**WARNING: Be warned that there is mention of past rape in this chapter. It is marked with a single asterisk (*) and if you do not like even the insinuation of rape, feel free to skip the paragraph.

Anyway...

Surprise! An update, the day after the first update!

Aha. So, it's Chanukah, and I decided to post a chapter as a present. Not much, but something.

Anyway, this chapter is kind of superfluous. The only reason I have it is to show some insight into Bill. It is simply an interlude and will not effect the story overmuch, as Dipper is utterly unaware of any of this.

But hey, at least you get to learn a bit more about Bill's past! As well as his thoughts about what is happening. Not everything, but more. Just saying, though; do not mistake his past as an excuse for his actions. He still has done horrible things. He just has reasons for why he is what he is.

I hope you guys like this chapter. It is one of my favorites. Know that it does not take place directly after the last chapter, though. It takes place right after Dipper's punishment, before Bill came to help heal him. Just so you know.

Anyway, enjoy! And Happy first day of Chanukah!

Bill Cipher entered his room, stalking over to his wardrobe and grabbing the bottle of whiskey he kept there. He then swung around and took a dramatic seat in his armchair and glared at the wall, taking a long swig from his bottle.

To say he was not pleased would be an understatement. A severe understatement. Furious, in fact, would probably be a better word. Or, perhaps, enraged. Spitting mad, raving, apoplectic, outraged. Whichever word, he felt it.

Now, he would admit, this was not an unusual emotion for him, nor was it always unwanted. Anger could be useful, when one was the captain of a pirate ship. Kept you alive and in charge. But this time he felt different. Perturbed, discombobulated. Thrown off kilter. And he supposed that that was due to the fact that there was another emotion filling him alongside his rage. Another emotion that was causing his cold and black heart to squeeze bitterly. An emotion so foreign that he didn't even know how he recognized it, or if he even truly did.

So it was not the rage that was causing him to sit on his chair, swirling his most potent bottle of whiskey in between his fingers, staring- brooding- at the wall. That was causing him to feel so wrong inside. So alien, so foreign. So insecure. Rage, rage he could deal with. Rage was familiar, it was a friend of his. It had kept him alive, when he had been alone and hungry as a child. It was the one constant he had. But this? This fear, this heart squeezing emotion that he felt? This… this… terror that was wrapping around his heart and devouring it whole?

He had felt fear before. He'd be lying if he said he hadn't. And while he was an intense liar, he tried to shy away from lying to himself. After all, who could he trust if not himself? So yeah, he'd felt afraid. When his mother had died when he was ten and he was suddenly left alone. When he had gotten cornered by that monster in that alley at age twelve and had taken his first life in his bid for freedom. When he had first faced up against a pirate shortly after that, all skin and bones from his life of poverty on the streets. Yeah, fear was another emotion he knew well, even if he'd deny ever experiencing it.

But this. This was different. This was foreign. This was causing him to want to scream, to cry, to make a total fool of himself. To, for the first time in his life, apologize to a living human being.

And it was all because of the boy with the heavens on his forehead.

Oh, how Bill hated that boy. Loathed him, despised him. Abhorred him. The very thought of the boy made him want to rush to the brig and skewer that child with his sharpest blade. And yet he didn't. Because of that thrice damned emotion he felt. That fear that twisted his gut and made him want to vomit.

Oh, how had this happened, he lamented as he leaned back over the armrest of his chair, glaring petulantly at the opposite wall. That boy. That child who had faced him, William 'Bill' Cipher, the Yellow Demon of the Seven Seas, with a firm and unafraid gleam in his umber eyes. The child who had crawled under his skin and had latched onto his dead and rotted heart. That child had caused this.

Why, oh why, had he not killed him when he had the chance? Taken his dagger and jammed it into the boy's eye socket, seen the blood and brain matter and called it a day? Why had he hesitated, why had he waited? He never had done that before. He was efficient, he killed swiftly and mercilessly. Yes, he gloated, he toyed, but that was with the knowledge that he would eventually destroy the thing he was toying with, one way or another. He never hesitated. He never had second thoughts. He never looked into someone else's eyes and wondered why exactly he was killing them. Such thoughts were detrimental to a pirate captain.

