Chapter Text

the steady continental seventy — vii

Everyone packs up bright and early as the sun rises over the RV park. Well, more bright than early: Soos and Great-Uncle Ford are busily repairing the RV with what looks like duct tape and hope. It’s about ten in the morning and the dew has already evaporated; it feels like it’s going to be a hot day, the sky a cloudless blue. The original plan was to have left already, but instead Dipper is seated on a patch of grass in the shadow of the RV, rubbing sunscreen on the back of Pacifica’s neck.

“Make sure it’s even. I don’t want any weird tan lines,” she says, pulling her hair over one shoulder and brushing the ends.

Her hair routine remains unchanged despite being on the road, even if she has made some other concessions, like her lack of jewelry. Though, come to think of it, Dipper can’t remember the last time he saw her hoop earrings—or any earrings, for that matter. Even at Log Land, where she had used more makeup in anticipation of being seen in public, she hadn’t worn earrings, he thinks. Either she’s been wearing pairs small enough to escape his notice or earrings are yet another thing she’s abandoned in favor of adventure-oriented expediency, along with lip gloss, mascara, and purple eyeshadow. It seems that her hair is the one thing she refuses to compromise. That and sun exposure.

“When was the last time you wore those hoop earrings?” Dipper asks as he dabs sunscreen along the line of her shoulder, which is partially bare beneath the strap of her pink tank top.

She cranes her head around to look at him out of the corner of her eye. “Why?”

“I don’t know, I just haven’t seen them in a while,” he says, not sure why she’s eyeing him like that.

“Do you like them?”

He has to think about that for a second, but ultimately decides that he kind of doesn’t. The hoop earrings make him think of the old Pacifica; how she was at the party, and Pioneer Day. “Not really,” he says.

This is apparently the wrong answer. “Then why do you care where they are?” she huffs, looking away from him.

He doesn’t have an answer beyond idle curiosity. “I guess I don’t.”

“Yeah, great. Be sure to let me know if you have any more opinions, I’d hate to wear something you don’t like,” she snaps.

“Uh… you look good in anything?” he proffers, trying to salvage the conversation.

“Duh.” She pauses with the brush still in her hair; he can’t see her face, but her neck is tense beneath his fingers. “…I left them in Malibu.”

“On purpose?”

“No. Maybe.” She sighs and her shoulders slump a little. “I was going to pack them and I thought about…” She falls silent. After an uncomfortable pause, her posture straightens again. “Anyway, hoop earrings are so last summer.”

“Well, I’m just glad one of us can keep up with fashion,” he says with a grin, knowing she can hear it in his voice even if she can’t see it.

“It’s easy when you’re a trendsetter,” Pacifica says archly.

Dipper finishes ensuring she won’t be burnt to a crisp at the next stop. He lets his fingertips linger on her for a second or two longer than needed, enjoying her closeness. Despite her dedication to sunscreen, she’s been outdoors enough that the skin along her neck and shoulders has a golden tint that makes her sun-bleached hair look even lighter. With her long hair pulled to the side, he can see the curls at the base of her hairline, little silken whorls of blonde that taper into the soft down at the nape of her neck. Without thinking, he leans forward and presses a kiss there.

She stiffens with an almost inaudible gasp.

Dipper immediately freezes. “Sorry,” he says. “Too much?”

But when she looks over her shoulder, the look in her eyes makes it clear he has misinterpreted her reaction. “Why’d you stop?” she asks.

There’s a sudden bang from behind them and the RV rumbles to life, a cloud of smelly smoke bursting from the tailpipe. Ford and Soos must have managed, though who knows if whatever they did will hold.

Grunkle Stan leans out of the RV door. “Alright, shackers, get your butts on board!” he barks before disappearing back into the cab.

Dipper stands up and stretches, not really feeling ready to get back into the camper. It’s not a long drive to the next destination, but it kind of feels like he spent the entire day yesterday in the RV, even though he knows he spent quite a bit of time out of it. Here’s hoping it doesn’t break down again. Getting stuck on the side of the highway while Grunkle Stan tries to haggle with the towing company doesn’t sound like a great time.

