Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Alright—you deal.” Stan looks up at Fiddleford from across the table, and the man swiftly scoops up the deck of cards, and begins to expertly shuffle them between nimble fingers. 

“If we’re keepin’ score—which we are ,” Stan pulls out a tiny yellowed notebook, covered with letters and numbers scrawled in his shitty, indecipherable handwriting, and squints at it. “By number of hands won, rather than total points , I’m up by two at a total of twenty-six. Fidds, you’re next at twenty-four. Ford’s down at eighteen— damn, Sixer, you suck at rummy!” 

Fiddleford makes a skeptical face behind his green-bottle glasses. “You sure yer countin’ that right? Yanno your eyes ain’t too good, Stanley. ‘Sides, ya like t’ fudge the numbers, keeping’ score!” 

Stan flips him off. “My eyes are fine , and if you don’t believe the most honest man in Gravity Falls—” Fidds scoffs, “Check the scoresheet for yourself, nerd!” He slides the water-damaged notebook across the table. 

Fidds inspects it, then goes slightly red. “Well— ahem— you did read this a ‘lil wrong.” Stan scowls. “You’re up by four at twenty- eight .” Stan guffaws. 

“That’s what you get for trying to take my job !”

Ford appears in the doorway to the living room, speaking suddenly and making them both start a bit. 

“I heard your commentary, Stanley, and I’ll have you know that rummy is a luck and probability-based game, so my ‘skill level’ has nothing to do with it!!” He makes air quotes with his fingers, then rounds on his friend. “And Fiddleford—you know he likes to keep score. Just let him have this.” 

Stanley grins devilishly. “Yeah.” 

Fiddleford rolls his eyes. “Sure, fine. Keep score, then. Siddown, Stanferd. Let’s get goin’.” 

Ford takes his spot at the table, carefully placing a finger of whiskey in front of each man. Stan gives him an appreciative nod, and Fiddleford immediately takes a deep drink, wincing in approval.

Fiddleford doles out ten cards apiece, and places the remaining cards in a neat pile at the center of the table. He selects the top card, flipping it over.

It’s been their routine, most nights during the summer, for a few years now—every time the twins return from sea, there’s a new page of the notebook. 

They sit around the table in the living room, often with their glasses of whiskey, to play cards and chat idly. Sometimes, they swap stories. Other times, they just tell jokes, egg each other on, or get competitive. The three of them tend to get, well— invested, in their games. They insist upon keeping score, but trash-talking and cheating allegations are always rampant (a fight he’s found himself on the wrong side of one too many times). 

As Fiddleford deals,  Stan fondly recalls that one night, last year, when a backgammon board had gone flying out of the window, and promptly been shot with several different space-lasers. That was a good day. Stan selects a card from the pile, and places a jack atop the discards.

“So, Fiddlenerd,” Stan asks, as Ford begins his turn, “how’re things up at the big house?” Ford grimaces at his drawn card, and places a king on the pile. 

“‘S been alright! The critters take up the left wing, mostly, you know. Gnomes an’ such have bin comin’ in an’ out this season, lotsa fairies too. Ah get some bigger guests—had a manatour last week who’d been in a nasty fight with ‘is buddies—apparently ‘feelin’-sharin’’ time didn’ go too well, an he needed somewhere else fer a bit. Was good company, but not much fer conversation.“ Fiddleford waves a hand as he picks up Ford’s discarded king, grinning triumphantly. Stan makes a face, his friend’s early lead evident.

“How ‘bout the kiddos?” Fiddleford follows up, “they bin gettin’ inta trouble?”

Ford scoffs, but it’s all fond. “Naturally. Those two seem to be magnets for it.” 

“Can’t imagine why,” Stan chimes in, sipping his whiskey and picking up a card.

“Last week, they nearly brought down an entire pixie clan on our heads,” Ford continues, a note of pride in his voice, “their teeth and wings are rather sharp, you know—could have done some serious harm, but Mabel was able to distract them with a mix of sugar-water and holographic glitter. It redirected the pack away, and seemed to calm them down.” He grins at the memory, expression doting. 

“Smart girl,” Stan adds, “I think I woulda’ just started out shootin’ at ‘em.” He pauses, then turns to his twin. “Play, Ford.” 

Ford picks up a card, then shifts two others around in his hand, smirking. “Motherfucker,” Stan grumbles. 

