-x-
Dark at the Edges
-x-
The stage is on fire. The props and a few theater seats are burning, filling the air with the scent of acrylic paint and glitter, and musty, cheap fabric. Mabel thinks she hears a fire truck's horn blare under all the burny noises - the crackle and pop of boards coming loose, the whoosh of a curtain going up in flames. Dipper coughs into the bend of his elbow, holding her hand as they hurry for the stairs. He's limping and trying not to show it, gingerly rubbing his sides but dropping his hand the minute Mabel looks at him. Grunkle Stan meets them at the edge of the stage, snapping the video camera shut with a grim look on his face.
Behind the twins, through a haze of building smoke, the cardboard cut-out of the Mystery Shack flops to the stage, curling in the intense heat.
"Kid, what happened?" Stan asks, looking at Dipper, then at Mabel, "Don't tell me you two were fighting for real?"
Dipper and Mabel Uuuhh in unison, wincing at each other. There's no time to come up with a good excuse. Dipper's head is pounding and he lifts a hand to it, wincing. When Mabel makes a show of reluctantly sliding the Journal out from under her sweater, Dipper is relieved that he doesn't have to think of one.
"I... took Dipper's Journal without asking," Mabel says, and does her best to look chastened as she peers at Stan from under her eyelashes, her fingers drumming the spine of the book.
"Yeah, and - she didn't even ask!"
Dipper plays indignant outrage as easily as Mabel plays for sympathy, but he really isn't feeling it. His voice breaks around an intense throb of pain under his ribs and the last word loses its emphasis in a sharp exhale, his breath snagging as he pulls it in. Mabel is looking at him worriedly, but still manages to run with it. She stomps her foot, declaring, "But that was still no excuse for ruining my play!"
It's a better excuse than I may or may not have been possessed by a demonic triangle and tried to destroy us both.
Stan doesn't look pleased.
He takes the Journal from Mabel, even as Dipper reaches for it.
"This thing again? You were fightin' over this?"
His tone is stiff and quiet. It surprises both of them. Dipper looks nervous, twisting the buttons on the cuff of his sleeves; Mabel breaks almost entirely, a nervous laugh as she cuts her eyes to the side, "Uhuhuh, well - kind of? I mean - technically - "
"But it's fine, now, Grunkle Stan - "
"Look, kids, I told you this ain't somethin' you should be playin' with," Stan says, cutting them off. Mabel drops her head, hiding under her bangs, and looks at Dipper. Dipper is holding his breath, watching the monocle dangling from between the pages of the Journal, worried that he's lost it for good this time and Stan won't give it back. But part of him thinks - a sick feeling twists in his gut - that maybe he doesn't deserve to keep it if he's going to constantly put himself and Mabel in danger. Stan shakes the book for emphasis, voice a hot iron that leaves no room for dispute, "You're walkin' on thin ice if you wanna keep this thing."
The unmistakable whoop-whoop of a police siren from the parking lot breaks the mood.
Stan automatically moves toward the nearest exit.
Mabel grabs Dipper by the elbow, pulling him along so he doesn't fall behind.
"Grunkle Stan, since we're fleeing the premises anyway," she says, her voice upbeat and offhanded as she jogs to keep up with the old man's quick stride, "We should probably take Dipper to the hospital. I just don't know my own strength."
Stan holds the emergency door open, letting them out into the back lot where his Ford Galaxie is parked surreptitiously behind the dumpster, "Should'a thought about that before you started squabbling." Smoke billows out the door behind them, dispersing in the night air.
-x-
It feels like Stan goes out of his way to hit every bump in the road and take every turn too sharp. If it weren't for his seatbelt, Dipper would have flopped bonelessly into the floorboard five minutes ago. He draws his knees up, hugs his arms around his middle, and still feels sore and sick, pressing his head back into the seat. His eyes are hot and heavy, sliding closed. His head is spinning. Every time he breathes something else hurts.
Mabel keeps watching him, sitting as close to him as their belts will allow with her hands on her knees.
"You feelin' okay, bro bro?" she asks quietly.
