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Whole Again - Chapter 14

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Nothing about this made any sense. Nothing in his research, nothing in his uncle’s research, not even first-hand experience corresponded to what Stan was going through. Both Mason and Ford had been possessed, and short of trying to locate Blarmy – or whatever his name was, time guy – there was no one else who had made a deal with Bill that they could talk to. Ford had accumulated a lot of accounts of Bill throughout history, but so far none of them described what being possessed by Bill was like. What was worse, was Stan was not acting like two minds swapping back and forth; he was acting like one person.

Great Uncle Ford was convinced that Stan was still in there, but was an unwilling and silent passenger to Bill’s actions. Mason was less convinced. Mason had all the information Ford would let him have – and he suspected Ford was hiding something – and it all contradicted. Stan was acting strange and knew way more than he should. Except when he acted so much like himself it was ridiculous to think he was anyone but. Stan had magic and could pull things out of the air and heal wounds. Except when he couldn’t control it and everything backfired in horribly funny ways. Stan could go into people’s dreams and manipulate their thoughts. Except when he did, he made Ford’s dreams happy and dulled the memory of his nightmares.

Stan was acting…well, like Stan. Great Uncle Ford was convinced that Bill had taken over, and that Stan was either trapped…or gone. Dipper was stating to lean more towards mind melding. Maybe when Stan’s mid was erased, Bill fragmented, and attached himself to the only thing that he could; pieces of Stan’s mind. So, when Stan got some of his memories back, those parts of Bill came back, just not Bill himself. Ford’s initial suggestion of Dissociative Personality Disorder might be more akin to what happened than they had originally thought.

Ford wouldn’t hear any of Mason’s suggestions, though. He had instead put all his effort into coming up with ways to extract Bill from Stan’s mind. Mabel had suggested making a necklace out of unicorn hair, moonstone and a bottle of mercury; it had worked to place a barrier around the shack, why not work for Stan’s mind? Ford was being extraordinarily stubborn and refused. He had samples of mercury and moonstone on the ship, all they needed was unicorn hair, and Stan, or Bill, or whoever, could just make some…eventually. It was so simple.

“Mason, don’t you think I’ve already thought of that? If I thought I would work, I would have tried it. Besides, Bill doesn’t seem to have the best control of magic right now, the last thing we need is for it to go haywire at the critical moment. And do you really think Bill would just produce unicorn hair for me if I asked? He knows what it does. Please, I know you both are trying to help, but don’t insult my intelligence.”

They had both been taken aback at his outburst. Mabel had mumbled an apology and had walked away from the skype chat. Mason ended the call not long after and found her sitting in the bathtub with Waddles, cuddling her silver fox Stan plush. He had sat with her until she felt better and they put owl Ford in the time out box. Mabel had walked around with fox Stan most of the next day. Ford had eventually apologized for being harsh, but neither Mason nor Mable had suggested anything since. And Ford might be really smart and super cool and still the most awesome person Mason had ever met, but Mason was not going to forgive him just yet for making Mable cry. He had added a dunce cap to owl Ford in frustration.

Their Grandparents Sherman and Marianne, and Great Grandma Gina had not taken the news that Stanley was still alive and Stanford was the one missing for thirty years as excepted. Grandpa had been furious, shouting so loud over the phone that Mason and Mabel could hear it from the landing. He felt bad for their dad. Great Grandma Gina had just laughed and laughed, and laughed until she cried. She hadn’t said anything else. Mason was concerned for her mental stability, just Grandma Marianne had just told them she had gone through her old pictures and laughed and smiled to herself.

Mom and Dad had gotten a hold of Soos and Melody up in Gravity Falls. Soos had done his best to confirm what Mason and Mable had told their parents while also trying to downplay the more dangerous aspects to their adventures. When asked outright, he relented and told them everything he had experienced during those hellish six days. About helping people, about Mabel’s bubble, about building the Shacktron and the fearamid. Everything corroborated with their story, and their parents were left at a loss.

Mom had always been very realistic and level-headed. She never really discouraged Mabel’s ever expansive imagination, but he never really encouraged it either. Mason thought his mom was a staunch realist; someone whose understanding of the world is set and is reluctant to believe anything that conflicts with her paradigm. Dad was less stubborn, but that also meant he was prone to flights of fancy and it had resulted in many, many, unfinished and neglected hobbies such as model airplanes, computer games, and various “revolutionary convenience” inventions. Half of them failed spectacularly. Those that actually functioned, tended to make doing things much less convenient and easy. Mabel still refused to use anything but a manual toothbrush and Mason had let his hair grow out out of shear self-preservation.

