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tswwwit · 8 months ago

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Cult Part Four, coming at ya! Here's parts One, Two, and Three for reference.

Bill’s patience is running out.

Dipper can see the way his eye narrows from across the room. His tapping fingers hit a frustrated staccato, rather than an idle bored beat.

Any moment now he’s going to act. There’s no preventing it; only enduring. Dipper hunches down in his seat.

Hopefully it won’t end up as bad as last time.

“Boring!” Bill shouts. He throws his arms in the air before slumping down dramatically on the couch. “Are you really gonna spend all your time reading?”

And there it is.

Dipper watches Bill for a deliberately long moment, then turns back to his book.

Unfortunately, for Bill, yes, that is how Dipper’s going to spend his time. After the last debacle, he knows better than to ‘go with the flow’, as Bill so annoyingly put it.

“I get that you’re quiet for respectable enough reasons, but do you gotta be a homebody while you’re at it?” Bill rolls onto his stomach, chin braced in his palm. “What about all the other entertainment around? Our little outing the other day was way more interesting.” Without looking up, Dipper gives him a thumbs down. And though Bill makes a derisive sound, he doesn’t argue.

That’s as good as admitting Dipper was right. One more day without horrifying demonic escapades in the nightmare realm, and a personal win.

What’s good for the demon… isn’t nearly as good for squishier, more mortal beings. Annoying as it is for Bill, he knows that as well as Dipper does.

Which is likely why he’s not pushing it.

Even he has to admit that the outing didn’t go great. Keeping his human captive alive must be worth a little boredom.

That ‘fun little tour of the Fearamid, to ‘show you around the place!’ was supposed to be easy. As if wandering around a physics-defying realm is a walk in the park. One filled with hundreds of overpowered monsters who think ‘mortal’ is a synonym for ‘snack’.

Even if Bill had advertised it as a trainwreck, it couldn’t possibly have gone more off the rails.

To Bill’s credit, his infinite power did keep the slavering hordes at bay. They were on their best behavior. It’s just that their ‘best’ behavior is barely human-adjacent.

The day ended with Dipper somewhat more informed, miraculously unharmed, and only shaking a little. Getting all the ash and viscera off took three rounds of laundry and two baths.

Bill, of course, laughed nearly the whole time.

So yeah. Dipper’s not going out again anytime soon. Eventually he’ll have to, if he wants to go anywhere but the apartment - but he wants to get way better at magic first.

Unfortunately for Bill, that means waiting. And he hates waiting.

Another long, bored groan from the couch. A quick glance shows Bill practically melting off it onto the floor. Torso dangling, arm draped along the carpet.

More dramatics. Typical Bill. It’s not serious and Dipper doesn’t need to placate him. He has to remember that.

Instead, he stares at the text in front of him. Concentrating on it is a lost cause, but it’s better than meeting Bill’s eye. That just makes him uncomfortable.

It’s just.

Like, he can understand if having a guest sit around the house all the time is a bit boring. Bill’s used to higher stakes. More excitement, and explosions.

But Bill’s also a hypocrite, because Dipper’s absolutely caught him with his nose stuck in a volume or six of dense magical literature. He just shoves them under the couch cushions and pretends he was doing something cooler.

There’s a billion ways Bill could entertain himself, and ninety-nine point nine repeating percent of those options don’t require some random human to be involved. He could run off into any distant realm of reality. Pull some pranks in another galaxy, bamboozle some head of state on a random planet. And if he didn’t want to go out, he could stick around and torment some demons in the Fearamid.

Nothing is making him bring Dipper along for the ride. Hell, if he’s that desperate for this specific company, he could try out some peace and quiet. Sit on the couch, whip out a book, and spend time reading. All he has to do is stop putting up a front for like, five seconds.

Dipper watches as Bill slowly oozes onto the floor, about as liquid as a presumably flesh-and-bone demon shape can be.

Yeah. No way Bill’s going for the last one. But that’s not Dipper’s fault.

Seeing him sulk is kinda reassuring. Any time Bill spends complaining is time he’s not concocting a devious ploy, or taking up his hobbies of conquest or slaughter.

Best of all, it means this has nothing to do with Dipper. Aside from being convenient to complain at.

Because Dipper is special. He’s there for a reason.

In the fullness of time, he’ll be tangled up in some complicated, demonic scheme. Designed for him by fate, and handled by a master of machinations. He’s been waiting for the other shoe to drop for a while - but apparently it’s not happening today.

Right now Bill’s just being obnoxious. Just like every other day that ends in ‘y’.

Judging by his slumped position, Bill also doesn’t look like he’s getting up anytime soon. Maybe…

‘What’s wrong?’ Dipper traces the letters with his finger. A thin glowing line left behind in its wake.

He’s still learning the hand gesture language, with a limited vocabulary, but he already knows how to write. Learning a little illusion magic has been useful, and Bill wasn’t even a jerk about it. Much.

The words hover in midair, alight with white-blue light. Dipper waits for a few seconds, then frowns.

The downside of writing to Bill is that he has to see it to respond. The big sulky demon god is too busy contemplating the pile on the carpet to pay attention.

Dipper’s frown turns into a glare.

A snap of his fingers makes a bright burst of light, sharp as a flashbang. Bill jerks up from his liquid position like he was never out of shape.

“What’s up, sapling?” Bill rolls onto his side to lounge, head propped up on one raised arm. Likely aiming for suave, but with his legs still on the couch it just looks stupid. “Are you as bored as I am?”

“No,” Dipper writes, then again, “What’s wrong?”

“Pfft, nothing! Don't be ridiculous.” Bill says, letting his legs slide down to join him on the floor. “I got everything under control here.”

That’s ominous. Dipper didn’t even imply that something might be out of control.

“What-” Dipper continues. Then hesitates. “You seem antsy.”

Bill snorts. Though Dipper knows he doesn’t have any trouble reading backwards script, he doesn’t offer a reply.

Not helpful. Classic Bill. And he’s avoiding the question. Dipper slumps in his seat.

Trying to make Bill admit there’s a problem won’t work. He could spend a million years on that quest and still get evaded.

With that in mind, Dipper taps his foot on the floor a few times. Redirection, then. He tries, “Who messed up?”

“Ha!” Bill claps once, grin resuming its rightful place. “Astutely observed, sapling. You wouldn’t believe the amount of incompetence I gotta deal with on the daily.”

Dipper nods in sympathy, rolling his eyes when Bill’s not looking. Then he sits back, an audience for the oncoming speech.

“You’d think that one simple request wouldn’t be tough to pull off.” Rising to his feet, Bill tucks his arms behind his back and starts pacing. “But no! Apparently the losers for hire these days take over two weeks to manage one tiny,” He pinches his fingers together. “Itsy bitsy little request! Even with encouragement!”

Dipper raises an eyebrow.

The type of ‘encouragement’ Bill typically offers would light a fire under anyone’s ass. The fact that it hasn’t says a lot.

For a short while, Bill simply paces back and forth. He looks like he’s about to say something, glancing at Dipper - then he turns away, eye narrowed. “I hate waiting.”

Yeah, no kidding. All evidence points to Dipper getting the most patient version of this creature, when others barely get seconds to respond. He punched him in the face and he’s still around to tell the tale.

Other beings aren’t so lucky. Even for minor infractions, or just ‘looking funny’ at him.

Dipper should know. He scraped plenty of their viscera off the other day.

Writing something to placate Bill would get him huffy. Asking a question… Dipper has a sense that he’d deflect. If Bill wanted to go into greater detail, nothing would stop him from spilling the beans.

So instead of any of that, Dipper smiles.

Like always, Bill responds with one of his own. Everything about him brightens, like flipping a switch.

“Eh, whatever. It’s no big deal!” Sauntering over, Bill leans against the back of the chair. His arm dangles down to brush the back of Dipper’s head. “Word is they’re finally done with the job. Should be here any day now!”

Bill’s playing a bit with Dipper’s hair, but he doesn’t come any closer. Not because he doesn’t want to, but because the high back of the chair prevents him.

Tough luck for Bill. This seat is comfy and all, but Dipper really picked it because it made it hard for him to loom.

Disobeying his god’s will is, of course, blasphemous, insolent, and absolutely forbidden.

But Bill doesn’t care. And frankly - Dipper doesn’t care much anymore, either.

Making Bill work for what he wants feels right. Appropriate.

Every time Bill runs right into a roadblock, watching him grumble and scheme his way around it is honestly kinda fun. Giving Bill something to work around seems to entertain him, and for Dipper - it almost feels righteous to thwart him. He’s kind of getting the hang of it. aside from the occasional burst of guilt.

Overall, Dipper’s really, really glad he read all those books.

The mini-library in the guest room has been an amazing resource. Not only for magic, but for the Fearamid, and monsters. It’s helped him brush up on his Latin and learn a bunch of spells.

He also learned that Bill probably didn’t stock these for him. No, these were there well before Dipper ever showed up.

Though Bill tries to hide it, he likes books. The guest room ones wouldn’t be of much interest; the magical material’s too basic for him to care. Of course Bill would have flipped through them anyway, but if anything truly bothered him, he’d have pruned the collection, merely for his pride.

But Bill either didn’t notice - or didn’t care - about the anecdotes.

Sprinkled in those studious texts are dozens of tiny notes. Between every monster examination, or explanation of a complicated magical theory, there are mentions of Bill himself. A sentence scribbled in the margins, or a short paragraph explaining how Bill ‘thought it was stupid’ or ‘helped with this part’. All written with a steady, studious hand.

There’s nothing about Bill’s powers, or his domains. No sense of any weaknesses or strengths. Some anecdotes are a little funny, some a little strange, but for any academic or enemy purposes they’d barely be worth reading.

To Dipper, they’ve been absolutely invaluable.

They speak volumes about Bill’s personality.

That’s totally critical information if you have to deal with the demon himself. Reading between the lines revealed traits Dipper never learned in sermons.

How Bill loves a good joke. How he’s temperamental, but easygoing as long as he thinks he’s in charge. The kinds of things one can get away with, if they’re clever. All of it written with absolute confidence, oozing a type of exasperated affection that leaps off the page.

Someone lived in that room before. A human. A guy who knew Bill, who did tons of fascinating stuff - and that guy got away with way more defiance than is rational or reasonable.

Though that must have been centuries ago. The books are really old.

There’s a low hum behind him. Dipper can feel the chair rock a bit, as Bill either tests its balance - or whether he can rip the back off, in service of more efficient human-bothering.

Another one of Bill’s personality traits. One Dipper could have guessed by himself.

He loves being the center of attention.

“Hmmm,” Bill hums again, stalking around Dipper with a contemplative look. Circling much like sharks are said to, though thankfully without the testing bites. Treating this more like a puzzle than an act of defiance.

Looks like the chair is giving him some trouble. Even though he offered to create the seat since Dipper wouldn’t join him on the couch. If anything he’s at fault for making it an option.

With a huff, Dipper shifts until his back is pressed against the cushion. Bill pauses in his circling to inspect the new position, tilting his head.

Once Dipper saw a video of a tiger in its cage, rolling a pumpkin filled with raw meat. It seemed like it was having a lot of fun, batting it around and biting into the flesh.

Bill might not mind some defiance, if it serves a similar purpose.

Before Dipper can wonder what amount of it fits the - well, bill - he’s interrupted by a foot stomping on the seat.

Dipper claps the book shut. Leaning away, he stares at the leg beside him.

Bill’s taken his shoe off and stepped right onto his chair. His three-eyed monkey-patterned sock, toes wiggling, trying to nudge itself under Dipper’s thigh.

What the hell is this supposed to accomplish? Dipper glares upwards at a bright, bold grin.

