Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Where does this one go, d’you think? We need this for anything?” Fiddleford heard Stanley ask from across the room.

“What in turnips even is that?” He asked in response, feeling what precious little sanity he was still clinging to slip further from his desperate grasp.

It was a balmy late May afternoon, and the attic of the Mystery Shack was stifling. The eerie triangular windows either hadn’t been opened once since their construction or weren’t built to be openable in the first place, he and Stanley had quickly learned when they’d first climbed up there an hour ago. They’d decided to wait for Dan, who was already planning to stop by after his shift at the logging company, before attempting anything drastic. Until then, suffering it was, it seemed.

The room was mostly used for storage, these days—boxes of incomprehensibly, if ever at all, organized whatnots and whosits lay strewn about the space. They’d made a decent dent in picking through and stacking high so far—enough to set up the small bed they’d recently picked up from one of their more distant neighbours, the Cutebikers, after their youngest had outgrown it.

Tate would need somewhere to stay, come June 3rd at 6pm sharp, after all. Not that Fiddleford was counting down the hours (231.25, or somewhereabouts close), heavens no. That would be right ridiculous, it would.

“Some kinda... yknow, I actually don’t gotta fucking clue, candy pie. Ford owns some weird shit,” Stanley muttered, before shrugging to himself and lobbing what looked like an electricified tennis racket into the ‘keep’ pile.

With everything else of Stanford’s they’d found, so far.

Fiddleford loved Stanley with the entirety of his very soul. To his very marrow. In all four chambers of his beating heart.

The ‘toss’ pile was looking smaller than the last pea on a giant’s plate.

Not half of the things in this room had to be 10-year-old friendly; hell in a hand-wash-decontamination station, maybe not half the things in this room were anyone-but-Stanford friendly. But by gods, it wasn’t as if Fiddleford could rightly ask Stanley to just throw things away all willy-nilly neither—lords knew Stanford had been standoffish about his precious research even on the best days he could recall, and little though he’d admit it outright, Fiddleford knew Stanley was already worried right out of his handsome skull about Stanford’s wrath—nevermind if they never were able to get him back. Damn that portal, damn whatever the unholy hell he still wasn’t remembering, just on the edges of his consciousness, bitter ash on the tip of his tongue—

Fiddleford sat heavily down on the little bed, whole body itching and leg bouncing, as Stanley moved on to the next whathaveyous in the box he was sorting through. His under-his-breath muttering, usually so darling, had Fiddleford about ready to start ripping his hair out again. Fiddleford tried to breathe through the irritation what was brewing within him.

Fiddleford had a feeling that it wasn’t really irritation at the root of what all he was feeling, and he knew with wholehearted certainty that Stanley was trying his best. They both were. They’d really tried to think of everything, between the two of them—meals planned out and grocery lists made, daily activities planned for Tate to pick from, days with Caryn and Dan scheduled to either help look after the Mystery Shack, or Tate himself. They’d thought of everything they possibly could.

(Something was nagging at him, though. Something big. He just couldn’t shake the feeling that he was forgetting something obvious...)

Heavens above, he’d seen the parenting books Lee had loaned out from the library—his Stanley was many things, but good at hiding things in their shared room was most definitely not one. Not that Fiddleford had been looking, mind you—Stanley really ought to quit stashing easy-to-trip-over books under the rug, was all.

Either way, it was exceptionally sweet, and extremely, obviously well-meaning. Just about everything Lee did was sweet and well-meaning, these days, shy as he still was to receiving thanks or praise.

Fiddleford knew that all of this wasn’t intentionally or purposefully obstructive. He rightly did. He just couldn’t keep the nauseous anxiety from creeping a slow climb out of his guts, and up his throat.

So much was riding on this particular visit going well, was the thing about it all. And Fiddleford was rapidly being forced to stomach just how horribly, hopelessly underprepared he was. Not being able to set the room up properly was not helping.

A few minutes went by, Fiddleford just focusing on breathing.

“Hey—you doing okay, doll?” He heard Stanley ask. Fiddleford looked up, seeing the obvious concern on his lover’s face. He tried to smile with a reassurance he didn’t himself rightly feel.

He remembered a touch too late just who his partner was, and that Lee knew just about every single one of his tells, by now.

His darling was crouched in front of him with a gentle, calloused hand hovering uncertainly above Fiddleford’s knee before Fiddleford could so much as blink.

“C’mon, Fidds. Talk to me? Do y’need a break?” Stanley asked, gentle as anything, gruff as they came—ever was he, that endearing concoction of the two.

Fiddleford took another breath.

“I just—now, darlin’. I don’t mean this meanly. I get exactly why you’re doin’ what you’re doin’, I reckon—but we... we’re not making the progress we need to be. We need this room clean. I don’t rightly know how we’re gonna do that, if we’re not throwing things out. And never even mind how dangerous half of these things probably are—I just—” Fiddleford sighed, grabbing at his hair. “I’m just—I’m plum petrified. That’s what it really is. What it’s been, all month. It ain’t your fault. I—” he swallowed. He felt Lee give his knee a squeeze.

“I haven’t been a father half my boy’s life, and I just can’t shake the feeling that I’ve forgotten how to. So much is hinging on Tate having a good, safe time up here. I don’t—what if he hates it? All this stuff o’Stanford’s, what if he gets into it, gets hurt? Trumpets in a tractor engine, what if we miss something? What if—” And Fiddleford gasped, heart in his throat, as his thoughts began racing ahead of his dry, dry mouth. He felt the blood drain from his face all at once.

How could he have missed something so obvious?! Oh, and it really was obvious, too.

Oh. Oh no. He hadn’t even considered—“What if... our friends—what if he runs into them, and he’s scared right out of his skull?! What if he comes back home tellin’ Emma-May all about—about sirens and manotaurs and-and campfire dogs—and she never lets him back? And I—I’d trust most of ’em not to hurt him or nothing, surely, but what if—? He could be terrified. I was terrified! Still am, half the time! This was a horrible idea. I’m not—Oh, gods—”

“Woah, woah, woah, hey—slow it down with me, babe,” Stanley said, eyes wide, hands reaching up tentatively to cover Fiddleford’s own on either side of Fiddleford’s head.

“We’re the best of pals with a mean unicorn and newly soul-searching minotaurs, for crying out loud! And they just barge in and out whenever they please! How did we not think of that?!” Fiddleford cried, breath coming fast. “‘How was your trip, sweetie?’ ‘Oh, it was just swell, Ma—I got bullied by a unicorn! She made me cry, and then I was near killed by horned men that don’t know their own strength! Oh, and then a group of gnomes tried to kidnap me! It was just WONDERFUL!’” Fiddleford rambled, near delirious with panic, in squeaky impressions.

