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redwoodwrites · 5 years ago

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Coffee, Quirks, and Tigers

Summary: Ootsuki runs a kirei shop in a popular shopping district, but he mostly keeps to himself. And then Fukuda shows up with his boss, who tells him to stay and pick out something for someone's birthday present. He stays, it's awkward, but apparently not that awkward because Fukuda comes back again. And again. And pretty soon it becomes a weekly Thing for the two of them to go get coffee together. Now if only Suzuki and his henchmen could leave the two of them alone.

A/N: Starring Ootsuki and Fukuda from Mob Psycho 100!! (Two of the guys who helped Shou in the finale of Season 2.) They had basically five seconds of screen time...so I got to make up 99% of their personalities! BWAHAHAHA THE POWAAAAAH!

Ootsuki squinted. He'd been drawing a sketch of two fish swimming through trailing willow leaves. It was a commission for a prestigious high school, but he couldn’t get it right yet.

He sat back and stretched, glancing at his shop. His drawing desk was in the back. Framed kirei hung on the left and right walls, showing lacy outlines of flowers, people, even whole cherry trees. Delicate three-dimensional paper animals hung from the ceiling, and three patterned kimonos were displayed in the window.

Outside, the Tatooin Shopping District was swarming with tourists. Street loudspeakers played a constant pop culture soundtrack barely audible over the roar of people. People came here for the chic cafes, high-end clothing stores, and a few electronic places - he got free cable from the flatscreen TVs displayed across the street. It was usually news stories about heroes, although lately there had been a few missing person cases mixed in. Specialty stores like Ootsuki’s kirei shop didn’t get a lot of customers. That was fine with him. Most of his business came from commissions, anyway. He sighed and turned back to his drawing.

Ding!

The front door opened and a giant strode into his shop, accompanied by a rush of street noise. He had spiky orange hair, electric blue eyes and a blazer swung over his shoulders like a cape.

“Now this is more like it!” he proclaimed.

“Shou, be careful!”

A second man appeared behind the first, following close enough to be his shadow. He was built like a bear, with short black hair and anxiety written all over his face. “Did you bump your shoulder in the doorway? You did, didn't you? Are you alright?”

Shou’s eyes caught Ootsuki and he jumped. “Oi! This your shop?”

“H-hai! Irasshaimase.” He started to bow, realized he was sitting, and scrambled to his feet, but the giant had already turned away.

“Pretty impressive,” he said, inspecting a paper sparrow hanging from the ceiling. “Even got the texture of the feathers in there. Nice.”

“Shou, please!” the other man insisted. “Be careful, you could get a paper cut -”

“Fukuda!”

This time both men jumped. “H-hai!” Fukuda stammered.

Shou jabbed a thumb at a framed kirei piece. “Find me something like this for Mom's birthday. I don't want you back at HQ until you've given it at least two hours of thought – after all, it's the thought that counts!”

“But –”

“Two hours! Countin' on ya!”

Shou waved and slipped out the door faster than Ootsuki could follow, vanishing instantly into the crowd. He glanced over. Fukuda was doing such a perfect impression of a sad puppy that Ootsuki snorted with laughter.

“Oh – er, sorry,” he said, catching himself.

Fukuda sighed. “No, no. I apologize for the disturbance. I tend to get a bit...overprotective...and Shou is my boss. I’m Fukuda Itsuki, I’ll be in your care.”

“Ootsuki Souta,” he said, and repeated the greeting. After that he wasn’t sure what to do. He ran a hand self-consciously over his bangs, glad they were long enough to cover his eyes. “Er, well...would you like help picking something out, or…?”

“Yes please,” Fukuda said. He nodded at the bird Shou had inspected. “I've never been in a shop like this before. What kind of art is this?”

“It's kirei. Most of what I sell involves cut paper. That includes the sculptures, but most of it is two-dimensional.” He stopped there - most people’s eyes glazed over at that point - but Fukuda was looking at him as if genuinely interested. Ootsuki gestured to the framed pieces leaning in neat rows along the walls. “Those are all made with a single sheet of paper each, and a very sharp knife. I make faces, landscapes, animals – there's one I did of paper fans, just for the irony. They're all organized by size and category...”

He led Fukuda on a brief tour of the shop, discussing his favorite pieces and the techniques he’d used to make them. Fukuda was much calmer now that he wasn’t fussing over Shou, and asked questions about the types of paper he used and the tools he worked with. Ootsuki grinned and pushed his bangs back from his eyes. He never got to talk about this in such detail, but Fukuda made it easy. Fukuda made it fun.

They made a full circuit around the shop, ending at the window display. The kimonos were beautiful even from the back. Each of them had been printed in a tiny repeating pattern: a lotus blossom, a seashell, or the kanji for “jewel.”

Fukuda looked at them with obvious admiration. “They’re gorgeous. Although I'm a little surprised to see clothing in a kirei shop.”

“It’s the patterns. I stamped it onto the fabric by hand.”

Fukuda's eyes actually boggled. “That's hand-stamped? I thought that was machinery!”

Ootsuki grinned. “Nope, it’s all me. This one was especially tricky.” He reached for the one with seashells.

“Ah – your hands!”

Ootsuki glanced down. The light from outside caught the sheen of all the tiny, nearly invisible scars covering his fingers and palms. “Oh, that. Well, to get the best cut in a piece of paper, you have to drag the blade toward you. Better control that way. But the knives I use have to be quite sharp, and it took practice learning how to do it.”

“And your palms?”

“Pardon?”

“Knives wouldn’t cut your palms like that, look.” He took Ootsuki’s left hand and gently turned it over. The scars were thicker, darker.

Ootsuki flinched and pulled away. “I don’t like people touching my hands.”

“Sorry, I’m sorry. It's just, my quirk is healing, but I can't heal scars...it bothers me when I see wounds that haven't been properly tended.”

“They were tended just fine,” Ootsuki said, a little too sharply. “I just wasn't good at controlling my quirk when I was little. So!” He turned away. “I think that wraps up the tour.”

“Of course. I'm sorry to have taken so much of your time.”

He sounded so sincere about it that Ootsuki softened. “No, it's just that your two hours are almost up,” he said, and realized it was true. How did it go by so fast?

“Then, if it’s alright...could I have that one?” Fukuda asked. He pointed to a piece hanging on the wall, a particularly intricate kirei with cuts so fine you could almost see the texture of the fur.

“You like it?”

Fukuda smiled. “Suzuki-san did always have a fondness for cats.”

Ootsuki sat at his desk again, doodling.

He was done with the fish commission, and now he had nothing to do while he waited to hear back. It didn’t help that his thoughts kept wandering to Fukuda. The visit had been two days ago. Ootsuki was sorry he’d been rude at the end, and it felt worse every time he thought about it. Why did he have to be so - so emo and awkward? He tugged anxiously at his bangs. He could be clever. If Fukuda ever did come back, he’d -

Ding!

“Fukuda!”

“It's good to see you, too,” Fukuda said, grinning, and he realized he'd jumped to his feet.

Ootsuki flushed. “Well, um, yes,” he said. With zero cleverness at all.

Fukuda didn’t seem to notice. “I’m sorry to bother you again, but Shou's mother wanted to commission a piece of her cat. Is that alright? I brought a photo.”

Familiar territory! “Of course, I do commission pieces all the time. Can I see it?”

“Right, here…” Fukuda started digging through the bag slung over his shoulder. “Sorry, sorry, I keep everything in here. I don’t even know how old that granola bar is...ah, here we go!”

He held out a photo of a small white cat. Ootsuki moved to take it, and when he did, two coupons for the Golden Bean fanned out from behind it.

“Oh, isn’t this that shop down the street?” Ootsuki asked, glancing up.

He stopped cold. Fukuda’s warm brown skin was suddenly ash-gray, and he was staring at the tickets like they were vipers poised to strike.

“I don’t...remember these,” he whispered.

“It’s okay!” Ootsuki said quickly. He wasn’t sure why the coupons had unsettled Fukuda so deeply, but the look on his face was unbearable. He yanked them out of Fukuda’s grip.

“Wait, wait -”

“They’re just coupons!” Ootsuki said, holding the coupons well out of sight. “Look! I’ll just throw them away - oh.”

“‘Oh’?” Fukuda said, his face practically slate gray. “O-Ootsuki, quickly, those tickets might be from -”

“From ‘Shou’?” Ootsuki asked drily, holding them up. The silvery foil on the back of the coupons was covered in thick red scrawl.

Yo, Ootsuki! Thanks for looking after Fukuda. Take him for a walk, wouldja? Have a cup of coffee, my treat! - Shou

Immediately Fukuda’s shoulders slumped and color flooded into his face. “Oh thank goodness. It’s just Shou.”

Yes, pegging you like the lost puppy you are, Ootsuki thought. Aloud he said, “I guess you’d like to have these back then?”

“They seem to be addressed to you,” Fukuda said. “Would you want to go? I feel really silly for reacting like that, and I’d like to make it up to you. Do you like the Golden Bean?”

Ootsuki shrugged. “I’ve never been there.”

“You’ve nev - you work five minutes away!”

“The streets are crowded,” Ootsuki protested, but it sounded lame even to his own ears.

Fukuda’s lips twitched like he was hiding a smile. “I’m big enough to make a path for us. Please?”

It was that unbearable puppy dog look that did him in. Ootsuki found himself locking up the shop and heading out into the street behind Fukuda. At least he was right - his bulk really did carve an easier path.

The Golden Bean, however, was even worse. It was easily three times as crowded. People kept bumping Ootsuki and hitting his hands and he was about five seconds from bolting, self-conscious anxiety or not.

Fukuda, oblivious, looped an arm through Ootsuki’s and somehow stepped right up to the counter.

“What do you want to order?” Fukuda yelled cheerfully over the noise.

Ootsuki looked at the menu, which was the size of a billboard and crammed with 12-pt font.

“Are you kidding?” he gasped out.

Fukuda grinned, turned to the cashier, and shouted something else. Somehow Fukuda managed to place an order, grab their cups, and find the last table left, in a little corner of the shop where the noise was down to a dull roar.

“I am convinced this is your Quirk,” Ootsuki said, practically collapsing into his chair.

“What, ordering coffee?”

“Finding tables in this madhouse!”

“It comes from having to keep a sharp eye out.” Before Ootsuki could ask what that meant, Fukuda passed him his coffee. “Here, drink. You’re looking a little pale.”

“I’m not used to dealing with people,” he said faintly.

“But you work in one of the busiest streets of the city.”

“Most of the people stay outside my shop. Being near people is one thing, interacting is another. I get nervous when people are really close to me.”

