Disclaimer: I don't own Gravity Falls!
Title: Tremors
Summary: Dipper and Mabel return for the summer. Pacifica is overworked. Mabel gets bitten by a were-possum. Dipper's trying to organize their journal.
...
"Girl don't do it."
Mabel popped the top of her lollipop off the stick and tossed it into her mouth with a smirk.
"Oh my god."
The girl smacked her lips, leaning back in the old leather seat of the Speedy Beaver. Their luggage clacked and shuffled underneath them, thrown back and forth by the movements of the bus. The suitcases had only made for good footstools maybe the first twenty minutes or so, forcing the twins to switch between bending their knees awkwardly or stretching them out at an angle to keep the blood flow going. Waddles- who was easily big enough for his own seat- wasn't helping matters much, draped across Mabel's lap and snuffling at Dipper's for food. (Though he did have to admit the pig looked pretty snazzy in his glittery harness)
Mabel pushed the sucker around her mouth a moment with her tongue just to irritate him, then squinted at his red jacket, pulling it closer to take a sniff. "This doesn't smell clean, Dipper."
"I mean, it's clean for me."
"Dipper, you promised." She let go with a sour look on her face. "What's Wendy gonna think when she gets a whiff of your BO?"
"You're assuming Wendy is gonna get close enough to smell it, for one," he replied, holding up fingers. "And I've smelled far worse, for two."
"TouchΓ©," she admitted, though she didn't look happy about it.
"And you smell like hot glue, so don't judge."
"Hot glue is the ambrosia of this world, dummy. Bask in it."
"Ambrosia is the food and water gods drink. It's not a smell."
"And you know what, Dipper?" Mabel leaned close to whisper. "Food has a smell. Therefore, I'm not wrong."
"I mean, I guess? On a technicality?" Waddles let out a squeal of complaint as Dipper shifted. "You do know he's big enough for his own chair, right?"
Mabel pointed at him. "If you want to try and make this fella move, go for it."
"Fair enough." Dipper reached out to pat his head. "The lap is yours, good sir."
The bus in summer is never a pleasant experience, but the Pines liked to believe they handled themselves with at least a small amount of dignity. Mabel tied her sweater around her waist, citing sticky leather seats as bad for modeling, her "All Hail the Mighty Glow Cloud" t-shirt being worn as a stab at irony. Dipper cuts his finger on the metal window corner and pours ample hand sanitizer on it; the preteen was many things, but good with pain was not one of them, shoving a sleeve into his mouth so he didn't startle the driver. Mabel slipped a purple band-aid on it once he was better, patting it for good measure.
The shift from regular Oregon to Roadkill County, Oregon, is hard to explain. It was far from just the trees getting thicker and taller, feeding off the gnomes' care and unicorn fertilizer. It was like breaking through a barrier of oil- you don't notice it until you're rubbing your fingers together, and once you do it's impossible to get off. Dipper audibly hummed, pulling out a dollar store brand diary covered in pink flowers, as per Mabel's request. He wrote a few observations down- the deer never fear vehicles, but they seem aware of the dangers they present, watching silently from the treeline; evidence of mudslides show as far back as near the state border, terrifying but true; Waddles perked up immediately, what does he sense- then passed it over to Mabel to do the same with a gel pen, gnawing on his own.
(She only wrote one question: why is the bus always empty?)
Dipper was closer to the window on the right side, and he got the first eyeful of the welcoming party. Wendy drew his attention first- not out of any ex-crush-related reasons, but because she had grown that much taller since they were gone, up to Soos' eyebrows and likely only going to get taller. Soos himself looked about the same, pits of his Mr. Mystery suit stained with sweat. Candy and Grenda had grown taller as well, though they had yet to hit puberty. It seemed the only person who hadn't grown was Dipper, who was slowly losing ground with Mabel. Candy's hair was up in a braid.
"We're here!" Mabel gushed as the Speedy Beaver jolted to a stop, patting out a tune on her pig's belly. "Let's go mingle, my boys!"
Waddles got off the bus first, screeching a battle cry that demanded petting. It hadn't been easy to convince their parents to keep a full-sized pig in the house- there had been a lot of training on Mabel's part, a lot of harness and leash making, and a few nights where the girl had stayed up late, worrying she couldn't pull it off- and the results showed as he politely nudged the greeting party with his nose, freshly de-tusked and trimmed for extra friendliness. Mabel was out soon after, and promptly engulfed in a wave of hugs.
