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The Mystery Shack was uncanny to Pacifica.
It wasn't the attractions, or even the danger of the surrounding woods. The kitschy taxidermy shedded germs and lint, and even monsters lurking in the night could be bargained with, if the Northwest's history was any guide. There was nothing on the face of it to indicate that the groaning old dump should garner anything but Pacifica's well-tuned disdain.
Last summer, if anyone had asked, disdain would have been the start and end of it - a write-off for an heiress that had more important things to worry about. But then the world ended, and she had stumbled with bleeding knees into the mouth of a Shack thrumming with life and stuffed to the brim with the only familiar things left.
After the world hiccuped and plodded on, she should have been surprised the thing was still standing. But she wasn't.
Since then, she'd sheltered within its walls a few more times to begrudgingly enjoy Dipper's sarcastic humor and Mabel's willful optimism, and come to the rather undignified conclusion that the Shack rubbed her the wrong way.
A rather undignified thought: it was uncanny because of the soul of the place.
Maybe not literally. She didn't know - anything could happen in this stupid town. Regardless of the reason, there was just something about the warm wood of the walls. The worn-out carpet with holes from repetitive shoes, the hastily-repaired stair that creaked even louder than the rest, the lights that flickered with poor electric work, the ones that shone on forever and inexplicably made her skin softer.
The Shack had texture. Life ran all throughout in scars and trails, chipped dishes and wooden surfaces with the grain worn smooth. A few weeks ago she opened a kitchen cupboard to grab a cup, and a live possum fell out.
Pacifica recalled the sterile tile of her parents’ parlor, the steam-pressed curtains with perfect edges in her meticulous bedroom. In comparison, the Shack breathed and sang. She felt like a cat whose fur was pet against the grain.
But staring up at the creature of a house, nothing but pines and gray evening skies behind her, where else could she go?
She used to show up here in a disguise. The thought almost made her laugh now. All her disguises were done with, even her less elaborate facades. She stood there with hasty sneakers and no socks, a pair of silky pajama bottoms that did not match her sweatshirt, and a bag of miscellanea hefted up on one shoulder. She was the one who packed it, but she couldn't recite the contents if she tried.
Mabel opened the door with a creak of unoiled hinges. Her eyes lit up. “Pacifica! Oh my gosh, what are you doing here?” She bounced on the balls of her bare feet.
“Hey.”
“Are you here to hang out?! Gasp! I knew you'd be back eventually! There's only so long you can hold a grudge against Dipper for winning in Melee. Trust me, I've tested the limits.”
“No, I…” Words died awkwardly in her throat.
The girl peered over Pacifica's shoulder at the empty lot. “Did you…” She squinted. “Walk here?”
Pacifica stared at the splintery deck. “Yeah.” She looked back up warily.
As always, Mabel was an open book. Her worried frown made Pacifica's stomach turn. It got worse when her eyes traveled over Pacifica's mismatched clothing, half-tied shoelaces smudged with dirt.
“What happened?” She asked.
Pacifica told her, and loathed every second.
The tires rumbled on the packed dirt as Stan pulled his car to a stop. He put her in park and leaned back for just a moment to take in the fading evening. Lightning bugs blinked golden across the stubby grass, and under the clouds, the sky was losing what little color it had left. No rain ‘til tomorrow, the weatherman said, but Mark was a fraud and everyone in Gravity Falls knew his predictions were the same as a dice roll.
“Alright, Sixer. You got the goods?”
From the passenger seat, Ford unbuckled himself and lifted up the spoils of their grocery trip, plastic bags crinkling. “I believe we have enough snacks and ice cream here to send us all to the hospital.”
“That's what I like to hear.” Stan clapped his shoulder. “Can you bring it inside? I’m just gonna take a sec.”
“Stanley,” Ford said, an edge of a warning in his voice even as he climbed out of the car.
“It's the last one in the pack! I swear!” Stan promised as he followed suit. He wasn’t even lying this time!
