I do not own Gravity Falls.
Just fluff between Stan and his niece and nephew. If there are particular moments you want to see, throw down your suggestion in a review and I'll see what I can do.
The moon's rays filtered through the thin curtains of the attic window. Mabel Pines rolled over with a soft moan, eyelids cracking open. She blearily looked at her cat-shaped clock hanging on the wall, where the paws were pointing at 12 and 3 respectively.
"What hit me?" she asked herself groggily, hand moving to press against her forehead. There was a steady pounding in her head, snot dripped from her nostrils and her throat felt heavy. Coughing slightly, she wiped her nose on the sleeve of her favourite purple nightgown and climbed from her bed.
The room spun around her and she gripped the bedpost for balance. Taking a few breaths, she waited a moment before creeping over to her brother's bed. "Dipper," she whispered. "Are you alive?"
Her twin grumbled in his sleep, discomfort creasing his brow. He rolled over and tugged his blanket tighter around him, his shivers noticeable. Mabel felt her own body tremble with cold, though she knew it was one of the hottest weeks of the summer.
There was no doubt about it. They were sick.
Vaguely remembering the tell-tale signs of scratchy throats and leaky noses from yesterday, Mabel wrapped her arms around her torso with a soft frown. There few things in the world that she hated, but the summer flu was one of them. She hated being stuck inside on beautiful days, bed ridden and feeling lousy.
A bout of coughing overtook her and she pressed her fist against her mouth to muffle the sound. Stan did not like to be woken up in the middle of the night, so she tried to make as little noise as possible. "What cures the common cold?" she asked her pet pig Waddles. When her pig continued snoring contentedly, Mabel answered her own question. "Orange juice! And maybe some sugar to keep the energy up."
She snagged her blanket from bed, careful not to disturb Waddles. She wrapped it around her body and made her way downstairs. "Squeakity squeak squeak," she said softly as the stairs groaned under her weight.
Reaching the main landing, she spotted the blue glow of the television coming from the living room. She peeked inside and found her great-uncle snoring away on his favourite armchair, drool spilling out of the corner of his mouth.
Giggling softly (which quickly turned into coughs) Mabel retreated into the kitchen. She opened the fridge and wrestled out the cardboard carton of juice. Tucking it under one arm, she stood on her tiptoes and opened up a cupboard. She snagged a glass and just as she was pulling it out, another dizzy spell struck her.
She dropped the glass in order to grab the back of a wooden kitchen chair to keep herself from falling over. It shattered on the tiles, glass shards scattering around her feet. With a soft whimper, she rested her head against the wood, her stomach suddenly twisting violently.
"What's goin' on in here?"
Slowly, she lifted her head to see Stan framed in the doorway. "My tummy is rebelling against me," she said.
Frowning, Stan moved into the kitchen. "What's wrong, kiddo?"
"I've got the summer flu."
Bending down, he lifted Mabel into his arms and swept her over the glass. He set her on the kitchen table and rested his wrist against her forehead. "Geez, what did you eat, molten lava?"
"I don't think that would taste so good," she mumbled. "Maybe if we added sprinkles to it, though."
Stan spotted the carton of juice she clutched under her arm. "If you wanted a drink, you coulda just came and got me."
"You were sleeping, and I can do it. The room just started to go topsy-turvy, that's all."
"I can see that." Stan gently took the juice from her grip and set it on the table. "Back to bed with you, missy. I'll get your juice for you."
"M'kay." Mabel hummed and got down from the table. She made the trek back to the attic bedroom that she shared with Dipper. She climbed into her bed and wrapped herself up in her blanket, her cold feet pressed against Waddles' side, which stirred the pig awake.
A minute later, Stan entered with a glass of orange juice. Mabel gratefully took it and started to chug, the sweet liquid a blessing on her dry, sore throat.
"Whoa, whoa," Stan cautioned, easing the rim of the glass from her lips. "Not so fast, kid. You don't want to upset your stomach."
"It's already mad at me," informed Mabel sadly. She gave her belly a pat and an uncomfortable lurch answered her attempt at affection. "It doesn't respond to my love anymore."
"Give it a few days," Stan drawled. "I'm sure it'll forgive you."
Mabel finished her orange juice at a slower pace and handed her great-uncle the glass. Stan set it on the nightstand table and glanced at his nephew. He was shifting about in his sleep, a sheen of sweat on his brow. "Him too?"
"It's our twin powers," Mabel explained with a yawn. "We always get sick together."
"Well, at least this place will be quiet for a bit. I'm going to get the thermometer, try not to fall asleep on me."
He departed, leaving Mabel to stare at the mouldy ceiling. She knew that sleep would not come so easily to her as it did to Dipper when they were sick. It was a gift she wished she had.
After a few minutes of listening to her brother's uneven breathing, Stan returned, carrying two boxes of tissues, a bucket and two glass thermometers. "Dry your nose before you drown in your own fluids."
Mabel took a tissue from the box handed to her and blew hard. When she was done, she pulled back the white folds and stared at the green booger mess inside. "That came from my nose."
"That's gross, kid." Stan shook his head and stuck one of the thermometers in her mouth. "No talking. I'll let you know when you can take it out."
Mabel nodded and tossed the tissue onto the hardwood floor. Stan placed the bucket in the middle of the room and knelt by Dipper's bed. "Kid," he said, shaking the boy firmly. "Wake up."
Dipper gave a whine of protest and pressed against the wall. Stan pulled the blanket way, causing the boy to turn over and tuck his knees against his chest. Reproachful eyes peered through cracked eyelids, lips formed into a pout.
"I know, kid. I know." Stan eased the boy into a sitting position. "Open up."
Dipper obeyed, parting his lips and allowing the thermometer to be placed against his tongue. "Alright, Mabel, you can take yours out now."
The brunette obeyed, taking the slim glass stick from her mouth. Stan took it from her and studied the red line. "One hundred degrees."
"I'm hot," Mabel joked.
Stan set the thermometer on the nightstand table and moved back to Dipper, whose eyes were sagging. "Good job, kid." He checked his temperature. "Sorry, Mabel. He's got you beat. One hundred and one degrees Fahrenheit. I know two squirts who aren't doing anything tomorrow."
"Sleep?" Dipper mumbled hopefully.
"Yeah, sport. You can go back to sleep." Stan pulled the blanket halfway over the boy's body. "I'll check on you in a few hours."
"Thanks," slurred Dipper, eyes falling shut.
"But I can't sleep when I'm sick," Mabel looked up at her uncle with wide eyes. "Can I watch T.V. with you downstairs?"
"Are you trying to infect me?"
"Uh-huh. Then we can all be sick buddies!" She held her arms out expectantly, and Stan let out a sigh before scooping his niece into his arms. The girl buried her head against his shoulder happily. "Love you."
"Yeah, yeah," Stan said gruffly, snagging her box of tissues and casting a quick glance at the slumbering Dipper before heading downstairs.
The television was still blaring the Ducktective marathon. Stan settled in his armchair, moving Mabel into a more comfortable position. Her head rested against his chest, her legs stretching across his lap. "Am I gonna have to stay in bed all day tomorrow?"
"It is tomorrow, and yes. The second the sun rises you're going back to rest this bug off. The Shack isn't going to clean itself, so I need you two healthy and weird as soon as possible."
"We're pretty weird," informed Mabel seriously. "So that might take a while."
Despite her claim, after three episodes the girl fell asleep, curled against her uncle's chest. Stan smoothed her hair away from her sweaty forehead and smiled fondly.
"Get well, kid. If you and your brother aren't running around soon, I don't know what I'm going to do with the silence."