“Oh.” Something in Fukuda’s tone made Ootsuki look up. He was staring at Ootsuki’s hands again, and there was something behind his eyes that made Ootsuki remember how big he was. “Ootsuki, is someone...hurting you?”

“What? No!”

“Because if they are, I’d really like to do something about it.”

“They’re not, no one is, I promise,” Ootsuki said, barely managing to keep his hands above the table. “Look, the scars are my fault. I couldn’t control my quirk when I was younger. I can channel kinetic energy through thin, flexible objects. Plastic works, but paper is best, and school was full of paper. Every time I picked up a piece of homework or a quiz…” He gestured, indicating an explosion. “It made school interesting, I'll say that much.”

Fukuda stared at him. “But you work with paper.”

“I learned to control it.”

“You saw a quirk counselor?”

“Er...no…” He shifted in his seat. “When I was little, we had a neighbor three apartments over who liked origami. He’d make tigers or cranes and blow into them. They’d come to life, just for a day or two, and he’d leave them out for other kids in the complex to play with.”

Fukuda’s face lit up. “That's amazing! So he taught you origami, too?”

Ootsuki fidgeted anxiously with a napkin. “No. I thought it would be fun to blow his tigers up. I'm not like that anymore!” he added quickly. Fukuda’s shock made his guts twist. “I thought choosing not to control my quirk was easier than admitting I couldn’t. I pretended it was funny. So one day I blew his tigers up, and then I turned around and - and saw him standing there. I saw his face. And after that it wasn’t funny anymore.”

“Ootsuki...”

He ducked his head. “I avoided him for months. Then I got it into my head that if I could put the tigers back, everything would be alright. So I got a book on origami and a bunch of paper and practiced. Even with homework. Before I’d moved it around with erasers, but now I actively tried to manage it all the time, because if I didn’t, I couldn’t make the tigers. When I was done, my hands looked like this and I had a dozen or so crappy tigers lined up in the courtyard.”

“And? What did he say?”

“Nothing,” Ootsuki said quietly. “He wasn't there anymore. He moved away. I was a coward for so long that I never got the chance to apologize.”

“And I think a kind person like that would have been happy with the gift you made for him.”

“It wasn't a gift. They weren't even all that good.”

“I beg to differ.”

Fukuda caught Ootsuki's wrist and he looked down, startled. He'd been folding a napkin into a paper tiger without realizing it, and he'd been about to rip it in half.

“It's quite good,” Fukuda said. “And one more thing. I don’t think you’re a coward, Ootsuki.”

“I literally hide behind my bangs,” he said flatly.

“You came to coffee with me,” Fukuda countered.

“That was just because -” He stopped short, flushing. He wasn’t about to mention that obnoxious puppy dog face. Mostly because Fukuda was doing it right now.

“You’re braver than you think you are,” Fukuda said. “And I’m taking this to keep as proof.”

He plucked the tiger from Ootsuki’s hand and tucked it safely into his bag.

Fukuda came back two days later, and again two days after that. He said it was because Shou's mother had more orders, but Ootsuki secretly suspected that Shou himself was responsible. He was probably the littlest bit annoyed with being watched like a hawk for stubbed toes and sent Fukuda off for two straight hours of peace.

Ootsuki didn't mind.

Fukuda, meanwhile, seem to have extended his overprotectiveness to Ootsuki, and was frequently checking to make sure he didn't have any fresh paper cuts, got eight hours of sleep a night, and took breaks from drawing so he wouldn't strain his eyes.

Ootsuki didn't mind that, either.

The two of them took to buying coffee and walking around to look at all the shops. Once in a while Fukuda saw a window display for a fluffy sweater and just had to have it, and Ootsuki bought a new halogen lamp for his desk. Fukuda finally got Ootsuki hooked on pistachio-flavored coffee, which Ootsuki hadn’t even known existed (and wasn’t convinced that it should).

Two weeks into their coffee tradition, Ootsuki was hanging a new sparrow sculpture when he heard the door open behind him.

“You’re early,” he said, turning. Then he stopped short. “What happened?”

Fukuda was standing in the doorway, face pale, hands shaking at his sides, clothes rumpled like he hadn’t slept for days. He was looking around the shop like he didn’t even see it.

Ootsuki jumped off the stepstool and hurried over. “Are you alright? Are you injured anywhere?”

“Huh? No, I...no…”

“You look like hell!”

Fukuda laughed weakly, but it wasn’t a joke, and they both knew it. “Sorry. I’m, uh, I had a rough day. Should we get going?”

“Now? Like this?”

“I really will be fine after some tea. Or something.”

Ootsuki hesitated, thinking. “Alright,” he said slowly. “But it’s getting kind of cool out. Come on back, I need to grab my jacket.”

“Sure.”

Ootsuki headed for the back of the shop - without letting go of Fukuda’s hand. He trailed along after him like an oversized puppy. Ootsuki reached the employee’s door and pushed it open. He even got a few feet inside before Fukuda drew up short.

“I-I’m sorry for intruding,” he stammered. “I didn’t know you lived back here.”

Ootsuki had converted the back room into a one-room apartment. There was a western-style bed on the right, a table in the center, and a kitchenette on the left, with the bathroom door in the back left corner. Most of his expendable income had gone into a TV and game system set up next to the bed. The place was spare but functional.

He shrugged. “My budget’s pretty modest, and anyway I don’t see the point in buying a second place just for a bed and a bad commute.”

Fukuda’s lips twitched. “You do have a point.”

“Sit down anywhere, I’ll just be a second.”

Ootsuki went to the kitchenette and Fukuda sat down at the table. A few copies of Ootsuki’s best works hung on the walls, and Fukuda was looking at the cityscape one with interest. Then he blinked and seemed to come back to himself again. “What are you doing?”

“What does it look like?” Ootsuki turned around, a mug in each hand. “Making tea.”

“You didn’t have to,” Fukuda said weakly.

“It’s just instant tea, nothing fancy.”

“We were gonna get coffee.”

“Next time.” He set the mug down. “Sit. Drink. Breathe.”

Fukuda obeyed while Ootsuki grabbed the quilt from his bed. He sat down next to Fukuda so their legs were touching and wrapped the blanket around their shoulders.

“Let me know if this bothers you, but sometimes pressure helps me calm down.”

“I’m the same,” Fukuda murmured. “When it’s someone like you.”

Ootsuki’s face felt as hot as the tea. “Okay. Um. Anime. I mean - let’s put on an anime or something. Or not. Or we can talk if you want. Or not.” Stop talking, stop talking, stop talking.

“Anything is fine.” Fukuda lowered his mug to the table, eyes down. “You really didn’t have to do this.”

Ootsuki rolled his eyes. “Pretty sure I did. You worry a lot about other people, Fukuda, but not enough about yourself.”

Fukuda gave a tiny smile. “You know, in your own way, you're nearly as stubborn as Shou.”

“Your boss?”

“And longtime friend. We met doing underground hero work.”

“Ah,” Ootsuki said. Then the words sank into his brain. “Wait, what? Underground heroes? How is he an underground hero with that bright red hai – I'm sorry did you say you're a hero?!”

“Yes?” Fukuda glanced up, eyes twinkling. “Is it that much of a surprise?”

“I mean – you're so – lost puppy –”

“I'm a what now?”

“Mild-mannered! Is what I meant to say!”

“Yes, I'm a hero,” Fukuda said, grinning. He had absolutely heard the puppy comment. “My healing quirk isn't particularly useful for offense, but it's invaluable as backup for the others in our agency.”

“I can imagine,” Ootsuki managed. Fukuda didn't fit Ootsuki's image of a hero at all. Fukuda wore fluffy sweaters and an open expression and exuded the kind of warm calm people normally associated with a good cup of hot chocolate. Being a “hero” seemed to involve more exaggerated muscle development, primary colors and...teeth?

Fukuda chuckled as if he could read Ootsuki’s thoughts. “That's exactly why I'm so useful as an underground hero. I know how to dress and act a certain way. How to give off a certain impression or persona. If you drop me in the middle of a city anywhere in Japan, I could disappear in an hour and never be found. I mostly work on organizational crimes, but sometimes I get asked to pursue missing person's cases.”

“Missing...but don't kidnapped people usually end up –”

“Yes,” Fukuda said. His voice was low and his shoulders were trembling. Ootsuki wrapped him in a hug.

“It must be hard,” Ootsuki said quietly.

Fukuda leaned into him, eyes cast down. “I can - I can usually find them in time. And heal them. I’m very, very good at both. But Shou - there’s a man we’ve been tracking - you’ve seen the rash of missing people in the news?”

“I think so,” Ootsuki said slowly. It sounded vaguely familiar.

“The man we’re tracking is responsible, and today we found one of his facilities. They’d known we were coming and abandoned the place. But we found evidence of some of the missing people, and the - the Quirk research they were doing -”

His voice broke. Ootsuki rubbed his back in small, slow circles. “I can’t even imagine what it’s that’s like,” Ootsuki said softly. He wished he had something better to say. “I guess this explains why you were so scared when we found Shou’s coupons in your bag.”

Fukuda rubbed at his eyes with one hand. “I’ve been wondering lately if I’m being tracked. One of the man’s top followers is very good at electronic spying. We’re closer to finding them every day, and I think they’re finally feeling the pressure. We’re going to have to face them soon.”

“Shou doesn’t seem like the type of person to lose,” Ootsuki said.

“He’s not. He really doesn’t need my help most of the time. But with the man we’re tracking, he will. Soon. Even then we might not be enough to beat him. I have to make sure he’s at the top of his game. If I don’t, if he’s even a little bit tired, a little bit slow, if I’m not enough, then he might – he might actually –”

Fukuda folded into himself. Ootsuki pulled him gently so that Fukuda was leaning into him, head just below Ootsuki’s chin. He knew there was nothing he could say, nothing he could do. For the first time he wished he knew how to use his quirk for something...more. His heart ached.

When Fukuda was calmer, they drank their tea and quietly watched anime movies on Ootsuki’s cell phone. Ootsuki pulled the blanket off his bed and wrapped them up in it, shoulder to shoulder. They stayed like that, pressed together in quiet, comforting warmth, for a long time.

It was two minutes past coffee time.

Ootsuki sat at his desk, trying not to fidget. He glanced out the window. Back to his desk. Back to the window. Then he got up and looked down the street, shoving his face between the kimonos, trying to peer through the crowd. Five minutes past coffee time. Still no Fukuda. He pulled his phone out of his pocket.

Fukuda picked up on the second ring. “Yes?”

