Over Gravity

An Over the Garden Wall & GRAVITY FALLS Crossover Fanfiction

by chesyre

DISCLAIMER: I do not own the characters, settings, or anything featured in either Gravity Falls or Over the Garden Wall. They belong to their respective creators, Alex Hirsch and Patrick McHale, and I am not profiting off their work. Please support the official release. Thank you.

tw: Mention of graphic injuries, vomiting, panic attacks, non-consensual invasion of personal space, some very dark humor involving talk of corpses and violent death, possession, mind control, some nightmare-ish imagery, and a somewhat graphic description of bones being broken.

Wirt get's worse, new boy-next-door Thomas is a creep, and Robbie has a surprise visitor.

Yellow was Robbie Valentino's least favorite color for, like, ever.

So, naturally, when he woke up to see a vase full of yellow daffodils, complete with a bright yellow balloon tied around the narrow bridge of said vase, he rolled his eyes with little remorse.

He faired much better in the car crash than Thompson–who had to be placed in a full-body cast, although not by much. Tambry managed to get out with a few bruises and minor head trauma, Lee sprained his arm, and Nate had severe lacerations across his chest and shoulders, as well as a busted-up nose and a bruising chin. What happened to Robbie? Well, both of his legs were smashed up so badly a doctor fainted. Add to that a dislocated shoulder, a cracked rib, a shattered wrist, a lump on the side of his head the size of Texas, and an almost broken jaw and bam! A solid week and a half in the hospital, followed by three more months of bedrest and so many different medications, it all blurred together into a consistent taste of chalk.

He laid on his bed, trying to ignore that annoying itch digging into his left leg under layers of a thick cast, lazily flipping through channels to try and find something that wouldn't make him want to vomit, roll his eyes, or be reminded of the crash to begin with. He wasn't very successful.

Wendy was still missing; she had been for weeks going on months at this point. For a town that was so bizarre in of itself, a teenage girl suddenly vanishing without a trace after her friends were found nearly dead shouldn't be all that surprising. A little morbid, yes, but the people who lived in Gravity Falls have seen monsters, conspiracies, living dinosaurs, and the freaking apocalypse! Not that anyone ever really liked talking about that last part, but truthfully speaking, everyone who has ever stepped foot in Gravity Falls, Oregon, has come out seeing things much strangers and possibly even more disturbing than a missing persons case.

That didn't change the fact that it certainly was strange; Wendy Corduroy was a risk taker—it was in her blood—and maybe, possibly, a little reckless, but when your dad's the manliest man who's ever manned, you have a reputation to uphold. However, she wasn't so rebellious that she'd just run off, especially just after being involved in such as destructive of a car crash that nearly killed her friends. She was cool, but she wasn't heartless.

Sheriff Blubs and Deputy Durland had taken valuable time off from their honeymoon to do a general sweep of the crime scene, as well as speak to the town directly regarding the mysterious disappearance of Wendy Corduroy. The crash happened in the woods, just off the back-road, but there hadn't been any signs of anyone leaving. The only evidence there was were some tiny footprints in the mud that were way too small to belong to any teenager, and some disruption in the grass, leaves, twigs, and dirt some ways away from the wreckage that led to a nearby lake. That was ruled out almost immediately as the work of an animal that was dragging its prey back to feast on. Other than that, the case was a dead end.

That was a sad day, that town meeting. Mayor Cutebiker made the announcement with a heavy head and a teary shake of the head. Manly Dan sobbed, which made other townsfolk sob because seeing somebody as manly as Manly Dan shed tears was akin to watching a kitten crying while stuck in a tree during a thunderstorm. Old Man McGucket, local millionaire kook ™, brought up the theory of Wendy having been taken by a freshwater monster and, while the police entertained the idea, there wasn't enough evidence to prove that was the case. The general acceptance of supernatural forces was a very slow progression. Nobody could deny that creatures like gnomes, Manotaurs, magical video game characters, and inter-dimensional hell demons existed anymore, but it was still a lot to process and it was simply easier to, in the words of Mayor Cutebiker, "Never mind all that!"

So, Wendy Corduroy stayed a missing person and that haunted the town more than any ghost or ghoul could.

Robbie couldn't help but feel a little guilty. That night was only supposed to be a date between him and Tambry, but instead he chickened out and brought the whole group along as a third, or rather four, wheel. The fact that he never really got over Wendy being his ex really didn't help; it made things awkward between them and Tambry, although none of them ever dare to say the obvious. The tension between the trio was so thick you could cut a knife through it during that night, and it still lingered now that she was gone.

He sighed heavily as he flipped through the channels, bored out of his mind. There was no way he could play his guitar and scream out his feelings in a perfectly healthy, normal, teenager-y way because of his stupid cast. His parents still hadn't returned from work ("Sorry son, going to be another late night! This one got in a nasty fight with a boat motor and lost terribly!") and it was nearing 12:05 PM. He could text his friends, but he doubted they would respond fast enough to keep himself awake.

He yawned and flipped another channel.

"TIGER CAR! It's a tiger, it's a car! It's TIGERCAR! (meow)- "

Nate and Lee had visited a couple of times following their release. It was a decent time, they all decided to pass the time by blowing up hot dogs in the microwave one by one, but the pair seemed more interested in themselves than Robbie's condition. Tambry preferred texting over making a physical appearance, but her minimal responses full of typical teen slang rang strangely hollow to him, like the heart emojis were simply put there because they were dating and it was, like, expected. Thompson hadn't even bothered calling. Robbie didn't care.

He just flipped another channel.

"We now return to The Duchess Approves, starring Sturly Stemleburgiss as 'The Duchess' and Grampton St. Rumpterfrabble as the Irascible Coxswain 'Saunterblugget Hampterfuppinshire'- "

He groaned as he reached peak boredom and time continued to tick away. Sleeping wasn't possible now; he had been sleeping so much during this recovery period and the many days that have passed had been such a blur that it was hard to believe that summer was only almost a month away. Time seemed to be simultaneously slow and fast and his eyes burned.

Hey, that could be a good lyric!

He flipped another channel and reached for his notepad. At least his dominant hand had healed up decently and there was only a faint bruise and a tugging pain if he moved it too hard. As he jotted down soulful lyrics as deep and dark as his angsty teenage soul, his ears picked up a familial jingle that made him stomach knot up.

