A/N: This story is an AU (alternate universe) fic. Mabel and Dipper are orphans/foster children, who've bounced from home to home, before suddenly ending up in the Shack of a certain con man. WARNING: This will contain scenes and flashbacks of child abuse. Read at your own risk. If you want something more family-oriented, try Grunkles to the Rescue, it's especially feelsy. This fic has a lot of angst. Maybe too much angst but I don't care because I'm fearless.

For returning readers: Mystery Twins is currently undergoing a rewrite. I will be uploading some of the favorite scenes in the old chapters sometime soon due to requests for it, but I will not upload the entirety of the old fic. That's a lotta chapters in my doc manager. For any fanart, spin-off fics, Macaroni art, what-have-you etc that you'd like to share, it can be submitted to mystery-twins-fanart on tumblr!

Here's to the hopes to a successful story!

Hoping to update every other Tuesday. C:

Stan had never viewed himself as very. Kid-oriented, for lack of a better word.

He'd caught sight of a few of them running around his shop before. They seemed to love roaming into places they shouldn't, touching things that didn't belong to them, and crying about money and the "scary" statues Stan constructed, along with other inane things that went in one ear and out the other. But to care for a kid? Stan could never see himself doing it, not even once, even if money was on the line. And that in itself said a lot.

His only knowledge about the little gremlins was that they slobbered, left toys everywhere, and cried endlessly. He figured you probably fed them or something. But he couldn't quite say he had any type of first-hand experience, since Wendy was far from a child, and Soos probably didn't count as a valid example.

Who the hell would even want kids, Stan figured every time he watched an exasperated parent carry off a crying child in the middle of what he regarded as a category 10 tantrum. They were noisy and messy and hard to control. Ford had once written a page within his journey about the mysteries of toddlers, but had ripped it up after saying it was in "bad taste". Stan disagreed, figuring it was pretty on-the-nose. Kids were weird, and almost like an end-all for any possible social life.

Stan had never had an interest in the settled down life with the dog and the white picket fence, because then he couldn't run from the Feds.

He had his job in the Mystery Shack, content with wringing money out of the clueless population of tourists, and savoring the life with a stack of bills in his suit pocket. It was a life he preferred, and had hoped to get to live 'til the end of his days.

So on that bright Sunday morning, the beginning of summer with the evident warmth flooding the forest in slanted rays of sunlight and an excessive amount of gnomes, he felt completely unprepared with the sudden suited woman showing up at his doorstep unannounced.

She knocked with an urgency Stan usually saw in exasperated camp counselors, and as he hefted his wooden bat in one hand, he used the other to peer through the curtains of the kitchen's window, trying to catch a glimpse of the mysterious stranger. Suits usually meant someone wanting money or some kinda retribution for a past illegal activity, and Stan was used to forcing himself to be careful.

But the Suit didn't quit. After twenty minutes of incessant doorbell-ringing and knocks on his window and once even a call-"I know you're in there, Mr. Pines!"- Stan felt he had no choice but to answer.

He cracked open the front door, carefully displaying his bat casually against his shoulder. The Suit didn't look fazed, but he didn't dare look like he was threatening her. He'd had bad experiences with that before. "Uh...hey." He glanced at the stuffed folder in her hand, before looking back towards his empty home. "Uh, Mr. Pines ain't here, I'm his...twin."

"Oh, I know it's you, Mr. Pines!" The Suit declared, pushing herself forward with a cheery grin. Dark hair draped over her shoulders like waves, framing a heart-shaped face and bright hazel eyes, and god, Stan was already annoyed.

"You a girl scout?" He gruffly snapped, moving his bat off to lean against the wall. The Suit shook her head, tapping fingers against her folder like a rapid pianist. He noted the bandaid crossed over a nasty looking scratch on her hand.

"No, actually. You're Stanford Pines, owner of the Mystery Shack, correct?"

"Depends on who's asking."

The woman threw her head back and laughed, as if Stan had told the joke of the century. "Well, I'll take it as a yes! You've got a case, Mr. Pines! We're so sorry we forgot about you, but I promise it won't happen again, and now that our population has been rising, it sure will help having another home around the vicinity-"

"Whoa, stop right there." Stan tracked the woman's eyes, wondering if he was being pranked, but her crooked smile stubbornly remained. Nobody jumped out of the bushes to shove him in a sack. Tentatively, he ventured on the probability this was serious. "What do you mean a home?"

The girl's smile grew considerably faker. "A foster home, of course!"

And on she went. An endless chatter of information Stan couldn't follow but could pick out enough words from. Home, foster children, a pair of twins, money, money, food, twins, a week, the whole summer, twins, twins. Twins?!

"And you're tellin' me this now?!" Stan felt like a dump truck had plowed straight through the Shack. He was already picturing grubby-handed children breaking his things and eating his food. He was already praying for mercy from a God he didn't believe in.

The Suit seemed to finally have the audacity to look uneasy. She lifted a page from her file and reluctantly looked back up to the house for confirmation before giving a weary sigh so out of character, Stan felt a little impressed by her spiel. Instead of bubbly and bright and intrusive, she looked old and tired. "I apologize. These kids were just picked up last night. It was a long stretch of settling the matter and having the nurses administer stitches to the boy. We just want them in a home while we sort out all the legal issues."

Stitches. Stan felt his stomach drop at those implications, but he didn't voice his concerns. "I was never told I was even in the system."

"You fell to the bottom of the records," the Suit replied, her response almost robotic. "And we only became aware that you're an adoptive household due to a rather nosy intern. But we did call and confirm validation. Unfortunately, the database has changed and we might need new records on your state of housing, but given the circumstances right now, we're willing to put the examination off temporarily."

