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Chapter 53 of human Bill Cipher not properly appreciating the fact that Mabel is his only friend on Earth:

Mabel has read a book about Bill's home dimension and is prepared to interrogate him all about where he comes from.

Bill is willing to do anything to avoid being interrogated.

(Featuring SEVEN illustrations, provided by 🌈 MABEL 💖)

####

Flatworld, from what Mabel had read, was probably literally the worst place to ever exist.

The book was a hundred pages of an old-fashioned formal-sounding super boring guy rambling on about the most egregiously evil society Mabel had ever had the horror of reading about.

Society consisted of a bunch of geometric shapes—which in concept sounded half nerdy and half adorable—but they'd made a brutally oppressive government organized by quantity of sides, with infinite-sided circles at the top and three-sided triangles at the bottom, and one-sided lines—women—oppressed into near silence. Career options, educational opportunities, who you could love, were all determined by your sides. Irregular shapes—quadrilaterals that weren't squares, triangles that weren't equilateral, anyone with a side too long or too short—were presumed from birth to be criminally insane. Each generation had sons with one more side than their father—and they had to, because having higher-ranked sons was the only way families could climb out of poverty. When babies were born with too few or irregular sides, poor families abandoned them—or worse—and rich families put them through oft-fatal bone-snapping surgeries to regularize or increase their sides. Knowledge of the third dimension was considered heretical, and anybody claiming it was real was locked in an insane asylum.

There was a lot of mathy stuff in the book about a square meeting a magical sphere and going on educational adventures to the higher and lower dimensions; but most of it passed by her in a blur. When she'd finished reading last night, Mabel had lay in bed for an hour, staring at the ceiling, trying not to think about dead baby shapes and fighting the urge to wake Bill up just so she could hug him; until she'd finally drifted off and woken up in her own bed.

At least, thank goodness, the bit about banning colors so lower shapes couldn't contour themselves to look like higher shapes was false. But she was sure that at least part of the story was true. And it had happened to somebody she knew. It was a lot to process.

So she processed it the way she usually did the stories that weighed on her: by creating a self-insert and pulling out her art supplies.

####

"You're drawing fan art of Flatworld?" Bill asked warily.

"I wouldn't call it fan art. I'd say it's more of a... thoughtful artistic critique. I don't think I'm a 'fan' of the second dimension," Mabel said. "No offense."

"Sure."

Mabel had designed a shapesona of herself: a pink heart with a rainbow-colored outline, a big sparkly eye, and skinny black stick limbs like Bill's. If, as Bill had said, colors weren't illegal, she didn't see any reason she couldn't be rainbow. The heart shape was maybe unconventional, but Bill hadn't said she couldn't be a heart yet, so she was sticking with it for now.

She'd honestly expected Bill to come over and interrogate her about her creation long before now. Usually, when she was doing art and he was unoccupied, he was hovering right by her, examining her work and dropping hints—some more subtle than others—that she should draw him next. But she hadn't immediately noticed when he'd silently drifted into the room, and she wasn't sure how long he'd been there before speaking up. He was still leaning on the wall, arms crossed, watching askance from halfway across the living room as Mabel worked with her crayons, as if she were playing with a chemistry set and he was trying to figure out if she was building a bomb.

"Is Flatworld really about your world?" Mabel asked. "Did you tell Edward Bishop Bishop all that stuff? With the circles and all the laws about shapes and stuff?"

Bill mulled over the question, staring into space. Mabel had never seen his face look so inexpressive before—at least, not since his first night as a captive, after he'd gotten all the screaming out and had looked too exhausted to feel. "We talked," he conceded. "I'm surprised you got your hands on it. I suppose Stanford brought it up."

Something in the back of her mind pricked up defensively—what was that supposed to mean, he was surprised she got her hands on it?—but she pushed it back down. "Yeah, he told me and Dipper about it when you guys got home yesterday," Mabel said. "But you brought it up to me first!"

"No I didn't. When?"

"A few weeks ago? You mentioned Edward Bishop Bishop."

"I don't remember that," Bill muttered. "I probably didn't think you'd make sense of it."

"Hey!"

"You didn't make sense of it! Ford had to tell you about it."

"Yeah, but—mean!" She shoved aside her drawing and started on another one, grumbling, "I could've made sense of it if I'd looked it up."

What was up with Bill today? He wasn't usually this much of a jerk. To her. Lately. Plus, she thought they'd really had a moment yesterday! But Bill had had a rough couple days. Maybe he was just tired and cranky.

A wiser person might just leave well enough alone. But a wiser person wasn't exploding in their brain with curiosity about just how bad Bill's life had really been. There was something itching at the back of her head, had been itching since she'd woken up—something about Bill, something important, she was sure of it—but she couldn't quite put together what it was. She just needed to talk to Bill long enough to figure it out.

"So..." She glanced up from filling in a shape yellow, "were lines really executed if they didn't make noises all the time so everyone always knew where they were and they couldn't sneak up and stab anyone?"

Bill scoffed, rolling his eyes, as if the very idea was stupid. "It wasn't that extreme. Making a peace cry is like a human saying 'coming through' when they're trying to squeeze past somebody. Lines are just taught to do it in public because it's easier not to see a line, that's all."

"If they didn't, were they executed...?"

"No. They were just rude."

That was a relief. Mabel had been worried for her fellow ladies. She was plenty noisy, but she didn't think she could remember to make constant sound any time she was around other people. She turned back to coloring her newest drawing, but watched Bill out of the corner of her eye. "Is it true that rich people killed almost all of their babies by giving them surgery to break their sides?"

The corner of Bill's mouth curled in a sneer. "Do I look like a pediatric surgeon?"

"Um." Not a welcome question. She tried to backtrack to something softer. "So, in the second dimension, the outside of your body is just your outline and your guts are everything inside the outline, right?"

He gave her a wary look. "Yeah."

"So your bow tie is basically in your stomach."

Bill sucked in a deep breath; but quickly caved in to the need to be the most correct person in the room. "More like around my esophagus, but. Sure."

"So, where did you wear it when you were back in the second dimension? Was it on your side? Did you have to wear two so people could see them from both sides—"

"I didn't need a bow tie then."

Mabel stared at him. "What do you mean, you didn't 'need' it? What do you need it for now?"

Bill ignored the question. "You know, I didn't think Flatworld was an interesting enough book to deserve this much attention! Especially not from you. You like fun stories." It felt oddly like he was criticizing her for having read it.

"Well—yeah, but it's about your home! That makes it fun!"

Bill raised his brows.

"Right? Doesn't it?"

"Kid." Bill laughed condescendingly. "Don't give me that. You read an entire book. In the summer. About math. With a downer ending where the narrator goes insane and gets locked up. That's some people's idea of a fun time, but I know it's not yours."

Maybe "fun" was the wrong word—but it was still important. She was glad she'd read it. She'd cared about it. She'd cared enough to know Bill was describing it wrong. "That's not what happened. The square got locked up because he kept telling everybody the third dimension's real."

"Like I said! He went insane!"

"But he's not insane. Everyone says he is, but he's right about the third dimension! It's everyone else who's stupid!"

"So what," Bill said. "The things he knows mean he'll never be able to see the world the way other shapes do, and no matter what he does he'll never be happy with his home. If that's not insanity, what is?"

Last year, she'd heard Bill agree when Gideon called him insane. She'd always wondered. "Is that why you're insane?"

Bill shot Mabel a furious look. That was the wrong thing to say. "Shooting Star—"

(Oh no, she thought, he's using my full name.)

"—what's with the third degree." Bill crossed the room to lean on the other side of the table. He gave her the guarded glare of a guilty suspect facing down a cop in an interrogation room—and trying to figure out whether he could kill the cop before he was stopped. "What do you think you're trying to dig up?"

"I'm not trying to 'dig up' anything," Mabel said. "I just want to learn more about you!"

"Oh yeah, I'm sure you do! Who doesn't wanna know all about me! And right after I trusted you yesterday! Do you think you're the first person to start digging into my history? 'Hey, does anyone know what made Bill Cipher so crazy'?" Bill laughed bitterly. " You're not even the first Pines to try it. Not even the second."

"That's not what I'm trying to do!" said Mabel, right before it dawned on her that that was exactly what she was trying to do.

"Right. I'm sure whatever you learn will make a nice two-page spread in Journal 5. Another secret you and Fordsy can add to your Mysteries, huh? Think he'll draw the dead babies?"

She thought back to Portland—to asking Ford what had made Bill so awful. I think if anyone’s ever had a chance of finding out what made him like he is, it might be you. Mabel shook her head. No. She didn't want to be that. "I'm not Grunkle Ford's spy, I'm your friend. I just—I just want to understand you—"

"Yeah, and the 'friends' who understand you are the most dangerous kind." Bill laughed harshly. "Your uncle and brother couldn't figure me out! And Sixer's been trying for years! So what makes you think YOU can?"