"Who's cute as a button, and always your friend? Lil' G-I-D to the E-O-N! Wink!"

He flipped the channel before he could see that adorably rosy chubby face that was so charming and pinch-able just a few years ago but was so cringe-inducing now. Nobody knew what happened to Lil' Gideon Gleeful, the lil' psycho, after he decided to change his ways and become a "regular old kid", but it was common knowledge that Bud Gleeful's business wasn't doing too well, thanks to his son being well known as an impostor and a horseman of the apocalypse-that-totally-didn't-happen-no-sir~ry. Robbie had a resentment for the little faux golden child for similar reasons to most of the town, although there was an accompanying tightness in his chest whenever he heard the name Gideon Gleeful.

He was brought back to a time during the summer where he paid a visit to a certain Tent of Telepathy to voice his concerns about maintaining his unstable relationship with a certain redhead and was offered a simple mind control spell in exchange…

Shaking his head, he turned off the TV and continued to write, ignoring the stupid feelings like regret and guilt and all those other weak emotions. There wasn't anything good on anyway.

He was interrupted from jotting down his magnum opus of a metal chorus by a simple knock on the door. His parents were home and he rolled his eyes and groaned as his mother stuck her curly head through the door.

"Robbie, honey, there's mail you!"

"Ugh! Really? Who sends mail that isn't from the internet through the actual mail anymore besides, like, old or lame people?"

"Well, it's addressed to you, hon. Doesn't have a name. Wouldn't it be an absolute shame if it about that missing girl? Her being found dead would be absolutely terrible!"

"Ugh, Mom! Can you not fantasize about embalming my ex-girlfriend for once?"

"Oh, well, goodnight honey. Your father's busy cleaning the sawed-off shotgun right now, but when he's done, he'll be joining me downstairs for the rerun of The Duchess Approves, so just give a shout if you need us!"

He rolled his eyes.

"Whatever…"

His mother placed the envelope on his ebony raven black nightstand and left with a cheerful hum, softly closing his door and practically skipping out the door. Robbie paid this no mind as he continued to pour his dark and tortured heart and soul into a song that conveys the constant never-ending pain he's in every day. It was when he was satisfied with the amount of times he's used the words "pain", "torture", "agony", "unicorns", and "hurt", and he decided to call it a night that he finally noticed the unmarked lemon yellow envelope that only had his name written on it in fancy black ink.

Scrunching his nose of at the mere presence of yellow, he was tempted to just chuck it in the bin and call it a night. However, something stopped him from tearing the ugly yellow envelope to shreds: something that smelled like thick maple tree sap, sounded like a gentle hum, and a feeling of some force breathing on the back of his neck, watching his every move with careful calculations. He opened it.

Inside of it was a card, a blank white card that smelled like it was just shipped out straight from a paper mill. Flipping it open, the inside was just as plain, except for three words written in neat black ink that left a clear indent on the back of the crude card.

Get well soon.

Robbie stared at it for a solid minute, his face blank and pupils dilated to an unnatural degree.

Then he shook his head and scoffed, crumpling up the card and tossing it in the trash, along with the yellow envelope. He really hated yellow.

As he passed his overflowing trashcan and called it a night, he failed to notice the crudely drawn black eye scribbled harshly onto the open flap of that ugly yellow envelope.

It blinked.

Wirt awoke with a terrible cough.

No, terrible was too kind a word. It was too simple a word to describe the feeling that mercilessly dug at his chest for over twenty minutes. He knelt over the toilet, afraid he was going to throw up, pass out, or both, for over twenty minutes, three hours before he was supposed to get up and get ready for school.

His lungs burned, a blue flame that spread throughout his entire chest cavity, and his vision swam as a mixture of too many restless nights and nausea collided in the most unpleasant of ways. The crushing, suffocating tugging in his lungs felt like tar—sticky, smoky black, and thick. So very thick and it hurt.

When the coughing and suffocation finally died down, Wirt couldn't tell. All he knew was that his lungs were on fire and he tasted smoke and then he didn't, and he was just sitting on his bathroom floor, the tile digging into his knees and his face hot with stinging tears. He just laid there, fighting down the sobs that threatened to spill out.

It was getting worse.

He was getting worse.

Sleep was borderline impossible now and food became less and less appealing even when he knew he was hungry, and he needed to eat. It didn't matter how many pills he took, they never seemed to work. The things he'd see, the blurs of black that looked too human and familiar, he had steadily become accustomed to. It became a cruel game to him in this past month, just counting down the time it took for him to catch a glance of that…creature.

That thing that tried to take his brother away, tried to take him away, that was made of wood and a thousand faces. Their hollow screams were seared into his mind, a branding that burned like the tar in his lungs, but it was the eyes that were most striking. When Dr. Hill asked him to draw what he had been seeing—although he was no professional artist by any means—he could never do those eyes justice. Why? Why were they so fixated on him? Why was the Beast so fixated on him?

Some time passed and he decided to try and get off the bathroom floor, bracing himself against the sink on numb legs. He spared a glance at himself in the mirror and instantly regretted it, wincing.

He looked terrible. His skin was pasty and clammy with sweat, while his face was a blotchy red with drying tear tracks. With his messy dark hair as unruly as always, the dark and puffy circles under his large, bloodshot eyes made his face look hollow, gaunt, and pale as bone.

If he screamed, he'd look just like the—

Shaking his head, Wirt buried the thought and opened the cabinet with a shaking hand. He dug through it and got out his medication: pills to help him with the pounding in his head that threatened to make him cry again. Shoving the little red pill in his mouth, he chased it down with a half empty glass of water and tried not to gag. He nearly retched, the cold liquid feeling like sludge as it poured down his throat, but he forced himself to down another glass regardless just to try and satisfy the insatiable feeling in the pit of his stomach. He did it again and again, unless he felt as if he were going to throw up again, and then he splashed his still hot face with cold water. His eyes burned, but he patted them down with a scratchy towel and left the bathroom cautiously.

It was around 4:30 AM, and everyone else was still asleep. At least, that was what Wirt hoped. He didn't have the strength to face his mother or Greg, or even Jonathan, in his state—he knew it was hurting them just as much as it did him. He'd like to believe that he was no longer that selfish teenager who blamed his little brother for everything and projected his insecurities and resentment onto an innocent six-year-old who loved him more than he deserved to.