“You’re late.”

“I’m five minutes late,” Fukuda said, and Ootsuki could hear the smile in his voice. “I’m rubbing off on you. You didn’t worry so much last week.”

“Last week I didn’t know that you regularly risk your life for a living,” Ootsuki retorted.

Fukuda laughed. They’d texted a few times since the last time he came over, but it wasn’t the same. Ootsuki was glad to hear him back to his usual self.

“You’re almost here?” he asked.

“Yes, yes, I’m almost there. You can probably see me from your window. Look.”

Ootsuki looked. An arm in a fluffy green sweater sprouted from the crowd three stores down, waving.

“You look like a bean sprout,” Ootsuki told him, just to hear him laugh again. “Alright, alright, I’m hanging up. But you owe me coffee for making me worry.”

“It’s a deal.”

Ootsuki pocketed the phone and realized he was smiling. A new coffee shop had opened next to the Golden Bean. There was a semi-playful war between the two on which was better. Even the music on the street speakers was interrupted with updates on which shop had gotten more likes on Facebrick. Ootsuki and Fukuda both thought it was hilarious.

And Ootsuki wanted to try the new shop. More specifically, he wanted to try it with Fukuda.

His friend’s face finally came into view, swimming toward him in the crowd. Ootsuki’s grin widened and he turned for the door.

Suddenly the street speakers screeched. The sound was so loud Ootsuki felt it in his teeth. He jerked badly and people outside shouted in pain and surprise.

Then the security gates on every shop came slamming down.

“HEY!”

Ootsuki flung himself at his door. The bars were on the outside, but Ootsuki couldn’t even get to them; the door had locked and wouldn’t open. He heard screams and saw that some people had been crushed under the gates and were struggling to get free. The electronic store across the street had a safety gate that swung down like a garage door, and it had someone pinned by her shoulder. Fukuda was already cutting through the fleeing crowd, hand outstretched and glowing. Ootsuki took a shuddering breath. That’s right, Fukuda was a hero, he could help –

“AH-AH-AH,” tutted a voice from the speakers.

The electronics shop exploded. Every single device inside suddenly burst through the windows, walls, and ceiling. Fukuda dove right into the falling shards, shielding the pinned woman. Pipes and cables ripped up from the street. The electronic devices whizzed toward them and the wires and metal wrapped around them, rising up to form a many-tentacled octopus shape. A multitude of cables coiled and writhed ceaselessly around a bulbous conglomerate of tech, studded with cameras that blinked in every direction and crowned with three flat screen TVs. The screens flashed to life, showing a composite view of a pale man in square-framed glasses. .

Fukuda snarled. “Hatori!”

“You really made it too easy to find you,” Hatori sneered. “For an underground hero, it’s surprising that you’d risk falling into a routine.”

Ootsuki sucked in a breath. The electronic spy! Fukuda was right, they’d been watching, they knew he’d been meeting with Ootsuki every week!

Fukuda’s hand plunged into his bag. Immediately Hatori’s cables lashed out, striking Fukuda’s chest so hard Ootsuki could hear an audible crack from across the street. He flew through the air until he hit a telephone pole and the cables immediately caught him, ripping his bag from his shoulder and lifting him into the air.

“Fukuda!” Ootsuki slams his palms against the glass, desperate. Kinetic energy vibrated painfully through his wrists and the glass buzzed but didn’t break. No, no, the villain had him, it was going to kill him!

He backed up and a hanging sculpture hit his head. All that paper – but he wasn’t a hero, he had to call the police, had to get help –

“Rats are really more trouble than they’re worth to keep around,” Hatori said, smirking. Fukuda gave an airless scream, and Ootsuki heard a terrible, organic pop.

The cables were squeezing.

“GET AWAY FROM HIM!”

He wasn’t sure how it had happened. He’d been standing in his shop, frozen in horror, and then he was outside and his arm was moving in slow-motion and the paper fan he was holding cut clean through the cables holding Fukuda.

Fukuda hit the ground with a gasp, still wrapped in the metal coils, but his eyes were on something past Ootsuki. Immediately he turned and swung the paper. Again time skipped and there were stripped wires and computer bits littering the street in a circular blast radius, and Hatori’s metal octopus was hissing and stitching three of its limbs back together with angry clanks.

“Not another one!” Hatori snapped, face red. “Why – are – there – heroes – everywhere?!”

“Ootsuki!” Fukuda gasped.

Cables reared up behind the octopus and struck like snakes. Ootsuki tried to dodge but his legs were frozen. Fukuda tackled him and they went rolling seconds before electrified prongs gored them to the street. Fukuda grabbed a metal trash can and flung it hard. Ootsuki winced when he heard the noise Fukuda’s chest made, but the trash can slammed down on the prongs with extra force and it lodged in the asphalt. The two of them ducked into a narrow alley.

“The hell do you think you’re doing?!” Hatori demanded.

“I don’t know, I don’t know, my body just moved! What do we do?!”

“I need my bag, you stay here!”

“Somehow I don’t think he’ll let me!”

“Correct!”

Ootsuki shrieked and flung his arm up right before a huge muscled octopus limb came sweeping down on them. The blast broke it in two and they darted out of the alley. Fukuda grabbed a loose bit of the broken limb and jammed it into another tentacle as they ran, forcing it back. Ootsuki sent two more blasts at the tentacles darting into Fukuda’s blind spots and they sprinted out of range.

Hatori snarled. “Hold still already!”

“No thanks!”

The street was almost empty of shoppers except for the few who had been pinned or those trying to help them. Ootsuki saw the moment Hatori caught sight of two teenagers wedged in a clothing shop entrance. Something blazed in his chest and he slammed the fan down through the air, again and again, actually forcing Hatori back.

“Agh! Little freak!”

“Ootsuki, your hands!”

He glanced down. He saw the red dripping down his fingers and wrist but couldn’t feel the pain or even the wetness.

“Forget it, get the bag!”

“But – you – fine, just don’t die!” He turned and sprinted down the street, where his bag was sticking out from under someone’s discarded shopping bag. Ootsuki darted forward, scooped a handful of receipts off the ground and hurled them. The paper burst into confetti and was immediately attracted by the static cling of the TVs, blocking out all the video cameras facing their way. Hatori shouted with rage.

Ootsuki stumbled back, gasping. He was starting to feel the pain now. His hands were shaking and blood dripped from his skin, under his fingernails. He knew he’d cracked his bones because he suddenly knew exactly where they were in both hands.

He turned and sprinted for Fukuda, who was desperately hunting through his bag.

“Where is it, where is it, where is it,” he muttered.

“What are you looking for?”

“The EMP gun. Small, black, yellow tape – I know I packed it, I definitely grabbed it off the counter –”

“THERE YOU ARE!”

Something sharp and hard slammed into the side of Ootsuki’s head. He hit the ground. The drone that had hit him banked hard and circled, two more joining it. Ootsuki realized his hands were empty and rolled away before their blades could slice his arms. Fukuda had done the same, but his broken ribs had hampered his movement and a lucky hit had knocked him flat. Immediately a cable burst out of the ground and bound him tight.

Ootsuki’s hand plunged into Fukuda’s bag and pulled out what he’d hoped he would find - his little leatherbound book. He tore out a dozen pages and struck, kinetic energy blasting the drones away.

He’d forgotten the octopus, though, and just as he made to cut Fukuda loose a cable came out of nowhere and slammed him in the stomach.

He lost time in a daze of gray and yellow pain until sharp hit his shoulder and he fell to his knees with a cry. His vision slowly cleared.

The drone that had been aiming for his shoulder had switched off at the last second and now lay cracked and silent on the ground. The other drones hit the ground beside him, and the cable that had been whipping out to grab him suddenly collapsed on the asphalt, limp, live wires still sparking at its tip.

Fukuda was standing in front of him, a small, buzzing gadget the size of a cell phone in his raised fist.

Hatori’s octopus spasmed and flailed. Chunks of machinery were already falling off. For a second Hatori looked livid, but then his face twisted in a vicious sneer and an octopus leg sliced clean through the whole front wall of a restaurant, peeling it away from the building like a slice of cake. The people inside screamed. Ootsuki readied his fan, but apparently that had been the most Hatori could do. The TV screens distorted to static and went black. With a final, ear-splitting shriek of tearing metal, the octopus slumped over, dead.

Ootsuki hadn’t realized he was about to join it until Fukuda grabbed his shoulder to keep him upright. The two of them stared at each other for a few seconds, breathing hard.

“You,” Ootsuki said finally, “are going to owe me so many coffees after this.”

“You can have them after I murder you for jumping into the line of fire,” Fukuda said. But there wasn’t any venom in his voice, and his eyes had the puppy dog look cranked up to eleven. “What were you even thinking?! You have zero battle experience, and that guy was - villains aren’t a video game, Ootsuki! He would have actually murdered you!”

He ducked his head. “Sorry.”

“Don’t - don’t apologize, just -”

“Hero-san!” called a voice. It was one of the teenagers Hatori had almost attacked. They were in the store right next to the restaurant, and it looked like he’d managed to squeeze himself out, but his companion had a thick river of blood running down their face that Ootsuki hadn’t noticed before. “Hero-san, I - please help him - ”

“Coming,” Fukuda called immediately. “And stay put, Ootsuki, you’re next.”

“Not going anywhere ‘till I get my coffee.”

Fukuda shot him a look, part concern, part exasperation, then turned to help the teenager.

Ootsuki leaned on a trashcan, catching his breath. His hands hurt. He was trying to avoid looking at them because he was pretty sure they were fractured and he’d pass out if he saw it.

It had felt...strange, to be out on the battlefield like that. Not natural, not exactly, but like he had fit perfectly into place. As if the universe had simply been waiting for him to do it and the response was simply, “Of course.”

Shock gave people such weird thoughts. He shook his head and looked around. Little shreds of torn paper drifted through the air, like scattered snowfall. Bits of computer modems and gaming consoles covered the street, torn open, their silicon circuits glittering in the sun. The security gates had retracted. Some of the trapped shoppers were cautiously poking their heads out of the buildings, checking that it was safe. It wasn’t; there were a lot of live wires sticking out of the ground and the octopus carcass, throwing sparks.

It didn’t smell all that great, either. His senses were still sharp from all the adrenaline pouring through him. He could smell the burned plastic from the machines and the ozone of the sparking wires. He could even smell something odd from the restaurant Hatori had sliced open. Something burning?

He looked closer. A dark shape was sticking out of the wall. It looked like a pipe with a little yellow sticker on it.

Gas.

