Chapter 3 | Catch
Dipper sat on the front porch, the warmth of the sun brushing against his skin. It was creeping into the afternoon, and soon he'd be heading to the bus stop. But right now, something else gnawed at his thoughts—what did Dad really want to say?
He knew his dad used to play baseball back in high school. From the stories, he sounded damn good at it—good enough to dream about going pro. But something changed in college. His dad never explained why he walked away from the game. He just... did.
Maybe some feelings don't last forever, Dipper thought, even if they once felt unbreakable.
The front door creaked open. Dipper glanced over as his dad stepped out, sleeves rolled up and a familiar, giddy smile on his face.
"You ready?"
Dipper smirked. "Yeah, I'll try and catch the ball this time."
His dad chuckled. "Just remember what I taught you, and you'll be fine." He tossed a glove his way.
Dipper caught it with both hands, the leather worn soft from use. This glove... he recognized it. They used to play catch more often when he was thirteen. He'd wanted to be more "active" back then—partly to bond with Dad, partly for the simple rhythm of the game. Raise your arm, shift your shoulder, release. Watch. Catch. Repeat. A quiet, steady back-and-forth. Simple. Safe.
Back before high school. Before the noise of everything.
Now life felt... complicated. His parents. Their arguments. The whispered conversations he wasn't meant to hear. He felt like autumn leaves in a whirlwind—everything changing, everything falling away. And no matter how hard he reached, he couldn't hold on.
"Dipper." His father's voice cut through his thoughts, laced with concern.
Dipper startled and fumbled with his glove. "Yeah! Sorry. Ready."
His dad grinned. "Good. Now that you're older, I can throw some missiles."
Dipper's eyes widened. "Uhhh, I don't know abou—"
CRACK!
The ball rocketed through the air—a white blur with deadly precision.
"Oof!" Dipper caught it, the impact stinging through the glove into his palm. He stumbled back a step, shaking out his hand. "Ow—what the heck was that?!"
His dad laughed, eyes twinkling. "Didn't think you'd catch that!"
"Yeah, well, thanks for the heart attack," Dipper deadpanned, tossing the ball back with a decent flick of his wrist.
His father caught it effortlessly, patting the leather. "You know... I see a lot of myself in you." He threw the ball again—fast, but not as punishing.
Dipper caught it clean and paused, noticing something scrawled on the ball's side—a signature. He turned it, reading the words:
Karplemann, may this ball fuel your dreams with courage.
His father's voice softened. "You were always a little cautious as a kid. Hesitant. But that changed after Gravity Falls. You came back... different. Stronger. More sure of yourself."
Dipper blinked, surprised by how his chest swelled at the words. "Thanks, Dad."
His father's expression grew more serious but still warm. "But... I'm not blind. Something's been eating at you."
Dipper's stomach knotted. He felt exposed, like his dad had cracked open a window into his head. He rubbed his thumb over the stitches of the ball. "I... I don't know," he managed. "Everything's just... weird."
His dad's eyes softened. "Awkward? Sweaty?"
Dipper snorted. "Yeah. That covers it."
His voice dropped lower. "But... you and Mom… it's just…" He stopped short, and with a sudden burst of emotion, he threw the ball hard—harder than he meant to.
SMACK. His dad caught it, steady and sure. The sound was sharp, final.
"Different," his father said simply.
Dipper froze. The word echoed in his mind, a perfect, simple label for the hurricane of feelings he hadn't been able to name.
"…Yeah," he admitted, voice small. "You're really good at that, aren't you?"
His dad smirked. "Your mom says I'm a good listener."
They tossed the ball a few more times, falling into an easy rhythm. Dipper felt the tension in his chest loosen, replaced by something warmer. Familiar.
Then, his dad paused. Ball in hand, he glanced up at the sky, his face distant, thoughtful. "I can't promise you how all this will turn out," he said softly. "But no matter what... it won't change how I feel about you. Or Mabel. We're family, Dipper. That's not going anywhere."
The words settled deep. Dipper didn't realize how much he needed to hear them until they were there, solid and certain.
His dad's gaze lowered back to him. "But… there's something I want to tell you. Something my coach taught me when I was about your age."
Dipper, curious, rolled the ball in his glove. "Coach Karplemann?"
His father smiled, a bit wistful. "Yeah. That old man… he was like a second father to me. Taught me a lot about the game—and about life."
