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Whatever you do, don't think about little Soos hearing Stan cry when he thought the kid had gone home already.
A kid with no real father figure, who looks up to stan like one, hearing him sob.
Stan, who thinks he's finally managed to turn the portal on, watching the light fade again after a long day of work.
He goes back up to the Shack to get some sleep and stops by the kitchen on his way. He's exhausted from a long day of touring idiots and working on that stupid piece of metal that took his brother two decades ago now.
Where did I put the bread?
Two decades ago.
There it is. Now where is the ham?
Two decades ago.
Got it. Now some cheese...
Two decades ago.
I should put somethin' else on it.
Two decades.
Like... some mayo or somethin'.
Two.
Where the hell is it?
Decades.
SHUT UP!
A loud glass noise surprises him. He looks to his right, and there in the floor lays a broken glass. He didn't even notice it on the counter next to him, an extension of all the silverware that was piled up, unwashed, in the sink. He looks back at it, as well as all the water and soap it had inside now spread on the floor.
Two decades.
The thought sits on his mind like an anvil.
Twenty years.
He's now spent more time working on that portal than he did living in the streets.
Twenty years.
He's now spent more time working on this portal than he did living in his own house back in New Jersey.
Twenty years.
He's now spent more time trying to get his brother back than having his brother by his side. Almost double the time, in fact.
Twenty. Fucking. Years.
He needs to sit down, now. He's gonna fall if he doesn't, and the floor right now is a safety hazard. He finds the nearest chair and pretty much collapses on it, making a sound that almost makes him think he broke it.
Everything is spinning. His vision is not focused, and he cannot for his life stand up. He's stuck sitting on that chair until the world stops the centrifuge cycle.
Stuck.
It shouldn't be a surprise to him that he's now spent that much time in Gravity Falls, and yet... It hits him so much harder that he would've expected. Usually, he'd try to push any such thought away; he learned very early on (back in his homeless days) that ruminating on how long he'd been on his own was never a good thing. It only brought him pain and many, many sleepless nights. Instead, he'd just tell himself that he was just getting closer to his goal. His big break. The moment he'd win enough money to prove to his dad that he was wrong. That his stupid son, the extra Stan, was actually worth something. That he was worth coming back home.
But now all of that was out the window. Well, not now, but twenty years ago. When he made a stupid fucking mistake again and sent his brother to wherever the fuck he was. When he sentenced his brother to be in his shoes: alone, scared, away from home. Presumed dead-
The sob hardly catches him off-guard. It's all too much: too much time, too unfocused, too hopeless, too alone. It doesn't take long (or any time at all really) for many other sobs and whimpers to echo around the empty kitchen, filling the ever-familiar silence that permeates every single room of that house. Too much silence, for too long. How much more is he going to endure? How long until he completely gives up? Or rather, his body does? If twenty years had already passed by, what was keeping another twenty to do the same? God that was-
“Mr. Pines?”
The voice feels like a slap in the face. It isn't enough to focus his vision or make the weight on his chest disappear, but it definitely succeeds in waking him up. Instinctively, he grabs the knife he was going to use to cut the bread and looks around. Now that he thinks about it, the voice sounded high-pitched, almost like a child. Was he having some sort of flashback, or a hallucination? It wouldn't be the first time, but he isn't drunk or sleep-deprived enough for that. That he knows.
“Mr. Pines!” The voice sounded clearer this time, and louder too. It came from outside the kitchen window, that's for sure.
He doesn't move yet. He knows he heard it, but knowing what lurks in this town, and considering his head is still spinning from the breakdown and the sudden adrenaline, standing up seems like a mildly bad idea.
He hears some commotion outside, like some furniture being moved around or something. But that's impossible, it came from outside. Also, now that he thinks about it, that voice sounded a lot like-
“Knock-knock,” the voice says out loud, while actually knocking on the glass window.
Now he's sure.
Wait, what the hell is he doing here?!
Stan stands up a little faster than he should have, but it's alright: still dizzy, but manageable. He goes up to the window and opens the lock. A pair of shiny eyes and a tooth-gaped smile greet him.
“Good evening, Mr. Pines!”
Stan stares dumbfounded at the child in front of him.
“That's good night to you, kid, it's...” he looks at the watch on his wrist. “Almost 11 p.m.” He opens his eyes when the realization hits him. “Wait, what the f...udge are you doing here? Why aren't you at home?”
“Abuelita is with some friends tonight.”
