#it was a hard chapter to write | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

tswwwit · 2 months ago

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Widower part One is over here.

And the second part is here!

Bill pulls him out of the party early, which might be the only cool thing he’s ever done.

The rest of the demons busy themselves drinking, dancing, and getting into fights. Dipper hears the cacophony fade as he’s dragged out of the reception hall and through a door that seals itself behind them. Once shut, the noise drops from a din to distant rumble and the thudding of bass.

Good riddance. The last hour was loud and chaotic and bright, with enough alcohol in the air to make him feel tipsy just by breathing. Getting the hell out of there is so great he barely minds who’s guiding him out.

Besides. He doesn’t have much of a choice.

With his hand held tight in Bill’s own, there’s no way out. Trying to pull it away or shake it off is futile; the demon only tightens his grip until his knuckles ache.

Dipper keeps his eyes on this monster’s golden surface. Any sudden movement. Any twitch, and next thing he knows he’ll be a burst of molecules, or frozen in stone - or something else entirely.

Whatever evil plot is going on here, it’s so secret Dipper’s never heard a hint of it. Not in all the rumors, not in all his research. No demons have mentioned it in interrogations; thought to be fair the questions were likely the wrong ones. No scouts have ever delved into the Fearamid. Nobody else has seen what he’s seen.

Those pictures.

If Dipper hadn’t stared at the damn things himself, he would have thought it was crazy. But those paintings were made with skill and careful brushstrokes, held in solid paint and canvas, too real to be anything else, and wearing his face. It’s…

An illusion, maybe? Dipper has that talent, he’s hard to fool. But it could be crafted so well it even messed with him. Or maybe mental magic, instead? A creation that left a blank space his brain filled in with whatever Bill wanted.

Something’s up, anyway. A trick. A ploy. What Bill did back there with the eye-mouth… thing, is a distraction from what’s really happening.

Dipper shuts his eyes against the memory, but he can’t seem to push it out of his head. Metal lips on your entire face will do that.

“Alright, that’s far enough.” Bill says, stopping so abruptly that Dipper nearly walks into him. He whips around with a dangerous gleam in his eye. “Here we have a little privacy.”

Dipper says nothing. He glares with all the fury he can muster, though he’s pretty sure bewilderment leaks out around the edges.

Time to learn Bill Cipher what really has in store for him. He steels his shoulders, preparing himself-

And metal slams against his chest, forcing the air out of his lungs with a ‘thump’.

Dipper wheezes, clutching at his chest. Then pats it. Solid gold pushes into him, warm to the touch. A tightness around his waist. This is -

He stares down at the golden point of a demonic triangle. Bill’s got a hold of him again, gripping the back of his shirt instead of looping arms around him like ropes. The top hat floats just by his face, tilting when he bumps his cheek against it.

For a moment he thought - but no. Nobody else is in the hallway. The party rages onward in the distance. The low buzz of the crowd hums through the Fearamid like the sound of appliances, and no horrible new monster turns the corner to devour him.

Then this isn’t a distraction for another demon. And whatever Bill’s doing doesn’t hurt. Dipper isn’t clipped in half at the waist, even though the arms are uncomfortably tight. Bill’s warm too, but water-bottle temperature instead of boiling oil.

Bill’s just stuck to him like the biggest, most godawful sticker. His grip adjusted a few times, there’s an intermittent squeeze - but it’s not harmful.

Dipper waits for a short, heart-pounding half-minute, and still nothing happens. Slowly, tension seeps out of him as it continues being… not bad.

…Okay, even for a demon this is weird. Something’s up.

“Hello?” Dipper asks. He taps Bill’s metal surface with two sharp raps.

“Mhgh,” comes the response. One of those strange small hands tightens on his back, balling up the fabric of his shirt.

Dipper feels his mouth thin into a line. Partly from irritation at this demon, and, okay. A little at himself.

Man, he really needs to work on this. Even now, when all rational thought says he should be terrified, that there’s a malevolent force close enough to obliterate him - all he feels is annoyed. And not even as much as he should be.

“What the hell, Bill?” It’s pretty much the only thing Dipper can say. It’s not like he’ll just figure out the answer when he’s dealing with the weirdest guy in the world. “What’s going on?”

Bill speaks again, but it’s muffled in shirt fabric. His arms tighten; vibrations rumble through Dipper’s chest and into his skin. And how the hell does that work, when he doesn’t even have a mouth.

Great. So helpful. Dipper’s not trapped in place, thankfully. He can turn around and even walk a few steps unimpeded, with Bill floating along. Retreating doesn’t gain him any space, though; his back merely hits the wall with his involuntary armor plating still stuck to him like glue.

Not dangerous, then. Just awkward. It’s almost a running theme with this creature.

The attachment has already gone on for several minutes without stopping - but not painful doesn’t mean not uncomfortable. Between unnatural body warmth and the flannel shirt that he’s wearing, Dipper’s sweating from heat, not fear.

And Bill’s still talking, in an overly-long ramble. One Dipper can both hear and feel, with that odd vibration of his not-mouth. Fingers twitch against his back, and - oh god, is Bill drooling? That horrible multipurpose eye could ooze any kind of fluid.

Cursing under his breath, Dipper gets a hold of the top point, pushing it away even though the corners dig into his fingers. Getting a grip on smooth, angled metal is hard, especially when it’s fighting against him.

When finally he peels Bill off by an inch, the demon’s single eye is slightly bloodshot and staring fully forward at his torso. “-burrow into your chest and live where your lungs used to be, right next to your-”

Dipper lets go, and Bill snaps back into place like a rubber band. Okay. Really didn’t need to hear that. Thankfully it was just a metaphor; he would have felt it if Bill was trying to core him like an apple.

…Though Bill is pressing pretty hard. Between that and his weird magic, who knows? Maybe he could lodge himself into Dipper’s organs without him noticing. That’s definitely not alarming or horrifying or - god, he needs to get out of here.

Dipper shoves at this asshole, cursing under his breath. Goddamn it, he should know better than this. The stupid party threw him off, along with his own shock. He almost forgot where he was, and what danger he’s facing. Who, exactly, he’s dealing with.

Grimacing with effort, Dipper digs his fingers underneath the metal plate on his chest and pushes. He avoids touching the hat. He has a gut feeling that would be a huge mistake.

“Mgh!” Bill complains, still muffled by the shirt - but his resistance wanes with the unrelenting pressure. Eventually he pops off like a disconnected suction cup, floating a few feet away.

Dipper backpedals, hitting the wall again and bracing his palms against it. His chest is fully intact, other than being slightly damp from unnamable fluids. His legs still work. If he needs to take off running, he… likely won’t get far, but he could be annoying to catch.

Bill blinks a few times. Then his lower eyelid curves up again. The bloody intent from earlier in his sclera has vanished, leaving only mild amusement.

“Looks like you’re in tip-top shape! For a human that is. All the bits in order!” Lower eyelid rising, he pats Dipper’s chest. “Lungs heaving, blood pumping. All anxious and tense. The whole shebang!”

Yeah, he would like that. Torment. Terror. Bill thrives off every drop of the stuff.

Dipper says nothing. His nails dig into his palms.

“What’s the matter, sapling?” Bill tilts to one side, looking oddly… confused. “How ‘bout a smile? A hug? A long, tortured speech about how much you missed me?”

“I’m not giving you anything.” Dipper grits out between clenched teeth. “You’re an asshole.”

Bill rolls his eye, a long dramatic motion. As if Dipper’s protest is less a roadblock than a speedbump. “Yeah, yeah, I know I am. Now how ‘bout that hug?” He spreads his arms wide, wiggling his fingers in a come-hither gesture. “Double points for a smooch, but I’m not particular!”

The face Dipper makes must speak clearly enough, because for the first time in a while, Bill’s eye stops smiling. His arms drop to dangle along his bottom edge.

“Hold up.” Eye narrowing, Bill examines his captive with considered slowness. His gaze focuses on Dipper’s face, like he’s trying to burrow into his brain instead of his chest. “How much do you remember?”

“What’s there to remember?” Dipper asks. Why does everything this monster does have to be weird? ”What the hell is going on?”

His words come out tinged with hysteria, which is… not the look he’d daydreamed about. If he ever met this creature in the flesh, he wanted to be cooler than this, damn it. He just didn’t account for how fucked up it’d be.

“Ah. Right.” Bill says, enthusiasm dimming along with his surface. He’s almost plain gold now, with only a hint of light. For a beat he simply floats there, eye focused on something distant. “There’s always a catch, huh?”

One black hand reaches up as if to touch Dipper’s face. Smacking it away, Dipper scoots sideways, keeping his back to the wall. Then moves little further when Bill follows, arms tucked behind his back and eye-smiling again.

“So! Look at you! A fresh young mortal delivered right to my door, and a feisty one at that!” His upper eyelid wiggles in irritating amusement. “You worried what I’m gonna do to ya?”

Dipper stands stiff, arms at his sides. “Not even a little.”

Hearing Bill laugh again is annoying, but - okay, Dipper can see where it’s coming from this time. Pulling the defiance card in the presence of Bill Cipher is possibly the stupidest move ever. Second only to doing it in front of a crowd. Or maybe cursing him out in the same venue. So overall, it’s only third place stupid in a slowly growing list.

Still, Dipper won’t budge. He’ll never cower. It’s simply not in his nature.

While demons bother other people on sight, Dipper’s… never really gotten the big deal. Sure, they’re dangerous. But a lot of things are dangerous, like lions or spiders or snakes. The safest way to handle those creatures is to learn their behaviors. And while demons are strange, upsetting, and much more difficult to handle on average - there’s still an internal logic behind their actions, if you can figure it out.

Dipper’s always had a knack for that nonsensical brand of sense. A useful instinct, one that’s come in handy dozens of times, and helped him take risks others wouldn’t. It’s hard to fear what you understand.

Hell, he should be terrified of Bill Cipher. Everyone else is, for extremely good reasons. Rational, intelligent ones. And Dipper is afraid, in a rational, intelligent way, with the urge to run or fight or freeze tugging at his thoughts, and a tight, bright energy in his chest.

But he’s not going to panic like your average guy. That’s just dumb.

The Lord of Nightmares, Bill Cipher, is powerful - but he’s still a demon. Still just a guy, of sorts. A really insane, sociopathic guy from a totally different realm of existence, who could turn Dipper into fleshy salsa in a snap.

A fine sweat is building on his neck and running down his back. Dipper isn’t sure if it’s nerves, or residual heat from the too-long grasp.

Right now, his instincts say Bill isn’t pissed off. That he’s safe-ish, possibly because he’s more amusing than annoying.

But they also say: Tread carefully.

“Everything else seems in order. Tip-top shape, like I said!” Bill floats back and forth, examining Dipper with a critical eye. Then the top lid lowers as he starts to frown. “But the memory situation? Ugh. You shoulda demanded an exception to the rules, kid. It’s not like you didn’t have leverage.”

“I don’t - what the fuck are you-” Dipper cuts himself off before he starts shouting. He takes a deep breath, and holds it for three seconds before letting it out.

Anger has a place, but this isn’t it. Right now he needs answers.

“Tell me what’s happening.” He says, finally. “Please.”

It comes out weaker than he’d like. He sounds deflated, or maybe just tired. Hell, he feels pretty tired, come to think of it. The trip to the Fearamid was short on comfy places to sleep.

“Oh, that’s simple.” Bill beams, glowing brighter as he throws his arms out in celebration. “You’re back from the dead, kid!”

Dipper stares for a long, long second. Then he shuts his eyes, rubbing at them briefly. Bill tries to pat his arm, but he jerks it away.

He can’t have just fallen asleep on his feet. He’s not that tired. So unless being dragged to Bill’s throne room incurred an invisible, painless, and extremely severe head injury - he must have heard that right.

“I’ve… never died though?” He turns it into a question at the end.

Maybe he did hit his head on something. Maybe he’s dead already, and this is a strange new form of afterlife torture. Not pain and suffering, just sheer confusion.

“No, you definitely did. It was real mortal of you. And really rude.” Bill glares. Truly glares, a look that has Dipper leaning back from the banked anger behind it - then he shrugs, dismissing the whole thing with his strange smile. “But since you decided to show back up, I’ll let it slide. Water under the bridge.”

Such a quick dismissal, for such a… tense topic. Dipper fidgets, not sure how to respond.

It’s one thing to know that Bill Cipher’s a madman, and another to see him flicker through moods like a flipbook, with no rhyme or reason to it.

“You know that’s insane, right?” He asks. Then grimaces.

Okay, probably a bad choice to mention it - but he has to bring it up. Bill Cipher might be self-aware enough to know he’s crazy.

”Man, the rules you must have broken to get out of the afterlife - whoo! Tell me all about it when your brain catches up to your spirit.” Bill says. His gaze is focused over Dipper’s left shoulder with his pupil dilated, looking out into some ancient memory. “It’s the second coolest thing you’ve ever done.”

…Or maybe he’s not.

Either way, he’s ignoring the comment. Or hell, maybe he literally didn’t hear it, lost in his own insane thoughts. Dipper’s known this guy for less than an hour, and he’s pretty sure it could go any which way.

“But man, oh man, we have got a lot to go over once you’re back in the memory business.” Bill taps a foot in the air, looking impatient. “See, I have-”

“No. Back up.” Dipper interrupts, adding another entry to his ‘stupid move’ list. He waves rapidly before Bill can start rambling again. “Start from the beginning.”

Thankfully, he isn’t blasted into particles. His flesh stays meat and blood instead of granite. Bill even adds another check on the ‘insane’ list by looking amused.

Dipper guesses his instincts are still working correctly; one relief in a day full of weirdness. Hell, of the many demons he’s encountered, Bill’s astonishingly easy to read.

“Sure thing! There was a summoning, a curse, buncha near-death experiences, yadda yadda yadda -” As he lists them off, Bill rolls his wrist around in a ‘and then y’know’ gesture - “So to make a long story short, you’re my husband!”

