Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was a quiet stretch of Arizona road, lit by the headlights of passing cars, warm light illuminating the world brighter than the dim moonlight could. On either side of the highway, past a buffer zone, pine trees stretched across the landscape, a contrast against the typical stereotype of Arizona. Amongst them, the wind rustled through the cracks, a cold little breeze that couldn’t be felt in the safety of a heated vehicle, but one that nipped away at flesh when exposed. Like a sea, the leaves flowed in fluid motions, shifting and turning mesmerically enough to distract anyone who wasn’t focusing on driving. Below the turning of rubber wheels, Purple Heart Trail, the paved roadway currently serving as Interstate Forty, flew past. 

The El Diablo rumbled softly as it carved its path across the asphalt-paved roadway, the tired man at the wheel releasing a deep and slow sigh. The unlit interior of the burgundy convertible was filled with a flurry of sounds; the quiet drilling of a trusty engine under the hood that made the car vibrate even when it wasn’t moving, the dull rushing of wind as it whipped past on the other side of the canvas top. His own breathing, of course, contributed to that noise, a symphony of little, quiet huffs as he focused all his attention on the road. 

But, of course, that was discounting the final, most soothing sound to the man. The quiet snoring, coming from the backseat, a choir of two offering the sound subconsciously as they slept. Two tiny forms, tucked under a blanket they obtained in the last hotel they stayed at (and yes, he does know it sets a bad example, but it was getting cold - it’s the middle of January, for christ sake - and they didn’t have anything thicker stored away, so maybe they lifted a cover or two from the hotel. It was completely justified). With certainty that nothing on the road would take him off guard, and assured that they had a straight shot for the next couple miles, he let his eyes rise to the rearview mirror, adjusting it a little bit with his right hand to let it fall on the two little troublemakers in the back seat. 

On the right, a little boy with fluffy, somewhat-curly brown hair sat, nose tinted a reddish color and red shirt draped on his shoulders. He had bags under his eyes, but try as the man might, he could never get the boy to sleep enough to make those disappear. Said boy was leaning against the figure in the left back seat, a girl with hair that reached down to her waist and a purple sleep shirt way too large for her frame, to the point it draped over her shoulder a little loosely, one that covered her legs almost down to the knees, though that was currently obscured by the blanket. Their little chests rose and fell in sequence, rhythmically, and almost practically in sync.

Two adorable little kids. His two adorable little kids, to be precise, a statement declared in his mind that filled him with a flurry of giddy, rather excited emotions. Even just the thought made his mouth quirk into a tiny, but warm smile. Their names were Mason and Mabel Pines - though, after he had given Mason the nickname Lil’ Dipper, based on the birthmark under the hair on his forehead, the boy had pretty much started going by it at all times, with even his sister adopting it with fervency. 

He had always been somewhat of a family-oriented man. Sure, Pa kicking him out of the house at the age of seventeen probably didn’t help, but he’d always held family to a high regard no matter what. His falling out with his brother, the fiery mess that was his Pa tossing him a duffle bag and telling him to make a million dollars or never come back, neither of those can change that fact. You don’t replace family, he used to tell himself. You don’t replace family, but add to it, he tells himself now. Maybe it’s a change to his philosophy that came with the addition of children. Maybe it’s how he’s felt all along, just not knowing how to word it. He doesn’t know. What he does know, with ease, is he’d do damn near anything for the two little sleeping gremlins in the back of his car. 

It’s been just over a year, coming up on fourteen months, since those kids came to him. Two little four year olds, approaching five, standing outside the door of his apartment he’d been staying at for the last couple months. What a day that had been, reading the little note a meek boy handed him while a little girl called him daddy. 

They spent a lot more time on the move than any decent family would. He’s not sure how far behind Rico is, but he is sure the Colombian crime boss traced him back through Mexico early on. As of late, though, they’ve enjoyed the relative safety of New Mexico, though certainly not without that share of worries. He’s decently sure that Rico was shaken off back in Alabama, but that doesn’t stop him from answering the door with a bat in his hands, just in case. They'd settled down in Albuquerque, managed to stay in a hotel for three whole months this time around, even if said hotel had the very unappealing name of Dead End Flats. 

Then that little postcard slipped through the slot on the door.

It had been ten years. Ten years of dialing the same number on payphone after payphone, hearing that same achingly familiar greeting from the voice of his brother, only to get cold feet and hang up before saying a word. Ten years of running to and from, across the country and back, hell, to other countries and back, trying his hardest to earn the money he never truly would, at first so his family would accept him back, though now, he uses it all to keep his kids happy. Ten years of not keeping in contact with much of anyone, beyond the occasional phone call to Ma when he gets the chance, who is about the only person on the face of this earth who knows he has children (and oh, she adamantly hates that she can't do anything to help him, still tied to Filbrick and unable to provide for her free-spirited boy). Ten years without a lick of contact to his twin brother, not even so much as an inquiry through their mother, and then, suddenly, a postcard. 

There was a television set up right across from one of the beds, specifically the bed that sat further into the single room apartment. The kids had taken that bed, and sat watching the flashing colors of late night shows quietly. Mable was on her stomach, arms propping her head up as her legs kicked slowly behind her, with eyelids starting to droop a little bit. Mason - Dipper, he should say - had seemingly already dozed off. He had made a stack of pillows into a sort of back support which he had used to sit up comfortably, though now, he was slumped against it and his eyes had closed. He's not sure what was playing on the screen, just some cartoon that Mabel had become infatuated with. 

When the knock came to the door, Dipper bolted upright, while Mabel turned to look with a worried glance. Normally, their father might’ve shouted something about getting Rico his money, but the man had decided months ago that silence was better; he had kids to keep safe. Still, he gestured to the two with a sharp motion, telling them to hide, and both scrambled off the bed to the side hidden from the door, ducking for cover. He grabbed his bat, and held it in a ready position, only to still when a little slip fell through the door. Curious, he stepped forward and looked through the peephole, only to see a mailman stepping back and turning away. 

The postcard was from some town called Gravity Falls, hidden away in the middle of Oregan, with the only words being "Please Come!" scribbled desperately against it, signed by Ford. The address of the sender confirmed the same. It’s more disheartening how little they truly had to drop than the fact they were doing so on such short notice, but it’s nothing the children aren’t used to. Which, with a bit of reflection that he’s had a decent hundred times over, he realizes isn’t any better. 

He feels like such a lousy father sometimes, and who could blame him for that? Yet again, here he is, driving halfway across the country once more. It feels, somewhat often, like he’s holding them down with him, making them live this fairly non-stationary lifestyle with him, when they deserve so much more than that. There is little solace in it, but he does find the option of giving them to foster care both far too risk-worthy and something he personally isn’t willing to do. What if they split them up, he finds himself thinking. What if they give his kids to someone who’s even worse than he is? What if they give his kids to someone like their mother? When that last one comes up, he always shuts the line of thought down instantly, cementing the idea that while he’s not good at this, and while they deserve so much more, the alternative is far worse. 

At least they love me, he’d told himself, over and over again. A little smile, hesitant it may be, flitted across his face again at the thought. Even if I can’t do all that much to fix our situation, even if I ain’t nearly the father they deserve, they still love me unconditionally, and appreciate everything I do for ‘em.

He can consistently get those wonderful kids of his two meals a day, not really counting all the snacks he smuggles to them in between to tide their stomachs over (which are far easier to shoplift than something worthy of a full meal). With how often he had slept in his car, he’d eventually switched out the backseat’s stuffing for a mattress embedded in the leather seat, for himself at first, though it makes it far easier for them to lay down and rest back there when he’s driving, like they were doing right now, and it makes him far more glad he did it than when he was sleeping back there on his own. When they had the money, sparse as it may be, he’d always take them out to a treat, that being whatever they could find. There was this diner in Dallas that’s considered quite the highlight of their adventures, a nice one stylized after the fifties that gave them a discount because Mabel is unfairly adorable and managed to win over all the staff. 

No matter how basic what provided would be considered to anyone else, no matter how simple the things he does might be to the folk who have steady homes and incomes, those two are unwavering in their joy at whatever he can provide, happy without any expectation beyond what they receive. Even the most simple of things, like getting some food and drink at a gas station, lifted or not, earns a wide, happy, genuine smile from them both. On one hand, it may well be rooted in something saddening, that being their prior treatment, but on the other hand, it makes him feel like he’s actually doing something worthwhile, providing what he can. 

It terrified him, at times, thinking about what they went through with their mother, who he managed to figure out was Sarah Kovita after a bit of checking. Four years was a short amount of time, but enough to bring about not only some rather worrisome habits and questions, but enough to leave marks on their bodies. He’s seen the bruises that are only starting to fade, and though he hasn’t asked upfront, he’s fairly certain that, while maybe not their mother directly, her actions had led to them getting hurt more than once. Mabel mentioned boyfriends, and that likely means their mother was going through many different men before she finally got incarcerated. Dipper had just frowned and nodded with Mabel when she had mentioned it. He’s still not quite sure if it was Sarah who was hurting them, or these boyfriends who came and went, but either way, he made his vow to never let it happen again, and he plans to stick to it. 

His eyes and focus finally flick back to the road, just in time to see a sign on the right as it approaches. It takes him a moment to read, of course - he always did need glasses, but his brother having them had always been more important, and then he didn’t have the money to get them anyways - but he charts it down mentally. “Exit one-hundred and sixty-five, Williams, Grand Canyon, half a mile.” Vaguely, he recalls that Williams, as the sign would imply, is considered the entrance to the Grand Canyon proper. With a moment’s thought, and an eye darting to the gas gauge that was drifting closer to empty, he nodded to himself. 

It had been… already six hours since they had left Albuquerque. He grimaced at the realization. They had eaten when they left, but he was certainly getting hungry, and he’s sure the little ones in the back will agree with him that some food is in order. They had been munching on some chips to satiate themselves, but they probably should get some actual food in their stomachs. Williams might have one of those cheaper fast-food restaurants, right? Hopefully, he doesn’t want to waste all the money he budgeted for this trip early on. 

With the sign for Exit One-Hundred and Sixty-Five hanging above, he pulled off the interstate, taking the longer decline to the intersection before pausing at the stop sign. There was no indication of the road name, though the signs at the other end of the crossing stated that left led to Williams, and right led to the Grand Canyon. The sign did, thankfully, point out that there was gas, food, and lodging in Williams. 

He pulled the car into the first gas station that came up, which was actually right next to one of the town signs. It was a set of two pumps, dual-sided, underneath a roof. No other cars were present. As he was making the turn into the gas station’s parking lot, he noted that the sign specifically proclaimed that Williams was the best part of Route Sixty-Six, which clicked in his mind why this town was familiar beyond the connection to the Grand Canyon; they were driving on the famous Route Sixty-Six. 

When he pulled to a stop, the El Diablo lurched a little bit. He started unbuckling his seatbelt, only to hear a quiet little shift behind him, the sound of fabric rustling. A moment later, a soft, young, feminine voice spoke out from the backseat. “...Mmm… Daddy?”

He glanced back to see her awake, though rubbing her eyes tiredly. Dipper was still asleep, it seemed, unaffected by the motion of the car. “Yeah, sweetheart?” The father asked casually, voice rough, though not all that loud. 

She was about to answer, before a yawn overtook her, and she stretched her arms above her head rather comically as it rolled over. With the popping of her arms, she shifted a little, leaning back against Dipper absently. “Why we stopin’?” she questioned groggily. 

He may have formed a lot of habits regarding cheating and lying, but being upfront and honest to his kids had always been something he strived for actively. Case in point; he would always tell his children exactly what was going on if they asked. “Gonna fill up the gas tank, then get us some fast-food.”

She blinked dowsily, giving a moment’s pause, before giving a simple, “Oh, m’kay.” Then, her eyes fell shut, and he saw her visually settle more comfortably against her brother, easily accepting the answer. It was a rather endearing sight, honestly, and the fond chuckle that escaped his mouth was but one indicator of such. A little smile subconsciously came upon her face, something that always seemed to appear whenever he laughed, as he pulled the handle on the door and opened it. 

 Gas was an expense he didn’t much want to deal with, so he was very thankful it was only a dollar a gallon at this little store. If the next few gas stops were like this, then they could easily make it without reaching for any of the money he doesn’t want to mess with right now. Quietly, as the gas pumped into his convertible, he tilted his head upwards to the starlit night sky, listening to the distant echo of other vehicles driving along the interstate, with the symphony of crickets and other insects buzzing and singing around him. It took about a minute, but once he was done, he shook the nozzle off and hooked it back to the pump. 

The ignition kicked on, and the car started moving once more. He pulled out onto the main road again, making sure they were good for a moment before glancing up at the rearview mirror once more. Mabel was still awake, it seemed, though tired. Her eyes were settled on the window, watching the lights of buildings scroll by. Dipper was, miraculously, still asleep, seemingly unaware of the stop entirely. 

“Ya up fer some, uh…” he trailed off, looking out the window for a moment for any signs, before noticing one denoting a few restaurants. When he had started speaking, Mabel had glanced up to him in the rearview, and he returned his gaze to meet hers. “...Some Mcdonalds, kid?”

With two blinks as she processed his words, she gave a small smile and nodded, eyes falling shut rather comically as she did so. When she opened them again, he jerked his head to the side, a silent directive, and she nodded again in understanding. She turned to her side, the blanket on her shoulders shifting as she placed a hand on her brother’s shoulder and shook softly. “Dip dip, wake up,” she told him, her voice a stage whisper. 

After a moment, the boy stirred, his face scrunching in an adorable little tired expression, before he mumbled a quiet “Mmm?”  He scrubbed away the sleep from his eyes absently. “Wh’ssat?” he slurred distractedly. 

“Food,” Mabel answered, both as if that question that Dipper asked was actually understandable, and as if the term explained literally everything. Sometimes, their father wondered if it was twin telepathy between those two. 

So Stanley Pines cleared his throat softly. “Ya up fer some McDonalds, lil' Dipper?” He asked, twisting the steering wheel and taking the right turn towards the large, glowing M sign he could now see from this position. He was thankful that these places didn’t close until midnight on weekdays, something he’d learned in his many times taking the children to different fast-food chains across the nation. 

“Mmhmm,” Dipper hummed quietly in reply, a tiny smile appearing on his face as he settled back against his sister, just for a minute or two longer.

Driving along an interstate, he considers, is rather easy. It’s just a simple list of things to keep track of at the same time, far simpler compared to driving in densely populated cities and other locales. He really just has to keep track of the cars nearest to him, any big-rigs that he most definitely does not want to drive next to, and keep an eye out for any hidden cops along the way who might pull him over because it’s a boring night. That last one is less of a concern than ever, truthfully, because he doesn’t quite hold on to those driving habits he used to have as he traveled the states. 

That's the thing about having two little bulbs of light and love sitting in the backseat of his car; he's suddenly overwhelmingly aware of the fact that all of his actions can lead to harm. Perhaps it was a symptom of his low self-image and self-esteem, combined with the conditions of his life and the perils that faced him at each turn, but he never quite cared that much about the smaller stuff. Driving carefully, eating a consistent set of meals, or even renting a hotel room more often than not, it all was an effort he put none towards, because it didn’t quite matter as much as making money or staying as far away from Rico as physically possible. Now, though, it’s all different. 

Maybe the care for himself hasn’t improved nearly as much, but the fact is, he is truly putting forth that effort to improve the small things, because he realizes with unsettling clarity how risky such acts are now. His driving is no longer detrimental to anyone around him, hotels are a far more common occurrence than sleeping in the car, and he actually brings them all to places to eat enough times to satiate them when their snacks are not enough (and maybe he still has problems eating properly, sometimes giving up his own meal so the kids could eat when the money was too scarce, but it’s progress, and that’s what matters). 

There’s a loaded gun in the car now, tucked in the glovebox. It’s not the first time he’s kept a gun inside that space, most definitely not, but the purpose has changed. Perhaps it has always held the means of defense it was intended for, and he certainly knew he’d use it if one of the thugs he’d had a run in with tried to smash in his window, but it was also there as a less savory option. An escape, in a way, if (though, at the time, he’d convinced himself it wasn’t if, but when) he took the cowardly way out. Now, it’s serving the intended purpose of protection once more, for he would not take that way out. Not when he has people relying on him. 

For the first time since he’d been thrown out the door of his own home, with a duffle bag pressed into his arms, and a brother turning his back in the window above, he had more than a single reason to keep going. That, in and of itself, was enough to change his whole perspective. It was as terrifying as it was motivating. 

He huffed a quiet sigh at the familiar line of thought, eyes shifting to the side for a moment to look out the window. Past Williams, the pine forests gave way to open Arizona desert, the more familiar look of the state. Vast stretches of dirt, sand, and dead grass, with scattered bushes and resilient trees. It continued outwards for a few miles, flat for the most part, until it merged into the distant hills and mountains. The passing scenery was rather distracting, he thinks, but he’s seen enough desert for a lifetime at this point. 

Eyes shifting to the digital clock that was built into the dashboard, they were approaching eleven now. He would definitely need to stop soon, if only to get some shuteye before continuing tomorrow. Preferably, not too far from a place where he could grab the kids some breakfast and himself some coffee, since they’ll probably end up waking up by eight in the morning. His eyes shifted back up, waiting for a good minute before a sign finally came into view. According to that sign, Seligman was sixteen miles away, Kingman was eighty-six, and Los Angeles was a whole four-hundred and six miles away.

He could easily make the time to Kingman in about an hour and a half at the rate he was going (and yes, contrary to the belief of the principal back in Glass Shard Beach, he can do basic math). It’s the bigger town, and while it’s further than Seligman, he was rather confident it would have better options regarding both food and possible hotels with front desks open at ungodly hours. It’s not that he and the kids can’t sleep in the car - they have a good few times - but he’d prefer to give them a room, and with the leftover money from the Arkansas job that he’s been using for this trip, he’s confident he can at least get them a room for almost every night. 

In a way, it was almost a shock, how long it took him to recall that he could switch off to the ninety-three, and take it all the way up to Vegas if he wanted to. Then again, perhaps it wasn’t, he thought with a rather sardonic curl of the lips. Vegas was a concoction of money-making failures, one-time flings, an ex-wife that he’d much rather not think about, and a baby mother currently residing in one of the prisons in town. Vegas, as far as his time in it goes, has been a complete and utter mess, and with the kids in tow and a destination in mind, it really shouldn’t surprise him that the town is at the end of his thoughts. He would say nothing good had ever come of Vegas, but, well, in a way, there were two good things that came from that hellhole of a city. 

Once he stops off at Kingman, gets some sleep, and feeds the kids, he could probably truck it all the way to Bakersfield without a major stop along the way. He’ll probably stop there before pulling onto Interstate Five, give the kids a bit of a rest and probably shoplift them a few more snacks and treats from whatever sorry schmuck is working the gas station he decides is easy pickings, From there? He kinda wants to take a detour and stop by the beach. The Kids haven’t gotten to see the sea on the west coast, only the southern gulf and the eastern coast. West coast beaches are something else, especially at sunset. There’s nothing like a California sunset. 

He knows that his brother’s message was somewhat urgent - it was literally the words “Please Come!” written on a postcard, which, in his brother’s standards, is his way of being straightforward and to the point - but he finds himself completely justified in pursuit of entertainment for his two little kids. His brother would understand, right? If he could take the time to send a postcard instead of a call (which his brother could do, considering he clearly had the address of the hotel they’d been staying in), then he clearly has some time. Probably. 

 “Daddy…?” a distinctly young male voice spoke out from the backseat, spurring him from his thoughts. It audibly held fatigue, the tone of someone who just woke up from slumber. 

Stan’s eyes darted up to the rearview to see the sight of his son, rubbing away at his eyes. The boy was leaning against his sister, both mutually holding each other up. They had pretty much passed out right after they all finished eating in Willaims, and had been mostly content to stay asleep since. “Yea, kid?” Stan questioned in return. 

“Wha you thinkin’?” the boy asked, sleepy tone a little slurred. A yawn broke after his words, and he stretched his arms up, careful not to jostle his sister with the movements. Afterwards, the boy’s mouth clicked shut, before opening again when he was settled. “You got dat thinkin’ face right now.”

The man snorted, always finding that blatant way kids explain things funny. “You’re right, kid, good job.” He always gave congratulations, even for the smallest things, and maybe that stems from his own fears of being too similar to his Pa, but at the same time, the warm, tired smile that broke out across the boy’s face always made it worth it. “I’m thinkin’ about a lot of things, I guess, but right now?” He made sure the boy was meeting his eyes in the rearview before finishing his sentence. “‘M thinkin’ about how lucky I must be to have you two adorable little blessings in my car, heh.”

Dipper, as per usual when he receives a compliment, flushes and bows his head meekly at the praise, but the man can see the pleased, warm smile on the boy’s face even still. “I love you, daddy,” he says, voice a meek little whisper, and oh, no matter how many times that boy’s said it before, it still makes their father tear up every time.

So, smiling genuine and warm, Stan takes a quick breath to stop himself from actually crying, and replies with “I love you too, kiddo.” He adjusts his hold on the steering wheel, eyes slipping away from the rearview mirror back to the road. “Get some more shuteye, alright? We should get into town in about ‘n hour or so.” His lips twitch further up at the tiny hum of affirmation that answers his words, followed a few minutes later by the sound of soft snoring joining that of the boy's sister.

Once upon a time, when naivety ruled his mind and denial led him to chase dreams of fortune that never could’ve been further away, he had fooled himself into believing if he just obtained all the money he cost his family, they’d accept him back. Even when he knew it wasn’t true, that such a fantasy could not be real, he pushed on anyway, always using that same justification to explain away his dangerous jobs and gambling. He stayed in denial, unable to accept the idea that his family wouldn’t accept him back, not if he fixed his mistake, acting as though some simple money being handed to his father would let him return to those who he loved. At best, it was a foolish dream, and at worst, it was a worthless hope. He realized that the moment that believing in that lie wasn’t the only thing keeping him alive. 

When the kids came into the picture, he wouldn’t quite say that those dreams of fortune dissipated, though they certainly weakened to the point where he rarely follows the urges to gamble, and he certainly has stopped messing with any criminal activity above a misdemeanor. Rather, the focus of the goal shifted. Instead of getting millions to regain his family’s love and return to the place he called home, he wanted that money to buy his kids whatever they may want. To give them a stable home, to offer them an actually good life, to feed and clothe them. The money’s no longer about his own personal gain, it all stems back to those two wonderful kids of his, and how much he thinks they deserve the world. They certainly deserve more than he gives them right now, though. 

Yet, no matter how little he gives them, no matter how small or common it may be, it’s like he does give them all they want. They smile with wide grins that crinkle their eyes, give him hugs so tight that you’d think he got them the best thing in the whole wide world, and they’d tell him that they love him. No matter how small, they seem to think it’s the biggest. No matter how cheap, they treat whatever he gives them as though it was worth those fictitious millions he dreamed of. He can’t provide it all for them, but they treat it as though he does. Does it stem from their mother’s treatment? Or are they truly so happy to receive anything from him? He doesn’t quite know. He wishes he could understand it better. 

Unconditional. Their love, their happiness, their joy, it's all just so unconditional, and he isn't used to that. Ma, in a way, is the only one in his life who he can say loved him unconditionally. Pa's philosophy of tough love, as Ma called it, didn't seem like love anymore, and his brother had left him behind after a single mistake. Carla had left him for a hippie, Marilyn had just wanted his car, and Sarah was one of his few one-time flings that so happened to give him the best things to ever happen in his life. Love had always come with a price in his experience. Pa's price was respect, with the added bonus of punishment if that price wasn't met. Ford's price had been to stand by his side unwavering, until he wasn't needed anymore, then to be cast aside with no resistance. He's not sure what he did wrong with Carla, but he knows it's his fault; he didn't meet her price. 

He would give them anything if he had that ability within his power. They deserve it. He wishes they didn't move around so much, wishes he could feed them as much as most financially stable folk could, wishes he could give them their own rooms with more toys and games than the couple they have stuffed in the duffel bag. He wishes they could play on the carpet of a living room while he sits on a chair watching television, like families should. He wishes he could give them everything they could ever want or need. 

