#Before Stan steals Ford's wallet and leaves

[jackyjackdraws]

Reverse Portal Stan meets Canon Portal Ford

An unlikely meeting that resulted in a... Unexpected ending

Just needed an excuse to draw some Drunkles :'D

The Rev! Portal Stan design is from @cbmagus49 go support them, lads

#gravity falls #reverse portal au #stanley pines #stanford pines #Gravity falls fanart #I'm sorry it doesn't look AS GOOD #But I made the first half at like... 4am #Beacause I wasn't able to get some sleep #So i thought hey! Let's work on something #And it didn't work... Whoops! #But anyway #I hope you enjoy this anyway #I had a lot of fun working on this #My poor boys need to have some fun with each other #Telling jokes and laughing about the old times in their respective dimensions #Before Stan steals Ford's wallet and leaves #Beacause of course he does

[toboredtoanything]

Aladdin

Hey guys! This ask is for @princeasimdiya12. I hope you enjoy!

Summary: Stan (Gravity Falls) during his time alone gets into some trouble, getting him tossed into water while bound and gagged.

Warnings: Dark themes, pg-14 level violence descriptions, descriptions of drowning

Might be heavy for some peeps.

Aladdin

Stan grins widely as he takes in his appearance in the mirror.

His hair, which has been styled in a mullet since his high school days, is pulled back into a low ponytail.

His white and gold costume accentuates his form, which while isn’t in peak condition, is still strong and sturdy.

He places an over the top hat onto his head and beams at his reflection.

“Aladdin is sure to pick up the ladies,” he says to himself. “It’s also ironic, since I will be pick pocketing from them the whole night!”

He laughs to himself, grabbing his wallet and keys.

He quickly makes his way to the venue of the Halloween party he’d barely been invited to.

He only got the invite because the host’s sister was guilty she’d hit him with her car.

In reality, Stan had staged the event, in hopes of getting her number. He thought he could get her with his latest scam. She looked wealthy, as it were.

Then again, for him, practically everyone looked wealthy in California.

He parks and quickly gets out of the beat up car, practically strutting into the lounge house, located right on the beach, closest to a privately owned pier.

He enters and immediately gathers attention. The Halloween party was full of monsters and animals, a mix of disgustingly realistic ones, as well as the outfits that barely concealed any of a persons skin. Just horny adults playing dress up as an excuse to dress slutty.

Stan has to admit he prefers them over the zombies and skinwalkers, however.

Girls flock over each other at the handsome stranger in an Aladdin costume.

Stan winks at a group of girls wearing fishnet tights and shorts, only a small patch of grey fabric containing their upper bodies as they flaunt white poofs they’d attached to the exposed skin of their lower backs.

‘Bunnies,’ Stan laughs to himself. ‘Hardly original.’

He quickly finds a target. A young brunette who already looks close to the tipping point of an alcoholic meltdown.

She sways slowly along with a fast paced rock song- hardly a song for swaying.

He approaches her and takes note of every valuable on her person.

She’s dressed like a genie, her hair in a high ponytail, scantily clad body in loose fitting pants and a cropped shirt that barely reaches the bottom of her rib cage.

She grins up at him through her lashes and he has to bite back surprise as she slowly falls into him.

He glances around, but no one takes notice.

He quickly pulls her closer to himself and starts to run his hands up her arms.

She sighs happily as she continues to sway to the song.

“What’s your wish?” She slurs.

Stan only then pauses and thinks about the irony of finding this girl to target.

Their costumes go well together.

He smirks. “How about you and I find a quiet spot, and I’ll tell you all of them?”

She leans back and nods at him eagerly.

She takes his hand and leads him to a corner of the room with couches and a singular table.

The remnants of an unfinished game of beer pong crowds the table, so Stan leads her to one of the couches.

On his way, he grabs another cup of something obviously high in alcohol content.

He hands her the cup and she shakes her head slightly.

“No. I.” She pauses, frowning. She shakes her head and then smiles. “I’m good.”

“How about this then,” Stan starts. “My first wish is for you to drink this and then we can talk about my other wishes.”

Their conversation goes on like this until she’s passed out on the couch. In a few quick motions, Stan is leaving her on the couch, covered in a blanket.

He pockets a bracelet and a necklace.

Now Stan is a man of art, cons, and talent. He isn’t one to resort to thieving unless truly desperate.

He thinks he’s gotten away with it to, until a hand is on his shoulder, turning him abruptly. He lets out a brief noise of protest before a fist is driven into his nose.

“Saw that!” A male voice says. Another fist collides with his face.

His eyes are scrunched up from the pain, but he blinks it away as much as possible.

Opening his eyes he jolts back, narrowly missing another punch.

He bites back a comment as he makes a quick decision.

Within a second, he’s on the ground rolling around with the tall blond who’d punched him.

Another pair of hands grab him and yank him off.

“What the hell, man?”

The blond stands up quickly, spitting blood onto the ground in front of Stan.

“This guy was stealing from Kate!”

The man who’d pulled Stan off then rounded on him. His dark eyes narrow, glaring at Stan.

“What the fu-“

“I don’t know what he’s talking about. I saw that girl over there and put a blanket over her so she’d be more comfortable. Nothing more.” Stan jabs a thumb towards the blond, anger evident in his body language. “He just started hitting me.”

“Empty your pockets then.”

The dark skinned man shoots his friend a look. “Pete, calm down. How many have you had?”

The man- Pete -looks to his friend with disbelief in his eyes. “Are you saying you believe this guy?”

“I’m saying you’re drunk and could have misinterpreted what you saw. Move along.”

The blond spits at Stan once more, before stalking off in anger.

Stan looks to the guy that saved his neck.

“Thanks.”

The man hums, walking away.

Several hours later, Stan thinks to take his leave, pockets full of more than enough goods to get him out of the state and away from view of the cops - for now.

He exits the lounge, heading towards his car.

Pain suddenly erupts in his skull as he drops to his knees, his vision darkening.

The blond man, Pete, grins at Stan.

“I know what you did. You wanna be a thief? Then I’ll treat you like one, Aladdin.” Pete says the name with disgust and anger, sarcasm dripping from his lips like honey.

A sickening crunch sounds as the man punches Stan once again in the nose.

Darkness blooms around Stan and he loses consciousness.

***

Stan comes to, cold.

His Aladdin costume had been ripped open, probably caused from being drug along the ground.

His hat had been lost ages ago, in the midst of the first brawl.

Now his jacket lay heaped in a pile, spots of it red and brown from blood- both old and new.

Stan lets out a groan as a foot is placed on his chest.

Only then does Stan realize a few things.

One, his hands and legs are bound tightly; each movement causes his body to scream in protest as it felt as though his limbs would snap in half.

Two, his breathing and talking is muffled due to a gag wrapped around his mouth.

Three, he’s on a wooden dock, the lounge a few lights in the distance, music still blaring.

He shivers in his undershirt.

His pockets had also been emptied.

The foot moves.

“It’s guys like you that make me sick,” Pete says, coming into view. “You’re pathetic!”

Stan struggles to speak with the gag in his mouth.

“You’re the pathetic one!” He tries to say, but it sounds more like “Oar ta pa-etic un.”

This causes Pete to grin.

“Right,” he says. “And you just found all of this jewelry on the floor.”

Stan stays silent.

“Come on! You seem like a tough guy! What’s the matter? Can’t think of anything to say?”

Pete kicks Stan in the stomach, causing Stan to curl up on his side, his arms still painfully pinned behind his back.

Stan groans, getting to his knees. Pain shoots from his neck to his lower back, a bruise forming.

The man, obviously drunk, slurs and stumbles around a second before his eyes lock onto Stan once more.

“I’m going to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

Stan rolls his eyes right before everything seems to speed up and Stan is submerged underwater.

The first thing he feels is the cold. The water freezes him to the core, shutting out any ability to feel warm. His bones begin to hurt as he feels them grow stiff.

Struggling to keep the salt water out of his mouth, which is practically impossible with the gag he’s wearing, he recalls what just happened.

Pete had used an unsteady foot to kick into Stan’s back, kicking him over the side of the dock face first.

The next thing he feels is panic. His eyes burn but he keeps them open, trying to see into the murky water for the surface.

Once he realizes which way is up, his head dizzy from the disorientation, he tries to swim that way, thrashing around desperately.

His thrashing does no good however, only making him tired, his movements sluggish.

Stan sinks like a stone, his heavy pants acting like a weight. The rope around his arms strangle and prevent him from moving them; he simply feels the strain of trying, pain as he almost tears his arm out of the socket from the sheer force he’s using.

He kicks his legs, but they stay roped together. Drunk as he might have been, Pete knew how to tie a knot.

His gag doesn’t help the situation, now thoroughly soaked through, allowing cups of water to force its way down his throat, despite his attempts to keep it out, holding his breath.

The salt coats it, causing a burning feeling like liquid fire to consume him. He gags on instinct, heaping more water into his lungs.

The final thing he feels is dread. The certainty of death. The slow creep of fingers clawing at his mind, scratching and tearing until everything is a mess, memories and thoughts blurring together as he struggles to keep his wits about him.

Darkness presses against him from all sides as he sinks, his head swimming with the lack of oxygen.

Just when Stan feels he can’t hold on any more, his vision fades once again.

He feels weightless, vision darkened, but consciousness still present.

The water caresses his body and he feels acceptance. He’d only ever been a burden to his family anyway.

It’s not like they’d miss him.

He hadn’t talked to any of them in years.

A slow regret washes over him at this thought.

‘I wish I could at least say goodbye.’

His last conscious thought is of his twin brother, Ford.

‘I’m sorry.’

***

Stan coughs violently, jerking upright on a sandy beach. Water falls from his mouth, as he rolls over on to his stomach, leaning heavily on his hands and knees.

His wrists are sore and dry blood encases where the rope had burned him, chafing his skin.

His pants had prevented severe injuries to his ankles, but they still felt on fire.

The salt from the water lapping at his body doesn’t help.

He coughs again, fire searing his throat which had been rubbed dry by the saltwater. He splutters, the water exiting his lungs finally done draining.

He gasps a few times, drawing in oxygen greedily, his lungs burning for air.

His entire body feels raw and aching. His head pounds with a vengeance, as if angry at Stan himself for the lack of oxygen it’d been receiving.

Stan finally calms himself, his breath regulating in slow pants.

He looks around and sees no evidence of what had gotten him out of the water, let alone what could have released him from his bonds.

He rubs his face, where the gag had forcefully held his mouth open at an awkward angle, his jaw aching with each movement.

Stan lays back down, understanding that he’d only fall if he tried to stand.

Closing his eyes, he relishes the feeling of the sun on his body, warmth seeping into the cold of his bones.

Whatever had just happened, Stan feels grateful that he is still alive.

He still has a chance.

‘I’m going to get my life together and I’m going to make you proud, Ford. I just wanna make you proud.’

