are you driving me crazy?
Dipper is frozen in place. There's a conversation happening on the other side of the table and he's pretty sure his name has been said a couple of times, but he can't pay any attention to that.
Pacifica's hand is on his.
Did she mean to do it? Is it an accident? Does she even notice? He doesn't know what to do. Her palm is warm where it sits on top of his hand. Her fingers rest gently on his thumb. Wow, her hands are small. And warm. And feminine and holy cow there's a girl's hand on his.
He can't pull away because he doesn't want to offend her (which sounds like a reasonable excuse and he's going to go with that). And he's afraid to do what he really wants to and turn his hand over to lace it with hers, because what if that's too much or she didn't really mean to do it or she reads into it and, while he's on the subject, what is he getting from all this? Can friends just hold hands? She is distraught, after all, it could be a comfort thing. He can't say he finds it particularly comforting, seeing as he's now sweating, and it feels about twenty degrees hotter in the room. Oh, no, what if she does take his whole hand and his palm is all wet? But why would she? They aren't like that… are they? No. No, of course not. …Are they?
What does he do? What does this mean?! He is freaking out, man.
He has to do something. Anything. Heart pounding in his chest, he slowly turns his head to look at her.
She isn't looking back at him. She's sitting in her seat with her usual abundance of cool poise, somehow delicate and regal even with no makeup and wrinkled clothes in a cheap vinyl booth. He remembers her at the Shack, wearing a potato sack like it was Versace. How is he supposed to read her when she can do that? Is she ignoring him?
Then she turns her gaze towards him, and he sees the things in her face that her posture doesn't show: fatigue, discomfort, uncertainty. She swallows, pale neck flexing uneasily. Her eyes communicate a silent query. Her mouth parts slightly and her fingers curve and tighten around the side of his hand.
He's not sure he understands the question. Still, he knows his answer. He's confused and awkward and doesn't know what he's doing, but he turns his hand over and threads his fingers with hers.
Pacifica's attention turns back to the antics across the table, leaving Dipper in his sweaty limbo. This is not how he imagined his first time holding hands would go. There's been no discussion, no clear delineation. The rules of dating have not been invoked, if that's even what this is. He's afraid to demand any clarification. He doesn't want to break the moment.
Man, her skin is soft. What is that, lotion or some other girl thing? Her arm brushes his when she shifts slightly in her seat. He's completely lost track of the conversation. Pacifica is so pretty. Why is she so pretty? He'd noticed that even when he had Wendy on the brain. It hadn't meant much then, but it means a lot now. All he can focus on is every square centimeter of his skin where it meets hers.
Maybe if I cross my legs, no one will notice.
It's a darn good thing Mabel is so distracted by friendship and sucrose right now.
When their food arrives the moment, whatever it is, ends. Pacifica slips her hand from his loose grip to hold her plate as she cuts into her pancakes and Dipper's heartrate gradually returns to normal, even as his brain is still whirling with the implications. He eats mechanically, lost in thought, and shakes himself free of his head only long enough to give short answers whenever the conversation turns his way.
All too soon, the group is reconvened around Soos' truck. But as they pile into the vehicle, readying themselves for the long drive back home, Pacifica hangs back. She pauses next to the driver door.
"Wait," she says to Soos. "We have to make a stop before we leave."
Soos nods knowingly. "Ice cream," he says ("Woo!" Mabel cheers).
The expression on Pacifica's face does not indicate anything as pleasant as frozen treats. "I have to go back home first."
That startles Dipper out of his onset food coma. "What? I thought you said you weren't going back?"
"I'm not." She huffs out a breath and crosses her arms. "But I need to get some of my things. …And talk to my mom." She looks at Dipper through the open door and her mouth thins when she sees his expression. "It'll be fine. It's not like she wants me to stay."
"Yeah, but—"
"Dad won't be there," she adds.
Dipper doesn't know if that's a good idea. Then again, given the possible consequences of helping Pacifica run away he's not sure the original plan has ever been a good idea. In the back of his mind he's always known that there is a high probability of the weekend ending with Pacifica on a flight back to Malibu. He just thinks it will be worth it for her, that's the point—that it will be worth something, so she can breathe. Obviously, she feels the same way. But if there's any possibility that she can leave with permission, it's probably worth pursuing. Besides, it's not his call to make.
