Chapter Text
Dipper was lying in bed, his arms folded behind his head as he listened to his parents argue through his wall. His stomach squirmed and twisted, because his mom’s voice had reached a fever-pitch while his dad’s had dropped to a barely discernible drone. He glanced over at Mabel, where she had half of her head under the pillow, softly snoring.
He sighed heavily, staring up at the ceiling.
“Yes,” Dad had said. “It’s partially their fault, because we never wanted two. At least, not at the same time. It’s exhausting! You know that as well as I do.”
As the second twin, the statement hit a little differently. His father had essentially admitted to him being a mistake to a certain degree.
Sure, Dipper wasn’t supposed to overhear it, but he’d heard it all the same.
He chewed anxiously at his bottom lip, turning over onto his side facing the wall. Dipper wrapped his arms around his covers in an attempt to self-soothe while he tried to make out what their parents were saying. But he couldn’t make out more than the uneven cadence of their argument, which meant that his overactive imagination got to shine.
Dad would leave.
He’d never make Mom leave the house, not with two kids, and especially not with a new school on the other side of the summer.
Would their parents share custody? Would they merely split up, their marriage only down on paper while the rest of their relationship fractured? Or would they divorce outright? Would it be amicable or unbearably messy?
Regardless, he and Mabel would be used as pawns, no doubt.
Eventually, love would shift into some form of guilt. Guilt for not staying together, for not trying harder to make it work, for not coming around more. Guilt for moving on and starting over.
Dad would wind up getting an apartment, and he and Mabel would visit sometimes. It’d be awkward and uncomfortable for everyone, with the building having a pool being the main reason they went to visit Dad anyway. They’d camp out in the living room, with Dad feeding them all the stuff Mom wouldn’t let them eat, watching movies and TV shows Mom wouldn’t let them watch and let them stay up way past the bedtime Mom made them adhere to.
He’d try to be the fun parent.
Mom would make a point to not talk bad about Dad outright, but she would make her irritation known. She’d make Dad the Bad Guy with heavy sighs and sidelong looks. Everything she was able to make Dad’s fault with just a little twisting, she would. Everything they wanted to do but that Mom didn’t want them to would come down to alimony or lack thereof.
She’d be more concerned with being the good parent.
He squinted his eyes shut as Dipper clutched at his covers, burying his face in the blanket like that was going to make anything better. Sucking in a long breath through his nose, Dipper counted backward from five before exhaling slowly through his mouth. Wiggling his toes, he forced himself to relax into his nest of blankets.
Things would be better in the morning.
They had to be.
Please let them be.
February in New Mexico was … not great. Better than Jersey, worse than Columbia. Either way, he was wrapped up in trouble and running for his life.
Again.
Stan unlocked his hotel room door slowly and stopped, one big mitt curled around his lackluster dinner of greasy burgers and the other laced through his brass knuckles. He sucked in a deep breath to try and prepare himself, his fingers flexing around the skin-warmed metal. Fifty-fifty chance there was some asshole thug waiting for him in his room.
Rico wasn't exactly patient when it came to getting his money back.
Seriously though, it wasn't his fault Stan had been arrested coming back across the border! The patrol had been paid a fair amount to look the other way. Clearly enough to let him escape …
Okay, so he’d had to kick his way out of the back of a shitty old cop car, but who hasn’t had to do that before? And picking the lock on handcuffs was harder when his arms were behind his back, but he’d managed alright. Definitely was better than dislocating his thumbs and scraping his hands raw wriggling his way out of silver bracelets. He’d also left behind sixty kilos of coke in the trunk of the dusty old Civic he’d stolen outside of Bisbee, so there was that.
Alright. He maybe got it a little.
Pushing into his room, Stan hauled up and gaped because there were fucking kids in his room. A little girl in an oversized sweater with a shooting star was bouncing on his shitty hotel bed, while a little boy in a puffer vest and shorts kicked his feet anxiously.
Stanley Pines did not have kids.
Well, that he knew of. Couple of years had kinda run together there for a bit.
He stepped back and did a double take on the room number. Stan was … the most sober he’d been in weeks, but stranger shit had happened than him getting his hotel room wrong. But no, that was definitely a 5 up there on his door. Clearing his throat and pocketing his knuckles, Stan planted his palm against the door and pushed it open.
Kids were definitely better than Rico’s shithead goons.