"I don't recall confirming." Stan could feel the walls closing in.

"I beg to differ." The Suit pulled up another page, clearing her throat before scanning it. "May 31st, 6:48 PM, you confirmed you were indeed running as a valid foster home, but that you didn't have children registered in. You agreed for any future placements. The audio was recorded back at the office. I can get it for you if you'd like?"

Stan felt he knew whose voice would be in that recording. "Nah, it's fine," he grumbled, his mouth dry. "What were you saying...about them being twins?"

"Oh, they come from a long line of placements." The Suit's tone took of idly discussing the weather. "Never been apart except for one day, but we definitely didn't try that again. It's been happening since their first home after their biological father. He's gone rampant, so there's a low chance of them ever returning to his care. And I know I had hinted this would be overnight..."

"Because it will be," Stan snapped through gritted teeth.

"But...we were hoping two months."

"No way!" Stan spluttered, appalled at the thought of kids running around his home for sixty whole days. So many hours. So much money and effort and food wasted. "That's saying I'll be having kids in my home all summer! Summer's a busy season, lady. My shop bursts to the seams around this time of year!"

"I understand your business may interfere, but we can't let it affect your care completely," the Suit stated, unperturbed. Despite the lack of a snotty expression, Stan knew she felt she was going to win. "If it comes to that, we may ask you shut down your business for a temporary time."

"During the busiest day of the season?!" He was going to have a stroke right where he stood.

"Children are the priority," the Suit evenly spoke.

There was no choice. He was stuck with kids he didn't want. He would've slammed the door in the Suit's face if the details of stitches and inevitable twins hadn't reached him. He closed his eyes for a split second, mustering up all the shreds of patience he could possibly have left after years of handling shady tourists.

"...do I get money?"

The next day, the Shack was far more harried than usual. Stan was forced to shut down tours for the day and he cursed the loss of money, but he took advantage of the free time to get the house decently presentable for the incoming gremlins.

He had two days before the twins would leave the hospital to come live in the Shack. Stan had never housed children, but he used Soos for proper opinions on bed comfort and food choices. A cot and a full-sized bed stolen from a garage sale were moved to the attic. One of the kids apparently had a mild allergy to dust, and Stan set up doing more cleaning than he'd done in a lifetime. He nearly forgotten how to hold a mop.

The Shack was clean, but it felt wrong. As if the trepidation of housing new residents hung in the atmosphere itself, and Stan hated it. For a semblance of balance, he scattered cola cans around the place to help with his intended dishevelment before retreating towards the gift shop.

Soos was busy attempting to fix a lightbulb and Wendy sat at the register for any customers who needed a drink or gas or a sense of purpose. She was meticulously building a tower out of toothpicks, so focused on her work, she barely glanced Stan's way.

"No questions!" Stan barked, scaring Wendy enough to where her craft went tumbling all over the counter. "Any of you got clothes suited for kids?"

"For kids?" Wendy swept the toothpicks off onto the floor, looking mildly annoyed at being interrupted. "Why? You making another lame attraction?"

"Cut the sass. I became a foster home buried under the bin." Stan stuck to abrupt answers, shifting a little figurine on the counter to busy his hands. "I've got kids coming in and I gotta clothe them and feed them or whatever you do with kids."

Unfortunately, his words seems to create enough of an impact, because he saw Wendy's eyes light up in a way he'd never seen them. "Really?" She sat up, fully interested as Soos peered down from his work. "Dude, that's awesome! Never took you as a fostering guy."

"Never signed up for it." Stan curtly replied, hating the stares he was receiving. "You got anything or am I wasting my time here?"

"I might," Wendy said, looking thoughtful. "But...it's probably just a pile of flannel."

"Try the Lost and Found, Mr. Pines!" Soos suggested, pointing to the lone box in the corner of the room. "A lot of kids leave their sweaters and it all goes in there. And there's that one kid who always leaves his shoes here. He lives life on the edge."

Stan approached the box and dug through the array of clothes mingled with dust bunnies. He pulled up a collection of old ugly sweaters only a grandma would admire on her kid, and a blue puffy vest with a soda stain on the collar. He could throw the things in the washer and hope for the best. "This'll have to do," he muttered, gathering the clothing and heading back into the house.

"He's gonna teach those kids how to pick locks and hotwire cars and lift things from the shops," Wendy mused once Stan left, as she picked up a toothpick and poked at her teeth. "It's dumb."

"Why so?" Soos carefully changed the angle of the lightbulb and tried again.

"'Cause I wanted to know that stuff, but Stan said he never had the time to deal."

"Stan doesn't have time for much," Soos reminded evenly, trying to screw in the bulb in the opposite direction.

"Then why the hell is he fostering kids?" Wendy paused, before giving a short huff. She lazily kicked her feet onto the counter, folding her arms behind her head and nearly knocking her ushanka crooked. She let the tension leave her body, taking on a typical relaxed attitude. "Whatever. I could care less."

"That's the spirit!" Soos declared, now aligning the light bulb and slipping his hammer from his tool belt.

"I just hope they can play cards," Wendy stated, ignoring the shattering of glass and the inevitable scream as Soos tipped off the ladder. "I could use the company."

There were so many trees.

Mabel couldn't quite remember if she'd seen that many trees in one place before. She could vaguely recall, once, going to a zoo during one of the foster homes housing more than just her and Dipper, but at that occurrence, there had only been a few clusters of trees. She'd been so fascinated by the bright green leaves and splashes of color against dark oak branches that felt so coarse and interesting, she hadn't paid attention to the animals. She'd been slapped that day, for "wasting money."

