mend, move on
Dipper is sitting on a step ladder in the laundry room and adding the occasion to his mental list of Most Uncomfortable Moments.
His mom is in the garage, just through the solid weather-proofed door to Dipper's right. He can hear her muffled voice sometimes. He's glad it hasn't been raised—at least, not yet—because she's talking to Pacifica's mother.
He's not sure what he'll do if their voices do become raised. Intervene? Would that even work? He's on the powerless side of the scale, just a kid doing what he can for a friend, all the while knowing that only the adults can really do anything. All he can do is ask. It's frustrating, but it's a well-worn thought. Intervention would need to come from Dad, if anyone. Dipper doesn't know Pacifica's mother very well but given the circumstances of their first meeting he must assume that showing his face would only make things worse.
Even Pacifica made herself scarce; she's in the backyard with Mabel, playing with Waddles. The Northwest heiress has taken to the pig and Dipper wonders if she remembers Waddles from the fair, or her intention to win him (hadn't she won a chicken instead?).
Pacifica hadn't outright stated that any direct contact with her mother would end badly; she made that clear enough by the way she disappeared. Which is fine. The last thing Dipper wants is for her to jeopardize her stay by sparking a confrontation.
Dipper straightens up on the step ladder, rolling his head from side to side. He's been sitting here too long. He knows there's some very important details to hammer out regarding Pacifica's stay, it's just… he doesn't know how it's going. What are they talking about? Maybe if he opened the door, just a little, he could… no, there's no way. The door to the garage is like the front door: heavy and impossible to open in silence.
He's stuck waiting. He settles back down on the step ladder. It's not like he's been ordered to stay or anything, he can go do something else if he wants. But he wants to be nearby in case… something. He doesn't even know. What if Mrs. Northwest wants Pacifica to leave with her—what if she changes her mind?
Man. Dipper doesn't think he could break that to Pacifica. This has to work out.
He perks up when he thinks he hears the thump of a closing car door. Is that it? Is it over?
The door to the laundry room opens and his mother comes in, closing it behind her. Her face is a mask of restrained anger, mouth pinched and pale. Dipper instinctively wants to hide, even though he knows Mom's rage isn't directed at him.
She thrusts something against his chest as she passes; he automatically grabs it. "Get rid of this," she orders.
Dipper looks down, confused. It's a rectangular black leather case, unmarked and shut with steel clasps. He pops it open and stills, heart thudding in his chest. Nestled in its specially crafted space is a small brass bell.
Well. That explains the look on Mom's face.
He studies the thing with revulsion. It seems odd to have such a reaction to so innocuous an object; it is, after all, just a bell. But he knows what it was used for and what it represents.
His first thought is to just throw it away, as his mom probably intends. The big trash can is right out in the garage. Mom had just enough decorum to not toss the thing where Mrs. Northwest could see. Mom is furious, so it had obviously been explained to her what the bell is for and how it works so well (not as well as it used to, does it, Pacifica's mom). He can't imagine what Mom said in reply. What do you say to something like that? Is Mrs. Northwest so shameless she wouldn't even understand why Mom reacted that way?
Dipper is glad to have not been witness to the conversation. For once, not being the adult is in his favor.
He stands up and reaches for the garage door; then, he stops. He could just throw the bell away and it will probably never be mentioned again. But, is it really his place? Is he doing Pacifica any favors by forcibly protecting her? He doesn't want to confront her with the bell. He doesn't want to hurt her. But, at the same time, this is her burden and she has the right to lift it how she chooses. She's spent her whole life at the receiving end of the bell. Maybe it's time she held it.
Or maybe she won't want to. Whatever the case, he really thinks it's up to her, not him.
She's out in the yard, sitting on the lawn while Mabel weaves together a grass hat for Waddles, who is contentedly sunning on his side in a clover patch. It's a scene reminiscent of the summer except Pacifica isn't here in an antagonistic context.
It's hard for Dipper to remember how he used to think of her. He stops for a moment on the concrete outside the sliding door, studying her. He tries to connect the girl sitting in the grass to the miniature tyrant who had needled Mabel so, but all he can see is the sheen of her hair as it flutters in the gentle breeze, flowing over slim shoulders and framing her blue eyes, fine nose, and sculpted pink lips.
He realizes he's staring and looks away before she notices. This is not what he came out here to do.
"Pacifica," he calls out.
She turns to look at him, pivoting with her legs in such a way that they don't skid across the grass and stain. She isn't dressed any differently than a lot of the girls he's seen at school, but it's the little things—gracefully avoiding grass stains, holding perfect posture—that tell where she comes from and what was expected of her. He gestures to her and she approaches.
Mabel pauses in her weaving and meets Dipper's eyes questioningly. He discreetly motions for her to stay put; he doubts that Pacifica will want more than an audience of one for what's about to happen. Mabel looks curious, but her bright brown eyes skip between him and Pacifica for a moment before she nods with an understanding smile.
Pacifica frowns when she gets close enough to see his strained expression. "What's wrong?" she asks, worry etched on her face. She's clearly on edge and he can't blame her; sitting out here while knowing her mother was around couldn't have been easy.
"Your mom's gone," he tells her, figuring some good news might help.
She relaxes. "She wasn't terrible, was she?"
"Well, uh…" Dipper winces. "I wasn't actually there. Mom talked to her. I didn't hear any yelling, though."
"So at least she was kind of sober," Pacifica mutters.
