Chapter Text
Your car sputters down the highway as you pray to any gods that might be listening that it’ll at least make it to your destination. There’s a dent in the hood, gouges through the back door where it had an unfortunate encounter with a set of keys. That’s not something you have to worry about now, at least. You have bigger concerns. There’s an hour left before you reach Gravity Falls, and you haven’t fully thought out your plan. Your whole life is piled up in the backseat, right where you shoved it two nights ago. Will you even be able to find a place to stay when you get there? What if you aren’t welcome? You run your fingers through your barely brushed hair, eyes steady on the long stretch of road in front of you. What are you going to say?
Hello. Sorry for your loss. I’m probably here to make things worse.
You shake that thought off. There would be no sense in talking yourself out of it this late in the journey. It couldn’t go that badly. Worst case scenario, he tells you to leave, and you’re back on the road again. But then, there was that newspaper clipping. You could be driving to meet a murderer. This was where it happened, after all, just off highway 618. Unusual circumstances, a cold case from twenty-eight years ago. How many people were as lucky as you, to get a soulmate that died years before you were born? There’s an ache in your chest, right under the mark, and you futilely rub at it. The pine trees blur past as you try to keep your mind on the road, and before long, a sign welcomes you to Gravity Falls.
You scan the main street for a hotel, motel, bed & breakfast, or anything would do for now. As long as it had a shower for you to wash off three days’ worth of grime. Luckily, you find a motel within five minutes of your search. You pull into the parking lot and make your way to the office. The man at the front desk is talking on the phone. A personal call? He keeps making kissy noises into the receiver. You browse a rack of brochures while you wait. Curiously, you pull out one advertising your destination.
THE MYSTERY SHACK
MUSEUM AND GIFT SHOP
NO REFUNDS
It advertises strange creatures, curiosities, and a bottomless pit. The building pictured seems to be in desperate need of some repairs. You wonder if business is good. They must get a good number of tourists in the summer, at least.
“Hey there, you want a room?” The receptionist has removed his face from the phone and is now addressing you. You nod, setting the brochure back where you found it. He sets you up with a single room at a low cost, to your relief. You didn’t need to blow through all your savings in your first week of freedom. The room itself isn’t anything special, but the shower is divine. You clean up, pull on a t-shirt and shorts, and flop down onto the bed. You were really here, with the adrenaline of the past few days catching up to you. What to do now? There were two options; Go straight to the Mystery Shack or find a place to eat. You decide that you want to put off your ultimate task for the day, and get lunch at the diner you saw on your way in. Perhaps you could inquire about some job opportunities while you’re at it.
Greasy’s Diner. We have food.
The slogan didn’t instill much confidence in you about the quality of what you were about to eat, but hey, fries are fries. You take a seat at the counter. The diner is busy, but not too crowded, at least. A waitress with her gray hair up in a beehive and grease stains on her apron approaches you.
“Hey, sweetheart, here’s a menu,” she chirps. You take the menu and peruse the selection. A few things appeal to you, but something called a “Coffee Omelette” is not one of them. Having settled on your order, you flag down the waitress when she comes back around.
“What can I get for ya, hon?”
“Just a burger and fries, thanks. Do you happen to know if anyone around here is hiring?”
“Not off the top of my head,” she says as she jots down your order. “Ya might try the paper. We got a stack over there.” She points to a shelf by the door. You grab one and flip to the job ads, only to be met with disappointment. Of course, it wouldn’t be so easy. The summer’s halfway through, so there’s slim pickings for seasonal work. You may just have to pass out your resume at a few local places and hope for the best. The waitress (Susan, it says on her nametag) eventually returns with your burger in hand. You smile, thank her, and remember your other reason for being here.
“Excuse me,” you catch her before she leaves again, “Do you know a man named Stanford Pines?”
“Yeah, he runs the Mystery Shack. Attracts tourists to town, and good for business. Not too bad looking, either.” She seems to wink at you, though you aren’t sure due to a condition in one of her eyes. A man two seats down the counter from you scoffs.
“That guy’s a crook. All he does is sell crap to gullible people, and he’s stolen from my store more than once.” He frowns down into his coffee. “If only I could prove it,” he mumbles.
“Aw, he’s a big sweetheart.” Susan walks away at that, and you’re left to eat your food in silence. It’s better than you expected.
You sink down into the front seat of your car, working up the courage to turn it on and make your way to the Mystery Shack. You rub your sneakers together in frustration. There was no reason for this to be so difficult. You weren’t even going to meet your actual soulmate, just his twin brother. There was really nothing to be so nervous about. Based on your conversation at the diner, he seemed to be a decent guy that was just trying to run a business. A thought occurred to you, then. Maybe you could scope out the place as a customer, first? If he seemed to be in a bad mood, or otherwise unwilling to talk, you could just leave. He didn’t have to know who you were. Your motivation rekindled, you fire up the engine and pull out of the parking lot.
