Mabel didn't notice her brother had left until she felt Pacifica place a comfortable distance between the two, at which point she realized the man was also gone. She let out an exasperated sigh, pulling from her ears a pink set of headphones, placing her screen face-down. Dipper would forgive her for leaving them to their dry discussion while she- invested in her own little world- tuned out every word between them.
Quite frankly, this hadn't been the first offence of adults coming forth to strike up conversation; distant relatives, student faculty and the like. And, perhaps as a preteen, she'd put herself front-and-center for said interactions. Though over time became burnt out when prompted the same question:
What do you want to be when you grow up?
Not that she handled it quite like her brother, who'd always- oddly enough- managed adult company like a duck to water. As they aged, she left him to his own in these situations. She often slipped away once made apparent these adults ("adults" by virtue of filing taxes and... Well, she wasn't sure what else there was to it) found her brother charming in the ways he responded, and could smile and nod like he understood them, while- amazingly so- actually doing just that.
He was a bit of a sponge, as their mother once put it; recalling the story of when she'd sat Dipper on her lap- no more than two or three- and he, despite his limited vocabulary, recited all the nasty things Mrs. McKinnie from her women's group had spoken of on the phone, while she'd been hired to babysit him and his sister. "A sponge," she called him, with a very, very particular sense about himself. There wasn't quite a word for it.
"Thank God that guy's outta here." Pacifica groaned, pushing her plate away. "I've like, lost my appetite. Can you believe it? What a creep." She huffed, mindlessly scrolling through the dash on her phone with one hand, twirling the tips of her hair with the other.
"Aw, come on; he wasn't that creepy."
"He was looking at you and me at the same time; Yes, it was creepy." Pacifica scoffed, rolling her eyes; Mabel wasn't nearly the type to admit when someone made her skin crawl, whether it be appearance or impression. There was little in a dictionary you could pointedly tell her, " XYZ is a nasty insult," and she'd already known the phrase.
Truth be told, she relied more on Dipper (he thrived on the opportunity to show off his big fat brain, stock-piled with a consignment of terms) if anything had to be said on a person, beyond "pee-brains" and "lazy-butt-waffles." Regardless, Mabel couldn't rightfully disagree with Pacifica's assessment.
"Where'd he go anyways?" She lifted her head an inch above the booths, hoping 8-Ball (Not that she knew he went by 8-Ball) wasn't within eavesdropping distance. Relieved, she slid her way back down, checking the time; 9:47. Betty, their waitress, began turning off several of the lights behind the counter; she busted out a broom, humming quietly to herself as each square tile brushed away dust.
"Who cares? Let's just gun it before he gets back." Pacifica stooped in her seat where she'd placed her purse between her legs under the table. Progress; she hardly made a fuss about coupling her Jacquemus Le Chiquito bag with cheap vinyl. Mabel nodded simply, once again sticking her head above the booths.
"Sounds like a plan. I'll grab Dipper." She turned, scanning the room for his presence. He was probably in the bathroom; she'd slip him a text.
"You do that." Pacifica replied simply, having not once looked up from her screen. She began scooting out of her seat, making leg room for Mabel to shoot past her, when all her motions halted. She let out a gasp, placing a hand up to stall her friend.
"Wait, wait, wait . Don't do that." She rushed out hastily. Mabel- still seated, in the midst of unlocking her own phone- jumped; Pacifica wasn't the type to raise her voice, let alone get excited.
"What?" Mabel inquired, leaning in to see whatever had Pacifica breaking into a mischievous little smirk. She wagged her phone in Mabel's face.
"Check this out." Was all the explanation she got for the uploaded photos on her friend's screen.
Now, Mabel and Dipper were- thanks to their great uncle Stan- no strangers to alcoholic beverages. Their first summer spent in Gravity Falls had been the one and only visit without a drop of liquor; Back in Stan's day, the common cold was treated with a shot of bourbon. Let it be known, the instance those kids hit their teens, he was busting out a bottle at least once a week.
"Put some hair on your chest," he'd said one hot summer evening, having disguised a margarita as lemonade and served it to an unsuspecting pair of twins. A nasty trick; one gone unforgiven up until the drinks inevitably hit their bloodstreams, at which point they couldn't quite stop giggling about the floorboards shifting under their backs, and forgot how lime tasted.
They knew their way around a bottle. Regardless, Mabel felt absolutely floored by the content of liquor documented on Candy's story. Red solo cups in every frame, in every hand, as well as at least six frats with their hats on backwards; a trouble-and-make-it-double sort of night to be sure. She gaped at the seemingly endless supply.
