beneath her feet, mindful of the pan pressing into her chest.
Winter in Gravity Falls meant treacherous snow blanketing the road and pelting rain. It meant bone cutting winds at fifty miles per hour and making the trek to school in three extra layers. Although the trek back then included the helicopter, now, it’s about kicking the tires of her mustang to test their durability. I t also meant the holiday market rolled into the middle of town, adorning shop fronts with festive lights and fresh emerald wreaths. The aroma of roasted chestnuts from the front window at Greasy’s, and warm street lights illuminating the pavement. Glossy white fairy lights encircling the exterior of the Mystery Shack could be seen on the highway.
It once meant invitations to smaller scale parties hosted by Northwest affiliates, but invites dried up awhile back. Instead, Pacifica’s phone pinged one day with an all caps, enthusiastic email to one “NON-DENOMINATIONAL HOLIDAY POTLUCK EXTRAVAGANZA HOSTED BY MABEL PINES AND CO!!!!!!!!”
Here’s the thing. There was no “Next Summer.” There was an attempt at treating the wounds in the twin’s parent’s marriage with therapy, and a lengthy family vacation to Europe during “The Next Summer.” Unfortunately, a “ Winter After The Next Summer” welcomed the completion of the mausoleum of their love.
Little information outside of this was known concerning when and if the twins were coming back. Even among Mabel’s friends — who still didn’t fully grasp that Pacifica reached out to ask them questions — what they chose to share with her seemed limited. Priorities soon shifted, and graduating ascended to her only concern.
Work hard in school, go to the diner, come home and avoid looking at her parents for however long.
Then around November, her dad approached her with the idea of a smaller, separate apartment by the falls. It was to be a space similar to Pacifica’s childhood bedroom, which used to rest in the top left of the manor and look down at the waterfall. Deep in the heart of grandiose pine. She remembered pulling rose curtains back, silky fabric bunching up in her small hands, and watching the water cascade below.
Those curtains we’re long gone, likely sold, and her hands now burned from work. The apartment was a welcomed suggestion, all conditional to her continued support of the Northwest family of course.
Pacifica could make out the mist jumping from the falls to water the trees and catch when fairy sprites clung to droplets from her window. The little loft area came off a bit more kitsch than intended — teeming with nostalgia after she put up a similar curtain pattern — but it worked. With strain, she hung up cheap candy-colored lights in her living room and dragged a small tv up several flights.
It was here she wrote out potluck ideas. Wrapped up in the alpaca fleeces swiped from the mansion’s “for sale” auction years back, she pushed open the window to catch the breeze. The falls raced away in the background. Thinking about this didn’t need to be long. She could buy cookies and call it a night, or attempt to make the one dish she knew how to do —spaghetti and veal meatballs. But that was an everyday dish, too quotidian for the holidays.
Cooking casually for herself still felt foreign. Her mother would drag her out to French cooking classes near Portland years back, where Pacifica sat among rich swans who trimmed pre-cut slices of meat for boeuf bourguignon or, more often, requested assistance to sauté snails for escargot. Priscilla would cook in that dreamy sleepwalking demeanor of hers, and her daughter would wonder how someone could risk burning wine before the handsome instructor came over to help.
And it was always French cooking, because her mother was a fourth generation French-American. So far removed from the country she couldn’t remember where exactly in France her family came from, but she took pride in pronouncing the word croissant and reminding people when a colloquialism carried French origin.
She demanded that her daughter be immersed in French from birth. Studying with the best tutors, attending an immersion school, and traveling often to Paris for practice. French seeped into every part of her life.
But fluency aside, she lacked the charm kids in the tv shows and magazines had or the magnetism the women in Paris flounced. Slang zipped over her head and she felt the jokes unravel before they hit her ear. Stuck with the words but not being able to put them together, laughing at a joke likely made towards her.
Where Priscilla insisted upon Pacifica knowing her “mother tongue” in French, Preston — half Spanish thanks to his mother, a woman actually from Europe — declared that she should learn German instead, with most of his international business endeavors focused in Austria and Switzerland. Languages raged like a tempest in her head and Pacifica feared one day she’d forget to speak entirely. Her life would be lived g entirely on bits and pieces forming an abomination of a tongue.
