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It had been a pretty bad day.
For one thing, it hadn't rained, even though the forecast had promised an 86% chance of thunder and Ford had set up his lightning rod to power a sideline experiment he'd had brewing for weeks now. Because of that, he had been stuck down in the basement of his own accord waiting for a strike of the non-existent lightning and had missed his first two meals of the day. At one point, his stomach was so empty he felt nauseous and, in the process of moving his back to position his stomach better, he knocked over some of the delicate inner workings of his experiment, demolishing days of meticulous planning. At that point, Ford gave up. He was tired. Drained. Pooped.
So he trudged back upstairs just in time for dinner. From halfway up the stairs, he could hear Stan's off-key gravelly singing. He didn't recognize the song - it must have come out while he was still trapped in another dimension - but judging from the broken pop-like melody his twin brother was screeching out, he doubted the original was too preferable. He winced as he made it up the stairs, facing his brother's horrendous banshee call full-on.
He walked toward the kitchen, rubbing his face with one hand in exhaustion, when he heard giggling. His face broke into a knowing smirk before he could help himself. He cleared his throat, slowing his pace and picking up a random coffee mug from the end table that read "best Dad ever" with the Dad crossed out in bright red marker and replaced with Grunkle.
"My my," Ford commented loudly. "Such an interesting mug! What intricate craftsmanship!"
The tiny snickers continued, this time closer. Ford fought to keep a straight face. "That red! Such a bold statement. Really shows how passionate the artist was about the magnificence of this 'Grunkle'." He twisted the mug very slowly in his hand, knowing full well what was approaching him from behind the couch next to him. He suddenly remembered why he'd gotten a B- in his acting elective at university.
"It would be such a shame if someone were to be startled while holding it," he continued rather loudly. He heard the shuffling stop and a small secretive gasp. "We wouldn't want the mug to break, would we-?"
"NO GRUNKLE FORD DON'T DROP IT!"
Ford watched in triumph as his great-niece jumped out from behind the couch, hands up in surrender and face covered in genuine panic. Mabel was staring at the coffee mug like it was a fragile diamond that a single wrong touch could obliterate.
Ford put his B- acting skills to use. He feigned shock, stumbling back while keeping a firm grip on the mug (he didn't want it to actually break). "Mabel!" he exclaimed. "You were there this whole time?"
Mabel put her hands behind her back, a mix of mischief and remorse on her face. "Yeah..." she admitted. "I was trying to scare you."
Ford waved the mug around dramatically, enjoying her panicked reaction. "Well!" he scoffed. "You've certainly succeeded. The shock I've just received would be enough to power one of my machines!"
Mabel giggled behind her hand, clearly realizing her grunkle was messing with her. "Well then...you're welcome!"
Ford huffed a chuckle, turning his attention to the mug in his hand. "Now why on earth were you so concerned with the well-being of this mug?" he asked, twisting it nimbly in his six-fingered hand. Honestly, he couldn't really see its worth. Sure, it must have had enough sentimental value to warrant Mabel's caution. But her mind worked in such unique ways that he was genuinely curious as to why she was so obsessed with keeping that mug in tact. Was it a gift? A project? A reminder of some kind?
Mabel's face broke into a smile at the question. Ford could tell she'd been waiting for someone to ask. "Well," she began, sitting down on the couch criss-cross-applesauce. "I made that mug for Grunkle Stan when I was a kid."
"You're still a kid, my dear."
"A little kid," Mabel corrected. "And Grunkle Stan used to be grumpy-"
"He's still pretty grumpy."
"Can I finish telling my story?" Mabel huffed, crossing her arms.
Ford held his hands up in surrender. "My apologies. By all means, continue," he insisted.
"Thank you," she sighed, clearing her throat and resituating herself on the couch. Surely for better story-telling effect. "Anyways, Grunkle Stan, as grumpy as he is-" she shot a look at Ford to remind him to not interrupt. "- wouldn't normally accept gifts from us if he couldn't resell them. But...well..." She gestured to the mug. "When I gave him that mug, I remember him acting all shy and gruff and putting it in his room. I thought he'd gotten rid of it - thrown it away, maybe - but when we came here over the summer I saw that he'd put it on the end table. So, you know." She shrugged. "It must have been good enough for him to keep."
