A/N: My first attempt at a crossover fic, ever. I don't own either Gravity Falls, or Rick and Morty. They belong to Alex Hirsch and Dan Harmon and Justin Roiland respectively. I'm just playing in the sandbox. This one's another angsty one, hope you enjoy! This one has taken me months to write, a lot of writer's block and anxiety about keeping Rick in character. so I really hope I do both Ford and Rick justice here. If Rick is a bit OOC, I apologize, I honestly tried to keep him as much like our lovable mad scientist as possible.
The Ties that Bind
He first meets the man a week after Stan accidentally pushed him into the portal.
He looks like the stereotypical mad scientist, Ford admits when he sees the stranger. Tall, with unruly hair that looks to be robin's egg blue, a very distinctive uni-brow, and a flowing, white lab coat, the man is leaping from a miniature, neon green vortex which seems to be suspended mid-air. Moments later, the vortex vanishes and the stranger pockets the unusual device he is holding in the pocket of his lab coat. He then retrieves a flask, of which he takes a generous swig, oblivious to the spittle on his chin. For several moments Ford observes the stranger, until at last the man caps his flask and tucks it away for safe keeping. "What the fuUURPck are you lookin' at?" he grumbles between a loud belch.
"What an interesting character," Ford mumbles, more to himself than to the man before him, who simply shrugs nonchalantly. Undeterred, Ford walks up to the man and offers him his hand. "Greetings! My name is Dr. Stanford Pines. It is a pleasure to meet another human in this..." He trails off, unable to think of a word to describe the hell hole he has called home for the past eight days. But the stranger doesn't extend his own."Whatever," he replies, and turns and walks away from Stanford. "It works," he says to himself, and a satisfied smirk tugs at his lips. "Ok, I'm outta here." He pulls out the strange object from earlier and punches in a code on its keypad before aiming it.
"Fascinating invention! May I ask what it is?"
"Portal gun," is the stranger's blunt reply as he squeezes the trigger. Seconds later, a second vortex appears and the man steps in as casually as one would his own front door. "See you on the flip side," he adds, as an afterthought before vanishing through the vortex.
And just like that, Stanford Pines is alone again. Not surprisingly, he is disappointed, Though rude, vulgar, and most likely a functioning alcoholic, the man seems to be brilliant despite his young age (his early thirties, more than likely, or perhaps even a year or two younger). He obviously had knowledge of not only this dimension, but quite possibly more, judging by the cool demeanour he displayed upon entering and exiting what Ford by now has concluded to be a miniature portal. Which means that the unusual invention in the man's hand is, indeed, a teleportation device. One that would allow him access to multiple dimensions, including his own. The man had been his one way ticket home, and has now gone off to god knows where.
"Fuck!" Ford throws his canteen upon the ground in frustration before collapsing to his knees amidst the dust. Around him, inhabitants of this strange planet simply ignore him, going about their own business as if it were perfectly natural for a six fingered human to wallow in his own self pity. And for a few minutes he does, allowing a few stray tears to slide down his sunburned cheek. But it isn't long before he acknowledges his foolishness and stands, pulling a notebook and pencil from his coat pocket. If the technology exists for him to create a dimension jumping device, then he will build his own. He is a Pines, after all.
XXX
He doesn't see the man again for another thirty-odd years. In that time, Ford has created, tossed aside, redesigned, and again scrapped the blueprints for his own portal gun, with no success. In between attempts, he builds a small arsenal of weapons, which he stores in his home base, deep underground. He has survived hypothermia, disease, near fatal wounds, and barely avoided execution when he had unintentionally violated the practices of his new home shortly after his arrival. Now he is fifty-six years old, having spent nearly half of his life in an alternate reality. With a sigh, he pulls out his hunting knife and gets to work on gutting the small alien creature he has killed for his breakfast. The meat tastes horrible, enough to have made him vomit when he had first tried it years earlier, but years of consumption have desensitized him to the rather rancid flavour. He is quick at his task, eyes darting around him and ever aware of any potential threat, but takes care to slice through the flesh precisely so as to waste as little as possible. Ford remembers all too well the sleepless night when hunger knotted his stomach to the point of agony.
His meal is just starting to sizzle upon the fire when he hears it: a sound he had last heard back when he had first gone through the portal, accompanied by its usual neon green light. Before long, the spiky haired man, several years older but otherwise unchanged, steps through. He looks practically identical, down to the lab coat, pale blue pull over and brown slacks; only the wrinkles on his forehead and the bags beneath his eyes give away the passage of time. Following close behind is a brown haired boy no more than fifteen, his yellow t-shirt tattered and stained with mud.
