Mabel Pines took after Stanley. Reached out and seized the responsibility of protector.
In daily life it was Dipper who was on the constant lookout for her well-being, something she was immensely grateful for. If she was left to her own devices she'd find herself in much too much trouble. Dipper was smart, a critical thinker. He could step back from a situation and look at it objectively. Where she applied emotion, he applied logic. Intelligence was his weapon, Mabel's were kindness and foolhardy bravery.
The summers before they came to Gravity Falls their family would visit Grandpa Shermie in Palo Alto. For a month she and Dipper were castaways, ship wrecked survivors marooned on the litter choked beach. They raced barefoot across the sand, soaking up the smell of salt and pollution. Behind them the city blared, cars roaring along the road, buses groaning as they shifted gears, sirens whining in the distance. Crying gulls circled overhead, dots against the cerulean sky that plummeted for the earth like a dive bomber to snatch up a soggy, discarded hot dog.
The sound of the sea drowned out the city, leaving only the seagulls shouts and the slurping of the water rushing at the shore.
Even in the early hours of the day the sun would scorch, sweat collecting in the crease of their ears and the crooks of their elbows. Shermie and their parents keeping a watchful eye, they'd dash out into the lapping waves. They plunged into the green ocean for only a moment before bobbing to the surface because of the life jacket strapped on by their mother.
The beach was crescent shaped, sand tapering into coral reef on both sides. Although their parents watched them from the shade of an umbrella, the world had narrowed to them and the sea. Mabel's feet scraped on the coarse coral as she scrambled up the reef, calling back at Dipper to follow. They discovered a tide pool. They'd stared, mesmerized, at the plethora of life. Tight lipped mussels and barnacles clustered on the outer rim, starfish and urchins lining the bottom of the shallow pool. Sea snails were suckered to the rocks and a gnarled starfish laid between dirty yellow anemones. Kelp hung limp in the water, waving its tendrils with the minute movements of the water.
They'd decided at the time they could always live on the seaside. They could gather abalones in baskets made of yucca fibers or a rusted pail, pry them from the rocks and dry the sweet meat under the hot sun. They could fashion spears from driftwood and stand knee deep in the frothing, jade water, waiting for a fish to swim past.
When lunchtime came their father barbecued skewers stabbing through chunks of steak and onion. They popped bites of meat into their mouths appreciatively. Shermie and their mother sipped from sweating glasses of lemonade. Mabel and Dipper opened the cooler treasure chest and popped the tabs of cola.
Their skin browned as they built shelter from the elements out of flotsam, debris washed up from the sea. A glass bottle that they pretended once held a fellow castaways plea for rescue, a conch shell that a wave stranded. Dipper found it, and had presented it to Mabel with a gleam in his eyes. It was in pristine condition, tumbling through the water had not chipped its spikes. The outside was chalky white and sandy tan, its inside smooth with pink and orange swirls. Mabel had pressed it to her ear and pretended to talk to a mermaid.
Those summers were spent almost exclusively playing on the beach. Running and hollering, or trying to out swim one another. Mabel always won. Her arms were wiry with muscle, her tan shoulders strong and salty. In the school months, Dipper did not venture from his gaming console or homework, whereas getting Mabel indoors was a challenge.
The time spent outdoors must have been why her immune system was better. When Dipper took ill, Mabel was always less affected. Therefor she cared for her incapacitated twin. She was not afraid of the germs and was happy to sit beside him on his bed, reading to him or letting him win when they played video games. She was a natural caretaker. Doating on people came easily to her, and she kept Dipper hydrated and comfortable when he was sick.
So when she had looked at Stan in Ford's bed, motionless, the rise and fall of his chest shallow, it had hurt horribly. His mortality was suddenly all too real, and all too fragile. She was the self-proclaimed family doctor-nurse, now that they had a real PhD in the house. And now the real doctor was injured, so Mabel gave herself the task of returning him to health.
