I.
In tandem, Dipper and Pacifica used all their strength to push the solid oak trunk over the side of the yacht into the deepest point of Lake Gravity Falls.
They couldn't see it at all after it had sunk a few feet. It was almost midnight, and the waters were dark. Anything that fell in would have disappeared in a matter of seconds, and the trunk was weighed down with so many chains and padlocks that its descent was swift.
Dipper looked over at his companion. She was staring at the black ripples crashing against the white walls of the boat, her troublingly skinny arms wrapped around herself in a tight hug. She looked like her mind was somewhere far away, like she had forgotten she wasn't alone on the deck.
Pacifica finally tore her eyes away from the lake and glanced at her accomplice. The only source of light was the moon, and it was illuminating his face in an odd way. His acne and the scars it left behind would have been something she made fun of only a year ago, but now, it just reminded her of a Lorde song.
They regarded each other for a few silent moments before he spoke. "You okay?"
It was a stupid question. Of course she wasn't. Neither of them were.
She graciously didn't point out the stupidity of the question. Instead, she answered with a question of her own. "Is this going to be my life from now on?"
"What do you mean?"
"Trying to fix things my family has done?" Her eyes wandered back to the waves. "Like, why the hell would we have owned those tapestries in the first place? There's no telling how big of a hand that thing had in how we earned our fortune." She said the word 'earned' with heavy sarcasm.
Dipper stared at the distant shoreline. "...I don't know. I really don't."
"The more I dig, the worse it gets." She worried her lower lip. "I feel like it's never gonna end. There's always going to be something evil haunting this town."
"Well… if it makes you feel better, I'm always down to help whenever you need someone." He cleared his throat. "Mabel, too. All of us."
She hummed quietly. "Do you ever have nightmares?" she asked.
"Yeah. All the time."
"Me, too."
They sat in silence. An owl screeched somewhere in the distance, and the chilling sound echoed over the body of water.
II.
Once upon a time, the Roadkill County Harvest Fair sounded repulsive to Pacifica. She would have claimed it was nothing more than a lame excuse for poor people to stuff their faces with greasy, fattening food while risking their lives on teetering, unsafe rides. It was a form of leisure that was beneath her.
And yet, here she was, eating fried Oreos and considering making Dipper ride the tilt-a-whirl with her. She'd never been on a tilt-a-whirl before. Maybe it had the potential to be just as fun as fried Oreos were.
The two of them had been walking around the fair with Mabel, Candy, and Grenda for a while, but the girls had made a mad dash once they saw the carnival games. Dipper had called out to them, warning them that "all the games are rigged!" as they sprinted to the booths, but it fell on deaf ears.
The games were tempting, though, rigged as they might have been.
Pacifica plucked the second-to-last Oreo from the paper bag in Dipper's hands and chewed on it thoughtfully as she surveyed their surroundings. "There's got to be some way to win one of these stupid things."
He shook his head with an eye roll. "I don't think it's gonna happen. Believe me, I've tried. The math never works the way it should."
"Maybe your problem is that you're doing math to win at balloon darts. It can't be that deep."
'It can, and it is."
She put her hands on her hips and considered her options. Her eyes landed on the ring toss booth. There were a plethora of prizes arranged in an arch along the front of this one, and they were all cheap, hideous pieces of garbage.
She had to win one.
Immediately, she began walking towards the game, and she heard her friend close behind her. There were a few standouts amongst the rewards: a stuffed dog with purple, stringy fur, multicolored frogs with big eyes, and several bootleg Just One Night At Jimmy's plushies.
"What are you up to?" Dipper asked.
"I'm gonna win a prize," Pacifica answered.
He scoffed. "Always gotta get the last word in, don't you?"
"Obviously."
She stepped up to the counter, and the ring toss operator, a very monotone teenager who clearly did not want to be operating the ring toss, took her payment and explained the rules.
"You get three rings. Land one ring around a bottle and you win."
Pacifica placed two rings in her left hand and readied the third in her right. Her brow furrowed as she felt the weight of the object in her hand, her brain and muscles subconsciously making minute adjustments to her intended trajectory.
Dipper leaned over, his chin brushing the top of her shoulder. "Don't mess up."
She elbowed him in the stomach.
She threw the first ring.