"No..." he says, honest because he can't lie to Mabel when she's looking at him and he can't hide the way his voice hitches. Dipper lays his hands over his face and takes a breath to steady the queasiness building in his stomach, prickling his throat. He feels like he's smothering. Sharp bolts of pain go through his hand and wrist, arching up to his elbow. (The cutlery drawer slamming closed on his arm, the forks sticking out of him when Bill finally pulls it free.)
Dipper's stomach flops unpleasantly. His voice wavers, "Grunkle Stan... I don't feel so good. Can we pull over maybe?"
Mabel lifts her chin to look at Stan over the back of the front seat.
"Just hang tight, kid," he says, without so much as a glance into the rearview mirror, "We're almost home."
The car goes over another bump. Dipper pulls in a short breath behind his hands.
Mabel puckers her face into an intense and uncharacteristic frown.
"We should be going to the hospital!" she says loudly, pounding her thighs with her fists. Dipper groans for her to be quieter and Mabel looks at him sharply. She'd know that wobbly voice anywhere, the lack of color in his face and the extra sweatiness. She's been on the receiving end of too-many-chili-cheese-fries-and-a-super-curvy-car-ride-Dipper before, and locked into the confines of a back seat with him is not the ideal place to be. Mabel points at him, panics. "You're gonna throw up!"
"Aw, Mabel, don't say that..." Dipper moans into his hands.
But he starts doing that gasping thing, like he's trying to fill his stomach with air, like he can keep everything else down if he does. Frantically, Mabel fans him with her hands, flapping the ends of her sleeves near his face. He needs air. He needs to cool off. Maybe Grunkle Stan doesn't hear her the first time - maybe he's too busy driving or maybe his hearing aid isn't working. The window doesn't come down. The car doesn't stop.
Bracing for the worst, Mabel cringes back against the door as her brother rocks forward.
"HE'S GONNA THROW UP!"
This, Stan hears, the car swerving in surprise, "Why are we yelling?!"
A broad oak tree towers in the headlights - they miss it by inches. The tires on one side of the car go over an exposed root, then the short curb of the dirt road, bouncing the kids in the backseat. The harsh movement throws Dipper's already sensitive stomach. He pukes directly on his sister, who has the great sense to pull her sweater up over her face at the last second. Moaning in disgust and disbelief, "Ugh, Dipper..." Mabel kicks her feet against the seat and then slowly pulls the sweater over her head, tugging at the back of the collar and folding it over in her lap as it comes off, enclosing the mess.
Thankfully, it's mostly just her sweater the suffers the indignity.
The dour reverend's outfit makes Dipper look ten times paler than normal; Mabel can't bring herself to be angry about the sweater when her brother groans pathetically, curled over between his knees with his hands in his hair, heaving again and shaking.
He gasps, "Sorry, Mabel..." and Mabel shrugs her shoulders, tries to smile.
"Ah... it's okay. I didn't like this sweater, anyway." She scoffs and flicks her wrist. "Yarn. It's over-rated."
She reaches out to rub between his shoulders and notices the car has stopped, idling in the middle of the road. Grunkle Stan has an arm thrown over the back of the seat, looking from Mabel's ruined pony sweater to Dipper's pale, apologetic face as he slowly lifts his head. His eyes are red and wet, his hair disheveled.
"What the hell did you kids do?" Stan demands, in the harsh tone Mabel has come to recognize as concern.
Hearing it, Dipper decides to be slightly more honest. (The sound of his body thudding down the steps; Bill's broad, gleeful grin.) His head is pounding worse than ever and he swallows hard, gulps down a few breaths. He looks intently at anything but Stan.
"I might've... accidentally... fallen down the stairs earlier?"
"Now can we go to the hospital?" Mabel asks, frowning hard at Grunkle Stan.
She pushes her soaked and rumpled sweater into the floorboard between her feet, crosses her arms expectantly and waits. Stan will lift his foot off the brake and turn the car around. Dipper will feel better after a checkup and some medicine and they can put this whole crazy night behind them. But Stan looks between them for a few minutes, his brow knotted. Finally he says, "We're not goin' to the hospital." Mabel is nothing short of outraged, her mouth falling open. Stan lifts a hand and adds, "He's fine, he got it outta his system!"
"He got it all over my sweater!"
"Like you've never puked on each other before!" He presents a fair enough argument here. "I've watched you both shove macaroni noodles up each other's nose and eat half-chewed food out of each other's mouths! You're disgusting! I think you can handle a little upchuck."
