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Someone asked me to write something on tumblr where Dipper realizes his feelings for Pacifica, and it kind of got out of control and spiraled into this. Essentially, this is a companion to my other story Let Me Clarify, from Dipper's point of view - but you don't really have to read that one to understand (hopefully).
It sneaks up on him in the slowest, most innocent of ways, which is probably why he doesn't see it coming.
Dipper's not like Mabel. He's not obsessed with romance in the way she is, doesn't pursue it with a heady determination that terrifies more often than it allures. This doesn't mean he doesn't have dreams, of course – he does want a relationship, eventually. He wants to be loved. Doesn't everyone?
He just isn't as… motivated, as she is. His life isn't exactly the calmest, either. It's kind of hard to think about dating when you're running for your life and discovering apocalyptic omens every other day.
That, and he doesn't exactly have the best track record. He's only ever really loved (well, it felt like love then) one person. And any other attempts to "move on" ended in a disaster he's not exactly eager to repeat. Innocent flirting is one thing – he draws the line far in front of manipulating people's emotions. He's better at recognizing that one, now.
The point is that he's not really looking for romantic feelings, much less expecting them. He's got a lot more on his mind, more important things.
Maybe that's why it hits him as hard as it does, when he finally faces the fact.
The first bad sign is easy enough to write off.
It's mid-summer in Gravity Falls, the fourth one they've spent there. The typical Oregon weather has again taken a turn for the drearier, covering the town in a grey mist and the woods in a perpetual wetness. Every time he looks outside, it's raining, and he swears Stan's done it on purpose to keep them locked inside for a week-long "family bonding" session.
Who knows. His Grunkle having partial control over the weather wouldn't be the strangest thing he's seen. Seriously.
At any rate, by the fourth day trapped inside Dipper's all but lost his mind. Mabel's made a quick escape with Candy and Grenda for the mall, and Stan and Ford have been watching that ridiculous soap opera about a duchess or something for the past three hours. It's a good a time as any to make a break for it, so Dipper grabs a rain jacket, shoves his worn boots on, and ducks out into the rain.
Shivering as the freezing rain mists into his face, Dipper pulls out his phone, giving a familiar swipe at one of his saved contacts.
As always, she picks up on the third ring.
"Hey, loser," her voice filters through, and Dipper grins. "Wanna come break me out of prison?"
"Depends," he says, making his way to the bus stop. "Can your delicate sensibilities take a few drops of water?"
"Please, Pines," Pacifica shoots. "If anyone should be worried, it's you. Are you sure you won't drown in a puddle on the way here?"
"You know, I'm taller than you now," Dipper mutters.
"By like, a centimeter, maybe. Still a noodle-armed wimp, though."
"Ha, ha," Dipper says, sarcastically. "Maybe I'll leave you there, then-"
"Wow, what a great friend you are," Pacifica says. Her voice pauses. "Seriously, though. Please some get me out? If I have to listen to my father droning on about finances in Europe one more time I'm gonna resurrect that lumberjack ghost."
"Give me a minute, the public bus service of Gravity Falls leaves something to be desired, you know. Oh wait, you wouldn't," Dipper says, but he's smiling. "I'll be there soon."
There's a burst of static over the phone as Pacifica sighs in relief. "Thanks, Dipper."
"Yeah, yeah. You're still the worst."
She snorts. "You wish that was me."
The bus drops him off relatively close to the mansion, so it doesn't take him long to push through the increasingly heavy rain to the front gates. Actually getting Pacifica out of the mansion is a bit harder, but he's got it down pretty well, now. The front cameras are easy enough to dodge, when you know where they are, and one of the second-story window creaks just a little bit less than the others. Pacifica slides out easily, tugging her purple rain jacket around her tighter as she lets herself drop. She hits the ground and Dipper catches her neatly by the arms before she face-plants in the mud.
"Thanks," she grins. "And we should be good for a while, my parents are passed out in front of afternoon British programming."
"The duchess show?" Dipper asks, raising an eyebrow.
"Yup," Pacifica says, adjusting her hood as they leave the mansion's gates behind them.
"What is it with that show," he mutters.
"Who knows," Pacifica shrugs. "You'd think life here is dramatic enough. Where are we going, by the way?"
It's Dipper's turn to shrug. "Most of the good creatures probably aren't out, right now. It might be good to wait until it lets up a bit, too."