The edge of it bounced off the rim of one of the bottles, and it clattered to the ground.
"Stee-rike one."
"If you're just going to heckle me, you can fuck off and go find the others."
"But it's my job."
She squinted and aimed again.
After exhaling, she threw the second ring.
It caught one of the targets and hula-hooped around it for a moment, but ultimately settled in the right spot. Pacifica's heart skipped a beat and she involuntarily did a small hop and giggled in glee.
Dipper grinned at her. "Color me surprised, I guess."
The teenager clapped in an inauthentic manner. "Congratulations."
Pacifica ignored both of them for a moment longer. She still had one ring left. She wasn't sure if she would get more than one prize, but that didn't really matter. This was a matter of pride. She had to try for two out of three.
And, sure enough, she got it. This one was cleaner than the first win – there wasn't as much looping and spinning upon contact. She threw her hands in the air and let out a whoop of celebration as the employee went to retrieve the rings from the board.
Dipper patted her shoulder. "Not bad, not bad. What's your secret?"
She examined her plushie options as she stood up a bit straighter than before. "A whole life of playing golf. You kind of get a feel for how things will move in the air and where they'll land, I guess. If that makes sense."
"Yeah." His smile was still present. "Sometimes applied experience is better than theoretical."
Once the attendant was back, Pacifica pointed at a ratty-looking cow plush. Something about its face had spoken to her. Something deep down told her it needed to be chosen.
She waggled the toy in Dipper's face once they had left the booth. "Maybe you're just bad at carnival games, you big loser. Did you ever think of that? Huh?"
"Congrats, Paz, you found one game that wasn't completely rigged to fail. I tip my hat to you, madame."
"You know what?" She shoved the cow into his hands. "You're gonna take this stupid thing home so you'll constantly be reminded of the glorious day when you were wrong and I was right."
"So I'll always remember the day you had a lucky break at ring toss?"
"That's not at all what I said, but if thinking of it that way helps you sleep at night..."
He tucked it under his arm. "Well, I've received worse gifts."
III.
"I'm glad I don't have to be nice around you."
"Lucky me."
"Seriously, though. I don't even know how to talk to people anymore. I used to. I had a method."
"Which was?"
"Intimidate people. Make them afraid of me. It didn't matter if they liked me or not. I certainly didn't like any of if they were afraid of me, I was doing something right. I was in control."
"Well, to your credit, you were pretty good at it. Mission accomplished."
"Yep. I learned from the best, right?"
"…Hey, don't say that. I was just teasing you."
"It's true, though. I was kind of emulating them. Not on purpose, but still."
"You're nothing like them, okay? You were a kid. That was all you knew for a really long time. What were you supposed to emulate? What else were you supposed to do?"
"I don't know. Not that."
"You're fine. When it came down to it, you showed your true colors, and that's what really mattered. Okay? That's the Pacifica people are gonna remember."
"…Yeah, I guess."
"I'm right and you know it."
"…Thanks, Dipper. I think I kinda needed to hear all that."
"…Don't mention it."
IV.
Pacifica absentmindedly glanced at Dipper through the serving window. He was hunched over one of those musty, old journals he was obsessed with. God, his posture is awful, she mused.
He'd claimed a booth when her shift started that morning, and he hadn't moved since. The table was strewn with various books and scraps of paper. Organized chaos.
It was around two o'clock, and it occurred to her that her friend still hadn't ordered anything. He had refused breakfast, and since Susan was out sick, she'd been so caught up in the lunch rush that she hadn't noticed he'd never flagged her down to ask for his own meal.
Dipper hadn't eaten since at least six o'clock.
Pacifica felt a rush of unpleasant guilt. It pissed her off.
She turned to her coworker who had just finished drying a set of dishes. "Pierre, get me an order of fries. I'm going on break."
Pierre stared at her.
She grit her teeth. "Please."
"Coming right up," he replied with a smile. She didn't acknowledge it.
Five minutes later, she was carrying a full plate of fries to Dipper's table. As she approached, she tried to look for an empty spot to set the plate down, but every square inch of real estate was occupied by books, notes, or other records. She'd have to improvise.
He didn't notice Pacifica until she placed the food on top of the open book under his nose.
He startled a bit and looked up at her, adjusting his glasses as he did so. "Oh, hey."
