Work Text:
“I don’t think this is workin’ out.”
Licking his lips, Dipper curls his fingers tighter on the receiver, eyes rolling toward the ceiling, and he inhales a staccato breath. "We can make it work, still. We’ve … we’ve managed this for years. We can do this. Please.“
”… We ain’t been managin’, Dipper. We’ve been draggin’. I’m sorry.“ There’s only a brief pause, in which Gideon clears his throat. "I’ll get the rest of yer stuff to ya by tomorrow mornin’. Goodnight.”
The words hang in the air, lingering like the cinnamon smell of his body spray. Though there is no sound but their breathing between them, the silence is loud; buzzing static and sharp corners that press and dig into his eardrums. And then, there’s not even that anymore. The line goes dead, and after what seems like forever stretching into infinity, he throws the phone at the wall, buries his fingers in his hair, and curls up in a tight ball on the couch.
Snow crunches under his boots as he maneuvers down the crowded streets of San Diego. The people who pause long enough to smile at him get a quick smile in return, but his eyes drop to his phone immediately afterwards. Mabel has been texting him for three hours now. Asking him any various slew of questions that might give her an answer that justifies her worrying about him. But he’s been giving her the most barebone responses that he can. A game that they have played for nearly three years now.
Mabel: hey, bro-bro! how’s work going? ;)
Me: Fine. It’s a slow day today.
Mabel: mmm.
Mabel: that’s good tho. what r u doing after?
Me: Dinner, I guess.
Mabel: whatcha eatin?
Me: Don’t know, yet.
Mabel: maybe we can eat out together.
Mabel: we haven’t eaten anywhere together in a while.
Mabel: mcds sounds good but that’s p cheap huh?
Mabel: maybe applebees.
Mabel: we can get something to drink w dinner.
Mabel: call me later, ok?
Mabel: i love you.
He sets himself down hard next to a short boy no older than sixteen, bundled up in a bunch of jackets, and pulls his hood up. Neither say a word to each other as Dipper scrolls through the messages Mabel has sent him over the past hour and a half unanswered, and contemplates whether or not he can afford to respond to her offer right now.
“He ain’t been ‘round,” a voice pipes up.
Dipper sweeps his gaze over to the redhead, and he nods, a semi-sweet smile twitching over his lips. "Maybe he’s not off the clock just yet … thanks, James.“ Lowering his phone, he leans back against the glass window, and buries his free hand into his sweater pocket. Producing a card between his index and middle finger, he flicks it over towards him. "Here. Fifteen bucks on it. Get something to eat.”
“… What do you want?”
“Nothing. I ate at work. I’ll eat later.”
There’s a quiet pause between the two of them, but eventually, the young man stands up, gives Dipper a toothy smile, along with a, “Good luck, man. Tonight’s the night,” before heading off into the mob of people in their rush to get home in time for dinner, leaving Dipper to his peace.
Me: I love you.
Me: Count me out of dinner, though. Working overtime tonight.
Mabel: oh. ok.
Mabel: maybe i can stop in and say hi at least!
Mabel: i don’t have work in the morning so idm.
Me: I’m working in the back tonight. Sorry.
He slides his thumb against the power button, and holds his breath while the screen’s light slowly fades out. He hates it when Mabel gets like this. He hates it when she guilts him like this. He’s fine. He’s fine. He’s been fine, and he will be fine. And hopefully, just maybe, soon … he’ll be fine with him.
Tucking the device away, he turns to the tied up sleeping bag that James had been relaxing back against, and produces the cardboard sign that he has had for God knows how long now. Tucking one foot underneath his thigh, he props the sign against his knee, then tugs the brim of his hat down, adjusting his hood over it to settle in for the evening.
“Hey, Dipper. How ya holdin’ up?”
“… Been a long, long Saturday.” His laugh is dry and humorless as James stands before him, looking up and down the sidewalk with two cups of coffee in his hands. "I almost feel like it’d be better if I’d covered for Marion today. I don’t know how you do it, man.“
"Heh. I could say the same.” He extends a cup down to Dipper, who takes it with a grateful hum, then he jams his hand into his pocket, blowing the steam from his own lid before taking a sip. "I mean … not– uh, geez, not to insult you, dude. But sitting here like this, waiting for some guy who’s out there playing CEO … you got some damn dedication.“
The words sting a little, and Dipper furrows his brows, busying himself for the moment with nitpicking one of his gloves instead of commenting back for the moment. Maybe he is stupid for holding his breath like this. He’s sitting here wearing a hat he’s had since he was twelve years old, in one of Robbie’s scrubby old hoodies. God knows how long he’s had these jeans, or even the last time he bothered to wash them. His hair is a greasy, ratty mess that he hasn’t bothered to put a brush through for months … and here he was, hoping to God his world-renowned ex would give him the time of day.
”… Hey. I’m sorry, I really didn’t … nevermind. You’re a great guy, man.“ James moves to stick his foot out, nudging the toe of his shoe against the instep of Dipper’s left foot. He nudges a few times, until Dipper smiles again, and though it’s small and doesn’t seem very genuine, he’ll take it. "Really. I don’t know anyone who’s as dedicated as you are. He’d be stupid … to turn you away again.”
“Nah. … I just sit here stalking news articles about him all day. Worry my sister. Forget my parents exist. I’m pretty shitty, actually.” He sets the cup down at his side, against the sleeping bag, adjusts the sign to prop it up on the building instead, and fishes out his phone. He hasn’t texted Mabel back for a few hours again. He stopped when his hands got cold earlier.
