2 September 2012 – Sunday

Two days ago, Dipper and Mabel Pines boarded a bus in Gravity Falls Oregon. It was their birthday, but that didn't matter. In the morning, Grunkle Stan and Uncle Ford and Wendy and Soos got together and gave them their gifts – matching black bands to wear on their left wrist filled with every happy memory and good wish the four could summon. Then, they helped the twins pack their backs – again – and drove them to the bus station.

Sues is not the driver this time, but a squirrel-y looking man with an actual squirrel stuffed in his pocket. The twins say nothing. They have no room to deny a man his comforts and quirks. Their own are...less fuzzy than a disgruntled but resigned rodent.

Yesterday, they arrived home, pale and sleepless, and could only stomach a single hug before Dipper managed to talk them upstairs. It was late. That was an excuse. No matter that they spent the night clinging to each other in a tent made of Dipper's faded blue comforter, matching breathing to the pulse of warmth from their bands.

We might not be there, but we will never leave you.

When they were certain their parents slept, they crawled out of bed and began their work. Dipper crept downstairs, knife in hand, and scratched wards and curses and charms into everything he could remember their parents using regularly. Doors and windows and chairs, cupboards and drawers and the handrail. One he drew on the back of the family portrait in sharpie and blood.

Don't look. Don't notice. Nothing's wrong. It's just your imagination.

Then he slipped back upstairs and carved the first of the territory wards on the outside of his door. A deterrent.

In that time, Mabel had emptied his room of everything but the essentials. She barricaded the bed – her mattress pilfered from her room and pressed next to his, both bed frames missing – behind their desks and dressers.

By morning, they can feel the effects of another night without sleep. Day five, actually. At the Mystery Shack they'd been able to grab five minutes here and there before nightmares jolted them back into wakefulness, but the stress of leaving their safe space denied them even that small respite.

Their parents greet them with smiles and cheer, same as yesterday, but they don't react with more than a flicker of concern when Mabel is unable to stop herself from flinching away from them, whimpering and hiding behind Dipper. They don't even frown when the twins scoot their chairs close that they can press together shoulder to hip as they pick at their waffles.

Not nearly as good as Grunkle Stan's waffles and their stomachs twist at the concept of food.

Rule one, Uncle Ford said, is don't attract unnecessary attention. They know, knew from the very beginning when Grunkle Stan told them he was unable to convince their parents to allow them to attend school up in Gravity Falls, that they will be unable to act as if nothing happened. Mabel is quiet, quiet, quiet – too quiet, predator quiet, eyes feral and fingers curled into claws more dangerous than they have any right to be. Dipper's quiet too, but it's not the same. Watching, waiting, finger poised on the trigger. And there's no telling what his weapon will be.

Together – they're always together now, too. They didn't used to be. Before this summer – three months of that stretched nearly three years of relative time, maybe, probably longer – the twins didn't have much to do with each other. Three months with only each other as company allows for some change, but nothing drastic.

By first grade, the twins were independent. They had different friends and different classes. Their interests started separating, as much as they can with six-year-old kids. By the time they were shipped off to Gravity Falls and Grunkle Stan and every wonderful, horrible thing that happened there – and elsewhere – they knew each other about as well as any other sibling would. Away from California, they clung to the familiar: each other. They grew close again, especially after the gnomes. But no one knows what happened after.

They don't eat much before an emergency call comes in from the office. Mom's client is panicking about something he misunderstood in the legalese of his contract. Dad needs to go with her because his secretary called about a new client refusing to leave until he gets to speak to Mr. Pines. Mabel slumps over the table. Dipper presses into her shoulder. They don't move until their parents are gone, door shut and car pulling away from the house.

Mabel curls her hand around the band and straightens, eyes focusing on something six inches to the right of Dipper's head. She nods like he said something and tips out of the chair, trotting silently upstairs. Dipper doesn't move for several minutes, not until the first thump of a bag hitting the ground reaches his ears. There will be, he knows, a mess of massacred yellow-gold-orange-not green wool is a shooting star on a field of pink. Rainbows. Purple stripes. He knows that somewhere in there will be a llama and a strawberry with sunglasses and a light bulb. There will be others, too; sweaters he hasn't seen, shirts he never paid attention to, and dresses that twirl. Their baby blankets. It will be a huge pile once she's finished.

Dipper levers himself to his feet and stumbles outside.

The backyard has a patio and a reasonably sized patch of what was once lush green grass. The recent drought and water restrictions have reduced it to a neatly trimmed, if dead, brown lawn. Dipper estimates a rough circle, gouging it into the dirt with a trowel he borrowed from the neighbor's shed. It's dusty work, but certainly not the most challenging, or even the most physically demanding, ward he's ever created. Just a couple dozen symbols, five pounds of salt, and a gallon of gasoline.

Mabel climbs out her window, carefully hopping down from the second floor rather than take the stairs. She'll have to take the stairs on the way back up. Her grappling hook is currently damaged beyond use – Dipper's going to fix that. The silly thing is indispensable.

They're not at their best when they pull open the bags and dump thirteen years of precious memories into the containment ward. Every drop of yellow in the entire house. Horrible reminders. Dipper's stomach threatens to expel the three bites of waffle he managed to eat. It's worse for Mabel. She presses her head between his shoulder blades, lending power she can't use to that he can power the ward.

Together, they douse the circle in gasoline and light the match.