Dipper found himself pulled into side-embrace by Wendy, who let out a fairly enthusiastic, "Heeeey." She bumped her head to his shoulder and pulled back, nose wrinkling. "Dude, did you wash this recently? You almost smell halfway decent."
"I did, actually," he said with some satisfaction, glancing at Mabel, who stuck her tongue out at him. "Thanks for noticing."
"I'd seen the photos, but I never realized he'd gotten so big!" exclaimed Grenda as she patted Waddles' head.
"It's true," Candy added. "I could ride that pig into battle."
"Ah, he's a lil' gentlemen, really." Mabel jiggled his glittery harness a little bit, showing off her handy work. "No war riding for him, I'm afraid."
Wendy chuckled, nudging Dipper's shoulder. "Come on. The others are holding a booth hostage at Lazy Susan's. We can make proper plans over brunch."
Pacifica's day begins at three A.M. Which, admittedly, is only an hour or so earlier than she normally wakes up. She sits up, runs a hand through her short hair, and deems it presentable. She's still in last night's uniform.
Dumping her greasy arcade uniform in the laundry basket, Pacifica pulled out her equally greasy Hoo-Ha Owl's Pizzamatronic Jamboree uniform, complete with the standard chipmunk face on the front and badger on the back. Hoo-Ha's wasn't her first stop of the day- technically, it was the third, after early morning stock at Tons and a half-shift at Greasy's- but it was undeniably the cleanest of them. She listens to her father talk on the phone while she buttons up, her mother snoring quietly a room away.
Things had fallen into a form of routine in the Northwest home: Pacifica worked, Preston called, and Priscilla slept. Even at three in the morning, that had not changed.
He always starts out the same way. Pacifica recites it in her mind while Preston recites it out loud, filling in the name blank. "Hello, Richard. It's Preston Northwest. Now, I'm sure you're wondering-"
No, he isn't. He really isn't. This is the fifth time in a month that he hasn't wondered.
Preston's tone immediately changes. "Listen, I know I've done some bad things, but that was in the past! Can't you possibly spare a few bucks for an old friend? I mean, Rich is your family name, and it's not like you're lacking." A pause. Preston's hand slams down on the table. "My family will starve to death if we don't receive support soon! Do you really want that on your conscious, good man?"
Pacifica is tying her last shoelace as the phone slams into the receiver.
"Eggs," he mutters as she enters the main part of the house, head in his hands. They both pretend the conversation is a secret only he knows. "Make it an omelet."
Originally, the Northwests had moved into one of the pricier three-floored houses in Gravity Falls, but it'd only taken a few months for funds to grow dry. Pacifica is only fourteen, and there's only so many employers willing to let her juggle more jobs and school. That's the nice thing about summer; it destroys half the problem, if only for a few months.
Their new home- a two-floor townhouse- is smack dab in the middle of town. It's not ideal for her parents, but it's better than a cardboard box. Pacifica doesn't mind the size so much as she does its lack of furnishing; would it really kill them to invest in a couch or something? Or at least a second bed? A sleeping bag is only charming when there's the promise of something more comfy to sleep in at a later date.
"Well, aren't you looking just spiffy today?" Susan gushes while Pacifica ties on her apron. It's impossible to tell if she's being sarcastic or not. "Just keep that chipmunk covered, dearie. It's bad enough you're working for the enemy- I wouldn't want ya' advertising them in my place too."
"Is Hoo-Ha's even a competitor?"
"Hmmm? Nah, I don't think so." She waved it off with a hand covered in some unidentifiable substance. "They're way more popular than we are."
Pacifica is not a great cook. Her finest dishes are instant ramen and eggs. Anything more complicated tends to set the pan or pot or whatever else ablaze. She can sort of do pancakes, but they typically come out that unappetizing dark brown color. Lazy Susan does the cooking, Pacifica waits tables, and almost everyone goes home happy.
(And, to be blunt? Her stomach has never adjusted to eating cheap foods. The stench of grease and You-Probably-Wish-This-Was-Butter! makes her nauseous.)