He saw everything in perfect clarity. The brilliance of the sky, so bright blue it looked painted by a child. The shadow of Fukuda’s back, the exact way his head turned when he smelled it too. The hot metal of the trash can under Ootsuki’s broken fingers. And floating gently past, torn free from that little book by the explosions, a napkin folded like a tiger.

He grabbed it and slashed with everything he had.

The blast he made created a huge vacuum down the middle of the street, sucking away the explosion and heat and gas. Hot blades drove up the bones in Ootsuki’s arms, splitting them in half. Blazing pain seared his brain. Sound warped and distorted like it was coming from underwater. He thought he heard someone screaming, realized it was himself.

He was on the ground. His arms were on fire. They had to be on fire. They hurt so badly. Shadows were moving over him. One of them reached out to him, familiar, calling his name, but before he could answer more shadows came down like a curtain and he sank into the heavy black.

Ootsuki woke up slowly. He was lying on a bed that crinkled loudly whenever he existed, and the ceiling was styrofoam-white. The smell of rubber and cleaner filled his nostrils. A hospital.

“I guess it’s nice that I survived,” he mused aloud.

“Gee, you think?”

“Fukuda!”

He bolted upright. Fukuda was sitting on a chair next to him, a book on his lap. He smiled and put a warm hand on Ootsuki’s arm. “Relax, the doctors saw you but you’re still going to be pretty tired.”

“You’re okay!”

“Yes, yes, I’m fine, but how are your hands?”

“My - oh…”

He held them up. The last thing he remembered, they were bleeding like crazy and felt like he’d fractured every bone in his fingers. Now they looked perfectly fine. In fact…

“No scars? They’re gone?”

Fukuda looked apologetic. “You, er. Sort of blasted most of your skin off. So when I healed it, all the skin grew back more or less uniform. I hope you don’t mind. We’re mostly here because it’s standard procedure to bring someone to the hospital just in case there’s something a field medic missed.”

“But you’re okay?” Ootsuki asked again, searching his face. “Last time I saw you, you were covered in blood and I think your rib had broken.”

He grimaced. “Ribs, plural. But I promise I’m okay. I just - the way you nearly got killed - ” He broke off, shaking his head. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“I...I guess so?” He looked around, trying to distract himself. It wasn’t just a hospital room, it was a private room, with a flatscreen TV, a vase of fresh flowers, and a window with a panoramic view of the city. “I can’t afford all this.”

“Don’t worry, heroes get free private rooms.”

“I’m not a hero.”

“I don’t see why not,” said a voice from the door. They looked up as Shou phased through the doorway, a tray of hospital goop in his hands. “Whoops, almost lost the Jell-O. I pulled a few strings and got you a temporary hero’s license about thirty minutes after the whole Hatori thing. So technically you’re a hero for the next three months. Welcome to my agency.”

“I-I’m not a hero!”

Shou raised an eyebrow. “Again, I don’t see why not. How do you feel? I’m not asking about your physical state. Do you feel horrified, apathetic, jittery - or do you feel like you’re ready to do it all over again?”

Ootsuki blinked a few times. “The second one, I guess. How did you…?”

He nodded. “I saw the fight. You got thrashed because you’re a total noob, but you have good reflexes and use your quirk in creative ways. My agency could use you. And Fukuda’s obsessed with you now and not me, which is a plus.”

“Shou!” Fukuda protested. “I’m not obsessed with him -”

“You use the first sweater he ever bought you for ‘emergency hugs’ and set his picture as the background on your phone. Besides,” Shou continued cheerfully over Fukuda’s sputtering, “Hero work pays well. Unless you have another source of income I don’t know about, because your shop is basically gravel.”

“What?!”

He leaped for the TV remote and flipped channels frantically. He found the evening news and, there in the background, was his shop - or rather, a lot of vacant air and broken plaster where his shop used to be. He could still see a few strips of paper fluttering through the air.

“Oh, no no no no no,” he moaned. “Everything I owned was in that shop!”

“Everything?” Shou asked curiously.

“He lived in the storeroom at the back,” Fukuda explained.

Ootsuki dragged a hand down his face. “I have a little money saved up, but I’ll need that for food and inventory until my insurance kicks in.”

“I have an extra bedroom,” Fukuda said. “I mean - it could be only temporary, if you like. And only if you’re comfortable with it. I have about three bonuses I haven’t even used yet, we could buy furniture or paper or anything you’d need.”

Shou made a muffled-sounding squeak.

“What,” Fukuda said flatly.

“You two are actually sharing an apartment?” Shou asked.

Ootsuki turned red. “I - I guess you could say that? We never really - I

Shou was grinning like a cat that had drunk half the cream and intentionally spilled the rest. “So, to be clear. You met by chance, had a coffee shop AU side story, fought a villain, and then…”

“Don’t you dare,” Fukuda warned.

Shou was grinning from ear to ear.

“And then they were roommates,” he whispered.

Then he phased through the door, laughing, dodging pillows from two very red-faced heroes.

#mob psycho 100 #mp100 #ootsuki #fukuda #rarepair #boku no hero academia au #bnha au #my hero academia au #hatori makes a brief cameo #shou #shou is also in here #queerplatonic

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redwoodwrites · 5 years ago

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Cherry Milk Blossom Pudding

Have a fluff piece with Smoll Mob and Smoll Ritsu! A commission by the most awesome @frootysparkycakes !

AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23292583

“Nii-san. Nii-san, wake up. Are you awake?”

Mob shifted, rising reluctantly out of sleep. He felt disoriented and heavy. All his limbs felt heavy – his legs, his chest, his elbows. He’d been sick with a bad fever for over a week, and it had only just broken yesterday night. He wasn’t even sure what day it was.

“Niiiiii-saaaaaan,” whispered a voice.

Mob groaned softly and cracked open his eyes. The gray light from the window told him it was nearly dawn. His brother crouched over him, a mask over his face.

“Ritsu?” Mob murmured.

“Happy birthday, Nii-san.”

“It’s today?” Mob lifted a hand to scrub the sleep from his eyes. His arm felt like it weighed a hundred pounds and he let it flop next to his head when he was done, too exhausted to push it back under his blanket. “You’re not supposed to be in here, Ritsu. You could get sick.”

“That’s why I’m wearing the mask. I brought you something, want to see?”

Ritsu disappeared from over him. There was a rustling noise, like cloth or soft plastic. Mob blinked slowly a few times, then turned his head. Ritsu reached behind him where Mob couldn’t see, then held up a small porcelain bowl. A rich, sweet smell filled the air.

“Tada!” he said softly.

“What is it?”

“Take a look.” Ritsu tilted the bowl so Mob could see. A thick pink cream filled the bowl almost to the rim. In the middle was a clumsy but decorative arrangement of dried petals. “It’s milk pudding with pickled cherry blossoms,” Ritsu explained. “I wanted to make some for your birthday.”

Mob struggled to sit up, eyes fixed on the treat. “Milk pudding?”

“Yep! I had to save up to buy the blossoms, but I made the pudding myself.”

“You made it?”

“Ye – oh, careful!” He caught Mob’s shoulder; his arms had almost given out under him. “Here, move over.”

“But you’ll get sick –”

“If you lean on me you can eat the milk pudding,” Ritsu pointed out.

A minute later the two of them were pressed side by side under Mob’s blankets, with Mob braced against Ritsu’s shoulder, his head resting against Ritsu’s cheek. His warmth seeped through Mob’s thin cotton pajamas, soothing the aches in his muscles. He sighed deeply.

“Your breakfast,” Ritsu murmured into his hair.

“Mm.”

Ritsu passed him the bowl. He’d kept it in the refrigerator – the porcelain was so cool Mob almost saw a halo of mist around it. He dipped the silver spoon into the cream.

It was perfect. Sweet, but not too sweet; a little spicy and salty from the pickled plum blossoms; and, best of all, rich and creamy from extra milk. The delicate flavors slipped over his tongue like a cloud, and the coolness soothed his raw throat.

“It’s so good, Ritsu!”

“I’m glad you like it.”

He could feel the press of Ritsu’s smile against his head, and quickly finished the rest. His hand was trembling just a little when he set the bowl down, but he felt better and more clear-headed already. The lingering chill of the cream in his tummy felt so wonderful after the constant hot ache of the fever, and it felt good to sit up after days lying down. He yawned and stretched, pushing both arms out in front of him as far as they could go.

Ritsu laughed quietly. “Are you sure you’re not part cat, Nii-san? A bowl full of milk is all it takes to make you happy.”

Mob looked up, smiling. “I can’t believe you made that for me. You’re so talented, Ritsu! It was so delicious!”

“There’s a few servings left in the fridge for later, if you like.”

“Really?!”

“Sh!” Ritsu glanced at the door. “Mom and Dad could wake up. It’s getting later.”

“Oh…” Now that Ritsu mentioned it, the gray predawn glow had long since given way to newly minted daylight.

He yawned again.

Ritsu slowly moved his arm away, lowering Mob to the floor.

“Ritsu?”

“You should go back to sleep, Nii-san,” Ritsu said quietly.

“Oh…you’re right.” He felt his brother take the bowl from his fingers and turned his head into the pillow with a sigh, nuzzling into it. He was still pretty tired from fighting off that fever. It was confusing to be tired, because the dessert actually gave him more energy, but he was. Ritsu would probably know why. He wished he could ask him – he could listen to Ritsu talk forever, he always made hard things so easy to understand. But their parents would be upset if they caught Ritsu here with him. He sighed. Being by himself was the hardest part of being sick. He had stay away from his brother.

He wished Ritsu didn’t have to go. He missed him.

“I can stay if you want.”

“Eh?”

Mob realized he’d said that last thought out loud. Before he could protest, he felt the blanket lift up and a rush of air flowed down his body. He opened his eyes and saw that Ritsu had settled himself next to Mob on the futon, his forehead nearly touching his brother’s.

“Ritsu, you’ll get sick!”

“I have a mask,” Ritsu reminded him.

“But –”

“Please? I miss you too, Nii-san.”

Mob hesitated, and Ritsu pulled the blanket back over them, tucking it under their chins. Then he scooted closer and Mob felt Ritsu’s hand find his in the warm space between them.

“Just for a little while,” Ritsu whispered.

Mob knew he should argue. Big brothers protected little brothers, even from something as small as a cold. But his brother had made him a special treat, and had come to visit him on his birthday when Mob hadn’t even remembered it, and Mob loved him so much and didn’t want to let go of Ritsu’s hand even for a minute.

