#Catch Bill standing just behind Dipper - or even leaping up into his arms and nearly making him topple over -

[tswwwit]

I know Bill's the big bad demon everyone is afraid of and he will protect his husband at all costs (when no one's looking), but I think it's also worth mentioning that Dipper, even being the dorky, squishy human that he is, also cares about his dumb demon hubby and wants to keep him safe, even if it annoys Bill, and really, he doesn't need protecting the way Dipper does. He isn't going to puff out his chest and get in someone's face like some macho man, but I think Dipper knee-jerk reaction when Bill's in "danger" isn't to just shrug because he's an all-powerful demon who can handle it. If a blast that could level a whole town was aimed at Bill's head (for him, this just means a bad hair day and a new body), Dipper's immediate impulse is to push him out of the way or defend him against whatever wants to kill his familiar. Because he's not thinking "Bill could literally end this match in .3 seconds." He's thinking "if you touch even one hair on that asshole's head, I'm going to knock yours clean off your shoulders." I don't know what the point even is in this post, just that Dipper is this nerdy, unassuming guy who ends up being viciously protective under the right conditions. Like I think Dipper pulls off the bloody and vengeful look SO well that Bill immediately melts and just lets him handle the situation, even though it's not really Dipper's fight to begin with. He's beating the guy to a pulp with zero reserve, and Bill's off to the side swooning and twirling his hair over his man for getting his hands dirty for him.

It's true! While Bill's not the type to enjoy being underestimated, he has to admit! Seeing his adorable husband all riled up on his behalf is a hell of a sight.

The thing is, Dipper's a good guy! He can't help but put himself in danger over others. Even when all reason and logic say that Bill would be absolutely fine if he got his head exploded or a shiv in his kidney, Dipper's instinct is to fully and immediately get in the way of that. To, in fact, be protective.

Mostly this is only evident when Dipper has to stand up to Ford. Yes, yes, Bill's a vile horrible monstrosity, but he didn't do that particular thing you're accusing him of. Watching him stand up to his uncle is a particular treat!

For bigger threats, though - Well. Bill's gonna be absolutely fine, no matter what happens, thank you very much. But he's definitely not opposed to seeing some guy who was about to literally stab him in the back get a few of his teeth knocked out.

[marypsue]

Hive [1 / 2]

Warnings for mind control (sort...of), slight body horror, and slight gore/animal death (don't worry, the pig is safe). 

Suggested listening for this chapter: “Hold No Guns” by Death Cab for Cutie.

Part One // Part Two

on AO3

...

Dipper, unsurprisingly, notices it first.

"Is it just me, or have people been acting...weirder than usual lately?" he asks, from flat on his back on the porch, basking in the heat of the sinking sun and the chill of the water evaporating off of him and the dull, slow ache in all his muscles from running around with Soos ambushing (okay, being ambushed by) Wendy and Mabel with water guns all afternoon. The wood underneath his back is rough and sun-warmed, both splinters and heat slowly working their way into his skin, and from where he lies he can just see a sliver of glaring blue out of the corner of his right eye, past the edge of the sagging porch roof.

"Define 'weirder than usual'," Wendy says, from the couch somewhere to Dipper's left, her voice lazy and languid as the quiet buzz from the trees out ringing the yard. Dipper can't muster the energy to turn and look at her; he remembers her falling sprawled across the cushions, one arm up over the back. As far as he knows, she hasn't moved.

"Yeah, Dipper, this is Gravity Falls -" Mabel starts, and Dipper groans.

"That's why I said 'weirder than usual', Mabel. Weirder than usual."

"I dunno, dawgs, Dipper's got a point," Soos, ever the lifesaver, says, and Dipper flops an arm weakly up into the air for Soos to slap palms with. "Like, Abuelita's bridge club's been meeting here while Melody’s up in Portland visiting her sister? And I'm pretty sure when they came over last week two of them were, like, talking to each other. But without talking, doods."

"Wait, really?" Dipper asks, almost interested enough to sit up and look Soos in the eye. Almost, but not quite. "Soos, your abuelita's got a couple of telepaths in her bridge club?"

He hears, rather than sees, Soos shrug. "Dunno. Abuelita threw 'em out for cheating, I didn't have time to ask 'em where they're from."

Before Dipper gets a chance to introduce Soos to the definition of the word 'telepathy', though, the door leading into the Shack creaks open and Stan's heavy footsteps thud out onto the porch, shaking up through Dipper's back until he can feel each one in his chest. "Who wants popsicles?" Stan waits a moment for the chorus of 'me!'s to die down, and then adds, "Well, you better get your wallets ready, then, 'cause these suckers're two - no, five dollars apiece!"

Dipper doesn't see what happens next, but he's pretty sure it involves Wendy and Mabel, a couple of water guns, and grand theft popsicle.

...

Ford, once Dipper gets a chance to talk to him, is a little more receptive.

"Unusual behaviour, you say?" he asks, putting down the soldering iron and raising his mask to look Dipper in the eye. There's a frown creasing his forehead, the kind of distant look that Grunkle Stan gets sometimes when he’s overwhelmed by a returning memory, and Dipper feels a twinge of guilt constrict his chest. "I ought to look into this. It might be nothing, but - better safe than devoured by a being of pure horror from the nightmare realm!" He flashes a bright smile in Dipper's direction, one that doesn't make the guilt squeezing Dipper's ribs together ease at all.

"It's...probably nothing," Dipper says. "Or - if it is, it's definitely not Bill's style. I don't know, it's not like people are really acting any different, they just..." He ends up squeezing two fistfuls of empty air and shrugging, trying to convey something he can't quite put into words.

There's a chill in the basement, even with the portal in a thousand weirdly-shimmering pieces on the floor, a draft that smells of damp and concrete and cold earth that snakes down the back of Dipper's neck and under his vest, making all the hairs stand up in a long line down his spine. The crease in Ford's brow doesn't change.

"Even so," he says, gruff and short, and Dipper waits for the rest of the sentence, a little unsurprised when nothing more is forthcoming. The draft trails like insubstantial fingers down his back. Even so.

...

Dipper's pretty sure that he's been invited along to the graveyard with Wendy and her friends at least partly out of pity, since Mabel's left him behind to go down to Bend for the day with Candy and Grenda to find Grenda a dress for this fundraiser gala Marius invited her to, but he's not complaining. Wendy's friends are cool, Wendy herself is especially cool, and Dipper's not about to turn up his nose at an opportunity to hang out with them. Especially not now that he is, actually, technically a teen himself.

It's a perfect day for it, too - not too hot, a slight breeze ruffling the tops of the trees that ring the graveyard and whipping the tall pillars of cloud overhead into weird and fantastic shapes. Dipper is distracted enough - by the clouds and their enormous shadows racing over the grass, and the birdsong off in the trees somewhere that almost sounds like human voices, and the smell on the wind that promises thunder later, and definitely not by Wendy's hair in the sunlight - that he trips over the handle of a discarded spade and nearly falls face-first into a freshly-dug grave.

Lee catches him while he's still pinwheeling his arms on the edge, reaching out and scooping him up around the waist. "Whoa, careful there, little dude!"

"I'm not little," Dipper grumbles, as Lee balances him back on his feet. He's not. He's grown a full two inches this year. (Never mind that Mabel's grown three, and packed on nearly twenty pounds of pure muscle just from hauling Waddles around. Dipper's gonna catch up one of these days.)

Lee isn't listening. He's peering down into the open pit with an expression halfway between fascination and disgust. "Oh, dude, what is that?"

"Ugh, tell me it's not zombies again," Wendy says, rolling her eyes, but Nate's joined them at the edge of the grave, leaning precariously out over the mouth to get a better look at whatever Lee's seen. Now that he's thinking about it, Dipper thinks he can detect a note of rot in the smell of fresh, wet earth.

He leans cautiously over the lip of the grave, and looks down.

There's something shining in the dirt right at the very bottom of the grave, something yellow-white and gently curved. It looks like a rib.

Robbie cracks his knuckles, stretching with the grin that means he's about to do something phenomenally stupid for attention. "Stand back, ladies, let the professional handle this." He looks around, and then asks, "Hey, where's Tambry? Wasn't she supposed to meet us here?"

"She's your girlfriend, aren't you supposed to be keeping track of stuff like that?" Nate asks. Robbie's ears turn red, and he stuffs his hands into the pockets of his hoodie.

"Whatever," he mutters, succinctly.

Wendy nudges him with her shoulder. "Weren't you gonna fight the big bad zombie for us?" she asks, and the blush drains out of Robbie's face so fast Dipper would almost think he's been attacked by a vampire or a giant leech or something. Dipper doesn't think the rib has moved at all; he kind of doubts it's an active zombie, but he's not telling Robbie that.

"A-actually, my knee's been kind of acting up," Robbie stutters, his gaze darting around the group and finding no sympathy. "Otherwise I would totally -"

"Fine, you big baby," Wendy interrupts, unholstering her axe from its usual place at her hip and leaping effortlessly down into the pit. After a moment, her voice floats up from six feet underground. "There's no zombies down here, guys."

"Wait, really?" Robbie asks, and then, defensive, "I mean, I knew that all along, I'd never have let you go down there if -"

"Man, shut up," Lee says, and Robbie's mouth snaps shut, his shoulders curling up around his ears as he shoots a dirty look in Lee's direction.

"What is it?" Dipper calls down to Wendy, who pokes at the rib with the toe of her boot. It falls over, with a small shower of dirt, revealing several pale vertebrae and what looks like half a shattered pelvis.