He was calling her stupid. He'd been calling her stupid all day. That was why he was so surprised she'd read the book.

"You—shut up!" She wadded up her latest drawing and flung it in Bill's face. (He snatched out of midair.) "All I did was read a book I thought was important to you, you jerk! I thought you'd like that!"

She hadn't meant for that waver to enter her voice. But she was exhausted from too little sleep and worrying about dead baby shapes and worrying about Bill's fear of death and worrying about what Ford had said about not giving Bill a second chance, and now Bill was being a jerk, and maybe he was just exhausted and upset too, but he was treating her like she was stupid—and there was that pathetic little waver.

But it made Bill pause in his onslaught; for a moment, he averted his gaze. Still, he said, "Maybe if you'd thought to ask—"

"You were asleep! I was being nice! And letting you sleep! In my bed!"

"But—"

"Just go away!" She pointed at the doorway.

Bill's face hardened again. "Fine!" He flung his hands in the air and stomped from the room. "Who wants to hang out with you when you're in such a bad mood, anyway."

Mabel glared at her stupid drawings so she didn't have to watch Bill's stupid back as he left.

Why had she bothered?

When Bill was out of sight, she dropped back onto her chair, pulled her sweater over her face, crossed her arms on the table, and buried her head in them.

####

Bill didn't think to smooth out the paper Mabel had flung at him until he was out of the room.

On one side she'd drawn Bill—properly triangular—with an expression that he thought was supposed to be fear and on the other side several angry-looking shapes, pentagons and hexagons, colored gray and black, being led by a pale figure shaped like a human skull and wielding a scythe; and between them, a bright pink heart, standing in front of Bill protectively, hands on its "hips," glaring down the would-be assailants.

The corners of Bill's mouth sagged down.

####

The bell rang and the shapes began filing out of class, muttering to each other about how they thought they'd done on the test. As the triangle cheerfully left the room, the teacher caught him by the arm again to pull him over. "Just a minute," she said. "I want a word with you."

Oh, he bet she did. Breezily, he said, "Sure thing! What is it?"

"Who was the first triangular president?"

"Wh— Th—" He spluttered indignantly. "There's been like—seven of them."

"Nine. And I'm only asking about the first one."

"How should I know!"

"You knew an hour ago."

He sputtered again. "That was— That was a multiple choice test! And it was an hour closer to when I'd studied! And I can focus better in the classroom! You can't expect me to remember anything in the hallway. You're using intimidation tactics. How could anyone focus under these conditions—"

"I don't know what you're doing," the teacher said, "or how you're doing it. Maybe I never will. But..." She sighed, and the anger seemed to leak out of her, and that only made him more nervous. "But whatever you're doing—you won't be able to do it forever. What will you do when you're out in the real world and you didn't learn anything in school?"

Her pity was worse than being hated had been. At least when he was hated, he knew she only looked down on him because she had something against him. What did he do with pity? With concerned warnings about the "real world"? He'd never heard anybody use the phrase "the real world" as anything but a threat. He hoped he was never out in the real world.

"Who cares! I'll never need any of this!" He should have shut up there. He didn't: "You're just jealous that me and my family make a million times more lying to everyone than you'll ever get trying to teach them the truth!"

His teacher gasped in shock; but before she could say anything, he was halfway down the hall with no intention of slowing down.

The next day, he stayed home, and his mom visited the principal. The day after that, he had a new teacher.

####

He was stupid. He knew that. He didn't know when he'd gotten stupid—if it was because he'd started touring so much and missing classes, or if he'd always been dumb and just didn't notice it before he registered just how often he was using his all-seeing eye to pick up answers that other kids couldn't see. It had crept up on him. But there it was. He was stupid, and he was too stupid to figure out what to do about it.

There was a big difference between being able to see everything, and actually knowing anything. And he might be all-seeing, but an idiot like him would never be all-knowing.

####

A trillion years later, he still didn't remember the name of the first triangular president. And look how far he'd gotten without it.

Lunch was toast and peanut butter. The toaster was the only source of heat he could use without having to ask his captors for access; and peanut butter and bread were the most nutritious foods he could reach without asking his captors to open a cabinet or fridge. He was sick of toast and peanut butter.

He wasn't about to ask Mabel to help him get lunch.

Well. He'd succeeded. He'd known just the right thing to say to get Mabel to lay off and drop the topic. Did he feel accomplished?

He stared out the window as he ate—there were hazy gray clouds on the horizon, beyond the trees, slowly inching closer—and he tried not to look at the picture Mabel had flung at him.

####

Mabel felt dumb about being upset that Bill thought she was dumb.

Because of course he did. Sure, he liked her art and he liked dance music and games without rules; sure, he was a willing student when it came to stuff like making friendship bracelets or artistically mixing sprinkles; sure, he was a weirdo fun guy; but he was also a Smarty McSmartypants, just like Dipper or Ford. And Mabel was the Girl Dipper who brought home C's. And even a weirdo fun Smarty wouldn't want to hang out for long with someone who couldn't keep up with nerd talk. He probably just... put up with her for as long as he could stand pretending he took her seriously, but he'd finally lost his patience...

And shown his true, jerky colors again.

Maybe Ford and Dipper were right about him; maybe he couldn't really change.

Except... there was something he'd said. And right after I trusted you yesterday. When he'd cried in front of her. When he'd told her about his fear of death.

He was being a jerk because he thought she'd betrayed him. But by reading a book?! Why couldn't he ever just explain himself? Did he think whatever was bothering him was obvious, and she was stupid for not figuring it out?

Something she almost but didn't quite remember thudded like a drum inside her brain. Dum-dum-dum. Dum-dum-dome.

From the entryway, Bill called, "Hey, star girl. I—"

He stopped in the doorway. Mabel had taped 28 pieces of paper together, drawn on a door knob, written "DOOR" at the top, and taped it across the doorway into the living room. Irritably, Bill said, "It doesn't work like that. This is obviously paper."

"Bill," Mabel grumbled. "Go away."

"No. I'm gonna say something to you."

He didn't phrase that like he was giving her a choice in the matter; but all the same, she said, "I don't wanna hear it."

"You know that horror story about a bride with a velvet ribbon tied around her neck, and her head falls off and rolls down the stairs when her husband unties it?"

She did. She and Dipper had read a book of scary stories to each other on Halloween a few years ago while waiting for it to be late enough to go trick-or-treating. In spite of herself, he'd piqued her curiosity. She reluctantly turned to look at him. "Yeah? So?"

Bill was leaning in the doorway, head tilted against the doorframe so he could see Mabel around the paper door curtain. "That's why I wear a bow tie."

Mabel blinked. "Wait—if you didn't, your head would fall off? What part of you is your head? How did it come off? Were you decapitated? Did you get decapitated for knowing about the third dimension—?"

"It doesn't keep my head on; it keeps my skin on."

Mabel's nose wrinkled. "Gross! How?"

"Remember how you said my outline is my skin and all my organs are inside the outline," Bill said. "That didn't change when we left the second dimension! We had to get exoskeletons on our top and bottom sides so solids like you can't stick you fingers in our guts. My bow tie keeps it tied in place."

"Whoa." So that was why they hadn't seen Bill's organs before. "Do you ever take it off?"

"Mostly when I'm eating!" He knocked on the doorframe. "So can I come in now?"

Of course. He'd been using information to buy his way back into her good graces. (No—that was what somebody who didn't think Bill deserved a second chance would think. He was making up for earlier by answering one of her questions about him.)

She took a deep breath, turned to face Bill, and said, "You didn't talk to me like a friend earlier."

"I—" Bill grimaced, looked at the ceiling for help, and conceded, "I mean—It's how I talk to my friends, but all right, I know you're not used to that—"

"Nobody should be used to that!" Mabel said. "What would Love Bunny say?"

"Wh—?! I— Th— You—" His voice cracked as it jumped higher, "What do I care what a cartoon rabbit thinks about—"

"What. Would. She. Say."

Bill's face screwed up in agony. He crossed his arms. "Ugh."

"Biiill?"

Eyes squeezed shut, Bill said, "She'd say my breath smells like I've been eating mean beans."

"Aaand?"

"I'm not going to say it. I won't say it."

"And you need to eat your nice rice!"

Bill let out a long, slow sigh.

"Say it!"

"This is my penance," Bill muttered toward his feet. "This is my penance. This is fair." He took a breath. "And... I need to eat my nice rice."

Mabel nodded. He'd confessed his sins.

"I think we're out of nice rice," Bill said, "but I've had the peanut butter of kindness and the toast of remorse. Good enough?"

She considered it. "Yeah. You can come in."

