Chapter Text
“I’m not going.”
Dipper had said those words countless times since his parents had made the suggestion. The suggestion of sending him away for the whole summer, up north to some random town a million miles away in Oregon. Apparently he had a great uncle there.
A great uncle who’d lost his twin too.
That bombshell had been dropped on him when his parents had forced him to sit and eat dinner with them the night before. He’d tried not to eat much, even under their watchful eyes.
And then they’d decided that it would be a good time to tell him that Stanford used to have a twin brother named Stanley, who he hadn’t been close with, but his death still changed him forever. They also told him that he’d moved on, started up his whole tourist trap business and everything.
It was just as he’d suspected.
Everyone kept telling him he needed to move on.
How could he do that when he was missing his better half?
Still, Dipper kept that bit of information in the back of his mind. He was curious.
But he was not going to like his Great Uncle Stanford.
He was not going to make new friends there.
He would not move on.
Because Mabel. Wasn’t. Dead.
—
Dipper had his eyes fixed out the window when the bus arrived at its final stop. He’d been fighting carsickness for at least half an hour, despite not touching the food his parents had made him pack. He planned to throw it away at the bus stop, to save him from the temptation to eat later.
“Gravity Falls,” said the speaker on the bus. “Final stop, please depart.”
That town name had haunted him for months. He’d barely been able to find anything on the internet about it. He had no idea what to expect.
Still, fresh air sounded nice, so Dipper put on his heavy backpack, grabbed his duffel bag, and lifted the handle of his suitcase. To an observer, this might look overkill. But he knew exactly what he was doing.
There was a method to his method. And despite what people may think, it was not madness.
He was the only one left on the bus. Nobody else had come to Gravity Falls. The driver looked at him through tired eyes in the rearview mirror as Dipper dragged his suitcase down each of the stairs in front of the door.
Clunk. Clunk. Clunk.
Mabel would have thanked the driver, Dipper realized as the doors shut and the bus began to depart.
He stood there in silent regret for a moment.
Then, he took a deep breath through his nose, letting the air ease some of his nausea.
June first, the beginning of summer vacation.
His third summer without Mabel.
He’d be turning thirteen this year. He'd be a teenager, technically.
He'd be growing up without her.
Stanford would be waiting for him in the parking lot down the road, that’s what his parents had said. He’d probably seen the bus drive away.
Dipper looked into the forest of pine trees. He didn’t have to do this. Maybe he could run away. Chase down that bus and beg the driver to take him back home.
He could do that.
Instead, he just sighed and reached back to the small pocket of his backpack, taking out the granola bar, fruit snacks, and yogurt tucked in there. He’d already spotted the trash can, and began to make a beeline towards it.
“Uh, hey, are you… Dipper?”
Dipper jumped so hard the yogurt slipped out of his hand and landed on the ground with a splat that indicated it had not survived the fall. He glanced down, his hand with the other snacks still outstretched.
His eyes trailed from the spilled yogurt to a pair of shoes that must belong to the man with the gruff voice who'd just addressed him. There was no one else around.
Dipper looked up to take in his appearance. He was wearing a suit, a bit much for picking up your nephew from the bus stop, in his opinion. He wore a weird hat that probably had a specific name, but Dipper didn't care enough to know it. It was just a weird hat. His wrinkled features formed a smile that almost reached the eyes, but not quite.
“Yeah,” Dipper squeaked. He cleared his throat several times, but words took a minute to form. “I was just… throwing these wrappers away.”
He quickly dropped both of the wrappers in the trash. See, he wasn't lying– He technically was doing what he said he was. Throwing the wrappers away… along with the snacks.
“Not a fan of yogurt?” The old man asked, looking down at the mess on the sidewalk.
“Don't like the aftertaste.” Dipper crouched down and picked up the container, trying not to get yogurt on his fingers as he tossed that into the trash as well.
He wiped his fingers on his shorts and looked up at the man in front of him.
“You're Stanford?” He asked.
“Yeah, but you can just call me your Grunkle Stan,” he announced, his grin widening.
Too friendly. He was just trying to make him feel better. He didn’t mean any of that. He probably was only letting Dipper stay out of obligation. You don’t argue with a couple who thinks their daughter is dead. Well, Dipper was having none of it.
