I am so sorry I wrote this.

I don't own Gravity Falls.

Reviews are love.

Mabel hasn't ever felt a greater need to cry in her life than she does as she watches the two people she loves more than anything in the world arguing over that shutdown button. Stan's face broadcasts such desperation that if it were up to her, she knows straightaway she would give him the benefit of the doubt. Which is why, to some degree, she is so glad it's not up to her, at least not entirely. She's been told she's too nice. Too trusting. She gave the Gremloblin a five-minute break, for Pete's sake. Dipper has a more objective and logical outlook on things; it's good that he's here.

Only… even after she reasons through all this, when she takes another look at her grunkle's expression her resolve comes crumbling down. Tears prick at her eyes. She just wants there to be time for them to sit down as a family and put everything out in the open, but there isn't, and Stan is approaching them slowly and cautiously, and oh gosh she has never seen him look so vulnerable. The fear in his eyes is palpable; can't Dipper see that?

She wants to speak up for Stan, but Dipper's so angry, screaming at their grunkle in all the righteous fury he can muster—but she knows him well enough to realize that underneath it all, more than anything, he feels betrayed. He just wants answers. It's just that there's no time.

She begrudgingly has to admit to herself that it's because Stan gave them no time. What they've learned today gives them so many reasons to doubt the man but she's not ready to stop trusting him. Everything they've been through together over the summer has given them ample arguments against that, right? Despite everything, Mabel has no doubt that Stan loves them. Anyone who loved anyone wouldn't mastermind the end of the world.

But Dipper is her brother.

She can't take a side. She can't. She just wants them to stop, she wants Stan to be forthright and Dipper to be understanding, she wants them to be a family.

But she also wants the world to keep turning.

Her head hurts, tears are stinging her eyes, and she feels sick to her stomach. And suddenly, Stan's watch is beeping and the ground is falling away beneath her feet, and in the very last moment before he drifts out of reach, Dipper makes a decisive swipe at the button.

Stan's scream of "NO!" is the most primal, desperate, terrified sound Mabel has heard in her entire life.

Mabel's vision goes white, and then she is burning alive. Everything is too much. The constant ringing in her ears, Stan's scream echoing and overlapping to the point where she's not sure she's still hearing it in real time, the spikes being driven through her skin, the ice that encases her body even as it burns. Her heart has never worked so hard in her life and she dimly wonders, in the part of her mind that can still think, whether Dipper actually missed the button and this is what dying feels like.

And just like that, it's gone. Her senses snap back to normality and a ragged gasp tears out of her, her breath hitching violently as her body hits the concrete floor, all its weight coming down on her shoulder. And she's so glad, because pain means she's still alive, and for a moment she just lies there, breathing hard, savoring the taste of the air.

The basement is a wreck. It looks like—well, it looks like an entire hidden floor of science equipment has just been tossed in the air and dropped down again in no particular order by some careless force, that's what it looks like. Debris is everywhere, the portal is in shambles, dust permeates the air…

She braces her hands against the floor and pushes herself shakily up to a sitting position, calling weakly, "Dipper?"

"Right here," comes a mumbled voice from behind her, and she turns as fast as she can, though her shoulder screams in protest. He's on his hands and knees two feet away, and she leans forward and grabs him, pulling him close, not bothering to hold back tears, because she doesn't have the faintest idea what's just happened—she just knows she'd never been so scared. She feels him wrapping his arms around her with just as much desperation.

She doesn't pull away, but all her muscles lock in place, and she feels Dipper freezing up too, when the sound of Stan's voice reaches them. Mabel is painfully aware that Dipper can see him over her shoulder. Slowly, cautiously, as if looking without warning could still put the world back on the brink of destruction, she relinquishes her hold on her brother and turns around.

Stan is still on the ground. He's pulled himself up so he's sort of sitting on his knees, but he's leaned over the ground, gaze fixed on the frame of the portal. His forearms are braced against the cold floor, his fists balled up, but there's no energy or purpose in the position. His fez is askew and one of the lenses has popped out of his glasses. There's something in his eyes that she's never seen before in anyone. And his lips are moving.

Fresh tears are still streaming down Mabel's face as she stares openly at Stan, willing him to look at them, and most of all to forgive them for whatever it is they've just done.

