Chapter Text
Children. Noisy, obnoxious, annoying, yet weirdly endearing all at the same time.
It wasn’t like Stan never thought he’d have kids–it was always in the back of his mind somewhere–but those dreams had kind of been thrown out the door along with himself when Stan had been kicked out. Then, Stan had to focus on survival: find an opportunity, sell something cheap, then skedaddle before you get caught.
In between the cycles, though, Stan had to find shelter. He had to steal food. He had to find out which people were friends, and which people were waiting to slit your throat in your sleep and make off with your money. There wasn’t really much room for partners and kids in the midst of all that.
Not that many ladies responded to Stan’s flirting enough to be mildly interested in him, anyway…
Now, however, Stan’s half-cocked fantasies might be fulfilled.
And he had to figure out what the heck he was going to do about it.
Stan sat in the driver’s seat in the early hours of dawn, the Pines El Diablo humming along the highway. Last night, when Stan had woken up from one of his brief hours of sleep (he’d never been an insomniac, but being homeless had changed that; made Stan akin to Sixer, in a way), he had decided that it was time to move out of Charleston. Not only did Stan want to skip town before Slick’s gang found him (why oh why did Stan think he could get away with his money?), but Stan was pretty sure that the local police precinct had started to set up some of “Freddy Redwood’s” wanted posters in Charleston.
All in all, best to head to Georgia.
Stan drummed the wheel of the car with his fingers, nervous. Every couple of minutes, he glanced into his rearview mirror, checking on Mabel. He’d buckled her up before he started driving, but decided not to wake her. Stan had forgotten how late regular people slept in; it was probably, what, six in the morning? And the kid still wasn’t awake.
Stan cleared his throat uncomfortably, scanning the empty highway. After a moment, Stan blinked, shooting a glance down at his hands. Without Stan’s realizing, his tapping the wheel had turned to aggressively slapping it in a way that barely passed as drumming.
Stan forced himself to relax, halting his wheel abuse and dropping his shoulders. It was odd how slowing down almost felt like locking himself in a cage, instead of being–well–relaxing.
Stan checked his rearview mirror. Yep. She was still asleep.
Stan squeezed the wheel tightly. Moses! What was he supposed to do with a kid? This had not been a good decision! Stan had a hard enough life as it was, but deciding to provide for another person, one who couldn’t help support herself, on a whim? This was a new low, and Stan knew those well.
Stan didn’t have a job, he didn’t have a house, and he was fairly certain that picking up a little kid out of nowhere could qualify as kidnapping! With all the identity fraud, tax evasion, and obstruction of the law he’d engaged in, Stan did not need kidnapping and child endangerment added to the list.
Suddenly, Mabel stirred in the backseat. She sat up with a yawn, stretching her arms. Her long, brown hair was mussed up, and stuck in every direction. Stan couldn’t help but recall Shermie’s disgruntled, “got- out-of-the-wrong-side-of-the-bed” expression. Mabel sure looked a heck of a lot like him. Maybe Mabel was their third cousin four times removed or something.
Stan forced himself to relax, lowering his raised shoulders once more. He didn’t exactly want her asking what was wrong.
“Morning!” he called over his shoulder in a tone of forced nonchalance.
“Morning,” Mabel muttered, balling up her fists and rubbing her eyes. She blinked blearily, looking around. Mabel stiffened in panic. “Where’s–?”
Stan cursed silently. He turned away from the road to face Mabel–it wasn’t like there were any other cars anyway–and placed his elbow in the wheel to hold it in place.
“Hey, kid, it’s fine,” he said hurriedly. “You’re with me, Stan Pines, remember? You agreed to stay with me last night, after I found you. You’re safe. Everything’s fine.”
Mabel stared at him, chest heaving. Her breathing gradually slowed, and she slumped back, laying against the back of her seat. “Oh. Yeah.”
Stan relaxed. He’d been in her place before; waking up in an unfamiliar place could be disconcerting, especially if your head was still waking up, too. Mabel had recovered quickly, which was great.
Great.
It was… great.
Stan cleared his throat unconsciously, turning around to face the road again.
The car was silent.
Stan was usually great with people–charming them and the like– but now, he couldn’t think of anything to say. The thick atmosphere only seemed to weigh down on him, trapping him in a–I dunno, a moist blanket. Stan wasn’t great with metaphors, but you get the gist.
There was a quiet sound from the backseat. What was it… sniffling?
Oh geez, was Mabel crying?
Stan tensed up, looking up at the rearview mirror. Mabel had put her sweater back on, and pulled the neck over her face. She was curled up on her side, hugging her knees to her chest.
Uhh… maybe if he ignored it, it would go away?
However, Stan could only stand ten more seconds of Mabel’s soft tears before deciding he couldn’t take anymore.
“Oh, dang it,” he said airily.
Mabel’s snuffling stopped abruptly. She reached a shaky hand up to the collar of her shirt, pulling it down so that Stan could see her tear- stained face. “Wh–what?”
“Well,” Stan said, trying to sound as chipper as possible, “see here, kid; I’ve got a coupon for ice cream, buuuut a few cents are knocked off every time you cry.” Did he really just say that? Well, might as well roll with it. “So… the more you cry, the less ice cream you get. I guess.”
Stan winced, waiting for Mabel’s response.
Mabel’s sniffling stopped. She sat up. “That’s not a real thing,” she said indignantly.
“Coupons?” Stan asked in fake-disbelief. “I’m pretty sure they are.”
Mabel frowned. “But… you don’t lose some of the money from them every time you cry.”
“It’s a new thing,” Stan bluffed. “You know: ‘cause taxes aren’t enough.”
“But… the amount of money you have left on your coupon doesn’t change how much ice cream you get…” Mabel said, doubt creeping into her voice. “…Right?”
Stan tamped down his smile of triumph. “I mean, I think so–but you’re welcome to test it yourself. Just don’t blame me if you don’t get any ice cream.”
He looked up at the rearview mirror. Mabel was frowning at him; less out of anger and more out of confusion, it seemed.
“I do like ice cream,” she mused to herself. She raised her voice: “Can we get chocolate-dipped vanilla?”
“Of course! Best of both worlds, I always say!”
Stan had never said that in his life.
Finally–finally–Mabel smiled. “Okay!”
Still a little disbelieving that it worked, Stan turned around to smile at her. She beamed back.
It was… weird how happy that made him.