“Thanks, Great Uncle Stanford,” he mumbled. He'd take every act of defiance he could get. Grunkle isn't even a word.
He winced. “You gonna stick with that mouthful all summer?”
Dipper nodded and crossed his arms, looking away.
Crickets. Literally, there was a chorus of cricket chirps coming from the forest by the road.
Great Uncle Stanford… or, sure, Stan… clapped his hands together. “Want me to take one of your bags?”
His hand reached for the suitcase Dipper had let go of—
Panic. He can't have that.
Dipper snatched the handle and yanked it away, scraping the wheels against the concrete. The sound grated against his ears and sent a horrible shiver down his spine. He lost his balance and stumbled, the weight of all the books in his backpack pulling him backwards. Stan's hand reached out again.
He's trying to take it!
“You can't!” Dipper snapped, finally steadying himself, leaning on the suitcase. His breathing and heartbeat had both picked up pace, he could hear it in his ears and feel it in his chest.
His eyes darted from the suitcase to Stan's hands, which were now held up, as if in surrender. He said something, but his voice was distant.
Dipper's gaze finally settled on the ground, his thoughts beating him up for his overreaction. There's no way Stan could know what was in there… right?
“...Kid? You okay?”
The question had been asked at least twice already and about a million times in the past two years. Every time, he had two options.
Lie, or tell the truth.
Dipper nodded, choosing the former.
“I'll carry it myself, thanks,” he muttered.
Stan led the way back to his car, an old looking thing with a license plate that read “STNLYMBL”.
“Was it headlights, then? Do you remember what it looked like, the license plate?”
“I told you it wasn't a car! I'm telling the truth!”
Dipper shuddered.
Stan offered him the front passenger seat, but Dipper took the back. He could keep an eye on his bags here, and he didn't want to be close to his uncle anyway.
The car smelled weird. It wasn't one specific scent he could place, every car had a smell. Dipper decided he did not like this smell, just like he didn't like Great Uncle Stanford.
Stan tried to start a conversation a couple times, but Dipper either replied with one word answers or not at all, making it clear he didn't want to talk. He just looked out the window, especially as the road got bumpy and made his stomach flip. He was glad he hadn't eaten.
A cabin came into view through the trees. Dipper knew this was the destination, it was written in big letters across the side of the roof. Mystery Shack.
“Home sweet home,” Stan sighed as he pulled up to the house. Cabin. Shack. Whatever.
Dipper may have rushed a little to get out, but in his defense, he'd been on the road all day. And the car smelled weird, so fresh air was welcome.
He adjusted the straps of his backpack on the sweater, not letting go of the suitcase. Stan locked the car and watched him, waiting patiently…
…or eyeing the bags so he could take them…
Dipper gripped the suitcase handle tightly.
Stan led him inside, the main entry leading into a gift shop. Dipper's curious eyes darted around, taking in everything from snow globes to bobbleheads to t-shirts and hats.
“I closed shop early to pick you up,” Stan explained. “But this place is usually bustling, ya know?”
Dipper shrugged. No, he didn't know.
Bustling. He hated things that were bustling. He hated people.
Behind an “Employees Only” door was an unfamiliar living room, with thick carpet, a chair, a TV… a side table that looked like a dinosaur skull? If Dipper was eight, he would have gotten excited, but he was not in the mood, and not a little kid anymore.
…he did have to admit it was pretty cool.
Not that he'd let Stan know he thought that. He tore his eyes away from it and followed him past the living room to a hallway with stairs.
“I've got you set up in the attic,” Stan told him. “Want me to carry one of your bags upstairs…?”
Dipper looked up the stairs. There'd be another set for the attic, surely. He weighed his options, then slowly nodded.
“My backpack,” he told Stan, temporarily setting down his duffel bag. He took off his backpack and handed it over.
“Yeesh, you got bricks in here or somethin’?” Stan laughed, going for a forced joke.
“Books,” he corrected. There was one book more important than the rest. He looked right at his Great Uncle Stanford as he told him, “Be careful. You'd better give it back.”
“Don't worry, kid, unless you got a million bucks in here, I'm not takin’ this.”
Dipper wouldn't give up the contents of that bag for a billion.
“Still, I'm surprised you carried this all the way here,” Stan said as he led him upstairs. “You're pretty strong for your size.”
