Quentin Trembley was, if nothing else, a man who took pride in the matters of his town. Sort of. He did what he could to tidy up the remnants of the great confrontation, and did so with as much focus as an eccentric, salamander crunching president could provide.
He insisted the Pines and McGuckets retire, so he could continue with the operation unabated. It was something that the increasingly fatigued family were all too happy to agree to. It was with reluctantly shaken hands, cautious thank yous and a fond - if still rather rattled - farewell, that they made their way home from the battered town, leaving behind the maddeningly bizarre events of the evening, and a damaged, but unbeaten, Northwest Manor.
Quentin immediately got to work - constructing a layer of peanut brittle around Scuttlebutt Island's coast. If the place was not already a foreboding one less travelled, it most certainly was now. I mean, what if it was hot and it got sticky? Gross.
And if you had a peanut allergy? Forget about it.
Pacifica positively collapsed into the stained, torn rear seats of Stan's car and exhaled loudly. After being confronted by hundreds of creepy little critters, the battered, tax-evading vehicle felt like a safe refuge.
Dipper slid in beside her and blinked. "You doing okay?"
"I feel like I could sleep for a week."
"Heh, yeah, that's uh… that's basically my life." he smiled, awkwardly.
Pacifica held his hand and gave a dozy - albeit sincere - smile in return. The two went quiet briefly as they looked into eachother's eyes…
...Something rapidly disrupted by Mabel pushing Dipper into the car with a loud "BWAP!" and sliding into her own seat. "Come on, you lovebirds! We've got places to be!"
"We're the lovebirds?" Pacifica smirked. "Says the girl who keeps clutching the redwood in her sweater like it's a ruby."
"I- I-" … Mabel flushed and unhooked a piece of the bark. "I think it's so sweet that he-"
"The guy basically solved the mystery without us even asking." Dipper grinned.
The blonde socialite twisted her lip. "Do you… think that he might have known?"
The kids paused and looked to eachother.
"N-naw. You're crazy." Mabel scoffed - without much conviction. "Kevin's not some… some weirdo."
"He is a Corduroy." She retorted.
"Mm…" Mabel squirmed. "I'll… I'll think about it."
"Maybe don't rub that stuff against your cheek, Mabel." Dipper said. "You'll get splinters."
"You aren't mom!" Mabel shot back, already with a splinter in her cheek.
The front of the El Diablo was much less rambunctious. In fact, considering the Grunkles, it was damned right quiet .
The Grunkles had, in many ways, become humbled by the experience. While Ford figured he would never develop an understanding or kinship with a man such as Trembley, he was forced to confess that - in their absence, at least - Quentin was a surprisingly valid, powerful force against the wrath of the town's crooked history.
Perhaps it was the fact he had been alive for so much of it; perhaps it was just his innate weirdness providing him with a unique perspective and understanding. Whatever the reason, a problem this strange just seemed to have Quentin and his forces as a natural remedy.
Ford had developed much of his father's knack for being unimpressed - but he had to admit it; he was somewhat surprised, even accepting of Quentin Trembley's place in the township of Gravity Falls. It made about as much sense as the dark, shrieking shadow rodents with a lust for wood grain, but… well. Y'know.
He was surprisingly quiet for the trip back to the Mystery Shack. His prejudices were being challenged a lot, this summer. It was quite a startling thing for the old man to deal with. He was inherent in the belief that prejudice was bad science - unsound and foolish. His own partaking in it was embarrassing. Quietly, internally humiliating.
He looked back to Mabel - who, as usual, had acted as a widespread proponent for Quentin's way of life, and couldn't help but smile appreciatively. It had taken Ford most of his powers to understand the idea of being a Grunkle; this summer his expectations, beliefs and thoughts had almost been toppled from head to toe.
Ford had, more or less, had fun this summer. Between the board games and drawing lessons and quiz nights, he had grown to find a certain spark that had been missing from his life since he had gone into that portal. He had greatly enjoyed his time with Stanley, but damned if the kids hadn't added a certain, joyful, excited je nais se quois.
The past few days had been fairly unique for them - they hadn't been the main driving force or even, particularly, the main investigators. Not even the heroes. The Pines had been observers. A strange turn of events, but almost a... welcome one.
The Diablo rattled along through the sawdust-addled streets, passing Toby Determined being carried out of his office in a stretcher, his face covered. Not because he was dead - the paramedics just didn't particularly want to look at him.
The town's ravaged shapes, gnawed buildings and broken windows seemed like light damage compared to what might have been; but it was far from a pleasant thing to see. They couldn't imagine that Cutebiker would be particularly happy.
There was a lot of damaged municipal property.
All the same, a problem for tomorrow. Things could wait. It was only fair.
Pacifica closed her eyes and huffed. She leant against Dipper and idly nuzzled into his neck, wordlessly enjoying his company - and, of course, showing a very sincere appreciation for the fact that Dipper and his family had been willing to put their necks on the line in the face of rabid shadow beavers. For her.
"My hero." She smiled. She needn't have bothered; she quickly realised Dipper was fast asleep. As was Mabel.
They had the right idea. The way she saw it, at least, they were long overdue some downtime.
All the same, something about the conclusion to the beaver problem seemed irritatingly incomplete. She got the impression - considering the obvious unease in the two Grunkles - that she wasn't the only one bothered by it.
She was just the only other one awake.