“I'm holding you to that!” Ford called. A brief glimpse of the warm light in the Shack, and then Ford slipped inside, door shutting behind him.
Sighing lightly, Stan stepped onto the porch and lit up his last cigarette.
Don't tell anyone, but he was really looking forward to this movie night. It'd be the first since summer brought the kids back into town, and he missed arguing with Dipper's theorizing, and booing the couples that Mabel cheered on. Having Ford by his side for the time-honored tradition was like winning the lottery.
Recently it felt like winning tickets were all Stan got. Not unwelcome, but sure as hell unusual.
Even the clouds couldn't get him down. He inhaled the fresh, cool air - a pleasant difference to the salty sea - and admired the gentle sway of the pine boughs. Then he inhaled again to take in the nicotine, paper filter held to his mouth with two fingers. Might be cheesy, but maybe this would be his last last one, for good.
The porch door clattered open.
Stan jumped and hacked up a lung, frantically dousing his cigarette on a porch beam before he could even savor the first drag. Damn kids. “What? I'm not smoking! Who said I was?”
The kid beside him didn't point out the cigarette still clutched in his hand. In fact, Stan didn't see Dipper's shrewd disapproval or Mabel's earnest disappointment at all. Instead, the light from inside caught long, shiny blonde hair and wide eyes just as surprised to see him as he was to see her.
“What the - Northwest?! Didn't know you were comin’ over.” Stan frowned. Sure, they could have a plus one for movie night, he supposed. He waved a hand to clear away any smoke even though he didn't exhale much of it. Then he lifted up the cigarette. “Uh, don't tell Dipper and Mabel.”
Pacifica's eyebrows rose. Was it the light, or were her eyes red-rimmed?
“They'll probably smell it on you anyway, old man.”
Her usual bite wasn't there, but Stan still huffed. “Classy. Don't parents still teach kids to respect their elders?”
At that, Pacifica's face pinched. She jerked her head away and crossed her arms, as if she were trying to turn to stone.
Maybe Stan could just ignore that.
A tear slipped down the girl's cheek. She wiped it away violently, soundlessly, but more followed.
Ah, shit.
“Uh.” Stan considered relighting his cigarette. He looked at it, looked back at the kid, and sighed, tossing the thing away in a gap between the floorboards of the porch. “You're crying.”
“No I'm not.” She sniffed daintily, staring out at the trees like they did something to her personally.
“Uh-huh. Did you just wanna get in on movie night, or is there another reason you're here? Didn't think hanging out with us old geezers would be your idea of a good time, even if the kids are there too.” He examined her stiff shoulders. Those pajamas weren't usual fare for her. Something was up.
“It isn't,” she said bitterly, automatically. “Your entire house smells like mothballs and burnt food.”
Sure, like that stopped her from coming over before.
“Kid, you know you can't pull the wool over my eyes, right? That's my job.” He stuffed his hands into his jean pockets and frowned. “Did something happen?”
She still battled that staring contest with the treeline, diamond studs in her ears glinting from the backlight. Then she deflated and lost the fight, eyes lowering shamefully. “My parents kicked me out.”
Stan stilled. His eyebrows raised to his hairline.
He gave her a closer look. Glossy, well-kept hair, clear skin, manicured nails, the remains of makeup smudged slightly from tears. A soft white sweatshirt free of pilling, and pajama pants with a higher thread count than Stan could stomach. And they kicked her out on her ass? Not so much as a kiss on the cheek?
Not a single mark of the real world. Underbaked and all. Hell, just fourteen.
He tried to picture this happening to her at seventeen. Nope, still wrong. Still a kid. Even a kid as uptight and snarky as Pacifica didn't deserve that.
“What the hell did they do that for?”
She jerked her head sharply towards him, indignation pasted over shame.
“Hey, not that it matters.” Stan raised his hands. “No matter what, they shouldn't've done it.”