"Old man-Fiddleford is sleeping." Dipper announced, his pocketed hands and the sheepish hunch to his shoulders telling her that he hadn't had the heart to wake the man.
Mabel waved a hand. "That's okay, lets get him snugly as a bug in a rug."
They stripped Ford's bed and propped his head on the pillow, covering him with the blanket. Initially they had been terrified that he was hurt, but Dipper confirmed he didn't have any visible injuries. The boy hadn't seemed too worried, and he'd been around their universes Ford more than she had. Dipper, she surmised, would know when to be concerned.
"He probably just needs to rest," Dipper said, wanting to sound self-assured but failing. Everyone in the house needed rest, so they let Ford lay where he'd fallen instead of waking Fiddleford to move him. He sat heavily on the floor beside Ford, and Mabel noticed then how drained Dipper looked. Dark bags lined his eyes and his hair stuck out wildly. He unconsciously leaned back, reclining on Ford's side. Dipper's body slid downwards slowly, his eyelids drooping as exhaustion overtook him. Mabel smiled at the sight.
"You wait with Ford, I'll wait with Stan." She didn't stay for a response and trotted off to the living room.
The television was turned to a bad infomercial that reminded her of Stan's retelling of his early days on his own. An entrepreneur, founder of Stan Co. Enterprises, creator of Stan-Vac, Sham Total, and Rip-Off bandaids. Mabel curled up on the floor, folded arms cushioning her head, and listened to the poorly scripted and poorly read sales pitch for a blender. As she drifted to sleep, she wondered what they might have changed if they'd gone farther back. What might have Stan's life been if he hadn't gotten kicked out?
Maybe he really could have been a ship's captain, plotting their course by the stars and letting the sea air make his mullet wild. That's what the fanciful part of her wanted to think, but the more reasonable part of her knew that wouldn't have been the case. Ships had mechanized navigation, and they delivered cargo or brought in hauls of fish. They didn't hunt for adventure or chests filled with gold or ice chips and silver soda cans.
When they visited Sherime, he told them about his youth after their parents left the room. He'd grown up as an only child, Stan and Ford long having left the nest. On a grainy black and white TV screen he watched the Vietnam war. Viet Cong, he'd said, an excited thirst flashing in his eyes. Mabel, older, wondered what it was that made certain people love war, live and yearn for it. When Shermie told them about war it was about the Gulf War, Operation Desert Storm.
Stories about dry seas and sand dunes, glowing gold under the sunlight and filling his nostrils and lungs. A friend from Arkansas who cracked jokes and wrote poetry in a leather bound book he kept tucked in his back pocket. Stories their parents wouldn't object to. Stories that created the illusion they were hearing something forbidden, something adult.
But that day he talked about a black and white, TV war. Young men who went willingly to the alien country, or were yanked from weeping mothers based on their birthday. "That was one lottery no one wanted to win," her grandfather had said. "When I was a boy, I didn't know what had happened to my brother. Ma wouldn't talk about him and he never called home. I used to wonder if he'd enlisted, trudged through the rice paddies and hunted Charlie in the forests."
"What did happen to him?" Mabel had asked, hands scraping at the ripped upholstery of his chair. Shermie ruffled her hair.
"He lives in Oregon and still never calls. Maybe you can visit him one of these summers, he'd love that."
That had been the end of it. It was just enough information to intrigue her, but not enough to later base theories on. Shermie talked about his brother only once, and had only mentioned one sibling. Talking about Stanley must have been taboo when he was growing up, and she could see why. Stan had faked his own death and assumed his brother's identity, and his own family had never known. To them, he remained the son who'd tragically died. To them, Stanford was the living Pines Twin.
Mabel shifted to face Stan and scooted closer to the couch. Stan could have enlisted in the Vietnam war, and while she didn't know much about it Mabel knew a lot of people died in that war. "The young men who came home were haunted, sometimes missing arms or legs, or their sanity, their faith." Shermie spoke to the air, no longer seeing them.
