Chapter Text
seven
They load the kraken’s head into the bed of Soos’ truck shortly before noon, and make it to Greasy’s Diner in time for a late lunch. Stanley and Soos lead the way inside, talking boisterously to each other. Ford lingers behind to re-assess the plastic tarp covering his newest specimen—it wouldn’t do if someone got too close or too curious. Satisfied that the head will be safe for a brief recess, he follows his companions across the parking lot.
The diner is just as Ford remembered it: quaint, messy, and suffused with the ever-present smell of fryer grease and burnt breading. They seem fortunate enough to have missed the lunch rush, as only a few other patrons currently pepper the diner’s seats. Ford slides into a booth across from Stanley and Soos, the sticky vinyl squeaking as he scoots across it. He finds a crack in the upholstery next to his leg, and can’t stop himself from picking absently at the yellow foam spilling out.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” their waitress exclaims as she approaches. “Stanford Pines, I haven’t seen you in ages.”
“Hello,” Ford says politely.
“Hey, Susan,” Stanley says, at the same time.
They trade a glance, and Stanley grimaces apolegetically.
“It’s Stanley, now,” Stanley clarifies, offering Susan a hand to shake. “My brother’s Stanford.”
Susan shakes his hand, and shakes her head. “Oh, that’s right—silly me. I’m sorry, Stanley and Stanford. Sometimes I still forget there are two of you, now.”
“Don’t worry about it, toots,” Stanley says, flashing her a raffish grin. “We’re just glad to see a familiar face after so long at sea—and boy, have I missed this old diner. Bet you missed me too, huh?”
“Oh, you,” Susan says, setting down their menus.
Syrup glues the pages of Ford’s menu together. He pries them apart and squints to read through the congealed mahogany mess. The options don’t appear to have changed since 1982. He orders the club sandwich and debates a coffee but, after glancing at the clock, decides against it. A water will do. Susan makes note of it on the yellowing pages of her writing pad before slipping it back into her stained apron.
“How are the kids settling in?” Stanley asks, once Susan has gone.
“Really well,” says Soos, and brings out his phone to show them photos. “They got all their stuff unpacked a few days ago, and they’ve been helping me out in the Shack since then. Dipper even brought home a stomach-faced duck yesterday. Abuelita was not impressed.”
Ford leans in, and Soos turns the phone to face him. On the phone’s small, square screen glows a picture of his niece and nephew—both beaming, both a little taller, a little pimplier, and holding a screaming stomach-faced duck between them.
“Send that to me,” Ford requests. He will make it his new background. “Please.”
Soos’ fingers fly over the phone’s keyboard. “You got it, dude.”
A moment later, Ford’s phone chirps at him. He fishes it from the deep pockets of his hoodie and saves the photo. He hopes Dipper made note of the duck’s properties for Ford to review. It is an absolutely ridiculous anomaly, and Ford loves it. It is far better than the stupid hawktopus.
Susan brings their food, and Ford eats with the same focus he affords all the important things in life: total. Stanley and Soos talk to each other more than him, but he can’t say that he minds. Soos seems a friendly enough man (gopher?) but his loyalty belongs to Stanley alone. They make a few token attempts to draw Ford into their conversation, and he indulges them as much as social nicety demands. Then he re-focuses on his fries.
After finishing his own hamburger, Stanley orders a slice of apple pie.
“My specimen,” Ford protests.
“It’s on ice,” says Stanley.
“The ice is melting,” Ford points out. Even in early June, summer heat blankets the town of Gravity Falls. “This much heat will accelerate cellular decay and increase the rate at which its proteins denature, not to mention the rate at which bacteria will multiply.”
“Meaning, uh,” Soos starts, and then falters.
“Meaning his testing will be done on subpar samples, and it’ll stink—literally,” Stanley says, scraping the whipped cream from his apple pie onto Ford’s plate. “Just give me another couple minutes. I’ll eat fast.”
Mollified, Ford spoons the whipped cream into his own mouth.