"Aw, jeez Rick, th- that was a close one!" the boy stammers, as the portal disappears behind them. The stranger, like before, pulls out his trusty flask and downs at least half of it before letting out his usual belch. "I know, right M-Morty? And you didn't evUURPen fuck up this time. Oh wait, you did." He waves the portal gun in his hand nonchalantly. Immediately the boy's fearful expression become one of resentment. "So I forgot to charge the portal gun. Don't try to tell me you never fuck up, Rick. Remember when you Cronenberged the planet?"
"Which would have never happened if you hadn't tried to drug your girlfriend..."
"Jessica's not -" The boy (Morty, apparently) suddenly stops mid – sentence, at last noticing the stranger who has been listening to this unusual dialogue without a word. Beside him, the mad scientist also notices Ford, but seems nonplussed. "You still here, huh?"
"Yes. I don't have access to a multi-dimensional travelling device such as yours." Polite, yet with a hint of bitterness.
"Yeah, that sucks."
"You know this guy?" Morty interrupts, gesturing towards Ford with his thumb. His companion nods. "Ran into him like, shit, thirty years ago now?" He turns to Stanford, who is still sitting before the fire, slowly turning his breakfast on a make shift spit. He has no intentions of rising for the man who abandoned him all those years ago. "Rick Sanchez," the stranger introduces. "The dumbass who drained the battery on my portal gun's my grandson, Morty." The boy smiles, gives a little wave. "Hey." He seems either unperturbed, or oblivious to his grandfather's insult, Ford notices, but dismisses the thought. There are other pressing matters to worry about. But not before he properly introduces himself to the boy.
"Greetings, Mortimer-" "MoUUURPty," Rick interrupts as he tips his flask once more and gulps the rest - "My name is Stanford Pines, but if you wish you may call me Ford." Morty accepts the handshake, and as expected, looks at his six fingered grasp in amazement. He seems amazed, however, not repulsed, and Ford explains his polydactyly to the boy. Morty tries to be interested, but Ford senses that his words are going over the boy's head, and instead turns his attention back to the man who'd abandoned him all those years ago. He wants to yell at him, to curse him for sentencing him to a life of fear and uncertainty. But instead of the eccentric old man, he sees Stanley, clutching his burned shoulder in agony, pushing him into his own damn portal. He can see the look of fear in his brown eyes as Ford is drawn closer to the swirling vortex, can hear his desperate pleas of "what do I do?" He sighs, returns his focus to his meal. A piece of fat drips from the meat and sizzles in the flames.
The three remain in silence for a moment, before Rick gets bored and gestures to his grandson. "Come on, Morty, we gotta figure out how to get this thing going again."
.
"Let me see it." Ford's voice at last interrupts the stillness. Morty, once again the nervous teenager, objects.
"Aww, jeez Rick, I don't think t-that's a good idea."
"No shit, M-Morty."
But Ford will not take no for an answer. He is still pissed that Sanchez had left him to possibly die. And yet there is something about him that draws him to the man; he has noticed the subtle ways in which he has shown affection for his grandson despite the constant barrage of insults: a gentle ruffling of his hair, a bump on the shoulder... not to mention the fact that he had immediately corrected him when Ford had referred to the boy as Mortimer rather than Morty. Yes, there was definitely a sense of, if not love, at least great affection in regards to the young man. There is also the fact that, just as before, this strange man and his grandson are potentially his only ticket out of here, and if he has to help him out, so be it. And that portal gun is the key. It has to work, or else it won't be just he stranded in this godforsaken hellhole.
But what really gets Ford is the fact that somehow Rick Sanchez reminds him of Stan. There is pain within the scientist's blue eyes, a hurt he had failed to notice in his own twin's the day he disappeared. And so, despite the many red flags warning him of his folly, Stanford rises, extends his hand. "Please. Let me help. I am a man of science myself. Perhaps there is something you may have missed?"
At this, Rick looks genuinely pissed. "I don't miss," he grumbles. "I know what's wrong with my damn pUUURPortal gun. Ran outta juice. Need to charge it. End of story."
"Then perhaps I can help you charge it. After breakfast, of course." Removing his meal from the fire, Ford pulls apart a piece and offers it to Morty, who immediately turns green at the sight. "No, thanks," he manages between dry heaves. Shrugging, he gestures the offering over to Rick, who shrugs and pops it in his mouth without question. "Can you take this crap to go?" he then asks, grimacing at the taste. "I kinda want to get out of here, bud."
