HEY! I GOT YOUR ATTENTION!
I hope…
I
Everyone has this image of a humanized Bill and I thought it was interesting…sort of. I can't see Bill being completely human so I made him mimicking what he thinks a human is. He's like…a mockery of the human, or whatever (sorry, not very poetic right now). He's human enough while still moving, acting, and somewhat looking like a monster (somewhat unintentionally) to be unnerving. I want to make this character uncomfortable to read about, and I dehumanize Bill so that later on, the concept that I will try to convey about Bill and his interactions with others will be…easier to, well, convey. I know this is vague and unhelpful but I will edit this later and it will all make sense!
II
So…I bring in social service or whatever…I don't know exactly how that stuff works when it comes to child cases so I just winged it. Hey, can you blame me? It's a fanfiction, not a legit story. Besides—there's demonic Doritos messing around with shit, I don't think my poor social service knowledge is the problem here. Bill is the problem—and a real pain in the ass for the twins. ;P
III
Oh, and I don't know how 12 year olds are, but I'm just making the Twins naïve because it will just add more to the shock with the publics misconception on Stan and fun fun fun ;( . So, sue me.
IV
Ps. I hint the problem in this chapter that I spoke of previously. It's not very clear yet, I don't think so good luck. Everything will be revealed in the end.
Chapter Two: Gingers and Chance Meetings
That morning the kids and Gruncle Stan made their way down to the Greasy Diner. Stepping out of the car, Stan groaned—why had it to be so hot today? He glanced up at the sky framed by tips of green trees. Already the vultures were hovering, looking for rotting carcasses and road kill. What was worse than the heat was the humidity, making the old man sweat beneath his nice suite, "Yeesh, if this doesn't kill me, I don't know what will," He glanced at Mabel who was currently doing a headstand—he didn't know how she did it, wearing nothing but sweaters.
It was clear that Mabel had recovered from the drive to the restaurant. On the road to the Greasy Diner, a man had been riding Stan's tail the entire time. It wasn't that he drove slowly naturally, but the jerk gave him no choice. Slowing down as car advanced, Gruncle Stan was mad enough to make the drive painfully legal.
Dipper peered out the window and saw the speed limit roll by. He then glanced at Stan's speedometer, "What?" he laughed, "Do my eyes deceive me?"
"Why are you driving so slow?" Mabel asked. Her curiosity had been piqued.
"To teach this asshole a lesson," Stanford grumbled, looking in the rearview mirror, "Carrot-top won't leave us be. Been on my tail the entire time," the anxiety pestering the old man over the week now had an outlet.
Mabel gasped at her guardian's crude language, "Gruncle Stan!"
"Sorry, sorry," he said distractedly, still intent on pissing off the other driver.
Stan straightened his coat after he shut the car door. He saw with disdain the beaten Ford Taurus roll into the parking lot. As the red-headed tourist got out, the two caught the other's eye and Stan quickly looked away. Sometimes, he thought, tourists are weirder than the residents here. Then again…
"See Dipper!" Mabek yelled, doing a headstand, "Now give me a glass of water and a ventriloquist dummy and I can do it!"
Dipper's face was red with both concern and embarrassment, "Mabel! People are going to see your underwear," he hissed, pushing her over, "Get some pants next time," Mabel was laughing, sprawled out on the dirt parking lot.
Getting up, she turned around so that her back was facing her brother. Turning her head around she asked, "Do I have anything on me?"
Dipper giggled, "Here, let me get that for you," Her navy blue sweater that sported a unicorn and her lavender skirt was now caked with dirt. He patted off her sweater and went to clean off her skirt.
"I can do that, thanks bro," she chirped, patting her purple-clad backside free from dust.
"Oh, right—," Dipper said, quickly withdrawing his hands, "Oh, your head," he ruffled her hair, puffs of dust rising from her brown locks, "You're going to need another shower."
"What are you? Mom?" she asked, shoving him playfully.
