A/N :
Sup chicks n' chaps!. Just a heads up before we get this shit show on the road. This story is set in victorian London, 1888. Mabel and Mason (why I use is actual name instead of Dipper will become clear as the story goes.) lost their parents in an accident a couple of years back and have been living with their Grunkles ever since. They are both grown up by now and tending to their lives, helping their grunkles with the pawn shop they took over after their dad, working other jobs, roaming about doing ordinary stuff. Well... ordinary for now, but that will soon change.
That's it for now folks, will probably add more notes if I remeber some piece of vital information that you should know about.
Please enjoy and review! Always happy to improve my writing ^3^
The lampposts flickering gas light set demonic shadows free to dance in the narrow alleyways. The unsettling shapes stalked whom ever crossed their path - Professors, outcasts, labourers and gentlefolk alike. The night was a cruel and terror-struck time, bringing the Underworld to the surface and the Dreamscape to life.
Hands deep in his coat pockets and the brim of his hat further down his face than necessary, the darkly dressed figure silently observed the slumbering street. The clock had struck midnight a while ago and for each passing moment his posture became more and more tense. The sharpness of the brick wall cut into his back and the odour of the filthy surroundings stung in his nostrils. He just wanted to get this over with.
A sudden outburst of drunken laughter caught his attention. The last of the drunkards had finally managed to find the door of the pub and brought their sorry arses out on the street. About bleeding time! Still dwelling in the shadows, he watched as the small group dispersed - each in their own direction - and left the street calm once more. The light inside the pub soon died out and a slender figure dress in a green, high-collar dress stepped out. She wrapped herself in carefully crafted shawl and bid a friendly 'goodnight' to the pubkeeper still inside. The door locked heavily behind her and left her standing alone. Completely exposed. Well aware of this she wrapped her shawl tighter around herself and wasted no more time. Her petite walking boots clicked against the cobblestone as she hurried into a nearby alleyway.
Like a shadow demon on the wall he silently followed her. Each step carrying him closer to the wake of her flowing skirts. The fabric caught the flickering light and made her stand out in the dark, like a bright evergreen in a sea of black birches. Her long hair was all bundled up, held together with a neatly tied ribbon and bounced ever so slightly as she walked; Completely unaware.
He didn't have the patient to let her get very far. He had waited out in the cool night air for well over an hour and was longing for bed and a hot cup of tea.
Increasing his pace slightly he soon caught up. Taking his hands out of his pockets and without hesitation grabbing the shoulders of the girl in front of him. He opened his mouth to let an icy threat roll of his tongue, but had hardly begun to form the words as his prey wiggled out of his grip and a firm fist hit him square in the nose.
He landed hard on his arse and felt numbing pain shoot up his spine as his tailbone hit the cobblestones. Tears formed in his eyes and warm thick blood poured from his nose, down his face and chest. The extreme pain and throbbing of his manhandled snout made him dizzy and a pathetic sound of defeat escaped his lips.
"Dipper?" his sister's voice was a mix of genuine surprise, anger and unease. Her shoes clicked as she stepped closer, confirming that it was indeed her brother. "What the flying freaking fudge bro!?" the sudden fright melted away and relief was soon replaced by anger. Her heart was racing, hands shaking, and she just wanted to run away.
"Do'd gall me dhad", the words didn't sound right with a nose and mouth full of blood and Mabel sighed. Part of her wanted to leave her stupid brother where he lay, but the pathetic sight of him beaten and bloodied (and rightfully so) made her swallow her anger, collect her skirts and crouch down in front of him.
"What was that?"
"Do'd, gall me, Dibber!" the voice sounded embarrassed, apologetic and blaming all at the same time. He raised a hand as discreetly as possible to make sure his worn hat was still in place, covering his birthmark.
"Well, don't sneak up on me and maybe I won't!" she retrieved a handkerchief from one of her pockets and handed it to her brother. Not that it would help much considering the amount of blood, but it was more of a peace offering than anything anyway.
Dipper – Mason – got back up on his feet with the embroidery decorated piece of cloth pressed against his nose.
"I am sorry for hitting you Broseph. It's these horrid rumours that are going around, they are giving me the creeps!" a shiver travelled down her spine at the very thought.
"Dhad is wai I was goi'g do walg u 'ome!" he replied, drooling even more blood down his shirt and jacket.
"What?"
"Walg u 'ome! I, was goi'g, do walg u 'ome!" he made a frustrated gesture with his free hand, spluttering blood around him. Mabel jumped out of the way and raised her hand as if that would automatically keep the blood away.
"Okay okay", she gave a light chuckle and her golden brown eyes glittered in the streetlight. Mason took a deep breath and collected himself, he just wanted to go to bed.
"Thank you ma-Mason", Mabel smiled and pressed her knuckles gently against her brother's upper arm. Mason extended his free arm and smiled back under the blood.
"awgward siblig 'ug?"