Greasy's is fairly quiet, but that's nothing new. Gravity Falls is a small town, and people really only come to it for the Mystery Shack or ghost hunting. Lee, Nate, Robbie, and Tambry have taken up a booth right smack dab in the middle, gabbing back and forth. They order sodas, Nate slapping his hands on the table while he does it.
"Thompson's got a cold," Robbie tells her while she sets the glasses down, as if she asked. "Can we get, like, your oldest and nastiest sponge? I'm gonna dare him to eat it."
"We chuck those out," Pacifica says. "Health code and all that."
"Huh," he exhaled, glancing around. "Didn't think this place cared about health codes all the much." He waved her off. "I'm sure we can find something in Lee's garage."
Something gross settled in the bottom of her stomach, bumping against her bladder as Pacifica went about mopping the kitchen. She'd known the twins were coming, of course- Gideon hadn't shut up about it since word reached his ears. But there had been something soothing about being remembered as she was before by someone, and having them come by during work hours would shatter her rich snob persona completely.
But there's nothing to be done about it. There's nothing to be done about anything, really.
Pacifica is halfway through cleaning an plate covered in cheese (put extra soap and hot water on it, focus on the others, come back to it last; cheese hates your guts. It's the enemy. NASA could glue a shuttle together with dried cheese and never have to worry about it breaking into little bits- unless, of course, space has dawn dish soap) when the chanting and pounding starts. Robbie starts it, or so she assumes: "Dorks! Dorks! Dorks! Dorks!"
She hears the hooves first. Or maybe it's the pig snorking at tables. Then it's Dipper and Mabel laughing, Dipper calling: "Alright, alright, we get the picture! Missed you guys, too."
"You know," Lazy Susan prompts, flipping a soggy dish towel onto her shoulder. "That Valentino boy has a point. We really don't give a darn about health codes here."
"Does that mean we're about to start?"
"Shoot, no. Now, be a dear and go give those kids some menus."
Pacifica grabs a handful of them, taking the second to run her fingers through her hair in a final attempt at looking decent. (When was the last time she showered? Probably sooner than Dipper, at least.) She cracked her back for good measure, then sashayed out of the kitchen and into the doorway. "Well, well. I heard you dweebs were coming back soon."
She expects a reaction, of course- she's a Northwest. People react when she comes through any door, be it the dentist or the Taj Mahal. That will never change. She doesn't expect Mabel to screech her name, punt herself over the booth, and promptly pick her up in a crushing hug. "Ahhhhhhhhh! Pacificaaaaaaaaaa! I can't believe how much I've missed your snobby voice!"
"I feel insulted," she wheezed. "But also warmed."
"I dunno why you guys bother with these old menus," Lee mused as he plucked them from her hand, slapping them onto the table. They spread out like cards. "We all know what the haps is."
"It's standard procedure," Pacifica edged out. The fabled white light was starting to tickle the corners of her vision. "Mabel, I'm literally about to die."
"Huh," Tambry grunted. "I didn't think you guys were about that here."
Dipper leaned over slightly to scan her uniform. "You work at the diner?"
Pacifica put her hands on her hips. Working hadn't taught her to be less proud of herself. If anything, it'd taught her how to function on basically no sleep, but that was about it. "I work everywhere."
"She ain't lying," supplied Wendy as she sat down, taking up Mabel's spot. "Well, unless you count the Mystery Shack and my Dad's place."
He cleared his throat. "So, uh... where are you folks working at, then? Do- did they get jobs at the mudflap factory?"
"They shut that place down." Pacifica tapped her pen against her notepad and pretended she was a semi-functional fourteen year old. "You here for chitchat or are you here for grub?"
"You're not working for your entire family, are?" Dipper insisted.
Pacifica leveled him a look. "Do you want some food, or do you want a punch to the face?"
"Food, please."
"Then shut up and order. Oh, and welcome back."
Greasy's had a habit of settling in the belly like a stone. A tasty, unhealthy stone, but a stone nonetheless. Dipper patted his stomach as he propped himself up on the arm of the car, staring out the window as the trees flew past. Magical creatures hated roads more than not-so-magical creatures- though Dipper wasn't exactly sure why. An instinctual urge to keep hidden?- but the deer and birds that stared as they roared past were just as unnerving.