Fiddleford giggles. “An’ if’n I’m assumin’ correctly, the little ones’ll want to play Monopoly later?” He picks up a card, replacing it with another from his hand. 

“You know they do,” Ford groans, and Stan gives a shark-like grin.

“It’s a weekly tradition!” He takes his turn, smiling  wider. Three queens. 

“It’s a weekly disaster,” Ford counters, and Stan barks out a laugh. “You’re just mad that I always win, and you’re always getting crushed under my boot!” His brother flips him two middle fingers. 

“He is a real strict landlord,” Fidds remarks as Stanford draws and replaces his card, expression distinctly grumpy. 

“Only because he’s a sore loser!” Stan jabs a thumb in Ford’s direction. 

“I swear you steal from the bank, Stan. One day I’m going to catch you, you know.” Fiddleford takes his turn, shifting subtly in his seat and matching up another trio of cards.  

“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, Six. And if I did—which I don’t,— you should know I’m undetectable. Especially when Dipper’s keeping bank. Kid’ll slap your hand like a freakin’ ballet instructor,” Stan replies, rolling his eyes good-naturedly and taking his turn.

“Good. He should monitor you!” Ford jabs sarcastically, picking up another card with a grin, replacing it on the pile. “You’re a danger to the rules of games in any dimension!”

Fidds chuckles raucously. “The two ‘f ya, I swear. Goin’ at it like cats ‘n dogs.” He picks up a card, swaps it out, and then crows in victory, presenting the table with three sets of three cards—kings, jacks, and fives. 

“God dammit !” Stan and Ford both make sour faces, letting their own cards fall to the table. 

“Up t’ twenty-five, Stanley! Make sure ya write that one down!” He hambones on his knees with a frenzied excitement. 

“You’re the very definition of a sore winner,” Ford grumbles, “It’s not fair.”

“Yea, yea—Fair’s a place where they judge pigs!” Fidds scoops up the cards, reshuffling them, “I’ll win proper when you lose proper, Stanferd!” Stanley laughs heartily. “Now, pick a card, an’ we’ll go again.” 

The three men carefully select a card, and place it face-up on the table. Stan swears under his breath, taking a sip of his drink. “My deal. Prepare for the wrath of Stanley Pines, Fiddlesticks—I’m lengthening my lead!”

Chapter Text

Mabel paces back and forth across the living room floor, hands clasped behind her back like a drill sergeant. The rectangular, pale blue board is spread out across the carpet, and Stan, Fiddleford, and Ford have each claimed a side of the board for themself to tuck money and property deeds under for safekeeping. The two younger twins share a side, prepared to constantly jostle elbows. The four other players pay rapt attention to the teenage girl barking orders at the front of the room. Ford, in particular, gazes upon her with a fond yet absolutely determined expression. I refuse to let this game devolve into chaos for another week, he thinks, she ought to keep everyone in line. 

“Everybody listen up! We are not going to fall into madness this week, Pines family!“ She surveys each one of them carefully, eyes definitely lingering over the older twins. “Monopoly should be an enjoyable bonding experience for all. That means a few things!” She turns to the whiteboard she’s set up, and points at each rule as she enumerates it. “One: Grunkle Stan, no cheating. You know Grunkle Ford will spend the whole game trying to catch you! Number two, also for Grunkle Stan: no excessive trash talk! We all know that you cause fights on purpose.”

Stan rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “Yeah, sure, whatever. For the record, I deny both of those accusations.” 

“I still don’t know how you steal when I bank,” Dipper muses.

Mabel nods. “We’ll incorporate your statement into the record. Number Three— this one’s mainly for Grunkle Ford— don’t be a sore loser! That means pay your rent without complaint, and don’t blame others for your terrible in-game choices!” 

Ford flushes, indignant. “I do not—“

Fiddleford cuts him off. “—Yes, y’do . Go on, Mabel, dear.”

She beams at the engineer. “The rest of these are fairly simple!” She ticks them off quickly. “No physical fights, no spontaneous inventions, and absolutely no fighting over who ended the world! Got it?” Her demands leave no room for argument.

“Got it!” Dipper exclaims.

“Heard loud n’ clear!” Fidds follows up, grinning.

“Whatever you say, pumpkin.” Stan pointedly hides crossed fingers behind his back, and the room rolls their eyes.

“Of course, sweetheart!” Ford says, with a glare at his twin. 