"Come on kids, let's get inside before we all end up like raisins," Stanford said, already walking toward the diner. He saw them run from the parking lot and Stan observed the two. Out of the two twins, the boy had acquired the most injuries—though Mabel still had a few (colorful bandages hiding the cuts and what not). Dipper's new bruise—big, violet, severe looking and decorating his cheekbone—did not go unnoticed, how could it? Where is he getting all of those?
The twins ran up the steps and into the diner, Dipper making sure not to trip over anything unusual—as he had done before, "I beat you!" Mabel yelped excitedly, sliding into the booth, "I get the window seat!"
"I wasn't even racing you," Dipper replied, "Besides, I could get a window seat too," he said, sliding in next to her, "If I wanted to, you know."
Gruncle Stan slid into the seat across from them, his hands folded on the resin-coated table. Lazy Susan arrived, "What can I get for you all?" she asked cheerfully, "the usual?"
"Actually, they can have whatever they want," Gruncle Stan said. Today he wasn't going to be cheap; the poor kids needed some cheering up. Their anxiety, for reasons still frustratingly unknown, had been worrying the great uncle. It was like a horse fly constantly nipping at the edge of his brain. If he could lighten them up with the Greasy Diner, then so be it—at the moment, he would do whatever worked.
Mabel gasped in excitement, "I'll have chocolate chip pancakes with a smiley face on it and whip cream. And rainbows!" she said, a smile on her face, "Please and thank you," she added.
"All righty, then," Lazy Susan smiled, writing down Mabel's order, "And what about you, little man?" The adorable waitress turned her attention to Dipper. Her smile faltered for but a moment as she saw his cheek, "What on earth happened?" she asked, concern dusting her voice.
"What?" Dipper looked up from the menu. That's when he realized the aging woman was referring to his bruise, "I…uh, I," he hadn't quite come up with an excuse. For a split moment, in that second when his brain froze, he pondered what would happen if he just told her it was a dream demon. The idea was laughable, the consequences possibly severe but the scenario so exaggerated in his mind's eye. Perhaps a therapist, a hospital, or maybe just some counseling would result from such a statement. Really, she would have written it off as wild imagination, as most adults did with children, "It was an accident," he said, shrugging. He didn't really need to elaborate, did he? It's not like anything else could have given him such a bruise—other than a wicked monster not from this realm.
Stan shrugged, "Kid's a klutz. Who knows what millionth thing he's tripped over today."
"What? Hey—Mabel is the klutz," Dipper said, smiling and nudging his twin playfully. He returned to Susan, "Uh, I'll have the ham and cheese omelet, please."
"Okey dokey. And what about you Stanford Pines?" she asked, smiling down at the grouchy old man.
"Uh, just some coffee—black."
"It'll be here in a jiffy. Wink!," she said, giving all three of them one of her playful winks. In a matter of minutes, they were all given their morning meal. The twins dug into their food, Mabel happy to find out that the rainbow was the crayons they gave out at the diner.
The meal went by smoothly. Stan tried coaxing a legit answer out of the twins concerning the accumulation of the minor battle scars the boy had acquired. Both had dodged the question with vague answers, all the while trying to change the subject. He dropped the topic for now, letting the children enjoy their meal in peace. He wondered about Mabel—did she have the same injuries? She did wear a sweater…they might be better hidden. He would ask them both, out right, demanding an answer—but there was a time and place for that and a public diner wasn't one of them.
Just then, his bladder screamed at him—cursing the coffee and cursing his bladder, Gruncle Stan excused himself from the booth. In the bathroom and now washing his hands, he was approached by the redheaded tourist. By now, Stanford Pines was sure that he was no longer paranoid—this man was following him.
"So, kid's a klutz?"
"What?" he was genuinely confused at first—since when did red-head come in here? Or was he staking out in the restroom hoping Stan would have to piss sooner or later?
"The boy? He a klutz? Is that how he got that sucker on his face?"
"Yeah, seems that way," Stan said gruffly. He naturally tensed, something wasn't right here.
"What about that bruise on his arm…sure looks like a hand mark…" the man said casually, washing his own hands.
