hey...erm i wrote a scene that takes place after the events of ttwl (because i can't help myself and inspiration struck). it's pretty non-spoilery and super fun and i wanted to share it with those of you who'd like some levity in the aftermath of these past few chapters, but...
WARNING: spoilers for ttwl under the cut. don't read this if you want to go into the rest of this thing completely blind. you can probably draw some conclusions about how things end up if you read between the lines here, but if you're cool with that, enjoy! [tw; drug use, weed]
───────
“You can’t seriously be okay with this behavior, Stanley.”
“It’s just a little pot, Poindexter. You’re honestly tellin’ me you’ve never smoked? You went to college, didn’t you?”
“I— Of course not! There are countless studies linking cannabis use to short and long-term negative brain function outcomes,” Ford says. “Let alone the effect on teenagers. Adolescents show disadvantages in neurocognitive performance, macrostructural and microstructural brain development—”
“Oh, jeez, you sound like a D.A.R.E. ad,” Stan interrupts. “Lay off the kid, will you? I smoked plenty and look at me now. Brain cells all where they’re supposed to be. Probably.”
Ford looks at him, unimpressed.
“Don’t start,” Stan warns, still smiling regardless. “Besides, his damn doctor prescribed it for him. Welcome to the twenty-first century. They’re handing out pot like candy these days.”
“Yeah, edibles, Stanley. I don’t think sitting on the roof and getting high with one of your employees at three in the morning was what the doctor prescribed.”
“Don’t call her that,” Stan says, all traces of humor washing away. “She’s more than that.”
Ford sobers up. “You’re right. I’m sorry,” he says, thoroughly chagrined. “She’s family. I only meant to highlight the absurdity of it. He’s fifteen years old.”
“You and I were doing much worse at that age. He’s home. He’s supervised. Hell, his sister’s in the kitchen right now making him some— God, I have no idea, but I’m sure he’ll like it, whatever it is.”
Speak of the devil and he shall appear; the kid peeks his head into the living room, and it’s like the Woodstick Festival came early and the damn hippies decided to set up camp in his house instead. He reeks.
Stan quirks a brow at him, and Dipper flashes him a goofy grin that’s only meant for him. He wraps his arms around himself and steps past the threshold, drowning in a sweater that's much too large for him, the hem reaching his knees, falling just above his prosthetic. A Mabel original.
Stan sends a look Ford’s way and hopes he gathers the meaning behind it without the need for words. He doesn’t expect him to agree, but he needs him to respect the fact that he — and maybe only he — knows what’s best for the kid in this case. One look and Stan already understands more than Ford ever could.
Not that it’s Sixer’s fault. Stan has years of experience deciphering Dipper. It doesn’t take much for him to figure out that it’s one of those nights.
“Dipper, you can smoke as much pot as you’d like."
“I— uh, thanks?” says the poor kid, eyes slitted and beet red.
Ford tightens his lips into a thin line. “Was there something you needed, my boy?”
Dipper shifts uncomfortably, wrapping his arms tighter around himself. “Um… Mabel. She said to meet her down here.”
All three of them startle when a yell rings out from the kitchen, “In here, Dipper! Quick! I need help getting the jiffy-puffed on the Oreos before they burn!”
“I’m gonna go help her,” Dipper says quickly, looking between the two of them. “Is… is everything fine?”
“Yes, everything’s fine, my boy,” Ford says, sounding blessedly sincere. “Go help your sister.”
“And drink some water while you’re at it,” Stan peppers in, because he’s got to be responsible sometimes, right? “Make sure you brush your teeth, too. Sounds like whatever she’s making’ll make your teeth rot.”
Dipper visibly recoils at the imagery, and Stan can’t figure out whether to feel bad or laugh his ass off. He’d forgotten how horrifying everything can seem when you’re stoned.
“Yeah, okay,” he says, throwing up a small wave. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, kiddo.”
“Goodnight, Dipper.”
The two of them watch the kid round the corner, rampant giggles and a concerning amount of clatter emanating from the kitchen not a second later. He briefly wonders whether or not they should be under some sort of adult supervision, being collectively fifteen and one half high and all, but if they can endure the perils of the multiverse and fight chaos demons and come out (relatively) unscathed, then they can probably sauté marshmallow-topped Oreos or whatever the fuck they’re doing in there just fine.
Ford watches him leave. “Hear that? I think Pa’s rolling in his grave.”
“Let ‘im.”
Ford raises a brow. “You just told him he can smoke as much weed as he wants. You realize you may have just created a monster, don’t you?”
“Nah," Stan says with a shrug, "the kid’s too paranoid for that. He only really gets like this when the pain’s bad. Wendy probably noticed and came over with her stuff. I’ll have to check in on him tomorrow.”
“Well, I can’t say I approve fully, but if it helps him remain pain-free, I suppose I can get on board.”
“Ah, you sap. You wanna buy your nephew some pot?”
Ford huffs. “Like I’d even know where to get it. That’s your job,” he says. “What I can do is continue researching phantom limb syndrome. There may be other ways to alleviate his pain, maybe even permanently. Maybe in these woods.”
Stan cranes his neck toward the kitchen and frowns.
“Well, if there’s a cure, I’d bet on it being in Gravity Falls.”
