A/N: Okay, okay, don't come at me with pitchforks and torches just yet. This is simply a midnight-produced one-shot, to make up for the long wait as I try to get my lazy self to update the series. Should happen soon.

This is a sort of "extension story" from the Mystery Twins series. If you haven't read that yet, I strongly suggest you do. Of course, this can easily be read as a stand alone story if you'd like. I'm just shamelessly self-promoting.

This is an Orphan AU, where Dipper and Mabel are parentless and jump from foster home to foster home, most of them turning out abusive. In the Mystery Twins series, they end up in the foster home of Stan Pines, but this story takes place in a different time before they reach his home.

If you've read the series already, you'll probably recognize where this is from, so you can easily go along and read with ease.

Onto the story!

It's the normal Friday night routine.

It's always been this schedule for...however many months he and Mabel have been in the current foster home. His most practical guess is seven, but he can't be sure. Time's a useless construct in this household.

He doesn't go by time. Days, yes, but hours? They hardly mattered. Because they slept when they were tired, played when they were bored, and ate when the action of stealing some food was possible. Maybe time was considered during the more agonizing moments. The midnight runs to the nearest shadows to hide, the deliberately long and heavy footsteps walking across the floorboards, the cigarette smoke and alcohol stench that never seemed to recede...

Every day balances between a struggle and a bleary bore. The twins are used to staying within the small room that had evidently been used for storage at one point. The musty air, grimy window, twin beds, and moldy carpet were home. And a sanctuary. So long as they remained in their room, they were left alone.

Except Fridays. For the past few months, Fridays proved to be a different day. The reason Dipper began the use of a calendar, carefully circling every Friday to keep track so he'd know. He had forgotten once. Their stepfather hadn't been happy, and the twelve-year-old was limping for weeks after that incident.

He knows how it is. Once the sun starts to set, he rushes to finish any jobs he wants to get done. Tidies the room as much as he can, folds the two small blankets him and Mabel use for warmth, maybe grab something to eat, before he ushers Mabel under the bed or into the closet with some type of toy to keep her busy.

Then he sits on the bed and waits. Never counts out seconds or minutes or hours. He just waits and thinks, maybe creates stories in his head, maybe a poem or two if he's feeling exceptionally ridiculous that day. Makes sure to hush Mabel if she's humming too loud. Reminds her she's where she is to hide, for her own safety.

Fridays are the day their foster father uses as an outlet for whatever stresses and problems he goes through with work. Him and Mabel never quite got the grasp on what their foster dad does for a living, but if he does a mundane typical job, Dipper is almost certain he's got something else illegal on the side.

It's the day their foster dad invites friends over and prepares shots and cocktails, while their foster mother leaves the house for work. Dipper has no idea where the guy keeps his liquor and vodka, because whenever a caseworker drops by for a surprise inspection, they never seem to find anything wrong. Dipper's sure the man's got links somewhere, to know when the visits happen anyway. Outsmarting their foster dad is never an option.

It didn't take long for the twins to become an advantage. Their foster's friends were ruthless and cold, and he eventually caught on to just dragging the siblings out to smack around for sick entertainment. Once the friends started spouting nasty things and reduced Mabel to terrified tears, Dipper fell into the routine of hiding her every Friday night. Strictly putting her off limits and away from their father for that span of time. Which meant he had to make up for two twins rather than one, and the things the men came up with became more elaborate every month.

Dipper looks down at his fingers, bandages carefully wrapped by Mabel's expert hands. He never thought he'd be a novice to the knife game at age twelve, but then again, he never thought he'd hold the ability to do a lot of things he can at this age. Hot-wiring, pick pocketing, lying, cheating, shutting off pain, setting bones, the list went on and on. Survival skills he'd adapted to over the years, among the multiple foster homes that proved to be unpleasant ever since he and Mabel were seven.

There are the steps.

He quits the pondering, gives one last shush, but Mabel's already fallen silent within the sanctuary of the closet. Dipper sets his hands in his lap, resting on the torn blue jeans, one pair out of the two he owns, and he stares ahead. His bangs hang in his face, but he doesn't dare move to brush them away.

The bedroom door swings open, and the twelve-year-old doesn't turn. The smell of liquor is already evident, and the steps come closer, a hulking figure approaching the small twin boy on the bed.

"C'mon, runt," their foster dad sneers, and reaches out to grab a fistful of Dipper's hair. He struggles for a bit, sliding off the bed, stumbling after as his father pulls him along with no compassion. Mabel remains where she is, like she should, and Dipper swings the door shut behind him.

He follows their father down the corridor, keeping his eyes trained on the floor. His tattered sneakers are the only thing in his view. No socks. He used the last of his to mop up blood from a hit to the nose a couple weeks ago.

