Pinescone (Yes Please) - One Shots

What's This?

      Wirt hadn't answered any of Dipper's texts for the last 15 minutes, and Dipper had finally gotten it in his head that yes, in fact, he should be worried.

      "Mabel, tell Grunkle Stan I'm going out," he yelled up the stairs, but his response came from the room just next over.

      "Going to your boyfriend's house again, huh, kid? Careful, his parents might get tired of you."
"Grunkle Stan! He's not my boyfriend!" Dipper defended himself halfheartedly; no, Wirt wasn't his boyfriend, but every time he was reminded of it, he was faced with just how far off that reality was from what he could grasp. So, no, he was lonely and boyfriend-less, and currently Wirt-less, which he was certain to resolve; such was his infatuation.

      "Sure, whatever you say. Just don't take too long. Don't want rumors going around, if you know what I mean." Dipper glanced around the corner in time to glimpse a pair of bushy gray caterpillar-eyebrows wiggling in a lewd manner. The image was enough to send Dipper scurrying out the door, but not before answering his grunkle's cackles by throwing a shoe at him.

      The walk to Wirt's house was short, but it was long enough for him to recover. Dipper had gone enough times to trek all the rocky shortcuts blindfolded and backwards. And so he knew where the extra house keys were. Keys, plural. Wirt's family was nice, albeit paranoid. Dipper leaned down to slip one of the keys from the mailbox, worn with his fingerprints, no doubt, unlocking the door before maneuvering his body through the slim crack.

      The room was dark. Everything was dark. Strange. "Hello? Wirt?" he called. He felt something behind his back, tugging at his vest. He whipped around; nothing. Then, with a hearty battle cry, someone jumped on him. Someone small. Someone with a . . . Was that a pot on their head?

      Dipper sighed, reaching blindly to ruffle the tufts of hair not covered by the kettle. "Hello, Greg."

      The lights snapped on. "Aw, beans!" the little boy crowed. "Thought I'd getcha this time, Dippy ol' boy!"

      "Next time, I'm sure. Is Wirt around?"
      "Mmhmm! He's out back." Dipper started eagerly towards the back door, but Greg stopped him, tugging on his pant leg. "Hey! Will you help me with somethin'?"
Dipper hesitated; he just wanted to make sure Wirt was alright. "Um. Sure. But make it quick."

      "When you go out to see Wirt, can you find out what he's doing? I mean, he has this notebook, see? He's very secretive about it; he even locks it up at night. He's been writing in it for maybe half an hour, and hasn't stopped, not even for a second. It's kinda freaky. Can you find out? Huh? Huh? Can you?"

      Notebook?  Dipper perked up. He had seen Wirt with a notebook once or twice, but when he asked about it he'd just receive a glare before it disappeared. And of course, he wouldn't care enough to pursue it; he was already caught up with reminding himself to breath around Wirt.

"Sure. Sure, will do."
"Yay!" Greg cheered, before shooing Dipper out the back door.

      From the corner of his eye, Dipper could see Wirt, leaning against the far wall of the house. He looked stunning: a pair of decorative glasses perched upon his pale, freckled nose, warm and welcoming brown eyes glued to the notebook clutched in his hands, chewing on the end of his pen. A patch of sunlight amidst shadow. Dipper smiled to himself. Perhaps he'd make a poet of himself yet.

      With a final deep breath, Dipper crept across the lawn, flinching at every small sound he made. Leaves of a dying summer crunched beneath his feet as he advanced, slowly, like an assassin. The very thought hurt him, the thought of causing Wirt any harm. Wirt associated with words like 'broken' and 'lost', more so than Dipper liked to imagine. It was this that occupied him at night, the thought of rescuing this lost and broken boy and making him feel beautiful.