Mabel: he gave me flowers to make it up to me or something.
Mabel: i’m still kind of annoyed, tho.
Mabel: like
Mabel: i’m not wrong right?
Me: Nah. I’d be pretty pissed, too.
Me: I mean, I’m not even you, and I kind of am.
Me: It’s not that hard to say something, but I guess some guys just can’t keep up with the basics sometimes.
Mabel: siiiiiigh!!!!
Mabel: you boys take sooo long to catch up with us.
Mabel: ooo! but grenda’s fiance’s taking her back to germany next week! i’m sooo jealous!
“I’m gonna go knock around on Fifty Third and see if I can scrape together a place to stay tonight. I feel bad using your bed all the time. I mean, I know. All you say is, 'it’s not like I use it anyway,’ but … You know. Anyway, um. I’ll catch you later. I really hope you see him today. ” And with one last nudge against Dipper’s foot, James quietly departs down the sidewalk, slumping as he goes.
“… See ya.” He flicks the backlight of his phone off without responding again, mostly because he can’t even fake the enthusiasm that Mabel has going on, and props his knees up. And though it’s snowing, he only adjusts his hat, pulls his hood up, and sets his sign against his shin, then leans his head back against the shop to wait.
The snowfall had been light all day, but thick enough to stick. Small piles on his knees, shoulders, and the brim of his hat are enough to encourage some people to stop, and ask him questions (“Are you alright?” "Do you need a place to stay?“ "Sir, who are you looking for?”), but he shrugs off any offers of room and board, because he really doesn’t need it anyway. What he needs, what he really wants … isn’t something anyone can offer him anyway.
He’s on his fourth cup of coffee–this time, something that one of the girls who works at Starbucks brought him on her way home–when his phone alarm goes off to tell him it’s almost midnight. Which means James has probably found a place to sleep tonight. That’s good. Shutting off the backlight again, he shifts his feet a little, drops his head back, and tips his hat down over his face.
Cars driving by, feet sliding through the snow, crunching the solidifying ice, and snippets of conversation swirl around in the haze of his subconscious while he drifts in and out of sleep. After getting up at four in the morning, in this shit weather, he’s exhausted, and even the coffee isn’t keeping him awake anymore.
“… fer this?”
“Hm?” Brows furrowing, Dipper opens his eyes to see a black - clad pair of legs, and the inside of the brim of his hat. "Wha’s'at?“ Dropping his phone on his lap, he brings his hands up to scrub the heels of his palms into his eyes.
"Ah said, ain’t it a little too cold out heuh fer this? It’s below freezin’. There’s a shelter …” The voice trails off, and there’s a quiet, but sharp intake of breath.
Moving to push his hat up, Dipper opens his mouth to say it’s fine, he has something to do–but the words catch in his throat as he stares, wide-eyed, up at the very man he’s been waiting for, right here on this very corner where they’d shared their first real kiss, after their first real date … for three and a half years.
He’s bulkier now, and Dipper is certain that while most of it is the weight he never really lost from childhood, some of that has to be muscle, to fill out that shirt the way he does. His blind eye is now covered by an eyepatch, decorated with the old star he has now coined as a trademark on his Tarot Deck, and he’s speckled with a handful more freckles than he had when he was twenty, but his hairstyle hasn’t changed at all.
“… Gideon.” Hands trembling, he tries to push himself up using the building for support, but Gideon extends a hand to him when he fumbles. There’s some hesitation before he takes it, but he does, and stands up, finding he’s still got almost half a foot over the younger man. "I … I, um. … Hi, how … how’ve you …“
"What’re ya doin’ out here?” Gideon interrupts, slowly retracting his hand. "Almost one thirty in the mornin’. Do ya need a ride, maybe? I mean … my car’s parked over in the lot, this place is the only shop still open at this hour, so …“
"I miss you.” The words slip out before he can even think to filter them, and he cringes. Some things, even with time, never change. "Uh, I–I mean … Geez, fuck, I’m sorry, nevermind. I, um, I have to … I have to go, uh, go home. My, er, my roommate’s … Jesus, Gideon, I’m sorry. This is so awkward, I was just–“
"Leslie.” The use of his real name instantly brings Dipper to a pause, and Gideon reaches up again, and he hesitates inches from his cheek before he instead redirects his hand to brush some snow off of Dipper’s shoulder instead. "… Here. Go wait in the car. It’s, uh. It’s probably exactly the one you think it is.“
As he pulls the keyring from his pocket, he tilts his head toward an old 1948 Pontiac Streamliner. Compared to all the other cars in the lot, as sparse as they are … it definitely is the one he’d expect it to be.
Dipper holds his hand out, fingers still shaking, and avoids meeting the other’s gaze when the keys drop in his palm. ”… Thank you. My place is within walking distance, though, it’s really not a–“
A hand covers his mouth, and he blinks in surprise, lifting his eyes from his shoes to offer Gideon a questioning stare. His only answer, though … is Gideon leaning in, and kissing the back of his own hand, right over Dipper’s lips. And then he’s sidestepping for the door, dropping his hand without a word.
The bells jingle and chime when Gideon walks in, and then the door closes. After finding the keys still in his hand, digging into the glove hard enough to bite at his flesh and reassure him this is indeed not a dream … he picks up his cellphone, the old sign, and the now ice cold cup of coffee … and with a shaky laugh, he dumps the latter two in the nearby trash can before picking his way carefully to the car, hope bubbling in his chest.
Me: Mabel, let’s go to dinner tomorrow night.
Me: … I found him.