"Waddles," Mabel groaned, but the pig's head refused to leave her lap.
"Don't worry about it, dudes," Soos said. He was the one driving. "We're almost back to the shack."
Wendy made a face from the passenger's seat. She twisted around. "Yeah, about that. My family has been way busy lately, but give me a week and you'll get a proper frame and stuff. And, like, a second bed."
"That part's my fault, dudes. That broken arm cost me a pretty penny."
Dipper and Mabel exchanged a look. They'd known beforehand that their room had been given to Abuelita, but they'd hoped for better than what the two were assigning them. "It's no big, dude," Dipper said, hoping he came across as convincing. "We're troopers."
They dropped Wendy off at her house, then continued the rest of the way to the old shack. Melody welcomed them both with a pat on the shoulder, leading them to the old vending machine with an awkward chuckle. "Just a warning, I have literally never taken care of kids in my life. Well, I did babysit once, but I ended up calling my parents, like, a half hour in. So let's take this a day at a time, alright?"
"You set us up in a mad scientist's basement," Mabel hummed. "That's a good way to start."
"Great Uncle Ford isn't a mad scientist," Dipper eked out. "He's just... very passionate."
"I'll take your word for it, kids."
It take multiple assuaging words to get Soos to relax. It was very clear the man was worried about their living conditions, which he had denoted more than once as 'kinda blech' and 'seriously, dudes, prepare for bad', peppering in promises of making them better once he had the cash. By the time Dipper had inputted the code to open the secret passageway the twins had come to the unanimous conclusion that they must trek down alone, shutting and latching it behind them with a quick, "See you once we finish unpacking."
"Well," Mabel said into the dark and cramped hallway. "At least it's private."
"True. No one will be able to hear us if we scream for help."
"When you put it like that..."
The elevator had been oiled since they last used it, descending much more smoothly. The doors slid open to the room once filled with technology for the portal, but the rectangular room was barren. A single bookshelf had been placed near the door to the main laboratory. Wendy's name was carved into the side of it. The duo hesitantly slipped towards the main control panel, finding it just as empty of switches and buttons. All that remained was the desk light and the place Stan stored the journals.
"Wow." Dipper gave the thing a kick. It echoed. "You can't even tell this thing could've killed us."
Mabel went around the other side, hissing in a sour breath. "That symbol is still there, though. That's a bummer."
"It could be a good reminder, though. Ford says it means 'watch your step'."
"Yeah, well, I look at this and think 'man, I can't believe this is the thingy that burned our beloved Grunkle Stan' not 'man, I should be careful!'"
"Fair point, fair point."
The portal room was the emptiest by far, but that was about what they were expecting. Ford had taken the instrument down himself. The circles that once bathed the floor and the ceiling in an eerie blue light had been covered with metal and welded shut. Perched on top of one of them was a mattress. Off to the side was a mini-fridge, plugged into the wall via an extension cord.
"It could be worse?" Mabel said, sounding more like she was asking, seeking out the answer to her own optimistic hope. "There could be fire everywhere."
"I mean, at least they attempted to spruce it up, I guess." Dipper pulled their journal out of his suitcase, then found he couldn't think of a single thing to write. "Do you think it's too late for a rip-roaring adventure? Y'know, find something for our book?"
Mabel didn't respond. She sighed in the direction of their mattress. "That's a tiny bed for two technical-teens, Dip-Dop."
"We could chop it in half. We each get our own territory to rule over."
Her nose wrinkled. "But then the mattress fluff would get all over."
He shrugged. "You could always sew it up. Unless, of course, you don't think you're up for-"
Mabel put a hand on his arm, staring thoughtfully at the dingy old bed. "Dipper, are you doubting my abilities?"
Dipper knew better than to argue when one of Mabel's infamous muses came a'knocking. "No, Lady Mabes. I was just teasing."
"You better not be. I'mma put glitter all over it."
"Christ on a bike."
"And maybe paint that on our blanket."
They settled in without much complaint thereafter, though neither one of them looked particularly pleased about it. Regardless, they both fell asleep fairly quickly, long used to the other kicking and grunting (or meowing) in their sleep.
That is, until the thud.
Mabel sat up almost immediately, awoken by Waddles' warning squeal. She held her breath, ears metaphorically pricked (though she personally liked to imagine them actually pricking- adorable and silly, that'd be). Tiny little claws made themselves known on the metal floor.