Ford smiled fondly at Mabel. Of course the only one able to break through Stan's heart of stone was a girl who was just like him. Every time he looked at Mabel, he saw a mirror image of that chipped-toothed scraped-kneed knucklehead he shared a bunk with for all his childhood. Ford couldn't help but feel an overwhelming fondness for his niece.
"That's very sweet, Mabel," he said. "And honestly, how could he not? It's quite the work of art, if I do say so myself."
Mabel giggled. "Come on, Grunkle Ford, I was only five years old when I made that."
"Well you were certainly talented beyond your years!" he exclaimed, showing off the mug like a trophy. "Why, I'm not surpised that you're such a gifted scrapbooker. The design! The passion! Picasso would have been jealous."
Mabel was giggling behind her hand, standing up and reaching for the mug. "Grunkle Fooooord," she whined jokingly. "Put the mug down."
Ford rolled his eyes, set the mug down on the top shelf (Mabel would never be able to reach that in her entire lifetime), and grabbed Mabel in a big hug,spinning her around. She squealed in his arms, batting playfully at his back. He pulled her up over his shoulder so her torso was hanging down behind him. "Mabel?" he called out, spinning around frantically in search for his neice.
Mabel cackled, punching his back lightly. "Grunkle Ford!" she laughed. "I'm right here!"
"I can hear her voice," he sighed mournfully. "But she's nowhere to be found. Mabel!"
"Grunkle Ford! I'm on your back!" she squealed.
Ford ignored her cries, walking into the kitchen and wincing against Stan's awful singing. "Stanley!" Ford yelled.
Stan yelped, holding his wooden spoon like a deadly weapon trained in Ford's direction before he realized who it was. He took one glance at Mabel hanging from Ford's shoulders and immediately went into character. "What is it, Stanford?"
"Have you seen Mabel anywhere?" Ford asked nonchalantly, fighting to keep a straight face as Mabel continued her attack on his back.
Stan seemed to be much better at this. He shrugged, his face betraying no knowledge of Mabel's presence. "Haven't seen her since a couple minutes ago. I don't know where she could have run off to."
Ford shrugged, smiling softly as Mabel squealed at the movement. "Ah well. I'll keep looking. Thanks anyways, Stanley!"
Stan turned back to the pot of pasta on the stove. "Anytime, Stanford," he replied. Ford turned, but not before seeing Stan's shoulders shaking with supressed laughter. He knew he wasn't the only one unable to take his niece seriously.
Ford heard steps coming downstairs. Apparently, so did Mabel.
"Dipper!" she screamed. "Help me!"
And suddenly Dipper was running around the corner, setting his book down and ready to tackle someone. When he saw the predicament Mabel was in, Ford noticed he looked a little disappointed, but still relieved. "Gosh Mabel, I thought you were in trouble," he scolded.
Ford tipped his head at Dipper in confusion. "Dipper, Mabel isn't here...?"
Dipper furrowed his brow. "Yes she is?" He pointed at Mabel. "She's hanging on your back right now."
Ford huffed a sigh to himself. Alright, this had gone on for long enough. It would take too long for Dipper to catch onto the joke anyways. "Ah yes, you're right, my mistake," Ford allowed, setting Mabel down with exaggerated effort. "I forgot she was up there."
Mabel rolled her eyes, staggering a bit. "Sure you did, Grunkle Ford," she laughed.
Dipper let out a concerned sigh. "Grunkle Ford, are you sure you're memory is okay? How could you forget that Mabel was literally on your back?"
Ford fought a smile, kneeling down to face Dipper eye-to-eye. "I didn't actually forget, Dipper," he explained as Mabel ran into the kitchen (most likely to escape any further michief from Ford). "I was playing a prank on Mabel."
