A/N
Hello everyone, it is I once again. I'm currently working on the CFN: B1987 one shots, but I just couldn't get this idea out of my head. Frankly I'm surprised that no one thought of this before I did. Or the other idea I have in mind.
Just a heads up though: I will be putting stories up for adoption, as I have lost the spark for writing them. So, if you looked forward to an update to that particular story, then either adopt it yourself, or wait for someone to adopt it. If you wish to adopt a story from me, then please PM me; please note that I don't accept anonymous PM's, you HAVE to have a account. Otherwise, I'm afraid you will have to either wait, or start one.
Anywho, as usual I own nothing, so on with the story!
A blue bus drove down the road. It's passengers few, and it's gasoline supply low. The only ones on the bus-other than the bus driver-was a sleeping young girl of about 12 years of age, with long brown hair, brown eyes, and round blushing cheeks. She was wearing a short sleeved pink undershirt underneath a red sweater with a rainbow shooting star-which was falling toward the left-purple skirt, white socks, and black slipper-shoes. Her mouth was open, so her silver colored braces were showcased to the world, and emitting a whistling sound as she breathed in and out. Her name was Mabel Pines.
The other passenger was an almost identical 12 year old boy, who had somewhat messy brown hair, relatively pale skin-though his nose was darker than the rest of his body-and brown eyes with noticeable bags underneath. He wore a black coat that had two pockets on the outside, and extra pockets on the inside, along with a black shirt, black baggy jeans with extra pockets, unseen white socks, and grey shoes with white soles. He was expertly balancing a smith corona typewriter on his lap, all the while typing and wringing the paper and dial when needed. Next to him was a suitcase, and a duffle bag; the latter being open and revealing book making materials to be it's contents.
Wringing the dial one final time, the boy finished his typing, removed the paper, appropriately closed the typewriter, and placed it into the duffle bag. Reaching into the bag, he took out a hardcover book with a lock on it. He unlocked it, opened it, and with careful movements, quick fingers-and spot on precision-he placed the page into it's appropriate spot. Making sure it was fastened completely, he closed the book, re-locked it, placed it back into the bag.
Zipping it up, he glanced over to Mabel-as well as the window her face was smushed against-and took note of their environment. A forest in the middle of scenic nowhere, in a state whose trale was the site of one of the most saddening events in american history. A forest that had numerous trees with signs in the form of arrows saying "this way", "mystery", "wonder", and "no refunds". Rolling his eyes, the boy reached toward his suitcase, unzipped the front pouch, and reached it. What he pulled out was a magenta book with a yellow title, and a picture of a creepy house with a dead tree to the left, and gargoyles on the sides of the top window that was above the dual front doors. One of his father's books, and the first of his series that was still considered-even by today's standards-to be a worldwide phenomenon. Or should he say adopted father, now that he knew of his true heritage?
Regardless of his true family, he was still a member of his father's family, even if he had a twin sister in the other one. Don't get him wrong, over the course of one year he grew to love his real family. But he much prefered the one that adopted him. Not wanting to waste what time he had left of the ride thinking, he opened the book to it's first page and began to read.
By the time the bus stopped, and the driver made the call for Gravity Falls, he had already finished the book, and placed it back where it came from. Looking over at his sister, he put his index finger in his mouth, getting it as slimy and as saliva coated as possible, and put it into her ear. Mabel woke up with a jolt, and a disgusted groan escaped from her mouth. Wiping her ear with her sleeve, she looked outside to see where they were, and the next second she was already out the bus door with her suitcase and impossibly large backpack. Grabbing his own suitcase, and slinging his duffle bag over his shoulder the boy rolled his eyes in amusement, and had an equally amused smile on his face. Before long he was called by that nickname his sister gave him to "get his butt in gear".
Looking at his summer home for the next three months, the boy was unsurprised when a sixty something year old man in a tuxedo with a five 'o'clock shadow, rectangular glasses, and a cane with an 8-Ball appeared from a puff of smoke. Quickly greeting them, and leading them into his home, the man introduced himself as Stanford Pines-but said to just call him "Grunkle Stan". Their great uncle, who owned the tourist trap/house they currently populated. The boy saw a glint of something in Stan's eyes, and instantly knew that he was hiding something. It appeared when he said Stanford, but vanished when he said Stan.
Knowing not to pry into what isn't his business, the boy decided that if Stan was ever going to tell them what he was hiding, he would do it on his own, when he was ready to. His name might not have been Stanford, but he was still his Great Uncle Stan.
Night quickly fell onto the quaint town in Oregon, and the boy and Mabel were heading-or rather already in as it were-to bed. Mabel was already asleep, dressed in a purple long sleeved shirt dress with a floppy disk in the middle, matching purple headband, and pink boy had changed into a black undershirt, with black shorts and kept his white socks on. The boy-unlike his sister-was up, reading another one of his father's books. This one had the picture of a monstrous green mask. Placing a black bookmark with a green capital G in his place, he set the book down on the table next to his and Mabel's beds'. Turning off his reading light, he set his head down on the pillow, and closed his eyes. As his mind went of to dreamland, he had one final thought.
Dipper Stine actually had a nice ring to it.