grace, the snow is here

Dipper blinks, the room around him slowly coming into focus as he rises from a deep sleep. He's very comfortable, and very warm, which is strange because being warm in the attic usually means something's wrong with the AC again; being warm should be the opposite of comfortable. It's only when he raises his head slightly and sees the soft glow from a string of Christmas lights hanging outside the triangular window between his and Mabel's beds that he remembers it's winter.

The thought brings him fully awake, and he kicks off his covers and swings his legs off the bed, the air cold against his skin. It's quite chilly in the attic, which makes sense. If it gets warm in the summer, then of course it's going to get cold in the winter. The space beneath the rough-hewn rafters has that stuffy chill that attics always seem to gather in the cold months, if not as severe because this attic has (some) insulation. He makes a mental note to ask Great-Uncle Ford if there's anything they can do to improve air flow from the central heat to the upper reaches of the Shack.

Mabel is still asleep in her bed, rolled up tightly in her blankets with Waddles snoozing at her feet. Dipper dresses, eager to take stock of the valley in this new, unfamiliar season. Slinging his vest on, he notices the frost rimming the glass of the window. As he watches, a gust of wind blows a flurry of snowflakes free.

No way. On their first night here? What are the odds? Maybe high, actually… he doesn't know how much snow central Oregon gets, if that's even relevant. The valley seems to have its own localized climate sometimes, a fact that seemed true even during that first summer and has only become more noticeable in the wake of Greg.

He hurries out to the landing to get a better look, only to be confronted by a pile of couch cushions blocking the window alcove. It takes him a moment to figure out what he's looking at. The cushions lie along the floor, and there are several more stacked in the alcove. A blanket is hanging from the higher cushions and draped around the cushions on the floor, creating a veil not unlike mosquito netting on a jungle lean-to. At the sound of his approach, the blanket lifts, revealing Wendy in a t-shirt and sweatpants, her heavy blinking making it apparent that she just woke up.

"Do you like my curtain?" she asks. "I always wanted a canopy bed with curtains."

"I think Pacifica had one of those. Where did all these cushions come from?" he asks.

"Ford has a couch in his study somewhere. More than one, I guess?" She gestures vaguely at the cushions, which don't all match.

"Did you know it snowed last night?"

"No way!" Wendy stands, shedding the draped blanket, and knocks down her stack of cushions blocking the window.

The attic window has a lot of frost and condensation on it, but it still presents a grand, if somewhat blurry, view of the lot. The yard is a white tableau, a perfect, unbroken expanse of fresh, powdery snow. Heavy flakes are still falling, speeding across the scene at an angle as the wind drives them to the northeast. The trees are clothed in snow, the western sides of their trunks clad in white, the glistening black of their branches stark against the snowfall. Where the field meets the tree line looks like the edge of nothing, a point at which the brush floats above the bright void of the ground and below the equally featureless gray hollow of the sky, unmooring the forest from its earthly plane.

Wendy is ecstatic. "Dude, we had some a week ago, but it was nothing, this is the real deal!"

"And it's still coming down," Dipper marvels.

His knowledge of snow is mostly theoretical. Snow is not impossible in Piedmont, but it's never more than a light dusting that rarely survives longer than a day, if even that. Snow is something he experiences through the internet and TV, a vicarious facet of the natural world. There are only two times he's ever encountered heavy snow up close, both occurring in the valley: the brief moment that he and Mabel were transported to a snowed-in Shack by the malfunctioning time tape, and the impromptu dogsled race against that haughty jerk of a space lizard. Neither occasion allowed the opportunity to enjoy it. Besides, in the case of the space lizard, it wasn't real snow anyway, but some kind of illusion or hologram or maybe even hallucination (the encounter left the twins with a lot of questions).

"ATTIC SLEEPOVER!" Mabel comes hurtling out of the twins' room and dives into the mound of cushions, bouncing to a stop that looks painful, though it doesn't seem to faze her. "Or I guess it's a wake-over? Whatever, you guys are hanging out here without me!"

