Chapter Text
With another brilliant flash, the scene around Dipper and Mabel changed to a freezing, crystalline white as their sneakers sunk into about three feet of snow, wind battering their still running bodies.
“Ow!” Mabel cried, the time tape measurer heated to the point that it glowed and cackled with electricity. “Hot hot hot!”
“What did you do?!” Dipper yelled, picking up the pace and tugging at the back of Mabel’s sweater, reaching for the tape measure.
“I don’t know!” Mabel screamed as Dipper batted the device from her hands, his other hand on her shoulders as they dove into the snow, electricity tingling through both their bodies and then—
And then—
Dipper’s heart sunk as he watched the time machine fizzle and spark, flashing out of existence just seconds before it hit the ground.
“No no no no no no no!" Mabel screamed, pushing past Dipper and digging into the snow with bare hands, icy wind whipping at her face.
Dipper just stood watching her.
Mabel shuddered, hands trembling as the frost claimed her reddening fingers. Warm tears pooled in her eyes and something in her throat clenched up, leaving only a croaking wheeze in lieu of her voice. “I’m so—”
“Mabel—” Dipper cautiously approached his shivering sister, ignoring the freezing snow seeping in through his exposed sock, the squidgey feeling it caused, and gently grabbed her hands. “It’s pointless, we have to get warm.”
Mabel sniffled, rubbing tears and snot from her face. “I'm sorry—”
“I threw the thing, Mabel, I'm sorry,” Dipper said, pulling her close. “Looks like we're still at the sha—”
“Ahem."
Dipper and Mabel gasped almost in unison, scrambling to get a good look at the figure that had approached them.
“Mind telling me what you’re doing on my property, throwing bombs and barely dressed in the middle of a blizzard?” A tall, stocky man said. He wore grey sweatpants and a black t-shirt, hands on his hips, a pair of bunny slippers completely ruining his ‘trying to be intimidating’ look.
“Uh— well— I—” Dipper stammered, glancing between the man’s curly brown hair, his glasses, and the familiar silhouette of the Mystery Shack, fumbling for an explanation.
The man rolled his eyes. “Come on, inside. I have a phone where you can call your parents, I’m sure they’re worried sick,” he said, grabbing both their hands and pulling them towards the shack. The man frowned when he felt Mabel’s ice-cold hands. “Sweet moses, kid, don’t go digging around in the snow without gloves!”
Mabel didn’t say anything, stumbling a bit as she struggled to keep up with the much taller man, rubbing her hands over his, trying to leech the warmth.
“Come on, you two,” the man said, unceremoniously shoving them into the house, past beakers and tanks full of strange plants and small non-sentient cryptids (and a gnome), not stopping until they were in front of a space heater set up in the tv room. “Warm up, I’ve probably got a blanket you can use, then you’re going to explain to me why exactly you thought this was a good idea.”
The twins couldn’t do anything but nod as the man left, rummaging through closets to find a large enough blanket for the two.
“Dipper—” Mabel whispered.
“I know,” he replied. “That’s gotta be Grunkle Stan, but he’s way younger!”
“I guess, but he’s acting so weird. We must have gone back a million years! Or into an alternate reality where Grunkle Stan somehow showers less often!” Mabel said. “How are we gonna get back without the time thingy?”
“I don’t know,” Dipper said. “But he was right, you’ve gotta be freezing.” Dipper snuggled closer to Mabel’s shivering form.
“Pssh, yeah right, look at you! You’re in a t-shirt!” Mabel said, wrapping her arms around her brother.
Dipper frowned, taking a spare pen from his pocket and clicking relentlessly. “How are we going to get back, though?”
“Alright, so I’ve got bad news and good news!” The man said, clapping his hands together as he walked back into the living room, completely oblivious to the conversation he was interrupting. “The good news,” he started, wrapping a large, fluffy blanket around the two of them. “Is we have plenty of spare blankets. The bad news is that the phone lines are down, so you’re probably going to be stuck here awhile, seeing as I don’t have a car.”
“Phew,” Mabel whispered, earning an elbow to the ribs from Dipper. “I mean, oh no!”
“Hey, it's okay,” the man chuckled, kneeling down in front of the children. "I suppose introductions are in order if we're all stranded,” he said, holding out his hand. "Greetings, my name is Stanford Pines. I'm a scientist, researching the bizarre and mysterious properties of this town. I promise I’m not an ax murderer.”
Dipper did not return the handshake, instead grabbing Stan’s larger hand in his own, holding it close to his face, mouth agape and brows knit together in confusion.
