"Stan! Where are--there you are. You'll never guess what Dipper brought over." Ford clunked into the kitchen, metal-booted feet tracking sediment and safety goggles hanging loose around his neck. He held up a single thing of tupperware, his radiation hood gloves like comically oversized oven mitts. "Brownies. Orange-zest brownies, specifically."
Ford settled across from Stan. He de-goggled and de-gloved and popped open the tupperware lid, a certain childish glee alight in his eyes as he offered a corner piece to Stan. Stan waved it off.
"Oh they're quite good," Ford said through the first bite of the piece. "You know I don't usually enjoy sweets, but orange zest specifically cuts t--"
"'cuts the sweetness'," Stan echoed, speaking in perfect sync with Ford. "Yeah yeah I know."
"It's--well the ingredients could perhaps be better mixed--but it's still the best brownie I've had in 30 years. Does Dipper bake often? I could introduce him to my molecular mixer."
"Does he bake often? He bakes never, Ford. I couldn't get him to boil water over the summer. Mabel probably helped him with those--watch out for any glitter in 'em."
Surreptitiously, Ford pulled something off his tongue he very much pretended was not glitter. "Well maybe he's taken an interest in it."
"Or he convinced Mabel to help make those for you. Just kick back and enjoy it."
Ford took pause. "What makes you say that?"
"The orange-zest? Come on. You and--what--four other people on the planet make your brownies that way?"
"Well intergalactically there are more than--plus how would Dipper even know I like them this way? Did you tell him?"
"Nope."
"Then how--"
"Your journals."
And once more Ford fell quiet. Then he laughed. "Stan those are research journals. Not diaries. They don't mention anything about how I like my brownies--"
"Journal 3. Page 47. The entry about the rock lobsters. There's a thing about how citrus repels them and then you launch into a 4 paragraph essay about orange-zest brownies. Like some kinda middle age recipe blogger or something."
"...I do not."
"Get the journal. Half your entries are just your personal diary"
A stalemate was brewing between them.
"That must have been an outlier," Ford continued. "Sure I may have mused about some details from my personal life here and there--the loneliness up here gets to you--but my research journals were specifically for documenting the oddities of Gravity Fal--"
"Hat size. Shoe size. Recount of your awkward first date with your awkward first girlfriend. That time you fell face-first off the monkeybars and swallowed a bunch of gravel. Favorite kind of donut. That weird opinion you have that dogs are cutest when seen from the middle-distance. And that's just what I remember off the top of my head. It's all in there Sixer."
And Ford fell quiet.
"I mention the dog thing?"
"The dog thing is in there."
Slowly, Ford lowered his brownie to the table. And with his hands now free, he lowered his head into his palms. "...I have to get that journal away from him."
"What? Like there's any damage left to do?"
Ford stood. He unsheathed a grappling hook from the folds of his coat. "I am getting that journal back."
Ford turned on heel to leave. Stan's chair scraped back as he caught up.
"Hey hey hey." Stan grabbed Ford by the shoulder. "Come on, look, I was ribbing you. Sibling duty. Truth is Dipper admires the hell out of you, and he started admiring you because of all the stupid bullshit you wrote in that journal."
Ford eased down a fraction. His eyes darted around, reconsidering.
Stan tapped Ford on the shoulder with a brownie. "So clearly all that stuff in there isn't half bad. And whatever embarrassing stuff's in there makes Dipper think you're cool. So come on. Sit down and enjoy the brownies, Mr. Cringe."
Ford took the brownie, and he turned, and he nodded, the smile loose and easy back on his face. "You're right. No, you're right, Stan. I should be flattered, after all." He pulled his chair back out from behind. "...And what is 'Cringe'?"
Stan shrugged. "No clue. Mabel won't stop saying it to Dipper, which is all I know."
"A term of endearment?"
"Sure, I don't know."
Ford sat down, and he took another bite of brownie, and he smiled, and nodded. "Maybe my journals are pretty Cringe then. I'll ask Dipper later."