Wendy swats Mabel with a pillow. "Look out the window, doofus."

Mabel gets up on her knees to look outside; her jaw drops. "Snow."

"And lots of it," Wendy confirms.

Mabel jumps to her feet. "Let's go roll in it!"

"Did you guys pack your snow stuff?" Wendy asks.

Dipper sheepishly scratches his head. "Yeah, we don't have… that."

Wendy stands up decisively. "Looks like we're going to McWhirter's."

McWhirter's is the town's local outdoor store, identified by its large 'OUTDOOR' sign and, strangely, nothing else. Dipper's been inside a couple times to buy carabiners, rope, and other hiking necessities, but he only knows it's called McWhirter's because Wendy mentioned it before. It's a small place near the bowling alley, and its entire selection (and the building itself) could fit inside Lord Zor's about a hundred times over, but it has two major advantages over its much larger competitor: It's not an alien gameshow trap, and it still exists.

"I'm gonna get the poofiest snowpants," Mabel says.

"Snowpants are for amateurs," Wendy scoffs. "Real snow-pros get bibs. Come on, I'll show you what's up."

They separate to get ready for the trip to town; Dipper hurriedly dresses, wanting to get downstairs and see how Pacifica is doing. With Wendy up here in the attic, the distance to Pacifica seems somehow greater, despite the fact she's under the same roof. He hopes she isn't feeling left out, though he knows she likes having her own space.

Downstairs, Pacifica is already in the kitchen, surveying the pantry with an air of discontent. Stan never remembers to shop for the kids before they arrive, and Ford rarely remembers to shop, period, which means it's up to the twins to haul Stan over to Tons to buy some edible cereal.

"It snowed last night!" Dipper tells her as he goes over to the fridge. There's no way she doesn't know—the kitchen window is right there—but he's still excited about it.

"I saw," Pacifica says. She doesn't sound quite as thrilled, but she's been up here in the winter before, so maybe she's used to it. She pulls a box from somewhere in the depths of the pantry and inspects it. "…This cereal expired in 1994."

"Yeah, probably don't eat that." Dipper locates some eggs that are still good and a bag of shredded cheese that's technically expired but isn't moldy yet. "Want an omelet?"

Dipper isn't a skilled chef, but he can handle an omelet. He serves Pacifica and starts working on his own, the kitchen filling with the smell of cooking eggs and melted cheese. Outside the window, the snow continues to build, fat flakes brushing past the glass in tantalizing gusts.

Pacifica appears surprised by the edibility of her omelet. "I didn't know you can cook," she says.

Dipper doesn't like the speculative tone she's taking. He's not going to make all her meals, if that's what she's thinking.

"Anyone can make an omelet," he tells her.

Her eyes narrow at the implied challenge. Quickly finishing her food, she stands and approaches the stove. "Show me."

Mabel enters the kitchen at that exact moment, bounding through the door in a blue sweater covered in white snowflakes. Her eyes light up when she sees them. "Awwww, power couple cooking! What can't you guys do together?"

Dipper ends up making omelets for everyone with Pacifica's assistance, which is fine. The kitchen is warm and full of conversation, and Pacifica is close at his side, her arm brushing his as they work. Stan makes fun of Ford; Wendy laughs at something Mabel says; Soos shows up, all smiles. It's cozy. It feels like Christmas.

Afterwards, the kids don their coats and boots for the walk to town. Dipper's hiking boots are waterproof but not insulated, so he'll look for a proper pair of snow boots in addition to the bibs. The twins and Pacifica could have gone to an outdoor store in Oakland, of course, but this is more fun (and a little cheaper).