On the way back to his room, Wirt took a chance and peaked through Greg's cracked door. He couldn't help smiling as he saw the little boy sleep blissfully, bundled up in his blankets and hugging his over-sized pillow to his round cheek. The moonlight peaking through his window bounced off Jason Funderburker's tank—who was also sleeping soundly—and bathed the room in a heavenly baby blue glow. It was a beautiful sight and Wirt felt his chest tighten up again. To think, mere months ago, he was so close to losing that innocent little boy and it was all his fault…

He ran back to his room, wincing at the squeak his steps made on the hardwood floors, and slammed his door shut. His vision swam and with his back pressed firmly against the hard surface, he clutched the cold knob so hard his knuckles bled white. Closing his eyes, he shook his head and attempted to ground himself, to not let those thoughts get to him. The guilt was soon washed away and, in its place, that horrible burning feeling that woke him up in the first place. He fought down a sob and tried to find anything that could distract from the clutching at his throat and the weight pressing down on his chest. The words from his books on interior decorating blurred together and his hand was shaking far too much for him to write even once line of poetry.

He settled on his clarinet, hesitantly putting the tip to his lips and puffing out a nervous gust of air that translated to some truly horrible sounds that were way too loud. He froze, and his eyes darted to the door as he waited for the sounds of a rude awakening: the pitter-patter of Greg's chubby little feet as he ran down the hall to see what his big brother was up to and if he could join in, or the loud creaks and muttered curses as Jonathan trudged over to his door, ready to tell his worthless excuse of a stepson off for waking him up at the ungodly hour of four AM.

Those sounds never came. For the next few but oh so long minutes, it was pure silence, and that was scarier than anything else. In this silence, Wirt sat frozen in place, clutching the black instrument to his chest like a weapon. With the pale moonlight seeping in through the curtains as a spotlight, the only way one could tell that time wasn't frozen was the withered white rose petal that suddenly fell onto his desk. He jumped when he saw it from the corner of his eye, and he became distracted by the decaying flowers that sat on his desk in a half empty case.

His mother said they were a gift, from some new neighbor named Thomas who went to his school. He noticed the guy a few times, although they never formally interacted. He creeped Wirt out, with his almost white eyes, hollow face, and soft-spoken tone. Their first brief encounter was a chance encounter, where their hands briefly brushed against one another—why were they so cold? —and Thomas gave him a smirk while his eyes bore right through Wirt. Later that day, Wirt found another rose in his locker, dark red, and as Kathleen teased him about his secret admirer, Wirt tossed it in the trash on the way out of school.

His mother insisted he keep the white ones out of respect, but he knew she liked that Thomas kid as much as he did. Keeping them seemed to be more out of obligation than anything else, and it was a waste since they were withering and dying so quickly thanks to the still insufferably cold climate. They soon join their brethren in the trashcan, and Wirt would probably feel more…clean.

Sighing, he put his clarinet away, the desire lost, and crawled into bed. He buried his face in his pillow and squeezers his eyes shut, hoping that he would drift into unconsciousness soon enough so that he wouldn't have to deal with his pulsating temples and burning eyes.

Sleep was an empty promise. He had no idea when he had finally drifted off, but it was gone too soon, and he was waking up two hours later to a blaring alarm clock and the inklings of a rosy dawn painted his room in streaks of pink and blue. His eyes were crusty, and he rubbed at them irritably, groaning as he rolled over into his back. He stared up at his blank white ceiling.

Right, Wednesday. Halfway through the school week. Friday was the recital. He was almost there. Almost.

Groaning, Wirt laid there listlessly and tried to ignore the smell of freshly cooked bacon and eggs wafting into the room. His family was downstairs, and they were laughing and happily chatting among themselves, although he knew they were trying (and failing) to quiet down to let him rest.

He hated how it seemed they constantly walking on eggshells around him. He hated how they looked at he like there was something wrong, like he was a broken porcelain doll. Still, they were his family and they had the right to be upset—even Jonathan. They had the right to be concerned, there was something wrong with him, and he knew they cared for him. They loved him.

They love—

He eventually found the strength to roll out of bed and after laying on the floor for a good minute (the cool wood felt too good against his hot face), he dragged himself into the bathroom for a cold shower. That pounding in his head never went away and there was a sliver of hope that he could drown the ringing out.

He passed by Greg's cracked door and peaked inside. Since his little brother was still in grade school, he usually didn't have to get up for another couple of hours. Then again, this was Greg, who had the ungodly energy of a toddler that are an entire bowl of pure sugar that was drenched in caffeine; so, the possibility of him being up at 6:00 AM was even more likely.

This prediction was correct, and Wirt have a soft smile as Greg happily plotted with Jason Funderburker, still dressed in his frog pajamas and his chestnut hair askew. He was showing something off to the frog, although what was hard to tell considering Wirt was only watching from the doorway and Greg was facing away from him. The frog just stared back blankly, although Wirt could've sworn, he saw him for the briefest of moments glance in his direction and wink.

Wirt shook his head. He accepted the fact that that frog was weird way before he started busting out show tunes on that steamboat.

This apparently was enough to catch Greg's attention, who spun around with wide eyes and a flushed face. Wirt couldn't help but smirk when his brother clever shoved a stubby arm behind his back, while Greg flashed him a toothy grin.

"Ahoy there, skipper," Wirt chuckled, leaning against the doorway like he was much cooler than he was. Greg's cheeks bloomed a deep shade of red at his getting caught, but he answered back with as much enthusiasm as ever.

"Ahoy, captain Wirt! Is my brother-oh-mine looking for adventure this scurvy morning?"

Wirt snorted. Jonathan really should stop letting Greg watch his old pirate movies. He couldn't help but play along, especially when the child got so into it that he'd innocently shout out curses that would make even a sailor blush and his mother shoot a glare at her husband.

"Sadly no, skipper," he sighed, massaging his temple. With each pound against his skull, his vision shook around the edges and he closed his eyes tightly to try and block it out.

"No. The only adventure that awaits me today is a shower and an algebra test at twelve fifty."

Greg's face fell a bit at that, and Wirt tried to swallow down the tightness in his throat as those big brown eyes stared into his soul. The trees that rested against his window frames him with jagged, bare, twisted branches. If Wirt squinted, he could make out the shape of a hand. No, hands. Hands reaching out Greg, his little brother, who he was supposed to protect and was staring at him with large pleading eyes.

