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Dipper groaned, feeling a sharp ache settle in his bones as he shifted slightly, the movement tugging painfully at his muscles. A weak, pained sound escaped his throat, only to discover how hoarse and raw it felt, as though it hadn’t been used in days. It hurt to swallow, and he was filled with a strange, disorienting heaviness. He tried to open his eyes, to look around and figure out where he was, but his eyelids felt too heavy to lift, as if something unseen was pressing them down.
The ache that pulsed through his body made it nearly impossible to think, his mind foggy and drifting in and out of focus. He didn’t understand why he was in pain or how he’d ended up here—or even where here was. There were only fragments, half-formed memories of falling, the sensation of air rushing past him, a glimpse of the ground racing toward him—
“…….”
He heard something, a voice, but it was distant, muffled, like it was coming from underwater. He strained to make it out, trying to concentrate through the haze, but the effort only deepened the throbbing ache in his head.
And then, he heard it—a soft, constant beeping. It was rhythmic, like a heartbeat, yet somehow off, strange and artificial. With a groggy sense of recognition, he understood it was a machine, though he wasn’t sure how he knew. The noise was almost comforting in its consistency, but it felt out of place, foreign, like it didn’t belong in his life.
“… … ……” The voice again, a faint murmuring drifting toward him, just beyond his reach.
He wanted to fall back into the darkness, to escape the discomfort, but the pain rooted him to the present, the sensations intensifying with every heartbeat. He attempted to lift his arm, but it was as if his limbs were weighed down, far away from him, almost like they weren’t there at all. Yet, he felt the pain—sharp, aching in his hands, arms, legs, everywhere. The disconnect gnawed at him; he couldn’t feel his body properly, couldn’t tell where his limbs ended or began, just that they hurt.
Everything felt wrong. His mind was a jumbled mess, his senses dulled yet hypersensitive, unable to make sense of the signals he was receiving. He fought to stay conscious, struggling against the thick fog surrounding him, but the disorientation and pain made it harder with each passing second.
Dipper’s eyes stung as the overwhelming pain pressed down on him, seeming to fill every inch of his body with a relentless ache. He could feel warm tears sliding down his cheeks, unbidden, spilling over as he tried and failed to contain the tremors of pain shaking him. His breaths came out as soft, pained whimpers, too weak to be anything louder, but they echoed in the quiet room around him.
Then, he felt it—a gentle, warm touch on his cheek, like a small, familiar hand wiping away the tears. His heart jumped at the sensation, and he turned his head ever so slightly, pressing into the warmth as if it were a lifeline. The touch felt comforting, safe. He closed his eyes, leaning into the hand, the pain less sharp in that moment as he clung to the feeling.
In the fog of his mind, he tried to piece together who it might be. The touch was soft, careful, and there was something about it that sparked a faint memory in the back of his mind. Slowly, he recognized the hand—it was Mabel’s. A sense of relief washed over him, like a soft wave soothing his battered body. If Mabel was here, then maybe things weren’t so bad.
“...per?”
The sound drifted to him, a voice breaking through the haze. He struggled to focus on it, the syllables reaching his ears as if from a great distance. His brain worked sluggishly, straining to make sense of the sound, to piece together the fragments of words.
“A.. .o. .kay?” Her voice, Mabel’s voice, was laced with worry, a quiver he could hear even through the fog. He managed to catch the soft cadence, her familiar tone, and it sparked a weak sense of recognition. “Y..’ll .. o..y.”
She was talking to him, telling him something—telling him he’d be okay. The reassurance, though broken and difficult to hear, eased some of his fears. He tried to respond, tried to form words to reassure her, but his voice was just as fractured as his thoughts. A dry, choked sound escaped his throat, rough and broken, but he hoped she understood that he was trying.
He forced his eyes open a crack, vision blurry and unfocused. Everything around him was hazy, but he could make out Mabel’s familiar outline, her face hovering over him, her own eyes shimmering with unshed tears. Her presence was enough to calm him, and he felt a small glimmer of warmth and safety.