Amidst this battle, her parents decided they needed a summer vacation spent away from Gravity Falls when she was seven, and flew in Preston’s mother from Valencia to watch her.
Elisa Northwest was a stout, five-foot-two woman who never showcased skin beyond the flesh of her face. She screeched for an exorcist to be brought in and cleanse the mansion daily — crying further when the manor staff informed her that the nearest Catholic church was twenty miles away. She never went without a cigarette for more than ten minutes, and insisted upon cooking her own meals to prevent being poisoned by glucose contamination. It’d been the first time the two had met since she was born, and Pacifica hesitated to celebrate putting a face to her name’s first owner.
Her babysitting Pacifica also entailed keeping manor staff in check, but wild fits of hysteria weekly made it tough to do so. Her granddaughter spent more time passing checks and papers between staff in her little hands than enjoying the summer.
But in the moments she caught her lucid, she wove tall tales about her childhood in Valencia where she was the most beautiful woman in town and men would beat each other bloody in public for her affection. She described moving to Madrid to model, earning a coveted spot as the announcer girl for a popular daytime talk show, and catching the eye of her future husband on one of his visits to the country.
Elisa boasted having cooked for sultans, the queen, and throwing grand parties in the manner Pacifica’s parents could never aspire too because they “don’t flaunt enough.” Even going so far as to draw out a map of where diamond chandeliers and authentic Greek ruins hid in the manor’s basement.
She swore and slid up and down her vocal range when speaking and cursed Pacifica's dad on the phone for extending their vacation into August, then September, and then finally December — all in Spanish. Her granddaughter soaked up every word.
It wasn’t proper the way she’d learn French, but it felt authentic. She and Elisa would converse and gossip, switching into English with shocking patience when Pacifica didn’t know a word.
When Christmas rolled around, Elisa sent everyone home mid manor decorating. Ropes of candle light bathed holly and evergreen in the manor’s front before reaching the massive tree that sat in the grand hall. The space became adorned with presents and tinsel, glittering silver and gold.
It was something out of a movie, but the other side of the tree remained cold. Light shone only from the kitchen to their small table where Elisa prepped Paella, a dish she made every Christmas for her son after the Northwest festivities concluded, and wiped the tears off her granddaughter's face.
Her grandmother's hands were paper thin, veiny, but confident as she cooked fresh mussels and scallops in steamed saffron and fluffy rice. When her granddaughter scarfed down the meal and begged for seconds, Elisa scribbled down the recipe on a napkin.
Elisa died when Pacifica was ten, and took much of the Spanish she learned with her. But she still held onto the recipe in a small notebook, now resting inside her nightstand It’d be a bitch to grab mussels and scallops this time of year, saffron would definitely cut into the gas budget, but Pacifica still found herself four hours later in front of the Shack, holding the pan tentatively close to her chest.
The knob creaked open to Mabel Pines dressed in a periwinkle sweater with Frosty The Snowman on it. Her hostess descended into a fit of excited screams.
“Oh my gosh oh my gosh oh my gosh no way you came—”
“There’s nothing else to do this time of year anyway.”
“And you’re in your apocalypse sweater!”
“It’s cold outside.”
“And you brought something for the potluck!” The girl jumped in place. Pacifica glanced behind her to catch the decor of the living room. It ranged from blue dreidels hanging from the ceiling to a menorah in the corner, to a Christmas tree up near the kitchen surrounded by at least five paper snowmen taped to the walls. She tilted her head.
“Merry Hanukkah?”
“Happy holidays works. Come in!” Mabel tugged her by the hand. The living room was cramped as Peanuts played on the tv and a few presents stacked up on their rickety wooden table. The usual characters sat around, attentively listening to Stan Pines recall tales of fighting krakens and searching for treasure.
(Not Stanford apparently, the hot new one who’d been missing was Stanford. The original was Stanley, which sounded flat on her tongue when she said it. How did this grifter become Stanley? )
They waved at the group before Mabel pulled her into the kitchen. Soft vintage tracks poured out of a ham radio alongside dishes partially covered by foil on the table.
“Did you bring real food or something sweet?”
