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"...Shooting Star, are you sure about this?" Bill asked with a sigh, guided by both her and his own miniaturised cane.
"Uh-huh!" she beamed, "Okay, and you can sit... right here. I'll be in front of you!"
He wished he could say he was being rational, that his mind was making any kind of sense. But he wasn't. He had just... woken up on the wrong side of the pillow nest, opening his eye to still see nothing, feeling the dread of his "near death experience" seeping into his veins. It wasn't the first time, and it wouldn't be the last - though in Theraprism, he was familiar with being chided and patronised for not being able to cheer up.
As if a single one of them understood how it felt, like it was really so easy to find joy in the simple act of being alive. It was wrong that he survived Euclydia's destruction, it was wrong that he survived any of his experiences in the Nightmare Realm, it was wrong that he survived Stan. Not wrong in a moral sense, though part of him would still argue that too, but more... visceral. Like his body was made to have died, expecting it should be dead, and yet here he was regardless. Here with the Pines, though...
"You doing okay?" Mabel asked sweetly.
"...Not really," he answered honestly, hands trembling.
"Yeah..." she sighed, "That's okay. Like, it'd be awesome if you were feeling great, but it's okay if you don't. Grunkle Stan's right here too, okay?"
"Sure am," Stan piped up, easing his nerves a little.
"...Okay."
"Do you want me to tell you where everything is? Or do you wanna try and find it first?"
Bill mulled it over, quietly answering, "I want to try first."
"Okay! Let's start with the brush."
Carefully, Bill felt around on the floor to his left, an assortment of accessories clicking against each other as he fingered through what seemed to be a small bucket. Definitely not a brush, though he did wonder about their colours. Knowing Mabel, she probably had the whole rainbow at her disposal - he couldn't stop himself from continuing to feel through and click them together. They felt nice in his hands, and-
The shuffling of Stan in his seat startled him, and he stammered out, "S-sorry, sorry, I'm- I'm, I don't mean to, uh, to..."
"Hey, it's okay..." Mabel said, "You can play with them if you want, just try not to break them."
"R-right... right," he groaned, "What am I- what am I even saying..."
"I bet it's hard when you can't see. So I don't mind if you need to make lots and lots of noise!"
He did, for a moment, fall silent. Then, deviously, he plunged his hand into the bucket, clicking even more vigourously than before as Mabel laughed.
"Yeah, that's it! But you still can't put any in until you've brushed it, 'cause otherwise it'll be a huuuuge mess. Okay?"
"Okay," he answered, pulling his hand from the bucket. Well, if that had been on the left, then surely... He patted around gently on his right side, searching for the brush. He found the wide handle first, getting a feel for the shape, and shuddering when he ran his hand over the bristles. That was weird. Not that he hadn't felt weirder before, but... he supposed it was somehow different, now.
"Do you know how to brush hair?"
"Uh," he hesitated. "I knew everything your Grunkle Ford knew. Which amounted to jack and--" Stan cleared his throat loudly in warning, cutting him off. "Well, you- you get it. Basically nothing. Think the one time I tried, the thing just got stuck. He did not like dealing with that."
Mabel snorted, "Oh yeah, Dipper's done that too! Okay, so it's really important you go from the bottom..." she explained, "'Cause if you start brushing all the way from the top, then you're just pulling knots into other knots, right? And then that makes everything snap, and it hurts. You gotta work out the stuff at the bottom first, nice and slow. Try it!"
"I dunno..."
"It's not gonna bite you," she snickered, "And so what if you mess it up a little? I got enough hair to be, like, a Mabe-punzel!"
Hesitantly, Bill felt around for her hair, gently pulling a lock over his hand. He thumbed over it, searching for the bottom, until it fell away from his hand. With a huff, he pulled it back again, making his first brush strokes. She seemed to have no complaints about his technique, at the very least, which was... oddly comforting. He brushed until the subtle wave was silky smooth, before slowly moving up the lock. The brush was a little too big to be exactly comfortable in his hand, but the repetitive motions were soothing. Being in such a menial position was soothing.
That was why the thought of flying again really bugged him. He didn't want to give this up, didn't want to ruin it with his power. If he recovered everything, he would really be... the same as the monster that destroyed Euclydia, the monster that hurt Ford, the monster that hunted down this very family. He had seen that very worry in everyone's eyes already, and he wanted nothing more than to prove it wrong.
"Do you..." he asked, quietly, trying anything to distract his mind. "Don't you ever get tired of this?"
"Well... Kinda, sometimes. But having long hair makes me feel really good," she said, "I guess you wouldn't get it, 'cause you don't have any, but like... I dunno how to say it, like, Mom always told me it was a girl thing? I mean, that's not even really all true, but- but it makes me feel more like a girl. And that makes me feel good, even if it's kind of hard to keep up with sometimes."
"I uh..." he hummed, "I played around with human forms, back when I could. None of them really stuck, except this one. And I could never get hair feeling right, so I just... stuck with having basically none. So, yeah, you're right after all," he chuckled. "You know, gender was really weird, too."
"Really?"
"Uh-huh. Euclydians, we don't really have... how do I say this, the kinds of 'parts' humans have. We classified each other by our number of sides, our colours, things like that. Y'know, Ted over there, the green rhombus with two-eyed glasses, we basically looked for the complete package. Now if Ted decides one day not to wear glasses anymore, nope, that's ridiculous. You were kinda expected to just be one way... forever."
