small victories
Dipper is quickly learning that it's not impossible to accomplish most daily tasks onehanded, but it is substantially slower.
He's mentally mapping out the steps required to prepare a bowl of cereal and realizing just how many of those actions he usually performs using both arms simultaneously. He ends up standing there with a blank look on his face for what would have been an uncomfortable amount of time had there been anyone watching.
Bowl on the table. Spoon on the table. Cereal on the counter, open it, transfer to table; pour cereal. Return cereal to counter and close it. Open the fridge door. Transfer milk to table. Open milk. Pour milk into cereal. Close milk. Return milk to fridge. Close fridge door. Sit down, pick up spoon, eat cereal.
It's only been two days and he's already tired of having to find someplace to set everything down before he can interact with it.
It's just him and Grunkle Stan in the Shack for the time being. Everyone else is in town for Pioneer Day. Great-Uncle Ford escorted the girls after it became clear that Grunkle Stan was going nowhere near the celebration.
Pacifica had initially been reluctant to participate. It's not hard to understand why, considering her family used to lead the festivities. Mabel's enthusiasm eventually prevailed, so Pacifica is off to experience the holiday as one of the crowd, sans her pioneer costume—which is a little disappointing because Dipper vaguely remembers that she looked really cute in it, and he wouldn't mind seeing her in the ensemble now that his view of her isn't clouded by enmity.
He wonders who will be up on the stage this year. Probably Mayor Tyler. In star-spangled cut-offs.
He'll have to hear about it after the fact. His head still aches, and he's dizzy and occasionally nauseous from his medication; definitely not fit for a crowd. He knows he should be grateful that he isn't more seriously injured, but he just can't believe it happened at all. He survived Weirdmageddon with less damage. Figures he'd end up in the hospital over a stupid rat.
That aside, there's something else on his mind.
This morning he had been passing through the living room when he stopped for a minute to watch the fish in the tank. This had reminded him of Mabel's lobster, which had then in turn reminded him of her disastrous series of dates with Gideon.
Dipper has yet to run into his former (he hopes) enemy. He's not sure if the Gleeful family is even still in town, considering all that's happened. The Tent of Telepathy isn't exactly welcome anymore; if Gideon wants to keep making money that way, he'll need a different populace to fleece. He might have stated a desire to be a 'regular' kid, but Dipper expects that's about as far out of Gideon's reach as it is Dipper's.
But it's those dates Gideon took Mabel on that are clinging to Dipper's thoughts. Because they weren't good dates, obviously, but they were still dates; fancy restaurants, fireworks, holding hands, other date stuff. He's not an expert.
He and Pacifica have never been on an actual date. It seems crazy to think because they've spent so much time together over recent months, but it's true. Their relationship is kind of odd, at least compared to most of the other ones at school. It's forged by fire, bonded by secrets, built out of the weirdness that permeates their new life together.
Maybe the dance at the party sort of counts as a date. Still, Dipper isn't confident enough to depend on that, or all the various monster and anomaly hunts. Those are adventures, not dates, even if they are pretty much his ideal way to spend time as a couple. Pacifica has really come around on adventuring and clearly takes satisfaction in a successful excursion, but he doubts she considers them a classic form of dating. Even he wouldn't go that far.
Dipper wants to be a good boyfriend. He's still fitting himself into the role, still figuring out what it all means, but he wants to be good at it. And he knows he isn't sometimes. But as hard as it is to go out on a fancy date with no car (no license, for that matter) and no money, he still feels that he needs to try. Like he's not holding up his end of the deal.
So here goes nothing. He makes his stiff and slow way over to the living room where he finds Grunkle Stan on the easy chair with the newspaper, face hidden behind the pages.
Dipper leans against the doorjamb, trying to look nonchalant. "Hey, Grunkle Stan?"
"Yeah?" Stan says, not lowering the paper.
Grunkle Stan is really the worst person to ask for this, but Ford already helped out with money before and Dipper wouldn't feel right asking Soos or Wendy, especially not knowing if he can pay them back.
He eases his way into the conversation. "So, I know that I work around the Shack for room and board…"
That gets Stan's attention. He lowers the paper just enough to glare at Dipper over the top of it. "Hey, you got hurt off my property. I'm not liable for anything! You been talkin' to OSHA?"