He suddenly knelt down to Dipper's level, a playful glint in his eye. "C'mere. Hop on."
Dipper blinked. "What?"
"Come on," his dad grinned. "You're never too old for some father-son time."
Dipper flushed. "Dad, seriously—I'm fifteen!"
His dad just chuckled. "And?"
Dipper opened his mouth to protest… then closed it. His dad was reaching out. Not just for fun, but for something more. Something important.
With a sigh and a smile tugging at his lips, he obliged—climbing up onto his father's shoulders.
And suddenly… he was up. Higher than he'd expected. Above the fences, above the rooftops—he could see the whole neighborhood stretching out in every direction. But what took his breath away… was the sky.
A vast sea of soft blues and clouds—no longer the golden hues of morning, but something wider. Fuller. Infinite. It filled his heart with an unexpected thrill—like the whole world was out there, waiting. And he could go find it.
"That's something, huh?" his father said, voice steady beneath him. "My coach used to tell me... life isn't about chasing some finish line. It's about finding the things that matter. Your reason. Your joy. Your sunset."
Dipper's breath caught at that word. Sunset.
His dad's voice grew quieter, more thoughtful. "I thought going pro was my sunset. I chased it hard, but… it wasn't mine to catch. And that was okay. I found joy in the game itself. In moments like this. That's what my coach taught me—to look back on my day and ask myself, Did I earn the sunset?"
Dipper's eyes, wide and full of sky, met his father's.
"Most days, I do," his father said. "And the days I don't… well, I try again. Because the ride? The ride's worth it."
He smiled up at Dipper—full of pride, love, and something else. Understanding.
Dipper felt his heart pound—not from nerves, but from something deeper. Something like hope.
"I want you to find your sunset, Mason."
Dipper was acutely aware—this moment would stay with him forever. He clung to it, letting his father's words seep into every corner of his heart. The warmth, the weight of it all—he wanted to keep it, to carry it. He didn't fully understand what his father meant, not yet. But he knew it was the kind of truth that would grow with him—one he'd return to, someday, when he was ready to understand it.
For now, he just let himself...
feel.
A quiet, golden silence hung between them, the kind that didn't need breaking. From his perch, Dipper's eyes swept over the familiar rooftops and winding streets—his world, small and known. And beyond that? The unknown. He felt the pull—a whisper toward Gravity Falls. He didn't know why. Not yet. But something in him stirred. Maybe that was where his sunset waited.
His father lowered him back to the ground, gentle but firm. And then, meeting Dipper's gaze with eyes full of certainty, he spoke one more truth:
"Even if it's scary... don't stop searching. That's the only way you'll find what's out there."
The words settled deep, and Dipper, heart full, smiled softly. "I won't." And then, without hesitation, he hugged his father. Tight. It should have felt awkward—too old, too late—but it didn't. It felt... right. Like something unfinished had found its way home.
His father's chuckle rumbled against him, and a familiar hand ruffled his hair. "And don't forget—look out for your sister, alright? She's got her own sunset to find, too."
Dipper pulled back, eyes bright with feeling. "Always."
He turned his face skyward once more. The sun, high and proud, washed the world in its golden haze. And as it warmed his skin, Dipper felt something shift—like the closing of a chapter... and the opening of something new.
Dipper headed back inside, taking the stairs two at a time to his room. He wanted to get everything packed before noon. Cracking open his door, he stepped inside, greeted by the sight of his half-filled suitcase sprawled across the bed. Clothes stuffed haphazardly inside, but a few final essentials remained.
He crossed to his desk, where his computer flickered with the familiar screensaver of Ghost Harassers. His favorite show. His corner. When he wasn't drowning in schoolwork, this was where he lived—scouring forums for the next anomaly or grinding through Bloodcraft: Overdeath. (The sequel dropped earlier this year. It sucked. Too many balancing issues). He'd bring the whole rig to Gravity Falls if he could.
No room. Probably no internet, either.
Beside the mouse rested the journal—navy blue, a pine tree etched on the cover. Mabel's gift. She never fully explained how she got it (something about the multiverse?), but it felt like holding a piece of her heart. Inside were her memories, her hopes... and her regrets. His thumb brushed the worn fabric, and summer came rushing back—laughter, risks, a million shared moments.
He opened it. The pages stared back, blank and white.
Barren.
