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rinbylin · 10 months

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friendships as marital ties (and other notes on relational ties) in mlc

this is sort of a third installment in the series of meta on 'mlc as an exemplar of constructing queer narratives out of chinese ideological frameworks' (1. jianghu as queer space and 2. how it manifests in li xiangyi) - focusing on the nature of relationships in it. (which I've briefly mentioned in the first one and finally actually getting to it!!)

I would like to first call attention to chinese ideological frameworks as a premise of queer reading in mlc. the goal of chinese philosophy is to explore the becoming of human, taking two broad paths of the (mainstream) secular vs. escaping the secular. (these two paths are not a strict dichotomy, and rather, are ever in flux and in conversation with each other.) as said by @markiafc too, chineseness is so much about the rigidity of structures, and in equal part, a desire to break out of them. thus, chinese ideological frameworks can very much offer a rich reading of queerness - that mlc, a story very deliberately structured based on chinese ideologies (more accurately, with good reasons for me to believe that it is as such), has managed to materialise.

if the conceptualisation of queerness is premised on a defiance against mainstream norms, then a reliable way to read queerness in chinese ideological frameworks can be to deconstruct it by the mainstream confucian frameworks.

in mlc, this is implicitly set up with its stage of wulin/martial jianghu. then it is further broken down by asking, hey wulin jianghu is still closely related to the hegemonic values and the mainstream structure of authority (historically, 侠 xia being politically involved says a lot about this), so what is the true meaning of jianghu? what does it then really take for jianghu to be a queer space offering comfort and freedom to those who have escaped to it - to be the space that allow the transcendence of rigid roles and labels? mlc took a step further to resist the proxy to mainstream values that wulin jianghu has become.

this is why there can be a very strong buddhism reading of mlc (suggested here, expounded in the A+++ meta by @markiafc here and here, and also what I've seen discussed by cnet as well), given that buddhism is one of the 'extra-secular' ideologies, alongside (philosophical) taoism. I've also touched on a taoist angle in this meta. both schools are articulated in different sets of languages, but ultimately convey a same ideal of what it means to be human and how to live well - that is, to resist the roles and labels defined by the norms.

so, back to confucian frameworks.

a lot can be discussed about mlc with it. but in the context of this meta about relationships in mlc, it's specifically drawing on how confucianism conceptualises social relationships with familial ties as a cornerstone, and how these relational ties are inextricable from the conceptualisation of the 'self'.

as such, one of the things about mlc that has fascinated me is how deliberately it seems to ignore and reject the conventional familial ties (the kind by blood and marital ties). I've joked about how it is a miracle for me to love mlc as much as I do, as a prime dysfunctional family story enjoyer, despite none of its main characters struggling with any complicated feelings about their (biological) parents. but on closer examination, mlc is also making a comment on the model of familial-based relationships that dominates mainstream society - but through the absence of it.

with this, I want to talk about 1) how mlc rejects the conventional ties; and then 2) how it repurposes these ties in its own ways.

the five relational ties in confucianism:

father and son 父子有亲 - (natural) affection between father and son

ruler and subject 君臣有义 - righteous relationship between ruler and subject

older and younger brothers 兄弟 (长幼有序) - this is actually about seniority within the family; the order between older vs younger family members

husband and wife 夫妇有别 - differentiation between husband and wife (demarcated by the 内外 spectrum of gendered inner-external spheres)

friends 朋友有信 - trust between friends

logically inferred, all these ties are hierarchical and familial-based except for the last one: friends. ruler-subject is sort of an extension of the natural familial ties, while friendship is the inverse space of 1-4 (ie. you fall back on 5 to define a social relationship outside of the familial sphere that cannot be qualified as 1-4). while all are premised on mutuality, it is only no. 5 that is defined by a sense of choice and equality.

on the surface, 1-4 don't quite exist in mlc in particularly meaningful ways to the narrative or are even outright overlooked, and friendship is the relational tie most valued by mlc. we can tell it's true just by looking at the most meaningful relationships in mlc of difanghua. but at the same time, it is more nuanced. we can take a closer look at how the story plays around with most of the ties as part of a broader queer narrative.

1) how mlc rejects the conventional ties

mlc's rejection of mainstream relational ties can be best seen in fdb escaping from marriage. and it was not just any engagement with anybody but an engagement with the imperial family. he struggles with the prospect of being married to princess zhaoling, but generally, it's about the idea of complying to mainstream conventions and expectations that includes compulsory heterosexuality. all these point not only to a defiance against amatonormativity - the resistance of the traditional husband-wife tie, but also an irreverence for the ties of ruler-subject (the engagement being an imperial decree) and father-son (matters of marriage being sole decisions made by parents).

of course this is on top of how fdb's own biological father is a p-o-s, and the narrative gives fdb minimal struggles in this aspect, allowing him to sever this tie without looking back (I love it, yeap). along the same line is how lxy is an orphan, who came to gain important relationships that are built on natural compassion among people rather than innate, blood-based ties - even as llh. the sense of defiance from the narrative is especially stark to me considering that he could have a completely different familial-based life - as a son, brother, and ruler, if his biological family was still around. the narrative also deliberately treats his biological brother as a phantom, replaced with an older brother who he was bonded with neither by blood nor marital ties. on dfs's front, absolutely nothing is to be known about his biological family. his childhood history with the toxic patriarch of his life - who is not even his biological father - was afforded a clean break and closure.

we can keep going on, but that's pretty much the point.

ritualisation is one of the most important things of the confucianism school, especially to the honoring of these social relationships (and the officiating of social roles). the one ceremony/ritual we saw in mlc involving the main characters - or more accurately speaking, came closest to seeing - was the imminent wedding ceremony of dfs and jlq. even in that case, it was premised on non-mutuality with dfs being the unwilling, passive party. (fem-coded dfs? 25 marks.)

and that brings us to the next part.

2) how mlc repurposes these ties

that particular wedding ceremony gets hijacked by dfs and lxy/llh, and gets turned into an important milestone in their relationship. they consummate - what is on text - their friendship after a long time being more enemies and rivals than friends. it is a clear establishment of the trust they have for each other. and here it is where I circle back to the subject of this post: friendships as marital ties.

in this article, as a part of a feminist, egalitarian reframing of confucianism, there is a proposal for spousal relationships to be reframed as a friendship tie. (this aligns with the interrelatedness of the five ties eg. the ruler-subject mirrors father-son dynamic, with the confucian belief that rulers have an obligation to their subjects alike parents to their own children.) by doing so, it removes the functional, gendered differentiation assigned to marital ties, and shifts it to something equal, and independent of gender. you exalt the value of trust between spouses, instead of basing marital relationships on gendered roles. as such, spouses become more like friends, and conversely, friends can also become more like spouses. (romance not a prerequisite. it has never been about romance anyway.)

given that mlc has repeatedly applied marital motifs to llh and dfs's characters in their joint narratives, this opens up a reading friendships as a marital tie. seeing marriage as a bridge for strangers to become family, marriage in mlc becomes a metaphor for the chosen commitment and mutual trust put in by strangers/friends (non-familial ties) into the becoming of family. the blurring of lines between marital ties and friendship encourages a genuine space of queer experience that goes beyond any pressure for strict labels - of sexuality, and relationships as romantic, sexual, etc etc.

(note: despite the borrowing of a feminist concept, I strongly hesitate to call mlc a feminist story. it's a whole discussion - or debate - on its own. nevertheless, it is definitely a gender-conscious story that lays foundation for a strong queer and egalitarian reading.)

it is to be noted that it is intended - and also beneficial to take the confucian framework of relational ties beyond face value. the framework offers what it believed to be the most fundamental social relationship dynamics, and sees room for extension and matching to other kinds of relationships (all if not, most). a relationship such as teacher-student, which is outside of the five ties stated, can also mirror the affection of father-son ties, albeit not in a literal and identical way.

speaking of which. fdb and lxy/llh.

indeed they're known by others to be good friends. fdb thinks they're good friends too - insists on it, and puts his best efforts in keeping it that way. but does it really go both ways? if it does not, then can it really still be friendship? my humble take is that, ultimately - weighing in with llh's perspective - this is a relationship that is not so much based on trust, and rather, based on an innate affection that is only unique to family. (in this case, not blood/marital-based but one that was chosen and built aka lxy's relationship with sgd.) in other words, less of a friendship, more of a familial one.

it is a lot clearer considering their relationship from llh's point of view: some brat you never wanted in your life came barging in, and whether he was going to bring any positive effect to your life was secondary to the tranquility - which you have carved for yourself in the past decade - that is so integral to your personhood. no way. but the moment you hear that he's family? well, that changes the game completely. even before learning about fdb being sgd's son (then beginning to take initiative in showing greater acceptance), it is apparent in llh that there was an instinctive resonance with fdb as his shixiong's nephew. (eg. he remarked to his shifu's grave about how alike fdb is to himself.) this is unlike with dfs whom he had taken a much longer time to build trust with. you do not apply trust - aka the quality of friendships - to family. family is something deeper, more instinctive than that. if fdb was never family, I find it hard to imagine given llh's personality, that he would have let some brazen, bratty stranger intrude for that long. (boy invited himself to llh's home, sat himself down eating the owner's dinner and nosing in his cooking abilities!!! ily bb but that was uncalled for 😭)

of course there are many more layers in their relationship. there is a substantial degree of their history as (unwitting) teacher-disciple: fdb is still healthy and alive all thanks to the existence of lxy as a spiritual teacher role model in his life, regardless it being one-sided or not. there is also indeed some part of friendship in it, especially from fdb's point of view. he sees llh as a kindred spirit who he could enjoy a life of freedom with for life. but llh never reciprocates. he knew this was short-lived. and so ultimately, the hierarchical layer of their relationship overpowers the equal one, where llh's treatment of fdb as a nephew/小辈 younger family member and a disciple is the one that sealed the fate of their relationship.

if (blood-based) familial ties are irrelevant in jianghu, then the closest proxy to a father-son relationship in the martial world would be a teacher-disciple relationship. lxy and his shifu are a clear, indisputable example. for fdb and llh, their teacher-disciple tie is murkier and not consistently applied. they were also never ritualised as teacher-disciple, and thus are not teacher-disciple in any official capacity as far as confucian ideas are concerned. yet in crucial moments, it is invoked by llh as a card of authority over fdb to get out of sticky situations with fdb. and there was their final scene together: in a moment of sincerity, llh gives the approval to fdb as his disciple - then entrusting fdb with the secret manual of his techniques, up until his final letter in which fdb was recommended to dfs as a successor to his martial abilities.

in an imperial setting, this would have been the relationship of an emperor and his crown prince that straddles both ruler-subject and father-son ties aka a tag-team of disaster. the teacher has an obligation to nurture his disciple as a successor to himself, and love him like a son too. on the flipside, he holds the final power in their relationship - withholding knowledge and feelings from the younger one. they are only equals in a way a parent-child can be. they are only equals as much as the parent allows. and this is how fdb got left behind in the dust of llh's departure. he was the child treating his parent like a friend, supporting him emotionally and begging to be loved back the same way he loves his parent - but the parent had a lifetime way ahead of him and stayed out of his reach, physically and emotionally.

llh and fdb operate with the trapping of a friendship but have always been family in the core. llh had known that way before fdb did, just like everything else he had known and put out of fdb's reach. because. fdb did not have to know. fdb is different and will forge his own path. and that's a kind of love llh has for him that nobody understands (in fact not even fdb himself) - one that is on a different plane from friendships.

by repurposing the framework of relational ties, mlc showed that the essence of familial relationships aka its intimacy and closeness can be independent from biology and formalised rituals. and it is important to myself for stories to say that people can build close ties and deeply meaningful relationships even without being born or ritualised into any.

then back to how these relational ties are inextricable from the conceptualisation of the 'self' in confucian worldview: the roles you play in these relationships are intended to define you. there is no 'self' independent from it. while the concept of a social, relational self is fully rooted in reality, being locked into social roles can be a painful way to live - a way that llh has experienced as lxy the sigu sect leader. so, in order for lxy/llh to realise a sense of self that exists outside the norms, it inevitably points to another way that requires a cut from these relationships. that is then the buddhist (or taoist) answer of looking past attachments to the world such as the confucian idea of relationships defining your being. only with a dissolution of a sense of 'self', can there be true liberation.

#莲花楼 #mysterious lotus casebook #lhlmeta #lhl #my posts #dihua #can't believe this is how i choose to spend an inordinate amt of my free time 😐😐 being a broken recorder of brainrot 😐#anw the handful of fanghua moments that have moved me are the ones that are about the unbridgeable gap between them as 长辈小辈 as 徒弟师父 #(me realising lxy telling fdb 这个徒弟我没有白收 actually drives me nuts)#me: a brainrot-level dihua shipper first and foremost. also me: dedicating more of this meta to fanghua than dihua #about how fanghua's relationship is its own unique kind in the story. equally deep as dihua. just in a wholly different way.#dihua are friends and married and familial. but fanghua is family through and through #-> tl;dr of this meta actually #i just have extremely strong feelings about fanghua as a complicated little family unit.#which is independent of “shipping” FOR ME. but for anyone else though you can make anything out of it.#(gotta admit i'm a bit antsy about posting this and is uncertain how it's gonna be read. bc my reading of fanghua is so specific...well)#anyways. obsessed with dihua appropriating the heteronormative rituals <3 #edit: I CAN'T BELIEVE I FORGOT TO TALK ABOUT DIFANG aaaAAAGHHHHHHHHHH #but. it's true they're very purely friendship-based i think

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astro-b-o-y-d · 6 months

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Triangulum - Chapter 3 - An Unwelcomed Guest

— — — — — — —

Bill’s head hurt.

A searing ache throbbed at the back of his skull while consciousness returned to him once again. No pain in recent memory compared to something like this; even getting his eye ripped out of its socket had been more of an inconvenience at worst. It took forever to regenerate those things!

The closest thing he could compare such intense pain to was his outright death, which sent a jolt of panic through his mind that only furthered his headache. He wasn’t dead again, was he—

“Why would I go through all this effort to bring you back, only to deceive you about what I have to offer?”

Oh. Right.

Any concerns were washed away in an instant as the feathery face of the shelduck drifted to the front of his mind. Not just their face, but the conversation the two of them had shared in the mindscape. The game they had wanted him to play, their contract, the destruction of the barrier as a prize—

—something was wrong.

Even with his eyelid still closed, Bill could physically feel a disconnect with his body.

It was difficult to verbalize properly—his eye felt too distant from his limbs, and his usual shape felt noticeably altered. As if he’d slipped into a costume with lots of awkward parts, ones that stuck out in ways that forced him to be aware of their existence as he tried to descend down a narrow passageway.

Almost exactly how he’d felt whenever he possessed someone in the past.

But the way the body suited itself around his existence, it didn’t feel like it would belong to a talking, anthropomorphic shelduck. Even with his eye closed, Bill could still feel a lack of any feathers pinpricking their way through his skin, or a beak protruding from his face—

“When did I ever say you were going to possess me in this game?”

…Ah.

Alright, even he couldn’t ignore a good loophole dodge when he saw it. Point to Tangy for their oh-so-clever little trick; he’d be sure to give them kudos for it later.

Kudos in the form of soaking their tacky windbreaker in a gallon of rotten tuna fish for a month. Good luck getting the smell out after that one, Birdbrain!

“—what if he’s not even in there anymore?”

“Yeah, he could’ve jumped out after Wendy clunked him on the back of the head!”

“Are we even sure it’s him in the first place? Just sayin’, some random kid cackling maniacally in the middle of the woods isn’t the weirdest thing to happen around here.”

“Everyone just hold on a second, I’m trying to think—”

The sound of frantic, hushed voices stirred him further awake, and he fluttered his eyelid—no, wait, eyelids plural—open the tiniest amount to investigate.

It didn’t seem like Birdbrain had taken any extreme measures with his vision; he still possessed a functioning eyeball. But rather than being set in the center of his face, his vision had taken a hard shift to the left and weakened to a noticeable degree. And while his vision hadn’t carried over to the right side of his face, he could feel another eyeball rotating around in its socket.

Almost as much as he could feel a set of teeth and tongue in a separate cavity much lower on his face—oh, eugh, he’d forgotten how bizarre it felt to have his face parts separated like this, and not even the fun kind of bizarre!—or a protruding nose right smack dab between his new pair of eyes.

Alright, so Birdbrain had gone humanoid for his vessel. Bit cliché, but nothing he wasn’t used to by this point. And if his mouth and eye placement weren’t enough to confirm this fact, peering open his eyelids further revealed his head to be slumped forwards, gaze fixed on a pair of black-panted human legs that were clearly attached to his body.

Yep, there was no denying that he’d been slapped back into a meatsuit mecha.

An even-riskier peek around him revealed he was currently tied up in some sort of bedroom. One clearly owned by the word’s most generic older woman of all time; creme-colored floral wallpaper decorated the walls, a shelf lined with creepy, porcelain dolls was situated near the door, and a comfortable old recliner had been set up near the fireplace—

—hang on, wasn’t this just the parlor room in the Shack?

“He’s awake!”

Shoot. Guess he’d made it a bit too obvious that he’d regained consciousness.

Bill’s head snapped up to full height at the sudden exclamation, only find himself on the receiving end of a number of different intimidation methods—all to various degrees of effectiveness.

Mabel’s weapon of choice was her beloved grappling hook. One of the better options of the bunch; metal was strong enough to shatter a fragile human skull if aimed at just the right spot and applied with just enough power and force. Terrible for his current vessel, but Bill could appreciate a healthy level of bloodlust.

Stan’s brass-knuckled fists were—admittedly—also an inspired choice, given how effective his fists had been in the past. A fact that Bill was happy to ignore and brush to the side as he shifted his attention over to—

—the random plank of wood in Dipper’s hands, one he was gripping tightly with all the intimidation of a mildly-inconvenienced kitten. Yeesh, had he even tried?

Of course, Pine Tree’s embarrassing incompetence was compensated in full by the gun in Ford’s hand, both the barrel and his own violent gaze locked onto Bill like his life depended on it.

Hmm, that was annoying.

And here Bill had hoped he could keep his return discreet for at least a short while before these suckers caught wind. Maybe strike some fear and uncertainty in their naive minds by staring ominously at them through their windows, only to vanish from sight when they came over to investigate.

Were their minds playing tricks on them now that they were back in town? Were they simply paranoid as a result of what happened the year before? Or was there really someone watching them beyond the shadows of the trees?

Maybe if his methods were effective enough, Ford would even start shooting at the woods in a blind panic. Heck, maybe one of the kids would even get caught in the crossfire!

Y’know, fun stuff like that.

But unfortunately for Bill, it seemed like he’d dropped right into the belly of the beast and Ford had gained the upper hand while he’d been unconscious.

