The wine shuddered in Pacifica's glass as Dipper sat across from her with a tired greeting. He dug into his dinner without looking up from his plate.

Her jaw clenched shut, and she counted down from ten in her head to restore the resolve she had built up while she cooked. It had started to crumble fast the longer Dipper made her wait, slaving over his books and codes until the meat went cold. Now that she was across from him, she felt another flutter of anxiety.

"How was your day?" It was a stalling tactic, but Pacifica couldn't help it. She wasn't ready for this talk, no matter how long overdue it might be.

His dark eyes flicked to her face as he finished chewing his bite and swallowed. "Fine," he replied. "How was yours?"

"Fine," she echoed weakly. After a beat, she added, "We got a new supplier. Someone who specializes in eco-friendly fabrics."

Dipper hummed, his eyes skirting to the side with disinterest. Pacifica bit down on the urge to smash her plate.

They ate for a few minutes in silence, Pacifica watching Dipper while he ignored her. Her anxiety grew, until it was an icy hand tight around her windpipe, and she trembled with the tension that built in her. She had to say something, dammit! She couldn't keep avoiding this forever.

As Dipper munched on a piece of bread, he started to rummage around under the table. Finally, he pulled a small moleskin notebook from his pocket and opened it with one hand. He brushed the crumbs from his fingers and pulled a pen from his other pocket to scribble something down as he ate.

Pacifica's fear boiled over into anger, and she let her utensils drop with a clatter.

"Put it away," she ordered. "You're always writing in that damn thing at the table!"

Dipper's eyes flashed with irritation and he said, "It's for my work, Pacifica, you know that. I can't just wait until dinner's over; what if I forget?"

"Then you're not nearly as smart as you think you are," Pacifica snapped.

Dipper's jaw seized and he closed the book with a smack. "I think I'll eat in my office," he said, and he started to rise from the table.

Pacifica was on him in an instant. "No! You are going to sit here and have dinner with me for once without any distractions. I'm your wife! The least you can do is sit and have dinner with me."

His eyes narrowed, but he begrudgingly put his notebook into his pocket. Dipper made a show of picking up his knife and fork and cutting his steak, his gaze fixed on her. Pacifica dropped her eyes to her plate and resumed eating, her anger still seething.

Another minute of silence, and Dipper asked, "Whatever happened with that leather manufacturer you were having trouble with? Did you get that sorted out?"

Pacifica huffed with impatience. "They went to one of our competitors. I already told you that last week."

"No need to be hissy," Dipper muttered as he speared a green bean.

"I shouldn't have to repeat myself all the time!" Pacifica replied hotly. "Sometimes I wonder if you listen to me at all. Every time I go into your office to call you to dinner, or ask you for anything, it's like talking to a wall."

"I'm busy working, Pacifica," he said with an edge. "That's why I leave my door closed. I don't barge into your office every day to ask if you put the towels into the dryer!"

Pacifica let out a squawk of indignant laughter. "Because when I'm in my office, I'm busy running a business! You're holed up in your office trying to crack a code that doesn't even exist."

Dipper stuck out his chin and glared her down. "They're still out there," he said in a low voice.

Pacifica wanted to scream. This was an old argument, one she kept letting herself get dragged back into.

Fourteen months ago, in a sudden hurricane, his uncles Stan and Ford had been lost at sea during an expedition in the South Pacific ocean, close to New Zealand. Months later, when the shipwreck had been found and a water tight box of papers recovered, Dipper's obsession began. For eleven months, he had pored over his uncle's writing, making marks on maps and piecing together Ford's notes to try and find where they had gone, or what they had been searching for. Eleven months with no results.

She snorted. "What makes you think you can find them?"

"Because I know them better than anyone! If anyone can figure out Ford's writing, it's me," Dipper insisted.

"Dipper," her voice cracked, and her eyes pricked, "It's been over a year. Their boat went down during a hurricane. I think they're go - "

"You don't know that!" Dipper protested. "Ford must have left those journals behind for a reason, they had the coordinates to the place the boat sank, for god's sake! He's sending me a message; he and Stan need my help! Our help!"

Pacifica shook her head sadly. "Dipper, Mabel and the others have accepted what happened. They're grieving just like you. But this…this isn't healthy. You have to stop looking and just accept that they're gone. I'm…I'm here for you."

He let out a bark of disbelief. "You? You've been against me since the beginning! You haven't supported me once. Maybe you just can't stand the thought that I might have family out there worth saving when your parents are a fucking nightmare."

All expression evaporated from her face, and she steeled herself to go in for the kill.

"I want a divorce."

Dipper looked like he had been shot. His mouth went slack and his eyes widened, wild and out of focus. His head started to shake slowly back and forth, and he opened and closed his mouth a few times like he was trying to catch the right words. Finally, he spoke.

"What?"

Guilt swelled in her belly, but Pacifica stayed firm. "I've been talking to my lawyer for a few weeks and set up an appointment. She's willing to meet with us to discuss our options."

She didn't mention that one of those options was couples counselling, although the idea had come up when she had spoken to her lawyer, and her lawyer had agreed it would be a beneficial first step. But she was so hurt right now that she didn't want to give him that hope. She couldn't forgive him so easily.

When she looked up at Dipper again, he looked ill. His face had gone white, and he stared at her like he couldn't see her clearly. Pacifica wavered.

"Come on, Dipper, you can't pretend this is a huge surprise. Things have been bad for months. You and I haven't had a conversation that hasn't turned into an argument in forever. We barely see each other, we haven't had sex in ages…" Pacifica twisted the corner of her napkin. "We've been miserable, and I don't want us to be like that. I care about you so much - "

"Then why are you doing this?" Dipper's voice was so tiny she hardly heard it. He swallowed hard and continued in a strangled voice, "Why are you even thinking about a divorce? Why didn't you tell me, we could have talked about it."

Pacifica shook her head. "We haven't been able to talk, really talk, for six months, and I've been trying to tell you about this for weeks. But every time you just…shut me out."

Her eyes burned with the tears she held back. She wouldn't cry in front of Dipper, because then he would try to comfort her, and then she might just want to forget about the whole thing. Pretend they were okay when their marriage was in shambles.

He looked near tears himself. "I'm sorry, Pacifica, I didn't…I didn't mean to hurt you."

She believed him. Dipper wouldn't do something like this on purpose, not to be cruel. But in his long neglect, he had hurt her more than he had ever hurt her with his actions.

She pushed out her chair with a scape and picked up her plate. With a flat voice, she said, "I'm sleeping in the guest bedroom tonight. Please…please don't follow me, okay? I need some space."

Pacifica cleared her plate and put it in the dishwasher with her utensils. As she passed her seat again, she scooped up her untouched glass of wine and headed off to the guest bedroom without another word to her husband.

Found this story on Tumblr decided to continue it (also Happy Birthday Mabel and Dipper)