Mabel sighed deeply, "Ugh... That sounds awful. I mean, like... like, Mom- she, um. See, I told you the whole... thing, you know? When I was born they called me a girl 'cause that's what made the most sense, I guess. And she was always really happy with that, with me being a girl. Mom got her daughter, Dad got his son, kinda thing. But now I'm- I'm not really... becoming what a girl should be. And she kind of... wants me to stop trying. But this is me." She sniffled loudly, then, "S-sorry. I don't mean to-"
"Don't you dare say sorry," he huffed, continuing to gently work through her hair. "I've seen all kinds of systems, floating around. Never really fit into any of them, so I've had to make my compromises. Even 'Bill' is... a simplification, I guess I could say. But I like it, and since I have to choose when it comes to Earth, I like being a 'he'. If being a 'she' suits you, why should anyone care about changing that?"
She snorted softly, "I wish I knew too, 'cause then maybe I could change their minds. And I'd bring back what Mom and I had before. Not long before we left this year..." she sighed, "I overheard her saying something, a-about wanting to cut my hair short. Dad said that was ridiculous, 'cause I'm old enough to make my own choices. Old enough to know what feels right. It- it makes me feel like I'm just a doll she got tired of."
The weight of what she was trusting him with really hit him, then. For as much as she tried to giggle her way through the thought of losing any to his hands, her hair was much more to her than just shiny clumps of cells bursting from her scalp - it was a symbol of her fighting to be herself in a family that couldn't agree what to do with her, against a body that didn't make sense to anyone.
He had never, and would never, consider himself to be the parenting sort. But hearing Mabel trying to hold back her tears, feeling the true importance of the very locks he was caring for, sympathising in the sting of being outcasted, their respective families unable to cope with what they really were... it did something to him, in that moment.
And so, in a language she would never understand, he began to sing. It was shaky and weak, but it was there. No matter how uncomfortable the brush got in his hand, he kept brushing through her hair, singing one of the very songs his own mother soothed him with. It was a little for his own sake, but mostly for hers, he'd hope he could say. She deserved the softness, deserved to have a mother that saw her for who and what she was.
If Stan had been listening this whole time, well, let him. It would be a little embarrassing later, especially if Ford found out, but he could handle that if it meant bringing her a little slice of that peace. For her part, she listened, silent save for small, choked cries. The words meant nothing to her, but the sentiment, everything. As much as he wished he could strike down her mother, this came first.
This - his brushing, his singing, his attempt at comfort - came first.
The song couldn't last forever, though, and eventually his voice tapered off. He struggled to know just what to say, with her crying more openly now that she wasn't at risk of drowning out his voice. Still, he tried, fumbling through the words. "I-it's, uh... It's okay, Shooting Star, you're- you're good. Special, just... for being you. Everyone here loves you."
"...even you?" she asked, quiet.
"I-" he stammered, "I don't- I mean- I, uh, n-not to say I don't care about you, but- I don't know? F-feelings are-"
But she just chuckled softly, between wet sniffles. "I-I'm just giving you a hard time, it's okay."
"W-well," he huffed, "You- you mean a lot to your Grunkles. And they mean a lot to me. So, I guess..."
She laughed, a little brighter. "You're, um, doing good with my hair."
"...Good," he answered, a slight smiling crinkle in his eye. "I'm... glad."
He worked through the rest of her hair in relative silence, until his hands had finally had enough of the ill-fitting brush. "Sorry," he said, putting it down and shaking out his wrist. "It's... a little big."
"That's okay," she answered, "You got most of it. We're at the easy part now."
"How is it easy if I can't see what anything is?"
"Psht," she scoffed, "You think I always look?"
"...Fair point."
"Just pick out anything you like. And when we're done, Grunkle Stan will take loads of pictures, riiiight?"
He snorted, "'Course, pumpkin."
"So what are you waiting for? You gonna style this Mabel?"
With a soft chuckle of his own, and a roll of his eye despite his lacking vision, Bill happily got to work.
When Bill awoke the next morning, he found his vision had mostly returned, thankfully, even if he was a little light-sensitive. He noticed an envelope that had been tucked under his door, probably some time during his sleep, and picked it up to see what was inside.
...Of course - copies of Mabel's hair photos. In one, the back of her hair was littered with an array of colours and shapes - butterflies, bows, even a few random fruits. In the next, she proudly wore at least four different barrettes - a bunny, a strawberry, and two with polka dots. For the last, she had insisted Bill join her in the frame, dressing up his little fingers and wrists in the few accessories that would fit them. A butterfly-shaped clip clung tightly to his finger, while loose-fitting hair ties made for fake flowery bracelets. It was... silly, but not unwelcome in the slightest.
As he tucked the photos back inside their envelope - just for now, he'd find a proper place for them later - he opened the door, ready to go and figure out his breakfast. It quickly occurred to him that something looked a little different, though? Almost as if he was... Floating. He chuckled at himself, before feeling the weight creep up on him. Carefully, he landed on his feet, letting out a triumphant huff. Maybe he wasn't really that out of control... maybe all he needed was a little practise, and a little patience.
And just maybe this was something he could conquer, after all.