"What? No." Dipper doggedly moves past whatever Stan's getting defensive about. "I need some money to take Pacifica on a date, and I figured—"
"Wrong." The paper goes back up. "You want an allowance then stop eatin' so much."
Dipper anticipated this. "You know, after that lecture Great-Uncle Ford gave us last night, it would be bad if he found out you were the one who ate all his pudding cups."
Stan drops the newspaper. "You tryin'a blackmail me, kid?"
"Come on, Grunkle Stan, 'blackmail' is such an ugly word. We're just two guys making a deal."
Stan grunts, but the sound is one of amusement instead of discontent. He reaches somewhere into the chair and Dipper barely catches the tightly rolled bundle of bills that gets flicked his way. "There's your back pay from the party. Now quit makin' me proud of you and get outta here."
Dipper rushes up to the attic room and counts his newly acquired bounty. It's not extravagant (obviously; it's from Grunkle Stan) but it should be enough to cover dinner for two at an upscale restaurant. There's only two in Gravity Falls that he knows of: The Club, which he's pretty sure is invite only, and that seafood place he can never remember the name of.
Seafood it is.
It's late afternoon and he's lying in his bed, propped up on a few pillows for his mandatory sister-and-girlfriend-enforced resting time. The sun shines through the window between his bed and Mabel's, bisecting the room with a dusty beam. There's a grilled cheese sandwich in his stomach and his pills are making him sleepy. The Pioneer Day festivities ended about an hour ago and everyone came back to the Shack tired and slightly sunburnt, glad to get out of the heat.
Pacifica is sitting in the space between his legs, her back to the painting of the sailing ship. There are cotton balls jammed between her toes as she paints them. He likes what she's wearing, a light green halter top with matching shorts that show off a pretty excellent amount of her legs. He doesn't know if she's seen him looking, but if she has then she doesn't seem to mind.
"People kept watching me like they thought I was going to get up on stage with Mayor Tyler," she's saying. "I wasn't even dressed for it."
Dipper fights against the heaviness of his eyelids, forcing them open. "Nobody gave you a hard time?"
"No…" Pacifica pauses with the tiny nail brush in her hand, its bristles tinged a vibrant shade of lime green. "I mean, Mabel was basically dragging me all over and it's not like anyone would bother her."
"You didn't see Gideon, did you?"
Pacifica scrunches her nose in disgust. "That little disease? He wasn't there. Someone said Bud Gleeful is out of town, so maybe they all are." She resumes painting her left big toe with perfect, even strokes. She has the faintest smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose and cheekbones from her day in the sun. He knows she'll cover them up as soon as she notices, and he wishes she wouldn't.
As pleasant as Pacifica is to look at, the somnolescent combination of lunch plus pills is still dragging Dipper under. He shuts his eyes, letting the warm ambience of the summer afternoon wash over him.
"I told you it would be okay," he mumbles in an attempt to stave off actual sleep.
Pacifica doesn't respond right away. The bed shifts a bit as she repositions, springs creaking. "They all thought I was going to get up there and talk about how great the Northwests are," she says tightly.
"Hey, you don't know that."
"Yeah. I guess so." She sounds more resigned than upset. "Maybe now they think I should talk about how the Northwests are horrible."
Dipper forces his eyes open. "You aren't."
She's got eyes like the ocean. He's always known that, even before he would ever admit it. She turns to give him a look that's sincere and meaningful and he's somewhere on the coast, looking down into dark blue depths. He wants to jump in.
She leans over until her head is resting on his chest, carefully keeping her drying nails dangling off the edge of the bed. "I sort of wondered what my parents would think, for a minute. When Mayor Tyler was up on stage, I mean," she says, her voice buzzing against his skin. "Then I, like, just… didn't care anymore. And it was so amazing."
Dipper is aware that their new position would get them into trouble back in Piedmont. But Grunkle Stan has a whole different attitude than Mom does, so he lets his eyes close and doesn't worry about it, savoring her closeness and the scent of her sun-warmed hair.
"Oh, and Mabel tripped and fell into this horseshoe display and it was the loudest thing ever," she continues. "I totally pretended we weren't there together."