Even then. She'd never seen this many trees.

An endless plain of green rolled past and instead of fascinating her, it made her feel sick. Instead of looking like it'd be fun to play in, she felt a deep rooted sense of being hopelessly terrified in her gut, and she locked her gaze back on the car seat in front of her.

There was never much to do between transports. Talking brought up unwanted conversations. Her foster workers, seated in both driver and shotgun seats, were too risky to speak with. And Dipper...

Dipper's head sat in her lap, his brown curly locks splayed out around his face. His eyes were shut, and she kept a single hand on his chest to monitor his breathing. For once, in their entire lifetime, they were moving without the comfort of one another.

Dipper had been fast asleep since they left the hospital, and the foster workers scolded her if she so much as whispered to him. The nurse had said he needed his rest, that in order for a full recovery, he'd be sleeping a while, but Mabel felt a little worried regardless. Dipper would fight through bears and bullies and Russian roulette for her, surely the haziness of sleep couldn't bring her tough and rough brother down.

Although...perhaps it could.

She longed to hear his voice, to hear his reassurances that they'd be alright and his promises of a better life. He always brought it up. The idea of running away from whatever foster home they were shoved into, to live in the wild cities or calming towns or winding highways with just each other. Brother and sister. Twin brother and sister, content with each other's company. They'd almost done it, once, but a bad snowfall had pushed their plan away like one of the fragile snowflakes in the roaring winter winds.

Tears hung on Mabel's lashes, blurring her vision momentarily. It was a routine, she'd found. Being stuck in a bumpy car, her and Dipper's duffels at her feet, trapped at the mercy of two social workers who didn't know how bad a home really was until something caught on fire. Unlike the other times, however, this ride was silent.

Normally, Dipper would be the one to quickly diffuse any fears she held about the new home. The nagging idea in the back of her mind refused to leave her alone.

"In the next home, they might forget us!" She'd declared the first time Dipper had voiced his concern on her broody attitude. "What if we get lost in the system like Joshua did?"

"Joshua was different," Dipper had replied, rubbing his cheek in his nervous habit, but that rumor in itself had never been confirmed. Joshua had only been marked as a "weird" kid, one who rocked endlessly in the corner of one of their past homes, a complete loner and outsider that nobody liked. According to the rumors, Joshua had been left behind in an abusive home for years, with his case workers too caught up with other kids to remember him. They'd rescued him eventually, but by then, Joshua had stopped talking. He went feral with any kid within five feet of him. Joshua had been the only kid Mabel didn't try to make friends with.

"It could happen," Mabel had always reminded, and the conversation would always happen, because they were always going to move. The twins quit letting their guard down years ago when it came to new homes. Sometimes it took a while, but eventually, things went downhill, in either a slow tumble of events, or rapidfire. Beatings or neglect seemed like a constant in every home, and Mabel wondered if it was some type of weird requirement to even be a home.

The car bumped, and Dipper's head jarred to the side. Frantically, Mabel held onto him, keeping him still, a small whine escaping her as she hugged him close. His bandaged leg, stretched out and pushed against the seat, slipped to the edge and she carefully shifted him into what she hoped was a more comfortable position. She wanted reassurances now more than ever.

Uneasily, she turned her attention to the foster workers obliviously rocking out to pop music she'd never had the time to recognize. She wanted a distraction, but she felt more than a little afraid as to what the consequences would be. Sometimes her workers made her laugh and gave her assurances, but other times, they couldn't care less. Mabel lifted a hand ever so slightly, cradling her brother as one of the workers seemed to notice.

"Quit jostling him," she snapped, and Mabel startled at the coarse voice directed towards her. Mabel ducked her head to avoid eye contact, instead locking her gaze onto her brother's tranquil expression.

She could still feel the worker's eyes on her. Somehow, breathing evenly felt harder, and Mabel sat as still as she could make herself.

"You oughta be thankful!" The worker called back, shooting a brilliant smile layered with fake amiability. Painstakingly slow, Mabel lifted her eyes, just as a cue to show she was listening. "Living it up in the woods, with all this open space. Guy's an entrepreneur! You'll love this home."

But they'd said that about the last one. And the one before that. And the one before that.

The twins had become so used to the false statements, they'd grown to let the talk go in one ear and out the other. Which meant valuable information mixed with lies completely passed them, and punishment was inevitable. Not like it mattered. After a while, it stopped hurting.

Mabel swallowed, struggling to clear the dryness in her throat before she continued. "Where is it, exactly?"

"Gravity Falls, Oregon!" The response was from the other caseworker, whose eyes thankfully remained on the road. "Right smack in the middle of the woods!"

Mabel held her brother tighter, his hair tickling her chin. She felt her brother trembling, and through the haze of quiet reassurances, it took a moment for her to realize the tremors were actually coming from her. Being in the woods meant missing from the radar, and being so far out of the way, neighbors would never get to report.

"One way to disappear forever," an older foster kid had once mentioned to the twins over an unappetizing lunch, "is to be in a home so damn far out, everyone forgets you exist."

That statement in itself had kept Mabel from sleeping for weeks.

This was bad. Really really bad.

"Dipper..." Mabel's whisper was hoarse, as if it pained her to speak. Her voice was lost to the caseworkers as they sang to the radio. The car jerked, a duffel flipping it onto its side and spilling it's contents at her feet. "...are we gonna die?"

Of course, she got no answer. She felt the tears sting, her nose clogging with the inevitability of sobbing outright. Harshly, she fought it away, hugging her brother and meticulously shifting his hoodie. She knew he would've assured her, had he been awake.

