Gravity Rises (S2)

HW: Part Ten

Content Warning: The next two chapters contain semi-graphic descriptions of child abuse and its effects.

NINE DAYS AGO

Gideon had to tell the Pines what he knew.

He decided the night he'd rescued Mabel from the Order, but by the time he did, it was too late. It wasn't until he was locked in his room, shaking from the pain of Gaston's fury, that he really thought through everything that had happened earlier. Everything he'd learned.

The Pines needed all three Journals to rescue Stanford's brother. And Gideon had said nothing to stop it. He'd even helped it along, even though he knew it would only end in the Pines' suffering.

He didn't tell Mabel this when he gave her his Journal because. . . well, he'd never told anyone. Not even the other Order members who already knew. It just. . . wasn't mentioned. Ever. It had been ingrained into Gideon's young mind to never bring it up, to never even hint at the secret he held. Especially around outsiders. Especially around the Pines.

But when Gaston had charged him with this secret, 'the Pines' had just been Stanford. The old grouch running a tourist trap with the help of a couple locals. Gideon had accepted, because the punishment was far worse than telling some stranger what he knew. Then he had found the Journal, and linked it to Stanford, and he'd felt a twinge of guilt. Not nearly enough to risk his wellbeing by giving up the secret, but a little bit.

Then Mabel and Dipper had come to town.

Gideon lay there in the dark on his bed, his mind running in crazed circles, any cohesive thoughts drowned out by the pain. He tried to focus on something else, but he couldn't, not when his arms and back were hurting like this. The servants had bandaged him up like they always did — nothing to soothe the pain, but bandages to stop him from bleeding on the bedding. Sometimes, Gideon wanted to rip the bandages off and soak his sheets with blood just to spite them. But that would be petty. It wouldn't change anything.

Telling the Pines isn't petty, his brain reminded him, bringing his thoughts back around. No, it wouldn't be petty. And it would definitely change things. But it would end in pain. Much worse pain than what he was suffering tonight.

If he told the Pines, and Gaston found out. . .

A fresh wave of pain knifed through him, scattering Gideon's thoughts. It may have been physical, it may have been imagined, it may have been both. He wasn't sure. It felt real.

It took him a moment to sort it out. These days, the pain of the abuse and the fear of the abuse were always with him, and he had increasing difficulty telling them apart. But this. . . right, he remembered. This was pain. This was real. He had run away to save Mabel, and Gaston had responded as he always did. With pain.

Mabel. . .

He imagined seeing her face when she discovered his secret. Shocked, hurt — probably more hurt than he had ever seen her, even after his own terrible actions. There was no way to avoid that horror, that grief, but maybe. . . if he told the Pines before they found out the hard way. . . maybe he could prevent some of their pain.

Some of the pain. . . but not all of it. Why had he given Mabel his Journal? Why hadn't he explained it right then and there?

Even as he asked himself, even as he cursed himself, he knew the answer. Fear. He was so afraid. . . afraid of his father, afraid of the Pines hating him — of Mabel hating him, again — and of the physical and emotional pain that would follow his confession. He'd been so caught off guard by Mabel's explanation of the Pines' project that he'd run on automatic: Don't tell. Mabel's pleading eyes had penetrated far enough for him to give her the Journal, but they had not gotten past the wall that Gaston had placed. The wall that would protect this secret at all costs.