Slung under his arms is his trusty duffle bag, a black-fabric cylinder that holds the majority of his possessions, as well as a decent selection of items he owned for the kids - that is, decent by homeless standards. Behind him, the soft pitter-patter of sock-clad feet meet the concrete underneath, trailing behind silently with a distinct feeling of resolute tiredness wafting through the air. It was an absolute blessing from whatever damn deity lives up in the clouds, the fact that one of the open rooms was on the first floor. He knew the kids wouldn't be able to make it up those stairs, and he also knew they'd just fall asleep in his arms if he picked them up, which is far too big a challenge to handle with the duffel bag in hand. 

Room fifteen, as he had been told by the receptionist who was absolutely judging the clearly homeless single father, was a single-bed hotel room, meaning he and the kids would need to share. Not that he minded that, of course - it was rather customary for the kids to use him as a pillow when they slept somewhere new, or in the car. They both, through the means of Mabel, claim it to give them better sleep when they’re in unfamiliar places. He’s not sure if that’s entirely true, because they still do seem to have nightmares, but if they think it helps, who’s he to stop them? The weight at his side or pressed against him, in a way, helps him just as much as they say it helps them. 

The key slips right into the lock, and with a little shove, the door cracks open, the frame creaking as it does so. The room, when the light flicks on, is nothing really that special. Tacky wallpaper with wooden furniture, a bed with white sheets and yellow-ish covers, a table across the room from that bed with a small television sitting on it. The bathroom, he notes, is directly to his right, just beside the front door, though it’s nothing grand. There’s a few stains here and there, but in a way, it’s somehow better than the apartment they’d rented at Dead End Flats. He gives a melancholy smile at that thought. 

It takes no time at all to make themselves at home. Their belongings are confined to a duffle bag under his arm and the two absolutely not stolen backpacks the kids lazily slung over their shoulders when they all got out of the car. He can see the fact that, having been awoken from their food coma, they were practically asleep on their feet, so, as soon as the duffle bag was set at the foot of the bed, he helped them shuffle the backpacks off and set them at the bedside. He shed the red jacket he’d kept since it was shoved into a duffle bag back in his room in Jersey, and with a stretch that pops just about every bone in his body, he groans aloud before he falls onto the bed, and huffs a loud sigh. A moment later, the clambering rustle of fabric as two little tikes climb up after him follows suit. 

The bed, thankfully, seemed to be a queen-sized mattress, which meant he had enough space to shuffle around a bit and get comfortable, while the two little ones did the same. He took up the majority of the right side, while they both pressed against him on the left, clutching one-another. With a sigh, he leans his head back against the pillow, while Mabel shifts a tiny bit to get just a little more settled, using his arm as a pillow. “You two comfortable?” he asks, gravely voice betraying his true fatigue, when they’ve both eventually stopped squirming around. 

“Mmhmm,” Mabel hums in reply, her own voice taking on a quality of sleepiness that made it slightly slurred. One of her arms was grasping Stan’s shirt, while the other was wrapped around Dipper, who had one wrapped around her in turn. A quick beat of silence, then she whispers “Goodnight daddy, love you.” Dipper also mumbles something, probably a mirror of what Mabel had just said, but his head was buried in his sister’s side, so the words were incomprehensible. 

With a sheen to his eyes that nobody could see in the lack of light, Stan replied in a softer, though still characteristically gruff, tone. “Goodnight, ya little gremlins,” he offered. “I love both of ya too.” Like usual these days, it didn’t take quite as long to fall asleep as it once did, hearing two little symphonies of breathing at his side, and feeling the weight holding him in reality and away from his thoughts.

Chapter Text

Oregan, being a northern state, was filled to the brim with chilly temperatures and frigid winds. He knew this, of course, but he hadn’t quite thought it would be as terrible as it was. He assumed, probably a little naively, that he could’ve just given the kids some extra, thicker clothes, bundled them in a thick blanket, and called it a day as they drove on an overcast morning. He supposes such a miscalculation is only his fault, as he hadn’t checked the weather quite as well as he’d thought. The local channels had only mentioned light snow, and didn't even comment on the conditions out east. 

With a sardonic huff of laughter, he considered his suffering to be the price he had to pay, having handed off his thick red jacket to the kids so they could keep the warmest. They needed it, having been raised out in the hotter, more southern states most of their lives. The shivers rocking his frame did make him question that decision, but he didn’t much regret it, because those two’s health is far more important than his. Sadly, the sputtering heater of the El Diablo had finally reached one of those temperature barriers, the ones he only ever hit in Wisconsin and North Dakota, where it simply just stops being useful. It left him feeling the bitter cold biting at his nose as it sliced through the canopy overhead, the only respite being the slightly warm air, blowing weakly from the air conditioning system, that was able to keep his hands exclusively from freezing into icicles. 

It’s a little interesting, considering the implications of what those two kids in the back seat make him consider. Would he have been driving this carefully, snowy conditions or not, if he had those little lives with him? Would his caution have extended to himself in such a scenario? He honestly hates just how easily he can answer that question with a simple negative reply. Because he wouldn’t have been careful. He would’ve taken a shorter path, up through Colorado and across Idaho, instead of taking the time to detour through Arizona and up through California. He would’ve sped the entire time, made one or two stops out of necessity instead of any actual self-care, and finished the trip in, at most, two days' time. Road safety ignored, laws be damned, he would’ve made his way to Ford in as fast as humanly possible. 

The reason why is also surprisingly simple. Because Ford asked him to. Even with ten years in between their last contact proper, after hearing nothing but the info Ma would tell him over the phone, with nothing to his name but a car, clothes, and a duffle bag of personal belongings, he would’ve dropped anything and everything he was going to be there for his brother. He still would, of course - he did, after all, if with much less abruptness than this fictitious scenario - but he knows his own devotion to his family. Ford, no matter what, even after everything, is family. 

The kids were the reason that he'd taken the route through California, determined to show his little niblings the beauty of a west-coast sunset. They were the reason he found himself caring about his own health in addition to theirs, because while theirs was objectively more important, he had to be able to take care of them. They were the reason their trip through Oregon took two days instead of one, having stopped at several of those tacky little tourist traps all around the state for entertainment. They were the reason that he wasn't in a rush, trying to get to his brother's in some sudden burst. None of that was a bad thing - in fact, Stan thought of it as limiting in a positive way, keeping him in-check and level headed. It made his mind stay on track, not letting paranoia about his brother, nor unlikely expectations about what their meeting might be like, fester. It was for the best. He didn't want false hope. 

Under swirling white, on his right-hand side, a sign breaks through into sight. It takes a moment to make out, with the harsh white blur obscuring much of anything past a good few feet, but he can distinctly see the backdrop of a city pasted behind some painted words, a scene that looks almost exactly like the postcard’s design. Warm orange lights illuminate it softly, a contrast enough for it to be noticed even in the harshest conditions. The words “Gravity Falls” come into sight just as he finally gets beside the sign, and process once he’s on the other side, giving a sigh of relief that he can see huff out into the frosty air around him. He’d been worried he’d get turned the wrong direction or something, even following the map sitting unfolded across his lap, and getting lost out here while a storm this bad is raging on would be damn near life-threatening. 

In his mind, he complains rather vehemently. Damn poindexter really had to call us in January of all months, his mind scowls. Couldn’t have waited until the snowstorms had passed to get himself into enough trouble that the family screw-up had to come solve everything? Was he assigning blame to Ford for this whole ordeal? Of course he was, because if he didn’t, he’d have to acknowledge that the whole problem is his own fault, and he doesn’t want to do that right now, considering how negative his thoughts are already. 

He didn’t know much about what his brother was doing out in the middle of nowhere, not beyond what Ma had been telling him in those aforementioned phone calls. Apparently, Ford had come up here to study anomalies, which was vague enough that he got the impression Ma didn’t quite understand it, but was mostly happy her son had found something he enjoyed. When Stan thinks of the word, though, his mind jumps to six fingers on either hand, a Jersey Devil on the shores of a glassy beach, a ghost haunting an old apartment room, and a man that looked suspiciously like a werewolf back in Florida, amongst a few other stories (though he is willing to chalk that last one up to just being how Florida was; those people terrified him). He knew Ford had always had a fascination with those types of strange occurrences, fueled by his own differences. Stan knew exactly what he would be researching up here, and with his own experiences throughout the years, he isn’t that disbelieving to it. 

After all, direct experiences with the unknown cast aside, he knows there’s nothing very natural about the birthmark on his son’s head. That isn’t something negative - he didn’t defend Ford’s abnormalities for years and years only to turn around and say such differences mean something - but he can recognize that both of those features are strange. He can recognize that they aren’t what most people would consider normal. Even if he hadn’t hunted mysterious creatures with his brother in their youth, nor run into the supernatural across his travels before, he very well would have believed anything Ford told him, and not just because he would always believe anything his brother said. 

“Uhm… daddy?” the voice of his son speaks up from the backseat. Stan’s attention hadn’t been away from the road despite his mind tumbling over his thoughts, so he wasn’t quite jared from his thoughts at the words. He gave a grunt of acknowledgement. “C’n we get som’thing to eat?”

Now, anyone who didn’t know his brother might be mistaken for thinking the man would both have food and offer it. Stan, of course, knew his brother, and he knew several things about said brother. First and foremost, expecting Ford to cook in any way was a miracle waiting to happen. He rarely made himself food, much less willing to make anyone else food. Second, and possibly more important depending on who you ask, it’s more than likely that, if that old lack of cooking ability carried over into his independent adulthood, then the Poindexter probably doesn’t even have food in his cabinets for Stan to cook instead. 

So really, there was only one answer to that question. “Sure thing, kiddos,” he said, ignoring the way his voice wavered from the cold. He considered, mentally, how much in terms of funds they still had, and decided that they could make this work. “We’ll grab somethin’ to eat when we get inta town. Local diners are probably cheaper up here. Probably.”

Mabel, with her ever-infective enthusiasm, so powerful that it isn’t even hampered by the cold permeating the interior of the car, gave a gasp of happiness, before proclaiming “Maybe they’ll give me ‘nother diss-count, ‘cause ’m cute!” Yet again, another reason the Dallas trip was a good one; Mabel discovered how to weaponize her adorableness, and with her father’s encouragement (because of course Stan would encourage that, what do you take him for, someone with money?), she can pretty much twist anyone around her finger. 

Stan gave a snort at that, huffing out a few laughs, the breath visible as it dispersed into the cold air. “With a town this small?” He asked rhetorically. “There ain’t a doubt in my mind, pumpkin.” At least, he hoped, but he didn’t mention that aloud. 

In his life, kindness had never been proven to be without a price. Every gift had a given tied to it, and nothing came for free. It was something his father taught him first, before the world reinforced it. That price, of course, varied from person to person, based on relationship and status, among other factors, but there was never a lack of price. He always had to give before he could take. That’s how trading worked. Sharing just wasn’t the way it worked out on the street. There were few people in this world who would simply help, without expecting a single thing in return. Even fewer that would do it with any random stranger instead of family or friends alone. 

That’s why Oregon, so far, had been such a shock to his system. In some strange, foreign way, most of the people he and the kids had come across here had been genuinely kind, from the passing stranger on a sidewalk curb to the evening shift cashier working at a clothing store. They had no reason to smile at him like that, or ignore the extra winter clothes he'd very obviously shoved into his bag since he couldn't afford everything he needed, and yet, they did. There was not a single reason for those tourist trap showmen to take a good look at the father with his twins, and say that the kids could enter free of charge. In a way, the lack of any request or demand for something in return was making him worried. They should be charging him money, sending him judging looks for being an almost walking stereotype of a homeless man who didn't like to display that he was homeless. He absolutely should've been told to trade services or something of that kind, be whatever task of either laborious or dubious descent. It would've been more familiar than this, more predictable. Right now, he felt off center because of it all. 

Through flowing currents of white flakes that condensed into foggy obscurity, he could make out the structure of the town's diner, the orange light of the interior windows shining like distant lights through it all. The shape was that of a large log, settled upon the top of what looked to be a flatbed railcar. An orange streetlamp cast enough light to have allowed him to park, and also revealed the sign attached to the side of it that simply had the word "EAT" in capital letters. On the roof of the establishment, a large sign sat illuminated by two warm lamps that he could just barely read. It advertised the place as "Greasy's Diner," with a slogan underneath that was something along the lines of "We Have Food," which he had to wonder if he was reading right, because there was no way in hell that the slogan was actually that. There was a bulb-filled arrow pointing to the sign, giving the locale a distinct look to it. Despite the conditions out here, it seemed like the Diner was still open. Lumberjacks gotta eat, he supposed. 

He heaved a shaky breath out into the freezing, twisting air, having stepped out of the car a few moments prior. The cold bit at his nose, sharp and somewhat painful, cold still managing to pierce the jacket he wore enough to give him a shiver. Turning around, he opened the backseat door, and smiled indulgently at the two children who had begun unbuckling themselves. 

Mable still wore her overly large purple sweater, claiming it was the warmest and the best despite the fact her shoulder was exposed half the time, but she had conceded to a pair of large pants that had been a size too big, held on her with a tight belt. Dipper, on the other hand, had been given a gray hoodie that was also a bit too big for him, alongside a pair of pants that actually were the right size for once. Ignoring how cold it was, he opened his arms and let Mabel climb into them, already having relegated himself to Mabel Carrying Duty - a very real task - because they couldn’t find a good pair of shoes that fit her before they made it into town, and she had outgrown her last pair, meaning she was walking in socks. Dipper, with his own pair, climbed over into Mabel’s seat, before hopping out of the open door and visibly shivering at the freezing sensation. 

Stan huffed a shaky breath as a quiet laugh at the sight, cracking a slightly wider smile at the way Dipper’s small face contorted in a scowl, before turning his head towards the diner. “Alright,” he said, pushing his voice a little to be heard over the howling wind. “L-Let's head inside, yea?” He felt Mabel shudder in his arms, and Dipper’s face crumbled a little, switching from a scowl to more of a relieved look at the idea of getting out of the cold. Stan understood - it had only gotten colder as the car ride went on. 

Stepping up from the snow-covered parking lot onto the curb, his head swiveled between left and right, before spotting the front entrance’s concrete steps. There was a wooden, folded sign standing just in front of some shrubbery at the side of those steps, likely a menu, though it was too cold out right now to stop and read it when they could just do so inside. As he ascended, he pushed the wooden door open with his free hand, the jingle of a bell ringing lightly as it did so, and entered the establishment, forgoing a look around for just a moment as he held the door for his son to come in right after him. Once they were all inside, he let the door close with another ring, and bent down, letting Mabel slide off his arm and shoulder. Then, he stood, and his eyes flitted across the establishment’s interior as he brushed a bit of snow off the shoulder Mabel hadn’t been using as a pillow. 

The Dallas diner came to mind again, but not because the two were similar. They had their similarities, of course; diner booths lining one wall, a large bar on the opposite side with stools offering seating. Through a window behind the bar, he could see a kitchen. Unlike the Dallas diner, though, which had held a fifties, more retro aesthetic, this diner took a more local approach. Wooden panels made up the flooring as opposed to black and white tiles, walls made of smaller logs on the front and back walls of the main eating area. Each table had a metal border, but was made of polished wood, sitting in front of a window. Yellow-orange leather made the seats, both diner booth and stool included in that, rimmed at the edges with metal to hold it all in place. Above each table was a hanging circle lantern, each of which cast the interior in a warm, comforting light, compared to the harsh cold white outside. In a way, the whole space felt friendly. It fit the status as a diner for a logging town rather well.

At most, there were a total of four people present, but only two of them were patrons. Those two were sitting in one of the booths, very clearly a mother and her son, and he saw both shoot a curious glance before returning back to their own food, resuming their conversation as though a homeless stranger and his two children hadn’t just entered from a snowstorm. Behind the bar and through the window, he could see two figures talking amongst themselves. One was a round man wearing a gray shirt with a very obvious stain on it, white cap on his head and an apron tied over his jeans. The other was a young woman in a pink uniform dress, with brown, slightly purple hair, and an apron tied around her waist, and he could see earrings glinting from her ears. Her eyes darted over for just a moment, before she gave a welcoming smile, and turned back to her conversation. 

Well, he supposed it must’ve been a “sit down and we’ll get to you” type of establishment, judging by that reaction, so he shrugged to himself and herded his kids forward. None of the four seemed to bat an eye as the man, whose jacket looked like it hadn’t been washed in weeks (and it hadn’t), brought his kids to the far end of the dining area, near the exit door. Sitting them away from other people and close to the exit was an instinct, one that he probably had no reason to indulge in, but did anyway. He didn’t do dine-n-dash anymore, not when he had the kids to worry about (at least, not often), so his main reason for sitting by the exit was really if someone unsavory showed up. Not that he expected that to happen here, so far away from the Mexican border, but it was just how he operated. 

He sat himself on the side with his back to the wall, another little aspect to his built-in paranoia, while both the tiny forms of his children climbed up onto the seat opposite. Dipper took the half closer to the window, while Mabel bounced in her seat once she got settled on the other half, shaking off the cold with a smile on her face. Nothing phased that girl’s enthusiasm, not even the freezing chill of an Oregon storm. Through the window at his side, he could only see white flurrying past, but for the first time since they crossed the Roadkill County line, he felt warm. The sight of his adorable children cracking smiles at the diner interior probably helped that feeling. 

“We gonna get milk?” Dipper asked with childish curiosity as he reached for one of the menus tucked into the holder. 

Stan waved his hand absently as he took his own menu, eyes already skimming the one page of options that it held. Thankfully for his children, who weren’t the best at reading, there was a picture for each item on the list. “‘Course ya are,” he answered in a gruff voice that pretty much nobody, not even the kids, bought these days. “It’s supposed ta be good fer ya bones, or somethin’ like that.” Then, more to himself, he murmured “‘Least, that’s what Ma told me.”

“Ooh, ooh!” Mable exclaimed happily, having started looking at the menu with Dipper. Stan glanced up to see her pointing excitedly somewhere at the midsection of the menu sheet, a gleam to her eyes that he knew all too well. “‘Re those pancakes?!” Since Dipper could at least read a decent set of words, which did include pancakes (and Stan knew this from experience), the boy gave his sister a nod with a little smile on his lips at her excitement. 

“Lumberjack pancakes‘re the best kind,” Stan commented idly, having resigned himself to ordering that for all of them. With this acceptance, he settled his eyes on the price, and had to do a double take, before giving an incredulous grunt that drew the younger two’s attention. “Ain’t no way these prices’re fer real. Twenty cents fer a stack o’ three pancakes? Twelve fer a glass’a milk? That’s cheaper than all three times we went ta Mcdonalds on tha way here!”

“Tha’s jus' tha power of my cuteness!” claimed Mabel, with a very confident grin for an almost-six year old filling her pudgy face. “They like me so so much that they made tha prices really low ‘n ad- uhm, adv…” 

“Ad-vance,” Dipper filled in for her, his little smile curling just a tiny bit further at the chance to help his sister. That was something the boy loved, really. Like most things regarding his children, it was incredibly adorable. It was also terrifyingly familiar at times. 

“Yeah, that!” his sister finished happily, displaying a certain amount of pride in her statement. Though he didn’t have to try any, finding the sight as hilarious as it was endearing, Stan gave an indulgent chuckle. 

His eyes shifted up from the sight of his children, towards the counter, when he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. Emerging from the back, with a smile clad on her face, was that pink-dress waiter who had been speaking to the cook. She turned towards them, emerging from behind the counter, and giving Stan a better look at her. Her dark brown hair, with a hint of purple mixed in, fluffed outwards behind her head, while the top rolled inwards on itself. Rimming her eyes was light blue eyeshadow, which matched her eye color, and he could tell her eyelashes had mascara applied. There was a mole on the rightmost underside of her jaw, and from her ears, yellow cat-earrings hung. As he noted earlier, she wore a pink dress as a uniform, one that held short sleeves and a collar around the neck. Tied just under her chest was an apron that trailed all the way down to her midsection, a notable stain plaguing it that looked somewhat fresh. In her hands, she held a little paper booklet and a pencil, which also brought Stan’s attention to her nails, noting that they were painted red. 

He gave his best charismatic smile to her as she approached, the one he usually pulled whenever they sat down to eat somewhere, and felt both surprise and pride at the fact she blushed in response. That didn’t stop her from being a waiter, though, so without even missing a beat, she spoke. “Why hello there!” she said with that same endless happiness that Mabel seemed to always have. “My name’s Susan, hons.” Her gaze flicks to Stan, and she tilts her head slightly. “Say, you look familiar. You been ‘round here before?”

Stan gives a small, indulgent chuckle, both at the very clear recognition, and the fact that, after ten years of not being in contact with his brother a single bit, he still looks close enough to the reclusive man to fool people. “Nah,” he says flippantly. “Just in town for a few days, visiting my brother. Name’s, uh…” he trailed off for just a moment, considering the viability of a fake name, before he just shrugged internally, deciding that since he was here to see his brother, then he was Stan. “Name’s Stanley Pines.”

“Oh!” She exclaims, before chuckling herself. “You look so much like him! I’ve never gotten to meet him, but I’ve seen him in passing occasionally. Everyone in town just knows him as ‘That Mysterious Science Guy in the Woods.’” Yep, that sounds like Ford. An absolute social recluse that everyone thinks is a mystery. “Can I get you cuties anything to drink?”

“Milk!” came Mabel’s exclaimed excitement, drawing a snort from Stan and a fond smile from Dipper. After a beat of silence, she added “Ma’bro wants milk too!” As ever, Stan did not miss the way Dipper sagged with relief at not having to speak aloud, and the very proud smile that filled Mabel’s face at helping her brother in return. 

Shaking his head fondly at his children’s antics, he turned back to the woman, who had been smiling at the sight, scribbling down their drink choices on the notepad. She glanced up to look at him, the same query silently in her eyes. “Hmm… coffee’s fine,” he said with a shrug. “Black, ya know, like my soul.” 

That drew a familiar giggle from Mabel, but more surprisingly, a snort from the woman. Surely she’s heard that one before, no? “Alrighty!” She said as she finished writing, before glancing between them all. “You folks ready to order s’well?” 

“Mmhmm!” Mabel answered for them, before turning to her father with a pleading smile and those puppy eyes that were completely impossible to resist. “Oh, oh, daddy, c’n I says it? Pretty please?!” As if he’d ever have said no anyways, but hey, who is he to discourage her weaponization of those adorable eyes?

He just huffed a quiet laugh, and said “‘Course ya can, pumpkin.” He knew there was probably a goofy-looking smirk on his face, but he didn’t much care. The waitress looked as though she was trying her absolute hardest to not laugh, while simultaneously trying to not coo, at the interaction. He appreciated that other people could recognize how amazing those two were. 

“Yess!” she said happily, softly stretching both arms outwards on the table, before turning to the waitress and beaming widely. “Me ‘n m’bro 'n daddy all wanna have tha pancakes! ‘Cause l’mber-jack pancakes’re tha best!” She was practically bouncing in her chair as she spoke with excitement. Mabel didn’t even have to try to weaponize her cuteness at times like these. She was simply that adorable. 

Susan, now holding her pencil-clad hand against her mouth to stop herself from laughing, turned her eyes to Stan in a silent question. One that was probably asking if that was right. Stan just smirked at the expression, because of course Mabel was right, Mabel was always right. The waitress nodded, writing the order down with a smile that looked like it almost hurt with how wide it was. “We’ll get right on that, you adorable munchkin!” She winked at Mabel, whose response was to only beam wider. Now, a good diner was one thing, but a good diner that had staff who indulged in his children’s antics? That sealed the deal. 

So when the waitress took her leave to the area behind the counter, disappearing into the doorway to the kitchen with a stack of two glass cups from the bar to fill with milk, he didn’t find it surprising that Mabel bounced a few more times in her chair before turning to him and stage-whispering “I liked her!” Nor was he surprised that, with as reclusive as the kid can be when it comes to people that aren’t his family, Dipper nodded in agreement. 

