synths
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Summary
Ford hears a song he recognizes on the radio.
Stanley picks up the pieces.
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The Courier shifts where he stands. "I thought... I'm not sure what I thought. I suppose I... didn't know who you would be when you were done. It worried me."
He steps closer. "I thought you might be a little more assertive with me, too."
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after the tower falls, his heart becomes its own mirror (or, peppino learns to deal with a doppelganger that has inherited all the parts of himself he'd like to forget)
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a theoretical physicist and his best friend, a hivemind of dozens of security guards with the same face and voice
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It's been almost thirty years since Shifty crawled out of the lab like a zombie rising from the grave, since Stanford Pines fell beyond their reach. Thirty years of almost nightly work on a portal that refused to obey their and Stan's commands, no matter what they did. Thirty years since the start of the Mystery Shack and Shifty's alter ego, the unlikeable co-manager of said Shack. Hope is starting to wear thin, and frustration is running high.
But when a pair of twins begin to stumble upon the mysteries of the town, there might be something left to find after, be they solutions or secrets. Secrets that might as easily destroy Shifty as they could save them.
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The end of the world and all the promises of Revelations fail to take root. The Batter awakens yet again. Zacharie looms above him, mask revealing nothing but dark eyes crinkled in delight.
And on, and on, and on. There is a lesson he isn’t learning.
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Ford is having a good day. He's sitting in Stan's favorite armchair in the Shack's living room. Dipper is writing in his journal. Mabel is working on her scrapbook. Stan is ... somewhere. Not here. But that's alright. He'll be back. He's fine. The kids are fine. Ford is fine. Everything is fine.
Everything is ... fine.
He just can't remember how he got here.
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“I want to try,” Fiddleford says, gentle and windswept, “to be something good for you.”
Hope is a silly thing. It has burned Stan one too many times, and yet Stan keeps letting it, fool that he is. “Okay,” he agrees, and folds their hands together. It’s a clumsy fit: Stan’s fingers are thick and calloused, Fiddleford’s spindly and bitten at the nail. “Let’s try to be something good.”
Stan and Fiddleford try to be something good. It takes them thirty years. Companion piece to meltwater pulse, but can be read as a standalone.
Bookmarked by synths
02 Nov 2024
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Stan jerks away, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I’m not going to be second-best,” he growls, eyes dark. There’s a certain angry defiance in Stan that’s enrapturing, white-hot like wildfire. “I know I’m not as good as him, but I can’t—” His chest heaves. “I won’t do that to myself.”
Fiddleford reaches up, tracing the curve of his cheekbone. And it only takes his touch for Stan to fall apart again, to tremble like a newborn calf.
Beautiful, Fiddleford thinks.
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Bookmarked by synths
02 Nov 2024