“What’s the big deal? It’s my chair, technically speaking!” Bill winks with his single eye, tenuously balanced as he barges into Dipper’s personal space. His foot finds a weak place and slips between Dipper’s thigh and the cushion. “Scoot your cute butt and make some space.”

It’s a big deal because it’s rude, for one. And second, Dipper’s not scooting anywhere.

Drawing his legs up in an attempt to kick Bill’s out fails spectacularly. A whole calf gets wedged underneath him. Bill’s straddling the arm of the chair, his idiot bulky leg nearly shoving Dipper out of it.

Shoving him back just makes him laugh. And work harder.

It’s a tense ten, maybe twenty seconds of squirming struggle. No matter how Dipper tries to use balance or leverage, he ends up with more inches of Bill underneath him.

This is ridiculous. Bill has an entire couch to himself. He can make furniture appear and disappear out of nowhere. If he wants a damn chair, he could just create one.

But. That’s not the point, is it?

He wants Dipper’s seat because he’s not allowed to have it. The desirability is directly tied to the difficulty of obtaining it, with a side of annoying a human to boot. Dipper could be lying on a bed of nails and Bill would still tip him out, just to get his kicks.

He’s not even sitting in the chair at this point, merely hovering while using the arm for balance. Trying to plop back down would land him more on Bill than on cushion.

Screw it. Dipper cedes his position with as much dignity as possible. Standing up tugging the rolled-up flannel sleeves down his arms.

The newest conquest of Bill Cipher: One seat in the living room. Dipper hopes he’s real happy about it.

Funny thing though. In the process, he left his own throne unguarded.

Dipper stalks towards the couch - he doesn’t like the material it’s made of, but it’s either make a point or start huffing off to his own room -

Only to be hauled right back in.

The grip on his hips is firm and fast enough that Dipper doesn’t have time to resist. Butt hits thigh, then gets tugged further back until he’s fully, unquestionably, in Bill’s lap.

He just got out of the chair. Bill had won. What the hell.

Dipper gives him an incredulous look, and Bill responds with a big, self-satisfied smile.

“Well, well, well,” Bill says, dripping smugness so thick that Dipper could wipe it off in globs. “Look what we have here.”

The only reply he’s getting for that is a grunt. While this isn’t the first dumb stunt Bill’s pulled, Dipper knows better than to react. It only eggs him on.

Of all the people Dipper’s met, Bill Cipher is by far the most touchy. The closest runnerup is a few lightyears away.

Even now, his arms loop loosely around Dipper’s waist, patting him on the side. He’s warm and close, in an alive way, not like a warm bed or a shower, or even a seat that was sat in before.

It’s… not unpleasant. Not exactly. Dipper shifts around, trying to settle into his new ‘seat’ on Bill’s thighs. It’s just -

Damn it, he doesn’t know what it is. Touching someone else isn’t bad, Dipper has to admit that - but it makes him too aware of himself. Feeling every way he positions his arms, or moves his weight. Like remembering he can breathe manually, with an extra uneasy sense that someone might catch him in the act.

Bill’s unbothered. But basically nothing bothers him. He’s chummy and touchy and weird, the concept of ‘guilt’ might not even fit in his head.

Something about Bill just... Makes Dipper think too much. Makes him weirdly restless. Like he’s doing something wrong - but also like he’s totally going to get away with it. A tense energy that builds slowly over time, until he either has to escape, or like. Explode or something.

It’s probably Bill’s magic. He should rein that in better. It’s far too strong to dunk an entire human in all the time.

“Ah, ease up already.” Bill says, clapping Dipper’s thigh with a startling motion, squeezing him just above the knee. “You still got a seat, only it’s better.” His voice grows quieter, close to Dipper’s ear. “Don’tcha like it?”

His breath is warm. It tickles. Dipper barely avoids slapping him in the rush to cover his neck.

Which doesn’t bother Bill. In fact, he laughs. Dipper has a sneaking suspicion that even if he had smacked him, he’d be outright cackling, because again, total weirdo.

Across the room, there’s a wordless, agonized scream.

Dipper nearly leaps upright, kept in place only by an instantly tightened grip. Bill snaps towards the sound, looking surprised.

Ah, right. The doorbell.

That goddamn sound. Even when Dipper knows what it is, the temptation to run for cover is as strong as the first time.

“Oh for - “ Bill draws a hand down his face. “Had to be right now, didn’t it.” His leg jogs in place as Dipper tries to get up. “Hey, hey, hold up! Where do you think you’re going?”

Off his lap, duh. With someone at the door, Bill has to get up anyway. Not that he’s making it easy.

Dipper takes the initiative to pry himself away - or attempts to, until Bill clamps back down without even looking at him.

This is getting ridiculous. He can’t hang on to one human forever.

When the doorbell screams again, Bill looks downright sour.

“Ughhh.” Bill groans, standing without warning. It nearly topples Dipper over. “Yeah, yeah, hang on, will ya?”

Giving Dipper a brief pat on the small of his back, Bill stomps over to the door. Another scream rings through the penthouse, then again, the sounds overlapping.

Freedom. Finally. Out of sheer pettiness, Dipper drops down to reclaim his rightful seat.

Still, he’s curious.

From this position he can’t quite see the doorway. Only the sight of Bill’s back, storming towards it.

There haven’t been many visitors. When Bill wants demon interaction, he heads outside the apartment. The only other time someone rang the doorbell, they brought some big weird box Bill grabbed before kicking the delivery guy to the curb.

Yet another interesting fact, filed away in his personal Bill folder. That he gets deliveries. He doesn’t make everything out of nothing. Maybe he can’t.

Which means even in his own personal realm, Bill Cipher isn’t totally omnipotent. Another knock to his all-powerful status. Not a big one. Bill’s still so close to a god that it might as well not make a difference.

But it does. To Dipper, it does. Knowing that not everything bends to Bill’s will feels…

He’s just glad he’s not alone in that, he guesses.

Off in the distance, Bill opens the door. His frown flips right into a smirk - then he steps outside, and shuts it.

Probably another package. He looked extra smug about the last one, like he’d been waiting for it for a while. This follows the last one.

Dipper leans over, staying seated. With the door closed he can’t see anything, and if they’re having a conversation, he can’t hear it.

Secrets. Smugness. The mentions of ‘errands’ earlier, and the waiting -

Bill’s up to something.

The Grand Plans of Bill Cipher are invisible to those outside his circle. His divine machinations are how he leads his followers and manipulates the masses. All eventually leading together into the Grand Goal: the subjugation of Earth, illuminated eternally under his golden image.

Though if conquering a world involves internet delivery, it’s a lot less dramatic than it was made out to be.

Dipper lets his head thump back against the seat cushion.

Not that, then. Something else.

Pretending Bill isn’t up to something would be dumb at best, and Dipper’s not the type to ignore evidence right in front of him. Getting strange deliveries. Rubbing his hands together and cackling to himself, the fact that he’s Bill Cipher - all of it points towards a plan. A poorly hidden, minor one, but still.

None of the scriptures he learned are accurate, according to the god himself - and Bill’s kept mum about any new escapades. Without clues to go on, all Dipper can do is speculate.

Eventually, Bill will show his hand. An offhand comment, or an extra-bizarre set of actions. Until then, he’ll have to keep an eye out for Bill acting weird.

Well. Weirder.

And hope, rather nervously, that he’s not too deeply involved.

Dipper sets the book aside, folding his hands in his lap. He looks back at the door, then over the living room.

The fireplace in front of him crackles with warmth, typical fire-colored flames lapping up into the nonexistent chimney. The flannel shirt he’s wearing is almost too warm, but he keeps it tucked around him anyway. Under his weight, the chair’s cushions sink around him, sturdy yet soft. Rich and opulent and comfortable.

Despite how strange it is here. How confusing, weird, and occasionally frustrating…

Living with Bill doesn’t suck.

The other shoe is going to fall at some point. That unpreventable, oncoming disaster. Dipper’s always worried about it, he never won’t be.

But right here, and right now, he’s…

Not safe. Never safe, not around a god and demon. But maybe close enough to feel that way, sometimes.

Despite the fact that it’s impossible - if things could stay like this, then -

His thoughts are interrupted by a sudden loud slam. Which is. The door. Right.

Dipper pries his nails out of the arms of the chair. He shuts his eyes, and lets out a slow, careful breath. He needs to stop flinching, damn it.

He hears Bill’s cackling laughter rings through the room, loud and bright. Dipper rolls his eyes, leaning back in his seat.

Alright. Time to make some mental notes.

What’s Bill up to now?

If it’s anything like the last package, he’s going to act all mysterious about it, while also implying Dipper should be very curious and intrigued. Then never answer literally any question and giggle before running away. Both stupid and annoying.

“Finally! I’ve waited way too long for this,” Bill says. There’s a package wrapped in brown paper, tucked under his arm. He rubs his hands together, looking Dipper over with anticipation. “Paid a pretty penny for it, too.”

Dipper runs over a slew of options - subtle, hinting. Maybe if he throws in a smile, that’ll sway Bill into spilling a secret….

Fuck it, he’s in a good mood. Dipper just asks. Writing out, “What is that?”

“Oh, you’ll see. You’ll see.” Bill tosses the package aside - it floats in midair - then seizes Dipper by the shoulders. “Get yourself ready, sapling! Cause we’re doing this tonight.”

What.

Dipper tries for a smile. He tries to gesture out ‘My what’, and is immediately thwarted as Bill hauls him up from his seat; he grabs onto Bill’s arms so he’ll stop with the shaking.

Enthusiasm is nice and all, but seriously, what the hell?

The way Bill talks makes it sound like he was in on this. A co-conspirator, who should share his excitement about getting this delivery - Which wouldn’t be too bad, except he has no idea what’s going on.

“Aw, don’t make that face,” Bill tuts, chucking him gently under the chin. “Getting all the junk required was a pain to subcontract, lemme tell ya - but wait’ll you see the results! Your surprise is almost ready!”

A surprise. Just for him. How fantastic.

So much for not being involved.

Dragging his feet doesn’t help; Bill’s arm comes around his waist and pushes him along. If he dawdled any harder he might just be picked up.

Getting Bill’s attention fails, because he’s not looking. Gesturing words, writing them - nothing turns his head. He’s laser focused on dragging Dipper up and towards his fate.

No, not ‘fate’. Surprise.

That could be bad. Really, really bad, or it… could be good. Some surprises are good. That’s within the realm of possibility.

Who the hell is he kidding. It’s never a good surprise, not even once.

Bill hums to himself, bright with energy and - now Dipper’s certain - deliberately ignoring the struggling human in his arms. He’s too busy pulling Dipper towards a doorway. One that wasn’t there a minute ago.

Dipper’s seen this happen before; it’s another part of the penthouse. Leading to a different, unknown part of the Fearamid.

He casts a longing glance back at his chair. Can’t they just do whatever it is in the living room.

“Now, to set the scene-” Bill says, opening the door wide.

Into a dark room, candle-lit. Sconces flicker with fire on the walls, draped red fabric over seats, and at the end - a large, flat mass of stone. Dipper goes very, very still.

“Whoops! Wrong setup.” Bill slams the door shut, flashing a grin at Dipper that entirely fails to be reassuring. He taps the doorknob a couple times. After a moment, he opens it again “Here we go!”

Clutching Bill’s arm tight, nails nearly cutting the fabric - Dipper gets a glimpse of white and black and gold, a bunch of tile - then shuts his eyes and digs in his heels into the carpet. Useless. Pointless. But a small, deliberate act of defiance.

“Not the most dramatic scenery, but eh, whatever.” Bill keeps talking, as casual as if he’d flipped to the wrong photo on his phone. Dipper’s socks skip on the carpet, then slide against the tile as Bill drags him forward. “There’s something to be said for easier clean up!”

Cleanup.