Having said that, he sets fists on his angles. His glow brightens as he quite literally beams with pride.

Dipper opens his mouth. Then shuts it.

Head injury is looking more and more appealing. He pats the back and sides of his head, but it just messes up his hair. When he checks his hands for blood, Bill laughs at him. Thus making things infinitely worse.

Oh no. He was so, so hoping he misheard that, too. Bill Cipher’s weird enough, it could have been ‘harm plan’ or ‘harp fan’ or ‘horse band’, but it’s not any of those. Just the common, context-proper word of -

But that means Bill Cipher was married at some point, to a human apparently, and - Demons do that? Is that actually a thing? Why would - how would - and Bill’s a shape, for fuck’s sake, shouldn’t he be after something more… angular? A human wouldn’t-

Again Dipper opens his mouth, searching for a response. He looks Bill right in his gleaming, pleased, eerily huge eyeball, and fails to come up with anything.

This - that can’t be right. It’s too weird.

When Dipper finally manages to speak, what emerges is, “Nuh-uh.”

“Yuh huh.” Bill retorts. He sets fists on his sides, eye shutting. “I can prove it, too. You-”

“No, you can’t.” Dipper snaps before Bill can start yammering again, like the jerk he is. “Because that’s insane. Anyone who would marry something like you would be-”

“Completely mad! Totally off his rocker! And you’re right!” Bill interrupts in turn, glowing bright. A wallet appears in one hand, and he flips it open to reveal a long, long scroll of photos. “I mean, just look at this nerd! Does that seem sane to you?”

“What-” Completing the question is out of the question; Dipper has to back up as pictures keep tumbling down in a connected line. They pile in front of him in violation of every rule of physics.

In the first of the reel, a man flips off the camera, glaring at the taker. In another he’s asleep, hair tousled and resting on a yellow pillow, in the next he’s fleeing from something with a terrified look on his face. Dozens upon dozens, a never-ending flood.

And in all of them, each and every one. Printed on glossy paper and carefully kept -

A doppelganger smiles back at Dipper, wearing his face.

He stares with growing anxiety, along with an odd twinge of embarrassment. Having so many pictures of anyone would be weird, but it’s twice as bad when it seems like him.

Near the bottom of the pile, Bill himself makes an unusual appearance. The photo taken at arm’s length, camera held out for a selfie that captures the grin of his eye and the specks of blood on his surface. A gold chain trails down from one of his corners, an oddity that Dipper nearly misses -

Because next to him, that same man is pressing lips on Bill’s side, with his palm resting just under the tie. Some of the blood on Bill’s surface is smudged by his fingers.

Smooches, Bill said. The word didn’t seem real until he witnessed it. Even now it doesn’t quite compute.

Why Bill would want that is beyond Dipper’s comprehension. Metal can’t feel anything, right? And Bill himself feels nothing in his cold metal heart except amusement, boredom, or anger. It’s probably the attention he craves, and - who the hell would ever give him a peck on the angles? Especially when he’s speckled red with -

Dipper’s stomach churns, imagining the scene just out of frame. The body that must be lying below, and the twisted shape of it.

“See? One mortal, totally mad for me. Proof.” Bill says with triumph. The photos fold back up into his wallet and get tucked away into the same abstract space. “And I got even more where that came from.”

More than this? Is there more gore, too? Things Bill hasn’t shown off yet? More smug satisfaction in his eye, and more of of Dipper’s face worn by a stranger, doing the unthinkable?

“I- no. Look, I’ve never met you before.” Dipper finds his voice, though it’s thin and reedy. Folding his arms over himself, he rubs at them. Feeling cold and warm, in odd flashes, like his body can’t decide how to react. “I wouldn’t do that.”

“In this life.” Bill wags a finger, as if chiding him for forgetting. “But that’ll change! See, you and I are thick as thieves. Married as hell! The most intertwined interspecies couple this segment of the multiverse!”

Despite himself, Dipper glances down again. The photos are gone, but the memory remains.

Bill, and blood. Those two are constant companions. He kind of expected those, and thought he’d see more than his fill of the latter.

The unexpected addition to the horrors is printed on photo paper, and painted on canvas. A monster who would touch Bill after someone clearly died right there. There’s zero context that makes standing near a corpse romantic.

“Shocked by your luck, huh? And you should be with a spouse like yours truly!” Bill drifts closer, hands clasped together. He tilts towards Dipper with what might be nuzzling intent. “You won the jackpot, kid.”

“Fuck off,” Dipper says, flat. Then, as Bill doesn’t take the obvious - shoves the bastard, sending him drifting through the air. “I said, fuck off.”

“Aw, calm down, sapling! I’ll even get you a ring this time!” Bill dismisses his protest and floats right back into his personal space. “We can do all the human ceremonies and costumes, have a party - then really get down to business.”

Whatever ‘business’ is, Dipper doesn’t want to know. He doesn’t want to be here. He was kidnapped, he didn’t have a choice. Then Bill Cipher took him as tribute - the asshole - hoping he was the kind of person who would -

“Now,” Bill says, floating dangerously close. His arms spread as if to capture him again, eye wide and pupil blown out. “How ‘bout that kiss?”

Oh. Dipper is not doing that.

Knuckles to eyeball is a squishy sensation. Like punching a huge goddamn stress ball, only one that’s warm and wet and distinctly alive. Surprisingly gross too; Dipper wants to wash his hand immediately.

But the triumph of watching Bill Cipher recoil, swearing and clutching at his closed eye, is a dream come true.

“OW- you- Ugh, right in the cornea.” Bill says, with feeling. Dipper’s next punch lands in his palm, and the hand grows as it closes it around his fist. “Hey hey, you only get one of those for free. Next one’ll cost ya.”

“Fuck you.” Dipper tries to retrieve his fist to no avail. Damn it. A second punch was a bad idea; he’s given Bill another hold on him.

Using his other arm turns out just as useless - and more alarming. Bill merely sighs, sounding tired, just before grabbing him around the torso with one comically huge hand and shoving him back a step.

“Yeesh. Okay, okay, you’re mad. Great.” Bill says, more seriously. He floats up without releasing his hold, looking Dipper over. “And actually mad at that. What gives?”

The sheer audacity has Dipper spluttering. How could - Bill should know why nobody in their right or their wrong mind would ever. That.

“What are-” He starts, trying not to grit his teeth too hard. It’d make yelling at Bill more difficult. “Okay, I could go over a whole list of horrible, fucked-up things you’ve done in the last two decades.”

“Yeah, yeah, forget those! I’m not talking abstract moral arguments,” Bill says, setting his other fist on his angle. “This grudge seems personal. What put your boxers in a twist?”

Right. Dipper was distracted earlier. Under the barrage of total insanity, he almost forgot what really mattered.

He pushes against the constraining hold, sneakers squeaking on stone. If only he could get a little closer, that eyeball would be in punching range again. This bastard should know his crimes. Why Dipper will never do anything.

“You turned my sister into a statue.”

“Oof.” Bill dims, eyelid lowering in a frown. He almost looks chagrined. “Yep, that’d do it.”

Dipper lets him know exactly what he’s like, with several choice curses. A quick kick using Bill’s grip as a backboard doesn’t land. Damn this bastard for dodging.

Bill ignores his struggles. One massive thumb pats Dipper’s side as he thinks, rubbing under his eye.

“Say, I think I know the gal you’re talking about! Got caught in that errand I ran a year back. Long hair, right?” He waves over his point and under his hat. “And a big sweater! Looks like she got her braces off recently and forgets to use her retainer! I wondered if something was up with that one. Seemed real familiar.”

“Great. You remember.” Dipper grits out. So Bill noticed his sister. Out of thousands of anonymous statuary, she stood out. He isn’t sure whether that makes it better or worse. “All the more reason to kick your ass.”

This awful, evil, bastard laughs at his threat. Like it’s nothing. Dipper sucks in a breath through his teeth, muscles tensing as the boiling anger in his chest sings a song of ‘punch this asshole right in the eye again’.

“Oh, you,” Bill watches him struggle with that same awful amusement. Almost fond. “Whatd’ya know, it’s my lucky day! Once I get this sorted, we’ll be back to married bliss inside a month. No harm, no foul.”

“I’ll show you harm.” Lurching forward, Dipper strains against this preternaturally powerful asshole to no effect. Goddamn demonic powers. Stupid shapeshifting. He hates it.

“Eh, you’ll be less worked up in a bit.” Bill rolls his eye. Another arm pops out and he claps hands together, rubbing them with glee. “And then we can get to wedding planning! It’ll be the biggest bash of the century!”

Dipper groans, a mix of anger and frustration. Bill’s deluded. Insane. Totally distracted. Isn’t Bill Cipher supposed to be smart?

The distraction, though, gives him just enough leeway to worm an arm out of Bill’s grasp. Fist thumping on the thumb, he hisses out the obvious. “I’m not marrying the guy who killed my sister.”

“Good thing I didn’t kill her then, huh?”

Dipper’s jaw shuts with a click. His fist stills in midair - probably for the best, it was waving around uselessly - and lowers a careful inch. “What?”

“Nobody in the garden’s dead, kid. They’re just trapped in an eternal dreamless sleep!” Bill glows brighter, waving down the hallway towards another corridor. “One five-minute walk, a little magic, and bam! You get your sister back.”

Dipper mouths the air, but comes up with nothing. Bill’s words bounced into the gears of his mind like an expertly thrown wrench, grinding them to a halt.

Get her back. Then. It’s - wait, but everyone says that’s not - how would it even work.

“Ha! Didn’t expect that, didja? That’s adorable!” The giant fist releases Dipper, disappearing into nowhere. Bill claps lightly as if watching a delightful little show. “So, you interested? It’s no big deal for me to refleshify her, but if you prefer a more rocky relationship-”

“No!” Dipper blurts. “No, I do want her back. But…” He gives Bill the dirty look he deserves. As scathing as he can manage. “I think you’re lying.”

“Fair, it’s kinda my thing. But this offer’s legit, kid! Pinky swear.” Bill sticks out his little finger, waggling it in Dipper’s direction. “One intact, healthy, perfectly alive sister, for one hand in marriage. Whatdya say?”

Dipper says nothing, turning slightly away. Ignoring the insanity of that offer, along with the little finger slowly encroaching on his personal space.

There’s more info to slot into the many mental files he has on Bill Cipher, the liar, monster, and so-called snappy dresser. He’s truly after something, if he’s offering deals to a human. Usually that’s a lesser demon thing.

Kind of a shame, in informational terms. If Bill did offer deals to people, maybe they’d know more about him. As it stands, nobody knows how Bill does… most of the magic he does. Animating objects, summoning creatures, manipulating the world around him. Impressive by any metric, but too weird to get a grip on.

The most study has gone into his human statuary habit. Preventing more victims from being zapped away has had tons of money and time thrown in its path, to no effect. It’s incredibly hard to transmute living substances into anything else. The power it’d take to reverse the process - changing from one solid material back to the complexity of life - that’d be insane.

The thought makes Dipper hesitate. Insanity is Bill’s thing.

And his magic is weird, too. It doesn’t work like most magic should, just as bizarre and nonsensical as its master. It defies definition almost by definition; Dipper knows at least five scientists who have torn hair out trying to make it math properly.

So it’s possible, maybe. That when Bill turns someone into a statue, he could change them back.

Dipper glares at Bill’s offered hand. Taps his foot on the floor, looking around, then lifts his chin in defiance. “Prove it, first.”

“Yeah, you would want proof. Skeptic,” Bill says, in that same irritatingly fond tone. “Out to the rock garden then! I think I remember where she’s stashed.”

This time when Bill seizes his arm, Dipper pulls it back slowly instead of jerking it away. It gets a huge eyeroll, but Bill floats forward and beckons him along.

Dipper watches him drift down the hallway for a bit. A few meters on, Bill turns back and waves him on again, looking annoyed - and Dipper sighs. He stuffs his hands in his pockets, and follows. Not like he has a choice.

The corridors of the Fearamid are just as convoluted as he’d imagined. They twist and branch and shift in noneuclidean directions, and odd angles. Dipper could swear they’re upside down at one point as Bill leads him on a merry trail to an outer edge.

One thing has been clarified, at least. Why he’s here.

Bill Cipher, at some point, married a human. Some jackass who bargained with this jackass, probably for power. Who knows what schemes and scams they got up to. What torments and terrors they caused, what the fuck made a person smile at a triangle like that for crying out loud - Anyway. Bad things happened.

But that, as all things, came to an end. Bill’s partner in atrocities and nightmares did the mortal thing, and got away from his insidious grasp. He must have forgotten that mortal beings have an expiration date. Super disappointing for the demon. Annoying, even. Bill said as much himself, it was really rude to leave like that -

But it’s all better now. Isn’t it.

He’s found a replacement.

If anyone needed further proof that Cipher was completely off his rocker, that would be the final fucking straw.

Dipper grimaces at the thought, and ignores Bill’s curious look. They can’t be far from the statue garden now, and he’s not taking any of this demon’s obvious conversation bait. Tuning out the questions and commentary and keeping his trap shut, even when it’s really tempting to argue with some stupid, arrogant statement.

That’s demons for you. They never leave well enough alone. Always causing trouble, getting into what you least want them to get into. Bothering decent people for kicks.

So as fucked up as this… reincarnated dead husband thing is, it’s very demonic. The backwards, flipped-around logic they use fits it to a tee.

Like, yeah, okay. Dipper can admit the pictures are damning. No wonder Bill was thrilled to see him, it was like finding an exact copy of a favorite mug that got broken. A resemblance that’s downright eerie, almost enough to make him wonder -

Except the guy in question was simping over a triangle.

Absolutely not. Never in his life, or any life, ever. Bill’s dead husband and him are nothing like each other, not where it matters.

Plus, there’s the obvious.

Reincarnation isn’t a thing.

For as long as magic has been studied, scholars have tried to get at the nature of the soul. Kings and emperors have sought the secrets of immortality - which has never panned out. Prophets and madmen have claimed to be so-and-so reborn, only to be disproven.