A cup of coffee in his hand, sipping away while the kids chattered animatedly and absently across from him, he let his mind drift to what comes next. Of course, he has to stop by one of those equipment stores in town, hoping one’s open in this weather, and pick Dipper up a pair of boots so they can trudge through that hellish snow that hadn’t been plowed along the sideroads that Ford’s house was out on. He wasn’t going to bother with Mabel unless they could find her some shoes for free - a waste of money when he’s content with just carrying her again. After that, though? For one, he doesn’t think Ford would be all that willing to provide lodging, despite his assertions to the kids that even with the bad blood, his brother would love them. Even if he thinks Ford would be willing (he doesn't), he'd much rather not leech off of the researcher anyways. Reminds him too much of concrete under his legs and a duffle bag in his arms, with the words ridin' off yer brother's coattails bouncing around in his head. No, he needs to rent a hotel room - or a motel room, considering the size of the town. With how cheap the food is? He feels the flicker of hope that he might actually be able to afford a room long enough to get some more cash.

Now there's a thought. When was the last time a place felt so distant from the rest of the world that he could imagine actually staying, instead of hightailing it when a suspiciously familiar car drove too close to whatever hotel he'd rented from? How long had it been since he arrived somewhere and just felt, deep in his gut, that it was where he belonged? He isn't expecting to be welcomed by Ford with open arms. His only experience thus far is a diner built out of a log on a train car. Yet, sticking around for a little while feels less like an optimistic thought, and more like a determined statement. Like a fact instead of an opinion. Well, hey, when have his instincts ever led him astray? His gut feelings have proven themselves time and time again. 

“Here you are, you adorable 'n interesting strangers!” came the waitress’ sing-songy voice, bright and friendly. On a large pan, with a pitcher of syrup between them all, three plates of stacked flapjacks were proudly standing, which she began lifting off and handing out between the family. Mabel’s face was practically splitting with how wide her beaming smile was, while Dipper’s lips quirked into a shy, but just as genuine, smile at the food. They smelled just as amazing as they looked, and they damn well looked like the most savory pancakes on the face of the planet right now. He's not quite sure if that's his hunger talking, or if they really just look that enticing, but his mouth is watering.

Stan's lips twitched into a nice, laid-back smile. "Thank ya, sweetheart," he said, tipping his head forwards a tiny bit and giving an exaggerated salute. He had to hold in a smirk when she blushed again, though her smile didn't falter. He wasn't even trying to be all that charismatic, so either he was better at flirting than he thought, or (more likely) Susan was just easy to impress. 

Mabel, with a strictly standard amount of enthusiasm, happily exclaimed "Thank you fer th’foods!" while Dipper offered a meek and slightly quiet "Thanks," as his show of appreciation. 

"It's no problem!" Susan replied with a warm smile and a twinkle to her eyes that made Stan wonder how often she got offered a simple thank you. The pitcher clicks onto the table, and then the waitress is winking. "You enjoy now, cuties!" Then she's heading away, back to the counter and behind it, towards the kitchen door. 

He grabbed the pitcher of syrup, before tilting it just a little towards the kids in a show of assistance, which they took with eagerness. Mabel was first, shoving her plate towards him with excitement permeating her actions, and Stan poured a decent amount of the brown liquid onto her serving. While she drew the plate back and began to cut away at the topmost flapjack, Dipper pushed his own plate forward. As opposed to Mabel’s, he poured a somewhat minimal amount on Dipper’s, just as the boy liked it, and drew back when his son nodded. Their own breakfast properly prepared now, he began pouring the syrup on his stack just as Mabel took a bite out of hers. 

Her face lit up like that one firework show back in Memphis Tennessee they had the pleasure of viewing back on the fourth of July last year, and she bounced a few more times in a vain attempt to make herself swallow faster so she could speak. Stan had to bite his lip to stop himself from bursting out laughing at the sight. When she could finally speak, she shouted (or, well, nearly shouted, because as expressive as she was, she understood the concept of indoor voices), “Oh m’gosh daddy th’re tha bestest p’ncakes in tha whole world!”

He smirked at the display, pointing a finger towards her as she took in another bite. “Even better than th’ones we got back ‘n Kentucky?” Mabel gave an enthusiastic nod in reply, mouth too full to try speaking - something she normally wouldn’t hesitate from if Stan hadn’t drilled the importance of not making a mess into her head. “Well, who’m I to deny our resident pancake expert?” With that, he cut a segment of his own off and took a bite. 

There was an explosion of flavor. That’s the best way he can describe it. To be more detailed would border into too-much-information territory, so instead, he will say that Mabel was absolutely and utterly correct in her assertion; these were, in fact, the bestest pancakes in the whole world, and nobody could convince him otherwise. With the syrup drizzled on top and the butter melted across, the whole thing just tasted like heaven. He was certain his eyes blew wide in surprise as he gave a grunt of approval. After swallowing, he followed up aloud with “Ya weren’t kiddin’, this ‘s some good stuff.”

“I told-ed you, th’re the bestest!” she giggled in return, her smile bright enough to beat away the darkest of nights, and a sparkle to her eyes that shined like beacons.

Stan snorted at the words, his own smirk wide on his face. “Never doubted ya, sweetheart.” Like he said to himself twice over now; Mabel is always right. Three times now. His gaze flicked to Dipper, who had now joined in the pancake indulgence, and he lifted a brow. “How ‘bout you, kiddo? You like ‘em?”

“Mmhmm,” Dipper hummed after he swallowed down his fork-full, that shy little smile of his gone for a more comfortable one that came out whenever it was just the three of them. His eyes sparkled too, shining like the stars that were mimicked on his forehead. The kid’s enjoying himself, that much is apparent. 

He wonders, with a distant, smaller part of his mind that isn’t focused on the children before him and the conversation he’s indulging in, how his meeting with Ford is going to go. Maybe, if he hadn’t had the time to think, if he’d sped his whole way here on the beck and call of his brother’s whims like he once would’ve, if he hadn’t had the children with him to keep his head in the present and focused, he wouldn’t have considered it much, but he knows that Ford asked him to come for a reason. Nobody knows he has the kids, nobody knows much about him at all but Ma, so Ford probably has a purpose for asking him to come. Is it just to rekindle their forgotten bond? Part of him, the optimistic little section that hasn’t been trampled into complete obscurity just yet, hopes so. The rest of him isn’t convinced. Ford doesn’t operate like that. 

It must be important, though, he thinks as his gaze slides over to the window. Snow flows past like rushing water, fluttering through the flurry of swirling white that batters against the building they're seated inside. It damn well must be important, if it had to happen in this weather. It's as enticing as it is painful. Because, on one hand, Stan is needed for something, which means he actually has a purpose and reason to be there, but on the other, he's needed for something, which probably means necessity is what drove the postcard to slide through his door, instead of want or wish. Does Ford even want him to come? He has to believe that the answer is yes, because why would Ford ask for him, instead of one of his nerdy scientist friends he probably made when he finally started studying what he wanted? Why call upon the low-life, homeless single father who lives out of his car half the time? Is it optimistic thinking? Of course it is, Stan knows that. But optimism is the best he has, because without it, reality hurts a lot more. 

Mabel offers Dipper a chunk of her pancake, and after he bites it away from her fork, he does the same, eliciting an excited bit of giggling and another bit of food gone. It's like they think that each other's pancakes taste different or something. Don't they know that's only true with steak? Still, he did nothing to combat the smile that rose upon his face. 

Oregon, stubbornly, is really making it hard for him to want to keep moving around, especially when it's offering a way out of this lifestyle he's stuck in. Dallas was a good one, just like here, but he was banned from Texas. Granted, it was under the name Andrew "8-Ball" Alcatraz, but still, better safe than sorry. In Oregon, he isn't banned under a single name, and even after all the shit he's pulled since he crossed state line, he's never been further from being tossed out of a state than he is now. Look - Stan knows his life isn't a good one. He knows he's terrible at providing for his kids, no matter how much they say he isn't. But he sees them smile so much easier since they've gotten to this state, and while he feels the strange kindness the people around here seem to just radiate might come from pity, it still feels better than the condescending looks or the anger-filled scowls. He just - his kids are happy here, and dammit, Stan wants them to be as happy as possible. 

So yes. Maybe he is considering stocking around. Maybe he's thinking about possible places to get a job. Maybe he's even wondering how cheap a house could be in a tiny town like this, run by loggers and lumberjacks who are probably happier to do the work than get paid for it. Because his kids are smiling and laughing across from him in a diner booth, and if he has it his way, those smiles ain't gonna go away. He wants them to be happy, and if this state is managing to do it, then it looks like he's gonna have to put in some hard work to get them a good hotel room.

Chapter Text

There's a thick layer of snow that crunches underfoot with each step, the sound almost imperceivable amongst the roaring howl of the wind. It whistles past his frostbitten ears, deafening him to much of the world beyond the five foot radius his little family is all compacted into. The wind battering at his exposed flesh was painful, sharp and feeling like the very definition of frostbite. The form in his arms shivers against the cold, her head burrowed against his jacket as she tried to leech the warmth from it, while the other little one clutching the back of his jacket tugs when he sneezes, before sniffling a few times. Slung over his right shoulder was a duffle bag, the familiar one that contained his most important possessions, because like hell he'd leave them sitting in the car. They parked it on the side of the road, since the snow was too thick to drive through from the driveway to the house itself. 

He was a bit bitter, both from the painful stab of cold that pierced any exposed flesh, and the fact he was even being forced to trudge through this - to make his kids trudge through this, because, honestly, their health matters much more than his - just to reach his brother's house. Whatever Ford had called him here for, he truly hoped it was worth all this hassle. He was just glad they'd had boots in stock that fit Dipper back in town; he wasn't sure he could carry both kids and the duffle bag. 

(Mabel was leaning against his shoulder a little, having claimed her perch in his arms after they walked into the store through the snowfall outside. She blinked at him, tilting her head slightly like a small animal in a show of curiosity that was so unfairly adorable. "No boots for Mabel?" she asked innocently, and the way she sounded - not resigned, not upset, but simply accepting, as though it was perfectly okay that he wasn't buying her shoes when she damn well didn't have any - pained him. 

More than anything, he wished she'd be mad at him, or upset with him, or sad about this, but the natural acceptance somehow made him feel even guiltier. He winced at the feeling, but could only sigh afterwards, shoulders drooping just a tiny bit and gaze flicking away so he didn't have to meet her eyes. "Nah, sorry pumpkin," he told her with a grimace on his lips. "I, ah… don't think I can afford more than one pair." He hated that fact. He hated it as much as he hated it at any other time. He wishes he could do more, give more, but he can't, and he hates that he can't.

"Tha's okay!" she chirped to him, patting him on the shoulder twice in a very familiar, Mabel-style show of comfort that nobody so young should be able to pull off. She smiled despite the denial of basic necessity, as though it was perfectly acceptable, her brown eyes sparkling in the cute way they did whenever she was particularly upbeat. "Tha jus' means I gets to get carried 'round! I like gettin’ carried!" Despite that guilty feeling, there was no stopping himself from tentatively returning the smile, and sighing in a mix of relief and resignation. And if the arm wrapped around her tightened just a little, well, neither of them mentioned it, though he thinks Mabel might’ve grinned just a little bit wider.)

Around them, the pines of the Oregon forest were towering high into the obscured sky, disappearing ominously into the haze of white snow. There was a clear-cut path through them that winded like an old dirt road out in the plains of the midwestern states, the kind he’d usually drive down to avoid local law enforcement, so he knew which way they were going. There were also a few “Private Property,” signs hammered into the trees, along with a metal gate back on the mainroad he’d had to push open that led into the path. The reclusiveness of his brother’s abode wasn’t surprising at all, considering who he was. The man, even as a teenager, was probably one of the most antisocial people in New Jersey. The only problem with said detachment from any other social interaction, as it would be, was that he had to trudge through nearly a foot of snow just to get to the house. This wouldn’t be a problem if he didn’t have the kids, and he knows that. Yeah, it’s a painful hike, but he would do it for his brother. If there’s one thing he’s always been consistent about, he thinks, it’s putting others before himself without even realizing it. 

It’s not like he could leave the two little ones in the car, after all. Even disregarding the fact that leaving the kids in the car was just completely and utterly out of the question - what, with Mabel’s excitement at meeting this mysterious uncle she’s never gotten to, and Dipper’s avid curiosity along the same line of thinking - the heater had stopped working entirely by time they entered the town’s border, and after letting the car sit in the parking lot for a good hour or two while they ate, it didn’t even kick on when he started the vehicle again (which, he should mention, took three tries, since the engine seemed to be frozen). No, sadly, they all had to brave this hellish hike through the frozen landscape of a small town forest. 

The wind rushed past in another powerful gust, and Dipper stumbled for just a moment, before straightening himself using the grip he held. Mabel whimpered slightly from the pain of the cold, and he found himself murmuring a quiet “I know, s-sweetheart, I know,” as if his words would do anything to change this overall terrible situation. “Who puts a f-fuckin’ house this far out into the woods, anyways?”

“B-Bad w-w-word,” Mable murmured in a shaking voice, and it’s astonishing that even when she’s practically freezing to death, she still finds the attention span to call him on that. He just chuckled breathlessly, the huffs of air coming out as white condensation from his lips and joining the flurry of snow and wind that twisted around them. 

He glanced back for a moment, just to make sure Dipper was still holding tight onto the back of his jacket. The boy in question glanced up to meet his gaze, determination in those little brown eyes, which had a surprising amount of confidence for a boy as young as he was. The eye contact lasted about two seconds, before Dipper sneezed again and broke it, but it told Stan all he needed to know. His son was still doing just fine, all things considered, which was good, because there was absolutely no shelter in the middle of all of this. They were practically walking through no-man’s land in a hail of ice and sleet, meaning it was either make it through or get stuck out here, and under no circumstances would some measly little snowstorm be their downfall. On his own, he can imagine a few witty things he would’ve shouted out to the storm, as if it could hear. He probably would’ve flipped it off, too, just for good measure. For now, though, he was too busy fretting over his children to give into those urges, but he did stick his tongue out towards the white whirl of ice in a petty display of his own hatred of mother nature at this very moment. It made him feel slightly better.

Stan has never been one to shy away from telling the kids about their family. He wouldn’t deprive them of, at the very least, knowing they have people related to them out there in the world, no matter how disconnected their lives are from them. Ma is the illusive Grandma who they get to excitedly babble to on the payphone whenever they have enough cash to buy an hour of time, or more rarely, get a hotel room that has a phone installed inside. She’s enamored with the kids, even if she hasn’t gotten the chance to meet them just yet, and they love her just as much right back. Shermie is one of their uncles, who has his own kid and a wife, living somewhere out in California, but that they don’t really talk to because Stan doesn’t quite know if he can trust the guy anymore. Having several arrest warrants out for you can do that, especially when the person in question is ex-military. They know (a probably surprising amount) about their grandfather, who Mabel has deemed “not nice,” in her childlike wonder; the man who threw the youngest son out for the worst mistake that he’d ever make, but just as well, the man who taught him about the world in a harsh, yet truthful way. 

Most importantly, of course, they know of the twin brother to their father, their other uncle, a man who goes by the name of Stanford. The genius of the family with a gift of intelligence and a knack for the scientific. The confidant and mindful brother that one could ask for help and receive in all manners. The worksman on the deck of a battered old boat, measuring and building and designing as he strode back and forth. The know-it-all of the school who aced every class and let his brother copy off his work whenever he needed to, who spent much of his time with his head tucked into a book. The teenager who lost it all over a machine, and gave up on the brother who did it. The man who graduated college, became a researcher, and moved up somewhere north to study the things he’d always wanted to. Stan was never shy, talking about his brother, and the kids knew practically everything. He tells them stories of better days, of his youth when running across a beach and dreaming of treasure hunts was the best thing in life, a brother at his side that never would’ve let him go. The days where the sunset looked a little duller against the Atlantic, when emotions and life plagued the two twins and brought them down. 

He told them about the night it all went wrong. Of course he did; he wasn’t going to sugarcoat that or try and hide it. He made that mistake once, and it cost him everything. No, he told them, up front and direct, he made the mistake, he could’ve fixed it, but he made the wrong choices, and he paid the price. He never tried to play it off to them, never tried to make himself seem better. He made the mistake, and no matter how unnecessarily terrible the consequences had been, he still broke the machine and told nobody, even if he didn’t mean to. Pointing out the silver lining to Ford was only the nail in his coffin. He wishes, every time he thinks back, that he’d swallowed his damn pride, stopped worrying about his dreams that he never knew would come to fruition, and just apologized to his brother, but what’s done is done. 

It’s funny. He’s done nothing but tell them how it was his fault, his mistake, and his price to pay, but they never seem to agree with that. Every time he tries, Mabel always rambles about how it was wrong and he should’ve been allowed to stay and maybe he should’ve just gotten grounded or something but nothing as serious as getting tossed out of the house, because that’s dangerous and he could’ve gotten hurt and he shouldn’t have had to been alone like that. Dipper never really was one to explode into a dramatic discussion like that, so he simply would look at Stan and say, in the steadiest and calmest voice the kid could manage, “Would you do that to us?” The question would always make Stanley crack, because he damn well knew he couldn’t ever do something like that to those two. He’ll never understand that devotion to seeing him as the victim in the situation that they seem to have. Is that simply just naivety, or a true bit of dedication? Is it fueled by childish belief, or by unconditional love? He’s never quite been sure. 

Finally, after what felt like an hour of struggling to walk through the storm’s wrath, the trees around them widened their berth, giving way to what seemed to be a clearing, with a large, shadowed shape appearing in the distance. Smaller objects around it were scattered, which took a moment of approach, before they started being visible. The structure was a towering house, easily three stories tall, with a triangular roof that stretched from the highest point all the way to just above the first floor. He could just barely make out a balcony at this distance, but before he could focus on that, the surrounding scatter gave way from the white fog, and came into view. 

The fence was the first thing he noticed. It surrounded the property, though sections of it towards the back seemed to be blown out at some point by the wind. It was a wire fence, with bundles of barbed wire wrapped around the main three wires that strung all the poles together. There was a segment where it split directly in front of him, and he couldn’t exactly tell if it was an opening for a gate, or another portion that the wind had broken. If there was a gate, it was likely blown off the hinges and buried in the snow. There were signs, also topped with barbed wire (which seemed equally as useless as it was intimidating), each displaying a hastily painted message, ranging from “Stay Out,” to “Danger!” A large metal tower sat on the closer end, adorned with a blinking red light that acted somewhat like a beacon through the snow and sleet. He could spot some barrels and wooden pallets scattered in the snow, buried under several layers of white powder (and the barrels, like the signs, had a topping of barbed wire, which brought the question of how much damn barbed wire did his brother have). There was a large radar dish embedded in the (possible) front yard, and what seemed like the shape of a few radar dishes on a tower that was climbing from the roof. 

He stared, slack-jawed and shocked at the maddening sight before him for a moment, and though he didn’t glance back to check, he knew Dipper was following his example, the boy having stopped along with his father when they broke the threshold of the clearing. Mabel, curious at what brought the movement to a stop, glanced up, before he saw her eyes go wide in the corner of his vision. 

His kids weren’t unfamiliar with dangerous locales. They’d been around the country (thankfully, he’d never had to take them outside of it), so of course they’ve come across some unsafe places. City streets and apartment buildings in the worse sides of a town, where he told them upfront that they had to keep their heads down until he had enough money to get them the hell away. This, though? It wasn’t like walking into a gang-ridden street, having to hang their heads and hope to whatever god might be up in those clouds that they go unnoticed. This felt like walking into a warzone. A fortified position, defended heavily from the outside world, and they were trying to get access. He didn’t like how his brother’s house looked one bit (and he knew it was his brother’s house, despite everything; a woodland log cabin, isolated from the rest of the world, built far larger than need be, was an absolutely Stanford thing to do. The fortification wasn’t, but that was the worrying part either way). 

He swallowed down his nerves, steeled himself as well as he could, and wished fruitlessly that this just looked worse than it actually was. “H-He’s really l-livin’ up ta tha mad s-s-scientist stereotype,” he commented through chattering teeth, a lilt of humor coming through in response to the overwhelming stress that had started churning in his chest. Then, in more of a stage-mumble, he added “C-Could’ve made it more k-kid friendly, though.” They were mostly spoken to himself, but Mabel gave a shaky little giggle at it, so he counted it as worth saying aloud. 

With a huff, and a complaint in his mind that sounded something along the lines of why do I have to deal with this in far more colorful language, he managed to force his legs to begin moving again, though with a reluctance that both of his little heathens probably picked up on. They were smart like that. This all was incredibly unsettling, and he honestly was worried about what he was walking into - what he was bringing his kids into. His footfalls crunched into the snow as he started walking around the right end of the building, where a one-story protrusion stuck out. He could make out the shape of another balcony of some sort from this angle, so maybe that’s where a door was. He wouldn’t put it past his brother to have had a multitude of entrances on his behemoth of a house, though with how much the building looked like a fortified bunker, he wasn’t sure when that seeming accessibility changed. 

As it would turn out, the balcony did not only hold a door - which was, unsurprisingly, also boarded up and nailed shut - but also was flanked on the side by a large garage door. The garage door was not flush with the ground, but rather, designed in the same way he had seen it done with the back area of larger supermarkets and stores. The concrete platform was indented at the center spot, allowing a delivery truck to back up completely to the door, before likely unloading whatever they were carrying into the room beyond. For all intents and purposes, it appeared to be a fully constructed loading dock. Several crates and barrels sat among the concrete platform, some stacked atop each other, and one even being used to block the already boarded door. The garage door itself was not at all accessible, and he didn’t even bother trying to open it. He could see that it was welded shut from here. He could only huff out a frustrated breath with knitted eyebrows and shake his head at the absurdity of it. There were several things he could ask - why his brother needed a loading bay in his house, why his brother had welded the loading bay shut, why the whole house was on lockdown anyways - but he knew none would be answered if he didn’t find his brother first. So he kept walking, the kid tugging at the back of his jacket following along at a steady pace. 

He could spot another balcony on the backside - or was it the front? - of the house as they swung around in an arc, this one with an actual overhang offering a sheltered space from the snowfall. Truthfully, he didn’t even care if the door there was boarded up either, he just wanted a moment to get out of this winter storm from the frozen side of hell. The breath he huffed out, perhaps in relief, was dispersed without an audible sound into the howling of the wind as snowflakes whipped past. He paused for a moment once he could actually see what took up the balcony space, and while there was a noticeable lack of room, there was a space right where the stairs were. Aside from some barbed wire poking through the snow that they would have to trail around, it seemed like the path was pretty much clear right up to one of the doors. He was almost shocked to see the door actually wasn’t boarded up. He readjusted Mabel in his arms, causing her to snuggle tighter against his shoulder with a quiet mumble, and set off again, Dipper right behind him. 

Once they were at a better angle and approaching the balcony, he could make out a number of other details. Beside the door, on the left side to be specific, was a powerbox of some kind embedded into the wall, with a wire trailing down from it, falling behind a small wooden storage bin that sat just beneath. The outer edge of the balcony was covered in snow, but the inner segments were mostly dusted with a thin sheet of it, meaning the flurry wasn’t as intense underneath it. To the right of the door, the balcony extended over twice the length of the opposite side, but all of it was inaccessible. It would seem, either as a means of defense or a method of storage, maybe even both, Stanford had blocked the entire area with large, metallic gray drums that had - was that a radiation symbol? Leave it to Ford to put radioactive materials right next to his door. Twisting between the barrels, making the idea that these were used for storage less believable, was additional lines of barbed wire. The absurd amount of barbed wire was probably the most concerning thing around here, mostly because he did not want his kids tripping into that. From the banister above, icicles hung down, though none looked weak enough to fall. 

Up the steps he went, into the relative shelter of the balcony. On this side of the house, the wind was mostly being blocked, though it still came lightly whistling between the barrels from around the side. Dipper came up just behind him, then fell against his leg, the boy trembling slightly as he shivered away the cold to the best of his ability. Stan understood that feeling perfectly, because right now, he was pretty sure he had some minor version of hypothermia. Still, he huffed out a relieved breath; they actually made it to the goddamn door. Who knew visiting his estranged brother would be so incredibly difficult? “S-Sorry fer makin’ you two d-do this,” Stanley managed to get out, his voice losing a little bit of the chattering as the cold slowly dimmed down from stabbing to just uncomfortable. He couldn’t help it, he felt guilty. Considering how terribly he felt at the moment, he can only guess how bad it is for the two of them. 