Dipper clenches his mouth shut, ducking his head and refusing to look. He can’t watch this again. Not ever. He’ll-

“Now stay here, sapling.” Bill pats his back twice, and Dipper hears his shoes clacking on tile as he walks away. “Gotta do some quick concocting, be about five minutes - and then we’re gonna have a great evening!”

Great for who, Dipper wants to ask. He wisely doesn’t. He doesn’t move an inch.

This is going to be bad.

Bill leaves, still cackling. Dipper stands where he is, eyes shut. Tucking his arms around himself, even though it isn’t cold.

This entire time, he’s known he was here for a purpose. That living here wasn’t some grand generous gesture, that Bill’s ulterior motive would rear its ugly head. He should have spent more time figuring it out. Learning how to escape it. He has a whole huge list of things and none of them are any goddamn help.

Bill said he was special. Gods don't grant that adjective without implications.

What little information he has gleaned isn’t useful. The last time Dipper asked, Bill just looked amused. Closing the distance between them with a slow, dangerous smile, repeating exactly what he said again, low and pleased.

Dipper had to go and sit in his nice quiet room after that. It made him really nervous. Not knowing what’s coming makes him nervous.

Okay, a lot of things make him nervous, but this time he has very good reasons to feel that way.

Time to think. Get ahead of whatever’s going on, and find a way out. What does Bill want?

It could be he was kidnapped from that particular sect because of… something something magic reasons. Anything could cause it. Maybe something in the ritual. What if whatever it did didn’t just summon Bill, but affected Dipper, now he’s roiling with sacrifice potential, he could -

He grips his wrist, tracing a thumb over the scar.

With the bandages gone and the stitches out, it’s nothing more than a line. Slightly raised from the rest of the skin, pink with healing.

No. Blood’s not the answer. That’s all staying inside.

But it is a major magical component, both literally and symbolically. If something else made Dipper weird, it’d show up like antibodies after an infection.

And Bill brought him into a special place for easy cleanup. If anything’s more ominous, Dipper sure as hell can’t think of it. This place with the shining tiles, and the cold floor, full of -

He hasn’t checked what it’s full of.

Swallowing dryly, Dipper takes in the clean surfaces, the shining tile, and all of the…

Bathtubs?

The one set in the floor is big enough for three people. Two are stuck into the walls, another bent ninety degrees to fit in the corner, and one on the ceiling, of all places. There’s a big, semi-transparent curtain around an alcove containing over eight showerheads. There’s a rubber duckie that has six wings and too many teeth.

This looks like a bathroom. One weird, physics defying, nonsensical - wait a minute -

On impulse, Dipper scoots over and picks up one of the bottles near the multi-headed shower. He sniffs at the cap.

Yeah. He knows this smell. It’s close enough to put a finger on. In that it’s put finger and palm and annoying arm around Dipper, all the freaking time.

He sets the bottle back down, setting fists on his hips. Glaring at his surroundings doesn’t make them change, but it does make him feel better.

This is Bill’s bathroom.

What kind of evil plan takes place in a bathroom.

Freaking out seems less reasonable and more a waste of time. Easy cleanup - was that literal, or another bad joke? Bill would think that crap was funny.

He breathes in, and then lets it out, slow and careful.

Obviously there’s still a purpose. Probably it’s not great.

Terror’s just hard to sustain when he’s wondering why Bill needs four different loofahs. His list of awful fates never involved shower gel.

Dipper shuffles back over to the sink - wishing he’d had shoes on, he nearly slips twice - and checks himself in the mirror.

He looks small and oddly colorful, out of place among the black-white tiling. Standing out like an awkward, human thumb.

Pulling some big, important move here doesn’t seem likely. The aesthetic’s terrible, Bill’d pick somewhere way cooler.

Overall the bathroom is kinda normal - by Bill standards - both fairly humid and warm. The air smells like shampoo and soap, instead of blood and magic.

Now, the altar room would have made sense. Human sacrifice, demonic soul-devouring, messy blood ritual - it’s a multipurpose setup. Getting dragged in there would have shortened Dipper’s list by a ton. Only to the goriest and most awful fates, but at least it would narrow it down.

Unless… this doesn’t have to do with why he was kidnapped.

Dipper frowns at his reflection.

Thinking about it, didn’t Bill suggest getting in the tub with him a few days ago? At the time Dipper thought that was a joke. Unless it wasn’t?

All this happened because Bill got a delivery. Something Bill couldn’t make for himself. He’s been planning this for a while, and he was really, really excited about it.

…Bath bombs better not be literal in this place. That’d be a stupid way to die.

As he stares in the mirror, his reflection looks back. Dipper looks tired, but mostly, kind of exasperated. He sighs, rubbing at his eyes with the heels of both hands.

Yeah. Bill’s being Bill again.

And honestly? Could be worse. Dipper knows how to deal with a few random deific impulses by now. He can ride this one out, too.

Since Bill isn’t back though…

After that first panicked flight into Bill’s bedroom, Dipper hasn’t seen much of his private stuff. Staying clear of another incident took priority. Now, there’s an opportunity to investigate.

A close sweep reveals zero secrets, other than Bill using like, ten different skin products and a stupid amount of hair ones. The sharpest object in the entire place is a bunch of toothpicks and nail products. There isn’t even a razor in here.

In the middle of wondering how to bathe in the Rube Goldberg machine that passes for a shower, he hears the door open again.

“Here we are!” Bill says brightly. “Didja miss me? Admit it, you missed me.”

Dipper spins around with a start, socks skidding, and meets one of the biggest grins he’s ever seen. Which is saying something.

“No time to waste! I’ve got a whole evening laid out for us.” Bill says. He gestures in the air with a thin glass syringe. “And it all starts with this.”

Light glints off an absurdly large needle, thinned to an impossibly sharp point. The glass underneath swirls in a sickening cloud of grey-green fluid, dotted with tiny rainbow sparkles. Actually, the shower might not be good for bathing, but could be a good place to hide. There’s a lot of things to grab onto when someone tries to drag you back out.

“Hey hey hey!” Bill snags him by the waistband before he moves more than an inch. Almost like he anticipated the retreat. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist, kid. This is gonna be great! You’ll love it!”

Dipper shakes his head rapidly. He makes an X with his arms. Neither of which stop Bill from pulling him in with relentless strength and terrible amusement.

Running’s off the table. Squirming away from Bill hasn’t worked literally any time he’s tried it, either - but that’s no reason to quit now. Even with Bill grunting and swearing as limbs flail and sorta-maybe accidentally on purpose get him in the gut, if Dipper can get to a faucet and make everything wet that’ll make it harder to hold-

“Calm down, Pine Tree.” Bill says, then sighs as Dipper’s elbow collides with his chest. “Don’t you want your tongue back?”

He’s got to -

What?

It’s surprising enough that Dipper stops. A little too fast, maybe; he should have toed his socks off earlier. If Bill weren’t holding onto him, his face might have hit the floor.

“Ha! Knew that’d get you listening.” Bill says smugly. With a quick tug, he gets Dipper back on his feet - primps his collar for him, in an annoying way - and winks. “You, me, your tongue - we’ll all get along famously, guaranteed.”

That’s not possible. That’s -

Dipper glares at this asshole for playing yet another game, and not a funny one at that. Bill beams back at him, and doesn’t elaborate.

“What, still a skeptic?” Bill raises an eyebrow. “Hello! I’m Bill friggin’ Cipher. You think a little body horror’s outta my purview?”

Okay, fine, but. But Dipper just figured out that Bill isn’t as much of a bigshot as he claims.

This is - has to be - another big fat stinking lie.

Before he can argue, Bill starts talking again. “See, I’ve been thinking about it for a while now.” Tilting his head back, he looks up at the ceiling like he’s being thoughtful, instead of frustrating. He taps the terrifying syringe against his cheek. “And I figured - Hey! I don’t like fixing other people’s mistakes - but this screwup was too bad to ignore!”

A mistake, he says. A screwup.

Dipper bites his lip. Sure, Bill’s said those things before. But. He’s never even breathed the word ‘fix’.

This is something that he wants Dipper to believe. There’s no basis in reality. To bring this up now, out of absolute nowhere, is cruel and insane. There has to be a complication, it won’t be easy, or -

Possible. It’s not possible.

Dipper wants to slap himself; he grabs his shirt instead, holding it tight in balled fists.

This has been over with for a long, long time now. He screwed up, he got caught, and even if he didn’t deserve it then, well. What’s done is done. He’s learned to live with that. Been there, done all the steps of grief, despair and rage, bought the t-shirt.

Nobody could have stopped it. Nobody would do anything about it then, and won't now. Nobody was ever going to save him, or make things right.

Maybe Bill didn’t order this. Or condone it. It doesn’t matter.

None of that changed how things turned out.

Bill has been watching Dipper for a while. Not in an upset way, just curious. Like he’s reading Dipper’s mind - which he probably is - but hasn’t bothered to correct him. He catches Dipper’s gaze in the mirror and flashes a smile, before his face returns to semi-neutral.

Guess he isn’t going to fess up. That’s fine.

If this is Bill’s idiotic plan, getting Dipper worked up, he might as well know what the cruel, senseless motivation is. Or make it look as dumb as it clearly is.

Time to pick this ploy apart.

Unfortunately, that brief moment of hesitation bought Bill enough time to get behind him. His stupid face is so smug in the mirror’s reflection, and his palm is warm on Dipper’s waist.

Dipper grimaces, hunching his shoulders. He can’t let himself be swayed. Not to this insanity.

Some things just have to be cut off.

“It won’t work.” He writes.

“Bullshit.” Bill says flatly. He taps Dipper’s shoulder, slight irritation in his voice. “I didn’t put in this much effort and that much cash to make a friggin’ placebo.” A quick, semi-gentle shake. “You think I don’t know what I’m doing? That I’m some run-of-the-mill sucker? I deserve more credit than that!”

And - yes, hard to argue with. For all of Bill’s many flaws, he’s not truly stupid.

Still a liar, though. A fact proven over and over again. That he’s persisting with this one shows real commitment to the bit. This awful, prank that he’s -

…pretty damn excited about it. Practically bursting with enthusiasm, bright and eager to move on with things. Like regrowing a body part is like running a quick, exciting errand. Like it’d be simple. Dipper wonders if it is, before glaring in the mirror again.

It’s the confidence. Bill always acts like could stride forward into any situation, and no matter what, the forces of his magic and his ego will come out on top. He’s so certain of himself it’s downright convincing.

Damn it. Dipper rubs at his eyes.

Overthinking, again. Leading him to the train of thought Bill wanted him to take. Now he’s finding it hard to derail.

And - and besides, even if Bill could do it, he would have earlier, wouldn’t he? Would have fixed things as soon as he knew. He waited with bated breath to hear Dipper speak, that expectant look started from day one. Spoken at length about how much he hates the tongue situation, too. It’s like it bothers him more than Dipper at this point, which is so weird that it almost loops back around to make sense. He would have used anything he had on hand -

Dipper looks up. His own face in the mirror stares back at him, wide-eyed.

Unless he didn’t have it on hand.

The packages.

Another glance at Bill’s face shows the same expression, maybe a little more intrigued. It might even pass for reassuring, if he wasn’t holding a needle sized more for puncturing cat-sized butterflies than any medical procedure.

Bill can’t do everything. Only mostly everything. Dipper’s seen that firsthand.

And when he does have everything he needs for a plan, he snatches the first possible opportunity to pull it off.

It’s -

Dipper can’t. He needs more information.

‘What’s in that’, He writes the words in the air. Legible, if shaky.

“Eh, you got your hydra plasma, some troll platelets, unicorn spit,” Bill casually lists off the ingredients with practiced ease, flicking the side of the syringe. “Some stuff of my own design - and a few drops of your blood.”