He shifts the car back into gear, the engine revving slightly.
They've barely started down the road when he glances into the rearview mirror at Mabel, "Hey, uh... don't let him fall asleep back there." He grumbles something about a concussion that Mabel doesn't quite catch. She's too busy glaring into the mirror at him, torn between contritely ignoring her grunkle's orders and concern for her brother. She casts Dipper a worried glance, pawing at her hair - grimacing at the chunky dampness she finds under her hands, but withholding any complaints. Dipper doesn't say anything else the rest of the way home. He concentrates on breathing, keeping his stomach steady.
He tries to think of anything other than how his whole body aches.
(Bill's manic laughter ringing in his ears.)
-x-
The first order of business as soon as they clear the doorway:
Showers.
Mabel's hair and clothes reek of vomit, now. Dipper has an unexplainable amount of dried blood under his clothes and his face is sticky with Pitt soda (Mabel finds this out in the car, when she tries to push his hair back off his forehead and it comes away pink and tacky). Both are covered in a thin layer of debris, smell like gunpowder and old socks, and Stan directs them upstairs before he goes into the kitchen, telling Dipper to come see him when he's done for a once-over and a raw steak for his bruising face. Mabel eyes Stan suspiciously, her hands planted on her hips as Dipper obediently climbs the stairs, holding firmly to the rail.
"You're not a doctor," she says, her eyes narrowed.
"Yeah, neither are you," Stan grouses at her, shedding his coat.
"...Fair enough."
Because he's grievously injured, she lets Dipper shower first. Mabel puts the lid of the toilet seat down and sits, kicking her socked feet as steam fills the small room. She combs her hair back from her face, watching the steam rise and the shower curtain rustle as Dipper bumps into it. The low rush of water is only interrupted by a wince or a groan.
"Y'know what would make you feel better?" Mabel asks, lifting one leg and slowly pulling off her sock.
She wonders if she'll ever look at them the same after this.
"What?" Dipper asks weakly, trying to find the energy to scrub his hair properly.
His arms and legs are shaking too much to work right and he nearly falls once, catching himself on the edge of the porcelain tub as he tips suddenly to one side. Not wanting to add another fall to his extensive list of injuries, Dipper stoops out of the spray of water, resting his arms on his knees and scrubbing sluggishly around his ears. The soap gets in his eyes, stinging as it slops down his arms and legs, finding hidden cuts that suddenly burn.
Rearing back, Mabel hurls her stretched sock at the wall.
"A bubble bath."
Dipper groans, "Mabel, we're too old to take baths together." He knows his sister tosses a hand into the air and rolls her eyes, because it throws her aim off. He hears her other sock hit the wall - more precisely, he hears the resulting clatter when it snags on the corner of the shelf across from the toilet and knocks a series of bottles down.
"I don't see how," Mabel says, unconvinced, "Grownups take baths together all the time!"
Dipper groans again, "Mabel - "
"You're just a party pooper." She gets up to return the bottles to their rightful place on the shelf, shedding her clothes one article at a time and tossing them about the room while Dipper takes his time rinsing off. "Bubble bath's aren't any fun by yourself. And what is better than being surrounded by all that warm water and bubbles, Dipper? Millions and billions of bubbles! You could finally have a beard! A bubble beard. That's so way less itchy than an actual beard!"
She laughs, patting her cheeks.
"Ha ha, very funny," Dipper says, but he's smiling. He leaves the shower on, pulls the curtain aside. "Switch."
Mabel throws her shirt off over her head, climbing into the shower at one end as Dipper steps out of the other. He pulls a towel off the rack on the wall, dripping on the threadbare rug under his feet and gingerly scrubbing his hair dry first. He hears Mabel gurgling under the shower head, but doesn't pay the noise any mind until she yanks the curtain back. Her wet hair is hanging in her face, her cheeks bulging and lips pursed. It doesn't take a genius to figure out what she intends to do, but Dipper isn't particularly evasive at the moment.
She spits a stream of water at him, hits him right in the face until he holds up the towel to block it.
"Ugh! Mabel, gross! Quit it!"
"That's for throwing up on me!"
Dipper rubs his face dry, relents, "Fine. I guess I deserve that."