"Okay, Pacifica. If that's what you want to do, then let's do it," he says.
The way she twists her mouth makes it clear that 'want' isn't really where she's coming from.
She sits next to him on the short trip, stiff and silent. He briefly considers trying to hold her hand again, but it's not hard to decide against it. Up front, the others are almost equally still, commenting quietly to each other. The atmosphere has changed; they are reversed, going back into hostile territory instead of making good on their escape. Dipper notices that Wendy, especially, seems concerned. He wonders if she's ever had a friend in a similar situation, and what she did about it; or if there had been anything she could do. The only reason Dipper has been able to do something, poorly conceived or not, is because of her and Great-Uncle Ford.
In the midst of a very affluent neighborhood they stop before the long driveway up to Pacifica's house. It's a bright and sunny day and yet it still seems forbidding, like a path into the darkest portion of the woods. Pacifica has been gradually tensing with every mile and now she might as well be a porcelain statue. Her face is pale with restrained emotion, but her blue eyes burn with determination.
"I'll make this quick," she says, opening her door.
"You don't have to go alone," Dipper tells her.
"No, I do," she says, though she flicks her eyes up towards his, grateful. "Just wait a minute, okay?"
He offers her a tense, sympathetic half-smile. "We're not going anywhere."
They all watch as she disappears into the house. Dipper almost wishes he hadn't eaten, he's so wound up. What if Mrs. Northwest won't let Pacifica back out? His mind immediately begins cobbling together half-baked plans; they could find her window and have Wendy climb up, she could fashion some sort of rope… Or Soos could break down the door and they could make a run for it. Both of which are crazy ideas. Crazy, dumb, criminal ideas. Still, given a lack of other options…
"I can't believe I'm rooting for Pacifica Northwest," Wendy says.
"I guess things really change sometimes, huh," Soos reflects.
Wendy smiles, though she doesn't look away from the house. "I guess they do, Mr. Mystery."
Mabel is gnawing intently on a lock of her hair. She says nothing, which speaks just as loudly as any words.
Dipper isn't sure how long they wait. Fifteen, twenty minutes, maybe. It feels like hours. More than once he stops himself from jumping out of the truck and going in after her. He knows that will likely just make things worse. He has no idea what's happening inside the house or what kind of conversation is occurring, if any. He hopes it's a conversation. Maybe something close to civil.
He won't be able to hear the bell if it's ringing. Ah, geez. What if it is? Can she… is she strong enough? He should go in. No, just to the door. He should stand by the door to hear if the bell is ringing or not. He's not jumping to conclusions or going against her wishes. He's being a good friend. If he tells himself that a few more times then maybe he'll believe that instead of the truth, which is that the mental image of her meek and downcast with cheeks pinked in shame as the bell rings over her makes him want to break something. Preferably the bell.
He clenches his jaw and doesn't move. He shouldn't worry. She's the llama. She's a warrior. She's proved it.
He still doesn't relax until he sees her walk out the door.
She's carrying a handbag and is rolling a small suitcase behind her. She's also wearing a backpack which looks expensive. Do they even make designer backpacks? He supposes that if they do, she would have one. She moves quickly, steps long and hurried. Dipper hopes she's just eager to leave and isn't trying to outrun anything literal. No one appears in the doorway behind her. When she draws closer, he can see her eyes are dry and her face has lost some of its suppressed anger.
He hops out of the truck and takes her suitcase, which is lighter than expected. He heaves it into the back and secures it with a bungee while she takes everything else into the cab. He climbs in after her, not sure if he should ask if she is okay. It seems like sort of a dumb question, since she can't be, really. He is very curious to know what happened, though.
When the doors are shut again, they all wait expectantly for her to speak. She lifts her chin, haughty beneath their scrutiny. Dipper takes that as a good sign, if some of her confidence has returned.
"We can leave now," she says.
Glances are exchanged. "Er, so it's cool with your mom and everything?" Soos says.
"It's fine," she says dismissively, clearly impatient to leave. "Can we go already?"
"Soos, get us back into our tax bracket," Wendy says.
