Chapter Text
"Grunkle Stan, Grunkle Ford." Mabel looked at them through narrowed eyes, arms crossed behind her back in a manner that was not unlike Ford's usual stance.
Stan grunted in acknowledgement, flicking through a pocket-sized notepad and squinting down at his own messy scrawl. Beside him, Ford scribbled furiously in a notepad of his own.
"Hm?" Ford mumbled, crossing something out with a flourish.
Neither of them looked up.
Mabel pouted. "What are we gonna do for Christmas?"
Simultaneously, Stan and Ford's attention snapped up from their work.
"Mabel," Ford began, snatching and pocketing both notepads and shoving his fountain pen behind his ear, "we're Jewish."
Mabel scoffed. "So? It's two days of whimsy and sugar! We can't miss it!"
The elder twins exchanged glances. "We've missed virtually every one so far," Stan pointed out.
"What?" Mabel cried. "But… you have decorations up! Dipper and Wendy are literally out getting a tree right now! You've gotta have something in mind!"
"Soos has decorations up," Stan countered. "We don't really live here anymore, remember?"
"Well, when you did, I saw some of this stuff in storage!" Mabel threw her arms out and waved at the many flashy knick-knacks that Melody, Soos, and his abuelita had crammed on nearly every available surface.
A tiny, lit-up wooden replica of the town, likely the work of a Corduroy from the previous century, glittered dimly atop a wobbly old end table. Several giant plastic garlands were tangled so impossibly with the rafters that Ford feared they would never be parted from them without first somehow defying Euclidean physics. Posters featuring Santa, Mrs. Claus, and other assorted winter mascots covered the walls from floor to ceiling, some even including various creatures dreamed up for the Shack. A festive-looking cardboard cutout of a considerably younger Mr. Mystery grinned toothily beside the door of the bathroom, face partly concealed by an oversized Santa hat. Unlike the Stan of the present, the one in the picture had needed extra padding to achieve the "bowl-full-of-jelly" look. Stan wrinkled his nose at it.
"Those were for the customers," he protested, albeit weakly.
Mabel huffed, crossing her arms. "Why do they get to have fun and we don't? We deserve a little Christmas magic, too!"
Ford's eyebrow twitched. Stan sighed.
Mabel beamed, already aware that she had won Stan over. She turned to Ford, demeanor immediately shifting. She folded her hands together, looking up at him through her lashes. "Please, Grunkle Ford? Dipper and I have celebrated Christmas every year since we were three! It would really help to establish a sense of normalcy." She ended with puppy-dog eyes for good measure.
'Playing the 'child of divorce' card. Nice,' Stan thought proudly. "Come on, Ford. We can afford to splurge on Christmas just this once."
Ford paused for a moment, then groaned. "Fine."
"Woo-hoo!" Mabel cheered, already running off. "This is gonna be the best Christmas ever! I'm gonna go make a sweater out of tinsel!"
"…That can't be comfortable," Ford muttered.
"Fashion is never comfortable!" Mabel hollered back.
Ford jumped, surprised that she had heard him. Stan smirked.
Once he was assured his exuberant niece was actually out of earshot, Ford sighed, running his hands down his face.
Stan nudged him with his elbow, brow furrowing slightly. "What? You really that against Christmas?"
"It's not that," Ford countered, smoothing his mussed-up sideburns. "It's just…" He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Oh, hell."
"What?"
Ford's face formed a wavery, sheepish expression, his muscles unsure whether they should try to form a smile or a frown. "Well… In the Christmas of 1980, I had… a bit of a… regrettable encounter with Santa Claus that might adversely affect—"
Stan choked on air. "You met Santa?!"
Ford eyed his brother's slackened jaw with a twitching eyelid. "Yes. As I was saying, he didn't take too kindly to my—"
"Wait! Wait, wait, wait; are you telling me that Santa, the big, jolly fat guy made up by corporate think tanks to sell more products, actually exists?"
Ford rolled his eyes. "Don't be daft, Stanley. The concept of 'Santa Claus' existed long before corporate think tanks."
Stan exhaled. "Oh. Okay. He's just a concept."
"Oh, no. The public perception of the entity you call 'Santa Claus' is the concept; the man himself is very real."
"WHAT?!"