Their parents were taking everything as well as they could. Mom was in a state of denial. If they didn’t talk about it, she didn’t have to acknowledge that it was true and her whole sense of the world had turned on its ear. Dad had thrown himself into his work, revamping the entire intercom and messaging system at the office and starting work on the back log of IT problems. Neither one would discuss Stan, or Ford, or Gravity Falls with the twins. Mason supposed they just needed time.

It had taken all of his courage, but mason had informed Soos about his dad. He left out the part about Stan’s eyes and tried to make it seem like the the mind melding thing was Ford’s idea. There was no sense in worrying the man when he had a business to run. Not that The Mystery Shack was open for tours anyway this time of year, but Mason still felt like this was something they should wait to fully explain. Maybe even wait until his grunkles came home. If, they come home.

It was Christmas in two days and not one of them were any closer to understanding what was wrong with Grunkle Stan. Mason had e-mailed all the information he had collected on exorcisms, and mind control, and daemon possession after Ford’s request and apology, but nothing seemed to be working. Ford was diligently keeping them informed on Stan’s condition. They got daily updates in the form of pictures of Stan doing random things and notes on experiments Ford had tried. Mabel had printed out a picture of Stan sitting on deck of the Stan O’War, wearing her goodbye sweater. It didn’t seem to faze her that Stan was blatantly flipping the bird to the camera; she thought it was funny.

Mason had printed out a snapshot of Stan healing a visibly broken hand. It was sick and masochist, he knew, but he was drawn to it in ways he couldn’t explain. Stan was sitting in the galley, left hand laid out on the table with fingers visibly bent at the wrong angles. He was slightly hunched, glasses pressed tight to his face and the tip of his tongue caught between his dentures. Blue flames burned from his right-hand fingertips and were traveling over the broken hand. But the eyes were what Mason had narrowed in on. They were yellow with long pupils. They were Bill’s.

Every time Stan used magic, his eyes changed from brown to golden yellow. Every time. But it didn’t happen any other time, at least, according to Ford. Even when he was talking about things Stan really shouldn’t know, like other dimensions and unstable reality paradigms, he was just…Stan. But every time he performed magic, his eyes changed. That was the only thing that made Mason question his hypothesis.

After Mason had begged, Ford had relented and sent them a video of Stan’s eye shift. It was spooky how unaffected Stan was when it happened.

The video started with Stan standing in the galley making dinner. The video showed Stan opening the fridge and pulling out the nearly empty jug of milk and shaking it, a forlorn look marring his face. He was turned slightly to the camera with his eyes fixated on the empty container. Stan either wasn't paying attention or had grown so used to Ford recording him, he hadn’t reacted.

The video zoomed in, focusing on Stan’s upper body. His eyes squinted briefly, and then it happened. His pupils and irises melted together and stretched out lengthwise, the sclera yellowing like a drop of dye on paper. The pigment bled out to the edges, and with it, the jug filled from the bottom. When the jug was filled, Stan blinked four times in rapid succession, and his eyes were normal again.

The entire clip was less than 20 seconds long.

It was unnerving, the first time he saw it, and only after some very stubborn pleading and trading of chores, had he shown it to Mabel. She hadn’t really reacted, just watched it loop a few times and gone back to her drawing without saying another word. She had tried to hide it, but Mason had seen her coloring some googly eyes yellow the next afternoon, fox Stan sitting beside her. He hoped she would never sew them on.

It was Christmas Eve…eve, and Mason was pacing back and forth in their shared bedroom. It sucked how little they could do right now. Ford had no intentions of leaving the Bermuda Triangle until he figured out how to fix Stan. Mason had slowly come to terms with the fact that it might be many months, perhaps years, before he saw them again. No amount of coaxing or alternate theories had changed his mind. He was going to stay there until he found a solution. It was so darn frustrating because he wouldn’t listen and he wouldn’t let Stan or Bill ow whoever talk to them. Stan had texted Mabel once early on, but that was it. One text telling her how much he loved her, and then nothing. She had kept texting him though. Pictures and gifs and little messages telling him about her day. He never responded. Mason assumed that Ford had either taken Stan’s phone, or forbidden him from using it. Ford was just being…a…he was being a poop head!

Mason hadn’t realized he was chewing on his shirt until Mabel came in, looking at him with sadness and affection.