"Think maybe you should ask what it was," Wendy calls back up. "Looks like...half a raccoon, maybe?" She pauses a moment, turning over more earth with her toe. The smell of rotting that Dipper had noticed earlier rushes up, smacks him full across the face, and he has to swallow down a sudden surge of bile. "I dunno. It's pretty fresh, but it's also pretty stripped. Looks like somebody chewed the bones to get the marrow out."

"Dude," Lee says, halfway between disgust and awe.

"Somebody?" Robbie asks, a slight quaver in his voice. Wendy shrugs.

"Yeah dude, these look like human teeth marks."

“Wait, how do you know what human teeth -”

“Apocalypse training every year ring a bell, dude?” Wendy shrugs. “And you were all here for the zombie uprising too, you can’t tell me you don’t know what human teeth marks on bone look like.” She looks around at the boys gathered around the top of the grave. “Seriously, just me?”

"Oh man, does that mean one of the zombies is loose around here somewhere?" Nate complains.

Robbie mutters a bitter, "It better not be," before giving a resigned sigh and walking over to grab the abandoned spade Dipper'd tripped over. "All right, I'm gonna go tell my parents we got another walker."

"Cool. I'm gonna not hang out in the spooky deserted graveyard with a zombie on the loose," Nate says, and Lee reaches up for a high five.

"Buddy system, bro?"

"You know it."

"Guess that leaves you and me," Wendy calls up to Dipper, who casually steps back from the edge of the pit so she can't see his face. "Is there, like, a ladder up there or something?"

By the time Wendy gets out of the grave, she and Dipper are the only ones left in the graveyard. The clouds overhead have stacked up close against each other, and the patches of shadow that sweep over last longer each time, the warm summer air cut by the chill of the wind. That promised thunderstorm feels a lot closer now.

"It's weird that Tambry ditched," Wendy says, as she vaults over a gravestone, Dipper walking around it beside her. He notices that she hasn't put away her axe. "But you know what's weirder? I haven't had a single notification from her since, like, this morning. And none of the guys said anything about it, but I haven't seen Thompson around for a day or so either."

"Tambry hasn't liked any of your posts since this morning?" Dipper asks, horrified, and Wendy makes a face that's almost a smile but really more of a grimace.

"And not one single status update."

"Wow. That's even worse than the time we almost all got eaten by convenience store ghosts," Dipper remarks, and Wendy nods.

"If this were a horror movie, Robbie'd be stumbling across her strategically-placed body right about...now." She glances back over her shoulder, and when no screams echo out from behind the hill separating them from the funeral home, shrugs. "Guess we're still safely in weird fiction," she cracks, with an elbow-nudge to Dipper's ribs that tells him she means it as a joke.

"Hey, that reminds me - have you tried that book I loaned you yet?" Dipper asks, rather than trying to eke out a nervous chuckle, and Wendy grins.

"Eat, Pray, Lovecraft? Heck yeah I have." She stuffs her axe back into its holster, her smile shrinking. "I gotta admit, though, I think some of it went over my head. And after last summer - I mean, horrifying demonic entities from outside of our dimension just lose some of their terror when you've seen one do a kegstand."

Dipper kind of disagrees, but he doesn't tell Wendy that.

...

The trees are dripping the next morning, needles glittering with leftover droplets of rain. The gravel delta that serves as a parking lot is transformed into a mass of tiny rivers, water rippling into little 'v's as it races over the pebbles. The porch roof drips morosely, the soft hiss and shush of rainwater through the overflowing gutters underlying the quiet dimness of the morning.

Dipper lies snugged down in his bed, watching the pale, greyish-pink triangle of light sink slowly down the wall across from him as the sun rises. The lingering smell of attic, must and dust and something thick and vaguely medicinal that he thinks might be mothballs but also bears a weird resemblance to Stan's cologne, tickles his nose, and Mabel's soft snores from the bed against the other wall mingle with the rush of water down the roof into a soothing white noise. In the quiet, the attic seems vast and full of air and light. The bed is so warm and deep that Dipper doesn't want to move, and each time he blinks, the triangle of light slides a little further down the wall than it did during the last blink.

He only knows for sure he's awake when Stan's heavy fist pounds on the attic door, his voice rattling the thin wood from outside. "Rise and shine, lazybones! We're goin' to the diner for breakfast as a family! This's got everything to do with my love and generosity and nothing to do with the fact I got banned from the grocery store!"

Mabel stretches, yawning, and groans as she pushes herself up into a sitting position. She makes some sleepy noise as Dipper rolls over onto his side, pulling the covers tighter around his shoulders, trying to hold in the warmth. "Mmmmnnnnnnn 'snot morning yet."

"C'mon, Dippingsauce," Mabel yawns at Dipper with about half of her usual enthusiasm. The pink light that floods the attic makes her look, unfairly, much more awake than Dipper feels.

"Sssssummer," Dipper protests, but the soft, dreamy feeling is already draining out of him, wakefulness seeping in to take its place. He scrubs the heel of his right hand against his eyes, pushing back the covers with a yawn of his own. "Somebody tell Grunkle Stan the whole point of summer vacation is staying up late, then sleeping in."

Stan's voice echoes from the hall again. "Kids! C'mon, you're the only ones holding us up!" His voice drops in volume as he continues, "I asked Soos if he wanted to come but he said he had to open the Shack. Told 'im he could just blow it off but he said he had 'integrity', whatever that is. Hope it ain't catching."

Mabel and Dipper share a look, both trying not to laugh out loud. 

They both fail.

...

It's a full hour before the Pines family piles out of the Stanleymobile and into Greasy's Diner. The whole world smells fresh, like it's been washed clean by the rain, and there's a chill in the air that makes Dipper glad he decided to wear his puffy vest over his thick flannel, despite Mabel's opinion. 

Normally, after a storm like the one last night, the woods would be absolutely alive with birdsong, which is why it doesn't take Dipper longer than the short walk from the diner's parking lot to the door to figure out what's wrong. He nudges Mabel in the shoulder as they crunch across the patch of gravel that might once have held an attempt at a flowerbed but now only sprouts weeds and cigarette butts. "Mabel! Hey, did you notice how quiet it is out here?"

Mabel looks around, at the still-dripping trees, a thoughtful look on her face. "Huh. That's kinda weird. But not Gravity Falls weird," she adds, sternly, as Stan shoulders the door to the diner open, setting the bell over the door jangling and drowning out any odd noises Dipper might have listened for.

After the chill in the morning air, Greasy's even smells warm. Stan leads the way to their usual booth in the back, with a wink in Lazy Susan's direction. Dipper brings up the end of the little train, only to stop short only a few feet in.

Tambry's sitting in the booth nearest the door, and she's with Thompson. Just the two of them.

They both look up when Dipper leans against their table, like he's just interrupted a private conversation. But they definitely hadn't been talking when Dipper had stopped at the booth.

Weird.

"H-hey," Dipper stammers, into the teeth of Tambry's flat, unimpressed stare. "We missed you at the graveyard yesterday." Absently, he realises that her eyes are the exact same shade of green as Thompson's. He's never noticed before. Probably because they're always aimed down at her phone.

"Oh, yeah. Sorry," Tambry says, half-turning like she's done with the conversation. Dipper takes a deep breath, raising his voice slightly.

"Wendy was worried about you guys, she said she hadn't seen any status updates from you all morning," he challenges Tambry, who glances briefly back at him. 

"Yeah, I guess I took like a monster nap." For the first time, a flicker of concern crosses her face, and she says, "Wait, was Robbie worried about me too?"

"Sure, why not," Dipper says. "Why aren't you with him, anyway? You two are still dating, right?"

Concern turns into confusion on Tambry's face, and then clears. She stares at Dipper, eyes narrowed. "Mabel put you up to this, didn't she."

"She...may have," Dipper says. It's not, technically, a lie.

"Well, you can tell her her matchmaking still holds up. Me and Thompson? Never gonna happen." Tambry rolls her eyes, apparently oblivious to the faint 'awwww' from Thompson, deflating slightly in the booth across from her.

"And Thompson! Where were you yesterday, man?" Dipper asks, turning to Thompson, who turns red. "You missed a zombie scare and Wendy finding half a dead raccoon."

"Oh, wow, I'm really sorry I missed out on that," Thompson warbles, sarcastically. Dipper has to cede that one to him.

Before he can ask any more questions, Lazy Susan's voice interrupts from behind Dipper. " 'Scuse me, hon. Soup's on!"

Dipper steps out of the way, and Susan takes his place, setting an enormous platter of eggs and bacon in front of each of the people at the table. Tambry actually groans, her face showing the most emotion Dipper thinks he's ever seen on her. "Finally! Oh my god, I'm so hungry I could eat the entire continent of Australia."

Thompson doesn't say anything, too busy shoveling forkfuls of fried egg into his mouth.

"Okay, well...good to know you're both okay," Dipper says, as Tambry tucks into her own food. He looks over at the table where his family are sitting, meets Ford's questioning gaze over the top of the booth. "I'm gonna...go get my own breakfast."

Thompson manages to swallow his mouthful of bacon for long enough to raise a hand and say, "See you round!" as Dipper walks away from their booth.

"Friends of yours?" Ford asks, as Dipper slides into the booth beside him. Mabel lets out an enormous bark of laughter, leaning across the table to smack Dipper on the arm.

"Friends of Wendy's." Her grin is both knowing and smug.