Pacifica rubbed her arm and backed off. “It was dumb.”
“Yeah?”
The simple encouragement seemed to warm her. She picked at her shirt. “I told them I got a job at the diner.”
Stan's brow furrowed. Sure, not the type of joint he'd ever imagine a Northwest willingly picking up paychecks in, but Pacifica wasn't much like other Northwests. If she wanted an income that wasn't blood money and was willing to rub elbows with the riffraff to get it, she was already leagues ahead of her parents. It'd probably toughen her up a bit, prepare her for a different life than the one the Northwests planned out for her. Stan didn't know the kid well, but that seemed right up her alley nowadays.
“Okay. Then what?”
She quirked a perfect brow. “Then nothing. That was it.”
“Wait, they kicked you out for, what, gettin’ a job?” For a second, Stan saw red. “They shoulda been jumping for joy! When I was your age, I practically ran from my Pa's shop to keep him from putting me on sweepin’ duty.”
“That sounds like you, old man.” A ghost of a smile passed on her face. “I thought that maybe…” She blinked too quickly at nothing. “Maybe they'd say something nice. I dunno. It's stupid.”
Stan leaned down with a groan and swiped two lukewarm Pitt Colas from the cooler by the door. He passed one to the girl, and she looked at it with so much confusion that Stan briefly worried she'd never opened her own soda before. Thankfully, when he cracked his own open, she followed, taking a light sip.
“You kidding? They’re the stupid ones here.” He sipped his cola. “Did they give you any conditions? A timeline? Or did they just tell you to hit the road?”
She eyed him suspiciously, one forefinger pushing the soda tab up and down. Apparently, though, she decided to answer. “They said… they said if I wanted to debase myself so badly, I might as well see what it's really like ‘out there’. That I could come back once I was ready to say sorry and recommit to the family.”
Stan whistled lowly. Yikes. “That's a rough one. You gonna do it?”
Pacifica bristled. “Why do you care?”
“Yeesh. Just asking.” He scratched his chin and debated saying what he was going to say. But when he looked down at the girl, she looked so lost and small. It'd help to know someone's been there, he thought. Sure would've helped him.
Stupid town made him soft.
“I would've if I could've, when it happened to me,” he said evenly.
She stopped fiddling with her soda tab and looked up at him. “You…?”
“Yep. Screwed up too much and got kicked to the curb.” He shrugged. “But lemme tell you something.” He leaned down to level with her. “Even if I met the ultimatum my Pa gave me - and trust me, I tried - it wouldn’t have been sunshine and roses afterwards. He’d always be the guy who tossed me out on my butt without a care. You can’t unlearn how… what’s the word?” He snapped his fingers. “Conditional! How conditional the whole thing is. Trust me, it ain’t worth it.”
Pacifica stared up at him, wide-eyed. “B-but what else can I do?” She whispered. Her voice was small and desperate, bravado washed away.
“Well…” He straightened and looked away, at the square of light shining through the porch door. Soos was probably accidentally putting metal in the microwave right now, Ford helping Mabel lay out the snacks, Dipper and Melody rifling through the movie collection for some picks.
He thought about his family in the house behind him. He thought about the Shack, and the people it'd taken in before, and the people it held now.
“For a start, it was a good idea, coming here,” he said. “It’s not my place anymore, so I can't speak for ‘em, but Soos ‘n Melody have the biggest hearts I've ever seen. I'm sure they already offered to let you crash?”
The girl nodded. “B-but I can't just… stay gone.”
“I mean, the cops in this town are pretty lax. They probably won't put you in the system while you kick around here. Or, you could go back home, obey just long enough to reach eighteen, then bounce.” He paused, soda halfway to his lips. “Do you want to go back?”
“No!” She shouted. “I… I just…” Her free hand tangled in her hair. “They're so… it's like they don't actually care. They just want me to be this perfect little princess they can parade around and put away after. I don't think they even know my favorite color,” she said morosely. “Just what I can do for the family.”