“Shit,” Stanley swore, before visibly shaking himself. “I mean—ah, fuck it, there’s no kids here yet, I’ll swear while I can. Listen, Fidds. Sugar bear. Honey hive. We’re gonna figure this out,” Stanley said, gently pulling Fiddleford’s hands away from his hair. “For one—you absolutely know how to be a dad, doll. I’ve seen you with that kid, remember? He adores you,” he continued, cupping the side of Fiddleford’s face, now. Fiddleford leaned gratefully into his hold, heat be damned.

“For another, don’t worry about the gnomes. They already know exactly what’ll happen if they so much as breathe in the kid’s direction wrong,” Stanley muttered darkly. “I—also didn’t think about our actual friends, though. I guess—Ma had such an easy time adjusting, it didn’t even cross my mind as a problem,” Stanley said, clearly thinking about how Caryn had nearly burned her own cabin down trying to get Scout to snuggle up on the sofa with her, not three weeks after she’d moved in.

“But, listen. Tate’s coming for two weeks, right? If you’re really worried, I’m sure it ain’t too much to ask for some space for that long,” Stanley said. “We can have Ma or Dan look after Scout—you know she’d be more than willing, she loves that damn dog more than she does me—and we can just tell everyone that your kid is coming, and we wanna give him time to adjust without overwhelming him. Pretty sure that’s what it said to do anyway in that one chapt—um. Forget that last part. They’re all pretty reasonable! Mostly. Sometimes. How about that?” Stanley asked. While his lack of certainty sure as sugar-burns wasn’t inspiring confidence, his earnestness was reassuring.

Fiddleford let out a sigh, trying to get his breathing to slow back down. “Alright. Yeah. I reckon that would help quite a bit. Thank you, Lee,” he said, bringing his own hand up to take Stanley’s. They sat there in the quiet for a moment, hands clasped between them.

“And, uh. About the whole not throwing stuff away thing. I was thinking of just putting most of it in the portal room for now—probably should’ve told you that, though. That’s on me. I was just thinking we could—we can come back to it, since we launch the portal again at the end of June, yeah?” Stanley apologized, looking away and rubbing at the back of his neck. Fiddleford reached out to hold that hand, too, and pressed a kiss to it, wordlessly apologizing right back.

“Okay. I’m fucking dying up here. That was a bad idea. How’s about we take that break and go cuddle where the AC actually works?” Lee asked, cracking his back as he stood and pressing a kiss to Fiddleford’s forehead, running a hand through Fiddleford’s hair.

“That sounds mighty fine, love o’mine,” Fiddleford said, mostly settled to wait for nightfall and Dan’s help with the rest. Particularly if it meant cuddles. Nothing soothed frayed nerves quite like the tender hold of his lover’s arms, it was true.

And, well. Come the end of next week, they’d need to be a little more reserved with things than they were used to, anyhow. ‘Stanford’ was only Fiddleford’s good friend and college roommate, after all.

“Woah, a jar of eyeballs! Gross!” Tate exclaimed, entirely enthralled, as Stanley lead him back through to the gift shop of the Mystery Shack.

Following a massive round of hugs led by Tate, they’d all waved goodbye to Emma-May not forty minutes ago. Fiddleford knew she was headed up to small town Washington to visit her college friends; he was gladder than cling-film to hear she’d be getting some time to enjoy herself over the next couple weeks. She more than deserved it, lords knew.

After their fist bump ‘hello’, Tate had started up a million-miles-a-minute with questions about the Mystery Shack in Stanley’s direction. Stanley had slapped on his best (distractingly handsome, from where Fiddleford was standing) showman’s grin, and off they went. Fiddleford was grateful for the chance to fall back a touch, and let it all set in. His son was here. They’d be getting to spend some real time together. Not just their nightly phone call, not just for a day or two—they had a bonafide fortnight, this time. Maybe longer, next time. It was worth every ounce of anxiety, insecurity, worry, whathaveyou, and then some. His sweet Tater Tot was here. Somehow, this was where his life had lead up to. They were here, his son alternating between giggling and staring in awe at Fiddleford and Stanley’s creations, in the house Fiddleford and his partner lived in together, all fed and warm and stable, ready to venture into something new. It was nothing short of a miracle.

Scout was safely (well, she’d be safe—Caryn’s furniture really was anyone’s guess) set up at Caryn’s for the night, and then off to Dan’s for the rest of Tate’s stay. Fiddleford was feeling hopeful about the conversations they’d each had with their friends. Stanley was confident he’d struck fear into the hearts of the gnomes (more accurately, fear for their ongoing business deal and payment plans, it turned out), and Fiddleford reckoned the rest of them had taken things well. Sure, they’d seemed dead curious, and maybe a mite disappointed, but they’d all said they understood. It was astonishingly mature, coming from some of them. Celestebellebethabelle rarely left the Glade, and with the manotaurs understanding? Really, it was the best they could hope for. Beyond that, the house was tidied up, all of Stanford’s scariest bits and bobbins stashed away, the windows in the attic were opened, as well as an AC unit installed—things were really looking up, Fiddleford thought. His sweet boys were getting well along, and it’d be time for dinner soon. Maybe... maybe things really could go well. There was nothing—

“Shhhh—shut up, why are your hooves so loud?! They’re gonna hear you—” A sharp whisper demanded.

“Oh, like they won’t hear your face?! You shut up!” A similarly waspish whisper countered. There was a quiet thud—almost as if something, or someone, had been shoved.

“That doesn’t even make sense!”

“Your face doesn’t even make sense—”

Fiddleford locked wide eyes with an equally panicked-looking Stanley across the room.

They both recognized those voices. And hoofsteps.

Godsdamn it all, it hadn’t even been an hour.

“Uhhhhhh—hey! Why don’t you, uh. Why don’t you go grab a popsicle from the freezer on the porch, huh, kid? On the house! Grab me and your pops one too, while you’re at it!” Stanley floundered, not-as-casually-as-he’d-clearly-been-aiming-to leaning against the doorframe that lead into the living room, right next to the vending machine.

Where, if you looked at the gap between the top of the door and the stained glass framing for more than a second, two sets of horns were horrifically visible.

“Can I have a strawberry one? Thanks, Mr. Stan!” Tate said, running right past Fiddleford and out the door.

Stanley gave it all of 3 seconds before he wrenched the living room door open, wrenched the vending machine door open, and bodily shoved a startled Beardy and Young Chutzpar through the hidden doorway, vending machine locking back into place with a slam.

“OW!” Came the muffled cries.

“Stanley Pines!” Fiddleford hissed in a distressed whisper, rounding on his lover.

“How is this my fault?!” Stanley cried, obviously trying to keep as quiet as he could, arms crossing defensively. Fiddleford shook himself.

“You’re right, I’m sorry—” Fiddleford apologized immediately, crossing the room in a flash and cradling his darling’s face.

“Nah, nah, I get it, flowerpot. I know you’re just stressed,” Stanley replied, turning his head to kiss Fiddleford’s hand quickly, before withdrawing.

