Archive of Our Own

The ride back to Gravity Falls was a paradox; awesome, but awful.

His fingers were shaking with excitement, for once, but his stomach felt like it was being sucked through his heart with a straw. Dipper hated feeling like this; he hated being so confused. It made him irritable and snappish.

The water tower whizzed by the window, and Mabel squealed. “Dipper! We’re nearly there, we’re nearly there, ohmygosh we’re nearly there!”

He internally cringed at the octave of her voice - Mabel Pines was capable of inhuman feats, and the shrillness of her voice was one of them. Dipper followed her gaze anyway, watching the world swirl by outside of the window.

It was strange, seeing Gravity Falls’s pines covered in heavy snow, the great boughs of the trees shaking and straining beneath the weight of it. Dipper wondered how strong they had to be to carry all of that ice all of the time; trees were stronger than people gave them credit for.

Unlike in California, thick clouds of snow were thrown by the chugging wheels of the bus; it was dry and powdery, but Dipper could bet that the snow was three feet deep in some areas. It was the kind of weather that lit up your Christmas spirit like nothing else.

Dipper, naturally, wasn’t feeling it.

“This is gonna be great,” Dipper said, and, he did believe it. It was going to be great. He’d make sure of it - perchance to Christmas notwithstanding.

“Right!? I can’t wait to give everyone their gifts, I can’t wait to see the looks on their faces - ohmygosh! I wonder how Wendy’s year is going? And Candy, and Grenda! I have to ask them if they get to play dodgeball in their gym class, it’s illegal in our county and it sucks. You won’t figure that out ‘til next semester, when you have gym, though,” Mabel jabbed his side with an elbow. “But don’t get nervous about it, Dipper, I’m sure there’s someone scrawnier than you!”

Dipper stared at her, deadpan. “Gee, thanks, Mabel.”

Mabel grinned, showing off her Christmas-colored braces. “No prob, Bob! At least we have math together next semester, it feels like I haven’t seen you in ages, stupid block-classes. It’s all their fault.”

“Yeah,” Dipper nodded. “Just blame the system. This is inanimate creation is the source of all of our trouble.”

Mabel giggled. “Ex-actly, Dip! When times get tough, the tough blame the government!”

“Stupid government, governing us,” Dipper said.

“That’s what I’m saying! I say we base anything and everything off of zodiac predictions,” Mabel said. “Everyone gets sorted into groups based on zodiacs, and then they fight for dominance!”

Dipper laughed. “I’m pretty sure there’s a book about that.”

“No, no! There can’t be! This is an original Mabel Pines idea. A Maberiginal,” Mabel said, and she laid her head in Dipper’s lap, gesturing wild enough to slap him on the arm. “We should start a YouTube channel of my Maberiginals. I’ll give you a nerd corner, too, where everyone wears Grunkle Ford glasses and tinfoil hats.”

(He didn’t have the heart to tell her that he didn’t have that much enthusiasm for conspiracies, anymore. Or an enthusiasm for anything, really.)

“I’ll take that deal,” Dipper said. “If you get rich, you owe me.”

“What?” Mabel shrieked. “Owe you? O what for, my brother, that is mine, my dear brother that is mine?”

“I inspired you. I’m your inspiration, and you owe me,” Dipper said. “Cough it up, I can’t keep giving you these sweet ideas without any payment.”

Mabel dramatically wiped a tear from her eye, and such was her extra flourish that she hit him in the stomach. He’d had a lot worse, though. “My own artistic-ness, going against me, however will I recover from such a betrayal -”

“I’m not asking for much -”

“I am but a poor street crawler, I am but an everyday Aladdin -” She rested her hand on her forehead, her eyes drifting closed. “- And my own muse, my dearest brother dearly, has wounded me.”

Dipper swallowed, hard. He tried to not think about Mabel, her accusing finger pointed at him, her floating, lovely prison, the crushing fear that he’d screwed up so badly that she’d finally give up on him. “Okay, okay, I take it back. I will slave to your artistic whims.”

(He doesn’t know why stuff like that bothers him - it just does. It makes an iron clasp wrap around his throat, and for the life of him, he can’t figure out why.)

Mabel cracked open an eye. “You will? Wait, I mean - oh, dearest brother-of-mine, you recant-ify yon selfishness?”

Dipper chuckled, but his stomach flipped. “I doth recantify mon selfishness,” he said, in an awful imitation of a posh accent.

Mabel jumped up, banging her head against Dipper’s chin so hard that he bit through his lip. “Oh - thankyouthankyouthankyou - wait, what am I thanking you for? And, by the way, ow.”

“You hit me,” Dipper grumbled, rubbing at his chin. “See, now you actually owe me.”

Mabel jammed her hand into the pocket of her jeans (bright pink, naturally) and pulled out a paperclip. “Aha! Appropriate payment!”

“I love it when customers give me exact change,” Dipper said, dryly, taking the offered paper clip.

“You’re too funny, you,” Mabel said, and she poked his cheek. “Hey, hey, hey, Dipper - guess where we’re going?”

“Oh, man, I can’t seem to remember the name of the place…” Dipper sarcastically tapped his chin in deep thought. “Gravity Fails Incredibly and Actually Stops Working, but Only Sometimes?”

Mabel laughed. “You’re almost right, you just have to… get a smidgen less literal.”

“Aw, heck, maybe it’s…. Gravity Trips?”

“Oh my gosh, Dipper!” Mabel grabbed his shirt and threw them both against the window. “It’s the Diner! HEY, LAZY SUSAN! Dang it, I don’t think she’s there!”

She waved rapidly, hitting Dipper in the eye. He winced. “Ow, Jesus, I liked that eye.”

“Hey, now you can be a one-eyed pirate!”

Eeny-meenie-miney-you. eenymeeniemineyyou.feartheBeastWithJustOneEye.

Dipper swallowed against the rapid flood of bile in his throat. “Yeah,” he said. “I think we’ll be there in a couple minutes.”

This is why Gravity Falls was a paradox. Wonderful, stressful, relaxing, hell on Earth.

“I can’t wait that long!” Mabel cried, flinging herself against Dipper. “Dipper, I have to pee!”

“You should’ve thought about that before you drank the Super Blast Slurpie!” Dipper laughed, poking her in the stomach.