Stan blinked. He never pictured himself relating to some rich fourteen-year-old brat. Ford had been the one getting paraded, but still.
Actually, there was one other time he related to a privileged woman with the weight of her family's world on her shoulders.
He downed the rest of his soda and pointed a finger at her. “You ever seen The Duchess Approves?”
Her sniffles stopped entirely in surprise. “What?”
“Everybody move outta the way! I call dibs on the first movie!” Stan burst into the living room and nearly bowled Mabel over. She just giggled and climbed onto the couch to avoid the blast radius.
“That's no fair - hey!” Dipper shuffled back as Stan smacked some nerdy DVD out of his hands.
“Stanley!” Ford admonished, holding the bowls of chips and popcorn close as he walked in from the kitchen. “This doesn’t honor the pre-existing dibs!”
“Don't care, doesn't matter. Gotta show this girl what she's been missing.” He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder at a trailing wet-faced Pacifica clutching a Pitt, and ran his fingers along the spines of DVD cases until he found what he was looking for. “Aha!”
At the first clear glimpse of the art on the case, groans travelled around the room.
“Grunkle Stan, that's three hours long!” Dipper complained.
“And in black and white!” Mabel added from the couch in front of the TV.
Soos leaned over from the dinosaur skull and patted her shoulder consolingly. “Just imagine the colors, dog.”
“Why the switch-up?” A bemused Melody came in with a few cold sodas to pass around. “Was Abuelita's bingo night cancelled?”
Pacifica scrunched her nose. “Mr. Pines, you want me to watch an old lady movie?”
“Hey! This is a powerful story about autonomy and self-respect!” Stan barked.
“Okay, okay!” Dipper raised his hands. “Since we have a guest joining us tonight -” he gestured to Pacifica - “why don't we just let her have final say?”
Everyone turned to Pacifica.
Stan raised a brow imploringly and shook the DVD.
Pacifica appraised the case and wiped at her tear-stained cheeks. Her eyes travelled to the hopeful faces around the room. Then she smirked. “Yeah, why not? Put it on.”
“What!” Mabel shouted.
“Ha! Suck it, Dip!” Stan cheered as he slid the disc into the DVD player.
Dipper groaned. “Why me specifically?!” He sat on the rug and leaned against the couch in defeat. “I really thought Pacifica would get us out of this,” he muttered.
“Oh, no. Not tonight,” Stan said triumphantly. “Everybody settle in for three hours of beautiful panning shots and stunning costume design!”
For all the complaining, it wasn't actually a terrible watch, if there were others to watch it with. Dipper and Mabel were debating the merits of the Duchess’ suitors with surprising fervor, while the handyman and his wife creatively narrated a version of the story to each other where the Duchess was magically transported to present-day New York. Dr. Pines was scribbling in a journal and looking up every so often with a content smile.
Meanwhile, Pacifica was glued to the screen.
She reached for her paper cup of ice cream and took controlled bites, while the old guy next to her shoveled chips into his mouth with abandon in a way that would have bothered her a lot more a summer ago.
“She can't seriously be going with Count Lionel!” Pacifica bemoaned. She didn't used to be one for ‘mindless’ entertainment, but an all-day movie marathon with Mabel early on in their friendship taught Pacifica the joys of a vehement investment in fiction, her mother's etiquette classes be damned.
“Yeah, see, but she doesn't want to. She just feels like she has to. See how she's standing in that shot? The distance between them? That's deliberate. Shows her inner conflict.”
Onscreen, the Duchess let herself be pulled under her family's whirlwind of planning as she half-heartedly accepted the Count's courtship. All the while, her secret childhood-friend-turned-lover wondered where she had gone.
“Boo!” Mabel called, hands cupped around her mouth, fingers dusted with the evidence of a Cheese Boodles massacre. “You're leaving your man behind, girl!”
