Chapter 1

"Dipper, for the love of God. Sleeping is supposed to take place in a bed, remember?" Mabel questioned, startling her brother out of his light sleep. He'd had his face pressed up against the keyboard of his main computer, leaving a waffle-like imprint on the right side of his face that made Mabel giggle. "Seriously, do you ever follow a normal person schedule?"

"I think it was established long ago that none of us are normal people," Dipper grumbled, his voice husky with sleep. He cleared his throat in an attempt to regain his normal voice. "Damn, 18 pages of gibberish? I wonder how long I was asleep?"

"2 hours and 14 minutes, according to your smartwatch," Mabel replied, glancing at her phone. "And don't give me that look, you leave me no choice but to track your sleep. Have you looked in a mirror lately?"

Dipper glanced in the reflective glass of his computer screen, wincing slightly at his appearance. He was only 25, but he had aged to at least 30 in the past few years while dedicating every waking moment to research. His tall, lanky frame was always slightly hunched over, like he had just finished reading a book but hadn't quite straightened up yet. He was long past due for both a haircut and a shave, his brown curly hair reaching past his ears and getting in his eyes. He had the beginnings of a beard, although it was mostly just unkempt stubble at that point. He had dark circles under his eyes and Mabel could definitely tell that he hadn't really been eating. He did that sometimes, when he was working on something he felt like was more important than himself. Her brother used to have a fair amount of muscle on his slight frame, but even that was starting to disappear.

"It's been busy. It'll get less hectic when I finally solve this equation that will help give me more clues as to how parallel universes exist-" he started, but his sister stepped in and shut him up.

"It'll get less hectic NOW," she insisted. "I'm declaring you done for the day. You told me yourself that you aren't on a deadline."

"But I'm really close to getting it done, Mabel. If you would just leave me along for a few more days-"

"It will be here again tomorrow after you eat a proper dinner and get a full night's sleep," she argued, knowing that her brother would cave at the promise of a full hot meal made by her. She may have spent most of her time painting, but Soos' grandmother had successfully spent the last few years instilling her knowledge of not only Spanish, but also Italian cooking into the young woman before she had passed away last year. As a result, Mabel was a phenomenal cook and she knew exactly how to get her brother to stop digging his heels in and come back up to the apartment they shared. "I'm just running to the store now to get supplies for this week, and I'm making tamales tonight, which I know you can't say no to."

Dipper considered, his mouth already watering at the though of a plate of hot tamales. And he knew if he didn't come up, he wouldn't hear the end of it from both Mabel and Stanley. "I could use some tamales, I will admit."

"Bulk batch, twin brother. You can have as many as you want as long as you promise to spend the whole night in your room sleeping," Mabel wheeled. "You can go back to this tomorrow."

"All right," Dipper relented. "Maybe a night's sleep would help me focus tomorrow."

"That's what I like to hear," Mabel beamed, turning to leave the bunker. "I'll be back at four and I expect you up at the house. We both know you have a mountain of laundry to get through, and the washer and dryer are free!"

"I'm coming," Dipper called after her, slowly pushing himself out of his chair, his sore joints a reminder that he had been sitting in that same spot for well over 24 hours. He had always been like that, unmovable once he really got into something. He always felt like if he stood up, he would lose his train of thought, although he never really did. He could always pick things back up fairly easily.

He made his way out of the bunker that they had discovered so many years ago, that had long since been turned into where he did all of his research. He pushed the steel door back open and stepped outside. The door to the bunker was partially hidden now with overgrown trees and vines, and you sort of had to climb your way out. On a normal day, not a problem for Dipper, but he was definitely starting to feel the effects of not eating for three days, so it took him a little longer than usual. He made it out, though, and started into the woods.

It was a chilly October day, cloudy and threatening to rain at any time, although it had been like that for days in Gravity Falls. Dipper buttoned up his flannel, already feeling cold, and headed out onto the path that had been worn into the grass from years and years of visits to the bunker. The Mystery Shack was just barely visible in the distance, although the walk back was about a mile. He occupied his brain with scientific names for all the trees and plants he passed, reciting them like they were written on the back of his hand.

A little over halfway through, he passed the old Corduroy house. It had been for sale for about five years now, but its occupants had moved out about three years ago, giving up on the house ever selling. Wendy had gone off to graduate school at Berkely, and Dipper spent years hoping for even just a letter from his former best friend, but she seemed like she had fallen off the face of the Earth. Dipper took notice, though, as he passed, that an odd and unfamiliar beat-up green truck was parked in the overgrown driveway. No lights on, no smoke coming from the chimney, nothing else to indicate that anyone had broken in.

Someone probably parked there to go out and hunt in the woods, Dipper figured. It happened sometimes. He'd called his share of tow trucks for inconsiderate fools who parked in the Mystery Shack driveway. He continued down the path and was back at the Mystery Shack before too long.

"Hey, kid," Stanley called from the front porch. He was perched in a rocking chair with an old plaid blanket wrapped around his shoulders, also holding a mug of something steaming. "Finally climbed out of the hole?"

"Yeah, Mabel didn't give me much of a choice," Dipper chuckled, glancing over his great-uncle the same way he always did when he got back after a few days. He worried about Stanley as he got older. The man had aged considerably from when Dipper had first come to meet him, his face becoming worn and haggard and his walking becoming slower and slightly labored. He still had the same square jaw and broad shoulders, and Dipper would still put money on him to beat up just about anyone, even at his age, but he had certainly become an elderly man. He mostly spent his days on the porch, greeting the occasional visitor to the Mystery Shack and just watching the world go by.

Then Dipper glanced to the left, out at a rounded headstone in the distance. Stanley caught where he was looking and sighed. "He's still in the same place he is every time you look over there, kid."

Dipper quickly looked down at his feet, feeling almost ashamed. Ever since Ford had died, it felt to him like he had to give his great-uncle priority over grieving.

"I know. Just habit, I guess. Make sure nobody messes with the gravestone," Dipper shrugged, feeling himself getting a little emotional. "I still just can't believe he's gone."

"Me too," Stanley sighed again, his face looking even older than it had before. "You know, he'd be real proud of you, kiddo. Continuing his legacy and all that."

Dipper couldn't open his mouth for fear of tears spilling over, so he just nodded and clapped Stanley on the shoulder. "You good?"

"I'm good."

You good, I'm good. It was the little game they played every time they saw each other, since neither of them particularly enjoyed sitting down and talking about their feelings. So Dipper asked his great-uncle if he was good, and Stanley would always reply that, yes, he was good. Dipper didn't think he would get a different answer even if a bear bit off Stanley's lower half. It would still be, "I'm good." But it was the way they kept an eye on each other, because that used to be Ford's job.

Dipper lingered by his grunkle's side a little bit longer, breathing in the cool air and smiling at the memory of Ford joining them for dinner.

Mabel's tamales had always been his favorite, too.