Mabel jerked away, kicking him in the knee. “Ah - yah - no! You can’t tickle the tickle master!”

She reached for his neck and jabbed her fingers at the base of his neck. Dipper jerked away, laughing and pinning her hand to his shoulder with his jaw.

“Mabel - don’t do it -”

Mabel grinned evilly, and then jabbed him in the side. Dipper wriggled and batted her hands away, gasping for breath. “That - that was. That was so - rude.”

Mabel stuck out her tongue. “Pbbbt! You’re rude. The rudest.”

“You’re a loving, kind, dear sister -”

Mabel wrapped an arm around his shoulders and squeezed the two of them together. “You know it, Dipster! And you’re the bestest, bravest brother a gal could ask for!”

“Oh, no,” Dipper said. “I take it back. I said that sarcastically and you complimented me. You really are a loving, kind, awesome sister.”

His heart swelled, though, and he felt warm and fuzzy through his fingertips; it meant a lot, even if Mabel said it in passing. It didn’t mean much to her, sure, but Dipper was fine with hanging on to small compliments. (He ignored the voice that said, “she didn’t mean it.”)

Mabel punched him in the shoulder. “Now I have to re-compliment you! Let’s see -”

“And why do you have to do that?” Dipper asked.

“Because I am the ultimate complimenter. The Complimentooooor!” Mabel said, imitating a wrestling announcer. She tapped her chin with her nails, which were painted in various Christmas designs. “Well, you’ve got the absolute best sweater -”

Dipper chuckled. “Mabel, you made this sweater.”

“Right?” Mabel patted herself on the back. “Congrats to moi, you look adorable. You’re welcome.” She winked conspiratorially at him.

Dipper made a big show of winking back and nodding. “Thank you, you’ve done a great service.”

The sweater in question was black and white, done in the style of an Ugly Christmas Sweater ™ . It depicted Santa’s sleigh and a reindeer sending a thumbs’ up and saying, “Jingle Those Bells!” It was the single worst thing Dipper had ever seen.

(It was also reversible, and the inside was white with a green and red mistletoe that was saying, “Kiss The Cutie!” which was pretty awful, too.)

Mabel pumped her fist, and then dug a sticker out of her bag that read, ‘DON’T GET YOUR TINSEL IN A TANGLE!’ and pressed it on his vest, which he’d layered over his sweater. “A successful case of Mabel-makeover-ing.”

Dipper laughed, and he rubbed his nails against the sticker to activate it. “What do these ones smell like? Wait -”

“Peppermint!” Mabel said.

“I was going to guess,” Dipper pouted.

Mabel patted his cheek. “Gotta go faster, bro!”

She stuck three stickers over her own sweater - which was blindingly red and green and covered in pine trees that were smiling and saying, “Holly Jolly Holidays!” - which were various reindeer making silly faces. “We have to rock the season, Dip,” she said. “We can’t show up with weak game!”

“Then I should’ve wore the sweater you made me with the sheep that were saying ‘Fleece Navidad,’” Dipper said.

He decided to leave out the part where he didn’t want to wear the sweater at all - annoying as the scratchy, cloaking material was, his sister wanted this Christmas to be perfect.

Mabel gasped, and turned to stare at him. “We’ve made an oversight! You have to change, now!”

“Mabel, I am not changing sweaters on a full bus for the sake of the pun,” he said.

“Tomorrow!” Mabel said. “Tomorrow, we bring our A-Game, sweaters, stickers, and candy canes in our pockets. You’re wearing the Fleece Navidad sweater and the Merry Christmoose beanie with the antlers and the lights, be prepared.”

“I’m ready,” Dipper said, nodding solemnly. He really wasn’t ready at all.

Mabel dug a light-up Christmas necklace out of her bag and wrapped it around her neck. Then she got out another one. And another one. Within twenty seconds, she had no less than five LED Christmas necklaces tied to her wrists and hanging from her neck - it was incredible to watch.

She handed him a necklace of blue light-up icicles. “Here’s yours!”

“I like how you’re wearing Santa Clauses and Christmas trees, but you give me the icicles,” Dipper said, even as he internally congratulated not having to wear the horribly bright contraptions Mabel was.

“This one sings!” Mabel said, and she pressed a button near the base of her neck. The penguin necklace glowed brighter and began to sing a bad rendition of, ‘All I Want For Christmas Is You.’

“Destination: uh… ‘Mystery Hack’? Anybody getting off at a Mystery Hack?” the bus driver shouted.

Mabel shrieked. “Oh my gosh, oh my gosh, it’s us, Dipper! It’s us! Yes, ma’am, we’re getting off at the Hack!”

Mabel crawled over Dipper and fell into the hallway, before scrambling quickly down the stairs, shouting, “THE PARTY HAS BEGUN! The Mystery Twins are back-in-not-black!”

Dipper hauled their bags through the hallway, hissing apologies when he stepped on people’s feet.

The driver laughed and said, “She’s a sweet one, ain’t she?”

Dipper chuckled - a warmth spread in his chest. He loved it when people recognized how wonderful his sister was.

“More like annoying,” someone snapped.

Dipper gritted his teeth, and spat out a, “Yeah,” that was packed with as much vitriol and fury as possible.

The bus driver flinched, and turned away quickly.

Dipper snorted, much like a bull, and hauled the bags down the stairs of the bus. “Mabel! Your bags are ridiculously heavy!”

“WORK THOSE NOODLE ARMS, DIPPER!”

Dipper rolled his eyes, and wrapped his fingers around the handles of the suitcase tighter; the action leached some of his sudden fury from bones.

In Mabel’s warpath, she’d left the door to the Shack open; Dipper could hear the delighted, surprised noises of visitors who Mabel was currently charming. Dipper sighed, and drug their bags up the stairs, before dumping them on the floor in a flurry of snow and disgruntled attitude.

“Dipper! You finally made it!”

A small throng of visitors - comprised of Lazy Susan, officers Blubs and Durland, and Manly Dan - turned to look at him.

“We were wondering where you got off to!” Susan said. “Welcome back to the Falls, you two!”

“Nice seein’ ya’ around again,” Dan said.

“It’s been lifeless!” Durland said.

“Nah, it’s only lifeless when you’re not around,” Blubs countered, and the two cooed at each other obnoxiously.

Dipper rubbed the back of his neck with his (sore, and lined with red marks where the handle had dug into his skin) hand. “Aw, thanks, guys.”