“Aw,” came the manotaurs’ voices from behind the vending machine. “And also, again—OW!”

“Maybe next time you oughta listen when—” Stanley began in a low growl, whirling quickly back around with a too-wide grin when the bell atop the gift shop door jingled.

As Tate trotted back inside, icy sweets in hand, Fiddleford tried desperately to smile convincingly through his rising dread. Good lords. The next two weeks were about to be a right headache, weren’t they?

Three days passed, mercifully uneventful. Well—as uneventful as things got at the Mystery Shack, that was.

That morning, Dan, on his own way to work, was driving Fiddleford and Tate up to spend the afternoon with Caryn while Stanley manned the Mystery Shack. They’d introduced her to Tate the night before—and the second he’d learned she had recently moved from the opposite coast, and could therefore spin lengthy (and at least partially true, Fiddleford was choosing to believe) tales about spotting and catching fish from a different ocean, they’d gotten on like fresh strings on a banjo. As it was, Tate was practically bouncing in the backseat with excitement—Caryn, with something like a glint in her eye, had offered to bake and decorate some fish-themed cookies with him as their activity for the day.

Caryn’s house was set closer to Northwest Manor on the same side of town as the Mystery Shack, with varied splotches of forest and farmland between the two. The drive only took a few minutes on a good day—not that anywhere you could drive to in Gravity Falls couldn’t be reached within a quarter hour, mind you, apart from maybe the highest lookout points.

(Fiddleford was grateful Dan had offered to drive them—beyond it being a far walk, the route would inevitably take them past Farmer Sprott’s lot. Something about the way that man would sometimes stare at Fiddleford unnerved him in a way he couldn’t rightly place.)

“Buh-bye, Mr. Corduroy!” Tate shouted as Dan drove away, waving all the while.

“Hot Belgian waffles, kiddo, you gotta set a’lungs on ya when y’wanna!” Caryn said, throwing her brightly painted door open with a beaming smile. “You ready ta make the best cookies this side a’the Yellowstone River?”

“Boy, am I!” Tate answered, grabbing insistently at Fiddleford’s hand and dragging him happily inside, chattering all the while about how fantastic the Yellowstone River was for trout fishing—Caryn not missing a beat as she spouted fish facts right on back.

(If Fiddleford happened to sit down on a hard, book-shaped lump hidden under the couch cushions later, well. Like mother like son, he would guess.)

Several impressively decorated and delightfully tasty cookies later (“Daaaaad, you can’t just eat all the messed up ones, I wanna make stingrays too!”), it was just gone the Mystery Shack’s closing time when Stanley came round to eat with them, takeaway dinner in tow.

“Here’s your cut, Ma,” Stanley said as he sat down, handing over a takeout box from the stack.

“Much obliged, son a’mine,” she replied, leaving a bright red lipstick mark as she kissed his temple. Tate giggled as Stanley wiped it away. Fiddleford had to remind himself not to reach over to help.

“Thank you kindly for today,” Fiddleford started as they were packing up for the evening. “Them cookies were delightful, though I expected nothing less, o’course.”

“Anytime, sweetheart,” Caryn replied emphatically, before she bent down to be eye level with Tate. “You had fun too, I hope, huh kiddo?” She asked with a smile.

“Yeah! Mr. Stan, you gotta try one—just not the coelacanths, they’re my favourite.” Tate beamed, holding the container up as they stepped outside.

“Uhh—you can pick one for me, kid. Too many good choices,” Stanley blustered, clearly having no idea which ones the coelacanths were. “Maybe it can wait till we’re back that the Shack, though, huh? Night, Ma,” he said, as she pulled him into a hug.

“Buh-bye, Grandma Caryn!” Tate waved.

All three adults froze. Time froze, as far as Fiddleford was concerned.

“Uhh—um. Ha. Why ‘grandma’, kiddo?” Stanley asked with an uneasy chuckle. Fiddleford would have preferred to just let it slide, but—

“Because she’s your mom?” Tate answered, sounding confused.

None of the adults knew what to do with that one. Everyone was confused now, it sure seemed.

“You’re married to Dad,” Tate pointed obviously up at Stanley, as Fiddleford felt his heart stop and start beating double time in rapid succession. He heard Stanley choking on air. “That makes you my Bonus Dad, but Mom told me not to call you that without asking—and that makes Grandma Caryn ‘Grandma’, doesn’t it? Oh. I just figured it would be okay... with everyth—um. Shoot. Was I supposed to ask about that too? Sorry,” Tate said, ducking his head.

Fiddleford tried to breathe. Tried real hard.

“Um. What—what makes you think me n’Stan are married, sprout?” He asked tentatively, reaching a hand to settle on Tate’s shoulder.

“Uh? You live together, love each other—” Tate listed, sounding more confused than ever.

“Lotsa people live together without being married, kiddo,” Stanley piped up, gentle and gruff.

“Yeah, but not y’all,” Tate responded, sounding beyond baffled, “Mom had the ‘two men or two women can be in love with each other’ talk with me forever ago. She specifically talked about y’all as an example! That you’d gotten together, years ago?”

“Oh,” Fiddleford squeaked. He heard Stanley about hack up a lung beside him.

Sweet sarsaparilla spew.

Emma-May knew? How? Since when? What?

Wait.

Wait, wait, hold on now. ‘Years ago?’ Did—did that mean—if Emma-May still thought Stanley was Stanford—

Good lords.

Did Emma-May think Stanley was ‘the other woman’?!

Holy hopping holly on a handrail. Oh, what a right horrific mess. He needed to call Emma-May, needed to apologize profusely—clear things up immediately. Or the second she was back in a place that he knew the phone number to, anyhow. Good galloping gumdrops, should they just tell her about the real Stanford? Come clean about Stanley? The pain that must’ve caused—jumping juniper berries in jasmine-mint juleps—

“Well, um. We aren’t married, kiddo,” Stanley said, sounding a touch choked up. Hearing that, more than anything, jolted Fiddleford back to the moment.

“What?” Tate asked, looking a touch distressed, now.

Fiddleford took the deepest breath he possibly could. He did his darnedest to steel himself. However he responded just then was going to impact them all greatly, from here on out.

He reached a hand out for Stanley’s, and felt it squeeze his own right back.

“... And, sugarplum, your Mom ain’t wrong, neither. I do love him very much,” Fiddleford finished, steadily as he could. “And, to cover all my bases, I love you so, so much, too. We just—Stan and I only told each other our feelings a little while ago. We’ve not been together like that long, and there’s... well, there’s a lot o’things that makes getting married... not especially easy, right now.”

“Oh. I guess that makes sense,” Tate said. “Guess Mom had it wrong, then. Or only mostly right? Dang. So then... so then Mrs. Caryn shouldn’t be called ‘grandma’?” Tate asked, looking like he was trying real hard to hide something he was feeling.