"Mabel," Dipper complains, and Mabel presses a hand over her mouth to cover her knowing giggles. Stan laughs, holding up a hand, and Mabel high-fives it, hard. "Seriously, it's not like that."

"I know that!" Mabel chirps. "You're just really easy to tease. Oh, and we ordered you pancakes because you were busy making goo-goo eyes at Tambry." She crosses her arms and leans her elbows against the table, looking intently at Dipper with that same knowing smile. "Or was it Thompson you had your eye on?"

"Oh my god, Mabel," Dipper sputters, unable to completely squash a laugh of his own at the face his sister makes. "Take off your matchmaker hat for five seconds, I'm not looking for an 'epic summer romance'. Neither of them showed up to hang out yesterday and Wendy was worried."

"Just those two?" Ford asks, quiet and serious. Dipper nods, and Ford frowns in thought. "Did you notice anything unusual about either of them during your conversation?"

"Seriously, poindexter? You wanna take a flashlight over there and shine it in their eyes?" Stan complains, then shrugs. " 'Cause if it'll make ya feel better, I'll hold 'em down for ya."

"Stanley, you're just saying that because you'll take any excuse to torment teenagers."

"Hey, I look at that as an unexpected bonus."

Dipper glances out around the side of the booth, but he can't see either Tambry or Thompson from where he's sitting. "I didn't notice anything," he says, at last, when he's sure he's not going to catch another glimpse and there's a break in Stan and Ford's good-natured bickering. "I mean, they both ordered huge breakfasts, but they're also both fifteen, sooo..."

This time, it's Ford who shoots Dipper a knowing smile, though it's far less smug than Mabel's. "Don't worry, my boy, you have more than enough time to hit a growth spurt."

"No way, José!" Mabel shouts, pumping a fist in the air. "Alpha twin for life!"

"Haha. Right. Keep gloating. While you still can," Dipper says, and Mabel sticks out her tongue.

Any further competition is cut short by the tantalising smell of fresh, hot pancakes wafting over the table. All four Pines look up to see Lazy Susan, loaded down with plates piled high with pancake stacks and a bottle of syrup.

A huge smile settles across Stan's face as his eyes land on her, and he reaches up to take the nearest two plates, passing one to Mabel. "Ahhh, a vision of loveliness. And you don't look half bad today either, Susan," he adds, his gaze shifting slightly from, Dipper realises, the pancakes to Susan's face.

"Oh, you old scoundrel," Susan titters, leaning over the table to set a plate of pancakes down in front of Dipper. Steam, barely visible, rises off the stack in little undulating waves, and Dipper's mouth waters.

"Oh, and this must be the mysterious handsome brother I've been hearing so much about!" Susan goes on, putting a platter of French toast and hashbrowns down in front of Ford with a smile and a flutter of her false eyelashes. 

Ford's ears turn red. Stan clears his throat.

"We're identical twins," he mutters, and then, "Susan, doll, wouldja grab us some fresh coffee?"

"Coming right up!" Susan says. She pauses a moment before she turns to leave, though, and Dipper can see the thought drifting across her face. "Say, none of you all seen a white and grey tomcat around, have you? Mister Whiskers got out the other night, the little rascal, and I haven't seen him since."

Mabel and Dipper meet each other's eyes across the table, and Mabel shrugs.

"We will definitely keep an eye out for your cat, Susan!" she says, brightly. "Does he come when you call his name?"

"If he feels like it!" Susan laughs at her own joke - at least, she obviously thinks it's a joke. "Thanks, you folks."

She bustles off towards the kitchen. Stan's got half a pancake stuffed into his mouth almost before she turns her back.

"Slow down, no one's going to try to take it from you," Ford says, fond exasperation colouring his words as he pops open the cap on the bottle of syrup and pours a small lake into the middle of his plate.

It isn't until they're leaving the diner and Dipper glances over at the now-empty booth where Thompson and Tambry had been sitting that he figures out what had rubbed him wrong about their conversation earlier.

The whole time they'd been talking, he hadn't seen Tambry check her phone once.

...

Dipper starts taking notes. It's always been the best way to organise his thoughts, after all, and if he's going to figure out what's going on in Gravity Falls this summer, he's going to need to keep track of every detail, no matter how small or seemingly insignificant. He digs out the scuffed blue notebook he's been using as a sort of journal, sort of place to record good ideas or locations for episodes of that ghost hunting show that he's really looking at making now that he has access to the photography lab and the school's A/V equipment, opens to a new page, and scrawls the date and time at the top in blue ink.

He's still slouched on his bed, gnawing absently at the cap of the ballpoint he's using to write with and drumming his fingers against the page, when Mabel comes barrelling in, followed closely by Waddles. Mabel starts yanking open drawers in the dresser and flinging clothes out onto the floor behind her, while her pig trots over to bump his head against Dipper's arm and grunt hopefully up at him. Dipper smiles, and interrupts his pen-chewing to give Waddles a scratch under the chin. He's never seen a pig look quite so blissful.

"Dipper, have you seen my disco ball sweater?" Mabel asks, over her shoulder, and Dipper shrugs, shifting to get both hands free so he can give Waddles a scritch behind both ears at once.

"Thought you left it in Piedmont with the unicorn sweater."

Mabel turns, her eyes wide and her gaze flat and dead, like she's looking through a thousand miles of space. "I would never," she says, her voice heavy with quiet horror.

Dipper shrugs one shoulder. "You can look through your sweaters again, but I'm pretty sure you decided you only had room for one more and brought the one with the tinsel sleeves instead."

Mabel looks like she's about to burst into a wail of despair, but stops, snapping her fingers instead. "The tinsel sweater! That'll work." She slams the dresser drawer shut and launches herself at her bed instead, dragging a straining suitcase out from behind the head of the bed with some difficulty. The lid bursts open when she hoists it up into the bed, and a riot of colourful knitwear explodes out.

"Mabel?" Dipper asks, giving Waddles one last scratch before picking his pen back up.

"Yeah?"

"You...you really haven't noticed anything weird about town this visit?" He gnaws on his bottom lip.

Mabel must hear something in his voice, because she drops the handful of sweater she's holding and turns to face Dipper, sitting down on the floor with her back leaning against the box spring and mattress that make up her bed. "Look, we all know you're a paranoid panda. We love you anyway. You wouldn't be Dipper without the occasional wild goose chase after something spooky and supernatural."

Dipper feels himself deflate. He looks down at the chicken scratch of a list scrawled in his notebook, chomps down on the end of his pen and just holds it between his teeth.

"Yeah," he agrees, hollowly.

"But!" Mabel says brightly, and Dipper looks back up, to see her holding up a sweater with a cartoon alien holding a bottle of soda on the front, emblazoned with the slogan 'Take Me To Your Liter'. "That doesn't mean I don't want to go chasing wild geese with you!" She frowns. "Hey, you've got a big nerd-brain, does that expression make any sense to you?"

"I've never really understood it either," Dipper admits, cracking a smile when Mabel bursts out laughing. She gives a little sigh as her laughter dies down, smiling up at Dipper.

"So, let's go chase a wild goose! Who knows, we might even catch one."

...

With Mabel on the case with him, Dipper finally starts to feel like he's making some progress. All they really do is hang out, bum around the Shack with Wendy and tease Soos about his new exhibits or go to the pool or the arcade like they always do or tromp around in the woods, but having someone to talk through all his thoughts with (or...at, Mabel's input isn't always helpful or on-topic, though she does bring him back down to earth when his theories start getting away from him) helps Dipper get a better grasp of what he's seeing, what he's looking for. And Mabel notices stuff that Dipper never would've, or wouldn't have thought was important, like how Nate and Lee haven't had one single run-in with Blubs and Durland since the twins got to town, or how Gompers the goat hasn't been around lately, or how Tambry's mom has started wearing really bold red lipstick. (Dipper's not so sure that last one's really relevant, but he dutifully notes it down anyway. When he looks closer, trying to figure out if he's ever seen her wearing lipstick before, he realises he's never really noticed how much alike Tambry and her mom look. Maybe it's something to do with the striking green of both their eyes.) His little blue notebook fills up in no time.

Unfortunately, what it fills up with doesn't seem to add up to anything. When it was just Tambry and Thompson vanishing and then turning up hungry, and a stripped skeleton in the graveyard, it was pretty easy to point to zombies. But when Dipper and Mabel tag along to the pool with the teens - the older teens - Robbie mentions that his parents never did find an escaped zombie. He vanishes with Tambry behind the storage shed after that, with a grin that says they're definitely going to make out. 

Dipper doesn't get a chance to ask Robbie any more questions for a couple of days - he's a no-show for paintball the next afternoon, which Dipper tries very hard to pretend to be disappointed about. Robbie's a sore loser and an even worse winner. Tambry and Thompson team up against the rest of the group, their surprisingly flawless teamwork taking everyone down but Wendy, who emerges paint-spattered but victorious. Then the whole group haul their battered selves downtown for ice cream, where the cashier smiles and gives them a ten percent discount. She nods at Tambry and Thompson as they leave, like she knows them from somewhere, and they nod back.

"Okay, did that just happen?" Wendy asks, as they leave the shop, and Nate nods.

"She's usually such a grouch. Just because one time we thought it'd be funny to order all forty-two flavours in one cone."

Dipper pulls out his notebook.

...

The Shack is dead at ten o'clock in the morning, the early morning rush of people who plan their trips down to the minute having come and gone, the more sane population who sleep in on vacation not yet starting to trickle in. Dipper has set up camp on a stool by the cash register with a crossword puzzle book, facing the door so he's ready for anyone who might come in. Wendy slumps over the counter by the register, her face in her arms, and lets out the occasional groan. Mabel, sitting on the counter beside her, is busily braiding  and unbraiding Wendy's long hair.