“If you drop by the Diner, tell me all about your first year of high school!” Susan said.

“We will!” Mabel promised. “Pinky swear! Cross my heart and hope to die! I missed your snazzy blue eyeshadow, Lady Suzie!”

“Well, oh, gosh!” Susan blushed. “I missed your bright pink sweaters, sweetheart!”

Mabel poked her own cheek. “Aren’t we adorable, Lady Susan?”

“I’d say adorable is about right!” Durland said.

Dan snorted. “Adorable is too weak a word.”

“Shoo, shoo, why are you all still here? I closed this Shack thirty minutes ago -”

“We wanna see the twins, too!”

“They’re my niece and nephew, excuse you, so get out of my Shack -”

“Mr. Pines, chillaaaax.”

Lazy Susan picked up her lowered lid and moved it up and down. “I’ll see you two kids later!”

Something about that action tied Dipper’s stomach into hardened knots, and he wrung his fingers; they ached with a need he couldn’t put a name too, almost itched with a powerful intensity.

“Adios!” Durland called.

“What he said!” Blubs said.

“I’m sure I’ll see you at the house with Wendy, Dipper,” Dan said. “She missed you. And hopefully she’ll bring you around, l’il gal, I’m afraid I ain’t met you that well yet!”

“Mabel’ll come with me,” Dipper said, immediately, because he didn’t think his heart could take the strain of leaving his sister alone in Gravity Falls, of all places.

Mabel nodded. “I sure will, Manly Danny!”

“Alright,” Dan chuckled. “I’ll be on my way. Take care, kiddos.”

“You, too, Danny!” Mabel said.

After Dan had lumbered away, Mabel turned to Dipper and whispered, “I can’t believe these guys missed us! We must’ve saw them, like, twice the whole of last summer!”

“Yeah,” Dipper said. The meeting had left a sweet center in his chest melting, like caramel - he knew Mabel would be remembered, but him? There wasn’t anything special about him. (Maybe they remembered him because he jumpstarted Armageddon, and were just acting nice to him for Mabel’s sake. That idea had irritation ringing in his skull like a bell - he likes people better when they’re honest with him, and it rubbed him to no end when people lied straight to his face.)

A herd of shoppers ‘booed’ angrily and stormed out of the Shack like vaguely roused cattle, revealing Wendy, who was reclining in the cashier’s stool, and Stan, who was leaning over the counter and blowing harsh breaths out with rosy cheeks.

“Damn customers,” Stan said. “The shop closed forever ago!”

“Soos let slip the twins were coming up,” Wendy said.

“How long until they notice us?” Dipper whispered, obnoxiously.

Stan’s head snapped to the corner of the Shack. “Kids!” he shrieked.

“Grunkle Stan!” Mabel charged forward. She launched herself into Grunkle Stan’s arms, nearly bowling the kneeling man over. “Oh my GOSH! I missed you so much, Great Uncle Stan!”

“Hey, now, ‘Grunkle’ is my preferred name,” Grunkle Stan said. “I missed you more than you know, sweetheart.”

Okay, that was really frickin’ cute, Dipper had to admit.

Wendy waved at Dipper, with the awkwardness that only a person looking in on something personal can. Dipper waved back, just as awkwardly - he loved his sister, and he loved his great uncle, mercy knows he did. But they had a special relationship between each other, one for the other, and it wasn’t something Dipper was a part of. He was okay with it. If he felt a little jealous sometimes, he could chalk it up to human nature.

Dipper was a bad enough person to be jealous of something so special to his sister. It wasn’t something new; he’d proven, over and over, that he wasn’t a good person, not like his sister. She deserved it.

“Kid, what are you doing?” Grunkle Stan asked.

Dipper snapped out of his reverie. “Wha - oh, sorry.”

“Get over here!” Grunkle Stan waved him over, excitedly. “I ain’t havin’ a group hug without the whole group!”

Dipper was quickly smothered in a massive hug - if there’s one thing that can be said about the Pines, it’s that they’re excellent huggers, and Dipper suddenly feels very, very warm.

“Cough, rude, cough,” Wendy coughed. “Oh, man, sorry about that, guys, I’ve got a cold -”

“Get in here,” Stan said.

“LITTLE DUDES!”

“Oh, no, Soos -”

Soos crashed into them, knocking them all over successfully, and they all landed in a pile of laughing children and one happy old man.

“Soos, that was so unnecessary,” Dipper laughed.

Soos responded by making an animalistic, ballistic noise in the back of his throat, and squeezing Dipper to his chest. “D-u-u-ude! You guys are finally back!”

“You -” Dipper wheezed. “You betcha’.”

Mabel giggled. “Crush the Dipper!”

“P-please,” Dipper rasped, “I need my ribcage - oh, ow - working.”

Soos dropped him, then. “No, I need your ribcage working. Guess who has Fallout?”

Dipper’s eyes lit up. “Seriously?”

“Oh my God!” Wendy said, jumping up. “We hit it up in the breakroom, dudes! If I ever wanted to make sweet love to a game -”

Stan slapped a hand to Wendy’s mouth. “Inappropriate! Inappropriate. Swear jar, princess.”

“Mr. Pines -” Wendy whined.

“Swear jar,” Stan said.

“Oooh, busted,” Mabel said.

“Grunkle Stan,” Dipper said. “You do realize -”

“No, absolutely not. I realize nothing!” Stan said. “Wendy, cough up the dollar!”

Wendy groaned, and pulled a dollar out of her pocket, handing it to Stan. When he turned around, she mouthed, “if I could make sweet love to a game, Fallout would be the one.”

Dipper grinned, naturally. He’d heard about Fallout, of course; who hadn’t? He just didn’t have the time, or the will, to want to play games, anymore.

“Wait, where’s Great Uncle Ford?” Mabel asked.

Dipper felt his tongue give out on him, thump dully against the flesh at the bottom of his mouth; the joints in his fingers all puffed up like cotton, and his heart skipped a beat like a startled animal. He didn’t want to talk to Ford, or about Ford, or touch Ford - he liked it better this way, with Wendy and Soos and Mabel and Stan, and that’s it. No more. The gates to Heaven slammed shut, closed off, last call has come and gone.

“Cooking the feast,” Wendy said.