“Great! ” Mabel says, oblivious to the immediate insubordination. “Then…it’s Monopoly time!”

The room (minus Ford) erupts into crowing cheers.

The game starts off innocuous enough: Ford lands on two railroads on his first turn around the board, and purchases both. It’s good to have trading materials for the properties you ultimately want, he thinks, smug. 

Fiddleford’s first few rolls are less fortunate. He lands on the “income tax,” space, and somehow makes it around the board purchasing only the waterworks utility. 

Dipper and Mabel play in turn, Dipper acquiring a light blue and a green property, Mabel grabbing the other utility and a yellow space. 

Stan’s rolls, per usual, are particularly lucky. With a deft roll of snake eyes, he secures two orange properties—St. James Place and New York Avenue. He’s acquired the third railroad and been awarded $150 by a Chance space by the time he makes it back to Go. Typical, Ford thinks, as that familiar cocky grin spreads over his twin’s face.

Things don’t start to devolve until the family’s third trip around the board. Property trios are being collected rather quickly. Some, like Stan’s orange properties, are acquired through simple (albeit suspicious) dumb luck. Others are divided amongst players to be fought for later—Fiddleford and Dipper acquire a brown property apiece, the latter also aiming to complete a set of light blues, one of which has not been claimed. Mabel snatches up two purples before the third is promptly taken by Ford. He’s also managed to secure Park Place, Indiana Avenue, and the remaining railroad. These acquisitions cause…several issues. 

“Hey, Sixer. I’ve got the last railroad,” Stan mocks, and Ford simply huffs, determined not to rise to the bait. “D’ya want it?” 

“Likely not for whatever price you’re proposing,” Ford shoots back dryly.

Stan smirks. “A thousand, and it’s yours.” 

“That’s utterly ridiculous,” Ford shoots back, “I’d never make those profits up and you know it. You’re trying to bankrupt me!” 

“What? ” Stanley mocks offense. “I’m just tryin’ ta bargain, here!! The railroads are a steady income!”

“Not as steady as the oranges will be if I fund you to build hotels,” he replies, picking up the dice to start the next turn. “And you know what I’m aiming for.” Boardwalk. 

“Can’t promise I’ll make another offer, Poindexter! You’re really missing out,” he adds, installing a third house onto New York Avenue. 

“I’m sure.”

“Cut it out, the two o’ ya!” Fiddleford gives them a warning glare, which they both decidedly ignore.

The five of them circle the board once more, Dipper landing on his final light blue with a crow of victory, Mabel landing on a red, a second yellow, and then a green, purchasing all three. “I’m playing the long game,” she whispers conspiratorially to Stanley. He ruffles her hair, and Ford tries not to let his softening heart break his in-game resolve. 

Fiddleford acquires the final yellow property as well as the final green, and secures enough funds to keep him playing with no monopoly in sight by landing on Free Parking and collecting about a thousand dollars. 

Ford manages to land on a second red, but otherwise has a fairly abysmal turn around the board, landing on Stan’s three-house St. James Place, and being forced to pay him rent. 

Pretending he’s reaching up to adjust his glasses so the children don’t see, Ford flips his twin two middle fingers. Stan, in response, promptly lands on the third red, and then, to his twin’s immense dismay, snatches up Boardwalk. 

Stan cackles madly , tossing four hundreds to Dipper and collecting the other dark blue card. Ford seethes , swearing under his breath in a multitude of alien tongues and surveying his brother’s pile of deeds and bills. The rest of the room winces, the intonation enough to convey his mood. 

“How do you still have two—you’re stealing!! Dipper, he’s stealing!!” 

Dipper sighs. “Grunkle Ford, I’ve been watching him! I always watch him! There’s no way to prove it!”

“It’s called financial insight, kid. Learn t’ budget,” Stan quips, installing three red hotels across his orange properties.

“We’ve gotta build up our arsenal, people!” Mabel cries before Ford can get back at Stan, “he’s on the rise!! Trade time!” 

“I hate trade time,” Fiddleford mumbles under his breath.

The first few trades go down without incident. Dipper offers Fiddleford his green property in exchange for the brown, and then Fidds and Mabel swap green and yellow, plus Mabel throws in her utility, because “the greens make more money, it’s only fair!” This leaves Fiddleford with a technical two monopolies and Mabel with one, overall placing them on more even footing. Dipper controls nearly the entire east side of the board, and has started to build hotels—however, his properties aren’t the big moneymakers. 