Souls are unique. The personal fingerprint of the individual, written in energy and riddled with life. Even now it’s hard to pin down exactly what it is, other than there’s something.

And as far as anyone can tell - after thousands of years of research tackling the facts, over and over - once a soul’s gone? It’s just gone. Out into the ether or afterlife or whatever. Maybe just vanished entirely. Leaving the mortal plane and coming back is unheard of.

Bill comes from another dimension, though. Maybe he doesn’t know it works?

Dipper glances at Bill’s back, glowing bright again. He’s humming a tune to himself, breaking out in patches into quiet, joyful song. “...don’t know where, don’t know when!” Before trailing off again.

…He definitely, absolutely doesn’t know how it works.

Dipper’s the captive of a bizarre, bored madman, looking for any puzzle piece to shove into the annoying gap in his picture-perfect life.

This delusion isn’t going to be easy to dispel. Considering Bill’s excitement, he won’t want to drop the idea, he certainly gives no fucks about human opinions, and the eerily similar features are a huge sticking point. Not to mention he wasn’t exactly sane to begin with.

So Dipper holds his tongue, and clamps his lips together tight for good measure, even though the questions burn in the back of his throat. The ‘why’ and the ‘how’ and the ‘what the fuck’ will have to wait for later, once he extracts himself from this bullshit.

He’ll hold off on correcting Bill, just for a bit. Right now, a white lie and a lack of denial are on track to get him what he wants.

Shutting up for ten minutes is more than a fair price for his sister’s life.

The sunlight appears well before they arrive outside. There’s no door at the exit, just an open gap at the bottom edge of the pyramid, leading out into a wide expanse of neatly trimmed grass.

Dipper pauses at the threshold. Staring out at a sea of grey shapes against green, extending in a curve along the corner of the Fearmid. It’s bigger than in the aerial photos made it seem. It looks like it goes on for a mile. A yawning expanse of human life trapped in granite, as far as his eye can see.

Which Bill drifts through without blinking, humming his stupid tune. After a moment, he beckons Dipper to follow again, rolling his eye.

“C’mon, your sister’s not far, kid.” He says, drifting towards Dipper with a tilt to the side, like he’s confused. “What’s the holdup?”

Dipper hesitates a moment longer, then ducks in between two frozen shapes. One cowering in a tiny ball, one with his arm flung up in a shout of rage. The weather’s warm, but he still shivers.

“It’s nothing,” He says finally, before Bill can grab his hand again. He brushes his shirt off, and strides forward. “Lead the way.”

Bill leads him through the horrors with total nonchalance. He zigzags among frozen humans like he’s stepping around a messy bedroom floor. His erratic course heads towards a hill in the garden, the only rising point in an otherwise flat landscape, surrounded by tall conifer trees.

The slope to the top is steep, and there isn’t a path or stairs. For convenience’s sake, Dipper snags one of Bill’s arms - ignoring the cackle - to use his unstoppable floating like a ski lift, letting it pull him upwards.

“Here we are!” Bill exclaims, slowing to a stop in the middle of a wide swath of grass. “Right where I stashed her.”

Dipper glances around. Tall pines surround the clearing, shading it from the sun with their wide branches. Behind him would be a great view of the statue-spotted field, if he was into that kind of thing. The middle of the clearing has a massive golden statue, ornate and gaudy like all Bill’s dumb bullshit -

But his eyes skim right over the features, landing on a small stone figure beside it.

“Mabel!” Dipper bursts out of Bill’s hold, crossing the clearing in seconds. The turf kicks up under his shoes as he skids to a stop in front of his sister.

The stone face of his sister looks back at him in perfect stillness. She looks over her shoulder as if having caught sight of something, and she’s not sure what it is yet. The confused expression is trapped eternally in smooth grey rock.

He almost can’t believe what he’s seeing. Part of him believed he’d never see her again. Written her off like she was a missing person. At best he’d be able to look at the latest distant photos, and wonder which speck she was in the crowd. But she’s here, and intact. Albeit a little stiff.

Dipper reaches out, then thinks better of it and lets his arms drop. Not daring to touch, not wanting to just stand there. It’s so clear there's nothing he can do - but there should be. This sucks.

“As you can see, your twin’s totally intact.” Bill brushes past him, giving him a wry look. “No cracks, no breaks, not a speck of damage on her!” He adjusts his tie, eye shut with apparent pride. “None of my lawn ornaments get messed with, even when-”

“She’s not my twin,” Dipper says, irritably. Both to shut Bill up, and to correct his weird statement. “She’s two years younger than me.”

“Huh,” Bill rubs under his eye, looking thoughtful. “Yeah, she would be, wouldn’t she? Oh well!” He glows brighter, circling Mabel’s statue before retreating a few yards away. “Take a step back and watch the show!”

Since there’s still nothing Dipper can do about this, he reluctantly backs up. But not too far. He has to let Bill do his magic, but who knows what he’ll get up to after? Best to be nearby, just in case.

Clearing his invisible throat, Bill adjusts his tie. He clicks his fingers together twice, then points forward. Light zaps from his finger, engulfing Mabel’s form, too bright to stare at directly. The magic bursts in Dipper’s senses like a furnace flame, like a bomb going off - he tenses, sucking in a breath.

And when the light vanishes, Mabel whips around in a whirl of pink sweater, completing the motion she was trapped in. The movement also screws up her balance; she flails her arms, squawking as she falls backwards.

Dipper’s glad he stuck close. Before she hits the ground he catches her under the arms, hauling her upright. He gets bonked on the nose by her skull, and curses. He nearly drops her because the overly-large, soft sweater that only his stupid sister would wear is too damn loose.

His sister. Holy shit.

Dipper stands frozen, stiffly holding her upright until she rocks back up on her heels. Mabel shakes her head, making a ‘blugh’ sound and sticking her tongue out in annoyance.

She’s actually - Holy shit.

“Whoa, wait.” Mabel turns towards him, surprise painting her very alive features. She brushes her bangs back, squinting in confusion. “Dipper? Where’d you come from?”

Dipper merely shakes his head. His arms tremble until he steadies them, shoving them down by his sides.

She’s back. She’s actually, truly back, because whatever Bill did worked, and. Wait - how did it…?

Mabel glances up - makes a face at the bright afternoon daylight - and shades her eyes against it. The soft pink sweater bounces as she shakes herself, full of color and motion. Then she yawns like she just woke up from a short nap, looking at her surroundings like she’s never seen them before.

Because she hasn’t, really. Confusion’s a reasonable reaction when you’re in a very odd new location.

Mabel waves at him, waiting for an answer to her earlier question. Dipper manages a shrug, and gets a full-on sister eyeroll for being a useless older brother.

This is supposed to be impossible. Was impossible.

For so long he held that fact close, clenched tight in his hands. Mabel was gone, because of a monster - and it filled him with righteous rage. Driving him forward, lending him strength to fight against horrible odds. He was going to make Bill pay for what he did. And for everything else, too, sure, but mostly for being the bastard who messed with his kid sister.

But now. As Dipper watches his sister move and awkwardly smile, waving a hand in his face - that built-up fury trickles out between his fingers like sand.

No mistakes, or mutilations. No parts missing, no bruises, nothing has gone wrong. She’s here and whole and alive.

Bill just. Brought her back with a snap. Like it was easy.

“So… where are we?” Mabel asks. Her waving hand gets too close to Dipper’s face, and he leans back. “How’d we even get here? Where is-”

Whatever she was going to say next gets cut off as Dipper hugs her so, so tight.

“Oh! Uh, hey, nice to see you too!” Mabel says, with greater confusion but a return of the hug. She pats him twice on the back. Then again when he clings tighter, making a surprised sound.

It’s sentimental, he knows. But he made a promise: If he ever did see her again, she’d get one not-awkward sibling hug. The pins on her sweater catch on his shirt, and he’s pretty sure residual glitter is getting on him and he’ll never complain about either of those, ever again.

Mabel coughs, once. Then, with a gentle push, she holds him at arm’s length, patting his shoulders. The smile has changed to a look of concern. “Not that I don’t like hugs - But bro, I saw you like, yesterday. What’s up?”

Yesterday. Yeah, he did see her the day before. Left like everything was fine, not knowing or even thinking she was in danger. But she’s here and fine, now. After all this time. Thank god Bill could -

Dipper jerks his head up as he remembers where he is, and who’s here with them.

“You alright?” Mabel asks. The expression on his face must not be great, because she trails off. Concern turns to worry. “Jeez, you look-”

“Great, right? Almost as handsome as me!”

Mabel jolts in place, whipping around towards the new voice.

Dipper sighs, and runs a hand down his face. Oh boy. This is going to be… a thing, isn’t it.

Bill, fists braced on his sides, wiggles his upper eyelid. He lifts a third arm to wave at Mabel. “Heya!”

The startled yell Mabel lets out makes Dipper’s ears hurt. Good thing he’s still got a hold of her; that’s the second fall he’s prevented today.

“Bill? Not cool.” Dipper glares at this asshole for the billionth time today. He’s ninety percent sure that interruption was timed to freak her out.

“Nah, I’m always cool.” Undeterred, Bill floats closer, spreading his arms wide. “Nice to meet ya more officially, Shooting Star! How was your nap? Voidlike and existential, I’m betting.”

Mabel laughs nervously, backing up a step. Then another. “Um. Maybe? Ha ha, that’s very-” Seizing Dipper by the shirt, she tugs him close to hiss in his ear. “What is going on.”

“It’s fine.” Dipper says. Then adds, because Mabel’s gone stiff as a statue again, “Mostly fine.”

His instincts say it is, at least. Bill’s not interested in torture or ‘games’ so much as his… matrimonial target. For better or for worse, Mabel’s going to be fine.

Glittery painted nails dig into his arm. The look Mabel gives him could be generously described as ‘skeptical’, but lands closer to ‘have you lost your freakin’ mind’’. Dipper turns away, clearing his throat.

How to explain? There’s a lot she doesn’t know. Hell, there’s a lot Dipper still doesn’t know, he’s floundering only half as much as she is. Where the hell does he start?

“He’s right, you know.” Bill chimes in, wagging a finger. “I’m not gonna hurt ya when you could be useful. You can help with the wedding decorations!”

“Wait, wait.” Mabel tilts out of Dipper’s shadow, suddenly curious. “Wedding?”

Dipper groans, stepping between his sister and the clearly evil demon. Of course that would get her attention. Why did Bill have to get her attention?

“Yep! And as one of the stars of the show, I gotta make this the biggest bash of the century.” says Bill, primping his tie with pride. “No holds barred, no one leaves sober, and more than the average amount of survivors!”

“You’re getting married?”

Dipper lets out an ‘oof’ as his sister barges right past him. Mabel skips right up to the evil, demonic mastermind, clapping her hands in excitement, and he feels his shoulders slump. Welp. He can at least say he tried.

“Oh my gosh, congrats!” Mabel almost reaches a hand out - then remembers what a bad idea that is, and wrings hers together instead. “That’s so exciting!”

“Thanks, Shooting Star!” Bill accepts her congratulations with a bow, doffing his hat with a flourish. His eye-smile is surprisingly sincere. “I’m pretty hyped up myself! It’s been a long time coming!”

Mabel starts giggling. Bill starts cackling. Dipper, for his part, wishes they weren’t getting along at all.

Thank hell it won’t last long. Mabel’s pretty goddamn thrilled about a maniac’s marriage scheme for the moment, but she was enstatued less than five minutes ago. Once she comes to her senses, she’ll realize -

…She hasn’t realized, has she. What happened to her.

All Mabel knows is she was minding her own business one moment, then popped back up in this garden the next. A full year passed by without her noticing. Being zapped into a lawn ornament doesn’t bother her because she doesn’t remember.

Which means Bill was, unfortunately, telling the truth. Eternal, dreamless sleep. The statues aren’t posed like that because they’re in pain. He just scared the shit out of them first.

“-have the best outfits, the best drinks, the best everything!” Bill says, catching his attention again. Dipper grimaces, watching as Bill waves off whatever Mabel just said, hovering right next to her without a care; it’s like he never zapped her into a lawn ornament. “See, we missed the chance to throw a real ceremony ages ago. It’s about time we made up for it!”

“Awww,” Mabel breathes, eyes wide. Her hands are clasped together under her chin. “That’s so romantic!”

“Hey! Nothing about this is- that. No.” Dipper points at his sister, then at Bill. “Both of you cut that out.”

“So,” Mabel says, traitorously ignoring him. She nudges Bill’s side with one soft sleeve, winking like she has something in her eye. “Who’s the lucky gal? Or, um… demon?” A pause, biting her lip as she thinks. “Extradimensional entity?”

Uh oh.

Dipper backs up a step. Then another.

Checking the perimeter revels… no escape routes. Damn it. The clearing’s too wide to have someplace to hide, and darting behind the golden statue would take him right through his twin and his tormentor.

“He’s human, actually! A real feisty cutey! In fact,” Bill says, bright. His pupil widens slightly as he turns towards Dipper, odd glimmers flickering somewhere in the depths. “I think you know the guy!”

Dipper shakes his head, backing up. As both of them focus on his face, he feels himself slowly turn red.

Mabel’s mouth forms a perfect ‘o’ of surprise, eyes going just as wide as Bill’s. Darting looks between him and the demon, hands reaching up to flutter at her mouth. Bill gives her a thumbs up, lower eyelid rising, and she gapes even harder.

No, wait. This is all a misunderstanding. A mistake. A maniac’s delusion, powered by boredom and driven by madness.

But it’s really hard to explain that. Mabel doesn’t know the context, and Bill isn’t going to be easily convinced he fucked up. If he can be convinced at all.

“So here we are! The happy couple!” Bill darts over, taking Dipper’s hand in his. The resulting struggle to escape flaps his arm in a wiggly wave. “I’m thinking a summer wedding. Y’know, wildfire season! We can-”

“Nope.” Dipper says, popping the sound at the end. Getting his hand back is a lost cause, but he can fold his arms over his chest anyway; Bill’s arm extends like a bungee cord. “Not happening.”