Any attempts to move his new human limbs revealed them to be restrained to the chair he was seated upon; arms tucked behind the back and bound at the wrists, torso tied in place—what, had there been a sale on rope or something? It was a miracle they’d left his legs alone—or maybe they’d just run out of rope by that point?

Nope, an abandoned piece near the far wall rendered that guess incorrect. Maybe they just hadn’t had enough time to restrain his legs, then?

Moving the focus back to his captors, Bill’s gaze bounced from person to person as he took a quick stock of their expressions. Unanimous hatred and fury trying so desperately to mask the uncertainty and fear behind their expressions. The clear desire to come across as intimidating, despite the trembling hands around their weapons.

So much fear, despite having the upper hand over him. Bill was tied to a chair and barely conscious, yet he could get a reaction like this outta them?

Good.

Because otherwise, he had no idea how he would be able to spin this situation to his advantage. With the element of surprise and mobility no longer an option for him, tapping into those fears and insecurities was the only weapon that Bill had left at his disposal.

Speaking of which—

The silence in the room stretched on as the Pines continued to stare at him, to the point where Bill was starting to grow bored. Sure, leaving them forever entrenched in uncertainty might be fun in theory, but that also required him to remain quiet for just as long.

And while that wasn’t an impossible order, Bill Cipher was not the kind of triangle to sit and behave quietly if he had any say in the matter.

He needed just the right comment to break the ice. A perfect reintroduction to his presence in their lives, one that would only strengthen that fear behind their eyes.

“I gotta ask, what didja think a gun was gonna do against me?” he asked with a grin at Ford. “I mean, do you really think regular old bullets are going to be enough to get the job done?”

His pupil flicked over to Dipper. “Guess it’s better than whatever Junior’s got going on over there, though,” he said. “Seriously, Pine Tree, a piece of wood? I guess you might have a chance at beating me in a game of interdimensional rock-paper-scissors, but outside of that, I don’t like your odds.”

Just for good measure, he punctuated everything with his loud, trademark cackle—one that shook the room and everyone in it.

Oh yeah, that’d do the trick nicely.

Sure enough, everyone’s grip on their weapons tensed, the fear in their faces now completely tangible as the worst scenario they could possibly imagine was confirmed.

“Bill.”

It was Ford who spoke first, tone marinaded in venom as he stared Bill down. Such vitriol sent another cackle throughout Bill, his body wiggling with delight against the bonds that held him to the chair. “Aww, it’s good to see you too, Sixer~!” he said sweetly. “What’s it been, about nine months now? Nice beard, by the way. Really brings your face together in a way that those sideburns didn’t, know what I mean?”

His amusement fell with a vindictiveness he made no attempt to mask. “Although if you ask me, I’d suggest taking up that old face-burning habit of yours to clear everything up and start fresh,” he said, narrowing his eye—eyes. “I mean, you’re clearly the expert in burning things around here. Facial hair, bridges, minds with me in them—”

“Stop talking.”

Bill was cut off by the cold, threatening steel of the gun barrel being pressed against his cheek, pupil flitting up to Ford’s own cold, threatening gaze.

Oh, he was real mad.

Of course, not even Ford’s ire was enough to silence Bill completely, and he managed a smug grin despite the distortion of his cheek against the weapon’s tip. “Again I ask: just a regular gun? No Quantum Destabilizer? No memory-erasing device or fancy-schmancy magical weapon from your precious journals? You must really getting dull in your old age if you're busting out the repeat performances, Fordsy.”

He tilted his head, half in thought and half to give himself some breathing room. “Although I have to wonder why you didn’t just try to kill me while I was knocked out, if you’re this trigger-happy?”

The answer to that one was pretty obvious. Given their initial reactions, they hadn’t been certain if he had actually been possessing someone—and they weren’t about to go and murder an innocent human on the off-chance they were wrong. And now that he was awake and his presence confirmed, they weren’t about to go and murder an innocent human while he was possessing them.

And if that was truly the case, it probably meant he was free to run his mouth as much as he wanted.

Probably.

Maybe?

“Ooh, lemme guess: you wanted me to be awake before you pumped me full of lead?”

…Heck with it, he couldn’t resist the chance to press a few more of Ford’s buttons. To really test the waters on what he could get away with saying or doing. “Well, I’d love to see you take your best shot at it~!” he continued with a wide grin, one that show far too much of his gums. Guess that was one benefit to having a humanoid vessel again. “I know it’ll probably get a real laugh outta the poor sucker I’m puppeting around now—”

There was a click of the hammer as the tip was pressed further into his cheek, to the point where not even leaning away from it would pull Bill out of its line of fire.

Alright, limit reached for the time being. “Okay, okay, geez, I get the picture,” he said, rolling his eyes in annoyance. “Can I at least ask for a mirror or something? I wanna see what I’m working with over here.”

Okay, maybe one more. “I’d fetch one myself, but as you can see, I’m a bit tied up at the moment~!”

Ha. Hilarious.

Luckily for him, his clever little risk seemed to pay off in the unexpected way of making Ford lower his weapon, with an added bonus of painting a look of confusion across his face. And judging by the looks being exchanged between the other family members, it was clear that his little joke had been far more effective in causing confusion than he’d originally intended.

After a few more minutes of perplexed silence between them, it was Mabel who eventually—and hesitantly—spoke up with a: “You…don’t know what you look like?”

Hmm, an unexpected question to follow the unexpected responses. And a stupid one at that; did she really expect him to give her the honest, unfiltered truth when prompted?

If she did, the answer to that question would be a resounding “It’s funny how dumb you are, Shooting Star~!”, followed by a bout of condescending laughter to drive the point home.

And the answer to her former question would probably be that same reply and condescending laughter. There was no chance across the entire multiverse that he would tell them about his little deal with Tangy. Birdbrain had said it themselves back in their mindscape: the second they found out that he was playing a game where the prize was the destruction of the barrier, the second Ford would do everything in his power to keep him restrained until the end of the game.

Or, well—more restrained than he was already.

Still, as good as his clever little joke had been, he had unintentionally dropped a small hint to them about his situation.

Guess it was time to do what he did best; scramble their mushy little brains more than he’d done already and throw them completely off the right track.

“I mean—it was all kind of a blur when I possessed the guy,” he said casually, leaning back in the chair as far as he could. “Didn’t exactly feel like stopping and sussing out all the details, not when the chance to stretch my legs again after spending nine months as a lawn ornament was right there in front of me—hey, come on—”

The barrel of the gun was at his cheek again as Ford gave him another warning look. “Don’t listen to a single word he says,” he said, directing the statement at the others. “We have no reason to believe that what he’s telling us is the truth, so don’t take any stock in anything he’s saying.”

Bill narrowed his eyes up at him. Spoilsport. Spoilsport and a hypocrite, to boot! “Oh, yeah, that’s rich, Sixer,” he said bitterly. “But I guess you would know what it’s like to give people a reason not to trust you, wouldn’t you?”

His functional pupil bounced over to Stan, the corners of his mouth twitching with the threat of a smile. “I’m just saying: the last time we saw each other, you were promising to finally give me that equation,” he said, with a look back to Ford. “But then when I ended up making the deal, it wasn’t your brain I ended up in, was it—OW!”

The tip of the gun was jammed so hard against his cheek that the skin would likely be bruised in the shape of a triangle later. “Stop talking—”

“Alright, that’s it.”

Before Ford could respond, Stan’s hand was back on his shoulder and gently goading him towards the door. “Ford, come on, let’s just—”

“Stan—”

“He’s tied up, Soos says the rope’s got the unicorn stuff woven into it,” Stan kept trying. “Let’s just step outside for a sec. Kids, why don’t you go with him? I’ll be with you in a few minutes, just—”

“We’re on it.”

Ford opened his mouth to protest further, but Mabel had already taken one of his hands in her own while Dipper claimed the other. “Come on, Grunkle Ford,” Mabel said, giving his hand an encouraging tug. “Let’s go wait in the hallway.”

“Yeah, why don’t you go ahead and leave, Sixer~?” Bill teased with a kick of his feet. “I’m sure I won’t go anywhere while you’re gone!”

A risky taunt, for sure. Ford had turned the gun on him enough times to prove that he was only a few more pokes away from throwing caution to the wind and sticking a bullet between his eyes, regardless of the consequences. Besides, the sooner Bill got the chance to be alone and collect his thoughts, the better.

But at the same time, any opportunity to get under Ford’s skin was just too good to resist, nor did he have any desire to try resisting in the first place.

It seemed to be a lucky day for him in terms of taunt-rope balancing, because Ford pulled his hands from the kids’ embraces and trudged out of the room with calm, restrained steps. Steps clearly powered by every last ounce of self-control he could possibly muster, ones that suppressed a deep, brooding storm that swelled just beneath the surface.

Good. Seethe harder, Stanford.

Eventually the door shut behind him, leaving Stan and the kids—their own hands now void of any that possessed six fingers—behind. Although it was only a second later when the door cracked open again, and one six-fingered hand reentered their line of sight.

A hand that Mabel immediately took hold of again before both her and Dipper hurried out into the hallway after him. Leaving only Bill, Stan, and a deafening silence left in the room.

A deafening silence that Bill was quick to break with a casual: “Gotta say, the beard look is waaaay more natural on you than it is on Sixer. Covers your ugly mug way better than his does.”

Apparently Ford had kept all of the restraint for himself because Stan was back to him before he could blink, and Bill had no time to brace himself as the older man grasped a rugged hand around his throat. “Listen to me, and listen good, Wise Guy,” he growled. “I don’t know how you got back here, and I don’t really care how.”

The hand around Bill’s neck tightened as he balled the other into a fist. “But I punched your lights out once, and I can do it again. As many times as it takes for you to stay down for good.”

He moved the first near Bill’s blinded eye, his good pupil following despite himself. “You try anything with my family again, you’re gonna know what it feels like to get punched to death twice. ¿Comprende?”

It was a threat Bill knew that Stan would hold himself to if necessary. One that Bill couldn’t help but feel a twinge of genuine fear towards as those final memories inside Stan’s head came rushing back to him.

And for a split second, Bill could almost feel the terrifying heat of the flames around them, creeping nearer and nearer as they swallowed every last bit of the room in their destructive wake—

One fatal mistake…

—only for a brief moment, before he flashed Stan another toothy grin. “But seriously, you should keep that beard. Maybe try and convince Sixer to shave his, I don’t know who I was kidding when I told him it looked good—”

His grin spread wider, once again revealing far too much of the inside of his mouth. “But then again, you might have a little trouble convincing him. Considering your poor track record in fixing mistakes.”

Stan punched him. Hard.

And when Bill crumbled with a shout, pain enveloping the area around his right eye that was sure to be bruised within minutes, Stan turned and stormed out of the room.

Yep—flew too close to the sun with that one.

— — — — — — —

Ford had barely made it out of the room before the stress of the situation brought him to his knees, and Stan entered the hallway to the sight of almost everyone else circled around him in an attempt to bring comfort.

Seeing him, Soos lifted his head. “So, is it really him?”

“Sure looks, sounds, and acts like it,” Stan said, pressing a weary hand to his temple. “Alright, so the guy who tried to take over the universe and who we thought was dead is now tied up in the next room, very much the opposite of dead.”

He took a sweeping glance around at the rest of the group. “...Does anybody have a game plan?”

From beside Ford on the floor, Mabel perked up. “What about that zodiac prophecy thingy Grunkle Ford tried to do during Weirdmageddon?” she asked. “Didn’t he say that was supposed to stop Bill?”

“Hey, yeah!” Stan snapped his fingers with an inspired look. “Great idea, Pumpkin, we could try that!”

“But don’t we need all of the symbol-things for it to work?” Soos pointed out. “And out of the original ten, we only have, like—” He paused to count heads. “—six of the people here that we’d need.”

From the spot near the wall where Wendy had seated herself, she lifted her head to join in on the conversation. “Well, then why don’t we just get the other four?” she asked. “I doubt it’d be hard to convince Robbie, Pacifica or the others to help us out. They probably hate Bill as much as we do.”

“We could also try the Quantum Destabilizer,” Dipper added thoughtfully, pressing a hand to his chin. “Grunkle Ford said it could blast Bill back into the Nightmare Realm, but I wonder if that would actually work without a rift to—you know, blast him back through.”

“What do you think, Dr. Pines?” Melody asked, directing the question at Ford.

And suddenly all eyes were back on Ford again, who had yet to move from the spot where he had collapsed after leaving the bedroom—too enveloped in his own overwhelming, smothering thoughts to take any notice to the others’ suggestions.

Bill was alive.

A scenario he had only envisioned in the worst of the nightmares that plagued his head on a nightly basis. A fear that lingered over him like the shadow of a starving predator, waiting to strike its unsuspecting prey when they least expected.

He had wanted to hope so dearly that he’d been dreaming when that child between the birch trees began to laugh in that horrific, familiar way. The bone-chilling laughter that often echoed through the deepest recesses of his mindscape, nothing more than a mere shadow of the one who had once produced it.

But this was no dream, no nightmare, nor a bad memory he could simply banish to the back of his mind—

Bill was alive.

“Dr. Pines?”

“The Zodiac Prophecy is a no-go,” he said, his words forming on their own as he returned to his feet. “The entire town believes that Bill is dead, and letting too many people know that he’s returned could ignite a panic.”

He cast a tense look around at everyone else. “One would argue that too many people know about his return already.”

“Hey, come on, I don’t think anyone here’s in a hurry to go blabbing about him,” Wendy pointed out.

“Regardless, it’s not a liable option at the moment,” Ford continued. “And unfortunately, neither is the Quantum Destabilizer. The only power source stable enough to power the device was only obtainable in another dimension, with the assistance of another another dimension’s Fiddleford McGucket—”

“Oh, yeah, that’s gonna be tough to get, then,” Melody spoke up. “Fiddleford's out of town for a few weeks with his family.”

“We had to put our weekly anime club meetings on hiatus until he got back,” Soos added sadly. “But, that gives all of us plenty of time to catch up on our latest show and discuss our thoughts once he’s back!”

Ford raised his hands. “Wait, that’s not what I—”

“Well, what about when he does get back?” Wendy asked. “I mean—like I said before, I doubt he’d be in a hurry to go blabbing to anyone else. Plus he’s probably smart enough to build anything we’d need to get rid of Bill.”

“Wait, I—”

“Yeah, yeah, good point, Wendy!” Stan said, waggling a finger at her. “The guy turned this place into a giant, robotic, triangle-punching whatchamacallit. He could definitely build some fancy-schmancy power source—”

“You’re missing the point!”

Ford’s fist hit the wall before he could even process his action, and suddenly the hallway was quiet enough to hear a pin drop. His frustration lingered for only a second, before he took a look at the concerned expressions around him—

—and the guilt swiftly drowned any other emotions that had been building inside his chest. “Sorry, that was—sorry,” he said quietly. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

Several pairs of shoulders unclenched as his arm fell back to his side, and Stan moved to him again. “Woah, woah, hey, come on, no one here’s about to judge you for swingin’ a fist,” he assured him. “Feel like outta anyone here, you deserve to do it the most.”

He flicked a thumb back at the bedroom door. “‘Sides, at least you held out as long as you could. I may have given the little jerk a—let’s call it a ‘welcome back gift’.”

A pause. “I…I gave him a black eye, that’s the joke I was trying to make.”

“Non-refundable gift,” Wendy said with a proud nod. “Nice.”

“Stan’s got a point,” Dipper added from Ford’s side. “It’s Bill Cipher. I feel like if anyone deserves to be angry right now, it’s you.”

“Yeah, sorry for uh—sorry if we sounded like we weren’t taking this seriously,” Soos added. “I know how dangerous he is, and Wendy and I even told Melody everything about him ahead of time. Just in case something like this ever happened, of course. A big bad returning during a moment of peace is a common trope in sequels, after all.”

He rolled his hands together. “And since this is the summer after he died…you know, sequel summer? Just…just sayin’, it wasn’t outta the realm of possibilities.”

“I wasn’t sure how much of it was actually true,” Melody admitted. “But also I’ve seen way weirder stuff in this town. So if you all say that kid in there’s actually an evil triangle demon bent on destroying the universe, then I’d believe it.”

“There, you see?” Stan added. “Ain’t nobody here to judge. You be as angry as you want, punch another wall or two if you really gotta.”

“Although if it helps you swing at them less, clearly we’re all on the ball when it comes to thinking of ways to put Cipher back under the ground where he belongs,” Wendy pointed out. “Maybe the stuff we already suggested won’t work, but putting our heads together like this will probably get us somewhere a lot quicker than when you were just doing this by yourself, y’know?”

“Once again, Wendy knows what’s what,” Stan agreed, and gave her a thumbs up. “If I were still your boss, I’d give you a raise.”

“...No, you wouldn’t.”

“No, I wouldn’t.”

He reached over to clasp a hand on Ford’s shoulder. “Point we’re tryin’ to make is that you’ve got your family here for you this time. You don’t have to deal with this alone again.”

“Yeah, Grunkle Ford,” Mabel agreed, casting him a weak smile as she once again tucked a hand into his own. “We’ll do everything we can to help you kick Bill’s butt again!”

Ford’s gaze fell to her face, sweet eyes wide with concern and small hands once again gripping his own tightly. He could feel them trembling, clearly masking just as much fear as he was harboring inside him—

—the same way his had trembled as he pulled the trigger on the memory gun, wiping every little trace of what made his brother himself from his mind.

He forced his gaze to the man at his right, eyes moving up to the face that mirrored his own to a near-identical degree.

The face of the man Ford had cried over for a week straight while he worked so tirelessly, so desperately to restore those lost memories. For whom he had dug out every last movie reel, scrapbook—even old postcards that Stan had sent during his travels across the country, and with whom he had spent several long night poring over the contents.

The man whose confused expression shifted to bright realization as the kids read out the jokes from his favorite joke book, jokes he would follow up with every terrible punchline with perfect recollection. The man who suddenly remembered his and Ford’s brush with the Jersey Devil mid-story, only to go on and tell the back half as if the two of them had only experienced it yesterday.

The man who had risked sacrificing all those precious memories, all of who he was for the sake of the world’s safety. For the sake of his family’s safety.

And now Bill was back, leaving that precious sacrifice nothing more than a pointless suffering for Stanley to have endured.

“I’ll figure out a way to stop Bill by myself,” he said suddenly, pulling his hand out of Mabel’s before turning to the others. “Someone’s going to need to stay up and keep an eye on him tonight anyway. I’ll use that time to come up with a plan, and we can reconvene tomorrow.”

He reached for the doorknob. “As for the rest of you, it’s late and you should be getting to bed.”