He tucked his chin down, so at least he wouldn’t be breathing on him. He felt Ritsu settle his chin over Mob’s head. Mob sighed deeply. He felt cool from the treat and warm from his brother and he could still taste the sweetness of the milk in his mouth.

“Happy birthday, Nii-san,” Ritsu whispered.

Mob smiled sleepily, snuggled into his brother’s warmth, and fell softly back to sleep.

A/N It...was only supposed to be 500 words...

#mob psycho 100 #mp100 #mob #kageyama shigeo #kageyama mob #kageyama ritsu #fluff #cherry blossom milk pudding #with just a smidgen of hurt/comfort #because apparently I can't write anything without it #but mostly fluff #and smoll bois bonding #smoll mob #smoll ritsu #so precious #must squee

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redwoodwrites · 5 years ago

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Relativity Falls Season 1 Episode 1: Tourist Trap

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12579416/chapters/28652568

A/N:Welcome, one and all, to Relativity Falls! Here you will find the adventures of a certain dynamic duo as they spend the summer at their Grauntie Mabel's utterly tacky tourist trap. Updates will be every Friday, and after each episode there will be a “Short”, a much shorter original fanfiction which occurs in the time between the episodes. See you in a few days, and enjoy All Hallow's Eve! Warning: *This fanfiction may trigger feels, warm fuzzies, and certain amounts of deja vu. *May cause minor amounts of time travel (forward only) *Author does not claim responsibility for any sightings of ghosts, triangles, or woodpeckers that may or may not occur during or after the reading of this text. Enjoy!

“AAAAAAAH!”

The golf cart plunged over a cliff, punched straight through a billboard, and landed with a squeal on the road below. The two boys in the cart held on for dear life.

“WE'RE GONNA DIE WE'RE GONNA DIE WE'RE GONNA DIE!” Stanley screamed.

Ford jerked the wheel, fishtailing around a hairpin turn. “Hold on!”

The ground shook with an ominous thumping.

Stanley twisted around, gripping the seat's back so hard his knuckles went white. “Floor it, Ford, it's gaining on us!”

A huge monster rose behind them, throwing a massive shadow over the road. The thing was over thirty feet tall, a crazy conglomeration of glaring eyes, sharp teeth, and bright red hats.

It ripped up a redwood as easily as a dandelion, took aim, and threw. Ford looked up and gasped as the tree soared right over their heads, landing so hard it bounced on the road in front of them.

“Look out!”

Ford jerked the wheel. The golf cart careened, tipping left, then right, skidding crazily. The tree's huge trunk loomed like a brick wall. They braced themselves against the dash and screamed.

A few days earlier...

The bus pulled away from the stop sign, leaving Ford and his brother standing alone on the sidewalk. Stanley had his sleeves rolled up, revealing the superhero-themed band aids on his arms, and the suitcase sitting next to him was covered with half-chewed gum.

Ford was wearing his signature aviator jacket, his notebook sticking out of the back pocket of his jeans. His suitcase was covered with stickers of ghosts and monsters.

Ford shoved his hands in his jacket pockets, looking around expectantly. The town's main road was lined with a few stores, most of them restaurants, plus some arcades, a couple of hardware stores, and a grocery store. Aside from a few random pedestrians, the street was empty.

“She does know we're coming, right?” he asked anxiously.

“Dude, who cares?” Stanley put a foot on his suitcase and struck a heroic pose, shading his eyes like an explorer in a new land. He peered at the redwoods that surrounded the town. “Did you even see this place? It's got nothing but forest for miles! It's the perfectly place for buried treasure!”

Ford rolled his eyes, grinning. “Stanley, we don't have treasure yet.”

“Not yet we don't, but I'll bet you anything we'll find it!” Just then Stan's stomach rumbled. He looked down at it. “Right. First things first. Food time!”

Ford opened his mouth to say they should wait to be picked up, but his stomach cut him off. It had been an eight-hour bus ride and he was seriously hungry. He looked around.

“I think I saw a diner around here...”

“There!” Stanley pointed. There was a restaurant set back against the woods, with a flickering neon sign that read Greasy's Diner.

“Sounds...greasy. We don't even have any money,” Ford pointed out. “You spent our food allowance buying those dumb scratch cards. And all they had on 'em were football players with omelets.”

Stanley shrugged cheerfully. “Don't worry, Sixer, the puppy-dog face works every time! Race you to the door!” He ran into the street.

There was a roar and a screech of tires. Ford yelled. Stanley jumped back, narrowly avoiding a bright purple motorcycle. Stan lay on the ground, shaking a little, and Ford ran to help him up. He glared at the driver.

“Hey, watch where you're going!” he growled.

The rider, a heavy-set woman in a blue blazer and pink skirt, revved the engine. “'Scuse you,” the lady grumped, her voice muffled. “What were ya tryin' to do, kid? That is not how you paint the town red.”

“Guh-guh-guh,” Stanley stammered.

The rider paused, then flicked up the visor. She blinked. “Stanley?”

He stared at her. “Huh?”

“It is you!” She whipped off the helmet. Her gray hair was pulled back in a messy bun, and she had a heart-shaped face with light green eyes that glowed with warmth. “And you must be Stanford!” she said to Ford. “You two have grown so much I didn't even recognize you!”

The twins gaped.

“Grauntie Mabel?” Ford finally asked.

“The one and only! Hop aboard, kids, we got a lot of work to do at the Shack!”

They looked at the bike. It wasn't just purple. It was glittery purple, with a chrome finish and a matching side car so rusted it looked ready to disintegrate on the spot.

“Um, there's just one seat,” Ford said.

“Meh, you're each, like, half of an adult! So together you'll be fine!”

A slow grin spread across Stanley's face. “She's got you there, Sixer!” He scrambled to his feet. “So you're really Grauntie Mabel? I don't remember you being so fat.”

“And I don't remember you being so ugly,” she said cheerfully. “Now grab your gear and get in, time is money!”

They hauled their suitcases into the sidecar. It was so small they had to sit with their knees pressed to their chest and they couldn't even take a deep breath. She tossed them a couple of helmets and then took off with a roar, tearing down the quiet road at a decidedly illegal speed.

The bike's engine was too loud for talking, but the town had sights enough to keep them occupied. There was a church, a deserted convenience store, a junkyard, and a gigantic mall. Ford caught his brother staring at the mall, mouthing “babes” with a familiar gleam in his eye. Ford laughed.

The buildings petered out as they turned onto Gopher Road. The forest, which was always in the background of the town, now loomed up around them. The redwoods spiced the air with a sharp, earthy smell. Beams of sunlight sliced the forest with bars of yellow light. Motes of dust and quick-winged birds darted through the canopy, and wind rustled the treetops, which were high enough to touch the clouds.

But the trees grew so thick that they cast deep shadows starting just a few feet from the road. More than once Ford thought he saw movement in those shadows – things that scuttled and creeped and seemed to be watching them as they passed. He shivered.

The sudden appearance of the clearing drove the thought from his mind. Mostly because of what was in the clearing.

A two-story, steeple-roofed cabin stood in the middle of the lawn, completely covered in hot pink glitter, right up to the weathervane (which, instead of the cardinal directions, had the letters W, H, A, and T). Under the gaudy sparkles, he could make out a large sign reading “MYSTERY SHACK” positioned on the roof, with a dozen smaller advertisements above the front and side entrances. An enormous pig lounged on the front porch. A sign next to it read, 'Picture With Pig - $50!' A Native American totem pole was rose a few yards away, but it was hard to tell what the animals were, since all of them were wearing sweaters of various neon colors.

“Um, wow,” Stan said dubiously, as soon as the engine died.

“Don't mind the glitter,” Mabel said cheerfully. “The girls and I just went a little nuts on our last sleepover.”

“Sleepover?” Stanley muttered to Ford. “But she's, like, grandma-age.”

They got out of the sidecar, grabbed their suitcases, and followed their great-aunt. The pig opened one eye and oinked at them, but otherwise didn't move.

The inside, at least, was less sparkly. They'd entered through the Mystery Shack's Gift Shop. Wood floors, wood walls, and a wood ceiling gave off a definite 'cabin' vibe. Most of the walls were covered in overpriced merchandise and taxidermy monstrosities. There were some clothing racks on the right, next to some tables loaded with snow globes and Grauntie Mabel bobbleheads. The back wall had a vending machine and two doorways, one marked “Employees Only” and the other marked “Museum”. The cash register was on their left, under a stuffed bear head with a narwhal horn glued to its brow. A red-haired teenager in a flannel shirt sat behind the register, his face jammed into a Manly Muscles magazine.

Their great-aunt stood in the center of the shop, legs planted wide and hands at her hips. “Alright, kids, welcome to the Mystery Shack!” she said, gesturing grandly. “Meet our first underpaid employee: Flannel Man!”

“It's 'Boyish Dan',” the teen grunted, without glancing up.

“I'll call you that when you stop reading at work!” Mabel sang. “Flannel Man, meet my great-nephews...my grephews?...Stanley and Stanford Pines!”

“Just 'Ford,'” Ford said, at the same time Stan said, “Just 'Stan'.”

“We also have a mechanic around here somewhere,” Mabel told them. “She's usually fixing things, or breaking them, or both at the same time...oh, Maria! Perfect timing!”

The Employees Only door opened, and a woman in her early twenties stepped through. She wore a faded green hat over her curly dark brown hair, a size-XXXL Mystery Shack shirt, and khaki shorts. One hand gripped a tool box, and the other held a broom.

Grauntie Mabel smiled. “Ria, this is Stan and Ford! My grephews! I told you they'd be coming today.”

“Nice to meet you,” Ria said politely. “Mrs. Pines, I fixed the pipes, but I might've broken the copy machine.”

“Oh, that wasn't you, it's been broken for ages,” Mabel assured her. “Anyway, you two boys go throw your stuff in the attic, and then come back down. I've got a tour bus coming at eleven hundred sharp and I need this place to look spic 'n' span!”

“Wait-wait-wait,” Stan said quickly, holding up his hands. “You mean we're gonna do chores?! But we're on summer vacation!”

Their great-aunt pulled two orange coveralls from behind her back. They had black letters on the front reading “Unpaid Intern #1” and “Unpaid Intern #2” on them in big black letters. She grinned mischievously.

“Not anymore! Now get to work, suckers!”

Stanley managed to talk Grauntie Mabel out of the overalls, but she wasn't kidding about making them work. In the first two days of their stay, they scrubbed the Shack from roof to lawn, swept the house, cleaned out the fridge (Ford swore that was actual glitter in that chicken casserole), and reorganized practically the entire Gift Shop. The only thing they didn't clean was the vending machine, which Mabel declared off-limits after she caught Stan stealing twelve candy bars at a time. They'd even had to re-sew some of the taxidermic monstrosities in the Museum.