His - Dipper pats himself, checking his arms, his torso. Nothing hurts, and he hasn’t noticed new scabs. Surely he would have seen Bill coming over to -

Another snort. “Uh, hello? You left plenty around the place when I stitched you up, kid. It was hardly in short supply.”

Another bit of truth; it did kinda go everywhere. And Bill would save some, like a creep.

Dipper rubs at his wrist, reminding himself that it’s absurd to be embarrassed about getting an arm slashed open.

“I get why you’re not jazzed, kid. Not a fan of mouth stuff after your last big show, am I right?” Bill moves to sling an arm around his shoulders, missing as Dipper ducks and slides closer to the sink. He holds his arm out wide instead. “But think about the benefits! Don’tcha wanna talk again? Taste again? All the other stuff?”

Yeah, of course Dipper does. He’s thought about it over and over and over.

He remembers what it was like. Moving around. Talking. How food tasted better, in that he could taste something without it nearly being in the back of his throat. All those aching nights feeling a deep literal emptiness, clamping his teeth shut as if it’d make the yawning gape feel more complete.

Staying awake, with a burn he couldn’t swallow and a pain that wouldn’t stop.

He was up night after night after night, hanging with those thoughts. Hoping for something entirely out of reach.

Eventually it was easier to stop thinking about it.

When he dreams, he still has his tongue.

“After all this time, you got the solution right here! In a solution, conveniently invented by yours truly.” Bill claps a hand to his chest, grinning from behind Dipper in the mirror. “Give it a shot! Literally!”

The ceramic of the sink is cold. Dipper’s holding onto it too hard, his knuckles are starting to hurt.

He’s so tired of hurting.

“Or, y’know. Stick with the super happy situation you have going on right now.” Bill makes a face, sticking out his own tongue before blowing a raspberry. He lowers the syringe. “Your choice.”

Before Bill’s arm can fully fall, Dipper seizes him by the wrist. He doesn’t know when he moved, fast enough that even Bill looks surprised.

Gotta calm down. Think about this rationally.

There's an all-powerful demon. A smart, conniving asshole, who spent time and effort on a completely crazy plan in this unearthly, magical realm. Carrying an evil implement of unknown origins, wanting to stick it right into his face.

Because he’s been planning this. He played the long game. Bill’s been wanting to hear from him for ages, and he’s anything but stupid.

If there was ever a place this could work, it would be here.

Despite everything. The position he’s in, the man standing behind him, and his own internal swearing at himself -

Dipper feels a flutter of long-extinguished hope.

A million things could go wrong with this. As far as he knows, he might have like, his head exploded instead of a good result. He could grow five tongues instead of one, or maybe it’ll come out rainbow colored or everything will taste like blood forever. He shouldn’t go along with this. It’s going to suck and be dumb and there’s no real guarantees.

Also, that needle is fucking terrifying. Another reason not to let Bill do whatever he wants.

Dipper shuts his eyes briefly, then writes, ‘Will it hurt?’

“Yep!”

The expression on Dipper’s face must alert him to how bad that answer was, because for a brief moment Bill looks chagrined. He glances away, clearing his throat.

“Look. We’re talking about a piece of flesh smaller than a pack of playing cards.” Pinching his fingers together, Bill squints through the gap. “So what if it’s not a great time? It’ll take like twenty seconds! A minute, tops.”

In the mirror, Dipper watches his reflection’s shoulders drop just a bit. He breathes out through his nose, and rolls his eyes.

That… really shouldn’t be reassuring.

Only it is, because Bill didn’t sugarcoat it.

He could have claimed it was a totally painless process, or tried to deflect and change the subject. Which would set off Dipper’s bullshit alarm pretty much instantly. Leaving him to wonder exactly how bad this would be.

As it stands, Dipper’s betting that ‘not a great time’ actually means ‘will horribly, horribly suck’. And it’s still better than being lied to.

Another question. “And then what?”

“Then the fun starts, kid! I got a lot of ideas for activities, once you got the ol’ wiggler back in your yap.”

Not what he was asking; Dipper elbows him none-too-gently in the stomach.

“Yeah, yeah,” Bill grumbles a bit, then sighs. “Yes, it’s gonna hurt, you’re gotta shed some scar tissue,” He lifts a few fingers with each point, “Lotta bleeding and liquids and whatever. But super simple! Don’t chicken out now!”

A minute of agony. That’s it. Straightforward. Temporary. Super easy.

Dipper’s palm slips on the sink; he wipes his sweating hands on his pants. He’s standing on the floor but he has to grab the sink again to stave off a swelling sense of vertigo.

If it’s as quick as Bill says, he can handle that, maybe. If it works.

It better work.

“Remember, Pine Tree! All the benefits! Like talking! Midnight snacks!” Bill chimes in, sounding too much like a used car salesman to be truly convincing. “Attempting to stick it up your nose, getting it stuck to a lamppost in winter, making out with handsome immortals! Everything you’ve been missing out on.”

Dipper knows all of those, or - most of them. Bill doesn’t need to tempt him, he gets it already.

He just. Needs a minute. To think some more about the implications and all the details and such. A little more time and he’ll have his head on straight.

“We might even take a trip to your old cult.” The thump of a hand on Dipper’s shoulder has him tense, briefly, before relaxing again. “Dontcha wanna let ‘em know exactly how dumb that move was?” His voice lowers, quieter but closer. “Imagine the looks on their faces when you tell ‘em - out loud! - that they could never hold you back.“

Dipper looks up.

Of all the scenarios he’d dreamed about, that had never entered the picture. Too impossible even for a daydream. Stupid and self-indulgent and insane. Only a madman would think of it.

In the mirror, Bill’s eye has gone very bright. Leaning over Dipper, and muttering right into his ear.

Dipper writes, “Do it.”

“Finally!” Bill lets out a breath, a tension dropping that Dipper didn’t notice until it was gone. He beckons him in. “Alright. Show me the ol’ lingual stump there, sapling.”

In the second Dipper needs to parse that, Bill’s already turned him around. With a bright grin, he makes an odd gesture at his chin; it takes a second to get.

Right. For Bill to stick that huge thing in there, Dipper has to open his mouth.

A simple motion. Dipper can manage. The first thing to do is stop clenching his teeth together.

With effort, and a bit of struggle, Dipper lowers his jaw and tilts his head back. Bill takes hold of it, and Dipper deliberately doesn’t go tense. Watching the syringe lift into his vision, as shining bright as the grin on Bill’s face.

He shuts his eyes tight. He might have to feel it, but Bill can’t make him watch.

As Bill gets into position, he keeps up a tuneless cheerful hum. Dipper tries his best not to picture it. The way Bill’s probably loving the entire situation, even when this is gonna suck.

“You’re gonna feel a little pinch here.” Bill says, peppy as ever, and something stabs into the stump of his tongue.

On instinct Dipper tries to jerk his head away, but struggling against the grip Bill has on him - fuck, moving only makes it hurt more. And that awful groaning sound, he realizes, is him. Strangled and inhuman, ringing against the tile and in his own ears.

Fighting - not this time. He has to let this happen, let it -

A moment later his teeth clink on thin metal, and he realizes with a start that the needle was probably that long so he wouldn’t bite Bill’s fingers off.

“There we go!” Bill sounds delighted. The needle slips back out, almost nonchalantly, as he hums a little tune to himself. “Great job, sapling. Not much left now!”

Dipper blinks rapidly; his vision’s gone blurry and he tries to clear his throat.Thank fuck, the first part’s over with.

The rest better not be too long. Better not hurt much more. The back of his mouth feels like he’s been stung by a bee, a hot and growing ache. Touching the underside of his jaw with cool fingers helps for a brief moment, but it’s only cool on the outside.

And it spreads. Fast. Down his neck. Up into his jaw. A stinging heat, rising and expanding.

Dipper clamps his jaw shut, teeth grinding, but the pressure’s barely a distraction. This - he grabs onto Bill’s arm, shaking it hard.

“What?” Bill looks nonplussed. He tilts his head to the side. “I toldja it would hurt!”

Yeah, but he could have been more descriptive.

More pressure helps; a hand on his throat, one over his mouth. The burn builds, like bile rising in his throat, like acid. Like he swallowed fire, spreading down his throat and up into his face and nose; his eyes start watering.

Throat bobbing, trying to swallow, Dipper wants to make a sound, but doesn’t dare. Not when things are moving in his mouth with increasing wetness, thick and metallic, just like - god, he’s such an idiot. He knew he shouldn’t have trusted him, never should have let him touch him, ever or at all, not if this was the result.

“Don’t hold it in, kid!” Bill says brightly, adding a light smack on the back of his head that sends him leaning over the sink. “See? Not so bad, is it?”

It’s so, so bad. Like his head is going to explode, like his throat will shut; it’s hard to breathe. The throb redoubles, then triples, mouth so full his cheeks are going to split open, why does Bill sound so calm.

Leaning over was a good idea though.

Dipper opens up over the clean white porcelain, blood pouring out of his mouth. More than he thought could come out, even after the last time. A sick flood partly mingled with clear fluid, spiraling into a pink swirl in the basin.

Which. Does help with the pain. The disgusting torrent washes away the ache, even as it makes a miniature murder scene in the sink. Dipper’s whole head feels like it’s bursting, his nose is running, he spits and gags, and a thick chunk of grey-red fleshy gunk splats into the basin.

He spits again - his jaw throbs with pain, but there’s less liquid this time. A couple more times and it’s dry. His head feels clearer, more headache than fire - and says “What the fuck.”

Then he jerks his head up, staring at his reflection.

What he just heard. That wasn’t Bill.

The Dipper in the mirror stares back at him, wide-eyed and pale in the face. Chin wet with blood and unknowable fluids, some dripping on his shirt.

Behind him Bill stares in starry-eyed, open-mouthed delight.

“What the fuck,” Dipper repeats, watching his mouth move in the mirror - and claps his hands over it. Bill claps his hands rapidly, like a huge, yellow, demonic seal.

Dipper said that.

His voice. Strangely deeper than he remembers, resonating in his own head.

The pain is fading, fairly quickly. A thin sweat is cooling on his skin. Pulling his sleeve over his chin only gets about half the mess off. As the pain fades he’s aware that his whole face feels gross.

In the first actually helpful move of the evening, Bill turns the sink on for him.

Splashing his face with warm water feels good. Refreshing. Especially scrubbing away the slick mucus and sticky blood. He has to spit again a couple of times; the inside of his mouth feels so thick.

Then he feels a heavy clap on his back, one that drifts up to tousle his hair. Bill starts laughing. “Ha! Toldja it wouldn’t be so bad, kid. How ya feeling?”

What a question. How to answer.

There’s simply too much feeling. His mouth is full. Like he put too much food in there, but it’s not - not bad? Weirdly wet and taking up so much space. Like… a really new big finger he can wiggle around. Touching it to every single tooth in his mouth, and tapping it against the roof, and feeling - no, tasting - a strange, metallic tang that makes him want to spit again.

Was Dipper’s mouth always this wet? He thinks he needs to brush his teeth. There’s ridges and bumps and - he winces as he bites down a little too hard.

Strange yet familiar sensations. Feeling and touching and tasting. Not a distant memory that he focused on too hard. Not a dream.

In disbelief, Dipper sticks his tongue out.

The air is cool and tastes like nothing, aside from the bizarre feeling of his tongue drying out. There’s no extra tentacles, no visible scars. He only sprouted one rather than seven, and it’s not forked or some bizarre color. Just pink and damp and round.

Hell, there’s even the birthmark, just like before. Like it was never missing.

Tentatively, he presses a finger against the surface - yep, that’s real. Also, he can taste himself touching it. Which isn’t bad, but is super weird.

“Huh.” Bill says. Soft, almost surprised.

Dipper glances up in the mirror. There’s a weirdly contemplative look on Bill’s face, which blossoms moments later into a grin.