“And? You still have to be home, ya know?”
“I wanted to stay more. In the last tour of the day you always tell funny horror stories and I wanted to listen to it.”
“Yes, I do that because children are supposed to be home by that time. Why aren't ya?”
“There's no bus this late on Saturdays. I forgot.”
Stan tilts his head. This kid is as nonchalant as he's dense. Are all kids like this?
“Are you okay, Mr. Pines?”
The question takes him by surprise.
“Yeah, why?”
“You're all red and puffy. And you're still crying.”
“I'm not crying.”
“I heard you. That's why I climbed the wall.”
Maybe the kid isn't as dense as he thinks.
“I'm just sweating.”
“Through your eyes?”
“You'll understand when you grow up.”
“Old people don't cry?”
“I'm not old, and I'm not crying.”
“You look like me when I cry.”
Stan opens his mouth to answer, but closes it. For how little he knows about this kid, he definitely knows he shouldn't go there. That damn Abuelita would probably kill him.
“Can I come in? I'm cold.”
Stan takes a moment to evaluate the situation: he's basically on a staring context with a ten?-year-old, except that child is just a floating head through a window. Also, the kid's outside of his house, and it's nighttime. It isn't even cold out, but what does he know about that?
“Yeah, sure. Just... go to the front door, I'll open it.”
“Okay!”
Stan hears a couple of metallic steps before a jump, and he realizes that the kid was standing on the trash container that is usually a couple of feet away from the window. Was that the “moving furniture around” noise that he heard? That little bastard is for sure resourceful.
Also, did he do that just because he heard him cry? God, that's embarrassing.
A knock on the door. He's fast, too.
Stan leaves the knife on the counter drawer and puts on his robe. He's still in a dirty white tank top and some underpants, and he'd open the door like that if it were for him, but it still feels weird. Let's at least pretend he still gives a shit.
He goes to the door and opens it. Even though he sees him every other day, it still surprises him how short this kid is for being 10. Was he that short at his age? He doesn't think so. That boy will probably grow up to be like 5'6”, no more.
“Don't take off your shoes, it's fine,” he quickly says as he watches the kid reach for his feet. “How long have you been outside? Since the last tour?”
The boy nods.
“So like two hours. Alrigh'“ Stan pinches his nose. Was this kid here the whole time he was working on the portal downstairs? God he was an idiot for not noticing. “Have you had dinner?”
The boy shakes his head.
“Okay. You like ham and cheese sandwiches?” Another nod, this one way more enthusiastic. “Alright, come in. Don't run, there's some broken glass on the kitchen I have to clean up.”
“I can clean it up if you want. I'm very good with the broom. I broom my house. Abuelita says I'm very good at it.”
“Nah, don't worry. Just follow me so you don't step on the glass.”
“Okay.”
They both make their way into the kitchen. Stan makes a sign to the kid to sit on the table, which is thankfully opposite to the mess he made a few minutes ago. While the kid does as told, he goes into the broom closet. When he comes back, broom in hand, he looks at the kid's dangling feet on the air. They're nowhere near the floor. 5'5”, tops.
“So, your Abuelita isn't home?”
“No, she's helping out some friends. I don't know where she is.”
“And she didn't tell you to be home by dinner?”
“She did. She left me some food, but I know she's not going to be home. Also I wanted to listen to the last tour.”
Stan scoffs as he takes the knife out of the drawer again. “You really like the tours, huh?”
“Yes! They're so fun!” The kid's voice sounds even higher. “And sometimes you invent new ones, and I love them. Where do you get the ideas?”
“I don't know, they just pop up, really. I'm good at improvising, I guess.”
“You should totally come to Storytelling Day at my school! And tell us some scary stories.”
A soft chuckle escapes Stan's mouth. “Yeah, I'm not sure about that. I don't think your teachers would like the stories very much.”
“I'd like it. Also, I could finally choose the story. I never do,” he says in a sad voice.
“Why not?” Stan's mind immediately goes to his own school days. Is this kid being bullied?
“I'm not good at reading. And usually the storytellers are parents, and Abuelita is very busy. So I can't choose the story.”
Stan stays silent. He knows just enough about this kid to put two and two together, and he doesn't like the result. If he lives with his grandma and his parents don't even live in town, they're either trying hard to make some money, cowards, or dead.
