i wish i could stay here

As the last strains of the traditional birthday song ring out in the kitchen, Dipper stares down at his birthday cake and does what he always does at these moments: attempt to determine if he feels any different.

He's just turned fourteen. Another year gone, his second step into teenagedom. If thirteen is 'tween plus one,' only technically a teen, then fourteen is the real deal. This is all-the-way-teenager. He has moved both feet across the line, no longer a child, now a young adult (which is still just a kind of child, he knows, but the significance of the change is still there).

He doesn't feel any different. He never does.

He supposes that a birthday is like the new year, an arbitrary milestone. It's a way to keep track, a bead on the abacus, separate from the meaningful moments that engender real change. Weirdmageddon changed him in ways that were immediate and profound; this birthday is a symbol of an aggregation he can't really conceive. Everything he is, is everything he's done and has been done to him, most of which he can't even remember. A year is a long time. Existence is difficult, and never guaranteed.

Maybe a birthday isn't actually a celebration of aging, but of survival.

"Dipper?"

Oops. Maybe a birthday also isn't the best place to drift off into his thoughts while staring at candles. He nods briskly, trying to act like he was just thinking really hard about his wish.

"I've got it," he says. "Mabel?"

"Let 'em have it!" she says, puffing out her cheeks.

With practiced ease, they each blow out half of the fourteen candles, the flames bending beneath their breath and disappearing, leaving tendrils of smoke curling through the air.

"Fourteen already!" Ford says, clapping a hand on Mabel's shoulder. "How does it feel?"

"I think I'm ready to start drinking coffee," Mabel says.

"You're only gettin' decaf," Stan grunts.

Last year, the twins' party had doubled as a victory celebration for the town. This time the victory happened weeks ago, so their birthday is a much smaller, family-only (by their loose definition) affair. In an echo of Pacifica's birthday, it's just the Pines family plus Pacifica, Soos, and Wendy. Candy and Grenda were invited, but without Weirdmageddon to derail their usual summer plans, Candy is at music camp and Grenda is also out of town; Mabel already spent a day with her friends, just the three of them. Melody can't attend the party but promised to be at the bus station tomorrow for goodbyes.

Dipper has also been saying his goodbyes. Ford is easiest; it won't be much of a separation, Dipper constantly connected to his great-uncle via the work, which will continue through the medium of the internet. Stan is even easier, not all that broken up about taking a break from having the kids around. It sucks leaving Soos and Wendy, but the two of them are already making plans to drive to Piedmont on the slightest pretense, and Dipper knows they'll actually do it, too. These aren't happy partings, but they're lessened by these things. They're known quantities.

It's much more difficult to accept the one that isn't.

The last week of summer vacation has seen Dipper and Mabel trying to cram in as much as possible, spending time with everyone at every opportunity and just enjoying being at the Shack and in the valley. Pacifica, however, has been listless and disengaged ever since she received another phone call from her mother. She's been reluctant to share the details, but Dipper knows the most important one: Pacifica will be living with her mother, and she'll be leaving Piedmont when they all return.

And he knows—he's always known—that it's dumb to get attached to the way things were with Pacifica in Piedmont, and are here in Gravity Falls. These living arrangements have always been temporary, whether it's because the summer has to end or because the Northwests' divorce will get worked out eventually. Pacifica wasn't even supposed to stay as long as she has; she was supposed to stay a weekend, if that, before returning to Malibu. That's how the whole 'rescue' road trip was originally conceived, anyway, what feels like a million years ago. She doesn't really live in Piedmont. She doesn't really live at the Shack. He knows that.

But that doesn't matter, because he let himself get used to it anyway. In a handful of months, she slotted neatly into his life as if she'd always been there, and now that it's time for her to leave he can already feel the damage it's going to do, can already anticipate the aching absence where she used to be.

"Yo, Earth to Dipper."

Again, Dipper retreats from his thoughts, finding himself presented with a piece of cake by Wendy, who is practically holding the plastic plate under his nose.

"You still with us?" she asks as he takes the plate.