A knot twisted in his chest.
He'd managed the first ten pages—notes from the summer, theories on weirdness magnetism, half-remembered facts from Ford's journals. But that wasn't enough. Notes weren't enough. He didn't just want to read about mysteries—he wanted to live them. Down in Ford's lab, shoulder to shoulder, unraveling secrets, chasing anomalies—feeling that spark of discovery.
He wanted to be him.
The journal landed in the suitcase with a soft thump. His eyes lifted to the shelf. The hat was still there—her hat. Wendy's trucker cap. A parting gift. And for a long time, he wanted it to mean more. More than friendship. More than he ever had a right to hope for. So naïve. So sweaty. God, so desperate. His cheeks burned from secondhand embarrassment, but he grabbed it anyway, tugging it on.
A little snug, but it fit.
And as it sat there, he felt her—easygoing, unshakable, and laughing at him when he got flustered. The ache for something impossible was gone. But the friendship—that was forever. And it felt... right.
Turning back to his desk, he yanked open a drawer. There it was. His blacklight. The same one that had illuminated more than ink—it lit up the wonder of curiosity itself. His heart still raced at the memory of dark bunkers, hidden messages, and summer nights that smelled of pine and possibility.
He tossed it over his shoulder, and it landed with a soft thump in the suitcase.
But something was missing. His fingers drummed the desk. The room felt... unfinished.
Then—
A glint.
A flash of gold from the top shelf. He straightened, his fingers brushing the object that had been out of reach when he was twelve. Not anymore.
The President's Key.
It sat cool and heavy in his palm. He stared down at it. Such a small thing, holding so much power. Any door. Any lock. Seriously, how was this not more overpowered?
The memory hit—of the day he earned it. The day he unraveled the lies behind the Northwest family's so-called legacy. Their legacy. Liars. Phonies. Using him to do their dirty work. His teeth clenched.
And then—
Blonde. Sharp eyes.
Pacifica.
"I wonder how she's doing…"
The key, a symbol of that day, of the real birth of the Mystery Twins, burned against his palm. He tightened his grip. He needed that feeling back. That ache. The one that came from chasing something bigger than himself.
Would there be doors left to open?
Secrets left to uncover?
God, he hoped so.
The key slipped into his suitcase, and something settled inside him.
Dipper's eyes swept over his packed things—fragments of who he was, who he had been. The journal. The key. The hat. They weren't just items. They were parts of him. Cogs in the machine. Pieces in a puzzle. Together, they painted a picture—one that smelled like pine, felt like warm summer nights, and buzzed with adventure.
He tugged off the hat, setting it atop the pile. His fingers brushed over the familiar fabric of his black hoodie, worn soft and frayed from years of comfort. His armor. His shield. It let him fade into the background, kept him safe when the world felt too loud.
And yet... his hand paused, suddenly unsure.
What will become of me?
The thought hit like a sucker punch. His stomach twisted.
What will I become tomorrow? In a month? In a year?
The suitcase held who he was. But... who would he become? Would he even recognize that person when he opened it again? The ache for purpose, for answers—was it pulling him forward? Or was it dragging him somewhere he wasn't ready for?
His fingers curled into the hoodie's fabric.
What will become of me?
The zipper's zzzrrp felt like the final chord of a symphony. It echoed against the walls—an end, and a beginning. Whatever Gravity Falls had waiting; it's old mysteries, new dangers, he'd be ready.
Even if he didn't know what he'd find.
"Perfect timing!"
Mabel burst through the door, Waddles squirming in her arms, her grin as bright as ever. "Just packed the last of my most important stuff!" She flung open her bag and shoved in three plushies.
Dipper gave her a flat look. "You can't be serious."
"Plushies are crucial, Dipper!" she declared with mock indignation. "What if Grenda and Candy don't recognize me without my emotional support squad?"
"They won't protect you from anything, Mabel." He crossed his arms. "And also—there's no way anyone forgets you."
"They protect my feelings, and that counts!" she shot back, already laughing. "Besides, who else am I supposed to tell my secrets to at night?"
Dipper sighed through a reluctant smile. "Fine. Take your plushies. Just... try not to take all the room on the bus."
"Never!" She cackled dramatically and bolted out the door, Waddles in tow.
Dipper chuckled, shaking his head. Same old Mabel. Same old Mystery Twins.
But something felt different.
And it was just beginning.