Everyone exchanged a series of unsure looks, which Stan vocalized with a: “Do you really expect the rest of us to just sleep while you deal with some all-powerful demon all night?”

“Also, do you really expect us to sleep at all with someone like that in the house?” Wendy added. “I mean, I know he’s kinda—”

She made a shrinking motion with her fingers. “—now, but this is the same guy that crawls through people’s heads like a kid in a Hoo-Ha Owl’s playplace, right?”

Ford looked to her, then the other adults with a raised eyebrow. “You said the rope had unicorn hair weaved into it?”

“Well, yeah,” Soos confirmed. “Plus we set up those moonstones, got you that mercury you needed—”

“We have a whole stash of everything in the storage room, too,” Melody added. “If you need any more of anything.”

“Then it should be enough to hold Bill in place for the night,” Ford said matter-of-factly. “And if it’s not—well, I’ll be enough to hold him in place for the night.”

Before anyone could question him further, the bedroom door was opened and shut behind him. Leaving the rest of them out in the hallway, the shrill and barely-muffled greeting of “Welcome back, Fordsy~!” in the bedroom only adding to the unsure aura surrounding them.

Despite the door being closed, Soos held up a hand to the side of his mouth. “Uh, okay! Good night, Dr. Pines!” he called. “Also if you’ve gotta shoot him, please aim the bullets away from Abuelita’s porcelain doll collection!”

Mabel finally let her arm—the one that she had kept outstretched even after Ford let go of her hand—fall back to her side with a dejected sigh. A look that Dipper immediately spotted and moved to her side to comfort her. “I’m sure he didn’t mean it,” he said reassuringly. “Ford’s just worried about Bill, that’s all. And he probably just wants us to stay safe.”

“Yeah, but he doesn’t need to go around makin’ himself unsafe to do that,” Stan said, pressing a hand to his head with an annoyed huff. “Is he out of his mind? What’s he thinking, dealing with all of this by himself?”

Everyone else exchanged a look. “Well, if he doesn’t want our help then…what should we do now?” Melody asked.

With a sigh, Wendy took a wide step away from the wall. “Guess we do what the doc said and try to get some sleep. Dibs on the couch as usual, by the way.”

With that, the shuffled on down the hallway, while the rest of the group silently watched her take her leave. Once she disappeared around the corner, Soos pointed towards a door on the opposite side of the hallway. “Uh, I dunno if it’ll help at all, but Melody and I sleep in the room next to Abuelita’s,” he said to Stan. “If you want, we can sleep in shifts and check in on Dr. Pines for you.”

“And if anything actually happens, one of us can come get you,” Melody added. “Leaving the other person down here to help him if he needs it.”

“Yeah!” Soos said, nodding in agreement. “If anything happens, we’ll come get you, okay?”

Stan hesitated to respond—as if the idea was anything but okay to him—but eventually he gave them a tired nod in return. “Alright, you two. Just keep an ear out for him.”

He leaned over and placed a hand on Soos’s shoulder. “And—should I not get here quick enough to do it myself—I give you my blessing to punch the pointy little jerk in my place.”

With a look of honor, Soos pressed a hand to his forehead in a salute. “I won’t let you down, Mr. Pines! I’ll even knock out a few of his teeth if I’ve gotta!”

“Good man, Soos,” Stan said, giving his shoulder a pat. “Now get.”

With Stan’s approval, Soos gestured for Melody to follow him to their bedroom. “I’ll be the one to come get you if we need to, then,” she assured Stan as they walked. “That’ll leave Soos open for—well, that.”

And soon their bedroom door closed behind them, leaving nobody but the remaining Pines in the hallway. And with a gruff sigh and the realization that they were the only ones left, Stan turned to face the kids.

Despite the reassurances from everyone else—and even each other—they had shuffled close to one another with their attention firmly locked on to the door of Abuelita’s bedroom. As if they expected Bill to come bursting out of it at any second.

Yep, that was about what he expected.

Another sigh brought Stan to his knees, and he gave the two of them a weak smile. “Well, you two knuckleheads heard everyone. Let’s head upstairs.”

The two exchanged an uncertain look. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Dipper asked.

“Yeah,” Mabel added. “I mean…it’s Bill.”

“If Ford’s so insistent on dealing with this by himself, then he’s probably got a couple of tricks up his sleeve to solve it by himself,” Stan pointed out, and reached over to lightly bap the top of Dipper’s hat. “It’s like you said, he probably just wants us to stay safe. And if he does need our help, then—well, he knows where to find us...”

Even he couldn’t bring himself to try and sound convincing by the end of his reassurances, but he gave both of them a nudge to move forwards before returning to full height. “In the meantime, let’s not give that demon the satisfaction of knowing he’s freaking all of us out and go get some rest, okay?”

After another look to each other, the younger twins eventually let themselves be lead down the hallway. Despite this, Stan counted at least three times where one of them would pause to look back towards the bedroom door, before they finally rounded the hallway corner and the room was barred from their line of sight.

The interior of the Mystery Shack had fallen silent by that point, save for the faint creaking of the wooden floor beneath their steps as they headed for and—after grabbing the bags they had dropped upon arrival—up the staircases that eventually brought them to the topmost floor of the shack.

Mere hours ago, the sight of the old attic would’ve been a nostalgic welcome back, like greeting an old friend after spending so long apart. And approaching the room at the far end would’ve been the equivalent of bringing that old friend into a warm hug.

Warm, friendly, welcoming—

But the air around the trio just felt so miserable as they slowed to a gradual stop outside the bedroom door, and Stan reached a hand to the doorknob. Rather than turn it immediately, he instead chose to direct his attention back at the kids.

Silent attention—as if he wanted to say something, but struggled to find the proper words.

After a few, long seconds, he spoke with an uneasy: “Hey, uh, if you kids need to—you know…” The hand on the doorknob moved to the back of his head. “You gonna be alright by yourselves up here? You know you can always join Wendy in the living room, or come bunk down with me if you really need to, or something—”

The younger twins looked to each other in silent consideration, until Dipper finally spoke up: “I…think we’ll be okay,” he said, although his shaky tone implied otherwise. “If we’re really that scared, we can always sleep in shifts.”

“Yeah,” Mabel added with a bit more optimism. “And—and we’ll lock our door and window—”

An oink at the staircase drew a pointed finger from her, aimed at the pig who had ambled up the stairs after them. “—and we also have Waddles as an attack hog if we really need him! We’ll be okay!”

Her shoulders fell. “Right?”

Dipper folded his arms with a feeble nod, hands tightly gripping the sides as if he were attempting to keep himself grounded with such an action. “Yeah, we’ll…we’ll be okay.”

Stan didn’t miss this, and knelt down in front of them. “Hey, you two listen to me, alright?” he said, moving a hand to each of their shoulders. “I may not know how the little demon got back or why he’s back at all.”

The hands moved to ruffle their heads. “But what I do know is that I ain’t gonna let him lay a hand on either of you or Ford,” he reassured them. “And I don’t care how long it takes or how many times we gotta kill him before he stays dead. We’ll squash him for good if it’s the last thing we do—”

He was suddenly cut off by Mabel flinging herself at him in a tight hug, with Dipper quickly following suit. Stan remained still for a few seconds, before he wrapped an arm around each of them to complete the hug. “Alright…we’re gonna be okay, okay?”

He forced a smile as the two of them broke the hug. “And hey, look on the bright side,” he continued. “With the puny size he is now, we could probably just step on the little jerk and actually squash him to death!”

Sure enough, his weak attempt to lighten the mood brought a small pair of smiles to their faces. “We could get a pair of really big shoes,” Mabel added, smile widening further as she made a stomping motion with her foot. “Just go squish, like he’s a gross cockroach under a boot!”

“Are you implying that he’s not a gross cockroach already?” Dipper asked with a weak laugh.

“Touché, but I like painting a clear, visual picture of my words,” Mabel explained. “It’s almost as fun as painting an actual picture! Ooh, I wonder if I should paint an actual picture of Bill with a cockroach body—?”

“Save that for tomorrow,” Stan said. “Right now, you two need to get some rest. You’ve got a whole summer to look forward to, and I ain’t gonna let you kids miss a second of it.”

He gave them a wink. “Even with a sudden triangle-shaped cockroach thrown into the mix.”

Both gave him a smile—much wider than before—in return before finally shuffling to the door and pulled it open, revealing the waiting bedroom on the other side.

Aside from a lack of almost any dust on the furniture—had that been Soos and Melody’s doing?—the bedroom had remained mostly untouched since the previous summer. A few scattered googly eyes rested on the floor beside a forgotten food bowl for Waddles on Mabel’s side of the room, while several crumpled pieces of paper still filled Dipper’s old wastebasket.

And while uncertainty and fear still lingered in the air as the kids stepped inside, a bit of that old, nostalgic warmth did seem to be sneaking its way around them in a reassuring embrace. A reassurance that despite the evening’s stress, this was still a place they could call a home away from home.

After one last little smile at Stan—one he returned in full—Mabel shut the door behind them. Stan continued to wordlessly stare at the door for a few minutes, attention focused on the clicking of the lock, then the creaking of the wooden floor on the other side.

When he was sure the sound had reached their beds, he finally turned and shuffled back towards—then down—the staircase, continuing onwards down the hall on the second floor until he reached the door to his own bedroom.

It was only once his hand touched the doorknob that his entire posture sank from exhaustion.

His hand once again lingered for a moment as he looked back towards the staircase that lead downstairs—before he shook his head and trudged on forward into the bedroom.

— — — — — — — —

It was barely an hour later when Stan firmly concluded that he was not falling asleep anytime soon.

How in the heck was he supposed to sleep at a time like this? Bill was back! The evil triangle demon that had tried to take over the town—town? Universe?—and had haunted his brother’s mind for literal decades!

Ford had always downplayed how much weight Bill truly held over his mind, always reassuring Stan that he was fine whenever the topic came up in conversation and was always quick to change the subject to something unrelated.

But if Ford really thought the guy who slept in the same cabin as him for months on end wouldn’t notice him crying out in his sleep—the names Bill, Cipher or both being shouted into his pillow with so much hatred and fear more times than Stan could count—then Stan had a bridge to sell him.

And if he really thought that he hadn’t picked up on the subtle little ways Ford would flinch or the way his mood would shift on occasion—probably due to some unearthed memories about Bill, ones that Stan so desperately wished he could just punch as hard as the guy who had burned them into his brother’s mind—then Stan had two bridges to sell him.

“But then again, you might have a little trouble convincing him. Considering your poor track record in fixing mistakes.”

With a grunt, Stan rolled over onto his back and squinted blindly at the ceiling. He didn’t trust the pointy little jerk as far as he could throw him but he’d raised a good point. What right did he have to stand—lie around and call Ford an idiot for not wanting to talk about Bill, especially when he’d been the one in charge of getting rid of Bill in the first place?

He felt his thoughts drift to the earlier events of the day, before all the Bill stuff had started. Soos’s wedding announcement, the tour of the new exhibits—

“The very weird point they’re to make is that none of this would’ve happened without you building the shack to begin with, Grunkle Ford. So in a way, a lot of this is because of you!”

“Well, we kinda have you to thank for the idea, Dr. Pines. You and the kids, of course.”

It didn’t bother him.

Really, it didn’t.

So what if Soos wanted to give Ford the credit for tying the knot with the girl he liked, or for giving them the smart-guy science methods to make the exhibits more exciting? Even if Ford was terrible at hiding his Bill feelings, at the very least he’d seemed pretty flattered by all the praise.

He’d felt appreciated, nostalgic over the new, science-y ways that Soos and Melody were bringing in customers. The kids were excited to be spending time with him this year.

Ford felt like he belonged.

What kind of jerk would Stan be to take that happiness away from him, especially after all the years that had been taken from him already?

At at the end of the day, it didn’t matter if people slapped Ford’s name over every single one of his own accomplishments. Honestly, after stealing his identity for three decades, Stan would willingly give up a few of his own accord if it made Ford happy.

If Soos wanted to give Ford credit for building the place that inevitably lead him to his fiancé—even if Stan had been the one running the place when Soos started working here—then fine. If him and the kids wanted to give Ford credit for the exhibit ideas—exhibits that were wildly improved from the two-bit slop Stan had been pushing for the past few decades—then fine.

It was fine.

But if there was one accomplishment that Stan thought nobody could take away from him, it was the ability to keep his family safe. Not just them, but Soos, Wendy—the entire town. They had all called him a hero, finally saw him as someone worth a darn—

At the end of the day, he had finally proven he was worth something to someone.

And then Bill came back, alive and unharmed. Stan had failed to kill him good and proper, and now he was back.

Now he was back, and now Ford and the kids had to spend their summer in fear.

Now he was back, and Stan was truly worthless again.

After staring at the ceiling for about ten more minutes—and waiting another ten minutes for his nightly body aches to settle—he fumbled for his glasses on the nightstand and swung his legs over the side of the bed. And with the groan of a man whose bones were older than he was, he pulled himself to his feet, trudged out of the room and headed down to the first floor of the shack.

The light of the TV stopped him at the living room doorway, and a quick peek into the room revealed that he wasn’t the only resident of the house who was still awake.

Despite the TV running some early morning infomercial for a cheap and useless product—one worth more than its share of that hyper-specific brand of scorn and mockery that only a snarky teenager could provide—Wendy’s attention was firmly glued to her phone as she tapped away at the keys.

At the sight of Stan in the doorway, however, she lifted her head with a curious look. “Couldn’t sleep?”

“Whaddaya mean? Clearly I’m sleepwalkin’.”

“Haha,” she said, snapping her phone shut. “Gonna try again with Dr. Pines?”

“You know it,” Stan said, and placed a hand on the doorway frame. “You, uh—you holdin’ up okay out here?”

“Psh, don’t even start,” Wendy said, waving him away. “I mean, sure, I’ve got my share of worries about that little megalomaniac being back—”

She flashed him a grin. “—buuuut I think a lot of ‘em were pretty evened out by the fact that I got to clunk him in the back of the head with a bat!”

“Oh yeah, that was great,” Stan agreed with a smirk of his own, before pressing his hands together in a squishing motion. “Isn’t it soooo satisfying? The little jerk talks suuuuuuch a big game, but you hit him once and he crunches like a soda can.”

Wendy cackled at that, although her expression fell again as she cast a glance upwards. “How’re the squirts handling it?”

Stan followed her gaze up to the ceiling. “Well, they’ve stayed in their room so far, so my money’s on ‘probably as well as they can with somethin’ like this.’”

“Mmm…”

She flipped her phone back open, fingers once again tapping at the keys. “At least they’ve got each other through all this,” she mused. “The two of them combined are some of the toughest and strongest kids I’ve ever met. No matter what happens, they’ll get through it so long as they stick together.”

“Yeah,” Stan agreed, with a glance back towards the hallway. “At least they’ve got that goin’ for them…”

Both fell silent for a moment, before Stan turned to leave. “If you hear any yellin’ going on down the hall, it’s because I’m trying to convince Ford to go to bed,” he told her. “If I succeed, make sure he actually goes up to bed, okay?”

“You got it, boss.”

— — — — — — — —

The room was silent, save for the scratching of pencil to paper as Ford continued to write.

Not for a lack of trying on Bill’s part; he had made several attempts to strike up a conversation with Ford already, but all had been shot down by either a menacing glare or the flash of the gun he kept within reaching distance.

And while neither were enough to completely shut Bill up, he did fall silent after the dozenth-or-so attempt to take advantage of the chance to gather his thoughts.

He’d agreed to play a game with that stupid duck and they’d plunked him back down in front of the shack. He assumed it had been right in front of the shack, at least; he did recall being greeted by the concerned faces of Mabel and Ford, along with some faint, blurry remarks about how he’d potentially fallen out of a tree—

—thank you, Birdbrain—

—but there was always a chance that they had stumbled across his body somewhere else and simply brought him to the shack to keep a closer eye on him.

Regardless of how it had happened or wherever those suckers had originally found him, he was back in town as Tangy had promised. Sure, it had been a sneaky drop off with several details of what that drop off entailed omitted. But at the same time, they had still kept their word.

And while Bill still had plans to dunk that silly little windbreaker of theirs in tuna fish—perhaps with the added flair of tossing in a bottle of itching powder, Melt-Your-Skin-Clean-Off-Your-Bones-Juice, and maybe a splash of lime for taste—he could at least respect how much effort they had put into getting him here at all.

Planned retribution aside…eh, game could recognize game.

And speaking of game—

His thoughts shifted to the deal they had agreed upon, sealed with both a handshake and a signature. Three months, they’d said. He had exactly three months to play. Three months to find all the pieces of their dumb trinket and put it all back together again, Humpty-Dumpty style.

He briefly considered the idea of not playing their game at all—out of sheer spite for their deviousness in getting him here—but the idea was discarded as quickly as it formed. Despite their underhanded methods to get him back to town, they had been very clear about how strictly they had to stick to their contract. And even if they’d been lying about the legitimacy of said contract, they had still foolishly locked themselves into a deal with Bill himself.

Whether or not they truly planned on upholding themselves to their side of their deal didn’t matter—if he won their little game, Bill would either have a destroyed barrier or a duck subjected to an eternity of slow-roasting over an over fire in the Nightmare Realm. Maybe in the case of the second option, such torture directed at another being would be enough to get his buddies off his back when he returned.

Heck, maybe he’d even get a spiffy new jacket out of the deal!

And that was simply the worst case scenario. Best case scenario, the barrier would be gone and no one would be able to stand in his way ever again.

And a prize that valuable was enough for him to humor the tacky idiot and romp around an annoyingly-familiar hick town in a meatsuit for a summer.

Even with his current situation, escaping wouldn’t be a difficult task to accomplish. Sure, he was tied so tightly to a chair that it would make Harry Houdini blush—he would know, he dabbled in a bit of dealmaking with the famous magician back during the height of his career—and the ropes apparently contained some of that fancy-schmancy unicorn magic that the household had used to protect the shack last year.

A fact that soured Bill’s expression for a brief moment, but at the end of the day, even a magically-laced rope was still just a rope. And any rope could be cut with the right tool, or by the right sucker.

The sound of paper being ripped from a notebook distracted Bill from his thoughts, and a mischievous grin poked at the corners of his mouth as he cast a look in the direction of his six-fingered warden—just as the discarded page was crumpled into a ball and tossed it into the unlit fireplace.

Well, a sucker by any other year was just as gullible—or whatever.

Sure, Bill knew Stanford Pines would rather chew off his own extra fingers than be unpromptedly helpful to him in any way, shape or form. But even if a few details about the bigger picture had to be omitted—it wouldn’t be the first time when it came to Stanford—there were always ways for Bill to get people to do what he wanted.