"Yeah, sorry. Just… got a lot to think about," he mumbles, shoveling the cake into his mouth.

Wendy can read him like a book. "It'll work out, man. You two are crazy tight."

Dipper glances over to where Pacifica is eating her slice of cake while talking with Mabel. His friends and Mabel always express absolute confidence in his relationship with Pacifica. Maybe they know something he doesn't, because as close as he feels to her, there always seems to be room for doubts. Or is that just him? Is he overthinking it? They promised they'd stay together, that they would try to make it work, no matter what happens; he meant it, and he's positive she meant it too.

Maybe that's enough. He doesn't know if it will be, but he also doesn't know if it won't be. He needs to remember that.

Wendy is still watching him, her face creased with sympathy. "Look, what's the worst that could happen? Like, the doomsday scenario, she moves to Paris or whatever. You got the internet, and then in four years she's outta there and you can go to college together."

Dipper tries to wrap his head around that. "Four years is a long time, though."

Stan, apparently eavesdropping from the nearby counter where he's pouring himself another cup of sparkling cider, snorts in derision. "Four years is nothin'. There's stuff in the fridge older than that."

"That says far more about your hygiene than it does Dipper's temporal perception," Ford remarks as he passes by on his way to said fridge.

"Yeah, it is," Wendy says, ignoring Stan's take. "But it's not forever."

Dipper just nods, digging back into his slice of cake to avoid having to keep talking. She's right. It's not forever.

He's just afraid it would feel like it.

He and Mabel open gifts around the old table in the living room. He makes sure to thank each person when appropriate, trying hard to be grateful, to be happy, to be there, when all he really wants for his birthday is for Blendin Blandin to show up and offer him the tape measure time machine. They could all take it back to June together: have another three months of summer, nip Greg in the bud before he messes up the pool, handle Gideon better, tackle the second maze as a group, be ready for the hawks in advance.

Three more months to spend every possible second with Pacifica—now that would be a present worth opening. Instead, he thanks Ford for the book, Soos for the new walkie talkie set, Stan for the backup hat, Wendy for an admittedly awesome hatchet (based on the tag still attached, she took advantage of her 'discount' at the outdoor store more than he knew). The party is just a handful of the people closest to him, and yet it's still a shameful relief to break away and carry his presents up to his attic room, dropping them into his suitcase and sitting at the edge of his bed.

He just breathes for a while, as if he can take the air here with him. As if it has something in it that can sustain him for another year.

He hears someone coming up the stairs and quickly stands up, going back to his suitcase and rearranging the gifts inside of it, trying to look like he's busy instead of, you know, leaving his own party to feel sorry for himself.

It's Pacifica. She hesitates at the door, watching him.

He steps back from the suitcase. "Hey."

"I have your present," she tells him.

He's been so trapped inside his own head he didn't even realize she hadn't given him anything. He's pretty sure she gave something to Mabel, so maybe he thought it was for both of them? Or maybe not, since he can't even remember what it was. Better not admit that.

"Oh, right," he says, as if he expected this.

She looks anxious. There was a time when Dipper thought anxiety was outside her emotional range, the little queen of Gravity Falls, always so confident and smug. But he knows her now, and he knows that the anxiety isn't rare; what's rare is her inability to hide it.

"Ford helped me make it," she says abruptly, like she's embarrassed by this fact.

"He and Mabel helped me make yours too," he says, hoping that will make her feel better about not having the money for anything expensive, which he knows is still a new and uncomfortable experience for her.

"That's how I got the idea," she says. "But that's fine, right? We can make gifts for each other and that's not sad or tacky."

Very new and uncomfortable. "All that matters is that it's from you," he tells her.

Despite the circumstances, she rolls her eyes at him. "Now you do sound like a Wallmark card."

"I'm just that quotable."

She sighs through her nose, shifting her weight from foot to foot with nervous energy. "Here," she says, and sits on the bed next to him. She hands him a small box.

He tears the paper off and opens it, revealing two rings. They look to be made of stainless steel; each ring has part of a heart shape stamped on it, left and right halves. Dipper doesn't know where the rings came from, but the stamp appears to be homemade. There are also two braided cords which look like Mabel's handiwork.