"You got it, dudes," Soos replies, sounding relieved. He shifts the truck into gear and peels out of Pacifica's well-maintained concrete driveway, tires squealing.
"Yeah, gun it! Let's get the heck outta here!" Wendy says, urging him on.
"Rescue mission successful!" Mabel declares, raising both hands to the ceiling and getting a high five from Wendy. Soos swipes and misses her other hand and then leans back until he slaps her palm successfully, nearly veering into the oncoming lane in the process.
Dipper just holds onto the handle over his door and tries not to get carsick again.
Two hours later, they're cruising back up the highway in relative silence. Wendy has taken over for Soos, who is now slumped against the window, asleep. Mabel snoozes against his side, having finally bottomed out from her sugar high. The radio is on low, the quiet strains filtering to the backseat too softly to be assembled into a recognizable song. Dipper has spent most of the time watching the scenery roll past while surreptitiously keeping an eye on Pacifica, who hasn't said a word since they reached the highway.
Her mood is difficult to judge, but she doesn't seem sad. Instead, she looks contemplative. Perhaps she's considering what comes next. Dipper is also wondering what the next step is. He thinks he knows, and he's not looking forward to it. He's not sure how his parents are going to react or if he can be convincing enough, even with Mabel on his side. He will try, though. They've already come this far.
He looks over at Pacifica again. Her forehead is resting against the glass of her window and he can't tell if she's asleep or not.
He scoots a little closer to her. "Pacifica?" he says, trying to see her face.
She straightens up immediately, spine ratcheting back into her usual good posture. "I'm awake," she says, as if she is reminding herself.
"What happened in there?" he asks. It's not like they aren't usually blunt with each other.
She doesn't answer right away. Maybe she's not entirely sure. "I told her I was leaving," she says at last. "I said I was going to stay with some friends and that I needed to be away from her and Dad for awhile." Her eyebrows pull together in a slight frown. "She said okay."
Dipper blinks, shocked. "Really?"
"Yeah. She said I should call her later so she can do whatever she needs to for school or whatever. And… she said she was sorry." Pacifica shrugs, the motion uncomfortable. "I think she was drunk, but…"
"She thought this was best for you," Dipper says in surprise. It's something of a revelation to say that out loud. He's spent so much time thinking of her parents in the context of the horrible people they usually are that he hasn't considered they are also… well, her parents. And that there could still be love there, somewhere, even if only by familial default.
"So, yeah, I can get a hotel or something," Pacifica says quickly, clearly trying to push their conversation past the point of her discomfort.
Dipper doesn't know the law very well, but he imagines she won't be able to live somewhere without adult supervision. "Let me try my idea first. This might just work out."
She looks at him hopefully. "You think so?"
"Hey, you said you didn't want to be like your parents. So maybe you need to not be around them for a while. It doesn't have to be forever. Just long enough to figure stuff out."
"I'll never want to go back," she says stubbornly.
"Sure, right up until you have to clean your own room or eat at the cafeteria," Dipper says.
She turns a glare onto him and jabs a finger at his chest. "Hey, I survived the apocalypse. I slept in a burned-up car and ate bugs!"
"You ate bugs?" Dipper says, impressed.
"I ate a bug," she revises. When he looks at her skeptically, she huffs and says, "Okay, fine, I tried to eat it. It was really gross, alright?"
For his part, Dipper had scavenged canned food from ruined houses with limited success. By the time he'd stumbled across Wendy he'd been pretty weak with hunger. It's a little over two days of his life that he tries not to think about. He hadn't even been directly threatened that much, staying hidden most of the time. But it had seemed so hopeless, and he'd been so alone. The memories carry a deep sense of despair. He does his best not to remember unless he has to.
He knows that leaving his post-apocalyptic ordeal unexamined is not the healthiest course of action. He's just not ready to deal with it yet.
Still, it's not so bad if it's a shared experience. "Did you see that big head with the arm coming out of it? Now that was gross."
She makes more or less the exact face he'd once mockingly imitated. "Eugh, no."
They talk as southern California passes by the window in flickers of sunlit green and brown below bright blue. Every word builds something between them, even if that structure has not yet been named.