“Mabel, that guy has like, no money. Relatively.” Dipper said. “And her dad makes a practical argument for the Count.”
“Ugh! Her dad thinks he can walk all over her.” Pacifica's fingers tightened around her cup of ice cream. Who did he think he was? Writing entire futures for his daughter in meetings she couldn’t even attend! The sudden wave of anger almost sideswept her.
“Tell me about it. And her mom's no better.” Mr. Pines crumpled his chip bag with fervor. He gestured to the screen, where the duchess' mother was clasping hands with her daughter, imploring her to see the benefit of a partnership with the Count despite the disastrous cotillion scene. “She thinks she's all high and mighty by not picking sides. Newsflash, sister, that's a quick way to lose your kid.”
The Duchess looked down at their joined hands and mumbled weak assent, but in the subtle fall of her face she was already distancing herself. A gray storm smothered the spark of hope in her eyes.
An unexpected lump formed in Pacifica's throat. She knew that look. She'd made it before herself, to both of her parents in turn.
“Sturly Stembleburgiss. What a talent,” Mr. Pines muttered. He motioned to wipe away a tear and Pacifica couldn't tell if it was real or not.
The Pines were so weird.
She swallowed hard, clutching her cup, feeling the cold of the ice cream seep through her fingers.
Then came dress-fitting for a slew of social events designed to secure the Count's courtship. Mr. Pines leaned forward to take in the details. He rattled off behind-the-scenes trivia about the costume department's unsung heroes and period influences to a wide-eyed Mabel, but Pacifica wasn't listening. She watched the Duchess get poked and prodded into dress after dress, her mother declaring one ‘too mauve’ or ‘a poor shade of cream’ before trussing her up in something else like a doll bent to her will.
Memories of her own mother exploded to the surface, things she had never really thought to be angrier about until she was mad at the mother onscreen. Measuring tapes, refittings, glib comments and stray put-downs. Her hand obliterated the paper cup in its grasp. Wet remains of ice cream dribbled between her fingers.
“Whoa, kid.”
Mr. Pines was looking down at her oddly. She reddened, embarrassed. What was she, a child? She opened her mouth, but closed it just as suddenly when he just passed her some napkins.
She took them gingerly, with suspicion.
“...Thanks.”
“Don't miss this next part,” Mr. Pines said in lieu of a response.
“Oh, dude, I love this scene,” Soos enthused genuinely, Melody nodding beside him. “Especially the part where -”
“Soos! No spoilers!” He shouted, and surprisingly, the handyman shut right up.
The scene was worth it.
“I don't care about dukes, or commoners, or His Royal Highness Lionel of Cornwall! I'm not afraid anymore, mother!”
Vindication thrummed through Pacifica. Exactly!
As the Duchess threw off her inhibitions, hat tossed to the side and long hair flowing in the wind, defying her mother and proclaiming that she may be a Duchess, but also a woman, something in Pacifica's chest expanded. Righteous excitement fizzed in her fingers and toes. Before she knew it, she was jumping off the couch to her feet, trash tumbling off her lap.
The old man was making some comment, and Melody was laughing and describing something to her husband, but the roar in Pacifica's ears drowned them out.
“Yes!” Pacifica cheered. “They don't deserve you! They never did!”
Heads turned to her. The movie's music had quieted, cutting to a serene establishing shot of a hillside. No one spoke, onscreen or off.
She faltered, suddenly deeply aware of her state, mismatched pajamas and all. Was that - was that an ice cream stain on her sweatshirt? She rubbed at it with a thumb. “Uh, I mean…”
Her eyes widened when Mr. Pines threw a friendly arm around her shoulder and jostled her. “That's right!” He crowed, fist in the air. “You tell the lady!”
“Yeah!” Mabel cheered. “Give ‘em the what-for!”
Dipper threw popcorn at the Duchess’ parents, whose faces appeared onscreen in a panic over their daughter's defection. Even Dr. Pines chucked his pen at the screen in the spirit of the moment.