"Dipper," she hissed, shaking his shoulder. "Dipper, wake up."
"Hrm?" He rolled onto his back. "Wassat?"
"I think something fell through that hole under the shack."
Dipper blinked at her, uncomprehending. He sat up. "Shoot. I thought they boarded that up."
An alien screech echoed trough the room.
"Well, I've been wrong before."
Mabel made a kissing noise. Waddles, taking his cue, walked over and awkwardly crawled onto the metal platform. "Just so you know, I blame you for this. You just had to jinx us."
"I can accept that."
The door slid open, and out stepped the ugliest possum the twins had ever seen. It was double or triple the size of a normal possum, with a ridged spine. Drool hung from its maw, which gaped open to hiss.
"Are you serious?" Mabel asked, torn between shock and confusion. This proved to be a mistake.
The possum let out another ear-splitting screech and charged, tail lashing like a whip. Dipper grabbed the flimsy diary in hopes of batting it away. Mabel pushed Waddle down a bit in a protective gesture; her hands were too full to stop the creature until it tackled her to the floor, pointy teeth digging into her shoulder. She yelped with pain, hauling it up by its scruff. "Fuck!"
Dipper slammed his hand down around the creature's muzzle, clamping it shut. "Mabel, are you okay?"
"It bit me!" she exclaimed, shocked and repulsed. "I'mma need a rabies shot."
"It doesn't look rabid. At least, it doesn't look like the rabid creatures I've seen in movies, anyway."
Mabel opened her mouth to reply, but her arm gave a rather sudden jerk, and the possum went flying. It landed with a flop. Waddles gave chase, slamming his stubby nose into the hole it vanished into. Dipper put a hand on his back. "You did good, mi amigo. You did good."
"Uh, Dipper? I think we gotta problem."
Dipper turned. Mabel had yanked her sweater to the side to check the wound, and even this far away he could see it was red and pulsing. White and black fur had begun to spread up her arm, and when she opened her mouth he could see she had fangs.
"Uh-oh," he said intelligently.
"Pacifica, what are you eating?"
Pacifica set her burger down and carefully dabbed the grease from her mouth before answering. "Leftovers from Hoo-Ha's."
"Oh," Priscilla said, looking queasy at the mere thought of it. "Good for you, dear."
"That's unsightly," Preston said, distractedly spooning another bite of his homemade clam chowder.
She didn't answer, taking another dainty bite. Their dinner table was roughly the size of a pizza. They bumped elbows as they chowed down, but they all pretended they didn't notice.
Her father's eyes flickered up to her. "Pacifica."
"Yeah?"
He pulled a small piece of paper out of his pocket, sliding it across the small distance between them to be more dramatic. Pacifica and Preston always sat across each other. Priscilla always sat between them. "What is this?"
She picked it up and scanned the top lines, face blank. "It's my party schedule. We get a new one every month."
"You left it on the counter."
"Sorry. I was making dinner."
Preston's voice was stern. "It has his name on it."
Pacifica's eyes darted up to him, but her father's features were only vaguely disapproving. She looked back down. Sure enough, three from the bottom, Fiddleford McGucket was typed in. "Oh. It says here his son is turning twenty-two."
"You know that name is outlawed in these walls."
"I really didn't notice," she told him earnestly.
"You're not going in that day."
"Dad-"
"He shamed us, Pacifica. You will not work for him."
"I already told them I would." Pacifica forced herself not to look away when his eyebrows narrowed. She was fourteen years old. She shouldn't be afraid of him anymore. "We need the money."
"Have you no pride, Pacifica?" he demanded. "He-"
She slammed her hands down, too quietly to be disruptive but too loud to be anything else. Pacifica stood up. "All he did was buy a house, Dad. I wish our record was that clean."
"He's a hillbilly who stomped our good name into the dust!" Preston stood up as well, leaning over so they were close. "It's people like him that have put us into this situation in the first place!"
"You put us into this situation," Pacifica insisted. She wasn't even sure why she was arguing this. She hardly knew McGucket. Maybe she just wanted to fight. "And you know what? We'd all be better off if you didn't insist we eat the most expensive stuff at the store. If you didn't demand we get the most expensive clothes. If we go under, it'll all be on you, because you don't know how to let your ego go!"