Dipper steps out onto the porch, the wooden boards groaning with the cold. The weather bites at his face, sharp and unfamiliar. At home, he only experiences this kind of chill if he sticks his head in the freezer. The light on the lawn is a peculiar winter glow that seems to emanate equally from the snow and the clouds, illumination without an obvious source. The air smells crisp and watery, underlaid with the aroma of pine and wet bark. The grass is hidden beneath a blanket of pristine white while the evergreens peek out beneath their lumpy shrouds, their still-present color a reminder that winter is not the death of life, only its sleep.

Mabel promptly throws herself off the porch and faceplants in the snow. She begins slowly moving her arms and legs, creating a facedown snow angel.

"She'll regret that in about ten minutes," Wendy predicts.

Mabel says something unintelligible into the snow and raises her arms over her head in a silent plea for assistance, which Dipper interprets and reaches down to haul her upwards, so she doesn't ruin her snow angel while trying to get to her feet. The imprint she leaves is pretty good, save for the smudged features of her open-mouthed face, which make for a somewhat disturbing snow angel.

"Perfection," Mabel says.

Wendy's prediction proves correct. By the time they reach town, the snow on Mabel's pants has melted, and she's shivering. This does not prevent her from gasping in delight when they enter the town proper.

Gravity Falls may have the greatest affinity for Halloween, but that doesn't mean they don't embrace the holiday spirit. The town's halls are thoroughly decked, with garland wrapped around its streetlamps and lights hanging on every storefront. Snow gathers in the alleyways and in drifts against the windward sides of the buildings. It some places it's still untouched, its smooth planes making the town look like a more modern version of the little ceramic Dickensian houses Dad sets up for the holidays. Some shop owners are out shoveling the walks, and a truck drives by with a snowplow attached, pushing a wave of slush up onto the sidewalk. The falling flakes still show no sign of stopping.

A gust of wind blows loose powder from a nearby eave across their faces. Pacifica turns her head and wrinkles her nose in the cutest way. She's bundled up in her thick coat, a scarf that matches her eyes tucked beneath her chin, her blonde locks fluttering where they fall from beneath her white knit cap; she looks like a snow queen, like a winter catalog model. The bitter air has brought a blush to her pale cheeks and across the bridge of her nose, and Dipper can't help himself—he leans in to kiss her despite their audience. Her lips are cold but warm quickly, and when he pulls away her eyes sparkle like the snow.

"You guys need a minute?" Wendy asks with a grin as Mabel giggles nearby.

Pacifica just rolls her eyes, and they enter the store.

McWhirter's is a small shop, its interior long and narrow. Racks of coats and other winter accoutrements crowd what little floorspace there is, while every inch of the old wooden boards of the walls are devoted to similar outdoor merchandise. The counter is tucked away in the back, completely hidden from view until prospective customers advance at least halfway in, and is currently unmanned. This makes them the only people in the store, as far as Dipper can tell; he assumes there's a room in the back, somewhere. This is for the best, as it makes moving around much easier.

He quickly finds a pair of boots he likes, mostly because they're so similar to his regular hiking boots. The bibs take a bit longer, most of them made for people either larger or smaller than he currently is. He buys a pair that's slightly too big, figuring he'll grow into them soon enough.

Their shopping complete, they leave the store. The snow is noticeably heavier as it falls, coming down in dense, white flurries that feather across Dipper's face, making him blink. Cars parked along the street are beginning to look like shrouded little hills. Dipper opens his mouth and catches a few of the flakes; they melt on his tongue like shaved ice. Far above, the featureless clouds scroll slowly by, steadily shedding their frozen cargo.

Dipper's attention is diverted from the sky when Mabel points towards the town square and says, "Hey, what's going on downtown?"

She's right, there's something happening. Several trucks are parked along the side streets, some of them not yet dusted with snow. Dipper can see several workmen carrying equipment into one of the alleys that connects to the town square. He and the girls cross the street and go through the alley next to the laundromat, emerging on the north side of the square.

It's looking pretty festive. There's a small stage being assembled, and an extra helping of Christmas lights strung from post to post, along the store fronts and all over the church and the statue. Town hall is glittering despite the daylight, its wooden logs covered in reflective plastic stickers shaped like snowflakes. There are also some booths being built, not unlike the ones at the Mystery Fair.

