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When Tate McGucket was thirty-two, he learned that you can’t help those who refuse to help themselves.
He’d known it deep down for years, before he had even come to Gravity Falls, but learning it for real hit different—like getting knocked down by something you always saw coming.
The night before his realization, Tate stayed up too late making a pie. Apple, with crumble on top, just like Ma used to make when they had guests over for the holidays or when Pa had made her some sort of special gadget. The smell of cinnamon and sugar tried to fill the little kitchen, but it was overpowered by the acrid stink of burnt crust.
When he rushed to open the oven, a wave of heat and smoke hit him square in the face, and he coughed, wincing at the sharp sting in his eyes. The pie was a mess—charred around the edges, and the filling had bubbled out, oozing across the crumble in a sad, sticky slump.
He stared at it in silence, towel in hand, standing in the ghost of the kitchen that hadn’t felt like home in all the years he had been in this godforsaken town.
It didn’t look like Ma’s pie. It didn’t smell like her pie. It didn’t feel like anything except another failure.
His jaw tightened. He placed the tray on the counter with more force than necessary and waved the towel uselessly at the smoke detector, blinking hard.
What was the point?
—
The next morning, Tate wrapped the cooled pie in foil and slid it carefully into a plastic container, packing it with a few mismatched plastic forks and flimsy knives. He didn’t bother to eat breakfast. His stomach was already twisted in knots.
He paused at the door, glancing back at his living room. The coffee table was strewn with wires, blueprints, and the half-finished shell of a small robot shaped vaguely like a sea serpent. Its eyes—camera lenses—blinked up at him like they were waiting for orders. Tate sighed, grabbed the container, and stepped outside.
He’d modeled the robot after a plush sea monster his dad gifted Tate when he was little—back when they still lived in a proper house and the world made more sense. His dad would wiggle it around the living room floor, doing goofy voices and letting Tate chase it with a plastic sword like he was saving the day. Tate had found the old toy in a box last month, dusty and half-chewed by moths, and the memory hit so hard he had to sit down. He started building the robot that same night, thinking maybe—just maybe—it would trigger something familiar in his father’s broken mind. Something that looked like love. Something that looked like Tate.
The walk to the dump was familiar. The morning air was thick and warm, clinging to his clothes and making his shirt stick to his back. He kept his gaze low, letting his feet find the way. His boots crunched gravel and twigs, and he only looked up when the ground beneath him changed—softer, more uneven, with the smell of rust and rot beginning to bite at his nose.
Ma used to poke him between the shoulder blades when he slouched.
“Look at your Dad, Tater,” she’d say, fussing as she straightened his shoulders. “See how tall he is? That’s ’cause he never looked down like a sad little possum. You keep that chin up now, y’hear?”
“Leave him be, Ems,” his father would chuckle, from somewhere just out of view. That voice—warm and low, worn smooth like river stone—used to chase away the dark like nothing else. Tate could remember being small, so small, running into his father’s arms. He’d lift Tate off the floor with a grin and spin him around in dizzy circles, the scent of oil and cedarwood settling into his shirt.
“He’s a McGucket,” Pa would say proudly, brushing Tate’s bangs from his face. “He’ll grow tall and strong as a redwood.”
Tate did grow tall. Six foot one by sixteen. But he never stopped slouching and he never felt as strong as his father said he would be.
When he reached the edge of the dump, he stopped and inhaled deeply. The air here always felt heavier, stale with old memories and the sharp tang of worn machinery. Scrap towers loomed around him, silent and indifferent. One pipe jutted out at a strange angle, rusted through in places. Tate imagined what would happen if his father tripped and fell. He’d thought about it too many times.
He wiped his palms on his pants and readjusted his cap.
“Fiddleford McGucket?” he called, voice dry. “Dad? You out here?”
The silence stretched out long enough that he thought maybe his father had run off somewhere. But then he heard metal clank somewhere deep in the junk piles, and a slouched figure shuffled into view.
“Well I’ll be darned! A visitor!” his father squawked brightly, his voice slicing through the stillness like broken glass. “What can I do for ya, stranger?”