He couldn't tell if that was supposed to be a compliment to his strength or a comment on how small he was. Either way, it made Dipper uncomfortable.
He didn't reply.
The landing upon entering the attic was empty, save for a nook under a window, which was adorned with an illuminati-looking triangle design. It was creepy, and made Dipper feel like he was being watched. For a second he worried this would be his room, but Stan opened another door.
The light in the room came from the triangle-shaped window, but it was a decent amount of light. There was a bed, a table, and a bit of clutter pushed to the side. A full length mirror rested on the wall beside the table. A painting hung on the opposite wall of the bed, of a boat on waves. Despite Stan likely setting this up recently, there were spiderwebs in the corners of the ceiling.
Stan set the backpack down on the floor. “Welp! I'll let you get settled. I'll come get you for dinner later.”
When Dipper didn't respond, Stan left after a moment, closing the door behind him.
Dipper walked forward and stood in the center of the empty room. He dropped his duffel bag on the floor and let go of the suitcase.
Inexplicably, tears stung his eyes. His throat closed up, and he pressed his hands onto his eyelids. He'd cried so much today.
He didn't want to be here. He didn't like Great Uncle Stanford, he didn't like how weirdly quiet it was outside, he didn't want to stay, he wanted to go home, he didn't want to eat, he didn't want to sleep, he didn't want to do anything except find his sister.
How was he supposed to find her from all the way in Oregon?
It wasn't fair!
He was the only one who'd ever tried to find her and now they sent him away so he couldn't.
Dipper kicked a crate at the foot of the bed and dropped down to sit on the floor. He pulled the turtleneck of Mabel's sweater over his face, pushing up his hat until it fell off of his head.
He cried. Part sad, part angry. Maybe part scared, too.
What if his parents were right, what if being here would make him forget Mabel?
No. No, he wouldn't let that happen.
He refused to get settled in. He'd keep his bags by the door so he could run away when he got the chance.
He began to think of a plan.
Dipper got up and moved to the bed. The pillowcase felt strange on his face and the bedding had that stiff, fresh out of the wash and hung up to dry, feeling. But it didn't feel clean, either.
He turned away from the room and faced the wall. He planned to stay here for at least a few hours. This was how he was going to skip dinner. After all, he'd had an exhausting day, it'd make sense if he'd decided to go to sleep. Stan wouldn't disturb him, right?
Of course, he wasn't actually going to sleep.
He traced stars into the dust on the wall, trying to pass the time. When Stan came in to get him for dinner, he'd close his eyes and lie still. When he left, then he could get up.
Dipper waited.
And waited.
…And waited some more.
His arms felt empty. Usually he went to sleep holding one of Mabel's stuffed animals, sweaters, or her scrapbook. For comfort and reassurance.
He reminded himself that he wasn't actually going to sleep, but he felt wrong laying down with nothing to hold. The feeling bubbled up to the front of his mind, to make itself the most important.
Dipper relented and sat up. He'd just grab her scrapbook, it would be quick. He walked over to his backpack by the door, quickly unzipping it to look inside.
He heard creaking. Footsteps on the stairs.
He quickly scrambled up and began to go back to bed—but the scrapbook! He couldn't just leave it in there with the bag open! He doubled back and pulled it from in between a stack of books. Why was it wedged in so well?
His mind was racing, no, why, why now? He managed to tug it free just as there was a knock on the door. Dipper got up and started to rush back to bed, but.
But the door opened.
His plan had been ruined.
Dipper froze in place as he heard the door creak behind him.
He hugged the scrapbook to his chest, hopefully hiding it from view.
He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, he could see the door from there. Great Uncle Stanford was peering through.
“Hey, you hungry?” He asked.
…
Dipper shrugged. “Not really.”
Stan sighed. “Have you actually eaten today at all.”
He rubbed his thumb over the side of the scrapbook cover.
“I was just gonna unpack,” he said, avoiding the question.
“You can unpack after dinner,” Stan told him. “You like chicken nuggets?”
“I'm not five.”
He did like chicken nuggets, actually. They were a good, simple food.
Stan's reflection shrugged. “Nothin’ wrong with enjoying the classics.”
He caught Dipper’s eye in the mirror, and Dipper quickly looked down at the wooden floor. He traced the tip of his shoe along the side of a floorboard, not giving a response.