He'd jolted from whatever memory consumed him. At their frightened expressions he must have realized that wasn't the sort of things he should tell children. There was no more talk of war or his mysterious brother, and Dipper and Mabel quickly forgot both.
Laying pressed to the couch, close enough to feel the heat emanating from Stan's fevered body, Mabel was finally able to sleep. In her dreams there was no war, only four children playing on the beach liked they'd been friends their whole lives.
Mabel's voice registered in his ears but her words did not. The girl didn't seem to expect him to answer, anyway, and Dipper laid on the floor. His bones dug into hardwood uncomfortably and Ford shifted onto his back, still gone to the world. Dipper turned to face the man, throwing a scrawny arm over his chest. His fingers clutched at the fabric of his buttoned shirt as he fell asleep, an unconscious effort to keep the man from disappearing.
They'd almost lost Stanley, and he feared losing the one relative who understood him to his own foolishness. Ford was someone Dipper had felt close to long before they met. He'd read the man's journal multiple times, analysing the words and the thoughts of the person writing them. His own Ford had quickly become his friend, the two on the same wavelength as Mabel and Stan were. Their personalities were so similar, and over the summer Mabel and Stan had turned into partners in crime. They had the same wacky sense of humor, feeding off one another's energy to come up with wild ideas and schemes.
Dipper had been happy for his twin, glad she'd found someone who wasn't off-put by her eccentric personality. And yet it was hard not to feel left out. Ford was a relief, someone who appreciated intelligence instead of mocking it. Mabel loved and accepted him, but she didn't comprehend the inner workings of his mind. She knew the ins and outs of his personality, knew the secret to making him smile and what jokes would make him snort his drink. Ford knew how to make laser guns and play Dungeons, Dungeons, and more Dungeons. Dipper thought those were both impressive skills.
Over the past day the frailty of life became a startling reality. It was so easy for everything to change. Stan had been gone and then returned to them, and now Ford's life might be teetering precariously on the edge. He feared Ford had done what Dipper had thought about. A deal with the devil, a vow of protection for his loved ones. Let the world burn, but let my family go unharmed. He didn't doubt Ford had at least considered it, and he prayed the man hadn't given into the temptation. Bill would never uphold his end of a bargain, Ford was smart enough to know that.
Yet it was a temptation most wicked. The image of them together, freedom stolen but their safety assured. Was it the reason Ford was passed out? Ford was too stubborn to give Bill what he wanted, at least the Ford he knew was. This younger version of him might be inclined to act so stupidly. Dipper hoped not.
Bill had yet to conquer the world and he took that as a good sign.
The agony was not so intense now. His head was on something soft and there was a small source of warmth clinging to his side. The summer afternoon had been warm, but he was freezing. Ford's arm curled around the warmth, drawing it closer. Moving caused him to feel a moist spot on his shoulder and he opened his eyes.
The warmth was coming from a sleeping Dipper, the wetness drool. Ford went rigid before relaxing slowly. He lay there, noticing the pillow and blanket he assumed the kids had gotten for him. The realization made guilt and thankfulness twist in his gut. After all he'd done, everyone continued to love him. It was humbling. He had shunned his own twin for ten years because of a school, and after endangering them all Stan, Fiddleford, and the kids still extended the olive branch. Dipper's trust in him had to have been shattered, and the boy felt comfortable enough with him to cuddle him.
Ford, who had believed himself to be a genius, knew he could learn some things from his family. How he had been so inherently self-absorbed astounded him. And for all those years he had blamed Stanley for his selfishness, except it was clear to him that Stan had outgrown that part of himself. Maybe he hadn't, but he was terrified of loosing Ford again and was willing to put up with anything. That idea made Ford's heart sink. He resolved that, if that were the case or not, he would not let Stan down again.
He needed Stan, he'd always needed him. Twins were born together, grew up together, and lived apart. But not in the way he and Stan had parted and lived. Years of time lost, returned to they by Mabel and Dipper.