"Why are we even open at this hour," Wendy complains, and Soos, leaning against the counter in his full Mr. Mystery regalia, frowns.

"What if some, like, little orphan kids came from like, deepest darkest Canada and the only thing they wanted to see was the Mystery Shack and it was closed, dood? Do you want to be the one to crush the dreams of little orphan children?"

"Uuuuuuugh," Wendy growls. "Stan was a horrible boss, but at least he never tried to make me actually care about this stupid job."

"Why are you so tired, anyway?" Mabel asks, and Soos nods.

"Yeah, dawg, what's the dilly? Yo."

Wendy doesn't raise her head from her arms this time, her voice muffled against the wood of the counter as she says, "Stupid Robbie's been bugging me to come to one of his stupid shows for, like, ever, so I actually went last night and that jerk didn't even show up. We waited for like an hour, then the band came on and did two songs without him, and then they just left."

"Sounds like you kind of dodged a bullet there," Dipper says, and Wendy groans again before pushing herself up to lean heavily on the counter on one elbow, her face in her hand. Mabel's braid creations slowly unravel around her head, giving her a little halo of stray red hairs.

"Look, I know you two have your, like, blood feud or whatever going on, but Robbie's still my friend. I guess. And that band is, like, the most important thing in the world to him." She frowns. "He wouldn't just flake out like that unless something was wrong. And I've tried texting and calling him, but he won't pick up his phone."

"Did you ask Tambry?" Mabel suggests, shrugging at the state of Wendy's hair and starting to pick apart the braids she'd put in.

"Tried that. She keeps saying he's 'fine, but sleeping'. Like, is he sick? Were they out together last night? Where the heck would they have even gone? And if he's been asleep all this time she should maybe take him to a hospital -"

The bell over the door jangles, and all four people around the counter look up.

"...hi," Pacifica Northwest says, and coughs into one hand. "I wanted to see whether Mabel was up for a rematch of last year's minigolf game." She tugs at the hem of her sweater, a shaggy yellow monstrosity with a llama on the front that Dipper vaguely remembers Mabel having given to Pacifica sometime during Weirdmageddon. "Just for...fff...un. Fun. That's that thing where there aren't any prizes or trophies and nobody really cares who wins, right?"

"Absolutely!" Mabel shouts, leaping down off the counter. She charges up to Pacifica and slings an arm around Pacifica's fuzzy-sweatered shoulders. Dipper's seen boiled lobsters less red than the shade Pacifica turns. "Wait, didn't the Lilliputtians swear eternal vengeance against us after last time?"

“Oh, you didn’t hear,” Pacifica says, still red, trying very hard to sound indifferent. “When the minigolf course opened up again this summer, none of the mechanisms were working. The Lilliputtians were gone. The minigolf course had to buy all new machinery from out of state.”

“Whoa, whoa, wait,” Dipper says, putting down his crossword. “The Lilliputtians are gone? Where’d they go? Why’d they go?”

Pacifica shrugs. “I don’t know, and I don’t care. Those little golf-ball-shaped weirdos can stay far, far away from me forever if they want to.”

Mabel’s giving Dipper a weird look, a ‘don’t make this into a monster hunt’ look, but Dipper ignores it.

“Can I come with you?” he asks.

...

There are no Lilliputtians at the minigolf course.

There are no tiny alien creatures piloting half a man-suit in the bowling alley.

There’s someone different delivering the mail, a reedy person Dipper doesn’t recognise. They don’t have anywhere near as much body hair as the previous mailman. (Or body odor.)

There are a few gaping holes in the sap under the abandoned church, but no mysterious shadows swooping overhead, no terrifying screeches in the distance. No sign of dinosaurs.

The lake is still and silent.

...

After hours of looking for something, anything, to prove he hadn’t just dreamed the entirety of last summer, Dipper finally finds the Multibear crouched at the back of his cave, deep in conversation with his many heads as he tosses things - mostly rocks, from what Dipper can see, but then again, it’s not like the Multibear has a lot other than rocks - into a sack the size of a compact car.

“Multibear,” Dipper says, and the Multibear starts, banging his top head on a low overhang.

“Dipper!” he says, but takes a step backwards. Dipper freezes in the mouth of the cave. Some of the heads around the Multibear’s waist are baring or snapping their teeth in his direction, and his friend has crouched down, into a position that would be easy to spring from. It’s hard to tell - bear faces don’t exactly show emotion the same way human faces do - but Dipper’s pretty sure the expression the Multibear’s wearing right now isn’t one of unfettered delight. “What brings you all the way out here?”

“I wanted to say hi, I haven’t seen you yet this summer,” Dipper says, looking around. The cave looks, if possible, even barer than the last time he saw it. “Dude, are you packing up? Are you leaving Gravity Falls?”

The Multibear fidgets. “Not...as such,” he says, his rich, deep voice taking on a note of disappointment. 

“Seriously? Come on, tell me. What’s going on?” Dipper asks, wishing he sounded more like a cool action hero demanding information and less like an upset kid whining about something he doesn’t understand. “I can’t find any sign of any supernatural creatures around Gravity Falls this summer, it’s like you guys all just disappeared. And everybody in town is acting -” He struggles for words, and ends up just going with, “weirder than usual. And I can’t figure out why.”

Dipper’s not expecting the Multibear to heave a sigh of relief, and pad gently down the hall to drape one enormous paw over his shoulder. The paw swallows Dipper’s shoulder and nearly covers his arm down to the elbow, heat radiating out from it like a blast furnace. This close, Dipper can smell the gamey, musty scent of bear, strong enough to make his eyes water.

“Dipper,” the Multibear says gravely, “I am sorry to hear that the recent happenings in Gravity Falls have given you cause for concern, but I must confess I am glad to hear you questioning what is taking place. I must admit that for a moment, I feared -” He bites off the end of his sentence.

“Is that why you’re leaving?” Dipper asks. He’s not entirely sure what the Multibear’s talking about, but he has a strong feeling that he’s going to want to keep listening.

“I hope I am not leaving,” the Multibear says, “only retreating for a time. Something has emerged in Gravity Falls which has made it exceedingly dangerous for my kind.”

Dipper sucks in a breath between his teeth. There’s a chill in the cave, a damp breath from its depths that makes a shiver walk its way slowly down his spine. “What?”

The Multibear shakes one head, the brow of his main head furrowing. “I myself am not certain what, exactly, has occurred - or is occurring - in your town, but there are whispers throughout the forest, between those of us who know the ways of weirdness. I must warn you. Something very dangerous walks among you. It is a very old, very canny enemy, and it may wear the face of one you trust the most.”

“I thought we beat Bill,” Dipper mutters, and the Multibear gives his shoulder a short squeeze.

“Unfortunately, Bill Cipher is not the only evil in this world.”

...

“Whatsa matter?” Mabel asks, as she slides into the backseat of the Stanleymobile to nestle beside Dipper, motioning for Pacifica to follow. “You look like somebody just pointed out the ghost behind you.”

Dipper spins to look behind him so fast that his head throbs, and Mabel laughs, giving him a shove in the arm. 

“I’m joking!” Her laughter dies away, though, when Dipper doesn’t join in. Pacifica pushes her golf clubs along the floor of the Stanleymobile, and Mabel unthinkingly lifts her feet to make room, not taking her eyes off Dipper’s face. “Seriously, bro, you look super spooked. What happened?”

“I don’t know,” Dipper admits. 

Pacifica slides into the seat beside Mabel, and pulls the door closed behind her with a solid, final-sounding slam. 

“You don’t know?” Mabel asks, as she buckles herself into her seat, and Dipper shrugs.

“I mean, I know what happened. I’m not sure what it means, though.” Dipper tugs on his own seatbelt, before remembering he hadn’t taken it off when the Stanleymobile had pulled to a stop. 

“Oh, well, that’s different,” Mabel says. “Grunkle Stan? Can Pacifica stay over?”

“Hey, it ain’t my house,” Stan calls back from the driver’s seat, with a shrug. Mabel takes this as a ‘yes’, evidently, judging by her squeal of delight.

“Thanks,” Pacifica says, trying to buckle her own seatbelt and fumbling it, painfully. Even though her face is pointed down, all her concentration apparently on the buckle, what Dipper can see past her probably-bottle-blonde bangs is bright crimson again. “I know you’re poor and everything so having an extra mouth to feed is probably a big strain on your resources -”

“Friendly advice? You should’ve stuck with just ‘thanks’,” Dipper interrupts. Pacifica shrugs, finally clicking her seatbelt into place and burrowing her face down into the collar of her fuzzy llama sweater.

“You kids all properly restrained and not likely to go flying through the windshield?” Stan asks, meeting Dipper’s eyes in the rearview mirror. Dipper nods. “Great! Now nobody’s rich parents can sue me if I crash their kid into a tree.”

The Stanleymobile peels out of the minigolf course parking lot at speeds that are probably unsafe even for drivers who can actually see the road.

Stan asks, with practiced casualness, about the game after about five minutes of driving, and Dipper lets Mabel’s excited - and, like everything else ever to come from Mabel, wildly embellished - blow-by-blow recap of the game, with colour commentary from Pacifica, wash over him, gently eroding the tight knot of panic still pulsing in his chest. 

He digs in his backpack and pulls out his notebook, trying to take advantage of the dying orange glow of sunset to scribble down notes on everything he’s discovered so far today.