“Mabel. Yo, Mabel!” Wendy is trying to get Mabel’s attention; the younger girl is lying in the grass near the front of the RV with her feet propped up on a tree, her fingers busy with her phone. “Mabel, come on—one Tambry is bad enough!”

Mabel rolls to her feet and jogs over. “I heard! I was just finishing a text.”

“Who are you writing a book to?”

“Oh, you know, just this super-hot boy I met last night,” Mabel says with transparently fake indifference.

Wendy’s eyebrows shoot up. “Dude, deets.”

Dipper is following the others to enter the RV when Great-Uncle Ford pulls him aside. “The data so far is excellent!” Ford says. “There’s been some variation, but it’s all within reasonable bounds. Our predicted curve isn’t far off.”

That probably would sound boring to anyone else, but Dipper knows it’s awesome because it means they were right! “Great! Uh, sorry I’ve been kind of out of touch since yesterday morning…”

“Nonsense. It’s your summer vacation! Besides, road trips can be mentally stimulating,” Ford says, giving Dipper a bracing clap on the shoulder. “Why, Stanley and I drove for hours to reach the ocean. Those long talks meant more to me than…” Ford stops and clears his throat. “So, yes, the work is proceeding at pace and there’s no need to worry. I’ll radio you if anything unexpected crops up.”

Dipper clambers up the short steps and swings the door shut behind him. Inside, Wendy has swapped places with Soos and is sitting up front, munching her way through a bag of Cinnamon Cizzlers as Mabel goes through her previous night’s romantic encounter in excruciating detail. As a captive audience in the driver seat, Grunkle Stan looks incredibly uncomfortable. Soos is taking up one side of the table, a battered laptop open in front of him. Pacifica is seated by herself in the back, still brushing her hair.

“Oh, hey, it’s Dipper,” Soos says. He angles the laptop around so Dipper can see it. “Say hi to Melody, dude!”

“Hey, Dipper!” Melody says, her voice bright and tinny through the speakers. It looks like she’s also sitting at a table in what Dipper thinks is a kitchen. “How’s your trip so far?”

“It’s been fun!” Dipper says. “Neon Ville turned out to be cool.”

“Soos told me about it. Gosh, I’m so jealous! I’ll have to see it next year,” Melody says. “I’m really looking forward to seeing you in Portland tonight! I’ll take you all to Podnah’s, it’ll be great.”

Dipper leaves Soos chatting with Melody and joins Pacifica on the back seat. “Mabel got another summer boyfriend?”

“Sort of. They aren’t ‘labeling’ it,” Pacifica says, capable as ever of making air quotes with just her voice.

“Huh. That doesn’t sound like her,” Dipper observes.

“Maybe she’s taking it slow. There’s nothing wrong with that,” Pacifica says with a hint of defensiveness.

“We probably shouldn’t be the standard…” Dipper says reflectively.

With a lurch, the RV begins to move. Within a few minutes they are back on the road, heading north towards the end of the Redwood Highway where it runs into US 395, the route which will take them to the intersection of US 26. From there, it’s a straight shot to Portland. That’s going to be the longest leg of the trip, with no breaks save gas and bathroom stops. At least before that there’s one more tourist trap to hit.

Dipper tries to relax, leaning his head back and letting the warm sunshine from the side window battle with the air conditioning. Maybe he needs to get used to long trips in the car. It’s not like anomalies stick to one coast, or even one country. He might be quite the traveler someday. Of course, first he and Great-Uncle Ford must unlock the mysteries of Gravity Falls. It’s the key, the Rosetta Stone of Weirdness. Understanding the valley won’t mean they’ll understand everything, but it’s the best way to start.

“Have you been to this next place?” Pacifica asks.

Dipper opens his eyes, made aware by the short time he spent with them shut that he’s more tired than he knew. What is it about car rides that are so tiring? He’s just sitting.

“Not this one. Last year we went to Mystery Mountain, which didn’t turn out great,” he replies.

“At least you haven’t been causing any ‘minor heartbreak’ this time.”

“Mabel told you about— wait, why am I asking: of course she did,” Dipper groans, covering his face with one hand. “Yeah, okay, let’s just never mention that again.”

“Don’t worry, now I’m here to keep you in line,” Pacifica tells him as she examines her nails.

