Ford found a good bond with Dipper in several ways. First and foremost was their shared desire to understand Stanley's condition and possibly fix it. Secondly was how concerned for, and to an extent frightened of, their respective twins. At least they found some form of comfort in the third, their love of Dungeons, Dungeons, and More Dungeons.

Normally, Ford wouldn't be concerned with pausing his work to play a game, even one he loved, but for one, he found it a decent distraction when he was stuck on any one thing, and also because no matter what he warned, Dipper still made his way down to the basement. He expected the kid to be a hovering, hero-worshipping little jumping bug, but instead the kid just sort of sat in a chair or in the corner, hardly speaking, just waiting to be acknowledged.

So Ford started out with the gameplay at first to maybe entertain Dipper and clear his own mind, but found he genuinely enjoyed Dipper's company. The stony mask the boy wore seemed to melt into just being a kid again whenever they played. Ford got to know Dipper a little more, finding the boy highly intelligent and insightful for his age, and full of potential on the theoretical end of things.

A few days after they began playing, Dipper began opening up more about things that didn't concern D&D& More D. About how he felt like he had to protect his sister, but his sister was the one doing the protecting. About how badly he wanted to cure Stan and have things go back to the way they used to be. About the nightmare-ridden guilt of being the cause of Stan's condition, and the position Mabel put herself up to.

"…and Grunkle Stan made mention of sending us home early," Dipper was saying, not even playing the game set out for them anymore. "…I don't think it's a bad idea, but Mabel…" He chewed his lip. "…Mabel's said she wants to stay here. She thinks Grunkle Stan will fall apart without her." He hugged his knees. "…And I'm…starting to think she's right."

Ford ran a shaking hand through his hair. "…that's not a burden two twelve-year-olds should be facing," he said quietly. It was true, while he enjoyed Dipper's company and even thought the boy had good potential to pass on more of his knowledge to, seeing THIS was just a slap-in-the-face reminded that these were KIDS.

When HE was twelve, he was chasing frogs and insects to document species, working on that old sailboat back in Jersey, having fun on the pier…not having to worry if a relative was going to start a flesh-eating massacre and sacrificing sleep to find a cure for it.

He snapped out of his thoughts when he heard Dipper sniffle softly, seeing the boy hug his legs tighter. "…I…this is all my fault…" Dipper choked out. "I wanted answers so bad…I thought I could handle it…!" He tugged his hat down over his face with both hands. "Now my great-uncle is a MONSTER because of me! And my sister…she…" He swallowed hard.

"…She's having to take care of him," Ford supplied, feeling the urge to hug his own legs to his chest. "Stanley seems….very capable of taking care of himself. He calms himself down if he feels he's slipping…"

"But he CANT calm himself down when he snaps!" Dipper cried, rubbing his eyes furiously. "I was screaming and crying and he was STILL eating that guy! It wasn't until Mabel talks him out of it that he gets some sense back into him!"

He let out a shaking sob. "I…I wanted to call Mom and Dad so many times so we could go home because I'm SCARED! EVERY DAY, I'm afraid that THIS will be the day Mabel CANT talk him out of it! That he just…..SNAPS, and STAYS snapped and I'll…I'll have to do SOMETHING to stop him—"

Ford reached over the game board and tugged Dipper to him tightly, feeling the boy shake violently in his arms as he held him. "You WONT," Ford said firmly, petting at Dipper's back. "I wont let you live with that burden, kid. You shouldn't have to. If anything like that happens, I will take responsibility for it." He clenched his jaw tightly, swallowing hard. "It's my own damn fault for writing that spell down, anyway. I should have kept it archived away, where it wouldn't be mistakenly read."

"But—"

"No buts." Ford sighed, hugging Dipper tighter. "…You're a bright kid, Dipper…just like me. But even I make horrible mistakes. More than you can imagine. It comes with trial-and-error, and…and sometimes, people get caught in the middle, despite your best intentions."

"But I had NO ONE'S best intentions with this but MINE!" Dipper cried, tearing up again. "I just wanted to prove that the journals were telling the truth!" He hugged his legs tightly again, wiping his eyes. "…Grunkle Stan said he always knew this place was weird…and that he tried to protect us from it because it's DANGEROUS. And he's right."

Ford frowned, petting Dipper's back quietly. "…he's not wrong," he replied. "But this isn't his life's work—"

"No, but it's his life NOW," Dipper retorted almost darkly. "I want to cure him, not make him just another entry in the stupid journal."

Ford winced. Dipper had a point, that much was true. "…I'll help you, Dipper," he said. "I…don't want Stanley to be this way, either." He saw in silence for a few minutes before sighing. "…Do you want to finish our campaign?" Dipper shook his head. "…We should at least go up and get something to eat." Dipper nodded and crawled out of Ford's lap, wiping his face dry.

Mabel sat quietly with her Grunkle Stan on the couch outside, watching the twilight of the forest turn the air a soft orange. She held a cup of hot chocolate in her hands, sipping it quietly, enjoying the solitude.

