So, who else is emotional about that finale, huh? Probably saw this coming, but here's my emotional word-dump that exists solely to put Dipper and Stan through more pain than they've already to deal with. I'm sorry.

But seriously, someone get this kid to a hospital.

It takes Stan roughly about twenty-two hours to regain the better part of his memory, those of which are spent with his family close by his side, exhausted, battered, but unfailingly loyal and helpful.

It's almost hard to comprehend that these people are still here, for him.

Mabel flips through her scrapbook, talking fervently to him until her voice goes hoarse, cracked and whispering from the hours of talking. Dipper gently takes the scrapbook from her hands, clears his throat, and begins reading in his own softer, quieter tones – but with the same fervent intensity, the same desperate hope.

By the time it's Ford's turn, his twin swears, slaps his hand over his face, six fingers trailing down wearily, and grabs the memory gun and a television.

He pops the small tube out, staring at it with an exasperated disbelief. Mabel and Dipper give twin groans as they flop against Stan, still on his armchair.

"Or," Ford says, fiddling with the television set. The screen flickers to life, and Stan frowns, recognition sweeping through his gut as familiar images flash across the screen. "We could just do that."

This time, he's pretty sure they're crying out of humiliated disbelief instead of agonized heartbreak.

It's an improvement, that's for sure.

But by the time the sun's high in the blessedly blue sky again, and their friends have begun to filter into the ruins of the Shack, Stan can name every one of them, recognize almost every face. It's a good feeling.

He stretches on the front porch, rubbing his left arm as it twinges. He feels oddly light, like someone's taken his insides and filled them with air. His head is a mess of memories and faces, and his chest –

There's a lot of emotions he's feeling, but at the same time, none at all. It's…peaceful. And while he's sure he's going to have some hell of some nightmares later, right now, watching his family - he is content.

That he could deserve that is something he's never-

Ford is talking with McGucket, the twisting guilt painted across his face when he talked with his old friend earlier slowly fading as they reminisce. His brother – his twin, who's back and who cares – looks happier than he has in years, and ages younger. The tired lines and dark circles at his eyes still remain, but they're softened, lessened again the bright spark in his eyes that Stan hasn't seen since they were younger.

And, to be fair, they've all got obscenely dark circles beneath their eyes. Everyone looks like hell – and for good reason.

He turns his attention to Mabel, his sweet, loving niece – who was a mere second away from being lost to him forever. His chest still shudders in icy fear at the thought – Bill, his single eye creased in cruelty, the shooting star flashing bright as his black fingers prepare to snap-

Stan shakes the awful thought loose. Mabel is here in front of him, her hair a mess and her sweater torn, but her smile bright as ever, undimmed by her exhaustion. She laughs, a beautiful, beautiful sound as she hugs Waddles, swapping tales with Candy and Grenda – and that blonde Northwest kid, which is a change.

Eh, it wouldn't be the oddest thing. Apocalyptic crises really seem to bring people together.

He has to search the crowd to find the last member of his family – his eyes linger for a heartbeat on Wendy with her family, Soos on the phone with Melody, and he smiles. The smile quickly drops as he realizes that the last member of his family is nowhere to be found.

His pulse skyrockets immediately, legs propelling him forward almost instinctively as he shoves his way into the crowd. After everything – all the danger, all the panic, Bill's hand wrapped possessively around his kids-

"Dipper," he breathes out harshly, yanking Ford from his conversation. "Have you seen Dipper?"

Ford's eyebrows immediately crease in concern, his head whipping up as he scans the crowd.

"I don't-" his brother's shoulders slump, relieved. "There," Ford says, pointing at what remains of the Shack's steps. "He's over there."

Stan instantly shoves his way back through the crowd, barely murmuring an apology as he makes his way to his nephew. Dipper is sitting on the last stair, his forehead resting in his palms, oblivious to the world around him. He raises his head slowly when Stan approaches, though, a small smile crossing his face. The kid's been giving him that same relieved, half-guilty smile a lot this past day – days?

"Hey, Grunkle Stan," he says, voice thick with exhaustion. He blinks several times, as if trying to clear his eyes. "Do you need something?"