“Dipper, do you need help calming down?” She was dressed in her nightgown, not having changed that day due to the snowfall. She still had fox Stan tucked under her arm; owl Ford was still in the time out box in the corner, Waddles had chewed the dunce cap.

“I’m sorry, I just, I feel so useless.” Mason pulled at his hair in frustration. “I know there’s nothing we can do, and we don’t even know what’s really wrong…but I…” He kicked a stack of books at the end of his bed, immediately regretting it when he felt a sharp spike of pain shoot up his leg. He grabbed at his foot, hopping and balancing on one foot before easing down on his bed.

“I’ll get my brushes.” And that was it as she tossed Mason fox Stan, turned, and wandered out the door again.

“Mabel?” Mason caught the plush and placed it on the bed. He could hear her opening and closing cupboards in the bathroom and the familiar zip of a mesh bag. Mason frowned. He did like it, kind of, but he really didn’t feel like showering or washing his face when she was done. Make-up felt weird, and it got so messy.

Mabel came back in with her collection of make-up and brushes. Maybe she would just paint his face this time, like she did with Grunkle Stan. Mason thought he had a picture of Stan with his tiger face paint somewhere.

“Don’t worry, bro-bro, no make-up, just brushes.” She said, sitting cross-legged on the rug.

Mason sighed. He was really too old for this, but it always used to help when he was younger. Mabel had gotten into make-up sometime in fifth grade when the popular girls at school had come in one day with their nails and lips painted. Mable had been enamored. She had come home and stared at herself in the mirror for hours, twisting and turning her face this way and that, pulling and pushing her skin in different directions. When she was done, she frowned, sullen and dissatisfied with her appearance and had asked mom if she could get some make-up.

She came home many hours later with a bag of all sorts of products. Apparently, Mom had taken her to a consultant at the mall and they had gone over what looked good on her and what didn’t, how she should use the different brushes and how to keep her eyes open when applying mascara. It had lasted a few months, but it was too much effort to put on in the mornings. Mabel had fallen back into her tendency to sleep in and now she wore it for special occasions and for fun. And sometimes she used it on Mason. But not often.

He stood from the bed and sat down in front of her, brushing the front of his shirt flat. Mable picked up the compact, left it closed, and pretended to swirl the make-up brush in the powder before bringing it close to his face. He could see it was clean. The first brush was fat, and wide and the soft bristles were tow-toned, light beige at the top and darker brown at the base. She was careful and delicate as she pressed the brush to his face. It was feather light, somewhere between a tickle and a touch. It was like meditation, or hypnotism, or something. Mason couldn’t really explain it. It turned his brain off for a few minutes, and right now, turning his brain off would be nice.

It wasn't just his face either; he sometimes traced his pens along the lines of his hands in school when the teacher was being particularly boring. He found that from the fortune teller at the country fair their parents had dragged them to a few years ago. Mable had been so excited to hear about all the cute boys she would get to meet. Mason didn’t remember what his fortune was, he had been too focused on the woman’s fingers tracing lines over his palm.

He remembered ‘waking up’ when Mable tugged him out of the tent to get cotton candy. It was like he could see things differently; things were clearer, more focused, and his thoughts ran smoother, answerers came quicker. For a little while, anyway. He had gone to the library about a week later and stated doing research on fortune-telling and that had lead him to his current theory; this was a form of self-induced hypnosis. Either that or meditation, but he always thought that meditation required your eyes to be closed.

He blinked a few times to rid his mind of thoughts. That wasn’t the point of this, the point was to clear his mind, help him stop worrying. The point was to concentrate and not think of anything. To just be in the moment. The brush had traveled over his cheeks, his chin, his eyes and forehead and finally down his nose when Mabel pulled it away and traded it for a different one.

She moved onto his favorite part, though he would never admit it. He would also never admit that he had let Mable paint his toenails once. They were purple for almost three weeks until he had taken a bristle brush and scrubbed it off.

Mabel pulled out a small and very thin brush; she said it was for mascara and eyeliner (he would never understand girls’ need to put stuff on their eyelashes, he would be afraid to poke himself). But on Mason, it was used all over.

She started with his nose, tracing the lines and curves slowly, like his face was a blank canvas and she was painting in his features. She moved onto his ears then, going over the squiggles and divots and around the outside edge. She moved onto his cheeks, following the almost imperceptible path of his cheek bone and blending into where his laugh lines would be when he got older. She drew in a spiral on his chin next; sometimes it was a word and she would make him guess it, but she was being kind today.