She took the seat across from him. "Bon appétit."
"But I didn't bring any cash."
"Don't worry about it."
He frowned. "Are they gonna take it out of your paycheck or something?"
"They're mediocre french fries, Dipper. I don't really think they give a shit."
He appeared to consider it for a moment, then shrugged. "If you say so. I guess I was getting kind of hungry."
Pacifica sighed and propped her head up on her hand as he reached for the ketchup bottle. "Have you even stood up in the past eight hours?"
"I don't think so. I kind of got carried away."
"No kidding."
Dipper gave the bottle a few upside-down shakes and squeezed some ketchup onto the plate. After a few seconds, though, it sputtered – it was almost empty.
He was about to repeat the process, but she snatched the bottle from him and reached behind her to swap it with the one from the attached empty table. They made silent eye contact for a moment as she handed the replacement to him.
He blinked. "What was that about?"
"It was about to make that noise." She sneered. "I hate the sound that empty ketchup bottles make."
"Really? Why?"
"It's disgusting."
Dipper was smiling now. "Cause it sounds like a fart–"
"Yes." She rolled her eyes. "It's not funny, it's just gross. Maybe a two year old would share your sense of humor, though. Grow up."
He laughed and took a bite out of a fry. "You know what, Paz? I feel like every time we talk, I learn something new about you that makes me like you a little bit more."
Pacifica felt a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, but tried to fight it. "I'm the most likable person on the planet. It's only natural."
"Don't let it go to your head. We don't want it getting any bigger."
"You're one to talk about big heads."
V.
Dipper was pretty decent at drawing.
The journals were full of his doodles. You could tell which ones were older; they were a bit less polished, and he hadn't put as much effort into cleaning up the lines. His technique improved as time went on.
Pacifica guessed he did it because he wanted to record things as accurately as possible without the use of a camera. But were there that many monsters you couldn't just take a picture of? Surely not.
She didn't browse the journals very often. Dealing with the lumberjack ghosts was one thing – coming to terms with some of the other things she saw in there was another issue entirely.
There was an entire section detailing the townsfolk of Gravity Falls. It made sense. There were a lot of noteworthy people that lived here.
She had a page of her own. This made sense, too. She was a primary witness of a major paranormal event, and had connections to another. Not to mention, she was a Northwest – she'd be kind of offended if she didn't have a page.
The article itself wasn't anything she didn't already know (except for a few lines that had been scratched out. she couldn't read the text underneath, no matter how hard she tried). No, what caught her attention was her portrait.
Her parents had commissioned multiple fine artists to recreate her image before. She owned at least five or six paintings of herself. Not a single one of them inspired any sort of positive emotion in her.
But the one Dipper drew? She thought it was incredible. Every time she thought about it, an inescapable tenderness began to blossom in her chest.
He hadn't just made a copy of Pacifica's face. He had drawn her. It depicted her facing to the viewer's right, her demeanor relaxed and slightly wistful. She looked like she had perhaps remembered something funny, or was thinking about someone she was fond of.
This Pacifica looked real. She looked like a person. The wisps of her hair in graphite, the remnants of previous pencil strokes that Dipper had deemed unsuitable and erased, the outfit that communicated to her exactly which day he used as a reference.
She would often sneak a look at the drawing when he left the room momentarily. Several times, she had been tempted to rip the page out and hang it up on her wall. The problem was, he would definitely notice, and then she'd have to tell him that she'd never seen herself through someone else's eyes before and still been pleased with what she saw. How could she possibly explain that?
So she kept the unusual warmth in her heart a secret. Maybe she would eventually let it out. Maybe, one day, she would be able to put a name to the feeling.
Not yet.
VI.
All it took to summon Dipper to Northwest Manor was a simple text. A single sentence.
"pick me up"
She'd given no context, but it was unnecessary. She only texted him like that when her family was being particularly hard to bear.
The drive was short, and he was there in less than fifteen minutes. He was prepared to text her once he arrived, but there was no need; she was already standing outside the gate with a white and gold Louis Vuitton suitcase and a tapping foot.
He didn't even have time to fully stop before she began stomping toward his vehicle.
Her luggage was thrown into the truck bed with no consideration for preserving its untarnished exterior. Upon landing on top of some dried-up leaves, it shook the whole truck with the force of its velocity.