“So that’s where that was!” Bill says. A second finger joins Dipper’s, touching the mark. “Pretty cute!”

Dipper’s tongue zips back inside at the first tap. He claps a hand over his mouth, glaring back at Bill.

Welp, now he knows what ‘god’ tastes like. It’s skin, with a hint of soap. At least Bill washed his hands first.

The move was also annoying enough that he almost forgot that truly out-of-nowhere comment. Almost.

Dipper narrows his eyes, and asks, “Where what was?”

Okay. Just kinda blurted that one out.

He touches his throat, rubbing his palm against the soft flesh. Then his mouth, pressing fingers on his lips.

Three more words. He’s speaking words.

Flexing a muscle he hasn’t had in ages comes with fewer issues than he’d imagined. His voice is a little creaky, but his tongue moves just fine. One relief there; he’d worried he’d need to learn everything again.

“Eh, it’s nothing.” Bill lies. With a flourish, he pulls Dipper around so they’re face to face. “Now, what about you?”

Dipper opens his mouth again. Then he catches Bill’s expression, and shuts it.

Of all the smiles he’s seen on Bill’s face - angry, smug, arrogant, amused, excited - none of the others compare.

This one seems genuine.

“Ahem.” Bill clears his throat. “So! Any first words for your very handsome host and healer, here?” His single eye flutters, like he’s trying a coquettish bat. “Maybe a thank you? A ‘you’re so great’?”

There’s the expectant look again.

One of the first things Dipper learned about Bill Cipher - he wanted Dipper to talk to him. An insane request for an unknowable reason, from an equally insane and unknowable being. So far they’ve made due with other methods, communication has improved, but at the end of the day -

Bill really wanted this. A lot.

Now what the hell should Dipper say?

He rolls his tongue around, trying out silent syllables without opening his mouth. The words came so easily when he wasn’t thinking; now they’re all scrambled around in his head.

The first thing he says should mean something. Be important. They should be - not devoted, Bill hates that. It should -

No, wait. He knows the answer.

Dipper turns around, bracing himself on the sink.

When he smiles, it’s not because Bill expects it, or because he thinks he should. Just because he wants to.

“Hi, Bill.”

And Bill bursts out laughing, high and delighted.

“Ha ha ha!” With startling swiftness he scoops Dipper up, raising high and swinging him in a circle. Dipper grabs at his arms, his heel clips the sink as they twirl. “Finally!”

Two disorienting turns later, Dipper hits the floor again, only for Bill pulls him into a tight, unmistakable hug.

Dipper goes still for a moment, squished by strong arms - then fumbles, awkwardly, to pat Bill’s back in return. That’s what people in hugs do, right.

Normal people probably don’t get squeezed like someone’s trying to pop them, though. A few seconds in he thumps Bill on the back, until the jerk finally remembers mortals aren’t so durable.

“Nice to hear from you again, kid! Not much flair to your intro, but we can work on style later.” Bill holds him out at arm’s length, looking him up and down. “So! Now that you’ve got your tongue back, whaddya say we give that thing a workout?”

For a split second, Dipper wonders how tiny a barbell that would take, and how it would even work, before remembering that’s insane. Those aren’t a real thing.

Then he remembers that he’s hanging out with Bill Cipher, so. Hopefully it’s a very small barbell.

Before he can ask or write the question, though, Bill seizes his wrist again. Dipper shakes his arm - no good, as always. Still worth doing.

Surprisingly, Bill snorts - then lowers his grip, taking Dipper’s hand instead. He squeezes that once, because everything’s a stress ball to him, then goes right back to dragging Dipper around like a toy wagon.

Matching his pace this time, Dipper follows in his wake. They leave the bathroom quickly, fading into a long, elegant hallway.

Glancing around the place - opulent, check, grandiose, obviously - Dipper looks down at their joined hands and frowns.

So much for getting any context. Bill’s just. Going to do the physically impossible, celebrate it, then move right onto the next thing. Without looping Dipper in on any part.

As Bill reaches his target - another door, big and fancy and frankly tiring in how much Bill’s clearly showing off - Dipper grips his hand tighter.

No, wait. If he remembers right, this time there was a clue.

Earlier, Bill said there was a surprise for him. The tongue had to be that, but then… there was an entire evening he wanted to get to. A series of events, perhaps. Knowing Bill, each one’s more bizarre and frightening than the last.

“Hey!” Bill snaps his fingers, and tugs Dipper’s hand. He’s backing into the new room, grin alight as he spreads his arm wide. “Get outta your head and in here already.”

Shrugging, Dipper follows him in. After the last ‘surprise’, nothing’s going to catch him off guard. He doubts it’ll be as out of nowhere, or as bloody. Bill’s set a pretty high bar.

This time, the room is… Dipper pauses.

Dining room. Big table, the super long kind from medieval times, fancy tablecloth and chairs and heaped upon it, so much food.

Taking his tongue out didn’t ruin his other senses; it smells fantastic in here. The spread is lavish and vast, piled way too high for any two people to possibly finish. Like everything Bill has, it’s over-the-top and way too grand.

Dipper feels a sharp pang in his chest as he remembers he won’t be able to -

Wait, no. Not anymore.

He rolls his tongue around in his mouth - still weird - and swallows. He rubs at his throat, and glances, carefully, at Bill.

That gets a smile, and a fairly smug wink. Bill clicks his tongue twice, gesturing him over to the table.

Things click into place. Exercise. An evening plan.

Bill set this up for the express purpose of using his tongue on stuff, which is, mostly, duh, eating.

As Dipper hesitates, Bill rolls his eye. “What’s with the holdup? You’ve got a major sensory organ back!” He nudges Dipper forward to the table. Pulling out a chair, he gestures with a flourish for him to sit. “Why not enjoy it?

Refusing would be rude, Dipper guesses. He takes the offered seat, then braces himself on the table as Bill pushes the chair in, patting his shoulders.

A moment later Bill’s taken his own seat right next to him, looking pleased. “Whatd’ya think of the spread? ” He waves over the table, nearly knocking over a candlestick in the process. “Anything catch your eye?”

It’d be easier to list what doesn’t. There’s too much.

Dipper’s only read about half of these dishes, and there’s a solid quarter he’s never even heard about. Bowls of noodles and a whole roast something that he can’t identify; platters of pasta and fried tidbits, a whole board full of cheeses, green vegetables piled high -

His mouth is watering. Like, a lot. A strange sensation, though not unpleasant.

“Go on! All yours, sapling.” Bill scoots his chair a little closer, grinning wide. “Have anything you want.”

How does he manage to make an invitation sound ominous? Dipper side-eyes him as he slowly picks up a fork.

What to choose. What will Bill let him have. To start with he’ll go for something simple; nothing that would be funny to yank out of his hand.

Now to just… narrow down the dozens of dishes into ones he can identify and probably aren’t poisoned.

Bill watches him fret for about thirty seconds, heaving a huge sigh. He plucks something up with his fork - some kind of noodle in green sauce - and tries to shove it right in Dipper’s mouth.

His jab takes out an eye instead of hitting the target as Dipper flinches. Some sauce smears on his cheek, Bill makes another stab at it. Before he can do any damage, Dipper seizes the fork out of his hand.

Alright, jeez, he gets the hint already. Being cautious is the smart thing to do here.

And what is this.

Pasta, obviously, though it’s a weird noodle shape. A green sauce when it should be red. It was handed to him by a crazy demon. Multiple reasons not to put it in his mouth.

But it looks pretty good, and it smells pretty great. Kind of herbal and rich, and - actually, Dipper’s really hungry, now that he’s thinking about it.

Fuck it. If he was going to get in trouble, it’d probably be that one time he punched Bill in the face, not for eating food he was nearly forcefed.

Here goes nothing.

Dipper opens his mouth, trying to ignore Bill staring. Carefully guiding the food past his lips.

And with a thump, he sets the fork down. Shutting his eyes, and letting out a closed-mouth groan.

Oh fuck.

It’s great.

The flavor alone has him reeling back like he’s been punched, filling his whole head with taste and smell. The sauce is creamy and rich, both herbal and slightly sweet, while the pasta tastes bready and not at all like sad cardboard. He can even taste the cheese on top, savory and sharp. Nothing like a microwaved plastic plate of mush. Something real, and filling, hot and fresh. Something substantial.

And chewing. He’d almost forgotten chewing like this. The simple sensation of a noodle, firm but yielding between his teeth, makes him have to blink rapidly to clear his eyes.

No more tilting his head, no dry mouth. He can swallow with absolutely zero effort. At no point does he have to struggle to get it down, it just happens, without ever feeling like he’s going to choke.

Dipper takes another forkful. Then another, pulling the bowl towards himself without bothering to put it on his plate. Bill looks on, with that same eternal smile, but whatever. He’s not the most important thing in the room.

Eating, so painlessly, effortlessly simple. He’d almost forgotten what this was like.

Forget everything else Bill has done, for a moment. Ignore the way he’s staring like a creep. Right now, Dipper could kiss the ground Bill walks on. Maybe even his cheek.

Giving Dipper this back is the only thing Bill’s ever done worth worshiping.

Eventually Bill drags the pasta away, tutting about Dipper being ‘unadventurous’ and ‘boring’. Whatever, there’s a lot more to try. More to investigate.

“How’s the grub, kid? Good?”

Dipper glances at his plate - piled high with nearly a dozen things - then raises an eyebrow. Bill raises one right back.

Oh right. Words.

Swallowing, Dipper says, “It’s. Really good.” Then, uh, he should probably add. “Thanks.”

“No problem at all. In fact, my pleasure!.” Bill leans an elbow on the table, resting his chin in his hand. He pokes him in the ribs; it tickles a little. “You gotta put more meat on those bones, anyway.”

With a shrug, Dipper tentatively takes another serving of the green pasta. Currently it sits at number one on his list, but the rankings have been changing rapidly with each taste test.

Bill’s also making odd comments, as is his wont. Sure, Dipper guesses he could stand to be a little less scrawny, though it’s not like he’s meatless. All humans are made of -

Now there’s an unpleasant thought.

“Wait, is, uh.” Dipper carefully sets his fork down, bracing his palms against the table. If he has to make a quick escape, it’ll give him leverage to shove off. “Is any of this. People?”

“Nah! Human flesh is really more for show than for taste, unless you’re an obligate anthropophage.” Bill snorts, waving off that thought. “You guys’re kinda stringy and bitter. That’s novelty food.”

Then he pauses. His eye narrows, he starts looking thoughtful.

Before he can open his mouth, Dipper interrupts. “No, that’s fine. I really don’t want any. Thanks.”

“Eh, suit yourself.” Shrugging, Bill settles back in his seat. He plucks a couple of mozzarella sticks off a platter and pops them into his mouth. “Like I shaid, y’re not mishing muh.” Wow, he has terrible table manners.

Another ‘horrible fate’ crossed out on the list: Bill isn’t fattening him up to eat him.

Dipper didn’t think it was a likely option, but it never hurts to be sure. And with that out of the way…

Eating is so much better now. He has a lot of things to taste.

During his search, Bill’s eager to offer suggestions. A slice of rich dark meat, a sampling of something sticky but savory that goes well on it. A smattering of vegetables, a mozzarella stick or three. He even insists Dipper take a bite of some white meat pried out of the shell of a huge red bug. Deflecting his offer fails miserably, so thankfully it does end up tasting good. Though Dipper thinks that the dipping butter’s doing a lot of the heavy lifting.

Between the spread on the table, and Bill’s infinite creativity, there are infinite possibilities - and only one limit. His stomach.

When Bill tries to push another crepe on his plate, he waves it off. He leans back in his chair, breathing slowly.

Good news is, he learned a lot about a variety of foods. He’s full and content. Bad news is, he really, really can’t take another bite or he might be sick.

