Chapter Text
“This place is a dump.” Perry muttered, immediately pushing open the warped door of the old Prendergast shack with his shoulder and letting it slam against the inside wall. The whole building groaned around them as if in protest. Years of collected dust and regret permeated the dilapidated shack.
The smell of mildewed wood and preserving liquid was thick enough to taste, settling on Sandra’s tongue as she stepped into the shack behind her husband. Perry didn’t seem to notice. The impatient man marched in like the building owed him rent and he’d come to collect.
“This " dump " was my uncle’s home,” Sandra reminded him with that iconic saccharine sweetness of hers, brushing cobwebs from her cardigan with a frown. “Show a little respect, Perry.”
“He died in here, Sandra.” Perry’s voice was already hard, that sharp edge he’d used ever since they’d received the estate paperwork almost five years ago and before. Because Perry Babcock was a sharp edged man. “Alone. Surrounded by… probably satanic bric-a-brac.”
The shack hadn’t been entered since George Robert Prendergast died, not since the coroner had taken the body and the police finished their brief inspection. Cause of death: Natural cause. Perry had been surprised given the way he lived.
Norman had found him… Perry had never said it aloud, but Sandra knew. He was haunted by that. Not because it was tragic, but because it had been the closest to the edge of the weirdness he'd spent his life trying to keep his son away from. You couldn’t get more “in it” than finding the lifeless corpse of a relative… or perhaps deep in a witches curse that almost destroyed your town.
Perry sighed. If he had it his way, they would have sold or even demolished this place the second the keys were handed over to Sandra. Unfortunately she was such a sentimental woman and he was a procrastinator. But when both children were finally out of the house for good and that creeping empty nest syndrome got its claws wrapped around his wife, suddenly he was roped into all manner of tasks. From repainting the outside of the house, renovating the basement, turning Courtney’s room into a craft space, to finding themselves here, cleaning out her dead Uncle’s shack.
Sandra took a slow breath and walked deeper inside. The place looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in decades. Books stacked in unstable towers, melted candles hardened to their holders, jars of something pickled that Sandra refused to inspect too closely and the conspiracy board plastered with pictures of her son along with the few pieces of information her Uncle was able to find on that little ghost girl.
“Well,” Perry said, clapping his hands free from dust and cobwebs, “we can sell it, burn it, or demolish it. Pick your poison.”
“Don’t be so dramatic.”
“I’m not being dramatic, I’m being practical.” he snapped. “The man was paranoid, possibly mentally ill, and hoarded God knows what. We don’t want Norman getting curious about all this. Let the past finally die, like your Uncle.”
Sandra gave her husband a scowl but it quickly morphed into a defiant smirk. “Maybe I do want our Norman getting curious.”
Perry turned sharply, staring at her. Sandra met his gaze with that infuriating calm she always had when she knew she was right.
“He’s not like us, Perry,” she said softly, eyes flicking to the faded photographs on the wall. Old black-and-white portraits of family members long gone. Some had eyes that seemed far too knowing. Others looked eerily like Norman. “He’s like them, like him , and maybe it’s time we stopped pretending that means nothing.”
“He is nothing like that man.” Perry barked. “He’s a good kid. He’s…he’s in university. He has a life-” It pained him to say the next fact, but it helped make his point, “He has a partner. He’s going somewhere. He doesn’t need this.”
“That partner of his is neck-deep in the paranormal.” Sandra muttered. “If anything, he’s more wrapped up in this stuff than Norman.”
His point crumbled immediately.
Perry threw his arms up. “Which is why we shouldn’t encourage it!” Perry rubbed his face in frustration. “I swear he started dating that pines boy specifically to spite me.”
But Sandra wasn’t listening, she was already at a low table, brushing dust off a stack of yellowed journals and picking up a silver-framed photo of a young Mr. Prendergast. Hair dark, eyes intense, standing with a much younger Sandra beside a much younger Perry. Even back then her husband was unable to hide his distaste for George. They were in front of this very shack. The day her uncle moved to Blithe Hollow.
They used to be so much closer.
When was it that her uncle become such a recluse?...
She gave a long sigh. “You might want to erase my past, but Norman deserves to know his. All of it.”