True to his word, Stanley finishes off his pie quickly. Ford pays for their meal and allows Stanley to cover the tip. Their research pays rather handsomely, these days, with significant financial support from the Community of the Odd and Paranormal. It’s a nice change of pace from Ford’s days hunting, scavenging, and stealing his way through the multiverse. He rather thinks Stanley feels the same.
Ford peeks beneath the tarp when they return to the truck, verifying that no one has bothered his specimen. Once satisfied, he climbs into the back seat and leans his head against the window. The glass bleeds pleasant warmth into his skin. As the truck winds along the rutted gravel drive leading to the Mystery Shack, the jostling of the window becomes rather violent, and Ford straightens. At his behest, Soos backs the truck as closely to the front porch as he can.
“That will do nicely,” Ford says, as he exits the truck. “Thank you, Soos.”
Before he has a chance to unveil his specimen, a teenage girl tackles him.
“Great Uncle Ford!” Mabel shouts, wrapping her scrawny arms around his middle and squeezing so tightly he feels a rib pop. “Hi hi hi hi, I missed you so much, oh my gosh! I can’t believe you’re really here.”
Ford laughs and settles his arms around her shoulders, squeezing more gently in return. “Hello, Mabel dear. I missed you, too.”
Stanley, meanwhile, wrestles Dipper into a headlock for a reunification noogie.
“Agh, Grunkle Stan!” Dipper complains, endeavoring to pry his head free—valiant, but ultimately unsuccessful. Stanley is quite strong, and Dipper is still a bit noodle-y. “Seriously?”
Taking pity on his nephew, Ford offers, “Trade?”
“Trade,” Stanley agrees.
They swap the twins, and Ford embraces Dipper.
“How are you, my boy?” he asks.
“I’m good,” Dipper says, smiling so hard his eyes crinkle at the edges. “I’m really good. What about you guys?”
“We’re good, too,” Ford says, truthfully. The time he and Stanley have spent at sea has been nothing short of incredible. “I brought you a present.”
“Really?”
“A present?” Mabel whirls around in Stanley’s arms, and he releases her with one last ruffle of her hair. “I want to see!”
Soos drops the tailgate of the truck, and Dipper strains to see around Ford.“What is it?” he asks, rather impatiently.
Ford steps back and, with a showman’s flourish learned from Stanley, tosses the tarp from the kraken’s head. “Might I introduce you to the Lesser Pacific Kraken—or, well, part of it, anyway.”
Mabel gasps and clambers fearlessly into the truck bed to examine the specimen more closely, pushing aside half-melted bags of ice to reach it. Dipper climbs up more cautiously, crouching in front of the kraken’s long muzzle. It is a prime specimen, in Ford’s opinion—it had been a healthy, living creature only yesterday. He would have allowed it to continue to live, too, if only it hadn’t tried to kill Stanley. Things that try to kill Stanley must die. This is one of the many laws in Ford’s world.
“This is amazing, Uncle Ford,” Dipper breathes, ducking his head to see the kraken’s fangs. “It must have been enormous.”
“Seventy-two feet and three inches, from muzzle to tail-tip,” Ford agrees. “Actually rather small, for its subspecies. Some of those we encountered exceeded a hundred feet. Of course, as I’m sure you will recall, even that size is rather paltry compared to its cousin the Greater Pacific Kraken.”
“It’s so pretty,” Mabel says, petting its smooth brown scales. “Why’d you have to kill it?”
“It tried to eat Stanley.”
Mabel nods knowingly. “Grunkle Stan does have a lot of meat on his bones. He’s very snack-able.”
“Alright, alright, c’mon, kids,” Stanley says, pinching Mabel’s ear. “Let’s get your present inside before it decays anymore.”
With Soos and Stanley’s help, Ford carries the kraken’s head into the basement laboratory. Stanley resists the location, at first—“I don’t like either of us goin’ down there anymore, Ford”—but relents when Ford lists their other options, including but not limited to: living room floor, bathtub, kitchen table, or front porch. They heave the head onto a sturdy steel table downstairs, and Ford packs it with ice once more. Then he cranks down the lab’s thermostat, determined to preserve it as long as he can.