As far as Bill Plans go, this one’s hardly the worst. Even Dipper has to admit this was a good idea.

“Wait wait wait. One last thing,” Bill interrupts. He holds up a few fingers, turning away as he rifles through a small box. through something with a bunch of frilly paper. Once he finds what he’s looking for, he turns around with a flourish. “Can’t have dinner without dessert.”

Dipper nearly waves him off again- then does a double-take. Is that -

The small circle in Bill’s fingers is definitely chocolate, and Dipper’s only had that like, twice. Ever. Full or not, he can make room for this.

His first grab at it misses; Bill dodges easily and wags the treat with a mocking smile. “Ah ah ah, not so fast! Lemme do the honors.” He brings it close to Dipper’s mouth, eyebrows wiggling. “Open up.”

Dipper tightens his lips, narrowing his eyes in suspicion. Then looking from the chocolate, back to Bill. The smugness of his grin does not waver.

Normally Dipper would skip this entirely, rather than let Bill go ahead with this shady-seeming move. Unfortunately, the box is behind Bill’s elbow; he can’t just make a grab for the others.

So with a sigh, and a bit of a shrug, Dipper opens his mouth and lets Bill push the treat in. Reminding himself that Bill literally just fixed it, he won’t ruin it now.

The moment the chocolate hits Dipper’s tongue he knows he made exactly the right choice.

Reach and sweet, just as good as he remembered. No, better. Smooth and not too cloying, as it warms and melts it fills his whole mouth. An involuntary groan comes out of his throat as it vanishes, gone all too soon - but some of it has melted on Bill’s fingers too. Dipper flicks his tongue out to catch the last of it, warm and sweet.

A sharp intake of breath. Dipper blinks his eyes open.

Bill’s staring at him, very close. He must have scooted his chair over, they’re almost touching.

“Pretty great, right?” Bill says. His thumb brushing Dipper’s chin, tongue flickering out over his own lips. “How ‘bout you let me have a little taste.”

“Uh.” Dipper licks at his teeth, nose scrunching up as he frowns. “I already ate it?” He glances over at the box, tilting his head to get Bill’s face out of his vision. “But, uh. There are more over there.”

Bill blinks twice. His lips tuck in, mouth in a flat line. The box on the dinner table must have slipped his notice somehow, because he turns to stare at it with a narrowed eye.

“Hm. Mhmh.” A grunt, his eye twitches - then the grin slides back into its rightful place. “So there are!”

With one snake-fast motion, Bill snatches a ball from the crinkly paper. He jams it into his mouth and bites down hard with too-sharp teeth. Chocolate splinters from the force, scattering on the table.

Ignoring the atrocious table manners beside him - Dipper leans back in his seat. He’s never had a meal like this before; Bill really went all out this time.

A second later, he yawns. It takes a few shakes and some blinking to clear his head.

Eating too much has side effects, he guesses. Part of him wonders - but no, if Bill wanted to drug him, he’d be passed out at the table. “Looks like you’ve had enough kid. Now up you get,” Bill says out of nowhere. An instantly later he’s pulling Dipper up hands under his arms. “Can’t just pass out at the dinner table when the night’s hardly started!”

Wait, this wasn’t it? He’s got more planned? What the hell else could there be?

As Bill surges forward, Dipper just manages to step away before he’s bodily picked up. He brushes off his shirt as Bill blows a disappointed raspberry behind him.

“Fine, fine. Use your legs if you gotta!” Bill scoffs, as he slides a guiding arm around his waist. “Get ‘em moving, then, ‘cause we’ve got at least one other stop tonight.”

He’s always fast. Always rushing. Always dragging Dipper out of one situation and towards another door. This could be his whole life, it seems; always another mysterious room, another terrifying situation, all with a jerk who doesn’t explain anything.

Keeping up with Bill is easy once Dipper’s expecting it, but he casts a worried glance back at the dining room.

Leaving all that food there seems like such a waste. Then again, it is god-demon realm and all. For all he knows it could remain there in stasis, awaiting the next visit. Or just evaporate into nothing now that they’re done, which is even more of a waste.

Rethinking it, though - Bill did say he could have all he wanted. Encouraged him to indulge himself.

Maybe his full stomach is making him too optimistic, but he thinks some might ‘magically’ end up in his kitchen later.

Or it’ll vanish completely because Bill and conserving go together like oil and water. Better not get his hopes up.

Whatever their next step is, Bill seems pretty cheerful about it. He’s even humming a tune to himself, one that Dipper can’t place. Refraining from giving Dipper any helpful information, per usual.

Bill loves secrets. Mysteries. Keeping the events of the evening must amuse the hell out of him what with making it all seem intimidating, and ominous.

Unfortunately for Bill, his secrecy has some holes in it. A pattern has been building in their night. Two data points, both leading to…

Not a certainly positive third. Nothing’s certain. But it is trending in that direction.

Besides, if Dipper had to guess, the next one’s not the bad one. The theoretical fourth event is where Bill will pull the rug out from under him. Breaking a fully established pattern, right when he has his human lulled into complacence, is much more dramatic.

Before that happens, Dipper will cut things short.

The guiding arm steers him around a corner, through a series of doors, leading into…

The living room again.

Dipper gives it a quick once-over. Same furniture, same lighting, same obnoxious company. He’s been steered around a mobius strip leading back to the original spot.

“Pfft, what’s with the look? Relax!” Bill says, and shoves him onto the couch.

Dipper nearly jumps off of it; this not his favorite furniture material. Bill pushes him down again, grinning like it’s a game of ping-pong rather than a guy not wanting to sit on furniture that’s slightly cannibalistic and could lick him at any time. Another attempt fails; Dipper’s palms sink into soft fabric, there’s not enough leverage to -

He stops. Patting once, then twice. Looking down at his seat with mild surprise.

Okay, there’s one difference. This couch isn’t made of human skin.

A weird, but rather welcome change. Getting up at this point feels like too much effort, so he slumps into the seat.

The new couch, fabric and all, sinks easily under his weight. Soft enough to mold around his body, like it’s eager to absorb him. For a moment he worries it might, until Bill flops down right beside him.

“There’s only one way to follow up dinner with company. The classic human scene for this kinda thing, one might say!” says Bill, clapping his hands together. “First - setting the mood.”

A quick snap of his fingers, and the firelight dims. So do all the lights in the room.

“And second -” Bill grins, like he’s being very clever, and says, “Pick your poison, Pine Tree.”

Wait - they already ate, what is -

At Dipper’s startled face, Bill rolls his eye, and holds up a finger. His face scrunches up as he leans forward, fishing around in the couch cushions.

A second later, Dipper gets a remote chucked into his lap.

“You didn’t get a lot of shows back in the ol’ cult digs, am I right?” Bill jabs his thumb at the opposite wall - and the TV that’s appeared in the last five seconds. “No time like the present to start getting caught up!”

Secular media causes degradation of the spirit. Outside influences are absolutely forbidden. The only way to get access would be by sneaking around, or sticking one’s nose where they shouldn’t.

Dipper’s seen several shows, and he got them by himself, not through the cult’s terrible black market selection. Calling himself an expert would be an exaggeration, but he’s been around the block before.

And honestly, getting back into that sounds great. Ten or so TV shows can’t compare to the likely hundreds that are out there; people must never run out of stuff to watch.

Plus, Bill will have demon media, too. Finding out what that’s like could be downright fun.

Two minutes into channel surfing, Dipper has to admit he’s out of his depth. How much of it is missing out on a normal person’s experience and how much is Nightmare Realm stuff is hard to tell. Except for the obviously demonic shows, none of these seem familiar.

There’s literally a million freaking channels. Picking any one is impossible.

Meanwhile, Bill offers quick, one-word comments about how one’s ‘boring!’ another ‘meh’, a third ‘wow, that one?’, and a fourth ‘ooh, body horror!’ - Dipper flips quickly through the next twenty channels, hoping he won’t decide for them.

At one point Bill tries hitting the opposite channel button so they flip back through the same two things for over a minute, until Dipper finally wrestles the damn remote away. If he ‘accidentally’ kicks Bill in the leg, either Bill doesn’t notice, or does a good job of pretending he didn’t. Either way, he’s laughing the whole time.

Eventually they settle on a demonic movie, something that Bill casually mentioned was ‘alright’, with an askance look at Dipper. Applying Bill-knowledge to that look - Dipper interprets it as him, wanting to watch it. With a side of ‘can’t show interest and still Be Cool’, and a half-serving of ‘maybe the human shouldn’t see it’.

Dipper sets the remote down. They’re sticking with this one. Anything Bill doesn’t want him to see probably has very juicy information.

And if he notices that eternal grin widen, a bare fraction of an inch - he doesn’t comment on it.

About ten minutes in, Dipper realizes he should have asked if this would be all in English. This one has some, sure, but seventy percent or so is in Bill’s demonic language. Subtitles aren’t a thing; he poked at the remote for them but it just made the channels jump around, until Bill very casually flipped it right on back.

Between the lack of language knowledge and demon knowledge, following the plot is hard. Dipper squints at the screen, as if that’ll make things easier.

What little of it he follows shows a long, complicated drama. A lot of power plays, interpersonal violence. Mild-for-demons gore interspersed with over-dramatic arguments. The two main characters seem to be at each other’s throats all the time, while also being metaphorically attached at the hip.

Nearly an hour passes before Dipper gives up on fully tracking the plot. A valiant attempt was made, but the language gap’s too large, even though the actors are basically chewing the scenery. Sometimes literally. Changing the channel’s out of the question, too; Bill too enraptured, Dipper too tired.

It’s strange, really. Sitting here, with his ‘god’. Something he’d never thought he’d do, ever. Because Bill wasn’t real, then because Bill was up to something, and now….

A glance at Bill fails to clarify anything, as always.

He knows Bill had a plan for the evening. He said as much. And it hasn’t gone off the rails, or Dipper would have noticed; this ‘god’ never misses a chance to complain.

The only conclusion is that things are going how Bill wanted. What that might mean is more of a mystery than the demon himself.

So far, they’ve only done a few things. Terrifying bathroom regeneration, dinner, and sitting here watching TV. A list too short to be helpful. None of them have much in common.

Dipper nestles down further into the couch, blinking slowly. Nearby, Bill pours himself another drink by snapping his fingers and summoning it.

What, exactly, is Bill’s goal with this? There has to be a purpose.

Giving Dipper his tongue back is obvious. It’s for talking.

Bill’s been bored more than once waiting for a written reply - and while Dipper’s pretty sharp, he’s still a beginner at sign language. Add on Bill being a good but very impatient teacher, and things weren't going great. Hearing him make twenty guesses at Dipper’s next word while he was trying to remember the damn thing left both of them frustrated and annoyed.

So the first part makes sense, even as a standalone. Regrowing an organ is way faster than learning an entire language, and Bill gets exactly what he wanted, right from the first time they met.

The food, well. Dipper’s still running that over in his mind, but he thinks it’s not much more complicated. Mostly a followup to the tongue thing. Possibly to show Dipper how great going along with Bill’s absolutely insane ideas is. Plus, Bill gets company, and to show off his power and all his ‘cool stuff’. He’s never hesitated to prove how quote, ‘awesome’, and ‘swimming in money, kid’, he is.

If that’s right, it could be very useful. A little finesse, maybe a smile or two, and Dipper might get a repeat performance.

Both of those events fit with what he knows of Bill. Dipper can see how they work together, one leading into the other.

That brings them to now.

Sitting on the couch. Watching some way overextended drama thing with a language Dipper maybe catches one word out of ten in, while this ‘god’ lounges next to him with zero signs of ill intent.

This one… doesn’t fit.