#gravity falls #Stan pines #gravity falls fanfiction #Stan pines fanfiction

[detectivejigsawpines]

Twinpathy (Pain)

Based on the lovely work of Artsymeeshee and RenConnor; little snippets of life indicating that even when they were apart (physically or emotionally), the boys were still connected without realizing.

The night he was banished from his home and told not to come back without a fortune, Stanley Pines went down to the beach with a can of gasoline that he “liberated” from a nearby station and his trusty lighter, and he set the almost-completed Stan O’War on fire.

There was no way he could take it with him, and he sure as h_ll wasn’t leaving it for that traitor to use.

Besides, it wasn’t like there was anyone who would care.

It took hours for the flames to finish consuming it; he stood there the whole time, hands clenched in trembling fists at his sides, and forced himself to watch no matter how much it hurt.  He barely even flinched when he got hit by stray sparks that burned his skin and made his damp eyes sting, as he watched all his dreams literally go up in smoke.

By the time it was reduced to dying embers it was almost dawn; Stan walked away to his car and curled up in the back seat, feeling more alone than he had in his entire life.

********

Ford barely slept.

For some reason he was just too hot; even if he kicked off all the blankets and sheets, he felt like he was burning up.

Even if he hadn’t been experiencing an odd temperature problem, there was no way he could sleep with the cocktail of rage, betrayal, uncertainty and not-very-well-suppressed guilt brewing in his skull.

His room had never felt so empty before, or been so quiet during the night.

Parts of his skin were actually stinging a little; if he was having a fever, it was like nothing he’d ever had before.  Not even cold water seemed to help much, but somehow he couldn’t work up the will to wake up his parents.  Not after they’d-

He shoved the thought away.

It wasn’t until dawn that the heat rushing through his system finally died down a little, but even then Ford couldn’t relax enough to sleep.  He went to school looking and feeling like hell, and passed it in a dull haze.

A week later, when he went to the beach (he hadn’t meant to go near the boat, he’d told himself that he wouldn’t, that there was no reason to go near it, but somehow his footsteps took him there anyways), all he found was an enormous chunk of ash.

And his gut churned with that cocktail again, as he realized his brother really wasn’t coming back anytime soon.

****************

Stan was beginning to realize that making that deal with Archer had been a mistake.

Namely because he was chained up and dangling by his ankles in a slaughterhouse, and one of Archer’s goons was approaching him with a cleaver in one hand and a meat hook in the other, and it wasn’t because he was planning on giving him a fancy haircut.

“It’s nothing personal, Pinowski,” Archer said solemnly, staring down at him.  “I like your moxie; really I do. But it’s bad business if I don’t make an example of you to anyone else with dumb ideas.”

“Yikes,” Stan grunted, face red from all the blood rushing to it, “you always talk like you’re Edward G. Robinson or something?”

Archer smiled thinly, and nodded to the guy who looked a little too enthusiastic about his grisly task.

By now, though, Stan had managed to put the paperclip he’d been using as a substitute cufflink to good use, and when the thug got close he swung his fist, with the chain wrapped around it.  It hurt, but it was worth it to knock him into Archer, sending them both to the floor like ninepins. Frantically Stanley began wriggling like a worm on a hook, trying to reach his ankles before they could get up.  Instead he found himself sliding backwards, his body thudding into one of the dead cattle dangling behind him like one of those stupid balls on strings that you can smack two together and the ones at the other end will move-Newton’s cradle, that’s what Ford had said it was called.  Ugh, of all the times for him to be remembering his brother-

He barely managed to dodge the cleaver, which was swung with a vengeance at his neck, and almost on reflex his arms flew up, catching the thug’s other wrist.  Despite his efforts, the hook pressed stubbornly forward, catching into the flesh of his stomach and digging in. On the bright side, it brought the thug close enough for Stan to pound an unexpected fist into his gut.

Eventually, of course, Stan managed to get away.  But not without a somewhat-gaping hole in his stomach, and a need to run quickly before the police and the fire department showed up at the slaughterhouse to find out what the heck was going on.  Together, these were not the most pleasant combination in the world.

********

Far away at a second-rate college, Ford nearly fell out of his desk with a gasp of agony, clutching at his stomach.

At once Fiddleford was at his side, asking frantically what was the matter.

“I-I dunno-something hurts-”

“Have y’got yer appendix removed?”

“No-never had to.”

“C’mon, let’s get ya to the doctor.  Maybe it became inflamed or somethin’.”  Fiddleford pulled his friend to his feet and slung his free arm over his shoulder, shepherding him out the door.

Surprisingly, the doctor found nothing wrong with his appendix.  Nothing seemed to be wrong period, except for the unexplained throbbing sensation.  Eventually he just gave Ford some painkillers and sent him back to the dorm to get some rest.  Ford speculated on the possibility of it being pain for an injury that he hadn’t received yet or something else supernatural like that, and gulped down some of the medicine with water so he could get back to work.

(Far away, in a remote field where he’d managed to hide his car until the heat died down, Stan felt the burning ache in his clumsily-stitched gut miraculously recede a little, even though he hadn’t managed to steal painkillers yet.  Maybe life was giving him a break from being its chew toy for a while.)

****************

It had been a long week, and the coming one wasn’t looking any better due to impending finals.

Ford couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept instead of either studying or drinking copious amounts of coffee.  Of course, sleep was a terrible waste of time that he avoided whenever possible anyway, but he had to admit that sometimes it was a necessary evil.  If nothing else, because it helped get rid of throbbing headaches like the one filling his skull right now. But dang it, this was important! The sooner he graduated, the sooner he could get into the important research he wanted to study.  And he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he got anything but the best possible grades.

Rubbing his gritty eyes under his glasses, Ford made some fresh coffee and forced himself to focus on his notes.

********

It was the worst hangover Stan could remember having in years.  He slumped back against the brick wall behind him, eyes closed, wishing he was dead.

...Which happened more often than he wanted to admit, even without hangovers.  But at least this time he had a semi-decent excuse.

He didn’t even think he’d drunk that much; certainly not enough to make his skull feel like rocks were rolling around inside it and banging together.  Geez, it felt like he hadn’t slept in a week.

With a groan, he finally got up, grabbing the hat containing the few coins a few people had dropped in it (he was sure close to making those millions now, ha ha ha), and staggered to his car, collapsing in the back seat.  To his relief, he managed to fall into a dreamless sleep fairly quickly.

(Ford began, after a few hours, to feel strangely refreshed; he chalked it up to his body adjusting to an alternative sleep schedule and double-checked his term paper.)

****************

As Stan got older, he noticed that his body would develop odd aches and pains, especially in his joints, and sometimes he would wake up feeling utterly exhausted, like he’d been boxing in his sleep.  It wasn’t too surprising, since he hadn’t exactly had a peaceful lifestyle in his youth and he was probably paying for it now. He just learned to deal with it all when he got up in the morning, and focused on the important things: fleecing the hides off customers, and trying to figure out that stupid portal.

Nothing else mattered.

********

Ford didn’t have many opportunities to wash properly while traveling through the multiverse, what with constantly hopping dimensions and fighting for his life here and there, but if he’d had a chance to look at his right shoulder, he would have seen that for weeks after he first arrived the skin was bright red, like he’d gotten a bad sunburn.  Of course, this being Ford he might have just dismissed it as an allergic reaction to something in his clothes or whatever.

****************

The Stan O’War II needed fresh supplies.  Again.

The Pineses went their separate ways in the busy port marketplace-Ford to pick up scientific gear, and Stan to get food and fishing tackle.

Ford was just fishing his wallet out of his pocket (and really missing the dimensions where currency had been rendered unnecessary), when he gasped and doubled over against the counter, clutching a hand to his cheek.

“Sir?” the shopkeeper asked, looking at him with concern, “Are you alright?”

He managed to nod and straighten up, handing him the cash.  “Yes, I’m fine, sorry. Just...a muscle spasm or something.”

That...was odd, even by my standards, he thought as he gathered up his things and headed for the boat.  It was almost like someone had up and punched him (and believe me, by now he knew what that felt like).

Stanley was not back yet, so Ford was about to make himself busy putting things away, when the sensation came again, except it was in his ribs.

And this time, he had an odd feeling that it had something to do with his twin.

It defied all the logic his mind prided so highly, but then again, things like the M Dimension and leprecorns defied logic and they still existed, so he just tucked his gun into its holster and hurried back onto shore.

The throbbing in his side became almost a pulse; like a dark version of “Hot and Cold,” it grew stronger as he turned certain directions, leading him to a remote corner of town with a big white van parked nearby-never a good sign.

An even worse sign was the group of men trying to force Stanley into the truck.

To be fair, Stanley appeared to be handling it reasonably well-several of them were lying on the ground, clutching themselves in various areas and groaning, while the ones still standing were sporting a lovely assortment of black eyes and bloody lips, among other injuries.  And while he was suffering some wear and tear himself, Stan was still weaving back and forth, using his feet and hands and fingers in ways that were not strictly fighting fair, but were doing the more important job of defending himself and not allowing them to move him any closer to the van.

And then one of them pulled a knife out of his belt.

Ford didn’t think twice.

There was a loud fizzing sound, a brief agonized squeal, and then the smell of charred flesh filled the air.

The group of thugs froze, and turned to see Ford marching towards them, outstretched gun still with a puff of smoke at the end just like in the movies.

“What the bleep-” one of them began to ask.

“Leave.  Now.”

None of the six men left standing needed to be told again.

To Ford’s slight relief, Stan looked surprised at his vicious conduct, but not appalled by it.  He just shook himself, adjusted his glasses and made his way over to his twin, “accidentally” stepping on a few of the people he’d brought down.

“Good timing,” he said.  “Sorry, I kind of lost the stuff.”

“That doesn’t matter; we’ll get it in another port.  Come on.”

“Just a sec.”  Stan turned back to the thugs lying on the ground, and began rifling through their pockets.

Ford rolled his eyes, but trained his gun on any of them who looked like they might be thinking about moving.

Once they were back on the boat, Stan happily counted their newly-acquired wealth, and began calculating how much they would need to use to restock their lost supplies.  Ford put away his gun and then busied himself with setting up what he’d managed to acquire.

“Who were those men?” he finally asked.

Stan shrugged.  “They said their boss wanted to see me, but I can’t remember who he is.  Probably just another in a long list of people I p_ssed off once upon a time.”  Then he added, “Thanks, by the way.” He still didn’t seem bothered by what his brother had done.

Ford gave him a small nod.  Then he said, “You’d better let me take a look at your ribs.”

Stan blinked.  “How did you know they’re hurt?”

It was Ford’s turn to blink.  “I-it’s how I found you. I...it sounds crazy, but I felt it.”

“...You felt my pain.”

“Yes, I suppose I did.”  Ford gestured for him to take his coat off; Stan sighed, but complied and perched on the edge of the table, hiking up his shirt.  His entire left side was almost a completely solid bruise, with a few scratches where one of the thugs must have been wearing a ring or something.

