Daemon Falls
Gravity Falls fanfiction
Dipper x Bill
Written by Parker Dodson
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WARNING! Contains gore, violence, torture, alcohol abuse, cannibalism, love, mystery and adventure, suicide attempts, depictions of death, depression, demons, angels, spells and magical beings. Enjoy!
The Red Abbey
Chapter 1
'I find it easy to believe that there is more to this world than meets the eye… All you have to do is look for it.'
- Stanford Pines
Bill slams against the tree, gasping for breath.
The frigid air burns his throat and lungs, daggers of ice, and frost crunches underfoot and prickles his back as he leans against the frozen bark of the tree. For a moment, it's absolutely silent.
Then there's a gunshot, and the crows take flight with screeches and ebony wings, sharp beaks that seems to tear into the gray sky. Bill swallows, and his heart thunders in his chest, but he can't seem to fight his smile. The hunt has always thrilled him.
Around him the monochrome woods seem to burst into life, pounding feet, shouts, guns ringing and snow crunching under heavy boots. Bill stands out against his black and white surroundings, pale golden hair and a gleaming yellow eyes, the other hidden under an eyepatch, and pale skin and freckled cheeks, a nose pink with the cold. He swipes his hand under his nose and yanks out his sword, a crimson blade that drips blood onto the snow below. The men who were slain with it never had a chance, and Bill smiles to himself at the memories. Humans are so fascinating to him! Such soft skin, frail hearts, such delicate breaths and bodies that can so easily be pierced! The thought of the rolling eyes, the slack jaws and the limp hands is enough to make Bill shiver with excitement. How he wants to taste more blood and skin between his teeth! The thought of it makes him salivate slightly and shift his weight, tapping the blade of his swords against his black boots. Soon, they'll be all his.
The men appear, gunshots and the smell of smoke, shouts and stomping feet, heavy breaths and the whinny of horses and the bark of dogs. Bill grins and takes off, his flying steps never seeming to touch the snowy ground, the wind biting his cheeks and his long trench coat snapping behind him. He swings his sword, silver blade flashing, the golden handle gleaming in the faded sunlight, and a man screams and falls, a long tear in his chest, a pool of red around him, staining the snow. They're all around him, firing, slashing, screaming, and Bill befalls them all, barely getting a workout from it. His sword snarls and slides between armor and ribs, severs skulls and tears skin, clashes with other swords with a sharp ring of metal. His dark magic thrills through him as he slows, turning in a slow circle. They are all dead now, limp bodies, slack jaws, staring eyes. The dogs tuck their tails between their legs and scurry off, whining, and the horses stomp and nudge their riders, trying to get them to wake up.
Bill turns to the young boy who is stepping out of the brush, his eyes wide, his mop of black hair spotted in snowflakes, his cheeks pink with the cold and his fingers tinged blue.
"Y-You did it," he says in surprise.
"Yes," Bill responds, sliding his sword back into its sheath. "As our contract stated. Now, for my end of the bargain."
The boy swallows and rocks on his feet, shivering with the cold and fear of the man standing before him. "These thieves," he says softly, gesturing to the bodies around them, "Killed my father, leaving my mum, my baby sister, and me all alone. I couldn't forgive them for what they stole from us. I couldn't…" His voice breaks and he wipes away a tear, warm on his cold face. "But now I wonder, did they have families too? Was killing my dad an accident? And now, the people who loved them will find that they're never coming back."
"Thus is the bloody cycle of revenge, lad," Bill responds, a quirk in his lips and yellow eye flashing viciously.
"I wish I understood before," the boy says to himself.
"Too late now," Bill replies, and takes a step forward, removing his leather glove and extending his hand to the boy. "And, now your soul belongs to me."
The boy stares at Bill's hand hollowly and slowly reaches up, empty eyes, and he clasps it, rough and warm skin against his cold flesh, and Bill grins as the crows watch on from the bare trees above.
Dipper stands, breathing a hard breath between his lips, slapping the rag over his shoulder.
"All polished, sir," he says, and the gentleman puts down his paper, examining the shiny black shoes on his feet.
"Well done, lad," he says with a smile, clambering off of his seat and reaching into his suit pocket, handing Dipper a few coins. "Have a good one!"
"And to you as well, sir!" Dipper calls before eagerly counting his money. A disappointing weight settles on his shoulders as he realizes it's not yet enough, and his stomach tightens into a familiar ball of hunger. If he doesn't die of starvation first, then Mabel will without any of the medicine she so desperately needs.
He sighs and tucks the money away, looking up at the gray sky. A bird sings nearby, and the murmur of crowds of people and the clatter of horse's hooves fill his ears as he leans against the wall of a building, feeling weak and tired. God, this headache is killing him! He licks his dry lips with a sandpaper tongue, breathing shallow breaths as he tries to think clearly. Begging doesn't work here; too many people already beg and too many people are unwilling to even glance their way. No one will give Dipper a job because he is too weak.