“Let me take a few sample while it’s as fresh as possible,” Ford says, trading his thick blue hoodie for a lab coat and going to scrub his hands in the nearby sink. “Then I’ll be right up.”
“Can I help?” Dipper asks eagerly.
“Of course.”
“You two nerds have fun,” Stanley says, heading back towards the elevator. “I’m gonna go start unpacking.”
Mabel and Soos follow him, chattering merrily the entire way. After washing their hands, Ford and Dipper tug on heavy-duty nitrile gloves and get to work. First, Ford removes the kraken’s eyes and sets them in a jar of formalin facing away from him. Next, they preserve several small samples of skin, mucosa, and scale in smaller jars of formalin, and set aside the kraken’s teeth for later study. Dipper smears different tissue types onto glass slides, and Ford fixes the cells with paraformaldehyde. After rinsing them in a buffer, he stacks them in a slide box to dry for later examination.
Pleasant conversation flows between them as they work, sharing their discoveries over the last few weeks. They had video-called each other monthly during their time apart, and e-mailed even more regularly, so there isn’t too much to catch each other up on.
“I saw you caught a stomach-faced duck,” Ford mentions, as he begins to remove the kraken’s hide. A thick layer of blubber lies beneath it, and he leans over to make note of this in his journal.
“Yeah,” Dipper says, fixing a new blade onto one of the scalpels. “I found it by the Corduroys’ cabin with a flock of mallards. I took some pictures and some measurements and then let it go where I found it.”
“Did you see the peristalsis when it screamed?”
“Oh, man, yeah. That was super creepy.”
“Super creepy,” Ford agrees. “Scientifically amazing.”
Dipper rolls the kraken’s hide out over the floor once they finish removing it. “Which salt do you want?”
“Any of those in the cabinet will do. Just be sure it has no iodine in it.”
While Dipper salts the hide, Ford begins the arduous process of removing the kraken’s muscles layer-by-layer and sketching their shapes and attachments. So involved in the work is he that he doesn’t notice the chill settling across the lab. It only registers when he sees Dipper’s hands shaking. He looks up, following the shaking from Dipper’s hands to his shoulders to his jaw. The boy’s teeth chatter.
“Ah, I’m sorry, Dipper,” he says, guilt stretching awake in his chest. “It’s freezing down here. Let’s go upstairs and warm up.”
“I’m okay,” Dipper insists, doing his best to stop shivering; it only makes him look constipated. “Really.”
Ford shakes his head. “We have the time-sensitive samples. Let’s not suffer for no reason.”
They shed their lab coats and gloves, and wash their hands once more before ascending to the Shack proper. The vending machine slides shut behind them, and Ford sticks three dollars into it—daylight robbery, that. It gives him a bag of jellybeans in return. He shakes a few into Dipper’s palm.
“Thank you for your help,” he says.
“Anytime,” Dipper says, holding the jelly beans close to his chest like they’re something precious. “Do you, uh, wanna see my journal? I’ve been doing some research into ghosts.”
“I would love that.”
Dipper runs to get his journal, and Ford settles down at the kitchen table. He munches the jellybeans, savoring their tacky, sweet texture between his teeth. Stanley comes through to grab a soda from the fridge, wrinkling his nose as he passes.
“You smell like a preserved corpse.”
“Empty flattery will get you nowhere.”
Stanley holds a hand out expectantly.
Ford passes him the lemon jelly beans, which are the worst flavor and—conveniently—one of Stanley’s favorites.
“It’s the formalin,” Ford explains, in regards to his corpse-adjacent scent.
“What, did you bathe in it?”
Dipper reappears, sitting down across from Ford with his own journal: a thick blue book with a silver pine tree on the front, inside of which is written the number one in thick blue ink. He flips to the proper page and pushes it towards Ford. Ford obligingly pushes his own journal—number five—towards Dipper for review.
“Eugh, reading,” Stanley says, and feigns a shudder. “Your stuff’s in your room whenever you get done geeking out, Ford.”
“Thank you, Stanley.”