“Careful, I ain't paying for another round of repairs on this TV ‘cause of this movie,” Mr. Pines grumbled, letting Pacifica go to point an accusing finger at his rambunctious family.
“Another?” Dr. Pines asked incredulously.
“Shush shush shush, she's going to her lover's estate now!” Mabel squeed, flapping her hand at the older twins.
Pacifica settled cautiously back into the couch. The thing was scratchy and ugly. It accepted her weight much better than the plush sofas at home.
Someone's hand on her shoulder shook Pacifica awake.
“Huh?” She blinked her eyes open sluggishly.
The room was darker than before. Everyone was watching a new movie. Judging by the interstellar space crew, it was some sci-fi thing that had Dipper and Dr. Pines chattering nerdily amongst themselves, with Soos making improbable interjections.
Melody leaned over her, one knee on the couch cushions. She pulled her hand away and smiled. “Hey, I didn't want to wake you up, but I figured you might want to sleep somewhere quieter.” Her eyes flicked momentarily to Dipper and Dr. Pines, the former of which was rapidly clicking a pen while the latter excitedly described how the spaceship in the movie looked exactly like one he had been on before. Wait, what?
“Bet you I can stuff all of these marshmallows in my mouth at once!” Mabel cried from elsewhere on the carpet.
“Bet you can't!” Mr. Pines responded gleefully from beside her. At some point during Pacifica's nap the man had migrated there from the couch.
Pacifica's head felt stuffed with cotton. Delayed exhaustion weighed down her limbs. The walk, the crying, the movie… she blinked sleep from her eyes and yawned, covering her mouth with a hand. “Um. Yeah. That would be nice.”
There was almost too much to think about. She didn't want to go back home, but she didn't bring much here with her. She still had to go back to school in the fall, and she doubted her parents would still foot the bill for the private school she was set to attend.
Her tutors and instructors were lost to her now, which panged in a way she hadn't expected. She had been treating them better ever since the Manor party, and even traded consternated glances with them when her parents were flippant or difficult. It was almost like they had been trapped there too.
She scrubbed her eyes and shook her head.
In front of her, Melody was tapping Mr. Pines’ shoulder and gesturing to her.
Aw, what? The old guy again? Granted, he was pretty chill earlier, for a wrinkly fossil that smelled like wood glue.
The man stood with cracking knees. Melody smiled at Pacifica reassuringly as Mr. Pines stuck a thumb over his shoulder towards the depths of the house. “Come on, Your Highness,” he said. “I'll getcha set up.”
“Do you need any help, Pacifica?” Dipper piped up, watching her with concern.
“I got it, kid.”
Pacifica shot a thankful look at Dipper nevertheless and followed the old man up the creaky stairs. The house, breathing thing that it was, leaned in closer as she ascended to its upper bowels, pockmarked railing and variegated wall panelling and all. It was a comforting warmth. A few new photos lined the staircase that she'd never seen before, haphazardly hanging beside little holes in the wall - first passes at the nail placement that someone deemed unsatisfactory, imperfections that would never fly in her parents’ house. Photos of two old men and the ocean, of the handyman's wedding, a few recent school pictures of Dipper and Mabel on unassuming stock backgrounds.
“You'll be taking Mabel's bed tonight,” Mr. Pines said, pushing open the door to the attic room. “She insisted. There's extra toothbrushes and junk in the bathroom down the hall, and if you need, I dunno, water or something, just go downstairs and get it, no one cares.”
Pacifica carefully placed her bag beside the foot of the bed. “Where will Mabel sleep?”
“Who knows? One time I found her taped to the ceiling, sleeping like a baby.” He shrugged. “She'll figure it out.”
Mabel's bed was neatly made, sheets spread out and fluffy blankets layered on top. It would be surprising, but Mabel once told Pacifica she only made her bed because she felt the judgmental stare of her plushies otherwise. Pacifica felt that stare now, from the scattering of unicorns and bunnies and bears.
