Roleplay

She had been rendered speechless, tongue-tied. So much so that she wasn't able to call for Bill when he disappeared.

F*ck. F*ck.

(Why is everything so messed up when you're around?

At this point, it's no better than that war.)

The hand that Dot had been leaning into to was pulled away and to her side, balling into a white-knuckled fist.

Because he was right. All goddamned sh*tting correct. She's been patronizing, condescending and clingy, too much on a few people at the wrong time that she tended to leave out all the rest. She was like a horse with blinders on that aspect, only so thoroughly focused on what she saw in front of her.

Behind lips pursed into a thin line, her teeth ground together.

And how can she ever forget about her failure, her utter hypocrisy, as Stanley's Guardian? She's been seeking comfort from him lately instead of the other way around, letting her memories and shell shock get the best of her when she should be the stronger, more cool-headed one. Maybe she should've just packed her bags for an earlier Guardianship instead of foolishly heading into some dumb*ss political cover-up and then maybe Stan wouldn't be this bad off, wouldn't need to look to a knife so longingly -

She exhaled through her mouth, breath coming out in a slow and steady sigh. She wanted to get f*cking drunk, maybe alone. Most likely alone.

Because at this point in time, with those words laced with hurt ringing in her ears, her son might as well hate her for all her shortcomings.

(....f*ck. Never knew it would hurt this much.)

She forced a smile on her face as she turned back to Dot and Stan, carefully slinging the younger demon's arm over her shoulders.

"...maybe we should...let Bill cool down a bit," she suggested, a twitch of pain to the right corner of her mouth that threatened to shatter her facade. "Let's get you and Mabel settled down now."

Bill was so tired.

Was it simply the strength he had expended teleporting the both of them back to the Shack, with enviable accuracy? Or was it the blood loss, from the part-wound he had stolen from Dot, so that the other demon might live?

Bill didn't particularly care to riddle out the reasons, and Dipper was busy fiddling with Stanford's machine, so the dream-demon simply lay where he had crumpled up in the cool, moving grass, his breath coming in shallow gasps tinged with too-bright blood.

The question—Bill did not think of it as pathetic; Dipper's tone instead struck him as polite, solicitous, and so kindly that he felt the absurd desire to burst into tears then and there.

(It was shock, surely, Bill worked to convince himself; but that explanation, sound as it was, didn't stop the two, three tears slip down his sharp cheekbone, as he shifted to rest his head trustingly in Dipper's lap.)

"Do what you have to do," the demon murmured, smiling with one corner of his mouth, coincidentally the side from which Dipper had so recently tenderly wiped away the blood, glaring at the spot as though daring it to bleed more. (It did so, now, perhaps feeling safe from Dipper's wrath.)

The dream-demon reached up with shaking fingers to pull down the collar of his shirt, revealing the pale expanse of his throat and chest, missing the buttons of his dress-shirt something awful. It would have given his hands something to do, those buttons.

Dipper wasted no time, inserting the small needle into the hollow above Bill's collarbone and watched closely as the machine began sending the life-giving fluid into his demon. He relaxed slightly when nothing bad happened, and lightly balanced the little mechanism on Bill's chest.

Then Dipper hunched into an uncomfortable position to kiss Bill on the forehead, placing both hands in that golden hair, before leaning back in the grass, hands still on Bill's head.

"So... We just relax here for a while?" He was alright with that; Dipper was feeling strangely drained, more tired and achy than usual. Luckily, it was pretty easy to ignore.

But resting was perfectly fine by him.

It almost felt like he was being torn in two. On one hand, Bill had disappeared while injured and in pain, and it made Stan wanted to scream. At Bill and at himself. He had focused on Dot because Dot had seemed to have the worse injury, Bill had been in pain but Stan had thought that it could wait. F*ck, maybe he had messed up, would always mess up when there was more than one person he cared about that needed attention.

On the other hand, the- pointed- sharp way that demon had just blurted out what Stan was trying to keep to himself pulled a bitter, but amused laugh from him. He ignored the heartbroken and horrified look that Ford sent him, trying to focus on the humor of the way that his son had phrased Stan's death wish rather than the fact that everyone would know now. (Maybe, a small part of him whispered, Maybe they would let it drop and he could go back this bloody fantasies in peace.)

He raised an eyebrow at Pi and muttered dryly, "You think?" The 'I-told-you-so' that he felt like he could crow may have slipped past in the bond, but he wasn't sure, and he mentally heaved a sigh. We'll be talking about this Pi. Don't get your thoughts in a twist aright? He had tried to help. Maybe he should have tried harder. F*ck, he had spent thirty years ignore warnings about the end of the world for Ford, why was ignoring the fact that they might hate him when he pushed to help harder?

He gathered Mabel up and heaved himself to his feet, settling her on his hip, headed towards the break room, pausing only a moment to snag the note and feather, slipping them into his pockets before giving Mabel a fake grin. "Clothes or blankets? Whatcha think about giving Sweater Town an upgrade and a few visitors?"

He ignored the way that Ford called his name, throwing out a "Promised you a talk already Sixer," as he strode out of the room.