"They're promise rings," Pacifica says quickly, her anxiety making her words short and brittle. "So even when we're not together we'll still have, like, a reminder or whatever."

"Of our promise," he says, picking up the ring with the left half of the heart shape.

"Yeah, of our promise. You don't have to wear it on your finger if you don't want to, Mabel made these cords so it can go around your neck since I don't know if it'll fit for much longer anyway…"

She trails off into silence as he puts the ring on his hand. "It's perfect," he says (it's actually a little tight and she's probably right that it won't fit for much longer, but that doesn't matter right now).

She dons her own ring and puts her ring finger close to his, aligning it so the two halves of the heart meet. He notices that the missing side of each heart is serrated so that they fit together like a key.

"It's a good metaphor," he says quietly.

Pacifica pulls away and scowls at him. "They're just rings. I bought them at the fair and Ford helped me stamp them. Don't get all sad and poetic on me. We're not breaking up."

Dipper blinks in surprise. "I didn't say we were."

"But you're acting like it!" She stands in a huff, turning away to face the window. "Why are you up here being all mopey? We're not breaking up and we never will because we don't want to."

He can hear the unspoken 'right?' after her statement, her fear that he'll fail to reciprocate.

She has nothing to be afraid of. They've only been together for a summer and change, but losing her would be like losing an appendage, or something even more vital.

He stands and goes to her side, the light from the window framing them. "Right," he says.

Her tense stance eases. She turns towards him, her eyes softer now. They are as dark blue as the ocean. That's a cliché, he knows, a tired comparison, but there's an essential truth in it. His gaze traces the rest of her features: her fine nose, tip slightly tilted upward; the faultless curve of her jaw, narrowing to her delicate chin; lips full, pink, slightly parted to reveal slivers of her perfect teeth; her honey-blonde hair, lightened by the sun, falling to just below her chin and curving gently inward.

He doesn't need to memorize any of this. He can look away. They are still together now, and they will be together again soon.

She leans into him with a quiet sigh, and it's enough.

"Mabel said it's roof time," she tells him.

Mabel is waiting for them when they climb up to the roof, its worn tiles emanating heat in the afternoon. The chairs and the cooler are gone, either temporarily stored away by Soos or perhaps blown off the roof to the lawn below, which happens sometimes. Dipper lowers himself to sit at the edge with Mabel on his left and Pacifica on his right, the scratchy grit of the tiles burning into his palms.

For all his absorption with his own anxieties, he recognizes that Mabel has her share. "You alright?" he asks her.

Mabel puts away her phone and looks out at the shifting trees. "Brendan texted me a happy birthday and stuff."

Dipper knows she's disappointed that Brendan can't be here, having left the valley with his family without much chance for a protracted goodbye (the werewolf teen is still grounded). "Does he know when he can come back for another briefing?"

"We're talking about winter break, maybe," Mabel says, and then she sighs. "Maybe."

Dipper gets it. "Yeah."

Mabel squints thoughtfully at the treeline. "Wasn't this easier last year?"

"What? Leaving?"

"Yeah. It was bad, but not… this bad?"

She has a point. "We'd never done it before last time. We didn't know what it was going to be like."

Mabel drops her chin to her chest with a groan. "Uuuuugghhhhh if you're gonna be like you were last time for months…"

"I was going through some things!" Dipper says defensively.

"Over and over and over!"

"You were messed up too, don't act like you weren't."

"I guess I'm just more well-adjusted than you," Mabel says with an easy shrug, ignoring him.

Dipper opens his mouth for a blistering retort when Pacifica speaks, stopping him. "I hope it's not going to be like last year," she says quietly.

This silences the twins. Dipper knows his own struggles pale in comparison to what Pacifica went through, and no doubt Mabel knows the same.

"It won't be, 'cause you'll have us," Mabel says.

"It looks pretty dark."

Dipper winces. "I know, but—"

"No, dummy, I mean literally." Pacifica points to Dipper's left.