"You don't say," Pacifica says, wiping rainwater from her face. "So, normal people stuff it is, then. Wanna get coffee?"
They end up at the small coffee shop next to the mattress store, shoved into a tiny booth by the window. The waitress gives them a pained look as she hands them their coffee, her eyes lingering on their sopping hair and still-dripping rain jackets flung carelessly over the seat. Neither of them pay her any mind – they're too busy trying to warm up over the steaming coffee.
"What I don't understand," Pacifica says, between shivers. "Is how you can drink that stuff like that."
"Hey," Dipper says. "Just because I don't get it with creamer imported from Switzerland doesn't mean it's toxic."
"It's Sweden, actually," Pacifica sniffs. "And I'm pretty sure straight coffee with three shots of expresso is toxic."
"You'd have a fear of intense sugar in your drinks if you grew up with Mabel juice, too," Dipper defends, taking a sip of coffee. His face twists as the bitter liquid sears his tongue. "Ah – okay, maybe it needs a little sugar."
Pacifica snorts. "I told you," she says, flicking a strand of wet blonde hair from her face. She leans forward, popping the lid off his cup. "Here," she says, pouring a bit of her own coffee in his. "That should help. Some."
Dipper takes a wary sip, and finds the taste less acidic. "Thanks," he says.
Pacifica gives him a small smile. "Of course. Uncultured peasant."
Dipper snorts, shaking his head as he braces his elbows on the table. He watches Pacifica as she absently stirs her coffee, eyes lingering the drops of water that slide out of her shining hair, the slight red of her nose from the cold, the soft smile she's got on that just barely pulls at the corner of her mouth - the one that makes her eyes light up.
A heat that has nothing to do with his coffee creeps up, filling his chest.
"Dipper?" Pacifica frowns at him. The strand of hair has fallen back on her face. "I asked you if you wanted to go to the arcade?"
The heat surges to his cheeks. "Yeah," he says, hurriedly. He flashes her a grin he hopes isn't nervous. "Sure."
While the heat in his cheeks finally saps away, the warm feeling in his chest refuses to leave for the rest of the day. It's not until he's lying in bed that night that it manifests itself into a subtle ache.
He buries his face in his pillow. Pacifica's his best friend.
And he is certainly not doing this again.
The next time is harder to ignore.
The warm feeling leaves him alone for the rest of that summer, and by the next one he's nearly forgotten about it entirely. Things are normal – well, as normal as one can get, for Gravity Falls – and Mabel's already got her eye on some lifeguard from Seattle, doubtlessly pulling Pacifica into her efforts. He's stuck at the shop a lot more, now that Wendy's off at college. And while it cuts into his time investigating the woods, it could be worse. Stan's actually paying him, which is almost miraculous.
Today's his longer shift, the one that leaves him with several busted pens and an incurable tick as he watches the clock. His family is out, but Pacifica's lounging across the shop, pretending to be interested in a stack of pamphlets between the playful insults she's been sending him for the last hour, so he's far from lonely.
No one's showing up to the Shack today, which Dipper hardly minds. This way he doesn't have to attempt to imitate the Pines' "charm" or whatever Mabel exudes when she works, something he's severely lacking in. This way, he can relax with Pacifica, and hopefully keep the gift shop in something resembling neat.
Or not, he thinks, as another pen snaps between his teeth, and their verbal war dissolves into a merchandise-throwing warzone.
"Take that, you filthy, uncultured peasant!"
Dipper yelps as a plastic skull smacks him in the head, wincing. He's forgotten she actually had a pretty decent arm. He grins.
"War it is, bratty, privileged, tyrant!"
He half-forgets about Stan's warnings to keep the gift shop in order, half vindictively throws the stuffed wildlife at Pacifica. Stan can take a little destruction - he still hasn't forgotten the bathroom incident.
Pacifica shrieks between throwing plastic skulls at him, giggling as she ducks behind a t-shirt rack. Dipper smirks, ducking beneath the counter. She's too focused, looking forward, to notice him as he sneaks up behind her, his footsteps inaudible on the worn floor.
"Gotcha!"
He dives forward, catching her around the waist as she gives a sudden shriek. He braces his arms beneath her, careful not to actually crack her head against the floor, as they tumble forwards, the t-shirts collapsing on top of them as they both scream.
