Work Text:
Stanley smelled something burning first.
A kind of scorched odor with a hint of melting plastic — painfully sharp in the tiny scrap of morning peace he had left. He had been drifting back to sleep, almost Successfully sank., when the next second a shrill, kid-level scream burst from downstairs, mixed with a couple of laughs.
He rolled over, turning his back to the door.
The message was clear: I’m not dealing with this.
But the moment he shut his eyes again, a loud BANG exploded right in his ears and the floor trembled.
He froze for a second.
And the first thing that flashed through his mind wasn’t the kitchen catching fire — but that insane red flash from Bill.
—That light was so damn bright. He remembered that.
The end of the world probably smelled just like that.
He didn’t yell.Didn’t storm downstairs like the old days to shout: “ALL OF YOU, SHUT UP!”
He just sat up. Slowly, as if meditating.
“…Maybe I should just nail a board to the door,” he muttered, eyes blank.
“At least it’d block some of the noise.”
He wiped the sweat on his forehead.The noises downstairs only grew — clattering pots, shouting, the whole house turning into a percussion ensemble. His heartbeat sped up, not from fear but from pure irritation, like the noise was scrambling his rhythm.
He pressed a hand to his chest to check if he was dying — nope.Just nearly pissed to death.
He sighed, brows furrowing.
“So much for sleeping.”He looked down at his slippers — surprisingly not filled with milk.
That was weird.He vaguely remembered Mabel being very committed to “recreating the legendary foot tragedy” recently.
He started weighing his options:Go downstairs and see what disaster they summoned?Or just yell once and hope that solves it?
A new wave of chaos burst from below, louder than before.
“…Nope. That’s it.”
Grumbling, he stood up, slipped on the one surviving pair of slippers, hair a mess, eyes tired, looking like a sponge dipped in boiling water.
“I need to check whether they blew up the kitchen.”
“Dipper! Bring the salt!”
Mabel had dragged a chair to the counter and sat beside Stanford, as if co-hosting some chaotic cooking show. She had packets of seasoning hanging off her like she was running a magical supply shop.
Stanford stood over the pot with an expression that could only be described as existential.
He’d faced world-class problems before — but whatever this unidentifiable sludge was, it made him pause for a full three seconds.
“Mabel, maybe try this?” Dipper stumbled over, holding a jar of pepper like he was passing over contraband, nearly tripping on the mess.
“Great idea! Over to you, Grunkle Ford!”
Mabel beamed, passing the jar to Stanford.
Stanford’s hand twitched at the title.
He set the spatula down, leaned on the counter, and covered half his face.
Silent.
The goo in the pot seemed to react to the emotional tension — it popped, sending sparks and flecks of something onto the stove.
Stanford Pines, what are you doing?
He scolded himself internally.
You’ve decoded cosmic secrets, manipulated dimensional gateways… and now a pot of porridge is breaking you? With two minors as assistants?!
He glanced at them —
Mabel was attacking Dipper with a spoonful of goo, making “sticky monster attack!” sound effects.
Dipper, meanwhile, was adding salt like he was conducting a chemistry experiment, even leaning in to sniff it.
Stanford frowned.
It didn’t get better.
It didn’t explode, either.
But it also didn’t inspire hope.
Then—
“…What in the world are you doing?”
A dry, slightly horrified voice came from the stairs.
All three turned at once.
Stanley stood there in a wrinkled white undershirt and red robe, dragging his slippers, wearing the expression of a man who took a nap and woke up in the apocalypse.
He stared at the kitchen like it was a disaster site.
Burned smell, spilled spices, a lid rolling on the floor, smoke hanging in the air, and his brother standing in the middle of it like a shell-shocked scientist.
“…I was asleep for ONE hour, right?"
Stanley felt like he was living through a second apocalypse — except this time it wasn’t a triangle demon.
It was his brother.
Stanford Pines.
Standing in a smoky kitchen, looking dazed.
The scene was so surreal he couldn’t believe he’d actually walked downstairs.
Mabel held the… thing… like it was a toy, teasing Dipper with it.Dipper quickly pushed her hand down when he saw Stanley’s face.For a moment the kitchen fell quiet — except the pot of black goo still bubbling like some doom ritual.
Stanley looked at Ford again — who still wasn’t talking.
He almost laughed from sheer disbelief.
Almost.