"I've hit the bottom," Dipper mutters, folding his hands into his worn pockets. He tries to recall when it has ever been this bad, but somehow he and Mabel always pulled through, Mabel with her tailoring skills and Dipper versatile with almost every job given to him, it seemed that everything was well and dandy. Until Mabel got sick. Until Dipper gave her all of his food and lied saying he was eating. Until Dipper lost his job. Until they ending up in a crisis where there seemed to be no escape from. Dipper is beyond desperate. His twin sister is dying! And he sits here, doing nothing, too weak and miserable to help her.
He grits his teeth, his eyes burning with tears he can't shed. It's like falling down a dark pit with no means of escape or freedom, nothing to grab onto, nothing to pull yourself back up with. He sinks down, wrapping his arms around his legs, his shoulders shaking with tearless sobs. There's a fear that he won't be able to get up again now that he's sat, there's the fear that Mabel is already dead, there's a fear that he will continue suffering. It never ends.
He opens his eyes, finding crows staring down at him from the eaves, waiting for him to die so they can dig into his cold skin, peck out his brown eyes and draw blood with razor beaks and talons. Dipper chokes out a laugh, dragging himself to his feet, taking wobbling steps and waving his fist at the birds. "You're gonna be waiting for a while, you stupid vultures! I'm not dying yet!"
The birds flap their wings, stirring up black feathers, and Dipper turn his back to them and walks away, his breaths ragged and his steps uncertain. He feels cold inside, his bones aching, his thoughts muddled and tired. No, those birds won't be waiting much longer now. He knows this through his trembling heartbeats and quivering breaths, his blurry vision and slow thoughts, trudging through mud. The people go around him, staring and whispering, shaking their heads and clucking their tongues sadly, hiding their children and looking at their feet. He swallows, wobbles, choking breaths and spinning surroundings, blurred faces and the gray sky above. Perhaps, he thinks to himself, he can simply kill himself. He was meant to die under the sharp eyes of the crows, he knows he was supposed to, but denied his fate, leaving him stranded in a sea of confusion and uncertainty. Him being alive must be nothing but a burden for Mabel and this Earth; a useless amount of deadweight that serves no purpose.
He bites down hard on his finger, the pain dull, and he's tempted to scream in anger and fear. What does he have left? What is there left for him now? He's just so cold inside…
He walks towards the docks, the salty breeze sandpaper in his exhausted lungs and burning his eyes, and he looks down at the gray water, lapping the docks and gently rocking the boats to its unearthly rhythm. Yellowed foam collects on the rocks and tongues of seaweed clump and rot on the shore, discarded and forgotten, and he can see the numbers of flies collected on the wrinkled green surface, and he swallows, feeling slightly sick to his stomach. If he falls into the water, inhales the bitter sea and fills his lungs with it, perhaps he can escape. But without him, Mabel will surely get worse. But he's too weak at this point to even be of any help anymore.
He lets his feet slip off of the dock, frigid water that fills his nose and lungs, a bitter taste on his tongue, his heart heavy like lead. If he screams now, no one will hear. No one will pull him out. No one cares about a lowly kid already dying of starvation. He can't work, he can't bring home money, he can't serve a purpose now.
He falls into the dark abyss, murky green water above his head, shattered sunlight smiling down at him, an inky blackness under his limp body, unseen currents yanking at his body, tugging at his clothes, twisting and tangling his hair, kissing his bare skin with icy lips. His lips part, a gush of salty water, an eruption of bubbles, and his fingers claw and his body trashes against the darkness as it reaches to consume him…
"Open your eyes, lad," a crisp voice says, and Dipper jerks his eyes open, gasping and coughing water out of his lungs, emptying it onto the ground under him. The sun seems bright, too bright, burning his eyes and lighting his eyelids red, and he rolls onto his knees, choking and gasping for air he thought he'd never be able to breathe again.
A figure stands over him, face shadowed, and Dipper's vision swims and his head throbs as he lays back down, too tired and cold to do much else. His chattering teeth allow few words to be uttered, but he manages: "W-Who are you? What h-happened?"
"You tried to kill yourself," the figure says, and then crouches down, their features busting into clarity. Pale skin, a constellation of freckles scattered across his cheekbones and nose like fallen stars, a single eye melted butterscotch and honey, a sea of gold tinged with hazel, his other eye concealed with a black eyepatch. A mess of curls and twists of golden hair seem to glow in the sunshine, and a long black trench coat flaps in the briny wind. He is not much older than Dipper, but he exudes danger and energy, stubbornness and cockiness, boldness and little fear or morality. The man extends a gloved hand to the boy. "'M name's Bill Cipher. I pulled you out of the water you tried to yourself in."
Dipper snorts water out of his nose and shakily reaches up, struck by the other's strange name and rescuing him. Dipper clasps the gloved hand like a lifeline, his lips quivering and his breath shaky. "D-Dipper Pines, s-sir."
Bill releases Dipper's hand, standing and rolling his shoulders before giving Dipper an easy smile. "Boy, your lips are blue! Let's get you dried off before we try out any real conversation, yes? Can you stand, lad?"
Dipper tries to, but his soft knees give out under him, bones and skin dropping to the ground with a clatter. He gives Bill a strained smile. "I-I'd like to, but I'm afraid I can't."
