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Grunkle Stan's house is... weird.
It's huge, for starters. The hallways make no sense and there are secret rooms everywhere and Dipper is sure that staircase wasn't there yesterday. Every floorboard creaks except for when they don't, and the walls are always dusty and grimy, except for when they aren't. The house is separated from the giftshop but a flimsy swinging door that somehow manages to keep the tourists from waltzing right into their living room. The TV doesn't work right half the time and the landline phone only works every other Tuesday, and sometimes, a huge power surge will knock out all the electricity, like there's some kind of big weird machine hidden somewhere drawing away all the power.
So yeah, Grunkle Stan's house is weird. But there's something about the quiet, the gentle chirping of crickets and rustling of pine branches outside the open attic window that lulls Dipper right to sleep, and he wakes up on his first morning in Gravity Falls feeling rested and ready to figure out just what, exactly, he's going to do with his summer.
Dipper leaves Mabel snoring in her bed and creeps down the stairs to the kitchen, mindful of the broken floorboards and careful not to trip over the various odds and ends that litter the hallway. There are chunks of machinery here and there, shoved into corners, and piles of wires and bolts on every desk and table in the house. Dipper didn't really think Grunkle Stan was much of a mechanic or an engineer, but he's gotta be, what with all the bits and pieces strewn about. Who else could all that stuff belong to?\
The kitchen is abandoned when Dipper finds it. The smell of coffee hangs in the air, so Stan must be up and about somewhere. Dipper starts opening cabinets until he finds the cereal, which is only a little bit stale, and pours himself a bowl. He makes sure to sniff the milk, though. Can never be too careful.
"Ah, good morning! You must be Dipper!"
Dipper chokes on his cereal, startled, heart kicking into a panicked rhythm. He whips around to stare toward the doorway.
There's a man standing there. He's old, slightly bent, wire-thin and gangly, faded denim overalls hanging loose on his frame. His snow-white beard is neatly trimmed, and his white hair is gathered into a ponytail at the base of his neck. His sunburned face is weathered but he's smiling brightly as he crosses the room to the coffee pot, which he pokes with a red screwdriver, clucking his tongue.
"Now, I told Stanley not to try usin' this until I had taken a look at it," he mutters, with a conspiratorial smile in Dipper's direction. "Between you 'n me, that uncle of yours never listens to a damn word I say."
"Uh, who are you?" Dipper asks, and then immediately kicks himself, because that's probably extremely rude of him. This guy could be some evil mastermind who broke into the Shack to kill him with that screwdriver, sure, but he could also be just one of the townsfolk. Or, like, Grunkle Stan's friend.
"Oh, I am gonna tan his hide," the old man mutters, but he brightens when he holds out a hand for Dipper to shake. Dipper takes it slowly, carefully, feeling the old man's callouses rough against his palm. "Fiddleford McGucket! It's a pleasure to meet ya."
"Yeah, same," Dipper says slowly.
Fiddleford turns back to the coffee pot. "Now, how'd ya like to help me take this here machine apart and build it back together so's it works better?"
"Yeah, why not?" Dipper watches as Fiddleford pries off the front panel of the coffee pot. Inside is a horrifying amalgamation of wires and blinking lights and switches, held together by delicate saudering and, in a few places, rubber bands. This is clearly not the first time the coffee pot has been engineered.
"Whoa," Dipper breathes.
Fiddleford looks proud, but rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. "This is only the third generation of this here prototype. It'll be a lot more streamlined when I get it perfected."
There's a thump from the doorway. "Fidds, are you boring him with your science mumbo jumbo?"
"I think it's interesting!" Dipper protests. Grunkle Stan rolls his eyes and grunts, hobbling across the kitchen in his beat-up pink slippers. He's wearing only boxers and that ratty tank top, fez perched jauntily on his head. He hasn't put his glasses on for the day, and he squints at Fiddleford and Dipper before going to hunt for a coffee mug.
"See? The boy thinks it's interesting," Fiddleford says.
"Yeah, yeah, whatever. Can I have coffee? Or are you gonna keep torturing the coffee pot?" Stan grumbles.
"Yes, dear, you can have coffee," Fiddleford says, rolling his eyes, but setting the coffee machine back onto the counter. Stan bumps Fiddleford out of the way with a hip, almost knocking the skinny man over completely. Dipper waits for an argument, but if anything, Fiddleford looks unbearably fond.
Wait. What's going on here?
"Go on ahead and pour me a mug there too, why don't ya," Fiddleford says, holding out his own coffee mug, which is dark blue and says Starter Fluid on it in bold yellow letters. Grunkle Stan fills it obediently, and Dipper is pretty sure his jaw hits the floor when Fiddleford gives him a smile and a gentle peck on the lips.
"Gross," Stan mutters, but he's grinning, wide and sappy and way too soft for his chiseled old man face.
"Nah, coffee's pretty good," Fiddleford says, taking a sip of his coffee without added cream or sugar or anything, which is almost as gross as watching two weird old dudes kiss each other lovingly.
"Smartass," Stan says. He shoves at Fiddleford's shoulder, knocking him out of the way so he can reach the sugar, which he adds to his mug in extreme quantities. Fiddleford laughs and leans back against the counter, producing a Cubik's Cube from some pocket of his overalls, fiddling with it absently while he watches Stan fix the coffee. It's very... domestic.
"Hey, so, not to be rude or anything, but what's going on here?" Dipper asks finally. Both men startle, like they'd forgotten he was there. Dipper shrinks slightly under both of their stares.
"What? I'm making coffee," Stan says.
"No, I mean, uh, it's just that I have no idea who this is? I mean, he introduced himself, but nobody ever told me why he's here, or why you're... kissing him. In the kitchen. At seven o'clock in the morning. And that's fine! Like, I don't care who you kiss, or whatever, it's just, uh, who is he? Sorry."
God, if Dipper could get any more awkward, he would walk into the forest and never return. Anything to save himself from the fallout of that babbling word vomit.
Fiddleford turns to Stan and fixes him with a glare, raised eyebrow and all. Stan hides his face in his mug and takes an obnoxiously loud sip of his coffee.
"Stanley," Fiddleford says severely. "Did you not tell your niblings that you're married?"
"He's married?!" Dipper demands. "Wait, he's married to you?"
"I, uh, gotta go check on the gift shop," Stan says, and bolts.
Fiddleford watches him go and calls, "You're sleeping on the couch tonight!"
Dipper excuses himself to go upstairs and wake his sister. They've got a lot to debrief about.