“It’s savory if that’s what you mean.”
“Maybe!” Mabel made a motion for the pan. She handed it over, moving in when the other girl's knees bent slightly under the weight. Lifting the aluminum, the brunette awed at the contents.
“You made this?” Pacifica stared at the ground. Looking back up, she nodded at Mabel’s soft smile and moved her fists into the sweater sleeves.
“It was a bit of a bitch to make, but I was raised to outdo everyone at a party with my gift so…” Mabel laughed and set the pan down, pulling off the aluminum completely to pick up a piece of sausage. Biting in, her eyes narrowed.
“I don’t believe you made this.” Something in her tone, maybe it was the skepticism or her sudden clear nasal passage, Pacifica couldn’t pinpoint, but it made her laugh. A genuine joy she’d been missing the past couple days rang out of her mouth. Mabel smiled.
“I did, but it’s my grandmother’s recipe.”
“What’s your grandmother's recipe?” Dipper asked as he entered the kitchen. He still wore the fur lined cap Wendy gave him two summers ago, now complete with thicker hair underneath, a checkered flannel and dark denim jeans. Pacifica reached up to fidget with her snowflake earring while Mabel walked to get a serving spoon.
“This rice.” She scooped some on her plate and made a separate one for her brother. Dipper picked up a plastic fork and took a bite, eyes widening in a familiar manner.
“No way you made this.” The girls laughed again. Mabel’s phone buzzed with a text from Grenda, letting her know Stan might’ve found the Mermaid colony Mermando was from, and she bolted from the kitchen. Silence returned and the blonde wrapped her arms around her torso, wobbling a bit in place.
“So how’s life?” Turning to face the boy, her heartbeat pounded in her ears.
“It’s fine. I like my new apartment, and our chef who quit gave me her car, which has been great.” He raised an eyebrow.
“Chef from…the manor?” She shook her head and reached for a plastic plate.
“No, from Greasy’s.” He hummed and observed her movement. Greasy’s had been a manner of convenience back when she first got the job, but it’d evolved slowly over time. She’d catch herself leaving the apartment a bit earlier to wait for Susan to open, or offer to pick up a closing shift when someone needed.
Work would never not be work, but it harbored a warmth the apartment didn’t yet have. So when Chef — eager to leave town after meeting the man of her dreams online — offered to sell her the car, it solidified the spot in her mind the diner carved out. Dipper moved in to grab seconds.
“This is really good.” he repeated, inviting light flush onto the blonde’s face. She reached for the serving spoon at the same time as him, and the brush of his hand sent sparks throughout her body. They sputtered sorry, catching each other's eyes, before laughing.
“I appreciate it. I haven’t cooked in a while.”
“I can’t picture you cooking at all.” He laughed, soon interrupted by a wince when she smacked him.
“Ok, but tell me I'm wrong.” Opening her mouth to respond, she fell short. No, she confessed, she didn’t cook her meals regularly, but that it was a fun pastime going to those couple lessons with her mom.
“Besides, it gives her another tool in her “I’m French” arsenal.” Dipper chuckled. They finished their second serving to Bing Crosby crooning in the background, his voice crackling like a hearth in the radio signal.
“But you’re more Spanish I guess?” He gestured in the direction of the dish. “Pacifica too, the name.”
She hummed.“I think that was more my grandmother wanting to be ironic. But I guess I’d have more claim to Spain, not too much though.” Pacifica attempted to avoid his eyes, but turned in a moment of confidence to catch them. They shone light brown — near honey — and studied her face as she spoke.
“Aside from her pageant days, my mother forced what she could into my life. The only thing that stuck were the French lessons. She convinced them enough to add it to my curriculum because French had an allure.”
“What about your grandmother?” Elisa entered her life for all of seven months, and yet, she was the bit of blood that treated her as such.
“I wish I knew her before the Northwest name took over. She seemed pretty cool.” Dipper nodded, sensing her unease to go forward. They finished their plates and walked back out to the living room, ready to catch the tail end of the Stans’ adventure overseas.
Summer, fourteen
“Your eyes are turning green Pacifica.”