"It's the Snow Festival!" Pacifica says. "That's right, I forgot about this. It's annual."

"They're still working on it? Christmas is only a few days away," Dipper says.

"It starts the day before Christmas Eve," Pacifica explains. "Then they shut it down for a while, and it opens again for New Year's."

"It's just okay," Wendy judges. "They don't have rides, so it's mostly funnel cakes and caroling. My family only goes for Christmas Eve."

"Well, I think it sounds great! I'm gonna carol my butt off!" Mabel says.

Dipper makes a mental note to be somewhere else when Mabel decides to start singing with her usual abundance of enthusiasm and dire lack of talent. "Maybe we can come down here for Christmas Eve, then. Sounds like that's the best time."

"Yeah, you can do it all in, like, a couple hours," Wendy says.

Their survey of the inchoate fairground is interrupted when Mayor Tyler spies them while hurrying by. He turns on his heel and approaches them; he's wearing a Santa hat that's at least one size too big for him and a pair of voluminous snowpants in an eye stabbing shade of pink. He's hard to miss.

"Hello there, Pines twins and friends! Back again for another vacation?"

"We're here for the holidays!" Mabel says proudly.

"It's great here for the holidays!"

"I know!"

"Well, have a good time and enjoy the snow! Just don't go opening any more portals over there!" Mayor Tyler says with a strained chuckle. His smile fixes in place as if cemented, and he adds, "Please. We… We haven't been the same."

This is such an echo of the meeting with the Conclave that Dipper realizes that the Pines family are now, in a sense, above the law. They are the new Northwests. In the same way Ford has unbeatable leverage over the Council, he holds Gravity Falls itself in the palm of his hand, simultaneously its best protector and possible destroyer. He exists in an uneasy tension with these two possibilities, courted for his capabilities while also being feared for them. This has, at least for the time being, resulted in a power imbalance in Ford's favor, and therefore the Pines' favor as a unit.

Dipper makes two resolutions:

The first is to never misuse this power, and to only transgress minor laws in the name of science or other necessities.

The second is that Grunkle Stan can never, ever be allowed to come to the same realization.

The trip back from town offers another extended opportunity to take in the valley in all its winter wonder. It's a little harder to walk as the snow continues to build, but no one seems to mind. They march through untouched drifts, the snow compacting under their feet with a satisfying, muffled crunch. They move beneath boughs lined with coverings of snow as perfect as the icing on a cake. Beads of clear ice glitter from frost-bitten bark. Their tracks from the walk into town are gone, obliterated by the snowfall, and the world feels new.

The rest of the first day back is slow, full of unpacking and settling in and talking about how they're going to fill the rest of the break. That evening, Soos starts a fire in the parlor fireplace and the kids crowd around it, soaking in the warmth. The logs crackle and pop and the parlor fills with the scent of woodsmoke.

"Grunkle Stan really needs to put some furniture in here now that the wax figures are gone," Dipper notes. In lieu of anything to sit on or even lean against, he's elected to simply lie down in front of the hearth, Pacifica nestled into his side.

"Maybe Ford can bring that other couch up from his study. He gave me the cushions, so it's not like he's using it," Wendy says.

"What'd Stan do with all those chairs he used for Wax Stan's funeral?" Dipper wonders.

Wendy, lying on her back, turns her head towards Dipper. "Wait, are those what he used to make the Chair-Bear?"

Pacifica frowns. "The Chair-Bear? Like… a bear made from chairs?"

"Yeah, the Chair-Bear. It's pretty self-explanatory."

Mabel, who has her feet so close to the fire it's a wonder her socks don't combust, suddenly sits up. "Hey, have you guys seen Waddles?" she asks.

It is strange for the pig to not be present during such a prime cuddling opportunity. Dipper is about to answer when, as if on cue, Ford bursts into the room with Waddles under one arm and a sheaf of paper clenched in his other hand.