Ford raised an eyebrow, refusing to flinch at his brother's unexpected cry. "Why does this surprise you? We literally fought a kraken off the Oregon Coast not five days ago!"
"Okay, sure, but there's a difference between a cryptid and a literal saint!"
Ford scoffed. "He's no saint. That's just a title prescribed to him by those with no other framework with which to comprehend a creature of his nature."
"A 'creature' of his 'nature'…?" Stan muttered, squinting at his brother for any indication that he was just taking the piss.
"Yes. He's quite a keen philosopher, really. Interesting school of thought. Strangely consumeristic, though. I find the Buddhist stance on materialism to be far more tenable."
"Tenable," Stan choked out.
"Well, yes, Stanley. This is 'Saint Nicholas' we're talking about. He owns what is arguably one of the largest factories in the world. The carbon emissions alone have melted countless arctic shelves! Not to mention the minimal wages he pays his elves! Some have accused him of running a cult-like compound, however…" Ford paused, frowning. "Are you listening?"
Stan looked dazed. "…Uh-huh."
Ford scoffed. He waved a six-fingered hand in front of his twin's face, successfully recapturing his attention. "Why is this so hard for you to believe?"
Stan faltered. "Uh… we're Jewish?"
Ford rolled his eyes. "Stanley. I just said that 'Santa Claus' is in actuality a secular concept. He's not a religious figure. Do try to keep up."
"You did sorta imply he has an entire school of thought built around him like the Buddha."
"Yes; albeit, a secular one. He has employees, not religious devotees."
"Coulda fooled me! He brainwashes little kids into thinking he's real!"
"He is real."
"No. No way. I bet that piss-colored set square gaslit you into believing this crap when he was poking around in your brain! There is no way that Santa is real!"
Ford growled. "Bill has nothing to do with the existence of—!" His frustration instantly evaporated like a puff of smoke as his brother's words sank in. "…You know what a set square is?"
"Shut up!" Stan whined. "That's not the point!"
"Well," Ford huffed, looking down his nose, "I could have gotten to the point, had you not interrupted me. As I was trying to say, after my unfortunate encounter with the entity known as Saint Nicholas, he vowed to put any address occupied by me on his personal blacklist."
"What? 'Unfortunate encounter'?"
Ford's mouth pursed. "Must you repeat everything I say? You're not a parrot."
Stan scowled at him. Had he been any younger, he probably also would have stuck out his tongue.
Ford sighed, deflating slightly. "I might have, possibly, shot down his sleigh."
"You shot down Santa Claus?!"
Ford winced. "In my defense, around that time, Jack Frost and his harridan-of-a-wife Susie kept trying to break into the cabin and kidnap me. What they wanted me for, I don't know. Had to do with some odd winter ritual, I suspect. Needless to say, my modified blowtorch made quick work of them. Unfortunately, what was left of them seeped through the floorboards and into my lab, which ruined some of my work… On the bright side, the Shack's windows have stayed clear ever since!"
"There is no way any of that actually happened."
Ford scoffed. "You're quite the skeptic today."
"I prefer the term, 'sane'."
"Since when has anything we've ever done been sane?"
"…Touché," Stan grumbled. He frowned. "Why didn't you include any of this in your journals?"
"Ah. Well, I wasn't exactly proud of those encounters. And it's not as if I learned anything new from either experience; those folks are all pretty much exactly how they look on the cookie tin. Besides, if there's one thing Ma taught me, it's that you should never record evidence of your crimes."
"Heh. Never thought that would come in handy, did you?" Stan paused. "Wait. Back to Santa Claus. Let's say he's real. Did you, like, shoot him down intentionally? Or was it more of an accident?"
Ford shifted uncomfortably in place. "I plead the fifth."
Stan snorted at the evasive answer, immediately seeing right through it.
"Okay, okay; whatever. I still don't get what your alleged beef with Santa has to do with anything."
Ford's expression darkened. "I fear that, due to my status, he won't stop by to deliver gifts for the children."
Stan's eyebrows rose into his (surprisingly intact, if he did say so himself) hairline. "So?"
"So?! That's the most fundamental part of the Christmas holiday!" Ford cried.
"I thought it was all about, like, 'sweet baby Jesus' and wise men and barnyard animals and stuff like that," Stan replied.