Stan sighed again. “You can’t hole yourself up here all summer.”
“Yes, I can.”
Stan chuckled. What was he laughing about? Dipper turned around to give him his best glare, but his smile didn’t falter.
They just looked at each other. Dipper didn’t want to be the first to look away. He didn’t blink.
He was trying to rework his expectations to fit this… he really didn’t feel like eating today. Stan wasn’t going to let this go…
Come to think of it, there was something he wanted to ask Stan about.
…
“I’ll be there in a sec,” Dipper muttered, turning away.
“Five minutes, kid. Wouldn’t want the food to get cold.”
He waited until he saw Stan’s reflection leave, then pushed the door shut. He opened Mabel’s scrapbook to where his fingers automatically took him.
A couple pages before the last one she’d written in.
A photo.
Mabel and Dipper, sitting on the floor over a handmade poster. Mabel was grinning up at the camera, and Dipper, who hadn’t noticed his mom standing there, was putting a cap onto a marker.
A mundane, unimportant moment, to any outsider.
It was the last photo they’d taken together.
Dipper had every detail memorized by now.
He looked at it often, along with all the other photos he’d gathered, from Mabel’s scrapbook and from anywhere else he could find. School yearbooks. Family photos. Missing posters. Anything to help him remember her face.
He was so afraid of forgetting.
Then again, it was kind of hard to do when he saw her every time he looked in the mirror.
He wondered if she looked like he did now. He’d changed. She probably did, too.
Dipper walked over to the mirror and forced a smile, trying to imagine Mabel’s bubbly personality in the person he saw in front of him. The deep eyebags, the hollow gaze. The red eyes from crying up a river all day.
The smile came out empty.
It didn’t look like hers.
“You can do this, Dipper,” he whispered to his reflection, taking his voice up in pitch to match her usual tone.
Finally, he let the smile drop. Took a deep breath. Scooped his hat up from the ground and pulled it over his head. Before leaving, he wedged the scrapbook back into his backpack and zipped it up. Nice and safe.
He closed the door behind him and slowly went down the stairs, one step at a time. He stepped harder than necessary on each stair, out of habit more than anything. The habit of making his presence known when coming down. The wood creaked under his feet.
He followed his ears to the kitchen, where Stan was setting ketchup on a small table. He’d also set out a plate for each of them. He looked up when Dipper entered.
“There you are,” He said with a smile. Dipper disregarded it. He winced at the sound the chair made when he pulled it out to sit in.
Stan pushed the large bowl of chicken nuggets towards Dipper. “Have as much as you want.”
Dipper felt like he could feel Stan's eyes on him as he used his fork to serve himself… two chicken nuggets. He pushed the bowl back, and Stan raised an eyebrow.
“I'm not very hungry.” He hadn't planned on having to eat, that wasn't helping.
While Stan got some for himself, Dipper used the side of his fork to cut each nugget in half, then in half again. One more time for good measure. Now it looked like a lot more.
He grabbed the ketchup and squirted some onto his plate. It seemed to be a new bottle, so it came out a lot faster than he'd meant to.
“You want some nuggets with that ketchup?” Stan snickered. Dipper rolled his eyes.
Stan began to eat, and Dipper felt his gaze on him as he did the same. One piece at a time.
Stop it.
It was just two nuggets. Barely any nutritional value, for sure. It wouldn't do anything.
You'll grow.
It wouldn't do anything.
You’ll forget.
Stan seemed to be satisfied with Dipper beginning to eat, and while he wasn't looking, Dipper watched his face carefully.
The only sound was the scraping of forks and the hum of the refrigerator.
It was now or never. It wasn't like he planned to stick around here for long.
“So what happened to your twin?” Dipper asked.
Stan stopped mid bite and choked— it seemed he'd inhaled a bit of food. Dipper didn't take his eyes off of him, watching as he held up a hand before chugging down his glass of water.
“Ugh— What'd you say?”
“My parents said you had a twin,” Dipper clarified. “What happened to him.”
The fridge seemed to get louder in the silence that stretched between them.
Stan looked away, clearing his throat. “Ah, yeah. My brother.”
“Stanley.”
“…yeah, that was his name.”
The fridge hummed on.
“What happened,” Dipper asked again.