“Um. Okay.”
How did Mabel sleep with all these toys? Would it be a social faux pas to hug one? Pacifica felt like she kind of needed one. She got many hugs from Mabel earlier, an awkward and measured one from Dipper, a warm one from Melody that inexplicably brought tears to her eyes, and a bone-crushing one from Soos before he ran off to rescue whatever exploded in the microwave. But apparently she still felt the need sorely.
Slowly, she sat on the edge of Mabel's bed.
This was it. This was happening.
She would wake up here tomorrow. Probably the next day, too. The thought writhed in her chest.
“Uh, listen.”
She jumped, hands tightening around the bedspread under her fingers. That guy was still here?!
He was hovering by the doorway, one hand on the doorknob, the other rubbing his neck and looking away. “Just wanted to say… you'll be alright. You got good folks here - let ‘em help you. If you wanna stay, you can stay. If you wanna go back, well, I have things I’d say about that, but you can do that too. What matters is you got time to figure that all out, alright?” He crossed his arms firmly, voice edging into sternness when he said, “You don't gotta work this out alone.”
She swallowed. “Yeah. Um.” She picked up one of Mabel's stuffed animals after all - a rainbow bear with a heart patch on its tummy - and fiddled with its arms. “Thanks, Mr. Pines. I think… I don't think I want to go back there.” It was like he had said - she already knew that her parents wanted her to obey, listen to the bell, look nice in photos, but she hadn’t realized until today how thoroughly conditional it all was. And she couldn’t undo that realization now.
“Good. Who'd want to marry Count Lionel anyways?” Mr. Pines joked.
She snorted in surprise. “Right? I may be a Duchess -”
“- but I'm also a woman,” Mr. Pines finished with her, smirking.
She laughed, and squeezed the bear tight. And then burst into tears.
“...Uh-oh,” she faintly heard Mr. Pines say.
This was nothing like when she stepped out for air earlier. Her crying wasn't quiet or stoic. It was loud, uncontrolled. Sobs wracked her. She tried to wipe at her face with a sleeve even as she hiccupped.
If her silent tears were embarrassing earlier, this was downright mortifying. Where was all this earlier, when she was removed from her home? Or when she told her friends and their family what happened? The force of it felt old, like something until now was strung taut and waiting.
Weight dipped the mattress beside her as she sucked in air.
She slipped a handkerchief from her bag and desperately wiped at her face to no avail. Sniffles interrupted her attempts at apologies. “Suh-sorry.”
She stared furiously at the floor and tried to banish the incessant leaking from her eyes with sheer willpower. A smattering of glitter-glue permanently fused with the flooring caught the moonlight filtering in from the window. In her head, she desperately begged the old guy not to ask probing questions or try to tell her it would be alright, but all he said was:
“You, uh. You need a hug?”
How did he know?
Screw it. If her parents didn't want to call her a Northwest, she didn't need to be one right now. Ergo, she could need hugs. Right?
The Mystery Shack smelled like mothballs and Mabel and Dipper were unapologetically loud and there was chip dust on the old guy’s shirt, and it all felt more like home than home ever did.
She nodded, lower lip trembling, and leaned into the embrace to cry.
“Does she need anything?” Dipper asked when Stan lumbered back down the steps. He had commandeered the couch with Melody in Stan’s absence. On the floor, Ford was drawing a very detailed diagram of some bullshit or other in his journal that Stan did not have the brain space to parse.
“I can let her borrow my toothbrush!” Mabel added from the floor, marshmallows scattered all around her.
“Ew,” Dipper said.
“Not my main toothbrush, silly! My special one, the one that plays Sev'ral Timez songs!” She waves a hand. “I use it sparingly. It's a collector's item.”