The scratching of pencil to paper began again, and Bill lightly tugged against the binds that held his wrists. Well, while there were always ways to get people to do what he wanted, even he knew it was highly unlikely that he’d manage to trick Ford into freeing him tonight. And the near-silence of the room was starting to become agonizingly dull.

To reiterate an earlier point, Bill Cipher was not the kind of triangle to sit and behave quietly if he had any say in the matter. Even if Ford was attempting to keep a lid on things now, there was always a way to annoy him into tossing out a few bits and pieces of information he had gathered in Bill’s absence. Perhaps some of that information would be of use to him.

Or maybe he would only succeed in getting the gun shoved in his cheek again.

Either way, the fifteenth attempt at starting a conversation was always the charm~!

“You know,” he began with a light kick of his feet. “I’m surprised you haven’t bombarded me with questions about how I got back yet.”

He saw Ford’s hand twitch in the direction of the gun, keeping his attention still firmly focused on his writing. “Don’t pretend you don’t want to, Fordsy!” Bill continued. “You and I both know for a fact that you’re a man beckoned by the call of the strange and bizarre.”

He winked at him with his good eye. “And let’s not kid ourselves; I’m the strangest and bizarre-est guy you know~!”

Another kick of his feet, his feet lightly bouncing against the chair legs. “Even if I no longer have access to your mind, I can tell you’ve got a billion questions about me buzzing around in that lump of wet meat you call a brain,” he continued. “Questions like ‘How did he get back?’ ‘Why is he human now?’ ‘Why, oh, why did I think that a simple memory gun would be enough to defeat someone as powerful, as amazing, as unstoppable as Bill Cipher?’”

Ford’s hand inched closer to the gun as Bill kept talking: “You must’ve felt so proud of yourself for that memory gun trick, by the way,” he went on. “I wouldn’t blame you if you did, it was a smart move that only a brainiac like you could’ve drummed up in the short time you had.”

A wink. “Well, lucky for you I’m not the kinda triangle to hold a grudge,” he continued. “In fact, I’d even be willing to answer a couple of those hypothetical questions for you! And to call us even, you can always just answer a couple of mine in return. Like what you’ve been up to in the past nine months~! Come on, I’ll bet you’re just dying to tell me all about how you grew that beard of yours!”

The hand wrapped around the grip, and Bill settled lower in the chair with a sigh. “Fine, I guess it was too much to hope for a chance to catch up with an old friend,” he said with a dramatic flair to his tone—

—one that immediately shifted into something far more malevolent. “But then again, I guess I wouldn’t find any of those around here, now would I?”

Bill paused, giving Ford him a few seconds to chime in—only to roll his eyes when he heard a click from the gun as Ford turned off the safety catch: “Oh, come on, Stanford, are you really telling me that you’d rather spend the entire night alone with your thoughts than to spend five minutes holding a conversation with me?”

“Yes.”

It was the first word, sans any threats, he’d managed to get out of Ford all night, and it was annoying enough for Bill to sink further against his restraints with a huff.

Not a defeated huff; if a stubborn, old fool not giving him what he wanted was enough to stop Bill Cipher, then he wouldn’t be Bill Cipher. If he’d possessed enough patience to wait eons for a functioning portal, then he could certainly possess enough to get a few words outta Ford over the course of a single evening.

And as soon as Ford stopped being so difficult—you couldn’t avoid talking all night, Sixer—he'd be in business.

The distant sound of floorboards creaking somewhere on the other side of the shack perked Bill up again with a look towards the ceiling. Guess the rest of the household was fighting back the urge to sleep with a stick.

The sudden lack of pencil to paper also caught his attention, gaze bouncing back to where Ford was seated. He hadn’t moved, but Bill could still see the pupils of his sunken-in eyes shift towards the door with mild curiosity.

Mild curiosity that vanished the second he realized Bill was watching him, and his focus immediately returning to his notes after clicking the safety back and leaving the gun where it rested.

Hmm.

“Fine, you don’t wanna talk about what you’ve been up to for the past few months?” he tried again. “Fair enough, I really didn’t wanna hear about it. Why don’t we talk about about something else, then? Like the kids, perhaps?”

The hand was back at the gun without pause.

“They’re looking well, older even. Or do they?—I’m still fuzzy on the details of the aging process of you mortals,” Bill continued. “Or if you don’t wanna talk about them, we could always talk about your brother. Can’t believe he’s still wildly swinging those fists around like a wild animal, especially when that didn’t even work the first time—”

The gun was ignored completely as Ford crossed the room in an instant, the vitriol behind his eyes hot enough to burn straight through Bill’s skin, blood, skull—his everything, until it bore a hole right through to the other side of his head.

A motion that made Bill jump against his better judgment—his blackened eye instinctively twitching as he remembered Stan’s earlier show of force—and for a fleeting moment, he expected another hand around his throat in seconds.

Before Ford could react proper, however, a loud knock pulled both of their attention to the bedroom door. After a silent breath of relief, Bill shot Ford a cheeky grin. “Sounds like you’ve got company~! Unless they’re here to see me, which—I mean, who could blame them if they were?”

Ford glared at him before turning back to the door. “Who is it?”

“Jersey Devil. Who d’you think it is?”

“...Come on in.”

The knob turned and Stan slowly entered the room, casting a silent look between the two of them before settling his gaze on Ford. “Just checkin’ in. How’s, uh—” he began, then paused. “—how’s everything going?”

He was clearly talking to Ford, and making an obvious effort to ignore the triangle-shaped elephant in the room. So naturally, Bill had to do everything in his power to make his presence as loud and obvious as possible.

“Everything’s peachy~!” he piped up, with another wiggle against his binds. “Ol’ Fordsy and I are having the time of our lives catching up on things! In fact, I think he was just about to tell me about what the kids have been up to for the past few months?”

He flashed Ford a wide grin. “Come on, Ford, I’ll bet they’ve shared a ton of stories with you~!”

Stan pointed a finger at him. “Hey, you’d better watch that mouth of yours, before I come over there and make it match your eyeball.”

“What, you’re gonna punch it?” Bill asked. “Go right ahead, I was just lamenting the fact that my mouth and eyeball are separated in this body.”

He giggled mischievously and flashed him a wide grin. “Your fist’s about the size of a mouth-sized eyeball, right? Just asking, because the second you swing it at these puppies—” He gave a warning snap of his teeth. “—I can’t promise that you’ll get it back.”

“Everything’s fine, Stanley. Go get some sleep.”

Ford’s tone was so scripted and hollow, like the words he actually wanted to say were being held back by a metric ton of steel. More than just the physical steel plate installed in his head, a whole dam of metaphorical steel was keeping the flood of Ford’s true thoughts at bay.

And judging by the way Stan’s features twisted with uncertainty at his brother’s words—only until he spotted Bill eyeing him and promptly shifted his expression into a look of disdain—there was clearly something keeping his own thoughts hidden as well.

Oh, it killed Bill to not know what they were thinking. To lack the ability to act as the metaphorical wrecking ball that could smash through all that steel in an instant, leaving him free to pry open every last little thought, rivet by rivet, bolt by bolt.

Well, at least he still possessed the ability to verbally taunt them~! “You heard the big guy, Goldfish~! Why don’t you run on back to bed while the adults talk?”

“Why you little—” Stan began, then paused with a look of confusion. “Goldfish, what—”

“Your sign in the Zodiac Wheel,” Bill elaborated. “You know—that little goldfish thing on your hat! Although I guess it could also be a reference to your constant desperation for fortune and fame, combined with your childish dream of dragging Sixer off on some ridiculous, insignificant boat adventure. You know, first part’s the gold, second part’s the fish?”

He tilted his head. “Of course, I could always call you Fez instead, but that just sounds silly. It’d be like calling Question Mark Shirt or Pine Tree…I dunno, Other Hat? Hmm, kinda like that, actually.”

“...Welp, that one’s on me for asking,” Stan said, and promptly turned his attention back to Ford. “I did need you for something, though. Apparently Soos found a few more moonstones that he said we should lay out in the hall—”

“Well, feel free to lay them there,” Ford said, making his way back to his chair. “One at each corner, evenly spaced…Probably a smart idea to stick one at the end of the hallway for good measure—”

“I really think we need your help with it,” Stan urged.

“Not if you follow my instructions.”

Bill’s eyebrows shot as far up his forehead as they could get, expression lighting up with sadistic glee. Oh, oh—they were fighting~! “Aww, I’m back for five minutes and you two are already at each other’s throats again!” he said with a mirthy twinkle in his eye. “Man, even after all this time, you Pines Twins still can’t get along!”

He began to rock back and forth in the chair with delight. “Come on, punch each other in the face!” he demanded excitedly. “Give Sixer a black eye that looks worse than mine!”

He stopped rocking for a moment, and cast a look down at the chair. “Hmm, I forgot that you mortals haven’t evolved to the point where you can hear the voices of inanimate objects,” he said. “I can’t even hear just how much this chair is probably screaming from the way I’ve been rocking it back and forth.”

With a cackle, he proceeded to rock back and forth even harder. “Hehe, I’ll bet the guy’s absolutely livid right now—ACK!”

The chair suddenly tipped over and crashed—Bill and all—to the floor with a loud clatter. With his limbs too restrained to catch himself in any dignified fashion, Bill quickly found himself with his face squished into the lavender rug near Abuelita’s bed.

Both Ford and Stan stared at him for a moment, their disagreement temporarily forgotten at Bill’s misfortune. However, Stan snapped back to reality first and took advantage of the other two being distracted long enough to pull Ford towards the door and out into the hallway.

Bill barely had time to bark out an irritated: “Hey, get back here and pick me up!” before the door was pulled shut behind them. With a irritable huff, he attempted to rock the chair again in the hopes of adjusting to a more comfortable angle.

And after a moment of struggling, he finally succeeded in rolling the chair onto its—and by extension, his—back. Leaving him completely flat on the floor with his gaze pointed upwards at the ceiling.

Well, at least this angle was more familiar.

— — — — — — —

“Stanley, I said—”

“I know what you said,” Stan replied, closing the door shut behind them. “But you know I’m gonna try and make you sleep tonight, right?”

“And you know I’m not going to do that, right?”

“Ford—”

“How on Earth am I supposed to sleep with Bill still alive?!”

It was like something had finally crashed right on through whatever wall Ford had built up in his mind, the stress he had tried desperately to repress all evening spilling out of him in an instant. “The memory gun should’ve worked,” he muttered in a panicked tone. “It…it destroyed everything in your mind, right?”

“Well, yeah, everything—” Stan began. “But—”

“There had to have been something he did, something that protected him,” Ford rambled on, mostly to himself. “Was it a spell? Some kind of failsafe? Did he catch onto our plan—”

“Woah, woah, hey, just breathe for a sec,” Stan interrupted. “Yeah, this is exactly why you’ve gotta let someone else babysit the little jerk while you get some sleep. You’re not gonna get anywhere if you’re too tired to think straight.”

And maybe if Ford got some sleep, he could shift some of the burden to Stan’s shoulders where it belonged. Yeesh, the poor guy had really been holding back earlier. Had he really been this stressed all evening?

…As if Stan needed to ask.

“You’d be surprised at what I can accomplish during an all-nighter,” Ford assured him. “Back in my college days, I once started a twenty-thousand-word essay at ten in the evening, and had it on the professor’s desk by six the next morning.”

He pressed a hand to his forehead. “And when you first arrived here to help me hide the journals, I believe was on my fourth consecutive day of staying awake.”

“Fourth?!” Stan sputtered in disbelief, before he shook his head. “No, no, just gonna ignore that for now—it’s not like I got any room to talk when it comes to bad sleep schedules. But also you are not staying up four days to deal with this by yourself.”

He reached over to place a reassuring hand on Ford’s shoulder. “Come on, Stanford, let me help you,” he urged. “At least go get an hour of sleep. I’ll stay down here, keep him quiet—heck, I’ll duct tape his mouth shut if he gets too mouthy with me.”

He balled his free hand into a fist and thumped it against his own chest. “Let me help you put that pointy jerk twenty feet back under the ground, and make it stick this time!”

Ford’s eyes fell to the hand on his shoulder and followed it up to the desperation in his brother’s features.

An expression near identical to the one he had worn after being blasted by the memory gun. Confusion mixed with a desire to understand…

It was like they were back in that clearing in the woods, the natural warmth of the sun draping itself back over the town, after the blood-red skies of Weirdmageddon had barred it from sight for so long. Stanley kneeling in front of him and the kids in a dazed trance, no recollection of whom he was or the sacrifices he had just made.

All of which he had assured Ford was worth the risk while they swapped clothes back in the Fearamid, beneath the wretched tapestries of the remaining Zodiac members, an ear perked on both ends for Bill’s thundering footsteps reapproaching the main room.

But had it been? Had it been worth the risk?

Up until Mabel’s scrapbook method, they had no way of knowing that Stanley would’ve been able to return to his usual self. And as far as they knew, that cure only worked when presented with the memory gun’s effects.

What if Stanley got involved again, only for something worse to happen to him than lost memories? What if he couldn’t simply be scrapbooked and home movie’d back to his usual self again this time around?

What if—

“Yeah, well, if they keep on bein’ that thrilled, you’re gonna have to bust out that necromancy spell to talk to me.”

“I’ve made up my mind, Stanley,” Ford said, and turned back to the door. “You go get some sleep.”

“Wh—Ford!”

His brother’s name fell on deaf ears as Ford promptly open and shut the door behind him. Stan continued to stare at the closed door, too dumbfounded to properly react.

Ford really didn’t want his help with Bill? He could understand sending everyone off to bed earlier, but he was still turning down his help when it was just the two of them?

He raised a hand to the doorknob, the temptation to try and properly sway Ford into letting him help rising in his chest—

“Mr. Pines?”

Stan nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound of a voice from the other bedroom in the hallway, and he turned to see Soos standing in the doorway. “Everything alright? …I don’t have to punch anyone yet, do I?”

With an exhale, Stan forced his hand back to his side again. “Yeesh, Soos, don’t sneak up on me like that or I’m gonna be the one who starts swinging. But nah, everything’s fine. Just thought I check in on Ford, is all.”

“Alright,” Soos said with a small smile as he held up a fist of his own. “But I swear, I will throw a punch if I need to! I made a promise, after all.”

He paused, and switched the fist to another hand. “Although maybe I should use this hand,” he said thoughtfully. “Don’t wanna accidentally break my Shack-Brochure-and-Fanfic-Writing hand on his face, you know what I mean?”

He swapped back to the first. “Although it’s probably better to use your dominant hand to punch—”

“Go to bed, Soos.”

“You got it, Mr. Pines!”

He shut the door, leaving Stan once again by himself in the quiet hallway.

Stan cast a look back to the door in front of him, his hand moving towards the doorknob again.

The same way it had when Ford had called him to the shack all those years ago, eyes bloodshot and features sunken from a lack of sleep—four days, Ford?!—and he’d showed up without a second thought to help.

Despite all the time they had spent apart, Ford had relied on him enough to seek out his help. Despite everything, Stan had still held some worth in his brother’s eyes.

And how had Stan proven that worth to his brother?

By tossing him through some massive, otherworldly portal for thirty years, stealing his identity, and ruining his life.

By getting huffy over a simple thank you and nearly dooming the entire universe.

“But then again, you might have a little trouble convincing him. Considering your poor track record in fixing mistakes.”

By not doing the one thing that had actually granted him worth, and killing that stupid demon proper.

He slammed his hand back down to his side again in a balled fist, and headed back down the hallway.

Forget it, he’d try again tomorrow.

— — — — — — —

“So, how’d the fight go~?”

Not even Bill’s shrill tauntings could pull Ford out of his determined state as he returned to his chair and notebook, the tip of his pencil once again dancing across the paper with incredible speed.

From the floor where he’d fallen earlier, Bill cast him a sour look. “Oh, real mature, Sixer. You’re really not going to pick me up?”

Ford’s hand clenched tighter around the pencil as he went to scratch out his latest idea—one that joined the dozen other scribbled-out ideas above it—before moving down to the next empty row on the paper and starting again—

“Uh, hello? Stanford? I’m talking to you!”

Talk then, you vile little demon.

The tip of the pencil snapped and Ford was unable to bite back his frustrated grunt of surprise. Right on cue, a cackle started from the floor as he reached for a pencil sharpener. “Hehe, I heard that~!” Bill chimed in a singsong voice. “Guess we know who lost the fight, eh, Grumpypants~?”

Ford paid him no mind as he quickly sharpened the pencil back into a point and returned to his work with that fierce determination from before.

No matter how many scribbled-out ideas he had to toss into the fireplace, he was going to find a solution to this problem.

No matter how long it took, no matter how much he had to verbally endure at Bill’s hand again—

—he would make certain that his brother’s sacrifices hadn’t been in vain.

“...Okay, seriously, are you going to leave me down here all night?”

— — — — — — — —

Mabel couldn’t sleep.

Ever since she’d settled into bed—a snoozing Waddles curled up at her side—her eyes had stayed glued to the ceiling. At first she’d tried distracting herself by holding mental conversations with the mold spots permanently stained into the old wood, but not even Daryl could lift her spirits at a time like this.

Every few minutes, her gaze would move to the bed across the room, a question lingering on her tongue for a moment before she returned her attention to the ceiling.

It was around midnight before she finally vocalized her lingering question with a quiet: “You awake, Dipper?”

Her answer immediately came in the form of blankets shuffling as Dipper rolled over to face her. “Of course I am.”

She rolled over to face him proper as well, both pairs of eyes shifting to the triangular window of their room. The moon hung high in the night sky, its beams of light shining through the glass and illuminating the floor in a way that would normally be comforting.

Tonight, however, the sight of an eye-shaped object through the triangular frame was just a painful reminder of what waited for them just a few rooms below.

“I can’t believe he’s back…”

Dipper turned his gaze from the moonlight and back to his sister at the sound of her voice. “Did you see Grunkle Ford?” she asked quietly. “He was so scared…”

“I don’t blame him,” Dipper admitted, placing a hand to his forehead. “We went through all of that trouble to kill Bill, and it didn’t even work.”

He slid the hand down to cover his eyes, but immediately lifted it again to peek over at her. “Hey, you saw it, right? How much he looked like me…”

There was more shuffling—this time on Mabel’s end—as she sat up in bed completely. “It was like when I saw him during the puppet show,” she said, pulling her legs to her chest. “Except the hair and eyes were different this time around. His left eye wasn’t all—”

She covered her own left eye with one hand. “His hair color’s different this time, too. I wonder why?”

“Who knows?” Dipper said with a shrug. “Although I guess meeting—or re-meeting a guy who looks like me isn’t the weirdest thing to happen in this town, huh?”

“Yeah, I guess,” Mabel agreed. “Still…why’d it have to be that guy? Why does he have to ruin everything?”