“I think that would be a question for her, sprout,” Fiddleford replied, looking up. Stanley looked like he might cry—Caryn was already there.

“You can call me whatever ya wanna, sweetie,” she sniffled through a watery smile.

“Grandma Caryn it is,” Tate nodded decisively, breathing out heavily, like he was relieved. What was that about, Fiddleford wondered—

“Ooh, family drama, neigh,” came an all-too familiar whisper from just beyond the forest tree line.

Fiddleford narrowly kept himself from pinching the bridge of his nose, trying very, very hard not to lose his very mind.

Perfect. Just exactly what this evening needed. Right now, specifically. Right as he’d just let his 10 year-old son in on the exact nature of his relationship with his male partner, not to mention the mess he’d made with Emma-May, beyond the huge, horrific ones he already had.

Y’know something? No. No, not today.

“Alrighty then. Stan, darlin’, why don’t you and Tate go get the car running? I think I might’ve forgot something inside,” Fiddleford said through a tight smile.

“Yep. Absolutely. C’mon, kiddo. Let’s uhhhh—let’s figure out a way to make sure those cookies make it back in one piece, eh?” Stanley said without argument, either having heard the voice as well or simply recognizing Fiddleford’s tone. Fiddleford couldn’t quite tell.

As their backs turned, Caryn stepped back inside, holding the door open for him. Fiddleford turned instead to the forest, after he heard the sound of the car doors opening and shutting. “Come out, then,” he demanded in a harsh whisper.

“I don’t take orders from humans!” Celestebellebethabelle whinnied indignantly, despite emerging from behind the bushes anyway. “But if you really must know, I’m bisexual, neigh.”

Fiddleford wasted no time, catching her off guard as he pushed her bodily into the house and shut the door behind her. “Congratulations,” he deadpanned, before calling, “Apologies for the intrusion, Caryn!”

“GASP—you know I struggle with human doorknobs, neigh! And the shoes! Look at all the shoes! How dare you?!”

“No worries, sweetheart!” Caryn called back. “Wow, a talkin’ horse! Usually I’d be startled, but I couldn’t give a damn less about anything right now! I’m a grandma! Again!”

“Usually I’d be offended to be called a mere horse... but I must say, shoes aside—this place is so... so chic! Where did you get that tapestry?”

“What, this old thing? I stole it right outta that fancy mansion I work at! Barley batted an eye, I got ’em so wrapped around my finger up there. Say, if ya like that, you should really see...”

Oh, dear.

Welp. That sounded like it could be the start of a bright new friendship, the beginning of the end of the actual world, or both, Fiddleford reckoned.

Oops.

Fiddleford didn’t know why he bothered anymore, he thought to himself morosely as Calliope held up yet another fish for Tate to inspect.

Fiddleford, Stanley, Tate, and Dan had all piled up in Dan’s tiny fishing boat earlier that day, Tate looking like he was about ready to pass out from excitement. It was Tate’s first ever time fishing in freshwater; Stanley had surprised Fiddleford with a few extra rolls of film for their camera that morning, and boy howdy, was Fiddleford making good use of ’em. His baby boy looked so darn cute, curls pushed out of his eyes by the hat Stanley had made for him, and positively swallowed up by the bright orange life jacket Dan had helped him into. So far, Tate had caught himself a fine array of catfish and minnows. His beaming smile warmed Fiddleford more than even the scorching summer sun could ever hope to.

Thankfully, the sirens at least had the good sense not to try anything too nefarious with Tate nearby—they kept their own forms, for the most part, and hid their tails besides.

They were just three people, keeping pace with a boat, was all. In the middle of a deep, deep lake, where none of them could possibly come even close to touching the bottom. Diving down for lengths of time that would have any lifeguard panicking, before resurfacing with increasingly gigantic fish. In a totally normal, standardly human, way.

Fiddleford sure hoped Tate wasn’t thinking about it all as deeply as he was.

“What about this one? I think the scales are pretty,” Saoirse asked, holding their latest catch up against Calliope’s.

“I dunno, treasure—I don’t know how any fish is meant to compete, when you outshine them all,” giggled Kamaria. Saoirse blushed violently, fumbling and ultimately dropping the fish back into the water. Tate, entirely unbothered, confirmed that Calliope’s was still the one to beat as he adjusted his own fishing rod, much to their delight. Dan nodded, either in approval of Tate’s technique or in agreement with his critique, it wasn’t quite clear.

“Boo, that was sappy,” Stanley heckled the now canoodling couple. Fiddleford shot him a sidelong glance as Calliope, eyebrow raised, voiced what he was thinking.

“Please, as if you have any room at all to talk,” they rolled their eyes. “Matter of fact, none of you have room to talk anymore, now that Danny Boy here’s got himself a girlfriend too,” they continued with a smirk. Dan about blushed the same colour as his hair and beard.

“Hey, what’d I do? Leave me out of this,” Dan replied, all shy at the mention of his new lady friend—Abigail, the sharp-witted, music-loving librarian. “Go back to teasing the nerds, like nature intended. ’Least I made a move within a century.”

“Hey! I’ll have you know that I—” Stanley started, chest puffed up indignantly.

“—would still be suffering in ‘manly’ silence, if Fiddleford didn’t ask you out first?” Kamaria cut him off smugly. Calliope and Saoirse ‘ooh’ed their approval.

“—actually, I was gonna say that I was an integral part in you two getting your heads out of your a—butts, if you’ll recall,” Stanley shot back. “And you, Dan—how could you betray the ones who introduced you to Susan, who introduced you to Abigail, in the first place? Where would you be without us? For shame, Boyish Daniel. For shame.”

Fiddleford rolled his eyes fondly as his lover pretended to wipe a tear from his eye, tuning out the continuing bickering as he scooched closer to Tate. “Any nibbles, there, Tater tot?”

“I don’t reckon so, but it feels... weird,” Tate replied, uncertain. “At first I thought it was something big what was biting, but now I wonder if I just it got stuck, somehow?”

“D’you mind if I give it a go?” Fiddleford offered, looking around for anything the hook could possibly have gotten stuck on. They were getting closer to one of the islands, and some unsettlingly tooth-shaped rocks, sure, but not close enough to cause any obvious issue.

“Hey, are those bubbles? Why’s the water bubbling?” Tate asked. The bickering around them stopped, as everyone turned to look where Tate was pointing. There, maybe 20 feet out, was a slow, slow stream of large bubbles rising to the surface, then popping, one by one. It was almost... rhythmic. Fiddleford felt his heart pick up pace when hastily hidden expressions of pure panic shone on each of the sirens’ faces as they took in their surroundings.

“Hey, so I’ve just had a great idea,” Calliope began, smiling too wide as they used a suddenly sharp nail to sever Tate’s line. “It’s a fun game called ‘let’s go as fast as we can back the way we came and also never come near this island again!’”

“Oh, yeah! That game is my favourite!” Kamaria echoed with a stilted laugh, as she and the other sirens started pushing at the boat.