“Hi,” the little girl screeched, just inside the door instead of jumping on the bed, making Stan grimace. “Hi, hi, hi! I’m Mabel!”
“Uh, what the fu-ruitcake are you kids doin’ here?” He looked around the impossibly bare room, like Stan half-expected the kids’ parents to be camping out also. The room was barely big enough for him, let alone him plus a party of four. “Where’re your parents,” he demanded, tossing the greasy bag onto the shitty little table. The little girl — Mabel, apparently — followed the bag, bouncing up into the kind of lopsided chair to plant her palms on the table.
“Piedmont,” she lilted, already rifling through the bag like a sparkling raccoon or some shit. Mabel twisted around to grin at him before gasping loudly. Already, Stan felt like he was trapped in some fucking acid-dream or whatever, because her eyes went impossibly big and soft. “Oh, my gosh,” she breathed out. “He looks like Grandpa, bro-bro!”
“Hey,” he said. “Who you callin’ old, kid,” Stan grumbled, heading over to the table to take out the burgers.
He had purposefully lived off cigarettes and stale coffee to save up for a few burgers, which was probably for the best because apparently he was sharing. Stan dumped the bag’s contents on the table before wadding up the bag and tossing it in the vague direction of the trashcan. He startled as the little girl’s hands cradled his face, pulling him in and squishing his cheeks playfully.
“Whomp,” Mabel groaned brightly as she smooshed his cheeks, leaning closer and closer until their noses touched. “Yep! You look just like Grandpa! But like … baby,” she cooed.
“You’re weird, kid,” he grumbled lightly as he pulled back, begrudgingly endeared. She beamed up at him, her teeth glinting white and silver with her mouthful of metal. “Tell me about your Pops. Is he s’posed to be lookin’ after you?”
“Sherman Pines. And he’s our grandpa,” the little boy said meekly, creeping toward the table like a feral cat or something. His small hands curled around the back of the other chair as he lifted up on his toes to peer at the pile of burgers. “Not our pops.”
Stan hauled upright, because no way in fuck was Shermie old enough to not only be a dad but also a grandfather. Especially not to grandkids that old. They were like ten, for chrissake! He hadn’t ever been too good with math — minus what he could do on his fingers — but even he knew that if him and Ford were waiting on turning twenty-nine, that meant Shermie wasn’t a day over forty.
He reached forward, making the boy flinch before he caught hold of his face, his thumb pressing gently against the delicate skin of his eyelid and pulling the boy’s eye open more. The pupil reacted as expected, but Stan still did the other eye just in case. Never could be too sure with that kinda thing.
“You hit your head, kid?”
The little boy batted his hand away.
“It’s Dipper,” he huffed, crossing his little noodle arms over his chest. “And wh-what, no. Why,” he hedged, giving Stan a wary look.
“‘cause I know Sherman Pines , and ain’t no way Shermie’s got a coupla li’l grand ankle biters already.”
“How do you know that,” Mabel chirped, snagging up a burger and unwrapping it. And yep, Stan was sharing his dinner, but it wasn’t like he could let them go without fucking eating. He’d been there, done that, and wasn’t about to force that fate on a coupla kids.
“Shermie’s my brother.”
Mabel spluttered her mouthful of burger all over the table before looking up at him with goddamn stars in her eyes while Dipper’s face paled remarkably fast. And Stan realized he probably could’ve said that in a much gentler way. He rubbed at the back of his neck with a grimace, for all that it mattered.
“Eee,” Mabel screeched loudly, her hands wadded up under her chin. “We have an uncle! No,” she gasped out solemnly. “A great uncle. Oh, my gosh! You’re our grunkle, ” she squealed in a pitch more suitable for dogs’ ears.
“What,” Dipper laughed out awkwardly, rubbing at his scrawny bicep. “Do you expect me to believe that we’ve fallen into like, an alternate reality or something?” His laughter tapered off as he gave Stan a concerned look. His chest heaved a little with his growing panic, and Stan was suddenly reminded of Ford so clearly that a bolt of hurt lanced through him. He hadn’t seen his twin in almost eleven years. “We … we haven’t fallen into like, an alternate reality or something, right? Who even are you?”
“Name’s Stan.”
“Grunkle Stan,” Mabel squealed, kicking her feet with excitement.
“How come you're so much younger than Grandpa?”
