Chapter Text
The morning after returning back to his home dimension would be awkward, of course. After all of the shouting and insisting to stay away from the children and everything else, Ford wouldn’t expect it any other way. But waking up that next morning with your twin standing over and staring at you is quite awkward, if not just creepy.
Ford is surprised he even fell asleep in the first place. He never does after falling into new dimensions, but he supposes that this one would be the exception. He’s lying on that familiar yet foreign orange couch, the room is almost pitch black but he is still immediately assaulted by the bloodshot stare of a twin who also looks to have gotten no sleep. It startles him for a moment, though he won’t ever say so.
Ford’s first question is stupid, that’s all he can say. “…can I help you?”
Ford is never the one for humor, and Stan knows that too, because he doesn’t put up with it. His voice is nasally, easy to hear despite the deep gruff. “Are you sick?”
“What kind of question is that?” Ford asks. “You wake me up in—“ There is no clock to check, but there is a window— “Before the crack of dawn to ask me?”
Stan doesn’t have the decency to apologize. “Couldn’t sleep. I’m checking up on the kids next.”
It’s the topic of the children that gets Ford to stiffen up. They’re only a few flights of stairs away, and there are many things he can keep secret, but the curiosity surrounding those two is not one of them. How they came to Gravity Falls, why they’re here, why they were fooled by a terrible mockery of his own name, if they’d ever known him at all… he wonders about those things. It’s all he's been wondering since first coming back to his old study.
“Just stay here,” Stan says. “Wouldn’t want you down for the count, y’know.”
Which is code for: I want you to leave so I don’t have to deal with you. They both know that’s what he means. (And Ford might be jumping to conclusions, he knows that, but it’s doubtful.)
That couldn’t have been for more than a minute, that conversation. Stan takes his time in leaving. Yet it looks like the sun is rising, though it’s always hard to tell from the stained glass warping the light. He starts to wonder about something new— what exactly prompted Stan from coming in the first place when mere hours before…
Ford turns around, tucking the coat towards his chest that has been functioning as his blanket for some reason. He didn’t see a point in changing into something else after just receiving new clothes in… a good while. He starts thinking again, but the thoughts are always snuffed before they can get far.
Whatever ridicule or mockery or whatever he’d find of his house and name he’d learn later. For now, for once, Ford is fine with the ignorant bliss.
—————
The second Dipper woke up, he knew he was in for a bad day.
It isn’t day yet exactly, but he did know what he wanted to do when it came. Head straight to Soos’ old break room, because that was where Great-Uncle Ford was sleeping. He still had many questions, Stan would probably sleep until noon, and Ford would probably want to tour his new house now that it’s been so long. Then Dipper would swoop right in and be the wonderful nephew and tour guide and they’d bond and talk about the Journals and where he came from and so many other things that would come to pass.
But when Dipper tries to get off his bed to at least get ready for this wonderful day, his dang noodly legs nearly give out from under him. He scrambles for the edges of his mattress for support, almost as if the floor under him were ice. Dipper calls for Mabel, he isn’t sure whether for help or just to report this development, but it appears she’s already awake.
She rolls on her side, and two pairs of reddish eyes make contact with each other. Her expression doesn’t change much, only going slightly more sour.
“You’re sick too.”
Dipper nods, and even that sends his head pounding. He pushes himself back into bed, sitting up against the slanted wall and Mabel does the same. Everything aches. His back for sitting this certain way, his legs for their usage, his head for thumping so hard that it’s like the thing itself is pulsing. He keeps his eyes on Mabel, and the way she winces at every shift must also mean she’s feeling the same way.
“Ugh,” Mabel says. “I’ve been sitting here tryna squeeze the sickness away. It’s not working.” She gestures to the unicorn that sits loosely under her arm, hair frizzed all over the place from said squeezing. Parts of its hair are also matted from snot.
Dipper tries to scoff, though it comes out as more of a cough. “I must’ve got it from you.”
“Hey!” Mabel exclaims, giving the required wince. “You don’t know that. Coulda be Grunkle Stan, for all we—“
Mabel must have the power of foresight, because she shuts her mouth only seconds before the door adjacent to Dipper creaks open, and the subject comes shuffling in unannounced. Stan’s also red and shadowed eyes give away everything; he must’ve been infected too.
He shuffles inside, sitting on the edge of Mabel’s bed with a groan. This inexplicably gets her to perk up. “See!” She says, just close enough to pat his shoulder. “Coulda been him! You don’t gotta assume every sickness comes from me, just because I’m fun.”
Dipper rolls his eyes. “Okay. I'm sorry.”
“Thank you!”
It takes a second for Stan to get to the point. He’s glaring at the floor as if it can’t stop wobbling unannounced. “This whole plan sounds really stupid to me now. How long has it been?” (He must’ve been thinking of something else in his head.)
“Err…” Dipper shrugs. “I dunno. I just woke up and now I can’t see. I was gonna go…”
He probably shouldn’t tell Stan that he’d been intending to immediately defy his orders from the night before. Still, his infected brain almost lets it slip out.
Mabel raises her hand, leaving her plushie unattended. “Oh! Oh, I know! It… uh…” She wipes her nose twice before finishing her thought. “I don’t remember. I just couldn’t sleep ‘cause I had a suuuuuper bad headache.”
Stan nods. “Great. We’ll figure it out later.”
He falters for a moment, eyes going blank as if he’s thinking critically. It ends as soon as it began, and he must’ve not figured out… whatever he’d been trying to do. “Ford’s fine, so I guess it must’ve been me or something. C’mon. I’ll get the cough syrup after breakfast.”
“Do we still have bubblegum?” Mabel slides off her bed simultaneously with Stan, and they both have their equally slow paces to keep up with. “I really hope we didn’t use all of it after the time we used it all on those fairies… eugh.”
“I think so. I’ll check, though.” Stan doesn’t turn back, and his voice is still nasally and quieter than usual, but Dipper hears him anyway. “You comin’ or what, kid?”
“Yeah. Yeah, just…” Dipper pauses. He isn’t sure what he’s waiting for— for the floor to stop shifting all willy-nilly, or for his head to get back to ‘normal’ pounding levels. Neither happen.
“Unless you wanna eat up here or something. That’s fine too.”
“No—“ With a lot more strain that he lets on, Dipper is able to slide off his bed without bailing, which is an improvement. (Walking is much better once he gets it started.) “The bed’s too hot. Let’s just eat down there.”
“Well, hurry it up, then!” Mabel says, and somehow, somehow she’s mustered up a cheer in the haze of sickness. “We just gotta keep up the normal stuff, and we’ll get through it!”
Mabel gets three steps out the door before she has to sit down. Stan carries her the rest of the way.