It would be alright.

She hoped.

Stan checked his watch for the sixteenth time, his irritated grumbles kept under his breath as he stooped over the porch railing. The rickety wood under his arm was cold, the late breeze beginning to blow through the trees with a noticeable rustle. His yard remained empty, no sign of anyone besides the occasional woodland creature or freak of nature passing by.

His already nonexistent patience was wearing thin.

For much of the night, Stan had tossed and turned in contemplation of outright denying the twins' arrival. He wasn't ready. His place wasn't ready. How the hell was he supposed to feed two extra mouths and keep the kids from accidentally impaling themselves on something? They did that often, didn't they?

Wendy had offered to help, sticking thick blocks of wood between cabinet handles, her family's version of baby-proofing locks. Stan hid away anything possibly dangerous onto the highest shelf, reaching it by sitting on Soos' shoulders. He'd permanently borrowed food from residents in the town, telling them he'd be donating it to charity. It was going to orphans, Stan reasoned.

But he still couldn't shake off the menacing feeling what he was doing was stupid. He'd found himself too many times standing by the phone, prepared to turn those kids away. And he would've, had they not been twins.

Twins. Something so dumb and nothing more than some random genetic occurrence that was keeping him up at night. Often, he wondered if the worrying of such was because of him and his own twin. Other times, he worried over how to care for two kids who looked the same without painting their names on their foreheads.

He was left alone with his thoughts, waiting for the inevitability of that car to come driving up his driveway. But as time passed, as the space remained empty, more and more thoughts passed through that made him feel exhausted just from standing there.

He heard the front door open, then slam shut, two pairs of feet shuffling in his direction. Stan resisted making any indication he'd noticed, tilting his fourth soda can to his lips. "The two of ya can go home. I ain't keeping ya here."

"That's a first." Wendy's snarky tone didn't help lift his spirits any. "Don't mind us, Stan."

"Hey."

"Mr. Pines." Wendy quickly corrected herself, but he could practically hear her eyeroll. "Don't worry. Soos and I just wanna see the little runts. ...ya know, if it's real."

"You think I'm making up sappy orphan stories for shits and giggles?" Stan crunched another empty soda can between calloused hands, the sharp noise ringing out into the empty space before him. For a second, he wondered if he'd been duped, but he hastily switched to a different train of thought.

"You would," Wendy shot back, as nonchalant as could be as Soos nervously stood by. "For charity. Or image. I dunno. I'm just wondering if I oughta be wasting my time being excited over this."

"I oughta fire you," Stan snapped, throwing the can out into a plain of dead grass he called his lawn. There was a heavy silence that loomed like the dark clouds above. Wendy waited, Soos shifted behind her and idly stated something about rain.

"...I don't care," Wendy huffed, but Stan was surprised to hear the unexpected emotion in her voice. He kept his expression stoic. "Kids can be cute, I guess. And if they really are foster kids, well, Soos and I were talking, and we figured it'd be nice to help. Being these kids probably barely get that help. But we just...wanted to know this wasn't fake."

"It's not." Stan perked, but the faint sound he caught was nothing but a stray bird. He slumped down again.

"I'm not saying I'm expecting a cop-out," Wendy insisted before pausing for thought. "Actually, no, I am. But if this is real, it's honestly really cool, Mr. Pines. And we're here to help so you're not alone, because God forbid you be alone with children. But we-"

"Shush!" Stan threw back a hand, narrowly missing Wendy's nose. Startled, she moved back, Soos' hand clamping on her shoulder to steady her. "Yeesh! If you want me to shut up, you just gotta ask-"

"No! Hush!"

Silent, still as statues, the trio stood in place and waited. A bird chirped in the distance. Something gave a ferocious faraway growl somewhere deep in the woods. The wind rolled through the trees like it periodically did day and night. Bemused, Wendy quirked a brow in Stan's direction.

"...sorry." Gruffly, Stan apologized and became a sad lump against the railing again, folding his arms underneath him. "...thought I heard something."

Wendy gave a thumbs-up, before raising her eyes to Soos, who only shrugged in response. "Just saying, I'm not in charge of messes. We've got Soos for that."

"I bought two new mops for this special occasion," Soos informed, giving a subtle and formal head nod.

"That's great, Soos." Abruptly, Stan shifted to Wendy, grabbing his cane in a swift motion and pointing the end directly towards her. "And you oughta quit running that mouth."

Wendy glowered, reaching up a slender hand and batting the cane away. "Don't point that at me. I'm just saying. You tend to pull these stupid stunts that—"

"Like hell I'm gonna do that to orphans." Stan turned his back on her, displaying nothing but a coldness he hadn't quite displayed before. "I'm not heartless."

"You can be," Wendy countered as Soos backed away a few steps at the sight of an impending argument. "You've stolen stuff from kids before. And I can barely give a shit about them, but you do anything to orphans, and I'll change my mind."

"I've barely got enough patience left not to fire you where you stand."

"For what?! It's not like I'm doing something illegal here." Wendy's nose wrinkled, her sharp look barely a match to Stan's dark foreboding glare. "Don't scold me just because I point out what you tend to do. Come yell at me if I ever tag up this trash of a home, or steal your damn—"

"Car!" Soos declared.

"Read my mind, Soos!" Wendy announced, not taking her eyes from Stan's. The businessman was visibly deflating, stepping away from his employee. "I'm not gonna back down when I know I've got a right to be conc-"

"No! Car!" Soos gestured wildly towards the lawn, to where a dark vehicle came to a grating halt in a cloud of dust.

"...they're here." Stan breathlessly noted, his eyes wide as Wendy moved towards the railing to look closer.