Ford groaned, burying his face in his palm. "Secular Christmas, Stanley! I'm not doing this again!"
Unseen, Stan smirked.
Ford ran his palm down his face, rubbing at his clenched jaw. "This is going to ruin everything. They're going through so much right now. They're counting on us for a fun and stable holiday season! I can't let them down!"
"Don't worry," Stan offered placatingly. "It's not that big a deal! We've got this."
"No, we don't! Have you been listening to me at all?" Ford tugged at his hair, beginning to pace frantically back and forth. "There has to be a way to get back in Santa's good graces. Magical cookie recipe that's so good it knocks his stockings off? …No. Too derivative. Offering to take over for the year while we leave him in the care of another paranormal entity? …Even worse!" Ford paused, shoulders somehow tensing further. "Stanley," he muttered darkly. "I think we might have to kill him and take his place."
"Wha—?! Whoa, whoa, whoa; no. We don't have to kill anybody." Stan gently placed his hands on Ford's knotted shoulders. "You're overthinking this. You forgot to consider the oldest trick in the book."
Ford peered through his fringe, eyes wary, yet hopeful. "And what might that be?"
Stan leaned in conspiratorially, glancing around for any sign of tiny terrors. "Slapping the name Santa on gifts we get the kids."
The expression of pure horror that crossed Ford's face was unlike any Stan had ever seen—and he, in the more sordid chapters of his youth, had seen a lot. Ford looked as if Stan had brutally skinned his latest rare specimen alive and turned its hide into a custom toilet seat cover.
"No! We can't do that!" Ford hissed, leaping away from his brother's grasp.
Stan gaped at him, genuinely baffled. "Why not? That's what, like, 90% of parents do."
Ford stared incredulously back at him. "No, they don't! If they did that, what would be the point of Santa's existence?"
Stan pressed the heel of his palm into his eye. "I dunno," he groused. "Apparently, he's a philosopher. Maybe he's worked that part out."
Ford refused to dignify that with a response. That, or he was too busy spiraling. He resumed his frantic pacing, now moving so quickly that Stan was surprised he didn't burn a hole through the egregiously festive carpet.
"Have you tried apologizing to him?" Stan suggested.
Ford immediately stopped pacing. He squirmed. "Uh."
"Of course not," Stan scoffed. "But still. Better late than never, right? Maybe that'll fix this whole mess."
Ford winced. "I… don't think so, Stanley."
"Aw, come on. Surely it can't have been that bad. I mean, it's not like you rushed over to the wreckage and started taking notes and doodling instead of helping the guy out."
Ford was suspiciously silent.
"No. Ford. You didn't."
Ford looked everywhere but at his brother, grimacing.
Stan groaned. "I swear to God—!" A thought suddenly struck him, stopping his scolding in its tracks. "Wait. Why wouldn't he bring the kids gifts? Won't he just, like, bring you coal? Isn't that how the whole Christmas thing works?"
"That's the naughty list," Ford corrected. "The blacklist, I'm afraid, strips me—and, consequently, anyone else at my present address—of all eligibility for either gift list."
"What?!" Stan cried. "That's not fair! You're the only one he should be punishing!"
"I agree. However, seeing as he labeled me an 'anti-festive terrorist', I can understand why he would avoid any and all airspace near me."
Stan opened his mouth, about to ask how the hell Ford had escalated the events in order to get himself labeled a terrorist, before deciding he didn't want to know. "But… he's magic! He's probably fine! Why won't he just give you coal?"
The mental image of Ford receiving a stocking full of coal popped into Stan's mind, unbidden. He tried to imagine his brother scowling at it, but couldn't.
'Wow! Chemical element 6C!' Mental Ford cheered. 'I needed more carbon specimens to use in my experiments!'
Another, grumpier Ford stepped in, tearing through the scene like tape. 'Stanley, you know coal isn't just carbon. It's a complex and variable mixture of substances that happens to be mostly carbon. Honestly, it's a wonder how you even managed to reactivate the porta—'
Stan shook his head, abruptly dismissing the vision. "Okay, maybe he has a point."
"Hey! What do you mean by that?!"
Stan shot his twin a deadpan stare. "Uh, gee, Sixer, I dunno. If you shot out the tires of the Stanmobile and then started taking pictures and notes for anything other than insurance purposes, without even checking on me, I'd be pretty pissed."