"I've done it!" he announces.

Dipper blinks. "You quantified Weirdness?"

"What? No, that's likely still years away. I've solved the mystery of Waddles!"

Mabel gasps, rising to take Waddles from Ford. "Waddles is a mystery?"

Ford separates a page from his bundle of paper, glancing at it. "No longer! I believe that Waddles is a non-standard American Landrace pig. I say 'non-standard' as some of his physical traits aren't a good match for the breed, but that's to be expected in the local livestock. The animals of the valley, domestic or not, tend to be… unusual."

That's definitely true, but save for an uncommon level of intelligence—especially in divining Mabel's wishes and commands—Waddles has always seemed like an otherwise normal pig to Dipper. But then, Dipper doesn't know a whole lot about pigs.

Ford continues, "I first became suspicious this summer, after you returned. Waddles was ostensibly a piglet when Mabel won him at the fair, but in the intervening months, he hadn't increased in size. This piqued my interest, but it was a thread lost among more pressing matters."

Mabel is now concerned. "He's supposed to be bigger? What's wrong with him? Is he sick?!"

"Far from it," Ford assures her. "Waddles is as big as he'll ever be, because he's not a piglet at all! I examined him with the spectrometer and saw the remnants of some very familiar wavelengths: The height-altering crystals."

"No way!" Wendy says.

"Way, indeed! At some point, Waddles had a run in with the crystals. Perhaps he wandered away from the farm and, upon returning, was mistakenly placed with the piglets destined for the Mystery Fair. We'll never know the exact circumstances, but the outcome is a permanently portable pig."

Mabel scratches Waddles under the chin as he grunts with enjoyment. Her expression is conflicted. "Should we change him back?"

Ford shakes his head. "At this point, it wouldn't be a kindness. He's become accustomed to being this size and making him larger would only confuse and frighten him."

"So the crystals never wear off…" Pacifica says contemplatively.

"I wouldn't recommend using them on yourself," Ford cautions.

Dipper turns his head slightly to trade a guilty glance with Mabel, only to find she's already sharing the same look with Pacifica, and what is that about?

Ford says, "We don't know what the long-term effects might be, and the process may not be perfect. You wouldn't want your internal organs to be out of proportion. Waddles is fine, of course, but that's only a single data point. I should have taken more time to study that rat… Regardless, just because Waddles is unscathed doesn't guarantee the crystals are safe—another reason to avoid enlarging him."

Mabel picks Waddles up to hug him, then sets him down. "As long as you're happy the way you are, bud."

Waddles snorts in a contented sort of way and curls up next to her side.

After dinner, Dipper takes a moment to step out onto the porch. It looks different for some reason, and it takes him a second to remember the couch isn't there now, and that empty space is throwing him off. Their footprints from earlier are long gone and even Mabel's disturbing snow angel has been erased. The light from the low evening sun turns the yard a pale shade of mauve, the ground and the sky once again perfect mirrors, the jagged black shapes of the forest sketched between. The bite of the air is still a novelty, and he exhales, watching his breath emerge in a cursive cloud.

He feels energized. He can't wait to explore the valley in this new, frozen context.

Returning inside, he finds Stan occupying the armchair, settling in for an evening of bad local gameshows. Pacifica is at the nearby card table, sorting through several scrapbooks that she's hauled out of one of Mabel's suitcases. Wendy is in the chair opposite her, clearly uninterested in scrapbooking and watching the TV instead. For some reason, Mabel isn't with Pacifica; shouldn't she be preparing whatever scrapbook is going to be dedicated to winter? She enters the room a moment later, several long strings of Christmas lights draped over her shoulders.

"Grunkle Stan, you didn't decorate our part of the Shack!" she complains.

"Nah, never got into the habit. Knock yourself out, though," Stan says, lazily raising the remote to change the channel.