The social workers stepped out first, Stan immediately recognizing the young woman juggling a set of files. The man, a tall lanky gentleman with combed dark red hair, gave a short wave in Stan's direction before stepping around and heading for the back door. There was a moment of hesitation, what sounded like a furious conversation delivered in short angry bursts, before a head of brown hair popped out.

A young girl, no older than eleven or twelve, stepped uneasily out of the car like a baby deer. She wore nothing considerably fancy other than a dingy hoodie and a faded skirt. Her bulky sneakers were falling apart, a big toe visible in a pink sock. Chocolate-colored and wavy hair swung over her face for a split second before she reached up and pushed it back with a frayed headband.

Stan was frozen, as the girl locked dark brown eyes with him, a sense of intense fear so blatant, he wondered why the workers hadn't commented on it. Her fingers curled in as she lowered her hands, her mouth gaping open ever so slightly, and he wondered if she was planning on saying anything.

But instead, she tore her gaze away and looked to the worker for help. Her lips moved in a desperate pace, the distance muting her words, but he could barely pick out "brother" amongst the babbling.

After a second, the worker relented, reaching in to the car and coming out holding a small boy's hand. The child looked groggy, and the girl seemed to barely hold enough restraint to keep from hurling herself at her brother. At least, Stan presumed. The boy had the same facial features, the chocolate brown hair that curled at the nape of his neck and an almost identical dark hoodie. Along his faded jeans, one pant leg was rolled up, revealing a stark white of bandages underneath.

Almost instantly, the kids latched hands.

The boy wearily lifted his head, eyes blinking slowly as if still trying to register his surroundings. Suddenly, the faint glimmer of fear was gone, replaced by a predatory hatred Stan would've reserved for the lowest of scum. Somehow, the boy held a better death glare Stan had ever seen in prison.

The sister had given nothing but a tentative touch of introduction, but the boy didn't back down. The only word arising from such behavior was "hostility". Thankfully, Stan had dealt with something of it before.

The worker snapped at the children, pointing to the car. The boy reached back into the backseat, removing two dingy duffel bags and quietly handing one to his sister. She slung it over his shoulder as she propped her brother against her and he limped alongside her as they approached the porch. They followed the caseworkers up to the house, the girl clutching her brother's hand as they walked at a steady, slow, and nearly wary rate.

"Good afternoon, Stanford!" The red headed caseworker greeted as if it were a casual Saturday, lifting a hand up from his forehead like a makeshift salute. Stan didn't return the gesture. The man offered a strained smile before sweeping his hand towards the children. "We brought our bundles of sunshine. Meet Dipper and Mabel!"

They were definitely twins. Identical height, nearly identical build, and an identical doe-eyed look. Dipper, Stan presumed the boy to be, had his expression seem to flicker from terrified to looking for blood. It was mildly unsettling.

"Didn't think they'd be boy and girl twins," Stan commented, the children suddenly interested at the sound of his voice.

"Does it...matter?" The worker glanced at the twins as if searching for a random deformity. "They're typically cohesive. Whatever one wants, the other wants the same."

"Frankly, I've gotta figure the both of them out." Stan studied the twins for a second, before shooing Wendy and Soos aside to get into the house. "Alright, alright, c'mon in. And watch your step."

Dipper knew his surprise could be chalked up to more than just pain medication.

Through the years of drifting from porch to porch to nothing but a dirt patch, he was able to identify signs of a suspicious home. It depended mainly on the exterior, from tastefully painted buildings deceiving to the public eye, to crumbling houses that resembled more closely to shacks that was filled with garbage and the utter indifference towards the incoming children. Those especially didn't last long.

Both twins had learned to apply such signs to know what they would be dealing with. It wasn't entirely a wild guess, but it strayed far from a prediction. People were unpredictable anyway. Dipper had seen adults who drank away their problems and could switch their demeanor at the flip of a coin.

But a cabin in the woods was new territory. Literally.

Dipper regretted every action leading to him and Mabel landing in that godforsaken hospital. He'd fought tooth and nail to be kept awake, but they'd sedated him for fear he'd become too "aggressive", which was the term they supplied for his behavior a lot lately. The twins has been removed from a home they'd been suffering in for months, but it meant transportation was necessary and Dipper hated the fact he wasn't there to distract Mabel through it.

He'd slept through it all. It'd taken tons of strength to push through the haziness of drug-induced sleep, but Dipper didn't care if it meant getting to reach Mabel. She seemed immensely relieved to have him conscious, but the storm was barely stirring.

Both twins didn't know what to make of the man on the porch, besides the very evident fact he was old. Old as dirt. Dipper had quipped maybe he'd fall over dead one day and let them run the show, but the man showed that bitter stubbornness old people held when they refused to give up and die. Stronger than he looked, and that wasn't a good thing.

Mabel had taken the task of sneaking a peek at the files back within the car. The man, their new foster parent, was named Stanford Pines, owner of the Mystery Shack and a natural entrepreneur. All that meant was he was a whiz at fake personas and good acting, and it made him all the more dangerous.

Dipper or Mabel? The question hung in the air for who'd be most targeted. More often, it was Dipper. Occasionally, it was Mabel, before Dipper brought a stop to it. Sometimes, it was the both of them, and they preferred that far more.

They could never predict, taking it as random pickings and a silent order to look as tough as possible. There was never a protocol, and neither twin quite understood the reasonings behind any of the abusive tactics foster parents dished out. Maybe every place was bad. Maybe every place just hated orphans. They wouldn't be surprised. They'd learned not to trust grown-ups a long time ago.