Tate’s heart twisted. “Hi, Dad,” he said, trying to sound casual. He stepped forward and held up the container. “I, uh… brought you something.”
Fiddleford’s eyes narrowed with confusion, but he shrugged. “Not sure who you’re callin’ Dad, friend. My own Tater—he’s just about this tall!” He held a hand to his hip, grinning with a kind of sad enthusiasm.
Tate didn’t respond. He couldn’t. His grip tightened around the container until his knuckles turned white.
“Ah, nevermind me,” his father cackled. “I don’t rightly know what I’m sayin’ most days!” He slapped his knee. “So what’d ya bring, anyway?”
“I made you a pie,” Tate said, almost too softly. He stepped forward and handed it over, arms stiff. “Thought we could… share it.”
Fiddleford blinked like he’d never seen a pie before. “Well, ain’t you just the kindest soul. Sharin’ with an old kook like me.”
“It’s just how I was raised,” Tate mumbled. His voice felt foreign to him. Tight, like it came from someone smaller.
His father beamed and gestured toward his little hut, leading the way with a haphazard shuffle. Tate followed without a word, eyes glued to the dirt and debris beneath his boots.
Tate ducked under the makeshift doorframe, settling into the same lopsided chair he always used. His leg started bouncing on instinct.
“You’re a quiet kid, ain’t ya?” Fiddleford asked, rustling around for something to use as plates.
Tate swallowed. “There’s only so much one can say that hasn’t already been said.”
His father chuckled, seemingly satisfied with that, and passed him a warped piece of metal. Tate took it carefully, the edges catching the light like little warnings. Across from him, Fiddleford finally peeled back the foil lid and looked inside the container.
The air shifted sharpy.
“What is this?” he asked flatly.
Tate blinked. “It’s… it’s apple pie.”
“It’s burnt.”
The words landed like a slap. Sharp, dismissive. Tate’s breath caught in his throat. He stared down at his lap, at his trembling hands. The moment cracked open.
“That’s all you have to say?” he asked quietly, rising from the chair so quickly it scraped backwards across the floor. The metal plate clattered to the ground with a clang that made both of them wince.
“I made that for you. I tried. I did this for you.”
Fiddleford shrank into his seat, eyes wide in barely concealed fear, mouth opening but no words coming out.
Tate’s voice broke. “I’m done. I’m done with you and your stupid gadgets and your stupid mind.” The lump in his throat was rising fast now, pressing against his voice like a dam about to break. “Don’t come to the bait shop. Stay out of my life.”
He turned and ran before he could second-guess it. Ran past the towers of junk, past where he spent hours trying to get his father to remember anything, past the quiet echoes of a man who used to know his name.
All he heard behind him was silence.
Nothing was ever good enough.
—
When he got home, Tate stood over the coffee table like a ghost.
The robot was still there, unfinished, its limbs sprawled across crumpled blueprints and half-melted wires. It looked more like a corpse than a machine. He imagined flipping the whole table, watching the papers crumple to the ground. He imagined setting it all on fire—every memory of the past few years, every blueprint, every last failed attempt to make his father remember. He wanted to reduce it all to ash.
But he didn’t move.
Instead, time slipped past him like a shadow. Hours later, he blinked and realized it was dark out. The silence in the house was suffocating, and through the haze, he could just make out the neon bar signs flickering from town through his window, glowing like a lighthouse. He’d fought enough for one day.
He moved toward his bedroom, sluggish at first, but by the time he reached his closet, there was a strange determination in his steps. He peeled off his cap and ran a hand through his flattened hair, slicking it back. He buttoned up a silk shirt—one he saved for nights like this—each button fastening him into a version of himself that didn’t hurt as much.
It was Friday night.
And on Friday nights, he wasn’t Tate McGucket—the recluse, the failure, the son of the town kook. No. On Friday nights, he was someone else. Someone who drank hard, laughed too loud, and flirted with strangers he knew he’d never see again. It wasn’t healthy. But it was what he did. One night a week to just be, to pretend none of the rest existed.
He left the house without a second glance at the coffee table. If he looked back, he might change his mind.