“Feast?” Mabel asked. Her eyes lit up like a candle.

“Oh, dude, it’s gonna be so good,” Soos said.

“We planned everything!” Grunkle Stan said, proudly. “We wanted to give you kids a warm welcome.”

“Warm welcome received!” Mabel said. “Bring me to the food!”

“It’s not done yet!” Stan said. “Ya’ can’t look until it’s done. Soos, go help my brother, he’s probably struggling with the crockpot still.”

“Sir, yes, sir!” Soos saluted Stan, and trotted away. “Don’t worry, Mr. Pines numero dos! I’ve got your back!”

“I’m sorry, guys, but that’s my cue,” Wendy said. “Dad wants me back. We’re tree-decorating. If you guys wanna come to my place later, get Soos to call ahead, ‘cause you guys are totally invited.”

“So soon?” Dipper asked.

“Yeah, we just got here!” Mabel said.

“Corduroys never miss family events,” Wendy said. “Gotta stick it out for the fam.”

Yeah, Dipper could understand that.

“Alright,” he said.

Wendy strolled over to the coat rack, and flung a fluffy parka over her shoulders. She checked her phone, and gasped, “Shit! I’m gonna be late!”

“Language!” Stan roared.

“Bye, you old-ass man!” Wendy shouted. “See y’all!”

Mabel and Dipper waved.

“That’s sad,” Mabel said. “I was excited to see her.”

“Y’ve got two weeks, you’ll be fine,” Stan said. “Now, you two, you stay right there - I’ve gotta make sure those two aren’t burning anything!” He pointed over his shoulder the doorway with his thumb. “And, geeze, don’t be strangers! Unpack those bags!”

“Yeah!” Mabel said. “Dipper, unpack the bags!”

“That’s the spirit!” Stan cackled.

Dipper groaned. “Thanks, really, I’m feeling the love.”

“Oh, psssh, love? In a family? You’re joking,” Mabel said, flapping her hands. “It’s all sibling rivalry!”

Stan ducked back through the doorway. “Also, Dipper? Nice sweater.”

Dipper flushed. “Yes, thank you, I know. It’s wonderful.”

Mabel giggled. “See? Already, people are noticing you! This is what you get when you follow the Mabel style.”

“Yep,” Dipper sighed.

“I also wasn’t kidding about unpacking,” Mabel said, winking at him. “You should totally take our bags upstairs. Because I love you so, so much.”

Dipper glared at her, hoisted as many bags as he could carry, and began to lug them away.

“Thankyouthankyouthankyou!” Mabel shrieked. “I’ll paint your face to make up for it!”

Dipper snorted in irritation. “Yeah, sure, Mabel.”

Dipper hauled the bags up the stairs - it wasn’t that hard. At the beginning of last summer, he’d nearly buckled under the weight of his own bag alone.

Finally, Dipper threw the bags to the ground in the attic. It was scrubbed clean, even the mold growing on the unreachable rafters. How Stan had managed, Dipper would never know.

The sides of the room still held evidence of their visit last summer - Dipper’s navy blue comforter remained intact, and Mabel’s bright pink one was pressed to perfection. The lantern hung beside Dipper’s bed glowed brightly, and Mabel’s vibrant, orange glass lamp lit up that whole half of the room.

There were chips and scars in the floorboard that told a story of a place well-loved and cherished; the boat painting beside Dipper’s bed was still crooked from the golf ball Mabel had thrown (what time, he couldn’t remember) and the mirror Bill had paraded Dipper’s body in front of was still blockaded by huge boxes of newspapers.

Dipper remembered that night - after a week of waking up from nightmares only to face another one, he’d snapped, and at three in the morning, he’d shoved and stacked those boxes. He’d brushed off Mabel’s cries, and she’d just watched him, speechless, as - through sweat and tears and the blood of a bitten lip - he closed that mirror off.

Good times.

Dipper slung his duffel at his bed - he’d only needed one bag. Mabel had packed four, for what reason was beyond him. He propped open her duffle, first, since it was the bag of sweaters, and slipped each of the soft garments onto a clothes hanger until they were all displayed proudly in the closet beside the mirror. Every single one of them was Christmas-themed, and remembering how Mabel had been fervently knitting each one of them since Halloween made him grin.

He stowed the pink duffel between the dresser and the wall, and carefully inspected the next one. He didn’t want to accidentally open Mabel’s Christmas Gift Bag, which she had proudly tramped around the house screaming about since it was fully-stocked, which was also the second week of November. He was well-versed in the consequences of opening that bag.

The consequences were undesirable.

Dipper eventually gave up, and left that bag sitting on her bed; he did, though, unpack the hard-covered rollie bag that had all of Mabel’s art stuff.

He ordered her colored pencils, paints, and crayons along the top of the desk - Stan had pushed the desk between the beds, so it was directly in front of the massive, red, triangle window. Dipper ignored the sweat pooling at his temples as he worked.

He could almost feel the Eye of Providence glaring down at him. Eeeny meeny miney you, Pine Tree, whatcha gonna do, Pine Tree, this is all fun and games but if you’ll excuse me, Pine Tree, I have to drain your veins a little quicker than that, Pine Tree, what do you say Pine Tree -

fun times. Fun, fun times.

Dipper jumped away from the desk, hands shaking, the second he was done filling Mabel’s painting cup with her paint brushes. He pulled off his moose hat and ruffled his hair - it was getting hot in there, wasn’t it? Hot like the fiery air of Weirdmageddon, impossible to breathe in and a loss so great it made his chest ache.

Dipper stripped off his sweater - he liked the cold a lot better, these days, would usually run outside before grabbing a coat. He loved breathing in the freezing air of December - it was so much better than the blood-soaked air at the end of the summer. So, so much better, but Mabel liked it when he wore the sweaters she made for him.

And she made a lot of sweaters. He wasn’t sure why, but for some reason, she’d increased her Dipper-Related Sweater Production by at least ten fold.

Dipper trotted back down the stairs, wearing the white t-shirt he’d had on under his sweater and distinctly hat-less, and drug the rest of the bags up the stairs. He could smell the food, now - it was overpowering and intense, and only served to make his upset stomach revolt louder.

After unpacking the second load of bags, he came back down the stairs, stopping on the last step; he listened to the conversation in the next room, wondering if he should walk in and interrupt or not.