They went through the tour of the home in complete silence.

Dipper was all ears, and Mabel was all eyes, their respective roles helping when it came to inspecting the new homes. Once alone, they collaborated on information to reach as accurate of a conclusion as possible. It worked most of the time.

The man, Mabel observed, dressed in a funny way, wearing a black pressed suit with a thin red bow tie. His silky-looking fez with a dangling tassel tempted her, and she wished one day she could touch that fez just to see how it felt.

A businessman was a risky parent. The twins had had a man like that, once. Their fifth out of altogether seven homes, being they never stayed more than a year in any new foster homes. That man had looked forward to spending his checks on his own needs and often spent all day in his office talking to clients or typing away on a desktop computer they weren't allowed to touch. The twins easily took care of each other with trips to the kitchen for food and confining themselves to their room in quiet boredom. They eventually got removed for never being sent to school, and none of the man's neighbors had even known he'd had kids in the house.

That had been one of the tamer instances. It would be far more preferable to leave both twins to their own devices. Survival was easier with them as a duo.

The home was a unique one, and Mabel found herself liking the decor. Clashing knick-knacks and old-timey devices made a smile form and she pointed excitedly to the fish tank in the living room. The rooms smelled musty and soda cans were placed in the most bizarre places, but the home was clean.

Overall, they'd been in worse. Mabel shivered even within the warmth of the house, and Dipper squeezed her hand in reassurance.

Both twins were confused. The typical signs weren't there. They remembered the two people back on the porch, but those people hadn't made a reappearance, and Stanford was busy with the foster workers. No red flags, which the two took as a sign of those flags being very well-hidden.

With that thought, they kept each other close.

"That's the place. It's not exactly five-star hotel, but it's livable. Roof only leaks about 60% of the time."

Stan ended the tour within the foyer, the heating vent blasting them with overly humid air. It had been a long while since Stan even bothered with the heat. Judging from the looks on his guests' faces, they weren't appreciating it.

"I've got them a room," Stan assured, accepting the files the woman handed to him with what sounded like the beginning to a very long legal spiel. He interrupted her smoothly by pointing to the twins' duffels, sagging bags that would've been lucky to have pieces of lint in it. "That all they got?"

"You're welcome to buy them any other essentials," the woman said. "Make sure you keep records, and you'll get reimbursed."

"Right. The reason I even agreed." Stan grunted as he dumped the stack of files on the nearest table. Said table collapsed in a heap on the rug with the weight.

"We'll be returning within the week to check in and determine proper living conditions."

"So...you're giving me the kids..." Stan eyed the twins, swinging up his cane to point to the nearest twin, which happened to be the boy. The gold tip of the cane barely brushed past the kid's head, but he gave a nearly cat-like yelp in response. "...before you've even seen how safe the house is?"

"This was an emergency case," the woman insisted distractedly, pulling out her phone and tapping away. "We've got some other cases to tend to. Any other questions?"

"When do I get rid of them?"

"End of summer," the man responded, as the children turned to face him. "They'll be out of your hair then."

"Keep out of trouble," the woman demanded, piercing the twins with an icy look. "Stir up enough, and we'll just send you to separate orphanages the next state over. Don't go causing another hospital visit, you've got enough on the record."

The boy's eye twitched, but both twins nodded mechanically.

The caseworkers nodded to Stan, before turning and leaving without another word. Stan shut the door behind them, making the move to lock it before waiting to face the twins.

He had kids in the house now. And he had no clue what to do with them.

He didn't know how to talk to kids without trying to bribe them into annoying their parents into buying a useless trinket or an accidentally dangerous souvenir. Could they hold decent conversations? He didn't think they were stupid, but given what he'd seen in the past, he wouldn't be very surprised.

"Guess we gotta talk rules," Stan began, forcing himself to stare down at the runts near his feet. The boy looked pitiful, leaning against his sister for support with a leg propped up like a crippled flamingo.

Stan saw features of exhaustion, fear, and months or years even of torment on their small faces. Faint scars of varying stages of healing were noticeable upon their faces, and their eyes almost appeared hollow. Nothing about them held the happiness and fascination a child was supposed to hold and annoy all the adults with. In fact, neither child had spoken a word in Stan's direction.

The boy—Dipper?—was small and lanky, unnervingly thin, and dirtied bandages were wrapped around his fingers.

The girl—Mabel—was the same size as her brother, but not nearly as thin. She was shivering, staring with glassy eyes and seemingly struggling with holding her brother's weight.

Stan forced himself not to dwell on the implications.

"First of all, no going in the woods," Stan said, seeing no flicker of emotion on the kids' faces. "It's dangerous. I mean, I guess you could, but you might come back missing an arm. It's not my problem."

Mabel blinked.

"Second, I don't want you guys touching things you shouldn't. That means the trinkets, my TV, anything in the gift shop." Dipper's nose wrinkled, but instead of any argument, the boy just sneezed. "And third, I'm the boss here. What I say goes. Understand?"

No answer. The twins stared like Stan had grown a second head. Stan wondered—hoped—they understood him.

"I said...do you understand? Comprendes? Hablas inglés, no?" Judging from the twins' even further confused expressions, that hadn't helped. "Alright, judging from the dumbstruck looks on your faces, you get me. Call me Stan." With that, Stan stuck out a hand, awaiting a handshake or some type of action to seal the deal. The children stared at the appendage as if it morphed into a serpent. Eventually, Dipper reached out and tentatively touched Stan's hand.

"Good enough." Stan withdrew his hand, wiping it against his suit coat. Already these kids were killing him. "I don't got any spare rooms. But Soos and I—that's our handyman—made it all nice and cozy up in the attic. Nearly almost heated and everything."