“Hey! One sister, one ring on your finger.” Bill reels on him, glaring now. He jabs a finger at Dipper’s chest. “Fair’s fair, a deal’s a deal, and this was more fair than ninety-nine percent of ‘em.”

“What deal?” Dipper turns his most skeptical look on his so-called suitor. Nice try, Bill - but he knows the rules. “We didn’t shake on it.”

“I- Hm.” Pausing in the middle of raising a finger, Bill lets his arm drop. The scowl of his eye is remarkably petulant. “Fine. Ya got me on a technicality. Pedant.”

Now it’s Dipper’s turn to be smug. Bill didn’t think he knew about demon deals, did he? They aren’t complete without signing the dotted line - or in Bill’s case, palm-to-palm contact.

For a supposedly clever entity of terror, fooling him was easy. If getting things his own way all the time has left him unable to anticipate tricks… Dipper can use that.

“So…” Mabel speaks up. They both turn towards the interruption, and she points between the two of them. “Are you two…?” “No,” Dipper says, at the same time as Bill’s, “Absolutely!”

Two eyes meet one, equally conveying ‘I can’t believe you said that, asshole’.

“Seriously? Still?” Bill asks, with surprisingly genuine confusion underneath the annoyance. It’s a decent lie; he even squints. “You got the sibling back. Problem solved! We can-”

“I said I had a list,” Dipper interrupts, stepping forward. It doesn’t intimidate like he wanted, though. The bastard almost looks pleased. “You know, the atrocities? The conquering? The…” He pauses, frowning. “Cut that out.”

Bill stops flapping his hand in time with Dipper’s speech, making a ‘pfft’ sound. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, heard it all before. You gotta get more specific, sapling! Communication’s a big deal in relationships!”

“Oh for- Look at this!” Dipper gestures vaguely. He doesn’t need to be specific. Waving his arm in any direction covers at least a hundred statues. “How many people did you turn into lawn ornaments?”

“Couple thousand, give or take a few.” Bill replies, as nonchalant as if he was stating his shoe size. “What about it?”

Instead of shouting again, Dipper takes a second. He breathes in slowly, then out again. He’s gotta focus here. Stay calm, and clear.

Okay. Demons. Demon rules, demon logic, and one demonic mastermind who has a totally different set of morals, in that there’s none. There’s ways to get through that, even if he has to use a verbal sledgehammer.

He rubs at the bridge of his nose, hoping the direct route will work. “Bill. That’s bad.”

“That’s a collection,” Bill objects, because of course he does. He shuts his eye, huffing haughitly. “Just ‘cause you have bad taste doesn’t mean it’s not art.” “It’s not art! It’s wrong and bad and -” Words fail him. Tact goes out the window. Dipper flips this bastard off, getting right in his face. “I’m not marrying someone who keeps human lives in his sculpture park.”

“What?!” Bill’s eye goes wide. He blinks rapidly, then shakes himself, glaring right back. “You can’t be serious.”

“Dead serious,” Dipper states, hoping the reminder of a certain expired human hits home - and it does, because while Bill doesn’t flinch, there’s a brief twitch that’s similar. He follows up on the blow, adding, “We’re not getting together. Ever.”

Oh. And that is absolutely a flinch, as Bill jerks back a half-inch in the air. His fingers flex as if wanting to grab again, before his arms fall and dangle off his lower edge.

Guess he didn’t like that. Good.

Dipper savors the sight, squaring his shoulders in defiance. Take that, asshole.

Before he might have kept playing along, if only to find a way out. But Bill screwed up. Mabel’s back, Dipper has what he wanted, and now it’s gloves off. Bill’s ‘reincarnation’ insanity will need multiple whacks before it starts to crack, so he better start now.

This monster wants another human toy. The old one broke too early for his taste, ruining his fun - so he thought he’d replace it with another.

But the last guy cooperated. Fawning over his bloody surface, smiling at his crimes. A human on easy mode, basically.

If Bill wants to pretend his ‘husband’ is back? Fine. Let him try.

His delusion doesn’t stand a chance against Dipper.

Bill mutters to himself, eye narrowed. He glances around the grounds, then at Dipper. Briefly at the golden statue, then at Dipper again. A long pause as his gaze drifts between his captive and the courtyard, thinking his triangular thoughts.

It takes a while, too. Whatever he’s going over, it’s giving him a lot of trouble. His pupil flickers through several symbols before it snaps back to normal, and he snaps his fingers with an idea.

“Okay. I see how it is,” Bill says eventually. “Say that, maybe, a few more humans could go ambling about in their miserable, short, fleshy lifespans. Would that make you less-”

“You know what it’ll take.” Dipper snaps, glaring right back. “All of them, Bill.”

A moment later his brain catches up to what came out of his mouth. He thinks the internal screaming doesn’t show, but it’s a close thing.

Why did he say that? It’s amazing Bill suggested freeing any people - something he’s never, ever done - and the moment that singular miracle happened, Dipper botched the followup.

Stupid move. Even with leverage, he’s asking for way too much, way too fast. He’s arguing with a demon who never offers any favors, doesn’t care about morals, and he hasn’t even been nice to him. There’s no way that -

“Cripes, sapling. You don’t do half-measures, do ya?” Bill complains, sinking a few inches in the air. Even his limbs seem to droop under his bottom edge. “Do you know how long it took to collect this many? To get ‘em posed just right? I’ve curated the best horrified expressions, and it took like, over twenty years! That’s so much work!”

Dipper watches Bill sink midair, and says nothing. Hears the whine in his voice, like a kid complaining about not getting his favorite toy, and hums to himself. He taps his fingers on his bicep, mouth creasing into a line.

“All of them.” Dipper repeats, more firmly. Now that he’s seen a crack in the armor, he digs in the crowbar. “Every single person walks out of here alive and safe, or you’re out of luck.”

Far too much to ask for, infinitely too much to demand, and he’s doing it anyway. It’s only the third dumbest thing he’s done today, and something tells him there’s a chance.

“Those are my terms.” Dipper tries to stand firm, in a manly, confident way. It takes more adjusting than he’d like, but he thinks it looks decently cool. “Take it or leave it.”

“Ughhhh.” Bill groans, running his hands down his surface. His eye rolls so far back it comes around again, pupil narrowed to a single line. “You’re outta your mind, sapling.”

Which isn’t a no. Dipper perks up, leaning towards this asshole. With the right tactics - a nudge, a shove, or a slap in demon terms - his chance might hold.

“You already said you were bored with them, Bill.” He adds, tapping his foot on the ground. He swears Bill darts a glance at the field, very briefly. Yes, this is working - “And it’s tacky as hell.”

“Pfft, what do you know,” Bill turns away sulkily, arms crossed. “I’m not taking ‘tacky’ opinions from Mr. ‘Flannel’s my favorite’, here.”

Dipper grits his teeth against the impulse to respond. He can’t take the bait when he’s almost there. The right angle might give him just enough leverage -

Wait, didn’t Bill say his husband was insane? He probably wasn’t lying about that. Anyone who married a demon would need to know their crazy version of logic. That’s the key, isn’t it? Human reasons and basic morality would never work on Bill - but Dipper knows how these things think.

“Fine. Whatever you say, Bill.” With a casual shrug, he turns away. Not looking back at Bill’s sudden, strange look of apprehension takes effort, but he gazes over the statue field instead. “You can use the courtyard for shelving, I guess. I just think it’d be better for, y’know.” He waggles a hand, as if uncertain or disinterested. “A ceremony of some kind.”

A long, low complaining groan echoes through the clearing. Dipper hears a few curses, a few thuds that sound like a stomping foot, but doesn’t look over. Even though it’d be so, so good to see Bill frustrated, he can’t act like he cares.

“You’re the worst. The absolute worst,” Bill says, after his overly long groan stops. “You got way more annoying after dying! What’d they teach you in the afterlife?��

Dipper finally turns, raising an eyebrow. Bill flips him off. When Dipper still says nothing, he huffs and he puffs and fiddles with his tie, adjusting his hat - then apparently comes to a decision.

“Fine. Fine!” Bill says, throwing his arms in the air. “But you’re not dodging a bargain twice. So if I pull this favor - you gotta quit giving me such a cold shoulder. Deal?”

Dipper blinks rapidly. What, the perfectly warranted, reasonable distance he’s keeping? The one any sane person would maintain between themselves and the literal Nightmare King? What does ‘cold shoulder’ entail, and how comparatively ‘warm’ is he supposed to be, it’s way too vague.

He raises a hand, about to argue - Then hesitates.

Rationally speaking, it’s… not the worst bargain in the world. Maybe. If he doesn’t have to kill or mutilate, but just not insult the guy, then…

But this offer can’t be real.

While his instincts tell him Bill’s kind of sincere, that he’ll put in a little effort to get what he wants -There’s thousands of people. Reversing that many will take way too long, and far too much power. Once Bill’s tired and bored he’ll wander back over with excuses, maybe a dozen freed at best.

…And that’s a dozen that can be saved.

The garden is filled with people who’d been written off as lost causes. They’ve had funerals, been mourned and commemorized, tears have been shed over their ‘deaths’.

But Bill could bring some of them back. A dozen families would see their loved ones again. A dozen people could live their lives. An amazing rescue against absurd odds, because Dipper managed to convince the most insane being on the planet it was a half-decent idea.

Plus, if Bill actually goes along with getting them out of demon territory - that’s at least a week where he’ll be away. Time where, say, a very clever guy could evade demonic attention, grab his sister, and make a surreptitious exit.

Tons of opportunity. A rescue. All for a little bit of semantics-based risk.

When he looks over, Bill’s still staring, eerily silent as he waits for a reply. The way he focuses on Dipper so completely, unwavering, is really kinda creepy.

Dipper clears his throat, and picks his words carefully.

Lying here won’t work. Bill’s an expert, he’ll spot it in an instant, so. Honesty, then.

“There would… be a chance of me starting to think about not immediately rejecting you.”

Technically true: the best kind of true. Dipper can consider thinking about a lot of things. Like if Bill revived literally everyone, and if he wasn’t taking over the world, and if he wasn’t a platonic shape without a single ounce of softness in his nonexistent heart. Hypotheticals are fun.

“Good enough for me!” Bill beams. He darts forward, slapping Dipper’s still-upraised palm in a high five. “Hang back and watch the show!”

Bill drifts back, humming a little tune to himself, and snaps his fingers. There’s a flash of white light.

Then the screaming starts.

Dipper has to cover his ears over the chorus as thousands of voices cry out at once. Voices filled with terror, horrified screeching, a few high-pitched wails and sobs piercing through the cacophony. Beside him, Mabel grimaces, shutting her eyes and covering her own ears.

Over the next minute, the noise dims to a murmur. Dipper dares to check the field - hopefully everyone’s alive-

And sees a courtyard filled with color.

Everywhere he looks, there’s motion. Several fleeing people bump into each other in attempts to run from a foe that isn’t there anymore; Dipper can see one man helping another up. Another throws panicky punches in any direction before a tall woman grabs him by the back of the shirt. Some grab their nearest neighbor and start asking questions, while others mill around aimlessly.

Dipper can’t see why they stopped panicking, considering where they are. Shouldn’t they -

No, wait. It’s the same as Mabel. Bill freezes people in time when he turns them into statues, catching them mid-scream. Now that they’ve finally completed their terror, there’s surprisingly little threat around. They don’t know what happened.They’ve gone from ‘demonic invasion’ to ‘peaceful garden’ in a relative instant, which is far less terrifying.

But they sure as hell seem confused.

“There,” Bill says, with satisfaction. “Happy now?”

The question catches Dipper off guard. In all the hubbub, he’d almost forgotten who did this.

“I, uh,” He says, mouth dry. “I thought that would take you longer.”

“Why?”

Because everyone knows Bill Cipher only zaps a couple of people into stone at a time. Because transmuting flesh like that takes an incredible amount of power. Because the rational conclusion from those two facts was that it drained him too much to continue, leaving the rest of the town unscathed.

The evidence in front of Dipper tells a very, very different story.

When Bill doesn’t get a response, he shrugs. “Whatever, kid! Your cerebral cortex is running a bit slow, but I’m sure you’ll stop being dumb sooner or later!”

“Hey!” Dipper jerks back to attention, glaring at this asshole. Then, because he should say something, adds, “You’re dumb.” “Eh, save the sweet talk for later,” Bill says, a little grumpily. “Someone got pissy about ‘morals’ in the first twenty four hours of re-meeting, and now I got a courtyard to clean up.”

Lacing his fingers together, he pushes his arms out as if to crack his nonexistent knuckles. He adjusts his hat, sighs in a long, tired way, then drops with a thump to stand directly on the ground.

Huh. Dipper didn’t notice before, what with the floating at eye level - but for a demon, Bill’s remarkably small. His top point reaches mid-thigh at best, with the rest of his height being hat.

Bill grumbles something, snapping his fingers again. A broom pops out of nowhere and he snags it, stomping down the hillside with desultory tread. As he stalks down the slope, he leaves a trail of muttered complaints behind him.

Okay. This is weird, which means it’s basically normal for Bill. But what the hell is a broom going to accomplish? Has he run out of magic? What is he planning to do without any left? Is he just going to prod people with the handle?

Dipper glances towards Mabel, hoping she might have some idea of what’s going on.

Mabel just shrugs, sweater bunching up against her neck. Yeah. He didn’t think she had any answers. But it’s nice to know he’s not the only one.

Still, Bill slinking off is a sight Dipper doesn’t mind, confusing or not. He certainly can’t complain about the results.

Two thousand people and change, transformed into stone and back again. The crowd almost looks like they’re gathered for a concert, instead of former captives of a demon lord. The low murmur of a large crowd talking burbles through the air.

So much for Bill’s sculpture garden. It was probably an impressive collection.

