Ford shuffled through the dark kitchen, trying to calm his heartbeat. Nightmares had been a problem for him for as long as he could remember, but after the events of the last week, they had gotten worse.
Pouring a glass of water, he took a sip, noting how his hands were shaking.
"Get a hold of yourself, Stanford," he muttered, putting the glass down.
From the direction of the stairs, there was a series of rhythmic thumping noises. Hand flying to his hip, Ford remembered he had left his blaster in his room. Stupid, stupid, stupid, he chastised himself, looking around for a weapon.
The noises were getting closer, squeaking and dragging across the wooden floor. Out of options, Ford grabbed the water glass he had just put on the counter. Shifting his grip, he prepared to throw it at whatever was coming into the kitchen.
A shadowy figure stopped in the doorway of the room, "Grunkle Ford?"
"Mabel?" Ford asked hoarsely, "What are you doing up at this hour?"
Ignoring the question, Mabel stepped forward, "Grunkle Ford, are you okay?"
"I'm fine, dear." Ford put down the glass, relieved and ashamed. Get a hold of yourself, Stanford. "Go back to bed."
He was acutely aware of Mabel's gaze as she looked him up and down, taking in the details. He could only imagine what he must look like, disheveled and afraid, ready to throw things at anyone who could come near.
Taking a step backwards, he repeated himself, trying to sound firm. "Go to bed, Mabel."
"You had a nightmare." It wasn't a question.
"Don't worry about me," Ford said, turning away and placing the glass in the sink so he wouldn't have to look his great-niece in the face. Noticing how much his hands were still shaking, he tucked them safely behind his back.
"Dipper has them too," Mabel said quietly.
Ford stiffened, his hatred for Cipher resurfacing with a viciousness that caught him off guard. He caused Dipper to have – He cut the thought off, not willing to follow it to the logical conclusion. "What about you, dear?" he asked, trying to stop his voice from shaking. If they're anything like mine...
There was another pause, and then, "...sometimes," Mabel whispered, wiping her eyes.
Ford walked quickly out of the kitchen, into the living room, sinking into Stan's chair. He buried his head in his hands, only dimly aware he was shuddering all over. This is all your fault, bringing that demon into this reality, giving him access to this world, starting the apocalypse.
Digging his nails into his scalp, Ford tried to block the memories. Stan, kneeling in the clearing, looking around with no idea where he was. Dipper and Mabel, bathed in red light, their death sentences imminent. Stan asking Mabel who she was, staring at all of them like they were absolute strangers. Dipper pulling his hat over his eyes, trying to stem the tears. Mabel, trying to pretend everything was alright, when it was so horribly, horribly, wrong.
And whose fault is it? Who created the portal that allowed this to happen, was so blinded by promises of grandeur that they went along with every word?
"Me," Ford whispered roughly, trying to push down the tears that threatened to spill over. "This is all my fault."
From beside him came a small voice, "Grunkle Ford?"
"Go – go back to bed, Mabel," he ordered, breath hitching.
"It's not your fault," she whispered. Ignoring his words, she crawled into the chair beside him, pressing into his side.
Ford flinched, instinctively leaning away. "Mabel, what are you doing?" he asked, forcing down the sudden burst of emotions – fear, panic, get away, too close, too close – the act caused.
"Hugs always help Dipper," Mabel said, her words muffled by his sweater.
Putting one arm around her, Ford couldn't stop the sudden burst of tears. After everything that happened, everything I've done, everything I caused... Not allowing himself to finish the thought, he wiped his eyes with his free hand.
"Thank you, dear," he whispered hoarsely. The urge to get away, to flee was dimming, replaced by a warmth in his chest.
"No problem, Grunkle Ford," she whispered back. "Are you feeling better?"
The simple words struck a chord in him. He was feeling better. The thought caused him to choke up again, and he wrapped another arm around Mabel, pulling her onto his lap.
"Much better, dear," he said into her hair, "Thank you,"
Her only response was to snuggle further into his sweater, wrapping both her arms around him.
Slowly, his heartbeat began to slow, the panic began to ebb, until he was matching Mabel breath for breath. It was a feeling he had missed, another person close to him without intending to hurt or kill. He had hugged Stan in the clearing but it wasn't the same; full of heartbreak and apology, without Stan moving a muscle, it had been an empty, meaningless gesture. This was genuine, full of love and acceptance.
Ford felt Mabel relax on top of him, and slowly, he began to as well. A reassurance surrounded him, that no monsters were going to jump out of the shadows, that there were no eyes in the corners watching for the moment he fell asleep.
It was an odd half-awareness, like he was floating somewhere between wakefulness and sleep. He closed his eyes, content in the knowledge that he was safe, secure, and there was nothing to be afraid of. This was his home again, free of threats.
"Grunkle Ford, are you purring?" Mabel asked sleepily, turning her head so her ear was pressed to the front of his sweater.
"I – ah, yes," he answered, feeling his face heat up. "I could stop if you wish."
"No, it's nice," Mabel murmured, "G'night, Grunkle Ford."
Wrapping his arms securely around his great-niece, Ford kissed the top of her head. "Goodnight, dear," he whispered, closing his eyes as well, purring both of them to sleep.