"Only kind of," Mabel points toward the door, raises her voice with authority, "Now, go downstairs and get a steak for your face!"
-x-
There are bruises freckling Dipper's arms and legs, a large one coloring his left cheekbone and a few going across his back. His knees are scraped, but not too badly, and there's a tender knot on the back of his head and lots of sore spots everywhere that didn't manage to bruise. The cuts on his arms and hands get dabbed with antiseptic while he sits at the kitchen table. There's not much to do for everything else. Stan has him turn his head this way and that - Dipper's neck twinges in protest, but only a little - and prods at his limbs and ribs to make sure nothing is broken. Afterwards, Stan doesn't actually give him a steak like in the movies.
He takes a bag of frozen peas that Dipper has never seen before out of the freezer, and tells him to hold it against his face so the swelling will come down.
The video camera is sitting on the table, propped open like it was just set aside before Dipper came into the room. Dipper frowns when he notices it, shifting the damp plastic bag so it sits more comfortably against his cheek and frees up the other half of his vision.
"Grunkle Stan, did you tape Mabel's play?"
"What?" Stan isn't listening, turning Dipper's arm and running his thumb over the fork marks. The shower washed away any energy Dipper had left, and he doesn't want to have to explain them, so he gestures with the peas, hoping to provide a distraction. Stan looks up, but his answer doesn't exactly ease Dipper's mind, "Oh, that. Of course, I did! I even caught the encore."
Stan doesn't elaborate, but Dipper feels sick and uneasy again.
He doesn't have the nerve to ask what's on the tape.
-x-
They're piled in Stan's armchair together. Mabel with her feet propped up on the footrest, Dipper laying with his head in her lap, his legs draped over the arm of the chair and the bag of peas across his face, covering his eyes. He isn't allowed to sleep until after he's eaten something, on Grunkle Stan's orders (and Stan is presently in the kitchen, throwing together soup "or something", banging dishes noisily and grumbling to himself). It's the worst news Dipper has heard all summer.
He can't imagine putting anything in his stomach after the day he's had.
But Mabel is the Master of Distraction. Dipper's head is still throbbing - the peas are helping a little, and so is being still and quiet - so she turns the closed captions on Stan's old television and reads them aloud when they're particularly bad. For a while, there's a steady stream of fragmented sentences and foreign words bunched comically together. Mabel's fingers comb through his hair, partly to soothe his headache and his nerves, but mostly because she can't sit still any length of time without bedazzling, stitching, or otherwise fidgeting with something. Dipper doesn't mind as long as she's not trying to glue rhinestones to his eyelids.
"You're not asleep, are you?"
She bops his face lightly with her fist.
Dipper huffs a laugh.
"No," he says, then adds, "Hey, Mabel... where's the Journal?"
He remembers seeing Stan toss it into the front seat, maybe hearing it skid into the floor when Stan laid on the brakes, but nothing afterwards. Mabel hums in thought, her eyes and a lot of her attention still focused on the muted TV.
"Under your mattress," she says at last, her feet rocking back and forth, toes bumping. One of Bud Gleeful's auto sales commercials disrupts her interest and Mabel makes a small noise of distress (a dark reminder that Lil' Gideon exists) as she lifts the remote to change the channel, "I went and got it out of the car while Grunkle Stan was bandaging you up."
She doesn't mention that she found the broken remains of the laptop outside their bedroom.
Dipper breathes out a shaky sigh, lays his hand over the bag of peas.
"Okay."
-x-
Dipper stares into his bowl of tomato soup, mortified by the color until Mabel pulls it out from under his gaze. He gets restless, starts fidgeting, tearing the crust off the corner of his grilled cheese even though it's the best part and chewing slowly. It tastes like cardboard and it's hard to swallow. Not necessarily because Stan is bad at making grilled cheese - they've both survived the whole summer so far on Stan's questionable culinary skills (the pinnacle of which is heating up canned goods) and cheap diner food. It's not the worst he's had.
His face hurts, and the spicy smell of the soup is turning his stomach.
Finally, Dipper pushes his plate away.
"Grunkle Stan, I'm not hungry."
He touches his bruised cheekbone, wincing a little.