Dipper grins. "Please tell me you took a picture of it."
Her arm shifts upwards and he opens his eyes again to bear witness to her phone, on which is a perfectly timed picture of Mabel sprawled amidst what looks like a couple shelves worth of horseshoes.
"She was okay, right?" he has to ask.
"She's fine. I'm, like, fifty percent sure she did it on purpose so she could flirt with the blacksmith's assistant." Pacifica tucks her phone away and relaxes against him, going limp with a sigh. "Hurry up and get better. I'm already tired of you being stuck here."
"You had fun anyway," he points out.
"Maybe," she says stubbornly.
He's too sleepy to keep trying to make her admit it. But just as he's about to slip over the edge into unconsciousness, he remembers what he's supposed to be doing.
"Um, hey…" he begins, clearing his throat awkwardly. "You know, I've been meaning to ask you… We've been spending a lot of time together already, but I was wondering if, maybe, you wanted to go out with me?"
She sits up sharply. Cool hands come up to hold his head as she looks searchingly into his eyes. "Oh my god, did you really hit your head that hard? Is your vision blurry? How hot am I, like one to eleven?"
"Twelve," Dipper says, confused.
"Well, your eyes are okay." She leans back slightly. "Dipper, you remember you're already my boyfriend, right? We kissed a whole bunch of times, there's no way you can forget. I mean, look at me."
"I know!" he exclaims, exasperated. "I meant go out on a date with me, a real, official date! At a fancy restaurant and everything."
"Oh." She drops her hands. "So, you're not having some kind of senior moment."
"I just thought we should go out, you know, as a couple." Having made it this far, he starts to second-guess himself. "If you want to! If you don't, that's cool, I could… do stuff, other stuff, there's definitely stuff to do—"
"Yes!"
"Yes?" he repeats, the first tinge of relief beginning to blossom.
"Of course we should go out!" She's smiling, blue eyes shining. "I'll wear a dress and we'll get you a nice suit and I'll be sexy and you'll be dreamy and we'll eat out on the veranda and that'll show everybody who thinks I shouldn't be back, hah!"
"Yeah, okay," he says smiling back uncertainly. "Kind of took a dark turn at the end there, but, sure, yep—sounds good."
She pushes away from him and turns to pluck the cotton balls from between her toes. "Something green, obviously. Lakefoam green…"
He has no idea what she's talking about, but she seems happy with the idea and that's good enough for him.
They wait a couple days until Dipper is a little more fit for a public appearance. His arm is still in a sling, but he can use a fork onehanded. After Pacifica tells him which fork to use, anyway. It all works out because it gives him time to make a reservation, just in case. Pacifica's plan to eat outside ends up being a bust, though; when Grunkle Stan drops them off in the early evening, it's pouring rain.
Dipper is intensely uncomfortable from the moment they sit down. People are watching them. Not overtly, but through a steady series of glances and murmured conversations too low to understand.
He doesn't get it. Yeah, the Northwests are disgraced or whatever, but they're also gone. The mansion is McGucket's and Pacifica is staying at the Shack. She's on vacation; which, technically, she was last summer too. So, what's the big deal? Can't they see that things are different, that she's not the same?
He's not even sure that's why they're looking. Maybe his fly is down. He surreptitiously checks beneath the tablecloth.
Predictably, Pacifica is thriving in the environment. She guides him through the courses with instructions whispered through a perfect pageant-ready smile. She nods in acknowledgment to a few of the other patrons and he knows her well enough to see the subtle enjoyment she takes from their evident bemusement. Dipper recognizes a couple of them from the Northwest party.
Finally, someone decides to just ask. A woman in a glittery purple dress approaches the table with a fixed smile. "Pacifica, dear, how wonderful to see you," she says. "Are… your parents in the private hall?"
"My parents aren't summering this year. I'm afraid we're not currently on speaking terms," Pacifica says with a purposefully blasé air.
"I see," the woman says, her expression making it clear she understands why. Dipper figures she must have been around for Weirdmageddon. "Well, I'm sorry to have brought it up."
"That's quite all right. I'm enjoying the evening with my boyfriend, Mason. I'm sure you're familiar."
