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“What the hell does Ford have him doing out there?” asks Stan lackadaisically, sipping on a strawberry lemonade that he and Mabel just cooked up. It is the hottest week of the summer, and the two are cooped up under the shade of the veranda.
Mabel sits on her knees in the chair beside him, tipping another packet of Stan’s Sweet-N-Low into her glass. “Disinfecting some kind of gadget parts. Apparently, gnome saliva is very dangerous,” she answers.
Stan grunts, keeping an eye on Dipper. He’s out there wearing a hazmat suit, standing over one of the outdoor folding tables, which is laden with gadget parts of various shapes and sizes. Ford was nowhere to be seen. Stan takes a swig of his pink drink. Dipper rounds to the other side of the folding table—tripping over one of the folds in his too-large hazmat suit.
Stan is tight in his chair as the boy successfully catches his balance. But then a second later, he faints.
Stan is up from his chair in an instant. “Dipper!” Mabel cries while her uncle bolts across the lawn.
Stan unzips the suit—trying his best to avoid iridescent rainbow goo—and slips Dipper out of it like a shell. The kid’s hair is plastered with sweat from nape to crown. Stan picks him up and carries him inside the kitchen.
Placing the boy on the kitchen counter, he yells for Ford to come up. Where the hell was he? Stan places Dipper on the cool countertop. Heavy footsteps pound up the laboratory stairwell. Meanwhile, Dipper is listless, pale, and not very responsive.
The look on Ford’s face as he reaches the landing… “Dipper!” he hollers, rushing over. “Dipper, it’s your Uncle Ford. Is he alright?”
Their nephew shifts—but does not rouse.
Ford is already unsheathing his pocket vitals machine. “Did you see any gnome saliva on him when you found him?” he asks.
Stan wanted to slap him. “He’s done collapsed from heatstroke, you idiot. Dipper, it’s Stan. We’re gonna get you cooled off, kiddo.”
“Blood pressure is low. His temp is 103.4 degrees,” Ford says worriedly.
Stan glares at him. He found himself combing his thick fingers through the kid’s sweat-slicked hair. “You are not a medical doctor.”
“I never said I was, Stan,” Ford states categorically. “I have 14 Ph.Ds., and a Bachelor of Science in Nursing. You said Mabel’s running a bath, right?”
Suddenly, Dipper’s whole body stiffens and shudders on the countertop peninsula. His eyes fly open. “What did I just do?” he asks fretfully.
“You fainted. You’re gonna be alright,” Stan answers gently.
Stan carries him through the hallways in the house to the bathtub. As he lowers Dipper in, the kid’s body twitches from the sharp cold. Mabel stands in the doorway—her worried, pink fingers at her mouth. The empty ice cube trays sit discarded on the toilet seat.
Ford quickly follows behind. Stan saddles the side of the bathtub—one of his dark socks looming underwater. Poor Dipper dry heaves, but nothing comes up.
Dipper directs a fearful look to Grunkle Ford. “Am I…contaminated?”
Ford replies, “No, son. Just a touch of heat exhaustion, by the looks of it. Best for you to stay in the bath a while, I’m afraid.”
Ford offers him some cool water, and Dipper sips it slowly. Ford can’t tell, but Stan can see that Dipper looks horribly disappointed in himself.
“Temp’s better,” says Grunkle Ford. “Pressure’s bounced back, too.”
Together, they lay Dipper back, so that all but his face and the rounds of his shoulders were underneath the water. His shorts poof out to both sides. Mabel keeps him company. Ford disappears outside to retrieve the tableful of machinery pieces—apparently, they’re not supposed to be left out in the sun for too long.
The visceral zing! of the gnome saliva creeps into Stan’s spine. His head starts to feel a little light and airy under its influence. He ultimately ignores it. After some time, Stan grabs a bath towel from the top shelf of the closet. He shoos Mabel so that her brother can change and get into bed.
Stan wasn’t the tucking in type. But as he sat on the foot of the bed, he asks Dipper, “Kid, what were you thinking? Did you feel yourself overheating, or…?”
“I don’t know…maybe, but I was so focused on decontaminating,” he responds, ashamedly.
“Just—all I ask is that next time, listen to your body. Think you can do that for me?” says Stan.
“I will—next time,” Dipper replies sadly.
Grunkle Stan laughs— “Y’know, way-back-when, you had to throw something at your Grunkle Ford to get him to even look up at you, if he was in the middle of a really good book.”
Dipper beams.
“All’s I’m saying is—you didn’t get it from me,” Stan tells him.
“Where is Great Uncle Ford?” Dipper asks.
“Getting the gadgets. Something about the sun ‘degrading the finish.’ But he agreed with me: It’s best you take it easy the rest of the day,” Stan says grimly. “You’ll be up and at it tomorrow.”
Stan leaves Dipper to rest and descends to the basement lab.
Ford looks up as soon as he hears Stan’s footsteps. “How is he?” Ford asks worriedly.
Stan can’t help it—he sees red, and immediately shoves Ford into the concrete laboratory wall, pinning him there. He has his brother’s collar between his knuckles.
“You are on thin ice with me, Poindexter, do you get that?!” Stan hisses, inches from his face. “How old were you when you had your first job mowing lawns? You know that he idolizes you. He wants to please you—that’s why I can’t let him turn himself inside out doing your legwork.”
“I’m sorry, Stan, I’m terribly sorry,” Ford says helplessly.
Stan lets him go. The old man shakes his head. “Honestly, I think it’s good that you let him work with you. But when are you gonna get it through your thick, plated skull—he is not your peer, Stanford,” he says all too frustratedly.
Ford coughs. “I know that, Stanley—”
“You better,” Stan warns. “Because need I remind you—everybody else in the world thinks you died in ‘92. If anything happens to those two kids, it’s me who has to answer to their parents. You get that?”
“Understood,” answers Ford regretfully.
Stan grumbles something inaudible—and says nothing more to him before trumping back up the staircase.
McGuckett was the one who produced Ford’s industrial six-fingered gloves. Now that he had his memories back, the first thing Ford asked him for (aside from his forgiveness) was to make Dipper a pair as well. Ford had them on his desk because he was going to surprise Dipper with them once they returned. With how small they were—they looked silly now.
When Ford emerges from the basement lab, he tenuously asks where Dipper is.
“Sleeping,” Stan retorts, sitting at the table with Mabel, playing cards. “Best you let him.”
“Grunkle Ford, do you want us to deal you in?” Mabel asks kindly. Stan’s stony face is in his lap.
“Sure. I can play one round,” Ford says.
After several, Ford enters the twins’ bedroom, finally hoping to apologize to Dipper, but he’s out like a light—little threads of drool hanging from his lower lip. Ford places the note on Dipper’s bedside, and the gloves on top to weigh it down. Outside, Mabel is calling a bit too loud because it’s his turn.
Ford closes the door quietly, saying a quick prayer for forgiveness.
*end*