"Just wonderin' why you're sitting over here on your butt instead of celebrating with everyone else," Stan says, scruffing the kid's hair affectionately. It's hard to miss the sudden wince that shoots through Dipper. "Hey, you okay?"

Dipper nods, a little too quickly. "I'm fine," he says, blinking rapidly again. He shakes his head, frowning. "Just a little out of it. C-crazy day, you know."

Stan snorts. "That's an understatement," he mutters. He glances back at the crowd of townsfolk, friends, disheveled but looking nowhere near ready to leave. There's a comfort in simply being near people, he understands that.

"Hey," he says, nudging Dipper's side with his foot. "I think I've got a couple dozen of those water bottles left in the Shack. Wanna drag them out?"

Dipper nods slowly, rubbing at his eyes again. "Sure," he says, pushing himself to his feet, unsteadily. He sways dangerously as he stands, and Stan barely stops himself from springing forward.

Dipper leans against the porch's post, giving him an irritated look. "I'm fine," he repeats, shaking his head and turning toward the house.

He makes it one step up the porch before he pitches forward.

"Dipper!" Stan can't help the shout of alarm that escapes him as he surges forward, barely catching his nephew before his head cracks against the battered wood. He can hear others coming over, concerned by his sudden cry, but he barely notices. He has only eyes for his nephew, moaning softly in his lap, and looking far more battered than Stan remembered him looking an hour ago.

Dipper's skin is a sickly, waxen color, dark, ugly bruises and nasty scratches marring nearing every visible surface of his skin. There's a particularly awful bruise spreading from the underside of his chin, and Stan doesn't like the way his right arm is hanging, oddly bent and slowly turning black.

However, it's not until his fingers brush the back of Dipper's head and he feels sticky, still-drying blood soaking his hair that he panics.

"Dipper?!"

"Stanley, is he alright?"

"Dude-"

Stan rises abruptly, Dipper cradled in his arms. He ignores the questions that fly at him, sparing only Mabel and Ford a glance.

"Hospital," he says, voice trembling. Dipper struggles weakly in his arms, protesting in a half-delirious moan. "Now."

It's a testament to how far this town's come that they get him and his family to the nearest clinic in well under thirty minutes.

It's still too long.

It's odd, at first, waking up.

Dipper's almost forgotten what it feels like.

The world filters back to him in slow, muffled hours, consciousness filtering back into his brain at a sluggish pace.

He would appreciate this, if pain didn't come filtering back with it.

As much as he wants to sink back into oblivion, he also really, really wants to get up – there's a gnawing worry growing in the back of his mind, some powerful instinct telling him he's not safe, there's things to do.

That, and his body feels like one giant, throbbing bruise, and that's not doing much to lull him back to sleep.

He finally drags his eyes open, immediately regretting the action as the lights lance into his brain.

"Turn th' ligh's off," Dipper mutters, his eyesight reduced to a squinting glare.

A gruff, familiar laugh sounds from off to his side. "About time, sleeping beauty."

Dipper's eyes shoot open at that, his head tilting to the side as he looks for his uncle.

"Grunkle Stan?"

Stan gives him a tired grin from where he sits in the small hospital chair next to him.

Hospital – oh.

"Oh man," Dipper says, his voice cracking from exhaustion. "Did I pass out? How long was I out? Am I-"

"Woah, kid, slow down there," Stan says, laughing. "Let's see – yes, you did pass out. I saved you from some nasty splinters, though, so you owe me. And you've been out for… the better part of a day? You passed out around noon, and it's…" Stan glances at his watch, frowns at it, and glances at the clock on the hospital wall. "Five am now. Huh."

"Wow," Dipper whispers, staring at his blankets. "That's pretty…pretty long?"

"No kidding," Stan says, shifting in the chair. "You had us all freaked out there. How you feelin'?"

"Ugh," Dipper groans in answer, rubbing his eyes. Stan snorts. His vision is still annoyingly foggy, shapes turning to blurs as his eyes move, but he can tell that outside the window, the sky is dark – not the awful, ominous dark of Weirdmaggedon but the natural, star-studded night sky. He recognizes the hospital room, now. It's the same building they took him to after the awful possession fiasco and Mabel's disastrous sock opera-

Mabel.