" Woah. " Mabel commented dumbly. Pacifica laughed.
" Totally woah , I know. Candy's parents went out of town and Grenda's little boyfriend got his hands on some imported Gumpoldskirchen; Unsupervised mongrels everywhere." She leaned back with a grin, making room to open her purse and fish out a few neatly-clipped wads of cash. Beckoning the waitress over, Pacifica cleared the bill and then some.
"Do you wanna go?"
"Oh, we're going, Mabel." She closed her purse, sliding from the booth. Mabel couldn't help but break out in a hesitant grin, cheeks rosie despite the tight ping of her gut, reminded what a thumb of whiskey often did to her system in the mornings; her parents wouldn't take too kindly, receiving them on the short end of a hang-over. Regardless, her want for cheap thrills won over in a matter of seconds.
"I haven't had a glass of Gumpoldskirchen since my commute to Vienna; that shit was fucking devine. " Pacifica threaded her fingers together, eyes up as though praying to Dionysus himself. "So pull your disaster of a wardrobe together, and meet me in the limo in- like- five ."
"'Disaster-'?"
" Four. " Mabel sighed, decidedly ignoring the harsh comment entirely; Pacifica was just jealous . Sliding out from the booth, Mabel made quick work opening her messages.
"Alright, alright. I'll text Dipper." Her fingers danced over the screen for only a moment- they often did, despite having subject and verb on her tongue. Though, hearing the deep-chirped thump of her electric keys, Mabel soon found a set of acrylic nails batting her own away; frantic and livid.
"What are you doing? " Pacifica reprimanded. Mabel tilted her gaze, giving her friend a queer expression. Her lips made to hitch in inquiry, when all she ended up doing was mutter a sideways " Huh ?" Pacifica- clearly more put together- tisked with the full roll of her head, like addressing the situation hardened her neck muscles.
"Uh, it's Candy's party? I.E. anti- Dipper territory; 'safe-haven from he-who-shall-not-be-named' ring any bells?" Pacifica glanced Mabel up and down, viewing her half-mad, half dim.
Mabel blanched at the statement, looking all the more worn down; what'd happened between them two summers back was still a fresh topic in her network of friends, though she often pretended not to remember. It was embarrassing to do otherwise.
" Embarrassing " was just the understatement of the year, wasn't it?
Give it two- maybe three- Jagerbombs, Mabel could almost forget the abhorred scene of her twin brother's hormones running rampant through the duration of their weekend road trip-gone-catastrophe; not even the excuse of Grunkle Stan's chauvinistic advice could undo the damage done that day. It'd all started by asking for an e-mail.
Dipper was charming enough- an open kind of guy, at least from the unsuspecting perspective of little miss Emma Sue, who'd done her hair up in pigtails, with big, wondrous eyes; a poor victim. It'd only ever been done- Mabel rationalized- in his broken efforts to move on from Wendy. In which case, she couldn't wholly judge him, even if his gambling affair of collecting women like trivial awards was, for all intents and purposes, ugly in every light.
Still, he'd done it; conquered name and number from several girls, learning the unattractive truth which was- though he resisted admitting, even in the shameful ease of which he did it- his consuming appetite for having another at his disposal. What a power-trip. He soon came to resonate with the lovely ladies of California, with their sun-kissed skin and hairless legs.
Oh, how it must've pleased them to have another man under their thumb, just as he'd had those girls, several of whom he hadn't felt hardly a tingle of attraction towards; simply a collection. He'd cast his net out, sure to snag, whether it be the tail of a koi, or something deformed and sunken below sea level.
And Candy- lured by his misdirected glances- did succumb to his temptations.
An infatuation for all of 24-hours, before Dipper's own shell crumbled to pieces while visiting Mystery Mountain; confronted by only a handful of the women he'd flippantly seduced, at which point Candy quickly realized he'd only entertained for his own benefits. "Slimly" was the word. Dipper was a complicated boy it seemed, but in that moment, he was undeniably, pitifully simple.
Simple, and selfish, and looking for any girl, at any road-side attraction, to mend his own sense of rejection. Candy had been crushed.
Fast-forward one life-threatening ride down the Trambience, and their inexplicably strange encounter with a flesh-eating arachne, Candy proved her independence from him, whether or not it be reasonable assuring she had to.