“Don't sweat it, kid. Reading stories out loud is overrated. You think I wanna hear Patrick from accounting read a book he hasn't opened in 40 years? Nah. Boring.” He places the sandwich, not finished, on a frying pan. Slightly toasted buns will do wonders for the flavor. “Trust me, if you want some good stories, just make them up yourself. That's how you get the story that you want.”
“But I'm not good at talking to people. When they're all looking at me, it's scary. I don't want to look dumb.”
Stan sighs to himself. He's had this conversation before. Nope, don't think about that.
“Look, kid. Sometimes you're scared. It's normal. Everyone is.”
“Are you scared, Mr. Pines?”
Stan flips the sandwich carefully. This kid asks too much. That's what kids do, after all.
“Yeah, sometimes. Not of talking to others, but yeah. I'm scared sometimes.”
What if I don't fix... what if the police... what if Ford...?
“But fear is what makes us move forward. If you're always scared, then you won't do anything ever. And sometimes fear is a good thing, it protects us. But sometimes it's just a liability.”
“What's that?”
“A liability? Something that... stops you from doing things.”
“Like a red light?”
“Sure, like a red light.”
“The red lights are scary.”
“Sometimes. But traffic lights aren't always red. They can be yellow, or green. Do you know how traffic lights work?”
“They change colors, and they make the cars go and stop.”
“Yeah, kind of.” Stan turns off the stove. He takes the sandwich from the pan and puts it on a plate. He turns around and walks to the table, placing the dish in front of the boy.
“It looks so good! Thanks!” he says before grabbing the sandwich and biting into it. He was definitely hungry.
“No worries”, Stan says. He sits down and looks at the kid for a couple of seconds before he speaks again. “The thing about traffic lights is, they don't make the cars move or stop. They are just a sign, the cars move on their own. You understand that?”
The kid swallows a big bite of the sandwich before answering politely: “Yes.”
“Fear is just that. A sign. If you see a red light, you're scared of it, so you stop. And that's good, because then the other cars can move without problems. See?” Stan is using his hands to try and gesture a crossing. To his luck, he kids nods. “The problem is when the light is yellow. Do you know what the yellow light is?”
“No.”
“It means you have to be careful, but you can move. So when the light is yellow, you can be a little scared, but you have to keep moving. You understand?” Another nod, this one a little more hesitant. “When you're scared, you need to figure out if the light is red or yellow. For example, if you're in a very high place and you look down, it's scary, right?”
“Yes.”
“That's good fear. You're scared to fall, and that's good, because if you fall you can get hurt. So, because of the fear, you move away from the high place.”
“Like when I was in the falls. It was very high and I was scared I could fall into the water.”
“Exactly, that's good fear. Fear that makes you safe.” Stan makes a mental note not to judge this child again. He's not dense at all. “The other fear, the yellow light, is different. It's when you're scared of doing things because of the “what ifs”.”
“What's that?”
“Imagine you're doing some math problems in front of the whole class, and you think “what if I make this problem wrong?” What's the worst that could happen?”
“They... laugh at me.”
“Eeeehh, error. The worst thing that could happen is that a meteor crashes and destroys the school. See? That's the worst thing that could happen.”
“I... I guess?”
“What I mean is, you can think “what if...?” all you want, but the reality is, you won't know unless ya try. Maybe you'll do a great job and you didn't even expect it! Or maybe you'll do the math problem wrong! Who cares? The important thing is that you saw the yellow light, stopped for a second, and then decided to carry on. That's what you have to do. Always carry on.”
The last part comes out quieter than the rest, and Stan knows. The kid probably noticed too.
“You understand that?”
“Yes, I think so.” The kid finishes his sandwich, thinking for a moment. “So, do you think I should try reading on Storytelling Day?”
“Yeah, of course! You can practice reading in your house if you want too. So you're more comfortable when you do the real thing or something.”
“...okay.”
A few seconds pass, in which Stan reflects on what he just told the kid. He didn't think much about it, he acted on instinct. It's been a while since he had to give a pep talk to anyone. He just hopes he was better at explaining himself this time around.
The kid rises his head to meet Stan's eyes. Immediately, he shoots him a flashing smile. Even his eyes seem to glow a little.
“Okay, I'll do it!”
Stan rises his eyebrows. “Really?”
“Yeah! But I need to ask Abuelita to help me with the reading, I need practice.”
“Can't you make some story up? Instead of reading a book. Ya know, write something and invent the rest as you go. That's how I do it.”