Dipper's face lit up in understanding, but Ford could tell he still didn't quite grasp the point of the joke. "Ohhh," Dipper breathed. "Sorry, I didn't mean to spoil it."
"Nonsense, my boy," Ford laughed. "You didn't spoil it. If anything, you probably helped your sister out of a messy situation."
Dipper smiled at his Grunkle, and Ford felt for just a moment that he was looking in a mirror. Mabel was to Stanley what Dipper was to Ford. Ford wanted more than anything to see Dipper succeed in life in the way Ford never really got the chance to.
"DINNER TIME!!" Stan yelled from the kitchen.
Ford sighed in relief, standing up and gesturing for Dipper to follow him. Dipper clung to his book tightly (one of Ford's journals) and hurried past Ford into the kitchen. Ford chuckled to himself. The smell of spaghetti wafted through the shack and made his mouth water. He hadn't had pasta since he'd returned back to his own dimension, and from the tangy scent of the red sauce, this was his mother's recipe.
Ford immediately went into the kitchen to help Stan set up for dinner. Stan seemed against it at first, but let up without too much protest, instead allowing Ford to get the silverware while Stan rationed out the pasta. It felt nice to work alongside him in silence. It made him remember how things used to be before life got in the way of their relationship. Well, life wasn't all to blame, Ford supposed. He had a lot of fault in the situation, and he was still determined to make things right between Stan and himself. But maybe making spaghetti for their great- niece and nephew together was a start.
"How much you want, Poindexter?" Stan grunted, pausing above the final bowl.
Ford shrugged. "Not much, just a scoop or two."
They took the bowls to the table and sat down. Mabel was eyeing the spaghetti hungrily, but Ford noticed Dipper looking less than interested. Ford couldn't blame him. He'd noticed the kid had some pretty picky preferences when it came to food, and he understood any avoidance of pasta. As a kid, it had taken Ford a while to really develop a taste for his mother's spaghetti, but now it was one of his favorite meals.
After Stan said grace (rather quickly, Ford might add), he and Mabel immediately began scarfing down their pasta. Dipper twirled the spaghetti absent-mindedly, but Ford watched him take a tentative bite, relaxing when he realized it wasn't half-bad. Good, Ford thought. It's nice to know someone else enjoys this pasta. Dad always hated it.
Ford himself took a few bites, savoring the tanginess of the tomato sauce. Nostalgia overcame him. Memories of New Jersey flooded his mind as he chewed his mother's pasta. It felt like he was a little boy again. He could picture the feeling: coming back from a long day of adventures on Glass Shard Beach, sand still in his hair and in uncomfortable places in his clothes, battered and bruised. The smell of that red sauce was like heaven. Ford imagined that, if he made it there, the heavenly banquet would serve his mother's spaghetti.
He took a few more bites and savored the taste in his mouth, relishing the texture of it. He was grateful that, of all the foods he'd had aversions to since his return, his mother's spaghetti wasn't one of them.
Oh no.
It didn't taste good anymore.
*START OF YUCKY FOOD DESCRIPTION SECTION*
Before Ford could even realize what he had thought, the tomato sauce was suddenly like slime in his mouth. The noodles had the most unpleasant, particular texture that Ford suddenly felt like he couldn't get out of his mouth. All fond memories of childhood fled from his mind. The more he thought about it, the more repulsive the pasta became in his mouth. His gag reflex closed the back of his throat, denying any further spaghetti. His stomach felt strangely tight all of a sudden.
*END OF YUCKY FOOD DESCRIPTION SECTION*
He glanced frantically at his family, hoping desperately that they hadn't noticed anything. He needed to get up. He had to go to the bathroom.
Stan caught his eye, and Ford watched his brother narrow his eyes in concern. "Stanford...? You alright?"
Mabel and Dipper turned to look at Ford, each with spaghetti in their mouths and sauce on their faces and Ford just couldn't. take. it.
He managed to say "excuse me, everyone," before getting up from the table and rushing to the bathroom. Thoughts were racing through his head as he bent over the toilet seat. Why did it taste bad? What was going on? What was wrong with him?