Perry’s jaw ticked. She could see it, his desire to argue, to fight, to win. “I’m not keeping this stuff here forever. It was your idea to come here and do some Spring cleaning.” He grumbled. “If Norman wants to go digging through creepy heirlooms and ghost stories, let him do it through boxes in a storage unit.”
“Perry, we are not getting a storage unit. We have space in the basement.” Which was true now that it had been renovated.
“No, nuh-uh, absolutely not Sandra! I won't have any of this cursed garbage in my home.” And then the impatient man had an idea. “But we do know a place that literally thrives on this trash and he is there right now,” Perry quipped, voice light and a little too cheerful. “In Oregon. With that boy of his.”
Sandra blinked. “You don’t mean—”
“I do.” Perry smiled sweetly and patted his chest. “We're going to box it all up and send it all to the Mystery Shack.”
“I am not mailing fragile relics and paranormal paraphernalia across state lines, Perry. The last time I sent glass through the mail was jam for Courtney and it ruined her favorite sweater.”
“I thought you’d be more against having your Uncle's things used for museum flim-flamery by a certified con-artist than the unreliability of the US postal service.”
“Honestly whatever Norman decides what's best is fine with me. Better on display in Dipper’s Uncle’s tourist attraction than wasting away here in an empty house for another year.” She then pulled out her phone to search up what store nearby sold bubble wrap. “We’ll double layer everything and I’ll label the box as antiques and I'll buy those stickers that say: Fragile.”
Mr. Babcock smirked, happy to see his wife finally onboard. Already picking up a nearby empty box amongst the dozen that littered what Perry could only describe as a hoarders house. “Look, I've already found a box. It’s fate. Clearly this stuff doesn't want to be here either.”
Sandra only rolled her eyes. Managing her husband really was a full time job sometimes. “Fine, we’ll do it your way.” She muttered. But her mood quickly changed when she picked up what looked like some kind of old silver coin. “But we're sending him everything. That includes anything that looks cursed.”
Perry let out a sigh of defeat. “Fine Sandra, I'll call him later tonight and let him know what to expect.”
She turned back to the boxes, humming as she started stacking items with surprising efficiency. Already playing a game of Tetris with some yearbooks and what looked like a music box that wouldn't open.
Perry stood in place for another moment, grumbling to himself about the overabundance of table salt and the potential voodoo doll in his hand.
But when Sandra caught him quietly slipping a bundle of old Tomes with Latin titles and depictions of demons on the covers in the “Keep” pile, she said nothing.
***
The triangular attic window of the twins bedroom was cracked open just enough to let in the pine-scented breeze and the far-off sounds of Stan arguing with a customer on what constituted a “discount” outside. Gravity Falls in spring smelled like damp earth and adventure.
Exactly the way Dipper liked it.
And it looked like this: a small table, moved to the center of his bedroom, covered in crumpled notes with a white board leaned against a leg, coffee-stained maps, half-taped together newspaper clippings, and one very patient Norman Babcock stretched across Dipper's bed with his socked feet dangling over the edge.
Dipper, meanwhile, stood at the center of the storm, whiteboard marker in hand and eyes lit up with that familiar wildfire of obsession.
“So if the sightings in the National Sanctuary of Our Sorrowful Mother line up with the light anomalies in the Jasper Timings report,” Dipper muttered, drawing increasingly aggressive arrows across the white board.
“Just call it The Grotto like everyone else, Dipper.” Norman interjected while he continued to stare at the ceiling.
“Then that means… something is potentially crossing dimensional thresholds. Repeatedly. On purpose.”
Norman lazily tilted his head to the side to glance at him. “That or this Jasper guy was on mushrooms, confusing flashlights as a “Heavenly Aura” while the nuns were out looking for him.”
“Occam’s Razor is for people who aren’t living in a state that has the longest Highway with the most unsolved disappearances and haunted sightings Norman. Rarely is it ever that straight forward.”
Norman snorted and let his head fall back so he could continue to stare at the ceiling. “We’ve been there, d-done that. Nothing supernatural about that highway if you don’t c-count all the ghosts we've interviewed. It's just morbidly a great place to murder. And driving accidents with wildlife.”