Bill batted aside the paper door curtain and ducked into the room.

He sat across the table from Mabel and set down the paper she'd chucked at him amongst her others. Mabel glanced at the drawing, embarrassed of it now; but Bill didn't say anything about it.

He just propped his cheek against his hand and started looking over her other art.

Mabel sat there with her hands under her legs, watching his spotlight eyes rove over the table, feeling like she was waiting for a teacher to grade a poster she'd made for class. He saw a stop sign red octagon in sunglasses that was labeled "Bill's parole officer" and snorted. She wasn't sure if it was an amused snort or a derogatory snort. His gaze stopped on her attempt to figure out how Flatworlder anatomy worked, and didn't move farther. She'd probably gotten everything wrong, hadn't she?

She couldn't stand waiting for him to pass judgment on her art. "You think they look dumb, don't you."

Bill took a moment to reply. He didn't look up from her drawings. "I don't think you're dumb, Shooting Star."

"You think I'm dumber than Dipper and Grunkle Ford."

Bill winced. "I don't." At her dubious look, Bill amended, "Only Stanford! And that barely counts, all humans are dumber than Stanford. It doesn't mean I think you're dumb-dumb"

"Could've fooled me," Mabel muttered.

"You bet! I'm good at fooling people. All I have to do is say things I don't mean that make people feel the way I want." His voice was flat and matter-of-fact. "I wanted you to feel like the conversation wasn't worth it. That's all."

She stared at him. "By letting me know you think I'm stupid?!" She chucked a crayon at his face. "You could have just told me you didn't want to talk about Flatworld!" Her voice was getting that stupid waver again. "If I'd known, I would have dropped it! I didn't want to upset you!"

"I wasn't upset, it's just a stupid thing to complain about! It's just a dumb book! It'd—it'd take a real loser to be bothered by talking about a dumb book! I'm not..." He sighed harshly. "I know you weren't trying to get on my nerves, kid. It'd mess up your sticker chart." (Mabel hadn't even realized he knew about her sticker chart.) Almost inaudibly, he added, "M'sorry."

She'd never heard him apologize before.

She let out a slow breath. "Biiill. I don't think you're a loser."

He muttered something she couldn't make out as he flipped his hood on and pulled it down over his burning face. "Forget it. Move on. It's in the past!"

"If you're so embarrassed—"

"Not embarrassed!"

She chucked another crayon at his chest. "Then why are you telling me this now?"

Bill shut his eyes; took a deep breath; and, with a look of solemn dignity, and no small amount of pain, he said, "Because. Teddy Tender says. Our friends can't help us feel better if we don't tell them why we feel bad." He almost, almost managed to say it without sounding sarcastic.

Mabel burst out laughing. Bill pulled his hood lower.

Bill didn't even like Teddy Tender—he thought he was the stick in the mud of the Color Critters—and he certainly wasn't actually trying to follow Teddy's friendship lessons. He was just... saying something he didn't mean to make Mabel feel the way he wanted. And he wanted her to feel better.

No matter what anyone else said, he could change. And he was changing.

"Apology accepted," Mabel said. "Gold star!" She peeled one off a nearby sticker sheet and held it out.

Bill eyed it, like a man so hungry he was too nauseous to eat eyeing a pizza; and then snatched it from her and stuck it in the middle of his hoodie.

Mabel said, "And... I guess I'm sorry for getting all diggy about your home world." Even if she hadn't known it was bothering him, she probably should've guessed, shouldn't she? With how crabby he'd gotten. "I just got all excited and curious and... kinda worried about you after reading that book?" She sighed. "I understand if you don't wanna talk about it. You probably hated your dimension."

"What? He lurched forward with the vehemence of his denial—"Of course I don't hate my dimension!" Mabel leaned away at the sudden rage that had flared up in his eyes; but it died just as quickly and Bill immediately reeled himself back in, sitting back, crossing his arms: "I mean, come on, kid, use your head: you read a book about a culture. We're talking about an entire dimension. Would you hold a grudge against Jupiter if an ant bit you on Earth?"

Even as casually as he played it off, Mabel was sure he hadn't meant anything as calm and measured as claiming it was technically irrational to hate an entire dimension. He meant—emphatically, with his whole heart behind it—that he didn't hate his home dimension, at all.

Then why didn't he want to talk about it? (Then why had he destroyed it? Or was not hating it just another fiction he'd made up because he'd prefer that reality? Or was the destruction itself a lie? He hadn't mentioned it once since they'd started talking about Flatworld. Or did he think she didn't know about that and didn't want her to know? Or...)

Something had been churning in her subconscious since she woke up, and now—watching Bill ball up around himself as he squirmed around the things he didn't want to say—it finally dawned on her. Two words. Another piece of the Axolotl's poem. She tried to hold the words in her head until she could write them down, repeating them over and over—Misses home. Misses home.

Quietly, she asked, "Then... don't you want to remember it?"

His face spasmed, like it was nearly cracking in two—and then smoothed out. His face was blank. He didn't answer for a moment. "The last time I told a human more than two sentences about where I'm from... he gave me the universe's most depressing geometry textbook."

Oh. Maybe Bill was following Teddy Tender's friendship advice. "That's because you were talking to a boring old-timey math teacher, duh."

He laughed wryly. "You may have a point!"

If Bill assumed anybody prying into his history was either looking for the reason something was wrong with him, or publishing a whole book about the super bad parts... No wonder he hadn't wanted to talk to her. "So you didn't dislike Flatworld? You just dislike the book?"

Bill grimaced. "Did you read Eddie's biography?"

"No?"

####

As soon as he'd buckled himself into his seat for the drive to Northwest Manor, Dipper read the summary on the back cover of Flatworld, and then the paragraph-long author biography underneath it:

Edward B. Bishop, born in 1838 in England, was an accomplished mathematician, writer, theologian, and closet occultist, as well as a professor at the esteemed University of Fancyton. He published twelve books, the last of which was Flatworld in 1884. After sentencing his square protagonist to a two-dimensional asylum for preaching of the existence of the third dimension, he himself succumbed to an ironically similar fate: three months after publication, he was committed to an asylum for insisting that two-dimensional alien invaders intended to conquer the Earth and were persecuting him for revealing their existence, a delusion he maintained until his death from sleep deprivation in 1886. His most enduring legacy is inventing the margarita glass, which he claimed came to him in a dream.

Dipper hissed between his teeth. "Ouch."

####

"Never mind, don't worry about it," Bill said. "But no. I didn't like the book."

"You poor thing! All this time you've been homesick for the second dimension, but the only things humans talk about is the bad stuff!"

"Don't call me that."

"Do you want to talk about the non-depressy stuff instead? Like..." Mabel wracked her brain for something nice she'd read in the book. She winced. "Uh... I'm sure there's something. You could choose the topic?"

Bill didn't look directly at her. He just looked over all her drawings again. "Tell me why you want to know so badly."

It was basically the same question he'd asked earlier—what's with the third degree—but his tone was different. Mabel swallowed hard and repeated, "Because... I'm your friend. It's crazy that we've been friends for like a month and I barely know a-ny-thing about who you are or how you grew up! By now, I'd usually know about a friend's family, favorite subject, favorite animal, opinion on glitter, and biggest life dream! Plus all the stuff humans have in common—like, 'do you breathe?'"

This time, Bill didn't argue with her answer. (He could have called her a liar. A month ago, she had just been trying to find out what was wrong with him. But this version of the truth she'd made up was better.) "You already know I'm pro-glitter in all contexts and my life's work is to throw an eternal party. What else really matters?"

"Those are the two most important questions," Mabel said seriously. Tentatively, she asked, "Did you have glitter in the second dimension?" He'd already reassured her that they'd had color, but it was hard to imagine glitter in such a bleak world.

"Sure."

Mabel heaved a sigh of relief. "Oh, thank goodness."

She looked around at the morning's art production, pulled over the first drawing she'd done of her shapesona, and grabbed a bottle of glue to draw a thin line around the heart.

Bill watched as Mabel carefully sprinkled several separate colors of glitter on the line of glue, like a master chef adding a precise amount of spice to a gourmet recipe, to create a glitter rainbow gradient; and then he slowly sat up and leaned toward the table again. "So, who's this freak?"

Mabel gave him an exasperated look. She decided he'd meant "freak" neutrally; but she'd clearly labeled the heart "ME IN FLATWORLD," she thought it was pretty obvious who this freak was.

But Bill cheerfully went on, "He's the most hideously disfigured shape I've ever seen."

"Hey!"

"I'm not joking, it hurts to look at this guy. At least he's symmetrical, but woof."