Dipper suddenly bristled, and Mabel slapped a hand over her mouth, the two reacting as if Stan had mercilessly murdered a puppy right before them.

"...you scared of heights or something? Look, I got nothing else." Still, the twins remained silent. It was starting to annoy him. "Unless you'd rather sleep outside in the damn dirt, be my gues–"

Mabel choked back a sob, alarming Stan until she seemed to get her act together and tilt her head against her brother's. At that very moment, it seemed Dipper's biggest wish was for Stan's death then and there. The boy wrapped his free arm around his sister, his attitude returning the same hostility Stan had received outside.

"Okay, okay." Stan tried to placate, but Mabel didn't seem to pay attention, and the boy was starting to—not scare him, Stan Pines was never scared—bother Stan just a bit. "Yeeesh, no jokes, I get it. Attic is set up for you, really. Dusted and everything."

"...lead the way." Finally, words passed Dipper's lips, and Stan was a bit put-off from the child's weary voice. He sounded like a man returning from a taxing office job. Or maybe war, there seemed to be an odd fine line there.

"Right up here." Stan took the lead, mounting the steps and going slower than usual as the children followed, still linked by hands.

It wasn't right. It didn't make sense.

Stan hadn't made a single move and hadn't laid a single hand on either twin, and Dipper wasn't sure if he was biding his time or leaving something bigger down the line. At the mention of the attic, Dipper had latched onto Mabel to reassure her.

Attics weren't good. Attics were punishment. Both twins could still remember being shoved in the dusty prison of an attic, where the dust mites and rats made it all the less bearable. Attics were the place where their foster parents hid them away to keep anyone from seeing the bruises and the cuts and the scars. Attics were where unwanted things were left to rot.

But somehow, Stan had turned that completely on its head, and Dipper didn't know what to think.

They followed, walking up the creaky steps, the duffels swinging lightly with the motion. At the end was the second floor, leading to a closed wooden door. To their right was an enormous window covered with a thick white sheet, bright light spanning across the splintery floorboards.

"It's fine..." Dipper whispered upon feeling his sister's nervous tremors. He signed it out, a nonverbal skill acquired from interacting with a deaf kid back in an old home. They'd used it often, especially in the home that hated noise.

Mabel sniffed, tears slipping down her cheeks, but she didn't let go of Dipper to wipe them away.

Stan swung the door open, moving the twins forward and Dipper felt stuck in a blur. He clutched Mabel closer, fighting hard not to visibly tremble, scared of what lay before them.

But it was indeed just a room.

Mostly clean, lacking dirt and dust mites and rats that would nibble at their shoes. A wooden sturdy bed with a mattress (an honest-to-good mattress!) and an old cot sat on opposites sides of the rooms, layered with blankets and faded white pillows. In between the furniture sat a desk with a lamp and a few books propped against the wall. The small window let in a substantial amount of light, beams of sun hitting the patterned rug spread out on the floor. An alcove was covered by a mess of sheets acting as makeshift curtains, and it led to the conclusion it was possibly off limits.

Terrified, and a little confused, the twins exchanged glances.

Seconds ticked by, but no one made a move to walk in. They expected it to be a cruel joke played in front of a hidden audience of possible other kids. Maybe the two strangers who'd been waiting by the porch had been in on it. "Hah! You thought this was your room? Oh, no, you're sleeping here, in this little space over here behind this door! Sorry about the cobwebs, I didn't have time to sweep!"

But instead, Stan gestured to the room with his cane with an air of indifference. "Well? Look alright to you?"

Dipper's throat felt dry and he mustered the courage to slowly nod. Mabel shifted him to lean on her more comfortably. Surely it was an allusion. All a mistake.

"Good." Stan made no other move, giving the room a once-over and pointing to various spots as he spoke. "We'll probably put in more furniture soon. Clean up those rafters, but for now there's your beds and a couple books Soos had laying around. Picture novels or something. I'll let you get settled in."

Dipper nodded along, his neck beginning to ache. The twins cautiously entered, the floorboards faintly creaking under their footfalls, and Dipper's injured leg bumped against the wood and made a noise he felt was too loud. They moved to the same bed, the one with the mattress, before dropping their bags on top. The duffels sunk into themselves, their meager belongings barely warranting the use of a bag.

"I'll be up in a bit." Stan faced away, ready to close the door behind him. "Get settled. I've got some things for you."

Dipper froze, Mabel stiffened, and the door shut behind Stan as he left the room.

The twins stood in silence for what felt like forever before Dipper let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding, feeling exhuasted and emotionally spent. He rubbed his eye, leaning himself away from his sister and sinking into the nearby bed. His fingers automatically curled against the bedspread.

Mabel looked a bit sick, letting go of his hand with maximum effort and nearly having to wrench it away from its tense position. As she studied the room, Dipper gathered the remainder of his strength and zipped open his bag as quickly as possible.

"Gotta break in the new home." He dug through until he found his dagger, the gleaming blade lying in the corner of the bag. It had been covered in a few old shirts to avoid being seen, and to keep it from cutting its way out. Mabel visibly relaxed, watching and recognizing their common procedure.

Dipper scooted towards the wall, trailing his fingers against the grainy planks of wood. He paused for a second, before lifting his dagger and jabbing it against the wall.

"Careful!" Mabel warned.

"I am!" Dipper said back, scrawling a crude symbol into the wall. Shavings fluttered down to the bedspread and he hastily wiped it away. He wasn't used to such tough wood. As rickety as the Shack looked, he realized it could probably hold up well. He studied the sigil for a second, the shape messy, but passable. He gave it one last run through with the blade before falling back in relief. Both twins seemed to release their breath simultaneously.