Dipper apologized, of course; he wasn't that of a wolf, but a lamb transparently dressed as such. And she- gracious in the moment, though festering still- had only accepted it for the ripe taste of superiority. Come their thirteenth birthday, merely a week after, Candy couldn't so much as glance at him.
It only came to bear fruit -these marinated feelings- in the heat of Summer #2, in which they'd congregated within the shack, rounded about the television. Some Duck-Tective rerun, lounging on the floor of their Grunkle's living room; Candy, Mabel, Grenda, Pacifica, and Dipper, in that order. No one dared mention the obvious tension bearing down on their lax atmosphere. Breathing a word of that summer- the sabotage of road-side attractions and Dipper's own virtue- would only result in the downfall of a half-norm facade.
It'd been sweltering that evening, made worse by a shattered window that seemingly guzzled up all their air conditioning. They lay flat on their backs, the balls of their hands- each time rising to find a wet spot below pressed skin. Hardly a good time, what with two sides of a battle in full swing.
There wasn't much to be done. Not when Dipper (then-thirteen, going on fourteen; the scar of a seasoned explorer against the back of his ear, when he'd nearly drowned from a Kappa that had caught him by his lobule) senselessly combatted the heat by peeling off his damp tee.
Hardly a bat of the eye; not an ounce of alternative motive in him, who often sweat like a monstrous thing. Dipper, who was by no means an impressive specimen of muscle, but rather a lissome teen of pale flesh, merely cast the fabric aside in the comfort of his own home. Who, despite himself, and despite the constant poke of his own willowy design, had felt uncharacteristically comfortable in his skin.
For he, since that summer before, did realize a small, underlying truth which (on rare occasions) crumb-fed him confidence, though he seldom believed. He was (quite frankly ) very pretty. That- a thoughtless boast, as Candy had interpreted it, as though taunting her and her own foolish want for supple men- drove her to the brink of tears.
She would not stand to be in the same room as Dipper after that, and would not explain why for many days until, unprompted, Candy dragged his name through the mud in the private corner of some party, which quickly sparked rumor of his own promiscuity, which he was not. Hardly lasted a week, when a mass of the teen community referenced him whorish; he couldn't so much as leave his room without receiving some kind of gibe.
Thankfully, Candy felt remorse, and only a time after cleared the air of suspicion. That should've been grounds for forgiveness, but even then, Candy maintained that Dipper had deserved the misunderstanding for his own transgressions. The two never did make amends.
Which made going to her party a bit of an issue.
"Oh, come on! Water under the bridge, right?" Pacifica couldn't muster the strength to humor Mabel with an unimpressed look; she didn't rightfully need one to hear the wavering in her own tone.
"Really? Are you really about to do this?" She looked Mabel up and down once, then sighed. "Mabel, don't. You know as well as I do those two are, like, arch nemesis or whatever. Candy would kill Dipper and wear his skin like a tacky mantilla if we brought him anywhere near that house party."
"We could disguise him, though-!"
"She'd sniff him out like a bloodhound, and you know that ." Which-. Yes, she did. Candy had a sixth sense rooted in Dipper's existence; he couldn't sneeze within 100 miles of her without the woman's hairs standing on end.
"Then what're we gonna do?"
Pacifica didn't skip a beat.
"Ditch him." She pulled out a compact mirror, sliding her tongue over a bit of lettuce stuck in her teeth. Mabel all but choked on the suggestion.
" What? " Pacifica rolled her eyes for the umpteenth time that night, shutting her mirror with a clack.
"Mabel, he's not a baby. He can handle one night on his own."
"We're 6 miles from town!" She retorted sternly. Betty, their waitress, pulled a string that deactivated Robin's neon "Open" sign, before turning to the aisles and flipping the bar stools on their faces.
"Oh my god, what a travesty." Pacifica keened, placing the back of her hand against her forehead. "Too bad there's no such thing as Uber. " Mabel spluttered at her.
"But, we can't just leave him-! "
"Why not?" Pacifica examined her nails tiredly, sharp to the point, though softened near the tips. Mabel's twisted tongue made her smirk.
"Because he's-! Why would I ever-? Paz, he wouldn't do that to you! "
"Oh my god, don't even. The only reason we're in this mess is because your stupid brother couldn't keep his hands to himself; sound like something he'd do?"
" No- ." Mabel grunted apprehensively, to which Pacifica snakishly cut it.
"Well, he would. If it meant getting the hell out of this dump and going over to that dump for a few hours."
"Dipper wouldn't-." Pacifica threw her head back, exasperated. Even so, she made quick work of latching onto the cuff of Mabel's sweater, urging her towards the door.