"She's not a guy! She's supposed to be me in Flatworld," Mabel insisted. "She's a powerful lady and I think she's beautiful." She paused. "Can a heart be a girl?" Lines looked boring, but Flatworld said that girls were all lines and all other shapes were boys. (Or were they? When they'd talked at the mall, Bill had been very clear that he considered himself a triangle instead of male or female, which scuttled the "all polygons are male" concept. Maybe Edward Bishop Bishop had made that part up?)

"She can be anything she wants," Bill said firmly. "I don't see any gender cops around here, do you?"

Good point. "And when there's no cops around, anything's legal."

Bill laughed. "Hey, I like that."

"Grunkle Stan says it!"

"Wise man." Bill leaned forward further across the table and tapped a finger on the deep cleft at the top of the heart. "Personally, I'm more worried about that agonizing-looking birth defect. I'm surprised she survived past infancy!"

Mabel glared at him, but she supposed she couldn't argue. A heart was a pretty irregular shape. And according to Flatworld, almost all irregular shapes were executed in childhood or else imprisoned in adulthood, since they thought irregular shapes would grow up to be depraved, imbecilic criminals—

"Wait," Mabel said. "Wait. Last year, when I called you an isosceles freak—"

Bill cut in, "It was 'monster,' but go on!"

"Was that, like..." Mabel's voice dropped to a whisper, "a slur on Flatworld?"

Bill fought to keep his face straight as he decided how to respond. He went for the funniest answer. "Yes."

Mabel clapped her hands over her mouth and squeaked, "Nooo!"

"It's actually pretty impressive a human managed to come up with it!"

"I'M SORRYYY, augh I didn't know!"

Over her anguished whines, Bill went on, "It's just a good thing you didn't say 'scalene'! I would've had to wash your mouth out with drain cleaner!"

Mabel had pulled the collar of her sweater over her face. From within Sweater Town, she asked, "Was that the first thing I ever said to you?"

Bill choked back a laugh. "Yeah, it was."

She squealed in embarrassment and slid under the table.

"Heck of a first impression, star girl!"

"i'm sorryyy."

Bill reached under the table to pat the top of her head. "Ahhh, it was funny. Get up here."

As she climbed back into her seat, Bill added, "I'm getting back at you now, I'm not done making fun of your medical miracle yet. You know what she'd look like as a human? A headless, neckless body with an eyeball shoved six inches down her esophagus." He paused thoughtfully. "Actually... that sounds kinda cute."

"Eww, Bill."

"It is, it's cute. Like a clumsy puppy with a neurological disorder! I guess that's how the hideous Miss Heart here must look to humans!"

Mabel looked over her art again, wondering if she should change her shapesona, considering Bill's reaction to it.

So, maybe she was creating a freak. She didn't see any shape cops around here. She kept drawing. "I'd be fine," she said. "You like weird freaks! You'd keep me safe."

A stricken look crossed his face. He was momentarily silent as he watched Mabel start another picture. And then, as though he were only considering it for the first time, he said, "Yeah. I guess I would."

His gaze drifted to the wrinkled picture of Mabel's shapesona standing protectively in front of Bill. "Freaks can't afford to tear each other down."

####

(THIS is the chapter that's been giving me hell the last few weeks. Months. Last few months. I'm so glad to finally have it out, and I hope y'all enjoyed!! This chapter probably brings up a lot more questions than it actually answers—and completely different questions based on whether or not you've read Flatland lol—so I can't wait to hear what y'all think.)

#bill cipher #human bill cipher #mabel pines #gravity falls #gravity falls fic #gravity falls fanart #fanart #my art #my writing #bill goldilocks cipher

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palindrome-alt · 9 months

Text

Digital Stars on The Wall

|| Kieran x Reader ||

Your new dorm room in Blueberry Academy is outfitted with all sorts of futuristic technology. You still haven't wrapped fully your head around the fact that you're physically stranded in the middle of the ocean in a giant submerged dome, but hey, whatever they did to make these screens, the night sky looks almost how it'd be if you were camping out in the wild on a cool night.

||Mild Spoilers for the Indigo Disk DLC!||

Everything about Blueberry Academy feels like it came out of a separate, futuristic world. The chromatic metal that never corrodes, the blue... substance, that flows through the artificial veins in the walls and keeps the place running... Out in the middle of the ocean, it's sort of like the whole megalithic building itself is somehow... alive.

Despite that, there's no electrical interference, no static hiss at the back of your ears as you rest your head against the artificial glass sky displayed on the 'window'. How the director managed to even design the illusion of depth in these screens is beyond you, but instead of square pixels, gentle pinpricks hang above you in the false distance. The fact that they aren't plastered flat to a screen is a mini engineering marvel in itself despite the slightly visible panels if you look closely. Hand shifting out from underneath deep blue sheets, you run your palm over smooth, slightly grooved glass. It feels like touching a bunch of small bathroom tiles, and though you logically know that there's really only a deep dark ocean stretched out for miles, you almost forget just how far you are from the home you've carved out in Paldea. You're still somewhat scared of the scientists of this world. Somehow, you don't remember civilization being this... technologically advanced. Cool air blows through the vents above you, tasting nothing of the slightly salty expanse of water above. With their filtration systems, this might be some of the cleanest air you've ever breathed. It's sterile, much less handmade and aged than your dorm room back in Mesagoza. But somehow, this place has started to feel so comfortable, as if it weren't ever foreign in the first place. The sound of rustling next to you shakes you out of your thoughts, and you shift back onto your back to get a closer look at Kieran, who you almost forgot was there.

He's stiff as a board, his arms folded on top of his chest, his eyes wide and staring straight at the ceiling. Aside from his shoes, he's still wearing his full school uniform, and his hair has only just started to slip from the tie he's put it up in. He popped in rather unexpectedly, and must not've thought you'd let him stay, so he didn't think to change into more comfortable clothes. Small frazzled black bunches drape onto the extra pillow you pulled from the closet, and the off-color purple no longer remains the dominant color.

You shift again, this time gaining his attention by curling against his side and nuzzling into the mattress a little more. He stiffens under the touch, but you can feel his sharp eyes flicker from the ceiling to you, a little more of an edge to him than before that he might not ever let go of.

You don't move, and he must think you're asleep with how you catch his eyelashes gently lulling, spine slowly losing its tension. He must be so sore from all the clenching he's been doing, if not from how he's been pushing himself up until recently. The events that transpired between you are probably still haunting him, even now. With a fresh set of new skin-deep scars, you know it has to be hard on him. Up until last week, it wasn't even certain if you were both still friends. He sighs beside you, head sinking into his pillow. Unclasping his hands, he slowly reaches over, testing the waters. He hesitates, looking conflicted over whatever thoughts are running through his head. Whatever he was going to do, he must've decided otherwise as his hand drops just short of you.

His eyebrows furrow, pupils dilating a little when they land on yours. "S-Sorry." He flinches away, shifting his gaze. You don't say anything, but the following silence between you isn't entirely comfortable like before. Inhaling deeply, he stiffens back up a little, pretending to look around the room though his focus is still on you. He can't seem to pay attention to anything else right now.

He's been so consumed with thoughts of you for so long that he's a little scared that he can't be normal about it. You can't know that. He tries forcing his eyes shut. He won't be getting any sleep tonight.

#x reader #pokemon #reader insert #pokemon x reader #pokemon scarlet x reader #scarlet and violet #pokemon scarlet and violet #pokémon scarvio #pokemon fanfiction #platonic #dlc #pokemon dlc #obsessive behavior #pokemon kieran #kieran x reader

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cevansbrat0007 · 6 months

Note

Hey Brit! Did Andy survive April fools this year, sans any fake spiders in his cabinets?? 💞

Warning: Fluff, April Fool's Day Shenanigans, Minors DNI

A/N: Takes Place in my Growing Pains Series. Not beta'd, all mistakes are my own. Likes, Comments, and Reblogs appreciated.

I'm so glad you asked, especially since I didn't get around to writing a fic the way I had initially planned. Here's what happened:

As you might have guessed, April Fool's is a day that is near and dear to Baby Girl's heart. However, her loving husband, Mr. Andrew Barber, also made it known that he would like to have a spider-free day.

In fact, he actually made a point of emphasizing just how much he would prefer it.

And our girl, who is ever the doting wife, heard him loud and clear. Her poor husband did not want to be subjected to arachnids of any kind. And to be honest, she was fine with that.

But no one said anything about a possessed doll.

With her plan now in motion, she stopped by Target while out running errands to purchase this doll, along with some clear wire and some heavy-duty duct tape. Baby Girl was so filled with mischievous glee that she cackled all the way to the checkout lane.

After that, all there was left to do was wait. Although she did practice just a little. She watched a couple of tutorials and did a brief test run while the kids were out with Grandma. It took her a little bit, but once she got the hang of it she could hardly contain her excitement.

On the big day, Baby Girl knew she had to play it cool. Mostly because Andy woke-up feeling automatically suspicious, on account of the fact that he now has trust issues. All because of her.