“Pretty sure nothing’s broken,” he said.  “It’s just gonna hurt like h_ll for a while.”

Ford tested the sore places anyway to verify this for himself, as gently as he could get away with, before getting some disinfectant and bandages for the scratches.

He was almost done, when Stanley suddenly reached his hand over and flicked him hard on the ear.

“Ouch!” Ford squawked, ducking his head away.  “What was that for?!”

“I wanted to see if it worked both ways,” Stan said in a ‘duh’ tone.  He tilted his head, probably waiting for his ear to start hurting too.

“I don’t think it works like that,” the older twin scolded, rubbing his head.

“How d’you know?”

“I’m just guessing, okay?  Now hold still.”

“Bossy, bossy.”

Just then Ford’s eyes fell on a long, pale scar going down the right side of Stan’s stomach.

“What’s that?”

Stanley glanced at it, and after a long moment he managed to pull some of the memory together, prompted by the sight of the injury.  “I...I think I got that a long time ago when...when some guy tried to kill me with a meat hook.”

Ford was nursing a memory of his own, of having sudden unexpected pain but the doctor not seeing anything wrong.

Interesting...

#twinstinct #twinpathy #artsymeeshee #renconnor #Gravity Falls #Stanley Pines #Stanford Pines #stan pines #ford pines #sea grunks #angst #angst with a happy ending #homeless stan #portal ford #slices of life

[marypsue]

Raising Stakes 24 / 24

Part One / Part Two / Part Three / Part Four / Part Five / Part Six / Part Seven / Part Eight / Part Nine / Part Ten / Part Eleven / Part Twelve / Part Thirteen / Part Fourteen / Part Fifteen / Part Sixteen / Part Seventeen / Part Eighteen / Part Nineteen / Part Twenty/ Part Twenty-One / Part Twenty-Two / Part Twenty-Three / Part Twenty-Four  

Here it is, at long last! Thank you all for sticking around to see this one completed!

I want to say a big huge thank you to everyone who made art or wrote fic for this AU, left a comment or sent me an ask, or otherwise let me know that you were enjoying reading what I was writing. You made this project so much fun to work on, and I don’t know how far through it I would’ve gotten without you. I’d also like to say a special thank you to @seiya234 for her illustrious beta-ing services which always helped me out of the corners I wrote myself into, and @ancientouroboros, who has been this fic’s biggest cheerleader and has drawn me a truly stunning number of excellent vampstans.

There’ll be an author’s commentary on the fic coming...eventually, and I may post one or two extended scenes, but for now...that’s all, folks!

I’m also on AO3 as MaryPSue.

...

Stan left before the sky was all the way dark.

At least he’d got the Stanleymobile back from the impound, so he didn’t have to sneak away on Jimmy’s bike. It was one thing to run out on your partner in the middle of the night - well, day. It was a whole other thing to steal their stuff.

Which was why he hadn’t swiped any small valuables of Jimmy’s on the way out, either. He’d just cleaned out the contents of Jimmy’s wallet to add to the wad of bills he’d kept stashed under the mattress. Somehow, in the pit of his stomach, Stan knew that Jimmy would understand.

Somehow that only made him feel worse.

The last of the sun was just sinking below the horizon as Stan loaded up the Stanleymobile, casting them both in shadow. Overhead, the last rays of sunlight lit the tops of the buildings with dull fire. Stan slammed the trunk, wincing at the noise it made, and climbed into the front seat.

He let himself look back over his shoulder at the apartment building, just once. 

Then he wrenched the key in the ignition, and turned back to face the road. Probably better he got out while the getting was good, anyway. Even a guy like Jimmy’s patience had to run out sometime. 

And Ford needed him.

Stan pressed his foot to the accelerator, and the Stanleymobile shot forward.

...

Everything was a bit of a blur, after that.

Stan was vaguely aware of someone colliding softly with his back, arms wrapping around him and Ford both, of warmth and pressure surrounding him, of Susan’s voice laughing in his ear. “You’re okay!”

Stan nodded, or thought he did. Everything felt heavy, like when gravity had come back it had come back doubly strong. He realised, with a jolt of horror, that he was less hugging Ford and more leaning against him to stay upright. 

And that there was laughter rising from the person he had his arms around.

It took a huge effort, but Stan wrenched himself backwards, away from Ford. With a little distance, though, he could see that his fears were unfounded. Ford was shaking his head, a smile of disbelief on his face as he reached up and rubbed one hand against his right eye, and his laughter was purely relieved and surprised. He looked up at Stan, and sucked in one shuddering breath, the smile slipping off his face for an instant before he said, wonderingly, “We are okay.”

Stan reached out and grabbed Ford’s shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze. Ford was shaking so hard that Stan could feel it through his arm, but that awestruck smile bloomed back across his face as he stared down at his own hands. “Bill’s...gone?” It was almost a question, but then he clenched his hands into fists. “Bill’s gone. He’s gone. And we’re alive -”

Stan coughed. Ford started, his head snapping up to look at Stan, and Stan bobbed his head, rolling his eyes and grimacing. “Well. More or less.”

Ford blinked at Stan, and Stan huffed out a breath. “Aw, c’mon, Sixer, you’re supposed to be the smart one.”

By the way Ford froze up, Stan figured he’d put two and two together.

“Shit, that’s right,” Carla said, from somewhere behind Stan. “Better get some blood in him, or he’s going to have a really bad time.” 

“They’re both going to have a bad time,” Susan agreed, and pulled away from hugging Stan. Stan silently mourned the lost warmth. “You two both got pretty beat up, you’re gonna need something in you to heal you up.” There was a beat, and then she said, “Stan? How you feelin’, hon?”

Stan drew in a breath, and considered. 

“Like shit,” he answered, honestly. “ ‘m good, though. Don’t worry about me. What’s this about Ford needing blood?”

“Oh yeah,” Carla said, and Stan realised she was keeping her distance deliberately. “Within the first twenty-four hours, or his turning’s going to be very drawn-out and painful. You...knew that’s how it works, didn’t you?”

When Stan didn’t answer, she sucked in a sharp breath, and didn’t say anything more.

“Well, I can take care of that,” Susan said, just as the silence was starting to get awkward. “I’ve got Boyish Dan Corduroy on speed dial, he’ll be over here with a couple of bucks in ten minutes if I ask. And don't worry about him, either, he knows sometimes you just need some emergency wild game.” She reached across Stan to rest a hand gently on Ford’s other shoulder. “Uh, Stanford? I’m sorry, but -”

Ford gave himself a shake, and cleared his throat, his eyes focusing back onto Stan’s face. “No, no, none of that will be necessary.”

Stan frowned. “Hate to break it to ya, poindexter, but -”

Ford shook his head. “I’ve recorded a recipe in one of my journals, an antidote for infection by any kind of undead creature. So long as you catch it within the first twenty-four hours, it’s a complete cure. I’ll be back to my old self in no time, and then everything can go right back to the way it was.”

Stan opened his mouth, and realised he had no idea what to say.

“Hold that thought,” he said, finally. “Can we take this conversation upstairs or something? It’s freezing down here.” 

“In a moment,” Ford answered, pushing himself to his feet. “There’s one thing I want to take care of first.”

He stood, turning to face the portal. For a moment, he just stayed there, motionless, looking up at the dead, blank eye in the centre of the upturned triangle with an expression that Stan couldn’t read. 

Then Ford threw himself straight at the portal and slammed his fist into its strangely-iridescent metal face. The portal made a sound like a bass drum being kicked, and Stan could swear it wobbled, just slightly.

Ford hammered against the portal with both fists, throwing in the odd sharp kick to the point of the triangle. At first, it didn’t seem to be doing much of anything, but then the portal shuddered in its settings and started to wobble more and more violently, until it looked like it was caught in a high wind.

Ford slammed both fists against the portal’s face, and stopped, leaning against its face and breathing heavily. 

For a moment, nothing happened. Then there was a long, drawn-out groan, like a giant stubbing his toe, and the portal slowly, slowly started to tip backwards. There was a second where Stan thought it was going to stop, get stuck leaning at that shallow angle - but then, with a wrenching scream of metal on metal, it fell backwards in one long arc, collided with the back wall, and toppled off to crash to the floor on one of its three sides.

Ford watched it fall, raising an arm to protect his eyes from the cloud of dust it kicked up on impact. As the dust settled, he brushed off the lapels of his trenchcoat, and turned back to face Stan and Susan, beaming.

“Right,” he said, and then, patting the side of his face and the top of his head as the smile slowly slipped off of his face. “Stanley, where are my glasses?”

...

It was getting close to sunrise, Stan realised as they emerged from the basement. He could feel the familiar heaviness starting to settle into his eyelids, into all of his limbs.

Ford, by the looks of things, was feeling it worse than Stan, which wasn’t surprising. He wasn’t used to nocturnal life yet. Probably never would be, if he got his way. He started out leaning against Fiddleford’s shoulder, but by the time they reached the hidden door leading out into Ford’s office-slash-lab, Fiddleford was practically carrying Ford up the stairs. 

“ ‘msorry,” Ford slurred, as Fiddleford deposited him gently in his rolling office chair. 

“Now don’t you fret, Stanford,” Fiddleford said. “We’ll get you patched up -”

“No.” Ford reached up and grabbed his friend’s arm as Fiddleford turned to leave. “I’m sorry, Fiddleford.” The motion seemed to take more out of him than he had to give, and he slumped back in the office chair. “Shoulda listened t’you sooner.”

Fiddleford froze. Stan tried to find somewhere else to look that wasn’t at the trail of splatters of Ford’s blood that was soaking into the hardwood floor.

Luckily, he wasn’t stuck staring at the blood Bill had spilled for too long. Stan started when Carla’s hand settled gently on his shoulder, but he followed as she steered him out of the stairwell and away from the Fords’ conversation.

“All right,” Carla said, quietly, with a glance in Ford and Fiddleford’s direction. Stan caught a snatch of Fiddleford saying something about a memory gun, and shuddered, turning his attention back to Carla. “The day is saved, the evil is defeated, and somehow we’re all miraculously in one piece.” She looked down at Stan’s torso, and the holes she’d put in it earlier. “Admittedly, some of us more than others, but still. I think it’s about time for that explanation you owe me.”

Stan tried, unsuccessfully, to hide his wince. 

“Stan?” Carla asked, her expression turning apprehensive. “Oh, come on. Please tell me you have an actual explanation this time, and it isn’t the New Jersey Clamdiggers’ Disease all over a-”

She stopped, looking up at Stan with her eyes wide. “Oh. My god. I knew you made that shit up, but. You made it up to cover up the fact that you were a -”

Carla slapped a hand to her forehead, staring at Stan in disbelief. Her voice was very low and dangerously sweet when she said, “How long, Stan?”

Stan smiled sheepishly.

Carla dragged her hand slowly down her face.