“Everyone’s back, huh,” Mabel says, both surprised and a little alarmed. Patting herself over like she’s checking for shale deposits; she must have realized her own former stony status. “I didn’t know Bill could do that!”

“Yeah.” Dipper agrees. He wipes sweating palms on his jeans. “I didn’t either.”

What Mabel hasn’t realized is how absolutely, insanely impossible this should have been. How pulling this off would have required immense power, and remarkable precision with delicate magic. The energy required alone was…

Dipper runs a rough calculation, guesstimating some figures, and the numbers come up with an alarming amount of digits.

At what point does ‘magic’ change into straight-up ‘messing with the fabric of reality’? Because Bill’s dipping his nonexistent toes into that water and kicking up some friendly splashes.

But then. If he was working on that level, why did he not change entire cities into -

No, wait. Bill answered that already. It was a collection, he only wanted the best. Why would he mass produce figurines of human torment? It’d totally ruin their rarity.

So it’s not about lack of power. Not about having limits. Just the whim of a madman with fucked-up hobbies, trying to preserve resale value.

Bill refrains from mass destruction because he doesn’t care to, not because he couldn’t.

The implications have only started creeping in when a massive ‘thud’ sounds from the courtyard. A vibration strong enough that Dipper can feel it through his shoes, shaking the ground, then repeating in a slow beat.

Also, the screaming starts again.

Dipper whips around, expecting Bill to be, well. Probably smacking people with his broom like an idiot rather than doing anything productive, and he’s ready to yell at him for being an idiot. Halfway through calling out he stops, open-mouthed.

Bill’s messing with his captives, alright. Wielding the broom, to boot. He’s just also thirty feet tall.

Within less than a minute he’s grown tremendously in size - shapeshifting, right, Dipper forgot that was one of his things - and now he stomps around the courtyard, sweeping fleeing humans into strange, glasslike bubbles forming on the lawn. While still muttering under his breath, unintelligible but grumpy.

“Oh shit,” Mabel says, in an unusual understatement. She looks towards the closest demon-expert, poking him in the side. “Is that, uh. Normal?”

Dipper simply shrugs. No expert on Bill thought he was capable of this.

Everyone knows Bill Cipher is an incredibly powerful demon. Even if his powerset was mostly unknown, it explained his ironclad rule over horrible demonic forces.

Everyone also knew that while he was the cause of the invasion, he wasn’t the main threat. Compared to roving bands of demons, he was downright convenient.

Bill rarely leaves his Fearamid. Every month or so he pops out to mess with a few border cities, but that’s about it. He prefers to stew in his fortress like a huge, toothy beast mired in its bog. Sure, it’s deadly. You wouldn’t want to get anywhere near those massive jaws. But as long as you stay out of its range, it can’t snap a limb off.

Now. With the amount of magic Bill’s throwing around - like it’s easy. Like it’s nothing -

Dipper feels like he’s watching an ancient, terrifying monster emerge from hibernation. Getting to its feet, shaking off the muck, and, horrifyingly, starting to sprint.

He rubs at his eyes. Okay, time to reevaluate. Bill’s a bigger threat than was thought, not the first time they’ve had to rerun an assessment. Finding the boundaries of his powers and the limit to his energy is just a matter of time and careful study.

As he and Mabel watch, bubbles filled with floating humans rise into the air.. Iridescent and massive, they swirl in an intertwining ballet. The sight would almost be pretty, if it weren't for all the screaming. And the gigantic triangle crouching in the courtyard, trying to fish the last few mortals out of a nearby crevice.

Several bubbles, already filled with terrified humans swimming in midair, float up even higher. Some get as high as the peak of the fearamid, while others level off slightly below. They turn in place, as if setting their direction before zipping off into the distance and across the horizon faster than Dipper can track.

All the equations Dipper had running grind to a halt, gears falling out and springs bouncing until they collapse, smoking, in a pile.

Fuck it.

“I,” Dipper declares, raising a finger in the air. “Have no idea what’s going on.”

With that said, he drops down to the grass. It’s soft enough to make a reasonably comfy seat as he rests his chin in his hands. His sister plops down to join him, patting his shoulder.

No use trying to figure out how Bill’s doing this. Trying to calculate this comes up with really upsetting numbers, and all he’s getting from it is anxiety.

Might as well let this asshole finish his ‘chore’. Explanations can be demanded after.

“Aha! Gotcha!” Bill jerks up with a handful of humans, waving them about in a none-too-gentle shake. “Finally. This is taking forever.”

Dipper rolls his eyes. If anything that was way too fast. Already the courtyard’s empty, Bill stuffing his last squirming fistful into yet another sphere of light.

He wonders what those orbs are. They’re probably not the most comfortable way to travel, but at least they’re getting people out of demon territory - and Bill’s fulfilling his part of the bargain. Hopefully they’re being flung somewhere reasonably habitable, and everyone arrives in one piece. Since Bill didn’t dismantle them beforehand, it’s even likely.

So really, when you think about it. This is a win. Everything that happened today was a victory over the forces of evil.

A giant, hyper-powerful triangle released all his captives, returning them to civilization. And not because he wanted to, oh no. Not because of a complicated political treaty, or a greater evil plan. Definitely not because it was the right thing to do.

Because he got yelled at.

“How did that work?” Dipper has to ask, even when the question doesn’t have an answer. “That shouldn’t have worked.”

Bill Cipher doesn’t like humans. He barely tolerates the demons around him, he’s selfish and crass and evil. One little semi-bargian with an angry nerd is too small and pitiful to even laugh at. And yet here they are.

A tap on his shoulder. “Um. Maybe you should…” Mabel looks alarmed. She tilts her head to gesture behind him. “Dipper, look.”

When she was still trapped in stone, Dipper hadn’t paid much attention to her surroundings. He was vaguely aware that there was a bigger, metal thing behind her, but it didn’t seem like a big deal.

It was, in fact, a big deal. Huge, in fact.

Behind where she was posed, there’s a massive golden statue of a man lying supine, arm artfully draped over the side of the plinth. Its polished chest gleams in the light, the rest covered in a sweep of sculpted cloth. And the face...

Shoulders slumping, Dipper feels his heart sink. Not more stupid dead husband stuff. Not here too. And why is it so -

Then he catches sight of the words engraved on its plinth, and grimaces.

It reads:

DIPPER CIPHER THE ONLY WORTHWHILE HUMAN

Dipper stares at his palm. It still tingles a little from the impromptu high-five.

Realizing, with an odd lightheadedness, that he might be in a little bit of tremendous trouble.

His sister smiles awkwardly, lifting her arms in a shrug. “I think he’s a little obsessed with you.”

#Widower AU #writing is hard #Ugh and of course I have to do another chapter after this #Which admittedly will have some fun scenes #But the work truly never stops; the blessing of creating is making stuff and the curse is also making stuff #Thankfully I have a whole outline for this thing!

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mc-tums-fog · 18 days ago

Text

Stable, Typical Act I

Chapter Summary: Something like that with Hans Gruber was never going to happen.

Pairing: Hans Gruber x GN! Reader

Content Warnings: Really just mild descriptions of blood and wounds but if you need it also there's angst with little comfort I'm not sorry.

Notes:

I promise I'm working on the other fic but I'm currently rotating Hans Gruber in my brain and so I wanted to write something down.

Read on Ao3 or below the cut:

Even if you weren’t in your own bed, it normally wouldn’t take you long before you fall asleep. But considering the news report of a robbery that happened downtown occurred only a few hours ago, you couldn’t help but be awake for a bit longer.

See, you had done your best to live a stable and typical life. You worked, hung out with friends and family, did your due diligence to be an ordinary citizen. However, truly living a stable, typical life would be near impossible when you had begun dating a man named Hans Gruber.

This was not to say that the two of you were starting to get on the rocks, no, at least not in the way that could be expected. There was passion, intimacy, care, pure infatuation with one another; the time spent, how little there was as he was always away on business, could not have been more perfect.

Therein lies the problem though. What would make your life and relationship unstable or atypical. His business. His line of profession, as some could lightly call it, was being a criminal.

It should be obvious to note that this was something you weren’t made aware of when the two of you began dating. Even when things progressed, and boy did they progress, you still had been kept in the dark. You could come up with several reasons why he hadn’t told you. Maybe he liked the idea of keeping it a facade going that he was a perfect law-abiding citizen with you. Maybe he just wanted to keep his work life separated from his personal life.

Whatever the case may be, you weren’t stupid.

It was some time, a long enough time at the very least, within the relationship that you’d begin to pick up the patterns. The lavish lifestyle, the expensive gifts, the long periods of time where he was gone. You’d begun to think he was secretly married. In many ways, that kind of double life would’ve been much more manageable to address, preferable, and in some ways rational. It’s a common occurrence that could’ve happened to anybody.

Once Hans started to return some nights looking a little more ragged and worse for wear than his usual, kept up appearance, combined with the coincidence of a news report playing about a recent robbery that occurred in your area earlier that day, or hearing from the grapevine of a major robbery occurring in another country that matched up with his long periods of absences, you got suspicious. Especially when some of the gifts that he brought back from said trips were just a tad bit too close to matching the descriptions of the stolen products from those robberies.

You had done your best to ignore these patterns. After all, some of them would occur with enough time in between each event that maybe it really could’ve been written off as a coincidence. Just bad timing is all. But once you had begun noting that some of the robberies would end in gunfire and casualties, it gave you a cause for concern.

This recent robbery was one of those times. Masked, unidentifiable men robbed one of those high-end jewelry stores, holding the employees and whatever straggler patrons were there as quick hostages. Police were quick to arrive on scene as the civilians managed to get out. Shots were fired, as well as a reported high speed car chase, which there had been footage of. The cops managed to get a few good hits in with their bullets- risk of civilian casualties on the police’s end be damned you guessed- as well as ramming the vehicles a few times. But the cars were unrecognizable, with the plates covered, and they managed to evade the cops through the major traffic.

Throughout the whole live reporting of it, you had been on edge. You’d come to stay over at his place, with him explaining a few weeks prior that he would be able to have a “long needed break from work”, so you wanted to be there the first chance that you got. Already having a key to his place, it wasn’t hard to get in and lounge about with the TV on. But as the news report ended, you wondered how much of a good idea it was that you were there. With how your suspicions kept piling up, it was hard to kid yourself at this point.

Still, in your attempts to feign ignorance, you’d figure you just try to fall asleep before he got back home, playing it off that you had gotten tired from your own work and waiting that you couldn’t stay awake. You wouldn’t have to face the direct aftermath of what happened the night prior. Living your life with him in that false narrative, assuming he was always at the wrong place at the wrong time, felt easier.

You finally felt yourself begin to get into the stages of falling asleep, your eyes fluttering a bit and your breathing slowing down. But before you could finally say goodnight to today, your ears caught the distinct sounds of Hans’s front door being opened and closed. Normally, whenever you were sleeping and he’d come back, he’d take much greater care of being quieter for you. He was a graceful gentleman like that. This, however, was different. It sounded rushed with how quickly the door nearly slammed shut. It was then followed by a pair of quick footsteps, which while they weren’t coming to the bedroom, were walking around the house, opening another door.

You were more awake now, slightly sitting up, straining to listen for any more noise. Since it was quiet, with no white noise in the background, you could hear the muffled and hushed voice of a man cursing in what you recognized to be German.

You breathed a sigh of relief, instantly recognizing the voice to be Hans. But the relief was short lived as suddenly the question of why he sounded more erratic and unusual in his movements entered your mind. You didn’t know if you wanted to check just yet. You laid back down for a moment and waited. Normally, when he came back late at night and you were asleep, or at the very least resting in his bed, it would take less than five minutes for him to come into the room, get dressed into more comfortable attire and climb into bed with you, careful to not stir you awake but would whisper sweet nothings as he held you and joined you in sleeping. It wasn’t like he was always strict in keeping to this schedule, but it happened at a regular occurrence, especially after longer trips, so you expected him to do the same thing tonight.

Five minutes, or what you could assume to be five minutes, had passed and yet, still no Hans. The footsteps had stopped not long after you heard them, no other noise coming from outside of the bedroom. Now, your concern was greater. But you still weren’t sure if you wanted to satisfy your curiosity about what was going on. You just wanted to go try to get yourself back to bed and pretend that you had been asleep the entire time. That you had been just dreaming for the last few minutes. You’d wake up, greet Hans in the morning, and spend the rest of the weekend together.

A major part of you would love to keep living in a state of ignorance.

But a tiny part of you knew that it couldn’t be that way, not after tonight. You weren’t stupid.

You took a deep breath and sat up. Trying to prepare yourself to step outside. Which… you didn’t even know how to.

How would anyone even prepare themselves for a situation like this? “Hey, I’m so glad you’re back! Have you been committing armed robberies?” What a way with words. And even then, what would his reaction be to the accusation? Would he try to keep the charade going, lying to your face? Would he try to weave complicated explanations on how you misunderstood the whole situation? Or would it get dangerous? Would he decide that he didn’t want to risk his secret getting out, so he’d snuff you right then and there?

The thought of an extreme and violent scenario going down made you more awake, your heart racing. Even if you’d like to believe that you could take him in a fight, being that there were no weapons on him- which that likelihood was low-you were still greatly terrified of that outcome. You hadn’t considered it could possibly get violent. Or maybe you never wanted to. Even though the armed robberies had ended in casualties sometimes, you tried to think that maybe he would never- could never- hurt you. But you really couldn’t count on that now. If he truly was part of those violent crimes, neglecting that detail once confronting him could cost you your life.

And even if there would be no violence today, even if he admitted to the true nature of his job… What would you do?

You’ve put off even the idea of confronting him so much that you didn’t consider what your initial reaction could be. When your suspicions began you were scared and worried. And the idea of him keeping it a secret, it angered you of course. But which emotion would take over more? And more importantly…

What would this do to your relationship?

Maybe that shouldn’t be important to you, all things considered. It should be easy for you; If he had been committing acts of robbery and was a criminal and told you so, then you should leave. Get the hell out of dodge before anything bad happens to you. End what you had with him. You shouldn’t have to think twice about it.