Reaching across the table, Stan feels Dipper's face for any heat, and glances toward the clock. He's not sweaty or clammy, he doesn't have a fever and he's not acting woosey anymore. It's past ten o'clock. Mabel crams the rest of Dipper's sandwich into her mouth, more out of nerves than indulgence, cupping the bowl between her hands and looking back and forth between her grunkle and her brother. Dipper is practically falling asleep at the table, and Stan is weirdly quiet.
The warmth of the cheap plastic bowl is a small comfort.
"Yeah, alright, kid." Stan ruffles Dipper's hair, more softly than usual, as he sits back, "Go get some sleep."
Relieved, Dipper slides out of his chair while Mabel leaps from hers to follow him.
-x-
There are a million craft supplies carpeting the floor of their room and Dipper's bed is lost under all his research. He drops heedlessly onto the mattress before Mabel has even cut out the light, papers with useless passwords scribbled out crinkling against his knees, books disturbed by his weight sliding to the floor. Mabel kicks a ball of yarn, some markers, and spare construction paper out of her path, looks across the room at Dipper as she climbs into her own bed and pulls her pink comforter back.
"Night, Dipper."
The room seems huge between them.
She can barely see him in the dark.
"...Night, Mabel."
Frowning slightly at the pause, Mabel lays back against her pillow, pulling the comforter up to her chin. She smiles when she hears a snuffling noise near the edge of the bed. Waddles comes nosing up, climbing with his stumpy legs onto the bed, and Mabel lifts her legs and the blanket to accommodate him. It's after Waddles has settled down under her legs that she suddenly sits up with a sharp gasp; across the room, Dipper jumps, his voice harsh, "What?"
"I forgot to hug Grunkle Stan," Mabel says urgently, throwing back the blanket; exposing Waddles, who squeals indignantly and lifts his head. Dipper sighs, relaxing into the pillow again. "I'll never get to sleep if he thinks I'm still mad at him for not taking you to the hospital."
Mabel never stays angry for long - she doesn't know how.
Dipper smiles, listening to her clatter through the small sea of puppet-making material. She throws open the bedroom door, thumps down the stairs, and it isn't until she's gone and it's quiet again that cold fluttering starts in Dipper's chest. He doesn't want to be alone. He doesn't want to be alone, and the feeling suddenly swallows him whole. It's cold and slippery, like it goes oozing down through his ribs and settles at the base of his spine. It makes him restless, makes him draw in a short breath. He sits up, papers fluttering, one of them sticking to his cheek, "Mabel!"
Waddles snorts softly to himself as he burrows underneath Mabel's pillow, ignoring the outburst.
Dipper feels like he's going to be sick again.
He almost gets up and follows her, but his body feels like lead and everything hurts and his eyes are heavy and sore and he just wants to sleep. Dipper lays back down, covering his eyes with his hands, and tries to breathe. He clears his bed off, hands trembling so hard the papers rattle before he even throws them aside. The thumping of books against the floor makes him jump.
When Mabel comes back into the room, sighing contentedly and telling him Stan graced them with a gruff goodnight, Dipper's heart is thudding uneasily in his chest.
Mabel pauses halfway under her comforter, sitting back on her knees.
"Hey... Dipper."
He pulls in a breath, "What...?"
Instead of an answer, Mabel smiles, pats her mattress loudly until Dipper turns over to look at her. He hesitates - then grabs his threadbare pillow and goes stumbling across the room. He falls face-first into the mattress. Laughing, Mabel climbs over him and lets him lay down on the inside instead of the outside. His wayward elbow nearly tears a teen-heart-throb poster from the wall and Dipper grimaces in apology (and also at the cheeky, unnervingly perfect smile bearing down at him).
Mabel reaches over, smooths the rumpled corner back into place, and pulls the comforter up over their heads as she lays back down. She crowds in against him, her breath warm across his face, hands reaching for his in the dark. She pulls in a deep breath, lets out a long sigh, and Dipper does the same a little shakily, squeezing her hands in both of his, pulling them against his ribs. It only takes a few patient tries for their breathing to sync. Dipper's heart stops thudding in his chest. He relaxes, breathing easily, distracted by Mabel's fingers when they snag against the band-aids on his forearms, her feet skimming across the cool sheets and bumping his legs.
Everything still hurts, but it hurts a little less than before.
-x-
-BobTAC