"What are you implying?" Stanford asked. Now was not the time to act defensively—especially if someone was indirectly accusing him. Especially, if the accusations where something as severe as child abuse.
"Nothing…I just think that the boy must be a really clumsy kid. I mean you do realize he has at least three pretty, how should I put it? Decent cuts. Those are going to leave a mark."
Gruncle Stan wiped his hands dry on a paper towel, "Look, I'm pretty sure I know where this is going and it's not what you think."
"Really? Where do you think it's going?"
Shit, he was trapped. Conclude he would be accused of child abuse, it would appear he was waiting for the accusation. It would appear he was paranoid, naturally it would be the first thing on the guilty mind. Avoid the question and risk being suspicious. There was no way out. The thing is, is that whatever was giving Dipper those bruises—if it was someone—it wasn't him.
"Look, who are?" he asked, choosing a route and sticking to it.
"Just curious tourist, Stanford, that's all," the red headed man went toward the bathroom door. Before leaving, he turned around, "I'll be seeing you around," he gave a thin-lipped smile and disappeared through the door.
Gruncle Stan contemplated the thin, angular face. The hawkish nose, the blue, beady eyes, the thick spectacles. He was dressed casually like a tourist, but his stature and lithe form said otherwise. That's when it hit him; he's seen him at least twice on the tours and at least once about town. Stan wasn't stupid—he knows what it's like to be treated as a suspect, he was just shocked it would be over child abuse. He didn't know how he would tell Rachel and George Pines, when it came to it. That's not going to be fun—but they would believe him, right? After all, they entrusted their children in the care of a crook, and knowingly!
The bastard was landing a hint, placing the first move to see what Stan would do next. The man was probably someone from the social services—though who, who in all of Gravity Falls, would accuse Stanford of such a heinous crime? Or at least think he was capable of such a thing; capable enough to persuade them to call for investigation. Give it a few days, and one of those workers will be standing at his doorstep demanding an investigation, an inquiry, or perhaps they would be passive aggressive again and have another "chat". The fact that this was happening was more surreal to Gruncle Stan than anything he had ever encountered in Gravity Falls. He walked out of the bathroom and returned to the booth.
"You look constipated," Mabel blurted, licking sweet whipping cream from her fork, "What's the matter, Gruncle Stan?"
"What? Nothing, nothing. Say, you guys almost done yet?" he asked, bringing his coffee mug to his lips. He took a long slip, allowing himself to really taste the bitter liquid. He glanced at his watch, "I wanna open the Mystery Shack early today, get some more customers before people start heading out. You know how the school year is approaching, soon there will be little tourists."
"What?" Dipper said in disbelief, "C'mon, it's like Christmas—people prep like, two months earlier for school. You shouldn't believe everything on TV, especially not those ads," summer couldn't have gone by that fast, could it?
"We'll be coming back next Summer, right?" Mabel asked, hope evident on her face.
Gruncle Stan couldn't help chuckle, trying his best to hide the worry, "We'll see, kids," he hoped. However, he saw the possible future, and it wasn't all too bright. Standing up and stretching, his joints popped, "All right, let's head out," paying for the meal and having placed a tip on the table, Stanford followed the twins out of the door.
Braving the heat, they rolled down the windows until the air conditioning actually produced cold air. For the meantime, horrible heat would pour through the vents, "Just gotta be patient," he muttered. He placed the key and the engine started with a purr. Looking up from the shift stick, Stan spotted the same red head, but waiting in his car. He looked up from a newspaper, locking eyes as Stan's frown deepened. The red head, seemingly uninterested, returned to his newspaper. The car veered out of the parking lot and made it's way back to the Mystery Shack.
The twins had managed to occupy themselves during the day as they often did. They had been put to work earlier, but Grucnle Stan had dismissed them—he really didn't want the tourists to see bruised children working for him. That just painted a bad image. Work was busy, and even though the extra hands could have been useful, Stan resorted to making his employees work the shifts.
"Mr. Pines, where are the twins? I thought they'd be working."
