Work Text:
The children cling to their mother's legs, peeking out to glance at the slab of stone their father scrubs.
Their aunt kneels next to him, a brush in each bejewled hand. Her vigorous purification rhythm is only broken with the occasional swipe at her face with the back of her hand.
Their mother's hands nervously flutter around them, smoothing cowlicks and adjusting clothing. Her feeling of intrusion is evident to even the youngest Pine.
They find it strange there's a grave all the way out here, the tangle of trees a far cry from the iron fences and flat earth they are used to visiting to revere one's dead relative.
Their father sets down a brush, frustrated at the lack of progress they achive at wiping away the foul words that mar the stone.
Their mother detaches herself from them to put a hand on their fathers shoulder.
"Dipper, can't we just buy a new one?" She doesn't mean to words to carry any apathy, but she must realize how the words sound in her husband's ears because she squats to retrieve his discarded brush and begins to scrub.
The children exchange glances, for the sight of their mother with cleaning supplies in hand is stranger than the weird one-eyed triangle statue their father showed them.
The girl's short blonde hair falls free of her blue barrette as she whispers to her older brother as to retain the somber silence.
Save for the sailboat, she has no idea what any of the cryptic scratches on the stone slab entail.
It's her freckled sister that answers, while some of the rainbow words are "vulgar", it says:
Stanley Pines
Crooked drifter
Our hero.
May our gruncle rest in peace.
The man they were told is their great-great uncle suddenly breaks the silence.
The brittle crack of his voice reminds them of a stretched out rubber band, close to snapping.
"I suppose we should just leave it" which is more words combined than they've ever heard him speak.
"They can't just disrespect him like this!" Their father slams the brush on a green letter like he wished it was somebody's skull.
He continues to furiously scrub, despite the little to no affect it had on the neon hue of the offensive word.
"I agree, but knowing Stan, he's already made their life hell from beyond the grave. If he cares at all," A coughing fit that sounds like it could tear him in half descends.
Their father says nothing.
"If an earthly possession Stan isn't even aware of holds that much significance to you all, just purchase a new one when you commission mine shortly"
"Don't talk like that, Great-uncle Ford," their father sets down the brush with shaky hands and grips his wife's own like a life raft even after he helps her up.
Ford sadly smiles but doesn't persist with the truth of his statement. He knows when his nephew is too close to the edge.
Their father dips his head, not able to hide his crumpled expression.
Their mother gently turns him away with one hand on Ford's wheelchair.
"You coming, Mabel?" He lays a hand on their aunt's short brown hair where she kneels before he goes.
Are you okay?
"In a minute bro-bro"
No.
He nods in mutual understanding.
Me neither.
Even the youngest can hear the quite grief undertone of her aunt's words . She has no doubt Aunt Mabel's ears will leak water if she doesn't cry soon.
It's mainly their mother that herds them in the direction of their vehicle, a steady arm across Dipper's shoulders as he glances backwards once more.
The youngest wonders who exactly Stanley Pines was.