"My ego? My ego?" Preston raised an eyebrow. "That's quite a lot from the girl so determined to be the family hero. What happened to fixing our family name?"
"When I said that," she answered quietly. "It didn't include a man who'd rather starve his family then get a job."
Preston spluttered a moment- Pacifica was certain she heard her full name somewhere in the incomprehensible mess- then pointed at her room. Pacifica stomped away without complaint, closing the door behind her with a quiet click. She locked it for good measure.
The hours dwindled by. Preston and Priscilla changed and went to bed in silence. Pacifica had been forced to leave half her meal uneaten, and she didn't feel particularly interested in trying to sneak it now, though her stomach tried to get her to reconsider. She drowsed for a bit, off and on, but sleep proved fruitless.
The noise of hooves on concrete were what had her sticking her head out of the window. She wasn't entirely sure what she'd expected to find- maybe Gompers taking a late night stroll- but Dipper being dragged behind Waddles wasn't it. The pig bore the sparkly harness from earlier, as well as the sparkly leash. Dipper looked to be in his boxers and undershirt, an ancient cat carrier clutched under his arm. She didn't think anyone at the Mystery Shack had ever owned a cat.
She isn't sure why she calls out, just like she isn't sure why she argued with her father. She isn't sure why she does a lot of things anymore. "Yo, dork! Whatcha up to?"
Dipper jumped, tripped, and leaned on Waddles for support. He blinked up a her window like a cat whose photo has just been taken, wide-eyed and a bit confused. He lifted the cat carrier. "Would you believe I'm chasing after my sister? And that she's been turned into a freakish possum creature?"
"No," said Pacifica, who was already half out the window. "I'm coming down to help."
"Wait-" said Dipper, half a second too late. The Northwest came tumbling to the grass with very little grace, though she managed to pick herself up alright.
"Ivy always worked better in the movies," she greeted as she crossed the street. "I think the stuff on my house is defective."
Dipper had no response to that. He simply handed her the cat carrier.
Waddles was quick and efficient, snorking at the ground like a pink bloodhound. It felt like they would see the very edge of a pink tail or hear a quiet hiss with every corner they turned, but they were unable to fully catch up with the newest were-possum of Gravity Falls. (Silently, in the very back of their minds, Pacifica and Dipper both came to terms with how ridiculous this was becoming, but they didn't dare admit as much out loud.)
"I think she's heading for the lake," Dipper announced as the sound of waves grew nearer.
"No kidding, Sherlock," Pacifica replied. "Question. Can possums swim?"
He held his hands up, mouth forming a sideways I. "Probably?"
"Grand."
"Mabel said her first cuss word today."
"That's a very strange turn of topic."
"Not really. She yelled the F bomb when she got bit."
Pacifica gave a low whistle. "The F bomb? Dang. I'd be eating an entire bottle of dish soap if I tried that."
"Yeah, well, we were alone when it happened..." Dipper cleared throat, scratching an itchy spot on his scalp. "We kinda, uh, live in the basement now?" His voice got squeaky at the end. "Yeah."
"That dirty place behind the vending machine?"
"That's the one."
"Wow. I thought Mr. Mystery, like, cared about you guys."
"Soos does care about us, okay?" he snapped, suddenly feeling self-conscious. "He just doesn't have the cash right now, and I'm not gonna hold it against him."
Pacifica hummed, then snorted. "Jesus, that reminds me. My dad saved up all my paychecks last month for sturgeon."
"The fish?"
"The caviar."
"Oh. Ew. Fish eggs."
"They're fairly cheap fish eggs, too. I guess I should feel lucky he wasn't going for the good stuff."
"Question. What's the most expensive kind of fish eggs, and have you had them?"
"Almas," she answered immediately. "And, no, I haven't. They're albino sturgeon eggs from really old fish from some super clean water, or something like that. A little over two ounces of those puppies is worth thirty-four thousand and some change. My mom always wanted to try them."
"Alrighty." Dipper tried to imagine that much cash at one time, and found he couldn't. "Second question. Is caviar even that good?"
"That depends. Do you like salty and fishy?"
"You just answered my question. Thank you."
"It really depends on the caviar. The really fresh stuff is less salty. Some of it is even kinda sweet."