"Jesus; who cares about the specifics, Mabel? You'll be out of town in like," She rolled her hand. "-24 hours, and you're gonna risk losing out on trying Gumpoldskirchen for the first time because your twin brother's-. What? Taking a piss in the stalls?"
" Ugh! Don't give me visuals..." Mabel tried jerking away, even as the exit became more and more appealing. Dipper… Well, while she loathed to admit, wasn't much of a party animal. On the contrary, handling him on the sidelines might take more out of her than any hangover. She felt her resolve forming cracks, even as she reproached herself.
"Come on. He'll be fine . Look, I'll even leave him cash to hale a cab, or drawn carriage, or whatever hobo-shit. If he asks, you can tell him the whole thing was my idea." Pacifica wasn't stingy about slamming a hard hundred dollar bill on the table to prove her point; Betty noticed the currency with a strike of inspiration in her gaze.
"The whole thing was your idea." Mabel replied weakly; arm loose in Pacifica's grip, expression that of a beaten stead. Her head dipped an ounce, staring glumly over her shoulder where the cash lay, then ahead at her friend who- probably the first time in her life- opened the door for her.
"That's the spirit. Now, grab your take-out and let's hit the road."
Well… tonight was her last in Gravity Falls, and Dipper had gotten himself banned from Candy's place with some less-than-chivalrous choices. He had his phone on him, and a hundred dollars at his disposal. Perfect for calling a cab; dealing with the matter wouldn't be a challenge, come the morning.
[...]
Dipper wasn't the type to dabble in the dark arts; too hard a tremor in his wrist to conjure a decent pentagram, and lacking the stomach for sacrifices. He didn't often have the time required to collect ingredients like mugwort, or pennyroyal or blessed thistle. Above all, he didn't have a mind for it; his grunkle Ford often lamented the blackened hearts of those who called upon witchery, and even more a reliance on supposed power beyond one's own.
He had a nasty relationship with pythoness and the like; a cruel species, he warned. Dipper agreed without further question.
Still, trudging six miles in pitch darkness often turned morals against itself.
"Great. Fucking great. " Dipper grumbled, hands shoved in the front tunnel of his hoodie. It hadn't phased him when his phone died; Pacifica's limo had a charging port, and a charger. At most, his main concern lied in missing an unlikely call from his grunkles- one of which requested they be back nearly two hours ago, the other simply encouraging they stay out of sight of police forces. It'd hardly bothered him at the time.
That is, until he realized he'd been left behind .
Surely, he understood the "blackened hearts" of witches then, when he muttered every curse he could conjure. His foot caught the bend of a twisted root, Dipper let forth a string of threats that were no more forgiving than they were Christian. It only made sense, he was surely of mind willing to hex any poor soul that bared view of his pitifully slumped demeanor. His throat pittered a tone not unlike prowling demons, even in his wilted state.
Just then, he was sure, he must be of wiccan descent, or that of a Salemer. He must be, with the way his tongue so easily cursed out twisted revenge.
"Un- fucking- believable." Dipper shied away from the road, keeping a safe distance within the trees; away from the magnetic pull of vehicles zapping by, pulling with them wind that nearly peeled the boy's hat off. His shoes sank into soft earth, forcing him to stumble, his only source of light being the passing of cars to his left, and-.
The universe obviously picked up on Dipper's poor brain, " It can't get much worse than this there's no fucking way this can get any worse " when a distant groan of thunder alerted him, just moments before letting loose a heavy cry of rain. Oh, it couldn't get any worse; now it couldn't get any worse .
Dipper really needed to stop saying that.
A sour taste bittered his tongue each time, watching car after car pass him by; the dark arts weren't becoming of him, but revenge suited him quite nicely. Two miles in, Dipper could describe in perfect clarity exactly what he was going to do to Pacifica when he got back, and a few choice-words for Mabel. Something eloquent, but simple:
Screw.
You.
The rain, at least, wasn't so heavy that Dipper needed worry for shelter. It only came straight down, fat and frigid, but manageable. Regardless, his hat became a hindrance, drooping over his eyes as weight pooled atop, forcing him to rip it from his head with a squelch. His hair soaked like a sponge, sticking to his face with the constant itch of tiny follicles tickling his skin.
Two and a half miles, the remaining stretch of road offered neither tree nor overpass near enough to shelter his journey; clear construction that left him muddy from the knees of his jeans, going down.