When she was done, she put it back and got another one, one even finer and was probably made of only about 20 bristles. She started on his eyes, first, bringing the brush to the side of his face and running it over his eyebrows in short quick motions, like she was coloring them in. He closed his eyes and felt the brush pass over the creases of his eye lids, paying extra attention to the lower set. She had offered before to help him with some concealer; just enough to cover the bruises that had formed from stress and little sleep. But he’d declined; it felt itchy and weird and he always rubbed at his eyes.

She was almost finished, just his mouth left. She pressed the brush into the corner of his mouth and traced the outside line of his lips, making an exaggerated heart shape out of the top bow. He parted is lips and breathed through his nose. He felt the delicate caress on the inside of his bottom lip; it was somewhere between an itch and a tickle. It was hard to describe. In either case, it sent a ripple of activated nerve endings straight to the back of his head that blossomed over his whole scalp.

Mabel had said that getting her make-up done made her head all tingly; Mason didn’t know if this was what she meant, but it felt nice, and was kind of like a restart button for his brain. And it had certainly helped him calm down; he felt sleepy, like he’d just woken up from a good nap. His heart beat was slow and regular, and his breathing was even.

“There, now your all pretty. Sometimes I wish you’d let me do that for real, though. I think you would look really good with pink eyeshadow.” Mabel started packing away the content of the bag in a somewhat orderly fashion.

Mason just pulled a bemused face and rolled his eyes. Not a chance was he going to let her make him look girly. He was only just starting to grow chest hair. Although, thinking back, if he was anything like Stan, that might just be too much chest hair. Stan was super furry. Which was kinda strange, because neither Grandpa Sherman nor Great Uncle Ford were that hairy. And Ford thought he was the family anomaly.

Mabel pulled out her hair bush and started pulling it through her thick and wavy curls. After coming home, Mable’s hair had gone from kinda straight, to kinda wavy, and if she let it air dry after a shower, it got really curly. She had taken to brushing it or pulling it back in a ponytail or braid to keep it tame.

Mason had followed up on his promise from before and learned to braid Mabel’s hair properly; just as she had gotten rid of all the Smile Dip. He actually found it soothing, brushing her hair; the repetitive motions lulled him into a sort of hypnotic trance. Taking the hair brush, parting Mabel’s hair and running the bristles through the thick strands gently. Dipper had teased her and told her it felt the same as petting a dog. She had pulled a face, but had otherwise ignored his statement. His first braid was lumpy and misshapen, but after some practice getting the three sections even, he had gotten better at it.

She stood and wandered over to her own bed, continuing to brush her hair absently, chewing on her bottom lip in thought. Maybe he should offer to do it for her. They both were anxious over Stan and Ford; it was only right for him to return the favor. Something about her look stopped him, though. She was too quiet. A quiet Mabel spoke of ill news or a horrible prank. When she put down the brush and looked around the room, at anywhere but him, Mason knew she needed to talk.

“What’s up Mabel? If you keep chewing on your lip you’re going to start bleeding again.” Mabel stopped abruptly, curling her lips inwards as if to hold in her words. As if she wasn't nearly bursting from the seams with the need to voice her concerns.

She sighed and let her body slump in resignation. She wanted to have someone to talk to about the thoughts swirling around in her head. At the same time, she felt guilty and stupid for thinking them. Stupid because she really didn’t understand anything that was going on; Dipper and Grunkle Ford were the smart ones, she only understood a little bit and even then, it was only after Dipper explained it to her. Guilty because she knew she shouldn’t feel this way. It made her a bad person, but if she didn’t feel this way, then was she wrong for not? It made no sense.

“I’ve…oh man. I’ve been thinking. About Grunkle Stan.” She paused, placing her hands on her knees and rocking back and forth on the edge of her bed. “And Bill.”

He figured that was what was wrong. They both had been thinking of nothing but since Ford called them a few days before Thanksgiving. A whole month of worry and anxiety and frustration and quickly drying pools of resources. They had both been shooed out of the library for asking multiple times if the librarian had any more books on ghosts and possession and daemons and magic. They weren’t allowed to come until the beginning of the new year, and only then if their parents accompanied them. A whole month of reading pages and pages of religious text, ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics, Roman and Greek scrolls, Nordic Ruins and legends, Japanese youkai myths and African accounts of witchcraft. Nothing they had yet suggested of found had worked. Or Ford had shot it down. Mason was really wishing they hadn’t tossed the journals down the Bottomless Pit; they could really use some help.