“Totally the best! You wanna help us turn this thing around or what?” Saoirse directed at Dan and Stanley.

“Why? What’s even happening here? It’s just some bubbles, right? Don’t you bubble?” Stanley asked, even as he complied.

“Haha, not like that we don’t. Move it, I’m not joking,” Saoirse hissed through smiling teeth. “If you wake it up we’re all gonna d—I mean, we’ll lose the game! Yes. Game. Ha ha! Go!”

Despite the abrupt ending to their fishing trip, and the several new white hairs Fiddleford was sure he’d sprouted, Tate seemed to have a wonderful time helping Dan fry up the fish they’d caught over their bonfire.

Best not to think too deeply about anything else.

Or ever go fishing in Gravity Falls ever again, probably.

...He would miss the sirens, though. They were great friends, especially to Stanley. Damn.

Golly.

In the end, it was Scout that gave them away, Fiddleford thought distantly.

“SCOUT, NO!” Stanley shouted, bolting across the Mystery Shack’s back lawn as the scampfire, barking happily, made a beeline for him right past a startled-looking Tate.

It was the second to last day of Tate’s stay, too. Friend-shaped incidents aside, Fiddleford and Tate had gotten to make so many wonderful memories together, he reckoned—building (perhaps over-engineered) blanket forts, sneaking some of Lee’s ice cream while he was distractedly sobbing over his soap operas, strolling around town and playing surprisingly fun dancing games in the arcade, stargazing on the Mystery Shack’s roof and just talking for hours. Tate had really taken to his attic room as well, it seemed, hanging up the drawings he made while Fiddleford and Stanley were working, cutting out paper fish and stringing them up with Caryn’s help.

And it was all coming crashing to an end, at the paws of a silly dog somehow smelling Stanley cooking her favourite food for lunch from miles away.

“Dam—I mean darn it, I shoulda known,” Stanley muttered, scooping a wiggling Scout up into his arms and twisting around as if to try to hide her. As if it weren’t already too late.

Tate made his way towards them cautiously. Fiddleford did, too.

“Woah,” Tate exclaimed, staring at Scout with wide eyes. “Is she on fire? Is she made of fire? How can you hold her? Does it burn? Can I pet her?” He asked in rapid succession.

“Yeah, she is the fire, s’far as I can tell. She can make herself more embery or more flamey, though. Still hot as he—heck, but it doesn’t hurt.” Stanley answered, guilt written all over his sweet face, before finally giving up and setting her down. Scout pressed herself affectionately up against his legs, like she’d missed him—she probably had, too, Fiddleford thought with his heart in his throat—before she started sniffing curiously at Tate’s shoes.

“She’s so cute! Oh, is she the one that usually lives in the doghouse out back?” Tate asked, staring down at the scampfire with wide, though surprisingly... unrattled, eyes. “How come she wasn’t there this week?”

Fiddleford cleared his throat. “We, um. We were worried she might be a mite spooky for you, sprout. Not something you see everyday, I reckon,” Fiddleford swallowed hard.

There was no going back.

Whatever was gonna happen, was gonna happen. If this was the last he’d get to see if his boy, well. He’d try to leave the best memories he could.

“Listen, sugarplum. There’s... a lot, in these here woods, that ain’t what you’d expect to find. I—I’d wanted to keep it from you, so’s not t’overwhelm you. It can be pretty terrifying, to see these things for real—”

“But I already knew about that, Dad,” Tate cut in, confused. “The faeries told me! It’s really not scary—I’m big now, y’know? What other cool stuff have you seen? Are there megalodons?”

Shocked silence, from both adults.

It was Stanley who recovered first.

“Faeries? You saw faeries?” He asked, sounding stilted. Better than Fiddleford, still, seeing as he’d managed to make any sound whatsoever.

“Yeah? They said they knew you. Mira and Sinder? They told me not to tell them my name, which was weird, but otherwise they seemed nice! I met them in my room my first night here. They were back today like half an hour ago, I reckon?” Tate answered. Stanley’s eyes widened.

Sure enough, when all three of them got back inside, two fairies were fluttering up by the beams in the attic’s ceiling.

“Uh, hi? The f—what’re you doing here?” Stanley asked, befuddled.

“Oh, hello Stan, F. Young child. We are maintaining the wards.” Mira answered, before turning back around to help with whatever the highwater hell the other faerie was doing.

“What ‘wards’? What, and also why? The jobs’ not till the end of the month, like usual?” Stanley got out.

“We find you funny,” Sinder answered this time, clearing exactly nothing up. “We like that you are funny. You cannot be funny if you are dead. We must continue to maintain the wards we have placed on your house until they are self-upkeeping.” She said, extremely-matter-of-factly.

“See, told you they were cool! Tha—” Stanley quickly put a hand over Tate’s mouth, making a face as his hand was presumably bit and/or licked.

“They are cool,” Stanley intoned to Tate. “It looks like very complex magic.”

“It is,” Mira answered. “We have finished for today. We will return on the next quarter lunar phase—and, of course, for our contract.”

And with that, Mira and Sinder were gone.

“Blegh! Mr. Stan, what’d you cover my mouth for?” Tate complained, as Stanley stepped back.

Crickets playing cricket on circus circuits.

Fiddleford and Stanley shared a look.

Beyond all of that they’d need to unpack later—because really, what in turnips?—it seemed like it was through sheer dumb luck and the faeries’ inexplicable kindness that they’d evaded disaster, here.

There were certain things you couldn’t say to or around faeries without the situation getting stickier than hot pine sap in a glue factory, after all.

Things like ‘thank you’, for example.

Maybe... just maybe, not telling Tate wasn’t the best decision, after all.

Fiddleford could feel the white hairs setting in again.

“How was it, sweetie?” Emma-May asked as they started the long drive home.

“It was so cool, Mom! We went freshwater fishing—I caught a real live catfish!—and Grandma Caryn and Dad and I made fish cookies, and played DPR at the arcade, and there were faeries in my room! And Mr. Stan has a firepuppy!” Tate rattled off excitedly.

Emma-May smiled at him through the rear view mirror. She’d had a wonderful time herself, staying with the girls—it really had been too long since she’d seen them all last, and she was feeling pretty excited that it looked like she’d be getting more opportunities to, now, going forward.

(And, well. Time to just... figure out who she was, outside of being a single mother, or a chemical engineer, again. There’d been as many tears as there’d been laughs, this trip—she was feeling dead curious about how the next would look, and the next after that. What a few months to herself could look like, even. It was new, and more than a little intimidating—but she was looking forward to it all. She really was.)

It was also nice to be headed home, of course—she had missed her kiddo, and his bright imagination. No doubt he’d have extra fuel now, given Stanford’s somewhat baffling change in careers, these days. One minute you’re working on a transuniversal polydimensional metavortex, the next, a tourist trap. Guess life really was that way, sometimes.