The Multibear’s warning still unsettles him. Dipper looks around, at Pacifica’s look of indignant embarrassment, Stan’s fond smile in the rearview mirror as he stares at the road, his sister’s happy, laughing face. 

...it may wear the face of one you trust the most.

Feeling slightly sick, Dipper closes his notebook, and tucks it back inside his backpack.

...

He’s woken bright and early the next morning by Pacifica’s shriek.

Dipper tumbles out of bed half-blinded by sleep, and promptly trips on the blankets he’s somehow entangled himself with, slamming face-first to the floor. His jaw cracks against the bare wood, and Dipper smells copper, tastes it in the back of his mouth. 

The pain hits him a moment later, when he’s unwound his legs from the blankets and pushed himself to his feet. He clutches his chin as he tears down the stairs, towards the source of the scream. If Pacifica’s freaking out because she saw a spider or a box of store-brand cereal or something, he’s going to be so mad.

But it’s not any of the above. Pacifica’s standing in her bare feet and one of the grunkles’ old t-shirts, which is obviously serving her as a nightshirt, in the middle of the kitchen, her eyes brimming with horror and one shaking finger pointing at the abomination that dominates the kitchen table. “What - what is that?” she demands, as Dipper skids on sock feet around the doorframe and into the kitchen.

Dipper takes one look at the half-formed thing on the table and breathes a sigh of relief. “Oh, that’s just one of Grunkle Stan’s taxidermy monsters. Soos was getting him to make a bunch while the Stans are inland, he’s tried to pick it up himself but Stan has more practice. And more ideas that don’t involve tentacles.”

“Taxidermy monsters?” Pacifica demands. She hugs her own arms as Dipper steps forward to inspect the thing a little closer. 

“Yeah, Grunkle Stan puts them together out of bits of a bunch of different dead animals and then passes them off as nonexistent ones. They’re a big hit at the Shack.” There’s glue spread out across the table, glue and wire and foam and clay, little chisels and brushes and scalpels and needles and other tools of the taxidermy trade that Dipper is surprised to see surrounding the thing in the middle of the table. “I’m honestly surprised he actually knows how to use all this junk. I saw him staple the head onto one once. Not with a special stapler or anything, just an office stapler.”

“Where...does he get the...bits of dead animals?” Pacifica asks, her discomfort clear even as she takes a slow, careful step forward. Dipper notices that she keeps a wary eye on the thing on the table, especially the places where the fur peels back to reveal shining bone.

“Usually it’s roadkill,” Dipper admits, leaning in closer. The armature Stan’s put together has the thing standing a little like a velociraptor, and he’s pretty sure the hind legs are stolen from a chicken, but he’s having a little trouble identifying the animal that makes up the foundation of the made-up monster.

It takes him a moment to realise that the marks he’s seeing on the bones weren’t made by a clumsy taxidermist, but by teeth. Blunt, flat teeth.

“Usually?” Pacifica says. 

“Sometimes it’s the carcass from last night’s chicken dinner,” Dipper admits. He gently tugs the fur down over the thing’s skull, noticing as he does how soft it is. 

The animal’s pelt, once properly spread out, is tabby-patterned, in a soft grey and white.

“Think we found Mister Whiskers,” he mutters, under his breath.

...

Pacifica leaves around lunchtime, thanking Mabel and Soos in her awkward, halting way. Honestly, it’s nice that she’s trying, but it’s painful to listen to sometimes, especially when Pacifica starts offering to buy things for people ‘so you don’t have to live such sad, miserable, deprived little lives anymore’. Dipper retreats to the attic, to write in his notebook and to read over what he’s already written and to think.

He finds Stan in the kitchen, shortly after Pacifica’s left and Dipper dares descend onto the main floor again. Dipper was really looking for Ford, to hand over his notebook and talk about his observations, but this is a golden opportunity. Stan’s carefully and painstakingly reapplying the fur to the skeleton along the spine with glue, obviously deep in concentration. He doesn’t look up when Dipper walks in, just says, “Bump this table and I’ll stuff you instead.”

Dipper holds up both hands, palms out, taking a respectful step back. The smell of the glue that Stan’s using is foul and inescapable, and Dipper’s pretty sure he can feel it killing his brain cells. “Where’d you get the cat carcass from?”

Stan grunts, and then doesn’t make another sound. Just when Dipper’s starting to think he’s not going to get an answer, Stan says, “Found it. Dumpster by the minigolf.” He paints another line of glue, carefully sticks the very centre of the tabby stripe directly onto the bones. Dipper’s pretty sure that’s not how you do taxidermy, but then again, he’s never tried. “Seemed a shame to let good bones go to waste.”

“Was it just bones?” Dipper asks, watching as the skeleton slowly disappears behind its fur coat. He hadn’t noticed before, while Pacifica was still here, but there are large, roughly oval chunks missing from its pelt.

Stan takes a step back from his handiwork, surveying it thoughtfully with one hand curled around his chin. “Yeah, yeah. Bones and the pelt. Figured some amateur’d tried to stuff it proper, realised they had no idea what they were doing, and ditched it.”

“Did it occur to you that that might be the cat Susan was missing?” Dipper asks, and Stan finally turns that thoughtful gaze on him instead of the taxidermy creature. Dipper can't - doesn't want to - examine the rush of relief that floods through him when he sees Stan's eyes, the same old brown as always, no slitted pupils or eerie yellow glow.

“D’you wanna be the one to tell her?”

“No, I just -” Dipper’s tongue seems to shrivel up. “Wouldn’t it be rough on her if she came up here one day and -”

“Kid, none of the locals visit this tourist trap,” Stan scoffs, and then pauses, thinking. “Except the mayor. Really loves his pumanthers. Anyway. What’s with the sudden interest in taxidermy?”

“It’s...interesting?” Dipper tries. Stan snorts.

“Interesting, my Aunt Fanny. You chasing a monster, kid?”

Dipper rubs his upper arm with one hand. “I think so.”

“Well, don’t use this guy as bait.” Stan turns back to the taxidermy creation, sucks in a short breath, and then leans down to paint glue across a rib.

...

The last tour runs at six-thirty. The Mystery Shack closes at seven.

Grenda and Candy show up at seven-oh-one, with a large bag full to bursting with brightly-coloured snack foods, various cosmetics, DVDs featuring a generically-nonthreatening-looking forty-year-old actor wearing an overstuffed pirate costume, and something that looks suspiciously like hair dye lurking at the bottom. Mabel greets them at the door with excited shrieks and giggles, and then they all vanish upstairs with a lot of conspiratorial whispers and more giggles. Dipper would put ten-to-one odds that the next time he goes to use the bathroom up there, the sink will be stained neon pink and blue.

The attic will probably be occupied for the near foreseeable future, so Dipper takes the book he’s reading (by a former ghostwriter for the Siblings Brothers and Francy Clue, technically aimed at adults, but then, Dipper is pretty mature for his age, if he does say so himself) and heads down to the living room, to see what his grunkles and Soos are up to. As it turns out, they're sprawled in front of the TV, Stan slouched on the couch Soos had added after he'd taken over the Shack, grousing about a dropped stitch in the bundle of half-finished knitting that lies in his lap. Ford sits next to him, nodding along and holding the ball of yarn that feeds into to the thing taking shape under Stan's knitting needles with one hand while he thumbs through a well-read book with the other.

"Wow, Grunkle Stan, I didn't know you knit," Dipper says, pausing by the armchair Soos himself has settled down in, facing the TV set.

"Yeah, your sister gave me some lessons over the internet while we were at sea," Stan grumbles, not looking up from the...garment?...he's picking at. "Not a lot to do between monster attacks."

"It's 'over video chat', Stanley, the video chat merely uses the internet as a method of transmission," Ford corrects him, turning a page in his book, and Stan huffs.

"That's what I said, isn't it? Over the internet."

"You can just say 'on Skope', Mr. Pines," Soos says, and Stan drops his knitting in his lap, throwing both hands up in the air. 

"Your sister showed me through the magic talking picture box, kid," he says to Dipper. 

Ford and Soos share a long-suffering look, which Stan ignores.

"What're she and those friends of hers up to, anyway?" he continues, and then shakes his head. "Wait, scratch that, I don't think I wanna know. Just tell me if they're gonna want the TV and whether they got any good snacks."

"I think they're definitely going to want the TV," Dipper says. "What're you guys watching, anyway?"

"Huh? Oh." Stan glances briefly at the set. "I have no idea, kid, I've been fighting with this row for half an hour."

"The news ends in five minutes and then 'Resignation Street' comes on," Soos supplies helpfully. "Louise's ex-husband came back from Guernsey and now he's trying to get the pub closed down, and Geoff's stepdaughter ran away from rehab for her online shopping addiction on the night of Ted and Twyla's wedding. High drama, dood."

"...Think I'll pass," Dipper says, holding up his book.

"Actually, Dipper, I'd like to speak with you," Ford says, and then looks up from his own book and beams. "Oh! Catherine Sharp! She ghost-wrote 'The Table-Turning Turntable', didn't she?"

"Yeah! It's probably my, uh, second-favourite of the Siblings Brothers books?" Dipper agrees, flopping down to sit beside his great-uncle on the couch.

"Really? My favourite was always -" Ford starts, and Dipper joins him as he says, " 'The Puzzle of the Purloined Puzzle-box'!"

"Geez, you two, don't get nerd all over the couch," Stan grumbles, but he's smiling.