Instead of letting his frustrations out, Mason just nodded and waited for Mable to continue. She was visibly anxious and kept eyeing the nightstand where the yellow googly eyes were sitting. It wasn't a good sign.

“What if…what if he is Bill. What if he’s Grunkle Stan and Bill?” Mason still ascribed to the theory that Stan’s mind had absorbed parts of Bill’s mind. Or that Bill had acquired Stan’s memories and had, in a sense, become Stan. Mable had rejected both theories. “What if you’re right? What do we really do? I don’t want to lose my Grunkle, Dipper. And Grunkle Ford won’t let him come back. And Ford can’t come back alone unless…” She didn’t finish the statement, but they both knew what Ford’s return would mean for Stan. “We’re losing them both. And I’m too stupid to help.”

Mason sighed. The chances of them figuring out a solution was getting pretty slim. He didn’t want to lose his Grunkles either. There had to be something, something they hadn’t thought of. Stan was, well, himself. As much as he could be personality wise. He was still Stan, even if he was really Bill (not that Mason believed that), but could that…be ok?

Would it really be different? He still acted like Stan. So, it wasn't like Stan was gone. He had all of Stan’s memories, all of his experiences. Weren’t those what made a person who they were? Weren’t memories and loved one and experiences the things that defined your personality, how you acted, how you thought? If Bill had those memories of Stan, had those experiences, would he be Stan? It was a question Mason had been asking himself after reading that science fiction novel where a guy uploads his mind into a robot. The guy’s body died, but his mind was still recorded in the mind of the robot. Didn’t that mean the robot was the guy? If the robot thought he was human – or at least, thought he had lived a human life – and had the same experiences and personality and memories as the person he used to be, wasn't he still that person? If Bill had all of Stan’s memories and thought he was Stan, would he not be Stan?

“What if he still has all the memories of Bill though. Can he be both? Have Stan’s memories and Bill’s? Or what if he just knows Stan’s memories but is still really Bill?” Mable pulled at her hair. This was a brain twister for him too. Mason didn’t want to think that Bill might just be referencing Stan’s memories like a book. He didn’t want to think that Stan was really gone. All the evidence pointed to Stan still being in there somehow. But, if he was really gone, what did that mean?

“Is…could we…forgive him? Bill, I mean.” Mason chewed his bottom lip as he asked; it was a long shot, but their parents had always taught them to forgive if someone was really sorry, no matter what they had done. Bill was a hard one to forgive, but could they do it? He didn’t seem to be hurting anyone anymore. Ford had told them of everything Bill had done so far. It was the end of December, and Bill was not a very patient being. At least, Mason didn’t think so.

Mable just frowned. “I don’t wanna. He doesn’t deserve to be forgiven.” Mabel kicked at the floor with her feet, toes catching the pile of drawings and spreading them further. They were all of people and creatures from Gravity Falls.

“You forgave Gideon.” Mason didn’t want to toss that in her face, but it was true. Gideon had started out as their enemy. She had tried to steal the deed to the Mystery Shack countless times. His own parents were afraid of him. Gideon had tried to destroy their family. While he hadn’t exactly tried to kill them (and Mason wasn't counting their first fall off a cliff), he had tried to do everything he could to tear apart their family. He’d even summoned Bill, twice. Gideon was not an easy person to forgive. But they had, in the end, they had and he was crucial for the zodiac wheel to work. It was a shame it hadn’t. If she could forgive Gideon, Bill couldn’t be that much harder. Not that he was all that ok with forgiving Gideon either, but he was just a kid like them. Power hungry, but still.

“Well, yeah, but, you never forgave Robbie.” Mason could tell she wanted to add a ‘so there’. And she was right, he hadn’t forgiven Robbie. Not really. Robbie was a jerk and he hadn’t treated Wendy well at all. And that wasn't just because Mason liked her, even Soos had commented on it once, but Wendy had just brushed it off. But she was tough, if anyone could take Robbie at his worst, then it had to be Wendy. But Robbie had changed. Being with Tambry had changed him; he was less moody, less of a jerk. He even wore something that wasn't black before they left. Mable had snapped a picture of him in a green t-shirt with ‘The Farfetched Oaf’ embossed on the front. Mason didn’t think he would ever be friends with Robbie, but, he could try to not be antagonistic.

“Not…yet. But I can try. Besides, he’s different now. Being with Tambry is good for him. And Gideon is making an effort to change too.” Mable still seemed unconvinced. “And what about Pacifica, she was talking about taking a job at the Greasy Dinner with Lazy Susan when we left. She’s really making an effort to change how she is.”