He doesn't move, except to reach up and rub a hand down his face, fingers bent into claws, adjusting it when it reaches his chin in order to cover his mouth. But whatever he's saying, he's still saying it. His eyes are enormous and strangely blank.

Mabel takes her hand off Dipper's shoulder, not looking at him, trying not to think about how he is the one directly responsible for making Stan look like he's about to fall apart. And she starts to inch her way towards him, crawling carefully on her hands and knees, each movement thoroughly premeditated as she attempts to avoid cutting herself open on any debris.

As she draws close enough to hear what her grunkle is saying, she starts to see how his shoulders are heaving, every other inhale an aborted sob. Whatever he's saying, it's one word he's repeating over and over, and it varies in clarity with each time he releases it, but finally Mabel is able to identify the word as "Stanford."

She doesn't know what it is about emotional duress that makes people so prone to touch their own faces, but as she sits back on her feet, she reaches up, hands trembling, and covers her own mouth. "Grunkle Stan?" she whispers, because she knows if she gave her full voice to the locution it would break.

Stan doesn't move to acknowledge her in the slightest, only puts his head down and continues his litany. What is frightening her most is he's not even trying to put on the careless, self-assured front he always has on, or maybe it was always real, she just doesn't know anymore.

Dipper comes to stand behind her. She doesn't turn, but she knows his footfalls. After a moment, he tries, "Stan?"

Nothing.

After several seconds of quiet, the only sounds in the air the faint crackling of a dying machine and the soft whimpering of their grunkle, she says quietly, horror and fear dawning over her, "He's saying his own name. Over and over and over."

Several seconds pass, and the voice of her brother behind her ventures, "That's probably not his name, Mabel."

Mabel whirls her head around to face him, eyes wide, and Dipper actually takes a step back. "How can you say that?" she demands, and this time her voice does crack. "You still think he's been lying to us all this time?" She roughly wipes at the tears that are by now dripping down her chin, and then throws her hand out in a demonstrative gesture towards their unresponsive grunkle. "Look at him!"

Dipper does, and the uncertainty in his eyes is more than obvious. But he responds fairly promptly: "Either he's not really Stan, or he's saying his own name. A liar or a madman. Take your pick."

She knows that if she just let herself think it through, she'd find that he's right. But she's not a thinker; that's Dipper. She's a feeler. And she can't believe he'd speak so callously about the man who assured him that he didn't have to be physically strong to be a man, who risked his life to save Waddles, who did everything he could to take care of them even when his home was wrenched away from him.

Mabel, just about done with talking about him like he's not right there, even though in some sense, it seems that he's not, whirls back to Stan and grasps his shoulders, calling through her veil of tears, "Stan! Stan, please, talk to us! What just happened?"

Even though she knows that whatever the answer is, it doesn't matter.

Stan won't look at her.

Soos is stirring across the room, apparently having hit his head and been conked out for a few minutes. In all honesty, she completely forgot about his presence, and she still can't bring herself to go check on him if it means leaving Stan.

"Please, Grunkle Stan," she begs, voice trembling. "Please look at me. I'm sorry. We're sorry. Please…"

"Dudes?" Soos asks vaguely, rubbing his head. "What happened?"

Suddenly the sound of many boot-clad footfalls upon the wooden floor above them draws all their eyes upwards—with the notable exception of Stan. For several seconds they all just hold still, not quite daring to breathe, until Dipper draws in a steady breath and observes grimly, "It's the agents."

Something in his tone causes new panic to blossom inside Mabel, and she quickly fixes her terrified gaze on him. In his eyes she sees exactly what she hoped not to see, and she springs to her feet, placing herself between Dipper and Stan, arms stretched protectively to the sides. "No way. We're not turning him in."

"What he did today is dangerous, Mabel—he's dangerous. And they're already here. It's not like we can hide him, or any of this. They'll find it eventually. We've put enough on the line for him today. He needs… he needs to be tried."

"Dipper, he's our grunkle!" The waterworks just will not stop. "Look at what we've done to him! Why should he have to answer to the law? Isn't this enough punishment?"