"Malnutrition, starvation, and a desperate suicide attempt? My, my, it's been a long day, huh?" Bill gives him an amused smile. "Here, grab my hand, Pine Tree. I'll pull you up."
Dipper once again allows his hand to be swallowed up by Bill's, soft leather against his wrinkled fingertips, and Bill easily pulls him to his feet, supporting Dipper's weight on his shoulder and securing an arm around Dipper's waist, holding him steady. This close Dipper can smell cinnamon, foreign shores, sand and wind and sea, the tinge of vanilla, and he parts his lips slightly, drunk with it. Bill's coat is damp, presumably from jumping in after Dipper, and it strikes him odd that anyone would bother to help him in the first place.
Bill takes a step forward, seeing if Dipper can follow, and when Dipper manages to hobble along, Bill grows more confident, allowing Dipper to rest almost all of his weight on him. Sailors stomp by, busy with tasks at hand, and most of them cast shocked looks at Bill, not even seeming to notice Dipper using him like a crutch. Bill, Dipper realizes, is striking. That gold hair, the sharp yellow gaze that seems to strike you to the soul, the long coat and freckled face like scattered sand, boots that make a satisfying tapping sound on the dock, Dipper feels very pitiful and frail beside the powerful force that is Bill Cipher. Bill looks down at Dipper out of the corner of his eye, winks, flashes a smirk that makes Dipper's breath catch and heart pound. Dipper feels his cheeks flush red, realizing he had been caught staring at Bill openmouthed.
"You keepin' up, lad?" Bill asks in a breathy tone. "Need me to slow down?"
"N-No," Dipper gasps, determined to not seem any weaker before the other. "I-I'm fine…"
Bill slows down anyway, taking shorter strides, his arm firm around Dipper's waist and body lean and warm against Dipper's shivering form. Dipper can feel his eyelids sagging and sinking in exhaustion, ready to fall asleep in the arms of a stranger that saved his life. He's just so warm and sturdy, like a lifeline in a raging sea. Standing next to him, Dipper feels a little less frightened and sleepy almost, relaxed and at ease.
His surroundings swirl and blur together, a collage of mixed colors and faces, undistinguished bodies and rolling gray and blue waves in the distance. Dipper feels suddenly nauseous, and he gazes at Bill blearily, trying to focus on his face so he doesn't risk puking.
Bill stops, gently picking Dipper up, cradling his body and rocking him slightly so he'll settle into his arms. Dipper's face rests against Bill's chest, and he can hear the whoosh of breath in Bill's lungs, the thudding of a live heart; a steady rhythm.
"W-What'd you do that for?" Dipper slurs.
"Because you look like you're going to pass out, kid!" Bill shakes his head, giving the dizzy boy a dazzling smile. "I swear – Don't act so tough, kid!"
'Cause I'm not? Dipper wonders to himself, but he's so sick, tired, and hungry that he drifts out of consciousness in the stranger's arms.
Bill gives the boy a secret little smile, his pale face, blue lips and fingers, damp and tangled auburn curls that stick to is moist forehead, soft doe eyes that swallow you in their depths, thick lashes and a skinny body from the lack of food. He's a fragile thing, and the look of despair in those delicate eyes is what drove Bill to dive in after him, into the frigid and salty water of the sea and scoop the boy up in his arms and hold him close. His soul is something promising; rich with devotion and fear and spiced with grief and starvation, desire and anger, bottled up and shaken around to result in a boy that doesn't know what to do anymore.
Bill licks his lips with a smile. He just ate, but this boy's soul looks so delicious and tantalizing that he decides that he can try to strike up a contract. Thankfully, it's always the desperate ones that shake his hand.
He approaches his home, a small house above a flower shop he owns, and opens the front door, a soft ding and the breath of fresh flowers. He locks the door behind him, and pads up the wooden steps, rocking the unconscious boy, whistling a tuneless song under his breath, passing walls decorated with old contracts yellowed with age, wrinkled spell pages, very old things that humans have not put eyes on for hundreds of years, and he walks into his room, gently setting the boy on his bed. His room is simple and organized; a desk with neat stacks of papers, a vase of dried monkshood, walls painted faint yellow and cream, black curtains and a black bedspread.
Whistling, he quickly loosens his tie and casts it off to the side, undoes the top buttons on his undershirt and breathes a relaxed breath before slipping out of his damp trench coat and hanging it on his clothes rack before turning to the sleeping Dipper. The boy lays sprawled on his bed, clothes still wet, his mouth open slightly and his breaths slow and deep. What soft skin! What a delicious scent that wafts off of him, touched by the barest brushes of death and drunk with life and fear! What soft hair that makes Bill crave to run his fingers through, what delicate cheeks that beg for a thumb to rub against! And the soul is a thriving thing, glowing faint blue light that only Bill can see, spicy and sweet and tantalizing and makes Bill salivate slightly at the smell of.
He decides, right then and there, that even if Dipper turns down his contract, he will get that soul one way or another.
End of Chapter 1