"You trying to be a free-loader or something, Wendy?"
"No sir," she replied quickly. She returned back to work; there was no arguing with his stubbornness.
Between tours and crowds, Stanford took the time to straighten out his money. He fanned a stack of bills, nervously occupying himself. He had been regarded with strange looks earlier that day when he was seen speaking with the twins. Really, it couldn't be that bad—he wasn't a bad guardian; children get themselves hurt all the time. People couldn't really jump to conclusions that fast, would they?
Other than annoying customers, Pines' mind wandered to the confrontation he had earlier that day. "Chance Meetings" and vague questioning has happened before; police will get suspicious so they would send a few dogs out to poke their nose where it didn't belong. However, this was different, this was adding children to the mix which made Gruncle Stan extremely uncomfortable. Just being a white, elderly male could be dangerous in itself—accusations were readily written, tags easily applied.
"Hey, Mabel," he looked up from his stack of green cash at the souvenir shop. A man was contemplating between shirts, a woman was with her two obnoxiously loud kids, but there was no Mabel. She had been looking for waddles in here only a moment ago—
"Yes, Gruncle Stan?"
The old man jumped at Mabel's sudden voice. Looking down, he didn't see Mabel but Waddles wrapped in her sweater, "Mabel," he sighed. The anxiety left him in no mood for her shenanigans, "Come out from behind the counter."
"Oh, all right," she snickered. Her head appeared from the other side. Getting up, she slid the pig out of her sweater and placed it over her white tank top, "What's up, Gruncle?" she chirped, scratching her pig lovingly behind the ears.
He swore if these people where going to accuse him of child abuse, he didn't know what he was going to do. It's not like a burglary—you can't just get out of dodge. He was innocent. Though he had thought about it, running away from something like this would only perpetuate this image of him being guilty. As his thoughts ran a muck, he cast a worrying glance around the room, "Uh…" He looked about, paranoid of prying ears. Despite the customers currently occupied, he couldn't risk them over hearing, "Here, how about I make you some lunch."
"But it's five o'clock," Mabel interjected, "In an hour we're going to—,"
"What? You want PB and J. Alright, let's get you a PB and J sandwich," he said, slightly raising his voice, "Nothing suspicious about that," He turned to Wendy, who finally had the chance to read a magazine, "Cover for me, will yah?"
She snapped her fingers, "Gotcha, Mr. Pines."
He swiftly coaxed Mabel into the kitchen, "Gruncle Stan, are you all right?"
"Yeah, I'm find kid, why wouldn't I be?" he gave her a forced smile. Other than the gnawing concern for his great niece's and nephew's emotional and physical health, a concern that was festering inside his brain like an open soar starting to puss, he was all right. Just super. He grabbed a glass and filled it with tap water, taking a moment he drained the glass and sat at the table where Mabel had made her place. There was another moment of silence as Gruncle Stan, glancing out the window, rubbed his stubbly chin, "I need to know what's going on, Mabel. Haven't you noticed anything strange about your brother? You haven't been yourself lately, either."
Mabel frowned, oh no—this was the part where the adult needed a rational explanation. She nervously chuckled, "Gruncle Staaan," she teased, "Dipper is always strange. Like, when isn't he strange? And what, have I stopped wearing sweaters? Is my hair blonde? No, silly, of course I've been myself."
A look of worry flashed across Stanford's face, making him appear much older, "C'mon, kiddo, something is up."
Mabel's smile faltered, but only for a moment. Stan, however, caught this, "If you're talking about the bruises, Dippy is a klutz. He wouldn't be my brother if he wasn't," she laughed, though it was more uncertain than bubbly.
"And you know, he likes to read all night," she planted her palms on her head, "absorbing all that book stuff like it's osmosis or whatever. That's why he looks all sleep deprived and stuff," There was a moment of silence, a hint of doubt evident behind Stan's thick spectacles.