~~

Pacifica's eyes narrowed as she looked at Pi. Bill hadn't been joking. His tone was too sharp, too open, to honest. Her fist clenched, and she remembered the fact that she had been willing to give the other demon a chance because of Bill. Because Bill had said that she had helped a little bit when Dipper had died, even if it had hurt Stan.

Her teeth ground against each other, and part of Paz whispered that she should track down where her boys had gone. She shushed it harshly, glaring at Pi. There was something she needed to do first.

Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.

She wasn't going to make the same mistake again.

~~

Ford felt like someone had kicked him in the chest. He was getting nothing from the bond with Sigh and-

And at least my charge doesn't stare longingly at sharp objects—

Stan was not ok. Not in the least.

Mabel did not object to being picked up. In fact, she snuggled deeper into her grunkle's arms, trembling terribly. Like a leaf in a high wind, as the old saying went.

She made no attempt to reach for Dot, seeming not at all phased by the prospect of being separated from her demon, spending the night with her Grunkle Stan and Grauntie Pi while Dot slept—rested—healed on the couch in Soos's break room. Not far, and yet ... not touching.

(She missed Soos. How much different would things have been, had the handyman been underfoot as always? There was no telling now—there were no time agents around that she could mug for their time tape, although if she should happen across one in the future ...)

"I don't got any sweaters big enough for me an' Dot to share," Mabel mumbled against the scratchy fabric of Stan's suit jacket. "Maybe I can— can m-make one tomorr ... b-but for tonigh— i-ight, I think m-maybe blankets'd be better." The girl did not seem inclined to raise her face from where she had buried it in the warmth safety of Stan's broad shoulder.

Mabel wouldn't have cared about his mob connections, nor that old, hateful nickname—the Golden Hand—had she even known. Because he was her Grunkle Stan, and she trusted him utterly to keep them all safe.

---

Bill winced, half-closing his eye not in contentment now but in pain, as the needle-like projection pierced the thin skin in the hollow of his collarbone, but he made no sound that might upset his boy.

He did not anticipate the kiss, nor the hands in his hair. His eye widened again, then slitted not-quite-shut once more; if he could have purred, he would have. As it was, he made a soft, wordless little murmur, deep in his chest, rattling noisily.

But already his breathing seemed to be coming easier: he was no longer gasping, and his dilated pupil had narrowed once more to something approaching normal, neither paper-thin nor blown wide.

"S'nice here, innit?" the demon asked, lazily—at least, one would take that unhurried drawl as laziness, but Dipper could feel a certain thread of anxiety wending through their still-muddied bond, the color and consistency of oil. "Peaceful."

Carefully, so as not to dislodge the strange machine that, frankly, he understood no better than Dipper, Bill extended an arm to gather Dipper against him in half a hug, the best he could manage; he rested his head on Dipper's hair, one hand lifted to keep the little machine in place.

Dot was thrown into more confusion at Mabel's reaction... She seemed scared... Scared to touch him, to hurt him more? Or... Scared of him?

He didn't know.

With his body and brain not working up to capacity, the bond wasn't as clear at Dot's end, though he could feel a lot of bad emotions coming off his charge. He couldn't comfort her; he was the issue this time. He was grateful she had Stan.

Maybe she was angry at him for almost dying saving Bill. That would be justified.

Either way, his eyes dropped. "O-okay. I'll be here." He slowly struggled out of his bloody coat, wincing when he had to move the right side of his upper body, but making sure to go slow and not reinjure himself. Then he undid the buttons on his shirt too and peeled the soaked fabric off, revealing his thin, scrawny chest. He balled up the clothes and tried to use the meager non-bloodied sections to wipe himself off a little.

Except now he was cold. Typical. His charge was angry at him, Bill would probably just yell at him for being an idiot again and probably not speak to him again, and now that Pi knew showing affection to Dot made Bill... Jealous? She probably would never do it again.

One red-stained hand reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose as he tried to control his emotions.

*

"It is a nice place to escape to," Dipper agreed, sighing and looking up at the constellations. He helped Bill out when the demon drew him closer by scooting a little, then rested his cheek in the crook of Bill' neck. His arms were now wrapped around his demon instead.

His eyes returned to the stars. "Where's your constellation again? Think you could tell the story of how you got your own constellation?"

He felt it almost gave them a certain kinship; they both had their own mark on the stars, though Bill's had been named for him while Dipper had been named after his.

Still, it was funny, the way the universe worked. He liked it.

Bill had not felt this at ease—this relaxed—since ... well, long before he had learned of Dipper's fate. Perhaps even before he'd realized, with Matrix's help, that he was bonded with the grating, nerdy know-it-all.

He had really, truly believed, at one point in time, that looking at Ford might have been a tolerable preview of Dipper, once he grew old?

Because he would grow old; unaware he was doing it, Bill's arm tightened almost painfully tight around the boy, as though there were predators all around him—vengeful ghosts that sought to steal away his boy, and Bill would not let them—

He blinked out of the waking nightmare, sniffled thickly, then obligingly lifted his head to take in the dead stars that still shone, forever, overhead. "They're frozen," Bill murmured, his breath ruffling Dipper's hair. "They're as alive as, as these rocks, or this grass."