“Yeah. But the only reason they changed was because of Weirdmageddon and all the creepy supernatural things going on in Gravity Falls. Do you think that they would still be the way they were without that kind of trauma?” Mabel had a good point. Trauma can change a person, and not always for the better. It had with Gideon, Robbie and Pacifica, but…did that make it ok?

“Is it ok to like how someone changed to be good, even if they only changed because something really scary and bad happened to them? Am I a bad person for being ok with that?” It was obvious that this had been weighing in Mabel’s mind for a long while. She had told him about the Unicorns. She spent the whole day thinking she was a bad person and that she was irredeemable. But it wasn't true, she was good, even if she occasionally was selfish or did not entirely good things. She was, on the whole, a very kind person.

“No, Mabel, you’re not a bad person. Yes, people can change and sometimes they change because they go through something that’s horrible, but you aren’t a bad person for enjoying the benefits of someone who was a jerk to you, suddenly change for the better. They changed, that isn’t your fault.” Besides, if someone decided to start trying to be a better person, wasn't that batter for everyone?

“I still feel guilty though. Like, I should have tried to like them before they had a big life altering moment. I should have tried to forgive them before they were sorry. And that still doesn’t make forgiving Bill any easier. I know I should, especially if he’s sorry, but…a part of me wants him to feel as bad as I do.” Mable bit her lower lip again. “And we don’t know yet if it’s just a big scam. Grunkle Ford seems to think it is. What if we forgive him and he tricks us again?”

Could she work towards forgiving if the person showed they were worth it? Could they be redeemed? Could he? Was Bill worth the effort?

“Bill has done a lot of really terrible things.” Mason agreed. “I don’t know if I could. But is he redeemable? Could he change too, for the better?” He didn’t know the answer, and he didn’t really expect Mabel to have one either. If Stan was really Bill now, could that be ok? Maybe if Bill was on his own, like a floating triangle without any magic powers, Mason could try to find some value in him. All life had value, and everyone was capable of doing good, you just had to find a reason for them to want to. But If Bill had taken Stan, erased Stan in order to stay alive, Mason didn’t blame Mable at all for her hesitation.

Mable hugged herself. He could tell she was turning things over in her mind too. She wasn't stupid. He didn’t care if she didn’t understand the science behind all of it; she was the one that suggested a lot of interesting an plausible ideas that made a lot of sense with the evidence they had.

“Ok, I know this is gonna sound crazy, but, just, just hear me out ok?” Mabel held up her hands in a show of peace. There wasn't much more she could say that was crazy; they lived crazy, ate it for breakfast. She gulped and twiddled her thumbs, eyes flicking between her hands and the nightstand.

“What if, Stan is still, himself?” Mason didn’t understand. Stan was himself, until he wasn't. And that was the problem. They didn’t know if it was Bill and Stan, Stan with bits of Bill, or all Bill playing at being Stan. “I don’t understand what you mean. Of course, he’s still himself.” Mabel shook her head.

“No, what I mean is, what if he’s Bill and Stan? Like, what if they’re the same person?” Hadn’t that been what he had been saying? They had gone over this. Was she finally seeing what he meant? What was she playing at?

“Like Bill is still in there? Or that they co-exist in Stan’s mind?” Mason was just trying to figure out where her mind was. There were too many possibilities, and Ford’s prevailing theory was one neither twin wanted to accept.

“No, because that would be obvious by now.” She paused a moment. “What if Stan has always been Bill? Like, even when we met him at the bus stop. Or when he was a traveling salesman, or when he broke Grunkle Ford’s science project.”

That was something he hadn’t expected her to say. Nor did it entirely make sense the more he thought of it. At least, not a first. Either Bill was playing the longest waiting game of all time, or…

“In those books we were reading, I came across something called reincarnation. And it made me start to think if maybe…ya know. If Stan might be, had been, someone else. Before.” Mabel had hidden her mouth behind her knees and her voice came out muffled and garbled.

“You’re suggesting that Stan is Bill, reincarnated?” Mabel just hid her face completely. That was what she was saying. But how? How would that have happened? And why? What would have caused that? The last any of them had seen of Bill was an astral form entering Stan’s mind. None of them knew what transpired between Stan and Bill in the final moments before Ford used the memory gun. And if that was the case, how would that work time wise? Blender, or whatever, had warned them about doing things in the past that might change the future. If Bill and Stan existed at the same time, how could Stan be Bill reincarnated? Unless the timeline was folded, but that was impossible, surely at least improbable.