"It's alright, Gruncle Stan," she gave him a hopeful little shrug, "He's my twin brother, I know these kind of things. Dipper, he's just falls a lot and it doesn't help that there's tons of rocks everywhere. And I'm all right too. Sometimes I just hit things too much. "
"Alright. Hopefully the police will think the same thing."
"What?" It had not occurred that, to the public, Dipper's injuries would look different. Not everyone believed in dream demons, but everyone believed in a different type of evil.
"Nothing, don't worry about it," Stan paused before continuing, "You know," he began uncomfortably, not knowing how to deal with sentiment and emotion, "you can always tell me things," he waved his hand dismissively, meaning emotional issues, "when ever you need to. I care about you guys, I care for your health."
Mabel gave her genuine, cheeky smile, "I know, Gruncle Stan," she sad. Sliding off her chair she gave him a hug, "You're the best Gruncle ever."
"Uh, thanks kiddo," Gruncle Stan coughed awkwardly, giving her a light pat, "Well, off with you. I'm pretty busy," he got up and gently separated himself from Mabel's hug, "Go find your brother."
"Alright, Gruncle," she masked her panic. Turning around she skipped out of the kitchen. The moment she was out of sight she sprinted out the front door and ran to the woods. How could I have forgotten!? Stopping by the edge of the forest, Mabel called out for her brother—the shadows swallowing her voice whole. How could I be so stupid as to let her brother by himself? She wasn't blind, Bill wasn't around when she was. To keep him safe she had to be with him and now, as she ran about frantically, she felt she had neglected her twin duty.
As if feeling horrible for lying wasn't bad enough, she now felt the guilt for Dipper's millionth disappearance. And what was it that Gruncle Stan said about the police? For the life of her, she couldn't understand why, which only made Mabel even more anxious—the twelve year old hadn't thought of child abuse, it was so unlikable to happen.
She ran back to the Mystery Shack, taking the back entrance she ran up the flights of stares two at a time. Perhaps he was in the scarlet room again, she hoped. Opening the door he wasn't there. She ran to their room to find the space vacant, as was the guest room, Stan's, the basement, the kitchen, the closest, the bathroom. Maybe he really was in the woods—but finding him now seemed impossible.
Light penetrated the thick canopy and glowed on the forest floor like hot spot lights on a stage. Dipper was staring up at new image of Bill Cipher, at a loss for words.
"It's one of my new forms, like it?"
Dipper hesitated before answering. He observed the figure before him: Bill was tall, and skinny—skeletal almost. His frame appeared delicate, lithe, and though Cipher had tried, it was far from human. His hands were clawed; he had too many fingers, and his movements spider-like. The actual mass making up the body was completely void of any color—in fact, Dipper convinced it was some sort of void—black matter maybe?
What confused him further was the type of clothes he wore. The yellow overcoat, with its tails, was shocking in contrast very much like the floating, geometrical head. There was a clear distinction between black slacks and black "skin". It was not as if he actually had an epidermis, just a coherent mass of black whatever as dark as pitch. The shoes were pointed and spit-shined just so that anyone could see their reflection. The body would have been rendered headless had not the triangular symbol, with it's one eye, floated above where the neck should be. His hat was in place, and the bow tie—instead on his face (that typically constituted his body)—was now placed where any bow tie was supposed to be.
Whatever Bill was trying to imitate, it was far from human—yet it was similar enough to make one feel extremely uneasy. His movements, on the verge of being human, were not quite graceful, not yet learned, "Sooo?" he asked, towering over him. Six fingers flexed and relaxed, ready to grasp, claw, hit, strangle, snatch.
"Well it's a lot more…," Unnerving, was Dipper's original thought, "If you're not human, why are you wearing clothes?" he purposefully changed the topic. Either Bill fell for the bait, or decided to humor Dipper.
"Tut, Tut, Boy," he condescendingly tapped Dipper's head with a clawed finger—it was as if a teacher were scolding his student. Rubbing his cranium, Dipper grimaced, "It's a status symbol, not to mention a classy one. And…well," the dream demon shrugged his sharp, angular shoulders, "I have always been regarded with more of the masculine side for whatever reason. Besides," he adjusted his overcoat and straightened his bowtie, "A little vanity never hurt anyone."