"' Come on bro-bro. It's our last night out ! Let's do something fun. ' Oh, fuck off ." Dipper rang out his fur cap; fruitless in this weather. By the third mile, he wasn't sure he was going in the right direction at all, which was-. Scary, actually. Seriously.
He dug his phone out of his back pocket- desperation often encouraged hope- part of the reason he soon found himself sifting through mud, damp leaves and the like, after the veering tune of a horn forced him to startle; his phone tumbled between shaken, frozen fingertips, only to (unlike any other day- if this were just any other day- where it would simply fall before Dipper's feet and crack) fly out of his hands and make odd work down a muddy slope, spiral, and land up someplace hidden.
" Sure . " He threw his hands up in frustration. " Why not ? " The slope was more an indent of earth; three to four feet, a little thing that skirt his hip bone. Now, Dipper groaned, he wasn't even making progress. Wasn't moving anywhere. It annoyed him even more than getting dirt under his nails, clay to his cheek, silt across his knees.
A creeping irritation reproached him, when he no longer measured by miles conquered, but time spent nudging through earth. How long? An hour? Two ? No, Dipper pleaded with himself; he couldn't stand the thought. He pledged five more minutes to the search. Five more minutes in the mud, which he assured himself, wasn't as bad as it seemed. Not when he went to swipe the wet mat of hair distorting his vision, unintentionally streaking a line of red dirt across his forehead.
Not when he went to stand, relocate, only for his shoes to sink impossibly deep. Not when it became undeniable, the clouds were only thickening, lightning closer in succession to thunder and rain making fast puddles where he stood. It wasn't that bad.
Not yet.
Not until- impossible, really, with his muddy camouflage, hunched in a small curve of muck, off to the side of the road. Then again, the universe often made special exceptions for boys like him- Dipper caught sight of a rusted-red pick up truck moving much slower than the other cars on the highway. He could almost verify (his brain was a sponge; one with a very, very particular sense about it.
There wasn't quite a word for it still , but perhaps the name neighbored intuition) it had been the same one he'd seen only minutes ago, having gone the recommended speed-limit at the time. And (perhaps the boy was just mis-remembering) recalled the truck slowing down, before making an illegal U-turn. It caught his attention, only for the fact his ears rang with the way this truck's tires treaded asphalt.
The vehicle rounded itself, repeating the path, this time at a crawl. It passed Dipper once again, only to- for the second time- make yet another U-turn and begin the process all over. Barely moving. It crossed Dipper's mind that this driver had gone in a circle four times already, progressively slowing, passing him like a shark wading in the waters.
He pretended not to notice -not to draw attention to himself- instead pouring his energy into the mound of sludge that had more-than-likely swallowed his phone whole. By the fifth round, he could identify which vehicles were just passing by, and which was this strange red truck without looking. Eleven, he wilted before standing. Wherever his phone had ended up, it was long-gone.
Sadly, by rising from his curved posture, Dipper had unknowingly invited this mysterious car to approach. It peeled off from the road, a short ways from this boy half-sunken in mud. The truck dealt with sloped earth like a sledgehammer, suspensions weak on the impact when its' back tires were still on the highway, yet its fronts were dipped in mud.
It made a precarious bridge between land and ditch before willing itself into the odd dent of grass, only a handful of steps away from Dipper. To anyone passing, it might look like an unlucky fellow veering from the road, low on gas or at the mercy of a flat tire. Yet, to Dipper alone, knew something was entirely wrong with this truck.
If his encounter with this man hadn't tipped Dipper off before, it sure was now.
"Hey ! Hey, kid!" 8-Ball's window came down eagerly, hand shooting out and waving like a stranded boat at sea. Dipper's gaze built with a painful spark not unlike shock.
"What're you doing out here all by yourself?" He called through the rain, which seemingly picked up at his arrival. The boy (Cold; cold, and wet and being approached by the same man who introduced himself only hours before, now in a truck with scrapes along the side from grazing chicken wire) took an apprehensive step back. His lips looked hard, curling in with suspicion that wagered poor intentions from 8-Ball. Their second encounter wasn't a welcome one. This man surely knew that.
"Do you need a ride?" He asked.
"No, um-. No, thank you." Dipper called back from someplace deeper than his lungs; Intuition, he assumed. His body jerked at the thought of getting in the man's car, even at the sight of branched lightning as his alternative. And, not at all because the man frightened him, strange as it was; because, he was quite lucky to be offered a ride, in weather like this no less.