He remembered watching the old tapes, Ford beside him, laughing like he was a kid again.And suddenly, Stanley just sighed, rubbed his chest once more to check his heart rhythm, then spoke:
“You know your cooking sucked since high school, right?”
He walked forward, grabbed Mabel like lifting a cat, and placed her gently on the couch.She didn’t argue — maybe even a little guilty.
Dipper instantly shifted aside, wearing the universal expression of “I wasn’t involved.”
“Don’t tell me you’re making me one of those ‘protein-rich memory-restoration human-essence porridge blends’ again.”Stanley’s face darkened as he said the entire painful phrase in one breath.
Ford set the spatula down mechanically.
Last time, Ford remembered vividly — Stanley throwing up for an hour, then staggering out of the bathroom looking less angry and more… defeated.
Stanley had only said one line:
“Did you… add ash from the fireplace?”
“And if you did that on purpose, your brother was about to die.”
Stanley stared at the sludge, slowly walking toward Ford.
He took the spatula, and with absolute mercylessness, dumped the entire pot into the trash.
That was what finally made Ford move.
He stood aside, watching Stanley discard it like a failed experiment, staring down at the pot like he was reconsidering his entire life trajectory.
Then he sighed, lifted his head slightly, and said — very seriously:
“…It was just normal porridge this time.”
“I looked up actual recipes,” he added, voice drained.
“And watched a tutorial video. I just… forgot Mabel told me not to add the fizzing tablets.”
Mabel whispered, “I didn’t explain that part super clearly…”
As both kids shrank a little, Stanley said flatly:
“If you want me to eat something you cook next time, write a will first.”
Ford looked genuinely offended as Stanley turned the stove back on and grabbed a new pan, tossing the contaminated one into the sink without a second glance.
“Alright, kids, this one’s on me.” Stanley finally drawled as the flame lit up safely, “I thought the nerd wouldn’t repeat this disaster a second time.”
“The last one was better,” Ford muttered.
He and the kids lined up like wooden planks, watching Stanley cook with big, sharp movements — clearly using the eggs as emotional outlets.
“Let me think…”
Stanley cracked a couple of eggs into the pan.
“You stirred that pot how many times? Besides that one or two disasters, remember Mom warning you not to go in the kitchen or you’d blow up? You figured out she was lying, dragged me in with you, blew a hole in the pot, ruined the counter, and both of us got yelled at.”
Stanley could say it like he was reading a weather report.
Ford, on the other hand, stiffened.
Mabel and Dipper both stared at him — as if watching someone’s skeleton fall out of their closet.
The kitchen fell silent for two seconds.
Ford placed the spatula on the counter.Movements stiff, like handling a failed experiment.
He adjusted his glasses and said, reluctantly:
“…That was an accident.”
Quiet, but extremely serious.
Mabel snorted.
Dipper elbowed her.
Ford looked at the wrecked pot with deep regret.
“I thought I optimized the formula,” he murmured, as if still considering continued research.
“Optimize my ass,” Stanley snapped, tossing the pan into the sink and cracking another egg, “What next, quantum analysis of yolks? You trying to extract antimatter from egg whites?”
Ford didn’t reply, but his eyebrow twitched.
He was not dismissing the idea.
“You trying to pull some genius theory to prove you’re not a kitchen hazard? Save it.”
Stanley slapped the spatula onto the counter.
“And don’t think I forgot the time in college when you microwaved a whole crab. The smell in that kitchen was legally classified as a biochemical weapon.”
Ford winced, rolling up his sleeves like he was preparing to reassert order — then hesitated.
He watched Stanley cook for a moment before finally saying:
“…I just wanted you to wake up to a homemade breakfast.”
The kids went quiet.
Mabel’s eyes widened just a bit.
“Next time,” Stanley said lazily, “don’t use a pot.”
“What do you want me to use, a particle collider?”
“If you can fry an egg with that thing, I’ll hand you the kitchen myself.”
“…You think I can’t?”
“You try it and I’m calling the cops.”
“Oh? Then I’ll start by analyzing the gravitational field—”
“Shut up, nerd.”
Mabel and Dipper finally burst out laughing.
The kitchen returned to normal.
The eggs sizzled into a warm golden color.
Stanley glanced at Ford, still standing stiffly like a malfunctioning robot, and tossed in:
“Don’t just stand there.The table’s still dirty.”