Chapter Text
“Good morning, Grunkle Ford,” Mabel said from the kitchen. “Grunkle Stan made Stancakes.”
“Morning, Great Uncle Ford,” Dipper said.
“Eh,” said Stan. “Hey, bro.” He didn’t look up from his newspaper, instead just sipping at a mug of coffee.
Ford was already dressed in his usual red sweater and brown trench coat. He looked uncertainly about at the homey group, feeling like he didn’t quite belong. “N-no thanks,” he declined, grateful that nobody seemed to notice the quiver in his voice.
“Come on, Grunkle Ford,” Mabel insisted, “at least try some of my Mabel Juice?”
“What is...Mabel Juice?”
“DON’T TRY IT!” Stan and Dipper cried, shooting out of their chairs.
“It’s a blend of caffeine, sugar, more caffeine, glitter, and plastic dinosaurs,” the girl explained, pouring a liberal amount into a juice cup and taking a generous swig.
Ford shuddered. “I’ll pass, Mabel,” he said. He instead walked over to the coffee maker and poured himself a large helping of coffee. He took a sip of it black and shuddered. “Weak,” he coughed, and poured the drink down the sink. “Very weak.”
Stan’s eyes widened. “What do you mean, ‘weak’?” he cried. “That was my extra-strength coffee!”
“Not strong enough for me,” Ford said cooly, and began to make his own.
The others watched in horrified fascination as Ford made a cup of coffee that was at least five times stronger than Stan’s. “You could stay awake for days on that stuff!” Stan exclaimed.
“That’s kind of the point,” Ford replied under his breath.
“What did you say, Poindexter?” Stan growled.
“Nothing of importance.” Ford glowered back.
“I think I have a right to know.”
“Hey, hey, hey,” Mabel said, walking between the pair who were shooting daggers at each other. “Let’s not fight now. We can talk it out and find out what the problem is. Just hug it out!” She tried to tug on Ford’s coat, but he ripped it from her grasp and, with a dramatic flair of the brown fabric, took his coffee and bad attitude back downstairs behind the vending machine.
The room was quiet. Then, Mabel said, “Why can’t you two just get along?” and dropped her pitcher of Mabel Juice on the floor as she ran out of the room, wiping desperately at her eyes.
“I’ll...go after her,” Dipper said, and also left the room, calling his sister’s name. He followed her upstairs to the attic, where he heard soft sobs. “Mabel,” he said, “I’m coming in.”
“Sweatertown’s not accepting calls right now,” she whimpered as he entered, tucked into a corner behind the door, her sweater pulled over her head.
“Well, the secretary of Sweatertown should send out the message that Dipper’s come to get Mabel,” he said gently. “Look, Mabel,” he continued, sitting down beside her and putting a hand on her shoulder, “it’s been like thirty years since they last saw each other, and forty since they were friends. What did you expect? A giant party?”
Her reply was muffled. “It would be better than what I got.”
“I know, I understand. Just give them some time. It’s going to take a while for them to reconcile. Like you and Pacifica--you had to face real conflict before making up. Maybe there will be a problem in Gravity Falls someday that will be big enough to bring them together again.”
While Dipper was talking, Mabel had pulled her sweater down. She was staring, not at him, but just over his head. “D...Dipper?” she squeaked.
“Let me guess...I shouldn’t turn around?” Mabel’s eyes were huge. Then, there was chaos. Tentacles everywhere. A pungent and foul odor. Dipper being grabbed by huge, thick, black tentacles. One of them knocked Mabel into the door, cutting her forehead and slamming the door shut. As she blacked out, she saw Dipper, unconscious and pale, being carried out of a freshly broken window.
Meanwhile, Stan was left alone with his thoughts, most of them angry. Why did that big know-it-all always have to ruin their mornings? Worst of all, the reclusive jerk had made his niece cry! It always broke Stan’s heart when Mabel cried. He had half a mind to go after his brother and punch him for making Mabel sad. He got up and typed the code into the vending machine. The elevator creaked as it went down to the lowest level. “Ford,” he called, stepping out.
“Stan, what are you doing down here?” Ford cried angrily. “I’m doing some very important wo--!” He was cut off midsentence by Stan’s glare. “What did I do?”
“You made Mabel cry.” Stan’s shock grew as Ford stared blankly at him. “Why’re you giving me that look, Poindexter? Don’t you feel anything?”
