Chapter Text
Stan slumps over and gives a dry heave as he supports himself with the bathroom sink. Shaky hands grip the rims while his wide eyes stare at the drain below him.
Sweat runs down his face. He's burning so hot he might as well be fresh from the oven.
He coughs harshly, his throat flares up, and his eyes burn. His stomach gurgles sickly.
He better not vomit cause he’s not going to clean up that mess.
He turns on the faucet, cupping water and tossing it as he brings his hands to his face. He presses his fingers tightly against it, rubbing his eyes. They sting as the moisture makes contact; they must have been pretty dry. He removes his hands slowly and the world spins. Reaching to the towel, his leg trembles and briefly gives way, knocking over several objects on the sink as his arm flew across the surface.
Remaining motionless for the brief period, he kept the cloth against his skin, sighing as he pulls it away.
He blinks at his blurry surroundings and reaches for his glasses, grumbling. As his vision steadily readjust, his gaze shifts to the mirror. He runs his thumb across his rough chin, holding his breath as he examines his appearance. Nothing weird turning up as far as he can tell.
He closes his eyes as he inhales deeply.
His body cooling and his stomach settling, his mind began to be at ease. Fingers burrow into his greying hair and he rests his elbows on the counter as his eyes grow in size. Stan sighs, his breathing shuddering. He peers over his shoulder briefly. No one better be near the door, he thinks, if someone overhears him…he doesn't need anyone's pity. That's the last thing he needs right now.
He bites his lip as the tight feeling in his chest seems reluctant to relax. He clenches his suit around where his heart sits, his fingers sinking into the fabric as he gasps for air.
Maybe it's his girdle on too tight, or he gained some extra pounds. Tugging at his suit in hopes he could relieve some tension for his lungs, his head leans back, and he gives a struggling gasp.
Slowly lowering back to the sink as relief sets in, he releases a throaty huff. His brown eyes go back to his reflection. Muscles grow tense as his body braces for whatever else gets thrown at him. Is he actually going to throw up now?
Waiting sure isn’t his best trait but he’s not leaving like this. He doesn’t have the patience to keep running back to the bathroom every time he feels terrible.
Can’t let the kids see him like that either. He doesn't need them to worry about him. They got enough problems and they don’t need to get all stressed over him because he caught the flu or whatever he has.
‘You dang well know what’s wrong.’
No, no it’s only a small cold. Or maybe food poisoning, yeah it has to be that.
His thoughts drift off as his eyes go back to his features in the mirror. His heart is pounding as he grows uneasy.
He feels…fine. Temperature normal, his stomach has settled, and he doesn’t have the need to vomit anymore. All the discomfort had left his system.
Taking a step back, his hand hovers over him. It flies onto his chest, clutching tightly.
His heart steady, he’s alright again but something feels off.
Something in his gut tells him that he shouldn’t be ok.
He feels apprehensive about leaving the bathroom; should something be happening?
He waits, uncertain. He doesn’t trust his body; he’s probably going to have another sick fit.
“Anything else…anymore you’re gonna throw at me?” he mutters.
Anything else his old body wants to complain about? He really doesn’t want to play the waiting game, and he’s not going to stay cooped up here all night. He exhales deeply, feeling exhausted.
Exhausted, how is he exhausted? Course his body isn't what it used to be, but it isn't like he did a major workout or pulled a muscle. He barely did anything to make himself feel like this!
Maybe it’s from rushing to the bathroom? It can’t be he wouldn’t feel this tired.
It wouldn’t bother him if the exact same thing didn’t happen last night!
A question floats in his mind. What the heck is happening? Last night, last night he went through the exact same motions; the sudden burning, weakness, nausea, and tiring out as the feeling goes away…well, actually, that last part is debatable. He was already hitting the hay when that happened, but still…all this stuff just isn’t right, and his mind keeps going back to the idea that it isn't just the regular flu or being sore.
“Probably just a cough…or that expired milk…Or I’m…”
His expression softens; he shakes his head and grasps his left arm.
“You…you weren’t bitten. Can’t be, it wouldn’t have left a mark like the kid’s book said.”
He sneers at his reflection.