This process leaves only the purples, reds, and dark blues up for grabs. This is when the game really begins to deteriorate. There’s some whispered argument between Mabel and Stan, and suddenly, Stan has two reds, and Mabel’s got five hundred dollars and the extra railroad. She begins constructing houses on her greens immediately.

As she does, she announces: “Grunkle Ford, I’ve decided to be merciful!”

Ford lets out a chuckle. “And how’s that, my dear?”

“I will accept your three railroads in exchange for my two purples and three hundred dollars,” Mabel replies primly. Ford wrinkles his brow in thought. That’ll leave me with a prime monopoly, plus leverage against Stanley for his dark blue.

He taps his chin in exaggerated thought, and then dips his head in agreement, handing her the railroads and three hundred-dollar bills; accepting the two purples in return. This leaves Ford and Stan as the last two needing to trade. 

Likely in an effort to delay the inevitable, the family moves around the board again. Fiddleford lands on an orange property, swearing under his breath at Stan, and then promptly lands on the green one he just traded, and also has to pay Mabel a large sum. He looks distinctly grumpy by the end of his turn. Dipper manages to avoid payment until he hits Ventor—which improves Fidds’ mood the tiniest bit—and then escapes back to the Go space. Mabel, feeling confident, lands on one of Ford’s purples. There’s only one house built on it, so far, but Ford accepts the payment gladly regardless. Stan doesn’t pay a penny of rent his entire way around the board. Ford’s face darkens as he picks up his dice. 

He lands on one of Dipper’s properties, paying $500, and then rolls again. A seven. He gazes at the board. Fucking St. James Place. Stan doesn’t even try to suppress his laugh.

“Jesus Christ, you’re going to bankrupt me!” Ford yells, irritated and nonplussed. “Would someone please explain to me how this continues to happen? Can he rig my dice??” 

“Shuddup and pay up!” Stan shoots back. 

“You shuddup!” He retorts like a child, and, to his horror, he feels a trace of his New Jersey accent slip through. This only eggs Stan on. 

“Rent is due, Sixer! Cough it up or there’s no chance of a trade between us!” 

“Grunkle Ford…” Mabel warns, “remember the rules! Pay your rent!”

“He’s a tyrant, Mabel!” Ford cries, indignant, but he begrudgingly hands over his substantial sum.

He manages to make it around the rest of the board safely, and then, reluctantly, it’s time for their trading to resume. Stan rubs his hands together. 

“So, Sixer! Let’s talk property.” He leans across the board towards Ford. “I’ll give ya the dark blue for the two reds and six hundred dollars.” 

“Six hundred? You’re out of your mind! This is an equal trade, Stanley. Property for property, let’s keep it simple and fair.” 

Stan hums. “But the maximum payout for Boardwalk is $2,000! That’s way more than the measly $1,050 maximum on Indiana! You’ve got the advantage if I hand this one over.” 

Ford splutters,“But you’ll own orange and red—a practical guaranteed landing every time we go around the board! Isn’t stability worth something?” 

Stan narrows his eyes. “The dark blue properties objectively have the most potential , Sixer! You could wipe someone out in one fell swoop!” He gives a shark-like grin. “Okay, how about I even concede a bit for ya? Five hundred dollars and the properties. Final offer.” 

He really thinks that’s a better de—offer? “Do you have a brain between your gigantic ears? That’s practically the same thing!” 

“Do you have any common sense? I’m practically handing this to you! And our ears are the same size, idiot!” Their voices have started to raise, now. Dipper puts his head in his hands.

“Handing it to me—oh yes, of course, so generous! After you’ve practically driven me into the ground the whole game!” Ford points a finger at him accusingly, and Stan gives an absolutely lewd hand gesture in response. “Now that’s just foul!”

“Oh, shove it up your—” The older twins are cut off by a high-pitched, piercing whistle. 

“I said quit that—the both ‘f ya!!” Fiddleford removes two fingers from his mouth, and fixes the both of them with a harrowed glare. 

“He started it!” Ford protests.

“I don’t give a rat’s behind who started it! Yer actin like children, an’ I’m takin my turn!” He rolls the dice, and immediately lands on one of Mabel’s railroads. “Sonofa…” 

Stan and Ford glare daggers at each other as Dipper and Mabel make their moves, Dipper landing on one of Fiddleford’s yellow properties, and Mabel avoiding rent payment altogether. 