Seconds later, the passenger side door was flung open, and Pacifica hopped in and fastened the seatbelt with a disquieting urgency. She was making an effort to hide her face and avoid eye contact, but Dipper caught a glimpse of a blotchy, purple spot on her right cheek.
"Holy shit, Paz!"
"Drive," she commanded, her head still turned away.
He drove.
The vehicle nearly tipped on its wheels as he pressed down on the gas and made a sharp U-turn out of the driveway. Seemingly in an instant, Northwest Manor was becoming smaller and smaller in the rear view mirror.
Dipper tried to keep his eyes on the road and his hands at ten and two, but his gaze kept drifting and his limbs had started shaking from… shock? Concern? Anger?
He asked, "What happened?"
Pacifica said nothing. She didn't even move. She was like a statue.
A church approached on the left, and at the last second, Dipper swerved into the empty parking lot.
That got a reaction, even if it was just her sitting up a little straighter. "What the hell are you doing? I said drive."
He turned off the ignition. Luckily, it was a Tuesday, so there was no chance of anyone showing up and seeing her in this state. She would have hated that. Better the church than the gas station across the street that would have at least a few locals lingering around.
As the engine died down, he unbuckled so he could angle himself towards her. She did the exact opposite.
"Pacifica, what happened?"
She scoffed, but it had no strength behind it. "I thought you were supposed to be the smart twin. Figure it out."
"...Holy shit, Paz."
"You said that already." Her voice wavered almost imperceptibly. She was now facing forward. A slight concession for him. Because they were friends.
Dipper's shoulders sagged. He felt sick to his stomach.
He had already known that Preston and Priscilla were the worst, and he'd had his suspicions for a long time now about what went on behind closed doors at the Manor, but this? Seeing the evidence on Pacifica's face?
The only thing keeping him from making some very rash decisions was the fact that Pacifica was right in front of him, and she needed his help. If not for that, he would have done something very, very stupid.
He clenched his jaw. "Are you bleeding anywhere? I have a first aid kit in the glove box."
"I'm fine," she replied. "It's just a bruise. I'll cover it up."
"Just a bruise…" He shook his head in disbelief.
"I had to get out of there. That's all." She took a shaky breath in. "I had to not be around them anymore."
"What about the ghosts? Didn't they step in?"
"Yeah. My dad got thrown against the wall." She laughed with no amusement. "He's gonna need more medical attention than me."
"Good."
It was silent for a few moments. Dipper never took his eyes off of her. He had to pay attention to know what she needed.
He sighed. "You can use the spare bed at the Shack. Stan's not gonna charge you rent or anything. I know he's kinda hard to read sometimes, but he likes you okay."
Pacifica's lips parted, no doubt to shoot a rebuttal at him, but no sound came out. After a couple seconds, she closed them again, and they formed a tight, thin line across her face.
"Is… it okay if I hug you?" he asked.
She finally looked him in the eye. She wasn't wearing any makeup – a bold new endeavor, by her standards. There was no telling what was going through her mind right now.
She nodded.
In an instant, they pulled each other toward themselves. She started squeezing him so tight he thought one of his ribs might snap. He would have let it happen.
She took a deep, shuddering breath, and whimpered. She was trying not to cry. She was trying so hard not to cry.
It didn't work.
In all the years Dipper had known Pacifica Northwest, he could count on one hand the times he'd ever witnessed her shed a tear. And half of those were happy tears, so that wasn't really the same thing.
He'd seen the aftermath of her crying plenty of times. Mascara running down her face, red, glazed eyes, an unwillingness to talk about it. It was something she usually did alone, something she didn't like to share. He could understand that, he guessed.
But now, she was crying in his arms. The shoulder of his shirt was becoming damp. She was nearly to the point of hyperventilating. Her voice was making involuntary sounds that made him want to kill her damn parents. It was gut-wrenching.
Dipper tried to think of something to say to her, but he couldn't. Everything he came up with felt… wrong. He was never that good with comforting words. That was Mabel's wheelhouse – and not even she could conjure some perfect saying or phrase or advice that would make Pacifica un-abused.
So he just squeezed her back. He tried to squeeze her as tight as she was squeezing him. He hoped that conveyed something. He hoped it was important to her. He hoped it mattered.