"Okay. I have to go now. Goodbye Wirt."

Wirt shook his head.

A tingling sort of itch bloomed in his lungs and he froze.

No, not again!

"I'm sorry. What was that, Greg?"

Greg smiled, although his eyes glistened. Wirt wanted to punch himself, his brother just wanted to play, and he had school and—

"I said bye, you silly goose! I'll be seeing you soon, though, right"

Wirt gave him a small, fake smile and nodded. It wasn't a lie; he could never lie to Greg because that boy always saw through him. He just didn't want to say anything stupid that would give him away. That there was something wrong with him. His throat felt as if he had swallowed bark and he didn't want Greg innocently bringing up to parents his brother's hoarse voice, raw from the coughing fit that still nagged at him.

Greg said something else, but Wirt ran away and dove into the bathroom, a hand over his mouth. That tingling, itching in his lungs was back and quickly mutated into that all too familiar burning. As coughs started bursting from his mouth, he dug his palm harder against his teeth and his fingers curled around his cheeks so tightly they ached.

Yet another coughing fit consumed him, he dove into the shower and positioned the showerhead so that the water hit the wall with such a ferocity, Wirt was sure it blocked out the noise as he coughed and coughed and sobbed.

Eventually he was able to contain it long enough to force another glass of water down his too dry throat and finished getting ready. Throwing on a wrinkled pair of black trousers and a blue cardigan sweater, he combed down his hair the best he could before giving up and throwing on a red beanie instead. He refused to talk or even look at his parents when he trudged downstairs, stumbling over the second to last step. They went silent when they noticed him, as always, and he gave a reluctant nod of acknowledgement as he swiped a piece of dry toast off the serving plate and tugged on his winter jacket.

"Wirt, honey?"

He glanced over at his mother, holding the toast in his mouth while he preoccupied himself with his gloves and boots. God, she had Greg's eyes and Jonathan had Greg's noise, which scrunched up when she spoke up for whatever reason.

Whatever she had to wanted to say never came, and she stared down at the dish she had already thoroughly scrubbed clean. She flashed him a smile that was as fake as his and said softly.

"Have a good day."

He glanced at them and gave a fake smile or his own so that they were even.

"Thanks."

He walked out the door and coughed into his hand.

The day went on as normally as it could.

He slipped over that usual patch of ice at the bottom of his porch steps, but luckily the group knew him well enough by now that Sara and Jason Funderberker reached out to steady him. Rhondi fought back a giggle while Kathleen looked at him in shock.

"Wirt, you look like you just crawled out of a casket."

"Kath…" Sara warned.

"Well, he does!"

"I haven't seen bags that heavy since her last shopping spree," Rhondi chimed in as they started their walk to school.

Wirt felt his face grow hot and shoved his hands in his pockets. Sara gave him a knowing look and placed a hand gently on his arm.

"Ignore them."

"It's, uh, it's fine," he shrugged, glancing around at the snow-covered trees that budded like they normally would come spring. Yet, the harsh chill that brushed past the group and the black ice that was determined to become his new mortal enemy was a stark reminder that spring as a little different this year.

"Didn't sleep that much anyway last night, so I'll take her word for it," he chuckled dryly, fighting down another cough. Sara's hand felt warm and he couldn't help the blush that arose when she squeezed his arm reassuringly.

"You okay?"

He shrugged again.

"Y-yeah, yeah! It's probably just stress from the test and recital a-and," he gestured vaguely, "a-allergies and a cold or…st-stuff…"

He stared down at the ground and bit his lip, trying not to look at her or Jason Funderberker or Kathleen or anyone in the eye as he coughed as softly and innocuously as he could into his gloved hand.

"You know me," he croaked with a bitter laugh, "typical worrywart."

He hurried along to catch up with the rest of the group, as he and Sara lagged as usual whenever they talked. Kathleen and Rhondi gave him knowing looks and smirks while Jason Funderberker stuttered out a hello with a shaky hand.

Sara stayed behind a minute and watched him leave, watched him make the smallest of small talk with the rest of the group, and watched him race inside the school building as soon as he saw it with a hand over his mouth. She heard his muffled cough repeatedly.

With a sigh, she shoved her hands in her pockets and hurried along as her friends called out for her.

She knew him.

"Yeah…right…"

Wirt felt that burning feeling again during his accursed algebra test.

He was nearly done with the thing, a question about factoring was tripping him up, when he took a chance glanced out the window that he was seated by. A large, dark, impressive tree with thick twisted branches greeted him, little white flowers bulbous and budding. Perched on one of those twisted branches was a tiny bluebird.

She stared at him, cocking her tiny head to the side as he looked at her, in awe. With her fat pink chest puffed out so proudly at him, she reminded him of Beatrice.

He smiled at her and resisted the urge to wave. The little bird continued to stare at him, shaking her head, and flying away in a flustered show of fluttering wings. At that, Wirt couldn't help but chuckle softly to himself; he could practically taste the snarky comment that she'd inevitably make if she saw him now.

"What the heck are you looking at, conehead? Go finish your stupid math work like a good boy and talk to me when you're done being such a pushover!"

Shaking his head, his smile fell as he found himself back in reality, staring at an unanswered question about factoring with a worn-out pencil clutched tightly in his sweaty hand and fifteen minutes that too quickly ticked down to fourteen, thirteen, twelve, eleven, ten…

Then that tingling, itchiness in his lungs returned like a slap to the face and he froze.

No, no, no, no. Not now, please not now.

That was soon followed by the harsh raspy breaths he took, sprinkled with little dry coughs so unassuming that he could get away with it. But there the urge that dug into his throat and tore at his ribcage like nasty claws looking to grab at his fleshy, tightening lungs and he muffled a dying wheeze with a shaky hand that grabbed his mouth with enough force to surely bruise.

His vision became shaky and blurry with stupid, stupid tears and he fumbled with them as he wheezed and his breathing became so hard and thick, jutting down answers with an uncertain hand and a nubby pencil tip smearing dark lead across each page that stained his pale hands black.