And yet that boy. That child. He had looked into the boy's eye and had hesitated long enough for the bell to ring to inform the whole crew that they were finished pillaging and were ready to leave. He could have killed him then, taken his life right before leaving, but he hadn't. He hadn't, he had left, allowing the boy to go free. He didn't even know why, didn't know what he had seen that had shaken him enough to let the boy go. To let Pine Tree go. He had never before left a raided ship without killing at least one person, it was an unspoken rule of his. And yet that time he had.

He had never thought he would have seen the child again. He had thought that the boy would feel relief at the fact his life was saved, that he would return to his life like normal, albeit with a healthy fear of the Insane Pirate Captain Bill Cipher. That he wouldn't have to ever examine the emotion that had stayed his hand. He hadn't thought that, not even minutes later, that the same boy he had spared, the same child who had looked so relieved to be alive, would jump onto his ship and fight off four of his men. That the boy would actually be able to defeat his men. He had seen the whole thing, watching curiously from the shadows. The boy was untrained, awkward with the blade he had grabbed, but he was quick. And he used it to his advantage. And, despite himself, he had felt impressed. The boy had gotten captured while shoving the girl off the ship, but he hadn't looked afraid. He had stared him in the eye and had looked so calm and cold that he couldn't find it in him to take that light away.

So he had let the boy live. He had put him in the brig, thinking that perhaps he would sell him to the highest bidder once they reached a slave trader. The boy was strong, he'd fetch a good price. He hadn't even thought of him after having him locked away in a cell. He had wiped his hands of the whole thing, content that he had resolved whatever it was that had stayed his hand. But then. Then. Then he had to be prowling his ship, his mind too anxious and full to sleep like it always was. He had to happen to be passing the brig and had to hear that boy screaming, pleading for help.

*He should have kept walking. He should have let his men do as they pleased. It was what pirates did, after all. There were only so many times they could screw each other before the appeal ran out. While he, personally, didn't understand the rapture people spoke of, he knew that his men enjoyed the carnal pleasures taken from another. And he allowed them to do whatever they wanted. It kept them happy, which kept him in charge.

But the boy… his screams had caused something to clench inside him. Had caused him to remember a time that he had buried so far down in his mind that he never thought of it. Of another boy, terrified, afraid, faced with men far too large and far too strong. Of the day he had finally let go and given into the madness that lived inside his head. Of the moment that humanity had failed him so grievously that he had vowed to repay it in kind. And he found himself entering the brig and stopping his men before they could do that to another child, even though he had never particularly cared before. Life was cruel, people needed to learn that. But not him. Not Pine Tree. Not that way. He didn't know why, but he didn't want that for the child. Claiming the boy as his own would prevent any of his men from touching the child, and it fit since the child did belong to him. Pine Tree was his, his prisoner, his captive. His possession.

*While he had been down there, he had noticed that the boy was favoring his right arm and had seen blood covering his entire left sleeve. He could tell that it was a wound, he had seen it earlier when the boy had grappled with him on the ground. Had used it to his advantage in their fight. He hadn't particularly cared at the time, but looking down at the shivering and terrified child, he had felt pity rise inside him. Not much, but some. He had never felt pity before, but looking down into those too wide, too brown eyes had caused the emotion to bubble inside of him. And he had had the idea of healing the child, cleaning the wound and bandaging it for him.

He had rationalized it to himself, saying that it would help keep the boy alive. That the boy was no use to him dead. And while that was true, he also could not deny that the pity he had felt in that moment had played a large part in his decision. Not without lying to himself.

The boy had been terrified of him, he knew that much, could see it on his face when he had been dragged into his office. Pine Tree had kept his eyes closed tight like a young child, probably hoping that everything would simply disappear as long as he pretended that it wasn't there. Bill understood that. He had used to do the same when he was young, when his mother was gone for the night, in the bed of some stranger in the hope of feeding them the next day. When the night had been cold on his brittle bones and his stomach had ached from the vast emptiness inside of it.

It had amused him, though. Seeing the boy, the same one who had looked so bold and unafraid when standing up to him, cowering like the child he clearly still was? It had tickled him inside. Just as it had intrigued him. Because even while the boy cowered, there was still a gleam in his eyes. One that spoke of a silent bravery, a wordless strength that proved he would never back down from a challenge. Bill had seen it and it had piqued his curiosity.