The kid scratches his chin like he's thinking. Stan thinks it's kinda cute; he probably picked that up from some cartoon.
“I can do that, yeah. If I have it in my head, I don't need to read it. I can do it like theater, like you do!”
Stan smiles. “Yeah, you can do that. Just don't use any of my stories, ya might steal some clients from me.”
“Okay! I'll make something up then. Oooh, maybe a monster in the falls! That lives behind the water, in a cave! And you can only go if you follow me, because I'm the guide! I know where the monster is!” The kid is now standing on the floor, flailing his arms, trying to explain his story. “And the monster is good, but he's shy! But he can take photos with the people, because he's a cool guy. Cool monster!”
“Okay, okay, I think you have your idea. And see? It took you no time to come up with one. I think you'll do just fine,” Stan says, putting his hand on the kid's shoulder.
The kid's smile grows impossibly bigger. Without notice, he launches himself into Stan's arms, hugging him tight while he's still sat down. Stan instinctively puts an arm around him, hugging him back. God he's tiny. 5'4”, no more.
“Thank you, Mr. Pines.”
“No worries, kid.” Stan could cry —or rather, sweat through his eyes— again. He doesn't want to think about it much, but he knows deep down he needed that hug. Probably just as much as the boy himself.
He stays like that, sidehugging the kid, until the little man decides to let go. Stan won't admit it to his own shadow, but the emptiness that follows that move is overwhelming.
“Okay, no more talking, I need to take ya home. I don't want to suffer the wrath of your Abuelita.”
The kid chuckles: “She's nice, she's not scary. Except when she takes the chancla.”
“Yeah, I've had a couple of chanclazos in the past. Not looking forward to it. Go to the door and wait for me at the register. I'm gonna put on some clothes.”
“Okay.”
⫷⫷ ? ⫸⫸
The drive to Abuelita's house is short and peaceful. It's summer, so the night isn't as dark as it could be, and there's still a couple of cars and people out. It is, by all means, a nice summer night.
Stan parks the car right in front of the door. The house is dark, and the blinds are open; Abuelita is probably not home yet. He turns to the kid on his right.
“Alright you rascal, time to go home. Next time, make sure to remember the last bus. I don't want your grandma to have a heart attack.”
“Okay,” the kid says, without a care in the world. Then, suddenly: “Are you feeling better, Mr. Pines?”
“What?”
“From the crying before. Or, the sweating through the eyes. Are you okay?”
Shouldn't ten-year-olds be a little stupid? Maybe this child won't be tall, but he's too goddamn smart.
“Yeah, I'm fine. It's just- the glass I broke, it was my favorite”, he blurts out.
“Aww, I'm sorry, Mr. Pines. You can have one of mine if you want.”
“Nah, don't worry, kid. I'll buy another one. But, ehm, thank you. For the offer.”
“Of course!”
“Okay, go home now. You have the key, right?”
The kid slips his hand in the collar of his shirt and pulls out a little key he has on a piece of string around his neck. He nods.
“Great, then come on. Go in and tell your Abuelita you're sorry you didn't eat her food, but you had dinner. Do not lie to her, huh?”
“Never!”
“Good kid. Up top.” He puts his hand up. The kid enthusiastically high-fives him. “Nice strength. Now go home, come on.”
“Thank you, Mr. Pines.”
“You're welcome, kid.”
The little man opens the door and steps out of the car. Stan watches as he walks away towards the house. It looks pretty, with some flowers on the windowsills, but very dark. It seems clear to him that the house is very empty.
God, don't think about it. Don't. Do not-
“Hey, Soos!”
Idiot.
“Yes?”
“If you write your story and read it on Storytelling Day, I'll go with you to the next one.”
“REALLY!?”
“Shhh, quiet down, you're gonna wake up the whole town. Yes, I will, BUT don't start writing now. Now ya get some sleep. Tomorrow you can start it.”
“Okay! Thank you, thank you, thank you!”
“Okay, okay, settle down. I'll see you at the Shack, okay? Good luck with the story.”
“Okay! Goodnight, Mr. Pines.”
“'Night, kid.”
Great job, you knucklehead. Now you have to do some theater at a school for free.
It should bother him more that it currently does, to be completely honest. But the smile on the kid's face was... He doesn't know how to explain it, but it was something. Something big, and good. It was nice to see, and much nicer to be the cause.
On the drive home, Stan stops as a crossroad. He looks up, absentmindedly, and chuckles to himself.
Yellow light. Carry on.