“Hold on, we only scratched a tenth of the 3,365 miles of that highway. You haven't spoken to every ghost. So it not being a supernatural place continues to be deemed inconclusive. If you don’t count the ghosts.” he repeated with a playful smirk.
“Well, just like that rousing d-drive through a road full of nothing, I’m tired, I’m bored and I might be growing mold from watching you pace in that same circle for two hours.”
“You’re not bored,” Dipper said with an easy smirk, still scribbling a constellation of data points on a large map. “You love watching me work.”
Norman opened his mouth to argue, but didn’t. Instead, he muttered a noncommittal, “Ok, true.” and draped a pillow over his face.
Because Dipper was right. The scribbles, the muttering, the way his eyes sparkled when he connected the dots. It was one of the big reasons why Norman had fallen for him in the first place. He made chaos look brilliant. He made being weird look… worth the ridicule. Something Norman often struggled with. But his partner made it look so easy and he loved that about him too.
And even if Norman pretended to be annoyed, there was a comfort in the way Dipper buzzed around him, trusting that Norman was there in the room. Like he always would be. It made Norman feel… wanted.
“But even doing something you love has its limits Dip. Let's do literally anything else.” Norman muttered under the pillow.
The pillow then shifted as Dipper’s weight joined him on the bed, suddenly leaning over to press a brief kiss to Norman’s forehead. “You’re cute when you’re so patient with me.” he whispered.
Norman grumbled something completely incoherent in response, though his ears were very much red now.
They sat like that for a moment, Dipper idly leaning over him, the warm pressure of his thigh pressed along Norman’s cheek. It was so casual, so easy for Dipper, but Norman still had to bite the inside of his cheek just to keep from squirming. Not because he didn’t like it.
Because he did.
Too much.
Three years into dating, and Norman still wasn’t used to someone being so affectionate. Or consistent. Or gentle.
Dipper shifted to grab journal number three on the bedside table, arm passing over Norman’s vision. “Okay, so maybe if we, which by that I mean you , test—”
In a rare flicker of courage, Norman reached up and caught Dipper’s wrist.
Gently.
Stopping him.
Dipper paused mid-sentence, glancing down at Norman.
Norman didn’t say anything, he just sat up slightly while tugging Dipper down, and pressed a soft kiss to the corner of Dipper’s mouth. Not teasing. Not playful. Just… real. Shy, but steady. When he pulled back, he was already blushing like mad.
Dipper blinked at him, pink blooming in his cheeks too. “…You okay?” he asked, voice a little too breathless to sound casual.
“I’m fine,” Norman muttered. “Just… wanted to do that.”
They stared at each other for a moment. Too long, too close, hearts thudding awkwardly in their chests like children all over again. And maybe they were. No matter how long they’d been dating, Norman still felt like every intimate thing he did was the first time.
But the longer they sat like that, half pressed together, sharing breath. The more it started to feel like they might actually take it further. Like the moment might—
“HEY PAINTBRUSH!” Stan’s voice thundered up the stairs. “There’s a bunch of freaky packages down here with your name on it! Smells like someone mailed you a taxidermized skunk!”
The tension snapped like a rubber band. Norman flinched so hard he nearly knocked Dipper off the bed.
“Oh god,” he mumbled, dragging a hand over his face.
Dipper groaned and flopped backward in protest. “Stan! We were having a moment!”
“YEAH, WELL, I WAS HAVIN’ A MOMENT TOO, BUT HE’S GONE NOW AND SO IS THIRTY DOLLARS IN CASH. NOW GET DOWN HERE! AND HELP YOUR SISTER PUT THE GROCERIES AWAY!”
Dipper grumbled off the bed but his mood quickly shifted as he eyed his partner suspiciously. “You got mail sent here?”
Norman stood, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s… probably from my dad.”
Dipper perked up instantly, all romantic blush replaced by cryptid-nerd enthusiasm. “Really? You didn’t say anything about a package coming!”
“I didn’t know it would be this fast,” Norman lied, avoiding eye contact. “It’s just stuff from my great-uncle.”
In truth, he’d known. Perry had called days ago, told him, in his usual blunt tone, that “Everything from your crazy great-uncle’s shack is being shipped to the Mystery Shack. Keep what you want and donate the rest to your boyfriend's equally crazy Uncle. I don’t care, but it’s not coming back here.”