“I ain't.”
The kids shared a look and then Mabel flashed him another shiny, metal smile.
“You look way better than Grandpa for being like, a bajillion years old!”
“Except for the mullet,” Dipper mumbled with a grimace.
“… did someone give youse two some disco biscuits? Was it that kid at the front desk?” Stan scrubbed a palm over his face because he was going to ring that little shit’s bell if he gave those kids fucking ludes. Mabel pogoed into his space, looking up at him with bright, eager eyes.
“Those sound ah-mah-zing, ” she breathed out, her eyes huge. “Are they sparkly?”
“How do we know you’re our great uncle?” Dipper mumbled, overlooking Mabel’s question as he eyed Stan warily. And sure, Stan shared Grandpa’s questionable taste in fashion – though a velour tracksuit was definitely better than a mullet – but he wasn’t as easily convinced as his twin that the grungy man in dirty clothes was their great uncle. He looked too young to be their great uncle.
“Grunkle,” Mabel corrected. Dipper rolled his eyes but squared his shoulders.
“How do we know you’re our grunkle?”
“Well, sh-ug,” the older man started, scrubbing his fingers through his unkempt hair. “Oof, kid. I dunno. Sherms was … already outta the house before me and Ford hit high school.”
“Ford?”
“Yeah,” he huffed. “Stanford – my twin.”
“Oh, my gosh,” Mabel screeched, throwing her hands over her head. “You’re a twin too?”
“Heh,” Stan huffed, rolling his shoulders lazily. “Yep. I’m the baby by fifteen minutes.” He puffed his chest up, and Dipper was … admittedly understanding of how something so minimal was ridiculously important. As the baby himself, Dipper felt some of his resistance give way. He laughed awkwardly, rubbing at his bicep as Dipper looked anywhere but at Grunkle Stan before glancing back over at him. “But make no mistake! I’m the Alpha Twin!”
“Dip-dip is the baby, too,” Mabel chirped loudly, before taking an over-large bite of her lackluster burger. “‘cept he’s only five minutes younger than me,” she mumbled around her mouthful of wilted lettuce and kind of grey meat. “And he definitely isn’t the Alpha Twin.”
Dipper huffed, rubbing at his upper arm before sidling closer to pick up a cheap burger. Stan just watched him. “Older siblings, huh,” he choked out, trying to tease but too nervous to commit. The older man’s expression split in a broad, lopsided grin.
“Can’t take ‘em anywhere, amirite,” Stan rumbled, making Dipper laugh awkwardly. He shoved his hands down into the pockets of his shorts and hunched his shoulders up around his ears.
“So, uh, these disco biscuits … any chance they have like, magical properties?”
“Like … one pill makes you larger, and one pill makes you small?”
Dipper wrung his hands before rubbing his palm against the back of his neck.
“I guess. Or like clairvoyance, flying, telekinesis, something like that …”
“I mean, it ain’t peyote if that’s what you’re asking.” Dipper giggled awkwardly, high and breathy because he mostly knew what peyote was, but not really. Surely the movies exaggerated some things, but he knew that it was some type of drug. “But yeah, they might make ya feel like you’re floating or time travelin’ or whatever,” Stan rumbled.
“But it is June 20, 2012 still, right? Like, th-that hasn’t changed.”
“2012,” Grunkle Stan wheezed, his bushy eyebrows jumping halfway up his forehead. “I dunno what to tell you, Dopper —”
“It’s Dipper.”
“— but it’s February 2, 1980.”
Yep, okay, so that was a panic attack Dipper realized as his chest worked ineffectually. He bent over and buried his face in his knees, his arms wrapped tight around his thighs. Dipper gagged before swallowing hard, focusing on the feeling of Mabel’s small hand rubbing comforting circles on his back.
“Okay, okay, okay,” he mumbled anxiously before shoving himself upright. Dipper sucked in a sharp breath as he wadded his hands up at his sides. “1980. This is fine; it’s fine,” he squeaked, his voice breaking kind of pitifully. “I can … figure this out!”
He started pacing the floor of the dingy hotel room, fiddling with his fingers anxiously as Dipper gnawed at his bottom lip.
Of all the things that Dipper had read — which, most of the sources were fantasy fiction novels, but the point remained — it was apparent to him that time travel tended to have a “butterfly flapping its wings” type of reaction. So, any little change might have a catastrophic result.