Thankfully, Susan chose that moment to sling an arm around each of their shoulders and pull them into an awkward half-hug. “We make a pretty good team, huh?”

Carla made a choked noise in the back of her throat. It might have been a scoff colliding with a laugh, or possibly Susan was just squeezing her too tight. 

Despite himself, Stan couldn’t help but crack a smile. “Yeah,” he agreed, looking up at Susan, forcing himself to focus on her face and not the artery pulsing invitingly in her neck, a few scant inches from his mouth. This was really not the time. “Yeah, y’know, we actually do. Thanks for saving my butt all those times.”

“Awwwww,” Susan cooed, and gave Stan and Carla another crushing squeeze. “What’re friends for?”

Stan shut his eyes, and took a deep breath in, before letting it out slowly. He was a little surprised to realise he was still smiling.

“Not to ruin the moment or anything,” Carla said, and Stan reluctantly opened his eyes. “But I seem to recall somebody saying something about this guy needing blood.”

“ ‘mfine,” Stan blurted, automatically. He could feel the pulse in Susan’s arm where it was slung across his shoulders, a steady, comforting rhythm. 

“You are not fine, mister,” Susan said, letting go of Stan’s shoulders and pulling back. “I’ll go give Boyish Dan a call, he’ll be over here in two shakes. Mr., uh, Ford? Where’s your phone?”

Ford broke off what had been, apparently, a very tense but largely one-sided conversation to gesture vaguely in the direction of what Stan assumed, based on the stacks and stacks of moldy cookware, had probably once been the kitchen.

“Don’t bother,” Fiddleford said. “Professor Genius here didn’t pay the bill.”

Ford muttered something indistinct from inside the upturned collar of his trenchcoat. Fiddleford spun back to face him.

“An’ I told you that I got spooked when yer twin rolled in an’ got a little trigger-happy with that rememberatin’ gun o’ mine! Y’don’t think I just wear overalls of my own accord, now, do ya?”

Ford mumbled something else, and Fiddleford rolled his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. “I know ya told me ta destroy it, but y’just don’t understand, it’s a revolutionary scientifical breakthrough and -”

He stopped, mid-sentence, and then looked down at Ford, eyes narrowing. Ford, slouched down so far in the office chair that his face was almost completely obscured by his collar, still somehow managed to look smug.

“Oh, don’t you go a-lecturin’ me on what you said about the portal,” Fiddleford harrumphed. “Now. If y’all’ll excuse me, I got some memory guns t’hunt down and destroy.”

“Oogh, don’t mention hunting right now,” Stan muttered. Susan laughed. Stan wasn’t sure why.

“Wait, memory gun?” Carla asked, with a glance over at Stan. “That wouldn’t happen to erase memories, would it?”

“You betcher baby corns it does!” Fiddleford stopped, and gave himself a little shake. “Though I...wouldn’t recommend a-tryin’ it on this evenin’s events.” 

Carla’s smile was more like a grimace. “I was wondering more about what happens to those memories after they’re erased.”

“Oh, they’re all stuck in a glass tube,” Fiddleford said, waving a hand. “Never know when y’might need ‘em.”

“I think there’s some of mine that I need,” Carla said. “Is there a way to get them back?”

“Years an’ years o’ intensive therapy!” Fiddleford said brightly. Stan was pretty sure he heard a long-suffering groan rose out from the depths of the collar of Ford’s coat. “But you c’n watch ‘em anytime. We got a viewer over at the Society of the - well now, don’t think I rightly oughtta tell a stranger that. But I can take ya there if’n y’let me blindfold ya.”

Carla sucked in a breath, briefly closing her eyes, before she let it out again in a single sharp burst. 

“What the hell,” she said. “I’ve done stupider things for less payoff. Let’s do it.”

Fiddleford beamed.

“Stanford, where’s your journal?” he asked, turning back to Ford’s chair. “I’ll pick up ingredients for your antidote while I'm out.” 

Ford jerked his head sharply to the left, towards a heavy, dark wood desk covered in drifts of paper. Fiddleford nodded, and started to rifle through the papers.

Stan didn’t see if he found the journal or not, because Carla reached out and took his arm. Her hand was so warm, even through Stan’s coat, her expression unusually serious as she met Stan’s eyes and held his gaze. It was enough to freeze Stan’s words in his throat.

For a moment, Carla hesitated, looking over every inch of Stan’s face like she was trying to read something written there, maybe in another language. Stan held his breath, watching her watch him, until she let out a sigh and shook her head.

“Stan -” she started, but Stan cut her off. Gripping her firmly by the shoulders and then holding her at arm’s length instead of going straight for the throat took an enormous effort, but somehow he managed.

“Nope.” It was Stan’s turn to search Carla’s face, now, for he didn’t know what. She’d aged, he realised, a little of the softness of her face melted away, a few lines winking from the corners of her eyes. “You gotta go back to California, right? That flower shop needs you.”

Carla nodded, smiling hugely, but she ducked her head almost as soon as the smile crossed her face. 

Stan nodded, too, and gave her a pat on the shoulder before taking a step back. “You go - get your memories back, or whatever. And - and don’t wipe out. Those roads are icy.”

“I won’t.” Carla looked back up at Stan, and now her smile, even though it was much smaller and more fragile, actually looked real.

Stan shoved down the urge to reach out and brush her hair back behind her ear, cup the side of her face with his hand, lean in and press his lips to hers one last time. It felt like there was still something important he hadn’t done, but what could he say? Sorry I lied to you for our entire relationship? Sorry I got you kidnapped and brainwashed? Sorry I got your memory erased? Sorry I never treated you the way you deserved to be treated and I lost one of the best things that ever happened to me because of it?

“Hey,” he said, finally, and then, when Carla just looked at him expectantly, “The, uh. Flower shop. Sounds great.”

Carla let out a long sigh, but she was still smiling.

“It is,” she said, and then, “You take care of yourself, twinkle-toes.”

Before Stan knew what was happening, Carla took one step forward, closing the distance between them, and pressed a soft kiss against Stan’s cheek.

Then she turned and walked away, with a sweep of chestnut hair, leaving only a faint scent of leather and lilies and the burning imprint of her kiss on Stan’s cheek.

Stan slowly reached up and gently, gently pressed the tips of his fingers against it.

“Take care of yourself, hotpants,” he echoed, under his breath.

The quiet in the office was suddenly broken by a loud blat. Stan half-turned, to see Susan noisily blowing her nose into a tissue that she then used to dab at her glistening eyes.

“It’s so tragically romantic!” she sniffled, when she saw that Stan was staring at her. “Your love is so star-crossed!”

“We literally broke up half a decade ago,” Stan pointed out.

Susan sniffled, and pouted, still dabbing her eyes.

“Well, I’ll be back with the cinnamon,” Fiddleford said loudly, closing Ford’s journal with a snap that made Stan jump. “You still got them barrels of formaldehyde hangin’ around?”

Ford nodded, the floof of brown hair peeking out above the collar of his coat bobbing. He didn’t seem to notice Stan’s strangled noise of disbelief.

“Formaldehyde? Poindexter, how is it that summoning a literal demon is not the weirdest thing you got up to out here?” Stan demanded. 

Ford didn’t answer. He’d slid halfway down the chair and looked like he was well on his way to the floor.

Fiddleford glanced from Ford over to Stan, who had to stifle a sudden yawn. The sun was definitely threatening to rise, now. He could see a sliver of pale light starting to creep up the wall on the other side of the office. 

“I’ll be back round sundown ta help brew up your antidote,” Fiddleford said, and then, a little sterner, “An’ then you’n’me gotta talk. I ain’t forgiven you yet.”

Ford actually pushed himself up on the seat of his chair at that, his face emerging pale and mournful from the collar of his coat. He met Fiddleford’s eyes, and nodded once. “After sundown?”

“After sundown,” Fiddleford agreed, clasping the journal to his chest and turning to follow Carla.

Susan looked from Fiddleford, walking away, to Ford, sliding back down into his coat, and then up at Stan, seeming to come to a decision. “I’m gonna go line up a couple adorable woodland creatures for the both of you two to snack on!” she said, with a weirdly knowing smile in Stan’s direction. “Don’t want anybody going all murdery!”

“Why do you have to say it so cheerfully,” Stan grumbled.

Susan just smiled up at him, the picture of innocence.

“You two play nice,” she chirped, and then shot an entirely un-Susan-like pointed glare in Stan’s direction. “Don’t go biting each other’s heads off!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Stan muttered. He shot a glance over at Ford, and then turned back to Susan. “Hey, how ‘bout I walk you to the door?”

Susan canted her head to one side, narrowing her eyes suspiciously at Stan with a strange little smile. “You know I’m not going away forever, right, silly?”

Stan shook his head, biting his bottom lip. “I know, but -” He looked over at Ford again, and didn’t say but I might be. 

It didn’t matter, because Susan’s expression softened anyway, and she leaned forward to rest a hand on Stan’s shoulder.

“You’re not getting rid of me that easy,” she said, gripping Stan’s shoulder and staring deeply into his eyes. “I still haven’t introduced you to Mr. Whiskers.”

Stan cleared his throat.

“And Pumpkin. And Mittens.” Susan gave Stan’s shoulder another squeeze. “And Admiral Pennyworth. And -”

“If you list off the name of every single cat you own, I might actually bite you in the jugular,” Stan interrupted, and Susan laughed, finally letting go of his shoulder.

“I will see you later!” she said, pointing at Stan as she backed away, until she bumped into the wall. She scooted sideways until she found the doorway, and then backed away down the hall, still pointing at Stan.

Stan watched until Susan disappeared out the door. It banged shut behind her, and then Stan was alone in the shack with Ford and the suddenly too-oppressive silence.

Ford’s house was freezing, Stan realised. Without the living people around to warm it up, it was at least as cold as the snow outside. 

Somehow, it felt even colder.

“Stan?”

Stan turned, slowly. He felt a little like he was trying not to be seen or heard, like if he moved too fast or made too much noise then something terrible would find him. 

But the only thing he saw when he turned around was Ford, still slumped in the office chair with his trenchcoat pulled up around his face. He wasn’t looking at Stan, but as Stan turned to face him, he spoke again, and his voice was...small. There was no other word for it. It sounded thin and frightened, like a little kid’s voice, strange and wrong coming out of Ford’s mouth.

“Is it going to burn?”

“What?” Stan said, stupidly. “The sun?”

Ford nodded, pulling his trenchcoat a little tighter around himself. He shut his eyes and swallowed, visibly composing himself, and when he spoke again he sounded more like himself. “Because if it is, we should probably return to the basement. I’ve boarded up the rest of the windows, but I’m certain there’s still plenty of cracks for the light to get in -”

“The sun’s not gonna burn you, Sixer,” Stan said, unsticking his feet from where they felt frozen to the floor to step closer to Ford. “Probably knock you out cold, but it’s not gonna burn you.”