Norman hadn’t known what to do with the news.
And now, as he watched Dipper practically bounce with excitement toward the stairs, He felt that old knot of guilt twist in his chest. He didn’t want to think about this. And the guilt of being ok with not thinking about Mr. Prendergast weighed greatly in the pit of his stomach.
But Dipper turned back, grinning, and grabbed his hand.
“Come on! You wanted to do literally anything else. Don’t you wanna see what kind of haunted heirlooms you inherited?”
Norman swallowed hard.
No. Not really.
But Dipper practically yanked Norman down the stairs by the hand, muttering something under his breath about ancient relics and potentially haunted mirrors. Norman barely managed to dodge a low-hanging string of fairy lights. (a Mabel Mystery Shack standard, because the place needed more whimsy in her opinion).
Being tall was sometimes a curse.
The kitchen was louder than it should’ve been. Not because of Stan, who snuck back to the museum, but because of the two girls already there, Mabel and her girlfriend Pacifica, halfway through unpacking enough grocery bags to stock a small apocalypse bunker.
Mabel, in her usual technicolor chaos, was halfway under the kitchen island, dragging out what looked suspiciously like a fondue pot. Once he saw the large makeshift label that read “Do Not Use (Exploded Once)” she slowly placed it back and pretended not to have seen it.
Pacifica, in contrast, stood at the counter unpacking a couple of bell peppers from a brown paper bag like she was filming a cooking show, wearing designer heels and an air of casual dominance. Even when doing mundane tasks, The blonde did it with an air of luxury.
Dipper slowed his pace immediately. His eyes swept the room, landing on a tin of imported paprika, a packet of chicken that wasn’t on clearance, and what had to be an oversized cheese grater with an odd attachment.
“…Okay. Who are you people and what have you done with my penny-pinching great-uncle?”
Pacifica didn’t even glance up. “Relax, dork. We used my money.”
Dipper blinked. “Oh. Well that explains the gold-plated butter dish.”
“It’s ceramic.”
“It looks indulgently tacky.”
Pacifica arched a brow and gave him a serene smile that somehow still radiated ‘try me.’ “It was three dollars at a Marshals. Your sister's idea. Anyways, not everything expensive is excessive. Some of us weren’t raised to fear comfort.”
Norman winced, already seeing where this was going.
Dipper gave a mock gasp. “Wow. Did you just weaponize classism and insult my trauma in one sentence? That’s gotta be a record.”
“Oh, you’re cute when you pretend your “thriftiness” is a personality trait.” She bit back with the physical air quotes.
Before Dipper could formulate a comeback that involved dollar stores and the term casual capitalism, Pacifica motioned Norman to take the empty paper bags to the recycling bin behind him, Which he did with no hesitation because he was a people pleaser, as she moved over to her girlfriend and pressed a long, syrupy kiss to Mabel’s cheek. Just to spite the behatted boy.
Mabel lit up. “Oooo, your lips smell like Honey!”
“That’s the indulgent power of The Jo Malone Vitamin E Lip Conditioner.” She looked back at Dipper with a smug smile. “Thirty-One dollars.”
Dipper made a sound halfway between a gag and a sigh. “Gross.”
“ You’re gross,” Mabel sang, while tossing her brother a carton of cream and buttermilk that needed to be put away in the fridge.
“And poor.” Pacifica added. But then she saw the look Norman gave her. She rolled her eyes up and lifted her hands up in surrender. A silent promise that she'd cool it with Dipper… for now.
Unfettered by the energy of the room, Mabel bounced to the kitchen counter as she slid a printed recipe towards the boys. “Paz and I are going on a culinary adventure! Tonight is Hungarian Paprikash! With real crème fraîche and everything.”
She spun around and grabbed the metal contraption Dipper had clocked overhead. “And we got a noodle extruder to make our own spätzle!”
“That’s not a thing.”
“It is! I'm literally holding it!” She proclaimed while waving the steel grater around wildly in excitement.
Dipper chuckled and turned toward the opposite end of the kitchen, where a couple of medium cardboard boxes sat in wait like some kind of Spring Christmas. “Anyway. We’re not here to fight about butter dishes and class politics. This is what we came down here for.”