Mabel walks unsteadily down the middle of the RV, one arm out for balance. She leans into the back, grinning at them. “Sorry to bust into your love nest! Waddles says hi.” She holds out her phone, showing them a picture of Waddles lying in the grass with Grenda’s iguana perched on his head.

“Did Grunkle Stan say how long?” Dipper asks.

“About an hour,” Mabel replies. “What’s this place called again? Zappy? Zoop Zoop?”

“Zip It Up,” Dipper says. “Remember? It’s a zipline park.”

“Yeah, that’s what I said,” Mabel laughs. “Okay, get back to kissing!”

“I heard that’s what you were up to last night,” Dipper retorts.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Mabel says coyly.

“No, I’m good.”

The RV rumbles down the highway, the trees to either side flitting past the windows in staggered blurs of brown and green. Everyone passes the trip with conversation and card games. Time whiles by like the scenery.

Dipper is looking with resignation at yet another losing poker hand when he notes the sun isn’t beaming down on the table anymore, which is strange. There hadn’t been a cloud in the sky this morning. Come to think of it, isn’t it kind of cold in here? It had been a really hot morning at the camp site, and Grunkle Stan has the AC blasting to compensate for the expected heat of the afternoon.

“Whoa, when did it get cloudy?” Dipper says, leaning forward to look around Pacifica and get a better view out the window.

Wendy is at the other side of the table with Mabel, having relinquished the front seat to Soos again. “It’s looking dark out there. Soos, what’s the forecast?”

Soos paws at his phone. “It says to expect ‘error: no internet.’”

“I’m not getting a signal,” Pacifica reports.

“This could be a good thing,” Wendy says optimistically. “Maybe it’ll be less hot.”

About twenty minutes later everyone is shouting to be heard over the deluge of rain hammering against the roof and windshield. The RV is parked on the edge of a gravel path that leads into the trees; a nearby placard proclaims, ‘ZIP IT UP: ZIPLINE AMUSEMENTS.’ However, no amusement is going to be forthcoming because the gate is closed and the ‘open’ sign in the window of the management hut is conspicuously dark.

“Yep, they close for rain,” Wendy informs everyone, having found a faint signal for her phone’s wifi.

“Everything is terrible forever!” Mabel laments.

“I agree with Mabel,” Stan says. “Let’s go home.”

Mabel instantly abandons her despair. “Nooooo! We’re going to Portland!”

“Man, I don’t know. We could drive straight there, but Melody probably isn’t ready for us,” Soos says.

“Well, where else can we go?” Dipper says. “There has to be something open around here.”

“It has to be dry,” Pacifica interjects, obviously not trusting them to pick an indoor attraction (which is fair).

“Oh!” Wendy’s face lights up. “What about the camping store?”

Pacifica is dubious. “A camping store? They sell, what, sticks?”

“Dude, no, they sell tents and paintball gear and those rad climbing picks,” Wendy enthuses. “It’s like their world headquarters, it’s huge. My dad used to take me there to buy hatchets and junk.”

“They sell camping chairs with floor displays?” Stan asks.

“They sell camping beds with floor displays,” Wendy says with one arched brow.

“To the camping store!” Stan declares, and slams the RV back into gear.

Dipper’s walkie talkie bursts to life with a squawk of static. “Are we leaving already?” Ford asks.

“We got rained out,” Dipper replies. “We’re going to a camping store instead.”

“This rain is unexpected,” Ford says, “and so sudden I must admit I suspect Greg’s aftereffects; but that’s pure conjecture on my part. Anyway, let me know when we’ve arrived!”

“Sure thing, Great-Uncle Ford,” Dipper says, returning the walkie talkie to his vest pocket.

It’s not much of a drive to the store, and soon enough the RV is taking up multiple spaces in a big parking lot planted square amid the forest like an island of asphalt. It’s still raining, but the rate of it has fallen off enough that everyone can stand outside for a limited time without getting soaked. Ford hops out of the trailer and joins the group as they cross the lot.

The store is enormous, a giant structure made to appear is if it is constructed of logs and stone. Segmented glass windows stretch down each side, glittering in the rain; above, pennants flap in the wind, planted at intervals along the green roof. Across the front of its steepled awning are big red letters on a yellow background: LORD ZOR’S OUTDOOR STORE & MORE.