And yet you did. Even before tonight. You staying with him even despite your suspicions confirmed all that much on how, deep down inside, you thought twice about it. Often.

It made you grimace, being selfish in a way. Here was a likely- no- dangerous man, surely to be wanted in several different countries for breaking several different kinds of laws. And here you were, worried about breaking both his heart and your own. It was even more pathetic to you that you were worried about hurting him. He had been basically hurting you with his lies and deceit at this point, what should it matter now?

But that was the problem. It did matter to you. It mattered that you didn’t want to hurt him for the same reason as to why you didn’t just break it off with him when you had stronger confirmations of his criminal activity.

You were in love with him.

You let out a shaky breath and finally got up from the bed. Whatever happened tonight, however you chose to handle the situation, or how he reacted to this confrontation, would be life altering. You only hoped it wouldn’t be life ending.

Quietly making your way to the door, you lightly pressed your ear against it to see if you could make out anything else. You could ever so faintly hear the movements of him, nothing concrete to make out what he was doing. He really seemed like he was doing his best to keep quiet now.

Turning the doorknob and opening it slowly to make sure it didn’t creak; you could now hear him just a bit better. He seemed to be taking sharp inhales, with mutterings of German that you could vaguely understand to be swears. You did your best to pump up your adrenaline and mentality to be prepared for anything, as this wasn’t typical behavior for him. At least the behavior he was willing to show you.

Making your way through the hall as quietly as you could, and peeking around the corner to where the noises had been coming from, a small light had been turned on over the dining room, where you could see Hans with his head hunched over as he looked at his left arm, using tweezers to pluck what had seemed to be shards of glass.

Numbly, your first thought was figuring that it must’ve been from when the cops had either been shooting at them from the store or when they kept smashing into the vehicles. But you snapped out of it, immediately taking in that his white dress shirt had more spatters of blood, with one being particularly huge and deep with a crimson stain on his right shoulder. The idea of him being shot worried you for a moment.

You had seen his body and seen the scars that had covered it. Early in the relationship you decided not to ask about it, thinking that it would’ve been a difficult subject to bring up. As it progressed further with your suspicions growing, you started to question their sources in your mind. And now, it seemed you had confirmation as to where they came from.

Your worry suddenly switched to an intense fear, as you must’ve let out a noise upon seeing his wound from where you were standing. As Hans suddenly looked up from what he was doing, right to your direction, and noticed you right away.

Neither of you said anything, as you kept eye contact with each other. The deafening silence overtaking the air between you two. You really didn’t know what to say, or what to do. And it seemed like, maybe for once in Hans’s life, he hadn’t had the words or actions either. You could tell his brain was moving a mile a minute, however. Perhaps coming up with what to say. Or he was waiting for you to make the move first, and to react appropriately. Whatever appropriate meant at this time.

And you really didn’t know what was appropriate. Sure, maybe laying into him would be something reasonable. Or quickly making your escape, hoping you’d be faster than him in his current state. But as you looked at him, him being slightly pale, sweating, covered in blood and serious wounds, your heart kept tugging at what you really wanted to do at that moment.

And so, you did.

Rounding the corner, in careful movements as if you were approaching a cornered, wounded animal, you walked over to where he sat. His eyes never left you as you approached him. Seeing a bloody rag on the table, you picked it up and decided to rinse it out as best as you could with cold water in the sink nearby. The soaked-up blood leaving the rag, onto your hands, traveling down the sink.

“Liebchen-”

“Don’t -” You cut him off, shutting your eyes for a moment as you gathered yourself. “Don’t say anything. If you do, common sense might come back to me and I’ll walk out of here.”

And with that, he didn’t say anything else. You wrung out the rag and walked back over to where he was. He still stared at you, waiting to see what you had planned to do. You looked down at his arm, with it still having a good amount of glass in it. Carefully, you pulled open the chair and sat down. Maneuvering the small lamp light, he brought over onto the table, likely not wanting too many bright lights on in the house, you got a better look at it. The marks left behind from the previous shards of glass, as well as the ones currently in him, didn’t seem to cut in too deep. Their scars would fade over time.

You picked up the tweezers and started to pluck the shards out. Out of reaction his hand moved as he grimaced. You used your free hand to hold his arm down in place, squeezing it down onto the table firmly. Seeing the blood seep out of his skin made you feel a bit nauseous, but you had to hold it in.

You tried not to think about how he had more than likely caused greater wounds than that.

It didn’t take long before the rest of the glass was out. You looked at the table, noting a first aid kid that was covered in a bit of blood, as well as a rubbing alcohol bottle. That’s probably what he had been searching for earlier, you thought to yourself. You placed the tweezers down and took it, grabbing the rag and dousing some onto it. You wiped off his arm.

Once you were done, the rag returning to its bloody form, you got back up to rinse it out once more. You could feel Hans’s eyes follow you but said nothing. Coming back to the table he was covering up his arm with bandages and wrapping it in a tight manner, like he’d done this before. He probably had.

Studying him, with the small light aiding you, you could see how unkempt he was. You hadn’t noticed sitting on one of the chairs was his suit jacket, which looked torn up from what you could see. His hair had been disheveled with even his face being bruised up a bit. You had to fight off the thoughts in your mind of you wanting to kiss them better. It didn’t matter that concern overtook you, you were still mad at him, and didn’t want him to give any more care than he deserved.

But then again, helping to clean his wounds was a clear gesture of intimacy and care. And maybe it was already more than he deserved.

Once he was done, you went to his ride side, where the bigger blood spot was at. You said nothing as you placed down the rag and began to unbutton his dress shirt.

“I’m going to clean your other arm now.” Your voice was low, and had a touch of gentleness, despite your best efforts. You helped him get his arm out of the shirt, very clearly being a struggle for him.

Once it was out, you could see how bad the wound had been. Using the light to point towards his shoulder, the light went right through the wound. You figured either the bullet had gone clean through, or he, or whoever else was with him, had enough time to get the bullet out. Whatever the case, you still stood up so you could have a better angle on it. You dragged the med kit over to you closer, reaching in for the contents that were of a sewing needle and some thread. Honestly, you had no experience when it came to fixing severe wounds like this. You were even surprised at yourself that you hadn’t even fainted at the sight of the wound. But you did have little experience in sewing up old stuffed animals when you were younger. It was better than nothing.

Taking the rag and pouring more alcohol onto it, you made work into cleaning the wound, not giving Hans a heads up. He let out more curses and banged his free arm onto the table. It caused you to flinch, which from the corner of his eye he noticed.

“I apologize-” He began.

“What did I say?” You looked at him.

For a moment you could see a flash of him having a look of hurt. Which nearly made you feel guilty at yourself, but you shook it off mentally. His face went back to that composed look he always had on, and he looked forward again. You hesitated, wanting to say something else, but went back to cleaning his wound.

After doing the best that you could, you head back to the sink to rinse off what was hopefully the last of the blood cleaning, wringing it out and coming back to him. You placed it down and grabbed the thread and needle. This time, Hans had more prep time to understand what was coming next and placed the rag into his mouth to keep him from grimacing even louder than he had before.

Sewing up a bullet wound hold was nothing like sewing up a broken stuffed bear. It was harder to poke into flesh, and stuffed bears didn’t let out grunts of pain every time you made a stitch. You instantly wanted to reassure him that the pain was temporary, to soothe him in any way you could, but you had to hold your tongue. It may have been childish, but you felt that in comparison to what he had been doing, he was getting off easy.

With the back side of his shoulder done, you adjusted him to face you more as you worked on the front, this time opting to sit down to get on better eye level. He watched you as you made haste to sew up the front. Not so much for his comfort but for yourself as you didn’t want to see the bruises that were on the front of his body, and how it seemed a bit hard for him to breathe.

You briefly wondered how he would’ve explained these fresh wounds had you not been awake at this time.

Once the last stitch was in, you reached over to place the needle back into the box and reached for some bandages and wrappings. Placing the bandages, you had one hand to hold them in place as you were going to use your free hand to begin to wrap it up. But Hans placed his hands over yours. You looked at him for a moment. His eyes conveyed that softness that you had been used to.

You had to force yourself to look away and pull your hand from under him. His hand on the bandage still stood in place. You grabbed another bandage to place on the back side of the wound. Once you started to wrap it up, he moved his hand as did you, placing more on his shoulder to help keep the wrapping in place. Once you felt that it was secure, you held it down to grab some tape on the table.

Placing it and smoothing it down, your hand was still on his shoulder, as you stared through his patched-up shoulder. Before you could stop yourself, you felt your head resting on it and closed your eyes. You could hear his breathing hitch. And carefully, he placed his hand on your head, giving gentle strokes of your hair.

“I’m not stupid.” You said in a quiet voice.

His movements stopped for a moment, but continued, and spoke in an even quieter voice than your own.

“I know you’re not.”

Nothing else was said that night.

#die hard #hans gruber #hans gruber x reader #die hard 1988 #alan rickman #mcwrites #anyway like ive said on ao3 i lowkey wanna keep this to be a one shot i like how it is #but if the masses want another chapter since i have ideas in my head then i could #it depends #but im now feeling more creative for the other fic so ill get on that #but would like to write more with hans overall maybe even something spicy too

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hellooldshame · 5 days ago

Text

White

Mark Grayson x Reader (Angst)

Synopsis: You always thought Mark looked good in darker clothes. You didn't like seeing him wearing white.

CW: Angst, gn!reader, reader referred to as "beautiful" one time, childhood friends to lovers, grief, coping with grief, non-graphic violence, major character death

Word count: 2.3k

A/N: I got carried away again writing this. You know this was supposed to just be mini scenarios or a drabble. Hope you enjoy despite the sad sad.

Mark Grayson was Invincible.

When he first got his powers it was a matter of testing his limits. Bullets, lasers, punches. Everything bounced off and nothing left a permanent scratch on that perfectly untarnished body. You were skeptical but relieved when a black eye healed overnight.

"Hormones and puberty," was the lamest excuse Mark could give. He was terrible at keeping secrets and when you're as close as you two were—12 years and an awkward introduction—it wasn't hard to put the pieces together. Heroes hid in plain sight but you never did think he was ordinary.

When the Graysons first moved next door, you were peeking into their backyard. Tool boxes, chests, and several cereal boxes propping you up to just barely get a glimpse of a father, who was much bigger than yours, and his son. When the boy turned towards your direction and your eyes met, you felt the world spin. Probably because the cereal boxes collapsed and you were falling backwards into grass and cornflakes.

The next day, the lady—you very soon learned was named Debbie—had to explain to her husband that it wasn't an attack or threat when a note was left on their front porch. Messy handwriting on a ripped out slip of a notebook, a cartoon character printed out on the corner of the paper. "Get out of my neyburhood," scrawled in marker, letters written backwards because they had to give you some slack. It was impressive for a five year old to be writing full sentences, mistakes and all.

When you jumped the gun and asked Mark out before Amber could, you wished an alien crashed its UFO into the school. You hit it off easy as friends, sure, but dating was different. It was easy to claim how worrying about ruining the friendship was dumb. "Just confess," was easier said than done now that your mouth ran faster than your inhibitions.

Alien invasions didn't happen until later that week. At the moment, you were faced with the boy you grew up with. Awkward smile pressed into a thin line on his lips. You were ready to punch him and claim it was all a joke. Hurried words stopped your clenched fist from swinging, coupled with reddening cheeks that were quickly matching yours.

The second confession came as soon as the Flaxan fiasco ended and Nolan had come home. You told Mark you knew about his powers as soon as you heard him eat shit and leave a crater in his backyard.

When his father beat him to a bloody pulp, it was envying that his teeth grew back. It would've been funny. Maybe it would've been better if he had gone a moment with missing teeth that reminisced his childhood photos. You could almost smile at the idea of cyan and yellow zip by. Too fast for hellos lest someone notices the gaps.

It was hard keeping him in high spirits at that time. Most of the healing process was him saving the world and going on missions. It was a distraction more than a solution. You did your best to be supportive but months upon months of him leaving and coming back only to be sent to space again was getting too much.

When Mark disappears into the portal one last time, you wished you got to talk to him more. Regretted that you didn't tell him how hard it was. How much it hurt that you were left behind every time. You wished you had the chance to scold him and complain about everything because at least you had the chance to be with him for longer.

Mark came back in clean clothes but was devastated. Gone for barely a few minutes but had looked like he aged by months. He never told you what happened after he killed Angstrom Levy. But whatever it was had him jumping the gun just like you did in highschool. Relief, fear, regret, and determination all swirling in those surprisingly bright eyes despite the trauma. A desperate voice with an even more desperate question.

You were both too young but had gone through too much for two eighteen year old idiots. Somehow too young with too much time lost. You said yes.

You would've preferred him in a black suit. Selfishly, you wished he was next to you instead of across. White didn't suit him. He looked good in darker clothes.

Mark Grayson was Invincible.

But your husband was not an immortal.

When the old Guardians died, Mark needed you to come with him. It was raining that day. It rained just as hard today that the scene was nearly identical. Only now, it was you next to Debbie and Eve and that bastard Nolan wasn't around to recite a eulogy bullshitting about friendship and honor.

You considered pulling an Olga. Falling to the ground and sobbing. Cursing the corpse for staying pristine. For closing the wounds that kept your husband looking young and beautiful but not enough to wake him up. You understood what she meant now, two years ago. God, it had only been two years since everything went to shit. You were barely married a year.

No, you were luckier than Olga. You got to see him in the casket. Him and all his unblemished glory. It wasn't right that your brain played tricks and made you think the body was breathing. As if to give you hope that this was some morbid, tone deaf prank. That any second now he'd open the closed casket and tell you it was all a joke.

Debbie's devastated cries practically chastised you to keep calm. She had been so levelheaded during the first funeral. Then again, she didn't have to shed tears when her husband and son were alive and well. Now she had neither and a one year old tween to care for. You weren't going to take away her only moment to breakdown and grieve. Because Debbie was too strong and kind. If you started crying she could very well wipe her tears and comfort you.