“That’s wonderful, Tate. I’m glad you had a good time,” she said. She really was. It had been hell, getting here—hell like she’d never forget. But somehow? Somehow, she was proud of where she was, and she was glad despite herself that Tate had even more people to dote on him, now, too. “I can’t wait to hear all about it.”

Chapter Text

June and July came and went—portal launch, portal failure. Mailbox answers, a thousand more questions.

June 24, 1988

You and Fiddleford are on the right track with your DNA sequencing, Stanley. You are close to a breakthrough—computer reconfiguration will play a large role, your focus is not misplaced. It isn’t necessary to sequence the entire genome in one piece, no—not if you nail the aforementioned reconfiguration process, by...

This letter lay on a work desk, many pages long, and extensively studied. Next to it, strewn about wildly, were the many pieces and parts of what would soon be assembled into the newest McGucket Labs prototype.

February 3, 1988

Ugh, him. Yes, what Caryn Romanoff dreamt of is correct. It is indeed the same being that tormented Stanford Pines in Gravity Falls. They now each seek the other’s destruction. And I know you didn’t ask in your letter, but yes, the bowtie does look stupid.

This one lay in crumpled wisps, still decomposing, right there on the forest floor.

June 24, 1988

I will answer no further questions about that being. Your brother has written about his time with him extensively.

And:

You are correct—the journals you’re missing contain no information about the portal you do not have. The second is buried in the elementary school yard. The third, in the shadow a false tree. One of the branches is a lever. A set of switches within the trunk itself will open the compartment you need...

A bed, half empty, sole occupant sleeping restlessly.

A shovel, still coated in dirt, leaned up against the back of the Mystery Shack.

Two books—uncovered and carefully reburied—once again beneath soil watered by a lonely set of tears.

These letters were not but ash.

Lastly, in a small box with a number of nearly identical others:

February 3, 1988

Your Stanford Filbrick Pines is still alive.

June 24, 1988

Your Stanford Filbrick Pines is still alive.

And, tearstained:

June 25, 1988

Yes, Stanley. He is still alive.

Chapter Text

It was a lazy sort of August morning, and Stan was enjoying zoning out in front of the tv, keeping an ear out for whenever a tiny set of footsteps would make its way down the stairs.

After the (shockingly, thankfully) successful trial run earlier that summer, Fiddleford and Emma-May had agreed on a more long-term arrangement that meant Tate was back up in Gravity Falls for the whole month of August, this time, and would be spending Julys and Augusts there from here on out. Fiddleford would still be making his trips down year-round, of course, too—Stanley himself having already been asked to join for at least a few of them.

(Especially now that Emma-May knew he wasn’t a homewrecker. Stan was sure as shit glad to clear that up, because fuck, man. Stan didn’t know how she was ever able to be in the same room as either of them. That lady deserved the entire fucking world and then some. And then some more. And some more still, while we’re at it. Just give her the entire universe, at this point. He’d be trying to make up for that misunderstanding for years.)

Today was his and Fidds’ day off—weekdays were typically on the slower side, and Ma was all set up with her tarot table (“$5—no, 15 bucks a card!”) in the gift shop, insisting on running cash besides. Fidds was already out for the day—Susan had brought him to her stitching and crafting club down at the library a while back, and the two of them tended to make the most of the library’s open hours to work on their projects together, whenever they could. The house was already filling up with handmade pillows, coasters, wall-hangings, and partially-finished blankets that made Stanley smile like a total sap whenever he saw them.

That left just Stanley and Tate for the day—not an uncommon occurrence, if still a bit of an awkward one. Stan wasn’t sure what today was gonna look like, past him making breakfast and lunch for them both at some point—he was hoping he could just follow wherever Tate felt like leading.

That had been what the parenting books he’d loaned out had emphasized an almost comical amount, after all. Following the kid’s lead.

Not that he was a parent—he was just some guy, trying—

Trying desperately not to screw it all up horrifically.

(Trying desperately not to be like him—)

Before Stanley could really get going down a spiral, thankfully, a head of messy curls popped into his field of vision. Must’ve missed the sound of the stairs. Oops.

“Can we go into the forest today?” Tate asked, clutching what looked like a thin library book behind his back. Now, Stan wasn’t an expert (about literally fucking anything), but the kid seemed a little... off. His smile wasn’t reaching his eyes. The way he held himself, something just... didn’t feel quite right. Like he was trying to hide something, maybe. But, then again, what would Stan get from denying him? A whole lotta nothing, he’d bet.

“I don’t see why not,” Stan said with a shrug, before heaving himself up. “Lemme get some food on the table first, though, or your dad’ll roast me. Eggs and toast? And we’d better bring something out to Scout, too, if we’re taking her with us. Unless you like stopping at berry bushes every 5 feet.”

“Hey, uh—we looking for something specific, kiddo? We’ve been going in circles for a while now,” Stanley asked, about an hour and some change into their trek.

It was becoming incredibly and undeniably obvious that something was up—Tate, normally the kind of kid who’d talk your ear off and question everything he could think of, had been nearly silent since they’d set out. Not even Scout’s playful yips and adorable bouncing were enough to break his focus—the only real exceptions were when he’d pause, take out the library book Stan hadn’t yet managed to get a solid look at the title of, and mutter to himself too quiet for Stanley to hear before heading off in a different direction.

(It was a little too familiar. Something had to be up, if he was anything like—)

“Have you seen a well?” Tate asked after a while, sounding frustrated.

“A well?” Stan echoed, dumbfounded.

“Made of brick, with a little slanted roof above the pulley system?” Tate frowned with an impatient huff.

“I got that. Believe it or not, even I know what a well looks like,” Stan said dryly, unable to help himself.

“So you’ve seen one?”

“Gee, kid. Probably? But that’s more ‘Enchanted Forest’ part of the forest. C’mon, I can show you,” Stanley answered, waiting for Tate’s nod before taking the lead. “Just look out for more faeries, and little bearded jerks with hats.” And off they went.

The sun was probably high in the sky by the time they reached the Enchanted Town Square—not that you could tell, with all the dark clouds that had rolled in. Probably should have checked the weather, huh? Way to go, Stan.

Good thing he kept Scout’s flame-proof rain coat (sewn lovingly from an emergency foil blanket by Fidds) in his pack by default.

Not too far from the Unicorns’ Glade, set between the gnome tavern and faerie nail salon, stood a small well. Tate made a beeline for it, pulling out a mug he must’ve swiped from the gift shop—damn impressive, given that Stan hadn’t noticed—and hoisting the draw bucket eagerly.

“That water’s safe to drink, right?” Stanley asked the nearest gnome out of the corner of his mouth.

“Why wouldn’t it be? It’s water,” came the incredulous reply. Right. Silly Stan. Because the rest of the forest wasn’t filled with spooky magic shit that should be normal but instead scarred you for life. Of course. Shoulda known.