“‘Lord Zor?’” Dipper says with a chuckle of disbelief.

Stan shrugs. “There’s a lot of dumb names out there. Knew a kid named Richard Rümp in high school, but it’s pronounced ‘Roomp,’” he says. “Those awards people didn’t know that, though. Probably shouldn’t have used his nickname either.”

“Ah, yes,” Ford says. “That was an awkward assembly.”

Dipper can’t help but notice the lot is almost completely empty. It seems like the store might also be closed based on that alone, but when they reach the entrance the automatic doors slide open in welcome.

The air inside has the crisp, cool quality of refrigeration, the kind of atmosphere one encounters in big venues being constantly airconditioned by a legion of AC units. It smells like wood and tile cleaner. To the left is a long hall lined with clothing racks; to the right is another hall with snowmobiles, ATVs, and golf carts. The entryway is decorated with taxidermy and surmounted by an antler chandelier that reminds Dipper of Northwest Manor, and it continues straight ahead into what looks like the central hall.

There isn’t anyone else in sight. The employee kiosk at the front is abandoned, the aisles empty, and the quiet music playing through the store-wide speaker system gives the scene a surreal quality, like a show still playing despite a total lack of attendance. The weather outside isn’t great, but Dipper still would have thought that somebody wanted to go shopping today, especially given that the rain wasn’t on the forecast. Where’s everybody else who got rained out?

“Huh,” Wendy says, surveying the abandoned corridors with her hands on her hips. “What gives? I’ve never seen it this dead.”

“Works for me,” Stan grunts. He approaches a map of the store and briefly runs his finger across it. “There we go: outdoor furniture. If you need me, I’ll be taking a nap. So don’t need me.” With that, he slouches off.

Ford follows him. “I wonder if I could sling a hammock between the consoles…”

Soos has already wandered away, lured by the selection of off road vehicles. He moves from ATV to ATV, bouncing up and down to test the shocks, then pops the hood on one of the golf carts. “So that’s what it looks like when nothing’s broken.”

Meanwhile, Wendy catches Mabel’s attention. “Let’s go look at the bow hunting stuff.”

“Yeah!” Mabel says. “Why should Grunkle Stan get to hog all the crossbowing? I can crossbow things!”

“I don’t think they sell crossbows, but I love the enthusiasm,” Wendy says as they move away.

“Uh—” Dipper opens his mouth to object or say he’ll come too or just wonder out loud if they should be splitting up in such a big store, but before he can decide they’re all out of earshot. “…We’re all doing our own things, I guess.”

“Okay,” Pacifica says. “So what’s our thing?”

Good question. Dipper looks more closely at the store map. “Well… I was thinking about getting a collapsible tent, like one of those small ones you can carry with you. That could really come in handy if we get caught out in the rain again or have the spend the night in the woods. You never know.”

“Like with the maze.”

Dipper nods. “Right, we almost didn’t make it back before dark. We had our blankets and stuff, but a real tent would be way better.”

“How small are these tents?”

“Pretty small. They pop up when you put them down, I’ve seen them on survival shows.”

“Uh huh. Are you being all dork-prepared, or are you just looking for an excuse to share a sleeping bag?”

That brings Dipper up short. He hadn’t considered the close quarters in quite that light. “Well, you know, we… we wouldn’t get into trouble or anything. I mean, it’s survival… I’m sure there would be plenty of room for both of us, er, keeping a respectful distance.”

“Alright, fine. If you don’t want to share a sleeping bag, then I don’t either,” she says with a sniff, turning away.

“Wha—…!” He manages to stop himself before he stutters his way into oblivion. “Yeah, okay, Pacifica. It’s not like you would even want to.”

“Not anymore.”

She’s messing with him. She is definitely (probably) messing with him. Shaking his head with exasperation, he follows her into the store’s main atrium.

The store really is impressive. The high ceiling is lined with square glass windows, log beams crisscrossing from side to side. There’s a restaurant up a tall staircase along with all kind of taxidermy displays, including a standing polar bear. There’s even an artificial stream that runs from the upstairs all the way down and across the room, burbling quietly in a wooden trough lined with real plants. Dipper can’t begin to quantify all the merchandise. He could kit himself out with just about every outdoor accessory imaginable—if he had infinite money. Which he does not.