The tart pool droplets clinging to the girl’s skin had long faded, stealing with them relief from the sun. Patches of red started to stain her skin as Pacifica studied the heat waves emitting from the ground. She sat on a blanket with Mabel and her friends. Nearby, shabby portable fans struggled to keep their blades spinning.
Her cheek pressed into her forearm as she rested on raised knees. Popsicle syrup dripped down her fingers yet remained ignored. Untouched. She twisted the wood between her index and thumb, keeping her eyes low.
Dipper talked with Wendy and her friend on the porch.
Whatever modicum of connection the two had over the potluck fizzled out, and their primary way of communication came through Bloodcraft campaigns. On occasion, Pacifica would text on a break during her double to talk about problems in the restaurant, or Dipper would reach out for advice on speaking to his classmate.
They’d trade questions to help each other out with thinking for AP classes. It was casual. A fun rapport that didn’t desire to delve further.
She snapped out of the daze at Mabel’s voice, catching the syrup trailing down her arm and licking up a bit before speaking.
“My eyes are green dummy.” Mabel laughed.
“She means you look jealous.” Grenda piped up from the other side of the blanket, the front of her body pressed down into the towel.
“You can’t even see my face?”
“She doesn’t need to.” Candy chimed in, speaking in a dreary tone as sunny melatonin flooded their bodies. Even Pacifica, revved up now on annoyance, could only blink slowly at them.
“What?”
“Paz, you’re burning holes into that couch.” Mabel leaned in to grip the blonde’s shoulder, moving her back and forth. “Go up and talk to him.”
‘What? Ew, no.”
“Ew?” The group starred among each other and back to her. Grenda cleared her throat.
“I have a bet with Marius-”
“Excuse me!?” Grenda held up her hand.
“We have a bet, because I enjoy talking about you guys, that you’re the next one to be married.”
“Next? Who’s first?”
“Be serious.” She rolled her eyes.
Grenda in all her nouveau riche speaking and insistence about her future “House” in Austria and remarks about taking the helicopter to the grocery store when traffic was too heavy didn’t fully grasp that the rich were wed by the time they were twenty. Even if she’d fallen from one percent, there’d always be an engagement.
“My parents were married off by the time my mom turned nineteen, I wouldn’t be shocked there.”
Candy perked up. “Do you have a dowry like in Bridgerton?” Pacifica did, or maybe she still does. Who knows where that money went.
“Of course not.” She raised the popsicle to her lips and moved her eyes back to the porch. Wendy said something that sent the trio into laughter.
Jealousy was fickle. Some days it’d be white hot flashes of anger and on others slow like molasses, flowing down into parts of her body and building up with time. It cooled off in the winter and came back in full force by summer. It drove her to crack her knuckles and bite hard on her popsicle, cheek by extension, tearing off the flesh in her mouth.
Copper flooded her taste buds and she grimaced, spitting out the rest of the popsicle. It would’ve been fine to keep eating what she had. But there was blood on her teeth that she needed to wipe off and a cooler for popsicles conveniently kept near the couch.
“I’ll be right back.” She got up to hollers from the girls behind her. Grass prickled her feet as she swatted at mosquitos the closer she got to the porch. Boiling up, by the time she reached the couch she felt short of breath.
All pairs of eyes moved to her. Wendy’s softening first.
“Hey girlie, what’s up?” Pacifica’s mouth opened and closed as she tried to respond, suddenly hyper aware of how exposed her skin felt in a thin tank and denim shorts. She held her hands behind her and bounced slightly on her heels, moving side to side slowly while she thought.
“I needed a new popsicle,” pointing to the cooler. Wendy smiled, opened the ice box, and tossed her one. She caught it, just barely. Now they all stood around in silence. Bird song bounced in the trees and a wind chime played off in the distance. Heat waves still flowed up from the ground. .
“Thanks uhm-” Wendy’s eyes grew and she grabbed at her friend's arm, pulling her off the couch.
“You know what? I haven’t introduced Tambry to the girls.” The two hopped off the steps and bounded for the picnic blanket. “One of them is gonna be a baroness!” Pacifica watched them skip away and sit in her spot on the ground.