The exhibits in there drove Ford crazy. It was all he could do not to shout out corrections when she guided tourists through, calling jackalopes “Antelabbits” and introducing them to bizarre creatures like the “Centaurtaur.” Ford was pretty sure she'd just made that up.

Stan, however, loved it. There was at least one hot babe per bus, and he was determined to make a move on every single one.

Ford watched his brother approach a blue-eyed brunette who was browsing through the shirt rack.

“Do you know a good dentist?” Stan asked, leaning casually on the rack and grinning. “'Cuz you're so sweet I'm gonna get cavities.”

She leaned away from him. “Um, ew.”

Stan didn't give up. “So do you have a name, or should I just call you 'mine'?”

“You can call a lawyer, 'cuz I'm about to sue for harassment,” she snapped, and stalked out of the shop.

This had happened so many times that Stanley didn't even look fazed. He scoffed, turned to the window, and eyed the next busload of tourists shuffling around the lawn.

“Welp,” he said, “one babe down, thirteen to go!”

Ford rolled his eyes. “Stan, some of those girls are like, Mom's age.” He wiped off a jar of eyeballs (which he was convinced watched him when he wasn't looking). “I know you're getting all girl-crazy, but could you turn it down a notch?”

“Not until I get a girlfriend,” Stan said with determination. “All those girls in Jersey were stupid-heads. Now that we're here, I'm going to find the perfect girl to date me.”

“That doesn't mean flirting with every girl you see. Remember when you hit on that lady with a pet turtle? She looked ten years older than you!”

“So I have a thing for older women.” Stan threw one arm around his brother. “Come on, Sixer, I need a wingman! We can both land a hot girl this summer!”

Ford glanced reflexively at his hands, but Stan didn't notice.

“Besides,” he went on, “I got a good feeling about this summer! I wouldn't be surprised if the girl of my dreams walked through that door right now!”

The second Stan pointed to the front door, Grauntie Mabel walked through it and belched up a handful of glitter.

“Ugh, eating actual glitter, not good, ow,” she grumbled.

“Ew, why?!” Stan yelped. Ford laughed.

“Alright, people,” Mabel announced, “I need someone to go hammer these signs in the spooky part of the forest!”

“Not it!” Stan yelled.

“Not it!” Ford echoed.

“Uh, also not it!” Ria called, nailing up a new shelf on the wall.

“No worries, Ria. Flannel Man, I need you to put up these signs for me, please!”

He glanced up. “That's a left-handed hammer. I only use my right hand! The manly hand!” He leaped to his feet. “I'm gonna go make a right-handed hammer right now! HYAAAH!” He ran out the door.

“Oh, not again,” Mabel muttered. “Alright, let's make it eenie, meenie, miney...you.” She pointed to Ford.

He flinched. “What? But Grauntie Mabel, whenever I'm in those woods I feel like I'm being watched.”

“I've been in those woods a hundred times, kiddo. How many times do I have to tell you there's nothing scary in there?”

“Except maybe bears,” Stan added.

“Why don't you do it?” Ford demanded, looking at Stan. “You're the one who wanted to hunt for buried treasure!”

“Nope, she picked you, sucker! See ya!” He dashed out the door after Boyish Dan.

“But it's creepy!” Ford insisted. “I'm telling you, there's something weird about this town. Look – yesterday my mosquito bites spelled out 'BEWARE'!” He pulled up his sleeve to show Mabel.

She peered at it. “First, that says 'BEWARB.' Second, there's no such thing as the supernatural. And third, the longer you wait, the darker it'll get, so hop to it!” She dumped the signs into his arms and moved past him to handle the tourists.

“This is so not fair,” Ford grumbled, hammering up another sign. This deep into the forest, the thick trees cast an eerie shadow over everything. Even the sky looked tombstone gray. “Why doesn't anyone believe me when it comes to the supernatural? I know something's not right here...”

Clang.

Ford blinked. The tree he'd just hammered sounded...metallic. He leaned closer and tapped it again with the hammer.

Clang, clang.

“...huh.”

He ran his fingers over the bark, leaving trails through the dust and dirt. His fingers caught on something and he pulled.

A portion of the tree trunk swung open.

There was a rectangular compartment lined with metal recessed into the tree. Centered on the bottom was some kind of control box, with a dusty screen, a few weird buttons, and a couple of levers. With growing fascination, Ford leaned forward, tapping the buttons and toggling one of the levers.

WHIIRRRR!

Ford spun around. A section of the grass had retracted, revealing another compartment set into the ground.

Grauntie Mabel's pig, which had apparently followed him out here with surprising stealth, gave a startled oink and waddled quickly away.

Ford hurried over.

The compartment was full of cobwebs, millipedes, beetles – and one very old, very filthy book, covered in layers of dirt and dust. Ford picked it up carefully and blew the dust away.

The book was bound in deep blue leather, the corners reinforced with a dull bronze-colored metal. In the middle of the cover was a gold pine tree with the number “3” written on it, shimmering against the blue background. The book looked very old, and very strange, like an ancient tome from some kind of secret society.

“Whoa,” he breathed. He laid it carefully on the grass. His head was spinning with questions. Who would hide a book way out here, in such an elaborate hiding spot? Who built the mechanisms? What amazing secrets were written on these very pages?

He opened the book.

The inside cover had an owner's label, but the name had been ripped off. There was a monocle attached to the binding. He picked it up for a moment, weighing it in his hand, before he turned the page and began reading aloud.

“'It's hard to believe it's been six years since I began studying the strange and wondrous secrets of Gravity Falls, Oregon.'”

Secrets? Ford was right – there was something going on in Gravity Falls!

He flipped eagerly through the pages. They were filled with illustrations of strange beasts – eyebats, gnomes, gremloblins, with notes taken in precise cursive. There were also several lines of strange symbols and numbers, obviously some kind of code.

“What is all this?” Ford whispered.

He stopped flipping the pages and started to read again. A bold subtitle had caught his eye: Trust no one.

“'Unfortunately, my suspicions have been confirmed. I'm being watched. I must hide this journal before he finds it. Remember, in Gravity Falls, there is no one you can trust!'” He picked up the book and stared at the words. “No one you can trust...”

“HELLO!”

“GAH!” Ford jumped and nearly dropped the book.

Stan sat on the log behind him, grinning from ear to ear. “I swear, Sixer, I shoulda pretended to be a bear. Betcha woulda peed your pants! Hey –” He caught sight of the book in Ford's hands. “Whatcha readin' there, some nerd thing?”

“Uh – uhhh, it's nothing!” Ford said, hiding the book under one arm.

“'Uhhh, it's nothing!'” Stanley mimicked, laughing again. “What, are you actually not gonna show me?”

Ford felt a slight tugging on his book. Grauntie Mabel's stealth pig had come back and was chewing the cover.

He tugged it away. “Let's go somewhere private.”

Stan raised an eyebrow. “We're in the middle of the forest, bro,” he pointed out. But he followed Ford back to the Shack.

Since the pig wasn't allowed in the house, Ford went to the Shack's living room to show Stan the journal. There was a tour bus out front, so he figured their great-aunt would be busy for a while. He didn't really want to share the journal with her. She didn't believe in the supernatural, anyway.

“Ok, so what's the big thing with some dumb book?” Stan asked impatiently, jumping onto their Grauntie's orange chair.

He took the book out of his jacket, smiling down at it. “It's amazing – Grauntie Mabel said there's no such thing as the supernatural, but according to this book, Gravity Falls has a secret dark side.”

“Whoa, shut up!”

“And get this! After a certain point, the pages just – stop, like the guy who was writing it mysteriously disappeared!” He held up the blank pages to show his brother.

“Do you think he was eaten by one of those monsters?” Stan asked.

“Hey – maybe!” Ford said. He hadn't thought of that. “But he hid it first, so I don't think he got eaten. Plus, the author says he was being watched, so I don't think it was a random monster.” He started pacing as he talked. “If he knew he was being watched, did he take steps to protect himself? Is the author still around somewhere? Could he be someone in town? There are some coded parts of the journal in here. I bet if I could crack them, I could figure out what happened, maybe who the author really is!”

Stanley grinned at him. “If anybody can do it, it's you! You're the smartest guy I know!”

Ding dong.

Ford looked up. “Who's that?”

His brother grinned. “Welp, time to spill the beans!” He reached over and flicked an empty can of beans sitting on Mabel's stack of romance novels. The can tipped over. “Haha, beans. This guy's got a date with destiny!”

Ford raised his eyebrows. “Let me get this straight. In the thirty minutes I've been gone, you've already managed to find a girlfriend?”

“Well, not exactly.” Stan ran off to answer the door. Ford hopped up on the chair and sat down to read.

Grauntie Mabel walked in. “Whatcha readin' there, kiddo?” she asked.

He jumped. “Oh – uh, uh –” Ford hid the book behind him and grabbed a novel from the stack. “Just reading, um...Wolf Man, Big Chest?”

“That's a good series,” she commented, taking a swig of Pit Cola.

“Alright, family!” Stan announced, marching proudly into the room. “Say hello to my new buddy, Norman!”

A slouching, black-hoodied teenager shuffled into the room. He wore dark pants and a black hoodie, all covered with bits of dirt and grass, with an actual tree root sticking out of his hood. When he turned to greet them, his face was paper-white, and his eyes were round and bloodshot.

He looked at them. “'Sup.”

“Hey,” Ford said, just as Mabel said, “Hi there!”

“We met at the cemetery,” Stan said. “He hangs out there all the time. Isn't that cool?”

“Um, are you bleeding, Norman?” Ford asked, pointing to something red and drippy on Norman's chin.

Norman's eyes darted nervously. “It's jam,” he rasped.

“Anyway, we're going treasure-hunting!” Stan declared. “You wanna come, Ford?”

The journal pressed into Ford's back. “Um...maybe later,” he said.

“Aw, come on! We were gonna go hunt for treasure! You know you're gonna love it.”

“No thanks,” Ford said, a little more firmly. “I've got...summer reading to do.”

“Oh...” Stan looked dubiously t the book's hiding place. “Fine. Come on, Norman!” he yelled, racing for the door. “Last one out's a rotten egg!”

Norman raised a hand in farewell, walked into a wall, and stumbled after Stan.

Ford got up from the chair, hiding the journal in his jacket, and went to the window. He frowned, watching them leave. “Did Norman seem...normal, to you?” he asked Grauntie Mabel. But he wasn't really expecting an answer. She'd already started rereading that lame romance novel.