Ford turned his back on Stan. “I have to work,” he said quietly.
“Why is it always ‘work’ this and ‘work’ that? Don’t you ever get lonely? Don’t you ever want to spend time with your family?” Stan grabbed his brother’s shoulder and spun him around to face him. “Look at me, Stanford, our family is falling apart, and has been since I opened that portal. I spent thirty years trying to get you home to us...to me...and I’m greeted by this. Maybe I just should have left you there.” Stan turned and returned upstairs, leaving a shell-shocked Ford behind him.
Stan decided to go and check on Dipper and Mabel. He went to the attic to see if Mabel was alright. When he knocked on the door, he didn’t hear anything. He was just a little worried, and called, “Mabel, sweetie...Dipper?” He got no answer.
Now he was very worried. “I’m coming in,” he said to the door, and turned the knob. Mabel laid unconscious on the floor, a nasty-looking cut on her head. The window was broken and Dipper was nowhere to be seen. Stan rushed to the little girl and shook her shoulder. “Mabel, pumpkin, wake up,” he gasped.
Something tapped his shoulder. “Dipper! Thank--!” It wasn’t Dipper.
Stan and the Thing fought fiercely over the unconscious Mabel. Whatever it was, he wouldn’t let it get her. As he wrestled it, he saw Mabel beginning to wake up. “Mabel, Mabel, go get Ford!” Stan yelled. “Run!” The girl stood, disoriented, but saw the Thing and recognized the danger.
“I’ll get him, Grunkle Stan!” she shouted, and ran. The Thing shot one of its tentacles towards the door, but Stan continued punching it and when it finally was able to open the door, Mabel was gone. “Atta girl, Mabel,” Stan sighed. The Thing was slowly constricting him, making him dizzy, crushing him. He couldn’t breathe...couldn’t breathe...darkness.
Mabel typed the code into the vending machine and tore down the stairs. She was shaking so badly she could barely stand, and she typed in the symbols to access the elevator with trembling fingers. The elevator couldn't go fast enough. “Grunkle Ford!” she cried, running towards the old man who was hunched over a desk, meticulously writing something. “You have to help!”
“Not now, Mabel,” he said absently, turning a page and looking over at some notes. “But Grunkle Ford--”
“Can't you see I'm busy?” he snapped.
“Grunkle Ford, they’ve got them!” she sobbed, tugging at his coat.
“I don't have time for games right now,” he yelled, turning to escort her back upstairs...and saw the panicked expression, the tears on her cheeks, and the deep cut on the forehead of the shaking girl. “Oh.” Ford opened his mouth to say something calming, but he stopped short and, with a gasp, lunged forward to catch the girl as she passed out.
Mabel woke up lying on a couch back upstairs. “Grunkle...Grunkle Ford?” she murmured, blinking blearily at the ceiling.
“Oh, Mabel. Thank goodness you’re--” He stopped short at the chilly gaze she gave him when she saw him. “Is...something wrong?”
“Don’t think I don’t remember how you acted towards me in the basement,” she said coolly.
Ford’s eyes widened. “I...Mabel, I….” The girl rolled over on the couch so her back was to him.
There was a long silence in which Ford awkwardly struggled to find words. Then, Mabel said to the back of the sofa, “Would you have listened to Dipper if he’d come instead of me?”
Ford hadn’t actually considered that. Of course he would have listened to Dipper. “Y-yes,” he said guiltily.
“Then why didn’t you believe me?”
He heard the tears and the hurt in her voice. He stretched out a six-fingered hand to touch her shoulder, and she flinched when he made contact. This pained him more than anything. “I...Mabel….” He shuddered with the knowledge that he had made this innocent girl cry. “I’m sorry.” He hung his head.
Mabel turned over again. “Grunkle Ford?”
He would still have to get used to the “Grunkle” thing. “Mmm?”
“I forgive you.” She sat up and flung her arms around his neck.
He awkwardly hugged her back, having not experienced a hug in over forty years. It was a feeling he’d have to get used to all over again.
“Now, Mabel,” he said, taking her by the shoulders and holding her at arm’s length, “what happened to Dipper and Stanley?”
Mabel sniffed. “I-I don’t know, all I remember is lots and lots of black tentacles and a great big red eye! It took Dipper and knocked me out. When I woke up Grunkle Stan was trying to protect me. He told me to find you and it took him away.”