Something this simple should not have been so difficult. He was such an idiot - what was he doing, standing here on the stairs?

“Someone get Dipper,” Stan huffed. “He sure is takin’ his sweet time.”

“I got him!” Mabel squeaked, and she clattered out of her chair, whirled around the corner, and nearly crashed straight into Dipper.

Don’t look too close, he prayed. I wasn’t freaked out by a stupid window. Promise.

Mabel, naturally, eyed him up and down, before she shrieked, “YOU TOOK OFF YOUR SWEATER!”

Dipper flinched - wow, his sister has a real pair of lungs. “Uh… sorry?”

From the next room over, Stan burst into great peals of laughter. “I knew he would!”

Mabel pouted, and grabbed Dipper by the wrist. “We’re going to pick you out a new one, immediately.”

The hot, stifling air of a summer gone horribly, horribly wrong.

“He’s in deep!” Stan cackled.

“Fine,” Dipper said, and he let Mabel drag him back up the stairs - he ignored the prickling of his skin in anticipation of heat, the skip of his heart like a stone on (boiling, it’s so hot) water. Water stained by the reflection of the scarlet sky, the shining flashes of the Rift bouncing off of the waves.

Mabel sat him on the bed, whirled towards the closet, and quickly flipped through the available selection. She found Dipper’s sweaters - hung up and nicely packed, very tightly and discreetly, in the corner. “You tried to hide them!”

“I didn’t - I did not!” Dipper said.

“The heart and soul of Christmas is the Christmas sweaters!” Mabel said. “And you’re wearing the ‘Fleece Navidad,’ one.”

you’relikealambtotheslaughterPineTree

“Can you… can you pick another one?” Dipper asked.

Mabel eyed him curiously. “You love that one! And it’s so -”

“Punny, I know,” Dipper said. “But, it’s just - so good, y’know? You have to save that kind of pun.”

Mabel snapped her fingers. “I like the way you think, bro. I’m likin’ it. So - we’ll start off with the shark one, the one that says, ‘Santa Jaws,’ and has a shark in a Santa hat.”

“That works,” Dipper said.

“I like the enthusiasm!” Mabel said, and she pulled the sweater off of the hook, throwing it to him. Dipper took it, somewhat belatedly.

As he threw it over his head, he locked his eyes on Mabel, keeping his gaze as steady and straight as he could maintain; he didn’t trust his eyes not to roam over to the massive window.

“All done!” Mabel clapped her hands together. “Now, come on! I’m starving!”

Dipper followed Mabel back down the stairs, tugging at the turtleneck of his sweater. It was suffocating, heat. He didn’t like it that much. Next time the world ended, he was begging for ice.

“Grunkle Stan! We’re back!” Mabel said. She ran to Grunkle Stan’s side, wrapping her arms around his waist and pressing herself against him. Stan’s eyes softened when he looked at her, and Dipper thought, same.

“Ah! Hello, Dipper!” Ford said. Ford looked better than he had the last Dipper saw of him - the bags beneath his eyes had lessened, and the tears in his clothes had all been mended, and instead of wearing the leather strap, dusty boots, and thick trench coat, he was wearing a pair of slacks and a thick, baby blue sweater.

He looked happier, and somehow, a little remorseful. There was a turn to his eyes that made Dipper’s heart warm like a slow-burning fire, because maybe, even after everything, Ford wouldn’t be so bad after all.

“Hi, Great Uncle Ford,” Dipper said. He claimed the seat between Mabel and Soos; he was kind of startled to find that he couldn’t swing his legs in the chair like he used to be able to. Had he gotten taller while he wasn’t paying attention?

Ford looked elated that Dipper had responded at all, which was kind of sad, come to think of it.

“Where’s Soos?” Grunkle Stan asked.

Mabel scrambled into Stan’s lap, making the old man chuckle and pat her head. “You’re gettin’ big for that, princess.”

Mabel, somehow, curled her legs beneath her, kicking the table and rattling the dishes while she did so. “Is that a challenge?”

“You betcha’!” Stan said, and he ruffled her hair. “You smell like -”

“Scratch n’Sniff hot cocoa,” Dipper said. “Trust me.”

Ford looked at him, eyes wide. “How’d you guess?”

“Because apparently the Scratch n’Sniff stickers have no idea what real hot cocoa smells like,” Dipper said, vehemently. He’s not sure why, but he’s constantly, irrationally pissed off about the falseness of Scratch n’Sniff stickers. Lots of things ticked him off irrationally, but Scratch n’Sniff was up there.

Stan took an experimental sniff of a sticker that had worked its way into Mabel’s hair. “I think it smells like real hot cocoa.”

Dipper glared at him. “You have no passion.”

“Dipper makes the best hot chocolate,” Mabel said.

“It’s called hot cocoa,” Dipper said. “And, before anybody gets any funny ideas, it’s spelled ‘c-o-c-o-a,’ not ‘c-o-c-o.’ Get it right.”

“He’s also picky,” Mabel said.

“You have to do it right, Mabel!” Dipper said.

Soos chose then to charge into the kitchen, arms filled with a tray of - sweets?

“From abuelita!” Soos said. Thick bundles of candy bark, massive pies and two cakes were wrapped in either blue or pink ribbon - Dipper could literally feel Mabel’s grabby hands.

“Holy cow,” Dipper muttered. “That’s a heart attack on tray.”

“That’s what makes it fine dining, Dipper!” Mabel said. “Who gets what?”

“Abuelita gave the pink bundles to you, hambone,” Soos said. “And the blue ones go to Dipper.”

“She made them for us specifically?” Dipper asked.

“Oh, yeah,” Stan said. “You two are a hit. The whole town’s beggin’ for you guys to just up an’ move here.”

“The whole town?” Dipper asked. “Isn’t that exaggerating?”

Stop lying to me. I tortured these people.

“You can’t count the Northwests,” Ford said. “You never can, but everyone else? They all think the world of you two.”

“Because we are the world, duh,” Mabel said. She propped herself across Stan’s lap, going for the universal ‘cooler than you’ pose, but she ended up falling into the floor.

Dipper laughed. “The world needs some help getting to her chair.”

“Hey, half of the world is in its chair! We’re still rolling!” Mabel said.

Dipper thought, the world’s better off without me, before he could stop himself.