He touched the journal, thinking hard. If there was something supernatural about Norman, maybe it could give him some clues.

Half of the upstairs attic was taken up by his and Stan's bedroom. The other half was empty, utterly devoid of furniture with the exception of a single bay window, with stained red glass decorated with a triangular design. Ford sat on the cushioned seat, scooting close to the window to make the most of the light.

He flipped through the book until he found something that caught his eye. It was a hunched figure with its limbs held out stiffly, bearing an uncanny resemblance to Norman.

He started to read. “'Known for their pale skin and bad attitude, these monsters are commonly mistaken for teenagers. Beware of Gravity Falls' notorious –’” he gasped. “ZOMBIE?!”

Grauntie Mabel looked up from the bathroom mirror.

“What was that? 'Crombie'?” she wondered. “No, maybe it was chompy. Or maybe hungry. Hey, I should finish off that Chicken-Glitter Casserole!”

Ford jumped up to a kneeling position and pressed against the glass. There! Stanley was sitting on the picnic table, concentrating on a piece of paper spread out before him. Norman was stalking towards him, arms outstretched, grunting with every step. Stanley was so focused that he was utterly oblivious to the danger.

“Oh no – Stanley!” Ford shouted, but his brother couldn't hear him.

Norman came closer. He loomed over Stanley.

He grabbed him –

Ford yelled –

And Norman pulled back, a miner's helmet on Stan's head. Stanley turned around, grinning and feeling his new hat.

“Is this a real miner's helmet?!” he asked, reaching up to flick the light. It blinked on and off, visible even in the bright sunshine. “Wow! Where did you get this? It's so cool!”

Ford slumped with relief, watching for a few seconds longer as the two of them started pointing to stuff on the paper. From here, it looked like it was some kind of map.

He drew back, shutting the book and sticking it under his arm. For all he knew, the teen was just another emo teenager. But he couldn't shake the feeling that something wasn't right. He held the journal more tightly.

“Is Norman really a zombie,” he muttered, “or am I just going nuts?”

“It's a dilemma, to be sure.”

Ford jumped and spun around. Ria was on a step stool, changing the bulb in the attic's ceiling lamp. Ford hadn't even heard her come in.

He hesitated, but he needed to think this through with someone. “Ria, you've seen Norman, right?” he asked. “He's gotta be a zombie!”

“Hmm. How many brains have you seen him eat?” she asked politely.

He sighed. “Zero.”

She stepped off the stool, wiping the dust from her hands. “Don't fret, chiquito. I do believe you. There are many strange things that happen in this town. The florist, for example. I am almost certain that he is a satyr.”

Ford knew who she was talking about. The florist's shoes made weird clopping noises, he always wore a hat even indoors, and he had flower petals everywhere – even between his teeth.

“But you must have evidence,” Ria continued. “Otherwise, people will simply believe that you are one piece shy of a chess set.”

“I guess you're right,” Ford conceded.

She nodded sagely. “Wisdom is both a blessing and a curse.”

Grauntie Mabel's voice called up to them. “Ria! The portable toilets are clogged again!”

Ria straightened her hat. “I must get the special vacuum.” She held the step stool like a shield and marched out of the room.

Ford looked after her, thinking hard. Ria was right. He'd need some actual proof that Norman was a zombie...hadn't he seen a camera left in the Lost 'N' Found box in the Gift Shop? Grauntie Mabel always waited until the end of the day, then emptied the box, stuck price tags on everything, and resold it as “haunted merchandise”. He could borrow the camera and return it later for her to sell. If he followed Norman around, he'd be able to film actual proof that Norman really was a zombie.

A slow smile spread over his face. He'd be a hero – he could protect his brother, prove the existence of the supernatural to his great-aunt, maybe even get an article published in the newspaper. This was definitely a good plan.

It was time to collect some evidence!

“Here, let's take this one, too,” Stanley said. He and Norman had gone straight to the closest hardware store and begun stocking up on supplies, using Norman's zipped-up jacket as their shopping cart. He shoved a second flashlight down Norman's collar and stood back to admire the effect. With all the stuff they'd packed in, the jacket bulged in unlikely places, but they could just say he'd broken both arms or something. “Perfect,” he decided. “Man, how do you fit all that stuff in there?”

Norman eyed the next item doubtfully. Stanley was holding a shovel almost as tall as himself – three and a half feet long with a wide, pointy steel blade. “Uh, I don't know about the shovel...”

“Well I'm not paying for a perfectly stealable shovel. Are you?” Stanley twirled it like a baton. “Won't we need two of these?”

Norman grunted. “You dig it up, you get 80% of the gold.”

“Well hot dog! You got yourself a deal!” Stanley practically danced with glee – then remembered not to do that. Ford was the only one who didn't laugh when he danced.

Thinking of Ford made his chest twinge. If his brother hadn't found that stupid book with its stupid mysteries, maybe they'd be doing this together...

He gave himself a good mental shake. So what? He and Norman would dig up the gold using the treasure map they'd found, and they'd get filthy rich and Ford would be incredibly jealous, and then Stan could use the gold to buy all the fancy monster-hunting equipment Ford wanted and they'd go exploring the forest together for the rest of their natural lives. In a limo. In two limos!

“C'mon, c'mon, let's get out of here!” Stanley whispered excitedly. “We got some gold to find!”

They picked the lock on the Emergency Exit door and snuck out. Norman insisted they pick up provisions at “the place with ingredients for pie”, which Stan guessed meant the grocery store. But first they decided to dump their equipment at the cemetery. There was a tombstone with a winged angel pointing at something, and her wings were big enough to hide their stuff behind.

Stan threw the shovel in the dirt like a harpoon. A pile of blankets was already stacked there, plus a wagon loaded with a pickaxe and a coil of rope from their previous tool heist.

“Dude, you're like, an expert at this,” Stan said. “By the end of the day, we're gonna be filthy ri–”

“WAGH!”

Stan turned right as Norman did a face-plant in an open grave, spraying him with dirt and gravel. After a second, Norman crawled his way to the surface. Stan burst out laughing.

“Oh, man, that was hilarious!” he gasped, bent double from laughing so hard.

Norman laughed along with him. Stan knelt by the edge of the grave. “Dude, you are covered in dirt. You look like a zombie! Wait – it's like a zombie swimming pool! Swim through the dirt!” He started chanting. “Swim through the dirt! Swim through the dirt!”

Norman grunted and tried to pull himself out. Tools fell out of his jacket and pants. Stan looked down at the grave in dismay.

“Aw, man, you dumped it all.”

Norman handed him the shovel. “Here. Practice.”

“Uh, you're the one who dumped it.”

“I'm...like...not crawling back into an open grave.”

Stan scoffed. “Chicken.” He jumped in feet-first. The dirt was all soft on top, soft enough to move with his hands, so digging was no problem. He brought up their flashlights, thermoses, and a waterproof watch before he noticed Norman watching him. There was a hungry kind of look in his eyes.

“Um...dude. You're freaking me out.”

“Sorry. You're really good at digging.”

“Whatever. Get the stuff and pull me out, would you?”

Norman put a hand down, but when Stan went to grab it, he somehow lost his grip and went tumbling back in the grave. He banged the shovel on his knee.

“Ow!”

“You okay?”

“Ugh...” Stan rubbed the back of his head. “I swear I'm gonna have, like, three concussions and amnesia by the time this summer's over. Get a better grip this time, okay?”

Norman helped him out of the grave and they piled all their stuff in the wagon. By that point, they both looked so filthy that Stan knew they'd never make it in and out of the grocery store without getting caught. You had to look nice and respectable for people's eyes to glaze over you, and somehow grave dirt just wasn't the fashion style of the season.

Fashion style? Ew! Grauntie Mae's rubbing off on me. Definitely time for some manly gold-digging.

Aaand that sounded wrong.

“Let's just get back to the Shack,” Stan said angrily, scowling at the wagon. “You pull, I'll push. We can just grab some stuff from the kitchen and fill up our thermoses there.”

Ford paced the living room angrily, the camera in his hands, disgusted with the wasted day. He'd followed Stan around for the past five hours, and while he'd gotten plenty of evidence of Stan's sticky fingers, there was absolutely nothing to suggest that Norman was anything other than a very awkward teenager.

He heard Stanley slam the back door. It was easy to tell who it was, since he grumbled under his breath the whole way up the stairs. Ford headed up as well and entered their bedroom just as Stanley was putting on a fresh shirt.

“Stanley!” Ford said. “We've gotta talk about Norman.”

“Isn't he the coolest?” Stan asked. He held up his right forearm and pointed. “Check out this neat scar I got!”

“Gah!” Ford stared, alarmed. The scar was at least a foot long and bright pink, the skin around it mottled and purple.

“Haha! Gullible.” Stanley put his arm down and rubbed it. “It's just some paint, see? We painted the wagon we're using. I called it 'The Stanleymobile!'”

Right. Ford had seen Stan and Norman outside earlier, messing around with paint and a rickety-looking wagon. They'd tried to use a leaf blower to make it dry faster and ended up having a sword fight with the blower and a shovel.

Stanley smiled. “That was fun, Sixer, you shoulda joined us!”

Ford shook his head. “No, Stanley, listen – I'm trying to tell you that Norman is not what he seems!” He pulled out the journal, its gold-leaf pine tree glinting ominously.

Stan thought for a second. “Do you think he could be a werewolf? That would be so awesome!”

“Guess again, Stanley,” Ford said, and flipped quickly through the pages. He held it up dramatically. “Sha-BAM!”

Stan yelled in surprise, then frowned. “Wait, what?”

Ford checked the page. “Oh, oh wait, hang on –” He had flipped it to that page about gnomes, all chubby-cheeked and starry-eyed. He turned the pages back until he found the one on zombies. “Okay, sha-BAM!”

Stan was not impressed. “A zombie? That is not funny, Ford.”

“I'm not joking!” Ford started to pace the room. Why didn't anyone believe him? Not Grauntie Mabel, and now not Stan?! He knew what he was talking about! “Look, it all adds up – the bleeding, the limp... He never blinks! Have you noticed that?”

“Maybe he's blinking when you're blinking,” Stanley said.

“Stanley, remember what the book said?” Ford whispered urgently. “'Trust no one!'”

Stan rolled his eyes. “Well what about me, huh? Why can't you trust me?”

Ford grabbed his brother by the shoulders. “Stanley, he's gonna eat your brain!”