Dipper tries vainly to push himself up, only to fall back on his forearms with laughter. It takes him a second to realize Pacifica's not laughing anymore. He feels a spark of fear, scared that he's hurt her – but she's only staring up at him, an unreadable expression on her face as her blue eyes practically drill into him.
Her eyes are the color of the sky, he thinks absently. The clear sky one a cold autumn day, the brilliant sort of blue that's easy to lose yourself in-
He swallows, heat rushing to his cheeks as he hastily pushes himself off her. Hangers clank as t-shirts cascade off his back, and Pacifica laughs. Dipper joins her after a beat, grateful for the break in atmosphere.
Things revert themselves to normal after that, even if they're both stuck sprinting away from an enraged Stan. But the warm feeling's back, along with a new, pressing ache in his chest.
He tries to ignore it. He really does. Pacifica is his best friend, and for him, those are few and hard to find. And Pacifica's special – he doesn't know what he'd do without her, to be honest. She gets things the way no one else does.
She's his best friend, and that's the end of that.
Unfortunately, he's forgotten what he learned his first summer, about shutting down feelings.
It's not until he looks down at his sketch of a kappa and finds a detailed list of ways to ask Pacifica out written instead that Dipper realizes he's in trouble.
Nothing actually happens, the next time.
It's more of a memory, than anything.
On the list of worst nights of his life, this one ranks very, very high. He's hunched over on the cold linoleum floor, his back pressed against the hard, white walls and his legs drawn up against his chest. Every time another nurse walks by he draws further in, as if he could withdraw entirely into himself and cease to exist.
His arms wrap limply around his legs, and his hands, scraped and bruised and covered in blood, won't stop trembling.
Every time he shuts his eyes he sees them.
Dipper buries his head into his arms, his chest constricting as his eyes sting. It's his fault. It's all his fault, all his fault – he should've done something earlier, should've spoken up, make an effort, he should've – he should've been better, been a better brother, a better person.
But he wasn't. He's not, and it's all his fault.
He bites hard enough on his lip to draw blood. He didn't know it was possible to hate oneself this much.
He deserves this. He deserves to be alone, curled up in hospital corridor by himself, starting every time a door opens and closes, only to sink back in disappointment as they walk past him. He deserves the bloody nail marks on his palms, the horrible feeling that climbs up his throat, strangling him as his vison grows blurry.
They don't deserve to be in those rooms, though. They didn't deserve anything like that.
But they're still there, and it's his fault.
His vison blurs entirely as the pain in his chest wrenches. He bites his lip again, desperately trying to stifle the sobs that threaten to wrack his body.
He barely notices the steps that halt beside him, the rustle of clothing as someone kneels beside him. It's not until a hand rests gently on his shoulder that he starts, wiping furiously at his face as he glances to the side.
Pacifica stares at him, her eyes heavy in sorrow and sympathy. She looks at him with an expression of kindness that he hasn't seen since – since-
"I heard," she says, softly. "Dipper, I'm – I'm so sorry."
He's hardly able to find his voice. "It's - it should be okay," he says, his voice embarrassingly raw. "'The doctors – the doctors said they should be fine. T-they got there just in time."
"That's good," Pacifica says, her hand still on his shoulder. "How are you?"
Dipper shakes his head. "N-not important," he stutters, fighting back the stinging in his eyes. "Doesn't matter."
Pacifica takes a short breath. "It matters to me," she murmurs. "I know what happened, Dipper."
He freezes, eyes screwing closed. If she knows – if she knows, why is she still here?
"T-then you know it's my fault," he manages, refusing to look at her. "So you should – you should hate me, too."
There's a sharp intake of breath, and she draws closer, her hands moving hesitantly to his hair.
"Oh Dipper," she says. "Dipper, I don't – of course I don't hate you. They don't, either."
I do, he wants to scream. I do, I do so much-
Pacifica's hands are feather-light as they sift through his hair, running gently through the tangled knots. The motion is soothing in a way Dipper's been aching for, and his head nods hesitantly onto her shoulder, another shuddering breath escaping him.
She smells like rain and flowers, he thinks, distantly.
"You messed up," Pacifica says, softly. "That doesn't mean it's not too late." Her hands pauses in his hair.
"Dipper, you're not a bad person. You're not."
His breath hitches painfully, and the burning in his eyes returns full-force.
"I feel like one," he gasps, reaching for anything, any escape from the pain. "P-Pacifica, god, I feel like one."