It took a while, but by around 2:00pm in the afternoon, she had successfully lulled her Big Man into a false sense of security. So much so that he actually felt safe enough to fall asleep on the couch in his own home.

A rookie mistake.

While he was napping, our Girl quietly busted out the step stool and somehow managed to rig her demon doll to the ceiling fan without waking him. Next she grabbed the corresponding remote before retreating to her designated hiding place.

And then she called Andy's name.

It took a few tries, but the moment began to stir she turned the fan on low and waited to see his reaction. And boy, he did not disappoint.

As soon as that unholy doll began to "fly" around the room, Andy let out a positively terrified scream before trying and failing - not once, but twice - to scramble over the top of the couch before landing on his ass with a resounding thunk.

By the time their kids wandered into the room to see what all the commotion was about, it was to find their Mama laughing so hard she could hardly breathe. And once she managed to stop laughing long enough to explain her little prank to their brood, they got a kick out of it too. Junior and Rory found it especially funny.

Meanwhile, Andy was so put out by the whole ordeal that he didn't speak to his wife for the better part of an hour. Of course they made up later that night. But it doesn't change the fact that that poor man has officially had a new fear unlocked in the form of creepy ass dolls.

Thanks for the ask!

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asimperingswannsong · 11 months

Text

Arte’s Intruder

Part 2

Summary/Warnings/Notes: 😮‍💨 I don’t know; Tried to make a cottagecore moment for a walking red flag because said flag is Gwen shaped; lost the plot somewhere in the thicket; brain rotting fluff; mention of hunting for food; content still not designed for minors 18+ only; I was struggling with the thought of Jane wandering the wilderness forever; fixed it??? Do I hate it? Maybe I hate it.

——————————-

Jane was lifted gently from her slumber by the patter of rain on the tin roof of the cabin and the melodic humming and singing of the cabin's only other occupant. She stood in the adjoining kitchen at the sink doing the washing up. The softness of her voice was giving Jane a tingly sensation at the base of her skull and down the back of her neck.

She smelled the stew simmering on the stove and her stomach growled but she was too comfortable to care. She lay in a hand-hewn bed beneath handmade quilts and enjoyed the warm dance of the firelight on the pine board walls.

Turning her head, she took in the coziness of the cabin more fully. Flowers, herbs, and other potted plants dotted every shelf, every windowsill, and hung from the ceiling in pots. A profusion of geodes and crystals, some polished and some natural, complimented the lush greenery. Dozens of half melted candles adorned every surface and Jane wondered if they were homemade.

She noticed a few of the windowpanes had been replaced with stained glass featuring floral designs. The girl's daypack was sitting on the floor nearby in front of one of the dining chairs. Her sketchbook lay open on the seat of the chair with beautifully detailed pencil drawings of flowers, birds, and other wildlife she'd encountered in the forest.

Jane was amazed by the Waldenesque tranquility the girl had created around herself while she and the rest of the world had been busy engaging in a guerilla style warfare for the past several years. She'd been so hell bent on clawing out an existence for herself within the confines of the new order of things she'd never actually stopped to consider if any alternatives may exist.

Now she was laying here wrapped in warmth and comfort without any immediate need to fight tooth and nail to maintain her position and she felt content. She sighed apparently a little too loudly. The girl's singing stopped, and she turned throwing the dish towel over her shoulder and walking over to the bed.

"You're awake?" Jane blinked sleepily up at her. "I was enjoying your singing." The girl smiled down at her. "Well, that's probably for the best. I've developed a habit of doing it a lot when I'm at home." "You'll hear no complaints from me." "Are you in pain?" Jane remembered her injured knee and realized the girl had propped it up on a stack of pillows beneath the quilts.

She made an attempt to wiggle it slightly and a sharp pain shot up into her hip. She winced. "Not as long as I don't move it." "You need more pain medicine, but you should eat first. Let me help you."

She climbed onto the bed on her knees and the top of her dress draped down revealing her cleavage. Jane looked away quickly as the girl helped her sit up and placed pillows behind her back. "So, you're not under eighteen anymore, are you?" she asked while studiously observing an Amythest geode on the dresser at the foot of the bed.

The girl stopped and looked at her. "I mean you have orange abilities buy you don't look like a child, and it was just children." "It was when this started. Children don't stay children forever though." Jane nodded. "Not under eighteen then." "Definitely not." "Definitely not?" "I was seventeen when it began." "Definitely not then." "And you?" "Also, not a child." The girl laughed. "Yeah, no shit." "Hey!"

"Well how old are you?" "How old do you think I am?" "I don't know like forty?" Jane made a false noise of outrage. "That's rude. Close to accurate, but still rude." She laughed again, "All I mean is, I wasn't going to confuse you for being a child...not by a long shot." Jane glared at her. "The last part wasn't fully necessary...is it just you?"

The girl gave her a suspicious look. "I'm not gathering intel, I promise. I'm just making conversation," she reached out and placed her hand over hers. The girl blushed and pulled her hand away. "It's just me now," she said standing.

With Jane propped up in the bed, she returned to the kitchen and dished a bowl of stew bringing it back to her on a tray. When she smelled it sitting in front of her she realized how hungry she actually was and started to devour it. "Mm, it's really good," she said with a mouthful.

The girl stood watching her with a slight smile on her face. "Thank you." "What kind?" "It's rabbit. I snared it." "Really good." The girl brought her a glass of water and two pain pills. "Thank you."

She dished herself a bowl and returned sitting on the edge of the bed next to her instead of at the table. "My name's Jane by the way." "Artemis. Or just Arte." "Are cotton dresses the best attire for rustic homesteading alone in a forest?" "I have bolts of fabric and patterns for my dresses. It reduces the number of high-risk trips I need to take into shopping malls or city centers for resources. With my muck boots, they serve my purposes fine. In the cold months, I add leggings and a coat."

"I suppose you have a point. It does seem to be working fine for you." "Do you want me to make you one?" "Uh, no. Thank you." Arte laughed. "I still have my dad's old things. I may be able to find you a pair of jeans. They might be a little baggy." "Baggy I can deal with. Jeans sound nice."

"So." "Hm?" "Why were you skip tracing? I can't ever imagine doing that." Jane sighed, "Well, everything went to shit, and the military took over. Suddenly all of the manufacturing and truck driving jobs I'd worked in the past were taken over too. I could sign up with the military and maybe luck out with a transport job but more than likely I'd end up on guard duty in a compound. So, I opted for...independent contracting. It let me work on my own without a military man breathing down my neck all the time. And it paid well."

"It seemed like the best option at the time." "Do you ever regret it?" "What do you mean?" "All the kids you captured. Do you not ever feel any...empathy or remorse?" "I hate to break this to you but outside of your little forest retreat there's not a lot of empathy to be found in the post apocalypse." "That's sad." "It's reality."

They finished their meal in silence. Arte gathered their dishes and washed them in the sink. She returned and sat back down on the bed. "The rain has stopped. Do you want me to draw you a bath outside? I have a wood heated tub." "That sounds nice. Yeah."

Arte took Jane by the waist, wrapping her arm around her shoulder and helping her hobble outside onto the back deck of the cabin. There was a corrugated metal livestock tub filled with steaming water behind wood and metal privacy panels.

She averted her gaze as Jane lifted her shirt up and off. As she unclasped and removed her bra, she realized how exhausted she was. Her whole body ached, and she couldn't remember feeling this tired before. She stood with all her weight on her good leg, but her bad knee was still sending shooting pain up and down her other leg. She was moving slowly and becoming frustrated. She sat on the edge of the tub unable to continue.

Arte noticed her running out of steam mid-way through undressing. "Do you need help?" she asked hesitantly. "Please? I'm so tired." Arte walked over to her, coaxing her to stand and put her hands on her shoulders for support.

Arte was trying not to stare at her milky white breasts or the soft pink nipples adorning them. She was definitely not feeling a warmth in her belly from the proximity to them and she certainly wasn't admiring the curve of her hips and she moved to try and help the woman finish undressing. That would be inappropriate.

She undid the button and the zipper of Jane's jeans and pulled them down a little off of her hips. She tried very very hard not to study the expanse of her ass or the lace panties she revealed. She urged her to sit back down on the tub and she knelt working the jeans down and off of her legs while trying not to hurt her injured knee.

She stood and helped Jane back up. Jane wrapped her arms around her neck, and they stood close to one another. It felt incredibly intimate, and Arte felt the moment lengthening before she remembered she'd meant to remove her panties. She reached out placing her palms gently on either hip.

She noticed Jane's lips part at the contact as she slowly moved her hands down rolling the lace panties down until they fell loose to the ground. Jane was now fully nude as they stood inches apart from one another.