Dipper turns to look, craning his head over his shoulder to see northwards. The broken cliffs are clearly visible above the trees, revealing a section of the sky through their strange geometry, and in the distance is a massive patch of night. It's a stormcloud, a huge one, lumbering towards the valley and erasing the light of the afternoon. Lightning flickers in its swells, briefly illuminating pockets of churning vapor. It's too far away to make any sound, which only adds to the ominous sight.

He's not so distracted that he forgets what they were just talking about, but he allows Pacifica to change the subject. "Wow, that looks nasty."

"Boy, it sure would suck if a bunch of trees blew down and blocked the highway again," Mabel says with a glittering smile.

Dipper shakes his head. "Even Greg's worst storm didn't knock down that many trees. Besides, tree falls are no big deal here, they always clear them out right away."

Mabel rolls her eyes. "It's like you want to go home."

"I'm just being realistic. It won't be that bad," Dipper predicts.

That night, Dipper awakens suddenly.

He comes to in an instant, heart racing, his legs fighting with his sheets. He kicks them away and pushes himself up against the headboard, senses suffused with dread. It takes a moment for his brain to catch up with what his body already knows: The night is alive with ferocity.

Wind slams against the attic like the palm of a maddened giant, so loud that for a moment Dipper wildly thinks that maybe Steve is trying to tear the building apart. The triangular window rattles in its setting, making noises like a glass drum. The entire house creaks and shakes, thrumming, vibrating to the storm's melody like a tuning fork. Another gust hits the side of the Shack and something cracks, so loud and immediate that for a moment Dipper thinks it might have been one of his bones.

He grabs his phone and starts to climb out of bed. Mabel is sitting up in hers, half her face covered in loose hair, her one visible eye wide with fright.

"We should go downstairs!" he says to her, practically shouting to be heard over the tumult.

There isn't even a hint of moonlight, and with the lights off the inside of the house is as black as a cave. Dipper hits the switch in the hall by pure memory; for a moment, he's surprised the power is still on, until he remembers the Shack runs on the Quantum Generator. It's probably the only source of electric light in the valley right now, unless lightning counts. Jagged flashes of brilliant light strobe through the geometric stained glass of the hall window, its shapes stenciled on the floor for half-seconds at a time. The roof overhead groans against the wind's assault.

Then, another noise:

It starts as a low yet piercing moan that cuts even through the roaring of the storm. Its tone rises steadily until it achieves a plateau, an eerie, keening wail that fluctuates like a sonic wave, rising and falling. It sends shivers through him; there is something elemental about it, a terror that feels primal.

A tornado siren, Dipper realizes, blaring its warning from somewhere in town.

Stan comes around the corner from his bedroom, clad in his boxers and shirt, the usual clap of his slippers against the floor unheard beneath the storm's fury. "Alright, downstairs," he says, gesturing towards the stairwell.

They find Pacifica standing in the hall by the kitchen, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. She's looking out the small window set in the door to the back porch. It must not be a comforting sight, because she's obviously afraid. She looks relieved when she sees them coming down the stairs, and he wonders if she had been about to come up to them.

The siren wails on; the house shudders. It feels like the world is ending (again). Stan leads them into the gift shop and opens the hidden door, ushering the kids inside.

As soon as he is halfway down the staircase, Dipper feels better. When the elevator reaches the bottom floor and they step out into the observation room, his heart begins to slow. It's safe down here. So safe that they can't even hear the storm anymore, save for the rumbling hint of thunder.

The lights are off in the laboratory, the space lit only by the Quantum Generator's uncanny glow. The elevator opens behind them, and they turn to see Ford come out of it on his crutches. He must have just descended from his study.

"Stanley? Kids? Is everything alright?"

"Bad storm," Stan grunts. "Siren just went off."

Ford stumps over to the totem pole periscope and peers into it. "Can't see a thing," he assesses. "That thunder is unusually frequent, though. How severe is the wind?"

"I thought the house was going to fall over," Dipper says honestly.