"The twist ending just gets me every time!" Dipper says, too excited to let Stan's teasing slow him down. "I mean, I never would've guessed that -"

"Hey!" Stan interrupts, suddenly gruff. "No spoilers, I'm only halfway through it."

"Stanley, you're reading the Siblings Brothers mysteries?" Ford asks, turning to face his twin. 

"Yeah, and not a word outta you about it, Mister Smarty-pants," Stan snaps.

"I didn't mean to - I'm merely surprised. You always said you hated them." Ford raises an eyebrow. "And books in general."

Stan glares down at his knitting. "Yeah, well, I always said I didn't need glasses, neither, and look at me now."

"Hey, Mr. Pineses? They're signing off, Reggie'll be starting any minute now," Soos interrupts, drawing Dipper's attention back to the TV.

"Soos, how many times do I gotta tell you," Stan says, as the news anchor finishes his signoff. "I'm not your boss anymore, you can just call me Stan."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Pines! It just feels...wrong."

"Was - was that Toby Determined announcing?" Dipper asks. "Wow, can't believe he stuck with that...Bodacious T thing."

Stan glances over. "Yeah, it's obnoxious and ugly, perfect for him." He squints at the screen as the first morose notes of the Resignation Street theme start to play. "Wonder what happened to that Shandra Jimenez, she sure was a lot easier on the eyes."

"Me too," Dipper mutters. "Grunkle Ford, are you really invested in this soap opera, or can we talk now?"

"Hm? Oh, yes!" Ford says, looking up from the screen. "Yes, I have some theories about the unusual behaviour you've noticed amongst the townsfolk -"

"You two are still on that?" Stan asks, and though he sounds impatient, sarcastic, Dipper thinks he hears a note of unease underneath it.

Ford ignores him. "But, first, I would like to know whether Cecil will be able to recapture Vicky's escaped alpaca."

"After the show, then," Dipper says, with a smile, and cracks open his book.

...

Cecil doesn't, as it turns out, recapture Vicky's escaped alpaca - instead, the alpaca turns up at Ted and Twyla's wedding, interrupting the vows to take a bite out of the bouquet. Mabel, Candy, and Grenda come stampeding downstairs shortly after that, shouting something that sounds vaguely like a sea shanty run through autotune. They enter into pitched negotiations with Stan and Soos over control of the TV set, and Ford motions towards the kitchen. He pushes himself up off the couch, leaving Stan's yarn in his abandoned seat, and Dipper follows.

The wall between the kitchen and the living room muffles the din somewhat, Grenda's impressive bass occasionally rumbling over the tinny music from the TV. The sun has just started to dip into the treeline, and the light pours low and thick across the table. With a little distance, in the reaching shadows and orangey light cast by early sunset, the cheerful noise of Dipper's family in the other room takes on an eerie quality. He catches himself thinking that, if he were directing a horror movie, right about now is when he'd start to fade out the voices from the living room and start to introduce some quiet, creepy strings to the score.

Ford’s face is solemn, his voice low as he lays the book he’d been thumbing through earlier out across the kitchen table. “Based on both the information you’ve provided and my own research and investigations, I have a theory about the cause of this unusual behaviour you’ve observed.” He presses a finger against one of the open pages of the book, right beside where Dipper notices Ford’s own handwriting filling the margin. “People disappearing, those who reappear coming back ravenous - for protein-rich foods, if your observations can be extrapolated - the appearance of carcasses with human bite-marks - the casual observer could be forgiven for mistaking this for an epidemic of zombification, but I believe it’s something more like - this!”

Dipper looks down at the page in front of him, his eyes widening as he reads. “You think there’s a wendigo in Gravity Falls?” He kind of wishes he had a pen to click. Or gnaw on. “Actually, that makes a lot of sense, they’re native to the area, aren’t they?”

“Yes, which would explain the warning you received from -”

“The Multibear!" Dipper slams both hands down on the table. “Okay, so if it’s a wendigo, how do we get rid of it?”

“Well,” Ford starts, bending over the book, and it’s then that Mabel’s voice rings from the doorway.

“And here you see two nerds in their natural habitat.” She grins at Dipper when he looks up, jerking her thumb over her shoulder in the direction of the living room. “You guys wanna watch Pirates of the Theme Park with us? This’s the eighth and a half one, where Captain Jim gets kidnapped by mermaids!” She leans in closer, swinging from one hand that she’s hooked around the doorframe. “Mermando told me his cousin was an extra! She’s in it for about five seconds in the drowning scene!”

“Really? They hire actual mermaids as extras in Hollywood?” Dipper asks, and Mabel laughs.

“No, silly, she’s a porpoise!”

“Oh. Of course. That makes perfect sense. Of course a mermaid’s cousin is a porpoise.” Dipper shakes his head. “Gotta say, that makes a whole lot more sense though. Especially when you consider how terrible most movie mermaids look. CGI is not kind.”

“Yeah, they’re waaaayyy hotter in real life,” Mabel says. “So, you two coming or not?”

Dipper looks over, meets Ford’s eyes.

“We won’t be able to do much more tonight,” Ford says. “Research, perhaps. We’ll have to determine who the wendigo is, and whether they’ve passed the curse along to anyone else, and I need to refresh my memory on how to detect and properly destroy them. Until we know who we’re looking for, we can’t act.”

“I’m gonna pretend I understood any of that,” Mabel says, swinging back and forth from the doorframe. 

“Grunkle Ford’s pretty sure that there’s a wendigo on the loose somewhere in town and that’s why we keep noticing weird - weirder than usual things going on,” Dipper says. “Do you have any idea who it might be? Seen anybody, I don’t know, handing out self-help books called ‘How To Taste Delicious’?”

Mabel laughs, and shakes her head. “You could start with Lazy Susan, her secret recipes are sure good at fattening people up,” she suggests. Dipper glances in Fords direction, shrugs.

“It’s as good a starting point as any.” Ford slams the book on the table closed, scooping it up. “I’m going to go retrieve my old research notes, I’m certain I have information about the established cryptids and monsters of the area from when I was writing my grant proposal.”

“I’ll look online,” Dipper starts, and Ford shakes his head, smiling. 

“Unless Stanley or Soos have taken a notion to clean out the attic lately, I know exactly where my old notes are. And I think it might be a good idea to bring them down to review - in the living room, while we watch Captain Jim get kidnapped by mermaids.”

Mabel beams like a small sun. “Awesome!” 

...

Wendy hasn’t arrived for work by the time Dipper’s ready to leave in the morning. 

He tries not to dwell on it, but his eye keeps drifting back to the empty space behind the register the longer he stands in the doorway of the gift shop waiting for his great uncle, like it’s a black hole that’s swallowed Wendy up and is now trying to suck Dipper in too. It’s a relief when Ford finally pushes aside the vending machine, a big black case slung across his back by a strap that crosses his chest. He doesn’t say what’s in it, and Dipper doesn’t ask.

“I have a theory,” Ford says, as he crosses the gift shop. “About where the wendigo is hiding during daylight hours. But it will require one of us to go into the den of the creature itself to prove. I - I’m not going to bring you with me, this time.” Something like fear flickers across his face, so fast that it’s gone before Dipper can really be sure he’s even seen it in the first place. It’s replaced by a huge, cheerful, reassuring smile, one that even to Dipper looks unconvincing. “So I’m going to drop you off in town. If I’m not back to pick you up by sunset, assume the worst and avenge my death.”

“That’s...not exactly reassuring,” Dipper says, as Ford strides to the door and yanks it open, the chimes hanging over the door jingling merrily. Ford stops and looks over his shoulder, with another broad, sunny grin.

“Oh! And if I come back after sunset, I might be one of them. You might be able to tell by sprinkling me with wolfsbane and holy water, but that’s mostly for werewolves.” He pauses, looking thoughtful. “Though if you’re that close and I am one of them, I will almost certainly try to eat you, which should remove all doubt.”

“Again, not super reassuring,” Dipper says, as he follows his great-uncle out the door.

He glances back one last time at the cash register, as though Wendy will have magically appeared there in the five seconds since he last looked, but the blonde wood of the Shack’s walls is the only thing that looks back.

...

They only make it away with the Stanleymobile because Soos shows up with a tour group just as Stan's starting to tear into Ford for trying to take his baby without asking. Dipper slips into the passenger seat and shuts the door as Stan's trying to argue that there's no way Soos can make him work register while Wendy’s away, he doesn’t even work here, also he is the one, the only, the original Mr. Mystery, he built this place from nothing, Soos -

Ford drops Dipper off at the diner, with another admonition to be careful, to watch his back. The sky is a perfect, crisp blue, the sunlight clear as crystal, but there’s a glacial bite on the breeze that makes Dipper shiver as he steps out of the musty, stuffy warmth of the car.

Lazy Susan looks up and smiles as Dipper steps through the door into the comforting smell of pancakes and bacon and maple syrup, setting the chimes jangling a cheerful discord. She’s not the only one. Half the diner’s clientele all look up with her, both familiar and unfamiliar faces smiling at Dipper with oddly placid expressions. He feels uncomfortably like he just stepped into a spotlight.

Thankfully, everyone but Susan turns back to their food and their quiet conversations as soon as the door slams behind Dipper. Susan waves, beaming, as Dipper cautiously crosses the diner to the counter, watching warily around him in case any of the unusually-interested diner folk spring out at him. There’s something different about Lazy Susan, about her smile, but Dipper can’t quite put his finger on what.