“I-I-It’s okay-y!” Came the very shaky, somewhat muffled response from around his own chest. He glanced down towards the head of brown hair clumped against his jacket, and instead found a pair of familiar brown eyes staring back up at him. Her lips were looking a little blue, and her nose was tinted a vibrant red, but she was smiling in that adorable way he loved so much. “W-We wanna m-meet Unc-cle Ford t-t-too!” Somewhere behind him, Dipper made a humming sound of agreement. He glanced back at the boy, only to receive a determined look that almost looked like a reflection, to the point where he had to blink to process it. 

He huffed another breath that came out as more of a snort. Of course they were just like him, they were his kids. They were so much like him in such small ways, and yet it was still so jarring whenever he looked at them and could see a little tiny version of himself standing there instead. Was he ever that stubborn? Scratch that, of course he was, he’s Stanley Pines. “A-Alright, ‘lright,” he conceded, rolling his eyes playfully, before scanning over them with his eyes. “You two holdin’ up okay, atleast?” He received two affirmative responses, which made him sigh in relief. Then, he turned his gaze back to the door. 

If he were to compare this door to the state of the entire house, he would say it wasn’t nearly as dilapidated or intimidating as everything else, but it still settled a sense of discomfort at the bottom of his stomach as though he’d swallowed a rock. The base of the door is a deep brown wood, roughened a little with divots and scratches but nothing too concerning. On the left side is the doorknob, a stainless steel fixture screwed into place with a keyhole right underneath. At the upper center of the door is a diamond-shaped window, which is fogged over and has practically no light coming through it, making him wonder if the man of the hour is even home. Across the bottom of the door was a nailed segment of corrugated metal, complete with a stain of rust that was bordering the line between dried blood just a little too much. Underneath that, the door’s wood had peeled extensively, and while not allowing an open hole into the building, it was certainly damaged. There were two wooden planks hammered in just underneath the window, one atop the other. The one in the back was nothing special, and he couldn’t tell why it was even there. The other, which sat in front, gave the warning of, “No Trespassing.” Compared to the nailed-shut doors all across the building, it wasn’t the most concerning, but considering this was the only door he was capable of using, it stood out.

He felt the thought flare up in his mind, then crescendo into a realization. Something was deeply, horribly, completely wrong here. He was well aware from the moment he set eyes on this place that something was completely wrong. He’d had a suspicion from the moment he’d gotten the postcard, but this was far worse than he could’ve expected. Did he even know how his brother would act, answering the door? Stanley had answered his own a few days ago with a baseball bat, ready to bash some thug’s teeth in. What if Stanford was thinking along the same lines? He didn’t know what had caused his brother to go full-fort defensive mode, but it must’ve been something dangerous and powerful, considering the amount of barbed wire. He couldn’t - God, he hated to say it, even in his own mind, but he couldn’t even be sure that Stanford wouldn’t hurt the kids. He’d never do that intentionally. He’d never think for even a moment that Ford would intentionally hurt the kids, but with the setting already drawing some discomforting conclusions around them, he also isn’t sure that an accident won’t happen. These are definitely things that he wouldn’t have been considering if he had come alone, and he despises knowing that it’s true. Stanley clears his throat nervously, and shifts a little bit. “Lil’ Dipper, get b-behind me just in-case, yeah?” he said, trying his best to not sound as worried as he was. He glanced back at the boy in question as he’d spoken. 

A litany of emotions had strobed across the kid’s face, starting with surprise, then confusion, then perhaps the tiniest bit of realization, before settling on a similar apprehension to Stan’s own. Dipper swallowed, shuffling behind Stanley with a nervous twitch to his hands. “Uncle Ford w-wouldn’ hurt us, would h-he?” Mabel shifted uneasily in his arms, but didn’t ask to be put down or anything. She just shifted her gaze up to him as if waiting for the answer. 

Stanley really, really didn’t want the two of them to hold any negative emotions towards their uncle, and he’s told them both that many, many times, especially after his recitation of the project-gone-awry and their ten years of silence. He wanted them to love their uncle just as much as Stanley loved his brother, even if there was bad blood between the two of them these days. So he wasn’t about to let his own worries and fears seep into theirs. “Nah, nah, ’m just being p-paranoid,” he replied quickly, his lips quirking upwards into a nervous smile. “Yer very c-clearly paranoid uncle’s probably rubbin’ off on me.” Then, he lowered his voice to a stage murmur, squinted, and raised an eyebrow at himself. “Then again, ‘m normally like that anyways.” 

The small, shivering form of his daughter shifted in his arms, drawing his attention downwards to meet her gaze yet again. She gave a shaky smile towards him, not from any overwhelming amount of emotional distress or fear, but because the chill is still ever present when out in this snow. “M-Maybe someone mean s-s-scared him!” she proclaimed with all the certainty a nearly-six year old could muster. “Like back a-at the room!” 

It’s hard to describe the emotion that shot through his chest at the casualness of that statement. Maybe it was a form of regret, or maybe a spurr of motivation, perhaps even a flicker of understanding. For all he knows, it could’ve been all three. He really wished his kids weren’t so used to his methods of responding to the door, enough to be able to state it as though it were a normal thing. Either way, he felt as though his breathing hitched, but he firmly ignored that, glancing back up towards the door as he thought. Maybe there is something familiar about this situation. Who could Stanford have pissed off so royally that he needed to barricade his house this intensely? With the fact that his brother was researching anomalies, like, things that people don’t think exist, there wasn’t even a limit he could put on the possibilities. It could be some other researcher with a vendetta, or it could be some supernatural creature from the woods that didn’t take too kindly to being researched. He had literally no clue. There weren’t boundaries. Still, Mabel’s idea - as uncomfortable as it made him - did get the ball rolling in his head, so he nodded slowly. “...Maybe, kiddo,” he offered, and his stupor was momentarily waved off when he saw that wonderful little smile of hers that came out whenever she got something right. 

When he steps forward and stands just before the door itself, his first motion is to reach for the handle, but he pauses before he can grasp it, and slowly lowers his hand. He can’t just barge in, it isn’t his home, and the door’s probably locked anyways. Instead, he has to stop and consider knocking. God, he doesn’t want to knock. His grip on Mabel tightens a little, and the tiny child responds by burrowing her head against her father’s shoulder as best she can, as if trying to soothe him in some way. Dipper, just behind him, holds onto his jacket a little tighter, as if doing the same. He doesn’t deserve those two. With the slightest bit of confidence drawn from them, he takes a deep breath, and sighs it out. “You haven't seen yer brother in over ten years,” he murmurs to himself, and he knows that the kids hear it, but he doesn’t really care. “It's okay. He's family. He won't bite.” 

Up comes the hand he’s using to hold the duffle bag, since he can’t move the one he’s using to prop Mabel up. She always likes to talk about his knock, since it’s always the same; a cluster of three in a row, with half a second pause between. She and Dipper emulate it whenever they need to knock. He brings it to the wood and starts the motion. He raps the door once, then twice.

It bursts open before he can knock the third time, as if whoever was on the other side had been waiting there. There are several things he has to process all at once as he leans back in surprise, backpedaling and forcing Dipper to yelp as the boy stumbles. The first are the words, which take a moment to actually understand. “Who is it?!” a familiar, if somewhat deeper and more rugged, voice speaks. “Have you come to steal my eyes?!” He doesn’t actually realize what those words are saying, because everything is happening so fast, and they make so little sense that he’s distracted by other details. The second thing he is able to process is that, yes, the figure right in front of him is his brother, and yes, he does look like he hasn’t slept in about six weeks straight and is surviving entirely on caffeine. He’s thin, with unkempt hair and some scruffy facial hair making itself known on his chin. His eyes are somewhat dilated, and the fact he can see that from here is incredibly concerning. He has an aggressive expression twisted on his face. 

Of course, all of this is dwarfed instantaneously by realization number three, which has him crossing his eyes to spot. There’s a crossbow aimed directly at him, a little lower than the head. If it were to go off, it would puncture him right in the chest, likely around where his lungs were. Maybe the heart. He hates, hates that he knows it wouldn’t concern him all that much if he was alone. He isn’t sure if that’s dedication to his brother’s mental stability, a very clear lack of self-image, or maybe a combination of the two, but he knows he would’ve probably said something sarcastic to cover up his unease. A half-formed thought has already been made, “Well, I can always count on you fer a warm welcome,” or something like that. That thought sputters away into nothingness when three quick-fire dots are connected in his mind. One, there is a weapon currently aimed at his chest. Two, he is currently holding his daughter against his chest. Three, there is currently a weapon aimed at his daughter. 

It’s that final thought that has his eyes shooting wide and his legs bringing him a step away with a startled, “Gah!” He jerks himself to the side, moving his chest out of the line of fire, throwing up his other arm that had been carrying the duffle bag as a defense. He hears Dipper make a sound of confused fear behind him as the boy ducks behind him, and the little girl in his arms whimpers. That sends a bolt of regret, guilt, and frustration shooting down his spine, because he dragged them here, and he’s making them put up with this, but- no, you know what, he’s gonna do what he normally does and blame everyone else but himself for the moment, because this is absolutely Stanford’s fault. He’s blamed himself enough for a little while. “Watch where yer pointin’ that fuckin’ thing!” he barks out at his brother, some of his anger leaking into his voice. 

It only pisses him off even more when the man doesn’t flinch, as if he hadn’t even heard. No, Stanford doesn’t even look surprised, even as he lowers the fucking crossbow he had in his hands, and starts to set it down beside the doorway. He doesn’t look regretful, just jittery and unfocused, as if he’s running on autopilot. He is a little surprised that his brother, despite these problems, seems to instantly recognize him, because honestly, he wouldn't expect it with how unstable the man is acting right now. “Stanley? Did anyone follow you?” His brother asks, eyes darting around erratically. “Anyone at…” and then he trails off for a moment as his eyes return to Stanley himself. For the first time since their conversation started, his gaze seems to finally focus, and Stan can easily tell it’s focused on his daughter. Then it darts down and just behind him, where he knows his son is standing. The man seems genuinely taken aback, as if he hadn’t quite realized they were there. “Y-You… brought children?” Stanford asks, his voice taking on a different tone. If Stanley wasn’t so unsure of things, he might’ve even said that tone sounded afraid. Which was weird. The hell would he be afraid of kids for?

Then Mabel, who had tensed up into a very tight ball in his arms when he’d jumped back as the door opened, started to - well, she didn’t quite losen, per say, but she eased just a slight bit. With one of her arms, she lightly batted at her father’s chest. “You said ‘nother swear,” she murmured quietly, and honestly. They just had a weapon pointed at them. He knows he's not the best role model in the world, but where the hell did they develop these priorities from? Definitely wasn’t him. He’s gonna go ahead and blame Sarah for that one.

Still, she was very good at making him calm down, and the little motion helped a great deal. He let out a breath, and shook his head lightly, eyes darting down to her. “Sorry, sweetie,” he apologized in his own murmur, well aware that a very confused and disoriented Stanford was standing across from him and listening. He did not care. He glanced back up at his brother, and knitted his eyebrows. “Of course I brought children,” he said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. To him, it was. What the hell else was he gonna do with them? “What, you expectin’ me to leave ‘em in the car? The da- ah, darn heater stopped being useful hours ago.” For a moment, he and Stanford just stared at each other, the other man’s jaw working as if he was trying to find something to say, and failing miserably. After that moment, as another chilling breeze blew past and made Mabel shiver in his arms, he huffed out a white cloud of breath. “Ya gonna let us in sometime this week?” He asked, only half sarcastic. “It’s freezin’ out here.”

Ford blinks, twice over, as if he had just had his brain shut down on him and started back up like a faulty engine. “Y-Yes, right,” he said. With a six-fingered hand, he clasped the center of his trenchcoat together, before whirling around. With the other hand, he beckoned inwards to the house, moving forwards as he did so. “Come in, come in.” With a slight tremble to it, Stan took a breath, shaking his head lightly, then stepping forwards into the house. Mabel’s head rose to gaze around at the new surroundings, while Dipper took in a quiet little breath at the sight. 

They were only in the entryway, and it already looked like a chaotic mess of randomness that had simply been strewn about. The room itself was a junction between several rooms. Off to the left was a doorway that led into a small, unconnected room, where he could just faintly see the shape of a fridge through the darkness, giving him the impression that that was where the kitchen was. To the right, there was a stairwell that went up, then turned off to the left before it reached the second floor. Just beside that stairwell was a door to another part of the house, though it was closed, so he couldn’t see much further past it. Directly ahead of him, where his brother was walking, was a space through a doorway that looked like a main laboratory. He herded Dipper in behind him, and closed the door once they were all inside. 

Leaning down with a small groan as his tired legs protested, he shifted so Mabel could slide down from his arm. “Alright,” he said, “down ya go, sweetie.” With an adorable little “omph” as she landed on her sock-clad feed, she was on the ground, and Stanley straightened himself up, his back popping. Yeesh, he’s only twenty-seven, and he’s already starting to deal with old man problems like back pain. With his arms now free and his attention able to shift, he decided to soak in the entry room a little more, eyes flitting about the space. 

Looking to his left, he could spot the crossbow his brother had held set just beside the door, and as his gaze lifted, he noticed the absurd amount of locks placed on the door frame; three to be precise, not counting the lock built into the door already. Down that left hallway, there was a collection of boxes with books haphazardly stacked upon them, and papers scattered around as if they’d been thrown from their piles. There was also a plastic fish model sitting on one of the boxes, and he had to wonder why the hell his brother had that. Switching his gaze to the right, he could only be baffled as he found more strange happenings. More crumpled and flat papers scattered around the space, with books sitting out in the open, some of them even forming a tent with how they were put on the ground. Behind where the door had opened to, there was a coat hanger, holding a lab coat and a pair of goggles that looked more like intentionally-designed mad scientist apparel than safety equipment. Behind that, reaching nearly as tall as he was, was a large red canister that he couldn’t see the label of, but was probably explosive. Beside that, for some ungodly reason, was a table, which held a taxidermy model of a very strange looking bird underneath a glass dome container. He had to do a double take on that one to make sure he wasn’t just seeing things. 

He couldn’t help it. With his nerves so deeply and completely frayed at the moment, and the overload of confusing visual input, it’s a miracle he hadn’t already said something utterly sarcastic in order to cope. Under his breath, but well loud enough for the kids to hear him, he murmured, “An’ here I thought it’d look better on th’ inside.” At the very least, his usual deference to humor made Mabel giggle, even as she tucked herself right against Stan’s side. Things were still a little tense. Not that he could blame them, of course, because honestly, Stanley hated how hostile this place felt. It looked worse than the hotel room back in Albuquerque, and that’s saying something, considering it was literally named Dead End Flats. 

Following behind his brother, they both entered into the next room over, which seemed much less like the disturbing type of chaos and more like the scientific, though still disturbing, type of chaos. To his left, against the nearest wall, was a cluster of different gauges that moved at random, wires running up and down the wall. In the corner, there was a small table holding some kind of device, which had arcs of electricity crackling between two metal poles, something like one of those Jacobs Ladders Ford used to leave sitting around their room back in Glass Shard Beach. Beside that was a television that was switched off, tucked up against the wall. Just after that was one of those fake plastic skeletons they put in science class, which Stan would always vandalize in some way or another, usually by drawing mustaches on them when the teacher wasn’t looking. Crumpled Papers were scattered across the floor. 

On his right against the closest wall, there was a strange panel that had wires going from one socket to another, with pipes leading from the top of it somewhere into the rafters. Embedded in the right wall was a dial-combination safe, and right under that was an open secret hatch in the wall with a button underneath it. On the floor beneath that was several stacks of disregarded books. Beside that was a fish tank sitting on a large metal cart, which had a shelf underneath with bones. Inside the fish tank was not a fish, but a literal dinosaur skull, because of course there was. Wires hung from the ceiling, connected at random points to the skull, as if analyzing it. Beside that was a strange device, which had one of those fancy computer monitors on it that cost so much to get, which was displaying a rotating three-dimensional triangle. That was also hooked directly to the skull. A pipe ran from that machine across one of the rafters. In between the rafters, there were several pipes and wires that ran at random, connecting the room in a conglomerate mess of electrical engineering.

There was more at the opposite side of the room, of course, but first, he felt the need to address the situation, because something was very, very wrong with all of this. With a subtle gesture, he quietly told the kids to stay back, and he heard them stop around where the doorway was as he took a step forward, eyeing his haggard brother wearily. “Look, ya gonna explain what's goin’ on, here?” He asked, taking another step forward. The man had slowed to a stop around the midpoint of the room, but he was still twitching, and it was unsettling. “Yer acting like Ma after her tenth cup of coffee.” 

The moment he finished asking, his brother whirled around in a complete one-eighty, and two arms suddenly shot out, grabbing at Stan’s shoulders, which caused him to jerk back in surprise. The only problem was that his brother’s grip was actually way, way stronger than he thought it would be. Then, there was a flashlight shining in his eyes, and that hurt like hell. He feels he was pretty vindicated in shoving his brother off with as much force as could be mustered, and shouting a startled “Hey!” as he did so. He rubbed at his now-raw eyes and stumbled a step back, momentarily stunned. “What is this?” he said, shooting the man across from him a look that hopefully conveyed just how pissed off Stan already was. As he straightened up, his kids appeared at his sides, hugging his legs and glaring at their uncle, as if the man was going to hurt their father. Y’know, the one thing Stan had been hoping to avoid while he was here. At least he was certain it was Stanford’s fault this time.

When Stanley had shoved his brother, aside from noting the fact that a guy with such a surprising amount of strength was way too light for someone who should’ve been living his wondrous life of scientific study, the man had fumbled away, and grasped at his coat again, as if holding it in place. His eyes were a little wide, as if he hadn’t expected the physical resistance, which, really, does this man know nothing of personal boundaries anymore? “Sorry, I just, had to make sure you weren't…” he started, before trailing off. He blinked, and shook his head while raising a placating hand, dispelling some unspoken thought. “Uh, it's nothing.” 

There was a good moment where nothing had happened, his brother standing across from him, seconds from whirling around yet again and carrying on. In this moment, Stan just stopped, and actually looked at the man in front of him. The stubble across his face was unkempt, likely days past having been able to be shaved. His hair was in a mess, all caked with grime and grease, and it could easily have been a few weeks since it had been washed. The bags underneath the man’s eyes were practically purple with how deeply they had been entrenched. The beige trench coat he wore, which had deeper patches on the elbows and a collar that nearly hid the entirety of Stanford’s neck, was wrinkled to hell and back. The white shirt underneath was unbuttoned at the neck, and the tie sitting atop it was loosely done, as if it hadn’t been tightened in a long while. His gray jeans were similarly wrinkled to the trench coat, and the knees were noticeably dirtied. None of his clothes looked like they had been washed in ages. Or changed. His brother looked way, way too much like he was losing it. Stan only barely stopped himself from asking if the man was okay; he clearly wasn’t. 

Then Stanford turned about once more, and continued on to the opposite end of the room, which Stanley hadn’t taken the time to look around yet. On the left wall, there was another one of those strange panels that had wires going from socket to socket across from it. On the right, there was a set of shelves with an assortment of jars, including… were those eyes? And a severed hand? In the right corner, there was a person sized machine with a giant, white light bulb that was nearly half his height being the upper half. The lower half was metal, and had a collection of gauges along with a little drawer. Directly in front of him, where his brother was walking, there was a desk, covered in books and papers and the occasional knick-knack, like a crystal. The table was flanked by two chairs, both also covered in books and paper. Above the table was another fish tank sitting on a shelf, though this one was being used as it was intended, even if it had no fish in it. Beside that was a large metal box mounted on the wall, with more gauges and pipes jutting from it. 

Stanford strode right up to the desk, and scattered the papers, flinging some off, while he sorted through, looking for something specific. “Listen, there isn't much time,” he said, before he seemingly emerged with a specific stack of papers and a red book. Several of the papers flew away in the brisk motion of the man turning back around. Stanford didn’t even notice. “I've made huge mistakes,” he continued, stepping back towards Stanley, “and I don't know who I can trust anymore.” As he finished that off, he reached out with his right hand and turned the skull of that plastic skeleton away, as if it was watching them. He then began to march on, not sparing a look at Stan. 

“Hey, uh, easy there,” Stanley said, eyebrows knitting together in a mixture of worry and concern and also probably a little bit of fear. He extended an arm out, and placed it on the passing man’s shoulder, causing Stanford to pretty much freeze in place. He wasn’t really sure what he was supposed to do. “Let's talk this through, okay?”

Then, at his side and just a few steps back, Mabel piped up, her voice surprisingly happy for the absolutely not-happy events happening right now. It’s good to know that not even her probably mentally unstable uncle is capable of dampening her unending enthusiasm. “Uncle Ford, you’re actin’ really funny,” she said, in that amazingly blunt way that children always seemed to voice their observations in. Under his hand, Stanford suddenly tensed, as if he’d forgotten the children were there. “Do you needs a hug?”

Over the course of a second, Ford suddenly shrugs Stan’s hand off of his shoulder, before whirling around yet again. His trench coat flared out at the motion, and his very confused and startled expression fell right upon Mabel. Despite the fast motion, the girl didn’t even flinch, still smiling at the strange man who she was related to. “Wh-What?” Stanford managed to stutter out, eyebrows knitting. 

Mabel would never be intimidated, but Stanley felt a spike of protectiveness for his daughter. It was incredibly off-putting, because he shouldn’t be feeling that way towards his brother, but he supposed ten years of separation and an unhealthy dosage of possible insanity would do that. “Yeesh,” he grunted, throwing his hands up as if gesturing in surrender, “she just asked if y’were okay.”

Stanford blinked, then pulled back a little. “No no, I got that, just-” he stumbled over words, before taking a short, quick breath and shaking his head. Then, in a much calmer, though still notably mystified tone of voice, he turned his gaze back to Mabel and asked, “What did you call me?” Oh. Right. Stanley hadn’t actually mentioned at any point that Mabel and Dipper were his kids. Then again, how hadn’t his brother connected those dots yet? Maybe it just didn’t process until he got called their uncle. 

Mabel seemed to realize this too, and in her complete nearly-six-year-old glory, she suddenly proclaimed “Oh!” and gestured wide with her baggy sleeves. “In-tro-duc-tions!” The word came out stuttered, as she sounded out each syllable. Then she paused, and leaned over to the side, where Dipper had moved himself to be beside his sister. In a whisper that she probably thought was quiet but was actually not quiet at all, she asked her brother, “Did I say that right, Dip Dop?” 

The boy in question gave a small nod, and quietly hummed back an, “Mmhmm,” to his sister’s question. He wasn’t really smiling, and was staring at their uncle with a small amount of distrust. Stan understood that, of course. Dipper didn’t really trust easily. It took weeks before the kid would even trust him, and though that isn’t all that surprising, it sets a precedent. Stan thinks the kid is in between being interested in the research his uncle does and also being mad at the estranged family member for past actions. 

With her question answered, she turned back to her uncle in full, who was staring at her with a mix of bafflement and confusion. “Nice ta meetcha, Uncle Ford!” she announced loudly with a precious grin filling her little, pudgy face. She was practically bouncing in place from the excitement of actually getting to meet a family member that wasn’t over the phone like her Grandma. “I’m your most awesomest and bestest, uhm…” she faltered a little, losing her verbal footing as she stumbled over a word she seemed to have forgotten. Not that Stan didn’t know exactly what she was going to say, but he also knew who would help her.

Just as Stanley had expected, Dipper leaned over to his sister’s side. He also didn’t actually do a true whisper, but it was quieter than Mabel’s attempt. “Niece,” he informed her, and honestly, for as little as that boy spoke sometimes, he was like a walking dictionary. It probably didn’t help that Stan had bought him a dictionary. He’s nearly six years old, that’s prime time to start reading the dictionary, right? His only example is Stanford, so he doesn’t know, but the kid enjoyed it, so it must be accurate.

If it was at all possible for Mabel to smile any more than she had been before she fumbled, she managed it. “Yes! Bestest niece ever, Mabel!” She exclaimed happily, gesturing wildly to herself with flapping, very oversized sleeves. Then, she flung her sleeves towards her brother. “An’ this’s my brother Dipper! Who’s your ne-phew!! I knew tha word this time!” She looked incredibly proud of herself for that, and Dipper looked relieved to have his own introduction covered by her. Stan wasn’t sure why the kid was so shy and quiet, but hey, it’s fine as long as Dipper’s happy. “‘M really excited ta f’nally meet you, even if your house’s kinda scary!” 