Ford reads Dipper’s journal carefully, making quiet noises of interest and offering tips or topics for further study. Dipper does the same to Ford’s own journal, albeit more hesitantly—still too nervous to criticize or contradict The Author, even after all these months. Ford praises each question or idea he proposes. A little extra confidence will do the child no harm.
“I’m trying to get a ghost on camera,” Dipper explains, as Ford reviews the page discussing this very concept. “I’ve started a paranormal investigation video series online. It’s, uh—a work in progress. But if I could get undeniable proof of ghosts on video, I think it would really take off.”
Dipper’s journal outlines several ideas in square blue letters: mirrors, specialized filters, long exposure photography, and quartz lenses.
“I’ve never tried to capture a ghost on video,” Ford admits. In truth, he’s only had a few experiences with ghosts—and most of those at Dan’s cabin, the summer of ’81. At the time, he had been more focused on escaping with his life than taking photos. “We could certainly try some of these things.”
“Now we just need to find somewhere haunted,” Dipper says, rubbing his chin as he thinks. “The Dusk 2 Dawn has ghosts, but they, uh, aren’t a big fan of teenagers. I’d rather not go there again if I can help it.”
Ford hums, thinking briefly of Dan’s cabin before deciding against it. A level ten specter haunts there, and it wouldn’t do to risk Dipper’s life just for a video. “Let me do some asking around. I’m sure we can find somewhere.”
“Dipper!” Mabel bursts into the kitchen, a popsicle held in each fist. “We’re setting up a water balloon fight for when Melody gets here. Hurry and help me fill the balloons. I’m adding glitter.”
Diabolical, Ford admires, even as he decides not to participate.
Dipper abandons his journal and runs after his sister. Ford closes both journals and carries them upstairs, leaving Dipper’s on his nightstand before entering his own room. In the nine months since the Pines left Gravity Falls, Soos has made several changes to the Shack. He replaced the battered sofa in Ford’s old room with a sturdy bunk bed, breaking up the shape of the large triangular window to the west. Two new nightstands bracket the bed, and a nautically-themed blue rug takes up most of the floor space. Innumerable doilies garnish every available surface. Ford’s old pictures and paintings have been swept away—burnt, Ford hopes, or otherwise destroyed—and a pinewood desk sits along one of the walls. He sets his journal down here, next to a cheerfully-sputtering ‘sugared lemonade’ candle. After a moment’s consideration, he moves the journal to his nightstand, far away from the flame.
Stanley has already claimed the bottom bunk, if the thick red blanket and lumpy pillows there are anything to go by. Curator Ponds—a fat, orange stuffed frog Mabel and Dipper had sent Stanley in one of their care packages—lords over the pillows, his fez askew. Ford gently straightens it before making his own bed on the top bunk and nestling Curator Pond’s blue brother, Dr. Ribberto, against the wall. Then he descends to unpack his other things, stocking the desk with all manner of pens, papers, and research files. The rest of his specimens he carries downstairs, to the basement.
Without Dipper to fill the silence, the lab weighs oppressively on Ford’s shoulders. He sets the specimen containers on a nearby shelf, sweeping away the dust that had gathered in his absence. Then he steps back to survey the empty space where the portal once loomed. It rests barren and untouched. The HVAC hums into the silence. Ford’s fingers twitch nervously. He turns once more to the kraken’s head, and does not think of things better forgotten.
Several hours later, Ford plugs in the bone saw just as Stanley arrives. He glances at the clock on the wall and finds that it reads 7:52 PM. Time passes with unusual speed in the lab, as always.
“Je-sus, it’s colder than the Arctic down here,” Stanley says, sweeping a sullen look across the room. “The hell, Sixer?”
“It helps to prevent decomposition,” Ford explains.
“There’s frost on the floor.”
“I designed the air conditioning system myself.”
“Jesus,” Stanley repeats.
“I’m not cold.”
“Yes you are. Your nose is running.”
“It isn’t.”
It is. Ford tries very hard not to sniffle, just to prove otherwise.
“Upstairs,” Stanley says. “Now.”