As Dipper’s eyes fluttered open, he caught a glimpse of her face, though her features blurred at the edges, the details just out of reach. Mabel’s expression was soft and worried, but she smiled through it, her familiar energy seeming to pulse even in the dimness around him. Relief and worry danced in her eyes, the contrast striking a faint chord of comfort within him. He felt his body relax, the sharp edges of pain fading slightly as he drifted back into sleep, the image of her comforting smile lingering.
. . .
The next few times he awoke were fragmented, snippets of reality interspersed with waves of dull, throbbing pain. The days—though he wasn’t even sure they were days—blurred together in a haze. His mind floated in and out of consciousness, each awakening filled with brief glimpses of hospital lights, the muffled beeps of monitors, and faint voices he couldn’t quite make out. When he opened his eyes, the room was always hazy, the surroundings fading in and out as he fought against the fog clouding his vision.
Once, he thought he could see Mabel sitting beside him, her voice a familiar hum of comfort. She seemed to be chattering about something, her words a gentle, unbroken stream of sound that filled the quiet. Though he couldn’t make out a single word, the warmth in her tone wrapped around him like a blanket, grounding him in the present even as his thoughts drifted in and out. The gentle rhythm of her voice soothed the edges of his pain, a steady anchor in the overwhelming sea of discomfort.
In one of his groggier moments, he opened his eyes and thought he saw two Stans standing side by side near the doorway, talking. He squinted, trying to focus. He blinked, convinced his mind was playing tricks on him, and when he looked again, there was only one Stan, watching him with a concerned frown. He wanted to call out, to reach for the familiarity that the sight of his family brought, but his body remained heavy, unresponsive.
Gradually, the fog in his mind started to clear, and he became more aware of his surroundings. The sterile smell of antiseptic, the stiff, scratchy feeling of hospital sheets against his skin, the tightness of casts around his arms and legs, all of it settled into his awareness. He noticed the weight pressing against his neck—a neck brace, he realized. His arms were bound in plaster casts, extending down to his wrists.
. . .
When Dipper opened his eyes again, the world seemed clearer, edges sharper than they’d been in days. The hospital room came into view, quiet and empty, the stillness broken only by the soft hum of machines. He blinked, adjusting to the brightness of the sterile lights overhead. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, he felt a hint of clarity return, and the pain, though still present, seemed less overpowering.
His gaze drifted to the small television mounted in the corner of the room. It played some generic program, voices and images flickering across the screen, but as he tried to focus on it, his thoughts blurred again, slipping from his grasp like sand through his fingers. He let his eyes wander from the screen, feeling his mind grow a little hazy again—until a sudden realization snapped him awake, jolting him like an electric shock.
The memories crashed over him with a suffocating force, flooding his mind in vivid detail: Bill’s trickery, the journal pages torn to shreds, the sudden rush of cold terror as he felt himself falling from the water tower. Dipper’s pulse quickened as he relived the sensation, his stomach dropping just as it had in that moment, the memory playing out like a nightmare he couldn’t shake. He remembered Bill laughing in his mind, mocking him as he took full control. Then the fall, the ground rising to meet him—
It hit him hard, the horror of it all sinking in fully for the first time. Bill had tried to kill him. And he’d nearly succeeded. The demon’s cruel plan, his own body turned against him—it was too much to take in, too twisted and overwhelming. Dipper’s breaths started to quicken, coming in shallow gasps as he tried to make sense of the chaos in his mind.
And then a terrifying question crept in, icy and suffocating: Was Bill still there?
A new wave of dread clawed at him, rising in his chest like a dark tide. He remembered seeing Bill’s twisted form slipping away, laughing as he abandoned Dipper’s body, leaving him to his fate. But what if that wasn’t the end of it? What if he hadn’t left completely? The thought was unbearable, the idea that Bill could still be lurking somewhere, waiting for the right moment to strike again, twisting Dipper’s mind and body to his will.