Hell, he’s not sure how any of this fits. Not into a greater purpose. There’s no benefit. No grand plan, no conquering. No motive beyond ‘convenience’ and ‘entertainment’. No real gain for Bill himself, which more than anything makes zero sense, and these days Dipper can find a little bit of that in Bill’s actions, even if it’s backwards from the human kind.

But.

If there isn’t a greater plan in mind. No scheme to empower himself, no urge to torment or conquer -

Then this entire day was simply a series of selfish, bizarre whims from a guy who can do anything.

Which… is like most of the days Dipper’s spent around the guy.

Beside him, Bill swirls his drink, snorting at something onscreen before taking another sip. Looking pleased with himself - typical - and wearing the common domestic smirk. No sign of any ulterior motive.

Okay. Say that there was a plan, of sorts. Just one that Bill thought would make his life more fun, and convenient. Hell knows just does whatever, whenever he wants.

Then…

…Maybe it’s just movie night?

There’s a low groan next to him. With a huge, almost theatrical yawn, Bill stretches his arms wide, raising them in the air Once he's done, they thump onto the back of the couch; the closest one lands around Dipper’s shoulders.

Wow, even Bill’s tired. A big meal must have that effect on demons, too.

Dipper holds back his own yawn. For about five seconds. It happens anyway, leaving him slumping down, eyelids heavy.

He still can’t put the pieces together. None of the respective tabs and slots seem like they line up.

But fuck it, it’s late. He’s tired. Trying to think through Bill’s convoluted mind is a task for a more life threatening scenario.

Sitting here with Bill, sinking into the soft fabric of the couch, in a dimly lit but very warm room -

As far as plans go, Dipper can imagine far worse fates than this.

In a way. A small one. He could almost get used to this.

Underneath the strange dialogue, he can hear the gentle flickering of the fireplace. Between the full stomach and the dim light, there’s a warm lassitude filling his limbs. Dipper stretches his arms, then his legs, before shuffling further into the enveloping embrace of the couch.

Clearing his throat, Bill adjusts his position. The motion bumps his side up against Dipper’s, a solid, surprisingly not-unnerving presence.

Dipper grunts. After a moment, he tilts his head to look at Bill. He doesn’t seem to notice, too focused on the drama playing out onscreen.

It’s strange - everything about Bill is strange - but in this relevant quiet and calm, Dipper can get a good look at him. Most of the time they’re close because his personal space is being invaded, and that doesn’t leave any space to think.

For a magical shape inhabited by an interdimensional entity, Dipper has to admit - the human form is very well designed.

The body next to him isn’t full of sharp edges. Much softer than metal. It feels like a real person, somewhere underneath that permanent suit. The angles of Bill’s face and the shape of his body fit easily within the human spectrum, he could pass easily for one on the street. Anyone taking a second glance would notice the positives before the oddities. Even those weirder bits kind of fit Bill; they come together a strangely compelling way.

Hell, Dipper knows it’s an artificial body, and he’s still fooled sometimes. It’s a truly excellent facsimile.

Given the chance, there could be more to figure out. Stuff to prod at, or examine. But Bill probably wouldn’t like that, and anyway it’s late.

Dipper feels the weight over his shoulders shift. He hums a brief sound of apology; he didn’t mean to jostle Bill’s arm too much. It’s not bad, having it there. A warm, solid thing that holds him close, silk shirt soft under his cheek.

Too warm. Soft shirt.

Slowly, Dipper lets his heavy eyelids shut.

A scream cuts through the air. Kinda tinny sound. Must be the doorbell again.

Then Dipper’s pillow shifts under his cheek, and he startles slightly. Not very far, maybe an inch.

Wait. This is - not his room. The living room.

Orienting takes a second. The scream was - from the tv, right. Onscreen a demon gets murdered in a grisly fashion, swearing as it’s carved open. For some reason Dipper’s view of it is sideways.

Wait, where is he?

Dipper leans up slightly to get a better look, and hears a muffled snicker. A firm hand presses his head back down, fingers carding through his hair. His face gets smooshed against silken fabric.

Not couch fabric. Clothing fabric. And underneath it, a body.

Which is the person next to him, who is sitting next to him, who can only possibly be Bill.

Dipper nearly drifted off right next to the guy. That’s no good.

How did this happen? One moment he was vaguely watching TV, the next he was out like a light, it’s weird. It hasn’t been a long day. He hasn’t exerted himself, he’s not sick or hurting, he hasn’t even lost any -

Alright, he did lose some blood. The wound just healed over too fast for it to be a problem.

And now that he’s concentrating on it - physically, he’s fucking exhausted. His arms and legs have a faint familiar ache, like he’s been running and hiding for hours.

Maybe regrowing an organ took more out of him than he thought.

Trying to open his eyes is more difficult than anticipated. Dipper has to open them. Just gotta get up the will to move. Shove himself off the couch and escape.

Forcing his eyes open, Dipper catches the movie just as a dramatic confession scene starts playing out. There’s a lot of arguing. And some kissing? He can’t tell if it’s eternal rivalry or love, but either way Bill seems deeply intrigued.

Dipper could get up. There’s no compulsion on him. No curse, or any kind of spell.

But between the exhaustion, his full stomach, and sitting in a dark warm room, watching the fire flicker - Bill’s fingers, running in slow circles on the back of his neck and through his hair - it’s hard to think why he would.

Moving’s effort. Nobody’s making him do it. Even Bill’s distracted, watching his ridiculous drama; Dipper could drift off again, right here and now, and be totally, probably fine.

He’s gotta get up anyway.

Falling asleep on a literal Lord of Nightmares is a bad idea. Time to go to bed. In a real bed. Even if Bill doesn’t mind getting Dipper-drool on his fancy shirts, at best it’s rude as hell.

Eventually Dipper gets his heavy arms to move. He tries lifting his head. It’s briefly stopped by the pressure of Bill’s own cheek, before it disappears like… okay, maybe Dipper imagined that part. From there - standing’s effort, but surprisingly easy without demonic interference.

Not that Bill doesn’t look a little like he wants to grab Dipper again. His eye narrows, but he doesn’t move when he asks, “Hey! Where’re you going?”

“Sorry,” Dipper starts, then pauses. Bill’s got a weirdly pinched expression; he must not have liked that - The words start stumbling out, unbidden. “It’s not - Sorry. I mean, I just. Uh, I’m really tired. I should go to bed-”

“Why do you gotta leave for that?” Bill leans back further, onto the arm of the couch. He pats his shoulder, then runs his open hand under it like a showcase display. “You were plenty cozy here! Stick around!”

“You’re not a pillow though,” Dipper tries to argue, but Bill keeps talking. “Says who? I can be anything I want, whenever I wanna.” Bill sniffs, lifting his chin. “You should see me shapeshift, sapling, it’s a hell of a sight!”

Dipper shrugs. He looks down, digging his toes into the carpet.

By all rights Bill should be offended that Dipper touched him at all, except for how he’s pretty touchy himself. It can’t add to any plan or conquer any planet, at best it would….

Does Bill… want human drool on his shirt? Is that a thing? Collecting blood is one thing, what do other fluids do?

“Ahem,” Bill pats his shoulder again, then his lap. “Get back here, already. You know you wanna!”

A command, though one that’s not harsh. And Dipper doesn’t have to follow Bill’s orders. He knows that. Bill hates that, he prefers to make a solid, convincing argument rather than watch Dipper fold like paper. Dipper could leave, right now, and it’d be fun for him, it’d be fine.

There’s an argument to be made that this order wouldn’t be too awful. He was pretty comfy.

Unfortunately for Bill, it's also a bad idea.

Leaning up against a literal Nightmare Lord and taking a nap is bound to have terrible effects on the human psyche. Between the way Bill radiates magic like heat - like a goddamn furnace - feeling his chest through the thin shirt, the arms coming around him -

Dipper covers his mouth, looking away. He can already feel the flames of Bill’s magic licking through him, and they’re not even touching.

Definitely a pass. He prefers his brain unfried, thank you.

He almost speaks up to say so before Bill snaps his fingers. An idea has struck him, apparently. By the look, he thinks it’s a great one.

“Not where you wanna rest your head? No problem! You got options.” Bill says, casually waving off any concerns like errant spiderwebs. “How bout this?”

In one quick motion, Bill undoes his tie, letting it drape loose around his neck. Another flick opens the first button of his shirt. He continues down, in a line of quick movement. One, then two; three and another. Dropping down, step after step, fabric parting until it reveals a wide expanse of skin.

What is he- Dipper turns his head away - then back when there’s no horrible explosion of fire or blood or, or -

He doesn’t know what he expected. It’s just an open shirt.

With his work done, Bill kicks his legs up on the couch and lounges back, arms tucked behind his head. “So? Whatdya’ think?”

There’s probably a good response to that. Thinking of one is hard, though. Dipper’s never, ever seen the suit come off. Wasn’t sure it could.

He’d kind of wondered if there was skin under his clothes, and, yeah, turns out there is. A lot of it.

“Hey!” Bill snaps his fingers, then grins at Dipper’s slight startle. “Now, if a shoulder doesn’t appeal to ya, this might suit your fancy.” He motions over the half-opened shirt. The body’s so human looking under the clothing; all warm-looking skin and the curves of muscle. “Mortals love nestling up against flesh, am I right?”

“Um,” Dipper says. Reaching for a word, or a phrase, to tell Bill that this is.

Not wrong, exactly. Sleepovers exist, not that Dipper’s had one. But he’s sure they don’t work this way. Neither of them are in their pajamas, there isn’t a pillow for or a bed around - and demon gods with dubious motives are never part of the equation.

Cultural clash, maybe. Bill could have misunderstood how this works. A brief moment of confusion, or insanity -

Billgiving Dipper a look that makes his stomach do a flip. Both dark and a little playful, a strange mix.

So much for misunderstanding. Bill seems like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

Dipper wipes his suddenly sweaty palms on his pants. His newly-grown tongue feels thick in his mouth. He tries to look at the carpet instead of at- anything else, and fails miserably.

Each time he looks up, he’s confronted with Bill having a body and a chest, looking at him with a half-lidded gaze in the dim, flickering light of the fire.

The fireplace should have been turned off fully, come to think of it. It’s way too warm in the room right now, making Dipper lightheaded and slightly damp in his own shirt. Along with building energy. A weird tremulous feeling, like he shouldn’t just stand there. He should take action. Move.

“I gotta go,” Dipper blurts, and heads for his room.

He keeps a respectable pace while he’s at it. Not too slow, not too fast. This way it feels - and looks - less like fleeing.

“Whoa, wait wait wait,” Bill says. The thump behind Dipper tells him he’s gotten up from the couch. “C’mon, kid, no need to rush off back to your bed! What, is it the mini-me you’re after? Cause the real deal’s a million times better than that bite-sized scrap of fabric.”

The door’s nearly there. Though Dipper hears Bill storming up behind him, he only picks up his own pace. A brush of air ghosts over his arm as Bill makes a grab at his wrist.

The heat, the energy, the weird, light feeling in his stomach - Dipper can put a pin in the core feeling now.

Nervousness.

All the more reason to leave. Feeling scared means something’s coming. Ignoring the danger only lets it catch up.

Time to leave.

He gets his hand on the doorknob just in time for Bill’s palms to slam into the wood on either side of his head.

Too fast, damn it, he doesn’t know why he didn’t think of that - and the low chuckle behind him sends a warm shiver down his spine.

“What’s the matter kid?” Dipper’s stomach does an awkward somersault as he feels Bill’s breath ghost over the back of his neck. “You didn’t think you were gonna get away that easy, did you?”

The doorknob isn’t turning. Dipper grabs it with both hands now, but no matter which way he moves it, it’s stuck or something- Bill’s laughter rises into a high, delighted cackle, fingernails scraping down the wood.