Ford smiled at the boy, thinking that the children truly were loved as Stanley's or his own children. The love he felt was tinted bitter-sweet. No matter how much they loved the kids, they were not theirs. These kids had parents in another dimension, alternate great uncles. They had lives they couldn't abandon. They had to go home.
His face screwed up in pain, this time not from the metal plate in his head. He didn't want to let them go. They had become so much to him in their short time together. They gave him back his relationship with Stanley, lifted Bill's veil of deceit.
The Pines families moxie had been legend, tales passed down from each generation, and he only now saw the value of those stories. Dipper and Mabel surpassed the Pines lore.
Ford inhaled deeply and sat up carefully. Dipper did not awaken and Ford began the painstakingly slow trip to the bathroom. He leaned on the countertop, labored breathes sapping his strength.
His reflection was a startling sight. A sleepless, greasy variant of himself he hadn't seen since his first few months of living on his own. His skin was ashen and there were twigs caught in his hair. Normally tidy clothes were rumpled from his excursion into the forest.
The pipes gurgled as water came through them, spitting out the tubs spout. Ford climbed into the shower, steam filled the room. He lathered his grimey body with soap, thinking about what he had learned from the fairyfolk.
They knew Bill, and did not care for him. The fairies were a breed he hadn't had a chance to document scrupulously and it was possible they had been around the first time Bill came into contact with humans. The cave painting that detailed the encounter with Cipher spoke about a local shaman, Bill's first puppet. The fairyfolk could have merely been spectators or active participants to the locals interactions with Bill.
If they had been around to see it that meant they'd been alive for thousands of years. Or, like humans, they had some kind of documentation of historical events. Either way, their knowledge and dislike for Bill marked them as potential allies if the demon ever resurfaced.
And there was no certainty that Bill would be able to physically enter their world again. They had effaced the part of the cave painting with his summoning instructions. He'd burned all his journal entries containing any information about summoning the demon. Those, and Bill-proofing the shack and his mind, were the only precautions they could take. Bill still had the ability to enter people's dreams and he could tell them how to summon him, find someone else to build him a portal.
Their temporary measures could last a week or years. They might hold for a hundred years, and what was that to an immortal being? The hieroglyphs had a zodiac containing ten characters, and it said that it was the one true way to defeat Cipher. How had the natives, in their limited knowledge, discovered such a thing? Why hadn't they used it themselves? Did it even work?
Ford saw impossible things in Gravity Falls everyday, it wasn't a stretch to believe that a God-like creature had given the solution to worshiping locals. They might not have had the ability to use the zodiac themselves, thus they detailed it for future generations. If the origin of the zodiac was a deity, did that eliminate the possibility of it not working?
He had not come across any God-like beings in Gravity Falls. But it wasn't unreasonable to hypothesise they were part of an ancient, dead race. Old world Gods, Zeus and Odin, might have been symbolic reputation of the unexplained or flesh and blood. After striking a deal with a demon, he'd become exponentially more open-minded. However, theories without evidence were not viable.
From the information available to him he could form a few conclusions. The fairyfolk had knowledge of Cipher and had possibly been in contact with him, and the Zodiac was the only option they had so far for besting Bill. If the demon ever did surface again, that was their strongest line of defence.
It wasn't infallible, but it was all they had.
Stanford wasn't a man who 'hoped for the best'. He worked to make things happen. This time he could do nothing but hope that Bill would leave their dimension alone.
He stepped out of the shower and put on fresh clothes. He passed Fiddleford's room and saw the man was gone. At the top of the stairs he stood, debating. Ford sucked in a breath and straightened, walking to his fate with dignity.
Dignity that withered when he saw Fiddleford's furious face. Everyone had congregated in the kitchen, Stan and the kids sitting at the table. Fiddleford was leaning against the counter, arms crossing when Ford entered the room.
"Passed out on the floor, huh?" The man asked, a cutting sharpness edging his voice. Ford gulped and glanced at the other faces in the room.
Stanley was silently watching him, eyebrows pushed together in concern. The kids looked of similar mind; curious and apprehensive.