His heart pounded painfully against his chest as he fought the terror surging through him. He could practically feel Bill’s mocking grin lingering, the remnants of the demon’s laughter echoing in his ears. The panic tightened in his chest, suffocating him, his thoughts a frantic whirl of fear. The room around him seemed to close in, the walls growing closer, the air heavy. He tried to calm himself, to reassure himself that he was alone, that Bill was gone—but the fear wouldn’t loosen its grip.
His vision started to blur, the world spinning around him as his breathing grew shallow. His hands clenched weakly at the sheets, his mind slipping into darkness as the panic consumed him entirely. The last thing he felt before he passed out was the throbbing pulse in his temples, the cold sweat on his skin, and the faint, haunting echo of Bill’s laughter lingering in his mind, mocking him even as he slipped into unconsciousness once more
. . .
. .
Dipper stirred, his eyes remaining closed as he took in the quiet atmosphere around him. He could feel the weight of someone’s hand resting gently over his arm cast, as if inspecting the plaster carefully. The touch was firm but cautious, and he assumed it was a doctor checking his injuries. A moment later, he felt a hand press softly against his chest, right over his heart. The touch lingered there, like it was trying to feel the faint, unsteady rhythm of his heartbeat.
Something felt off, though. The hand on his chest didn’t feel like the doctor’s hand—it was slightly too large, the fingers pressing down in a way that made his skin prickle uncomfortably. And there was something even stranger about it: it felt like it had one too many fingers. Curiosity nudged him, and he cracked open one eye, just enough to catch a glimpse of the figure hovering over him.
It wasn’t a doctor.
A familiar face filled his vision, one that looked so much like Grunkle Stan, yet…not quite right. The man was frowning deeply, his eyes closed in an expression that seemed almost pained, like he was struggling with something just beneath the surface. Dipper felt his heart lurch at the sight of him—this man looked like Stan, down to the creases around his eyes and the stubborn set of his jaw, but there was an oddness to him, a subtle wrongness he couldn’t put his finger on.
Swallowing, Dipper dared to speak, his voice weak and strained. “G-Grunkle Stan…?”
The man’s eyes shot open, and for a moment, they stared at each other in silence. His gaze softened as he looked down at Dipper, something raw and vulnerable flashing across his face. Dipper’s eyes drifted to the man’s hand, where a small, crumpled note rested, the edge of it slightly wrinkled from being clenched too tightly. His gaze caught on the fingers—they weren’t Stan’s. There were six fingers wrapped around the paper, but Dipper’s exhausted mind couldn’t quite process the oddity.
The man’s expression softened even further, and his mouth opened slightly, as though he wanted to speak but was holding himself back. His lip quivered, and Dipper’s heart ached as he watched the emotion well up in the man’s eyes, a glistening that made it look as though he might cry.
“I’m sorry,” the man muttered, his voice low and rough. He reached out, running a gentle hand across Dipper’s cheek, a gesture so tender and unguarded that Dipper almost forgot where he was. He was transfixed, caught in the strange tenderness in this man’s gaze.
As the man turned away, Dipper’s heavy-lidded gaze followed him. He wanted to call out, to ask questions, to make sense of what he’d just seen, but the effort was too much. He noticed, dimly, that the man’s voice had sounded different from Stan’s, softer, with a tone of regret Dipper wasn’t used to hearing from his grunkle.
Before he could dwell on it further, the exhaustion crept over him, pulling him back into unconsciousness. His last thoughts lingered on the man’s six-fingered hand, the unusual sadness in his face, and the mysterious apology he’d left behind, as though it were a shadow, waiting for him to return to it.
. . .
The next time Dipper stirred, he noticed something was different. The stiffness around his arms and legs was gone; the bulky weight of the casts had vanished. His limbs felt heavy, sluggish from disuse, but as he flexed his fingers and wiggled his toes, he realized he could move them, if only slightly. It was a strange, comforting freedom that felt like the beginning of real recovery.
As he opened his eyes, he took in his surroundings, dimly lit by the soft blue glow of night filtering through the window. He saw a figure pacing back and forth, casting long shadows across the room. Dipper squinted, feeling a faint stir of recognition. “Stan?” he called, his voice a bit stronger than before, though still scratchy.