Stanford blinked, once, twice, seemingly processing what he was hearing, before he managed to squeak out an “O-Oh.” He glanced at Stanley with a confused, apprehensive look, and honestly, after being manhandled and having a flashlight shoved into his eyes, he wasn’t feeling generous enough to be subtle with the man. He narrowed his gaze and jerked his head towards his daughter, pretty much silently saying to respond to her. She worked real hard on that introduction, she deserved to be acknowledged. Despite the ten years without seeing each other, at least Ford could still take a goddamn hint, and the man quickly shifted his gaze back to her. His hand twitched, almost as if considering a handshake, before he seemed to think better of it, and cleared his throat. “Greetings,” he said, like a complete nerd. “It’s nice to meet you, Mabel, Dipper.” Stan saw the way that Ford seemed to turn slightly confused on Dipper’s name, and he did get it, since that actually wasn’t the kid’s real name. That didn’t mean he didn’t silently glare at his brother, though. “I… apologize, for not being the best of hosts. I’ve been dealing with some… complications?”

Mabel bounced from her heels to the tips of her sock-clad toes, so full of energy despite being frozen into a popsicle earlier. “Tha’s okay!” she told Ford happily. “Daddy has com-pli-ca-tions too!” He missed the way Ford’s breathing hitched at that first word.

He was genuinely not expecting her to say that, especially because Stanley didn’t think she even knew what the word meant. He broke into a small coughing fit, trying desperately to hide the laughter that wanted to break out at such a proclaiment. Even Dipper had smiled at that in the way that said he wanted to laugh but wasn’t going to. Stan thumped his chest to stop the coughs. “That’s, ah, real blunt, kiddo,” he said, his voice warbling with unshed laughter. 

She just smiled right back at him, bright as ever. “I learneded it from you!” she said confidently. That was fair. He had a tendency to be a bit blunt with things. 

“I, ah, hate to break the atmosphere,” Stanford piped up, “but Stanley, I have several things I need to discuss with you.” He glanced at the kids, then at Stanley, and then to the doorway at the end of the room farthest from the door to the entryway, where the wall intended to the left and led into another door. “Preferably in the next room over.”

Now, Stan wasn’t an idiot. He knew, at some point, they were going to have to talk about the very urgent reason that Ford had called his screw-up of a brother over, because he damn well knew that there was going to be a reason. He also knew, with how things were starting to appear, based on the defense-ridden house entrenched deep within the forest, and the cluster of scattered books and paper on the inside, that it was going to be a very serious reason. He got that. However, just because he understood, did not mean he was at all okay with leaving his children unattended in a house that was probably more dangerous than the hiding from Rico, and that was saying something fierce considering how relentlessly and mercilessly Rico had hunted him before he crossed the border back into the states. “You expectin’ me ta leave ‘em alone in your house full o’ science gizmos and gadgets?” he told his brother incredulously, eyebrows raising upon his forehead. He really gets it, they don’t need to hear what’s coming next, but this definitely isn’t a safe place to live his five-year-old kids alone in. “Poindexter, there’s a device makin’ arcs on that table right there.” 

To Ford’s credit, the man followed his finger to the machine in question, and quickly scampered over to it, flicking it off as if that would solve the entire problem. It didn’t, but at least the man tried. “They will be perfectly fine here, I assure you.” He gestured to the very chaotic room they were in. “The Bio-Study is among the safest places within this building.” 

Stan hated to say it, but he thinks that his brother was going to be too stubborn to take no for an answer, and at least now that the electric device was off, there weren’t any immediate concerns that could potentially harm his kids. They were really good at not touching anything in places that weren’t theirs, anyhow, so he supposed it was the best he was gonna get. That didn’t stop him from griping, though. “This entire god-dang house is unsafe fer children, but whatever.” He gestured to his kids to sit down, and both plopped themselves on the carpet without complaint, Mable bouncing around slightly as she tried in vain to work away some of the excess energy she still held. Not that it would ever happen, since she seems to have an infinite amount of it whenever she’s not sleepy. He brought the duffle bag he’d been carrying from around his shoulder to the front of his frame, and mentally recounted what extras he’d stuffed into it, since he left the kid’s backpacks hidden in the car. “I think I packed a few o’ yer toys in here. You two gonna be okay fer a minute while me 'n my bro chat?”

“Mmhmm!” Mabel hummed happily, followed quickly by Dipper nodding. The boy, however, looked a little downcast at the fact that they weren’t going to be included. He tilted his head to the side a little, and blinked up at his father. “Y’sure we can’t come, Daddy?” he prodded feebly. 

Stan still didn’t like this, but he understood, so he had to at least go with it for his brother’s sake. “I’ll be in the room right over, ‘case anything happens, alright?” Dipper and Mabel both nodded in understanding. Stanley huffed. “We’re probably gonna talk about annoyin’ grown-up stuff.” He could definitely think of a few things his brother was probably going to bring up, at least. He had a sinking feeling in his chest that this was going to turn into a fight, no matter how much he tried to deny it to himself. With confidence, he asserted, “You two ain’t gonna wanna hear, anyways.” 

Then, he stood up, patted his two little gremlins on the tops of their heads, and turned around, walking over to the doorway where his brother had moved to. As he passed by, he sighed and said “C’mon, let's get this over with.” Stanford followed him into the room without a word.

Chapter Text

Mabel gets it. Really, she does! 

Daddy and Uncle Ford gotta talk about stuff that Dipper and Mabel are too young to hear, and she understands that. There’s a lot of things that Daddy doesn’t think is appropriate to talk to them about. She knows there’s a period of time, between him getting kicked outa the house and Mabel and Dipper arriving at his door, that he doesn’t talk about at all. That’s okay! Mabel is a firm upholder in her father’s beliefs. It’s why she mentions every time he swears, because he once told her that he doesn’t mean to swear as much as he does. It was her most brillaintest idea, to start telling him every time he does, so that he can work on not doing it anymore! Dipper smiled at her when she told him about her plan, so she considers it one of her smartest plans ever. But that’s beside the point. The point is that Mabel understands why she and Dip Dop aren’t allowed to follow Daddy and Uncle Ford into the next room over. 

That doesn’t mean she isn’t curious about what could be happening. Of course she is! Daddy and Uncle Ford haven’t seen each other in, like, ten years or something, and that’s longer than Mabel has existed! Which she still doesn’t fully understand, because that’s really complicated and it hurts her brain to think about herself not existing, but still. It’s a reunion of epic proportions! Maybe they’re hugging it out? Maybe not, though, ‘cause Uncle Ford seemed really against being touched. Which Mabel also understands! She has days where hugging people is hard, and she’ll only let Daddy and Dipper touch her at all. Maybe Uncle Ford is having a day like that too! She wants them to be happy and make up and forgive each other for all the weird and wacky stuff that happened in the past before she existed, but she doesn’t know if that’s gonna happen, because adults are really confusing and make no sense. So she keeps sitting on the carpet beside her brother instead of going and trying to hear what’s going on, even though they both really want to. 

Eventually, though - she made it a whole two minutes! - she gets bored of playing with the plastic dinosaurs Daddy packed her, and she flops down against the carpet with a groan. She can’t help it; there’s just too much to think about! What if they’re fighting? What if they’re hugging? She isn’t there to see, so she doesn’t know! She turns her head towards Dippy-Dip, who had stopped messing with his little fidget toy when she groaned and glanced over at her. “Whaddya think th’re talkin’ ‘bout?” she asks, because Dipper’s really smart, and he always knows what’s going on. Maybe he knows what’s happening in the other room! Sure, neither of them can hear it, but Dippy would probably know anyway. Through, like, de-duc-tion and stuff like that. 

Dipper blinks at her question, before he fiddles a little more with the toy in that nervous way he does whenever they’re not at - well, they don’t have a home, which Daddy says isn’t really normal, but she considers any place where they feel safer to be home, so she thinks the car counts, since Daddy isn’t here at the moment and she makes them both feel safest? - and he’s feeling a bit uncomfortable. She hopes it isn’t her making him uncomfortable! She doesn’t mean to do that. Before she can stress herself out about that, though, he answers quietly. “I, uhm…” he starts, before he tilts his head to the side. “Th’bad stuff that Daddy told us, I think.”

Aw. Mabel really didn’t want them to be talking about that! Especially since she doesn’t know if Uncle Ford is going to be nice and calm about things. He’s being all weird and mysterious, with his kinda scary house and jitteriness. He looks like he drank a lot of soda! That’s what Daddy says drinking too much can do to you, ‘cause of the caff-ine in it or something. That’s also why he drinks so much coffee, he said. “Oh,” she says, frowning slightly, before falling flat against the carpet again. There’s a lot of strange stuff twisting across the roof, she discovers. She doesn’t know what any of it does! It looks complicated, though. Could use more sparkles. She wishes she brought glitter. “Do y’think th’re gonna hug?”

She can only pout just a little more when Dippy shakes his head. “Nuh-uh,” he says in denial. “Daddy ‘n Uncle Ford’re, uhm, stub-born.” She remembers Daddy using that word before. He’d said something like “Us Pines’re incredibly stubborn people, y’know? Never know when ta quit.” If that’s what the word means, then she guesses that it fits. Uncle Ford hasn’t spoken to Daddy in ten years, after all, and if that isn’t stubborn-ness, then she doesn’t know what is! “I think th’re gonna be mean ta each-other for a’while,” Dipper admits a little glumly.

Why can’t they just make up? She doesn’t see what the problem is. “Tha’s dumb,” Mabel laments. “Mabel dun get it.” She stops for a moment to think. Is it really that hard for adults to make up to each other? She hopes not. Adults are really weird, and she doesn't get them. Are Daddy and Uncle Ford ever gonna be friends again? She can’t imagine going two days without Dipper at her side, much less ten years. She doesn’t even really get how long ten years is yet! Maybe that’s why Daddy and Uncle Ford can’t make up? ‘Cause it’s been so long? “What ‘f they never be nice ta each- uhm, each-other, again?” she asks, because she’s really worried. She wants Daddy and Uncle Ford to be happy, but they can’t be happy if they don’t make up!

Dipper clicks the little toy a few more times, before he furrowed his eyebrows and assumes what they have both dubbed the Thinkin’ Face. After a moment, he turns back to Mabel and twists the toy around in his hands. “Re-mem-ber when I spilled your milk a few weeks ago?” he says suddenly, and she blinks, because that was really random. “An' you got really mad at me?” Well, of course she remembers that! They were in the hotel room, and Mabel had been eating breakfest happily, and then Dipper accidentally hit her glass of milk with his elbow! She doesn’t even remember why she was so upset, but she got really angry at him because she really wanted to drink that milk. Then she decided she wasn’t gonna talk to Dipper, but after an hour she felt really bad for getting upset with him, and she cried because she didn’t mean to hurt him but she was just so upset! But then he said he was sorry too and everything was okay!

Oh, wait. She got so caught up in her memory that she forgot to answer him! Silly Mabel! “Mmhmm,” she hummed, before quickly adding, “but I forgived you! I jus’ really wanted tha milk.” That’s what she didn’t get; why couldn’t Uncle Ford just forgive Daddy? Was it really that hard for adults to forgive? Mabel doesn’t think so, because Mabel once spilled glitter all over Daddy’s jacket, and even though he seemed upset, he forgave her. Maybe Uncle Ford is really bad at forgiving people! Ugh, now Mabel wishes she was in the room again! She could help Uncle Ford learn how to forgive people. But she’s not allowed to follow. Blegh. 

“‘S like that, but longer,” Dipper says very wisely, and. Okay, Mabel can actually understand it a bit when he puts it like that. If it’s just like the Milk Incident (as she is now going to call it from now on), but longer, then maybe Uncle Ford is gonna forgive Daddy, but it’ll just take a while! She still doesn’t understand how Uncle Ford can be okay with going so long without forgiving, but at least it will still happen at some point! Mabel didn’t wanna talk to Dipper for nearly an hour. She can’t imagine longer, but if it’s the same as it was with Dipper and Mabel, just longer, then it makes a whole lot of sense. “Daddy ‘n Uncle Ford jus’ never talked ‘bout what happened,” Dipper explained. “Uncle Ford really wanted ta go ta the col-lege, but Daddy broke the pro-ject. Like me spillin’ your milk.” That makes a lot of sense. If the pro-ject was like the milk, and the col-ledge was like Mabel drinking the milk, then she can kinda understand what’s happening. She still doesn’t see why it’s going to take so long for them to make up, but at least she understands!

Mabel sits up, then, because she just had a really upsetting thought. What if, when Mabel and Dipper get older, they both end up like Daddy and Uncle Ford? She can’t bear that thought, and for a moment, she almost bursts into tears, because her extra-awesome imagination is not being so awesome right now, and she can perfectly see it happening, as unrealistic as it is. Instead of crying, though, she scoots closer to Dipper and embraces him in a hug. He seems a little confused at first, but he doesn’t push her away or say he doesn’t wanna hug. Instead, he wraps his arms around her too, and then they’re both hugging each other. “Promise you won’t get all dum-dum like Daddy ‘n Uncle Ford?” She asks, some of her worry leaking into her voice. She might be shivering a little. “Dipper’s more im-por-tant ta Mabel than milk.”

Dipper just hugs her a little tighter, and buries his face in her shoulder, but she doesn’t mind, because her face is buried in his, and it makes her feel less like she’s gonna cry. He makes a hum, one that tells her that he understands what she’s saying. “Promise,” he says, and Mabel believes him with all her heart, because she trusts Dipper. It’s right about then, though, that the shouting starts, and she can’t stop the way she whimpers, burrowing herself further against her brother.

The first thing Stanford tells him is, “You weren’t supposed to have children.” There isn’t even a moment between to soak in the appearance of the room they’ve just walked into, not a second to pause and think. That just comes shooting out of Ford’s mouth. So Stanley thinks he’s very justified in his complete and utter bafflement. He also thinks the slack-jawed gawking at his brother he does is also justified, because what does that even mean?

 “The hell’re you talkin’ about?” He says gruffly, and he can’t help the thread of hostility that sneaks into his words. There’s a flare of defensiveness that spikes up as he speaks. “I can do whatever I damn please.” Who is Stanford, the brother who turned his back and let the world eat Stanley alive, to tell him what he can and cannot do? For all Ford would have known, Stan could’ve been dead in a ditch somewhere, and nobody would’ve known or cared. Ford doesn’t get to advise Stan on his life choices. 

The anger must’ve snuck onto his face, because Ford quickly back-tracks, and attempts to fix his wording. “No, that’s not- I don’t mean it like that,” he stutters out, using his free hand - as the other still carries that red leather book - to lift his glasses and rub at his very tired looking eyes. He appeared simultaneously as though he was on the most intense sugar high known to man, while also being ready to collapse at a moment’s notice. He takes a deep breath, and visibly steels himself up to explain. “I ran this meeting over in my head several times over while I attempted to properly plan out a course of action,” he explains, “but in none of those fictitious scenarios did I ever consider for even a single moment that you might have children with you.” With the hand holding the book, he gestured outwards, causing the few extra papers he was carrying to flutter off. He, again, didn’t notice. “I am trying to organize these new variables and figure out what I’m supposed to be doing. Give me a moment.”

“I…” Stan starts, but then he realizes he actually doesn’t know what he wants to say. Instead, he just figures it’s best to give his probably-manic brother a moment to actually get his head on straight. “Okay,” he concedes. “Sure.” If he thinks about it, the revelation that he has children might actually be a lot more intense than he thought it was. Then again, he didn’t really think about it all that much. 

For a moment, everything stays silent. Outside, the cold wind howls as the snow brushes past, a flurry of white that can be seen through the windows in the room. Actually, now that they have a moment of peace, Stanley takes a moment to look around. This room is the same delivery bay he’d spotted from the outside, the one he couldn’t get into. The large metal door is still in place, though it’s blocked by a large amount of crates and cardboard boxes. Actually, the room is filled to the brim with assorted boxes and barrels - several of which are radioactive, as he had come to expect by now, though there were a few oil ones, one of which was sideways and had a pool of oil formed around it - and a bunch of other trinkets. He spots another taxidermy of a strange creature he’s never seen, some kind of eye with bat wings on a stand. There’s several more papers strewn about the space, and a bunch more books. Across the room from where they entered, there’s a door that leads somewhere else into the house. In between that door and the door they came through, there’s a fancy-looking metal door, with several signs of, “Do Not Enter,” and, “Keep Out,” plastered on it, as if anyone could ever get this far into the house to see that. 

“I don’t understand,” Stanford says suddenly, bringing Stanley’s attention snapping right back to reality. The man had his eyebrows knitted in an expression so familiar that it hurts. It’s that perplexed one he would always get when Stan said some stupid joke that made no sense, and Ford was trying to make it make sense. “Why did nobody tell me?”

Stanley can’t help it. He snorts at that, his lips quirking into a smirk. “Because nobody knows, genius,” he says, and from his perspective, it should be incredibly obvious. If anyone actually knew he had children, the whole family would know in seconds. There’s a reason nobody does, and that’s because Ma can keep a secret to her damn grave if she needs to. Compulsive lying comes in handy sometimes. “Ma is the only one I told.” The hell was he gonna say to anyone else? He hadn’t mustered up the courage to speak to Ford in years, and Shermie? He didn’t really know his older brother anymore, not after Vietnam and all that shit. For all he knows, Shermie could go all Military Police on him because he still has warrants for his arrest - under fake names, but still - in three different states. Not counting Kentucky, that one expired. None of this was the point, though. “Ya gonna tell me what this is all about yet?”

Stanford shuffles for a moment, his gaze flicking to the side as he thought. His gaze then flicked to the metal door with all the warnings, before returning to Stanley. “I have something I need to show you in order to properly explain the circumstances,” he says rather slowly, as if explaining it to a child, “but the children can’t come.”

Mm. Well, sure, he’s already left the kids alone in the living room, but that’s already pushing his boundaries, and even then, they’re only a room over. Wherever that metal door leads, it’s way too small not to be a stairwell downwards. His brother can’t actually expect him to… actually, no, his brother does expect him to follow down into the basement while the kids wait up here. “Then I ain’t goin’,” Stan answers, shrugging his shoulders. Like hell he’s leaving the kids up here alone.

This was, apparently, the wrong answer to give, because Ford suddenly scowls something vicious, and groans. “Stanley, will you stop and just listen for a second?!” the man says, and it’s on a borderline between a shout and a normal talking volume, a bit strained as it’s said. “The basement is incredibly unsafe for children, they cannot go down there!” Stan wasn’t actually all that surprised. He was wondering where the anger was this whole time, and he supposes he found it. Even if this is an incredibly stupid thing to get angry over, and something that shouldn’t even be a problem. He doesn’t know why Ford is so incapable of understanding that he doesn’t want to be separated from his kids. 

As it is, Stan just takes a deep breath, and sighs out the words, “Holy shit, Stanford.” He rubs at his face, frustrated and tired after so many hours of repetitive traveling and bullshit cold, all of it suddenly hitting him at once as he realizes this isn’t going to go very well. “Yer house looks like it’s ready for the fuckin’ apocalypse,” and he does not miss the way Ford flinches at that, “yer acting like yer strung out on drugs,” he ignores the indignant sound that Ford makes, “and yer talking like there’s someone dangerous coming after you, so a’course I’m not gonna fucking leave ‘em by themselves. I’m not an idiot.” Honestly. Stan already knows this is supernatural shit. He assumed it from the moment he learned what Ford’s occupation up here was from Ma. He’s well aware that, whatever mess Stanford got himself into, it’s probably related to the fact that he’s studying anomalies. He sighs, huffing out in annoyance. “Just explain it to me, I’ll understand.”

Ford shoots back with a strained, “You won’t,” and for christ sake, Stan has never wanted to strangle his brother more than right now. Does he think he’s the only asshole on the planet who’s had an encounter with strange and unnatural things? Disregarding the fact that they both found the Jersey Devil when they were ten, Stan has enough stories to keep a campfire party occupied for hours, and none of them are even lies! With an explosion of indignation in his chest, he replied with “Try me,” He’d been around the world, and he’d seen a thing or two. He could damn well figure out whatever the hell his brother had gotten himself into. 

With something that bordered the line of a growl, Stanford threw his hands up in angered exasperation. “Alright, fine!” he practically shouted. “We’ll do it your way.” With a flourish of trenchcoat, the man whirled to the left, and began to pace back and forth across the floor. His hands gestured animatedly as he spoke. “Approximately sixty feet underneath the house is a basement laboratory, where I created a trans-universal gateway. In other terms, it’s a punched hole through a weak spot in our dimension.” Of course he made an interdimensional portal. Why should Stan have expected any less? Not that he doubted his brother for a moment, even if he was having a difficult time comprehending it. A portal to another dimension is one of the more believable things he’s been told about, come to think of it. “I created it to unlock the mysteries of the universe; however, it could just as easily be harnessed for terrible destruction.” Stanley wasn’t very well versed on things like this. He hadn’t a clue how portals to other dimensions worked. The idea of it being dangerous, though? He gets that. “Once I came to this realization, I shut it down and hid my journals, which explained how to operate it.” He gestured to the red Journal in his hand. Now that it wasn’t tucked against the man’s chest, he could see that it was a red, leather-bound journal, with golden corner pieces on the cover, and a large, six-fingered hand in the center, emblazoned with the number one. 

So. He didn’t really mean to be a sarcastic ass about this, but it’s sort of his default when it came to masking his unease. That and humor, anyways. He’s just found out that his brother built a goddamn doomsday device underneath his house. He has the right to be a little freaked out right now, even if he isn’t going to show it. “Now, it might just be me,” Stanley says, raising an eyebrow as he speaks, “but that book doesn’t look very hidden.” 

He received a scowl in return, which was both expected and completely fair. There was still a point to bringing that up, because clearly the book was important to this whole problem. Ford, either intentionally or not, seemed to take the hint. “There's only one journal left,” he affirmed, gesturing to the one in his arms. For a moment - just a single moment, nothing more - it seems like Stanford was going to shove the book right into Stanley’s arms. When that moment passed, Ford’s eyebrows knitted in thought, and his mouth worked for a moment before the question came out. “Where do you currently live?”

It was jarring, how quickly his heart plummeted as the words reached his ears. He did not want to answer that question. Not at all. Mostly because that would mean admitting he was too much of a goddamn failure to get his kids a stable home, and he doesn’t want to deal with that shit. He knew damn well that Ford would criticize him and tell him what he should do, and he wasn’t in the mood for that. Not that any of it is actually Ford’s business anyways. He doesn’t get to be a director in Stan’s life anymore, not when he cast Stan away and left him on the sidewalk. Not when Ford has everything he wanted, even with all that Stan had screwed up, while Stan was left with nothing and nobody. Immediately as the question reaches him, he tenses up, shoulders raising slightly. He swallows, and then throws a hard expression on his face in his best attempt to cover up any nerves he might have. “‘Scuse me?” he grumbles. 

The look that Ford gave him did not make his nerves, or anger, dissipate any. It was a mixture between condescending and annoyed, as though the very act of Stan not immediately answering was a hindrance. “Your home, Stanley,” he said. Stan hated that damn tone. It was as if Stanford thought that he didn’t know living somewhere usually implied it was a home. “Where is your home?” 

Stanley just tensed further, his jaw clenching with a mixture between anger and apprehension. This shouldn’t matter at all, why was Stanford bringing it up? Yeah, it was true that he hadn’t gone through any extreme measures to hide their current living status, but there genuinely shouldn’t be a reason this was being brought up. “Th’hell’s that gotta do with anything?” he asked, scowling. 

That seemed to tip the delicate balance of Ford’s control, because suddenly, his gaze took on a thunderous look, and he snapped. Wildly, he gestured outwards, the motions jerking with irritation, while his eyebrows lowered into a violent scowl. With no care for how loud he was, he shouted, “For god's sake, answer the question!” 

In the face of his brother’s anger, it was like the spark had ignited into a full-fledged flame. Suddenly, the anger and upset was burning right through his chest, and he knew right then that something they were both gonna regret was going to be said soon. That didn’t make him any less pissed, though. His hands clenched into tightly-balled fists, fingernails digging into his palms, as he matched his brother’s scowl. Through gritted teeth, he shouted right back, “Tell me why it fuckin’ matters first!” 