You held her close, both to comfort and hold her up lest she fall and get her clothes all muddy. It was Eve's turn to speak as you held Oliver's hand. The Graysons lost too much in such a short span of time. Lose one gain another. Add one and end up subtracting a member. You should've known the family was cursed to fit only three.

Slowly the box was lowered and you hoped Oliver didn't mind how tight you squeezed his hand. Maybe he'll see it as you trying to comfort him too. Holding Debbie was keeping you standing, and Oliver's small hand squeezes in return kept you from crawling towards the descending coffin and following Mark down.

Black didn't suit you. You wished you were wearing white instead.

...

It was hard coping with the loss. It would always be hard to cope with loss. Having something to distract her, Debbie managed to go day by day. Oliver kept growing in significant rates that she couldn't really risk neglecting or shutting him out. And he needed the support. Maybe Debbie needed it more in the form of Oliver.

Apparently, he had really good memory. This wasn't technically his first death in the family. You had a talk with him about death and loss and he was surprisingly mature about it. It was relief if not a bit of a concern at how fast he was maturing. You'd always wished for a quiet life—nearly begged Mark on occasion to retire for the mundane. You hoped Oliver had the chance to at least get some semblance of childhood without the hero baggage. He proved to be the best in coping with the situation.

You had stayed living with the two of them. It was the most logical thing and you knew Debbie needed all the help she could get. Eve and William came by often as well to pitch in however they could between classes—you took a leave of absence to grieve. Meals were lively, no one ever letting things go quiet for too long. You all needed the noise. Needed something to keep your attention from the empty seat next to you. Recently, you had a feeling Oliver got into a few extra scrapes just so everyone else worried about parenting instead of...

It was getting a bit hard living in the house. Not to anyone's fault. You all tried to cope and grieve in your own ways. Debbie kept that practiced smile despite her brows knitting in worry. But in the dead of night, when it was too late for Oliver to still be awake, you could hear muffled sobs through the wall. You didn't blame her. She had barely just gotten over her grief with Nolan. And now with-

You used to come to her room, comfort her, and wipe a few of your own tears. She seemed to appreciate the gesture, grateful for your hugs and the shoulder to cry with. After all you, were her kid too, by law. She was elated to have you call her "mom" even before you got married. But you noticed the sobs get quieter, that they would come later in the night. It didn't take much for you to realize she was hiding the grief from you too. You understood that she didn't want you to worry or see her so devastated so often. It was why you didn't cry in this house either.

You knew Oliver would hear it, super hearing and all. Had a feeling he heard his mom's cries too. The kid, for all his maturity, wouldn't know how to comfort someone. Let alone the woman who raised and showed only strength around him. He needed a solid support and you wanted to be that for him until Debbie got better. He listened to you well and went to you to talk about things after all. Despite the grief, you could see things heading to some form of normalcy.

Three months. Usually, that was the benchmark for broken up couples to move on. You were nineteen and if things were different you technically had the right to date someone new. But did the same rule apply for married couples? Despite the vows "til death do us part," you had no intention of parting with anything.

The house was quiet when you got home, a very rare occurrence. A regular teen would use the chance to indulge. You used the same chance to make as much noise as you could. The problem with an empty house meant it was quiet. So quiet that your brain had to compensate with thoughts. Thoughts of things you hadn't stopped thinking about since- since the funeral. Since the all too sudden death. Since Mark.

Tears well up in your eyes faster than you were planning. Just his name had your heart aching. You couldn't tell if it was good or bad luck that you could still vividly remember him in white. Of all the things seared in your mind, it was the most recent image of him instead of the best. You had pictures, looked at the wedding photos so often that the pages were starting to discolor. But whenever you lied in bed it was his sleeping eyes that stared back.

It started with shallow breaths. Choked whimpers trapping in your throat because for a while you'd forgotten how to wail. You'd tried so hard to keep it all in that now you were struggling to get it out. You slept in his room, on his bed, in his sheets that still smelled like him even after you lived here for a year. Despite trying, you could not ignore that everything reminded you of Mark Grayson.

The whimpers turn to sniffles that give you enough air to babble words of sorrow. The ring on your finger was a reminder that you would never forget. It was a shackle you insisted on wearing. Heavy and painful but the one thing you had left of him that mattered the most. It was hard to scrape together money for a ring. It was even harder to plan a wedding on such short notice. The romantic man that he was, insisting on a celebration instead of just going to court.

The ache in your throat got worse as you cried loudly, screaming like you were being tortured. Because you were. Because you spent your entire life loving one man and losing him so soon. Not even an eighth of your life. Not even a fraction of his.

You collapse on the floor of your shared room, clutching the sheets of the bed. You felt the sound echo back at you when your face pressed on the mattress. You were a total mess. But you needed to cry. You needed to let this out before it made you crumble. Before someone gets home and sees that you weren't moving on at the same pace as them. Before anyone realized that this destroyed you more than-

The knock on the doorframe was drowned out by your wailing but you still heard it. It made you stiff, fear jumping in you that it shocked the grief of the moment right out. Thoughts ran through your head faster than you had the time to process. Fear curled into shame and you turned to apologize after wiping what was admittedly a really snotty nose.

Lips part to talk but a voice spoke first that had you turning faster. It was familiar. Painfully, horribly, impossibly familiar. You hadn't stopped hearing the voice that you would have thought it was a hallucination if you didn't see him standing at the doorway. Alive, healthy, not a single scratch or bruise in sight, smiling at you so sweetly. He wasn't in the white suit that haunted your dreams and you were too relieved to care what color he was wearing.

"Why're you crying, beautiful?"

A/N: idk what dead people wear in America during their funerals tbh. Cos where I'm from they wear white. Truly a not American moment bdjsbsn.

In any case, yes. Major character death indeed. Idk if I should expand more on this cos the idea is very much a set up for variant x reader

Idk if I've seen this concept before but Like- in which the variants meet a Y/N who lost their Mark. Because I love a replacement and unhealthy rebounds lmao.

It's 1 am and I got work in the morning but I really wanted this out before I gotta lock in. I still need to edit the animatic too

Anyways thank you for reading. Please comment or feel free to send asks cos I low-key wanna talk and imagine the variants in this situation.

#invincible #mark grayson #invincible mark grayson #invincible mark #mark grayson x reader #invincible x reader #mark grayson x you #mark grayson x y/n #invincible x y/n #angst #gn!reader #cha writing #its a set-up #for variant x reader #a prequel if you will #i dont have the strength to multi chapter tho #an hour once again to make banners life is so hard

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swhhdr-wthhr · 3 months ago

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i know i haven't uploaded a new chapter for this fic in over half a year... and i probably won't any time soon... but here's some lore explained w/ virgil

#i don't know if i'll ever get to the point in the story where zombies come up #cause that's like 10+ chapters away and i haven't written for this fic in months #but ig it's good to write it down so if i do get to it in like 2 years i can remember lol #i was pretty lazy when drawing the ghost one cause i knew i was gonna blur it anyway and you wouldn't be able to see the details #but i think you can tell i didn't try as hard on that one #skeletons in the closet au #sanders sides au #sanders sides fanfiction #i tried to show subtle differences between the different stages of life with virgil #after he died and came back to life he got skinner and paler #and after coming back as a zombie he got even skinnier and his skin turned a bit yellow #the poor boy is withering away #i guess i'll tag him too #virgil sanders #sanders sides #i didn't really sketch these drawings first like i usually do #i kinda just freehanded it #so if they look a little wonky that's why #i guess at this point with no context the zombie arc seems pretty angsty #and it is #but it's also kinda cute #zombie virgil is very fun #oh and i guess this is a spoiler 😬#idrc though #chances are i won't even get to writing that part so i might as well tell people about it #my art

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enden-agolor · 1 year ago

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thanks for giving recovery 600 kudos, that is actually crazy?? i will never understand how this fic became so successful but i'm seriously so honored, so here's some quick little doodles <:D

#i dont have time to put a lot of effort into art so #im hoping to do something more special for this fic once it's finally finished and done #life has gotten.. very difficult as of recent so im having hard time finding the room to draw let alone even write the last chapters #sooo yeah thanks for your patience if you're reading this #recovery fic #jesskas #mcsm #my art #mcsm jesse #mcsm lukas

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bluevaractyl · 2 months ago

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Cozy Vibes - fishing

“Hey, Vet. I think I owe you a fishing trip,” called Twilight.

Legend looked up from his journal. Twilight held up a fishing rod and bucket with a grin that showed teeth. “I was thinking this lake right here looks pretty nice, whaddya say?”

Legend perked up. “Let me grab my stuff,” he answered, digging in his bag for his own rod and gear.

The group of heroes had camped on the bank of a large lake, far enough to stay dry but close enough for a convenient water source. Twilight and Legend circled the lake, looking for a good spot where their shadows wouldn’t disturb the fish. It was early evening. They finally settled on a place almost opposite where they had camped.

Twilight sat in the grass and started fussing with his rod. He selected a shiny green lure with a oval disk dangling from it, designed to mimic the motion of prey fish underwater. Legend pulled out his own middleweight lure and tied it to the end of the line. He withdrew a safe distance and cast the line with a confident flick of the rod. It sailed out and landed in a patch of aquatic plantlife. He allowed himself a satisfied smile.

Next to him, Twilight cast his own line. He chewed a piece of long grass as he waited for fish to bite, looking as content as Legend had ever seen him.

“Hey, Rancher, what’s the biggest fish you’ve ever caught?” Legend asked, keeping his voice low.

Twilight hummed thoughtfully, letting his rod sway and bounce so the lure would move. “Prob’ly a seventy-centimeter Hylian loach,” he replied. “The skullfish mighta been bigger, but I didn��t hold on to it long enough to check. You?”

Legend smirked and said casually, “A hundred and seventy centimeters. They called it ‘Ol’ Baron.’” Did that count though? His smile slipped at the thought. He shoved the melancholy memories aside.

Twilight was spluttering. “A hundred seventy?! That’s bigger than you are!”

Legend huffed a laugh and agreed, “It sure was.”

Suddenly his bobber dipped underwater. He swiftly lifted the tip of the rod and started reeling. The fish fought back, but he matched it move for move, maintaining the tension in the line without letting it snap. Finally the fish breached the surface of the water with a splash.

Twilight whooped quietly as Legend hauled the fish onto dry land. “What kind is that? It's a decent size,” he said curiously.

Legend grunted as the fish slapped him with its tail. “No idea,” he replied. Its scales were patterned with spots, but it otherwise appeared fairly generic.

He unhooked his catch and put it in the bucket, then cast again. The evening wore on. Twilight caught a bass and a carp, and Legend caught what Twilight identified as a pike. The setting sun cast golden light over everything. Twilight hummed an unfamiliar tune, a bittersweet smile on his face. Legend caught himself thinking of red hair and a lost love. He shook himself and breathed through the familiar pain.

“Hey, Twilight,” he said. Twilight stopped humming and glanced over. Legend kept his eyes on the ripples in the water. “Don’t go throwing yourself on any more axes, okay? I’d miss this.” I’d miss you.

Twilight chuckled, and Legend knew he’d heard what hadn’t been said. “Don’t worry, Vet, I'm not planning on it. Y’all are stuck with me.”

#this chapter might force me to take off the new 'screen reader friendly' tag. sadness. Twi's accent is important to me tho #I am actually really happy with the art and also laughing that I draw these boys from the back more often than the front #people are hard to draw. hylians are easier than humans lol #Legend caught a trout btw #thank you for the fishing advice Zola #I need to learn how to cook fish. it is good #linked universe #my art #blue writes

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sentientcave · 1 year ago

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Retirement Party

Chapter Three - Smoke and Whiskey

<< First Chapter - < Prev Chapter - Next Chapter >

Contains: No Y/N, Kidnapping, Forcible relocation, Generally creepy behaviour, Alcohol mention, Smoking mention (Tobacco, cannabis), plus-sized reader, female reader, There is something fucking wrong with these guys for real, More reader details given, but we're still pretty vague about it. Even though it is hard for me.

~3.2k

When you go back inside, you wind up wedged between John and Ghost on the bigger couch. Johnny’s stretched out on the smaller one, and Gaz claimed the chair that you’d been sitting in earlier, leaving you with no other option. Neither of them makes any effort to give you more space, even though they could. Ghost’s leg is pressed against yours from thigh to ankle, and John’s pinky finger keeps finding your thigh when he rests his tumbler against his knee. You want to curl up properly, tuck your feet up underneath yourself, but you can't without pressing even closer to at least one of them. At least Ghost isn’t quite as intimidating without his mask on.

After a while, Gaz and Ghost go out for a cigarette. The chair looks inviting, and you’d like to get a little space, but Price’s arm drops around your shoulders casually, pulling you in a little closer to his side. “Relax,” he says against the top of your head. “You’re alright, doll.”

The door opens again. “Soap, we’ve got a spliff, you want?” Gaz asks.

Johnny picks himself off the other couch, grinning. “Aye. An’ then cake?”

“Fuckin’ forgot about cake,” Ghost says. “Hey doll, d’you want some of this? Cap?”

“Who rolled it?” John asks. “Because I’m not smoking one of Gaz’s joints ever again.”

“Oh fuck off, Price, I can roll just fine.”

John looks at you and shakes his head slightly. “He really can’t.”

“I can roll,” you say. “I always do with my friends.”

You can see the calculation running behind John's eyes as he adds new information to what he knows and assumes about you. You want to laugh. You almost do. Most people take one look at you, with your big doe eyes and round face and and sunny disposition and think that you're some innocent little thing. Sure, you tend to live life with your arms open, and that might come across as naive to some, but you're not inexperienced by any means. You're nearly thirty years old, you're by no means a child.

"Let's see, then," he says. "Box on the coffee table has everything."

"Does tha' mean we can smoke inside again?" Soap asks. "It's startin' ta get pure Baltic out here."

John looks at you expectantly. "Up to you, doll."

"It's not my house."