The man turned, and Dipper felt a strange sense of déjà vu. It wasn’t Stan—but he looked like him. His mind flashed back to the last time he’d been awake, to the man with the note and the six-fingered hand. Dipper’s heart beat faster as the man sighed, taking a seat beside him, his presence calming yet unfamiliar.
“Hello, Dipper,” the man said, his voice steady yet holding an undercurrent of tension.
Dipper stared at him, studying the familiar features that didn’t quite match the Grunkle Stan he knew. There was something deeper in this man’s eyes, an intensity that felt new and out of place. “You look like my uncle Stanford…” Dipper mumbled, the words slipping out before he could stop himself.
The man’s expression flickered, a moment of surprise followed by understanding. “Oh,” he said slowly, nodding, “you mean Stanley.”
Dipper tilted his head, frowning slightly. “Stan-ley?” He repeated, testing the name on his tongue, as though trying to separate his grunkle from the strange familiarity of this man. The man rubbed his nose, a gesture that seemed oddly familiar and yet didn’t quite fit the person Dipper had known as his Grunkle Stan.
“You… you missed quite a bit,” the man admitted with a soft sigh, his tone almost apologetic. Dipper shifted closer, curiosity outweighing the ache in his limbs.
“Could you explain?” Dipper asked, his voice breaking slightly but still determined. “I d-don’t have anything else t-to do…” The man’s gaze softened, and for a moment he seemed lost in thought, as though deciding how much to reveal.
Finally, he nodded. “Alright,” he began, voice low, “but I’ll need you to stay calm.”
Dipper gave a weak nod, waiting as the man gathered his thoughts. “I was told you’d read my third journal, so I suppose that’s as good a place to start as any.” He paused, watching Dipper carefully.
Dipper’s eyes widened, a spark of understanding flaring to life. “Wait… your journal?” he asked, the words stumbling out in disbelief. “Are you… are you the Author?” His voice rose with excitement, but it was quickly overtaken by a fit of coughing. The man leaned forward, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder.
“Shh, take it easy,” he soothed, waiting until Dipper’s breathing steadied. “Yes, Dipper,” he said at last, a faint smile touching his lips, “I’m the author of those journals. My name is Stanford Pines.”
Dipper stared, processing the information slowly. The Author was sitting beside him, the man whose research and theories had opened his eyes to the strange, dangerous world that lurked within Gravity Falls. The man who had written the journals that had changed his life. And this man—Stanford—was somehow also connected to his Grunkle Stan.
“But… how?” Dipper finally whispered, his mind reeling. “How are you connected to Grunkle Stan? I mean, you look like him, but… I don’t understand.”
Stanford’s expression grew serious, a shadow crossing his face. “It’s… complicated,” he admitted, his voice carrying the weight of years of secrecy. “Stanley—your Grunkle Stan—and I are brothers. He found me when I was lost, stranded in a dimension I never intended to reach. He brought me back here.”
Dipper’s eyes widened further, the pieces starting to click together. The journals—all of it suddenly felt connected. Stanford continued, his gaze fixed somewhere in the distance, as though lost in his memories.
“We… had a falling out a long time ago,” Stanford said softly. “I...” He paused, his expression conflicted. “I never imagined… he’d open the portal again...”
Dipper listened, enthralled, even as exhaustion started to pull at him once more. The last thing he saw was Stanford’s face, lined with the weight of the years he’d spent hiding in the shadows, as he gave Dipper a small, weary smile. Just before sleep overtook him again, he heard Stanford’s voice, soft as a whisper.
“Rest now, Dipper,” he murmured. “You have nothing to fear. We’ll talk again soon.” And with that promise lingering in his mind, Dipper allowed himself to drift back into sleep, his questions waiting for another day.
. . .
When Dipper opened his eyes again, the hospital room was dim, the only light coming from a faint glow beyond the window. He blinked, adjusting to the quiet stillness around him. Across the room, he spotted Stanford, seated in the shadows, staring intently at a small, crumpled piece of paper—the same note Dipper remembered seeing before.