Ford considers balking, but he knows Stanley is only trying to look out for him. In fairness, he’s not wrong—Ford is cold, and hungry, and he hasn’t had anything to drink since leaving the diner that afternoon. He should probably tend to his pesky bodily needs before resuming his work. This lab simply makes it too easy to forget such things.
“Very well,” Ford agrees, with a put-upon sigh. He unplugs the bone saw, refreshes the ice around the kraken’s head, and covers it with wet towels to keep the tissue from drying out.
“Did you eat dinner?” Stanley asks.
“Er,” Ford says.
Stanley pinches the bridge of his nose. “Come on. There’s leftover spaghetti.”
Stanley sits at the kitchen table as Ford reheats a bowl of Abuelita’s spaghetti. He watches the bowl spin idly in the microwave, considering the upgrades he could make to the machine. Their microwave on the Stan o’ War can heat food in a nanosecond, and eliminate freezer burn. Stanley declared it one of Ford’s finest inventions—“way better than that doomsday portal to the multiverse BS.” Ford had to agree.
Ford sits, and eats, and watches Stanley watch him.
“You okay?” Stanley asks.
Ford swallows a mouthful of noodles and tart marinara. “Yes. Why do you ask?”
“Just checking. You don’t usually forget to eat, anymore.”
“I’m sorry,” Ford says, honestly, and sets down his fork with a soft clink. “I suppose I was distracted. I haven’t had a chance to dissect a kraken like this before.”
Ford has a lab aboard the Stan o’ War, but the sailboat’s constraints necessitated a significant reduction in its size. He doesn’t have room for thorough dissections of large anomalies like the krakens. But here—here, he has everything he needs and more.
“The kraken’ll be there tomorrow,” Stanley says. “In the meantime, we’re having a Ducktective marathon. You in?”
Ford nods earnestly.
“Finish your spaghetti,” Stanley says, pointing at Ford’s bowl. “I’m gonna make some popcorn.”
Ford finishes his spaghetti quickly, then chugs a glass of water and uses the restroom. By the time he nestles in on the couch with his family and a bowl of over-buttered popcorn, the cold of the lab has become a distant memory. Soos and Melody join them, and their cat Mr. Whiskers comes to curl in Ford’s lap. He strokes her back and listens to her purr as Ducktective solves yet another fantastic mystery.
Shortly before the second arc of the series, a knock sounds at the door. Soos pauses the episode and crosses the living room while Stanley feels behind the couch for the baseball bat he stashes there. Ford leans forward, positioning the bulk of his shoulders between the door and the children to hide them from view. Mabel assists in this endeavor not at all, leaning around him to watch as Soos opens the door.
“Dr. Pines?” the man at the door asks, wringing his hands together.
Ford assess the man rapidly: an unfamiliar adult, just shy of six feet tall, rather scrawny-looking, dressed in sweatpants and a ratty band t-shirt. To the naked eye, he appears unarmed. Ford relaxes, albeit minutely. Stanley releases the hidden baseball bat and lets his arm rest loosely on the back of the couch.
“Uh, I’m Soos,” Soos says.
“But Dr. Pines lives here, doesn’t he?” asks the man.
Ford rises from the couch, but Stanley catches his wrist before he can move forward.
“Not anymore,” Soos says. It isn’t a lie, technically—Ford and Stanley are just visiting for the summer. “Do you need him for something?”
“I think there are ghosts in my house,” the man says, glancing warily over his shoulder. “I heard that the man here, Stanford Pines, knew all about the paranormal. I thought maybe he could help me.”
“A haunting,” Dipper whispers. “Uncle Ford—”
“I know.” Ford ruffles Dipper’s hair and gently tugs his wrist loose of Stanley’s grip, crossing to Soos’ side and propping the door further open. He regards the man curiously. “Hello. I’m Dr. Stanford Pines. You have ghosts?”
“Yes,” the man breathes. “Please, can you help me?”
Sometimes, Ford thinks, the world has a funny way of working out.
“I would love nothing more,” Ford says, with perhaps too much enthusiasm, if the man’s face is anything to go by. No matter. “We start at sun-up tomorrow.”