Ford looked as though he had just bit into a rather mushy lemon. "I suppose."
Stan sighed. "Are you sure a little light-hearted identity theft isn't an option?"
"Absolutely out of the question."
"Okay, your loss. What are you gonna do to fix things, then?"
Ford's eyes narrowed, mouth twisting with displeasure. "The only thing I can do; seek an audience with Saint Nicholas and beg for clemency."
"Begging? I dunno, bro. Seems like a bit much. A simple 'I'm sorry' will probably do the trick." Ford's face twisted further, but Stan continued on. "Ooh! Maybe you could offer to trick out his ride! Between you and McGucket, surely you could upgrade his wheels… or whatever the hell they're called."
"Longitudinal runners," Ford corrected absently, already fiddling away with some odd hand-held device he had procured from his pocket.
Stan rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah. Hey, what is that thing, anyway?"
"It's a multiversal positioning system," Ford answered.
"Cool, cool," Stan said, pretending for all the world he knew exactly what Ford was talking about and nodding so fiercely that his neck began to ache. "…But, what does that have to do with Santa? Isn't he tucked away in the North Pole somewhere?"
"Yes. The MPS just includes planets, galaxies, dimensions, and universes beyond our own. The latest update even accounts for some alternate timelines!" Somehow, Ford had already forgotten his earlier unease, eyes sparkling with enthusiasm.
"Okay," Stan grumbled, crossing his arms. "Dunno why you'd need all that, but okay."
Ford gave him a reproachful look. "Stanley. If there is one thing I hope you've learned in the past 40 years, it's that you can never be too prepared."
"I guess."
Ford's fingertips bounced around the screen, tugging at dials and flicking switches until the device let out a triumphant hum. "Alright. I've plugged in the coordinates."
"Great. Just give me a second to pack some hardtack and my new parka," Stan quipped.
"No need for that, Stanley. It's not that far."
"'Not that far'?! Ford, it took us literal months to—"
Ford waved him off absentmindedly, nose buried in the screen of his little hand-held device. "Don't fret. Just follow me."
Stan groaned, resigning himself to his fate. When his brother got like this, there was little choice but to go along with his strange whims. They either ended up on a the adventure of a lifetime, or on an adventure that could horribly end their lifetimes. Either way, something big was bound to happen, and Stan wasn't about to leave his brother to deal with it alone.
Grudgingly, Stan began to tug on his boots. To his confusion, though, Ford doubled back into the house.
"Ford? The great outdoors is the other way."
Ford shook his head again, continuing to stalk through the Shack. Stan growled, kicking off his lone boot and forcing himself to jog after his brother. He winced at every footfall, watching as the delicate knickknacks lining the halls rattled dangerously in place. 'I really gotta lay off the cookies this year,' Stan thought wryly. Already, he knew it would be a losing battle. There was no way the combined forces of Mabel, Soos, and Abuelita would accept a lack of cookie decorating… and knowing Mabel, she would want to do a lot of decorating.
Stan still remembered a giant tin of (slightly stale) cookies that he and Ford had found waiting for them one day upon docking (they always informed the younger twins where they would be stopping to restock). Mabel had apparently gotten really into baking during her time back home ("Probably from stress," Dipper had confided), and had decorated enough sugar cookies to feed an entire homeless shelter and then some.
As Stan reminisced, he failed to notice his older brother coming to a stop in front of him. He walked right into Stanford's back, the frames of his glasses pushing uncomfortably into his face. "Ow," Stan groaned, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. "Why did you stop?"
"It seems we are here," Ford answered simply.
Stan stared at him. "Ford," he began, cautiously, "I hate to break it to you, bud, but… this is not the North Pole."
Ford shot him an unimpressed look. "No. However, it is the place where we can find what we need in order to get there."
Stan stepped back. "No. We are not raiding Soos' Grandma's room."
Ford stepped forward. "We're not raiding it. We're just… borrowing a little something in order to ensure the children have a happy Christmas."
"That's all I needed to hear. Take whatever you need!"
Both men jumped, staring at the stout woman who had just materialized behind them in shock. Where she had come from, they could not tell. Perhaps the shadows themselves.
'Like Batman,' Stan thought hysterically.