He had stuffed it down, though. He couldn't afford to feel interested in his prisoner. In a few weeks' time, he'd likely never even see the boy again, once he reached the slave traders. Any interest he felt would be pointless, in the end. So he had spoken to the boy with mock politeness before getting down to business.

Healing the wound had taken longer than he had wanted, but he felt the need to make sure the process was done properly. He hadn't meant to be gentle with the child, had meant to be forceful and uncaring. But then he had felt the boy shivering under his touch, fear and pain clear on his face, and had felt that pity again. He had gentled his hands, gentler than he had ever thought himself possible. And he had hated himself for it. For his weakness, for allowing the boy to see him act so weak. It had been with pleasure that he had eaten his food in front of the child, watching him grow steadily more desperate as the moments passed. But not desperate enough to beg. Bill had to admire him for it.

That was all it was supposed to be. Healing, fixing the boy's arm. Taunting the child, mocking him. Telling him stories of his horrid crimes, seeing that disgust and fear on the boy's face, feeling his sick glee at the sight. That was all it was ever meant to be. He wasn't supposed to want to see the child. He wasn't supposed to sit in his room, musing in his chair over the boy. He wasn't supposed to continue being gentle to him, to secretly revel in the warm skin he felt beneath his hands. He wasn't supposed to go down to see him while drunk and reveal himself even further. He wasn't supposed to, then, act kinder to the child and speak to him like he was a confidant. Like the boy was anything to him other than a prisoner. He wasn't supposed to do those things, wasn't supposed to want to do those things, but he had. He had.

He couldn't help it, though! The child intrigued him so much. He couldn't help but burn with curiosity about the boy with the stars on his head, about the boy who looked so strong, yet so fragile at the same time. It was an itch, a burn. He couldn't get the child out of his thoughts, couldn't forget his face. He had visited the child during a time his crew had celebrated their recent bounty, a time he usually spent alone in his cabin with his rum, because he couldn't contain his curiosity anymore. He had had to see him, had had to get at least one question answered. He had needed it.

Bill let out a groan and sat up, taking another sip of his whiskey. That boy. That stupid, foolish child. He had treated that boy well, had given him more liberties than any other prisoner had ever gotten from him. He usually was so cold and cruel to his prisoners, he usually left them to the tender care of his crew. But he had been different around this boy. He had actually treated him well, for whatever reason he had made up to justify it in his mind.

And the boy had tried to escape.

And that was the kicker, wasn't it? That was what was causing this stupid emotion in his long rotted heart. That was what made him want to rage, and cry, and scream. He had tried with that boy and the boy had betrayed him. Betrayed him. Bill could feel his face screw up in sick pain, his dead heart clenching.

Oh, Billy boy, when oh when did you start placing your trust in a child? In a prisoner? When did you forget who you were and think that, perhaps, you could speak with the boy and that he would actually enjoy those talks? That he would actually want to spend time with you? When did you start deluding yourself so much that you thought that, maybe, you could have something good? When did you ever start believing that you might actually deserve something good?

He let out a bitter laugh at his thoughts, the voice one he hadn't heard in a little while, there. He had almost started to wonder when he'd hear his mother's voice again, hear her vitriol echoing in his mind. Belittling him in death as she had done so well during his life. She may have kept him as a child, but she had never cared for him. Never.

But she was right. She always was. When had he deluded himself so much that he found himself trusting the child? So much so that his escape attempt had caused a hole to form in his gut? A trench so wide that he could feel the bitter nothingness inside of him? Betrayal could only be felt if one trusted. And Bill never trusted. He couldn't, couldn't afford it. It only hurt. And yet he had. And now he hurt.

He could still hear the boy's screams in his mind. Could still see his back, shivering and heaving as blood flowed down it. He usually loved dealing out punishments, loved feeling his whip crack against a person's back. Loved it as he loved nothing else, loved the feeling it caused inside of him. But not now. Not now. The child, the boy, Pine Tree had been the recipient and he didn't love it now. He should. The boy had betrayed him, had mocked his kindness and his leniency. He should have reveled in the boy's pain. So why on Earth didn't he?!

He let out a shaky breath as he took another sip of his whiskey. It wasn't helping, but he needed to do something with his hands, his mouth.