“Not a chance,” Bill says. His voice is low as he presses Dipper closer to the door. “I’ve got big plans for you, Pine Tree.”

Oh.

The flushing warmth drains from Dipper’s face; his blood runs cold. The way Bill crowds him in feels less like his normal bullyish habit and more like being in a trap.

There was an ulterior motive; something dangerous and demonic. Stupid. Idiot. He should have known better before this happened. He shouldn’t have gotten so close, shouldn’t have agreed to anything tonight. Everything was leading up to a part of Bill’s grandmaster plan and running away ruined it, now he’s in trouble, he should have listened to his gut and gotten out of there first thing.

Bill keeps saying that he’s special. How stupid was it to hope it was in a good way.

“No running off, kid!” Strong hands turn Dipper around and push him back. He hits the door with a thump. “You-”

Bill might be quick, but in this, Dipper’s quicker. He already has his arms up, covering his head, his face. His mouth works without permission as he says, “Please don’t-”

Then clamps his teeth shut before the next word. Maybe Bill won’t - he probably wouldn’t, or not start now, he hopes. He thinks. Saying it could put the idea in Bill’s head if it’s not there already and protesting wouldn’t stop him if it was, it’d just make Dipper sound weaker than he already is now.

A hand reaches out. Dipper flinches away so sharply it hits the door behind him.

Nothing touches him. No punishment lands.

Each moment that it doesn’t makes Dipper think that maybe, just maybe, nothing’s going to happen. Hopes it won’t. Bill hasn’t harmed him so far and he wants things to stay that way.

But he’s so, so close.

In the silence, Dipper hears only his own harsh breathing.

“To start with,” Bill says, slow, though not as loud - Dipper realizes he’s drawn back a bit, one hand is lifted. “You’ll need this.”

He’s not going to look. He’s not -

Okay, he does peek, because he’s curious. Since he’s already in trouble, he might as well know why.

Held between Bill’s fingers is an elaborate golden key.

“Your door’s locked, kid.” Bill wiggles the key back and forth between index finger and thumb. “Might wanna do something about that before going beddy-bye.”

“Oh.” All of Dipper’s held breath escapes him in a rush. He lifts his head slightly, checking - but Bill’s standing a good two feet away now. Not. Doing anything. “Oh, yeah, um. Right.”

That’s all it was. The knob wasn’t working because he locked it. That’s all. It’s fine. He’s fine.

He doesn’t remember doing that, though- Wait, did his door even have one.

“Seemed like the sorta addition you’d been waiting for. No skin off my nose to make a quick renovation.” Bill purses his lips in a pout, like he’s about to sulk again. “I was gonna tell ya, but then you ran off! Ya gotta hear me out before fleeing, sapling.”

Oh. That’s - yeah, he did kind of want that, he just thought. Bill controls this place, he owns everything here. Asking felt wrong, could have got him in trouble, and anyway he hasn’t barged in in weeks, so really, Dipper hadn’t minded. But now….

Though the key’s right in front of him, it’s hard to get his limbs to cooperate. Dipper takes a slow breath, brushing off his shirt, smoothing back his hair.

He just. Needs a second.

“Lemme just get that for you,” Bill says, with a brightness that doesn’t quite ring like his usual. He winks, stepping to one side and unlocking the door with practiced ease.

The instant it’s open, Dipper rushes into his room.

Bracing himself on the footboard, he takes stock of the situation. The light is on, and everything’s in place. His bed is halfway made and his book is on the table where he left it, there’s no ominous presence chasing him into this miniature sanctuary.

He’s fine.

He’s back in his room. Back where there’s a soft bed, with cozy blankets, all of his stuff. Everything’s in place, nobody’s messed with it, even the plushie is still next to his pillow. Nothing’s hurt him in here before and it won’t start now.

A few moments helps him compose himself. Dipper runs a hand through his hair, letting out a shaky breath.

Plus. There’s a door that locks. Not much protection against the creature he’s cohabiting with, but that’s okay. If Bill does burst in, he won’t be able to lie and say he didn’t know he shouldn’t.

…Bill hasn’t burst in now, either.

A quick check over his shoulder shows him still standing in the doorway.

For a man who doesn’t like being ignored, he’s gone unusually quiet. Dipper waits. He fidgets with the hem of his shirt.

Any moment now Bill’s going to fill up the silence. Babble something inane or intimidating.

He doesn’t.

In fact, he hasn’t moved an inch.

Bill stands just outside the threshold, hands by his sides. Watching Dipper like he’s a million miles away instead just a few meters, looking like - Dipper can’t place it. An expression that, on another face, would make more sense. On Bill it’s more like something’s gone wrong.

More seconds pass in silence. Too awkward, and too quiet, Dipper should - Bill shouldn’t look like that.

“Um. Thank you,” Dipper says, stilted and awkward, but sincere. “For, uh,” He gestures, even more furtively, to his mouth

The corner of Bill’s mouth quirks up. “Eh, no biggie.” He flicks his fingers in a dismissive manner, then polishes them on his still-opened shirt. “Don’t get me wrong, I do love the sound of my own voice - but a guy can use a little variety around the place, y’know?”

“And, uh. Dinner was nice too,” Dipper continues, a rush of words, whatever comes to mind. Knowing that any moment Bill could leave gives him a weird burst of energy to keep rambling. If he’s talking, Bill will listen. He just said as much. “I really liked that. Did you always have a dining room that big? Does it always exist? I mean, yeah, you can just make stuff, but making entire architecture’s a big ask. Do you just move stuff around, or make it from scratch every time? I know you have a lot of magic, but don’t you need to, like, save it up for stuff, or does it-”

The questions keep coming, awkward over his new tongue. All the ones he’d been wondering about, and now that he can just say them, they pour out in an almost involuntary flood. So much faster than writing.

Getting all the thoughts out of his head is kind of a relief. Bill’s eye widens briefly; he must not have expected that.

At some point Dipper realizes he’s been rambling at Bill levels of length, and shuts his mouth with a click.

“So, uh.” Dipper clears his throat, feeling awkward. “Yeah.” That was way, way too many questions. Stupid. Intrusive.

Bill leans casually against the doorway now, raising an eyebrow. Again, amazingly, he hasn’t minded a bit of it.

In fact - while Dipper was speaking, every word added an incremental increase to his grin. Now it’s bright on his face again, full-force.

“Dinner, huh?” Bill says, electing to skip over any kind of answers, like a jerk. Looking amused now instead of - whatever that was. He claps his hands together, rubbing them with anticipation. “We should do that again sometime! Tomorrow, even!”

“Sure,” Dipper agrees in a rush. Damn, maybe that was too fast. He sounds too eager, Bill could use it as leverage, dangle it in front of him then pull it away. He shoves his hands in his pockets. “That. Sounds okay.”

Bill chuckles. He takes a half-step, stopping just before he enters the room. “What, no followup questions?” His smile is teasing now. “Here I thought I was gonna get the whole spiel!”

“No I- It’s cool.” Turning away, Dipper rubs his face. He clears his throat.

No more distractions. He was going to bed. He was getting away. Conversation over, he shouldn’t drag it out.

“Forgetting something?” Bill speaks up. Dipper glances back at him, where Bill, again, raises an eyebrow. Again, he waggles the key in Dipper’s vision.

Damn, he did forget; he’ll need that. Dipper takes a step closer. Then another.

His own hesitance annoys him; Fuck it, it’s not like this is the worst thing that’s ever happened to him. With a huff, he draws himself up and stomps over to Bill. Holding out his hand, palm up.

The slow smile that spreads across Bill’s face is downright wicked. Another bit of showmanship; he’s clearly covering for something.

Dipper narrows his eyes, and stands firm.

One of Bill’s hands comes up underneath Dipper’s, cupping the back. The other sets the key into his palm, a motion that comes off as almost too casual. It might have worked, too, if he didn’t slowly trace his fingers over it, tickling the skin. “Here ya go, kid.”

The touch leaves a tingling feeling in its wake. Probably magic, something with the key - Dipper pulls his hand back a second too late, clutching it to his chest.

“Nighty-night, sapling.” Bill winks, and annoyingly, gives double finger-guns at him. As he backs away, the door slowly closes in his wake. “Don’t forget about tomorrow! Mark the date!”

Dipper raises an eyebrow. He’s not going to forget the literal next day. Bill’s an idiot.

“‘Cause I’ll be seeing you real soon,” Bill continues. His face leans into the slowly closing crack of the door. Aiming for ominous, probably. Pity his timing’s off. “Sooner than you think! In fact, I could-”

Dipper steps forward and shuts the door with a ‘thunk’. The muffled ‘Hey!’ from behind it has him forcing down a grin of his own.

Defying Bill shouldn’t be good. It should scare him. It should feel more wrong.

Instead it gives Dipper a bit of a spring in his step, and a faint burst of pride. The weirdness of this place must be catching.

He makes a quick change into pyjamas, shutting off most of the lights. Flopping back into the comfy bed, with the lamp on the bedside table letting out a dim glow.

Mini-Bill, keeping vigil on his pillow, stares at Dipper with the same focused intensity as the real version. Dipper scoops it up in his arms, and rolls onto his back, holding it above his head.

“At least you’re not scary,” Dipper says, and smiles. Because he can speak now, god, it’s going to take a while to get used to that. He pulls mini-Bill down and into his face, nuzzling the soft, worn fabric.

Then sits up, suddenly alert. Somewhere Bill just swore really loud; it’s since faded into a long, complaining groan. He stubbed his toe again, didn’t he.

A minor annoyance, considering. As exhaustion looms. Dipper flicks the bedside light off, and pulls up the blankets.

This is probably the… not the longest day he can remember, but certainly up there. So much has happened. He’s learned some stuff - not enough yet, but some - and he’s going to get to do even more tomorrow. Because Bill’s a lot of things, but he’s never boring, and the whole time Dipper will be full and fixed and whole.

Thanking Bill earlier was sincere. But it didn’t cover everything, or how much it meant. It’s too vast; a mind-reader like Bill can’t know how he feels when even he’s still working it out.

One day, Dipper might find the words to describe it. How important this was. And, well. Special.

Maybe he’ll even say them out loud.

He squeezes the plush tighter, and almost doesn’t feel dumb for doing it. Bill’s never judged him having mini-Bill and if it could be made fun of, he would, so. Keeping this, holding this, is okay. Curling up around it in the cozy bed, and holding it close.

Sleeping with it in his bed. In his room. He has a key to the place and everything.

…Dipper could live like this, he thinks. In this place of danger, extreme weirdness, and relative peace.

He also knows better than to think it can last.

But hey, screw it. Until then, he might as well enjoy himself.

Back in the cult he never had a tenth of the creature comforts, and the company was definitely subpar. Here in the Fearamid, he’ll learn new things, all the time. Doing magic, having his own place, living and eating well. Finding secrets.

And occasionally getting a bout of sheer terror, but, well. Bill is a Nightmare Lord and all. Complaining about that would be like bitching about water being wet, and here it happens less often than back on Earth.

For now, he’s doing okay. Comfortable, warm, well-fed. Mostly, temporarily, safe.

When Bill finally makes his move, Dipper hopes it’ll be obvious. Most of what he does is too weird to find a pattern. There may not be any clues until Bill’s already kicked off the events that will seal Dipper’s eventual fate.

All because he’s special. And he only has one clue as to what that means.

Dipper wedges mini-Bill further between his chin and his shoulder. Running his tongue over his teeth, curling it in over the birthmark - then letting it lay still, heavy in his mouth.

As far as he knows, the plan could have already started.

#This took forever and I'm sick of looking at it #So now all of you get to stare at these words!!#I hope it's a fun read!#I could probably have done yet another editing pass #But I am v tired #The stupid document hit 65 pages so it's a big ol' post #I hope you can enjoy my foolish typings #Gotta get started on More Writing now

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