It’s Stan’s turn again, now. Ford privately hopes he gets the worst roll possible. 

“Chance space!” Stan chuckles. “Advance to GO. Collect 200 dollars!” He skips directly over Ford’s properties and collects his bills from Dipper. Ford seethes. 

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” 

Stan flips the Chance card around. “Read it an’ weep!” 

“Whatever! Piss off!”  Ford picks up the dice, and rolls them angrily. A twelve—Electric Company. He forks over a small sum to Fiddleford, and then shakes the dice to roll again. Stan’s properties are coming up. No fours, sixes, or sevens. I won’t give him another cent! He closes his eyes, and rolls. 

A three and a four. Seven. “Mother fu—” He starts to shout, and Stan absolutely cracks up.

“STANFERD! Language!!” Fiddleford crows, and then it all goes straight to hell. The twins are yelling over one another in a jumble of voices:

“Pay up, Stanford! You owe me—”

“I will not watch my language! Not when he—”

“One thousand and fifty smackers!!”

“Shut the hell up! I’m not payin’ you shit!”

Stan makes finger quotes in the air, mocking Ford’s voice, making his rage sound Jersey-er: “ I’m not payin’ you shit! Yes you are, because you landed on my goddamn space!” 

“You’re cheating, I know you are! I just—”

“You don’t know anythin’! You can’t prove that!” 

“I can and I will!” 

“Grunkle Ford—” Mabel tries,

“Grunkle Stan—” Dipper pleads, but it’s too late. 

“Oh, so you think I’m a cheater! Well, you’re cheating by trying to get out of rent! You can’t pay me this once when I paid your rent for thirty goddamn years?! ” 

“Here we go,” Fiddleford mumbles.

“Oh—you mean you paid it because I was shoved into another dimension!? Need I remind you—”

“You needn’t, asshat! You wouldn’t have been in another dimension if you hadn’t been trying to end the world!” 

“You always have to go there, you—” He launches himself across the board towards his brother, growling and tackling him backwards onto the ground. Green houses and red hotels scatter across the carpet, and someone’s drink spills, Dipper rushing to pick it up. 

“Augh! No fair, surprise attack!” Stan yelps, going down, colorful paper bills flying into the air around him. Fiddleford starts pulling little gears, long, thin metal parts, and a circuit board from the pocket of his overalls, muttering in irritation as he fits them together.

“I’ll kill you!” Ford screeches, and grabs a fistful of Stanley’s shaggy silver hair. The two tussle until they’re flipped over, and Stan heavily pushes his twin off of him. As they both bounce to their feet, Ford swings. The punch connects with Stanley’s gut, and he doubles over, winded for a moment, before charging forward and tossing Ford over his shoulders—he really has far too much upper body strength for a man his age—and sending him back to the ground. A bucket of popcorn is spilled, and kernels scatter across the living room. The older men are soon engaged in a back-and forth catfight, and Dipper and Mabel have escaped to the kitchen.

Ford manages to get Stan’s arms securely pinned behind his back when suddenly, Stan stops struggling against him, and goes completely limp, falling to the floor like a felled tree and clutching at his left arm. Ford jumps back straightaway. “ STANLEY!” He’s down on his knees next to him in a moment. “Oh my goodness, are you alright?!” 

Stan does not respond. 

Until, all of a sudden, two thin metal arms grab each man by the nape of their neck, lifting them up as a horrendous, high-pitched sound emits from their source.

“AUGHH! My hearing aid!” Stan cries.

“You faker! I was—“

“ENOUGH!” Fiddleford shouts up at the men dangling from the miniature claws. “The two of you are officially banned from Monopoly!” He releases them with a thump back onto the carpet. Stan and Ford look distinctly put out. 

The engineer lowers his voice slightly. “Dipper an’ Mabel, will ya come back in here, please? These two need a lesson on playing nice!” He pauses in consideration, leveling the older pair with a glare. “And bring the get-along shirt!” 

“No! ” They shout in unison, but it’s too late. Their niblings have reappeared in the doorway, holding a massive glitter-covered t-shirt, Mabel grinning menacingly. They look between each other, and bolt. 

“You’ll never take us alive!” Stan throws a smoke bomb, and the two of them are gone in an instant, the only proof of their presence faint, winded chuckles from the next room over. 

“Well,” Dipper says, exasperated and surveying the destroyed living room, “ That went about as expected.”