You and me both. But Ford instead nods and leads the way, chewing on his disgusting meal while his new companions follow in silence. "When I first saw your portal gun, I tried to create one for myself. Duplicating your prototype proved to be next to impossible." Rick snorts proudly at this, but says nothing. "But I was able to create many other tools and weapons." Ford leads the trio along the arid wasteland, until at last a series of caves become visible along the horizon. Expertly he guides them along the face of the rock, until at last he stops before a cavern, well hidden within the cacti and bushes. "Here we are!" he announces triumphantly, leading them into the darkness. "Come along, there is no time to waste!" Morty looks to his grandfather for confirmation, and upon noticing the blank expression on his face, shrugs and follows Stanford into the cave.
"Welcome to my home," Ford announces proudly, pulling onto a drawstring from the ceiling. Immediately the dark room is filled with light, revealing a massive array of gadgets and weapons to make even Rick rather green with envy. Ford can't help but chuckle as the man eyes his collection with interest. "Nice!" he comments, picking up his carbon destabilizer. Beside him, Morty is inspecting his infinity sided die. "Cool! What is it?" he proclaims before Ford snatches it and returns it to its protective case. "Be very careful with that! In fact, don't touch anything!" Once the object is safely tucked away, he explains that the die has infinite sides, and therefore, infinite possibilities when rolled. "The potential for disaster is astronomical. Or you could simply roll a two and move on." At the mention of destruction, Morty shudders and immediately backs away. "Smart boy," Ford observes, and continues his search. After a few minutes, he lets out a triumphant "aha!" before pulling out his makeshift charger. "It looks primitive, but rest assured, it works like a charm. Hand me over your portal gun."
Rick pauses a moment, unsure. Ford immediately senses that Sanchez is skeptical about handing over his most prized possession to a stranger, and is no doubt weighing the pros and cons of releasing it. After a moment, he walks over, gun still in his grasp. "No dice, pal, I'm gonna be the one who charges it. Just t-tell me whUUURPat to do."
For a moment, Ford considers arguing. He's their one way ticket home, and yet Sanchez doesn't trust him? But then flashes of Bill Cipher haunt him. Of course the man has reasons to doubt his trust. Though completely unintentional, Ford had collaborated with the dream demon; had trusted him, and had contributed to the potential destruction of all human kind. Had he not written in his journal "trust no one?" And so the doctor swallows his pride and nods his head. "Be my guest," he says. Rick nods and allows Ford to demonstrate the use of the charger. Though it, indeed, looks to be cheaply made, the device works perfectly, and in fifteen minutes, the portal gun is ready to go.
"Thanks, Mister," Morty calls over his shoulder as Rick punches coordinates into the device. Ford smiles. "My pleasure! Do you mind if you could open a portal to my own dimension? It's C-232, Gravity Falls, Oregon."
"Sure." Rick's reply is nonchalant, but Ford can sense the gratitude in his voice. "Gonna make a pit stop, M-Morty," he announces, punching buttons on his portal gun. "Shit, the buttons are sticking. Damn thing." He fiddles with the controls, trying to set the appropriate coordinates, just as the cavern begins to tremble violently. "What the fuck is this, Ford?" Rick asks in concern. Beside him, Ford's face has gone pale. He knows all too well what is going to happen. On several other occasions he has escaped death from the creature who dwells nearby. A rare (but still, far too many for his liking) few occasions, he had evaded capture by the skin of his teeth. But the last attack had been nearly a decade ago, and Stanford had assumed that it had either met its end, or had moved on. Cursing himself for his complacency, Ford turns to his guests, practically shoving them towards the cavern's entrance.
"Run!"
Rick and Morty do not need to be asked twice. In a flash they are racing out the door, many near death experiences making this sort of activity almost commonplace. Ford grabs one of his weapons from the nearby table and switches the safety off. "You two run ahead! I'll try to keep it at bay!"
"Keep what?!" But Morty's question falls on deaf ears as the walls of the cavern begin to collapse behind them. Impatiently, Rick grabs his grandson's hand and drags him away as Ford aims his weapon into nothingness, waiting for the creature's approach. Moments later, it does, its red eyes gleaming in the dark reminiscent of those of a demon. Oily green tentacles reach blindly in the darkness, at one point nearly seizing Ford's ankle; but there is a steadiness in his grip, a look of determination in his brown eyes as he fires round after round at his attacker. Around him, large chunks of rock and granite begin to fall around him, and Ford feels his heart nearly leap from his chest, but he continues his assault. At last the creature begins to recoil, and Ford begins his own journey out of the cave, dodging attacks with skill, still aiming behind him and praying that there is enough charge to finish the job.