You drive down a winding road through the woods, taking it slow and keeping an eye out for wayward wildlife. The building itself is just as advertised, you think as you pull into the parking lot. A crowd surrounds the front porch, buzzing with excitement. You climb out of your car, curious. A man stands before the mass of tourists, wearing a nice suit and a fez atop his head.
“And here we have ‘Rock That Looks Like a Face’ rock. The rock that looks like a face.” He says to the enraptured crowd. Cameras flash, and a chorus of “ooh” and “ahh” erupts. You aren’t sure what the big deal is. It’s a rock that looks like a face. It sure is a nice rock, you’ll give him that, but it’s still a rock. You watch quietly as the showman fields questions about whether the rock truly is a face, which quickly appears to frustrate him.
“For the last time, it’s not an actual face,” he yells at a particularly dim-witted tourist. So, this was the man you had come to meet, the owner and proprietor of the Mystery Shack. Who else would don such an outfit? You take a more focused look at him. If he and his deceased brother were identical twins, you would have been in luck. He had nice, full hair, thick arms, and a strong jaw. Quite handsome for his age, you had to admit. The tourists hung off his every word.
“Alright, come on inside for our last, and best, exhibit, the gift shop! Remember folks, we put the fun in ‘No Refunds!’” He calls out as he leads the gaggle of willing customers through the door. You follow them and get your first look at the inside of the shack. Various unusual goods line the walls and counters. As you pick up a bobblehead of Mr. Mystery, the man himself appears before you. Your gaze meets his dark eye as you glance up.
“Hey kid, next tour starts in fifteen.”
“Oh, okay.” Your mouth goes dry.
“Feel free to peruse our selection of one-of-a-kind artifacts while you wait.” He pulls something off the shelf and presents it to you. “You look like someone who appreciates a good snow globe. You can’t find any better than these babies. Check it out.” He gives the snow globe a good shake to demonstrate, only for it to come apart at the base and shatter on the ground at your feet. “That’s never happened before,” he lies as he pulls you away from the mess, toward a shelf of jarred brains, “And you certainly don’t need to worry about that with these quality products.” With an arm casually draped across your shoulders, he gestures grandly at the merchandise. You don’t know how to break it to him that you can’t afford to buy anything here.
“Thanks for your help, I think I’ll just browse around for now.”
He returns your smile with a grin of his own and leaves you to it, off to swindle some more receptive customers. In the meantime, you pay the young man running the cash for the price of the tour, which is honestly much higher than you anticipated. You supposed it was worth it, however, to buy yourself some time to work up the courage to state your true purpose.
The tour was worth it in more ways than one. Stanford Pines may have been a con artist, but he was a true showman. He spun stories about his, frankly ridiculous, taxidermy creatures that you could almost believe. And though he didn’t waste a single opportunity to wring more money out of your fellow tour-goers, there was a charisma to him that you couldn’t ignore. As the tour drew to a close, you found yourself in the gift shop once again. The tourists trickle out little by little, and soon you found yourself alone in the room with the man of mystery himself, the cashier having left some time ago. You pretend to examine a row of human (?) skulls while your heart threatens to beat out of your chest.
“You planning on buying anything, kid?”
You’re startled by the sound of his voice, just behind you. Of course, you realize, you’re being rude. He probably wants to close up, and here you are, still poking around his gift shop with no intention of spending any money.
“Sorry,” you mumble, turning but keeping your eyes to the ground. He seems surprised by your apology and doesn’t answer right away.
“Come back tomorrow if you wanna keep looking at stuff. We open at nine.” He puts one of his big hands on your back and nearly pushes you out the door. You grab the door frame and turn to face him. It has to be now, or you’re never going to do it. Your gazes meet.
“The thing is, I’m not a tourist.” Your voice feels wobbly in your throat as you force the words out.
“What are you, a cop?” He squints at you, and you can almost feel his guard raising.
“No,” you nearly shout. “I’m definitely not. I’m just a regular person and I came here to find you. I’m– No, I was–” You only manage to whisper out the next words, “Your brother’s soulmate.”
“What? What the hell are you talking about?”
“You’re Stanford Pines, right?” You confirm, suddenly concerned that you’ve gotten the wrong person. Maybe this guy doesn’t even have a brother.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m Stanford Pines.” He almost seems to be reminding himself of that fact.
“And your brother was Stanley Pines?” His jaw drops.
“What’s your name?” He sputters the words out.
You tell him. He drags a hand over his face in disbelief.
“Holy shit,” he grumbles.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, I can come back later.” You try to make a break for your car. This was a terrible idea. Why did you come here, again? Closure? Forget about it.
“Wait, wait!” He calls after you, stopping you dead in your tracks. He walks down the front steps toward you. Dimly, you notice that he’s not using his cane to walk. “Sorry, kid. I just didn’t expect this to ever happen.”
“I’m really sorry, I know it’s been a long time since he died, and I probably shouldn’t be here.”
Stanford waves that off.
“Quit apologizin’ and come inside.” He flips up his eyepatch to reveal a fully functional eye and holds out a hand for you to shake. “And call me Stan.”