Arte had never experienced this level of contact with a person, and she realized she found the woman attractive, very attractive. After a long moment of regarding one another, Arte seemed to snap out of the haze she was in, and she wrapped an arm around Jane's back moving her back and into the tub. She held onto her as she lowered herself into the water.

She left her to soak and to bath. When she returned, she found the woman applying shampoo to her hair. "Do you want help?" Jane turned to look at her. "That would be nice. Thanks." Arte knelt behind her and massaged the shampoo into her hair. She kneaded her scalp gently and Jane leaned into the contact with her eyes closed.

Arte used the cup she kept nearby to pour water over her hair washing it out. She ran her hands through it as she continued to rinse it to make sure she removed all of the soap. When she finished, she asked, "Do you want me to do your back?" She squeezed the sponge.

"Mm, please." Art wetted her hands and applied soap before rubbing it along Jane's back. Jane leaned forward and rested her cheek on her uninjured knee as Arte used the sponge to gently exfoliate her skin. Eventually she used the cup again to rinse the soap from her body.

"Finished?" Arte noticed the water had begun to cool. "Mmhmm." She stood to the side of the tub and held open a towel as she helped Jane up and out of the tub into it. She wrapped her up and used a second towel to pat her dry before wrapping it around her hair. She led her inside where she exchanged the towel for a robe and helped Jane back into bed.

"Feeling better?" she asked as she laid down next to her on the bed. "Much better. Thank you for helping me." The girl turned and smiled at her. Jane reached out and ran her thumb along her lower lip. "I would have died without you," she whispered. They stared at one another for a long time before Jane moved closer and kissed her gently.

Arte returned the kiss and when they parted Jane asked, "Was that okay?" Arte nodded before turning and moving in close to her. Jane rolled over on her back and Arte moved up and over her, dipping down to kiss her a second time.

Jane wrapped her up in her arms and they lay together making out in the candlelight.

#the darkest minds #lady jane #my fic #gwendoline christie #original female character #fluff #drunk writing #my drafts are a mess #pretend i didn't leave #okay?

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interiordecorationideas · 25 days

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12 Amazing Wooden Door Designs For Your Home

When you are designing the interior of your home, give some thought to the design of the doors. Doors are primarily a functional element of your home, as they provide much-needed security and privacy from the outside world. The design of doors is also important, as it can add to the aesthetic appeal and enhance your decor statement. We've rounded up the best wooden door designs to give you decor inspiration.

Front doors add character and style to the outside of your home and create the first impression of your home for visitors. They should be in keeping with the architectural elements of your building. Is it classical or contemporary? Would a natural framed door look good, or should it be painted to match the other design elements?

Are you aware of the difference between the wood used to make doors and furniture? If not, this guide will help you make the right choice between different types of wood before investing in furniture and decorative items, crafts, and handicrafts to decorate homes.

Ideas to incorporate beautiful Wooden Door Design in Your Home

1. Contemporary Teak wood Door

Here's a contemporary door in teak wood with a vertical glass insert that allows you to see who your visitors are before you even open the door. You can take, help best interior designers in Noida so they can guide you through this process.

2. Three Side Glass Panelled Wooden Door

This lovely entry door makes a grand statement and is surrounded on three sides by glass panels which add a lovely aesthetic.

3. Teak Wood Rectangular Panel doors with Mirror

Rectangular panels in polished teak wood emphasize this country home's rustic plaster façade, while tall glass panels on one side add functionality.

4. Rosewood Door

This fine rosewood door is embellished with cornice detailing and includes white panels to add visual appeal.

5. Ornamental Wrought Iron Doors

Gorgeous decorative wrought iron sets distinguish the panelling in this mahogany front door that blends in perfectly with the home's exposed brick façade.

6. Minimalist White Wooden Door

Elegant in white, this charming front door is detailed with molded panels that are simple and clean. The side window, even in white, gives a glimpse of the visitors.

7. Functional and Aesthetic Balcony Doors

Balcony doors are the transition between the inside and outside of your home. Large glass French windows can open the view and allow a seamless view of your garden. If you need privacy, use frosted or opaque glass that will still let in light.

Related blog: 15 DIY Vertical Garden Ideas in Budget

8. Glass Bathroom Doors

We love opening these all-glass bathroom doors to a private balcony. The dark wood frame is sleek and minimalist.

Related blog: 15 Bathroom Decorating Ideas on Budget for 2024

9. Wooden Doors with Glass for a Glimpse of The Outdoors

Glass adds a touch of contemporary style to any design and can make heavy doors look visually lighter. Strategically placed glass panels can allow sunlight to flow through during the day, bringing freshness and happiness to your home.

Related blog: How to Build a Gravel Patio: DIY 9 Steps

10. Get Twice the Style with Double Doors

If you have the space, open your areas with more eloquence. Double Door Twice adds elegance and makes a grand statement.

If you want to keep one side short and use only one side as an entry door, the overall width of your double door should be at least 6 feet.

Double doors look better in homes with high ceilings, as the design proportions work better in larger spaces.

Related blog: Types of False Ceiling Lights: Complete Guide

11. Sliding Doors That Are Sleek and Functional

Sliding doors allow you to create privacy when needed in open-plan homes. There are different types of sliding doors, including doors that completely disappear into the wall on either side. There are some sliding low folding doors that stack on the sides of the opening. Sliding doors come with single track (or top hung), and double track fittings.

12. Glass Panelled Doors

This glass-panelled wooden door slides in on both sides as well as is surrounded by glass above, allowing expansive views of the interior.

#Latest Wooden Door Design 2024 #Wooden Door Designs #Door Design Ideas #Modern Door Design #Best Door Design For Home

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lizzie-is-here · 2 years

Text

like the dawn

part xi- the raft

“after all these years of bearing this pain alone, all i want is for you to hold me, and maybe put me back together again” - sarah doughty

summary: a nightmare leads to an early morning flight which leads to an arrest which leads to a very angry bucky barnes and steve rogers.

wordcount: 4k

warnings: violence, medical trauma, nightmares, dream-deaths, medical racism, survivor’s guilt, angst, me accidentally writing the same concept twice and calling it a fic

a/n: ok bit of a rant but the medical racism implications really hit home bc even tho i wasn’t locked in the raft for a false assassination it did take me literal years to receive any medical diagnosis for my mental and physical illnesses because of where i lived/my race/stereotypes and such. i’m not sure how i feel ab this part but i hope you all enjoy! love you all and sorry it took so long 🥺🤍

taglist: @whelvedfeelingsstuff @sebsgirl71479 @rebloggingmyrecs @babyblublossom @local-mr-frog @thenyxsky @capsiclesdoll @moonlightreader649 @saranghaey @almosttoopizza @itsivymusic

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Just as you suspected, the nightmares arrived like always. Tonight, they came for you.

It’s more of a twisted memory than a true nightmare, but as you “wake up” in a HYDRA cell, every moment feels real. You try to fire a beam of light through the door, but it bounces back, narrowly searing past you.

“Asset,” a voice says. Whirling around, you spot a speaker in the ceiling, along with a camera. “Welcome back.”

Back? HYDRA was destroyed. How were you back?

You fire another blast at the camera, but it does nothing. The energy is draining from your body.

The door opens, revealing several agents. They wrangle you down the hallway and back into that room. The room. The chair sits at its center.

You could have sworn this whole place was destroyed when Tony and Steve fought, but your fear is overwhelming your logic.

Next thing you know, the dream does that weird thing where you see everything in third person. You watch yourself get locked into the chair and the arms lowering and coming into contact with your forehead. You watch electricity rip through your body and you hear the trigger words recited.

Bucky is led in in the middle of the brainwashing. That was normal. HYDRA would often wipe you two back-to-back.

But then Steve follows.

They’re both unlocked from their handcuffs, but with several guns aimed at them, they can’t do much. You hear yourself gasp as the Angel takes over.

“Убей их [Kill them].”

A single command is all it takes before you spring up, pushing past the fatigue to fulfill your orders. Thanks to your weakened powers, the two are able to stay on defense for a while.

After a while, though, they begin to tire. They aren’t willing to fight back and you’re unrelenting in your attacks.

Eventually, they fall, sitting before you as you stalk towards them. Imminent. Unstoppable.

In your third-person view, you’re silently begging yourself to wake up. You know what you’re about to see. You know this is a dream. That doesn’t make it easier.

You raise both hands as the light that pours from them becomes blinding. And you send two blasts straight through your best friends.

An attack of that intensity kills them instantly. There’s no survivability rate when your insides get exposed to the heat of pure light.

You can’t tear your eyes away from where their bodies lie, slumped and crumbled and still glowing. A HYDRA agent approaches you from behind and injects you with a tranquilizer designed for super soldiers.

And you wake up.