“An indoor stream, that’s fun,” Pacifica says, walking up to it.

Dipper should have taken more time at the map, because he’s already lost. He’s looking all around in a futile attempt to get his bearings when he spots the first sign of life other than his own friends and family: an employee stocking orange hunting vests on a rotating display.

“Excuse me,” Dipper says, approaching the man.

The man stops with a vest still in his hand. He stands there for an oddly long amount of time, completely unmoving, before replying, “Yes, customer?”

“I’m looking for the tent section,” Dipper explains.

Again, the pause. Vest still in hand, the man turns slowly around and just as slowly points ahead towards one of the hallways branching off the atrium. “The tent section is that way, customer.”

“Cool. Thanks, man,” Dipper says.

The man’s hand lowers, then comes up and points again. “The tent section is that way, customer.”

“Uh, yeah. I got it,” Dipper says, frowning slightly as he backs away.

Pacifica leaves the artificial brook and comes up alongside him. “When we’re rich, we should get an indoor stream.”

He raises his eyebrows at her choice of words. “We?”

To his surprise, she blushes. “Never mind,” she says quickly, moving past him. “Let’s find your tent or whatever.”

The tent section has an immense variety, some in boxes on the shelves and others with floor models already set up on squares of green carpet. The first one Dipper comes up to has three separate bedrooms in it and a screened-in porch. He checks the tag and pales when he sees the price.

“Okay, maybe the smaller ones will be cheaper,” he says hopefully.

Most of the floor models are more luxurious than he really needs, anyway, though he imagines Pacifica might disagree. He moves along the line of tents until he spots a small one, probably intended for two adults. It looks like the kind that unfolds itself, a true pop up tent. He checks the price: sixty-five dollars. Doable, if he calls Mom; Stan is already paying for a lot of the trip, so there’s no way he’ll play ball, and Dipper hates to ask Great-Uncle Ford when Ford is already so strapped for science money. Of course, Dipper will have to factor in some extra costs, like a rain fly.

“What do you think?” Dipper says, gesturing to it.

Pacifica purses her lips and looks it over. “I like the color,” she says. The tent is a dark blue. “It would be pretty cozy in there…”

“Yeah, especially with Mabel,” Dipper agrees. “But we’d fit.”

“Oh. Right,” Pacifica says, wrinkling her nose. “Mabel would be there.”

Dipper unzips the door and pokes his head in. Nothing smells quite like a tent; the inside is redolent with a waxy, plastic scent that’s a bit overpowering. Dipper assumes it would lessen with some wear. He crawls inside, the floor crinkling loudly beneath his hands and knees.

“Are you supposed to be touching it?” Pacifica asks.

“Sure, that’s why they have them out here.” Dipper turns around and holds out the drooping screen for her. “Come on in!”

She scoots in after him and he zips up the screen to get an idea of what it’ll be like. He tries to imagine the sounds of the forest around them, the rain outside plunking against the canopy while he and Mabel and Pacifica are warm and dry inside, safe with their sleeping bags, blankets, and flashlights. It’s an appealing mental image, and the tent is small enough that he should be able to tie it to his backpack without too much added weight.

“Hey, pretty nice. Not bad at all,” he says, fiddling with the screen window on the back of the tent.

“I’m so honored to be here in Fort Make-out,” Pacifica drawls.

Dipper groans and lies back on the tent floor. “I just need a tent!” he laughs. “You’re the one who called it that, not me!”

“Gee, it’s like I’m trying to tell you something.”

He props himself up on his elbows. “…We could get in huge trouble,” he notes.

She just rolls her eyes. “As if kissing me wouldn’t be worth it.”

“Fair point,” he acknowledges.

He sits up and she moves closer, her blue eyes gleaming in the low light. He takes her hands in his and feels the familiar rush that her closeness brings, flooding him with heat. He turns his head to just the right angle and his eyes shut involuntarily as her breath meets his. They kiss, languid, unhurried—the slow and steady precursor to the next, and however many after. He pulls away slightly, ready to come back again, opening his eyes just long enough to see her—

—but it’s pitch black. There’s no light at all inside the tent.

He can’t see a thing.