Stan rubbed the side of his face, seeming to take a moment to think before answering.
“He, uh, car crash,” he sighed. “Brakes were cut or somethin’.”
“Or something?” Dipper repeated. “Shouldn't you know, don't you care—”
“Kid, it was thirty years ago!” Stan raised his voice, but Dipper didn't back down.
“They didn't even find a body,” Dipper told him. It was a fact he'd learned when he'd asked his parents for more details.
They'd probably intended to use it as an example for Dipper to be able to move on with what little closure he had with Mabel's funeral.
It just made him mad at Great Uncle Stanford, for caring so little about his twin.
“How do you know that,” Stan sounded tense and tired of this topic.
“How do you know he's dead!” Dipper countered. “A car crash, no body, isn't that suspicious? Would he have a reason to fake his death—”
“Kid, will you drop it? It's none of your business!” His hand had curled into a fist now.
“Yes it is! You gave up on your twin—!”
Stan's fist came down, hitting the table hard enough to rattle the plates.
That shut Dipper up.
Stan looked surprised at himself, and had to take a deep breath before speaking again.
“I would never give up on him.”
Dipper looked down at his plate.
“It feels like you did,” he whispered.
“I know.”
The fridge was louder than ever. The sound was beginning to claw into Dipper's ears and scrape at his brain. In a bad way.
Stan inhaled and sighed, long and tired.
“Eat up, kid.”
“I'm full,” Dipper mumbled. That conversation had killed what little appetite he had.
“Nuh uh. That was one nugget at most,” he motioned to Dipper's plate.
“Why are you paying so much attention?” Dipper complained under his breath.
“‘Cause you're under my care for the summer, and your parents would kill me if I let you wither away.” He picked up his fork and placed another nugget onto Dipper's plate. “Bon appetit.”
Dipper scowled, growing more and more frustrated with this man. He had no right to force him to eat when he didn't want to.
He got to work on cutting up the third nugget.
“So what kind of hobbies you got?” Stan attempted a conversation.
Dipper shrugged, refusing to give him the satisfaction.
“You like fishing?”
“Why would I like fishing?” Dipper squished a nugget piece with his fork.
“Ever been?”
“Well, no,” he admitted.
“There's a lake near here,” Stan suggested. “Could be fun.”
Dipper shrugged again.
Stan tried again. “What kind of books did you bring?”
“Books,” he answered simply.
Stan sighed.
He tried a few more times at a conversation, but Dipper was having none of it. Because of Stan's stubborn, watchful eyes, Dipper ended up finishing everything on his plate, except the pool of ketchup that remained. He spread that around with his fork, drawing stars.
“You like stars,” Stan observed. “Your hat, your sweater…”
“This is Mabel's sweater,” Dipper informed him. “I'm just holding onto it until she gets back.”
“Ah.”
…
“You don’t believe me,” Dipper accused.
“I never said that.”
“You didn’t have to. You think I’m crazy like everyone else.”
Stan winced. “Nobody thinks you’re crazy.”
Dipper, in his usual fashion, didn’t reply.
He wanted to repeat that she was coming back, that he was going to get her back, and that what he’d seen the day she’d disappeared hadn’t been natural, it wasn’t a car or a person or anything, but he had no way to prove that, and… he had to make Stan believe he’d be fine. Just for tonight, he couldn’t act in ways that tended to get him sent to the guidance counselor, or back to therapy.
Then he’d leave.
After enough time for the conversation to be six feet under, Dipper stood up from the table. “You’re right, Great Uncle Stanford.” He forced a smile that felt incredibly uncomfortable on his face. Combine that with all he’d eaten, it felt like he was going to gag.
He felt Stan’s confused gaze on his back as he walked to the sink and placed his ketchup-covered plate inside. Suddenly, Stan was beside him, putting his plate in as well. Dipper flinched, quickly pulling his hands close to himself, tugging the sleeves over them as he backed away. Stan glanced over.
“I’m… going to bed,” Dipper told him, his voice much quieter than he wanted it to be. Each word took too much effort to get out.
He ran away and up the stairs before he could hear Stan's reply.
He was out of breath by the time he shut himself in his room in the attic. He leaned against the door, hearing nothing but his own breathing in his ears. His heart pounded and he felt shaky.