Ford's luck runs out just before reaching the exit. In his hurry, the scientist trips over a rock and tumbles face forward, the gun sliding just out of reach. Trying to calm the welling panic, he stands... only to collapse back to the ground with a cry. "Dammit!" he hisses as white hot pains sears up his left leg, enough to nearly make him pass out. Outside, he can faintly hear Morty call out for him, only for Rick to yell at him impatiently: "There's no time, Morty! Let's go you stupid ass!" There's silence, followed by a triumphant "YES!" And for a moment, Ford nearly gives up. His ticket home has once again abandoned him. He tries to tell himself that Sanchez's primary concern is the safety of his grandson; that he'll come back for him after Morty is safe at home. But Stanford Pines is no fool; he may have met Rick Sanchez only once before, but his gut is telling him that he looks out for number one. In fact, the only person the man seems to care about is the boy. Leaving behind a man he barely knows to protect his grandson seems to be an easy choice for him.
And then Ford thinks of Stanley. His own flesh and blood, his twin. He is still very much angry at him for ruining his dream, and perhaps he always will be. But the deep resentment will never change the fact that he misses his brother, loves him. He may not ever see him again, but he sure as hell isn't about to give up now. And so, ignoring the agonizing pain from his ankle, Ford pulls himself up and reaches for his weapon. There's only one shot left. Without hesitation, the scientist aims it between the creature's eyes and pulls the trigger.
XXX
The third time Stanford Pines sees Rick Sanchez happens shortly after Weirdmageddon.
Things are finally starting to settle into some sort of routine, a sense of calm which is almost monotonous, considering the circumstances. The first few weeks following his return had been far from the pleasant homecoming he had hoped for (though, admittedly, his own stubborn behaviour had not helped the situation). He and Stanley had been on far from friendly terms, the anger and resentment of thirty years prior resurfacing despite both of their best intentions. And then there had been the craziness of Bill Cipher and his plans of global domination. Throw in the threat of potential global annihilation, the stress of being around his twin, and discovering that you are suddenly a great uncle, all while attempting to navigate in a new, technological world, and you had a recipe for chaos.
Getting to know his new great-nephew and niece have been the highlight of the aging man's life, what have kept him going while everything else around him had gone to shit. Though it was obvious the youngsters were closer to his twin than he, Ford had connected with the younger set of Pines twins almost immediately. Feisty Mabel had a personality which reminded him of a younger Stan, and so initially it had been harder to connect with the girl, but in no time flat, he found himself falling for her silly charms. With Dipper, not surprisingly, he had formed a tighter bond. While Mabel was Stanley to a T, Dipper seemed to be a carbon copy of a young Stanford at his age. Ever curious, and already looking up to him in an almost unhealthy way, the younger of the two had been more than eager to follow his great uncle on his expeditions, journal in hand, chewing the tip of his pen in thoughtful excitement as he jotted notes. And almost immediately, he is reminded of Rick Sanchez and the boy, Morty. The situations, in fact, are eerily similar: the elder scientist grandfather and grandson always tagging along on adventures; the elder scientist (what did the kids refer to Stanley as? Their grunkle?) and his great-nephew, going on their own.
The kids had just left for California the day before. The Shack is quiet, Stanley having gone to town in hopes of finding anything to jog his memory. Ford is sitting on the porch steps, sipping coffee and watching the sunrise. The last thing Stanford Pines expects is the familiar neon green portal appearing before him. Moments later, Sanchez steps out – or rather, stumbles, swallowing from his ever present flask and wiping the excess liquor with the sleeve of his lab coat. Ford watches in silence as the man staggers a bit, rights himself, and walks a few paces before passing out. He considers leaving him for a moment: after all, the asshole had left him to possibly die less than a year earlier. But he can't bring himself to ignore the scientist. And he sure as hell can't leave him passed out in the front yard. "All right, you kuncklehead," he mutters, hoisting Rick on his shoulders and guiding him inside the Shack.
Once Sanchez collapses in Stan's favourite armchair, Ford pours himself another cup of coffee and settles at the kitchen table to think. Though their encounters had been brief, and scattered over the past thirty years, Ford knows that Rick is far from stupid, and that there must have been a reason why the man has suddenly appeared not only in his own dimension, but right there, on his goddamn doorstep. Perhaps it is merely coincidental, but something in his gut is telling Ford that the man's sudden visit is far from being a coincidence.