“You went over this several times, what are you still worrying about? Probably just the scratch getting to your head, probably that expired milk I chugged…I’ve checked over it several times…Did I miss something?”
A loud, mournful howl causes him to nearly jump out of his skin. He swings his head to the ceiling with big eyes.
Dang it, that's just Dipper, right, or is he really losing it?
He freezes, waiting for another sound, there’s faint growling, and a voice follows.
“Shhh, hey, you're ok. I got you. Nice howl by the way!”
Snarls answer his niece’s soft words.
That's Dipper alright. The kid must have just finished changing; that howling is flat-out creepy. Does he have to do that every time he's done transforming?
He sighs.
“Got to be dramatic with it every time, don’t ya?” he grumbles to himself. “Wait if he’s transformed then…”
He turns back to the mirror, slamming his hands onto the counter as panic fills his eyes. His grip eases, loosening, and his palms go to his face, running slowly across it. He feels like he has the usual amount of hair, and nothing looks different in the mirror.
Maybe just wait a bit? Nah, he's been here long enough.
None of the hairs are moving so that’s a good sign.
He still appears to be himself. That's proof enough. If the kid has already transformed, shouldn't he as well?
“I don’t look anymore…different…or hairy.”
Makes sense. Why should he change later than the kid?
“If-if the kid is a wolf now, then…I should've…”
Furrowing his brows, he scowls back at his reflection.
“But I didn’t. I’m not turning. I’m not…I’m not a wolf. I should have turned with him but nothing happened.”
He steps away from the sink, wary. Steadily, his expression eases, but he retains a bit of annoyance in his eyes.
“If nothing happening to me now then…why the heck would I turn into that thing later? He always changes on schedule. It’s usually been around eight…yeah, remember Stan? Both kid and Sixer said they think these mutts change at a certain time. They were talking about something about wondering if there are other types of those mutts. Can’t be another type, those nerds would have picked up on that earlier, they were only wondering. And I’m still standing here…completely normal.”
He silently backs away.
“Normal...I-I’m fine, I’m gonna be fine! Stop worrying about it…I’m starting to act like Dipper sheesh!”
He grasps his forehead, turning reluctantly away from the mirror.
“You’re…” he swallows, "You're going to be fine Stan.” His eyes go to the floor as he clutches his left arm. His hand slides down to the cuff of his sleeve, fingers curl as they enter it, grasping. Rolling it back up his arm, he stares at the skin.
Still bearing the fading scratches, he runs his left hand over them. Thoughts rushing through his mind; darn it, he just can't shake off the feeling. Is he actually safe?
Worry fills his eyes. That one fear just won’t leave him alone. He wouldn’t do that…who is he kidding? He probably will do that if he ever should...
He shakes his head.
“No, no. It's fine, it's fine…” He sighs. “Stan you’re not gonna tear…It’s not a bite; it’s a bite…” his eyes turn away from his arm, somber, uncertain. “You didn’t see or feel anything, get over yourself. Probably just a scratch…”
Gently rolling down his sleeve, he approaches the door frame, pausing as the nagging thought returns.
He grumbles as he pinches the bridge of his nose.
“Geeze I can’t ignore…what if I do really become one of those things?”
His expression grows serious.
“If I do gotta tell them, I’ll come out and say ‘what are the chances I’m infected?’ And then…and watch them melt down. They got enough to worry about as it is, and Dipper would probably have another freak-out. Don't need any more of those; I’ll probably end up getting them scared over nothing.”
His eyes trail around, still reluctant to leave his safety zone, as weird as it sounds for a bathroom. This uncertainty is eating him alive. If he didn't throw up before, this will!
“Get it together; you got it all out…they’re going to be alright.”
He scans the room, squeezing his eyes shut in frustration.
“I-I should just…I need to lie down, get my mind off of this…”
He takes a step out of his comfort zone, his figure goes stiff, and he looks over his shoulder. The mirror showing his reflection unchanged, he swings his head away with slight relief.
He shuts his eyes as he heads out the door, breaking into a short sprint.
He cracks open his eyes a little; well he has to see where he’s going at least, or he’s going to end up running into walls like an idiot.
Whatever he does, don’t look back, not even a peek. Just ignore the paranoia.
Or he’s going to spend the rest of the night having a staring contest with his reflection.