The room went black for a moment.
Dipper sat on the floor.
He didn't know how long he sat there, eyes unfocused, staring towards the window.
When he softly landed back in his body, the room was dim. He blinked and glanced around. His hands were in fists, so he unclenched them. With that, his whole body lost its tension.
Dipper traced a finger over the crescent-shaped marks on his palm, the stinging pain quickly fading.
Inhale, exhale.
A thousand voices talked in his mind at that reminder.
Panicked late nights and therapy sessions.
A police station.
Dipper, calm down. Just breathe.
He felt cold.
Dipper opened the backpack beside him and removed Mabel's scrapbook. Simply having it in his hands comforted him. Grounded him. The varying texture of the cover, the weight of the pages. He traced his finger over each letter in her name, making the same promise he'd made a million times.
I won't give up on you.
It took tremendous effort for Dipper to heave himself to his feet and stumble over to the bed. He wasn't going to sleep, but he felt cold and alone. It was an unfamiliar bed, but maybe the stiff blankets could help.
He tucked himself in with the scrapbook. It wasn't as bad as he remembered. He pressed his face to the pillow, letting it soak up tears that he hadn't realized were there.
Dipper wrapped both of his arms around the scrapbook, curling up under the covers. He wasn't going to sleep, he was going to leave.
He was supposed to run away.
Mabel was counting on him, he had to find her.
But he didn't want to get up. He was cold. And tired.
He hadn't gotten much sleep last night.
His eyes felt heavy.
Next thing he knew, Dipper was jolted awake by the feeling of falling.
He sat up in bed, suddenly out of breath. Suddenly too warm, sweating.
He threw the blankets to the side and quickly took Mabel's sweater off, draping it over the headboard.
The scrapbook.
It was now nearly pitch black in the room, the most light coming from the moonlight in the window. He must have been asleep for at least an hour or two.
Dipper began feeling around, breathing a sigh of relief when his fingers brushed the familiar texture.
He turned his pillow over to the cold side and fell backwards onto it, holding the scrapbook over his chest.
What was he doing?
Oh yeah.
He was supposed to be leaving.
He still wanted to, but… that plan seemed irrational now. He'd calmed down, returned to the present, and he knew it would have gotten him nowhere except either lost or mauled to death by whatever lurked in these woods. He'd never been this close to nature.
But he couldn't just go back to sleep. Despite the headache that tugged at the front of his brain.
Dipper tossed and turned, until he gave up and got out of bed.
He felt his way to the table, where he remembered seeing a lantern earlier. He prayed that it was electric and had batteries.
His hand found the lantern, and soon the button on the side. Perfect. He clicked it on and suddenly he could see again. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust.
That's when he noticed that the window was actually open. He set the scrapbook carefully down, he wanted to get a look outside.
Dipper climbed up from the bed onto the table, then pulled the window open further so he could stick his head out.
The fresh air was nice. He would keep this window open.
A silly part of him wanted to attempt to escape through the window, like a ninja, but he knew full well that would land him in the hospital. He didn't like hospitals.
So, he got down from the table and sat back in bed.
He spent a long time looking through Mabel's scrapbook. Studying each page, as he often did. He heard a mosquito somewhere in the room, but didn't really care, though he knew he'd care a lot more when he got bitten.
When he finished, he dragged himself over to the mirror and sat in front of it. Crisscross applesauce, scooting as close as he could.
He leaned forward until his forehead rested against the cool surface, soothing his headache.
Dipper looked at his reflection, but didn't meet its eyes.
He closed them and spoke softly.
“I want to go home,” he told Mabel. “I want to see you again. I miss you.”
He reached for her hands, but was met with cold glass.
“I'm not giving up. I just have to find a safe way back,” he promised. “Wouldn't be great if I died… then we'd really never see each other again.”
Because Mabel wasn't dead.
“Great Uncle Stanford is weird. I don't like him.”
No matter what he said, he gave up on his twin. Dipper could never forgive him for that.
“I'll unpack tomorrow,” he decided. “So he doesn't think I'm going to leave.”
He did kind of want to unpack all his stuff.
Dipper continued to mumble to his reflection, for minutes,
and hours,
and forever.
He fell asleep there, forehead pressed to what he wanted to believe was his twin's.
But Mabel had no constellation.