He was a demon. The Yellow Demon of the Seven Seas, to be exact. He had been sailing since he was twelve, since he had stowed away on a ship to run from his own morality. Since he had been captured by pirates and had suffered a fate worse than death. Since he had taken up his position as a slave aboard that same ship, since he had found his way to freedom and had killed the lot of them with no remorse. Since he had joined a crew of his own and had become everything he had ever despised. It was what he was. It was all he was. Evil, wicked, deprived. Insane, truly and utterly mad. He didn't feel for people. He didn't want to apologize, he didn't want to make it up to a boy at least ten years younger than he, himself, was. He didn't. He didn't. He didn't even know the child's name, he had only known him for a week. He couldn't be changing, he couldn't be anything other than a monster. It was what he was, goddammit! He was a pirate, a monster, a demon! He was… he was…

Bill grit his teeth and felt his chest heave, bottle of whiskey tumbling from his hands as he gripped his desk and faced down, eye closed tight. He was good for nothing. He was pathetic. He was a tumor that should have been destroyed before he had ever been born. He was a curse. He was… nothing. He was nothing and would always be nothing. He had created himself a name here on these seven seas, but he still was nothing inside. A rotting, deformed husk of a man that had died eons ago. His mother had always told him that, hadn't she? Had always reminded him of what he was, had always looked at him with hatred and anger. He had taken everything from her, she always said. How could he ever pretend to be human when inside he was utter garbage?

So Pine Tree didn't matter. Pine Tree would hate him now, anyway, if he hadn't before. Everyone hated him, or feared him. And he loved that. He loved it. He had to. Because if he didn't, if he didn't, what could he do? What else could he ever possibly be other than a pirate, earth's scum? He couldn't apologize because pirates didn't do that. He didn't do that. It had been his right to strike the child. The boy had attempted to escape, had tried to run. Bill had been well within his right as captain to punish him as he saw fit. It didn't matter that seeing the boy's smooth and silky back marred by red, angry welts had caused something inside of him to rebel. It didn't matter. God, it didn't matter.

But it did. It did. It did. And Bill hated that it did. That he could still hear the screams and they haunted him. That red blood, usually so welcome to his eyes, had caused his mind to nearly stop.

God, he had to see the kid. He had to. The child had looked almost dead when he had sent him back to his cell. Eyes were dim and body was limp. Had probably never been hurt so badly before, was probably in shock. Probably in excruciating pain. Probably was afraid.

He didn't want to see the child. He wanted to see the child. He didn't know what he wanted. He was a demon. A monster. Had pretended that he was human once and it had crumbled before his eyes, back when he had eyes. Had once wanted to do good in life, had once wanted to help people, but now was their scourge. If he touched that boy, he would break. He would suck the life from that child faster than he had sucked it from his mother. He already had. The child would never be the same after this, even if he did manage to escape. He'd always be scarred.

But he would die, if his wounds were left unattended. Bill was good at what he did, was good at dealing out pain. He had put his full strength behind his hits and had reveled in it. Had let his anger flow and had broken his Pine Tree. He- he needed to fix him. Needed to at least try. The child was his, he couldn't let him waste away beneath his feet. He had to see the boy.

Bill took a deep breath and released his grip of his desk and stood up. He forced an expressionless mask onto his face and stalked over to his chest of medical supplies. He dug through it and got out every clean cloth he had, every drop of disinfecting alcohol he kept stored away. He grabbed the necessary herbs and medicine and stuffed all of it into a bag. He could feel nothing inside as he worked, his mind blank as he moved.

It had been a while since he had last been introspective, he thought bitterly. Last time had to have been at least a year before, probably when he had murdered that baby even after the mother had begged for mercy. That had stuck with him for days, haunting his dreams. It wasn't so much the act that had haunted him, but the woman's face. Her desolate eyes as he tossed the lifeless body back to her, the death he saw inside her. The person who lived but was now devoid of life. It had caused him to torture himself with thoughts and self-hatred. The feelings had went away with time, he had gotten over his distaste of the memory, but it had caused a major upheaval of self at the time. Like this was. He was sure that in a few days' time he'd be over this, like he always was, but for now it hurt him. And for now, he'd allow himself to repent and show mercy. But only tonight, he vowed. Only tonight would he show the boy mercy.

Only tonight.