Having filled his cup at last, Tate stared at it for a long moment, before downing it as fast as he could. Shit, did Stan not offer him water? He’d brought it, but—

“It didn’t work,” Tate let out after he’d finished, eyes wide. “Why didn’t it work?”

Stanley stepped a ways closer. “Why didn’t what work, kiddo?”

“The well, the magic—it didn’t work!” Tate said, louder now, as his face crumpled. “It didn’t work! Does it take time to set in? Is it the wrong well? Is there a different one?”

“This is the only well in this side of the forest,” said a sneering gnome from nearby. “No magic wells anywhere, either. No one messes with water—that’d be a war crime! Now, can you take your whining somewhere else? I’ve got—” the gnome cut off abruptly, fleeing with a terrified squeak as Stan turned around sharply to glare down at them. Stan tried to cool his rage as he turned back to Tate, who had started crying in earnest, now. Shit.

“H-hey, woah, buddy. C’mon. Let’s go find somewhere to sit, huh?” He got out, guiding Tate back out into the forest, Scout on their heels, and onto the first fallen log he found.

“It didn’t work,” Tate sobbed, hiding his face in his hands. Stanley crouched down in front of him, trying not to crowd.

He let the kid just get it out, the way he’d seen Fidds doing, forcing himself into stillness for as long as he could.

“What didn’t work, kiddo? What was supposed to happen?” Stanley tried to ask as gently as he could, when Tate’s sobs had slowed down.

Wordlessly, Tate brought out that slim purple book again—Moondrop’s Majestic Myths, Stan saw this time—before pointing down at the bookmarked page.

The Well of Eternal Happiness, it read. Come one, come all! Just a sip of the water from this well will brighten your day—a full glass, your whole life! Feel nothing but joy for the rest of all time—if you can find it, that is.

Well, Stanley was lost. And concerned. Mostly lost, though. He had so many questions.

“Why would you need magic water to make you happy?” Was the one that won out, but fuck, did Stan wish he could take the words back the second they left his mouth.

Tate’s face crumpled all over again. “I don’t know!” He wailed, tears streaming down his tiny face. “Mom and Dad are both happier than I’ve ever seen them! I like you! I like Gravity Falls! I get to have a Grandma for the first time ever, and she’s awesome! So why do I still feel so sad and angry all the time? I’m awful!” Tate sobbed. “I got to get my Dad back—Lilian didn’t!—so why am I still so—so sad-mad at him? Why can’t I just be happy like everyone else is? Why am I broken?”

Oh, kid.

Suddenly a whole lot of things Stan had been noticing made a hell of a lot more sense. Why Tate was so eager to call Ma ‘Grandma’. The whole ‘bonus dad’ thing, and the distress at the idea that he and Fidds weren’t married. All those times, just little moments, he’d looked like he was hiding something—like he was trying to keep what he was actually feeling from showing up on his face.

Constantly trying to find things to be happy about in the situation he didn’t get to choose.

That’s what this was.

Stanley felt like he’d been punched in the gut.

“I just thought—if I could make myself be happy, then everything would be how it’s supposed to,” the kid sniffled.

Fuck.

What did that book say he should do, in times like these? Did it say anything about times like these?

Think, Stan, think.

Fuck a book. He wasn’t—he was Stanley.

Fidds wasn’t here, and neither was—and neither was Ford.

Just Stanley.

He’d been a kid once, right?

What would 10 year-old Stanley have needed? Something that Filbrick wouldn’t have done with a gun to his head, right? If he could’ve had anything, what would it have been?

Probably for someone to just let me be selfish without judging me for it, for once.

He could work with that.

“Take me out of it,” Stanley started. “Pretend I’m not part of the equation. If you could have anything, what would it be?” He asked.

Tate looked at him doubtfully. Fair enough, Stan guessed. It did kinda sound like a trap.

“Just go with it—no strings. Scouts honour,” he tried again. At the unintentional sound of her name, Scout stepped her way over, nudging up at Tate's little legs.

Reluctantly, Tate did. “I just—I’d want Dad to live closer, I guess,” he said tentatively. “And I’d—I’m just—I’d want us to be a family like the other kids’ at school’s are.”

Stanley took a deep breath with him.

“Yeah. That makes sense. A whole lot of sense,” Stan let out a gusty exhale. “I’m sorry it ain’t that way, kiddo. That it can’t be. I’m sorry you’ve been having a rough time of it, and feeling like you have to hide it from everyone.”

Stanley wanted whatever the hell was in that fucking lake that made the sirens shit themselves to come swallow him up immediately, when Tate started crying again.

“Ah, geez, kid,” he said, panicking, unthinkingly reaching out a hand.

He found himself nearly knocked over, shocked, as Tate latched onto him, tears leaking onto the front of Stanley’s shirt.

Slowly, Stanley lowered his arms gently down around the kid’s shoulders, trying his damnedest to keep himself from tearing up too, and just let the kid cry it out.

(He looked down at the little boy in his arms, at one point—tiny. So, so small.

Ma was right, he thought. Filbrick really was a rat-bastard.)

“Y’know, kid,” Stanley began sometime later, as they all started back towards home. “I really think you could tell your dad about all of this, if you wanted. Just—might help, is all. He’d—he’d want the chance to make things right—as right as he can, no doubt. And he wouldn’t be mad—that, I can promise you,” he said, already able to picture the way Fiddleford would react. The only person Fidds would be mad at would be himself—Stan would go all in betting on that without a second thought.

When Tate didn’t reply, Stanley tried again, just one last time. “Wanna know a secret?” He waited for Tate’s hesitant nod. “All the happiness you’ve been seeing? That’s because he’s got you back too, kiddo. You mean the world to him.”

“... Okay. I—I reckon I’ll try,” Tate said tentatively. He giggled, starting to come back to himself, when Stan affectionately noogied him in response.

Stan tried very, very hard not to think of the things he was alone with, right now, as they kept walking. What he wasn’t telling anyone.

But, as they stepping back out onto the Shack’s lawn, and Stanley saw his partner’s stunning, beaming face smiling out at them both from the back porch, Stanley knew with a dawning sort of dread that he wasn’t going to be able to keep hiding it much longer, either.

Not without lying directly, not just by omission.

That felt different somehow.

Maybe it didn’t have to be Fidds, though. Maybe—maybe he could still protect somebody?

By lying. He was still lying. It was all still lying. And hiding things from his partner, who he loved in a way and to a depth he didn’t know it was possible to.

After dinner, when Fidds and Tate went up to the roof to have their talk, Stanley left a note to tell Fiddleford he was going to go check in on his Ma, and that he’d be back home before bedtime.

A start was a start, maybe.

As Stanley drove, the closer he got to Ma’s house, the more he started feeling like one of the blankets his lover had reduced to nothing, just by tugging on a single string.