"I…" he could think of no good way to confess. "I went to see the fairyfolk and… got a wish." Mabel's eyes burst with wonderment. Fiddleford was not so easily swayed.
"Go on." The engineer ordered.
"I asked them to…" Words failed and he knocked at his head, a metallic sound resonating in his skull and in the room. Fiddleford's stared slackjawed, the absurdity throwing a wrench in the cogs of his brain.
The thin man spoke slowly, dangerously. "You actually got a metal plate in your head?"
Ford inched back, regarding his assistant like a feral beast. "I was assured it wouldn't affect my health or mental capa-"
"You could have died!" Fiddleford screamed.
Ford's hand flew to his head and he cradled it, Fiddleford's yells causing a pain similar to a migraine.
"Bill can't possess me now." He bit out.
Fiddleford didn't look like he'd forgiven him, but he did seem to compose himself. The man strode up to him, and Ford was prepared for a slap to the face. He got a hug. Fiddleford's spindly arms constricted around him. The shock lasted only a second and Ford returned the embrace.
"Yer an idiot." Fiddleford muttered, pulling away.
"I want a hug, too!" Mabel jumped from her chair and threw her arms around Ford's legs, joined by Dipper. Stan picked up his IV and moved it with him, pulling Ford into a strong hug, roping Fiddleford back into the embrace with one arm.
"I think we could all lay off the heroics for a while, at least while the kids are here." Stan said. Ford looked at him quizzically and he explained. "Their tubby time-travel friend said they can stay for a month, then it's outskies."
"We love you guys too much to just leave ya hangin." Mabel chirped.
Ford knelt, hugging the kids close to him. "I love you, kids. Thank you for everything."
Mabel giggled and Dipper smiled. They hugged him, chasing away his worries. They'd given him a family again, and if Bill dared to show himself after they left he and Stanley could handle it.
As children, to teach them the value of family, their mother told Stan and Ford about her own life. She had been born in Romania, to a poor family that already had three other children to feed. The land offered no life and her family followed the wind, begging for money when work did not come. Her mother, dressed in her own mother's patterned skirt and silk scarf, gripped the hands of strangers and read their palms. Her mother's theatrics surrounded kernels of truth, of real visions of a person's life.
Like her mother she was a gypsy, closer to the mythic. As a child she had a talent for finding what was lost: a silver coin, a sock, dogs that had run away. The night before the Natzi's came she cried shrilly for hours, inconsolable. Her family was taken to an internment camp, a place where everything was grey and the cold was bitter. "There was never enough food to eat and we stopped feeling hungry after a while," his mother had recalled.
The gypsies who hadn't starved or been worked to death were hung to save bullets. She watched her father, brothers, and sister die. Before her turn at the gallows came a German soldier stole her from her mother's sun leathered arms and spoke softly to her in German. His voice dipped lower, Romanian sliding off his tongue. "Nu agita. Sigur." Don't fuss. Safe. He smuggled her out under the empty darkness of night in a cartful of bodies that shuddered on the blood soaked road to freedom.
The soldier's brother took her onto a large, smoke breathing ship that sliced into the waves. In America she got a new life, a new family. "Then I met your father, and he gave me you two." She'd said, eyes shining with unshed tears. "Family is forever and always, boys. No matter what."
He had forgotten her wisdom. He remembered now, and he would not let himself forget again.
A/N: Okay, I'm playing really loosey goosey with Shermie's timeline. We don't have much cannon for him, and I don't think it's possible for the baby we see in a Tale of Two Stan's to be Shermie. The timeline doesn't make sense, there's not enough time for him to have a child, and for that child to have children that are 12 when the show takes place. The math doesn't work. Shermie Pines would have to be an older sibling, but whatever, I'm rolling with it. The bit with Ma Pines, however, works in the time frame. Genocide of the European Roma took place between 1939-1945. If she was nine in 1939, she'd be 30 in 1960s. I just thought it was a cool idea.