Work Text:
It's been a while, and he feels it. In his shoulders, his wrists that he didn't tape tight enough, his knees that have always hated this half-bent stance. But he isn't going to stop to tighten the tape or stretch his shoulders because he doesn't care. Punching the bag isn't an exercise, it's therapy, and he wants to make every minute count.
He can't even remember when he last had time for this. Before the kids arrived for sure, maybe...maybe even before the start of the year.
His next swing lands extra hard.
This year, the thirtieth year. Three even decades of his life dedicated to fixing that damned portal! Half of his life! More than half of his life without his brother, without his other half—
He jabs and follows through with the other fist for a punch. If the cracked old bag was a real opponent, they wouldn't have seen it coming. And he might have broken their face a little bit. As it were, the bag is not a person, and the sand inside doesn't give like the flesh and blood of a human's face. He feels something crack in his right hand.
"MotherFUCKER!" He shouts into the night before he can even think about censoring it for the kids. He hopes they didn't hear, but not enough to stop. He continues to hiss profanity under his breath as he sits on the bench at the edge of the woodline and rips gloves and tape off his hands.
Would it really have killed him to say thank you? Two words! Eight letters! It was so easy to do, and even easier to simply not punch your brother in the face, but what can you do. Sometimes your long lost twin brother returns from some freaky sideburn dimension with a chip on his shoulder and way more physical dexterity than you thought he was capable of. Sometimes he hits you instead of embracing you, or letting you apologize for that fight all those years ago, and there's nothing to be done.
Now you have a bruise on your cheek to match the brand on your shoulder, and you wonder how many times it will take for you to learn your lesson.
Stan flexes his hand experimentally and is pleased to find that it doesn't hurt. At least the universe will give him this tiny victory. Still, he kicks at the gloves and the dust at his feet, grumbling like an old codger.
"Fucking Ford and his fucking sideburns— oh look at me, I'm wearing all black and holding a grudge for forty years! Fuck him. I'll give your house back, sure, I'll shove the deed right up your—"
"Grunkle Stan?"
He squints toward the porch in the half-light as if he doesn't already know who it is. Mabel's wringing her hands in her sweater, permanently warping the woven fabric.
Well, shit. How much of that did she hear? He clears his throat, tries not to sound angry or surprised when he speaks. "Hey kiddo, shouldn't you be in bed?"
She shrugs, stepping down from the porch and plodding across the yard in her socks. She sits beside him on the bench, and before he can think about it, he has both arms wrapped around her and his bruised cheek resting on her noggin. It's sore—but that's good. Pain is a reminder. It's a promise that he's making the right choice to keep the kids the hell away from Ford.
She puts her small hands on his arms and squeezes him tight, leaning into his side. "You okay?"
He sighs. He didn't mean to sigh, but he lets out a long and loud one. World-weary, he thinks. He squeezes her back. "I'm fine sweetie. Are you okay?"
"I couldn't sleep. I just... I feel so bad that we didn't just trust you, and we almost ruined everything. I'm sorry Grunkle Stan," she squeaks out.
It's too late for this, the day has been too long. Tears well up in his eyes and he can't stop 'em. "Mabel Pines, I don't wanna hear another word about it," he grumbles. "You and your brother didn't do a thing wrong. I shoulda come clean when I had the chance."
There's silence for a little while, filled in with the chirping of crickets and cicadas. The fireflies twinkle in the trees across the yard, and Stan can't help but think it looks a little ominous. At night, everything about this damn forest does.
"Did you and Great-Uncle Ford make up?"
He stifles his sigh this time. What does he tell her? That after this summer is over, he'll go back to being a faceless, nameless drifter? That this summer can never happen again, because the Shack won't be the Shack this time next year? Does he tell her how much he wishes he had just said no when Shermie called in April, sayin' it'd be good for him to have the kids around? It would be easier that way. It's so much easier to bear the sting of opportunities lost than to feel the pain of failed chances taken.
He rubs his stubbled chin across her head in thought. Finally, he says, "No. We didn't."
She pulls away and tilts her face up to look at him. Her eyes are big and pleading and glassy. "How can I help?"
A chuckle rumbles through him unexpectedly. Of course she wants to help—this sweet, innocent creature that shouldn't be anywhere near him or his messes—of course. "Kiddo, huggin' it out was never our style. If Stanford won't forgive me...well, that's just life."
Stan's gut twisted uncomfortably as he said it. He didn't want that to be it any more than Mabel did.
She's silent for another long moment. Her hand moves from his arm to his face, cool fingers touching the knot of bruised skin on his cheekbone. Then she cups his jaw with her hand and gets up on her knees to place a firm kiss on the welt.
He wants the warmth in his chest to form a laugh, but it just makes his lip wobble. He's been on the verge of tears since the arrest, as worry and exhaustion nagged at him, but he hasn't let it come to that. Isn't he too old to cry?
"It's okay to be sad." Her hand stays firmly on his face. "You worked really hard to bring him back. If it were Dipper..." She looks down for a moment, and her body shudders ever so slightly. "I would be really sad. You're so good and brave, Grunkle Stan."
For a moment, all he could do was stare at her. All the reasons he isn't good OR brave rush to the forefront of his mind, playing like videos clear as day in his head. But she knows the truth now—she saw who knows how much in that box of his, all those arrest warrants, all those lies, and she still—
He chokes on his own thoughts, then forces in a shaky breath as his eyes fog over. Keep it together, Stan, keep it together. You're sixty fuckin years old for God's sake, just keep it together.
He can't keep it together.
As the first tear streams down his face, Mabel throws her arms around his neck and holds him tight. He holds her right back, like she's his only anchor in this windstorm of life, and he wonders where the hell she learned to be so sweet and wise at such a young age. The tears keep coming.
"It's okay," she mumbles. "It's okay." She smoothes her hand down the back of his head and says, with so much conviction that Stan really believes it this time, "it's okay Grunkle Stan. I love you."
He sniffles and hums into her sweater, smiling in spite of everything. "I love you too."