He could see it, the second that his brother cracked. It was like lightning flashing between those still-familiar blue eyes, a jolt of sudden anger that seared away at the air relentlessly. Something in Stanford simply snapped, some form of tension that had been holding him back, and now, Stanley was feeling the brunt of this intermingled web of frustration, annoyance, and long-standing anger. His brother practically growled before the words came forcefully from the man’s mouth. “Because you’re the only damn person I can trust with this journal!” He said angrily, and if the tone wasn’t spoken with such distaste, Stanley might’ve even felt a little hopeful. If there had been any, though, it came crumbling right down with the next half. “I need you to take this book to the very ends of the earth, and bury it where nobody can find it as soon as possible, but you have kids, so I’m asking how long it would take to drop them off at your home!”

The thing is, Stanley knew, from the moment he had gotten the postcard, that he was here for a purpose, and not for a social call. That had, of course, been reaffirmed constantly through the duration of their visit, with the worrying state of the house and his brother lending credence to the idea that something had gone wrong, and the family screw-up needed to help bail someone out. With the mellowness he’d started to accumulate when he began to take care of the children, it was easier these days to push past that blind faith and hope. He could see the truth a lot more of the time; it’s why he stopped hoping that Pa would let him back into the family when he got the money, and why he resigned himself to let Ma chat with his kids over phone instead of risking both of them trying to meet. Filbrick didn’t just lay hands on his kids, and who the hell was gonna listen to Ma if she slandered him? Jersey ain’t a place where something like that works - at least, Glass Shard Beach isn’t, and Ma definitely can’t go running off into the night to make herself a life somewhere else, since Pa is the moneymaker. That hope that he’d had, that idea that everything could be fixed, it faded away when reality came crashing down on him. His naivety, as already destroyed as it had been by everything he’d done, blew away as dust in the wind. 

He knew he was here for a purpose. Of course he did. His brother would never have called him to do something normal like make amends, because that’s not how Stanford operated. People were nothing more than chess pieces to him when he was in the throes of another grand project, and Stanley had always been resigned to that fact. He knew damn well that he was here because his brother needed him, not wanted him, but lord above. It still hurt. It still felt like that crossbow that had been aimed at his chest had gone off, punctured him straight through the heart, and left him for dead in the snowdrift outside. His brother had called him all the way here, and in the span of less than twenty minutes, had told him to fuck off. Sure, there was a purpose behind it. Sure, there was something great at stake here. But that didn’t make it hurt less. That didn’t make the pure agony of it fade, even a little. His breath was gone, stolen right from his lungs, and for a moment - one that might’ve been seconds, or maybe minutes, he doesn’t know - it was silent, and there was a ringing in his ears. 

Then it all snapped back, right into perfect clarity, and it was like the little bonfire in his chest had suddenly been doused in gasoline. It scorched and seared all throughout his insides, burning him apart, and it felt so agonizing but so refreshing. He hadn’t been this angry since he’d been double-crossed by Ricardo and had four pistols turned on him. The pain going through him, almost as if taunting him, felt the exact same as the one bullet that had gotten him in the stomach. Everything was too loud, too bright, and it hurt. “Th-That’s it?!” he screamed aloud, and Stanford almost seemed to reel back a little as if the response was a shock to him. A more sober Stan might’ve paused and let him try to stumble through an explanation. Present-Stanley was far too drunk with anger to care. “Ya finally wanna see me after ten years, ‘n it's ta tell me ta get as far away from you ‘s possible!?”

He almost wished, then, that his brother had tried to stutter out an explanation, to tell him that it wasn’t a permanent arrangement, that they would see each other again afterwards, but he needed this done now and the fate of the world was at stake, or something stupid like that. That was expecting too much, he supposed, because instead, Stanford only seemed to grow even more frustrated. He seemed genuinely baffled, as if he couldn’t understand why Stanley wasn’t jumping at the opportunity to do this. “Wha- Stanley, you don't understand what I'm up against!” he shouted. “What I've been through!”

Now that. That was very much the wrong thing to say to a very angered Stanley Pines. Especially one who had a multitude of memories and trauma to suddenly have sprung to the forefront of the mind and spat right out of his mouth. “No, no, ya don’t understand what I’ve been through!” Stan thundered, his face contorting into one of rage. In that moment, the floodgates had slipped open, and in some distant part of his mind that was screaming at him to stop, he prayed the kids weren’t able to hear him. “I've been ta prison in three different countries! I once had ta chew my way outa the trunk of a car!” Both of those were vividly replaying in Stan’s mind as he recounted them. Only his kids knew that most of his teeth were fake, and they didn’t even understand why, since he would just tell them to eat healthy and all that crappy parent stuff. “I’ve been raisin’ two kids on my own, ‘cause their poor excuse of a mother went ‘n got herself locked in jail, ‘n my family tossed me ta the fuckin’ curb! Fuck’s sake, I've got a mullet, Stanford!” Thinking back on that one much later, he would realize how random that sounded, but it was intended as a nod towards his very clear state of financial crisis, implying that he couldn’t afford to cut his own hair. “Meanwhile, where’ve you been? Living it up in yer fancy house in th’woods! Selfishly hoarding yer college money, because ya only care about yerself!”

That was his greatest mistake, the whole fight. Calling Stanford selfish. It was like a trigger word, setting his brother off on a whole different direction. For a moment before, the man had actually looked confused, and even remorseful, but then, in a mere instant, it was all wiped right away, and in place of it was an expression of building rage. “I'm selfish? I'm selfish, Stanley?” his brother repeated incredulously, like he couldn’t believe Stan would have the audacity to say it. “How can you say that after costing me my dream school?!” It was wonderful to know that, even ten fucking years after it had happened, when life had worked out perfectly for Ford, they were still apparently hung up on the goddamn science fair project. As baffling as it was that Ford was still angry about it, though, he was almost more shocked it hadn’t come up sooner. Then came the final sentence. “I'm giving you a chance to do the first worthwhile thing in your life and you won't even listen!”

And. Oh. He had honestly thought nothing could’ve hurt worse than being told to get as far away from his brother as possible, but it looked like he underestimated the ability of his brother to dig at all of the wounds etched into his skin. “The first-” he started to repeat, before he just. Stopped. It’s not that his anger had suddenly tapered off, or that his rage and hurt weren’t still whirling inside, but something else had come crashing down on him. He had come here for his brother, to help his brother, and what did he get in return? Insulted, berated, talked down upon like some measly little pawn. His palms were probably bleeding with how hard he was clenching his fists, and he took a short breath before he spoke again. “Y’know what? No. Fuck this. Fuck you,” and he growled the latter out with as much venom as he possibly could. He wanted nothing more than to sock his asshole of a brother in the face and burn the oh-so dangerous journal, but he couldn’t do that, because the kids were here, and like hell he’d start a physical fight around the kids. “I didn’t drive all this goddamn way ta have you treat me like mud. I spent ten fuckin’ years doin’ that ta myself, I ain’t gonna sit here while you do it to!” He whirled around, leaving the room and walking back towards the area that Ford had called the Bio-Study earlier. “Hide the book yerself, I have kids to take care of!” He stormed off. 

He’d known from the start that something like this was going to happen at some point, but he had thought, perhaps with a smidge of ignorance, that things wouldn’t go so entirely wrong right from the start. He should’ve known better. When he got back to the main room, Stan had packed the kid’s toys into the duffle bag, told them in no uncertain terms that their Uncle Ford and him weren’t going to be able to get along, and that they needed to go check in at a hotel in town. Both of them were upset, but judging by the way they seemed a little shrunken down and quiet, he assumed they heard some part of what was shouted in the other room. Well, that, and they both gave him really firm hugs. Nobody said a word if there were frustrated, angry tears on Stanley’s cheeks, and he would’ve said it was a reaction to the cold if anyone had. Or just not responded. He didn’t have to lie if he didn’t say anything at all. 

His brother must’ve been so stunned at the outburst that his brain shut down or something, because it wasn’t until Stan was already leaving that he seemed to kick back to life and chase. He could hear the calls of, “Stanley, wait!” behind him as he walked into the snowstorm yet again - which had, thankfully, calmed down a little, making it just a little more bearable - but he didn’t pay it a moment of mind.

It was not currently Stanley’s finest moment. Far from it, actually, but if he ignored the fact that his eyes were a bit red and puffy in the hotel bathroom mirror, he could act like it was just the anger and frustration that was eating away at him instead of the hollow feeling in his chest that was a little too close to a broken heart. He splashed a bit more water on his face, wiping his uncomfortable eyelids and wincing as they burned. He had to get himself together. He needed to figure everything out. Because he wasn’t leaving. 

He considered it, actually. When he was driving, tapping on the steering wheel, searching around for that hotel he’d spotted through the thick snowscape when they’d been cutting through town before heading out to Stanford’s. Mabel had been settled on his lap - by her own choice, of course, as she had seen her Father feeling distressed and decided it was prime Mabel cuddle time - while Dipper had taken up the passenger seat beside the two of them. He knew they were still on the wrong side of town from where they’d gotten the boots, which was right next to the hotel he had in mind, so he was mostly just taking the time to think things through. Not too deeply, of course, because he knew he was a bit emotional right now and he did not want to start the waterworks again, but he was just considering things. For a long moment, while he watched the road with knitted eyebrows, he wondered if it would be better to just hightail it out of here. Head off into the unknown again, find themselves a better small town that doesn’t have a Stanford in it, and try again. He could easily do that at dawn, after all. Pack the kids up, and step on the gas until they are out on the highway again. Just like they always did. 

In the passenger seat, Dipper was staring out the window. They were going along the edge of town, and at this segment of the road, they were surrounded entirely by the Oregon pines that towered high into the sky. The snowstorm had eased even more by the time they returned to the car, and he could finally see at least forty feet in front of him, which was better than earlier. The kid wasn’t gawking or anything, no wide eyed stare, but it was something different. He didn’t really seem lost in thought, but more focused on actually looking at the forest. To anyone else, that wouldn’t mean a thing. To Stanley, it meant that Dipper was actually interested in the sights outside the window, because if he wasn’t, he’d be staring at nothing and thinking about what happened back at Stanford’s house. To Stanley, it was a show of intrigue, and that was what tipped the balance. 

Because, to Stanley, the most important thing wasn’t him, or his hurt feelings, or his unmended relationship with his asshole of a brother; it was the kids, what they wanted, what they thought. Right now, Dipper was looking at the woods like he’d love to go on a hike through them. Stanley would hike a hundred times over if it made the kid smile. That was all he needed to see to know what the right choice was, and at that point, when they took the left turn further into town, he was already considering what he could do to earn himself some cash. Non-Illegal activities specifically. 

So that had brought him to here. Standing in the bathroom of a small town hotel, splashing another handful of water on his face and rubbing out all the weariness sagging down his frame in a vain attempt to make things feel just a little more like he was still real. He was probably dissociating from reality again, just a smidge. He couldn’t let himself keep doing that, though. He had kids to take care of, a job to start finding, and a multitude of smaller problems that were going to make his life a living hell. The things he does for these kids. That being said, he’d do all of it ten times over if he had to just for them to be comfortable and happy, so he supposes he can’t complain when it’s his own choice. 

He’s been thinking back on everything for the last hour, trying to figure out exactly where it all went wrong, where everything suddenly took a shift. He doesn’t know if it’s his fault or not. Did things start going downhill because he refused to just tell his brother that he didn’t have a home? Had things already been collapsing around him from the moment Stanford had called him over just to have him take a book and leave? He isn’t sure. He wants to think it’s the latter, but honestly, things had been going well enough up until the former. Was the crash inevitable, or could he have prevented it by taking a moment to swallow his pride and let himself be hit? Again, he doesn’t know. 

He lets out a sigh. There’s nothing he can do about it now. No matter how things work out from here, this chance between him and Stanford - which wasn’t really even a chance, he knew that when he started driving here, and yet, at some point, he let it turn into one without even noticing - had already come burning to the ground. They were no better than where they’d started. Actually, no, that was underselling it. They were worse off than they had been before, all because Stanford had called him over to ask for his help in making a book disappear. The worst part is, Stanley can’t deny a single thing that Stanford had said to him. He was selfish, and even if breaking the project was an accident, some part of him, the part that had been so gung-ho about a silver lining, had almost been glad that it hadn’t worked. He hadn’t done anything worthwhile with his life, didn’t have a job, didn’t have a home, and the only family he had was stuck dragged down with him. 

The thing is, he thinks, straightening himself up and readjusting his undershirt, spite is an incredible motivator. That, and love. Because he loved his kids to death and would give up everything to give them a chance at something better, and he was so pissed at his brother for being right at the moment, that he was going to make his brother wrong. That seemed like a decent use of his rage, anyways, instead of letting it fester until he punched the mirror he was staring at. 

So. First step. He needed to get the kids settled into the hotel room they’d gotten. Gravity Falls Inn was a decent one, and they even had themselves a little selection of food items to choose from down in the lobby, so he was probably going to go grab the two of them some chicken nuggets to tide them over until tonight. Then, he needed to take stock. Figure everything out, find out what he was working with. He doesn’t want to leave the kids without him in the hotel room, so he thinks they’ll all take a drive around town when the snow’s cleared - hopefully by tomorrow, if that television he can hear somewhere in the distance is correct - and see what they have in town. Most of it should be local businesses, so it shouldn’t be too hard to start job hunting from there. That’s the third step. 

God damn it. His thought process sounds like Stanford. He splashes another fistfull of water onto his face in order to stop himself from actually punching the mirror. Fuck Stanford, he justifies to himself. Ford didn’t invent the method of planning things out with steps, after all. Just because the man operated like that for seventeen years doesn’t mean that he’s the way it’s defined. Stanley can damn well make a step-by-step plan without his brother, thank you very much. With the thought settled and a confident nod given to himself, he grabbed one of the smaller, baby-sized hand towels to dry his face off, then left the bathroom. 

There was almost an unreal twinge to everything, but he wasn’t quite sure if that was, yet again, the fact he might be dissociating, or the fact that the opportunity and local standards of this town were so abnormal from what he was used to that it didn’t fit into his world view. The hotel room had come out to about eight dollars a night, which was an absolute steal compared to the usual fifteen to twenty that most cheap places tended to be priced at. Not to mention, while he was paying a price cheaper than he’d ever had to, he was getting a hotel room that looked better than nearly all of the places he’s stayed. He wouldn’t think all that much of it if he hadn’t brought them all to the diner beforehand to grab a bite and saw the prices there, too. It’s not something that seems to be statewide, since they’d been traveling through Oregon for a whole two days, and while the prices were noticeably lower, they were nowhere near what Gravity Falls had. He could almost taste the money he’d be saving the next time he went to grab some gas. Though he only had two examples at the moment, Gravity Falls was like a world unto itself. It made him feel confident that he could do something more here. He just had to figure out where to start. 

The room itself was a moderately sized hotel space, staring out when entering as a narrow hallway with a door to the right - which is the bathroom he just emerged from - before opening up into the main segment of the room. The wallpaper, as per the usual when it came to budget hotels, was some off-white, tacky floral pattern, weaving its way down the wall between darker lines that segmented them out. All of the furnishings were styled after log-cabin furniture, making everything take on a very thematic approach. Against one side of the room, there were a pair of beds that probably weren’t going to be used in tandem when night fell later on. Opposite, there was a television set across from the beds, sitting on top of a dresser. Between the two beds, there was a smaller nightstand with a lamp, and just beyond bed furthest from the door to the room, there was a glass door that led out to a balcony with a very wonderful view of the forest. There was a small table just beside that, accompanied by two chairs. There was another chair - this one being a rocking chair - and another table situated on the balcony outside. 

Sitting on one of the two beds was Mabel. She was laying on her stomach with her head propped up by her arms and her legs slowly kicking from the air.  Laid against a pillow behind her was Dipper, who had one of the books Stanley had given him out, trying to read through on his own. Only a second after he had emerged from the bathroom, Mabel had let loose a stream of giggles from something on the television, and even from halfway across the room, he could see the way her brother smiled at the sound. The near normalcy of this scene before him helped ease the pained feeling in his chest. He sighed out his turbulent emotions, just for the moment, and stepped further into the room. 

“Scoot,” he grumbled good-naturedly at his son. The boy glanced up and blinked at him, before pushing himself to the side and giving Stanley enough room to slip onto the bed. As he said; two beds that wouldn’t be used in tandem. He settled himself down with his back against the wall, letting out a sigh as the tension across his body eased. After a moment, Dipper returned to his book, but leaned to the side, resting his head on his father’s shoulder. Through the commotion, Mabel had glanced back to watch, but once Stanley was settled into place, she turned back towards the television. Instead of remaining on her stomach, though, she rolled over, flipping onto her backside with her head upside-down, and giggled at the feeling of vertigo. Her head hung just over the edge of the bed, and her hair was draped down the side. Stan couldn’t do anything but shake his head fondly at her antics. 

The thing he’s realized, after a little bit of thought, is that he isn’t actually tied down by his brother’s presence in the town, because literally nobody actually seems to know Stanford. They all speak of the mysterious scientist hiding away in the woods, with his spooky experiments and flashing lights - at least, he assumes, he hasn’t actually spoken to anyone besides Susan and the hotel’s receptionist - so he doesn’t have all that much to shy away from. He’s separate from his brother in this, and that’s perfect, because it means he doesn’t have to live up to any expectations. It’s a fresh start, even in a place where old ties are still knotted. It’s actually kind of funny to think about. He was once so terrified of being left alone by his brother, but now, he’s praying that the shadow the man casts doesn’t cover him. 

That was about as far as he was able to get along that line of thought. Not that he wasn’t intent on continuing, but at that moment, in his stupor, he had completely missed Mabel shifting and moving. While he was staring off into space, she must’ve gotten herself up, because the next thing he knew, there was a shout of, “Hug attack!” and suddenly, a tiny little five-year-old slammed right down into his stomach, starting out a sudden, “Oof.” His attention practically snapped back to reality, a little dazed from the force. He blinked, and glanced down, to look at a smiling Mabel who was now laid out on his stomach like a cat, her arms wrapped around him. 

Man, sometimes he forgets how intense kids could be, and then Mabel would go and remind him by suddenly pouncing on him for a hug. “Jesus kid,” he lamented with a gruffness that fooled literally nobody, “ya tryin’a turn me into a mattress or something?” It also came out a little breathless, because the air had forcefully been coughed out of his lungs when she smacked into him. Not that she was really that heavy. That was relieving and concerning at the same time, but he had been worried about that for months. 

Mabel’s arms came unwrapped from her father and she rolled off of him, falling against the mattress beside Dipper’s legs, landing with a higher-pitched grunt. Now that she was off of Stanley, she was laying on her back, tilting her head to keep looking at him. She was still beaming. “Y’looked sad,” she declared. She threw her hands up in the air, open palm, and shook them in a jazz-like motion. “And no-body’s allowed ta be sad when Mabel’s here!”

He couldn’t help it; she was way too damn adorable. He huffed out a small “Heh,” in amusement. “Thanks, kid.” His gaze slipped between the two kids, looking at him with equal expressions of curiosity towards whatever could be making him upset, and then he sighed, turning his gaze away. “I’m, ah, sorry we didn’t get to stay and talk to your Uncle Ford longer.” Yeah, sure, he was pissed at his brother, and really just not having a good time mentally at the moment, but he’s still their family, and they were both excited to see him. Stan hates the fact that, in a way, he deprived them of that, no matter if it was or was not his fault. “That’s directed at you too, kiddo,” he added, turning his gaze to the side and nudging the boy still leaning against his shoulder.

A finger rose to Mabel’s chin as she made a show of considering. “Mmm,” she hummed, “methinks Uncle Ford was being mean.” Stanley blinked in bafflement at that, because he honestly did not expect her to say that, and especially not say it with such upfront certainty. He swallowed, though he wasn’t sure if it was to hold down emotions or to stop himself from laughing. Maybe both. “Tha’s not Daddy’s fault!” Mabel quickly added, being sure to pat the knee of his extended leg for emphasis. Honestly. Does it say more about him or her that it’s actually somewhat comforting?

The little form leaning against his side shifted, and the motion drew his attention over. Those two brown eyes that met his own were exactly the same as the kid’s sister’s. They sparkled just a little under the room’s warm light fixtures. His head tilted to the side, and in that quiet, but confident voice Dipper always spoke with, he asked. “Uncle Ford told us ta leave, didn’t he?” 

Even as Stanley was yet again surprised by his kids, he distinctly noticed how Dipper said, “us,” instead of, “you.” It made him wonder if the kids felt as though they were being told to go away too, or if they simply had such dedication to him that they lumped themselves beside his plights. He wasn’t sure how he felt about either. Nervously, he cleared his throat and averted his gaze, feeling a little shameful about actually being heard. There were a lot of things he said that they definitely didn’t need to know about. “Oh, you, er, heard all that?” he asked, only half-rhetorical. 

Dipper didn’t really have much of an expression on his face, just a blank one. Out of the corner of Stanley’s eye, he could see as the boy just shrugged.  “Only a little,” he said, which either translated to, “We heard the entire thing,” or, “We heard a few snippets,” and Stan could never figure out which one was being said. He assumed the latter, since he didn’t know if Dipper was that good at giving intentionally vague statements yet. For a moment, there was a pause, as Dipper seemed to consider something, before his eyes went back up to look at his father. “If he didn’t wan’us there, why stay?”

He shouldn’t be getting so surprised every time one of his kids speak, but yeesh, it’s either they’re way too smart for their own good, or they say something so profound and mature that it startles him. Or, you know, they acknowledge the fact that they love him and won’t stop loving him even though he’s a bumbling fool who can’t take good care of them, but that one’s a constant thing instead of a momentary one. “...Y’know, kid, that’s a good way of lookin’ at it,” he admits, smiling slightly, before it falls with a sigh. “Still. Ain’t like I helped things by shoutin’ back.”

This time, it was Mabel who responded. She had sat herself up, and was genuinely sitting exactly like a cat, knees angled outwards and socked feet meeting in the middle, her hands holding the tips of her toes. “Is okay, Daddy!” she said jovially, bouncing in place a tiny bit as she spoke. The adorable little dimples she had were on full display as she beamed despite the heavy topic they were discussing. “Sometimes I gets really upset ‘n I gotsta stop myself from saying somethin’ rude that I don’ mean.” Dipper nodded along to that, as if he struggled with the same thing. He supposes it was a bit strange that his kids weren’t so temper-ridden like some of the other children he sees out in public. They must just be good at stopping themselves. “‘M not upset now, though! Me ‘n Dip Dop got ta meet Uncle Ford!” Then she tilted her head, looking off to the side in a comically thoughtful expression. “Even if he was bein’ a big meany, he’s fam’ly, ‘n fam’ly’s im-por-tant.”

Now that. That was just cheating. She just parroted something back at him that he’s been telling them both since day one, and damn it, that makes him so frustrated to be beaten by his own logic, but also so incredibly proud of her at the same time. Despite everything, his lips quirked upwards into a smile. “Alright, alright, you two win,” he said, huffing out a slightly amused breath. He narrowed his eyes playfully, and pointed a finger at his very innocent looking daughter. “That’s playin’ dirty, usin’ my own words against me.” She just smiled wider and said nothing, bouncing twice more in place. Dipper just looked downright smug, the little gremlin. He needed a topic change, though, and he knew the perfect one, because he’d been considering it since the car ride earlier, and he wanted to hear their thoughts. “Now, I have a very important question for ya two little monsters,” he said, and Mabel giggled at being called a monster. Stanley’s eyes shifted up to the balcony door, which let the family see out into the white flurry still flowing down from the sky above. “I’ve been… thinkin’ about some stuff. Do ya both like it here?”

Realization seemed to dawn on Dipper’s gaze, even as Mabel didn’t quite get it, but answered with that smile still on her face. “Mmhmm!” she hummed, bouncing a few more times once again as excitement entered her. “The panc’kes’re really really good ‘n everyth’ng smells like log! An’ maybe Uncle Ford lives here ‘n I dunno how ta feel ‘bout him buuuut Susan was extra nice! An’ tha desk lady was nice too!” He didn’t really know how to feel about his brother either, so hey, he understood that. The rest of it was normal Mabel levels of enthusiasm. It was good to know that the few people they’ve talked to being nice to her has made such a big impact. 