But also, they had no idea how Stan’s past had been leading up to 2012!
Grandpa had fondly told them about a great uncle coming to the hospital when they were born and sending cobbled together gifts when they were incredibly young, but Dipper didn’t remember a great uncle — Stan or otherwise. How were they supposed to not mess up Stan’s timeline if they didn’t even know it? But did it really matter if it hadn’t happened yet? Because there were apparently thirty-two years of blank space between just then and 2012.
Dipper chewed at his bottom lip anxiously, because there was the serious question of how big of a change they’d have to do to make an impact on Stan’s, on their lives. Was an hour long enough to mess up their futures? Or was it something that took an entire day? Or maybe just an action?
And even if they did mess up Stan’s future — the way it affected Stan himself aside — how would that transfer over to them?
How closely did he and Mabel need to watch their steps to keep from completely rewriting their lives?
Was it possible to write themselves out of existence?
His chest heaved because that revealed a whole new level of anxiety. The thought that one misstep might just make him and or Mabel disappear had Dipper twisted up inside. He couldn’t catch his breath, his chest hitching pitifully as he collapsed onto the tiny motel bed.
“Oh, God,” he groaned lightly, folding in on himself and hugging his thighs once more.
God damn the kid was just like Ford.
And didn’t that hurt in an entirely new way? He’d been trying for years to not think about his twin, but there the universe was — dumping his miniature carbon copy in Stan’s lap. Like Stan really needed a reminder of just how much of a fucked up joke his life was anymore. Clearing his throat, Stan rubbed at the back of his neck before sighing. He started across the small room, hesitating before he rested his hand against the boy’s back.
“Why don’t ya come eat, kid? We can figure it out in the morning.”
The little boy glanced up at him, his bottom lip wobbling before he started chewing it as he reluctantly got to his feet, clutching at his arm. But Dipper finally crept closer to the table, fiddling with one of the untouched burgers. Stan plopped down on the shitty mattress, his hands dangling between his knees. Three burgers was enough for them all to share, but Stan just waved them off as the kids looked over at him curiously. He guessed he was going to just be living off cigarette smoke and burnt coffee a little while longer. Good thing he had practice.
“Eat up,” he grumbled. “They ain’t gonna be good cold.”
Fucking time travel.
Rubbing a tired hand over his face, Stan huffed a sigh, because there was only one asshole in the entire world who Stan trusted wouldn’t outright laugh in his face at that. And even then, he didn’t exactly expect Ford to not laugh in his face and call him a liar, but he did expect the nerd to be interested enough to at least fucking listen.
The nerd had always had a hard-on for weird shit.
He rooted around in his jacket pockets, looking for the slip of information Ma had passed along last time he’d called home. Stan didn’t like to call, because his mother liked to charge him for her time, but she liked for him to check in occasionally. And he was good enough at picking pockets to fuel his mother’s irrational need to keep tabs on him, despite letting her husband kick him out on the streets. Stan finally found the slip of paper and smoothed it against his forefinger with his thumb.
618 Gopher Road, Gravity Falls, Oregon.
That was at least a twenty hour drive, probably more.
With kids, he’d have to stop more — they’d need to get out and stretch their legs or whatever. He figured he’d just start heading north, and then when he stopped for gas the second or third time, Stan would lift an atlas at the gas station, plan it out for real. He groaned because without the kids, all he had to scrounge up change for was gas and smokes because more often than not, Stan could convince some bored gas station attendant to give him the bottom of the pot for free. But with kids, his cigarette money would go to feeding the little gremlins.
Stan had a pack and a half of smokes left, and he really doubted it would be enough, but he was resourceful. Besides, it wasn’t like he hadn’t smoked butts out of an outside ashtray stand before. He could … make due for as long as was needed of him, but it definitely helped that after a few days, his stomach stopped being a grumbly bitch and just took it.
Glancing up at the kids, Stan cleared his throat roughly.
“We’ll,” Stan huffed, gesturing vaguely. “We’ll just get some shut-eye and figure this sh-ug out in the morning.” Meaning, fingers crossed he'd open his eyes in the morning to a blissfully empty, shitty motel room. “Once y’all are done eating, go wash up. You kids can have the bed,” he huffed, folding himself down on the floor.