It was when he knew he couldn't breathe anymore and like there was something sticky and hot in his lungs that he knew he needed to get out, to dig out, that he knew he couldn't in that classroom. Not in that classroom with twenty-six students working hard or twiddling on their phones and a beady-eyed teacher with large frame glasses so round he looked like an owl perched up on his podium with nine minutes to spare. So, Wirt got up on legs that were too shaky and hurried over to the teacher, slamming his finished mess of a test face down on the scratched up wooden desk and practically ran out of the classroom. With the gaze of a wounded gazelle, confused stares, and concerned shouts muffled by the buzzed ringing in his head, he coughed hard into his hand as he stumbled down the hall, rounded the corner…

The teal tiled floor felt sticky and there was a dead roach he had to kick aside, but Wirt didn't honestly give a shit anymore as he knelt over the first toilet he saw, not even bothering to check to see if he actually locked the stall he dove into. He just dug into his lungs and coughed and gagged and cried over and over again.

Tears stung his eyes. There was something stuck in his chest that he needed to get out now because it hurt, it was killing him, scorching his innards and it just wouldn't budge! He managed to make himself vomit and that made the feeling even worse as he retched up a half-eaten sandwich and twenty consecutive glasses of room temperature water. That hollowness that lingered in the pit of his stomach most of the past few days returned with a passionate vengeance and Wirt honestly didn't know what was worse: the hot black tar in his lungs or the gnawing hunger in his belly. He just curled up into a ball on a sticky tiled floor and coughed and coughed and coughed and cried until he felt it was physically impossible to do either.

He had no idea how long he was in there. Nobody bothered to come check up on him, so he assumed that either he wasn't gone nearly as long as he thought, or they just didn't care. He tried not to think too much about it as he flushed down his lunch and just sat there on the floor, trying to breathe normally for once, made friends with the dead roach in the stall next door, and cursed under his breath at the damn world to stop spinning. Eventually, he was able to calm himself down and felt all the pressure that had been building in his chest washed away like rain. Like this morning, the feeling left as fast as it came and Wirt was once again left sitting on the bathroom floor, his cheeks sticky with dry tears and feeling like a worthless idiot.

He forced himself up on wobbly long legs, he couldn't just stay in the boys' restroom for the rest of his life, and with a silent goodbye to Dave the dead roach (yes, his name was Dave), he exited his unlocked stall with all the false confidence he could muster.

Confidence that immediately went away when he saw that Thomas guy standing right in front of him.

Wirt fought back the shudder that threatened to take over his entire body as he brushed beside the tall teenager with the ugliest eyes he's ever seen with a mumbled "'Cuse me." Their arms brushed together by accident and he felt his heart jackrabbit in his chest as an undeniably muscular, yet strangely bony, bicep poked him in the shoulder, his sweater not at all providing him the protection from skin that felt clammy yet cold.

Wirt tried to ignore the buzzing in his ears as he marched over to the sink and scrubbed his hands raw. He splashed lukewarm water on his face and winced in regret as his eyes burned. Burying his face in a scratchy paper towel that smelled like sink water, he failed to notice the shuffling behind him until he looked up and saw those ugly eyes staring at him through the grimy mirror.

He let out a totally dignified yelp as he spun around and gripped the sink until his hands ached, Thomas suddenly way, way too close for comfort. Eyes of nearly every color that seemed so familiar bore lifelessly into his own Hazel ones, and Wirt couldn't help the swelling in his chest as he stared at the something that didn't look or feel alive and way too close.

"W-what do you want?" he managed to barely rasp out, his voice more of a squeak than anything.

"You haven't eaten."

Wirt blinked several blinks, trying to comprehend what he just heard. That wasn't a question, that was a statement, and what he just flushed down a toilet about thirty seconds ago definitely contradicted that statement. So he closed his eyes and tried not to look at the supposed boy in front of him as he shook his head.

"Yes—" his voice cracked, he coughed into his hand.

"Yes I, erm, I did—"

"No, you didn't," came the immediate, detached response.

Wirt felt his face grow hot and he squinted accusingly, finally getting a good look at this Thomas guy.

"What do you—"

Then he saw what Thomas was holding limply in his pale, blue-veined, hand.

A single, drooping white flower.

Wirt didn't exactly know he was feeling when he saw that. His breathing hitched and he could feel the red burning in his cheeks, but his head swam, his knees gave out, and his ground together to the point of breaking.

"What is your deal?!" Wirt nearly screamed; his voice hoarse.

"Do you have a crush on me or something, b-because while I'm flattered, this…this is a really creepy way to go about it! Why can't you understand that I don't want your stupid flowers?! Ever since you brought those things near me, I've been, been, I've been—"

He hunched over as another coughing fit overtook him, hacking wetly into his hand. Thomas said nothing but placed a hand mechanically on his shoulder, like a mocking gesture of comfort, but there was absolutely nothing in his eyes.

"Wirt…"

Said teenager tore that hand away from him as he coughed, cringing at the skin-to-skin contact that felt so wrong. He glared at Thomas with bloodshot eyes and a snarl, an anger bubbling that he hadn't truly felt since Halloween.

"Like THIS!"

Thomas said nothing. He just stared at Wirt with ugly nothing eyes and held up the flower with an insistence not seen anywhere else in his expression.

"You need—"

Wirt fought down the urge to scream and ripped that stupid flowers away from this stranger, this creep who claimed to know what he needed as if they were friends, and he tossed it as far away as he could towards the wall. It bounced off the bricks and lay there on the sticky tiles, its porcelain petals unperturbed and dark stem bent ever so slightly.

Wirt glared at Thomas.

Thomas stared blankly at Wirt.

"Leave…" Wirt heaved, pressing a hand against his chest. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and thought of bluebirds.

"Leave me alone. Don't come near me ever again. Don't talk to me. Don't look at me. I'm not interested in whatever you want. I'm not interested in your stupid flowers. Stop giving them to me. Don't tell me what I need. You have no idea what I need. You're not my friend, you're not my parents, you're not my doctor. You're some strange creep who's been bothering me for the past week and you won't stop staring, everyone's always staring, and I just want to be left alone. Please…"

Wirt sighed and rubbed his eyes. They stung and his head hurt and there was a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach that wouldn't go away and—

He looked up when he heard the harsh shuffling on boots.

Thomas backed away, staring at him with a blank expression. Wirt could've sworn he saw tears in those ugly eyes that were nothing but dull and dead. They didn't look real, and the tear that slowly fell down his pasty cheek looked just as fake—as if he had just dabbed under his eyes with water. Yet Wirt watched them fall, slow and unassuming on an emotionless, dead-eyed face and he knew they were real.