A sad hum escaped her as she hugged her knees close. “So much for getting to spend more time with Grunkle Ford this summer…”

Dipper let his arm fall before he sat up in bed. “Hey, come on, you really think it’s gonna take all summer for Grunkle Ford to get rid of Bill?” he asked. “He’s spent the last thirty years traversing the Multiverse! He’s explored more dimensions than we could probably even think of on our own—dimensions where everyone lives underwater, dimensions ruled by talking robotic octopi—”

When Mabel plopped sadly back against her pillow again, Dipper paused for a moment to think. “—dimension where the air is made of cotton candy instead of oxygen?”

As he’d expected, the concept twitched the corners of her mouth with mild amusement. “Ugh, I’ll bet that dimension is soooo tasty,” she said. “I wonder what they do when it rains, though? All the cotton candy would just melt and then they’d have no air—ooh, I’ll bet they have like, a ga-ZILLION of those cotton candy-making machines ready for when that happens!”

“Anything’s possible in the Multiverse,” Dipper said with a nod. “My point is that Grunkle Ford’s been around, and he’s probably picked up a lot of different ways to get rid of Bill! Even if the methods he’s tried already didn’t work—and even if we can’t use stuff like the Zodiac or his Quantum Destabilizer—I’m sure he’s got something up his sleeve.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right. And if none of those work, we could always come up with some ideas for him! Like—like—”

She flumped her arms across her blanket with an exasperated huff. “Well, I’m too tired to think of anything now, but I’m sure we could think of something!” she said, scrunching her face in concentration. “What if we…I dunno—”

“Oooh!” Dipper snapped his fingers with inspiration. “What if we got one of those time travel devices, strapped one to Bill, and then rocketed him to a date so far into the future that he’d never be able to get back to our time?”

Mabel pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle a giggle, but her amusement faded almost immediately. “Nah, that wouldn’t work. He could always trick and possess someone super far in the future, and they could help him get back here,” she pointed out. “Like what he did with that Blendin guy, remember?”

“Oh, yeah…”

The two fell silent again, the only noise that could be heard was the gentle summer wind rustling the forest outside their window. “We should probably sleep for real,” Dipper finally said. “We can just…do what we told Grunkle Stan we were going to do and take shifts, right?”

“Well then, you sleep first,” Mabel said, once again in an upright position as she reached over to pull Waddles close to her. “And like I said I was gonna do, I’ll let Waddles stay on your side and be your guard hog while you sleep.”

Waddles followed up her remark with a groggy little oink of reassurance, and Dipper let out a chuckle. “Yeah, and what’s he gonna do if Bill pops up in my dream?”

“I mean, you can always dream up a dream Waddles to eat him,” Mabel suggested. “He looks like a corn chip, right? I’ll bet dream corn chips taste just as good as real ones!”

She plapped a hand against the top of Waddles’ head. “Plus then when you wake up, you’ll have the real Waddles right there to comfort you!”

This got a full-on laugh out of Dipper. “Alright, alright, point made. Send him over.”

Mabel leaned over the side of the bed and gently set Waddles to the floor, giving his little rump an encouraging pat. “Go on, boy! Go protect Dipper from the dream nacho!”

With another tired little oink, he ambled on over to Dipper’s side of the bedroom and oinked up at him for assistance. “Go ahead and set an alarm on your phone, Mabel,” Dipper said, and reached down to pull him up onto his bed. “What should we set it to? An hour? Hour-and-a-half?”

“An hour works for me,” Mabel said. “But if you don’t actually sleep for that hour, I will not hesitate to stay up longer out of spite!”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m sleeping…”

Dipper settled back down under the covers while Waddles snuggled up next to him, and it wasn’t until Mabel heard Dipper’s light snoring that she finally dared to tear her gaze from him and reach for her phone.

That was good. At the very least, he’d be getting some sleep tonight.

She looked to the window again—the moonlight still faintly illuminating the darkened room—and crawled out of bed to stare outside properly. Despite the tall trees that surrounded the shack on all sides, there was little to block the ocean of stars that painted the night sky.

After staring for a bit, she turned and crawled back into her bed. With another look at her brother to make sure he was still asleep, she dug her hand between the mattress and wall, the tip of her tongue poking out between her lips in determination as she fumbled around for the unseen object she sought so desperately.

She knew it was a longshot that it would’ve remained in the same place for nine months—given the dustless state of their room, Soos would’ve been the most likely candidate to find it if he searched-slash-cleaned hard enough—but eventually her fingers brushed against something and she pulled it out to investigate.

It was an old, dusty piece of paper, the same one she had crumpled and tucked in its hiding spot almost a full year ago. The edges were frayed and torn and the tint of the paper was a sicklier yellow than she remembered—but the jagged writing on the front was still just as legible as the day she’d found it in Stan’s car:

“Note to self: Possessing people is hilarious! To think of all the sensations I’ve been missing out on—burning, stabbing, drowning. It’s like a buffet tray of fun! Once I destroy that journal, I’ll enjoy giving this body its grand finale—by throwing it off the water tower! Best of all, people will just think Pine Tree lost his mind, and his mental form will wander in the mindscape forever. Want to join him, Shooting Star?”

Mabel stared hard at the paper for what felt like an hour—although in reality, it was probably no longer than a few minutes. She read and reread several times over, every cruel word like a knife to her vision and gut, before finally crumpling the paper in an angry fist and shoving it back down between the wall and her mattress where it belonged.

She settled back against her pillow again, and turned back to Dipper’s bed. Still fast asleep, with nothing more than the occasional twitch or shift in place.

He was sleeping, supposedly without nightmares. That was all that mattered.

She continued to stare at him until the sight made her drowsy, before turning her attention back to the various mold spots on the ceiling.

Daryl was going to have to work overtime tonight if he really wanted to lift her spirits.

#Hayley Writes Triangulum #Gravity Falls #Triangulum The Fic #Bill Cipher #Stanford Pines #My Writing #Long Post #(More characters in the chapter; they are just tagged for the art)#(Stan and Mabel get some decent screentime in this chapter as well)

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necroromantics · 8 months

Text

🧺 — Laundry And Taxes

chapter 14. // (masterlist)

(AN: SORRY For the lack of updates, life has been very hectic lately and I haven't been too confident in my writing/story-telling skills so I have been slacking fr. I can't say Ill be posting regularly again, but I AM NOT abandoning the fic. L&T will get its ending eventually, thanks for sticking around 🫡 Enjoy)

The afternoon sun beamed down as a crowd of people swerved around the dramatic scene which had been playing out in the midst of the bustling winter market. The girl, who Toby knew as Nina Hopkins, collapsed into Natalie’s arms, nearly sobbing about how much she had missed them.

“It’s so good to see you two are alive!” Nina spoke out, clinging to Natalie’s body, which had tensed up like a nervous cat.

“You’re causing a scene,” Toby muttered lowly, glancing at the people who were giving strange looks as they passed by the teens.

“Let her do her thing, Toby,” Natalie scolded quietly, patting the girl on the back with an awkward fondness.

Toby shuffled in his place uncomfortably, shoving his hands into his sweater pocket as he waited for the girls to be done with their heartfelt reconnection, secretly hoping to himself that Nina wouldn’t have any tears left for him. The boy looked over the sea of people rushing by, and then down, to see a little boy clinging to Nina’s side. He looked to be about 9 years old, with neat brown hair, and he quietly glanced around with a subtle sort of embarrassment.

“Who the fuck are you?” Toby spoke out at the child, catching his attention, and Nina’s, who glared at the older boy as she slapped his arm.

“That’s my little brother, you jerk.”

“Oh, so that's why he looks like that.”

The group of eccentric teens pushed through the market as they exchanged casual conversation, splitting off from the crowd in the snowy streets of the market, and made their way into the Bulldog Tavern. The atmosphere was a relaxed contrast to the midday busyness of the town outside, and there was no one in the empty tavern but the four youths who sat themselves down around a table. The overhead lights draped over the room, a soft golden glow, shining off of the wooden floorings and bottles of alcohol sitting untouched on the shelf behind the bar. It smelt like rye whiskey and firewood, and only the bubblegum-pitched sound of Nina’s voice rang throughout the room.

She explained that she had found herself in the new world with her back pressed against the same bed she had slept in when she was a teenage girl, in mid-October. Confined by the same poster-filled walls she had once torn down, to escape into the arms of a man who didn't care if she lived or died, in another world. When she found herself back in her mother's house, Nina had come to the understanding that even after she ran away, even after all the atrocities she had seen and done, she hadn't lived a life any different from the one she had lived as a 16 year old girl. She still tied her hair back with ribbons, and she still smudged her mascara. She still wanted to find Jeff, and she still wanted to be loved.

The scars that once etched itself out from the corners of her mouth had washed away, alongside the chemical burns that previously littered her body. Nina rubbed her hand over her arm, a melancholic smile painted onto her teenaged face. She looked softer, healthier, than Toby remembered. The girl radiated the same type of glow as rave lights; flashing, headache-inducing.

Nina explained that as soon as she made an ounce of sense of the world she woke up in, she began to obsessively search for answers.

“So what about Jeff?” Toby blurted out, asking the question Natalie dreaded to ask. Nina blinked for a moment, a layer of uncomfortable silence dancing around the bar, then she awkwardly laughed to herself.

“Oh, yeah, I’m totally over him. I did a ton of digging but couldn't find anything on him, so I don't know if he even exists here. It’s whatever.”

“Well that's a relief. We’re all better off without him here anyways,” Toby said as Nina’s painted nails twiddled with the ends of her hair, which had been tied up with a purple ribbon. He crossed his arms over his chest in irritation as Natalie nudged him to shut his mouth, and leaned into the conversation.

“So what's your plan now?”

“Oh my god, I don't even really have a plan. I just had to get away from my mom and stepdad, and crazy enough, I found out where Clocky stayed, so I took Chris and ended up here.”

The little boy sat silently beside his older sister, looking around at the desolate bar, trying not to think too much about the strange things she had been discussing with the two others who were sitting across the round, walnut-wood table. Nina glanced over at her little brother, placing her cheek on the palm of her hand, as Toby leaned over towards Natalie, and whispered to the girl about how she's too easy to find, which earned him another rough elbow into his side.

“I was actually going to ask if we could, like, stay with you guys for a bit? Just until I get a job!” Nina squeezed her hand closed, and anticipation buried itself onto her sun-browned cheeks, and into her bright eyes. She sounded desperate, maybe a bit hopeful, as she pleaded to her two old friends.

“No.” Toby quickly shut down, before being brushed off by the girl next to him.

“You can stay with us, but with a few conditions.”

Natalie crossed her slender arms atop the table, laying down the rules of their stay as the older boy sulked, sinking angrily into his seat. The conditions were that the siblings both had to enroll in school, help around the house, and Nina had to actively look for a job. All of which, to Toby’s dismay, were ones the eccentric girl across from them agreed to with a wide smile on her face.

The February frost mingled on the worn, decaying front porch step of the small farmhouse, and only the sound of ragged sneakers and winter boots stomping off excess snow spread out over the quiet, white winter fields as the four youths made their way inside. Nina held stars of awe in her eyes as she looked out at the vast countryside property, and a girlish sort of excitement as she followed her friends through the dim hallways of the house, only lit by the sun shining through the icy window panes. Chris followed closely behind, he didn't say anything at all, but he took in the chipped gray-blue wallpaper, the lifted old wooden floorings that squeaked under his weight, and the smell of something dead, like cigarette smoke. There was a strange sense that there had been something lively here once, maybe a family, maybe a boy his age who would run through the halls as his mother cooked dinner, or an elderly couple who never wore their rings, waiting for the day the other passed.

The little boy ran his hand along the walls as he wandered behind his older sister, not bothering to listen in to the conversation she held with the two strangers who showed them where the bathroom was, then the kitchen, then the living room. Then, they came to the old art room where Chris and Nina would be sleeping. When the older boy opened the creaky door for them, there was a grand reveal of nothingness. A completely empty space; like a blackhole had swallowed the life out of the room one night, and never spat it back out.

“You’ll have to sleep on the floor for right now, at least until you can afford mattresses,” Toby said, gesturing his hand out at the lack of furniture.

Nina waltzed into her new bedroom, and Chris hesitantly followed after her, uncomfortable. He tugged on her coat to catch the girl's attention, and whispered to her, a horrible confession of sorts.

“I don't wanna live here, Nina. I don’t wanna sleep on the floor.”

The girl had a rich history of sleeping on forest grounds and dirty carpets in the old world; so often, that sleeping on the floor was just another thing she had grown accustomed to, alongside the stench of blood and rot. It was almost more comforting to Nina than the bed she'd woken up in when she came to the new world. She was grateful to have a roof over her head, and told Chris to be as well, ignoring his complaints.

Natalie threw down a couple of pillows onto the floor, and a few blankets she found tucked away in her bedroom closet. The sun outside the window had begun to hide itself behind the winding hills of the farmland, the orange-red skies reflecting off of the glistening snow as the room darkened. The forest trees in the distance stood tall, still, and branched over the warm gleam of the horizon.

“This should be good for tonight. Let me know if you need anything else, alright?” Natalie said with her hands on her hips, looking down at the two guests sitting in their makeshift beds.

“Thanks so much, again, seriously. You're a lifesaver Clocky,” Nina smiled at the tall girl as she curled herself under the blanket, her dark hair sprawled over her shoulders and pillow.

“Just call me Natalie,” she replied as she turned to leave the room, flicking off the lights, leaving only the dim glow of the sunset draping itself on the floor over the pair of siblings, and reflecting from the girl's tired eyes.

“Night, Natalie.”

“G’night, Nina.”

As promised, through the course of the early February days, Nina had enrolled Chris in the small elementary school in town. But instead of finishing her high school education, the girl had focused entirely on getting a full-time job. She would sit for hours at the old library computer, and perfect her resume, before handing it out to every retail store and salon she could find. The winter frost kissed her cheeks as she buried her chilled face into her wooly scarf, mitted hands hugging her body for warmth as she made her way back to the tiny farmhouse, nearly every day.

Eventually, as her friendship with Lady Luck would bring, Nina had found herself working at a clothing store in the smalltown mall. Cursed with the boredom of a 9-5, but thrilled with her first legal paycheck. And the first thing she bought: a pair of new shoes she had kept an eager eye on from the boutique the girl had spent time window-shopping, which instead cursed her with sore feet, and a scolding from Natalie about her poor financial decisions.

Toby tossed a piece of chopped wood into the dying flames of the fireplace, listening to the crackle as the lumber began to be overtaken by the eager fire, and watching as it burned to char. The sparks danced, scorched, in his eyes; the color of pinewood being set ablaze. The boy remained still for a moment, and witnessed, with a sort of hunger that he couldn't quite name. Then, he heard the sound of the front door creaking open, and the sound of little footsteps stomping off snow. Both Nina and Natalie had been kept busy at their jobs that awful season, and sometimes Nina would stay late into the evening, leaving Toby to watch over Chris after the young boy had returned from school.

Chris quietly shuffled into the livingroom, and sat on the couch, reaching for the TV remote, and turning it on. The blare of the television overtook the room with a laugh track from an early-evening sitcom, and Toby looked over at the child who’s gaze was glued to the show. He stared at Chris’s face for a moment, his full cheeks like his sister, neat brown hair, big brown eyes that haven't yet seen half of the world in its tainted glory. Toby turned to look down at the boy’s hands, which settled around the remote mindlessly, and how his legs were too short to touch the floor as they dangled over the edge of the couch. A bright, wide smile crept onto Chris’s face as he exhaled out a repressed laugh at the juvenile joke on TV, followed by another ear-scorching laugh track.

There was a sick sort of feeling gripping the older boy’s chest as he eyed the child next to him with furrowed brow, and he couldn't help his face from scrunching in a sort of disgust, or anger, or guilt. The only thing Toby could think of, was the guttural sobbing of the mother he had witnessed that dead winter night, through the shattered window, watching as she held the body of her child, wailing, pleading to a God they both knew wasn't listening. And when Chris laughed again, at another childish joke on that blaring TV, boyhood resting innocent in his eyes. Toby could only picture him dead.

The older boy quickly stood to his feet, placing a hand over his stomach as a wave of disease and dizziness overtook him. Chris glanced over at Toby with an unassuming concern, but didn't say a word, and watched as the teen stormed out of the livingroom.

Toby had begun to develop an unfortunate habit over the days of avoiding the little boy. He hid in bed to avoid looking at Chris, because he didn't want to look in his eyes and see the terrified, pleading eyes of the children he had to kill before him. He covered his ears, because he didn’t want to hear the soft, quick, tiny footsteps of the boy wandering the halls outside of Toby’s bedroom; unseen, like a ghost, haunting him. And soon thereafter, Toby had begun to make home with the snowy forest landscape outdoors, ignoring his ice-bitten hands, because it was better than facing punishment in child-form.

He laid himself back in the snow, and stared up at the cloudy afternoon skies. Gray and dark, as if there had been a forest fire, and the smoke had spread over the wide heavens. But the woods around the boy remained quiet, only interrupted by the occasional deer running past, or rabbit. And everytime an animal would rustle through the frost, or a twig would snap, Toby would jolt up, heart beating, looking around for the source of the sound, before collapsing back down into his white, cold cradle. He sighed deeply as his heart slowly settled after another twig-snapping scare, and looked up at the dead tree branches towering over him, reaching across the gray skies. The boy felt his eyes grow heavy, and tired, and when he stretched his arms up, he noticed how red his fingers had gotten, nearly blue with chill. Toby let out a groan of irritation at the condition of his hands, and pulled himself to his sore feet, brushing the snow off his sweater as he made his way towards the warmth of the farmhouse.

Toby huffed out hot air into his palms, and rubbed them together before going to open the backdoor, entering into the kitchen. The first thing he saw was the sniffling boy sitting on the floor by the dinner table, and then he saw the blood. Toby didn't quite understand physical pain, but he was taught from a very young age that blood meant injury, and injury meant something bad had happened. Toby looked down at Chris who shied away in shame, rubbing his teary eyes, and turning his bleeding forehead away from the olders gaze. There was a violent sort of feeling that rushed through Toby’s body, a loud irritation, frustration, and his lip twitched.

“Get the fuck up, stop crying,” he shouted out, gesturing the boy to stand up, which he did.

“You hit your head on the table? Are you fucking stupid?” Toby yelled at Chris, who didn't say a word.