Ford nodded again. He still didn’t look up at Stan.

“The antidote will work,” he said.

“Never said it wouldn’t,” Stan answered. “And then everything goes back to the way it was, right?”

Ford shut his eyes.

“Is that why you’re angry with me?” he managed, like he had to carefully choose each word as it came out of his mouth. “Because I don’t want to be...like you.”

“What?” Stan blinked. “Where’d you get that from?”

Ford didn’t answer.

Stan huffed out a sigh, and levered himself down to sit on the floor beside the office chair. Something cold soaked through the butt of his jeans, and he hissed in a breath, silently hoping that he hadn’t just sat in Ford’s blood even though he knew he had. “Look, I didn’t want this either, I ain’t mad that you don’t. If you can get outta being stuck like this, then take the money and run, pal.”

Ford made a noise that might have been a laugh. Stan took it as a good sign.

“Hey, you got, like, a space heater or anything around here?” he asked, shifting in place. Sitting down felt like sweet relief with the sun dragging its way up the horizon, but sitting on the floor was like sitting on a block of solid ice. “You’re gonna want one. Least until you get all humaned up again.”

Ford shook his head. 

“Is it always this cold?” he asked, so quietly that Stan had to strain to hear him.

Stan shrugged one shoulder.

“Pretty much, yeah,” he said, and Ford winced. 

There didn’t seem to be much of anything left to say after that. Stan waited, patiently, hoping that Ford would suddenly - what? Jump up crying and throw himself into Stan’s arms? Admit that he’d messed up and thank Stan for saving his life? The only thing Ford was gonna do, Stan reminded himself sharply, was pass out. He himself was feeling more and more like just putting his head down and going to sleep by the second.

He had to get out of here before that happened.

Stan groaned as he pushed himself to his feet. It felt like trying to bench-press a ton of lead, but he managed to make it upright, even though he felt himself sway dangerously once he was back on his feet.

“Where’re you goin’?” Ford asked, as Stan started towards the door, and Stan had to stop and refocus on his brother’s face.

“Gotta go get my car,” Stan said, with his best big showman’s smile in Ford’s direction. It felt a little sloppy, but that didn’t really matter. Ford’s eyelids were sagging so bad he probably couldn’t even see it anyway. 

“Not right now,” Ford protested, indignant. 

“Yeah right now,” Stan argued. 

“Why?”

“Because -” Stan considered biting his tongue for all of about half a second, but he was too tired and too fed up to even think about it. “Because if I fall asleep here, then the next thing you know, I’m waking up to your little buddy -”

“Research assistant.”

“Your research assistant dousing you in cinnamon and formaldehyde, and then everything’s right back to the way it was.” Stan spat. “An’ you sure as hell don’t want me hanging around after that.”

Ford blinked owlishly up at Stan. Wrapped up in his coat like that, he even looked younger. It wasn’t fair.

“Why not?” he asked, and Stan clenched his jaw, looking around for something convenient to throw.

“Why not - you were the one who said you wanted things to go back to the way they were! Well, that’s how things were for me! You sitting pretty in your - okay, creepy, neglected, but still pretty nice house, doing whatever weird-sciencey stuff it is you do, while I just hit the road until you need me again!” 

Ford blinked some more. Stan was pretty sure he was just trying to keep his eyes open. 

“That wasn’t,” Ford started, and then sucked in a breath and tried again. “Stan. I didn’t realise -”

“Yeah, because you don’t think about anybody other than yourself, do you?” Stan snapped. The look on Ford’s face almost made him regret it. Almost. “You got your stupid house and your stupid journals and your stupid - antidote - and all I got is a fifteen-year-old car and the clothes on my back and a boot in the behind! And you don’t care! You never cared! Not once, in ten years, did you wanna see me or even talk to me, until you needed me for something! And now you got what you want, and you don’t need me anymore.”

It was like giving that speech had used up the last of the energy Stan was using to stay upright. He sank down to the floor, settling on his knees beside the chair Ford was curled up in, and stayed there, too tired to move.

In the silence that descended, Stan could swear he could hear the pipes rattling in the walls. Or maybe that was mice.

“I told myself you were fine.”

It took an enormous effort to raise his head, but Stan did, looking up at his twin. “Huh?”

Ford stared into the middle distance, blinking his eyes open every few seconds. Stan could understand the feeling - his own felt impossibly heavy, and the fever ache was starting to settle into his joints. “Ma always said you’d be all right. You had personality. I never thought -”

His voice cracked, and Ford swallowed. “I never thought you’d want to see me again.”

Stan opened his mouth, and then shut it again. His brain felt like it was taking a million years to process what his ears had just heard. It couldn’t possibly have been real.

"I thought you never wanted to see me again," he finally managed. 

The strangled noise that Ford made might have been the ghost of a laugh.

“I missed you,” he said, quietly.

Stan reached up and vaguely patted his brother’s shin. There didn’t seem to be anything else to do. 

"Missed you too," he said, under his breath.

“Maybe we c’n fix th’ annidote t’work on you too,” Ford slurred, sleepily. 

Stan swallowed around the lump rising in his throat. 

“Yeah, yeah, after you wake up,” he said, giving Ford’s shin another pat. He wasn’t expecting Ford to reach out and put his hand over Stan’s, squeezing just slightly.

“Stan?” Ford asked, and Stan looked up, to see his brother’s eyes wide, clearly fighting to stay alert. His words were careful, and slow, but clear. “Stay. Please.”

The lump in Stan’s throat swelled abruptly, until he could swear it was pushing against the backs of his eyes as well, pressing against his tear ducts. 

Despite everything, he realised, he was smiling.

“Thought you’d never ask,” he said.

...

The green exit signs flashed by overhead as the Stanleymobile shot through the city. Headlights streamed past, growing brighter against the gathering dark by the second. Stan checked the map, and then the overhead signs. Two exits before his turn. One exit.

He spared a glance in the rearview mirror, at the city lights starting to bloom against the dark blue of the night sky, a huge, glittering carnival midway behind him. It grew smaller and smaller the further he drove.

The green sign flashed overhead, and Stan swerved sideways onto the exit ramp, coiling down and around until the road suddenly straightened out. Ahead of him, hundreds of miles of highway stretched, up into the unknown. 

Up into the woods where his brother was waiting.

“Oregon, here I come,” Stan said, to no one in particular.

He reached down and adjusted the postcard propped against the dash, and then stepped on the gas.

#gravity falls #raising stakes au #this is mary's fic tag

[donutpwns]

Journey to the Roots - Part 2

Part 1 - Part 3

How did he get himself mixed up in shit like this?

The thought was playing on repeat in his brain as he drove, sparing the occasional glance at the kid in his backseat. She’d shoved most of the trash back there to the floor to make herself more at home and, after a half day of driving and a brief pit stop for her to barf up what had to be a metric fuckton of glitter and what she claimed was the remains of ‘Stancakes’, had settled herself to sleep. Stan found himself feeling slightly bad at the sight of her curled up under the thin, hole-infested excuse for a blanket he used when he had to sleep in his car, which was more oft than not these days. He had learned to ignore how crappy it was given he basically lived in his jacket, but maybe he should think about investing in a new one.

Damn, he really was going soft.

With a sigh, he rests his cheek on his fist, elbow poking out the open window while he drives one handed and enjoys the crisp November air. It’s getting colder and colder the further north they get; he hopes the kid’s sweater is warm enough for snow given the increasing amount of slush he’s been seeing on the highway for the last six hours. Maybe he should liberate her a jacket from a store with lax security before they get there. Probably about time for him to liberate himself a new jacket too.

He can’t stop thinking about what the girl said about being his niece from the future. About Ford. About the photo of the two of them at boxing practice, his arm slung around his nerdy brother and grinning like the dope he was, that had gone into his wallet the moment he could slip it in without the kid noticing. He wasn’t sure if he believed her about everything, but he couldn’t let go of the nagging idea that if Ford was in trouble, he couldn’t just leave him. Stan still had a lot of mixed up feelings about his brother, about what had went down nearly ten years ago, but he was still family. If there was a chance that he was in trouble and Stan could help, he had to do it, right? Even if there was a large chance that Ford would just give him the boot the moment he saw him. Hell, at least he’d be in a new state then, and if Ford wasn’t in trouble, he was still probably better equipped to deal with the kid.

She’d kept talking about someone named Bill, someone that had tricked Ford and put him in danger. A half-ass conman from the sounds of it, and Stan knew a thing or two about half-ass cons. Stan could believe that Ford had been tricked; his brother might be a genius but he was dumber than even Stan when it came to people. Ford liked to think his six fingers was the whole reason he’d never made many friends when they were kids, and Stan had been fine letting him believe it, but his inability to talk to people was at least a partial factor. If he wasn’t unintentionally talking down to people, then he was believing any lie said at least halfway convincingly.

“Yoooounkle Staaaan…” the kid is yawning from the backseat, sitting up and rubbing at her eye. He’s not sure how he feels about that name, but he figures there’s no point in arguing with her about it. It’s not like it really bothers him the way being called Lee bothers him these days, that hitting too close to home, so he’d rather save his energy.

He has to actively focus on not crashing the car into the guardrail of the highway when she starts climbing over the middle console to sit in the front seat. He bites back a swear as a driver in the lane next to him honks when he cuts into the other lane before jerking the car back in line. “Geez, kid, you couldn’t stay in the back until we stop?”

“Nope! Bwop!” she drops herself into the front seat with zero grace and tugs the seatbelt around her. Stan doesn’t know how good a seatbelt works when someone is sitting cross-legged but he chooses not to comment. Safe enough for a petty cop to not pull them over, at least. Probably. He hopes. She’s brought the blanket up front with her and uses it to cover her lap before patting her stomach. “Younkle Stan, I’m hungry and you’re all out of surprise tacos.”

Right, kids needed to eat. Stan himself could do with some food as well; the kid had eaten the last of his food supply when she’d eaten the days old taco. Now that he thought about it, that might’ve had a good deal with why she barfed. Well, he needed to get them each a jacket, might as well get them some food as well. He sees the sign showing the next exit, hopefully they can find a good super store to ‘shop’ at there. “So, kid, what do you know about shoplifting?”

Mabel flashes him a metal filled grin as she shoves her sleeves up. “Nothing bigger than your sleeve! That stuff is for night theft. Also, always have a smoke bomb ready in case you get caught.”

Shit, they were related. And Stan had apparently taught her well in the future. Good job, future Stan. Stan sends a grin right back at her. “That's right, sweetheart. So, you think you're ready to be my partner in crime?” he winces when she lets out a squeal so high pitched he's pretty sure it could break a window. “Holy sh-iny new shoes! You're like a dog whistle turned human!”