“Could Grenda be a baroness?” Dipper, swallowed up in a BABBA graphic tee and slouched into the couch, finally spoke. She picked at the plastic on the popsicle and tore it open slowly, dismayed at the surprise grape flavor.
“She should be. Since she’s a woman entering the family it's less of a problem.” He nodded in acknowledgment, and Pacifica stared out towards the blanket. The older girls didn’t look set to get up anytime soon, and she picked up the bounce again in her feet. Dipper shuffled slightly on the couch.
“You can sit if you want.” Pink bloomed on her cheeks and she did so without hesitation. But they kept one cushion between them, Pacifica pulling her knees back up to rest her chin.
The sun started to dip behind the trees, casting a scarlet hue across the green. The birds were headed home for the night and bugs took their place, crickets singing in the forest. The night was fading and she needed something.
“You know…” Dipper turned his head. The blonde kept staring forward “I was supposed to be a baroness.” She took a bite out of the top of the popsicle.
“No way?” She nodded, eyes closed.
“The night of the party, Marius and a couple guys were there to ‘check me out’ so to say,” She caught his eyes with the quotation marks, and he scrunched his mouth together.
“That’s messed up.” On the level of messed up she’s encountered, her parents marketing her to other rich families so she could marry their son seems trivial. It’s cultural, and if she gave them one thing, letting her be picky with who entertained her attraction was nice.
Pacifica shifted her legs to let one dangle off the couch. Dipper put an arm out on the side of the couch closest to her, opening up slightly.
“So what happened?” She raised an eyebrow.
“I mean, post everything.” Not much, she explained. The space between the haunting and the apocalypse scare wasn’t long enough for her parents to work on — or even care — about possible suitors.
“We were nothing for the longest time, and it’s only now they’re starting to slowly build the name back up. But who knows, maybe someone still likes the idea of a Northwest marrying their kid.” Dipper cocked his head to the side.
“You’re kinda like Daenerys. Last of her house and all that.”
Pacifica gave a short laugh. That’d be fun. A blonde, rich, powerful polyglot who’s actively working to avenge her family. Maybe if she cared.
“My parents got what they deserved.” Her popsicle moved around in the air and she minded little the syrup falling down her arm. “Sucks that it needed to affect me, but it happens.”
From where they could see, Mabel dumped out the fireworks from a box in front of her. At least five huge sticks rolled around at the girls feet, and Wendy pulled out a lighter from her pocket.
“I guess it’s time. Have you ever done illegal fireworks?” The boy stood up and shoved his hands in his pockets. He looked back at her on the couch.
There were nights when she’d wake up in a sweat as the image of his face wrapped in bark and rotting away plagued her mind. She’d grab at her own face and check for the skin there, questioning if she ever made it out alive that night.
But now, The sunset lit the back of his head and his curls tossed in the wind. She hoped this image would be the one that remained instead. Smiling, she shook her head.
“Nope.” Leaping from the couch, Pacifica joined him towards the field.
Summer, Twenty-two
Mabel passed her a cherry slurpee, still thick with condensation on its side. Pacifica thanked her and curled back in on herself. They picked up the other uncle from the station (The hot one, Stanford, with the better name) and continued their silent drive back home
Stanford held a flashlight up to the certificate, scanning it up and down, flipping it over before ending on a definitive conclusion right as they parked.
“It’s real.”
Pacifica clapped her hands, thanking the hot uncle with a wide smile before leaping out of the car. Where she was going, she couldn’t be sure, but she chugged the slurpee and caught the night breeze in her hair. Dipper followed her out.
“Paz, can we talk about this?” She turned heel to walk back towards him, once more pushing the certificate into his chest and pulling out her phone.
“I have to serve you with papers first I think, oh and then we have to go to court oh that's so exciting I can dress for the occasion finally!” Her mind felt like it was cracking with years of family woes flooding out. She wanted to do a backflip and throw herself into freezing water.
“You need to calm down-”
“I’m so calm right now actually incredible fucking calm.” She breathed in and Dipper grabbed her hands.
“Paz-”
“Because I'm Daenerys.”
“I’m not entertaining this, we need to talk about this seriously-” She swatted him away.
“And when we get this fixed, I'm finally fixing my life.” Her words lingered, curling like smoke into the night.