For a second, Toby could only look down at the child, and see his 9 year old self looking back up at him. Angry, and so small. And for a second, Toby could only look up, and take a deep breath in, and try not to think of his father. He stood tall across from Chris, who’s gaze remained firm at his feet, and there was no more shouting. Toby’s hand slowly made its way down to the hatchet that sat on the holster of his belt, and gripped the handle for a moment. He stared down at the little boy, half-imagining his younger self who he had killed long ago, alongside many other little boys, because it had to be done, and Toby realized something horrible. Standing over the child, his hand gripping the hatchet handle, the frustration that steamed off his sun-spotted shoulders — he was in control. And even worse, Toby had been in that place many times before, and he made his own decisions, and it haunted him, and now, the ghost stood quiet before him, in the form of a child choking back tears. A child that sort of looked like him.

Toby took a deep breath, inhaling the early evening sun, which had already begun to set, and the musk of the old kitchen. He knelt down, and met Chris’s height, and raised his hand off the hatchet handle, to which the little boy fought against a flinch at the movement.

“Alright,” Toby spoke quietly, “How bad is it?”

Chris sat still on the wooden dining room chair, his feet unable to touch the ground, as he tried not to look at the older boy who shuffled through an old first-aid kit he had found under the bathroom sink. He pulled out peroxide, and a large bandage, and turned to face the boy.

Toby pushed back Chris’s hair from his forehead as he washed the small wound out, holding his head firmly in place as he winced.

“Quit moving, I gotta clean it out,” he muttered as blood gathered on the wet cotton ball he patted gently over the cut. He examined the wound over again, before peeling open the bandage, and placing it onto the boy’s forehead.

“You’ll be fine,” Toby awkwardly reassured as he finished up, avoiding the boy’s uncomfortable glances and turning around to put the supplies away.

“I know,” Chris muttered quietly, “my stepdad's hit me worse.”

Toby quickly stopped, his hands remaining still on the edges of the first-aid kit he had been packing back up. His heart sank deep into his chest, like it was revolted, or stabbed. He looked over at the little boy, who had not only spoken to him for the first time, but had confessed something, like he was on his knees in his bedroom at midnight silently asking God for help. Toby slowly made his way back over towards the child who sat uncomfortable, a bit sad, on the dining room chair.

“Uh, listen, Chris,” Toby stumbled over his words, trying to find something, anything to say. There was something small buried within him that wanted to be heard, something that had been beaten down for so long, that began to crawl, and scratch, and fight its way out of his throat. Toby sat down next to the boy, and there was a subtle, silent ambiance that settled over the two boys, battered and wartorn.

“I’m sorry,” Chris whispered.

“It’s not your fault,” Toby whispered back.

Natalie slipped off her work shoes as she entered the quiet house, darkened by the evening. She listened to the muffled sound of the TV playing cartoons from the livingroom as she shuffled tiredly down the hallway, and into the kitchen. Her overworked fingers dug under her ponytail, and wriggled the hairband off, letting her tangled hair fall on her freckled shoulders. Natalie turned on the squeaky sink faucet, and watched water pour into her cup, filling it nearly to the brim before she turned it off. The girl sighed to herself as she sat exhausted onto the dining table chair, and took a sip of her water. As she placed her cup down onto the table, she raised an eyebrow, and ran her fingers over the once-sharp corners, which had now been sanded down.

#tombwrites #tombfic #creepypasta #ticci toby #nina the killer #creepypasta fandom #creepypasta fanfic #ticci toby creepypasta #ticcitoby #chris hopkins #creepypasta nina the killer #creepypasta ticci toby #creepypasta headcanons #creepypasta headcanon #ticci toby fanfiction #ticci toby fanfic #ticci toby headcanons

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apomaro-mellow · 1 year

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go ahead and take the 1st draft of my “steve being sacrificed to demon!eddie thing”. it’s unfinished and im goin in a totally new direction with the next draft but i did like parts of this. this one has more of a cult feel.

The party was going on as usual. Steve had been to many of them before. The earliest he remembered was being five and led around by his mother’s hand, then eventually being handed off to a nanny for the rest of the evening. It was always some sort of parade. As a young child, he was the cute baby version of his father. Something for the women to coo at.

Around 11 he was a growing lad who was expected to cause a little trouble. Then at 14 he was a young man with a promising future.��

Growing up, there was one part he was always dreading. The point where people tried to set him up with their daughters, or granddaughters, or nieces. He heard pieces of such transactions all the time. ‘Oh you must meet my daughter.’ ‘You know Celia is about your age...’ ‘So have you got a girlfriend?’

Steve caught glimpses of the older boys either politely rebuffing or ending up engaged with someone. This was a very insular crowd, he knew that. Still, he hoped he’d have something resembling a choice when the time came.

And yet, as he got older, no one rushed to introduce him to anyone. It confused him to no end. He had no trouble attracting girls at school and all of his parents’ friends thought he was charming. He came from good stock. Why did no one want him to marry his daughter?

He tried not to feel so offended by it. But it was just so bizarre.

But back to tonight. It was going like it always did. Steve spent most of it by his parents’ sides, only occasionally going off on his own. He made nice conversation, had a drink or two, despite being nineteen, and kept the Harrington name good and golden.

As the hour got late though, it got to the point where most of the men split off to have cigars. Steve was usually excused at this point but this time his father put a hand on his shoulder and led him to the next room. He took part in more conversation about his prospects (not going to school but who needed to when he was planning on succeeding his father) and drank some brandy.

“Steve, it’s time we discussed your future”, his father said, letting out a puff of cigar smoke.

“What about it...exactly?”, Steve asked.

“That sometimes we must defer to a higher power.”

“....Right...”

“Steven”, one of the other men started. “You ever take one for the team?”

“Yeah, plenty of times. But what are you guys talking about what’s going on?”, Steve asked.

“Come with me, son.”

Steve got up and followed his father. The other men came along down the stairs into the basement of the clubhouse. But then it went deeper.

“History is filled with ambitious figures, Steve. People who did whatever it took to reach their goals. Tonight it’s up to you to take us even higher.”

“Up to me? What do you want me to do?”

They came to the bottom of the stairs. His mother was already waiting, along with the other women. There was a large stone slab with restraints on it and Steve felt his stomach drop at the implication. But he didn’t want to believe it. It was too crazy.

“Mom, Dad...what are we doing here?”

“The higher power we worship will give us fortune beyond what we could dream of”, his father said. “But everything has its price.”

Before Steve could utter another question, he felt hands on him, gripping and pushing him towards the slab. He struggled and screamed for both of his parents. For some kind of explanation. For something that made sense. But he could feel his sanity slipping as they got him on the altar and tied his limbs down.

Lawrence, 50, with an unconvincing hairpiece stood over him. Steve never liked Lawrence. He always looked at him weird and his touches lingered like he was inspecting a piece of meat.

He was doing it now, trailing a hand up his tied up arm.

“I can’t thank you enough for your sacrifice, Steven. And your parents for bringing up such good stock. I have no doubt he will be pleased with you.”

“I don’t know what the fuck is going on but there’s no way you’re going to kill me for-for what? More money?”

His mother came into view, her expression mournful and Steve wanted to vomit.

“Steve, my love, we won’t be killing you. We could never do that. We just need a bit of your blood. After that....well after that....”

“Our lord will do what he wants with you. And with their lot I can only imagine he will want to devour your soul”, his father finished.

“So you are killing me.”

“We won’t be dealing the killing blow”, his father said. “And who is to say you won’t survive?”

Steve took a deep breath through his nose. This was insane. But it seemed like they at least didn’t plan to put a stake through his heart. He’d lose a bit of blood, they’d probably chant, and then when their demon lord didn’t show up, he could get a shower and then maybe disown his parents.

That didn’t make this situation any less shitty though.

Then someone ripped open his jacket and shirt, exposing his chest. Both of his parents were given knives. The knowledge that they didn’t intend to kill him quell that instinctual fear. Steve had always been a good kid. But sometimes good wasn’t enough. Sometimes he wondered if his parents regretted having him. So his current view wasn’t helping at all in that regard.

They both cut a slit right in the center of his palms and he hissed. They then took his blood and drew a symbol on his stomach.

There was indeed chanting but between the alcohol, his bleeding hands, and the general delirium, Steve couldn’t make it out. God, he just wanted this to be over. He just wanted normal parents who didn’t sacrifice their own son to the devil. He wanted a lot of things but it seemed like life would disappoint him one last time.

“Whoa! You’ve got a real party going on here”, a voice said, coming down the stairs.

“Who the hell are you?”, one of the chanters demanded.

Steve craned his neck to see....some guy. It was just some guy, in a black tank top and ripped jeans.

“Who? Me?”, he came to the bottom of the steps and looked around. “Was I not summoned? I thought I heard my name.”

“Someone get this fool out of here!”

“Oh, I see what the issue is. I’m not in the proper attire. My bad.” He took a few more steps forward, right into the range of the men who had advanced on him. Then flames erupted from his body, burning them in an instant. When the fire dissipated, Steve let out a gasp and started to actually pull against his restraints.

This was real! Fuck this was real! A real demon with horns and claws and fangs and shit-were those wings?! He had to get out of here, even if that meant ripping his hands and feet off to escape.

Turned out that was the wrong move. In seconds, the demon crossed the room on all fours and climbed atop the slab to hover over Steve.

“My lord”, Steve’s father said in an impressively even tone. “We offer you our greatest sacrifice-” He was cut off with a deep growl, one that Steve felt in his bones, being this close.

“You...haven’t...sacrificed....anything.” The demon turned its gaze to Steve, lying under him. “But you still have so much to give.” He touched a clawed hand to Steve’s stomach where the bloody symbol was. “Will you give it to me?”

Steve let out a breath. He was going to die. He was going to die and what did he have to show for it? Actually....what did he have to show for it if he lived tonight? Maybe it would be painless, this soul sucking. He just wanted to be done.

“Just take it”, Steve said. “Take whatever you want.”

The demon laughed darkly. “I always do.”

#apo writes #stranger things #fanfiction #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #1.3k that i hope is worth somethin #even tho im basically abandoning this version #i just kinda like the idea of cultists worshipping something #summoning it and it just some guy at 1st #i feel like that's an eddie thing to do #look unassuming at first

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masterangst · 6 months

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General Headcanons that play a part in Post!game long fic of mine

This could also could just be seen as random headcanons I have of the characters based on my playthrough

For starters, Wyll became a Paladin in my playthrough, and I actually think it fits his character very well. Oath of the Ancients, to be exact.

He's in the Hells with Karlach in the beginning, but he still comes and checks on things above

He has no problem living up to the Ancients tenants, and the powers he gained are quite helpful to him in the Hells.

The reason I chose to do this, is because Wyll embodies what a Paladin does. He strives to inspire others and beat back against despair and to help others. He preaches hope and wishes to inspire it in others. He loves his friends and cares deeply about his father and his city and isn't afraid to voice it/do what it takes to protect them.

Though, he struggles with his belief that because he's still tied to Mizora, that he's unworthy of the position, but believes he can do more good than he could before. Considering it's a very powerful combo.

He's also come to accept being a warlock under Mizora, deciding to see the powers given to him because of it as a gift instead of curse.

He's main focus is helping Karlach at the beginning and may develop into something more 👀

Astarion

Him and my Tav, Axel, have become bounty hunters of sorts. It's a great way for Astarion to find people to kill and drink from. "Nobody actually cares about murder, as long as you murder the right people"

He's grown a lot more comfortable with his body and with sex. He still likes to enchant people with his charm, but now he does it cus its fun sometimes

He forces Axel to sleep in luxury and not in a bedroll every night. Also, it is the one that keeps Axels' appearance in check and repairs both of their clothes if they get damaged.

They created a technique together to take down their enemies. Sometimes treating it like a dance as seeing themselves in battle turns them both on. (I can make another post that goes into their relationship a bit more)

Now that he's not malnourished, his eyes have turned less red and his teeth are now not constantly pointy. In other words he appears more human/elfish to others now. He uses that to his advantage

He also has discovered a few abilities that spawn have that Cazador hid from him. Such as spider climbing, though he struggled with it at first. Only Axel knows of this.

Bg3 has almost it's own rules than just normal DnD. Because of this, and based on what is stated and shown in the palace. There is no evidence that the spawn were bound by their coffin like normal dnd. So in my story, that isn't a thing. And I stick with the notion that Astarion isn't forced to sleep during the day, but must at least trance once a day

He also is not the best as writing letters to everyone, but he's always watching over Axels shoulder and butting in to make corrections or add something

Shadowheart

She has a little cottage where she homes Scratch and the Owlbear.

She's not very good at gardening but she's trying. She's determined to have a small garden by the beginning of spring (story is set in winter)

Also went on a few trips to find her connection with Selune

She struggles with overcoming her trauma with her parents and with Shar and feeling worthy of being a follower of Selune

Mostly been traveling and learning more about her parents for now. Has evaded Shar assassins and has a small map of locations she's knowledgeable about of Shars followers. She intends to use it someday, but not yet.

I imagine she gets lonely and wishes to be with the others again. Though she sleeps with Scratch every night and the Owlbear sleeps on the floor by her bed.

Scratch accompanies her on her travels and makes sure she's eaten and lifts her spirits when she's sad

Her and Axel write to each other all the time and she sees him like an older brother even though hes younger (she's 48, he's 39)

The only other person she's spent time with is Gale. She stayed with him when she went to the temple of Selune in Waterdeep. They also write occasionally.

Gale

Gale is quite content with being a professor. He feels like he doesn't have that dying need to prove himself all the time anymore

Though he still wishes to be recognized by his peers at the academy

Also has tried to rekindle his relationship with Elminster, but hasn't seen him in person yet

He still feels very lonely, however, and frustrated he's having to rebuild his career in a sense. He misses being on adventures and the people he considers his real friends

He keeps in regular contact with Wyll and Axel the most. Gale helps keep Wyll informed of upstairs news and gives him new things to read to keep him company. Also has decided that Wyll must be his invite to the Blackstaff ball.

Wyll forces Gales to practice his dancing and they exchange recipes as well

Gale considers Wyll his best friend, but won't say it aloud or admit to it. It's like a mother who says she doesn't have a favorite child but clearly does.

Wyll also considers him a best friend, but also besides Karlach

Karlach

She didn't want to go back to the Hells. She was terrified and was ready to die, but having someone there helps.

She's tired of constantly fighting, I mean it's fun and all, but it's also tiring

She wants to settle down in Baldur’s Gate and have a place big enough for all her friends to visit her

The reunion party reminded her why she's still fighting. So she can come home and go on adventures again

Her and Axel are the closest. Axel was the first leader Karlach ever fully admired and didn't grow to regret it. She's also the only one who knows things others do not about him, and she takes pride in that.

She loves the color Pink and she can't wait to wear pretty dresses at the Blackstaff Ball no one tell Gale she's coming too

Sneaks away to relieve her sexual tension and lies about it. She lives with the guilt.

Is much like Astarion when it comes to letter writing. She looks over Wylls shoulder and makes comments about what he should write and how dumb the companions are sometimes.

Lae'zel

She won't be in my story very much, because she's off trying to fight/negotiate a war, since Orpheus was sacrificed.

To be frank, Lae'zels arc is my my favorite one. Especially if you choose the route to go against her queen. She's a beautiful character. Anyways.

She's a bit busy with the rebel forces but she holds onto a memento given to her by Axel to remind her that peace sometimes works better than violence.

She misses her friends on the Material plane and fully intends on seeing them in the flesh once her battle is done.

Also checks in a lot with the hatchling Xan

She can't write to her friends, but she knows they are rooting for her

By the end of the game, her and Shadowheart had made up their differences and actually became friends

In terms of everyone together. I like to imagine that a permanent side effect of the worm is that now everyone must rebuild their stats.

I'm sure I have more, so maybe I will make another post. But I was thinking of the things that play into my long fic as well.

#i just love all the characters #also im half asleep so excuse the mess #astarion #Lae'zel #wyll ravengard #bg3 gale #karlach #shadowheart bg3 #bg3 tav #bg3 spoilers #post game #my thoughts #baldur's gate 3 #astarion x tav #Karlach/Wyll #bg3 headcanons #gale of waterdeep #astarion ancunin #shadowheart

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blackbloodteeth · 21 days

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The overhead light flicks on for a few seconds before solidifying across the mess that is the dusty, half-forgotten storage room that sinks back into Maka with as about as deadpan as a sigh gets. Half-forgotten because she is the only one bothering to actually take note of it, and only managed to make even a fraction of a dent in all the unlabeled goods and abandoned stock that's probably older than she is – But hey, clipboard in hand and hair double-tied for good measure, someone's got to take care of things around here even if it isn't any of the clowns in upper management (no offense to the one she actually likes, and probably none taken).

Squaring her shoulders and her due diligence, Maka makes her way to where she last left off, because even if this is her second rodeo at this particular locale, it will be a rodeo of organization and bucking off all the items she'd sorted already that could've made her cash in on her health insurance from littering the floor alone. Lower shelf – Going top to bottom – there's another pile of unmarked goods (more to the point almost completely faded with age) to go through, having her re-mark which ones are recognizable, which ones will be dealt with later, and a nice, collective number on how much business she will be doing with recycling.

Her eyebrows soon screw together after scratching down another number, time and attention nearly halting all of the sudden when she slides a box of seemingly no notable interest out from its corner of the lowest shelf and kind of jolts her hand away as if getting struck by static electricity. It didn't really feel like static electricity, per say, but it was very jarring for some reason and that's the point being made here.

The clipboard makes a soft thud as she sets it aside onto one of the other lost boxes, pen following suit, her curiosity (and due suspicion) gently lifting the Questionable Item of Scrutiny with both her hands and – Maka's face quickly unknots when a faint but consistent beat, like a metronome, reverberates through the… metal? Ceramic? Of the smallish container, definitely not quite the size of her head but still substantial enough to need both sets of fingers to support it.

It's… strange. How could something still be functional down here when this storage room is enough to sue the company for gross negligence? Why is it even… metronoming to begin with – She feels like she would've heard it until now- Did she accidentally turn it on, then?

The sheer amount of questions puts her face back into Holmes mode, the little rhythm between her palms just ticking away and taking all of her attention away from what she's supposed to be doing, the devious bastard. She pops the syllable of that last thought before resigning to her cat-fatal curiosities and presses her ear up to the top(?) of the box.

Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump.

Oh she didn't want to make the obvious comparison, but that sounds exactly like a heartbeat. That's… she's not sure how to feel about that right now.

She turns the box around in her hands, lifting it to peer at its featureless underside(?) before spotting what looks suspiciously like a keyhole and latch indents embedded into the surface that- Actually, you know what, this is not her property and if it belongs to anyone they can just reclaim it after inventory and she'll just set that back on its shelf, thank you.

There's a squirmy feeling in her hands now that she doesn't quite enjoy the idea of assessing at the moment, so she shakes it off (and tries to wipe it off on her overshirt, because who knows how much dust it's accumulated down here) in an attempt to steel her absolutely non-curious mind into returning to her initial duties – And failing as she can hear the faint thump-thumps echoing against the surrounding shelving- Ah right, she must've set it off, hadn't she.