"Well why a suite of all things?"
"Being not of this world, dimension, and with a different origin I have no need for…how should I put it? A physical gender!,"
"Riight," Dipper said, beginning to grasp the concept.
"I could give myself some curves if yah want," he laughed, seeing the boy's face grow hot with embarrassment. He was so easy.
"No, no," Dipper hurriedly confirmed, "It's all good," the boy contemplated Bill's new form, "Why have one?"
"One what?"
"Why have a body—well, another one."
"No one took me seriously as an adorable little triangle. I mean, I know I am the terror that haunts your dreams buuut," He bent down and pinched Dipper's cheek, "I feel ten times more terrifying! Besides, my peers will respect me more for it."
"You have friends?" Dipper would have believed the sun was purple before actually accepting that fact. There was no way.
"Well, three of them: me, myself and I!"
Dipper gave an exasperated look. This confirmed that Bill Cipher was a solitude creature. Perhaps that's why he pestered Dipper. The idea was laughable—clearly it was for the sole purpose of attaining and possibly destroying the journals. The sinister monster had his own agenda to fulfill. Either way, the monster was having fun tormenting the twelve year old. Pondering about the journal, Dipper felt vulnerable with out it. But it was safe where it lay hidden.
"Where is it, by the way?" Cipher said, leaning closer.
"Where is what?"
Bil's singular eye squinted, "You know what I'm speaking of, Pine Tree."
"Really? I'm not really sure what we're talking about…"
"You're a smart boy,"
Dipper folded his arms, "And you mustn't be, considering your not getting the message properly. There's no way I'm going to tell you."
The Cipher man advanced on the child, towering over him like a wolf would a mutt, "Wait till I break you, little Pine," he snarled vehemently, "My patience is growing thin…something is going to give and I am tired of waiting," He had all of infinity, but Dipper had not.
"Dipper! Dippeeeerr!" Mabel's voice had gotten a lot closer. After confirming her twin's absence back at the Shack, she knew he would be in the woods somewhere.
"Mabel!" Dipper called back.
"What are you doing!?" Flames rose from Bills hands and his eye was engulfed with blue rage, "Don't bring her near or I'll—."
Dipper scrabbled to his feet but Bill snatched the boy by his collar, "Mabel! Over here, quick!" his voice cracked in panic.
"You little—," the demon disappeared as he heard Mabel crash through the underbrush.
"Mabel," Dipper scrabbled to his feet and embraced his sister.
"Where were you!? I was looking everywhere, Dipper."
"I…the woods…Bill Cipher," He let himself breath, inhaling his sister's familiar sent as he buried his face into her sweater.
Mabel pulled away to Dipper's disappointment, "Could you at least try, Dippy?" though Mabel wanted to be worried, a hint of frustration seeped into her voice.
"I'm trying, Mabel, I'm sorry. It's just that us being together all day—it's not physically possible. Like—I can't go into the bathroom with you."
"Dipper, the Bathroom and the woods are not the same thing."
The boy nervously chuckled, "Really?" he joked, trying to lighten the mood. He really did hate arguing with his sister.
"Just stay near me. Okay? For whatever reason, Bill doesn't show his face when I'm around, so for the meantime you can't go wandering off," Mabel couldn't help but blame herself for her brothers injuries. Each time he came back with something new decorating his arms, Mabel felt it could have been preventable—if only she where there with her brother.
"Alright, alright. I will…but does that mean I have to go to sleep overs with you?"
Mabel grabbed his hand, "We'll figure it out," she said smiling, "Now come on, lets go do something!"
"Wait, wait," Dipper with drew his hand, "My palm is sweaty," he said, wiping his hand on his shorts. It seemed, in that moment, everything was all right, that Bill was just a bad dream. Taking her hand in his once more he nodded, "okay, now I'm ready," With that, Mabel ran ahead back towards the shack, pulling her twin behind her—a goofy grin plastered on his face.