Primal Instinct

Dipper’s cell had a light, just at the corner, a small round dot that flashed. Repetitively. It’s seen out of the corner of his vision, blinking green. The rest of his attention is across the room. Settled on where Bill stands, arms outstretched and fingers hooked beneath a golden plaque.

“It feels wrong to do this.”

“Now? Not when you took aim?”

A frown pulls at his lips.

“You know that’s not fair.”

The omega waves a hand, the one not covering the flashing alert.

“Never said it was.”

It’s the plastic eyes. Those really make him shiver, fake and shiny and always staring. He didn’t know how much it cost to have the done, or if the lunatic plucked them out himself. Just the thought makes him queasy. The head of a dear is braced against the hunter’s chest, lips straining to the side as he looks thoughtfully at the massive wall. Covered in the things. They are dismantled piece by piece.

He’s having a rough time with a stubborn nail when he notices the brunette’s blatantly ignoring the device.

“It’s only going to get worse the longer you put it off.”

Chewing on his nail, he looks up. As if unaware of the problem entirely. His eyes narrow and those untrimmed brows knit as he peers over. Though he hated it, and he did, Bill was right. Every minute he didn’t answer back was another minute of shrill scolding.

“Door’s on your left, it’ll take you right outside.” The one with a hand shoved in a bear’s mouth says, gesturing to the door behind him.

Dipper stands up with nothing short of reluctance. He clutches the phone like a trick claw machine, almost letting it slip more than a dozen times. He wished the alpha would stop him on the way. Use that awful commanding voice for something useful for once, tell him to sit down, and turn that thing off. No, only thing he passes is a feud between a skilled predator and an adhesive strip.

Doesn’t take long to weave his way through the hall. He finds the door that’s transparent and tall, delicate handles that reaches for and pulls. It’s still late and the nightly breeze is unforgiving, tugging at his hair and nipping his sensitive skin with the chill. He crosses his arms and shuts the door behind him with a sound click.

Leaning against the railing, he sees he’s on the top floor. If you looked down you’d see nothing but the heads of trees, overgrown evergreens that looked as if they stretched on for miles. He curls his fingers around the ivory ledge and tackles the view with an almost smile. If it hadn’t been for the nerves, he might’ve enjoyed it greatly.

Then his voice blinks, again.

This time he presses the top, lifts it, and braces himself against the force of his sister.

“MasonPines.”

“Listen—.”

“Do you have any idea how late it is? I’ve been searching the woods for hours, suns gone, where could you possibly be?”

Dipper huffs a dry little laugh.

“Well you see—.”

“I couldn’t pick up your scent, or even your presence. There was nothing. No matter how deep I went, I couldn’t pick up a trace. It made no sense, none, nada.”

“I’m with a friend!” Dipper finally blurts with his eyes clenched. There was no beating around the bush with her. She’s going bonkers over his absence and wants answers. Now. “Banged myself up pretty bad, not enough to get worried about! Just some…minor scratches. It was dark, and I couldn’t call you because the signal was poor and, uh—my phone tumbled out of my pocket. I had to look for it.”

Piss poor excuses, but they go ignored. Instead, there’s a momentary pause on the other side. Then a question he fumbled to answer.

“Who’s he?”

“Oh! Just a friend from the diner.”

“You’re lying.”

Sweat gathers.

“No…I’m not.”

“Yes, yes you are. Your voice is all squeaky.”

“Is not!” The shrill sound is cleared out. He beats his chest and answers again, forcing the lower in pitch.

“No it is not.”

Another pause on the other end. As if she’s arming herself for another round of interrogation. He can hear silverware against glass in the background, something that makes his stomach growl. She’s obviously not alone, he wonders who’s up as well. Guilt blossoms at the thought of keeping too many up with his irresponsible behavior.

“This person, he’s okay?”  

Taken aback, Dipper nods. When he realizes that’s not going to work, he answers verbally.

“Of course.”

Right? Bill was strange, he trophies the carcasses of animals, but he never intentionally brought harm to him. While his hobbies were more on the morbid side of things, he patched him up and made for good company.

Mabel sighs. He knows she’s not happy with this. At all, but doesn’t beat a dead horse.  

“As long as you’re safe, that’s all that matters.”

A full smile touches the omega’s face.

The call is ended mutually.