Since when does Grunkle Stan have six fingers?!
“I— um,” Stanford faltered as his face flushed, pulling his hand away, tucking it behind his back.
“Whoa, six fingered handshake!” Mabel beamed, grabbing Ford’s other hand before he could hide that one as well. “It’s a full finger friendlier than normal!”
Ford seemed to relax at that, returning Mabel’s handshake with a firm grip. “I like you, you’re weird,” he said with a grin.
“Hi, I’m Dipper and my sister is Mabel, you said you were studying like, ghosts and gremoblins and gnomes and stuff right? You’re a cryptozoologist?” Dipper said, pushing in front of Mabel. He’d gone from pen-clicking to pen-chewing, one foot tap tap tapping against the floor.
“Er, yes—”
“And you’ve been recording your discoveries in some sort of journal?” Dipper asked. Now that I think about it, all this stuff in the house, the weird mushrooms, the potions, the skulls with three eye sockets, none of that looks like what Grunkle Stan usually has on display.
“Yes, actually,” Stanford said, hoisting himself up and reaching over a not-so-old-yet armchair to grab a book from a coffee table. “I suppose my reputation is beginning to precede me, I can’t say I’m surprised in a small town like this,” he said, holding up a slightly worn, red journal, with a golden six fingered handprint emblazoned on the cover.
“Journal number two, ” Dipper whispered under his breath.
Mabel stared wide eyed at the journal, then at Stanford, then Dipper. “Grunkle Stan’s the author of the journals?!”
“Wait, what’s a grunkle—”
Then Dipper kicked Stanford in the shin.
“Shi— Shoot!” Stanford lept back, hopping on one leg, clutching the injured one.
“You jerk! You’ve been making fun of me all summer , ‘Dipper there’s no such thing as soothsquitos’ this and ‘kid you’ve been watching too many late night horror movies’ that and I time travel back to who knows when and what do I find?!” Dipper yelled, pacing around the living room, waving the yet-to-be-written third journal as he did so. “I find you using the word ‘greetings’ and studying the paranormal!!!”
“I— wait,” Stanford paused. “You’re time travelers?"
Mabel nodded. “Yeah, we’re your niece and nephew from the future. Shermie’s our grandpa!”
“We got sent here for summer vacation and future-you won’t tell me anything about all the weird stuff around here! I had to dig up your stupid research notes,” Dipper said. “I didn’t even know it was you who wrote them! Do you know how many times we’ve almost been killed this week?”
“Well, I mean,” Mabel laughed. “We’ve been reliving the same day over and over so I guess it’s been two weeks?”
“Fascinating, so you weren’t setting off fireworks at all, that must’ve been the sound of your time travel device!” Stanford said, grinning from ear to ear and opening his journal to a blank page, already sketching the twins.
“Heh, heh, yeah…” Mabel scratched the back of her head. “By the way, we’re kind of stranded here. Literally.”
“Oh, yeah, we lost our time machine,” Dipper said, waving his hand. “Every moment you believe me about us being time travelers makes me want to scream.”
“He’s been looking for the author for weeks,” Mabel said.
“I thought you were cool! ” Dipper lamented. “I’ve seen you in your underwear, man!”
Stanford chuckled nervously. “I guess I mellowed out in my old age, you won’t have to worry about that while you’re here, at least.”
“What year are we in, Grunkle Stan?” Mabel asked, tilting her head. “In the future you’re all old and gray and hairy—”
“And your toenails are yellow and you eat ice cream for dinner,” Dipper interjected.
“Oh! It’s 1979. What year are you two from?” Stanford asked. “And please, I don’t know why my future self wouldn’t have told you this, but I prefer to go by Ford.”
“We’re from 2012, and I’m beginning to think your life took a big downward spiral sometime between here and the present,” Mabel huffed, putting her hands on her hips.
“You know, these journal pages do mysteriously just… stop halfway through,” Dipper said, holding out journal 3.
“And you don’t have six fingers in the future,” Mabel said.
“And you’ve literally never asked us to call you Ford, all our lives,” Dipper said. “You always wanted us to call you Stan.”
“Huh, that’s str— wait a minute.” Stanford furrowed his brow, flicking his pen against the pages of the journal. “Do… ‘I’ drive a red 1965 El Diablo convertible?”
“You drive an old timey red convertible, yeah,” Mabel nodded.
“I swear to God if I go to the future to find myself buried in the backyard of my own house I’m going to lose it! ”