seiya234:

They were all grown now, so there was no reason, no reason
at all for Dipper to check up on them like this. But well. Old habits died so
very hard and they were his niblings-

(his His HIS)

-so once a week Dipper took a stroll through their
mindscapes, checking in as his stars one two three entered his realm throughout
the night. Every mindscape was different and Dipper’s kids were no exception.
So why was it that after all these years he found their minds so… so….

Unsettling.

(he should be the only unsettling thing around, honestly)

Hank popped up on his radar first, exhausted as he was
between the demands of the Crew and four kids under the age of five. As Dipper
dived in, he was vividly reminded as always how much Hank’s mind was like the
very first mindscape he broached decades ago. And hell, for the first two
decades of Hank’s life, his mind was even shaped like the Shack, just like
Stan. Then Hank moved to Portland and Hank’s mindscape blossomed.

Hank’s mind wasn’t just a generic Portland, a few streets of
random buildings here and there. No. Hank’s mind was the entirety of Portland,
and it’s surrounding suburbs, and beyond that, a glowing warm light in the
distance that Dipper could never reach, was the Shack like a beacon in the
storm.  And it wasn’t just that Hank had an
entire city in his mind that was picture perfect down to the weeds growing in
the cracks of the sidewalks and the scent of beer and coffee and salt in the
air.

Every building, every enclosed space, contained a specific memory
or a feeling. Completely compartmentalized and perfectly controlled. Dipper
could open doors and windows all he wanted, but the only things he would see
would be generic memories of Hank practicing the violin or doing homework or
driving the massive van he got for the Crew around the city. Hank’s soul would
be bared to no one without Hank’s say so, and Dipper wandered in the empty
streets of Hank’s mind knowing he only saw what Hank wanted him to see.

Dipper could open the doors and see what Hank had hidden
away. It was just that the force Dipper would have to use to do that would kill
Hank.

A ping in his head and a tugging at his belly button and
Dipper let himself tesser away into Willow’s mind, guessing that even back on
the material plane she was where he left her, on the couch next to Mabel and
with That Damned Cat in her lap.

Willow’s mindscape was peaceful. He was sitting on a soft
crocheted grey blanket. All around him were waves upon waves of waving grass,
each strand a different shade of grey. Dark grey clouds chased each other
across a light grey sky. The gentle breeze smelt like lavender and rosemary,
while all around him grey butterflies with wingspans larger than his face
flapped lazily, letting the wind take them where it would. In the distance he
could see where grey grass tapered off into grey sand, and at the edge of the
sand, the ocean lapping lightly at the edges. The surface of the ocean was calm
and smooth.

The surface of the ocean was calm and smooth and still
waters ran deep, so very deep. Dipper knew that any intruders in here would be
lured to the edge of the water (and reminded himself to stay firmly seated.)
Would perhaps dip a foot into the water, without even truly knowing why,
distracted by whatever dark design brought them into Willow’s mind in the first
place. One step, two steps, three-

And Willow would strike, dragging them down and swallowing
them whole. It had only taken one time with a rotten flower for Willow to learn
that trick. One time was all she needed. And though he could escape from that
ocean, even Dipper would be forced to leave something of himself behind.

A violent stab in the back of his head; Acacia must have
been up late painting tonight. He let himself tesser into Acacia’s mind and
then had to rub his eyes and keep them half open until they got used to the
bright swirling pop-art array of colors that made up Acacia’s mind. And that
was all her mindscape was, was color. He tried to explain it to Mabel once; the
best he could come up with was those old video clips from the sixties and seventies
of bright oil paint swirling around on a water surface, but technicolor and
sans the weird old music.  

And unlike her sibling’s minds, the constantly shifting shades
of color was all that there was in Acacia’s mind, hues and shades forever
swirling and twisting and fading into one another. There was no up, no down, no
discernable direction at all, not even when Dipper tried to make there be.
Deeper eddies and spots of color represented her memories and thoughts and
emotions, that Dipper could tell, though he had never gotten the hang of
looking in on them. It was only color in Acacia’s mindscape.

And the screaming.

It was a constant howl of joy, a cry of rage, and most of
all, a constant piercing never ending scream clawing at the doors trying to get
out.  It made sense now, all the crazy
stunts that she pulled since the day she had started walking and talking, the
paintings she created, her driving (just… her driving). They were all tiny
controlled slips, letting only a tiny bit of the scream out. But Dipper
worried- was it enough for Acacia? Would it ever be enough?

He left Acacia’s mind with a sigh of relief. As always, his
kids were just fine. And as always, he wondered if he did this to them, if he
made them this way.

(A woman in red, unseen, tutted at the sulking demon. Silly
boy. Too up his own ass to see that Pineses always had a touch of Something
Else on them.)