Down the steps, through another hall, and Dipper follows along like a blind dog of sorts. He always feels like some type of prisoner or animal during these nights. A jester to come and entertain these stupid lowlifes who drank excessively and beat the boy twin until Dipper found himself waking up on the floor the next morning. Most of the time, he was just forced to endure sick games the men conjured up. Like a test guinea pig.

Dipper is shoved into the dining room, and he scurries to the corner like usual, pressing himself into a space and keeping his head lowered. His hands remain at his sides, grasping and twisting at the gray hoodie he always wears, the thing stained and ripped and in need of a wash or maybe just downright replacement, but that's a privilege he's yet to earn.

"Alright, look up."

The demand is curt and gruff, and Dipper obediently raises his head to take in the situation this week. Their father brought three friends this time, only one who he recognizes. There's the usual assortment of liquor bottles and shot glasses littering the dining table, the dark oak wood littered with cigarette butts and beer spills and god knows what else. The intricate chandelier hanging above sways just a bit, and Dipper studies it for a second, as he waits.

There's a painful stretched silence, and the sound of his father swallowing more beer. "Alright, whaddya wanna do with the runt?"

"The usual? I wanna see how quick the kid's hands are now," one man answers, and Dipper clenches his hands into fists reflexively. He imagines the pool of money and stack of sharp knives in the middle of the table, a sight that definitely isn't foreign to him, and he wonders if that practice he did with a pencil in the morning will do him any good.

To his surprise, his father snorts and slams his can of beer to the table. "I'm sick of that, Matt. Kid's getting too good at it, and it's gotten boring. I wanna try something new."

"Can test some of the new goods on him," another voice suggests, deep and rattling and chilling Dipper to the core. "Can't sell that stuff without a test first."

"Can't," the father snaps, sounding more annoyed by the fact than anything. "That stupid social worker is coming over soon. Rob didn't tell me the exact date though, so I'm stuck guessing. But last thing I need is to get pounded if this kid's dead on drug overdose."

"Then what do you propose?" A third voice bites, and there are murmurs of agreement. Dipper stiffens, twisting his jacket again, feeling tears pinprick his eyes as he turns his gaze to the floor.

"...I think I wanna play something. Jose, do you still got that firearm?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"Who's up for some Russian Roulette?"

Dipper's breathing stutters to a halt, and he feels like his chest constricts to the point where his heart stops. He finds himself snapping his head upward and accidentally makes eye contact with one of the men. Desperate, he shakes his head, stumbles forward a bit. "No, no, please, I don't-"

He slams himself back against the wall and cowers as his foster dad swivels around, rounds the table, and charges at the boy. A fist drives itself into Dipper's stomach, and he fights back a yelp as he slips to the floor in agony. He's stuck cradling his middle, as his foster dad sneers from above.

"You don't make the rules, runt. Now shut up, and only do things when I say you can."

"M'sorry, sir," Dipper chokes out and earns a kick to the face for his troubles before his foster dad returns to the place at the table. The boy twin tries to staunch the flow of blood from his split lip as the men chatter excitedly on the game they're about to play.

There're a few unfamiliar sounds, something sliding across the table, as Dipper fixes his gaze on the floor again, pressed back in the corner. After a minute or two, a hand grasps his collar and drags him to the table, shoves him into a chair like he's a member of this team of drunkards.

"Look up," the command snaps and Dipper complies.

He sees his foster dad wielding a black handgun, swinging it a bit dangerously, a sadistic grin etched into his sunken features. "The rules are simple. You just hold it to your head like this..." He sets it, brings it to his temple. "And shoot." Dipper jumps as his father's finger presses the trigger, the hammer clicking back to place. "The object is to not be the unlucky soul who gets the bullet!"

There's a chorus of laughs from around the table, but Dipper remains shrunk in his seat, tears trickling down his face as his breathing quickens. He would've preferred the knife game. Would've preferred just chopping a finger off than this.

The thought of Mabel still in the room makes him even more afraid and he curls up into a huddled ball, hugging his knees as his foster dad slides the gun across the table to one of his friends.

The man scoops up the weapon, easily holds it to his hairline as Dipper stifles a whimper of fear. There's a click, the boy jumps, there are laughs at his expense, and the gun is passed down.

As the process repeats, the boy twin finds himself trembling, pressed against the seat like he's trying to disappear. He knows it's not some cruel joke...or a prank anyway. It's a joke to them, a fun way to mess with his emotions. Manipulating the twelve year old was one of their favorite pastimes.

Dipper covers his face, the idea of leaving Mabel behind dawning on him as the gun switches hands again. He doesn't want to do this. They might've rigged it, they would rig it, and he can't leave Mabel alone and vulnerable. She was too innocent for this. He was a monster, he knew that...he at least felt justified in taking the torture and ordeals the men dished out every week. Mabel didn't deserve any of that.