As he expected, Dipper already seems to know where this is going. He just smiles, his less often seen, yet still just as adorable, dimples crinkling upon his face. “I like the trees,” he admits, glancing out the glass door to see.  “Th’re tall.” There’s still too much snowfall to have a clear sight of the nearby forest, but the outlines of the trees are obvious enough that they can be recognized. Then Dipper’s face scrunches slightly into a considering look, before he bites his lip and looks away. “An’ things feel… different here.” And you know what? At any other point in time, Stanley might’ve brushed that off as some confusing kid thing, but right here, right now, he knew exactly what his son meant. Things were different here. This place was unique, detached from everything else. It has its own identity. 

So Stan gives a very slow nod as he considers it all. The kids want to stay. A part of him wants to stay. This place feels unique. It’s almost like the rest of the world doesn’t matter when you’re here, and he’s certain that someone like Rico could never find him here. Things like that aren’t in this kind of place. It’s simply too… normal isn’t the word, something about this town is very not normal and he’s known that since Ma told him that his brother was up here researching anomalies. Ma might not have really understood what that meant, but Stanley did, and not just because he had his own encounters with the unnatural. That’s the thing about him. He’ll always believe Stanford (and maybe that’s why it all hurts so much?), no matter what. So he believes his brother when his brother says that there’s unexplainable creatures and inexplicable events here. “Mmhmm,” Stanley finally hums. “Okay.” He takes a deep breath, and on the exhale, he pushes the words out. “Then we’re stayin’.”

Almost instantly, Mabel’s grin is blinding as she lets out a gasp, stars twinkling in her eyes. “Really Daddy?!” she questions with obvious awe and excitement in her voice. Yet again, she bounces in place in order to work out the surge of excess energy. She looks like he just offered her the entire world on a silver platter, and it hurts just as much as it makes him smile. “Do we getta have’a home??”

The thing is, that question still feels like a stab in the chest. It’s not that he’s upset to be asked about it, or really upset at all, but it’s the very fact that offering a place to live, finally earning something standard, is such a massive milestone to them all. It hurts, because he damn well shouldn’t be here, doing this. The thing is, if things worked out differently, if he’d never been kicked out, would he still have these kids? He hates to think about that, so he breathes it all out into a sigh. “Yeah, pumpkin,” he reassured her quietly. “I think we do.” To get a home, no matter how cheap, he’ll need a steady source of income, especially if he ever plans to get settled into an actual home. For now, an apartment will do, and though it won’t quite be home, it’ll be a home, and that’s good enough until the future comes knocking. But yeah. A job. He can do that. Probably. He still admits, “It might take me a little bit though.”

He feels another spike of pain settling in his chest as they quickly respond. “Tha’s okay too!!” Mabel proclaims loudly, still beaming as though the universe has just gifted her a unicorn or something, while at the same time, Dipper offers a steady, “We c’n wait.” He’s so thankful for them being so understanding, but at the same time, it makes him feel so incredibly guilty, because goddamn it, he should just be able to do these things for them. They deserve a home, and to go to school even if Stanley himself hated it, and to grow up in one place with friends and family. They deserved it from the moment they arrived on his doorstep, and he wishes he could’ve given it to them that second. 

There’s another breath that huffs out of his nose, a mix between a sigh and an exhale that carries with it some of his personal, more self-aimed frustrations. “I know,” he admits, and he does. They will always be okay with anything, however long it takes, at least at this point in their lives, and he gets that. That doesn’t mean he likes it either way. Sometimes he wishes they would just… snap at him, say something mean, anything. He damn well thinks he deserves that. “I just ain’t a fan of makin’ you two wait.” He bites his lip, considering a little further. Their first order of business, even before he can start working on getting himself a job, is actually learning what they would - no, what they will have here. He can’t find a place to work if he doesn’t even know what opportunities are here, and he definitely needs to figure out where to get all his… home stuff, he supposes. Is there a better word for it? He’s never had to think about this before the kids came to him. “I think we’ll go drivin’ around town tomorrow, see what they got here.”

He watches this look appear in Mabel’s eyes, a sparking hope that shines right through, as if she’s made a realization. He already feels the need to groan before she’s even spoken, not out of upset or anger, but because he figures out immediately what she’s going to ask. She leans forwards, and in a faux whisper, she asks, “D’ya think they gots a craft store?” Yep. He’s taken to mentally referring to every craft store as the Mabel stop. She will, without fail, ask him to stop there, and him, being incapable of telling his sweet little daughter no, does. Her backpack is mostly filled with different art supplies and sticker books. He can already imagine the glitter he is going to have to vacuum from the carpet of their future apartment. 

Still, despite the fact that this is a small town, there’s a decent number of offered services. Through their drive in town, he’d already spotted a furniture store, a separate mattress store, several different restaurants of varying types, a car dealership, and he might’ve even spotted a supermarket past the white haze when he was looking at one of the large parking lots off the main road. “I’m certain they do, sweetie,” he says, and mentally, he decides he damn well might just open one himself if there isn’t. Not that he has a clue how to do that, but still. Spite is a motivator. “But, ah, do ya really need more glitter?”

She hits him with the weapon, the same one she discovered in Dallas and has since turned into a complete annihilation of any ability to say no he’s ever had. Her eyes go wide, shimmering in a way that almost made them look like they had tears in them. She frowns at him, looking crestfallen. “But Daaaaddy!” she whines, and dear lord, she is way too good at making her whines sound less annoying and more depressing. “Mabel c’n never have not-enough glitter!” The worst part about it is that she’s also completely and undeniably adorable, and that mixed with her sadness is simply impossible to resist. 

Stanley throws his hands up in defense, blocking his face as though she was shooting rainbows right into his eyes and lighting his retinas ablaze, which is an incredibly specific example that has most definitely not happened before. “Fine, fine,” he conceded at the sheer power of her puppy eyes. “I’ll getcha more glitter.” She switches to beaming almost instantly. It’s right then that he comes to a small realization, and sighs, turning to her brother as his arms lower. “She’s got me wrapped around her finger, don’t she?” he asks him in a very fake whisper, and he smiles as Mabel giggles. 

The boy in question just smiles a bit wider, his eyes wrinkling as he does so. “She’s good at that,” he admits, as if he’s often fallen victim to the undeniable eyes of Mabel. He probably has. Stanley’s certainly been trapped by them a hundred times over. Stan chuckles, shaking his head in exasperation. 

Yeah, he’s damn well got a lot of problems. There’s a job to be found, a city to learn the layout of, kids to get settled in, an apartment to be rented, a home to start planning for, and so much more that it’s kind of overwhelming. The fact that the possibility of accidentally meeting his brother again is only secondary to nearly all of that is telling of how stressed he’s going to be the next few days. The thing is, they’ll be okay. Stan’s certain of that. Because, for once in his life since he’d been kicked out nearly ten years ago, he’s somewhere he’s happy to be, with a family he loves, even if it ain’t the same one. That’s all he needs, and it’s motivating enough for him. He nods to himself. He can do this.

Chapter Text

He can hear the moment the phone connects, when the silence between dial tones gives way to the background static that always seems to accompany these calls. “That'll be ninety-nine cents ‘n hour.” 

It’s the familiarity of that exact line which sends a jolt of emotion straight down his spine, a mixture of nostalgia and guilt which both soothed and scorched his heart. Huh. When did he get so dramatic and poetic about his emotions? He probably got it from Dipper, now that he thinks about it. That kid is the only reason Stanley’s ever actually taken the time to read more high-level books; that kid always loves a good adventure story with flowery language and fun writing. Regret aside, he was still able to crack a smile at the wonder he was feeling, able to breath out the slightest of sighs. He missed hearing her voice, and even if forgetting to call her wasn’t entirely his fault, he couldn’t help but feel he had to correct his mistake. It had been a few months since he last dialed the number, after all, and he knew she was probably worrying herself to hell and back over the silence. 

He always tried to answer her default demand with some semblance of a joke, though with how nervous he was feeling at the moment, he’s fairly sure it fell pretty flat instead. “Yeesh, I already paid fer this hotel room,” he began. Even by the first few words in his more noticeable New-Jersian accent - the one that he’d dropped back before he’d returned to the states after his stint in Columbia, but had started falling into again as of late - he could hear the gasp of recognition crackle right through the speakers. “Don’t think I can pay fer the phone call, too.” The fact that this was also kind of true (as he had money, but he was going to buy the kids breakfast soon, so he couldn’t waste that) probably didn’t help his tone sound jesting. Trying to bring some genuine humor into his words, he added, “Family discount?” 

He had always done this, the occasional call home to see how things were and have a chat with someone who seemed to actually care. For a while, he hadn’t been able to do it often, maybe keeping contact through a phone call every couple of months at best, though there was that period when he was out of the states when he hadn’t had a single chance to phone home for nearly a year and a half. He still remembers how she’d cried that time, begging him not to do it again, because she was terrified with the idea that her little free spirit had died and she wouldn’t ever know for sure. After the kids arrived on his doorstep, though, his contact definitely became far more consistent, and soon after, he confided in her about the existence of them. She had always been supportive towards anything he struck out to do, so when he’d told her he was apparently a father, he ended up getting a series of parenting tips from her, which helped. Eventually, the kids got curious, and started asking if they could talk to their “Gram-Gram” over the phone too, which he was happy to oblige. Especially when they called her that, and he could practically hear her melt into a puddle over the speaker. Ma had been so enamored that she demanded they get a chance to talk in every subsequent one afterwards. 

In that small pause between his comment and her responding, he did, admittedly, feel his heart fall a little bit. Some irrational part of his mind was convinced that she would be so angry with him that she wouldn’t want to talk, as much as the rest of him knew that would never happen. He perked up, that thought quickly dissipating, when he heard her oh-so caring voice speak up again, tone completely different from the bland introduction. “Stanley?” she asked. “Oh, honey, it’s so good’ta hear from ya!” Before he could even decide to ask if Pa was around, she was already adding in a low voice, “Fil’s gonna be down in th’shop fer a while, so we ain’t gotta worry ‘bout ‘im.” Immediately after, her tone brightened, and her voice rose. “How’ve ya been, baby? Ya ain’t called me in months!” There was another stab of guilt, but it was shoved aside by the pure relief he felt in hearing her babble on in that usual way she did whenever he called. 

“Er, yeah, s-sorry, Ma,” he apologized, pointedly ignoring his own stutter. “Y’know when I was talkin’ about messin’ with th’wrong people, few months back?” She hummed in affirmation. “Got a good scare ‘n had ta change towns. I meant ta call you a week ago, but somethin’ really important came up, and uh… I ain’t exactly in New Mexico anymore.” He’s never gone and actually explained what’s all happened over the last eight or nine years before contact between the two of them become more consistent, but he’s alluded to it a good few times. Ma’s always been kind enough to not ask, but he also thinks that’s partly because she’s made some good guesses. She knows, at the very least, that they’re without a home, and that Stanley’s gone and done some shady things to get by over the years.

After a moment, he added, “Not that I had ta change states again or somethin’! I just… I’ll explain in’a little bit, that alright?” He needs to tell her about what happened, and he’s going to, he just needs a little bit of time to get his thoughts in order. He also just isn’t sure how he’s going to break the news, or explain everything that happened at his brother’s house. “There’s two little someones real excited ta talk ta their Gram-Gram,” he says. His gaze, upon mentioning them, flicked over to the side, where Dipper and Mabel were standing. 

Mabel had always taken point whenever he spoke to his Ma, always so energetic and happy to do nearly all the talking as she offloaded everything she could recall since the last time they’d called. He thinks she definitely got that from her Grandma. Dipper, on the other hand, wasn’t nearly as talkative, but that didn’t mean he didn’t participate, either. He was just quieter, a little more thoughtful, but still just as loving and caring of his Grandma, just as excited to talk to her. While Stan’s daughter was bouncing in place, arms tucked against her chest in her excitement and smile practically splitting her face in half, his son was more relaxed, standing there with a warm, tiny little smile and hands twiddling nervously in front of his stomach. They were nearly polar opposites in personality, and it couldn’t be more adorable. It reminded him of himself and his brother, back when times were better. That thought didn’t hurt as much as he thought it would. 

“Ah’ve been waitin’ ta hear from my lil’ gran’babies…” he heard his Ma mutter behind the speaker. She took a moment to think that over, and he resisted the urge to nervously clear his throat for the duration of the short silence. After that moment passed, he could almost see her head shaking fondly. “Alright,” she huffed, “yer off tha hook fer now, but ya ain’t gettin’ out’a this call w’thout tellin’ me what made ya move state, y’hear?” He can’t stop the quiet sigh he releases, though whether it’s of relief or apprehension, he isn’t sure. Maybe both. What a story that’s gonna be, he thinks. How was he going to explain that he and his brother had a complete failure of a reunion, and were probably worse off than they had been?

Stan’s smile twitched just a little wider, in spite of that. No use worrying about that just yet. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Ma,” he told her fondly. As if he could get out of explaining something like that to her these days. Especially since she’d gotten so good at seeing through any of his lies. With a quiet, breathy chuckle, he turned the rest of his body to face the kids, and extended the plastic little device out to the hands of his daughter, which had risen up in a grabby motion as soon as he’d shifted. “Here ya go, Pumpkin.” 

Still bouncing with contained, pure excitement - or possibly glitter - coursing through her veins, she happily took the device and brought it right beside her. She flopped into a seated position on the bed, beside the end table the phone’s base rested on. Her brother followed suit a moment after, tucking himself in closer so he could participate, while Stanley leaned in to hear through the speaker. At least these nicer landline telephones that were starting to be way more popular, with the buttons instead of the old fashion rotary dial, were a lot louder than they used to be, making listening so much easier. “Gam-Gam!” Mabel said happily, her dimples in full view for all within the hotel room to see. Something in his chest warmed at the sight. “Mabel missed you!! Dipp’r too!”

He could easily hear the way Ma broke out into laughter at that - one of those full-bellied laughs he’d inherited from her that he didn’t get to hear nearly as often as he liked to. A small, soft smile, one that nobody outside of his family ever got to see, was playing on his lips. “Ah missed ya both too, lil’ miss Mabel!” came the woman’s exuberant reply. Ma was wonderful with children. No matter what, she was willing and able to indulge in their shenanigans, which is probably the only reason he and Ford got away with so much when they were kids, despite Pa hanging over their shoulders. He likes to think that he inherited some of it, since he somehow hasn’t fucked things up yet. “How’re you ‘n yer brother?”

That was the question you asked to get Mabel going on a ramble, and he knew that Ma knew it. She probably likes listening to the kid talk her ear off even more than Stanley did, and he could sit there for hours listening to his daughter babble on and on about whatever came to mind. “We’re doin’ tha bestest ever!!” Mabel - well, she didn’t exactly shout, but it definitely wasn’t a calm tone of voice either. It was like an indoor voice shout, he supposed. “Daddy taked us t’a really really nice town ‘n we gots ta stop at a diner! They has tha nicest pancakes ‘n e’ryone was soooooo friendly!” Stanley’s glad that the diner was such a stand-out place for her. He’d love to start taking both his kids to it at least every few days, after he starts getting a consistent income. 

At her side, Dipper piped up for the first time since the phone had been handed over. “‘S really nice here,” the boy admitted. “It snows, an’ tha forests’re in-ter-es-ting.” He could easily see the image, as it settled into his mind. Him and Dipper, going on hikes through the forest, looking at everything they could, gathering samples since he’s such a little nerd that reminds Stan so much of his brother. It’s a nice dream, but for once, it’s a dream that has a pretty decent chance of becoming a reality. It’s a dream he’d love to have as a reality, honestly. He huffed a quiet, chuffing laugh, looking down at himself. He’s gonna need to start eating more, he’s way too skinny to be going on hikes at the moment. Another reason for him to start looking for a job as soon as possible, he supposed. 

Ma processed this for a quiet moment or two, surprise having caught her voice. Stanley shifted, a little nervous as to where this line of discussion would lead. “Tha’s real nice ta hear!” she said, and she meant it, too. It was almost a little surprising, how easy it was to imagine her lounging in the windowsill of the upstairs office, a warm smile playing on her lips. God, how long had it been since he’d actually seen Ma? Has it really been eight years since she managed to sneak him that box of his old stuff? He hopes he gets to see her again some day, in the future. He misses her. “How long’re ya stayin’?” Ah, yep, here we go. 

Mabel was practically vibrating with her contained joy. Ever since he’d told the both of them that they weren’t leaving, something in the atmosphere had shifted. It made Dipper a little louder, and made Mabel… well, it was hard to be more excited than she usually was, but she managed it. “Daddy said we don’ gotsta leave!” she declared with as much child-like wonder and awe as she could fit into the sentence. “We getta have’a home!!” Part of him wanted to wince, hating just how excited and happy she sounded to finally have something most people would consider a basic amenity. Another part of him, which seems to have won out despite his more negative feelings, shoves that aside to mentally coo at his absolutely adorable daughter. He’ll struggle with those feelings of inadequacy for a good while, but for now, he can let that beast lie, and instead focus on what’s more important at the moment. 

“Oh?” he heard Ma offer a little distantly as she realized exactly what that meant. Then, it seemed to actually click what was being said, and her tone became far more present. “Oh, ain’t that jus’ wonderful, ya adorable lil’ munchkin!” she said in a voice filled to the brim with joy and affection. “Ah told ya Pa, ah told him, ‘Stanley, yer my lil’ free bird, ‘n one day, ya ain’t gonna find yer nest, but it’s gonna find you.’ Was what tha spirits told me.” He was never, not in his life, going to grow used to being called Pa. Still, he rolled his eyes as Ma rambled on about that prediction she made a few years back. She’s so smug when she’s right. Then, his eyes shift a little wide as the next question comes through the receiver. “Wh’t’s tha town called?” 

Oh no. His smile didn’t fall, but it definitely dimmed in apprehension. Mabel hummed in curiosity, thinking it over, her gaze rising upwards as if trying to look inside her brain. “Uhm. It, uh, started with ‘grr’?” Eyebrows knit, she turned a pleading expression over towards her sibling, asking for assistance.

He watches as her brother brings a finger up to his chin in thought, an expression that was way too serious and far too adorable. After a moment, the boy gave a nod to himself, confirming his own thoughts. “Grav-i-ty Falls,” he affirmed, sounding out each syllable. Stanley managed to bite down the wince. 

Grinning in thanks, his sister quickly bounced back with a confirmatory, “Yeah, that!” She was beaming even though Ma wouldn’t be able to see it, one of those bright smiles that rivaled the sun. With her momentary confusion assured, she resumed her excited bouncing in place.

A phrase he’d heard once, something along the lines of, ‘From the mouth of babes,’ was coming to mind. He probably heard it from Ford, the bastard had always loved spouting shakespearean-like bullshit when they were both kids. He was stuck in a place between fond amusement and absolute exasperation. He couldn’t see her expression, but the momentary silence that had engulfed the other end of the call was fairly telling about the shock she was probably feeling. He wasn’t surprised. Ma, unlike himself, had actually managed to stay in somewhat consistent contact with Stanford, and he knew she would probably know where her actually successful son would be living. Under his breath, he murmured a quiet, “Uh oh.”

Three beats passed in silence before her voice came crackling through the speaker again. In that time, he wondered if his two little rascals had accidentally given her a heart attack or something like that. He probably should’ve made a better plan about mentioning where they actually were before he started the call, but since when has he ever actually planned something out? Well, okay, he does do that fairly often since he’s taking care of two kids, but still. That’s expecting too much of him. Making complex and nuanced plans was his brother’s thing, he was always the one to dive head-first into whatever came across his path without a second thought. When Ma finally spoke, her voice was a mix between accusatory and reluctant, which he thought was fair. “Now, ah might be wrong,” she started, and he rolled his eyes, because she damn well knew she was right, “but ain’t that where Staferd’s livin’?”

He didn’t know where to even start with trying to explain everything, so, in a move that was probably unwise, he kept his mouth shut and decided that his kids explaining it would probably be the best bet for the moment. Ma knew that neither of kids liked it when people yelled in a tone that sounded upset or angry, so it’d keep her from shouting at him for a little while. “Mmhmm!” Mabel hummed. “We got’ta meet Uncle Ford!!” Well, he supposed the direct and blunt approach is probably one of the best ones. “He was bein’ kinda weird ‘n mean though, but tha’s okay!” He bit his cheek to keep himself from barking out a startled laugh, his eyebrows raising instead. It’s so easy to forget how absolutely unfiltered and honest kids can be sometimes. 

He could tell that had, apparently, knocked Ma speechless. He leaned in towards the receiver, and added, “I’ll explain that later, I swear.” He was resigned to the fact he was going to have to deal with this conversation at some point. He probably deserved the absolute ear-full he was going to be getting for not telling her first.

Listening to Ma sputter was not something he had ever actually heard before, and he was going to cherish that fact for his entire life. Nothing ever seems to take her off guard, disregarding the whole getting-kicked-out thing. She tried - and somewhat failed - to form an actual sentence. “Ah- ya- he- ya better!!” she eventually managed. He couldn’t hear what she said after that, as she murmured under her breath low enough that the phone only picked it up as a staticy sound, but he assumed she was probably calling him several family-friendly curses, because she would never use real curse words in front of the kids. Then she took a breath. “So, are ya stayin’ with ‘im or somethin’?” Stan grimaced. 

Mabel was nearly six years old, but she was absolutely still a tiny child, and probably didn’t realize how upsetting the things that had happened were. She continued in a slightly dampened, but still cheery tone. “Uhm, n-no, he told us ta leave-” and she cut off here, wincing slightly at the shouted, “He what?!” that came through the receiver, before continuing without skipping a beat. “-But tha’s also o’kay, ‘cause Daddy gots us a hotel room!” Apparently, he spoke too soon about the shouting, but he’ll let it slide, since it was clearly in shock. Leave it to Mabel to make light of such an absolutely terrible situation. 

What he wouldn’t give to be able to just shout some random nonsense like, “Nonspecific excuse!” and slam the damn phone down. Except he isn’t going to do that, because he wouldn’t want to take away the kid’s only time to actually contact Ma, and he also isn’t going to be that much of an asshole to his own mother. To Pa, yeah, maybe he’d do that, but not to Ma. He leans in again, and quickly adds, “I’ll explain that too.” Knowing her, she’s going to want an explanation now, and he gets it, but he really doesn’t want that smile to slip off Mabel’s face. So, as fast as he could, he said, “Mabel, tell her ‘bout the diner.” He pointedly ignores the way Dipper brought a hand up to his mouth to stop himself from laughing. The traitor. 

Yeah, it’s probably manipulative, but watching Mabel’s face light up like one of those Christmas trees they’d seen back in Albuquerque was definitely a worthy reason. Her eyes sparkled like candles had been ignited behind them - that is, candles with glitter in the wax, because this was Mabel. “Ooh, ooh! Th’ diner was soooo nice!” she proclaimed loudly, her face filling with joy that he was certain Ma would be able to hear easily enough. It reminded him of how his daughter had gone and rambled to the phone for an hour about Dallas when they called after that trip. “Ms. Susan was really friendly ‘n she gived us tha bestest pancakes in tha whooole world! Daddy says Gr’vity Falls’ a l’mber-jack town, so ev’rythin’ is made’a wood! Th’diner was inside a huuuuge log ‘n it was so awesome!!” Listening to her babble on was absolutely adorable.

He listened with half a mind for a little while, smiling as she spoke animatedly about the things that had caught her interest. She regaled her excitement regarding plans to walk around the shopping mall they could spot from the hotel room balcony, which she’d apparently created without his input. She nearly began hopping in place as she talked about the craft shop, the one she hadn’t actually verified the existence of yet, that she wanted to visit - and if that craft shop turned out to not be real, he was pretty sure her sheer will to visit one would cause it to spontaneously appear. The other half of his mind was preoccupied with trying to sort out what he was going to say to Ma about the disaster of a visit. 

That’s the thing, isn’t it? His Ma’s been praying to whatever lord she believes in that her two boys finally set aside their feuds someday, and act like the family they’re supposed to be. It’s something he definitely wants too, even if he’s always been a bit too terrified of rejection to actually reach out in the first place. This whole issue, this whole failure of a visit, just demonstrates that it definitely hasn’t been long enough for them to get past their differences. Honestly, that’s why, in part, he’s so reluctant to have this conversation. Because he doesn’t know if that time will ever come to pass, and he’d hate to make his Ma start thinking that pessimistic way too. 