At Mabel's direction, Dipper soon finds himself digging through endless boxes of Christmas kitsch stuffed in an attic alcove that he hadn't known existed. The patterns in the dust make it obvious that Stan and Soos removed the most accessible boxes to decorate the gift shop and museum, but there's plenty more in here that hasn't seen the light in years. The deeper they excavate, the older the decorations get. Dipper finds a stuffed bear with a knitted cap that says, 'Merry Christmas 1995.' He gives it to Pacifica, because it's cute, if a little dusty.

Mabel picks out the stuff she thinks is best and they carry the boxes downstairs and stack them in the living room, Stan grunting irritably every time they pass in front of the television. Dipper wraps the dinosaur skull with lights, giving it a look that's surprisingly cheerful, considering it's a skull; Mabel decorates the shrunken heads on top of the aquarium with little elf hats. Before long the room is lit with the warm, multicolor glow of light strings, amplifying the coziness of the space.

About halfway through decorating the room, Ford joins them. "I think I recognize some of these," he muses, picking up a few decorations.

"I cleared out Dad's old storage unit," Stan says idly. He's still not participating, but Dipper's noticed that he's watching the ongoing decorating as much as he is the television.

Pacifica crouches next to Dipper, poking around in the same opened box. "Does your family always decorate for Christmas?" she asks.

"Yeah, pretty much. Sometimes we visit Grandma, and Dad doesn't mess with it if we're gonna be gone," Dipper says. "I think we did Hanukkah a couple times, but I was pretty young. Mabel likes to decorate for that too, sometimes, but she doesn't, like, celebrate it celebrate it." When Pacifica looks at him curiously, he clarifies, "Dad's side of the family is Jewish. All the Pines are, I think?" He looks to Great-Uncle Ford.

Ford nods. "Our parents—your great-grandparents—were ethnically Jewish, but rarely engaged with the trappings of the faith. We observed Hanukkah on the odd year when they remembered it, though eventually that came to an end when someone saw the menorah in the pawn shop and made a good offer. I had an uncle who was far more religious; he tried to convince my parents to follow suit, with very limited success. He placed a mezuzah at the door of the shop. I remember asking my father what it was, his answer being, ah… less than accurate, as I later discovered at the library. It seems he either had little spiritual instruction or was about as attentive as Stan and I would have been."

Pacifica frowns thoughtfully. "My family is supposed to have been here forever, we came from England… but maybe that isn't true. I don't know if I know anything real about us."

Dipper thinks of Nathaniel Northwest, supposed founder of the town; called a 'waste-shoveling village idiot' by those government papers, a description that doesn't really track with the man described to Dipper by the lumberjack ghost, or with what little the eighth-and-a-half former president had to say about it. If Northwest was propped up as the false founder of the town, why did they give him money, why did he need to be rich? Did he make the money himself some other way? Does that mean he wasn't an idiot? The bottom line is that Dipper can't trust the words of a bitter, biased ghost, or the assessment of a government with a vested interest in hiding the truth, or whatever nonsense Quentin Trembley, the world's most unreliable narrator, had to offer. The more Dipper thinks about the origins of the town, the less he knows.

Maybe that's to be expected. Maybe the truth of Gravity Falls' founding is as strange and unknowable as the truth of all its past and present.

Dipper rests his arms on the edge of the box, turning his head to meet Pacifica's eyes. "Well… does it still matter? I mean, if it does, we could look at town hall, or we could go back to that government storehouse if the cops didn't clear it out."

Pacifica thinks about this for a moment, then shrugs. "I don't know. Am I even a Northwest anymore? I'm still half of one, I guess…"

Dipper fiddles with one of the ornaments, a battered Rudolph with one antler missing. He's not sure how to phrase what he's thinking. "It's just… You can choose family too, you know, and maybe… maybe you chose something else."

Slowly, she smiles. "Yeah. I did."


december snow, past cars that got stuck in the road

the gloria record — grace, the snow is here