“Stanford…?” Dipper’s voice was barely above a whisper, but it was enough to break Stanford’s concentration. Ford’s head snapped up, his gaze immediately softening as he crossed the room to sit beside Dipper.
“Hey, Dipper.” He offered a small, reassuring smile before carefully helping him sit up, arranging the pillows behind him so he could lean back without straining.
“Can I a-ask a few h-hundred questions?” Dipper stammered eagerly, a flicker of excitement breaking through the exhaustion. But Stanford hesitated, his eyes drifting back to the note in his hand. His expression grew dark, almost haunted, as he glanced at Dipper.
“I have one for you first,” Ford said, his tone carrying a seriousness that made Dipper’s heart pound with worry. Dipper nodded, the curiosity in his eyes giving way to apprehension. Stanford took a steadying breath, the lines on his face deepening as he spoke. “I was told you were found at the bottom of the water tower… Mabel thinks you fell on accident, but Stan…” He paused, swallowing as he studied Dipper’s face. “Stan worried it wasn’t an accident—that maybe you… might have done it on purpose. Suicide.”
Ford’s expression was unreadable as he held the note out to Dipper, his voice gentler now. “I need you to tell me the truth of what happened.”
Dipper’s hand trembled slightly as he took the note, feeling a heaviness settle over him. He glanced down and began to read, his stomach twisting as he processed the words scrawled on the paper:
‘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?’
Each sentence hit Dipper like a punch to the gut. He could hear Bill’s voice in his head, taunting him with a sick glee that made him shiver. His eyes widened as he read further, his heart sinking with each line. Bill hadn’t just tried to ruin him—he’d meant to erase him entirely, to make sure his family thought he’d simply lost his mind.
He looked up, his face pale, the weight of what he’d been through finally crashing down on him. He saw Stanford’s eyes watching him intently, concern shadowing his expression. Ford’s lips pressed into a thin line as he watched Dipper, waiting for a response. His gaze dropped slightly, and Dipper noticed he was fidgeting, like he’d been dreading this conversation.
“Did you…?” Ford hesitated, his voice almost trembling. “Did you make a deal with Bill?”
Dipper’s eyes filled with tears, the pain and shame surging up before he could contain it. “I…” His voice broke, and he clutched the note tightly, the words blurring as his vision swam. “I didn’t mean to. He… he tricked me.” The tears began to fall, and he wiped them away hastily, but the fear of that memory felt insurmountable. “He told me he’d help us understand the unlock the laptop…” He clenched his fists, fighting to control the wave of emotion that threatened to overwhelm him. “I didn’t know he was going to… to use me like that.”
Ford listened in silence, his expression pained but understanding. He reached out, placing a reassuring hand on Dipper’s shoulder. “Bill… he’s a master manipulator,” Ford said quietly. “He would say anything, do anything to get what he wants. You didn’t fail, Dipper. You survived something terrifying, something no one your age should ever have to endure.”
Dipper swallowed hard, feeling a surge of relief mixed with guilt. Ford’s words were kind, but the memory of Bill’s cruel intentions still echoed in his mind. “I should have known better,” he murmured, his voice barely audible. “I should have been stronger.”
Ford shook his head, his grip on Dipper’s shoulder tightening gently. “No. Bill preys on anyone he thinks he can use. You weren’t weak, Dipper—you were brave, even in the face of a threat you didn’t fully understand.” He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “The fact that you’re here, still fighting, is proof of that.”
Dipper looked down, the truth of Ford’s words slowly sinking in. He’d fought through the nightmare Bill had put him through, and somehow, he’d survived. He felt Ford’s hand move to rest over his, a small but comforting gesture.
“Thank you… Stanford,” he whispered, looking up at him with a grateful, tired smile.
Ford gave him a nod, a small smile playing at his lips. “Now, if you still want to ask a few hundred questions…” he said, his tone lightening just a bit, “I think we’ve got some time.”
And as Ford settled into the chair beside him, the two began to talk, and for the first time since that fateful encounter, Dipper felt a glimmer of hope.