“Well, hey there! What can I getcha?” Susan glances back over her shoulder at the kitchen, smile dimming a little as she turns back to Dipper. “ ‘Fraid we’re running short on sausage and bacon, but I can do you a stack of pancakes - or maybe my special secret ingredient omelette?”

“Is the secret ingredient coffee?” Dipper asks, and Susan belly-laughs, before turning a mock glare in his direction. 

“Now, who’s the snitch who told you?”

Dipper tries to laugh, but it comes out nervous and croaky. A couple of the people who’d looked up when he’d walked in are echoing Susan’s glare, and the back of his neck is prickling. “Lucky guess?”

Susan’s smile comes back bright as ever. The other eyes on Dipper don’t turn away, though, and the weird prickling on the back of his neck doesn’t go away. “Well, aren’t you Mister Smartypants! So! You want one?”

“Um, I’m good, thanks,” Dipper says. “Did - did you ever find out what happened to your missing cat?”

“You know, it’s the funniest thing,” Susan says, thoughtfully. “Mister Whiskers never did come back, and now all my other fur babies are missing.”

“I’m...really sorry to hear that,” Dipper says. “You seemed really upset about losing Mister Whiskers, this must be a huge deal.”

Susan shrugs. “What’s that thing they say about letting go of things you love, again?”

“I think they usually say ‘don’t’,” Dipper says. “You haven’t noticed anything...weird about anybody who’s come by the diner lately, have you?”

“This is Gravity Falls, hon,” Susan says, almost pityingly, then claps both hands together. “Are you making another internet television video?”

“Not...this time,” Dipper answers. He’s pretty sure it’s not just his imagination that more heads have turned in his direction, more pairs of unusually piercing eyes fixed on his face. “You’re sure you haven’t - you said you were running low on bacon. Who’s been eating all of it?”

“Everybody!” Susan says, delightedly, like it should be obvious. There’s something a little too earnest about her smile, a little impatient, strained at the edges. Dipper can’t remember if her visible eye was always that green. “Don’t you know, everybody wakes up hungry!”

Dipper takes a half-step back, bumps up against one of the stools along the counter. “Wakes up from what?”

“From sleeping, silly!” Susan laughs. She hasn’t moved, and, as far as Dipper can tell, neither has anyone else, but he still has the uneasy feeling that they’re closing in around him. “It’s actually very refreshing, you should give it a try!”

“Thanks, but, uh, I’m good,” Dipper says, trying to casually ease his way around the stool to back away across the diner. He’s not sure what, exactly, Susan’s referring to, but somehow he gets the feeling it’s not going to bed before ten.

He turns to go out the door and slams straight into a wall of pure muscle. Dipper looks up, and farther up, to the pair of sharp green eyes staring down at him over a bush of red beard topping a mountain of flannel. Dipper’s heart stutters in his chest for the skin of a second, before Manly Dan Corduroy gives a rumbly chuckle unlike anything Dipper’s ever heard from him before and steps out of the way, holding the diner door open for Dipper as he does.

“Come back soon, hon,” Susan calls, and, when Dipper turns, lifts her drooping eyelid with two fingers and lets it drop again. “Wink!”

Dipper’s halfway across the parking lot before he slows down, before he really even registers that he’s running full-tilt across the cracked asphalt.

He could swear that, when he’d looked back, something under the skin of Susan’s face had shifted.

...

Going back through town is strange, now.

Dipper feels jittery and jumpy, like he’s had too much caffeine or too little sleep or a combination of both. The light is bright and stark through the scraps of cloud that hang around the horizon like they’ve snagged on the tops of the trees, and shadows hug the sides and corners of buildings, dark and sharp, like they’re waiting to pounce. The afternoon heat is starting to build, but a shiver works its way down his back anyway. He keeps looking back over his shoulder, feeling eyes fixed on him. He never actually catches anyone looking, but - but.

Dipper’s looking back, trying to work out if the man he can see in the window of the mattress store is really watching him. He’s not looking where he’s going.

The collision takes him by surprise, knocking him back off his feet. He hits the sidewalk hard, hissing as his elbow scrapes against the sidewalk, the rough grit stinging as it tears his skin.

“Hey, watch it, kid,” a familiar voice snaps, and Dipper looks up to see Robbie frowning down at him. Beside him, Tambry turns to glance down at Dipper as well. Her green eyes are almost luminous under the shadow of her bangs.

“Oh hey, you’re bleeding,” Tambry says, her gaze locking onto Dipper’s elbow. 

Robbie’s eyes follow, like mirror images of Tambry’s, and linger hungrily on the trickle of blood working its way down Dipper’s arm, flashing an eerie green in his sallow face. 

Dipper claps a hand over the scrape, backing away as he scrambles to his feet. “It’s fine, it’s just a scrape!”

Tambry looks questioningly at Dipper, but when he takes another step back, she shrugs and flops an arm loosely across to hit her boyfriend in the chest with the back of her hand. “Well, at least apologise, loser.”

Robbie rolls his eyes, but he says, “Sorry I ran into you or whatever.” They step around Dipper, starting to walk away, but Robbie looks back over his shoulder, pointing one finger straight at Dipper’s nose. “But seriously, watch where you’re going, you little -”

“Robbie.” Tambry hooks a hand into Robbie’s hoodie strings and hauls him around to walk beside her. A moment later, her hand drops to interlace her fingers with his.

Dipper keeps backing away from them, before he realises he’s one hundred percent more likely to bump into someone else that way. He spins, just in time to see the Stanleymobile pull up to the curb alongside him. Dipper hurries over, heaving a sigh of relief as he throws open the passenger-side door. “Great-uncle Ford?”

Ford’s face is grim, and he waves Dipper into the car with a motion that’s almost frantic. “Dipper, get inside. Quickly!”

“You don’t have to tell me twice,” Dipper says, sliding into the passenger seat and slamming the door behind him. Ford doesn’t wait for him to finish buckling his seatbelt, but peels away from the curb with a squeal of tires, his mouth set in a grim line and his eyes fixed on the road. “Whoa, have you been taking driving lessons from Grunkle Stan?” 

Ford, if he even hears Dipper, ignores the question. “I need to get back to my lab as soon as possible. It appears that I have...gravely misinterpreted the nature of the threat.”

“I was sort of starting to think our wendigo theory might be a little off-base,” Dipper agrees, finally clicking his seatbelt into place as they take a corner on what Dipper’s pretty sure are only two wheels. “What’s the rush?”

Ford turns to look at Dipper for the first time since Dipper got into the car, staring intently at Dipper’s eyes. He turns back to the road, apparently satisfied, just in time to swerve around a deer that darts across the road. 

“Our explorations in the alien spaceship last summer appear to have disturbed more than just the security drones,” he says, at last. “I can’t be certain just what we’re dealing with until I run further tests, but - I believe I have the source contained in the trunk of this car.”

“Seriously? Oh man, Grunkle Stan’s really gonna kill us,” Dipper says. 

“Don’t worry, I’m sure the stains will come out of the upholstery - and even if they don’t, I’m not certain they’ll make any noticeable difference to the relative cleanliness of that trunk,” Ford says, leaning forward over the steering wheel to peer out the windshield at the trees lining the road. Dipper looks out the passenger window himself, thinks he sees figures flicker past between the trees as they drive past. 

“What’re you planning to do with it when you get it back to the Shack?” he asks, watching as the trees flash by.

“With any luck, I should be able to determine just what the creature has done to the residents of Gravity Falls who’ve been affected,” Ford says. Dipper glances over, notices the needle on the speedometer edging up towards eighty as they fly around one of the road’s many curves. “And with that information, I hope to be able to develop a cure.”

“A cure? What do you think -”

“I don’t know.” The words seem to drag their way out of Ford like they’re anchored somewhere in his lungs. “But I intend to find out.”

...

Ford goes straight to the basement as soon as they arrive, carrying something that looks like a cross between a proton pack and a vacuum cleaner under one arm and striding like a man on a mission. Stan, slouched on the stool behind the register, watches the vending machine door slam behind Ford before turning to Dipper. “No luck with that...wendigo problem you two were nerding out about last night, huh?”

“It wasn’t an wendigo, it was aliens,” Dipper says, unable to look away from the flickering fluorescent glow that illuminates the brightly-coloured foil wrappings of the vending machine’s contents. 

“Ah,” Stan grunts, sounding uncomfortable. “Well, whatever it is, hope he fixes it fast. This place needs its real cashier back.” He grumbles, in an undertone he almost definitely doesn’t think Dipper can hear, “Bein’ on till again’s bringing back memories, sure, but I’m not so sure I want ’em.”

Dipper walks over to the vending machine, feeling a little like he’s walking up to the guillotine, and punches in the code to open the hidden door. “I’m gonna go see if I can help Great-uncle Ford,” he starts, and then pauses when the door doesn’t open. “Um, did anybody change the code on this thing?”

“Not that I know of, kid,” Grunkle Stan says. 

Dipper gives the vending machine door a tug, but it stays stubbornly stuck in place, like it’s - “Grunkle Stan, does this door lock from the inside?”

“If it does, only my nerd brother’d know about it,” Stan says, and then meets Dipper’s eyes. “Look, kid. Dipper. It ain’t anything against you.”

“Isn’t - Grunkle Stan, he just locked me out of my own investigation!”

Stan shifts uncomfortably on the small stool, scratching at his back with one arm. “Look, I might still not remember much about - about the end of last summer, but I know it got pretty bad for a while there.” He breaks eye contact, clasping both hands in front of him and looking down at them. “I know I never wanna see you kids in a situation like that ever again, and I don’t even remember the half of it.”