The twins exchanged (slightly perturbed) glances. "Uh… Thank you, Miss," Ford replied, at the same time Stanley offered a mumbled "Gracias".
"De nada, jovencitos. Now, if you'll excuse me. I'm off to go watch my grandson."
Somehow, despite her doddering gait, the old woman was gone before either man could so much as blink.
"…Isn't he on a date with Melody right now?" Ford asked, haltingly.
Stan snorted. "Yeah. She does that."
Ford wrinkled his nose, but shook his head before he could dwell on it. "Let's just find what we need and head out. I don't want to infringe upon her hospitality."
Stan rolled his eyes. "Relax, Sixer. She's long gone."
"Even so, I get the feeling that that woman is still watching me."
"Yeah, old folk have a way of doing that."
"Not us," Ford countered.
Stan barked out a laugh. "Ha! No, not us. Geez." He paused. "But doesn't ol' Saint Nick have, like, a crystal ball or somethin'?"
Ford scoffed. "That's far too elementary. No, he has a far more comprehensive surveillance system than that."
"Oh, joy. How do we know he isn't watching us right now?"
"Simple. I put wards and hexes all over the Shack years ago. As for outside the Shack, I can simply perform a brief blood ritual to override his abilities, and we should be good to go."
"Blood ritual?" Stan repeated, unsure if he had heard correctly.
"Yes. That, or we can wear these talismans I won off a bum in a bar near Betelgeuse." Ford held up a pair of bizarre-looking necklaces. Invertedly glowing crystals were wrapped in slowly slithering silver wire.
"Uh, I think I'll take the weird jewelry over a knife or needle or whatever, thanks."
"Okay. But be warned; this option still requires blood," Ford chirped.
"Wait, wha—? OW! Ford!"
Ford removed one of the wriggling stray wires from the pad of his brother's index finger. He held it up triumphantly. "Here you go."
Stan stared at it. The once-white aura was now an ominous crimson. "Uh. Thanks?"
Ford waved off his thanks, tugging his own talisman around his neck and tucking it beneath the collar of his sweater. "I recommend you do the same," Ford suggested, gesturing to Stan's slightly sweat-stained t-shirt. "Don't want the elves catching on."
Stan stared down at the horrifying mass of jewelry, wary of putting it anywhere near his bare skin again. However, he knew better than to go against his brother when it came to cryptic bullshit like this.
Before Stan could tuck it away himself, his brother lifted it by the chain and dropped it beneath his collar. It squirmed against his flesh, flashing cold. Stan shuddered.
Ford patted it, and it stilled atop his breastbone, warming slightly.
"There. Now come along, Stanley! Chop-chop!
"Uh, what exactly are we doing in here?"
Ford gave no indication that he had heard him, nose practically touching the flickering screen of his device. He barely glanced upwards as he made his way through the old woman's bedroom.
"Okay. Good talk." Stan shuffled through the entryway, warily taking in the scene. Several portraits of Soos through the years beamed at him from where they hung against rose-patterned wallpaper. Their big, hopeful eyes seemed to follow his every move. Stan shivered.
He very nearly ran into his brother again, but managed to catch himself at the last second.
"What is it, Six?"
Ford was mumbling to himself, eyes darting from the display screen to a cluttered green dresser. Beside it was a pale pink upholstered throne chair, overflowing with shopping bags.
As Ford scoured the top of the dresser, Stan took the time to peer inside the bags. 'Might as well see what the old lady's bought for Christmas.' Inside, he caught sight of several tacky holiday knick-knacks that were clearly intended to be Christmas gifts. Among them were several pairs of fluffy socks in various violent shades ('Mabel will love them'), a fluffy winter cap trimmed with pine trees ('Almost definitely for Dipper'), a pair of extra-wide oven mitts ('For Ford? She did seem concerned about him burning his fingerprints off in the lab'), a garish tie ('That'd better not be for me,' Stan thought, already adding it to his mental wardrobe), and several ornaments of Soos as an angel ('Probably for Melody'). Another bag was completely filled with numerous tiny spray bottles. Stan stared at them, unsure of what exactly he was looking at. He picked one up, squinting down at the label.
Immediately, he burst out laughing. "Hey, Sixer! Get a load of this!"
Ford brightened, catching sight of something moving on his device. "Oh! It seems you've found it! Well done!"