Rather, the hairs on his arms growing stiff, and the dizzying turn of his stomach at the convenience of it all. Which, perhaps, was fear, but a palpable sort. One he believed could be escaped.
Dipper's rejection fell on deaf ears; 8-Ball assumed the storm was hindering his sight, so he peeked his head an inch farther from his window.
"It's me! It's 8-Ball!" He called out, pointing at himself. Again, the man questioned him. "What're you doing out in this weather? Where're your friends?" He craned his neck, searching and searching, even with the weak little grin of his lips that revealed his own smugness to the situation.
What luck , the man thought.
"They're… around. I'm alright." Dipper assured, trying to side-step the vehicle entirely. Its engine kicked up, pulling a few inches over so the path was blockaded in a horizontal wall of gears and metal. When 8-Ball spoke again, it was a bit closer, funneled through the passenger's side of the car.
"You need a ride?" He repeated himself. Dipper's shoulders hardened instinctively, a sensation closely rooted in memories of avoiding a basilisks' glare, and the flesh-teething hunger of a minotaur. He was no stranger to this tightening feeling in his legs, keeping him wary; keeping him wound.
"I'm almost home." Dipper assured.
8-Ball picked at his chin, rubbing coarse stubble.
"You shouldn't be out so late; I can take you the rest of the way."
"That's alright."
"It's no trouble." He insisted. His arm reached over the gear-shift, opening his passenger-side door to the young man. "Hop on in." He beckoned. Dipper shook his head.
" No - I mean... That's ok. I'm covered in mud." The boy pointed out, stretching his arms to give the man a full view. 8-Ball only chuckled.
"I've got a few towels in the back. Don't worry about it." He reached behind his own seat, and- would you look at that?- pulled out a thin blanket, making quick work of tucking it into the cushion.
"Come on, come on! You'll catch cold, Pines."
" Really , thank you, but I-. My house isn't too far from here."
"How close?" The question was a challenge of sorts; there weren't any neighborhoods for the next three miles. Dipper, knowing this, said nothing, once again trying to find his way around the truck. 8-Ball made vicious work of cutting him off, this time showcasing a frustration of his own; a glint of snarled teeth and wrinkled nose, and then it was gone. The boy stumbled away, not terrified. Simply surprised, even at the slight give of his knees.
"Your parents know you're out this late?" Dipper didn't move. 8-Ball smiled. "They're probably worried; you'll needa be getting home soon." Like some Jedi mind trick. Trying to implant impatience within the teen, currently sinking in his struck position in the mud. Dipper cleared his throat once, hoping to pour resistance through his veins.
"They know where I am." He paused a moment, wetting his lips. "I-... Have a tracker on my phone."
8-Ball's smile became toothy; savage.
"A tracker? At your age? Does a boy like you get into that much trouble?" The question, it seemed, was founded not only on challenge, but slight doubt. 8-Ball was a perceptive man, what with his one eye facing east, the other, west. "Grade-A bullshitting," Grunkle Stan would call it. A man of few talents, but talent nonetheless; he was a perceptive man. How he'd scoped Dipper out at Robin's, only hours ago; something akin to the professional bend of wine-tasting. A flavor.
Truly, Dipper was easy to look at- or through. A thin nothing of a teen with features mirroring that of subtle bastardising; it had been a call, really. There lay intrigue to the boy, being he was so spry, that inspired… 8-Ball wasn't rightfully a fan of describing what his demeanor inspired, but it surely did. Dipper's face was (in proper lighting) a raw sight, while, in only casual lighting, still superbly attractive in the cupid's bow of his lips, round-faced and pink at the nose, though a tad wild around the eyes.
Oh, and the boy was wild, 8-Ball could tell, even in the midst of their first encounter. Wild and keen on pretending he wasn't. Because- simply put- Dipper didn't rightfully show his hand before others. Props to him, 8-Ball assured. Still, Dipper was a painfully open book, just as the others had been.
He waited a beat, expecting the boy to give some half-baked story to this supposed tracker. He only stood there; a feral, muddy child, with a rogue look about his gaze. Dipper was only steps away from the open door of his truck, and yet he hesitated. 8-Ball was positive he hadn't the least-bit clued into his own predicament; only felt uneasy by virtue of instinct. He was a patient man, of course. Patient, but stern. When Dipper said nothing, 8-Ball pushed the matter.