She pulls him into her arms, and Dipper latches onto her, the first sobs escaping him in horrible, choking gasps.
"I know," she whispers, her voice thick as she holds him tighter. "I know."
Years later, he can still feel the gentle tug of her hands in his hair, still remember the delicate scent of her perfume.
The next time, he gives up.
Consciousness filters back to Dipper with a sluggish, hazy pace. His body feels weightless, like he's spiraling slowly in space, and his head feels like it's packed with cotton. It's the unfortunately familiar fuzzy deadness of his tongue that lets him know that he's been sedated. Again.
Which probably means he's in the hospital. Again.
He cracks his eyes open, flinching as the low lighting sends a spike of pain through his head. His vision is blurry and off-center, but the stark white ceiling and the low beeping next to him are enough to let him know that his suspicions are correct.
That and the uncomfortable, intrusive itch that's making itself known in his arm. Dipper suppresses the urge to tear at the tiny needles jabbing into his skin. Second to being trapped in bed, IV's are his least favorite thing about the hospital – not that they hurt particularly, but the idea of something stuck in his skin with the power to send him back into unconsciousness doesn't sit well with him. But Mabel would kill him if he got caught yanking them out again, so-
Mabel.
A spark of panic flies through him, and he hears the monitor's beeping increase as he struggles to sit up. The burst of knife-like pain in his side coupled with the heavy blanket of exhaustion that smothers him promptly kill his efforts. He collapses back into the bed, stifling a moan at the throbbing pain in his side.
Geez, what the heck did he even do?
Giving up on full-body movement, he turns his head to the side. He feels a wave of relief as he spots Mabel curled up on the large armchair across the room. There's a bruise coloring on her cheek and her hair is a mess, but her expression is peaceful as she sleeps and she looks unharmed. That's good enough for him – for now.
He sighs, staring up at the ceiling. His memory is frustratingly dim. He thinks he remembers waking up the last few hours – the harried faces of the nurses he'd originally written off as a dream were probably real, then – but everything else is hazy and undefined. He remembers this morning, waking up to the smell of pancakes and Stan and Ford arguing, and then he was supposed to go out with Ford-
Oh. Yeah. He doesn't have the whole picture, but he's fairly sure the memories of angry roaring and burning pain in his side and Ford yelling have something to do with it.
He shifts, trying to ignore the pull of the IV in his arm, when he freezes. There's a soft warmth on his hand that holds it down, the feeling of another hand on his he's just now noticing. Dipper frowns, turning to the side.
Blonde hair cascades over the edge of his blanket, Pacifica's head slumped forward on the side of his bed, pillowed on her arm. She breathes deeply, lost in sleep, but her other arm is stretched out, her hand lightly resting on top of his.
Dipper swallows. His first instinct is to move his hand away, and spare them both the embarrassment when she wakes – it must've been an accident, or… or something.
(And that's a lie. His first instinct is to grasp her hand in his own.)
He doesn't move. Instead, he stares at her, watching the faint flutter of her lashes as she dreams, the soft sheen of her hair against her cheek. With a pang of guilt, he also notes the dark circles etched beneath her eyes. Those don't belong on her – that's his thing.
He feels the ache in his chest resurface, the warm, pressing longing he's been throttling for too long now. He's too tired to resist it this time, his mind too clouded and hazy to offer any good arguments. Instead, he lets the feeling flood him, the insistent ache in his heart almost pleasant.
Ever so slowly, he flips his hand, his palm meeting hers. Pacifica remains asleep, her breathing steady and calming. Dipper runs his thumb over the back of her hand, marveling at her smooth skin beneath his own scarred hands.
He's tired about a good deal in his life. But right now, he's too tired of this to continue.
"I think I love you," he whispers, the words heavy on his tongue. Pacifica remains asleep, her expression peaceful.
"Actually, I know."
He runs his thumb across her hand once more before he rips his gaze from her, staring at the white ceiling.
He'll do it as soon as he has the chance, he thinks. He'll tell her, terrified or not. He's a Pines. He's not going to sit by and watch something he wants leave him because he's too stupid to open his mouth.
He fades in and out of consciousness after that, the combination of drugs and dull pain taking their toll again. He's barely awake when Pacifica finally jerks up, rubbing at her eyes with a groan. She glances at him, meeting his eyes, and her face lights up. Dipper gives her a weary smile.
Her eyes are still the color of the autumn sky.