It’s been ten years since he’s last seen Ford. He hasn’t spoken a word to his brother, never asked for anything from him, didn’t even send him tacky postcards from all around the country like Mabel suggested he do. If that isn’t enough time to finally stop holding on to grudges, then Stan doesn’t know how much time is. Yeah, he gets it. He ruined his brother’s college opportunities, but not his fucking life. Stan might’ve said it out of spite, but it came from truth; here his brother was, in a little town on the edge of civilization, living it up in a house that’s ten times the size of their old home on top of the pawn shop, studying the things he’d always dreamed about discovering. That isn’t a ruined life. Stanley’s guilt still burns, but damn it, he can be a bit fucking selfish sometimes. 

A ruined life looks like a seventeen year old, sitting on the pavement with a duffle bag in his arms, looking up as a window closes with words echoing in his head. A ruined life looks like a man sleeping out of his car because he can’t afford a hotel room, trying and failing to resell products and turn a profit. A ruined life looks like a homeless drifter doing drug runs for a crime boss in Columbia to pay off the debt he owed for having the audacity to help Rico stage a breakout. A ruined life looks like a single father with a pair of twins, hiding away in an Albuquerque hotel room because they can’t afford to buy a house, all while trying to stay under the radar in case a cartel goon comes knocking. That’s a ruined fucking life. Not whatever the hell Stanford has. 

He blinks out of his momentary reverie at his daughter’s voice, a little surprised at how angry his reflection was. She’s smiling up at him with a loving grin, either ignoring or not noticing the turmoil that had been going on inside his head, and offers the phone. “Here y’go Daddy,” she says, wiggling the phone as if his attention wasn’t already focused on it. “Gram-Gram wants ta talk t’ya now.” When he takes it from her hand with a deep breath, she reaches over and grabs her brother’s arm. “Me ‘n Dip Dop’re gonna go watch tha tee-vee!” His son just quietly shrugs to himself, accepting his fate. 

Thank goodness for that. This was probably going to be a serious conversation, and while he knows they’re definitely gonna eavesdrop, it’ll keep them from asking him questions he doesn’t want to answer. “Alright, kiddos,” he said, reaching out with his free hand to ruffle her hair. He smiled at the way she leaned into the touch, instead of balking away from it - a problem they’d had for the first few months, though it’s been a long while since they’ve done that outside of their off days. 

Having made her plan clear and received her affection, Mabel dragged her brother around the end of the bed. Dipper simply sat with a small smile on his face, watching as his sister gave a dramatic jump and landed on the mattress with a little “Oomph,” escaping her at the impact. Undeterred, Mable spun herself around until she was facing the television, then rolled onto her back to watch the screen upside-down. It didn’t take long for them to get distracted; the channel that his usual soap opera was on last night apparently played infomercials in the early hours of the morning, and one of his kids’ favorite things to do was to giggle to each other about how funny they were. Before he brought the phone up to his ear, he glanced over and noted that the commercials almost seemed even more absurd than the ones on standard television, if that was possible. 

Shaking his head, he shifted his attention back to the plastic landline settled in his palm. What he wouldn’t give to just avoid this conversation for at least a week, though preferably forever. Might as well face the fireworks now, he supposed. He stole one more glance at the kids, just to make sure they at least looked distracted, before bringing the phone up to his ear. “Hey Ma.”

“Stanley Caryn Pines, ah swear ta th’lord above,” she started, and though he’d deny it for the rest of his life, he absolutely winced at the use of his full name. It seemed she wasn’t happy with him. What a surprise. He almost felt like he was ten again, wringing his hands behind his back with a bowed head while he got an earful for whatever stupid stunt he’d pulled. “Ya drop off th’damn radar fer months, an’ tha next thing ah know, ya’ve gone ta see yer brother? An’ what’s this ah’m hearin’ about ‘im tellin’ ya ta leave?” No, she wasn’t happy at all, he thought with a grimace. At the very least, he took some solace in the fact that her anger was split between him and his brother, instead of just being directed at him. 

“Hoo boy,” Stanley huffed out, hanging his head back a little bit. Yet again, he wished he didn’t have to have this conversation. Not that he was planning to try avoiding the topic, that never went well for him (and in the back of his head, a certain conversation of horsing around and silver linings made itself known, before being viciously shut down). He would have to talk about it at one point or another. “Uhm. Lemme start from the top, yeah? It ain’t a short story.” The only response is a slightly dubious, but acknowledging hum. 

He clears his throat nervously. Ma was one of the few people who could still intimidate him these days, and it definitely wasn’t playing nice with his frayed nerves from the night prior. “I was plannin’ on callin’ ya ‘bout a week ago or so, since we’d been at the hotel fer a while without a problem,” he explained “We moved… three months back? Somethin’ like that. Ain’t had ‘nother scare since.” That scare in particular was a familiar car, this little black Granda that he knew belonged to Santiago, driving past one evening. It’s what made them move from Roswell up nort-west into Albuquerque. He knew the car wasn’t after him, but being even near one of Rico’s goons was courting a death sentence. “But, then, I got a postcard from a place in the middle’a nowhere, Oregon.” He huffed a quiet sigh. “Flipped it over, ‘n all that was written on it were th’words ‘Please come,’ with the signature of Ford. The address had his full name, ‘case I had any doubt. So, y’know, I couldn’t just ignore it. Stanford clearly needed, I don’ know, somethin’, a-and even if he still-” he paused for a moment. The words, “Hated me,” were on the tip of his tongue, but he swallowed those down. “Well, I wouldn’t leave ‘im hanging. I ain’t like that.” 

The soft, somber breath of air, a weary-sounding sigh that sounded like static as it came through the phone’s speaker, only made his heart clench a little more. She’d heard what he didn’t say. “Ah still remember how y’think, Stanley,” she told him quietly. “Ya don’ gotta justify yerself ta me.”

“R-Right, yeah,” he uttered quietly. Sometimes, he wished she didn’t know him so well. He coughed slightly, and his voice shifted into that more storytelling tone he liked to use whenever he was reciting their family exploits. “So I took the kids on a roadtrip,” he began again, flourishing that with a gesture that nobody else could really see. “We stopped by some places ‘long th’way, got ta show ‘em what a California sunset’s like. Even took a trip through some’a those tacky tourist traps I always wanted ta visit.” Stanford had always called those tacky tourist attractions a waste of time and money that exploited the gullible, but Stanley had always been drawn in by them. He can’t count how many times he told his Ma he’d love to visit one while they were traveling, only to be shut down because Pa was driving and he wasn’t about to spend his hard-earned cash on what he called a cheap scam. “We got here ‘n the middle of a snowstorm, ‘cause a’course we did, n’ after gettin’ some food and boots, we had ta hike out ta the cabin. I- it-” he broke off, pausing to collect himself. “Ma, it was bad. Real bad.”

A good few years back, he used to believe, right along with pretty much everyone else in Glass Shard Beach, that Caryn Pines was something of a false psychic. He knows he thought she was real back when he was just a kid, but at some point - probably his teenage years - that fettered off, and he stopped believing it. He definitely lost any spark of belief he had early on in those first five years on his own. But eventually, when they began to talk more, when they discussed events more often, little things, little predictions, just kept adding up. A warning here that turned out to be true, a bit of advice there that ended up being surprisingly useful. Slowly, but surely, he had started to trust that, maybe, something stranger was happening with Ma. It’s easier to believe these days, with all his run-ins regarding the supernatural. 

So when she spoke in a tone that held nothing but a forlorn-sounding expectancy, he wasn’t all that surprised. “He ain’t doin’ too good, ‘s he?” Maybe she’d talked with him, at some point beforehand, and noticed that his mental state had been deteriorating. But honestly, he wasn’t all that sure. She was pretty sure she’d mentioned that she hadn’t heard from Stanford in months, at some point. 

Stanley just puffed out a quiet, slightly shaky breath. Yeah, he was still so fucking mad at his brother for the stunt he pulled, but he still loves and cares about the asshole. Seeing his brother like that had just seemed so wrong, but it’s not like he could do anything to help when Stanford made it clear that he doesn’t want Stanley anywhere near him. “No, he ain’t,” he told her, voice a murmur. “Do ya, uh, remember those photos Pa has’a Normandy?” Stanley had seen those grainy photos a hundred times over, since they were brought out every time his Pa would start telling stories about the war. He heard a sharp intake of breath on the other end, and he knew his Ma had realized what he was getting at. 

“Ford’s house looked like that,” he elaborated, unease coiling in his stomach. “Barbed wire fences, signs tellin’ me ta turn ‘round, boarded up doors ‘n windows, the whole shebang. Almost went right back ta th’car. Didn’t wanna bring my kids inta somethin’ like that, y’know?” He gave a very disingenuous, uncomfortable chuckle. “But, uh, I told myself, ‘s just family, he ain’t gonna bite. So I took us ta th’only door that wasn’t boarded up.” His voice cracked, annoyingly, and he gave a frustrated, quiet groan underneath his breath. When he spoke again, his tone was strained. “He answered the door with a crossbow, Ma,” he told her. “I had my daughter in my arms. For a moment, I thought…” he trailed off. He didn’t even want to finish that thought. 

He hears as Ma mutters a quiet, “Lord…” that sounds almost heartbroken. It makes him even more upset. He hates to paint Stanford in this light, even with as much blood, new and old, they have boiling in the space between them. He knows something’s wrong with his brother, he gets that his brother definitely needs actual help, but the man isn’t going to accept that. Clearly not, when his idea of asking for assistance was calling his estranged brother and asking him to take out the trash. 

He shakes his head, letting out a slight breath. “It doesn’t get much better,” he admits. “The inside’a his house’s a wreck, an’ he ain’t actin’ normal. At one point, he grabs me ‘n shines a flashlight right inta my eyes, like he was checkin’ me for somethin’.” He still wasn’t sure what that one was about. Well, sort of. Before he got the kids, he’d been pulled over for alcohol and drug tests, but why the hell would Stanford be doing something like that? “Then he’s ramblin’ ‘bout how he made a huge mistake and ain’t sure who he can trust. So ’m like, okay, lets talk this through.” Yeah, he knows there’s a lot wrong between him and his brother, but he wasn’t gonna leave the man hanging. Like he said a moment prior, he just isn’t like that. 

“It’s about then when Mabel pipes up, an’ he actually gets it through his thick skull that he’s got a niece ‘n nephew,” Stan continues, shaking his head to himself at the absurdity of his brother’s obliviousness. “That’s y’know, before he drags me off ta another room ta talk. Told me about this machine he built in th’basement, how it can be used fer dangerous stuff,” - which is putting it lightly, since he said it could pretty much end the world several times - “an’ how the instructions were in his research notes.” He takes a deep breath, and the next sentence comes out sounding as an exhale, tired and despondent. “Then he tells me he wants me ta take his damn book as far away from him as possible.”

Maybe it’s the way he worded it. Maybe it was his tone. In the back of his head, he has to wonder if that’s really the way his brother intended it, or if it was just how he interpreted it. Not that it mattered much, considering that the whole reason for calling him over had been to practically run an errand for Stanford. Either way, Ma seemed to understand. “Oh, Stanley…” he hears her murmur, sympathy lacing her tone. She knows how he thinks. She knows exactly how he took it. 

“Heh. Yeah,” he breathes out, a bitter smile twitching onto his lips. “I didn’t take that well.” He took it pretty bad, honestly. It felt like everything he’d secretly been hoping for - no matter how many times he had demanded himself not to let those hopes raise to high - had been stabbed right through, and he’d snapped. The anger had just overflowed from there into something terrible.  “At some point we started shoutin’ at each other. He said-” and here, Stan cuts himself off. It stings, because, damn it, what his brother had said was true, and it fucking burns to have a light shined on those flaws. But, he doesn’t want to ruin whatever relationship Stanford still has with Ma. He sighed. “W-Well, he said I ain’t done nothin’ worthwhile in my life,” and he hears Ma gasp quietly, but he keeps going, “that this would be th’first, an’ somethin’ in me just snapped.” He swallows thickly. “I stormed out with the kids ‘n we all left.”

There’s a few seconds of silence, before Ma asks, “Y’know that ain’t true, right?” There’s nothing he can say to that, because he doesn’t really get it. It is true. What the hell has he done that’s considered worthwhile over the years? Get himself incarcerated eight times over? Run drugs for Rico’s empire? The closest he can think of was taking care of the kids, but that’s nothing special, not an achievement; it’s a baseline, a standard. His silence must draw on for too long, because much more sternly, with an air of finality, Ma says, “Sweetheart, it ain’t true.” He purses his lips, refusing to respond. When he still fails to respond, she adds, “Ah’m th’damn psychic here, ya don’ get ta tell me ah’m wrong.”

For just a moment, the serious tone that had settled over their conversation is able to shatter apart, the absolutely absurd statement taking him completely off guard. He sputters for a moment. “I- that- ya can’t use that as evidence, Ma!” he manages to get out, staring down at the phone incredulously. 

His inclination towards humor whenever things tended to be terrible was something he inherited from her. It was an instinct he could never shake, making light of a bad situation with some banter, cracking jokes in the face of hardship. That was entirely her fault. He could practically hear the shift of fabric as she shrugged, even through the fuzziness of the speakers. “Sure ah can,” she offered, and the grin was as evident in her voice as the confidence was. “Who’s stoppin’ me?” 

Even as tense as he was, with the conversation topic and all, he managed to offer a quiet, if somewhat nervous chuckle. His lips twitched up into a slight smile, one that she wouldn’t see. “Yer a d-dang menace, y’know that?” The laugh she gave in return lightened his soul, just a little bit. The smile didn’t last long, though, falling away from his lips as a sigh slipped out.  “Look, I…” he starts, before trailing off for a moment. He doesn’t want to argue about his own self worth with her. “It ain’t the point, alright?”

He knew she wasn’t going to let that all go. She was always persistent like that, and for some reason - probably because she was his mother, though he wasn’t entirely sure, since his father had never felt the same - she had this inflated idea of his worth. He wasn’t anything special, but she wouldn’t accept that, and they would probably argue about it again at some point. “Fine,” she conceded begrudgingly, “but this ain’t tha last time we’re gonna talk ‘bout this, y’hear?”

He gave the slightest of smiles at that. “Yeah,” he said, “I know.” He paused, for just a moment, collecting his thoughts, thinking over what he wanted to say. “I was thinkin’ about it. Leavin’ I mean.” He shrugged, as if she could see it. “Ain’t nothin’ for me here, I was tellin’ myself, ‘cause my brother didn’t even want me ta stay.” It’s funny, how much Stanley still finds himself revolving around his brother, even ten years after they’d last seen each other. “But, uh… then I looked over ta the passenger seat.” He glanced over at his kids to see if they were listening, since he was about to start talking about them. Mabel was on her stomach now, holding her head up with her hands, kicking her feet back and forth. Dipper was using her back as a pillow, and trying to read through one of the children’s books Stanley had stuffed into his duffle bag at some point. He smiled at the sight, then turned back to the phone. 

“The kids insisted on ridin’ up front with me, fer comfort, or somethin’ like that.” He carefully didn’t mention that it was to comfort him, more than seeking comfort from him. Despite that, she huffed a tiny laugh, and he got the impression she figured that out anyways. “When I look over, I see Dipper, starin’ outa the window at the forest. I just kinda thought, wow, I’d love ta go hikin’ with my kid through that.” He chuckled quietly. “Mabel spent th’whole time ramblin’ about how much she loved that diner.  Maybe… I dunno, somethin’ just seemed ta click inta place, yeah?” He shrugged, though again, she wouldn’t have seen it. “Just felt like we could belong here, if ya get me.” 

He knew exactly what she was going to say. It’s not like he didn’t listen to her talk about her prediction with the kids a little bit earlier. The one she’d given him when he finally admitted his homelessness situation, not long after he got the kids. She’d always wanted to help him, wished for nothing more than to sneak him a little bit of money, so he could buy a house to keep the kids safe, but she was never able to, since Pa managed the money, and he’d notice. There was a huff of air through the receiver, with a little bit of humor in it. “An’ th’nest finds tha lil’ free bird,” she imparted with just a hint of smugness to her tone. 

“Heh,” he uttered, a small smile forming on his lips once more. It’s not that he doubts her or something, he’s just always finding himself surprised when she ends up being right. “I guess that’s ‘nother ta yer tally.” They had something of a system going between them. Once upon a time, it might’ve been intended to prove a point or something, but these days, it was mostly just so that they could rib at each other. Ma’s predictions ended up being true more often than not. “What’re we at now, eleven ta three?”

His small smile broke into a shaky grin at the sound of her huffing an exasperated breath. He can imagine the way her eyes probably rose to the ceiling in a silent, dramatic prayer to the spirits, shaking her head fondly. “Twelve ta three,” she corrected cheekily. “Don’ go forgettin’ ‘bout my warnin’ back in Wisconsin.”

Oh yeah, she had predicted that one, hadn’t she? “Right, right,” he agreed, shutting his eyes for a moment and waving an absent hand, “keep skimmin’ over that.” In the end, he hadn’t exactly needed the warning - it turns out that some ghosts are actually pretty friendly, if you don’t do something that pisses them off - but she was the one who told him about looking through mirrors to see them. It still counted as a tried and true prediction. “I’m still certain I woulda figured out that hotel was haunted before ya went ‘n told me,” he adds, indignant. Honestly, non-haunted places just don’t have that many flickering lights, that’s gotta be some kind of unwritten rule. 

It was infuriating, how quickly Ma responded, without even a moment of hesitation. “Ah know ya woulda,” she asserted, as if it was a given truth, a fact. He knew damn well that she’d said that with so much certainty to make it seem like a prediction or something, right after he’d just said how reliable her predictions were. 

He shook his head, and huffed out a breath. “Stop usin’ yer psychic abilities as a scapegoat, Ma.” Honestly, you’d think, for someone with a scarily real ability to consistently predict things, she’d be a little less of a pathological liar these days, but no. She used both of them interchangeably. Not that she was lying, right then, but the point still stands. 

She broke into those wonderful full-belied laughs that he hadn’t heard her do in almost years, and he smiled much easier at the sound. It took a few moments for her to compose herself again, and when she spoke, he could hear her voice quaking slightly with contained giggles. “But ya can’t tell when ah’m fibbin’ ‘n when ah’m predictin’ th’future!”

There was a snort that escaped his nose at that one. “An’ people say I’m the liar’a the family,” he commented jokingly, rolling his eyes. He was still smiling. He found that he was doing that a lot more these days, even with all the hardships he’s still going through. He’s pretty sure it’s because of Mabel. It definitely wasn’t him who gave her that bubbly personality she has, but he wants to thank whoever gave it to her. Unless it was her mother. She gets no thanks. Not that he believes it was her, he remembers her as being overly seductive, half drunk, and loud in the not-cute way. Which might be slightly biased by his dislike of her, but hey, who’s gonna judge him? 

He paused for just a moment, smile flickering, before he let out a small sigh. “So, yeah,” he said, looping back around. “I’m worried. Ain’t too keen on runnin’ inta my brother, while I’m here.” He takes a deep breath, and gives yet another shrug she wouldn’t see. “I know I said he ain’t doin’ too well, and he does need help, but he told me ta f- screw off, so I did.” He cleared his throat, pointedly ignoring his own stutter. He needs to get better at censoring himself when the kids are around, anyway. “I ain’t really sure what th’heck I’m suppose ta be doin’, but this jus’ feels right. Like ya said it would.” He gives a quiet, breathy chuckle. When she told him that he’d know where his home was when he came across it, he didn’t think it’d be this obvious, but it’s almost like there’s a pull keeping him rooted in place. “There ain’t no way none’a the people I, uh, got on the wrong side’a are gonna find us.” Another second passed without a word, before he murmured, “It’s kinda like a, a fresh start.”

The sound’s a bit harder to hear, but he can just barely make out the crackle through the speaker of shifting fabric as his Ma readjusts herself into a more comfortable position. Even all these years after having last seen it, he can imagine the way her lips quirk up into that familiar smile; a small little thing, indulgent and warm and soft, the same one she’d give him and his brother when they came inside at the end of a long day spent on the beach, covered in sunburns and splinters with proud grins on their faces. It sends a feeling of nostalgia straight through his chest. “Ah’m glad ta hear yer finally home, sweetheart,” she says, and he can’t help but feel comforted by her words

For a moment, he doesn’t reply. Instead, he looks back again, towards where his kids are. Dipper’s invested in his book, eyes skimming each line with a tiny little smile on his face that looks proud. Mabel, still happily relinquishing herself to be her brother’s pillow, is bobbing her head along to a jingle that’s playing from the television. The two of them are quietly murmuring to one another, not even eavesdropping on his conversation. Both of them look so relaxed, more than he can say he’s ever seen them since they had the chance to get comfortable in that hotel over in Wyoming. “Yeah,” he finally told Ma, voice quiet. “Me too.”

A few moments pass in silence. “Ah-” his Ma starts, before cutting herself off. Then, she clears her throat. “Well, ah know ya ain’t gonna go seekin’ him out’r anythin’, but, uh, can ya do me a favor, Stanley?” He knows where this is going already, but he hums in prompt. “Keep ‘n eye on ya brother, even from a distance, y’hear?” she tells him, sounding exasperated. “Somethin’ tells me there’s another eye already on ‘im.” Stanley doesn’t mention it, doesn’t ask about it, but he notices the slight emphasis she puts on a singular eye, instead of a pair. It makes him wonder. 

He almost feels a bit miffed, at the implication that he wouldn’t be willing to do that. Sure, there’s a part of him that would be rather happy to pay not even a single moment of attention towards the man, but he’s not heartless. They have their problems with one another - which have clearly, after ten goddamn years, somehow not been resolved - but they’re still brothers. Stanford’s still family. He’s not going to turn a blind eye to the fact that his brother’s clearly suffering from some things that Stanley is uncomfortably familiar with, like getting on the wrong side of somebody with the resources to do some damage. “I…” he starts, not sure what to say, before he shakes his head. “Yeah.” He takes a small breath, and his voice gains confidence. “Yeah, okay.” 

Through the receiver, there’s another small crackle, and he knows it was probably another soft sigh. It makes his eyebrows knit in worry. What’s his brother gone and gotten himself into? What’s Ma seen that’s made her so worried for him? “Alright,” she says, and the relief is palpable in her voice. “Ah’ll let ya go fer now, but y’best be callin’ me soon!” As clear as day, he can imagine the stern finger she just raised, pointing towards the phone in her hand with a scowl on her face. “No more goin’ months without talkin’ ta yer Ma, yeah?” 

He definitely doesn’t plan to be missing anymore calls, not when he’s gonna be in easy reach of a phone he doesn’t even need to drop quarters on just to use. “Soon, I promise,” he says with a small smile. There’s a moment of hesitation, before he says “Love you, Ma.” It’s not that he doesn’t like saying it, just that he wasn’t used to it But, well, like most things these days, Mabel came into his life, and he suddenly started saying it all the more often. 

For a moment, he wishes he could truly see the soft smile that probably just rose to her face, the one he can still imagine in his mind all these years later. She was always such a sap like that. Not that he was much different, not when his kids made that fact apparent to him every day, but still. “Love ya too, mah lil’ free spirit,” he heard Ma say, and hell. It was nice, knowing someone still cared about him. He was smiling even when the phone clicked.

He took a moment, after he set the phone down, just to look over at his kids. They were still enraptured with their own tasks, distracted, but they seemed happy. Then he glanced down at himself, clad in an off-white undershirt and a pair of baggy, gray sweatpants. He gave himself a wry smirk. If he planned to actually leave the hotel room soon - which he did, the kids needed to eat, and he wanted to figure out what he was working with here - then he’d probably need a wardrobe change. He’ll probably need to get the kids another set of clothes that work in the cold while they’re out, since they’ve been wearing the same set for a few days now. He should get their clothes washed, too. They can probably find a laundromat when they go through town.

Mabel glances over, probably finally noticing that the phone conversation stopped, and lights up, grinning happy and free. Dipper glances up from his book as she starts to babble on about how excited she is to head out into town, which he listens to with half an ear as he slips a better shirt on. Today, he thinks, is going to be an interesting day.