.
An hour drifted by before the door opened, and Mabel burst in, her eyes wide and worried. She froze for a second, as if afraid to believe what she was seeing, but then her face lit up. “Dipper!” She squealed, rushing toward him with her arms open for a hug.
Dipper braced himself, but Ford stepped forward just in time, reaching out to gently stop her. “Careful, Mabel,” he said softly, his eyes still full of caution. Mabel nodded, her excitement undiminished as she carefully wrapped her arms around Dipper in a gentle, mindful hug. Dipper hugged her back, feeling the familiar warmth of her embrace, and realized just how much he’d missed her.
Stan lingered off to the side, his expression unreadable as he watched them. He cleared his throat, and both Dipper and Mabel looked up. “Can I talk to Dipper… alone?” he asked, his voice unusually soft. Mabel and Ford exchanged glances before nodding and stepping out, closing the door gently behind them.
Once they were alone, Stan took a seat beside Dipper, his usually gruff demeanor softened by a flicker of something else—concern, maybe, or something even deeper. He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, staring at the floor before he finally looked up.
“Dipper… can you tell me what happened? What really happened?” His tone was uncharacteristically gentle, laced with an urgency that made Dipper’s stomach twist.
Dipper hesitated, his mind racing. Should he tell Stan the truth about Bill? He didn’t know how Stan would react, or if he’d even believe him. But the intensity in Stan’s gaze was enough to nudge him toward honesty. “I… I had gone up the tower, and I slipped…” he mumbled after a long pause, trying to sound convincing, but the lie felt heavy on his tongue.
Stan’s frown deepened, his expression becoming stern as he leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “You’re lying, kid. I know.” His words weren’t harsh, but there was a gravity to them that made Dipper look away, ashamed. A moment later, he felt Stan’s hand on his shoulder, grounding him. “Tell me the truth. Please.”
Dipper swallowed, taking a shaky breath as he weighed his options. He remembered Ford saying Stan worried Dipper had been suicidal. He owed him the truth, and he couldn’t keep hiding from what happened—not anymore.
After a long, painful silence, he spoke. “I didn’t just fall, Grunkle Stan. I was… I was tricked by a demon. His name’s Bill. Bill Cipher,” he said, his voice shaking as he remembered the taunting, terrifying words from the note. “He got into my head, took over my body. He… he wanted to make it look like I’d just lost my mind once he was done. He tried to… get rid of me.”
Stan’s face twisted in confusion, skepticism mingling with an odd kind of fear. “A demon? Are you saying some… thing was controlling you?” He raised an eyebrow, struggling to process the revelation. “This ‘Bill Cipher’… he’s not some kind of imaginary friend, is he?”
Dipper shook his head emphatically. “No. He’s real, and he’s dangerous.” He rubbed his arms, feeling the remnants of Bill’s icy control. “Ford—Ford knows about him. He knew about Bill before I did.”
Stan’s brows shot up, and he crossed his arms thoughtfully. He let out a long breath, reaching out to ruffle Dipper’s hair in a rare, affectionate gesture. “You know, kid, you’re tougher than you look. Not everyone makes it through something like that.”
Dipper offered a small, tired smile, feeling the weight lift slightly. “Thanks, Grunkle Stan.”
Stan’s hand lingered on Dipper’s shoulder for a moment before he stood, his usual confident demeanor returning. “I’ll talk to Ford about this ‘Bill Cipher’ character, but I’m warning you—this better not be an elaborate way to mess with me, make me think it’s not you doing it to yourself.”
Dipper shook his head. “I promise, it’s the truth. Ford can explain more.”
Stan gave a nod, his expression softening as he glanced back at Dipper, relief finally visible in his eyes. “Alright, kid. Just… get some rest. We’re all glad you’re okay.” He offered a rare smile, then turned and left the room, leaving Dipper alone in the dim light.
As he settled back, Dipper let out a deep sigh, feeling a strange blend of relief and fear swirling in his chest. For the first time, he felt like he wasn’t facing the weight of his secret alone.