The buzz of town life pulled him forward. Gravity Falls wasn’t exactly a city, but its bars were lively enough. He found himself at one of the more crowded spots, the lights inside warm and chaotic, wrapping around him like a blanket he wasn’t sure he deserved. The second he stepped in, the music and chatter pressed against his skin like knives.
He slid onto a barstool, raised a hand, and ordered an old fashioned. His fingers tapped against the counter while he scanned the crowd. Flashes of laughter. Glittering eyes. A hundred strangers that didn’t know his name.
When the drink arrived, he downed it in a single go and motioned for another. He wanted the edge off. Fast.
A moment later, a figure slipped onto the stool next to him. Tate barely turned—until he caught a glimpse of her.
Pale skin, almost grey under the bar lights, and impossibly dark hair cascading down her back like smoke. Her presence was magnetic in the quietest way. She looked like the kind of person who didn’t have to try to take up space—like someone carved from something ancient.
She reminded him of the river, somehow. Of slow afternoons fishing with his father before everything fell apart.
He blinked the memory away and signaled for another drink.
“Hey, stranger,” she said.
Her voice was smooth and melodic, slipping through the noise like it had weight. He turned, really looked at her this time. His gaze caught on the twin bite marks etched into the side of her neck.
His breath hitched instinctively—something primal and human. But the alcohol washed it down, dulled the fear until it was just a hum in the back of his skull.
She lifted a cocktail glass to her lips, sipping until the red cherry inside bled out and turned grey. Tate watched, unsure what the hell he was getting himself into.
“Hey,” he finally said. It was all he had.
She smiled like she already knew that. “What’s your name?”
Her words sliced through the haze of liquor like a clean knife. Something about the way she asked—like she actually cared—made his throat feel tight.
“Tate,” he mumbled. Or thought he did. The bar felt louder now, vibrating through his skin. He wanted to cover his ears. Instead, he clutched his sweating glass like it would tether him.
“Tate,” she repeated, rolling it around like a secret. Then she stood, sleek and effortless, and held out her hand.
“Your place or mine?”
“Mine, please,” he heard himself say. He tossed a twenty on the counter and took her hand like it was the most natural thing in the world.
The next thing he knew, they were in his kitchen.
She didn’t drag him to the bedroom. She sat him down at the table and pushed a glass of water across the surface toward him. Her movements were calm. She seemed completely untouched by the night.
He took the glass with both hands, trying not to look desperate as he drank. He hadn’t realized how thirsty he was.
“Tate,” she said softly. His name on her tongue sounded almost sacred. He leaned into the sound before he could stop himself. “What’s your deal, huh?”
She looked at him like he was something rare—like a puzzle she wanted to understand instead of solve.
“You know my name?” he asked, baffled. No one ever remembered his name.
“You told me,” she said with a quiet laugh. “Remember?”
“No,” he whispered, guilt welling in his chest. “I’m sorry.”
She laughed again, gentle and forgiving. “It’s alright. Just drink your water.”
He obeyed. When he finished, he blinked at her, brain still foggy.
“You brought me here for a reason,” he slurred, pushing himself up. “I’ll show you my bedroom.”
“I brought you here so you could sleep,” she said firmly. “You were about to break like china at that bar. I didn’t want to see you end up in some other cryptid’s claws just because you were an easy target.”
“Oh.” He slumped back down, not fully understanding. “Thank you.”
“Anytime, Tate.”
—
He woke the next morning to a pounding head and the vague feeling of having dreamt too vividly. Everything was too bright, and it took more effort than usual just to turn over in bed.
On his nightstand, there were two slices of plain bread, a glass of water, and a packet of painkillers.
Beside it all sat a small slip of paper. No name. Just a phone number, and words he couldn’t quite make out through the fog.
He didn’t get up for a while. When he finally did—head clearer, breath slower—he sat down at the coffee table again.
He finally took a good look at the note. The handwriting was curly and delicate, like someone had put a lot of care into writing it.
Call me sometime, Tate. It would be nice to get to know you sober.
Tate stared at it, a faint smile tugging at his lips despite the ache in his temples. He set the slip of paper down next to the blueprints.
Then, he rolled up his sleeves and got back to work on the sea monster robot.
Today was a new day.