*START OF VOMIT DESCRIPTION*
Ford retched into the toilet, coughing into it as the repulsive taste of tomato filled his throat and mouth. His stomach contracted from the outside and inside, and his back arched as another wave of nausea rolled through his body. He couldn't swallow. His tongue was raised and he couldn't lower it. His body convulsed again as he vomited into the toilet, throat burning and eyes watering. He could hardly breathe, his throat was so constricted. Anytime he tried to inhale, he threw up again. Anytime he tried to move his torso, he threw up again. Even when he tried his best not to move, his shaking body triggered his gag reflex again, and he had no clue how to stop it.
*END OF VOMIT DESCRIPTION*
When his stomach finally settled down, Ford rested his head on the toilet seat and steeled himself against the rolls of nausea with a deep breath. The cool surface of the toilet seat felt refreshing on his forehead, and he closed his eyes in exaustion. Just breathe, he told himself. Breathe.
His thoughts were lethargic, but one question occupied them all: why? What had happened just now? He'd never reacted that way to his mother's spaghetti before. Heck, he'd never reacted that extremely to any food before. Sure, he'd had times when something didn't settle right or he lost his appetite halfway through eating a meal, but it had never gotten this bad.
Obviously, he thought, this had to have been caused by some kind of interdimentional jet-lag of some kind; some sort of intolerance to certain human foods after limited exposure with them over the past thirty years. He hadn't had his mother's spagehtti in an even longer amount of time, so it must have been that, right?
Or it could have been something else. It could have been Bill's influence on his body. Who knows - maybe Bill's consistent possession of Ford coupled with his prolonged avoidance of human foods had given his stomach the resistance of an infant. The amount of time that interdimensional being had been inside his body surely couldn't have had a positive impact on his anatomy or physiology.
And of course, Ford only had himself to blame for that. If he hadn't made that deal with Bill, if he hadn't read those runes aloud, if he hadn't been so stupid and proud and easily flattered, maybe he wouldn't be throwing up into a toilet in his brother's Mystery Shack. Bill had stripped away Ford's sense of identity, his autonomy, his individuality, and made him nothing but a pawn in Bill's masterminded game. And there was no one to blame but Ford.
I mean, who was he kidding? He was hardly a person at this point. More demon than human.
When he was sure his stomach had fully settled, Ford stood, hissing a breath in at the small roll of nausea in his upper stomach. He walked slowly to the sink and wet a washcloth, wiping his mouth. He was thankful there was a toothbrush and toothpaste in this bathroom; he began brushing his teeth, scraping at his tongue to get rid of the sour taste of tomato and stomach acid. He spat into the sink and rinsed his mouth with running water.
When Ford looked up, he caught his reflection in the mirror and gasped. For a split-second, he swore his eyes were yellow, slitted with black pupils. No, no it wasn't Bill. Ford blinked, and then it was just his own terrified eyes staring back at him. And God, did he look terrified. His hair was a mess, his chin stubbly, and his eyebags looked large enough to carry a grocery run for the entire family. He groaned in despair, rubbing cold water on his face.
He wiped his face with a clean washcloth and opened the bathroom door.
To his surprise, Dipper was staring up at him in sincere concern. "Grunkle Ford?" he said in a small voice. "Are you okay?"
Ford smiled weakly at Dipper. The poor boy, he didn't need to know about all that Ford had gone through. Not in this moment. "Yes, my dear boy, I'm fine," he lied.
Dipper didn't appear convinced, but let Ford pass him to the couch. "I heard you in there, you know," Dipper said suddenly.
Ford paused, clenching his fists. He couldn't even keep his own problems his own. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath before turning to Dipper. His great-nephew was looking up at him with a brave concern, clenching Ford's own journal to his chest. "It's okay, you know," Dipper pointed out. "If you can't eat things right. It happens. It's human."
Ford sighed softly, kneeling down so he was eye-level with Dipper again. "I know it is," he replied. "But sometimes you can't help feeling the way you do. I've made decisions in the past, and now I have to deal with the consequences of those decisions. But I don't want you to worry."