"I wouldn't worry about that; it's quite structurally stable, even if it is a bit rough around the edges. But even if it does collapse, we should be fine down here until this all blows over."

"If the house collapses, wouldn't we be trapped down here?" Pacifica asks. She still looks shaken.

"Not at all. We have the tunnel to the bunker, and there's also a hidden emergency exit… somewhere around here," Ford says, frowning and scanning the walls. "Well, I'm sure I could find it if the need arose."

"If you had a secret exit down here, why were we so worried about the feds?" Stan complains.

"It's an emergency exit, not a secret exit," Ford retorts. "It comes out right in front of the house—not exactly the most useful egress when surrounded by federal agents."

"If you can't find it, it's secret."

Ford looks like he's about to continue the argument, but there must be another thunder strike close to the house, because the resultant boom rumbles through the concrete, several beakers on a nearby table chattering in response.

"We're perfectly safe down here," Ford reiterates. "Dipper, why don't you and the girls settle in around the generator, it should be a bit warmer over there."

Dipper grabs a folding chair and one of the plastic crates that serve as makeshift seating in the lab, dragging both over to the generator while Mabel retrieves a crate of her own. Dipper sits on his crate and gives the chair to Pacifica. They huddle together next to the glowing porthole of the Quantum Generator, its deep hum oddly comforting after the noise of the storm, the faint heat of its cables a welcome warmth.

Pacifica burrows deeper into her blanket. Dipper assumes she's wearing her nightgown beneath it, and she must be cold. "This thing isn't irradiating us, is it?" she asks.

"It doesn't emit any harmful radiation," Dipper says. He turns to grin at her. "Hey, you used the right word!"

She doesn't reply, staring into the generator. Its eerie blue light makes her look even more pale, her eyes wide, tired, and anxious.

Dipper frowns. "Are you okay?"

"I hate that siren," she says flatly.

"Yeah, not a fan," Mabel agrees.

"It never went off last summer," Dipper says. "Does this happen a lot?"

Pacifica doesn't answer right away. Then, she says, "No. But one time when I was little, my parents weren't home. I woke up because I think I had a nightmare or something, but I went to their room, and they weren't there. It was a big storm, and the siren was going off and I kept running trying to find them. Then one of the staff found me and took me downstairs."

She says all of this without any evident emotion, and quickly, like she's embarrassed by the memory. Dipper isn't sure why; who wouldn't have been traumatized by that? He can imagine a little Pacifica—chubby-cheeked with soft blonde hair, like in that portrait (like Emilia)—racing around the darkened manor while the lightning flashed, and the siren wailed. Whatever nightmare had awoken her could hardly have been worse.

He puts his arm around her shoulders, and he can feel how tense she is. "We're totally safe down here."

"And the lights won't go out because science!" Mabel adds.

Pacifica relaxes a bit and leans into him, and that means he can relax, too. More thunder growls through the earth, but it can't reach them down here. The storm can rage all it wants. They are together, and they are safe. Dipper lets his eyes drift shut, finally at ease.

He snaps out of a light doze when Ford gently shakes his shoulder.

"The county gave the all clear," Ford says, briefly raising his phone to show the radar image still on his screen. "Better get back to bed; it's a big day tomorrow."

Dipper sleepily complies, shuffling back to the elevator with the girls and returning to the upper level. The storm has died down, and though the wind still buffets the walls it's much quieter, and the rain hitting the windows no longer has the same wild force and deafening clatter. Still a storm, but a normal one. Lightning flickers through the windows of the gift shop, and the following rumble of thunder is muted and distant.

Pacifica returns to her room, waving goodnight with one hand over a wide yawn. The twins follow Stan up the stairs to the attic; Dipper climbs back into his bed and pulls the sheet over his legs.

Within minutes, he's fast asleep.

The light of the morning is filtered through the heavy cloud cover that remains hanging overhead, giving the valley a grayish tint that verges on blue, leeching the natural color from the world. The air is thick with humidity. There are pools of standing water all over the parking lot, wide and deep, and when reflecting the steel sky they turn silver like mercury. The lawn of the Shack is covered with the remnants of the storm: scattered branches and leaves and pine needles. All the trees look a little ragged, and the grass hangs heavy with moisture.