“Great timing, Stanley!” Ford chirped, waving the hand holding his spare pen. “The side-plot in this film reminded me of a fascinating dimension I wanted to tell you about -”
Soos burst in from the kitchen just then, with two full plates of dino nuggies. “Supplies for my valiant movie night warriors,” Soos intoned.
Stan blinked. His insides felt like a wet paper bag.
“I gotta get some air,” he said flatly, and left for the porch.
As the clamor of his family - and their questions - faded behind the porch door, he shook out his hands and peered into the inky shadows of the treeline, stars above obscured by clouds. I gotta get some air was a very Filbrick move. He sighed and squinted at the floorboards beneath his feet. Any chance that cigarette would've lodged itself close enough for him to fish it out?
No sign of it anywhere. Figures.
It was fine. He'd been fine this whole time, till now. Watching a kid cry her heart out after being abandoned by her parents shouldn't get to him. Okay, maybe a little, he wasn't heartless… but it shouldn't get to him like this. Not in the way that grabbed him and shook him up like soda in a can when he tentatively folded her into his arms.
He didn't feel rattled before then.
That first night was just a smudge after so many years, but he still remembered the feeling of his own arms wrapped around himself in the backseat as he tried fruitlessly to fall asleep, the tips of his fingers digging into his shirt.
Nope, no cigarette or nothing. He just needed to stand here and… take a few breaths. Yeah, that sounded good.
The porch door groaned.
Fuck's sake, what was this, a party spot? At least it wasn't another kid. Instead it was Ford, inching out into the night air, shutting the door quietly behind him.
“Go back inside and finish your drawing, Poindexter. I'm good out here.”
Ford meandered over, giving him an appraising look. “I'd say you're a bad liar, but we both know that's not true.” He bumped shoulders with Stan.
“Heh. Yeah.” Stan scuffed the porch with his boot.
Ford's smile fell. “You know I'm always here to listen, if you need it.”
“Nah, it's nothing. Just…” He puffed out some air. “Kid's young, for her parents to do that.”
“She is,” Ford sighed. “It isn't fair in the least.”
“Least she has all these people around her. Good people. And friends. They won't - won't let her slip through the cracks.” He rubbed his thumb under one eye to discreetly wipe away moisture gathering at the lashline. “Y'know?” It came out more choked than he would have liked.
A warm arm draped over his shoulders.
“I know,” Ford replied simply, though his voice was suspiciously thick. His palm rubbed Stan's shoulder.
Stan sniffed and wiped his eyes. “Ugh.”
“You know that you were too young, right?”
“Huh?”
“You were too young as well. You weren't ready for independence, you had no support, and you most importantly didn't deserve that. No kid deserves to have the rug stolen out from under them.”
He squeezed his eyes shut and forced air into his lungs. “I know. I thought so, I mean. But shit, Ford. I think I just realized - I tried to picture this Pacifica kid getting booted out at seventeen and it was still… it was wrong.” He opened his eyes to the black darkness beyond the porch light, the serene wilderness just out of reach. In the distance, thunder rumbled. “It was wrong.”
“It was,” Ford affirmed, voice steely. “I regret that you didn't have anyone around you to help, that I didn't help. I wish…” He shook his head. “I'm immensely grateful that you found people, in the end.” He glanced back at the porch door with a faint smile that mirrored the watery one on Stan's face.
“They're alright,” Stan laughed.
“As for our parents…” The porch light reflected off of Ford's glasses as he inclined his head. “What was it the girl had said? ‘They don’t deserve you?’”
“Alright, alright.” He wriggled out from under Ford's arm with a smile, wiping his eyes. “Enough sap! I can't take it!” He turned a chuckling Ford around and pushed him in the direction of the back door. “We're marching our butts in there and finishing your stupid movie!”
As they filed inside, Stan spared a glance up the stairwell. He hoped the girl was sleeping alright. Better than the back of a car, in any case.
Rain began to patter gently on the roof.
He'll make everyone Stancakes in the morning. But maybe he'll cook up a few extra for her.