Really, genuinely, she wants to ignore it. She examined it, she concluded it, it shouldn't be anything more than a report to fill out now that she's discovered something that still works and probably needs shutting off. But Maka just happening to be Maka, she can barely even take her eyes off it now that she knows it's there, let alone stop herself from- Well from whatever the hell it is that compels her to not only not find a way to get it open, but to put it up to her own heart for whatever reason. Okay maybe it's not an entirely far-fetched idea, it's just… weird. Why is she having feelings and ideas, she's supposed to be inventory management.

Something especially weird almost makes her laugh at the way the definitely-a-heartbeat-at-this-point echoes into her chest, like she can almost hear it whispering if she could just listen a little closer, genuinely actually startling her when an audible click – just one – pierces the overhead buzz of silence in the room. It only takes a 12-second pause for her to immediately gander at where the keyhole and indents are, and notice that one of them seems to have actually come undone somehow.

No luck forcing the other one open though……

The rhythmic pulse continues playing on into her fingers as the keyhole isn't quite so generous to her peeping, beats counting on the seconds when she closes her eyes and keeps her head trained on the ceiling, breathing in through the nose, and out through the mouth.

She's going to sneak this thing home with her and get driven mad by its secrets, isn't she.

Something jarring suddenly snaps him into sitting up, completely unheard of with all the laidback and procrastinating relaxing he was just getting into a second ago on this cushy chair (which was definitely not intended to be leaned back on, but it's practically shaped like him at this point now). He's searching around, hearing something almost… familiar at the edges of his vision, until he starts to dread the realization that it's coming from the inside.

His fingers tense and untense before he takes a potshot at putting a hand up to his chest, eyebrows now shooting up to the moon when he feels a faint, but not unnoticeable, beating beneath his ribcage. Deafening, as he can finally hear it again in his fingertips and the back of his mind like ripples leading from somewhere. And it was at this very moment that Soul undoubtedly, unquestionably, absolutely understood that peace had never truly been an option in his life:

Somebody found the box.

#2024 art #writing #soul eater #maka albarn #soul evans #soul variant

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porchlightfairy · 1 year

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Shoot for the Moon part 1

part 1 | part 2

rockstar!eddie x reader

summary: Eddie returns home under particular circumstances.

warnings: major character death. cancer mention

wc: 1.4k+

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

You and Eddie were high school sweethearts. The true definition of forever. Everyone thought you two were soulmates. You supported Eddie through his music and he was so happy to start a family with you. You guys had gotten married young and you were ready to settle down and start a family.

But at the same time Eddie’s music career was moving rather quickly. You had discussed that if anything major were to happen you would stick together through it all. But that changed once Eddie was given the chance to perform to music producers. It seemed like everything you built in your lives came crumbling down. It had been several weeks since you and Eddie had seen each other. It was like you were playing chase on the telephone not being able to get ahold of one another long enough.

Eddie sat at the payphone in the venue praying that you would pick up. He was in California while you were probably in bed in Indiana. After the second to last ring, he hears the line pick up, “Hello?” You mumble.

“Hey baby! I know it’s late but I let the week slip by and I forgot to call you earlier. There’s just been a lot going on—”

“Eddie, it’s 2 in the morning. You thought now was a good time to call?” You sigh

“I know, I know, I’m really sorry. A lot has been going on, I’m sorry.”

“It seems like you can’t answer the phone when you tell me when to call but now is a good time for you. Whatever it is, I am sure it can wait.” You grumble, “Eddie, I’m tired and I don’t want to deal with this, I’ve got errands to run in the morning. Call me at a reasonable hour?”

“Wait, baby, let me just tell you—” The line goes dead. Eddie hangs up the phone. He wouldn’t be able to call you back. You never seemed to be around to answer his calls. And his uncle claimed to not see you around either. You had drifted too far apart for him to even talk to you.

Years had passed and Eddie was on the up and up with his band Corroded Coffin. They were on the cover of Rolling Stones, reached the top 100 of Billboard, and accumulated millions through album sales and concert ticket sales.

Being the frontman of the group came with its perks as well. He was everyone’s favorite and had a tendency to be abrasive. Chicks on his arm every night, signing boobs, and just being all around vulgar. And even as the group got older they were still the same. However, as things start to slow down for their music careers, Eddie is going to get some terrible news.

He wakes up in a plush bed tangled in sheets and limbs, he slips out of bed and heads downstairs for some breakfast. When he reaches the bottom step he sees his manager and the rest of the band sitting in his living room with sullen faces. “Jesus, who crapped in your guys’ captain crunch.”

“Eddie,” His manager, Bobby, sighs.

He laughs at his own joke not hearing his manager speak before heading into the kitchen to get something to eat. “Well, since you guys are here, we should talk about the next album, sounds good?”

“Eddie.” He says again.

“Look, I know what you’re going to say. We should be keeping up appearances for right now but I was kinda hoping for a rebrand of some sort, like a new paint job or—”

“Eddie!” Bobby shouts. Eddie stops in his tracks, “Just stop for a minute okay. We need to talk.”

“About what?” He scoffs, “Why do you all look like someone died?”

“Because,” Bobby sighs again, “Your ex-wife, Eddie, she passed away.”

Eddie’s heart sinks into his stomach and his ears begin to burn red hot. He couldn’t be hearing that right. You were dead. Gone. No longer living, existing anymore? He swallows hard and blinks a few times, “What… uh… what happened? What happened to her?”

“Cervical cancer.” Bobby looks to the floor. “It was unexpected, her lawyer contacted me and it appeared unexpectedly….”

He can’t hear anymore. He recalls the last time he saw you, in the courthouse for your divorce. You both sat in silence as you negotiated with each other the circumstances, alimony and the like. You didn’t want any of his new money, you just wanted the marriage to be nullified.

He sits on a stool and lets out a shaky breath. “Eddie? Eddie? Did you hear me?”

“Huh?” His face had gone pale, “What… what’d you say?”

“You should take some time, go back home, and go to the burial.” Bobby says. “I know your head is probably swimming right now so we’re going to go but please Eddie, don’t stay here in darkness, okay?”

Each of his bandmates give him a pat on the shoulder and a hug for comfort before taking their leave. Eddie throws out the people in his bed and he slowly begins to pack. With a shaky hand he dials his uncle’s number. He holds his breath as he waits for an answer. He felt ashamed that this was the only time that he had actively sought out for his uncle. Now that you are dead.

“Hello?” He hears the familiar grovel of Wayne’s voice on the line.

“Hey, Wayne. It’s been, it’s been a long time huh?” Eddie hears the quiver in his own voice.

There’s silence on the other end, “So you heard.”

“Y-yeah,” He clears his throat, “I’m packing now to come home. I know, its fucked up of me but I just I need to.”

“I understand, son. I’ll be waiting for ya.” He says.

And with that, the call ends and Eddie sits in silence as he prepares himself to go back home. The musician gets a red eye flight to Indianapolis where he would take a greyhound all the way to his uncle’s house.

Eddie felt his heart sink as he got closer and closer to his destination. He hadn’t visited home since leaving it all behind. The divorce was the last time he set foot in Hawkins. Packing his stuff in a moving van and never seeing you again. His heart twangs as he thinks about it.

Soon he arrives at his uncle’s hand and sees the man waiting outside for him. “Eddie,” He stands up as Eddie approaches. They hug in a familiar embrace, then Wayne packs her back. “You look good.”

Eddie lets out a soft chuckle, “Heh, not like you don’t see me on the tv all the time.”

“Mmh, good to see you in person.” He holds the younger man’s face in his hands. His eyes were saddened. “Eddie, I’ve got to tell you something important.” He holds Eddie’s shoulder as he walks they walk into the house.

Instantly, Eddie is hit with a sudden warmth from the house. It felt lived in. He walks further into the house when he notices several frames in the living room. “Eddie, listen, a lot has happened since you’ve been gone. And she really didn’t want to say anything about it because…” Wayne watches as Eddie steps closer to the frames. He has trouble forming the words as Eddie looks at the pictures on the wall.

Eddie stares intensely at the images. There was you smiling with a black and white ultrasound photo in your hand. Next to that was a picture of you and Wayne, he had his hand on your stomach and you had little pink booties in yours. It’s a girl was spelled on a banner above your heads.

Eddie’s ears grew hot as he continued to look at the photos. There was a picture of you in the hospital holding a baby in your arms, tears in your eyes. Then a first birthday, then a second, third and so on. This little girl is at the center of them all. She had a beautiful smile like her mom and large brown eyes. Eyes that stared back at him everytime he looked in the mirror.

“She didn’t want to tell you any of this. She thought it was for the best that you didn’t know her.”

Eddie’s lip quivers, his mouth is dry as he stares in disbelief. Just as he is about to speak he hears footsteps traveling down the stairs, “Grandpa have you seen mom’s…” Eddie turns around and sees a young girl standing on the steps. A spitting image of her mother except those eyes, the pools of primordial darkness that stared back at him.

“Are you… Are you my dad?”

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x black!reader #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fanfiction #rockstar!eddie x reader #rockstar!eddie x black!reader

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dcartcorner · 1 year

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I maybe sort of wrote something. Set after TMA Episode 51: High Pressure, following a plot bunny about Captain Kemp's remark "The sea is a dangerous place." (Disclaimer: I don't usually write fanfiction and Am Not A Writer, I just have emotions about these two horrible old men).

Into the Ocean Characters: Simon Fairchild, Peter Lukas, Morten Kemp (mentioned) Ship: FoggySkies Warnings: mentions of drowning, incredibly minor mention of violence

He was shaken, Peter thought.

When he’d come aboard - dripping wet and smelling like the salt spray of the ocean - he’d been smiling ear to ear. That’s how Simon was. Performative. But once they’d retreated to the captain’s cabin, once Simon had stripped out of his wet clothes and borrowed some of Peter’s - once Peter had pushed him down into one of the chairs and shoved a cup of coffee into his hands - he could tell.

Simon Fairchild was shaken. And that, Peter thought, could not have been an easy thing to accomplish.

He could tell it in the curve of the older man’s shoulders, the way his smile was so noticeably absent when Peter wasn’t speaking to him. These things were uncharacteristic of Fairchild, insofar as Peter knew him.

Peter didn’t make a point of knowing people, broadly speaking.

Simon made a point of being known, though. And he made it Peter’s problem some years back.

Peter didn’t much want to talk about it. It’d been such a quiet trip across the seas, happily alone. What were the chances he’d run into Simon here? Whatever it was, Peter didn’t want to have to ask nor answer questions. It seemed too great an effort.

“Have you ever thought about drowning?” Simon inevitably asked. His voice was as lighthearted as ever, but he wasn’t looking at Peter. He was gazing out the small window. Peter’s skin crawled. Simon knew how he felt about it - being asked questions. Or perhaps it was because he did know how Peter felt that he didn’t wait for a reply, and went on, “I had never considered it. Not really. It’s not like I could, I don��t think.”

“You came out here to see if you could drown?” Peter said around the rock in his throat that tried to keep the question from being asked. He was tired. It’d be easier to disappear.

“Goodness, no,” Simon said. “Old yacht. Feeling a bit peckish. You know how it is.” There was a bitter edge in his words. Something hadn’t gone right, then. “As it turns out, I rather angered the captain of a ship I’d chartered out to the wreck. And here I thought Kemp had been such a charming man, too.”

Peter hummed in sympathy for this Captain Kemp whom Simon had impressed his presence upon.

“I’m not sure why I didn’t expect it,” Simon said. “The blow to the head, I mean. How very… mundane.”

Peter, in the middle of pouring himself a cup of coffee as well, froze, then glanced over at Simon. Peter hadn’t noticed any injuries when Simon had been changing, no blood that’d dripped down from his hairline. It can’t have been too serious a strike - but that thought doesn’t do anything to snuff out the sudden, flickering anger in Peter’s chest.

Simon was still looking away, out the window. He looked very small, Peter thought, that little skeleton of a frame swallowed by Peter’s sweater.

“It was all very surprising,” Simon said. “You just don’t think certain people have it in them, I suppose. Or you are so used to winning, you don’t expect it when the odds turn.” A shrug of one small, bony shoulder.

“He tried to drown you,” Peter said. It wasn’t a question.

“Hands bound and feet weighted,” Simon replied with a humourless laugh. “The whole nine yards, as they say. Very theatrical. Tied good knots, I’ll tell you. Of course he did. Sailor, and all.” A long pause, and the smile was gone in its entirety this time, leaving Simon’s face blank. And then, slowly, he said, “I’m not sure what would have happened… if I’d kept sinking. You think I’d be right at home, wouldn’t you? All that beautiful, shining abyss stretching out all around, and being nothing more than… a meaningless drop in it all. I think I might’ve enjoyed it, if it hadn’t been for the knots, and the weight. The sinking. The feeling of all that water crushing in around you. Being… buried.” He said it with a frown.

Peter watched him, unmoving. Simon hadn’t touched the coffee yet. Peter didn’t blame him. It wasn’t good coffee - at least that was what Simon had been sure to tell him plenty of times before.

“You know, I’ve always thought. If I were to die… life would go on. And if I were to live, life would go on. And either way, that’s just fine,” Simon said. “But I had this thought, down there, Peter. This thought that… that’s not how I wanted to die. Being crushed. Being… bound.” The smile flickered across his features, but it was a sad looking thing. “And I had to laugh then, even sinking as I was. Because what did it matter what I wanted? That’s quite the point, isn’t it. Nothing matters, not really, not in any way that counts. Still. I caught myself thinking… it would have been a great deal nicer to fall into the sky, rather than have that… liquid cement closing in around me.”

Peter stared at Simon for a long moment. He suddenly wondered about this other captain Simon mentioned.

Wondered if it wasn’t the first time Kemp had tried to bury someone at sea.

“The knot came loose,” Simon eventually sighed, sinking further into the chair. “The one around my hands. Took a little finagling to get the one around my feet.” Finally he lifted the cup to his lips, took a small sip. “You must imagine the relief I felt, seeing your fair ship when I broke the surface.” Peter’s face twisted into something that might have been an amused smile. It was a cargo ship - hardly what anyone would describe as fair. “The Tundra in all of its majesty, and I thought to myself, the good captain certainly has impeccable timing, as always.”

There was still hardly anything in Simon’s smile. It struck Peter as wrong. He scratched at his beard, then looked to the window, and then finally said, “Follow.” He didn’t wait for Simon. Simply turned on his heel and walked to the door of the cabin. He could hear the spry old man exclaim something and shuffle to his feet to hurry after him.

They went up a flight of stairs, and another. Climbing higher until finally they reached a hatch that Peter pushed open. He exited out onto the roof of the bridge.

The air was sharp and ocean fresh, whipping past his face, and as Simon climbed up after him, Peter could see the change was immediate. Simon’s eyes turned skyward, chasing the patterns of clouds towards the distant, endless horizon. He recognized the look in Simon’s sky blue eyes then - no longer dull and tired, but bright and alive - if still exhausted. Peter didn’t want to call it love, even if that was what it was that Simon looked up to the heavens with, because then he would have to think about the times Simon had looked at him like that, and that was…

…overwhelming, at the best of times.

He watched silently as Simon padded his way over to the railing, and then leaned against it with a deep, happy sigh. There was no noise for a time other than the waves crashed against The Tundra, and the sound of the wind.

And then Simon said, “You certainly know how to treat a man, Captain Lukas. Thank you.”

Peter could hear it in his voice - that proper smile. He scratched the tip of his nose. “I’ll be below,” he replied. Simon didn’t respond. And just for a moment longer, Peter stood there and stared at Simon’s back. It was rare to see him so still, aside from when he slept. Simon moved fast. Faster than what most could keep up with. It must have led, Peter thought, to a very lonely existence. And that suited him well. Perhaps that was why it worked, with Simon. He came and went with the wind, and never seemed to overstay his welcome. And moments like these, when it was only them, and the empty, vibrant sky and vast, lonely horizon, Peter felt… comfortable.

He left Simon there. He’d come back to the cabin when he was ready - or he’d leave. Either way was fine in Peter’s books. Whatever the case, he’d have to ask a round next they made port. See if he couldn’t find one Captain Kemp, and show him just how desolate the ocean could be.

#tma #the magnus archives #fanart #fanfic #simon fairchild #peter lukas #foggyskies #cw: drowning #simon/peter

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moonferry · 1 month

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im running out of witty things to title these lol but here's fsioy chapter 11

okay this ones a bit different, but its very important to what happens next. this is sort of a segue ? if that makes sense. but i basically wanted to write lee's reaction & how that ties into what's happening next so hear u go.

warnings: mentions of death, arguing, swearing, blaming, (basically the boys argue)

word count: 4284

summary: lee finally returns from his "secret scout mission" and realizes his own feelings. on his search for danny, he runs into kent and receives some terrible news.

ao3 link: here

other chapters: chapter masterlist

July 19XX, Army Camp – Middle of the War | Danny’s Funeral

Willy did exactly as he said he would: while Kent was washing away the events that took place earlier in the day, Willy had rounded up several generals and corporals and begun setting up the standard funeral procedures. He had handed the cold lump of flesh that - only hours ago - was Danny to what would pass as a mortician (not like they had much time to properly embalm the body, with the influx of war casualties, but it didn’t sit right with Willy to leave the boy to the elements, so he insisted on a proper burial.) Plus, Willy had a soft spot for Kent’s little trio.

He began walking around, alerting the cadets that there would be a slight change in their schedules to honor a fallen member of Cabin Five. As he approached Cabin Five itself, he noticed the sound of muffled sobs behind a nearby door. He moved towards the door and gave a faint knock.

“Are ye alright, Lad?” He called out. Willy wasn’t entirely sure who was behind that door, but he could make a good guess. Given what transpired earlier, it was likely none other than Kent.

“Go away,” The voice called back, sniffling.

“Look, son, I know this is tough,” Willy started, a small sigh escaping his lips. He leaned his shoulder against the door, fidgeting with his hands as he tried to find some comforting words. Eventually, he spoke once again, “Things like this happen every day. It doesn’t get any easier, trust me. But ya have to keep goin’, despite everythin’ life throws at ye or the things it takes away.”

Kent didn’t respond. Though, through the silence, Willy could tell he was thinking about his words.

“Kent, open the door, lad,” Willy spoke calmly, trying to keep his voice even. He wasn’t angry at Kent by any means - in fact, he would’ve been surprised if Kent hadn’t reacted this way - but he was beginning to get frustrated.

More silence, though there was the slightest shuffling - as if Kent was considering opening the door.