The totem pole is broken. Its top half lies face down on the windswept yard.

Dipper leaves his suitcase on the edge of the parking lot, following Mabel and Pacifica as they soak their shoes by crossing the lawn to where Grunkle Stan and Ford are surveying the damage.

Stan sighs mournfully. "That was one of the best things I ever stole."

"I thought you said you traded for it?" Ford says.

"Where do you think I got the stuff to trade?"

Ford lets that go. "It's a clean break. Still not an easy fix, however… Soos and I will have to look at it."

Dipper didn't expect to see the totem pole lying broken on the ground when he hauled his suitcase out the door. But it feels like punctuation, like the period at the end of a long summer sentence.

Or maybe an ellipsis.

The bus station sits on the side of the road amid tall trees, their trunks stretching upwards in staggered lines, sectioning the morning light around them into hazy beams. Everyone has gathered near the worn wooden bench and blue sign that mark the station's boundaries: Wendy, Soos, Melody, Grunkle Stan, and Great-Uncle Ford. The biggest difference from last year is that Pacifica is leaving too, pulling her purple suitcase behind her. Dipper supposes she left last year, technically, but not at the same time, and not with the twins. It would be so easy to pretend that she's leaving with them now in order to stay with them, to pretend that they are all just going home to Piedmont.

Dipper lines up to trade hugs. Melody promises to send him pictures of her and Soos' house when the painting is done, and Soos won't let go of him until Dipper gently protests.

Wendy pulls him aside, her expression serious. She leans over to be at eye level with him (a far more minor motion than it would have once been) and puts her hands on his shoulders.

"No letter this time. I'll see you before next summer," she says.

"That happened last year too," he points out.

"Yeah, but this time we're planning on it, right?" Wendy glances over his shoulder to where Pacifica is awkwardly accepting a hug from Soos. "'Sides, you never know we'll have to rescue Pacifica again. I don't trust her mom."

Dipper just nods, knowing that trusting either of Pacifica's parents to do the right thing would be naive in the extreme.

Wendy hugs him firmly, then steps away. "Chin up, man. Nine months. You can do it."

Dipper can hear the bus in the distance. He hugs Grunkle Stan, the gruff man thumping him on the back and still not looking particularly sad. This makes Dipper feel a little better; they all know this is temporary. "Later, kid," Stan says.

Great-Uncle Ford manages to embrace Dipper despite the barrier of his crutches. "This separation is not ideal, I'm aware," he says. "Nevertheless, the work will continue. Just be sure not to neglect your studies—I can manage here until you return."

The bus arrives, pulling up to the sign with a blast of squealing brakes and diesel fumes. Its door hisses open, simultaneously a portal to the familiar and the absolute unknown.

Soos gives Dipper a watery smile and a thumbs up. "See you soon, dude."

The driver is the same one as last time and he doesn't say a word as Mabel carries Waddles on board. When Dipper follows her up the steps, the bus is completely empty, a stark reminder that Gravity Falls, now the nexus of Dipper's world, is for most just another seldom-used stop on the Redwood Highway.

The three of them settle on the long seat across the back of the bus, Pacifica between the twins. Everyone outside waves as the bus pulls away and they wave back. Soon, the shadow of the trestle flits across the bus and they are out of the valley, its mighty cliffs slowly diminishing in the rear view. Dipper doesn't let himself watch for long, resolutely turning to face the front.

Pacifica is pale and silent next to him. He takes her hand and squeezes it.

"Whatever happens next, we'll stay together; one way or another," he tells her.

Mabel takes Pacifica's other hand, her expression determined. She picks up one of Waddles' hooves and places it on Pacifica's knee.

Pacifica's lower lip trembles for a moment. Then, she nods, clearly not trusting her voice.

Beneath the summer sun, surrounded by pines, the bus rumbles down the highway, carrying them towards home and the future.

Whatever it may be.

new summer season

I Wish I Could Stay Here by Basement (Run For Cover, 2011)