"Either way, you should probably call your parents. Let them know you're ok." Grunkle Stan might've been impressed with this kind of betting; a real gambler of sorts. For him to encourage it- adult intervention- could only go one of two ways. Dipper was, as far as 8-Ball could tell, rather smart. He could smell the strangled draw of the man's hands, beckoning him towards his truck, and had quickly pulled from it.
Not the trusting type. He wouldn't be so keen as to expose himself now; unlike the well-lit population of a diner, having met a man he only expected to see once. It'd been different.
Here, he was calculated. Wary of the truck, its towel-covered seats, and the slow drum of 8-Ball's finger tips. Dipper shifted on one foot, then the other, looking as though he might attempt outrunning the vehicle. That would give too much away. It would let 8-Ball know just how alert he was; he wasn't the type to show his hand.
"There's-. My reception's really bad." He argued. Which-. Bingo. A kid like Dipper wouldn't go rolling in the mud for nothing, would he? No, no. 8-Ball was an observant fool, but even then, no one could be disillusioned to the fact the boy had been searching for something.
Dipper wasn't- wasn't- the type to show his hand, but he was still just a child. His actions were loud and verbal. He wasn't quite mature enough to muffle them; subtle, subtle. So, even if, per say, the reception was bad, not a soul could miss his clear intentions, squatting in the mud, sifting and searching for his phone.
"You don't say." 8-Ball fished through his pocket very slyly, as though grasping at gold coins. He slipped out his own cellular. "Mine works just fine out here." Dipper swallowed. "If you're having trouble reaching them, how about using mine? Won't charge you; promise."
The device was offered like a hook to bass, just a spot inside the car, trying to bait him in. 8-Ball wafted it side to side, almost tauntingly. As though saying "I dare you to. I dare you to get closer ." This was barely trying, Dipper quickly realized, a slight horror about his face. He was more teasing than enticing. Like he already had the boy in his grasp; a fish in its bowl. Dipper stumbled over himself.
"I-. Can't, I-."
"Why not?" 8-Ball pressed, reaching his phone out only an inch more. His grin was predatory.
"I just-." Dipper swiped his hands down his jeans, trading off sweat for rain and mud. In his eyes- bins of coal, a stark contrast to the pale of his flesh- the inner workings of his mind. When cornered, mice often scrambled for purchase against drywall and the like; swerved the jaw of snakes, futile as it was. Dipper looked towards the highway.
"I need to get home."
8-Ball encouraged him near, to which the boy did the opposite.
"You will." He lied, as everything else had been. A lie. "Come here."
With that, the truck steered an inch closer, though with intend meant to startle such a fickle one as he. It worked effortlessly, seeing Dipper's knee-jerk reaction to (leg twisted slightly, hell-bent on running) scramble for his life. He only got as far as tripping over his own two feet. 8-Ball, in all his eerie enticement, said nothing of it, simply dropped the face he'd been making, and looked the boy in the eye.
At once, Dipper understood.
8-Ball pulled himself back, phone sliding away in his pocket. It didn't often come to… this. But, even with the boy's legs shaking as they were, he wouldn't budge. Dipper knew now. He knew for sure, if he entered this truck, it would be the last of him. It would be. Incentive where incentive was due. 8-Ball prided himself on his own persuasion skills.
Even so, there were those who's resolve required more than a heavy-fisted tone, or a seductive glance, or soft intentions. Sometimes, it called for more recreational approaches. Though he loathed to admit, even his final word hadn't moved Dipper.
He reached for his belt, pulling out his trusty beretta.
Wasn't too hard to convince him afterwards. Not with the shaking of Dipper's voice, which trembled out a frightened "What- What's that?" The man smiled; cocked his beretta like stroking a cat, and nodded his head to the passenger's seat. Dipper knew what it was. His fear wasn't fixated on the gun in 8-Ball's hand.
Rather, the intentions of said man, who'd been so keen on bringing him home, it scared the poor boy. His mouth went dry, recalling the crass language of his friends back in Piedmont. The ones who slipped Malibu in their canned teas; who jammed to Cxrpse during finals, and rode their bikes like skateboards.
Hadn't it been a white van, though? Hadn't that been the punch line?
"I'm not gonna hurt you." Dipper stared down the barrel like a dungeon of snakes, anticipating his every move, which he did. Move, that is. Very slow, and with a question each time.
"What-? No-. What do you want with me?" His hand planted firmly along the passenger's seat. He only sat down once 8-Ball cleared his throat.
" Close the door. " But, that would be the end of it. That would seal him inside. Dipper tried not to hyperventilate, instead pleading with his eyes for the man to stop.