“Oh, dudes! Hand me that ham!” Soos asked, flopping into his chair. “My body is ready for this.”

“My body isn’t!” Mabel said. “I’m gonna eat until I puke!”

“Please don’t,” Dipper said. “‘Cause then I have to hold your hair.”

“Get your hair-holding-hands ready, bro-bro!”

-

He needed the hair-holding hands.

“Mabel,” he said. “If you hadn’t eaten so much you wouldn’t be in this position.”

“I hate everything,” Mabel moaned. “All of it. Everything sucks. You suck.”

Dipper’s hands tightened on her hair - he didn’t what was up with him taking things so personally lately, but he couldn’t stop it. It just felt like everything was a sideways jab into his side, through his ribs, hitting vital organs with cruelty.

“Sorry for trying to help you,” he snapped.

Mabel heaved again, and Dipper’s sympathy rivaled his stoking anger. She rested her head against the toilet seat, breathing fast and raspy. “I want sweets.”

“Don’t,” Dipper said.

“I want sweets,” Mabel said, again. “I’m gonna go for it.”

“Don’t,” Dipper said. “Don’t do it, Mabel.”

“You’re not the boss of me,” she said.

“I don’t want you hurting yourself,” Dipper retaliated. “Jesus, Mabel, you’re not supposed to eat until you throw up.”

“It’s so good,” Mabel whined. “And you guys get to eat sweets!”

“Because we know the meaning of leftovers!”

“Shut up, Dipper!” Mabel hissed.

“Fine,” Dipper said. Screw him, anyway, for caring about his sister.

Mabel did end up stuffing her face with sweets the second she left the bathroom; she ate almost half of her share of the sweets. When she collapsed on the couch, Dipper slipped the pink ribbons into his pocket, and snuck into the kitchen. He untied the blue ribbons on his and replaced them with the pink ones; he wasn’t going to eat them, anyway.

At least she hadn’t thrown up the second time around, but Dipper was sitting on the floor next to the couch just in case.

“Ugh,” Mabel moaned. “I overdid it.”

“No kidding,” Dipper said. He flipped the channel to a re-run of older Doctor Who - he couldn’t remember the name of the actor, but he had spiky hair. Back when Dipper cared a lot more, he had the actors memorized.

“Not your nerd show,” Mabel whined. “I can’t even fight you for the remote!”

“That’s your doing.”

“It’s not my fault you’re a Scrooge who won’t participate in Christmas stuffing!” Mabel said.

Something about that got Dipper to hand her the remote - the Scrooge, the won’t participate, he’ll never know which. He just knew that something hit him in the gut, hard, like an awful realization that he wanted nothing more than to skip Christmas this year. Christmas was too involved; Dipper didn’t have the strength to be that involved.

Dipper crossed his arms and leaned his chin on the precipice it provided, watching Mabel flip through channels.

He’ll do better.

(and that’s always his mindset, no matter how many times he fails - he’ll do better, he’ll do better next time. his resolve is getting weaker. ‘bad’ might just be all he’s worth.)

-

Dipper woke up at three in the morning, stumbled out of bed, and was caught dead in the headlights of the mirror.

The surface was dusty and pale, and reflected the image of the triangular window behind him framing Dipper’s head. Dipper’s heart stuttered and thundered into hyper-action, his head wheeling and whirring and -

he couldn’t breathe.

It was hot. He’d forgotten to take off the sweater before crashing into bed - and he’d also forgotten why he didn’t go to sleep until he was too exhausted to dream. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t breathe, he slammed his fists against his sternum and it only made a hollow sound, hollow like a body carved out for the King of Nightmares, eeny meeny miney you, kiddo -

Dipper stumbled out of the room - he was glad Mabel had eaten herself into a food coma. He needed - water? Did he need to leave, did he need Mabel, or - what was it that he was looking for?

Something swirled to life inside him, and when someone tall and strong leaned down beside him calling his name, Dipper snarled, “Leave me alone!”

It came out as a true snarl, his lips curled and his nose scrunched, baring the dull canines of the human race; canines that he could make sharp with pure force of will and the stubborn strength of his jaw.

Dipper’s fists balled up, and he swung the left one into - Stan’s? Ford’s? - thigh as hard as he could. The shock rattled up his arm, but it was worth it to hear the low-spoken, “Sonuvabitch!”

Dipper backed away, clenching his fists so hard the blood drained away.

“Jesus, kid, I’m just trying to see if you’re all right - Dipper?”

He was filled with a hate so powerful he could not breathe around it - it filled his chest, expanding outward, an overflowing river of magma hitting the cool ocean and throwing up great gusting clouds of steam.

All right - what a joke. Ninety-degree angles made all right triangles; all right was an inhuman concept, ‘cause everyone he’s ever met has clawed with blunt, bleeding fingers on broken wood at some point in their lives. Nobody is ever ‘all right.’

It made him angry, filled him with a fire that little else can, but most of all, it made him sick. He’d seen good people like his sister deal with twice what beggars like Gideon do, and it’s all so unfair he would take the very idea of justice and rip it apart with bared and aching teeth.

He would take a lot of things and slit their throats at the neck - helplessness, weakness, Bill Cipher, he’d take them all and reach into their chest cavities and pop their hearts out. Pop. Veins snap with a pop, and he knows, because he spent three days in hell on Earth and hell on Earth is not good for the physical health of anyone.

Stan lowered himself to Dipper’s height. “Kid, are you -”

Before he could finish the sentence, Dipper’s fist swung into his eye; it was the byproduct of stress and rage and fear and a fury that’d been building all day.

Stan reared back, clutching his eye and spitting, “Kid, what the hell was that for?”

Dipper’s not sure what it was for - but it was worth it, and that release feels like a piece of relief wedged in his soul. It was quickly replaced with desperation, because humanity is a foul creature that can only be relied on to want more and Dipper is the foulest of humanity.

Stan leaned back over Dipper - there was a thick red blotch just below his eye where Dipper’s fist had made contact with his flesh. It was very, very satisfying.

Dipper geared up for another hit, still not expelled of his violent anger, but Stan caught his wrist and picked him up.

Dipper wriggled, kicking Stan in some very not nice places, grabbing and tearing at Stan’s wife-beater with flailing fists. “Let me -”

Stan covered Dipper’s mouth and snapped, “Be quiet!”