He shoots up, pain lost in sudden panic.

"Mabel – Grunkle Stan, where's Mabel?! Is she-"

"Geez, kid, calm down!" Stan says, hurriedly, as he waves his hands at him, fingertips hovering hesitantly inches away from Dipper's shoulder. "She's fine, okay? We're all fine!"

Dipper stares at him, as much as he can with the room doing cartwheels. He blows a shaky breath out, leaning back slowly. Stan wouldn't hold something like that back from him.

With a slight groan, he wriggles his way into a more comfortable sitting position, pleased as his head slowly clears. The frustrating blurriness remains like stubborn veil in his eyes, but it's better than it was – he can see Stan's face, now, read the expression on it.

What he sees there is…confusing.

"So, uh," Dipper twines his hands on the sheets before him, shifting awkwardly. He feels like a livewire, raw and exposed. "Where is everyone, then?"

"Mabel's been here twenty-four seven, but we forced her to eat about an hour ago. She's down in the cafeteria with Wendy and Soos," Stan says, crossing his arms behind his head as he leans back in the chair. "And about half the town, to be honest."

"Half the – why?" Dipper says. He immediately feels stupid – of course they'd be here. It's a hospital. He doesn't want to think about how many people needed medical help after…well, after. He quickly backtracks. "What about – our group? E-everyone who went in with us?"

"They're fine," Stan says. "Ford's laid up in another hospital room, for – burns, and stuff." Stan's face turns thunderously dark, and Dipper swallows. Stan sighs, his expression clearing. "But he's probably escaped by now. Again. Wendy needed her ribs checked out, but she's gonna be fine – oh, and that Northwest kid needed her wrist checked, but she's good." He shoots Dipper a sly look. "She's come around here a lot, too, you know. Gotta wonder what a snooty rich girl like her wants with some noodle-armed kid, but you never know."

Dipper feels his cheeks burn, and he carefully avoids Stan's gaze. "Shut up, you old man," he protests. "She's not – you're just losing your grip in your – your elderly age."

He doesn't want to insult him, really. The whole conversation still feels surreal, as if he's going to look back and Stan will have forgotten him – forgotten everything – again.

"Oh, hush your yap," Stan says, shoving Dipper's head back affectionately. Dipper winces at the twinge of pain in his skull, but says nothing. "I'm a hero now, you know, you gotta show me respect. After I led us all to victory with my inspirational wit."

"Sure, sure," Dipper says, laughing weakly. "You wanted to chill in the Shack and eat gnomes, remember?"

"Nope, don't remember," Stan says, waving his hand flippantly. "That must've stayed erased."

Dipper freezes. Stan's laughing, too casual, too – a joke, he's treating this like a joke-

"T-that's not-"

"No one's gonna prove me wrong, anyways-"

"Grunkle Stan, that's not-"

"-now that I'm the town hero, and all, bet that's eating Ford up-"

"That's not funny!"

Dipper's shriek tears through the hospital room like breaking glass, shocking Stan to silence. Dipper's chest heaves as Stan stares at him, wide-eyed.

"H-how can you just-" Dipper's fists are clenching against the hospital sheets, anger coiling in his chest like a dragon preparing to spew fire. "Do you have any idea-"

"Woah, woah, hey, kid, calm down-" Stan's hands are fluttering frantically at him, urging him to drop it, to let it go, but Dipper's chest is constricting, the beeping in the background blaring like an increasing siren in his ears, sheets coiled around his waist like Bill's hands were not so long ago-

He snaps.

"I HATE YOU!" Dipper screams, surging forward, thrashing out of the blankets. "I hate you, I hate you, do you even know what you did to Mabel-"

There's a sharp pain in his arm as the IV rips free, the flicker of pain drowned instantly in the maelstrom that rages inside of him as he throws himself at Stan, swinging his good arm at his uncle's face with all the strength he has left.

"Holy – Dipper, calm down – Dipper!"