As if to validate his claims, Ford suddenly hears the unconscious man moan in his sleep; he twists and turns, sweat streaming from his brow, and he begins to question if alcohol is the reason behind Sanchez's current state. Upon close examination, Stanford notices a growing pool of crimson seeping through his lab coat. "Shit," he curses to himself as he gently raises the man's shirt, revealing a crude wrapping around his torso. Quickly he heads to his lab and grabs his first aid kit, stopping to pick up a bottle of Jack Daniels from Stan's secret stash on his way back up. "What the hell happened to you, Rick?" he mutters as he carefully removes the blood soaked dressing and examines the wound. Fortunately it's a clean one, a through and through, and Ford sighs in relief. He may not particularly care for the man, but the last thing he wants is for him to die. Sanchez still seems to be in rough shape; he barely flinches when Ford pours a generous amount of whisky over the wound, the sole reaction being a slight hiss. A few minutes later a fresh dressing is applied and Stanford carries him to his bedroom. It isn't long before Rick begins to stir again, this time muttering a familiar sounding name:
"Morty..."
Oh, shit. He's calling out for his grandson. Has something terrible happened to the boy? Ford closes his eyes, shuddering at the thought of the kid in danger. He's been there, had been close to seeing Mabel's neck snap before his very eyes. It is an image he replays over and over in his mind, one that won't abandon him any time soon. If Sanchez cares for young Morty as he does for Dipper and Mabel, the boy's loss would be devastating. Hell, the man took a bullet for the child. Ford sighs, and heads to the bathroom to prepare a compress for his patient. By the time he returns, a basin of cold water and a clean washcloth in his hands, Rick is semi conscious, eyes fluttering as he fights the urge to pass out again. By the time Ford sits by his bed side, Sanchez has come to, eyes darting around the room. He's in an unfamiliar space, in a situation Stanford knows his guest would not want to be in.
"Relax, Rick," Ford says quietly. He's dipped his cloth into the basin and is applying the damp compress to Sanchez' forehead. The latter is not thrilled with the gesture and makes to remove the cloth, only to find himself far too weak. Instead he allows his arm to flop uselessly to his side, a rather petulant look on his face. "I don't need your help, or your pity, Pines," he growls, eyes closed. Ford chooses to ignore the pouting and continues with his first aid treatments, and eventually Rick gives in with a mumbled "whatever." He is neglecting to mention Morty, and Ford decides not to press the matter. Stan will be home soon, and he has a lot of explaining to do. But he can't resist inquiring about the injury itself. "What happened to you, Rick?" he asks. He expects Sanchez to clam up, and is far from surprised with his blunt answer. "Got shot. Doesn't take a genius to figure that one out."
"I'm aware that you were shot. I was inquiring as to why you were." He pauses a moment, closing his eyes. He'd told himself that he wouldn't ask regarding Morty's absence, but Ford knows he needs to speak up. If, by some chance, the boy is still alive, knowledge of the situation could prove to be vital.
"You were calling for your grandson in your sleep," he says gently, and Rick's already pale complexion now becomes a ghastly white. But, in typical Rick Sanchez fashion, the man pretends to be not affected by the comment. "You listening to me when I'm out, Pines? Jesus. Not cool." Ford, however, is not fooled by the man's seemingly heartless behaviour. "If something has happened to Mortimer, I need you to tell me. Perhaps I can be of assistance."
"I highly doubt you could "be of assistance," Rick snaps weakly. "Morty's dead."
Ford can't help but gasp at the comment, taken aback by Sanchez' bluntness. "Dead? I'm so very sorry, Rick."
"Whatever," Rick repeats and he closes his eyes, trying his best to hide the tears forming beneath his lids. No amount of bravado and sarcasm can hide the fact that the man is grieving the loss of his grandson. Again images of his great niece and nephew in the clutches of Bill Cipher, moments from death themselves, flash before him, and Ford quickly pushes them away. He can't bear to imagine what life would be like without Mabel and Dipper. And so he gently places his hand on the man's wrist, far from surprised when Rick instinctively withdraws his own hand rather forcefully. "What happened, Rick?" he repeats softly. In response, the man turns his head. Clearly he is sending the message that he's in no way going to tell him what happened. It's understandable; Ford would not exactly revel in sharing with the world the details should the twins, or Stanley, have died. It's his own curiosity which has prompted him to ask in the first place, and immediately he feels guilty for doing so. After a while, he hears the sounds of steady breathing. Sanchez has fallen asleep. With a sigh, Ford gathers the basin of now cold water and leaves him be. He is far from surprised when he returns, a few hours later, to an empty room.