Dipper bit his hand, and the shriek Stan let out was even more satisfying than the bruised eye.

For all of Dipper’s fighting, Stan was still older and stronger, and he roped Dipper’s arms around his back and wrestled Dipper down the stairs and through the hallway, until they ended up in Ford’s old room.

Stan dumped Dipper on the floor and slammed the door shut. “Y’know what, kid, I don’t take very well to getting woken up by a kid freaking the hell out, and then getting my concern thrown back in my face!”

Dipper huffed against the mat. Mat…?

“Get the sweater off,” Stan said.

“- the sweater?” Dipper asked.

“Yeah, the sweater,” Stan said, nodding at it. “Just do it, kid.”

Dipper pulled off the sweater, and fixed his shirt when it rode up. That left him standing there in a white t-shirt and pair of basketball shorts that were only ever used as pajamas, feeling perturbed and swallowing around the flow of adrenaline.

After a cursory glance around the room, Dipper asked, “What happened in here?”

“Ford moved his room closer to mine,” Stan said. “We turned this room into a workout room, for stress reasons. And this? This is a stress reason.”

Dipper blinked. “Oh… uh…”

Stan turned around, and dug through the closet next to the door, before coming out with a roll of red tape. “Hold out your hands.”

“What!?” Dipper asked. “Why!?”

“I’m not restraining you, you can calm down,” Stan said.

“Why would you think that I -”

“I know the feeling, kid,” Stan said, and he knelt in front of Dipper, prying the tip of the tape off of the roll. Dipper’s heart jumped.

“W-what feeling?” Dipper asked.

Stan rolled his eyes. “What you’re feelin’ right now - cornered, and ready to go down swingin’. That feeling is my old best friend.”

Dipper let his eyes stick to the ground, refusing to lift them, and he held out his hands. Looking back on it, he was more than a little embarrassed of how he’d acted - it’d been immature and possibly dangerous, and completely baseless. He’d used Stan as a punching bag.

“Listen -”

“No,” Stan said. “I said I know the feelin’ - and trust me, it’s not your fault.”

“But -”

“If you try to apologize for reactin’ to the stuff that’s happened to you, I’ll give you some payback for this here shiner,” Stan said. “Kid, I’m all about left hooks - but your right hook is mean.”

“Right,” Dipper said, dryly. “These noodle arms sure are good for something.”

“I’m not kidding,” Stan said. “I’m gonna have a shiner in the Christmas photos.”

Dipper felt cold, suddenly. “Oh, God, Grunkle Stan, I’m so sorry -”

Stan chuckled. “Don’t be. We all punch someone in our family at some point. All done!”

Dipper flexed his fingers - his hands and wrists were now wrapped in a thick layer of sporting tape. It was a strange feeling.

“Protects your wrists when you’re boxing,” Stan said. “Hopefully, it’ll do in place of gloves tonight - y’might’ve grown, but not enough to fit my gloves.”

“Boxing?” Dipper asked.

“Free anger management classes,” Stan said. “You need ‘em. Bad.”

“I’ve got, like, noodle arms,” Dipper said. “Seriously.”

Stan leveled a deadpan gaze at him. “Right, we’ll see about that.”

Stan slipped on a pair of punch mitts that looked relatively new. “Now I’ll get to see how Ford feels, doin’ this.”

“He boxes with you?” Dipper asked.

“Birthday present,” Stan answered, a little misty-eyed at the edges. “Put ‘em up, kid.”

Dipper looked at his hands, clenched his fists, and raised them.

“Hm, good, you know not to put your thumb on the inside of your hand,” Stan said. “Raise your arms closer to your chest, you’ve gotta keep your middle protected. That’s the important stuff, there. Raise your right hand - I know from experience that’s your dominant hand.”

Dipper gave a small, sheepish grin. “Sorry.”

“You sound less apologetic. Good,” Stan said. “Ah - lemme -”

Stan batted Dipper’s legs and arms into place. “Good, good; now, about throwin’ punches, y’wanna keep your shoulders and arms level. We’ll start with a cross punch - for this one, you’re using your first two knuckles. To do that, you keep your wrist tilted down - just a little. You won’t hurt yourself that way - now, make a fist.”

Dipper balled a fist, and he let Stan straighten his arm and angle his wrist. “That’s it - it’ll take a while, but you’ll get the hang of punchin’ like this. It’ll become natural.”

Dipper nodded. It was strange seeing Stan like this - confident in an earnest, honest way.

“You wanna hit with your knuckles, but the flat part should take the hit,” Stan said. “That’s just some stuff to keep in mind, so you don’t break your hand. All right, when you swing a punch, you want the momentum from your swing to power it -”

Stan mimed the movements of throwing a cross punch.

“Oh, so those are the straight ones,” Dipper said. “The ones you see in the movies.”

Stan chuckled. “That’s the one.”

Stan knelt back down and presented the punch mitts. “Alright, kid, you’re gonna throw a cross with your right, and then your left. Don’t focus on speed.”

“This is complicated,” Dipper said. He was kind of nervous to throw one; what if he didn’t live up to Stan’s expectations? Sure, he threw one solid punch in a panic, but that was more luck and rage than anything else.

“Don’t overthink it,” Stan said. “Don’t think about the punch - think about what you’re punching.”

“A glove,” Dipper said.

“Smartass,” Stan said. “Get angry, get pissed! Look at these mitts like you looked at me in the hallway.”

“Okay,” Dipper said.

He threw an experimental punch, and Stan said, “Get angrier.”

Dipper threw another one with his left, and Stan said, “Angrier.”

Dipper stalled for a second on his third punch, trying to summon up the anger that sent him flying through the Gideonbot, sent him flying into Bill’s face, sent him careening into Stan earlier; the primal feeling of violence and revenge.

He threw the third punch, winding up stronger.

“Angrier,” Stan said. “Start feeling it. That was weak.”

Something about that word ignited a fire: weak.

Dipper threw himself into the process, letting the physical work warm up cold muscles that ached for release - he stopped trying to imagine it, and started just doing it. No more lists, no more complication, just mindless fury.

“You’re gettin’ there,” Stan said, pushing the mitts forward to meet his punches as they sped up. “Put more power into it, less speed.”

Dipper stalled on his next one, and he thought, helpless wimp and noodle arms and just a kid and he’s a loser and freak in a tumbling knot of indignation, and he slammed his fist into the mitt.