“I just want to talk t’ ye,” The older man explained as another sigh left his lips. When the door still remained shut, Willy started to walk away. However, a soft “click” of a lock and the faint groaning of hinges stopped him. He turned back around and noticed the door was now slightly ajar. It wasn’t much, but it was progress. Willy waited a bit longer and watched as the door slowly crept open more and more. Eventually, it revealed Kent, who was currently sitting in the corner of the room and clutching the soiled uniform to his chest.

Willy’s lips formed a thin line and he nodded. He’d seen this happen far too many times - and even experienced it himself in his younger days. Now, with the war constantly waging on and the casualties seeming to rise every day, Willy had grown a bit numb. It wasn’t intentional, more of a side effect - really -, but Willy had seen so much death, so much destruction, that it was to be expected at this point. He didn’t expect Kent to understand this, obviously. He approached Kent before crouching down to his eye level.

“I know it’s terrible, lad,” Willy started. He glanced down at the garment in Kent’s hands and remembered his own share of losses. He took a deep breath and began to sympathize with Kent, “I’ve lost many good people in this war - and others like it -, lad. War’s an awful thing. But that’s all it is. Awful. Absolutely nothin’ good comes from all this bloodshed and carnage - it’s really just to create a big stink.”

“What do you mean?” Kent asked, confusion momentarily clouding his sadness. He looked up at Willy and tried to determine what the man was saying.

“My point bein’: I understand what yer feeling, son, but your friend wouldn’t want you to be mopin’ around - not when there’s things to be done,” Willy explained, placing a firm hand on Kent’s shoulder.

Kent thought about this for a moment. He looked back at the garment in his hands, starting deeply into the crimson markings - the ones that transferred when he held Danny close to him - and exhaled a deep breath. Willy’s words did have some substance, but Kent wasn’t sure he could “move on” - just like that, as if Danny shouldn’t be next to him and not a cold lump on some metal slab. Kent thought back to Danny’s final request - where he told Kent to live on, for Jodi. Kent knew it wouldn’t be easy - and that he’d probably struggle along the way - but he also knew how true those words were. As much as he hated to admit it, he now had something to lose and he couldn’t let that happen.

He looked back up at Willy and nodded. Kent hesitated a moment, thinking to himself once again. He hoped this is what Danny would want, but there was no way of knowing. Kent promised himself he’d keep trying - to keep going, to keep living - all like Danny had said. He pushed himself into a standing position before handing Willy the soiled uniform.

“Ah, yeah,” Willy started, as if he remembered what he was originally doing in this cabin, he looked at Kent - his gaze softening slightly - and spoke once again, “We’re havin’ a small ceremony for your friend. It’s this afternoon. Attend if you can, but I won’t blame ya if you can’t.”

Kent listened to his words, his face falling as he did so. He knew this was coming. Yet, learning they were having a funeral made everything seem much more… real. It caused Kent to feel like, once the ceremony was over, he’d have nothing left to remember his friend - nothing but his own memories, and those would fade, eventually. He remained quiet as he thought.

Willy noticed his silence and looked at his glum expression. He glanced around - making sure no one was sneakily eavesdropping - before moving closer to Kent and whispering.

“Don’t tell anyone, but I managed to snag a copy of yer friend’s I.D. tag,” Willy admitted, pulling a small, metal object from his many coat pockets. Once it was placed in Kent’s palm, he cleared his throat and continued, “The original will be sent t’ the boy’s family, fer obvious reasons.. But, I managed t’ pull ah… a few strings and got ya a copy. Let’s just say… someone in the management office owed me a favor.” He gave Kent a secretive wink before patting him on the back.

“Well, I best be on me way back. I’ve still got other cadets to notify,” Willy spoke as he exited the small room.

Kent watched him leave before inspecting the small object in his hands. It was similar to his own tag - just stating the basics (name/rank/I.D. number/etc) - but it felt different, somehow. The fact that it belonged to someone else - to someone he was close to - made it feel…special, in a bad way. Kent took a deep breath, looking at the tag once again, before gently slipping it into his uniform pocket. He’d have to put it in a safe place to avoid losing it. He was grateful to Willy - for getting it for him - but Kent couldn’t help but feel bittersweet. He shouldn’t have this, it should be with Danny’s belongings. With Danny.

Kent walked back to the soldier’s quarters, silent and deep in thought. When he entered, however, he marched toward Danny’s bunk instead of his own. It was much neater than the rest - perfectly made sheets, neatly tucked beneath the mattress. That was the thing about Danny– he was always neat and tidy (and often scolded Kent and Lee for their chronic messiness or lateness, affectionately, of course). Kent sat down on the edge of the mattress - silently apologizing to Danny for ruining his neat bed - and took the tag out of his pocket once again. He turned the cool metal in his hands, absentmindedly tracing his thumb over the engraving. Kent was too deep in his thought and didn’t seem to notice the sound of approaching footsteps, nor the whine of the door’s hinges as he was pushed open.

“Hey, I’m back,” The person spoke as they opened the door, glancing around at the mostly empty room with a confused look. It was Lee, who had just returned from his “secret scouting mission”. His eyes landed on Kent and his confusion grew even more.

Kent glanced up, his expression unreadable. He looked at his friend, scanning him up and down, and noticed a small bundle of assorted flowers in his left hand and a wide smile plastered across his face. It made Kent sick that Lee seemed so happy at a time like this. And then it dawned on him, Lee didn’t know what happened.

“Kent? Where’s Danny?” Lee asked, his smile dropping as he looked around the room. “I told him to wait here - that I’d be back after a short walk,” Lee added.

Kent’s lips formed a small line, though his eyes shone with sadness. He patted the spot next to him and waited for Lee to approach.

“Where the hell have you been?” Kent spoke, slight anger seeping into his voice.

“Well, like I told Danny, I went on a little… mission. I just needed time to think,” Lee explained, taken aback by the anger in Kent’s voice. Was he missing something?

When Kent didn’t respond, Lee gave an awkward chuckle before rubbing the back of his neck. He continued, “While I was out there, I was replaying Danny’s words in my mind.. I couldn’t seem to wrap my head around the idea that he liked me, y’know?”

“And then, I thought even more, and I realized, hey! I actually really enjoy Danny’s company, but like, in a different way than I enjoy yours,” Lee rambled, a faint blush covering his cheeks. He continued, “So, I realized I must like him, too! And I had the bright idea to collect him some flowers - just to tell him how much he meant to me, you know? My grandma taught me the meaning behind some flowers and I wanted to look for those specifically.”

Lee sheepishly took the assortment of flowers from behind his back and held them up for Kent to see. It was a collection of mismatched flowers, hastily thrown together and tied with a small string so they were easier to hold. However, the most prominent of the flowers was a giant sunflower (which represents adoration, happiness, loyalty, and longevity).

“Unfortunately, they were harder to find than I anticipated.. I had to walk three blocks! And, when I started back, I got… a little lost. I ended up being gone longer than I thought, and now.. I can’t seem to find Danny anywhere.”

“Lee,” Kent started, looking at his friend with a saddened expression, “There’s something.. Something you need to know.”

“Why do you look so sad, Kent?” Lee asked, his brows furrowing in concern. He tried to lighten the mood with a small joke, “It’s not like someone died. I was only gone for a few hours!”

Lee looked at Kent’s face, noticing he wasn’t laughing. He gulped a bit, his eyes widened. “It’s not like someone died…, right..?” Lee asked warily.

Kent took a small inhale before reaching over and gently grabbing Lee’s hand. He looked into his eyes, giving the hand a gentle squeeze, before softly speaking, “Danny’s dead, Lee.”

“What?” Lee exclaimed, his face paling at the news.

“He’s dead. Happened this morning,” Kent clarified, his own expression becoming grim.

“What.. W-what happened?” Lee asked. The bouquet of flowers tumbling out of his hand in shock. It hit the pillowy mattress beneath it hard enough to jostle the flowers - causing some petals to fall off.

“He was shot near the west gate,” Kent explained, a small, defeated sigh leaving his lips.

“Why was he near the west gate?” Lee asked, a mixture of confusion and sadness coating his words.

“He was looking for you, Lee,” Kent replied, a small bout of accusation seeping into his voice. He gripped the metal tag in his hand so harshly that his knuckles turned white. “I had to watch Danny die, all because of you!” Kent spat out, his previous anger returning as he thought about their friend. In truth, he knew it wasn’t fair to blame Lee for what happened - if anything, Kent was just as guilty - but he couldn’t seem to control his emotions.

“That’s not fair, man,” Lee argued. He held up his arms in defense before adding, “I didn’t know he’d follow me. I told him not to.”

“Yeah, but he did,” Kent spoke, his anger being replaced with more sadness as he realized he just lashed out at his friend.

He let out a small sigh, “I’m sorry, Lee. It’s not your fault, I know that..”

“S’alright, man,” Lee said, though a flash of hurt crossed his face. Kent felt guilty once again. Leave it to him to make things worse, he thought. That’s all that seemed to happen lately. Everything would’ve been fine if he hadn’t opened his mouth.

Kent reached over and wrapped Lee into a hug, patting his back as Lee leaned into him. Kent held Lee as his friend’s emotions seemed to overflow, a gentle stream of tears soaking Kent’s shoulder.

“He really liked you, you know,” Kent offered, trying to cheer up his friend. He rubbed small, soothing circles on Lee’s lower back before adding, “You should’ve seen how he looked at you when you weren’t looking.”

Lee sniffled as he pulled away. He glanced down at his bouquet, which was scattered across the bed sheet. He let out a small, humorless chuckle as he looked at the mess the two of them had made. He reached a hand up and brushed away a stray tear before speaking, “Danny would’ve killed us for sitting on his bed. And this mess…I think he would’ve ignored us for a week.”

Kent sniffled as well, nodding his head, “Yeah.. Yeah he would’ve.”

Kent reached down, picking up a few of the fallen petals and handing them to Lee. He let out a small sigh and remembered what Willy told him earlier. It was almost time for the ceremony.

“C’mon, Lee,” He urged, pushing himself into a standing position. He reached a hand out and pulled Lee up as well before continuing, “It’s time to go say goodbye.”

…

The two walked into the clearing - the same clearing where Kent and the other recruits had their orientation on the first day. Instead of the usual set up of bare stage and a sparse amount of folding chairs, it was decorated in muted colors, all chairs had been removed, and a line of rifle-bearing soldiers stood to Kent’s left. In front of the stage - instead of the usual microphone and sound system - stood a small platform, which held a steel box draped with the flag of the Ferngill Republic. Kent stuck his hand in his pocket and wrapped his fingers around the smooth metal of the I.D. tag. Lee took his place next to Kent, still clutching his now ruined bouquet, and looked absolutely heart broken.

A man neither of the two had seen before took his place at the podium and began giving a long, rambling speech.

“This soldier.. While I didn’t know him personally, I know he would’ve done anything for the Corps. His belief in our troops should be enough to keep us all going. This man died today. He died bravely - on a stakeout mission where he was trapped by several of our enemies.”

As Kent listened to this, his blood began to boil. This was nothing like what happened, and this person was nothing like the Danny he knew.

“This isn’t right,” Kent whispered to Lee, who also seemed to be getting increasingly angry at the mischaracterization of Danny. Lee clenched his fist at his side, gritting his teeth as the man continued spouting nonsense.

“I’m gonna say something,” Lee said, rage fueled determination filling his voice.

“Lee, I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Kent warned, attempting to calm his friend down. Unfortunately, it seemed like Lee didn’t want to be reasoned with. He had vanished from Kent’s side and Kent looked around for him frantically. Eventually, his eyes landed on Lee climbing the steps to the stage, approaching the microphone.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Lee interrupted the speaker, attempting to get the microphone from the stranger’s hands.

“Young man, please, this is a memorial ceremony,” The man scolded, keeping the microphone out of Lee’s grasp.

“You don’t know a single thing about him!” Lee spat. He managed to grab the microphone and turned to accuse the crowd on the stage, “You don’t even know his name!”

“I’m sure we do.. He’s.. Dennis something.”

“His name was Daniel Sawyer. Everyone knew him as Danny,” Lee spoke, anger filling his voice at the disrespect his friend was receiving. His fist tightened by his side and Lee continued speaking, “Danny was the most amazing person I know. He wasn’t brave, sure, but he made up for it in other ways. He was super neat and always thought about other people. He only went out there that day because he was worried about me, of all people. And… and none of you people appreciated him. No one even liked him - except for his two friends! Stop lying to everyone and stop acting like you care.”

“Vincent, that is enough,” The man scolded once again, a sneer forming on his lips.

“My name isn’t Vincent!” Lee spat, tears welling up in his eyes, “It’s Lee. Danny is the one who started that nickname, but I wouldn’t expect you guys to understand. I wouldn’t even expect you to care.”

Kent watched the scene unfold and felt touched. He climbed the stairs and took the place on Lee’s left side. The two took turns screaming into the microphone - saying everything memorable about Danny, and, when they ran out, they started saying the “less memorable” things.

“Disruptive! The both of you!” The man yelled, frustration building in his voice. “You two will be thoroughly punished for this.” He attempted to get closer to the boys, but was stopped by a firm hand against his shoulder. It was Willy, who had been watching this from the sidelines.

“I don’t think that’s goin’ t’ happen, Corporal,” Willy spoke, giving the man a disappointed head shake.

“Ah.. Colonel Dodgens… What I meant was.. I mean.. Um.. You know, hyperbole,” The corporal squeaked, visibly shrinking as Willy looked at him.

“These boys are to respond to me orders, from now on. Orders from th’ big boss, Corporal..” Willy explained, crossing his arms over his chest. A disappointed look flashed over his face as he looked at the man once again, “An’ I don’t take too kindly to other officers threatenin’ me soldiers.”

“Right.. Um,” The man gulped, his eyes bulging, “I’ll be leaving now.”

“Oh, and Corporal?” Willy called out as the other man had turned to leave.

He turned back around, “Yes, Colonel?”

“Learn your soldiers better next time, eh?” Willy scolded, shaking his head in disbelief before adding, ”Don’t go shoutin’ that generic bullshit every time one of ‘em dies.”

The corporal then turned and scampered off - looking like an animal with their tail between their legs. Willy approached the two boys. He watched them, shouting into the microphone until their voices turned hoarse. He placed a hand on each of their shoulders and turned them to look at him.

“Well, that was certainly a ceremony, eh, lads?” He spoke, a small hearty chuckle leaving his lips. “Certainly the most excitin’ one I’ve ever witness, let me tell ya.”

“Willy!” Kent exclaimed, happy to see the old ship captain. He then grimaced, realizing that they had just created a big ruckus. “Are.. are you mad?” He asked, glancing down at his boots.

“Nah, I’m not mad,” Willy spoke, shaking his head, “It takes a lot more to ruffle me feathers. Nah.. that corporal was just a.. You know.” He chuckled once again, sending the two a wink instead of finishing his sentence.

He glanced down and noticed an incredibly crumpled bouquet. Willy scooped it up and handed it to Lee.

“I believe these are yours, son.” Willy spoke as Lee took the flowers from his hand.

“How did you-?” Lee asked, confusion washing over his face. He couldn’t remember telling anyone but Kent about his flowers.

“I have me ways, lad,” Willy answered. He then gave Lee a gentle shove towards the coffin before adding, “I think he’s waitin’ for ya. So, go ahead. Tell him.”

Lee gulped and slowly approached the coffin. It was ajar, surprisingly, and Lee glanced in to see Danny’s still face - void of all emotion and icy cold. Lee gripped the edge of the steel box, feeling his breathing hitch in his throat.

“Hey, Dan,” Lee started, his eyes beginning to water. “I can’t help but feel like this is all my fault, you know? Kent told me the only reason you died was because you were trying to find me..”

“I’m sorry. I’m not something to chase after, so I really don’t know why you did that.. I’m immature, and… and dumb, and I’ve made my fair share of bad decisions, but you still saw something in me. I don’t know what you saw. I don’t think I’ll ever know.”

“You know, you always did things I didn’t understand, Danny. You always put up with me even though I was always late. You stood up for everyone - even when you had no one to stand up for you. I remember my first day.. How Ray did his usual idiocy and began picking on me. How you stepped in to stop him. How you told me about your own first day - and mentioned how rough you had it. How you trusted me enough to let me know your deepest secret - something the other guys would almost certainly judge you for - the fact that you liked guys. How I never judged you and always encouraged you to be who you are - were..”

“You were always so brave, in your own way. You inspired me, Danny. I always looked up to you. It was only when you finally told me how you felt that I realized that I, too, felt that way. I.. know you probably can’t hear me, but I love you, Dan. I’ve always loved you - and I only realized it too late. I know I can’t bring you back, despite how desperately I want to, but if I could, I would wrap my arms around you and tell the whole world how I felt about you - regardless of who heard. I’d scream it from every rooftop, I’d yell until I lost my voice, and I’d wake the whole city just to tell them how much I love you. And that still wouldn’t be enough. You mean so much to me, Danny, so you better be waiting for me. Wherever you are.”

Once Lee finished his speech, he sniffled, wiping away a few stray tears that had begun to crawl down his face. He took a deep breath before placing the bouquet in Danny’s cold hand, his hand lingering against Danny’s for the briefest moment before he pulled it back. There was something bittersweet about the action: of using a bouquet - intending for the sharing of love, joy, and other shared positive feelings - as a final parting gift. Lee felt his chest tighten as he thought about it, about how happy he had originally been at the thought of giving it to Danny, about how sad he was when he actually gave it to him. He never imagined it would be under these circumstances. Lee had longed for happier times and silently scolded himself for his indecision. Why did he leave that morning? And, if he hadn’t, would things have ended differently? Lee wasn’t sure. All he knew was that it felt like a part of his soul had been ripped away, leaving a gaping hole that ached and groaned with the slightest touch. The rawness of his soul would never heal - or, if it did, it would happen very slowly - but how else are you supposed to cope when losing something so integral - so important - to who you are. Lee would not be “Lee” without Danny.

Lee slowly returned to Kent’s side and was immediately pulled into a side hug. Lee rested his head against Kent’s shoulder and let out a breath he was unaware he was holding.

“I’m gonna miss him, man,” Lee said, closing his eyes.

“Me too, man,” Kent added with a small nod, “Me too.”

The two stayed there for a moment - taking in all they had left, which was each other. Their friendship wouldn’t be the same without Danny, they both knew this, but they also knew that they had to stay strong (and stay together) for Danny’s sake. He would’ve wanted them to keep going.

Willy approached the two and gave a small sigh, “I hate to interrupt this moment, lads,” He started, moving between the two and causing them to look at him before continuing, “But tomorrow, your lives change.”

“What do you mean, Willy?” Kent asked, glancing up at the older man.

“Tomorrow,” Willy started, exhaling as if the next news was going to be painful before stating, “You boys move to active combat.”

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