Ford nodded understandingly. “Right. I’m going to have to do a lot of research to find out what we’re up against, how powerful it is, what species it is, and whether it’s even worth going after our brothers.” With a sweep of his trench coat, he left Mabel alone in the room, his openness gone.
Mabel sat on the couch for a long moment, staring after the old man, before she sighed and with fake cheeriness said, “Well, those sweaters aren’t going to make themselves!” She fetched her knitting material and brought it down to the living room, where she curled up on Grunkle Stan’s armchair and turned on Ducktective to occupy her while she knitted her latest sweater. “I wonder if Grunkle Ford would like a sweater?” she thought aloud. “I’d like to make one for him. Maybe he’d like me more. But what size would he need?”
She knitted furiously, deep in thought. Maybe she could sneak into his room and look at one of his old sweaters--beat-up as they were--and see if she could figure out the size he’d need. She threw aside her sweater she’d been making and hopped off the chair, the TV still blaring as she ran from the room. Tentatively, she approached his room. It seemed to be empty, so she pushed the door open and peeked her head in. It was bright in the room, lit by the afternoon sunlight. Mabel snuck over to his bureau and opened a drawer. “Uck,” she muttered, looking at the beat-up sweaters inside. “Grunkle Ford, you really need new sweaters.”
Mabel quickly grabbed a sweater and ran for it, snagging her knitting materials and taking everything upstairs to the attic. “And now for Grunkle Ford’s first Mabel Original,” she sighed happily.
Stanford was in his element, jotting down notes and flipping through his journals in excitement. “It could have been an octoarborpus, but I’m thinking those are green, not black. And it couldn’t have been a wraith, because those only gain physical form at night.” He went to shove papers off of his desk, then stopped. He picked up a small globe and stared at it. Inside roiled an inky star-filled bubble. “It’s not going to hold forever,” he muttered. Setting that safely on a shelf out of the way, he continued with his research.
He heard pattering footsteps far overhead. What was Mabel doing up there? He hoped she was safe. Definitely safer up there than being down here with him, that was for sure. Ford knew that Dipper knew how to handle dangerous situations and could deal with a lot of problems. However, Mabel was...different. She saw things so much differently than he did, and he didn’t want that to get her hurt. The biggest problem was how she saw the good in everything, even if that good wasn’t there. What if she came across a monster and tried to make friends with it? She could get killed in an instant!
Then again, Mabel was able to make friends with anything. Even Stanley. Ford wasn’t quite sure how the kids did it, but they brought out a side of his brother that he hadn’t seen for forty-some years.
He listened to try and hear what the child was doing.
Silence from upstairs.
Silence everywhere.
Ford was alone, and he didn’t know where his nephew or his brother were, and the little girl upstairs probably hated him. He had been trapped in another dimension for thirty years and in that time only one person had known, and that person had taken on his entire identity and committed nearly every crime under his name. He had come out of the portal swinging, violent, angry, confused. He’d hated his brother for thirty years, the anger festering in the portal, his mind rejecting the idea that Stanley was his twin. He didn’t even know why he hated his brother anymore: he’d gone to college, he’d gotten the grants, he’d lived his dream life researching the anomalies of Gravity Falls--basically everything he’d ever dreamed of doing.
Except for going to that college, the one he really wanted to go to. And he shouldn’t be angry at Stanley, he knew that, but when one has held a grudge for forty years, it’s hard to just drop it, Ford supposed. It was probably an accident anyway. Stanley would never sabotage anything of Ford’s, even if it meant letting him move to the other side of the country.
Ford’s forehead hit the desk and he wrapped his arms around it as he let the tears fall, his shoulders shaking. He was the worst person in the entire multiverse. The emptiness that came with that knowledge nearly destroyed Ford.
“Screw the Rift,” he muttered thickly, standing up and rubbing at his eyes, “screw Weirdmaggeddon, screw this family, screw the Universe. I don’t care anymore.” He walked over to a drawer and grabbed a pistol. “I’m done here. I’m not worth this!” he said aloud to himself. “The world doesn’t need me anymo--!” He stopped dead in his tracks, gun halfway to his head. “Mabel,” he gasped.
The girl stood at the top of the stairs, clutching a wad of green fabric and staring in horror at her uncle. “Grunkle Ford,” she squeaked.
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