“That’s it!” Stan said. “You’re gettin’ it!”

Something very ugly and something very livid pulsed to life, but for the first time, it wasn’t in his fingertips - it radiated from his knuckles. He’d call it, ‘friction’ if he was any less furious.

I’m - punch - done - punch - being - punch - weak.

With his fists firing like an engine and his lungs heaving for breath, Dipper decided he finally figured out what he was so angry at: himself.

Him, and his dumb - punch - mistakes, the things he’s done - punch - in the name of curiosity. Punch - the lives he’s ruined - punch - his pathetic insecurities - punch - because people don’t love him because he’s just not worthy of it - punch - he’s not a good person - punch -

“I think you’re gettin’ it too well -”

and he doesn’t care - punch - but somehow he cares about being - punch - respected - punch - because he’s not - punch - worth it - punch - because he’s worthless - punch - it’s his fault - punch - he’s better of dead - punch punch - and his dumbass - punch punch punch - birthmark - punchpunchpunch - a useless freak helpless and weak - punchpunchpunchpunch -

“Kid!”

Stan’s punching mitts close around Dipper’s right fist, and momentum sent Dipper crashing into Stan’s chest - is he… crying?

Oh, God, he’s actually pathetic enough to cry. How useless - how - how typical.

He tried to buck out of Stan’s arms, to hide the fact that he’s actually weak and over-emotional and sensitive because he can’t deal with all of this -

“Stop,” Stan said, grabbing Dipper’s wrist. “It’s okay, Dipper.”

It’s okay, Dipper.

His will crumbled, and he slumped against Stan’s chest.

“Talk to me, kiddo,” Stan murmured - his voice sounded like a deep rumble in his chest. “What’s on your mind?”

Dipper swallowed, hard, and worked his tongue until it formed words.

“I - I - I don’t know?” Dipper breathed. “You told me to get angry and I’m just - I’m angry all the time, I don’t know why, I don’t know what’s wrong with me - God, I’m so dumb.”

“You’re not dumb, kiddo, I know what you’re talkin’ about,” Stan said.

“... I’m so - I’m so mad, mad’s not even the right word - I can’t explain it. There’s something wrong with me, I’m sorry -”

“Don’t apologize,” Stan said. “Just keep going.”

Dipper let himself sit back, back rigid. He rubbed his arms. “I don’t… know what to do.”

“You’re mad at yourself, aren’t you?” Stan said. “You lash out ‘cause you can’t beat yourself into a wall.”

Bingo, Dipper thought. He nodded.

“Why are you mad at yourself, then?” Stan asked - his voice had taken on a low, soothing tone.

“Because I -” Dipper felt heat gather in his throat, and he swallowed around it - it was harder than it should’ve been, to choke all of that emotion down. “I’m not… good.”

“Whaddya mean, kid?”

Dipper’s hands flailed, trying hopelessly to describe a feeling of such enormity and power. “Sometimes, I think I’m just, y’know… not worth it.”

“Not worth what?”

Stupid old man, asking all of the right questions.

“Time,” Dipper said. “Not worth people’s time.”

“Why?”

“‘Cause - ‘cause - I’m weak, y’know, and… useless, and pathetic, and I can’t ever do anything right - I hurt Mabel. I hurt my sister. The one thing, the one thing I always thought I was good at, and I can’t even do that right - I’m just not good enough -”

“Oh, whoa, kid,” Stan said. “Where the hell - how the -”

“- and you guys, you used to ditch me sometimes, and I get it - I swear I do. I’m not fun, I know, and I mess up all of the time and ruin everything - why do the people here even like me, I started the - the - the thing. I hurt my sister -”

“Hold on,” Stan said. “Dipper, you’re all over the place, you know that? Jesus, I can’t argue all of that - you gave me a - a friggin’ bulleted list.”

Dipper hunched a little further, wishing he could die of shame.

“You’re none of those things, Dipper,” Stan said. “You’re not weak - hell, you were ‘bout to knock me over, throwin’ crosses the way you do! And strength… it’s more than that. Seein’ you here, right now, ain’t weak, ain’t pathetic - you’ve gotta be the strongest thirteen-year-old I know.”

“Really?” Dipper asked - he suddenly felt very, very small, like he was nine and his mom was patching his scraped knees from where he’d been pushed over at the playground. He rubbed the snot from his nose on his wrist - screw hygiene.

“Absolutely,” Stan said. “You didn’t start that apocalypse, you know. The triangle thing did. None of that’s on you.”

“It is!” Dipper said. “I - if I hadn’t upset Mabel -”

“It still would’ve happened, ‘cause you didn’t start it,” Stan said.

“It doesn’t feel like that,” Dipper whispered.

Stan wrapped an arm around Dipper’s shoulders, and pulled him closer. “‘Course it doesn’t. You’re a guilty thinker. Y’just need people to remind you that everything’s not your fault, kiddo.”

“But - everything’s not my fault, sure, but -”

“You’re good at rationalizing. Stop being so good at it, ‘cause you’re rationalizing guilt,” Stan said. “Don’t do that.”

“Sorry,” Dipper said.

“Don’t apologize for it, either,” Stan said.

“Then - then - what am I supposed to do!?” Dipper snapped. “Sit here and - and take it without doing anything about it!?”

“You’re supposed to stop thinkin’ that way,” Stan said, thumping his index finger against his chest. “Trust me, kid, I spent forty years where you are right now - and it’s never gonna do you any good. It’s hard, but you… you gotta unlearn doin’ that.”

Dipper nodded. “Being alive is hard.”

“It is,” Stan agreed. “But think about your sister. That’s somethin’ worth livin’ for.”

Dipper did think about her - and he felt his heart swell with the unnamable, powerful sibling love he was always consumed with when he thought of her. “Yeah,” Dipper murmured, three parts mystified and one part doubtful.

“It really is,” Stan said, and Dipper slumped against him, eyes drifting shut.

For the first time in a long time, Dipper felt completely and totally at ease.

-

(A couple of days later, and a couple of late-night boxing sessions later, Stan wordlessly handed him a badly-wrapped present as they sat in the living room, listening to Mabel and Ford complain about unicorns in the kitchen.

It was a pair of boxing gloves with, “Right Hook,” written on the inside label.)