“What is that stuff?” Pacifica eyed Dipper as he made a beeline for the boxes. “They were, like, super awkward to carry.”
Dipper stopped to eye her before going back to the pile. “I'm surprised you helped carry anything.”
Pacifica chuckled and it dripped with money. “Oh… No . I wouldn't be caught dead picking up my own mail let alone someone else's. I have people for that.”
Mabel chimed in with, “And that person was Soos!”
“Yeah, it seemed at least one of those boxes wasn't packed efficiently. All the weight was at one side and Soos was struggling .”
Dipper tugged one of the boxes closer, picking it up for further inspection. It was heavy, unusually so. “It's stuff from Norman's great-uncle. You know the one on his mothers side? The one who was also a medium.”
“The “eccentric” as Neil described, who tried to help you stop Agatha but had, like, all the wrong answers and died alone in his house?” Pacifica relayed with the tact of hummer.
Norman rubbed the side of his elbow awkwardly. “That’s him…”
Mabel gave Pacifica a look that Norman couldn't quite translate but it made him feel a bit too seen. So he turned back around to lazily put some shelf stable cans away.
Dipper grinned, eyes practically glowing. “Oh man. Imagine the history! The knowledge! Do you think any of this stuff is haunted?”
Norman didn’t answer.
“Norm?” Dipper looked back. He watched as his boyfriend took his time putting a few cans of corn in the pantry cupboard. “You coming to help me with these?”
Norman finally turned and forced a smile. “Yeah. Just… let’s open them upstairs?”
Dipper studied him for a brief moment, eyes searching, but then nodded and turned to the girls first. “You two have fun cooking your way through Eurotrip: The Romance Edition. We’ll be upstairs doing important work.”
“Just don’t get old shack grime on my bedspread!” Mabel called sweetly. “It’s embroidered!”
“Don’t summon anything that smells like ham!” Pacifica added. “Hungarian dishes are aromatic and I won’t have them tainted by your weird smelly corpse boxes!”
Norman cringed but quickly recovered as he watched his partner start to balance two boxes in his arms. He finally walked over and helped grab the other two.
As the boys made their exit, Pacifica glanced toward the stairs.
Mabel, who turned a burner on and was now slicing peppers with surgical precision, didn’t look up. “So. Our favorite lightning boy is acting weird.”
“You noticed it too?” Pacifica asked as she reached into a bottom cupboard for a pan and placed it on the burner with a few spoons of butter.
“Hard not to notice when he's barely looked at those boxes.”
Pacifica frowned, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. “He’s been quiet lately too. Even for him.”
“Yeah. And not in the ‘I need a nap and a Mabel smoothie’ kinda way. More like… haunted by existential dread and probably family trauma.”
“I’ve seen that look,” Pacifica agreed. “In the mirror. During beauty pageant finals.” When the butter was melted to a satisfactory level of frothiness the blonde moved to tear the plastic wrap off the new tin of sweet Hungarian paprika.
They shared a moment of understanding before Mabel sighed and picked out the ground pepper from the spice rack, opened it, and gave it a sniff to check on freshness. “I’ll talk to him later. If it looks like he needs it.”
Pacifica shrugged. “He’s sweet. But emotionally constipated at times.”
“Like your dad.” Mable choked out in mid chuckle.
“…Rude. But fair.” The blonde smiled in agreement.
They clinked cooking utensils and Pacifica set the paprika sizzling on the hot pan. The scent bloomed warm and heavy in the kitchen.
Mabel grinned. “Let’s make this the best Hungarian comfort meal Gravity Falls has ever seen.”
Pacifica smirked. “Alright, but next time, I want to try our luck with beef wellingtons.”
Mabel fist bumped the air. “Yes! Forcing you to watch Hell's Kitchen has finally bore fruit!”
Pacifica shrugged with a crooked grin. “They make it look so difficult in the show but this competitiveness I get from my awful parents has me convinced we can make these blind folded.”
Mabel's jaw dropped at the idea. “Should we?! We could take turns! Ooo, and add a timer!”
It was Pacifica's fault for using exaggerated language and not thinking her girlfriend would take it as a literal challenge.