"How could you just leave us?!" Dipper shrieks, struggling wildly against Stan's hold. "I HATE you, I HATE feeling like – I HATE Bill I hate – I hate myse-"

He finally breaks free, ripping his arm up to swing at Stan's face. There's a tiny voice screaming at him in the back of his head to stop, stop you idiot, but he doesn't care, he's too furious, he's angry, so angry-

His fist connects with Stan's cheek, the smack echoing like a gunshot through the room.

Dipper has no time to think about that, because the arm he's just swung at Stan is his broken one.

A raw, choking screams tears itself from his throat as he falls back, bright flashes of white dancing before his eyes as he curls into himself, his angry screams dissolving into keening, half-sobs as he tries to understand how anything could hurt this badly-

"Oh, shit, Dipper, Dipper stop – are you okay?!"

Stan's voice is panicked to the point of pain, more so than Dipper's ever heard, but he barely registers it beneath the wave of agony that's drowning him. Everything he's felt in the last few days seems to be sweeping back again – the tearing in his arm from the security ship, the splintered ribs from Bill's hit, his head – oh god, maybe that's why he can't see straight - what feels like hundreds of cuts and bruises from surviving on his own for three days, left alone with the knowledge that it's all his fault-

Ford, dragged still fighting to Bill, gold freezing him dead-

He could've – he should've-

Mabel, face twisted in pain and fear as she shies away from him in the dreamworld-

Could've stopped this before it even-

Wendy, Soos, Mcgucket, Pacifica, Robbie – gone, turned to nothing but an image, Bill took them too-

All his – all his-

Stan's blank-eyed expression as he stares at the tumultuous sky, eyes blank, devoid of recognition as the world resets itself, gone-

The shooting star symbol glaring at him from Bill's eye, Mabel's life threads about to snap in his fingers-

He was gone-

And it was all his fault.

Dipper lays face down in the hospital sheets, good hand still crutching his screaming arm, barely recognizing the increasing pain as his ragged fingernails bite into his forearm.

There's the lightest, gentlest weight against his back, hesitant.

"Dipper." Stan's voice is raw and open, pained. "Dipper, talk to me, please."

He can't. If he opens his mouth he'll start screaming again. He'll scream and scream and scream until the awful pain's left his lungs and he's nothing but an empty shell.

"Please, Dipper. Kid, I – I love you. You know that?"

The words are soft. And Dipper doesn't understand, because the emotion behind those words-

He raises his head from the sheets, his own bleary eyes – why are his cheeks wet – meeting Stan's.

What he finds there breaks him.

Dipper collapses into Stan's chest, his fingers curling desperately into his uncle's worn shirt as he howls. Great, gasping sobs that wrack his chest and rattle his body, his throat closing as his eyes burn, tears steadily soaking Stan's shirt.

He cries for his guilt, for the people he's hurt, for everything Bill's done to them these past few days, this summer – all the people hurt, all the sleepless nights, the bleeding tension between his uncles, the shattered lives, every frown that's crossed Mabel's face-

He cries for fear so powerful he'd thought he'd die when Mabel did, for aching despair as he stared at Stan's blank face, for the truly god-awful pain in his arm and head right now-

He's never cried this hard in his life.

Somewhere between shuddering gasps he feels Stan's arms around him, pressing him tightly to his chest, careful to avoid his splinted arm. There's a hand in his hair and Dipper swears Stan's chest is shuddering – just a little – like his.

"Shh," Stan says, his voice ragged. "It's okay, it's okay – it's okay now. I love you, kid. I love you, Dipper."

Dipper screws his eyes shut and cries harder.

Later – minutes, hours, however long it's been – Dipper's still lying against Stan's chest, his eyes aching and puffy and half-lidded as he gives shaky, hiccupping breaths. Stan's arms haven't loosened their hold the entire time, despite the complete soaking of his shirt, his hand rubbing soothing circles against his back as he occasionally mutters reassurances.

It almost makes him want to cry again.

Almost.

He snuggles himself further into Stan's hold, wrapping his own arms around his uncle. Any other time, he'd probably be humiliated at the gestures – but now, he can't find it in himself to care.

"Love you, Grunkle Stan," he whispers, eyes fluttering.

Stan's arms tighten around him, not enough to hurt, but just enough to matter.

"I love you too, kid."

Outside the hospital window, the sun is rising.