Dipper smiled sadly at his grunkle. "I'll try," he managed to say. "But I don't see how this can be a consequence-"
"And you don't have to see," Ford interrupted, silencing Dipper with a raised six-fingered hand, "to promise me that you won't worry about me. I'll be fine."
Dipper still didn't looked reassured, but he nodded. Ford could tell it was taking everything in his great-nephew's body to not question him. He sighed and grasped Dipper in a firm hug for just a moment. He broke away and grasped Dipper by the shoulders. "Now go help your Grunkle Stan finish up dinner, and you and I can play a few rounds of Dungeons, Dungeons and More Dungeons tomorrow, hm? How does that sound?"
Dipper's face broke into a reluctant smile. "Yeah yeah, alright. But I get to be dungeon master this time! I'm tired of Princess UnattainaBelle leading me into traps at every other turn."
Ford laughed, clapping Dipper on the back and aggreeing to his terms. Dipper ran into the kitchen, and Ford let out a sigh. He sat down on the couch and almost turned on the TV before thinking better of it. Filling his mind with bluescreen junk wasn't going to help his mental or physical state. He instead wriggled his way into a comfortable contorted position on the couch and closed his eyes.
A few moments of true peace went by before he felt a light tug on his sleeve. He peered through one eye and smiled. Mabel was standing next to him, looking a little shy. "Yes, my little anomoly?" he murmured, sitting up on his elbows.
Mabel shuffled from foot to foot. "I didn't wanna bother you, but I was wondering if..." she trailed off, face turning red. She sank a little into her sweater.
Ford sat up completely, gesturing for Mabel to sit on the couch next to him. She reluctantly sat herself down next to him, knees pulled up to her chest to avoid touching Ford. "What were you wondering?" he prompted. She opened her mouth to answer, but merely mumbled some excuse about it being stupid. Ford turned his body to her. "Mabel, nothing you could possibly ask of me would be stupid. Now what was it you were wondering?"
Mabel looked up at Ford. "Could I maybe...cuddle with you?"
Ford was slightly taken aback. He wasn't expecting that to come out of her mouth. His reaction must have been evident on his face, because Mabel's face turned red and she immediately tried getting off the couch. "I know you aren't big on touch, and you looked so comfortable so you must have been comfortable and I didn't mean to interrupt your rest with such a stupid question, I'll just leave you be-"
"Mabel," Ford called, watching as Mabel stopped in her tracks. "That's not a stupid question. You didn't interrupt my rest. Of course I'd love to cuddle with you."
Mabel whirled around, eyes wide and excited. Ford couldn't help but smile at her enthusiasm over such a small gesture. "Really?"
"Of course, my dear," he laughed. "You give the best hugs, so I can only imagine how amazing your cuddles must be."
Mabel was grinning from ear to ear as she clambered onto the couch on top of Ford, stretching herself on top of his chest. She sighed heavily, as did Ford. He couldn't deny, this felt nice. He'd been worried he wouldn't be able to properly connect with Mabel, on account of their being so different, but he had to remind himself who he was talking about here. This was Mabel, the kind childish girl with a heart bigger than Antarctica. Her soul was gentler than anyone Ford had ever met, and he couldn't have been more grateful to be her grunkle. If that's as good as he got - if being a positive influence on this little girl's life was all the good Ford ever did - then he would be happy.
Ford wrapped his arms around Mabel, holding her close to his chest, when she suddenly giggled. He released his grip slightly, looking down at her. "What is it, my dear?"
Mabel looked up at him with big eyes brimming with laughter. "I can hear your heartbeat, Grunkle Ford."
Ford smiled at her and hugged her even tighter. "What does it sound like, Mabel?" he asked, trying to fight the tears pooling in his eyes.
Mabel shrugged under his grasp. "I don't know," she floundered. "It just sounds human."
A single tear fell from Ford's eye as he held his great-niece close to him. Human indeed.