Ford turned to inspect the object in Stan's hand. His brow furrowed. "That is not what I was expecting. Has potpourri really changed so much in the past 30 years?"
Stan snorted. "Potpourri? No, no, no; this is Poo~Pourri!" He held it up with barely contained glee.
Ford adjusted his glasses. "Fascinating. What is it's purpose?"
"Uh, I'm not gonna get into the gory details, but essentially it's perfume for the can."
Ford instantly got that smug look in his eye that told Stan that he was about to say something really stupid. "Ah! I suppose you could call it eau de toilet."
Stan shook his head at him, unimpressed. "You've gotta get out more."
Ford wilted, but shook it off. "This is perfect! Exactly what we need!"
"Uh, speak for yourself," Stan said with thinly veiled disgust.
Ford pouted. "Are you not planning to accompany me to the North Pole?"
Stan felt a headache coming on. "What does that have to do with the crapper?"
"Have I ever told you about Portal-Potties?"
"No. I would definitely remember that."
"Ah. Well, as you might have gathered, they're portals, disguised as outhouses. They allow you to traverse space near instantaneously."
Stan opened and closed his mouth a few times, dentures clacking against each other. "Okay," he grumbled at last. 'I guess I've seen weirder things. Better not to ask too many questions. Don't want Six to start a three-hour infodump… again.'
"If we have to shimmy down into the waste pit, I'm out," Stan declared, taking care not to phrase his concerns as a question.
Ford chuckled. "No, we don't have to do anything as odious as that. We simply need to toss something related to the target location into the toilet, then close the lid and door behind us."'
"How's Poo~Pourri related to the North Pole?"
Ford rolled his eyes. "Can't you read?"
Stan leaned in to read the label, squinting. "…'Sugar Toasted Toots'? Who's responsible for naming these?!"
Ford shrugged. "I try not to question modern marketing sensibilities. However, if I had to hazard a guess, I would assume it's the work of the elves."
"Santa does not have an R&D department!"
"Of course he does! He's a corporate colossus. You of all people should know how businesses work."
Stan snorted. "The closest thing to an 'R&D department' I've had is Soos."
Ford cracked a small smirk. "Touché."
"Where is this 'Portal-Potty' thing, anyway?"
"Not too far. In fact, it's actually on the grounds of the Shack!"
Stan paled. "Please don't tell me it's the outhouse."
"Why ever not?"
"If it turns out I've been shitting in a portal to another country or something, I can never show my face outside again."
Ford laughed. "Don't worry! It works perfectly well as an ordinary lavatory. I suspect they included that function for both inconspicuousness and convenience."
"Great."
Stan dragged his feet across the threshold of the bedroom, unfortunately knowing exactly where Ford's stupid device would be leading them. Hopefully the trip really would be as instant as Ford promised.
"Make sure to grab your coat, Stanley!" Ford chirped, somehow procuring his own parka from the ether.
"What the—?"
"Only joking! I've already got everything we need right here," Ford interjected triumphantly, patting a tiny little fanny pack he had slung across his body beside his gun holster.
"What."
"Pocket dimension," Ford answered with a cheeky grin.
"And here I was thinking you were done with alternate dimensions."
"It's not the same as an alternate dimension, Stanley! It's merely a gap between our reality and the next…"
As Ford launched into a lengthy explanation about teleportation and transdimensional travel (one that Stan secretly already mostly knew), the younger of the two brothers allowed himself to relax. Though he hadn't planned on going on another wild misadventure until well after New Year's (well, not one outside the bounds of Gravity Falls, anyway), he had to admit, it was nice to have an excuse to go exploring again. After a decade spent traveling the world, staying in one place for too long made him feel antsy. He was honestly amazed that he'd managed to stick around town for as long as he did. He sensed that Ford felt similarly, though he'd never thought to ask.
"Are you listening, Stanley?" Ford asked, watching as Stan struggled to tug on his winter boots.
"'Course I am," Stan replied, lying through his false teeth.
Ford looked as though he didn't believe him, but continued on with his musings nonetheless.
Stan smiled, falling into step beside his brother. No matter how annoying they could be, he'd missed his twin's monologues.
"Off we go," Ford muttered dramatically, cutting his own ramblings off.
Stan snorted, ignoring his brother's glare. He'd really missed him.