Thomas said nothing. He just spun on his heel and walked out of the restroom, whistling a familiar tune in a low voice.

That song echoed throughout the room and Wirt shook his head as he tried to clean himself up, knowing that he heard it before but didn't want to think to hard about it.

He washed his hands and his face in lukewarm water and tried tidy up his messy appearance the best he could. He straightened out his clothes, ran his hands through his unkempt hair, and dabbed under his eyes with a scratchy paper towel. Once he was sure that he only looked about half of a mess, he took a deep breath and made work to leave before next period.

Wirt flinched when he heard a sudden loud crack, like the pop of a spine splitting in two, and realized that he had accidentally stepped on the flower.

He had completely forgotten that it was even there and now t laid there, crushed under his shoe with a severed stem. Shockingly, he couldn't help but feel a pang of sympathy, or was it guilt, but for what exactly?

It was then that he noticed something…well, leaking from the flower's broken stem. He jumped back and watched it pool with wide eyes and unnerved curiosity.

It was a black liquid. It looked like water, but Wirt knew that it was much thicker. It didn't have an order and it seeped onto the tiles at a chunky, snail-like creep. He noticed some had gotten on his shoe and, in his frenzy to clean it off, his fingers accidentally brushed against it and he fought down a shudder at its slimy texture.

It was oil.

He walked out of the bathroom at long last, a haunted expression on his face as he ignored everyone staring at him and walked back to his class with one minute to spare.

He tried to block out the blurs of black vines that grew around the edges of his vision.

He desperately tried to ignore the pangs of hunger and a rumbling stomach he now suddenly felt.

He wished he could ignore the deep voiced whistling that followed him down the halls.

He wanted to forget that song.

Alas, poor Wirt knew the lyrics by heart now and that heart ached.

Janice Valentino opened the door one bright and sunny morning to the chubby, smiling face of one Bud Gleeful.

Beaming at the idea of a new customer, she welcomed him inside with a toothy smile.

"Why hello there, Mr. Gleeful! And I am certainly gleeful to have such an esteemed customer such as yourself paying our little ol' casket castle a visit on this fine morning! Tell me, did the misses finally croak? Did she," Janice paused to suppress a happy giggle, "pass out from over exhaustion and never wake up? That be a darn shame if she did!"

Bud tipped his hat and shared her jovial chuckle.

"Now, I'ma 'fraid nottin' like that has 'ccurred…" he paused as he sat down and happily accepted the cheese and cracker platter she offered.

Janice smiled and set it back down on the glass coffin with an impeccably dressed man resting inside—her finest work yet! —and joined him on the seat beside him with her own steaming cup of coffee, topped with whipped cream and a pretty red cherry on top.

"Oh, but of course! Well, my husband's out back dealing with one of those pesky zombies. Mrs. Grimes keeps crawling out of her grave and getting dirt on her nice sweater! It's quite upsetting!"

"Sounds like it," Bud nodded.

"Oh honey!" Came a sing-song voice from outside.

"Yes, dear?"

"I managed to get Lorraine back into her gravesite, but the poor things so grumpy about having to take a nap, she keeps trying to hug me instead!"

"How sweet!" Janice cooed.

"Oh yes! But it's too early for hug-time, Lorraine, and you're overdue for your eternal nap! Honey, where do I shoot? I don't want to mess up her beautiful dress! She's never looked so pretty alive!"

"Aim for the head, but make sure you're pointing up at the edge of the skull. Don't want those pesky brains staining anything!"

"Got it sweetheart! You're such a gem!"

"You are too, Greggy-bear!" Janice giggled, gazing longingly out the window as her wonderful husband pumped the sawed-off shotgun with a smile as bright as day. She looked back at Bud, who was too busy snacking on cheese and crackers to pay attention to the poor unfortunate zombie banging on the window for help at side.

Janice looked over at him with a beaming smile.

"So, what can I do for you today, Mr. Gleeful?"

Bud cleared his throat and suddenly flushed, looking nervous. He toddler his fat fingers and fans his face with his hat, sweat making his nearly bald head shine like the sun.

"Well…as ya know, eva' since the shenanigans with my boy and the…incident…the family business hasn't been doing too hot lately. No 'wan wants to buy cars from a Gleeful an'more, 'specially with some'wan as…unpopular as Gideon havin' still gone free."

Janice nodded, placing a comforting hand on Bud's flabby arm.

"I understand exactly what you mean Mr. Gleeful. Well, not about the business. People die every day, so our business is absolutely booming! But yes, children can be rather tricky sometimes. Why, our adorable little sourpuss Robbie told us the other day that we're too cheerful to be funeral directors and that jokes about the correct way to open a chest cavity is lame! But you know what, Mr. Gleeful? Children may be a handful sometimes, but all the blood, sweat, tears, embalming fluid, and insults are worth it in the end because deep down inside…"

Janice clutched her chest, happy tears blooming in her eyes.

"Deep down inside those bitter, angsty hearts…they really do you and appreciate you…"

Bud nodded with a sad fake smile, swallowing deeply.

"Indeed, they do, ma'am. But 'cause of all this dang 'controversy' nobody wants to buy my cars and miss, lem'me tell ya, don't le' an'wan tell ya 'ere's no such thang as 'too many cars', cause 'ere certainly can be!"

"Well, of course there can be, Mr. Gleeful! There can be too much of anything! Well, except dead bodies. You can never have too many dead bodies!" She gestured to the large graveyard just outside as if she were showing off a garden.

Bud chuckled and nodded in agreement.

"Indeed, you can't, ma'am."

He took a long sip of the coffee she offered him and licked away the foam that stuck to his bottom lip.

"So, ya can see my dilemma? I'ma cars salesman with too many darn cars! So I've just been goin' 'round town lookin' for some lucky customers and I think I have som'ting that y'all folks may need!"

He pulled out a picture and showed it to her. Her eyes widened and positively sparkled, her hands cupping her face as she gasped into both shock and happiness.

"Is that a—"

"Yes, it is," Bud grinned.

"The Turbo Hearse Civics 2015 Squared," Janice droned, practically drooling.

"The ultimate hearse for all your funeral needs," Bud grinned.

