at the window of vulnerability
Is that it? Is it gone?
Pacifica regains her senses and starts fighting her way free of the cardboard, panicked at the thought of the Boss-Lobster snipping off her legs where they lie unprotected. It had seemed eager enough to cut Dipper's head off, so she doubts it'll turn its nose up at her legs (does it have a nose?). A light falls across her, followed by the sound of friendly footsteps. Hands reach down and help her up.
"Pwa-thifi-cwa!" Mabel says, flashlight held between her teeth as she helps the other girl to her feet. She pops the flashlight out of her mouth and smiles exuberantly, braces gleaming in the torchlight. "That was AMAZING!"
The rush of blood to Pacifica's head when she rises sends her teetering sideways to rest on the nearby shelf. She looks down at her feet, seeing she's crushed a box or two and probably the fragile contents inside. Oh, well. Better the box's contents than her contents.
Pacifica still isn't sure what just happened. "What? Where did…"
But Mabel has already turned away and rushed to Dipper's side. He's still on the floor, slowly pushing himself into a sitting position.
"Dipper!" Pacifica says, the sight of him taking a hit rushing back all at once.
"I'm okay!" Dipper says, managing to sit up. He freezes and presses a hand to his side. "Mostly okay. Give me just a…" He takes a deep breath. "…Ow."
Pacifica is still dizzy, but she manages to stagger over to his side and shine her flashlight down, searching for injury. She pales and feels even dizzier when she sees the blood soaking through the top edge of his jeans and side of his shirt. The widening circle is thin at the edges; directly at his hip the cloth is soaked to saturation, dark and glistening red, ready to drip. She suppresses the urge to gag.
"Alright, bro-bro, easy does it," Mabel says, ducking beneath his arm.
"Wait, we have to get the lights on so it won't come back," Dipper says. He groans as Mabel lifts him to his feet.
"You're hurt!" Pacifica says almost accusingly. She finds herself inexplicably angry at him for being dumb enough to get hit.
"Flesh wound. Occupational hazard," Dipper says with an attempt at nonchalance that's seriously undermined by the slowly spreading red stain beneath his palm. "Mabel, I can stand. We need the light bulbs and the lamps." He shrugs out of Mabel's support and limps towards the stairs.
"On it," Mabel asserts. Pacifica finds herself rudely shoved towards Dipper, nearly knocking into him. "Pacifica, you're on doctor duty, stat!"
Like Pacifica knows anything about first aid. She's only an expert if Dipper broke a nail. Still, she ducks beneath Dipper's arm despite his slight protestations. He's warm and heavier than he looks. He also reeks of burnt oil, though she supposes she does, too, along with the entire basement. There's also a very fishy, raw seafood sort of smell underneath the smokiness. It's not pleasant.
She helps Dipper sit on the lowest stair and isn't sure what to do next, her hands hovering uncertainly near his wound.
"It's okay, it's just a cut across my hip, it's not a big deal," Dipper assures her.
"If it's not a big deal then why are you still bleeding?" she retorts, unimpressed by his stoicism.
He laughs awkwardly. "Well, you got me there."
She raises an eyebrow, waiting.
"Pressure. It needs more pressure, that's what you're supposed to do to make it stop," he explains. "And probably something cleaner than my shirt."
Pacifica stands up and looks around. There's a pile of boxes in the corner and behind them is an old disassembled flagpole. She opens the box in front of it and digs through a pile of folded flags. There are several American flags and the Northwest Family Crest. She pulls out the Northwest family's logo and unfurls it. The sight of the flag, which she is used to seeing fly during soirees and elegant outdoor parties, inspires some very mixed feelings. She once looked forward to the occasions when it would wave in the wind. Now she doesn't know if that will ever be the case again. She's not sure she cares.
She wads it up and brings it over to Dipper. "Okay, let me see it."
Dipper grimaces and slowly pulls his shirt away from the wound. It makes a nasty noise as it peels off his blood-sticky skin. He shifts and tugs the side of his jeans down until the wound is fully exposed. Pacifica wrinkles her nose at the sight of it, but it doesn't bother her as much as she thought it would. Weirdmageddon strengthened her stomach, if nothing else. She presses the flag to the deep cut and Dipper makes a noise of pain; she immediately lets up.
"No, keep pressing," Dipper says, grimacing. "I'm okay."
She increases the pressure again. "How long do I have to do this?"
"Until it stops, I guess," Dipper says, voice tight. He looks down at the flag she's holding against him. "This is very symbolic."
"Don't be a dork about it," she tells him.
He shrugs, forehead beaded with sweat. "Thought that's what I was?"
"You can stop. Sometimes," she says.
"Seriously, though, Pacifica; that was crazy awesome what you did." He smiles up at her, and something swoops strangely in her chest.
She's having a hard time looking directly at him. "I just wanted that gross thing gone," she says, but can't quite seem to get the dismissive tone she's aiming for.