———————————————————————

There’s nothing the three of you hate more than the nightmares. They invade your safe space, send you spiraling, and tend to end with at least one of you shaking and too scared to go back to sleep.

Tonight, the first sign was your wings twitching, then shivering. It wakes Bucky up first, who really hopes that it’s just the cold room and tugs a blanket on top of you. But then your breathing quickens.

Steve wakes up when he hears your heart rate passes 180 beats per minute and continues to rise, groggily reaching over to find you and Bucky in the darkness. They don’t have to exchange words, but instead focus on pulling you away from that hell you’re stuck in.

“(Y/N), doll, you need to wake up,” Bucky whispers, running his hand over your wings. You stir a bit, but don’t wake.

Steve scoots further under your wings and wraps his arms around you, partially to offer a comforting pressure, but also to prevent you from hurting yourself or them when you wake up. You all had learned that lesson after Bucky had jumped up a bit too quickly after one nightmare and had fallen off the bed and onto his bad shoulder.

He winces as you begin to talk. This is always the worst part.

“Please, don’t make me,” you beg. “I-” You go dead silent before a sob rips through you.

“Okay, (Y/N), you’ve gotta wake up for us,” Steve says. He’s scared of how fast you’re breathing, how panicked you sound. He knows Bucky can hear it too, concern written all over his face as he takes your hand.

Your entire body tenses. It begins to relax for just a second before you jolt awake, wings thrashing out as Steve holds you a bit tighter and Bucky shushes you.

“You’re okay, do you know where you are?” he asks. You nod, teary-eyed. “Words, pasăre.” Steve raises a brow in question, mouthing the word.

“Romanian for bird,” the brunet clarifies. “Promise I’ll teach you it later.” He turns back to you, patiently waiting as you collect your thoughts.

“We’re at the compound, in Stevie’s room,” you manage.

Said man nods and tucks his head in the crook of your neck. The gesture is a bit awkward, thanks to your wings, but grounds you nonetheless. Bucky scoots in equally close, hoping to give you a bit more sleep before the sun breaks the treeline and you head off on your morning flight.

“You’re alright, you’re okay,” he reiterates. “But you need to sleep.”

When you begin to shake your head, Steve butts in as well. “Buck’s right. Tony said Ross is gearing up for something big this week, you’ll need all the rest you can get.”

“Wow, the tag-teaming isn’t fair,” you say through a watery chuckle. Your boys only continue to insist that you sleep. And when they’re both holding you, all warm and safe, you can’t really protest.

———————————————————————

A few hours later, the moment the first rays of sun hit your face, you wake with a contented yawn.

As you slip from the bed, Steve and Bucky stir.

“Go back to bed,” you whisper. “I’m just going for a fly.”

They mumble for you to stay safe before rolling over and wrapping each other up. You leave with a smile, wandering onto the roof in no particular hurry.

The peak of summer is just around the corner, and your wings soak up the heat in moments, but the fog eases the oppressive temperatures. You soar from the roof, a smile breaking onto your face as you fly above the trees.

The local birds have gotten used to you by now, and chirp at you as you pass. Dipping down to graze the lake, you can’t think of a better way to start your morning.

You return to the tree line, inspecting the perimeter for any early morning patrols. One thing catches your eye.

A group of black trucks. Bulletproof, from the looks of it. They spot you, pointing fingers and yelling.

You raise your hands instantly. They don’t look like HYDRA, but you aren’t keen on taking chances.

“Who are you?” you yell. You spot the Secretary of State himself as he steps out of a car. “Should I come down? I-“

One fires something at you. It twinges in your wing before you manage to yank it out, wincing at the tingling sensation. You inspect the object. A tranquilizer dart.

Your left wing gets heavier by the second, strength waning as you rear back in fear. You can’t let them get you. Not like this.

You speed back to the compound best you can with a failing wing. Whatever was inside that dart is strong. Too strong. It’s rushing through your body faster than you can fly.

Back at the compound, the team’s rushing outside. FRIDAY had alerted them to a perimeter trip, and a quick look at the security cams had shown them the whole thing.

“Steve, Bucky!” You’re shouting as loud as you can with the wind in your face, hoping that by some miracle, they hear you.

Through blurry eyes, you see a group outside on the lawn. The hum of vehicles storms behind you, only giving you more incentive to push through.

The sedative takes over as you’re trying to land, and all of the sudden, you’re falling, falling, falling. It’s a 20-foot drop. You’re almost fully unconscious.

Wanda flings out a net of magic, but your powers fight back and you pass through the red energy. Your boys run forward then, not exactly sure how they’re going to catch you but damn sure they’ll try.

They don’t quite catch you, but instead break your fall as you tumble onto the grass. Your eyes are glassy and unfocused as they support you, scooting away from the government-issue vehicles that speed into the clearing.

SHIELD agents rush outside to assess the threat, but Ross flashes a document before they pull their weapons.

“I have a warrant for the arrest of (Y/N) (L/N) and James Barnes,” he announces. “On charges of treason, multiple counts of 1st-degree murder, conspiracy, and evading arrest.”

“You just shot her with a dart on my property,” Tony yells back.

Ross scoffs. “She was a danger-“

“To who, the birds?” Natasha’s always been against this mustachioed man, but this is beyond what she expected, even from him.

Some government agents approach without another word, presenting similar glass cages to the ones you were put in a month or so ago. You’re too out of it to argue, but as they grab you to lead you inside, Steve steps in.

“Hey, (Y/N), can you hear me?” he asks. You lazily nod, still not comprehending your situation. “I promise, I’m gonna get you out of this. You and Buck need to keep an eye on each other until we can step in, alright?”

Before you manage a sentence, they drag you and Bucky away, sitting you down in the cage and locking it. The brunet says nothing, only gives Steve a reassuring nod that fails to hide his nervousness.

The Secretary of State gives a smug, mocking salute to the team, before hopping back in a car and leaving as quickly as he came. Prick. Sam goes to pick up the dart you dropped, but it’s snatched away by an agent.

Steve’s already up in a panic, frozen as he watches his best friends -and possibly more than that- get torn away from him again. He wants to run after you, tail the car and drop off the grid with just the three of you. But that’s not realistic.

All he can do is wait.

———————————————————————

When you finally come to, it’s with a start. You don’t get far.

Bound in a straightjacket and with a constricting collar on your neck, the conditions are far from ideal. Fighting against the binds, you find that the metal ring on your neck is suppressing your powers. Plus a drip is attached to the back of your hand.

You’re in a cell, with one glass wall and several other cells looped in a circle. You can hear what sounds like waves rumbling in all directions.

“Зима [Winter]?” you ask. Your voice is hoarse.

You hear a sigh of relief from somewhere behind you.

“О, спасибо, блять. У тебя все нормально [Oh, thank fuck. Are you okay]?” You give a weak affirmation.

“How long have I been out?” You figure someone will translate the Russian eventually, so why bother.

Bucky counts for a moment. “Maybe four, five hours? Lot longer than usual for you.” He drops his tone. “Whatever was in that dart wasn’t a normal sedative.”

A pause. You shuffle a bit in the constricting jacket.

“… Thanks. For catching me.”

“I always will.”

“I didn’t catch you.”

His fall had always been a point of guilt. You’d been right there, but when you’d slipped, you’d gone to save yourself instead. Even if you couldn’t have stopped it, it still weighed heavy on your mind.

Survivor’s guilt, Steve had called it. You didn’t have the heart to tell him you felt just as guilty for letting him crash that plane.

“You couldn’t control that,” Bucky whispers.

You sniffle. “I know.”

The door at the front of the room slides open. In walks Secretary Thaddeus Ross himself. He looks proudly down to where you’re contained, before moving to the cell behind you.

“Mr. Barnes, we’re going to start interrogations with you.” It’s not an option. Guards flock around the cell as the doors hiss to open. Bucky stumbles out, eyes widening as he’s led past you.

“Why is she- You’ve got her hooked up to a drip; what’s in that IV?” he demands. Seeing the needle only reminds him of HYDRA and the countless IVs they’d poke you with, never telling you what they contained. Ross ignores the questions, only letting the guards push him out as he continues to protest.

Then the room is quiet. Left on your own, you resort to picking apart your surroundings.

The walls are reinforced. Based on that and the waves crashing, you know you’re in the Raft. You know Wanda, Clint, Sam, and Scott almost ended up here, too. A top-secret underwater prison.

After pondering if there are fish swimming around outside the walls, your eyes land on the security camera in the corner. You glare at it, focusing just enough energy so that the lights flicker the slightest amount. At least your powers are somewhat functioning.

Your wings are cold up against the wall. Curling up a bit more on yourself, you inspect the needle in your hand. A colorless liquid slides around the tube. There are only a few drops present, and even those are scarce. Whatever it is, it’s strong.