"Anyone else, Mabel!" he cries in disbelief. "If anyone else had tried to end the world and we managed to stop them, would you be saying 'Let's let them go free, they've been through enough for the day'?"

She balls up her fists, and they grew up together but she has never felt a stronger urge to strangle him than right now. "There is. So much. About this. We don't know."

Soos is stumbling in their direction now, unmasked bewilderment and the beginning stages of panic on his face, and as he draws very near he opens his mouth but closes it again, appearing very uncertain of what to say. Finally, "Is Mr. Pines okay?"

"I really don't think he is," Mabel says bitterly. Her first round of tears is starting to make her cheeks feel clammy.

In the pause that follows, they all become aware of the silence absolutely encasing them. It sounds wrong. For a blank moment Mabel can't figure out why.

Then a single voice rings out from above them: "I think I heard something downstairs."

Sound erupts yet again on the ground floor, and Mabel can practically hear death knells ringing in her ears as she grabs Stan's arm and pulls with all her might, crying, "Grunkle Stan, we have to go! Get up! Please!"

Stan's unseeing eyes are trained on the concrete floor before him.

"Grunkle Stan! Come on! You gotta get up!" Snot is escaping her nose now and she rubs her sleeve roughly on it and tries to go back to begging but she can't even speak through her blubbering anymore and Stan doesn't seem aware of any part of what's happening and while she knows they have to get moving she doesn't know where and just like that it is completely and irrevocably over.

Armored footfalls echo like approaching thunder and it's not Soos' bewildered weeping as the room floods with suits that sends her past the point of reason or hope, it's not Stan's maintained glassy expression and utter lack of resistance as he's hauled to his feet and cuffed, it's not understanding that her grunkle has lost the will to be free, it's not remembering that her twin brother whom she thought she could trust is in large part responsible for this, it's not his outward apathy as he stands aside so as not to inconvenience the agents, it's not even seeing how Stan doesn't even look back as he's shoved out of sight—it's the realization that she is probably never, for as long as she lives, however terrifying that potential length seems now, going to know why.

Nothing is the same after that day.

It takes three weeks for their parents to stop asking about what happened. The FBI guys assume their uncooperativeness is due to some trauma and assign them a counselor to come by on a weekly basis. They don't even make it through the first session before it becomes clear that Mabel isn't going to say a word with her brother in the room, and a second counselor is assigned so they can be "treated" separately.

Neither of them tells their respective government goons anything of import, and it's not by any sort of active agreement. There is, quite simply, nothing to be said.

Sometimes, Mabel asks after Stan. Her counselor, a kindly silver-haired woman, usually says she's not privy to or at liberty to disclose any relevant information, and then uses it as a segue to try to get Mabel to talk about how awful a man her great uncle was—is—but sometimes she'll say something vague and conciliatory like "I hear he's doing well," and Mabel knows that she has absolutely no idea.

She also knows that Stan is never going to open up about what that portal was going to do.

None of them deserves to know anyway.

The world starts to lose the brightness she's always seen it by. In fact, she knew by the time they returned to Piedmont that this new gloom wasn't going to go away. She's experienced days when the world seemed less beautiful than it should have been, sometimes without any readily apparent reason, but it's never been as bad as now, and at least before she always had Dipper to help get her smiling again.

Dipper's attempts to initiate communication are few and far between. Sometimes she can almost feel his vague, confused guilt, but it's not like it means anything. For the most part, he keeps his distance. He leaves her alone. She guesses she's glad.

She can't even look at him anymore.

Nobody tells her anything, and she tells nobody anything. Something deep within her tugs at her, telling her she needs to return to Gravity Falls, but there is nothing there for her anymore. People say she needs to move on and she agrees, but you can't move on without closure, and she has absolutely no means by which to achieve it. Sometimes she wonders if she should try to reconcile with Dipper or at least talk to him, but she no longer quite understands how human relationships are supposed to work, or at the very least, she doesn't trust that he does. Sometimes she wonders how Soos is doing, but she can easily extrapolate the answer, and she's never glad she thought about it. She is caught in the middle of a web of feelings and secrets and loose threads dangling just out of reach, being pulled in no direction in particular, and as a result, she often feels nothing.

As the darkness closes in, she wonders if this is what it's like for Stan.

Not that that matters either.