Caryn was having a quiet little evening at home, candles lit and something ridiculous on the TV, when she heard the knocks at her front door.

Those very particular knocks, mind you. Nearly 30 years later, they were always the same.

Opening her door without hesitation, she fumbled as she took in the sight of her sweet boy.

“Stanley? Baby, what’s happened?” She asked, immediately making to let him in.

Instead, her little Lee just clung on to her, and of course she let him, brushing a hand through his too-long hair.

“I have something I gotta tell you,” Stanley mumbled. “You might be mad.”

“Are ya dying?” A shake of his head. “No? Good. Can’t be too mad, then—oooh, wait a minute, did something happen with Fidds? That could make me mad at either one of yous, depending. No? Grand. Whatever it is, then, we’ll figure it out,” she answered, trying to hide that her concern was growing by the millisecond.

There was a long pause before Stanley next spoke.

“I found them, Ma,” he croaked. “Ford’s journals.” She inhaled sharply. “I can tell you where they are—I put ’em back. Buried them.”

“Lee? Sweetheart, what do you mean? When? Didn’t ya need ’em?” Caryn asked, confused. Squeezing tight before she let go, she shut the door, and steered Stanley to the living room, sitting down right next to him on the couch and wrapping an arm around his broad shoulders.

“... I read them. There’s—there’s nothing about how to get rid of the bastard. Ford didn’t know. He—” Stanley cut off. Caryn gave his shoulder a squeeze.

“He was bein’ possessed by him. Tortured, too. Not allowed to sleep.” Stanley intoned. Caryn felt a great big pain swell in her chest. It wasn’t anything she didn’t expect, after hearing about a bloodstained bathroom—but holy Moses, to hear undeniable confirmation still hurt. “He got tricked. Turns out the little yellow bastard is a conman, too,” Stanley laughed mirthlessly. Tears were starting to slip down his face, now. Caryn reached up to brush them away, heart jumping into her throat when Stanley flinched back.

“I—two months ago. Back in June. The night I went to the mailbox. I didn’t tell either of you. I thought—I don’t even know, anymore. That I was protecting you? Yeah, like I’ve ever been any good at that. Look what happened to the last guy that asked,” He scoffed bitterly.

“Two months?! Baby, no,” Caryn said, heartbroken. “All this time? It’s just been eating at you, all this time?”

“I think I might be the worst person in the world, Ma,” his lower lip was wobbling, now. “All that, and what I can’t stop thinking about is how much he sounded like he hated me before I even got there.”

Oh, her boys.

She really had failed them both. That rat-bastard was damn lucky he was already dead.

Caryn pulled her now sobbing son back into her arms, and just let him let it out.

The next day, after he’d gone and blubbered tears and snot all over Ma’s nice dress, was pretty a pretty standard one. Tate was back to smiling—finally reaching his eyes, this time—and Fidds was barely ever more than an arm’s reach away from him, the two sticking together like velcro.

That night, Stanley and Fiddleford were having a quiet evening, as they lay together in bed. Stan was dozing, while Fidds was reading next to him, sides pressed warmly up against one another. Fidds’ fingers were knotting and unknotting themselves blissfully in Stanley’s hair.

“You still awake, my darlin’?” Fidds asked softly, setting his book down.

“Mmm, not for long, if y’keep that up,” Stanley mumbled into his pillow. Fiddleford just laughed softly, bending down to kiss him.

“Well, then. Before you doze off—I didn’t get to say it earlier, so I wanted to be sure I did now. Thank you, sugar. For talking with Tate. You handled that so, so well, Lee. I just—it means the world to me, and I hope you know that,” Fiddleford said.

His beautiful face was breathtaking—soft, in the warm lamplight, looking down at Stan like he was worth something.

Stanley felt himself break.

No, he really couldn’t do this anymore, huh?

He just hoped he’d still have a partner, after he got the truth out. Hoped he hadn’t fucked this up beyond repair, too.

Stanley felt himself start to shake, and knew Fidds must’ve, too, as he tried desperately to keep a lid on his sobs.

“Lee?” Fidds asked, besotted to concerned in .5 seconds flat.

Stan felt his lover gently tilt his face up, until they were looking eye to eye.

“I’m sorry,” Stanley got out. “Fidds, there—there’s something I haven’t been talking about. I—I’ll get if you’re mad, or need space. I told Ma, yesterday. It’s from June. When—if you’re okay to talk about it—yeah. Doesn’t have to be details—”

“I’m okay to hear it,” Fiddleford said.

“It’s—it’s a Stanford-shaped can of worms.” Stanley swallowed hard.

“You’re the ‘can of worms’ I care about right now, Lee,” Fiddleford said, brows knit together. He ran a tender hand down the side of Stanley’s face. “And sometimes, you gotta let there be a mess before you can clean it up. So open up, love. Please.”

And so he tried.

When Tate came peaking into their room the next morning, hoping to surprise them with breakfast, he found them holding on to each other tightly, even in sleep.

They were all of them gonna be okay.

The sun was just beginning to set in earnest, and Tate was still off playing with some new friends of his—the Cutebiker’s youngest, Tyler, and girl named Shandra. Fiddleford and Stanley were sat together on the back porch, colas in hand, Fiddleford’s head on Stan’s shoulder, Stanley’s head on top of Fidds’.

“I love you,” Fiddleford sighed contentedly. Stanley, feeling raw even a week or so after their late night talk, turned his head to kiss Fidds’ temple, replying gruffly in kind.

“I’ve, um. I’ve been thinking a lot lately, treasure. Can I get something off my chest?” Fiddleford asked, reaching for Stanley’s hand.

“’Course, Fidds. Lay it on me,” he replied, letting Fiddleford tangle their fingers close together.

“Now, don’t mistake me,” Fiddleford began. “There’s a whole lot I’ve done that I regret. A whole lot that I wish I could take back, make right. A whole lot I plan to keep trying at rectifying. But—and maybe it makes me a selfish, horrible son of a donkey’s tail, but... I don’t rightly know if I could bring myself to change anything, if I had the chance, and it meant I wouldn’t get to be here right now.” Fiddleford breathed deeply. “For every awful thing I’ve had to recall—I’d remember it a thousand times over. Let you break that gun, again and again. There’s more yet to come, I’m sure. It’ll be awful, probably. But this? Here, with you? It’s... it’s worth it. You’re one of the best things to ever happen to me, Stanley Pines. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to put into words how much I cherish you. I just wanted to make sure you knew—given the choice, I’d choose you, darlin’. I do choose you.”

Stanley was close to sobbing by the end of that, obviously. “What the hell, Fidds? You can’t just—” Make that full on sobbing. He leaned over, pulling Fiddleford into a truly spectacular kiss. And another. And another.

A light breeze blew through the yard, warm and pleasant.

Scout dozed in her little doghouse, head resting softly on her many legs.

A bright blue zap of light flashed behind a nearby bush, as red threads caught on the low branches, unseen.