Mabel’s practically vibrating in her seat. “I get to do crime with my Younkle Stan~ oh, but we can only steal things we need. Okay? Cause that way it's hafta-crime, not fun-crime. Though hafta can be fun...hmm…”

Stan takes the exit while she debates her morals, looking for the first gas station he sees. There he's able to get directions to the nearest super store, as well as the wallet of a guy too focused on a thing of rotating hot dogs to notice Stan slipping it out of his back pocket. Sucker. Stan uses the money in it to pay for his gas. How's that for a fun hafta?

Mabel has managed to flip herself in the seat, socked feet against the headrest. Stan glances to make sure her shoes are in the floorboards; they are. Stealing shoes could be a real pain so he'd rather avoid it, given they needed to get jackets and food. He takes the time to flick her forehead before moving around to climb back into the driver’s seat. “Sit up and buckle up, kid. Last thing we need is getting pulled over on our way to commit crime.” He says his usual silent ‘please start’ prayer as he turns the key and thankfully it only stalls for a second before the engine is turning over. One of these days he’s going to have to take the Stanleymobile to an actual mechanic and not just a chop shop that he’s managed to temporarily be in good standing with.

The moment they’re in the parking lot, Mabel’s got her hand in his, grinning when he shoots her a look. Her hand is so small in his, soft except for a strip of callus that goes across the inside of her fingers. He tries to ignore the squirming in his feeling in his gut that drives him to give her hand a small squeeze back as they walk in. He was going so soft.

The jackets are simple enough; Mabel picks a neon pink thing filled with feathers that poke out once Stan has removed the little anti-theft tag with the help of a pocket knife while pretending to check the size tag. He rips the plastic price tag off the sleeve and gives the girl a little sleight of hand show of making it disappear that has her staring wide eyed. For himself he finds a simple dark red zip up not dissimilar to his usual one that he left in the car. A twirl of the knife and he’s got two anti-theft tags now which he slips into the pocket of a jacket still on the rack along with the price tags.

“Now we just need some food and we’ll be good to go.” He fiddles with the zipper of his new jacket, scratching with his nail until a bit of the paint on it chips away. “What do kids in your time eat?”

“Sugar!” she yells it loud enough to earn them some turned heads, which Stan just flashes his best salesman smile at. She leaps up to latch herself to his arm, forcing him to lean sideways so she’s still touching the floor. This kid’ll be the death of him. “Younkle Stan! Younkle Stan! Can we have ice cream for dinner? Grunkle Ford always gets a wrinkly nose when we do it at home, not that that stops us, but he’s not here so that means judgment free ice cream! And ice cream always tastes better without judgment!”

Stan basically scrapes her off of his arm, frowning. Well, he certainly liked ice cream for dinner, but that wasn’t exactly something they could do in the car. “How about we stick with something that won’t melt once I turn the heat on. We need, like, dry food. Non-perishables.” Stan was an expert of living out of his car at this point, and that included grocery shopping.

She pouts but doesn’t really argue. He thinks she’s going to just follow along and he’s contemplating how many boxes of crackers the two of them can fit in their jackets when she lets out another loud squeal. Moses, he was going to need a hearing aid by the time he was done with her. “Flapjacks, kid, what the hell?”

“I just remembered something we really, really need to get! I’ll be right back!” before he can protest, she’s gone. How a kid running on days old taco could have so much energy he has no damn idea.

Well, while she’s gone.

He gets three boxes of crackers in the back of his jacket, trapped when he zips up the front. Two loose cans taken from a six pack of Pitt Cola fit into his hood without looking funny. In his sleeves he manages to fit six cheese stick snack packs, two packs gummy fish, a package of toffee peanuts, a tangerine, and a plastic wrapped beget that snaps in half when he bends his arm. Finally he finds himself in the ice cream aisle, glaring a challenge at individually wrapped fudgecicles.

Kids liked fudgecicles, right? It was chocolate and Mabel didn’t really strike him as a kid that was picky when it came to sweets. Hm. Maybe he could just…he opens the freezer door to grab a package.

“CHEESE IT, YOUNKLE STAN!” she’s screaming as she comes barreling down the aisle. Her new jacket is bulging with who-knows-what and there’s an overweight security guard hot on her heels. Stan has approximately half a second to process the situation before she’s running past him. He swears, stuffs the fudge bar in his pocket with one hand, and takes off after her himself.

Thankfully, his legs are much longer than hers so he catches up in five strides, even with her manic speed. He grabs her under the arms and hefts her up. Without breaking his speed, he tucks her under one arm like a football. Then he’s dodging shoppers, knocking over a display of cereal boxes in the process. “I thought you said you were good at this?!” he barks at her as he makes a beeline towards the exit and, beyond that, the parking lot.

“I’m good at everything!” her legs give a kick. “Oh! I know what I forgot!” she wiggles a bit in his hold, reaching into the front of her overloaded jacket. He doesn’t see what it is, but he feels the motion of her winding up her arm. “MABLE BOMB! BWOMP!”

Behind him, he hears a scream followed by frantic coughing and the sound of someone falling. He chances a look back; the laugh is out before he can even think about it. The guard is on the ground, frantically trying to scrape bright blue glitter off his face. It’s not a smoke bomb but it’ll do. A nice personal touch to the crime. Stan finds himself feeling oddly proud.

He throws Mabel feet first into the front seat and slams the door behind her. He slides across the hood of the car, Dukes style, and maybe he’s actively trying to look cool because his heart swells when he hears the kid cheer from inside the car. This time the car starts on the first turn, no prayer needed, and the tires squeal on the wet asphalt as they tear out of the parking lot. He’s 80% sure no one was chasing them but Moses is his heart racing and his cheeks ache from grinning.

“Holy shit, kid! Did you seriously throw glitter at that guy?” he’s laughing as he asks it, looking back and forth from her to the road as he tries to get them back to the highway. He’s got one hand on the steering wheel, the other emptying his sleeves and pockets of the food he’d gotten, tossing them to land on the floorboards in front of her seat. “What did you even steal?”

The girl’s hair is a mess, sticking in all directions and clinging to her cheeks. She’s got glitter all over her right hand and the front of her new jacket; that is never going to get out of his car, he can already tell. “I procured the most important stuff ever!” she unzips her jacket and a waterfall of yarn, and at least five jars of glitter, falls out. From one sleeve she produces two long, metal knitting needles, the other a cheap disposable camera. “Now I can make us sweaters and memories!”

Stan can’t believe this kid; he steals food and she steals craft supplies. He reaches over to muss her hair, “You stupid knucklehead.” He shakes his head, smile unwilling to fade. He fishes the fudgebar, now smooshed and half-melted, out of his pocket to drop it in her lap. “You’re not half-bad, sweetheart. That was the most fun hafta-crime I’ve had in a while.”

She just keeps grinning at him and his heart just keeps swelling.

---------------------

Nearly twelve hours later, Ford can confirm that Dipper isn’t lying. He’s performed the possession detection ritual which revealed faint traces of Bill but nothing recent enough to have a current effect.  He ran blood tests, both the standard DNA testing as well as the less standard hot coil test, which concluded that the boy was in fact related to him and not some sort of shape shifting thing. To be honest, he’d truly started believing that the kid was related to him as soon as he’d pulled out the needle to draw the blood. The boy had turned white as a sheet and Ford would swear the boy had tears in his eyes as he tried to play brave. It was so much like Stan when they were kids…

There was also the mark on the boy’s forehead; a mark of the peculiar. Ford had found himself tapping each of his fingers to his thumb while thinking about it. One-two-three-four-five. Repeat. The boy was fascinating. An anomaly in so many ways. Ford wished he had access to his second journal to compare his notes from the time anomaly from three years ago; oh what he wouldn’t give for the time measuring device him and Fiddleford had put together, but it had been dropped in the Bottomless Pit during their encounter with the Timeless MantaLemur. He’d had dived in after it if not for Fiddleford. Of all the things the Pit had decided to keep.

The boy was asleep now, nervous as that made Ford, clearly exhausted from the ordeal. Traveling through time was a lot to process, despite the boy’s claims of having done so before. Ford had many questions about this ‘time baby’ that Dipper spoke of but they would have to wait. All of the questions he had for Dipper would have to wait; questions about his experiences in Gravity Falls, about the Mabel he kept going on about, about why Stan had the two children.

It seemed almost like a sign, the boy appearing with knowledge of his brother when Ford has been debating reaching out to Stan for the near month since the Incident. A month since the photo of two foolish little boys standing with a broken down boat had gone from being hidden in his desk drawer to burning a hole in his wallet while he continually argued with himself the idea of reaching out to Stanley. The idea of having his brother take the journal and sail as far away as possible with it, of hiding it away where no one could find it. If Dipper knew Stan and Gravity Falls, did that mean he never reaches out to his brother to take the journal away? Or does he, and Stan fails to follow such a simple, important request? What effect will Dipper being here have on choices already made? Were they already living in a paradox or was everything happening as it was meant to? Had their timeline split into another one of a million possible versions of every moment? Oh how Ford wished he didn’t have to worry about Bill; a mystery like his time traveling great nephew was great enough to fuel his studies and work for years.

But he did have to worry about Bill and now a child on top of that. Dipper had said he’d faced off with Bill before, in his time, which means Ford had failed in that timeline to destroy the demonic triangle. It’s almost enough to make him feel like giving up, knowing that thirty years from now Bill will still be a menace to not just him but also his family. No, infinite timelines, infinite possibilities. So what if another version of himself had failed? That simply meant that this version of himself had to work harder than that version so that he could succeed. And wasn’t that an interesting thought; rivaling himself in work ethic and effort.

He’s not aware of the fact that he’s pacing until he’s drawn out of his thoughts by the sound of a door opening down the hall. He looks around; he seems to have made his way to the kitchen for some reason. He’s trying to puzzle out exactly why when Dipper comes in, wrapped in the blanket Ford had covered him with after he’d put him in the spare room to sleep. The couch in there was mostly free of the clutter that had taken over the rest of his house and, once he’d rolled up the electron carpet and stuffed it in the corner of the room, the room was safe enough for a child to sleep.

The boy had left the hat in the room apparently; Ford made a note to take a closer look at the thing later, the symbol on it has been nagging at his mind. Things for later. “Ah, Dipper, good to see you’re awake.” He grabs the boy’s chin to lift his face up, studying his eyes. No slits, no yellow. Good. Can’t be too careful. “I trust you, uh, slept well?”

Dipper nods, another yawn escaping him as he wraps the blanket a little tighter around him. Ford had placed a space heater in the room for Dipper to sleep, but the rest of his house was still pretty cold. It seems he had been neglecting his gas bill for some time. “Yeah. Uh, Great Uncle Ford? I’m…kinda hungry. Do you…have food?” he peers around Ford towards the sink.

Ford follows his stare to the dishes that fill his sink and cover every inch of the counter not taken up by more of his books. “Right. Food.” Now that he thinks about it, he’s not sure when the last time he had something in his stomach other than coffee and even that supply was beginning to run low. Fiddleford had handled the shopping once he’d showed up, same as when they’d been in college. He takes a few steps over to look in the fridge before quickly slamming it shut again. He’s pretty sure there wasn’t that much green or fuzz last time he checked. “I…may be running low on certain supplies.”