"No way bro! You are soaked" she quickly stepped further away in pretend disgust and stuck her tongue out at him.
The familiar bell rung as the twins stepped through the door to the Pines & sons Pawn shop. Mabel locked and bolted the door as Mason walked around the counter and made his way past shelf after shelf of… pretty much anything you could think of, to the staircase in the back. He could see that the light was still on in the basement, meaning Great Uncle Ford was working late yet another night. But as that was nothing unusual Mason continued up the stairs to the living quarters. Eager to wash the blood off and hit the hay.
He quietly sneaked up the last couple of steps and almost jumped out of his skin as a sturdy voice abruptly addressed him from the dark.
"Wo-ho-ho-ho kiddo! What happened to you?" Grunkle Stan didn't sound concerned in the least, but then again, he was a legend amongst the Underground's fighting societies and not exactly a stranger to cuts and bruises.
Thankfully Mabel choose that moment to come up the stairs, so he simply made a tired gesture in her direction and proceeded down the hall; Not feeling up for the part as the Object of ridicule. He could hear his sister spill the beans to their Grunkle and managed to shut the bathroom door just as the old man began to proudly praise Mabel's left hook. Mason didn't want to hear it, he would get more than enough of the Mocking-stick's bad end during the days to come.
He took off his jacket and hat and - exhausted as he was - let them fall to the floor. Untying his necktie proved to take a bit more effort, as the dried blood had turned it into a stiff lump rather than a knot.
"Come on", he begged and stepped in front of the mirror to get a better view of the frustrating mess. Not that it helped much. The bathroom didn't have any lighting of its own and was reliant of what little light the small window could provide, which during night time wasn't much. He gave up with claustrophobic sigh, his nostrils completely blocked, and turned the tap on.
The cold water felt nice against his burning face, as long as he didn't touch his nose (the exploding pain made his head spin and gut twist in objection). After a good ten minutes of delicate cleaning Mason turned the water off. He didn't dare to dry his face and risk touching his nose, so he kept his hunched posture and let the water drip from his face and hair into the sink.
He didn't know how long he stood there, to tired to think or even acknowledge his own existence. Just as he was about to descend to the dominion of dreams a firm knock on the door pulled him back.
"Hey kid, you alright in there?"
"yeah", his voice was hoarse yet thick, but served its purpose. Hinges protested weakly as his Grunkle slowly pushed the door open, the light of a portable kerosene lamp filling the cupboard sized bathroom.
"How is that snout of yours doing?" Mason turned his face towards the mirror, slightly more useful in the light, and studied his face. First of all his eyes fell on his forehead. His wet hair had left the blasted birthmark exposed. He hated that birthmark. It wasn't enough that people believed that the Pines family had made a deal with the devil on the account of the whole twin thing. On top of that Grunkle Ford and himself had to bear the burden of further abnormalities.
He lowered his gaze to the flushed and swollen mess that was supposed to be his nose; In this state it looked more like one of his Grunkles' noses than his.
"It hurts" it didn't matter how pathetic it sounded, he was to tired to tell anything but the truth. Stan chuckled and made his way fully into the bathroom.
"It would wouldn't it? I didn't teach your sister to throw weak punches after all", he sat the lamp down on the small table beside the sink and gave Mason's nose a thorough inspection.
"Yep. Looks like you got a case of broken nose there kiddo, hold still", he placed his large hands on either side of his great nephew's head, rough thumbs hovering over the broken area as he searched for the correct placement to mend it.
"Wow stop!" Mason tried to pull away, but could just as well have tried to move a brick wall. His Grunkle might be old but he was still as strong as a steam engine. "Are you sure you know what you are doing?" on multiple occasions the twins had learned not to trust Stan's skills in the field of medicine; So Mason would very much prefer to go down stairs and ask Grunkle Ford for help.
"Kid, I have been giving and taking punches to the face most of my life. Believe me, there is no one better at fixing noses than your Great uncle Stan" with a confident grin on his face he popped Mason's nose back in place before the boy had had a chance to reply.
Mason let out a weak cry of pain and could feel his eyes tear up again. White stars danced in front of him and his legs felt like noodles. Grunkle Stan let go of his head and helped him sit down on the bathtub edge.
"There you go. Good as new!" he gave a content smile and patted the boy roughly on the back. Mason opened his mouth to voice a half hearted "thanks", but the pain became too much and he could feel his supper rebel in his stomach. He turned around with a clumsy motion – almost falling into the tub as he did – and threw up.
It was a blur, but he had somehow managed to get out of his blood-soaked clothes and made it to bed. His nose was stuffed with cotton and each breath tasted strongly of iron and alcohol. A vague memory of Stan handing him a glass of whiskey against the pain crossed his mind. The dark attic bedroom was spinning: if it was from the pain, exhaustion or alcohol he didn't know, and frankly didn't care. He closed his eyes and let the Dreamscape claim him.