A text alerts him she wants updates. Sighing, he responds swiftly and assures her he’ll keep her posted. Another. It’s a word of gratitude. He stares down at the locked screen, black and his reflection vague. It really hadn’t been all that bad. He only whimpered twice, and that invisible tail of his never tucked away once during. Could that be labeled an accomplishment? Okay, maybe the tail part was a little farfetched.

The balcony is left behind. He finds himself back inside the house, where it’s warm, but poorly lit. Small footsteps fall and pronounce themselves throughout. He pockets the device and his hands, feeling much better now that it over.

Only, a new problem arrived.

Bill’s found with a screwdriver in hand and a frazzled mess on his head, that could hardly be called hair. He looks over at the one who’s entered. Dipper, who cradles his stomach with a pitiful look.

“I think I’m hungry again.”

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“Strange.” Bill speaks with a fork shoved between his teeth. “I thought Alpha’s were the ones with an appetite like no other.”

A glare meets him from the stool parked on the other side of the island. There’s a bowl of whip and a plate of strawberries in his reach. The pile of pink fruit shrinks, a cycle of retrieving a slice, pulling away, and popping it into the mouth that chews and chews.

“You’ve been misinformed.” Dipper tells him, savoring the zing of flavor. He nearly combusted at the sight of fresh fruit. “Surprised you even eat something not red and bleeding.”

A hand crosses his heart and he feigns hurt.

“You’ve wounded me, pine tree.”

Dipper rolls his eyes as Bill seals the container. It’s stored away in a fridge that could store three of him, it’s big. Oddly enough, he doesn’t see anything wrapped up in plastic and covered in dates written by a sharpie. Just a lot of dairy, vegetables, and fruits.

“Well, you’ve been misinformed. I’m almost ashamed, what do you think my diet consists of? Raw meat and a strong drink?”

A thoughtful look crosses, his lips are pursed pensively as he considers.

“Yeah, pretty much.”

They’d talked about the phone call. Bill more curious than anything. Word for word, he told the conversation through a mouthful of seeds and cream. He was listened to, never interrupted once as he put a little more exaggeration on one end. He wasn’t upset with his sister. Rather, he was disappointed in himself. For leaving her to worry that much.

“I didn’t consider how she felt,” he says. Plunging a slice into the vat of sugary goodness. “She looked for me, broke her own rules and entered the forest. By herself.”

Consideration is clear on the one leaned forward. His elbows first, and palms next, holding his chin.  

“You didn’t, but you’re making your amends. That’s all that matters.” He reaches out and takes a strawberry himself. “She’s your sister; you’ve had her forgiveness since the get-go, as she’s had yours.”

Still down in the dumps, Dipper eats more. He’s doing it almost mindlessly. His eyes drawn to the clock that hands over the sink and its bold digits. The arms are gesturing to a time that makes him sag. It was well past midnight. Bill notices and looks up too, seeing it’s gotten terribly late, he pulls the plate away. It skitters against the tabletop and is followed by a whine.

“No, wait.”

A finger goes up.

“No more. You’ll get a stomach ache, if you don’t have one already.”

A childish standoff as arms cross and eyes narrow. The defiance is completely dismissed as Bill finishes it off and raises a slim brow at the other. Though he wants to make a point, Bill himself was eating late—he realizes it was his food. Deciding not to push it, Dipper deflates and buries his head in his arms. Tempted to fall asleep here and now.

Then his nose wrinkles at a funny feeling.

Dipper’s left hand lifts and turns. His eyes light up, pleased with the discovery.

One more prepared than the other when his fingers are all too quickly lifted and shoved into his mouth. The plate in Bill’s hand almost slips and shatters. A pointer and a middle are corked and hooked in between two lips and sucked on.

It’s hard on the alpha's heart. The noise. Wet squelching that comes from the extra care the omega takes to clean up all that’s there, curling his tongue around the webs between. It could’ve been cute, like watching a kitten clean itself. If it hadn’t been for the tiny noises pushing past the lodged digits. Sounds of satisfaction that only a strawberry’s remnants could manage to withdrawal.

Its best Dipper doesn’t look up. That he doesn’t see the way Bill’s slouched against the fridge. A plate against his chest and a mouth that parts—just slightly. Honey eyes are burning embers, locked on the pink muscle that works with vigor.

Bill excuses himself from the kitchen before his pheromones smothers them both.