They sat in a dreary quietness. Neither twin wanted to speak first, but both knew what subject was inevitable. Really, there was a whole variety of things to discuss. So many, they felt overwhelmed.

"...do you like it?" Mabel started first, curling up on the bed as she glanced at her brother, her chest hitching with hidden tears. The dotted sheets contrasted wildly with her dark hoodie covered in stains that never got out no matter how hard she scrubbed.

"Like what?" Dipper stared at the ceiling to avoid looking at his twin's eyes.

"The room. It's weird. It's so clean. We've never had this clean a room before."

"It's a trap," Dipper murmured, turning on his side and staring at one blue dot on the sheet, directly next to his face. "He's gonna want something, you know."

"I'm not stupid," Mabel countered snappily.

"I know you aren't," Dipper returned. "You're the best sleuthing partner I could ask for."

"I'm scared."

"Me, too."

Mabel drew in her arms, letting the sleeves flop over limply. She brought her knees to her chest, converting herself into a small huddled ball within her hoodie. "How are we gonna know what he wants? He didn't even show any signs."

"He's a salesman. They're born to act." Dipper felt terrified at the prospect. It hit him like a bag of cement. Stan was going to create a facade neither twin could see through. "Oh man, what are we gonna do?"

"Leave!" Mabel's tone was insistent and sharp, and she poked a foot in the direction of the duffels. "You always said we could leave...one day. We just gotta make a map."

"A map will take weeks," Dipper said, watching his sister's hopeful expression switch to a crestfallen one. "And there's woods. We're in the middle of nowhere." He was frightened by the words coming out of his mouth in an endless stream. "This is the hardest place we've been in."

He dropped his eyes to her face, and saw her lip tremble. The tears welling in her eyes were enough of a sign.

"But we will! This time we will!" Dipper clambered up, sitting upright and nearly tipping off the bed as the mattress sunk under his weight. He almost wanted the words "I promise" to follow, but he never broke a promise. And given the circumstances, the future held only mysteries, and he couldn't risk it. "Alright...now, repeat after me, Mabel."

He grasped her hand, helping her upright and letting her uncurl and stick her arms back through her sleeves. With sad eyes, she directed her gaze to the floor and waited.

"We can't trust any adults." Dipper's words were steady and determined. It was a genuine feeling, one true thing he could pick out from the roller coaster of emotions he went through.

"We can't trust any adults," Mabel parroted, her eyes shifting to the closed door.

"They're stupid sadistic bastards who will never help us." Dipper let the spite in his words show. Nothing but hatred was directed towards Stan, their dad, every deadbeat adult who didn't know a damn thing about proper child care and kept the cycle going. Because adults really were nothing but puzzles.

"They're stupid sadistic dumb-heads who will never help us," Mabel replied.

"Mabel, that's not what I said." Dipper huffed at the disregard to their oath as she offered a shaky smile. "I know, but I don't like those words."

"Oh, fair enough." Dipper shrugged the matter off, not willing to discourage her. "We can't trust anyone. We don't need anyone."

"Except each other," she recited, now invested into the speech. "Because we were born together and will die together. Because we always tell the truth. Because I'll always look after you, and you'll always look after me, because we're all we have in this world!"

Dipper couldn't keep the cheesy grin of his face. Mabel insisted they clap their hands and do the complicated secret handshake to seal the deal, and as they did, Dipper vowed mentally he'd let that oath ring true. He protected Mabel, taking the beating that ruined his leg. She protected him, keeping a close watch when he was incarcerated and unable to fend for himself those first few days in the damned hospital.

And Mabel was Mabel, deserving of as nice a life as Dipper could give her. She was sweet and caring even after all the hell they'd been through, and she often claimed there was a reason for it. "If there's good people like you out in the big world," she'd stated, "then maybe it's not so bad out there, if those people are as great as you." Her protective and quick and scheming brother was all the good she saw in the world.

He wasn't anything like her in that regard. There was no good in the world, because Mabel was one of a kind, and no one in the entire universe was like her at all. He was mediocre at best, but had the drive to keep her safe. Mostly, though, he wasn't even normal.

He was a monster. He knew that.

"...Dip, stop that."

Dipper blinked, catching Mabel's mild glare of disapproval. "You're doing that self-loathing thing again, Dip-Dip."

"Oh." Dipper ducked his head, glancing at the sigil and swearing to himself the place was secure with the safety it brought. "Sorry."

"S'okay." Mabel beamed, always happy to pull him out of a trance. "You need to rest, bro-bro. Get as much as you can know, I'll keep first watch."

"But..." Dipper trailed off, as the telltale sounds of footsteps appeared furtively outside the door. In one fluid motion, he slipped off the bed as soundlessly as possible. It had to be Stan. He knew it just had to be Stan.

"Mabel," Dipper snapped, keeping his eyes trained on the door. "Get under the bed and stay there, alright?" He took a shaky step forward, the pain in his leg excruciating. "Quickly."

"Dipper, I'm not gonna just leave you!" Mabel was showing the start of an argument, but there wasn't time. "I can–"

"Mabel, goddammit, do what I asked!" Dipper snapped, and Mabel reluctantly complied, sliding under the bed and scooting behind the bedspread on her stomach. She disappeared from sight, safe and out of harm's way.

Dipper returned his gaze to the door, standing as straight as he could, his arms glued to his sides. He tried to level his breathing, knowing if he just listened, Mabel would be fine. He could take whatever Stan dished out. Even if it killed him.

End Chapter 1