"Somehow, that only makes it sound less appealing."
"To each their own. Personally, I was always kinda grossed out by edible gold. Why would you want to eat a metal? Is it even a metal anymore if it's still edible? Who thought it would be a good idea to make gold edible in the first place?"
Waddles gave a particularly harsh jerk on the leash, and their discussion halted. It was a clear summer night in Gravity Falls, as is the norm- for all the magic in it, the weather itself seemed fairly stable- and the water hardly seemed to shift. It made the slithering, skittering creature on the dock all the more prominent.
"If she jumps in, I'm not going after her," Pacifica cautioned, clutching the cat carrier to her chest. "You swim her back yourself, for all I care. This is my one decent outfit."
"I expected no less of you, Northwest. Here, hold my leash."
"I got yo' leash, Pines."
"Did you... just attempt to meme?"
"In my defense, it's three in the morning. No one thinks clearly at three in the morning."
"Third-shifters probably think clearly at three in the morning."
"They probably think about their bed."
"Don't we all?"
Pacifica gave Dipper a good shove.
Were-Mabel hissed at him as he approached, leaping into the water without a second thought. Pacifica sat the very edge of the dock, carrier set on her lap, and watched the boy struggle to grab the doggy-paddling possum, holding her jaw shut with one hand and wrapping the other one around her midsection. From there, they worked together to shove the waterlogged creature into the carrier and shut it, tilting it slightly to drain any excess water. Dipper wrung out his shirt.
"Well, that sucked," he hummed plainly. "Wanna get some Hermanos Brothers?"
"Can a possum even digest burritos?"
"Yes. Maybe? Probably." Dipper shrugged, stuffing a corner of the meat and cheese burrito through the bars of the cage. Mabel eagerly snatched it up. "Possums can eat practically anything, can't they?"
"Don't look at me. I've never even seen a living possum until tonight." Pacifica took a bite out of her chicken taco. She was far less graceful on the curb outside of Hermanos Brothers than she was in her own kitchen, but she doubted Dipper noticed or cared. And, even if he did, it didn't really matter. "So, you gonna call your mad scientist Uncle?"
"Great Uncle Ford isn't a mad scientist. He's passionate about science. There's a difference."
"You sound like those people who say dolls and action figures are different."
"Action figures typically have more bendable joints in them," he calmly pointed out.
"I know, and it's bullshit. If I'm taking care of a plastic baby, I might as well be able to wrench the limbs around."
Dipper blinked at her. "Am I the only child around who doesn't have a single swear word coming out of their mouths tonight?"
"Technically, I'm not a kid."
"Oh, right, right. I forget you've got the early birthday."
Pacifica handed him a piece of seasoned chicken for the cage dweller to devour. "January baby."
"A Capricorn, then? Makes sense." He nodded to himself. "Stan and Ford are June kids. Stan seems to find that hilarious."
"They're Gemini, right? I'm terrible with Astrology, but that's the only star sign joke I could think of that makes sense."
"Yeah, they're Gemini." Dipper sighed and patted the side of the carrier. Mabel gave a rather invigorating thrash. "I'll call tomorrow and see what Great Uncle Ford has to say."
"He always came across as super serious to me."
"He is when you first get to know him, but he's as big a dork as I am. He'll probably want data and stuff. Which reminds me." Dipper pulled the flowery notebook out of his jacket. The cover was soaked, but the pages were mostly secure. "I told myself I would write in this at least twice a day. This seems like a good thing to write about."
Pacifica leaned over his shoulder while he scratched out Were-Possums in big, bold letters, then added underneath: seem mostly feral, unaware of 'human' morality or concerns. Like fake Mexican food. Possibly a reject from Weirdmageddon.
She plucked the soggy pen out of his hand and drew an arrow from the title to the margins. She wrote in cursive. π«πππ ππ» πΆ π΅-ππΆπππΉ π½πππππ ππππΎπ?
Author's Note: Eyyy, a non-Teen!Delinquent AU related GF 'fic! I'm pretty sure this is gonna be a three-parter.
I've always had a soft spot for werewolves. But why not other were-creatures? Anything can be a were-creature if it wants to be. Were-possums, were-foxes, were-snails- infinite universes, infinite were-critters!
-Mandaree1