He stared broodingly ahead for several moments, tracing the constellations he had memorized. "You could rip out a chunk of grass, soil and all, and the next time you come back, it's there again. But ... it's a nice place to get away, to ... aw, who'm I kidding, you saw all that in there, let's put it plain—to run to, when you're feeling overwhelmed."

He sighed, reddening across his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose. "Crap, that wasn't the story you'd asked for, sorry. Uhhh ..." He began to study the starscape with an intense scrutiny that suggested he had just been called out in a crowded classroom for dozing behind his textbook.

"There," Bill finally said, pointing. Indeed, there were three bright stars arranged in an equilateral triangular formation. More peculiar, though, was that nearest the bottom was a collection of five dimmer stars that seemed to suggest a bow tie; near the top, nearest the uppermost point of the triangle, was a larger, brighter star.

"I think they did a pretty decent job," Bill admitted, grudgingly. "As for how I got my own constellation ... let's just say that ol' Orion used to have a hell of a lot more, but I figured it'd be in bad taste even for me if mortals were treated with a great big—" he hurriedly amended his language, "... a sizable manhood floppin' around, knockin' over trash cans and terrorizing animals.

"So I did everybody a favor, and," he gestured broadly to his constellation with the hand not currently preoccupied with holding Dipper closer still.

"I know they're dead." Dipper didn't react to being squeezed, other than holding his breath. He had gotten used to that and didn't mind in the least. It reassured each that the other was still there.

"There's still there, though. Still recognizable and comforting, even after they died." Strange words. The boy cracked a smile. "And yeah, that's why I said escape. I wish I'd had a dimension to escape to in the past..." Where nothing bad could get to him.

He shifted slightly, smiling at the stars. "Our constellations are close together," he said quietly in a happy voice. Then "BILL! Are you talking about what I think you're talking about?"

Oh there was no doubt about it. Yes that's what Bill was talking about.

She replied with a single hum of approval down the bond before turning back to Dot.

"You can strip later when you've got the room to yourself," she teased, though her heart wasn't really into it. "I'll bring you some nice clothes and some towels to wash up with too."

She slowly rose to her feet, taking Dot with her and making sure that there was very minimal, if not none at all, disturbance to his aches and sores. Once they were upright, she paused so they could both catch their breaths.

"What is it with you boys and being so tall? Gonna be expecting Dipper to be just as tall, too, huh? Okay. The break room is just a quick march in that direction. Shall we?"







On the sealing of ancient demons, an intricate magic seal is needed. Seven circles, seven layers representing the levels of ancient demonic power, must be drawn or carved, each imbued with the ten Words of Power. Seven is not necessary unless the ancient demon is at full power. Five circles with five out of ten Words of Power would suffice. The symbol of the ancient must be drawn in the center.

A hefty power source would also be required. The most efficient way to seal an ancient is with their own power, the concepts they thrive on. The ancient of Time would need the flow of relative time to be sealed, the Light entity requiring energy from the stars and from within beings, the Dark entity would suffice with shadows and black mass. (The clearing where you found me still has enough black mass/dark matter to power one more sealing ritual. Use that instead of having to trouble yourself with finding for more.)

Next, an anchor to seal the ancient into. Being embodiments of the intangible, ancients can be sealed into something of the physical plane that has been imbued with their source of power. Usually, only the person who had sealed the ancient is the only one capable of releasing them, but there are some cases wherein ancients who have been sealed long enough have the capacity to free themselves. It all depends on the strength of the seal and the sealer's willpower at the time. (The altar would do. I know it seems too old and worn for the job, but it is most likely the only thing on this planet that is touched by black mass/dark matter. It would hold for around five more centuries before crumbling completely.)

There are also cases wherein the sealed ancient does not wake at all when the seal is promptly broken. It can be said then that they have moved from this existence and into eternal servitude to the First, the Eldest Of All, and the Root, the Origin Dimension. A popular theory among ancients and argued over vigorously in a rare meeting among ancients. (I would have known if this were true had I succumbed to my Other a long time ago.)

(I have made recent additions so that it would be easier and quicker for you to execute than what your past life had done to save me. Just in case.)

(Another edit. I....fear that something might happen and you would be forced to fight against me. While I am rather difficult to fully kill, sealing me would suffice and most likely break any charm or bind I have been trapped in. Added the part for the altar. You know where.)

(If you do not wish to put up with me anymore then this would be your solution. You would do your world a favor, saving it from an entity most equate to Evil itself. I am sorry I have not been better for you.)

It hurt to stand up. He winced, making a pathetic noise as his recently sliced back muscles had to actually do work. As soon as the sound escaped, he turned red.

"I... Didn't m-mean to do that." He took one step, signaling that he was ready to go.

"Thank you. And... I-I'm sorry. I didn't mean to get between y-you and Bill." He coughed, covering his mouth with a forearm and watching small, dilute red drops fleck the skin. "I just wanted..."

He cut the sentence off before he could finish it.

"I-I might need tissues. Or s-some kid of bowl. I don't want to cough blood on the c-couch."