“You’re right, it’s stupid.” No, it wasn't, not if time could be folded. Mason might need to learn some physics for this one.

“Not, completely. It might plausible. I mean, Stan and Bill do share a lot of characteristics. I just don’t know enough about spacetime and time-travel to know for sure. Man, I almost wish we could talk to Time Baby. Or that Belvin guy.” Mason reached for a notebook and started sketching out a possible timeline that would explain their current problem.

“Yeah, but Stan’s not mean like Bill was. I don’t know what I was thinking.” Mabel laughed nervously, eyes trained on the yellow eyes she colored. Mason set aside the notebook, stood, and walked over to the nightstand. With a quick sweep, he dumped the googly eyes in the drawer and closed it. Mable hid her face behind her knees again as he sat down beside her[CJ2] .

The ramifications of Stan being Bill, really being Bill, was starting to make his head spin. Unleashing Weirdmageddon on Gravity Falls, turning the townspeople to stone, driving people to insanity, tormenting Grunkle Ford for years. Heck, they were lucky no one had died, but Mason supposed Bill hadn’t really been trying to kill anyone; where would be the fun in that? But if Stan was Bill, what did that mean for them? The question was out before he really had time to think about it.

“Could you love him?” Mason didn’t know if he had the courage to look at Mabel’s reaction. Her voice was enough to tell him his question had hurt.

“But he’s not!” Her voice was watery, she was going to cry again. He didn’t like making his sister cry, but, well…she was the one that brought it up, and he honestly didn’t know what his own answer would be. And it was obvious she believed it to be true. It wouldn’t be this hard to accept if she didn’t. But that meant that Stan had been a really bead person. He dropped his chin into his hands, elbows resting on his knees.

“For the sake of argument.” He eyed fox Stan still sitting on his bed across from him. The light reflecting off his shiny plastic eyes. It felt time it was watching him. Mason shivered. Mabel was rocking back and forth beside him.

“I, don’t know. My head wants to say yes, but my heart keeps doing flip-flops.” She fisted her hands in her nightgown. The shirt was getting pretty threadbare; it was one of dad’s old ones from college. He had gone to some computer convention back in the early nineties and got a free t-shirt with a 3/5 floppy drive on it. Whenever she had sleepovers, Mabel had to explain what it was; most kids didn’t know.

“I want to. I really, really want to. But, I don’t know if I can. I mean. That would mean he did a lot of really bad things. Like, really, really bad. Like hurting people on purpose and liking it, bad. Like making people think they were crazy and killing them, bad.” There were tears in Mabel’s eyes now. Mason could tell that she was being as honest as she could. “But Grunkle Stan would never do anything like that. I know he wasn't always the best he could be, but he’s not evil Dipper!” Mable had uncurled and clung to his arm. She sounded desperate. She needed him to confirm her statement. He nodded.

Mason had to concede to that. Stan was definitely on the moral low ground and was on the wrong side of the law more often than not, but Mable was right, Stan wasn't evil. And certainly not evil like Bill. If Stan was Bill, then what changed? How could he be so different? This was a theory he hadn’t considered before; if they wanted to narrow down the possibilities, they needed to explore this fully.

“If Stan really is Bill, and has always been Bill, then why hasn’t he said anything. Why didn’t he warn Ford not to summon him in the future? He would know, right?” Mason was more thinking aloud now, he didn’t expect Mabel to answer him.

“Maybe, he forgot? When I was reading, the Buddhist Monks believed that you forget all of your pervious life in order to fully embrace the new one. Or maybe it had something to do with changing your perceptions on life to correct the mistakes you made before. I don’t know for sure. We returned that one a while ago.” Mable slumped back down on the bed and sprawled out on her back, feet hanging off the side.

It was definitely a plausible theory the more he thought on it. It would explain some things, but not everything. “Ok, then how does he have magic? Did he always, or did it just now manifest?” Mable was quick with an answer.

“He could have been hiding it.” She crawled up the bed and dropped down on her pillow with an audible ‘poof’, a few feathers flying away to dance in the air.

“No way could Grunkle Stan keep that a secret.” Mason crossed his arms.

“He kept Grunkle Ford a secret, and the portal.” She tugged the blanket out from under him and covered herself with it. This is not the time to go to bed, Mabel!

“Yeah, but Ford said he makes thing appear even when he’s not trying.” Mason turned to face her, not ready to let the topic go just yet.