For a moment, your mind flashes back to the golden vials that HYDRA injected you with. How they glowed and burned as they entered your bloodstream. How, despite how much you screamed and cried, the burning sensation had only grown and grown.

The needle itches. You can’t scratch it.

You tug on your arms, but uncrossing them is impossible.

Strapped down on a cot, face-down and back blistering as wings grew against all rules of biology. You couldn’t move. You could hardly breathe.

The collar on your neck feels a bit too tight. Maybe that’s just because you’re breathing so hard. It starts beeping.

The beeping and whirring of that goddamned machine as the arms whirled and settled on your face. The sound of it charging up.

Before you know it, you’re gasping for air and clawing desperately at the drip with your wrapped hand. You look crazy. You feel crazy. Like you’re living two different times at once and all the memories flooding your head while the drug floods your veins is just too much to take.

But you can’t breathe or get the drip out. And the sense of all-consuming frustration burns a deep pain in your stomach.

Letting out a weak shout, you choke and cough as you struggle to stay sitting up. You don’t know how long it’s been. Ten minutes? Two hours? You can’t stay like this. Everything reminds you of there. Of HYDRA and of how little control you had there.

Your heart and thoughts are still speeding a mile-a-minute when the door opens again and Bucky hurries back in. He finds you slumped against the wall, gazing somewhere miles away but breathing like you just ran a marathon. Tears are welling in your eyes, your skin is clammy.

“Help her!” he yells. None of the guards budge. “God fucking- either help her or let me do it!”

Ross shakes his head. “She’s fine, we’ll handle it during her interrogation.”

“You can’t interrogate her like this, she’s having a goddamn panic attack,” Bucky spits, still fighting to get in your cell. Instead, they shove him into his and pull you to your feet, bringing along the IV pole and guiding you as you wheeze and stumble along.

In a blink, you’re sat down in a dark room and a light is shone on your face. You don’t exactly react, only turn away from the intrusion with a groan. Your throat is still constricting, your lungs are still fighting for every breath.

The pain in your abdomen makes you keel over onto the metal table, fighting back tears before you break into a watery sob.

“Please, help,” you whimper. “Something’s wrong, please. Everything hurts.”

Ross drops a few manila folders on the table. “Drop the act, (L/N), it won’t get you out of this.” Shuffling through one, he begins the interrogation. “How much do remember of your time in HYDRA?”

———————————————————————

You’re stuck in that room for three hours, constantly in pain, and never really breathing right. Eventually, your body doesn’t have enough energy and the panic attack subsides, but Thaddeus never stops the questions.

He snaps every time you hesitate and picks apart your words with the attention to detail of a literature teacher. Every lilt in your voice apparently means that you’re lying, every wince in pain is a ploy.

When you’re finally let back into your cell, you simply sink to the floor in a heap. Weak, shallow breaths are Bucky’s only sign that you’re alive. You don’t move, don’t speak.

You manage to sleep after another hour of fighting to breathe, and he swears he’s gonna commit a voluntary war crime if he ever gets his hands on Ross.

The lights shut off a while after, and Bucky gives in to a restless sleep.

The next morning, you awaken to several doctors in hazmat suits opening your cell. They move quickly, refilling your drip and checking your vitals before they move on to Bucky’s cell.

Neither of you are comfortable around doctors, but there isn’t much you can do to avoid them. The pain in your stomach and harsh pressure in your lungs haven’t faded, but you make more of an effort to talk. You aren’t sure how long you’ll be stuck in here.

You recognize a schedule as the day continues. Wake up, Bucky is taken for interrogation, then you, then return. They feed you through a tube, but give him bland meals. Something about your powers being a risk if they let you out of the straightjacket to eat.

Thanks to the IV in your hand and with no contact to the outside world, time begins to blend together. You sleep horribly on the cold floor, wake up in the same spot, and take up the same routine.

Bucky still tries to get in your cell every time he spots you when he comes back from his interrogations. It’s the only time you two can look eye-to-eye, yet yours are always unfocused and slide over him as he passes. The guards had to wrestle him into his cell one day when you were passed out, barely moving as the monitor showed your heart rate rising and falling rapidly.

He hasn’t been doing much better. The interrogations are long and his rations keep getting cut. Everything about this building reminds him of HYDRA and hearing your strained gasps for air don’t help with the silent panic attacks.

It’s a week later when the doors reveal someone other than Ross or his workers.

The team steps in, alone and immediately rushing over to your cells.

“Holy shit, is she okay?” Natasha whispers, kneeling in front of the glass. “Can you hear me?”

You don’t react as she waves a hand in front of you.

Bucky leans against the glass on his cell. “You need to figure out what’s in that drip bag. She’s been having trouble breathing, she’s in pain all the time… Plus, he’s interrogating us for hours every day.”

Steve grits his teeth as Tony scans the room. This is bad. It’s bad enough that you two can’t even see each other. Your mistreatment is just a nail on the coffin.

The billionaire curses under his breath. “Maybe that brain does still work after some time in the freezer, Barnes.” Lifting a hand that projects a small screen, he sucks in a breath through his teeth. “That’s elephant tranquilizer.”

Bucky sees red.

Most of the team does, really, but knowing that they drugged you with lethal doses of opiates and told you nothing was wrong makes him even more determined to strangle Thaddeus Ross.

Steve apparently feels the same. He and Natasha storm down the hallway as the rest of the team prepares for the worst. When they return, Secretary of State in tow, they’re just relieved to see him alive.

“Your game is up, Ross,” Tony begins, flashing the screen. “I’ve got it right here on record that you’ve been pumping a war hero’s veins with Carfentanyl.”

Ross is unfazed. “She’s a terrorist. Besides, we knew she was enhanced. Normal sedatives wouldn’t be enough.”

“Oh, like the shock collar wasn’t enough already?” Wanda quips, glaring at him.

The whole group starts getting ballsy, taking digs at him as Tony starts calling his lawyers. The overlapping voices make your head ring as you struggle to stay awake. Lights dance and smear your vision as you try to place the familiar figures.

“(Y/N)? (Y/N), look at me.” A large blob moves in your peripheral. His voice is muffled through the thick glass. Or maybe that’s just your hearing going out. “We’re getting you both out of here,” he says.

After hanging up, Tony starts going up against Ross. They fire legal phrases and national laws and treatises that no one else understands, but the latter ends up hanging his head with a frustrated sigh.

“You’re overstepping, you know that, Stark? I could have you-”

“What, arrested?” Tony snorts. “No you couldn’t. Now, do we have a deal?”

They shake on it, and Ross nods to your cells. The doors slide open, and Steve and Bucky are the first to reach you and carefully remove the IV from your hand. A guard unlocks the shock collar next, and once you’re freed from the straightjacket, your boys guide you onto shaking legs.

The thin shirt and pants do nothing to stop the cold, and goosebumps begin to form as the team hurries to get as far away from the Raft as possible. Casting dirty glares at the guards and doctors that swarm the halls, everyone is more than happy to get back on Tony’s jet and never come back.

With one overly-polite goodbye to the Secretary of State, during which Natasha tells Ross that “сосать мой член” means “be of good health”, the roof opens and FRIDAY starts the course back to the compound.

Everyone splits off into smaller groups. While Rhodey, Natasha, and Tony talk at the front, Sam, Wanda, Scott, and Clint sit on the floor, whispering about the latter twos’ families.

Steve and Bucky keep an eye on you. Or, more accurately, Steve keeps an eye on both of you while you struggle to stay awake.

He passes a water bottle into your shaky hands, reassuring you that you need fluids to flush out the sedatives. When you can’t bring the bottle to your lips, he does so for you, helping you take small sips so as to not choke.

You lean into him, slowly healing now that your powers aren’t being suppressed.

“Guess I’m back to being the knight in shining armor,” he jokes. You shove him with a weak hand.

“Don’t get cocky. I’ve saved your ass several times.”

He nods. “I know, I know.”

You lean back on the bench, where Bucky’s been trying to sleep. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees the walls of HYDRA.

And when he doesn’t see the murders, the experiments, and the training, he sees you and Steve. That’s how it’s always been.

Your strength is returning the longer your powers are active, and you can feel your mind returning to normal. Laying down beside him, you gesture for Steve to join.

The three of you squeeze on one not-very-large bench, curled into each other, and simply enjoying the closeness.

Maybe it was unhealthy, to be so attached, to be willing to do anything for them. But if that was your worst sin then you were happy to march right to the gates of hell so long as they were okay.

“When we get home, you can read the letters,” you whisper. You’re ready for them to know. Or, as ready as you can be.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

Eyes drooping, you furrow deeper into the super-soldier pile, wings dangling uncomfortably off the bench but nonetheless content. You’re safe now.

And you’re going home.

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