"Large enough to hold the coffins of two whole extended mass murdered families, plus the family dog…"

"And fast enough to kill the driver through shear whiplash alone," Bud finished.

Janice looked like someone had died and gone to heaven, grabbing the picture tightly and examining it closely as she panted like a puppy being offered a treat.

"And there's no bullet hole or blood stain in site! This is a brand-new model!" She exclaimed, looking at Bud in shook. He nodded modestly, holding his hat to his puffed-out chest and blushing a dusty pink.

"Indeed, it is, ma'am."

"But how?" She looked at the picture again.

"How do you have this? This is a brand-new model that was just released last month! It costs an arm and a leg! Well, in money. Not in body parts, sadly. Companies just don't accept limbs as payment anymore."

Bud chuckled.

"I have my ways and I have my lil' ol' friends, ma'am. And I can sell it to ya' nice folk for parts way cheaper than arms 'n legs."

"Fingers and toes?"

"No, no," Bud leaned close, a magnetic gleam in his beady eyes. Janice leaned close too, as if she were under his spell.

"I was thinkin' something more along the lines of…hmm, completely free, how 'bout that?"

She sat there for a good minute, frozen in place with wide eyes and a blank face. It was almost as if she short-circuited. Before Bud could be too worried that he broke another customer, there was a blur of red and purple followed by an empty seat beside his and the happy sounds of a wife singing the news to her husband like a princess while he buried Lorraine Grimes with a smile.

The front door opened and in waddled Gideon Gideon, dressed with his brown hood barely covering his pompadour and now sporting a pair of dark shades.

"S'it done?"

Bud swallowed and fanned himself harder.

"Yes'sir. They're distracted. Now, go'wan an' do ya business 'fore we get caught. I've already lost so much money for this goddarn scheme ya'r pullin', I can't risk goin' with ya to the slammer when ya get caught!"

Gideon chuckled, a toothy grin across his chubby cheeks that somehow managed to look both innocent and terrifying.

"Have ya no faith, daddy? Keep the old folks busy. I'll be right back…"

He hopped up the stairs with an evil giggle and a skip in his step.

Bud gulped, put his hat back, and went to meet the excited parents outside.

Robbie sat in his bed, banging his head to the angsty teenage music he was listening to on max through his headphones. He was so in the zone that he completely ignored the gentle knocks on his door.

He did, however, noticed when he opened his eyes by chance and saw the doorknob turning.

"Ugh! Mom! Can't you knock? I'm busy! And if you're bringing me breakfast, it better not be those lame pancakes you make with a whipped cream smiley face and a bacon top hat! You know how not-cool those are!"

Excepting to hear his mother's usual chipper reply, he turned away from the door and continued to rock out to his shriveled heart's content.

What he didn't expect was the complete lack of pancakes with a whipped cream smiley face and a bacon top hat being set gently on his dresser for him to begrudgingly wolf down later. What he didn't expect was the complete lack of the slim hand that ruffled his hair despite his complaints. What he didn't expect was his door to remain wide open when even his mother knows to shut his door when leaving to allow him his required amount of privacy.

What he never expected was when he got up to close his door and saw no one other than Gideon Gleeful standing in his room, smiling like a rosy-cheeked cherub with the most ridiculous sunglasses he's ever seen.

Even though he was shocked, Robbie tried to play it off as cool.

"What? Oh, it's you. What the heck are you doing in here, pipsqueak? Shouldn't you be, I don't know, on the playground, getting pushed off the swing set or something?"

Gideon said nothing for a moment. Robbie would rather die than admit it, but he was a little freaked out. Even when Gideon was beloved by the town, he was of the unpopular opinion that the supposed child psychic was just a little bit creepy. There was just something about children who knew everything about you, including your thoughts, that was unnerving. The fact that he was both literally spying on people, became the ringleader in a gang of dangerous prisoners, and tangoed regularly with a three-sided devil really didn't help.

And now he was alone with him, in his room.

Wait, where are his parents? Surely, they weren't stupid enough to—

"I see ya got my card," Gideon spoke through pearly whites.

His voice sounding rather stilted. Like, the Southern bumpkin drawl was there, but it sounded even faker than usual and the pitch in his tone sounded…off.

Robbie's eyes briefly darted over to his trashcan.

The crumpled-up card and yellow envelope were still there, winking at him.

Robbie scoffed and crossed his arms, displaying a false confidence flimsier than a house of cards.

"Pfft! Yeah, so what? Don't tell me you wrote that stupid thing! Wow, Gideon, I knew you were lame but this, right here, makes you, like, mega lame. Whatever…"

Gideon didn't say anything.

He just smiled.

Robbie laughed.

"What? You gonna say something, pipsqueak? You gonna bite my ankles or something? What are you even doing here anyw—"

Gideon removed his sunglasses and Robbie froze.

He couldn't move. He couldn't speak. He couldn't do anything but stare into Gideon's bright yellow eyes.

And "Gideon" cackled in a way all too familiar.

"WELL, WELL, WELL!" Bill beamed.

"IF IT ISN'T MY DEAR SKINNY JEANS! THE ONLY IDIOT I KNOW THAT WOULD BOTHER TO TAKE A SELFIE WHILE RUNNING FOR HIS LIFE DURING AN APOCALYPSE!"

Bill burst out laughing at this, doubling over in a fit of cackled until he was practically wheezing in Gideon's out of shape body. Robbie's cheeks burned at the memory, but he pretended not to be offended.

"Yeah? So?"

Bill eventually calmed down, pulling himself together and wiping a single tear from his eye.

"SHAME THEY MADE YOU DELETE THAT PICTURE! WHAT A FUN MEMORY THAT WAS! ME, CRUSHING YOU AND ALL YOUR LOVED ONES IN MY THRONE WHILE YOU COULD DO NOTHING BUT BE FROZEN IN PURE TWISTED HUMAN AGONY! OH, WHAT A HOOT THAT WAS, LET ME TELL YOU!"

Robbie rolled his eyes.

Bill looked him dead in the eye with a sinister grin and suddenly everything was much quieter and still, the color having evaporated from the world and leaving behind a frozen world of gray.

Robbie looked around in confusion.

Then he suddenly realized his feet weren't on the ground.

"What the—!"

Bill laughed like a child playing with a toy as he levitated the teenager into the air, twisting his limbs around joint by joint and making him literally dance for his amusement. Robbie cried and flailed, forgoing his dignity, as he was a puppet of broken strings: twirling around in the air, breakdancing on the ceiling, and doing the salsa with his guitar, which was then forced to smash into a million pieces.