Dipper can't think of any way to reveal the bell gently; he's not sure she would even want him to. He pulls the case out of his pocket and pops it open. "She gave us this."
Pacifica goes as pale as a sheet when she sees the bell nestled in its cloth.
"Nobody's going to use it," Dipper quickly assures her. "My mom told me to get rid of it. I thought you might want to do the honors."
Before he can even react, Pacifica plucks the bell from the case and throws it as hard as she can against the patio. It clangs off the concrete and then rolls in a half-circle, ringing. She shudders and clasps her hands at her waist until it stills.
Dipper picks it back up, careful to hold onto the clapper. The brass is now a little scratched on one side, but otherwise there's not any major damage.
"Throw it again," Pacifica tells him.
Dipper taps his fingernail against the brass. "You know what? I might have a better idea."
Pacifica follows him to the front of the house. The garage is still open; Dipper squeezes between the SUV and the wall, arms outstretched like a spelunker navigating a narrow passage. His goal sits in a space between the wooden studs of the garage wall, next to the big freezer and the recycling bin. There, he can see the twin metal tanks of Dad's acetylene torch.
He's never tried to use it on his own before and isn't directly forbidden from doing so, but it seems like the kind of unspoken rule that's probably a safe assumption, even if he isn't that far from being fourteen. An acetylene torch might be an over-eighteen kind of thing. He'll worry about that later; this is for a good cause. He has this mental vision of the bell destroyed beyond all recognition or chance of repair, and it's very appealing. There are always other bells, sure, but this one has the weight of sordid history behind it. And he thinks that knowing it's really gone will do Pacifica some good; that, and it will be irrefutable evidence that the Pines would never use the thing against her. He wants her to know that she is safe with him. Them. Them. He's making things so personal and he doesn't even know where he stands with her. It remains an open question, one he's hesitant to press. Is it really rejection if they aren't even actually…?
Forget it. More important things at hand.
Pacifica eyes the torch with confusion as he wrests it out of its storage place. It's not exactly the lightest thing in the world; he takes the handle in both hands and leans back a bit. "What is that?" she wants to know.
"Oh, just a little something that'll solve our bell problem," he says as jauntily as he can while lugging it.
They go to the side yard, a scrubby section of ground between the house siding and the wooden fence. The central air conditioning unit hums away, providing decent aural camouflage. The grass barely grows here as its almost always in shade, so the ground is mostly dirt. It's an ideal place to burn something.
Pacifica crosses her arms and looks on skeptically as Dipper unpacks the torch and begins examining all the warning labels. "Do you even know what you're doing?" she says.
"How hard can it be?" Dipper says rhetorically.
Pacifica does not reply. But she does take a step backwards, which is not a vote of confidence.
Dipper is a technical-minded sort of guy; he can figure it out. When he achieves ignition the sudden whump of flame nearly causes him to drop it. He fiddles with the setting until the flame is at a decent length. He picks up the bell case with one hand and turns it over. The bell falls and hits the dirt, ringing. Pacifica flinches slightly, but she doesn't have to worry. Revenge is at hand.
He stands and offers her the torch. "You should do the honors."
She takes it from him gingerly, holding it as if it's a live grenade. She leans back from the flame and steps closer to the bell. Carefully, she bends down and applies the flame to the shiny brass.
It takes longer to get tangible results than Dipper had expected. First, the brass blackens where the flame touches. Gradually, the blackness begins to spread. Then, right beneath the flame, the brass starts to glow. Soon it is cherry red, a patch that widens. It is as if the bell has a skin of some sort, because the top layer of brass shrivels and shrinks away from the flame. Beneath it, the inside has become liquefied, sloughing down onto the opposite side of the interior. Pacifica moves the flame from place to place, melting the solid pieces that stick out from the molten mess. The bell collapses on itself like a popped bubble, a deflated, glowing-hot dough. The wooden handle has long since ignited from radiated heat alone, its varnish burning blue and leaving charcoal behind.
Finally, she stands back. They look down at the gradually cooling puddle, small flickers of flame and tufts of smoke rising from the carbon husk of the handle. It no longer resembles the hated bell. Dipper takes the torch back and extinguishes it with a pop as Pacifica watches the hardening remains. Her face is red with heat and excitement and maybe even relief.
"So, do you feel better?" he asks her.
"Yeah…" she says slowly, and then her features transform with a triumphant grin. "Yeah!" She viciously kicks some dirt over the destroyed bell.
Dipper follows suit, kicking until the steaming remains are mostly concealed. "If Mom asks, we threw it away."
He's putting the torch back into its containing rack when he feels a slender hand on his shoulder. He looks back at her.
"Dipper… thanks." She can't quite meet his eyes, but he knows she means it.
"Don't mention it," he says, made suddenly awkward by her touch (and he's sweating, but it's not because of the torch). "You should get back to Mabel before Mom starts wondering where we are." He winces, realizing what that implies. "Not because of, not because we… are up to something. I mean, we are, but not…" He shuts his mouth before he can dig himself any deeper.
Pacifica rolls her eyes and turns away. "Like we would even make out or whatever."
"Yeah, no way," Dipper laughs weakly.
Then she glances over her shoulder and her blue eyes make his mouth dry. "Well, I don't know. I bet it would be fun," she states, and then saunters away.
He's not sure which is worse: the thought that she isn't serious, or the thought that she might be and he's probably blowing it.