“Where are you gonna sleep, Grunkle Stan,” Mabel asked him, her voice quiet as she looked at him with those big eyes – even as Dipper headed into the bathroom.
“I ain’t sleepin’, sweetie.”
Stan braced himself against the door, leaning back into it. He was a big man, but Stan knew that if Rico wanted in, he’d get in. All he had to do — all he had to be good for — was slowing those fuckers down, giving the kids a chance to get away. Wasn’t like he hadn’t ever suffered through a broken nose or bloody mouth before, so it was no big thing. He watched them settle in for the night, that protectiveness soaking into him like it had with Ford but times ten.
And all his sleepless nights were catching up to him because his head kept tipping. It was hard work keeping himself awake. The soft, heavy breathing of the kids was a primitive lullaby.
Grunting softly, he got to his feet and slipped out the door. His pack of cigarettes was already in his hand, his thumb flipping the top open to reveal the remaining five long, skinny cylinders of nicotine, carcinogens, and bliss. He fished a cigarette out of the pack and lit up, fiddling with the heavy Zippo as Stan sucked in a lungful of smoke. It puffed out of his nose as he sighed. Stan braced his forearms against the railing as he leaned into it, chewing at the end of the cigarette before he sucked in another lungful of smoke. He watched the sun come up over the scraggly horizon before letting himself back into the room.
The kids were snoring breathily, clumped in close as Stan threw himself down into one of the chairs around the table. His head lolled back on his neck, and he really didn’t want to think about having to deal with Real Life outside of getting the kids into the Stanmobile and getting them all on the road.
Not to mention he was still paid up for two more nights at the motel. It was a kick in the teeth knowing that he was giving up that money for nothing. But the thing was, a moving target was harder to hit, and Stan had already been sitting idle for a little too long. It was just nice sleeping in a real fucking bed for a change, instead of crammed into the El Diablo’s back seat with all the other trash. Rico had been chasing him across Arizona and New Mexico for the past couple of months, getting closer and closer each time.
It was only a matter of time until his past brutally caught up with him.
While it wouldn't have been the first time Stan had paid more than his pound of flesh, there were kids to consider. Shermie’s grandkids. His niblings.
He'd rather die first.
“C’mon, kids,” he rumbled softly, gently shaking their shoulders until they blinked up at him – slow and sleepy. “The sooner we get on the road, the sooner we can get you back home.” He left the hopefully outta his sentence. “You can sleep in the car,” he reminded them as they grumbled on their way out of the bed. While they pulled on their shoes, he cleaned up the motel room – shoving dirty clothes into a garbage bag as he left everything else alone.
The mess would take time for Rico and his shithead goons to get a bead on him. Hopefully, long enough for Stan to make it out of the state. He only needed like seven hours, eight tops. Leaving the motel key on the tabletop, Stan ushered the kids out of the room.
“Can we get breakfast,” Mabel chirped, leaning back into the press of his palm.
“Sure,” Stan deferred. “Course, pumpkin. We’ll … uh, get something from that place with the clown, alright? Just, lemme get us outta the city.”
She beamed up at him, all white and silver grin. “Okay! I have faith in you, Grunkle Stan!”
“Glad someone does,” he mumbled, unlocking the El Diablo and ushering the kids into the backseat.
Stan tossed his bag of dirty clothes in the passenger seat. And he was just glad he’d cranked the soft top up, otherwise the seats would be soaked with dew as he practically threw himself into the car. Stan glanced in his rearview mirror. His breath caught under his ribs as Rico’s big, grey Caddy rolled into the motel’s parking lot just by the lobby’s doors, but a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. There was something so good — exhilarating — about getting one over on that sleazy wannabe gangster, and leaving town before he repaid his debt was about as sweet as it fucking got.
“Let’s blow this pop stand, kids,” he yelled, punching the air before trying to grind the gas pedal into the floorboard.
The El Diablo jumped forward, barely missing a minivan that was laying on its horn before it fishtailed into the correct lane. A cloud of road dust roiled out from under the wheels, billowing out behind them as he headed north.
“Yeah,” they chorused from the back seat, their voices bright and loud.
“Beep, beep, motherfucker,” Stan murmured under his breath, his skin creaking where his fingers twisted around the curve of the steering wheel. He kept his foot mashed to the floor, wanting to get out of Dead End Flats as soon as possible.
Oregon, here they came.