The woman immediately grants Dipper an ingratiating smile. "One of the Pines, of course. That's wonderful. Well, have a nice evening, dear."
"You as well," Pacifica says a bit dismissively.
As soon as the woman is gone, Dipper raises an eyebrow at Pacifica. "Mason?"
"What? It's your name." Pacifica stabs at some glazed asparagus unrepentantly. "Am I not allowed or something?"
"…I guess? It's just kind of weird," Dipper says, not even sure exactly what his problem with it is. It's weird.
He turns his attention back to his food. He's not entirely certain what it is, but it cost a lot and isn't that bad. It's edible, anyway. There are odd combinations of flavors that he's sure are high class, but unfamiliar and strange to him. Maybe he's just too used to everything tasting like MSG, salt, sugar, and grease.
"You hate this."
Startled, he looks back up. "What?"
Pacifica is giving him a very knowing look across the table. "This," she says, indicating the entire tableau with a tilt of her head.
"I… don't," he protests weakly. He's eating, isn't he? And tolerating the strangling presence of his tie. He's doing alright. "I like spending time with you," he adds, hoping to score some quick points.
"Obviously. I'm amazing," she retorts, punctuating the proclamation with a delicate sip of her seltzer. "But you keep fidgeting—which you need to stop, you look like you have to pee—and you keep staring at people. They're supposed to stare at us."
He sighs. "Is this really that important to you? All this stuff with appearances, or whatever this is?"
"Yes," she says sharply. Then she casts her eyes downwards for a moment, revealing a flash of vulnerability. "…I thought you were okay with that."
He doesn't completely understand. He doubts he ever will. But does he need to? He set this up. He took her out for dinner at this fancy place, knowing her history. And if he wants to be with her—and he really, really does—then this is a part of that. Just like getting covered in mud and possibly rat feces is a part of it for her.
"Okay, Pacifica," he says with a wry smile. He raises his glass of bubbling water towards her. "I'll try not to embarrass you."
Her eyes glow at his acceptance. He wants to touch her and knows he can't yet. "You're not embarrassing me, we're owning this place. Miss Gravity Falls and one of the Mystery Twins? Two words: Power. Couple."
He grins back at her, still not really getting it but content, regardless.
When they finish eating, they step outside to find it still raining. Water streaks down from the darkness, catching in the streetlights and the glow from scattered windows. The neon sign of the restaurant reflects off the street like it's written there, blazing from every puddle. Chilled summer air mists across their faces as they huddle against the wall, separated from the street by a curtain of water descending from the short, slanted awning of the roof.
"I texted Mabel," Dipper tells Pacifica. "Grunkle Stan should be here soon."
"No rush," she says, looking up at him. Her arms go around his waist. "I had a good time tonight."
"Me too," he says, and is surprised to find he means it.
He finds out, a second later, that he's about to have an even better time.
She kisses him. Not unusual… but, there's something about the darkness outside the restaurant, the rain, the date, the way they're standing up against the wall together; this first belated step they've taken as a couple, or, maybe, just that age fourteen is a little bit closer. This kiss is different. She presses against him and someone opens their mouth a little—maybe him, maybe her—and this kiss turns hot and hungry in a way that's unfamiliar, in a way that's almost scary, like it's dangerous; like it's a precipice. They separate with a smack and they're breathing hard, eyes inches from each other, caught in something new.
The sudden honk of a horn startles them and they jump apart. Instead of Grunkle Stan's old car, it's Soos' new truck parked on the street. In the light from the restaurant's door, Dipper can see a piece of paper taped up against the rear passenger window: It reads, 'CHAUFFEUR,' and he can't help but laugh. Soos rolls the window down and waves at them.
"Sup, dudes?" he says with an amiable grin. "It's not a limo but it's better than walking, am I right?"
"You are not wrong," Dipper says, opening the door for Pacifica and then climbing in after her.
The headlights cut through the rain, pointing the way home. On the seat between them, Dipper's hand finds Pacifica's. His blood is still thrumming through him, heart racing from whatever just happened out there in the dark. He feels like he just ran a lap.
Not bad for a first date.
Small Victories by Frameworks (13th Floor, 2013)