He finds his breath hitching as the gun slides in front of him. All eyes are trained on his small shaking form, as the weapon comes to a rest a few feet from his reach.

The gun is sleek and black, and as he wraps a hand around it, it's definitely authentic. It's a heavy weight, and his trembling hand stills a bit once he lifts the firearm.

Just hold it to his head, just gotta hold it to his head, pull the trigger, let them laugh...keep it going...

Deep down, he knows there are probably no bullets inside, but he can't help but feel a deep terror that he could be signing himself off to death here. Mabel's the only thing on his mind, her safety is at stake, and he finds himself looking up pleadingly towards their foster dad.

"Please...I'll do anything else! Just don't make me-"

His plea is cut short as he's slapped across the face. He reaches up, wipes at the blood on his lip, as the men's stares bore into him.

"Do it," their father growls.

A dollar is suddenly on the table, and soon there's a pile of bets before Dipper can even compose himself. His arm feels like lead as he carries the gun off of the tabletop. It's starting to shake wildly as he raises it. Higher and higher and higher...

He rests the muzzle against the side of his head, his ear brushing against the object, and the tears are flowing freely now. He lets out wracking sobs, feeling utterly terrified.

A large hand reaches out, smacks at his chest warningly, and he winces a bit, any stoic demeanor remaining now completely vanished. He shuts his eyes tight, Mabel the only thing on his mind as he forces his finger down.

A deafening click, and that's it.

There's an immediate eruption of taunting laughter before the gun is snatched away. His foster dad holds the gun to his head, still snickering, and Dipper doesn't push down the thought that he wishes the bullet was there.

Just a click, and the gun passes around the table. It's Dipper's turn again before he can even catch his breath, and he's holding back sobs as the men point fingers at him and tease. Call him all the names under the sun. He's a wimp and he knows it.

He hasn't been counting. People have been skipping or going twice, and he can't tell if this could he the genuine thing. He wraps a sweaty hand around the gun, and just holds it up in a swift motion, wanting to get it over with.

A click that sends relief flooding through him, and a shot glass is chucked in his direction, smacking above his eyebrow and he yelps at the pain. Of course, it's just fun and games to the men.

Dipper raises his head, levels his stare with his foster dad, who immediately glares at the gall of the kid to make eye contact without permission. The man's hands leave the liquor bottle he was about to grab and curls into a threatening fist.

And suddenly, Dipper's holding out a hand, training the gun on his foster father, and pressing the trigger before he can even comprehend his own movements.

There's a wild blast, a sound that resonates through the room, shakes the twelve year old to his core. The gun has fired, the bullet missing his foster father by mere inches and embedding itself in the wall, crumbling pieces of drywall gathering on the floor.

There's a wail of "hey, my emergency bullet!" Before Dipper's pounced on, knocked to the floor. The chair topples, the gun skids away somewhere, and he promptly gets the shit beaten out of him. He's crying and wailing by the end of it, but it's more broken yelling than tears.

Their foster dad is swearing heavily, punctuating each word with a kick or punch. The other guys join in until they grow bored. Glass covers the floor and slices up Dipper's arms, liquor pooled around the table.

The Friday night is over.

He lays where he is as the men gather their things to leave, step over the broken kid, as he tries to pull himself together. The pain is searing, his ribs hurt, and he knows he's going to have an array of bruises Mabel will no doubt comment on. He's shivering and coughing, blood mingling with other fluids that he can't tell is liquor or sweat or maybe he was crying after all.

He hurts, and he wants comfort, but Mabel is all the way upstairs. His foster dad gives one more kick before leaving the room, turning off the light, plunging Dipper into darkness.

Dipper doesn't know why he hugs Stan, but he does, and he's just as stunned when Stan hugs back.

Wracking sobs escape the twelve year old, and Dipper's practically soaking in the warmth and security Stan holds. His oddly thin arms, marred with cuts and bruises, are around Stan's neck, his hands resting on the man's back.

The businessman's hand is rubbing circles on Dipper's back and he wonders...if this is how affection is like. How a true parent is. How a real hug is.

Actual comfort from an adult. Not something Dipper would usually accept. Not something that's the norm even. Mabel was usually the one to comfort.

His mind transports back to the Friday night, the gun's click and the smell of liquor still strong in his senses, and he suddenly feels like he's been rescued, pulled into safety. He's okay, he's alright, and it's almost like things stop hurting for a little bit.

Stan's practically cradling the kid after a little while, but doesn't seem to mind. Dipper doesn't know how much time has passed...it's merely a useless construct after all...but he hears the man's voice, low and soothing almost.

"I've got you, kid. I've got you."

The End