"I should have known the eyes were the weak point." Dipper shakes his head. "Always go for the eyes. That was quick thinking, really good work."
She is horrified to realize that she's blushing. "I think you're not bleeding as much," she says abruptly.
The hand that falls on her shoulder stills her. She is hyper-aware of where his thumb is brushing the edge of her shirt collar, touching the bare skin of her neck. "Pacifica, I mean it. You saved us again," he says.
She wants to knock his stupid warm hand off her shoulder. She wants to hug him. She wants to take pride in her monster fighting. She wants to never think about it or how he was going to die again. She's leaning over him and her elbow is sunk into the plush of his vest. His breath flutters against her shirt, just over her heart. His dumb, messy boy-hair is parted to reveal a portion of his birthmark, framing the top of his deep brown eyes. There's a small scrape on his chin and his mouth is smudged with soot and she looks at it and she wants to… to…
Oh my god. What is she thinking? Stop.
"Thanks," she says, looking back to the flag she has pressed against his side. "You weren't so bad either."
"Man, why did I step that close? It was going so well…" he sighs, leaning back on the steps. Then his eyes brighten. "But, man, what a monster! Did you see the claws on that thing? Holy cow! I don't think Great-Uncle Ford ever encountered a Boss-Lobster. I can't wait to tell him."
Pacifica isn't sure if she's about to laugh or cry. She's giddy with adrenaline and suffused with fading horror. "Y-You can tell him Pacifica Northwest kicked its butt," she says with an unexpected tremor in her voice.
Dipper grins. "I will. He'll totally be impressed."
The lights in the other half of the basement suddenly flicker to life. Mabel jumps off the step ladder and surveys her handiwork. The bulbs in the ceiling are brightly glowing and there are two standing lamps on either side of the hole in the floor; smoke is still rising from it, the torches at the bottom giving it the flickering ambiance of a fire pit.
With visibility restored, Pacifica takes in the water, the scorch marks, the wads of partially chewed cardboard, the toppled shelves, and the weird slime left where the Boss-Lobster rubbed against the wall. It's an unholy mess. And she knows exactly who's going to take the blame for it.
"This is bad," she says, slumping down on the step next to Dipper.
"Look at it this way: Would your parents rather have this, or a Boss-Lobster roommate?" Dipper says.
"It doesn't matter. It'll be my fault that idiot lobster was here to begin with."
"Well, if my theory is correct, it's as much your parents' fault as it is yours," Dipper says. When she glares at him, he hurries to add, "I mean, it's not anybody's fault, not like that. Just from a standpoint of causality."
She hugs her knees, already picturing the confrontation. "Then you try telling them that."
"I will if you want me to."
She blinks and looks up. "What?"
"Hey, it's our mess too," he says, pointing a thumb towards himself and tilting it in Mabel's direction. "You don't have to do it alone."
She knows he's not just talking about the mess, and that makes her feel… too much. She doesn't know how to parse the day or the aftermath or what Dipper and Mabel are to her or what she is to them. There's so much offered and so little demanded.
The shrieking of the Boss-Lobster is still ringing in her head. She needs time, she can't think. She wants to tell him how much it means that the twins came to help her at all, that they will keep helping, but she doesn't know what words to use. Dipper nearly died because she had a monster in her basement. What would she have done if he had? Does he not think about things like that? Does Mabel?
Dipper's knee is touching hers. She doesn't think he even notices, but the heat at the point of contact seems to be spreading to her very bones until she thinks it might be the only thing keeping her upright. They're both sweaty and oily and soaked and so, so gross, and she shouldn't want to be close to him, but she does. She sees Mabel's ridiculous sweater out of the corner of her eye and somehow that's a comfort, too.
And this, she realizes, is how people become important to each other.
She's afraid if she opens her mouth what comes out will either be too personal or too inadequate. She smiles at Dipper, heartfelt and grateful. She hopes it says what she can't yet.
She helps Dipper limp up the stairs. It's a labored, clomping affair; he can't use one of his legs without widening his wound and she's too small to be much of a support. His ragged breathing echoes in the stairwell.
He can move on his own once he gets to even ground. Using one hand for leverage, he makes his way into the kitchen. She ignores the smudges of blood and soot he's leaving on the spotless walls. She's well past the point of no return when it comes to making a mess.
He sinks into a chair with a sigh of relief, no doubt staining it in the process.
"Now what?" she wants to know, waiting to assist.
"Uh…" He seems uncertain, which isn't comforting. "I can figure something out. Probably."
She looks at him dubiously. "You're sure?"
"Yeah. Just need a minute to catch my breath," he says with a tired grin.
That expression of his is making her feel confusing things again so she leaves him in the kitchen delicately dabbing at his wound with a wet paper towel. She goes back downstairs to make sure Mabel has everything under control—she absolutely cannot have that monster coming back.