Then Bill clenched his chubby fist and Robbie felt his arms be pinned to his sides and his legs shoved together so harshly, he winced when he felt a few more bones snap in half like mere twigs.

"ALRIGHT BILLY BOY, ENOUGH FUN AND GAMES! YOU GOT A JOB TO DO…"

Those yellow eyes rolled into the back of Gideon's skull and he started chanting something in a tongue so foreign, the room was literally starting to melt around them into incomprehensible blobs of gray and dark gray.

Robbie shook, frozen his place as everything that was ever familiar to him was taken away and replaced with nothing. Absolutely nothing but pure gray that soon turned black. The chanting echoed all around him, and he couldn't see Gideon, but he could hear Bill everywhere around him.

He lost his dignity long ago. His mascara left smudged tears of black down his pale cheeks.

"Please, man! I didn't mean it! You're not lame, I swear! You're the…you're the coolest thing I've ever seen! No, no, no, wait! Not cool! AMAZING! BILL, YOU'RE THE MOST AMAZING THING I'VE EVER SEEN! NOTHING IS BETTER THAN YOU, BILL! Oh God, I'm going to die. Please, please don't let me die Bill! I do anything! Oh God, stop! STOP! PLEASE! MOM! DAD! MOMMY, PLEASE! Please mom—!"

The chanting stopped and everything was black.

Janice Valentino skipped up the steps, humming to herself and holding a plate of her son's favorite breakfast.

He hadn't been down to eat all morning, so she figured he might just be going through one of his typical teenage phases and thought it best to at least let him eat it in his own time.

She rapped her knuckles on the black door with a happy hum, practically giddy as she bounced on her tiptoes.

"Robbie Stacy Valentino!" She sang.

"Breakfast, sweetheart! I made your favorite: smiley face pancakes with little bacon top hats! Both delicious and with an impeccable taste of fashion, if I do say so myself!"

No response.

She knocked again.

"Robbie, honey?"

She knocked again.

Still nothing.

Used to this, she tried the knob—he usually had it locked, but since he had so much trouble with mobility since the accident, he begrudgingly temporarily allowed to door to be unlocked to make things much easier for all parties involved. So, with a hum, she opened the door and stepped inside, ready to place it on his dresser so he could eat whenever he's done with his normal teenage things.

"Oh, and Robbie, guess what? Bud Gleeful came by and gave me and your father a brand-new Turbo Hearse Civics 2015 Squared for free! He didn't even take a zombie as payment, isn't that something? How about later in the day, you join us for giving that beautiful baby a test drive? She can carry the caskets of two extended families plus the family dog, and she can go so fast, you'll break your neck through shear whiplash! You and your friends will love it! What do you say—?"

She finally looked up and gasped, dropping the plate. The fine china shattered on impact and the smiley face that was drawn on the pancake with such tender care now frowned.

In the middle of his beaten-up floor, his precious electric guitar, Susan, was smashed into a million pieces.

And Robbie was gone.

Yeah, I'm an asshole.

I…never intended to wait this long to touch this fic again. I'm serious, I've been working off and on this chapter for the last five years and holy shit, it's been five years and I'm so sorry to the readers both old and new I've unintentionally left hanging. I just want to make something very clear: I WILL NOT GIVE UP ON THIS FIC. Quitting is for losers and I am many things, including a loser, but I've made it this far and I will not stop when we haven't even got to the good part yet!

Many things have happened in the last five years. I started this story on a whim in my freshman year of high school and now I just wrapped up my freshman year at university. Long ago, I had a detailed outline of what I planned to do with this story that sadly got lost in the Epic Computer Hardware Crash of 2016 ™ (piece of advice kids, always keep a backup of everything!), and my mental health had been on a downward spiral so severe that even thinking about writing was borderline impossible for me. Sadly, life happened, and other priorities and interests kept me from updating this story. Believe me when I say, I've rewritten this chapter alone so many times that getting to this end card is just purely cathartic for me.

My plan for this story still stands; it will be about 40+ chapters, because I have too many ideas that I cannot not use. I apologize if my writing is a little rusty, I have not seen either shows for a while now, so dusting off this work is kind of like re-learning an old skill: baby steps.

This chapter in particular was hard to write because a) it's been a while, b) I do not like Robbie as a character but any attempt I made to write this chapter around him felt off, and c) "The Love God" is my least favorite episode of Gravity Falls (sorry, not sorry) so I mostly relied on watching short clips of the episode in order to characterize Robbie's family, so if I missed anything continuity wise, feel free to let me know! Reading over this fic again, I realized that I focused a lot more on the OTGW stuff than the GF stuff. This stems mostly from this section of the fic mostly being build-up, since the second half (from chapter 21) on will be set exclusively in Gravity Falls except for whenever we'll be checking in on our nefarious trio, as well as the fact that Wirt is something of a comfort character for me personally and I don't want to portray his trauma in a way where it comes off as it being there for simply for the shock value or offensive to people who actually suffer with these disorders, and if unintentionally do or have misrepresented anything, absolutely feel free to call me.

Still, I hope you all enjoyed it and I look forward to reading your feedback. I am currently working on Chapter 11 and I plan to have it it, at most, by the end of next month. It will be less…rough than this one, I guarantee that. In the meantime, I will be making minor edits to previous chapters; nothing too major, it'll mostly be fixing a few grammatical errors here and there.

The only possibility drastic change I'll make is Thomas's last name. In Chapter 10, I introduced him as "Thomas Ripley", but as of now, that surname no longer still stands. This is because in my original story (which I may or may not post, it's undecided), I have a character who goes by a very similar name and personally speaking: it's confusing. So, until I find a new surname that fits with his character (because I'm an absolute sucker for meaningful/symbolic names), he's just "Thomas" for now. So, hi Thomas! He's…a character, alright. Feel free to share your theories in the comments, because I crave human interaction.

Also, celebration time! We're finally halfway through part one! Yay! Strap in folks, because this train ride is only going to get bumpier from here. And hello to my readers, new and old; I'm back, this story's back, and we're not stopping any time soon! Now I'll leave you, because this document is clocking in at 25 pages and my eyes are on fire. So, until next time!

- Ches