“Ok, well, maybe they’re new. Maybe he got them when he reunited with his past self.” She yawned and let her head fall face first into the down pillow. Mason paused. What if Stan had gotten his memories back after Weirdmageddon? Mason didn’t think he had. If Stan had remembered being Bill, of doing the things he had done as Bill, then he wouldn’t be acting like everything was normal. Mabel had said that Stan wasn't evil. If Stan had regained his memories of being Bill, then he would be in a state of existential crisis. He would be questioning everything he knew, everything he was and everything he believed in. He wouldn’t be as calm as he was. He would be scared, trying to make up for it. Stan had opened the door on Soos once, nearly broke the handyman’s nose. Soos had said he was fine and that it was ok, but Stan was obviously distraught. He had been verbally flippant about the matter, but Soos had gotten free ice-cream, invited to dinner and got a whole Pizza to himself, and Stan promised to spend an afternoon teaching Soos how to box. When Stan did something he perceived as wrong – and hurting people was one of the big ones – it always tore him up.

“That would explain why he had more knowledge.” Mason was still skeptical. There was no way of knowing for sure until they asked him what he remembered about being Bill, if he remembered.

“But that doesn’t answer my question. Could you still love him, knowing that he has done such terrible things?”

Mable sighed, half her face buried in her pillow and looking up at Mason through one eye.

“I want to. Do you?” She voice was quiet, but not because she was tired. She didn’t know his answer, and she wasn't sure if she wanted to know. Just in case it wasn't something she could be okay with. But Dipper was her brother, she would be okay with whatever he decided. If that meant he couldn’t love Grunkle Stan anymore, then she would just have to love him twice as much to make up for it. She just hoped that she could. She wanted to. She very much wanted to. He smiled at her, and brushed her hair behind her ear.

“Yes. I think that’s good enough for now.”

They both went to bed that night, not with the excitement of the coming holiday as other children might have, but with the anxiety of a moral quandary that was their Grunkle Stan. If he was Bill Cipher – and had always been – could they still love him knowing all the bad things he had done? Dipper had told her that he wanted to. Stan might not remember being Bill, and thus would not remember all the bad things he had done. Can someone be held responsible for wrongs that they didn’t remember doing? Accountable, yes. But, hadn’t Bill already been held accountable for his actions? He’d been reborn and had forgotten everything. He started again. A clean slate.

But Mable could tell Dipper was trying to convince himself as much as he was trying to convince her. They both knew that there was a lot of Grunkle Stan’s history that they didn’t know. Well, that they weren’t supposed to know anyway. Dipper and Mabel had seen a lot of things in Stan’s mind that they hadn’t talked about with anyone else. Grunkle Stan had had a hard life.

Dipper wrote about some innocuous things in the journal. Like Stan wearing Groucho glasses to his Bar Mitzvah, going door to door selling vacuums, and eating cereal out of a box on his birthday in a motel room, Stan’s marriage – and soon after, divorce – to Marilyn and her attempts to steal his car, and the empty swing set on the beach. But they had booth seen a lot more. Stan’s life was filled with so many bumps and roadblocks and sharp turns and pot holes, they were surprised he had lived long enough to make it to sixty.

There had been some happy memories. Winning a red frog stuffed animal from a skeet ball came and rushing home to give it to someone. Dancing with a brown-haired teen Dipper assumed was Carla Macorkle. Lots of memories of a half-finished boat and a beach with someone Mabel couldn’t quite make-out. Sitting in a hotel room holding and cooing over a two-year-old while someone was in the shower.

They had also seen what he did to get by. Dipper had seen Stan at a street corner wearing lots of tight leather and accepting money from someone for a “good time”. He hadn’t stayed to watch what that meant. Mabel had seen Stan sleeping in his car under an overpass hoping the gang fight across the way would just go away and not notice he was there. Dipper saw Stan covertly handover papers to a guy with white powder under his nose and a pocket full of little candy like pills.

Mabel had seen Stan enter a men’s bathroom stall with another man. Soos – or maybe it was Bill by then – had closed the door quickly and shook his head.

They were young, but they weren’t stupid. They knew what those fleeting images meant, even if they hadn’t made sense out of context at that moment.

Stan had done things with people for money. Mable had read enough romance novels with Grenda and Candy to know what that entailed. Stan had done things for people who sold drugs. Dipper remembered the “just say no” campaign at school to know how dangerous that work had been.

No, If Stan really was Bill, he didn’t need to do anything else to repent. He had suffered enough. Mason fell asleep clutching fox Stan tightly.

Chapter 1

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