Stan sat next to her, having a rare moment of true tranquility, when he wasn't putting on a brave face, or a mask to wear to the public. He was relaxed, which was just how Mabel liked it. She didn't like it when Stan got riled up. He always looked like he was in pain when he was upset about something.

She couldn't even imagine how awful it must feel, in the state he was in. Being half-dead and half-alive, with only raw meat able to satisfy his hunger. She knew that upset him, so she tried to be supportive, eating meat with him, even when Dipper swore of meat altogether. But she couldn't blame her brother for that. Dipper was trying so hard to find a cure for their Grunkle. She could forgive his lack of solidarity in the eating department.

Mabel was aware she and Dipper differed on ways to deal with situations like this. Dipper looked at things too critically, like the weirdness they saw was a science project instead of something with feelings. That applied to Grunkle Stan, too. Mabel knew that despite the monster that came out sometimes, the monster was still her Grunkle Stan. Someone who protected them, and kept them from being hurt.

And this was a big adjustment to him, too! Mabel saw the struggle Stan had every day, the guilt of eating raw meat in front of them—at her insistence; she didn't want him being left out at mealtimes—and keeping a hold of the monster. Mabel just wanted him to know that she loved the monster too, that she knew the monster only came out in defense. To protect them, and himself.

It might have backfired with the gremloblin, but Mabel had proven time and again that showing kindness to the monster in Stan made it listen to her.

Looking at her Grunkle Stan being so relaxed in the evening time let her know her efforts to accept him as he was were paying off.

She finished her hot chocolate just as the sun set over the trees, and quietly laid on her side with her head on his leg, wishing every summer day could be as peaceful as this evening now. The happy thought lulled her off to sleep, deftly aware of Stan's hand petting her hair.

Stan sat in blissful silence well after the sky went dark and the stars came out, content to stay there until kingdom come. But as nice as it was, Stan didn't want Mabel to be disturbed by mosquitos, so he gently picked her up and carried her inside and upstairs to the attic. He settled her down on her bed, nudged off her shoes, and tucked her in, kissing her head before heading out.

He wished more than anything that he wasn't like this…THING. That Mabel didn't feel the need to take care of him. That Dipper could see him as a Grunkle instead of a monster to placate and study. That he hadn't subjected his brother to seeing a massacre within fifteen minutes of bringing him back.

He headed down the stairs, pausing when he saw Dipper heading up, feeling his heart clench when his nephew had a brief look of panic pass over his face, eyes darting around for an alternate escape route.

"….where's Mabel?" Dipper asked. Stan sighed; while he may not get physically tired anymore, he felt all the emotional exhaustion could be worse.

"She's asleep," Stan replied. "Like you should be." He shifted to one side of the staircase and passed Dipper up, easily slipping the journal under Dipper's arm into his hand with all the skill of the master pickpocketer he was, such so that it took Dipper a few seconds to realize what he'd done.

"Hey—!"

"I mean it, Dipper," Stan said, holding the journal up. "Go to SLEEP. You can have this back tomorrow at breakfast. Goodnight." He stepped downstairs, hearing Dipper make a soft sound of frustration before heading up with heavier steps than necessary.

Stan sat down in the TV room, holding the journal in his hands, beginning to regret giving it back to Dipper after he was done copying it. He knew what this town was all about, and he still gave Dipper a dangerous piece of it. Dipper was a smart kid, but the fact remained that he was still TWELVE. And twelve-year-olds, smart as they were, did stupid things. Hell, even Stanford tried to see if he could recharge an old electronic using wires, a fork, and an electrical socket once.

Long story short, it took a month to regrow his eyebrows.

He flipped through the journal quietly, thumbing through a few select pieces before he flipped further back to what used to be blank pages, and were now scrawled over in Dipper's handwriting. He frowned, reading them over.

Ford came up sometime later, in need of the coffee pot again. Dismantling the portal between Dipper's visits was long, tiring work, and he made a mental note to get another coffee pot for downstairs use in the future.

Even before he made it to the kitchen, he could smell it. The scent of raw meat. He swallowed hard, peering around the corner, feeling his heart sink like a lead weight when he saw Stanley standing next to the open fridge, taking out every piece of raw meat inside and shoving it into his mouth, the dead lights in his eyes showing no signs of conscious life. Only hunger.

Ford swallowed back bile and slowly edged his way back around the corner, pressing his back to the wall. His body was shaking violently, and he didn't know if it was from terror or despair, or WHAT.

Across the hall, something caught his peripheral, and he turned his head to see his open journal on the floor in front of the chair. He shifted over quickly, hopefully before Stan saw, and hurried over to pick it up, pausing when he saw that the pages it was open to were Dipper's notes about Stanley's change, terrified annotations and all.

Ford scooped the journal up, hugging it to his chest tightly, feeling a knot form in his chest.

How was he going to fix this?