XXX
The final time Stanford Pines sees Rick Sanchez happens less than a week later. Sanchez has once again dropped in unexpectedly, and this time he is clearly drunk. He stumbles around the Shack's front yard, stopping every so often to take a swig from a bottle of Hennessy. Ford watches as Rick makes himself at home, plopping on the couch Stan had placed on the front porch. For a few minutes, he drinks in slience, emptying the bottle and tossing it haphazardly over the porch railing before removing his flask from his coat pocket. "How ya been, Fordsie?" he asks, wrapping an unsteady arm around his shoulder. Ford ignores the chill of the dreaded nickname, one given to him by Cipher years earlier, and instead allows the man to continue. He'd just lost his grandson, after all. He deserved at least a little leniency. And so he sits there, listening to him ramble on about interdimensional travel for what seems like an eternity. He nods in the right places, throwing in an occasional "is that right?" Like an adult talking to a child describing the latest toy fad or a favourite cartoon program. Finally Sanchez is quiet, the only sounds being the swish of the alcohol in the flask as he takes a swig and the occasional belch.
After a while, though, Rick Sanchez finally opens up to him.
"It's my fault," he says, speech slurred, and Ford pauses. He knows exactly what the man is talking about. He pats the man gently on his shoulder, can feel the bone through flesh. The man obviously isn't taking care of himself. He hadn't been healthy even before young Morty's death.
"I fucking killed him," Rick continues, and Ford stiffens slightly. He'd been curious to find out what had happened to the boy, and now he's about to find out. Suddenly he feels nauseous, but swallows the bile forming beneath his throat. He wants to say something, anything, but finds himself staring into the darkness before him, waiting for Sanchez to continue. Sure enough, he does, voice empty.
"He didn't want to go. Had the flu or some stupid shit. I told him to stop being a pussy."
Ford closes his eyes, imagines the ailing boy reluctantly complying with his grandfather's request. Morty would have been lagging behind, even more so than usual. He wants to comfort Rick, reassure him that his grandson's death was unavoidable and that he had done all he could to protect him; but he can't. Sanchez knew the boy was sick and led him to potential danger regardless. Of course he would never intentionally hurt Morty but one couldn't deny that the scientist's careless actions had no doubt led to his death. Ford steals a glance at Rick, sees the agony and guilt in his eyes, and wisely says nothing. The man is grieving, is fully aware of the consequences of his actions. The last thing he needs right now is a self righteous spiel. Instead he listens as Rick describes how the Galactic Federation had finally caught up with him; how the inevitable firefight had led to his being shot and Morty getting hit in the crossfire; of how he had somehow managed to get them both to safety only to find the boy had been mortally wounded...
"He died in my arms," he mutters, and buries his face in his hands. "Jesus Christ. I still haven't told his parents."
Ford finds his own eyes misting. "I'm so sorry, Rick," he murmurs. Sanchez says nothing, tips his flask and grunts in frustration to find it empty. Both men sit for a while, the only sound being that of a lone owl calling out in the distance and the whisper of the night breeze in the trees. After a while, Rick gets up, pulls his portal gun from his lab coat, and wordlessly aims it before him. The familiar neon green light of the portal cuts the darkness, and in seconds, he is gone.
XXX
Never again will Stanford Pines run into Rick Sanchez. The years pass and Dipper and Mabel continue to spend their summers in Gravity Falls. Though the Pines family seem to attract adventure like the plague, never again do they find themselves in any serious danger. Mabel is as quirky as ever, full of energy and a radiance that could melt even the coldest heart. Dipper, though more mature now than at twelve, is just as curious. Even now he still listens, enraptured, to his grunkle's adventures, his journal and pen ready. At moments, Ford looks into his great-nephew's brown eyes and sees another pair. The twins are the same age Mortimer was when he died, and while Stanford didn't really know the boy, he does remember the look of curiosity and admiration he had; the same one he sees in young Mason.
"Grunkle Ford, are you ok? You look a little spaced out."
Immediately Ford snaps back to reality. He gives Dipper a warm smile and a gentle pat on the shoulder. "Of course I am," he says, and settles back into his chair. The boy smiles, clicks his ball point pen eagerly. "Now, where were we?"