You were sat at the table around the Pines family. Mabel and Dipper were chatting about something silly, minding their own business. Their grunkle, Stanley looked down at his plate, pushing around his food with a less than pleased expression whilst grumbling to himself. You already knew what was up with him. Stanford still hadn't come down for dinner yet, despite having been called out to many times, before and during dinner. Each time, he just shouted back from his room that he needed to finish up something else real quick and he'd be there. "Real quick" must've had a vastly different definition for the guy, because it'd been well over 2 hours since the first call.

Assuring Stanley with a few pats that he took begrudgingly, you headed out of the dining room and strolled on down to Ford's room. Opening the door, you found him hunched over his desk— haven't you told him about bad posture? He was writing up some other entry his his journal, rapping his six fingers on the wooden desk as his pen swooped for that nerdy cursive writing he insisted on using. And of course, he hadn't taken notice to you yet, more focused on his work than the new arrival.