To his surprise, Dipper laughs. He gives the boy a bemused smile; what was funny about this situation? Dipper’s cheeks go ruddy when he seems to realize he was laughing and he clears his throat. “S-sorry. Just remembering something Grunkle Stan—it doesn’t matter. I’m not that hungry, we can get food later.” Then he looks up at Ford and Ford would swear that there were actual stars in the boy’s eyes. It makes him a little uncomfortable the number of times he’s caught Dipper looking at him like that, like he’s the boy’s hero. “So, what’s the plan, Great Uncle Ford? I have lots of theories about how I got here and what we can do to get me back home. I’m sure if we both work together—”

“Whoa, easy there, boy.” He holds up a hand to silence the boy. He takes a moment to consider the last twelve hours. The tests, the questions, the sound of Dipper retching in the bathroom after the blood test. Ford has to check his watch; it’s approaching five in the morning. Dipper had mentioned eating breakfast before he was sent back in time and though it was clear that he didn’t come through at an equal time of day, it had still had been too many hours since he’d eaten. As eager as he is to get back to work, he was still responsible for the boy. He remembers how much he’d witnessed Fiddleford’s son put away the weekend he’d come to visit and Fiddleford had insisted Ford meet his family. Growing boy and all that nonsense. “Let’s get something in you before I get to work on fixing things.”

Dipper’s entire form seems to deflate, disappointment marring his face.

Ford clears his throat, scratching at the back of his neck. “And, uh, you can help me? You said you were studying my work in the future, right?”

“Oh, yes! I’ve read the third journal front to back a gazillion times! And the other two, but I haven’t got to read them as much since you didn’t—well, after the unicorn thing you let Mabel and me see them but we were working on the barrier and so I didn’t have that much time to read them more than four times each so—”

“Unicorns? Wait, you guys were able to get the unicorn hair for the barrier?” Ford is sincerely impressed. Dealing with unicorns was one of the most frustrating things he’d had to do since he came to Gravity Falls. He still remembers the echoing voice NOT PURE OF HEEEEEEAAAAART before he was booted out of the clearing with his boots in hand.

Dipper’s face splits into a wide grin, “Oh, yeah! Well, Mabel did.” He smacks his open palm with a fist. “Hair, blood, eyelashes; she even got a load of treasure for Grunkle Stan.”

Treasure hunting! He can still hear the chant of excited little boys, skin made bright red by the sun. It brings a small smile to his face to think that they got some treasure in the end. Then he remembers it's Stan they're talking about and the smile curdles. The boy is bringing out the nostalgic in him which is counter productive to what needs to be done.

“Well, it's good to know you children are safe in the future, and capable it seems. Now, since I seem to be rather…low on supplies, what say you and I take a very quick trip into town to restock?” that wouldn't be too hard; he could just give Dipper the money and wait in the car. The idea of being around people had his fingers tapping and his brain itching. But he had an assistant again! Someone else to handle all the prickly social situations life seemed to demand as well as assist in research. The boy still made him nervous, Ford wouldn't stop checking his eyes for a good while, but if he was forced to be responsible for him and the boy was eager to be of assistance then he might as well get some use out of the boy.

Dipper nodded happily; just as Ford thought, happy to help. “Of course! Oh, we could go to the diner! Wait, is the diner open? I don't know how long it's been a thing…”

“I...don’t know.” was there a diner in town? Maybe, Ford wasn't sure. He remembered the pizza place where Tate had eaten two large Supremes without pausing for breath. It still rankled him that Fiddleford had refused to let him study the child as an anomaly. He swore he had more stomachs than the mutated cow in his book. “I was thinking we could just run to the grocery store?”

“Yes! Then we can get back to work quicker!” Dipper grins but it falters a second later. He clears his throat and averts his eyes. “Do you, uh…wanna get ready before we go?” his face is pinched with nerves. “...maybe shower?” he says it in such a small voice that Ford almost doesn't hear it.

But he does and it has blood filling his face and heating his neck. When was the last time he'd showered? Now that he's thinking about it, he can practically feel the filth sticking to his skin. A touch to his cheek feels like he's a few days from an actual beard and he could likely fill a lamp with the oil in his hair. Okay. He was completely disgusting.

Twenty minutes and one cold shower later, Ford is much less gross as they make their way to the car. He’ll admit that the water felt nice on his lingering bruises as well. Dipper has been draped in one of Ford's old sweaters from college and, while smaller in the shoulders and chest than what Ford wears now, still hangs to the boy's knees and the sleeves have to be folded several times before it stops at his hands. He's still got the blanket around him as well. Ford will need to see about getting him some pants; those shorts were not good for this snow.

The drive to town is slow but uneventful. Once they reach the town, Dipper is basically rotating in his seat trying to look at everything, muttering about things that have changed and what has not. Ford finds it easy enough to ignore.

He starts to give Dipper his wallet before remembering the photo and instead giving him a handful of bills from inside. He watches the boy produce a notebook and pen from...somewhere. Huh. They go over the few essentials they need: milk, bread, maybe eggs for protein. Then Dipper is running into the store and Ford is once more alone with his thoughts.

It’s harder to block out the whispers without anything to focus on, so he tries to force himself to run through the Kaplansky’s conjecture, trying to find the flaw in why it hasn’t been solved. Chasing down numbers in his head as opposed to thoughts of emotions or certain geometrical shapes helps calm his anxiety with being out of his house. He was just a guy sitting in his car outside of the grocery store. No one was going to spare him a second glance, no one knew who he was. Numbers, numbers, numbers.

He’s so engrossed in the numbers and not thinking about triangles or eyes on him, that he fails to notice the two figures approaching his car until one taps on his window, startling a yelp out of him and having him reach for the knife he has stashed under the driver’s seat. Then he sees who it is and his eyes narrow. It takes a moment for him to crank the window down. “Dipper, why did you bring him here?”

Dipper looks nervous again, but Fiddleford just looks annoyed despite the obvious tremble in his hands and jaw that Ford suspects isn’t all to do with the cold. “Nice to see you too, Stanford.”

\lsdqformat1 \����*<

#this is also on ao3 if anyone prefers to read it there #gravity falls #mabel pines #dipper pines #stanley pines #stanford pines #journey to the roots #kainichivonwrites

[fishingboatblues]

So like brief really silly, super non-serious idea guys; Ford takes Stan out for their birthday and tries to woo him, intending to confess his feelings but it always seems to fail due to either some inconvenience, Stan misunderstanding his intentions as platonic or Stan just straight up not enjoying the activity they’re doing and them leaving.

It’s only when they like get into a bar fight or accidentally stumble on a monster or do something highly illegal that Stan seems to be enjoying himself. 

“I love you, Stanley.” Ford confesses as he punches a security guard in the face.

“I love you too, Sixer!” Stan replies as he steals a guy’s wallet before using the guy’s own cuffs on him.

“No, no I mean romantically-”

“Are you really confessing to me whilst we’re almost about to be arrested for larceny?”

“Yes...?”

This is the most romantic thing that’s ever happened to me.”

#stancest #incest tw

[thelastspeecher]

Okay so I know 12 is usually used in fic for romantic purposes, but I think going in a different direction and having Stan and Ford stuck in an elevator would be an interesting story.

12. Locked in a room/Trapped in an elevator

Idk what possessed me to write this in the Better World AU.  Also, Ford continues to not understand how safety works, forgetting that elevators have emergency buttons.  Enjoy.

Send me some characters and a number and I’ll write you a ficlet!

               The elevator doors opened withthe characteristic ding.  Ford stepped in, catching a glimpse of theother elevator occupant out of the corner of his eye.  Someone was standing in the corner, goingthrough a wallet with a vested interest. Ford shrugged and went to press the button for the fourth floor, but itwas already lit.  

              The other person in here must begoing to that floor as well.  Theelevator rose quickly for a few moments before coming to a sudden stop with ashudder.  The lights flickered.  

               “Well, that’s just great,” theother person in the elevator said, agitated. Ford’s eyes widened.

               I recognize that voice.  Heturned.  Sure enough, the “stranger” washis twin brother.  Stan crossed his arms.

               “Goddammit.  This is what I get for taking the elevatorand not the stairs.  Shoulda knownbetter.  Can’t trust things to not breakaround me.”

               “Stanley?”  Stan looked up.  A decidedly sour expression settled on hisface.

               “Stanford.  As if things couldn’t get any worse.”  The lights stopped flickering, then shut off,leaving them in total darkness.  “…Fuck.”

               “Stan, what are you doing here?”Ford asked, straining his eyes in an attempt to see, despite the darkness.  

               “Does it matter?  Look, are you gonna press the emergencycontact button or not?”

               “Oh, right.”  Ford felt along the wall of theelevator.  

               I keep meaning to learn Braille, but I’ve never gotten around toit.  Which is a shame, since I couldreally use the ability to read with my fingertips right now.  His fingers brushed against a button thatfelt different from the rest.  He pressedit.  There was a loud tone.

               “Yes?” a voice said.

               “Hello, the elevator has stoppedworking, and we’re trapped.”

               “How many people are there withyou?”

               “One.”

               “I’ll notify the fire station.They’ll send someone to help you out.”

               “Thank you.”  The task at hand being taken care of, Fordturned his attention back to Stan. “Seriously, Stanley, why are you here?”

               “Why shouldn’t I be?”

               “This is a hospital.”

               “So?”

               “In San Diego.”

               “So?”

               “Those two localities separatedo not seem like places you would visit, let alone when they are combined.”

               “Good God, Sixer, learn how totalk without sounding like you’re throwing up a dictionary.”  There was a pause.  “If you really need to know, I’m visitingsomeone.”

               “Who?”

               “Her name’s Nonya.  Nonya Beeswax.”

               “You’re as mature as ever, Isee.”  

               “Hmph.”  Ford frowned.

               “It really is rude for you tocontinue to rebuff me, since you clearly didn’t follow my instructions.”

               “What instructions?  The ones where I was supposed to get a boatand go to Russia, or Japan, or anywhere as long as you weren’t nearby?”

               “Yes, those!”

               “Ford, when you saw me, I wasfucking homeless.  If I wanted a boat, Iwoulda had to steal one.”

               “So?  You don’t really care about committing crimes.”  Even though Ford couldn’t see it, he imaginedhis twin shrugging.

               “Eh.  Someone came along and talked me out of itbefore I could.”

               “Is that person the same one whoyou’re visiting?”

               “…Maybe.  Hang on, why are you here?  Don’t you haveresearch to do?  In a different state?”

               “My research assistant isvisiting his younger sister.  I camealong.”  

               “Oh.”  A tense silence fell.  

               “Are you really not going totell me why you’re here?”

               “Yep.”

               “Why not?”