He hums. "You're stayin' a while. Might as well be. It's important that you're comfortable."

You slide to the floor and reach for the box. "Well. You'd better open a window or two. But I don't mind."

Making a fuss over the semantics isn't worth doing. You probably are staying a while. Even if John really won't force you, you'll still need his cooperation to get all your stuff loaded back into the van, and all four of them are likely headed for hangovers.

John tells them to open the windows, and leans forward to watch you break up slightly sticky buds into the grinder. He brushes your hair behind your shoulders for you, and when you tip your head back to look at him, there's something in his eyes that makes your ears warm.

Johnny drops down to the floor on the other side of the table, a crumpled looking joint hanging out of his mouth. You can see what John means about not wanting to smoke it.

"You want a drink, doll?" Gaz asks. "More tea?"

You twist to look at him, hanging over the back of the couch, that handsome face smiling. "Have you got pop? Wouldn't mind a ginger ale."

"Got irn bru too," Soap suggests. "Ye've got some Scot in ye, aye?"

"Yes."

"Didja want more?"

You level an unimpressed look at him across the table. "I should've seen that one coming."

"I'd like to see ye com--"

"That'll do, Soap," John says firmly. "She's not goin' to have sex with you."

"Might feel a bit better if she did," Soap says, shrugging. "Ah'm just sayin'."

"You're not saying anything." Gaz sets an unopened can of ginger ale on the table next to you. "If you're gagging for it, we'll take care of you in a bit."

"And if you don't behave yourself you're not goin' to get anything," John rumbles from behind you. "She's been good. Surprised none of you have been slapped."

"Just the once." Gaz snags the joint from Johnny and sits back in the chair.

Ghost snorts. "What did you do?"

"Surprised her picking her up. My own fault."

You lean back and hold up the neat joint you've been rolling, hooking your arm over John's knee. He sets his whiskey to the side and takes it, holding it up for an inspection. "Nice work, doll," he says warmly. “Got a bit of a wild streak to you, eh?”

The praise makes you glow, despite yourself, and you laugh aloud at the second part, a real laugh, not nervous or bitter. All four of them shift their attention to you at the sound, snapping a tension you hadn’t noticed until you felt it’s absence. It’s important to them that you feel comfortable, and your genuine laughter is the first sign that you’re on your way. They really did think that they’d done you a favour.

Insane. But almost sweet, in a fucked up, unsettling way.

You pluck the joint out of John’s fingers and meet his dark blue eyes evenly, not missing the hunger that sparks into existence. “Got a light?”

John pulls his lighter out of his pocket, a little awkward with you leaning on his other leg, and holds the dancing flame out for you. You have to lean in a little to get to it, so you do, your eyes still locked on his as you inhale, the slight sizzle of paper and weed igniting clear in the otherwise silent room. You can hear the way his breath catches too, taken by surprise yet again. You offer the joint back to him, holding in a lungful of smoke.

“Shite,” Johnny hisses, breaking the heavy silence. “Yer absolutely sure ye dinnae want your cunt licked?”

You blow smoke at him from across the coffee table. “I’m sure.”

It doesn’t take long before drowsy complacency overtakes you. Curling up against John’s leg, your arm still hooked over his leg, you let conversation wash over your awareness, not paying enough attention to pick out one thing or another. John’s hand settles on your head, fingers threading into your dark hair, combing through soft strands idly. When you glance up at him, he’s watching you, blue eyes half-lidded but still plenty aware, a funny smile twisting the edges of his mouth upwards. He has nice lips under that bristling moustache of his, not as thin as you would have expected. His voice is a pleasant rumble when he speaks to the others,

He takes a sip of whiskey, and you follow the bob of his throat as he swallows, the way the tip of his tongue darting across his lips. It takes a moment for you to realize that he’s watching you study him.

“Hello, beautiful,” he says. “How are you feeling?”

For the first time since you’ve been there, you don’t feel scared. Just dozy and content, like a cat curled up next to a fireplace. “I’m alright,” you admit. “It’s been a strange day.”

His fingers flex, not quite gripping your hair, just holding you in place with the lightest pressure, encouraging you to keep facing him rather than turning away. “I imagine so.” His hand glides along to your ear, his thumb grazing over the shell, sending shivers down your spine. “It won’t be so strange tomorrow.”

“No more surprises planned?”

John glances up, looking at each of his men in turn, and then back to you. “Doesn’t look like it.”

“We do have cake, though,” Soap says. “Ye want some, bonnie?”

“Yes please.” You only turn to look at Soap for a moment before John is gently coaxing you back, curling his fingers around your jaw. Can he feel the way your heart leaps into your throat, thrumming like a hummingbird’s wings? It’s hard to look John in the eye, but harder still to pull yourself away. His touch leaves burning traces behind, and you’re all too aware of your body and the way you respond to him. It’s all too much, too soon and too strange.

He catches your hand when you try to brush his away. “Why don’t you come on back up here, doll?” he asks. “Be more comfortable than the floor, don’t you think?”

“No, I’m happy down here.” You tuck your knees to your chest, looping your arms around your legs, extricating yourself from his sphere of influence just a little. You’re still pressed up against his calf, but you don’t need to go that far, you just need to face forward so you won’t get pinned under that blue stare again.

John has a certain gravity, a magnetism that you can’t help but be drawn in by. It would be all too easy to sink into his arms, but the idea that you’d been given to him still bothers you, like a persistent, sharp little stone in your shoe, ruining what might have been something.

You perk up some when Soap hands you a plate with a slice of chocolate cake on it. It's not the prettiest thing you've ever seen, but it tastes incredible, rich dark chocolate and an icing that had so much whiskey in it that your teeth feel funny after a few bites.

"This is really good, Johnny," you tell him. "If the whole military thing doesn't work out, you could consider becoming a baker."

"Thanks, hen. And dinnae think I havena considered it. Gettin' closer to packin' it in awl the time. Just cannae leave Gaz until he's got a good team watchin' his back."

"We've got some good sergeants," Gaz says. "Nitro's got real promise."

"Shivs too. Little devil," Ghost adds. "You need a door smasher though. Those girls are tough as 'ell, but some occasions call for a big boot."

"Aye, ye'd say that, bein' the biggest fuckin' boot the Queen's army has ever seen."

"King now," John points out.

"Oh, fuck if I care which poncy arsed Windsor is sittin' in the big chair."

"Bloody leeches," Ghost agrees.

"I've got Sanderson in mind." Gaz winks at you, like you're in on some secret.

"Gary Sanderson? Is he no' dead?"

"No! Turns out he locked himself in a cryo chamber when the bomb went off. That facility was full of 'em, all kinds of experimental tech. It was finally safe to take a team in and we found him. Nitro started calling him Roach, and it's stuck."

"He's a damn good soldier. Be good for the taskforce," Price agrees. "Would've picked him ten years ago."

"Well, he's had a nice long nap, and he's hopping mad about missing so much. He'll make a good doorsmasher," Gaz says.

"How about that Lucky kid? Nitro’s brother.” Price asks. “He looked pretty promising. Unless his luck ran out.”

Gaz hums, licking frosting off his fork. “He’s a good kid, but his problem is that as soon as Nitro’s around he lets her do all his thinking for him. Splits her focus.”

You sigh, setting your half-finished slice of cake down on the table in front of you, and climb to your feet, wincing at the ache of not moving for so long. You edge between Ghost’s knees and the coffee table and skirt around the edge of the couch wordlessly. No one stops you, and there’s no falter to their conversation despite the eyes that follow you until you disappear upstairs to use the washroom.

As you wash your hands, you stare at your own face in the mirror. You look pretty, even with your eyeliner a little smudged, and your lipstick faded to nothing. The buzz of THC is your system makes you giggle. Pretty enough to kidnap, even.

You think about it for a long moment, and then take your makeup off and braid your hair back so you can wash your face properly, and brush your teeth too. All the weirdness of the day is catching up, and all you want to do is sleep it off. The low buzz of their voices carries up the stairs when you step out into the hallway again, seemingly unbothered by your absence. There's no reason for you to say goodnight-- you don't owe them any kind of civility. But you still hesitate.

Long enough that John appears at the bottom of the stairs. "You alright, doll?" He asks. "Comin' back down?" The stairs creak slightly under his weight as he starts coming up towards you.

"I was thinking-- I'm just tired, is all. It's been a long day."

He stops two steps down, so he's still looking up at you. "I understand. We can talk more in the morning."

"I'm sure there's a lot to discuss."

"If you say so. Already told you most of what I needed to tell."

"Just most?"

He nods, and beckons you closer, a conspiratorial smile on his face. You take one halting step toward him, and then another, until you stand right at the top of the stairs. His big hands catch yours, holding you in place when he moves one step up, taller than you once more.

You stare up at him, and your breathing is turned shallow, your heartbeat rapid and heady. His eyes glitter in the dim light as he leans close, the tip of his nose skimming yours, as if he means to kiss you. Like a deer pinned under the headlights of a rapidly approaching truck, you stand frozen, unsure if you even want to move, or if you welcome the inevitable collision.

He smells like smoke and whiskey when he speaks, his lips so close to yours you can feel the soft brush of breath on your skin. "Forgot to tell you how good you look in my shirt," he purrs. "Been thinkin' to say so all night."

Heat licks across your cheeks, his words waking something dangerous in your core, something that wants his hands on you more than anything else. It’s unfair, what he does to you already, barely more than a stranger, and you want him to be a good man so you can indulge that desire without fear of consequence. It’s been such a long time since someone looked at you the way he looks at you now, an almost indescribable fondness that you haven’t even begun to earn.

“It’s a nice shirt,” you say lamely. “Thank you for lending it to me.” You don’t mention that it smells very pleasantly like him, and how it’s been a bit difficult to keep yourself from sniffing at the flannel all evening.

“You’re welcome to anything I have,” he says, and you know he means it.

“I hope that includes your bed,” you say jokingly, trying (and failing) to diffuse the intensity in his eyes. “Because I think that’s where I’m headed now.”

“Of course it does.” His thumb rubs across your knuckles, the other hand coming up to cradle your cheek. You shake, all nerves, worried that he’ll close the distance and kiss you, but he just taps his forehead against yours instead, eyes smiling. “Off you go, sweet thing. You give us a shout if we get too loud, eh?”

You swallow nervously and nod, taking a step backwards. “Goodnight, John.”

"Goodnight, doll.”

You quickly shut yourself into the other room, flicking on the light while you strip down to your panties and wrap the flannel shirt around yourself again, and tuck yourself into bed. It’s been a bizarre day, and the room feels strange, too open and too dark, but it still doesn’t take long to fall asleep.

Hours later, you wake at the sound of the door opening and clicking shut again. You sit up before you’re fully alert, dreams shredding apart and solidifying into reality as you blink away sleep.

“Shh, s’just me,” John’s voice comes out of the darkness, slurring slightly. You can’t see anything in the darkness, until he crosses over to the window and opens the curtains, letting in a little light from the waxing moon outside. He turns towards her, his big frame silhouetted against the scant light, humming. “Bloody hell, you’re a pretty little thing.” The soft clink of his belt buckle is far too loud in the quiet room, as is the rustle of his clothes as he strips down to his boxers.

“John, what are you doing?” you ask nervously.

“Coming to bed,” he says, like it’s obvious. “M’too old to sleep on the floor, and Gaz is on the big couch.”

“Oh. I’ll move then. I don’t mind sleeping on the floor.” You throw back the sheets and swing your legs onto the floor.

“No, no, stay right where you are.” He swoops over and grips your legs gently, lifting them up and back onto the bed. He smells strongly of whiskey and mint toothpaste, and the clinging remnants of cigar smoke. “We can share tonight. Get things set up better tomorrow.”

“John…”

He slides into bed beside you and easily pulls you close, strong arms wrapping around you tightly, rolling so you’re half on top of him, one hand cradling your back and the other on your waist. “Yeah, doll?” he asks.

“John, we can’t— I can’t sleep like this.”

“Shh, just give me a minute to hold my pretty girl.” He nuzzles against the top of your head. “I’m gonna be so good to you, sweetheart. I promise.”

"You're drunk," you say, holding the flimsy excuse out for him, hoping that he'll take it. You don't want to think about him meaning it. It makes going home look all the more unlikely.

"A little," he admits. His hand drifts lower, fingers dipping below the soft lace of your panties to dig into soft skin around your hip. He groans. "You're perfect. Sweet and soft, so damn beautiful. I'll make you happy. I'll give you anything you want, if you stay with me."

"John! Stop that, we can talk later, just go to sleep."

"I know this all started wrong, doll. The lads got carried away. But this is right. You feel that too, don't you? We'll have to come up with a better story for our kids, hm? Something proper romantic." He kisses the top of your head, humming happily.

"Our kids?" you squeak. "Jesus, John, you can't be serious."

"Course I am. We can start trying whenever you're ready."

Well, at least now you know he's just as delusional as the rest of them. "You don't even know if I want kids."

"You do," he says confidently. "Tell me I'm wrong."

"You're drunk," you say firmly. "Go to sleep."

He chuckles. "You didn't say I'm wrong."

You push away and roll over so you don't have to look right at him. Even in the darkness, you're certain that your face betrays more than you'd like. It was none of his business if you wanted kids. You certainly weren't going to have them with him. "Go to sleep," you repeat.

"Yes ma'am," he says, looping his arms around you again, tugging you close to his chest. "Goodnight, doll."

Thanks for reading!

Image Credits: Banner

Dividers: 1 - 2 - 3 by @/Cafekitsune

#cod mw fanfiction #cave writing #John Price x Reader #x reader #dark fic #This chapter was so hard to write so I'm sorry if it's not as good #but the good news is that the next chapter is already finished! So I'll post it tomorrow #John you are so awful I hate you what is wrong with you #Also: I have like 4k of two lil Nitro fics because she captured my heart so we have that to look forward to as well #Anyway enjoy!#Retirement Party #Retirement Party Chapter 3 #Initially forgot a readmore lmao

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