"Where're you taking me..?" His voice was no more than a whisper, drowned by the rain outside. Dipper's mind rang with fear, racing like it often did when boxed by creatures of unimaginable strength, blood lust, or worse. And yet, this man holding him at gun-point… it was a real, palpable scenario. One his mother often fret whenever he set foot outside the house. Oh, god. Oh, god .
Please, someone help.
"Somewhere far." The car door slammed shut. The gun didn't go down. "Reach for the glove-compartment."
" How far?" With the outside world closed off, rain-fall no longer distorting their tones, Dipper could make out his own chattering teeth, the squelch of mud on nylon, and what had to be the drumming of his heart-beat. He felt sunken; weak to the cold, ill and boxed up. Put away. His hands trembled, even as 8-Ball pulled back from him, beretta angled to shoot at a moment's notice. Despite all that, he tried to remember what his Grunkle Stan had taught him on self-defense, and Grunkle Ford on survival skills, and Mabel on-.
Dipper grew sick, considering the possibilities; a last resort.
He'd found it by accident. Nobody was supposed to stumble upon it; that much was obvious, being it'd been stowed away in the open back of one of Mabel's plushies. A dirty little secret, unearthed once flopping on her bed while she'd been out with friends (There was something inherently better about her mattress; easier on his back, softer in places he wished his own was.) And, he'd found it. Again, by accident. Taking it, however, hadn't been. It was oddly infatuating- he refused to describe it as anything more than- finding her Playgirl magazines.
"Magazines," plural, which cataloged men in dirty jeans, men in suits, men with their hats on backwards, and- horrifying and amazing- men without so much as a pair of socks on; heavier, built to topple, and mainstreamed primarily towards women and their own unfulfilled desires. He tried to remember. A foot-note of articles for the scraps to their demographic; for the men and their curiosity. Exhilarating at the time when Dipper poured over things like "Ten Tongue Tricks," and "Sex Secrets With Elton John," written by men who were only ever paid to print it out, and never to feel intrigue of their own.
Tried to remember the exact phrasing; relax and breathe .
Tried to remember if anything needed to be done first.
Remember if there were any specific tips that kept it from hurting.
Dipper began to panic.
" Reach for the glove-compartment." 8-Ball repeated, jostling his gun towards the dash. What was the boy supposed to do? What? He reached- obviously- at the pace of a slug, cautious of making any sudden moves, working to steady the tremor that racked his entire being. He couldn't quite contain it. Not when he opened the small drawer to reveal a pair of handcuffs. 8-Ball nudged his cheek with the muzzle of his beretta, forcing Dipper to jump.
"Listen closely." The man ordered. It had the young boy glassy-eyed; blotched at the cheeks, tearing open his bottom lip with a vigour better-suited for a schizophrenic. Something clogged his throat. A ball, thick, pained and rubbing up against his esophagus like he might suffocate. He tried to swallow it down. It only made him burn.
"Take that first cuff, and cuff your wrist, alright? Good, good. Now, take the other cuff and latch it onto the arm-rest. Slow. Hey. I'd better hear that thing snap shut." Dipper pressed his lips together. There was a bit of space; an inch or two of wiggle room. It didn't last. Once he became situated, 8-Ball was quick about putting his beretta away- the boy's jaw unlocked- to clamp down on his handcuff. Make sure it was secure.
"Nice and tight." He confirmed, patting Dipper's wrist. Testing the chain, there was no more than four inches of give. "Can't have you getting your hands all over the place; you're a real explorer, I'll bet."
Dipper said nothing in response, simply yanking his arm once more. There was a pain in his chest, the crumbling of his shoulders when he realized (Only a portion; who could ever process this in a night?) the truck was peeling out. A hand went to his mouth, sobs suddenly racking his body at the " Gravity Falls: Next Exit" sign passing them by. He tried not to cry for a moment- not to panic- only for something to burst behind his eyes. Dipper bit into his palm, slamming his head back in his seat. It couldn't be this easy. It just couldn't be.
"What-. Wha-What-. What-. " Dipper gulped for breath, watching as they zoomed down the road, trees turning to intersections, intersections turning into separate highways. Everything connected everywhere, and yet it was all so scattered; all so confusing. He gave another yank to his handcuff.
"What're you gonna do with me?" He whimpered, staring at the side of 8-Ball's face, which had gone uncharacteristically lax. Even more terrifying, indifferent. A total disconnect from their position. He shrugged, turning off on Route 45.
"I'm just the delivery guy."