               “Because fuck you, that’s why,”Stan said shortly.  The lights flickeredback on.  Now that he could see Stan,Ford looked him up and down.  Stanclearly wasn’t homeless anymore, and seemed to be healthier.  He must have dropped his wallet at somepoint.  Pictures from it were scatteredover the elevator floor.  Ford knelt downto pick one up.  “Hey!” Stanprotested.  Ford examined the picture.

               “Who is this?”

               “I already told you about her.”

               “Ah, this is Ms. Beeswax, then.”  Stan snorted. Ford looked up.  His twin quicklysuppressed the small smile that had crossed his face.  Ford stood and handed the picture to Stan.  “Here.”

               “…Thanks,” Stan said, taking thepicture from him and quickly scooping up the other ones.  The elevator doors opened.

               “Sorry about that, gentlemen,”one of the firefighters said.  Stanshrugged.

               “Whatever.  Which floor is this?”

               “Four.”

               “Got it.  Thanks for rescuing me from spending moretime with him,” Stan said, jerking a thumb in Ford’s direction.  “…Even if it wasn’t that bad.”  Stan stepped off the elevator and headed downone of the corridors.  Ford watched himleave.  He shook away the temptation tofollow his twin.

               I’m not here to see him.

               “Couldyou tell me where room 435 is?” Ford asked one of the nurses standingnearby.  She pointed at the directionStan had gone in.  “Thank you.”  Ford set off at a brisk pace after Stan.  “Stan!” he called.  Stan turned.

               “What is it?”  Ford caught up with him.  

               “I’m headed this way, too.”  Stan grinned.

               “Huh.  Sometimes when things break, the world doesn’t go to hell.”

#Stanley Pines #Stanford Pines #Better World AU #Gravity Falls #ficlet #my writing #writing meme #darfichihrenhundstreicheln #ask

[voodoosciencelies]

New Year, New Town

This is my little fic for Stanuary. Poorly written and unedited, this is a loosely connected narrative of Stan's life during his "Mullet" days. Might end up being an AU where he and Ford meet before the portal incident? I'm not sure...

Home

Middleville was a kind town to him, a nice little blip that won’t remember his name. For once, he actually managed to stay as long as he felt comfortable with without attracting too much attention. If the damn place had a few more bars and a lot more drunks, he might try to stay longer… But there were only two in town, and at this point his face was known at both of them. He probably could still hustle them, if he wanted, but some small part of Stan almost wondered if he might come back here again next Hometown-whatever.

Read on AO3 here.

Small towns, Stan decided, had their charms, even if he couldn’t stay in them too long. What the hell was this called, anyway? Hometown holidays? Something like that.

Whatever it was, he had himself a little white foam cup of lukewarm apple cider to sip while walking down dark road out of Millville. It’d been hot when he got it, and the young boy behind the stand had smiled at him while handing it over. Even if it was a polite, strained smile mostly prompted by a glance from his mother. Still, Stan had returned it easily and sincerely - maybe the atmosphere of the evening was rubbing off on him, he thought, reflecting on the past few days.

Folks around here took the whole “holiday cheer” thing to a brand new level. At first, Stan hadn’t really known what to make of it, but after a quick realization of just how many handouts there were around these parts decided to hang around a while. Wasn’t like he had anywhere else to be, and if he was sticking around anyway, might as well apply for a few jobs if he could find any.

A week later, he was still an unemployed bum living out of his car, but it was the week before Christmas and exactly the sort of time and place to be asking for handouts. If he hung around the grocery store long enough, he knew he’d be able to get at least a few dollars for a meal. Once an old lady with pastel blue hair, gold cross around her neck, and a grumpy husband insisted on buying him some chicken from the deli. She’d called him ‘young man’ and told him repeatedly to ‘have a merry Christmas’, and he’d been homeless long enough not to tell her he was Jewish.

Hardly that even, really.

When he was stretching his legs and looking for places to stay warm the night after, Stan had found that the teenagers at the Glen’s Pizza didn’t care how long he sat in a booth in the back after ordering. He spent the next couple days there, using the restroom to freshen up as much as he could and enjoying the background noise from the jukebox in the corner. When the owner had caught him, he’d been able to retreat to the local library, a building that seemed oddly small to Stan.

Normally going into a library for shelter made Stan feel a little pissed off and bitter, but this one just left him sad. He tried not the think about it too much, but without any distractions it was hard not to. When they were young, he and Ford could spend hours in the one back in New Jersey, or rather <i>Ford</i> could. Stan <i>did</i> because that’s where his brother was, but he never really cared for the place much himself. It was boring, and sometimes he’d lose track of Ford behind the bookshelves. This one was tiny, though, with two librarians who didn’t even look up when he entered and more tables then shelves. Middleville’s Library probably not enough books here to keep Ford busy for a month, and certainly not enough room for Stan to have lost him.

How had he lost him?

Christmas came rather abruptly, or more particular, Christmas Eve. Christmas itself for a day for family, but the people of Middleville set aside Christmas Eve for their neighbors. The whole town was dressed up in lights and half the streets shut down to make way for the apex Hometown Holidays.

A lot of it, Stan hadn’t bothered with. Santa’s Workshop, for instance, was in the elementary school across from the library, but he had no reason to go there. Down in the parking lot of Gravel Gurdy’s, though, there was a congregation of stands that he quickly realized were giving out free samples of food. That, paired with a couple teenagers being little assholes who deserved to be on Santa’s naughty list and didn’t keep good track of their wallets, and Stan ended the day with enough cash to get him through the next few days.

The whole evening had been nice, just wandering around town looking at lights and seeing what promotions the businesses were doing. Lots of food and a little light conversation. People didn’t like the look of him much usually, he knew, but he’d actually washed his clothes fairly recently and probably looked like any other punk with a mullet. That is, regular unsavory, not crazy-drug-dealer-drunk-homeless-murderer unsavory.

Some of the freebies made sense – a shot of fancy coffee from the café, pieces of soft pretzel outside the bars – others, not so much. The local beauty salon gave out hot chocolate and magnets, for instance, and for some reason, the credit union ran a Raffle. Stan entered it by submitting completely false information, winning the fourth place prize of a rather obnoxiously patterned red and greed throw blanket. Not exactly what he wanted, but paired with the rest of the night, if was the least broken he’d felt in ages. Fed, clean-ish, no colder than the rest of the morons rushing around outside the night before Christmas, and outfitted with a new blanket he didn’t even (directly) steal, it was almost like he was a new man.

Tonight was a smaller event than Christmas Eve, and all he’d really managed to get for free were a couple stale, leftover cookies and the hot cider, now stone cold. Even so, he’d been able to afford himself a sandwich at Gurdy’s and managed to sweet talk the waitress into giving him a cup of coffee for free.

“That all for you, Hon’?” The waitress had asked after he ordered their cheapest meal, looking at him expectantly.

“Yep, that’s all.”

“You sure?”

“Mmhm.”

“Alrighty, then.” The waitress said, leaving and returning a few short minutes later with a sandwich on a plate and his check.

“Ah, shoot!” Stan had muttered theatrically after the waitress has turned away but before she actually moved. He knew it was a fifty-fifty chance if this ploy would work or not, he mostly uses it to get free detergent from unappreciated mothers at the laundromat. When she turned back, he knew he’d gotten her.

“Is something the matter?” She asked, blinking heavily mascaraed eyes at him. In her thirties, she looked like a sweet lady, if exactly the sort of person you’d expect to see working in a diner in the middle of nowhere. Exactly the sort of person Stan as able work with.

“Oh, no, it’s nothing,” He said carefully, waving a hand as if to dismiss the idea and preparing his most winning smile, “I meant to order some coffee is all. Sorry, I just got a little flustered and forgot.” “I can pour you a cup right now,” She replied, “It’s no trouble.”

“Nah,” He said, forced casual, “You already printed out my charge, and it’s no big deal. I don’t want to bother you-”

He examined her a moment, trying to decide on the right prefix and taking the time to read her nametag before finishing, “-Miss Cindy.”

She blinked, blank faced, and for a moment Stan wondered if he’d made a mistake. Then Cindy smiled, wide and bright, and said, “Well, how about I put it on the house for ya’? It’s the dregs of the last pot, anyways, so I was just going to pitch it when I made a new one. No inconvenience at all, and besides, it’s still the holidays ‘round here.”

Stan smiled back at her then, almost feeling guilty that he wasn’t going to leave a tip, and said, “Oh, well thank you. That’s very kind.”

Cindy had chatted him up a little after that, whenever she wasn’t busy with another table, and Stan wasn’t sure how to feel about that. It was something you had to get used to if your meal ticket was charm, and Cindy wasn’t exactly unattractive… just a little too close to his mother’s age. That thought brought another bitter twinge to Stan’s mentality, and he swallowed the last of the stone cold cider and tossed the cup behind him, focusing instead on stuffing his hands in his pockets to warm up.

He was walking in near pitch-black now, barely able to see the glint of the hood in the moonlight. He kept his car parked a fair way out of town, this time tucked at a little park where he thinks no one will question it. In The Middle of Nowhere, USA, an abandoned car isn’t something to worry about until it’s been left a few days, and he’s made a point of moving the Stanley Mobile daily. Still, before too long people are going to notice it parked in odd places if they haven’t already, not that Stan’s too worried about that.

He’s sleeping in his car again tonight, but he didn’t expect to be sleeping anywhere else, anyway. Middleville doesn’t even have a hotel, let alone some rat hole in his price range. Honestly, Stan doesn’t mind. Sure, it’s winter, but a reasonably mild one so far. He’s even eaten today and collected another few-dollars-and-some-cents to stuff in his glovebox for worse times, even if this town is too small to pull any big scams. All in all, not such a bad night.

Middleville was a kind town to him, a nice little blip that won’t remember his name. For once, he actually managed to stay as long as he felt comfortable with without attracting too much attention. If the damn place had a few more bars and a lot more drunks, he might try to stay longer… But there were only two in town, and at this point his face was known at both of them. He probably could still hustle them, if he wanted, but some small part of Stan almost wondered if he might come back here again next Hometown-whatever.

Popping the door open, he more or less just lets himself fall into the seat, reclining backwards without a beat between slamming the door. Sighing, he closes his eyes for just a moment before there’s a loud pop in the distance. It startles him, takes him more than a minute to put two and two together. Christmas, holidays, nighttime, fireworks… New Year’s.

It’s just a little past midnight New Years Day and some of the people of Middleville are setting off fireworks in celebration. Probably nothing spectacular, but Stan shifts around to look out his rear window anyway, catching a distant glimpse of weak silver. He watches a bit, any view of the minor spectacle blocked between trees and the car. Eventually, Stan roles back over to get some rest, grabbing a couple stolen hoodies and that thin little throw to keep warm.

He’s leaving tomorrow, he’s decided. The realization that it’s the New Year might have something to do with it. It just has a nice ring to it: New Year, new town. He can get behind that.

#stanuary #stanley pines