“I can handle myself!” Dipper argues. “I did handle myself -”

“I know that,” Stan says. “Hell, I’d be surprised if anyone in this town didn’t know that. Just -” His speech trails off into frustrated silence, before he finally says, “Just don’t go borrowin’ trouble.”

Dipper glares up at the glare of the afternoon sun across the glass face of the vending machine.

He still tries the code one more time before he gives up and heads for the attic, just in case.

...

Ford doesn’t come up for dinner.

He doesn’t come up for Resignation Street, either. When Soos finally suggests that maybe Dipper and Mabel should think about pyjamas, dawgs, and Stan shoos them both upstairs to brush their teeth, Ford still hasn’t emerged from the basement.

Dipper can’t sleep that night.

He lies wide awake, his eyes open, staring at the beams that stretch over his head on the way to the peak of the roof, listening to the sough of the wind through the branches and smelling the faint scent of pine and clear water on the cool night air that seeps through the open window. Sometimes, if he’s very still, he thinks he can hear the occasional faint hint of a crash or thump, but it’s impossible to tell from the attic whether the sound is coming from the basement or somewhere outside.

No matter how deep and slow he breathes or how many prime numbers he counts, sleep still seems to hover just out of Dipper’s grasp. When he does manage to snatch handfuls of oblivion, they’re full of green eyes peering at him from the dark line of trees surrounding the Shack, and he always wakes startled and disoriented and more tired than before. 

The room sinks slowly from blue dark into the silvery shadows of midnight, and then into the velvet-soft blackness of early morning.

Wendy comes in to work that morning, after pale lavender dawn has spilled across the sky and the whole family (minus Ford) have eaten their way through a foot-tall stack of Stancakes and Mabel has asked Dipper ten times or more whether he’s all right. She shows up exactly on time, for once, her thick red hair pulled back in a fat braid and a broad, genuine smile on her face.

“Hey, dude,” she says to Dipper, who’s just settling down by the register with his crossword puzzle and definitely not staring expectantly at the vending machine. “What’s up? Soos in yet?”

“He’s just suiting up, he should be right -” Dipper looks up from his crossword puzzle (which he was definitely looking at, and not the vending machine, by the way), and his words shrivel and die in his throat.

Wendy looks back at him with acid green eyes, her smile slowly fading into confusion. “Dipper? You planning to, I dunno, finish that sentence?”

“You,” Dipper croaks. He swallows, hard. It drags down his throat, suddenly dry, like sandpaper. “You’re - you’re one of them.”

Wendy blinks. And then she smiles.

“Yeesh, dude, chill out,” she says, walking over to drop her bag on the counter beside the register and vaulting over it herself. “You sound like you’re in some kinda cheesy B-rated alien invasion movie.”

“Because I kind of am!” Dipper protests. Wendy leans down, rummaging under the counter, and straightens up with her name badge in one hand, carefully pinning it to the front of her flannel shirt. She lets out a long sigh, leaning her chin in one hand as she stares at Dipper. 

“Dipper, seriously, stop freaking out. The hive’s not gonna hurt you.” Wendy glances upwards, towards the ceiling. “Where’s Mabel, anyway? I’ll show you guys -”

“You’re not touching my sister,” Dipper blurts, before he can think that it might be a bad idea to challenge Wendy, before he can think at all. It just feels like a volcano erupted in his chest at the same time as someone dumped a bucket of ice water over him, and he doesn’t know what to do with the resulting reaction. He reaches out and grabs the broom that Soos keeps asking Wendy to put away instead of just leaning behind the register, nearly smacking Wendy in the head as he pulls it free. “Get out of my house.”

Wendy’s brow furrows in apparent exasperation. “Okay. Well, in case you’re having, like, a Stan moment, I do still work here.”

“I don’t care,” Dipper says. His heart is jackhammering in his chest, and everything feels strangely light and far too heavy all at the same time. 

“And Soos is a lot nicer than Stan ever was, but I don’t think even he’d be thrilled if I just don’t show up for work two days in a row,” Wendy says, still in that calm, totally reasonable tone of voice, like Dipper’s the one who’s acting weird here. 

“Just get out,” Dipper demands, brandishing the broom. The corners of his eyes feel threateningly hot, and he squeezes the broom handle in both hands until he’s pretty sure he’s in danger of giving himself splinters. “Get away from my family.”

Wendy just looks at him, that poisonous green stare blank and impassive.

“Fine,” she says, at last, just when Dipper’s starting to think that he’s actually going to have to fight her, trying to psych himself up for the fact that he’s almost certainly going to lose. “Okay, man. If it’s such a big deal to you then I’ll go.” She pushes herself to her feet, points a finger in Dipper’s direction. “But you’re covering my shift.”

“Fine,” Dipper agrees. Relief crashes over him, threatens to sweep him away. “Just - go.”

Wendy holds up both hands, palms out, like Dipper’s brandishing a gun instead of a broom. She gathers her bag back up, and turns and walks out the door.

Dipper runs over and slams the gift shop door behind her, shooting the deadbolt with shaking hands. He sags against it as soon as it’s locked, and rests there for a moment, just trying to catch his breath.

...

He tries the vending machine again.

It still won’t open.

...

Dipper runs into Stan before he finds Soos, still suiting up for the first of the morning’s tours. He’s pretty sure he just confused Stan with his incoherent babble, but he doesn’t have time to go back.

“We can’t open the Shack today,” Dipper yells, skidding around the corner into Soos’ room. Soos turns away from the mirror he’s using to straighten his bow tie, and Dipper can’t put into words the rush of relief that floods him at the sight of Soos’ familiar, warm brown eyes. “We can’t let anybody in - we have to lock down the Shack, it’s the only way.”

“What’s going on, dawg?” Soos asks, and Dipper babbles again, spilling out the story of the strange green eyes and the weird ways people have been acting and Ford and the alien and Wendy and -

“Okay, dood, I believe you,” Soos says, and his expression is so thankfully serious that Dipper believes he means it. “You should go tell Mabel about this, I think she was gonna go to the pool with her friends today -”

Dipper’s off before Soos finishes speaking.

He’s running out of steam, just a little, by the time he makes it up to the top of the attic stairs. The bedroom door is closed, and Dipper throws it open, ignoring the way it bangs against the far wall. “Mabel! We have to -”

He stops.

Mabel’s sprawled out across her bed, face-down. It’d almost look like she was just sleeping in, if it weren’t for the fact that Waddles isn’t curled up next to her, and the fact that she’s already dressed in a skirt and purple sweater, and the fact that she’d been at breakfast with the rest of them, and the fact that the one of her feet that’s not dangling off the side of the bed still has a shoe on it, and the fact that her face is in her pillow and Dipper can’t tell if her chest is moving.

He doesn’t scream. He doesn’t have enough air left in his lungs to scream.

“Dipper,” Ford says, sounding surprised, straightening up from where he was bent down removing Mabel’s other shoe. He smiles fondly down at her, reaching down to brush a lock of her long brown hair away from her face, and Dipper sees with a firework-burst of relief that her hair flutters in front of her open mouth in regular time with each breath.

Dipper drags in one huge breath of his own, lets it out, takes another. 

He wants to tell Ford all about Wendy, about how far the - whatever this alien creature’s doing - has spread, how much danger they’re all in, wants to ask about how Ford’s research has been going and what he’s learned and whether there’s any hope of saving Wendy and the rest of the town and themselves. But something holds him back.

“What are you doing?” he asks, instead. 

“If you’re worried about your sister, don’t be. She’s perfectly fine,” Ford says, still not turning to face Dipper. “This exhaustion is completely natural and expected in the early stages.”

Dipper feels like his feet are growing slowly into the floor. It takes a gargantuan effort to take one slow, shuffling step backwards. “Early - what did you do to Mabel?”

“Exactly what I said I meant to, my boy,” Ford says, like he’s talking about a particularly interesting extradimensional phenomenon he thinks would interest Dipper or about how he thinks he’s finally made all the necessary modifications to the television set to keep it from dropping the signal every single time it snows. 

Dipper manages another shuffled half-step backwards, and then can’t move any more. He can’t look away from Mabel, peacefully passed out across her bed, from her shoe discarded on the floor from when Ford had stood up. For that split second when Dipper had walked in, before he’d noticed everything that was wrong with the picture, it had almost looked like their great-uncle was tucking her in.

Ford finally looks up at Dipper, his smile broad and proud and innocent, his eyes blazing unnatural green. “I cured her,” he says, matter-of-fact, and then, “Don’t worry, this won’t hurt a bit. It might itch a little, though.”

Finally, finally, Dipper’s feet seem to dislodge from the floor. He turns to run, but a six-fingered hand wraps around his upper arm, pulling him up short. Dipper spins, lashing out with his free hand, but even though the punch connects with Ford’s chest, it barely seems to faze him. Ford just looks pleased and proud and a little wistful. “Did Stanley teach you how to throw a punch?” he asks, grabbing Dipper’s other wrist. His grip is like steel. “Looks like his style.”

“Let - let go of me!” Dipper yells, kicking frantically out. 

It doesn’t make any difference. A cloud of something silvery-green drifts down to settle around his head, something that stings the insides of his nostrils and burns the back of his throat when he takes a sharp breath in. Dipper coughs, trying to hold his breath, but the stinging only spreads. 

His limbs are all starting to turn to water. From what seems like an impossible distance, he thinks he hears Ford say, kindly, “Don’t worry. Everything will look better when you wake up.”

Then everything goes black.