Stanley frowned and pushed his hands away. “Stanford, listen to me. You can join us or not, but Norman and I are going treasure-hunting at five o' clock.” He started marching toward Stanford, who was forced to back up a step at a time. “And we're gonna find an awesome pile of gold,” Stan continued, “and we're gonna spend it however we want, and I'm not gonna let you ruin it with your crazy conspiracies!”

Stan slammed the bedroom door in Ford's face.

Ford sighed and slid to the floor, sitting against the door. “Oh man...what am I gonna do?”

Eventually he pulled himself to his feet and dragged himself downstairs, where he flopped on the yellow armchair. He pulled out the video camera and flipped open the viewing screen, glumly rewinding and fast-forwarding various moments of the day. There wasn't even a shred of proof...

The doorbell rang.

“Coming!” Stan yelled.

Ford glanced over the arm of the chair. He had a pretty good view of the front door. Norman was standing in the entrance, as pale and creepy as ever.

Stanley ran to the door, wearing clean(ish) clothes and his miner's helmet. “How do I look?” Stan asked, adjusting the hat. “Do I look like a real treasure-hunter?”

“Cool,” Norman grunted.

“The map's on the picnic table. Let's grab it and get hunting!” He grabbed Norman's sleeve and yanked him outside. Ford kept watching as they grabbed a wagon loaded with food and tools and started lugging it into the forest.

Ford turned away from the door with a groan. “Ugh, maybe Ria was right. I don't have any real evidence...” He watched a brief clip of Stan teaching Norman how to play cards while they ate stolen candy bars. He thumbed the fast-forward button absently. It reached the part where he'd been spying on the two of them in the cemetery. Ford watched as Norman fell into the grave, then climbed out. Totally creepy, but nothing supernatural about it at all. He sank a little lower in the chair. “I guess I can be kind of paranoid sometimes and...”

On the screen, Norman try to pull Stan out of the grave. Norman pulled and his hand popped off just as Stan slipped, falling back into –

“Wait. WHAT!?”

He rewound it again, watching closely. Just as Norman started to pull Stan out of the grave, Norman's hand fell off his wrist! Norman quickly popped it back on when Stan wasn't looking!

Ford yelled in triumph and actually knocked over the chair.

“I was right!” he shouted, scrambling to climb over the seat. “I was right, I knew it, I was –” He stopped short. His brother was out there right now, in a creepy forest with a zombie who wanted to eat his brains!

“Omigosh, omigosh!” He darted for the door. He had to get help! “Grauntie Mabel, Grauntie Mabel!”

He sprinted around the Shack. His great-aunt was giving a tour to some sweaty-looking tourists. She led them to a rather large rock set atop a thick pole, sitting in front of the Shack.

“And here we have Rock-That-Looks-Like-A-Face Rock,” she said proudly. “'The Rock that Looks like a Face.'”

One of the tourists raised his hand. “Does it look like a rock?” he asked, his accent twanging.

“What?” Mabel frowned at him. “No, it looks like a face.”

“Is it a face?” asked another tourist.

“It's a rock that looks like a face.”

Ford rushed up and tried to get around them, but there was no room. He jumped up and down, waving his arms from the back of the crowd. “Over here! Grauntie Mabel!”

She was too engrossed in her argument with the tourists. “For the fifth time, it's not an actual face!”

Ford ground his teeth in frustration.

Stan wiped the sweat from his forehead, leaving a long streak of black dirt on his face. The hole he'd dug was five feet wide and just as deep, with one side of it slanted so he could go up and down like a ramp. The sun was slowly going down, so half of the hole got some good shade, but the other half was right in the sun's path. Every time he stood on that side he got blinded. Sweat rolled down his face and back, making his shirt stick to him like the wrapper on a pastrami sandwich.

“This is taking forever!” Stan complained. He glared up at Norman. “Why aren't you helping more?”

Norman knelt at the side of the hole and handed him a water bottle. “I am helping. Besides, you're almost there.”

“Where, the center of the earth?” Stan threw down the water bottle and stabbed at the ground with the shovel. “Come on! I've been digging solo this whole time, and there's nothing even here –”

TWANG.

The shovel bounced back in Stan's hand. They both stared at the ground.

Stan's eyes went wide. “Is that...?”

“Grauntie Mabel, Grauntie Mabel!” Ford shouted, but he still couldn't get her attention and he knew time had to be running out!

A sudden movement caught his eye. Boyish Dan was parking the golf cart next to the “Pet the Pig” sign.

“Boyish Dan!” Ford ran over to him. “Dan, I need to borrow the golf cart so I can save my brother from a zombie!”

Dan squinted at him. Then he shrugged and dropped the keys into Ford's hand. “Don't hit pedestrians!” he barked, stalking toward the Gift Shop. Ford smiled with relief. Dan was pretty cool.

He hopped in the cart. It was almost exactly like that bumper car he'd ridden at the fair when he was six. He turned the key, shifted the gear stick, and hit the gas, heading straight for the forest.

“Chiquito, it's me, Ria.”

Ford hit the brakes. What was Ria doing just standing in the middle of the lawn?

“This is in case you see a zombie,” Ria said, handing him a large shovel.

“Thanks.” He stowed it in the back seat of the cart.

“And this is in case you see a pinata.” She handed him a baseball bat.

“Uh...thanks?” He put it by the shovel and hit the gas.

“Better safe than sorry!” she called cheerfully, as he zoomed towards the forest.

“Oh, man, I've never seen this much gold in my life!” Stan laughed. He'd dumped the treasure chest out on the bottom of the hole and was digging through the pile of gold coins, running them through his fingers. They glittered in the orange light of the setting sun. He grabbed two fistfuls and threw them up in the air, yelling with delight until they fell back down and pummeled him on the head. “Ow!”

“This is amazing!” Norman said. “I can't believe you dug this up all by yourself!”

“I know, right!” Stan paused, squinting up at Norman. “Yeah, I did do all the work myself. You know, I'm thinking we may need to renegotiate our shares, here.”

“Oh, you can hang on to all of it.”

Stanley stared at him. “Huh?”

Norman seemed not to hear. “Man, look at this! And this was supposed to be one of the harder ones to dig up, too. You did it in an hour flat!”

“...Yeah...” Stan looked from the gold to Norman and back again. Norman really wasn't making any kind of grab for it. He'd just said Stan could have it all, just like that. Something was definitely fishy here. Was it possible Norman had tricked him?

He picked up an old-looking coin. It was worn smooth on one side, but the other side had some kind of sketchy engraving he couldn't quite make out. He knew better than to bite it – if it really was gold, he would dent the metal and decrease the coin's value. He weighed it in his palm. He'd gotten pretty good at that while working at the family pawn shop, and this felt like real gold.

So why would Norman just...?

He looked up. A bunch of foot-high men in bright red caps were standing exactly where Norman had been.

Stan shrieked and fell back on his butt.

“Relax, kid, wouldja?” one of the short guys said impatiently. It was Norman! Or at least Norman's face and voice.

“You – you –” Stan sputtered.

“Right, right, I'll explain.” Norman brushed the hair out of his eyes and smacked one hand with the other. “So! We're gnomes! Got that one out of the way.” He nodded at the other gnomes, all of whom were standing on stilts or carrying fake plastic arms. “I'm Jeff,” he said, “And that's Carson, Steve, Jason, and...I'm sorry, I always forget your name.”

The last gnome, who looked like a wild-eyed Santa Claus, blinked slowly. “Schmebulock,” he said, with a voice like a bunch of falling gravel.

Jeff snapped his fingers. “Right! Schmebulock! Yes! Anyway...” He turned back to Stan.

Stanley blinked rapidly, trying to put it all together. If that was Norman's face...then...Norman had really been a bunch of gnomes the whole time?!

“I still keep the gold,” Stan said flatly. “You said I could, and I did all the digging, and you didn't even pay for the stuff we stole, so –”

“Relax, kid, you can have all that and more!”

Stan blinked again, stunned. “There's more?”

“Sure!” Jeff pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and waved it around. “Us gnomes got into a fight with a giant hellhound a while ago, and long story short, it buried all our treasure. We've got whole boxes of the stuff buried all over the forest!”

Stan's eyes gleamed. “More gold, huh? You don't say.”

“Yep! But we're not exactly cut out to be diggers, and any tools we steal are definitely not gnome-sized. That's why us gnomes have been looking for a new servant!”

“Say what now?”

“Well, more like slave-labor, really. But it's a great deal!” Jeff nodded enthusiastically. “We offer full medical and dental coverage, plus all the pie we can steal. All you have to do is dig up all of our gold and guard it for the rest of eternity!”

“Are you crazy?” Stan demanded. “I get enough of that child labor stuff from Grauntie Mabel. You're lucky I don't sue your red-capped butts right now! I'm takin' my gold and I'm outta here.”

“We understand.” Jeff and his gnome friends glanced at each other. “Well, Stan...we tried it the easy way.”

Stan backed up. “Huh?”

All five gnomes bared teeth as sharp as a shark's. Stan yelled and threw up his arms as they jumped into the hole, their beady eyes glittering with greed.

“Don't worry, Stanley!” Ford shouted, his foot pressed to the gas. “I'll save you from that zombie!” Luckily, he'd seen the map they'd been using from the window of the attic. He had a pretty good memory. He knew he was to be close to wherever Stan and that zombie were trying to go.

Suddenly Stan's voice echoed through the trees to Ford's left. “Help!” he cried.

“Hold on!” Ford veered off the trail and drove into the trees, heading deeper and deeper into the shadows. The farther he went, the more he noticed an odd bluish light that seemed to come from the forest around him, tinting the foliage mint-green and aqua. The pine-needle carpet was swiftly replaced with odd blue mosses dotted with pink flowers and the occasional clump of mushrooms. There was an off-road path through the trees wide enough for the golf cart, and Ford pressed the accelerator, listening for his brother.

There was a clearing of sorts up ahead. A bunch of tiny red-capped creatures were swarming around a pile of gold. To the left, the rest of the creatures were clustered around Stanley, who was trying to fight them off, throwing punches left and right.

“The more you struggle, the more awkward this is gonna be for everybody!” warned one of the tiny creatures. “Okay, just – get his arm, there, Steve!”

A creature jumped up and tried bite Stan's arm. “Gah! HEY! Let go of me!” he shouted angrily. Another one attacked his midriff and he caught it mid-air with a strong left hook. The thing flew four feet, bounced twice, and landed on its feet next to a tree. It immediately vomited a viscous multicolored bile.

Ford hopped out of the cart and stared. “What the heck is going on here?!”

One of the creatures – men, they looked like little men – scuttled passed and hissed at him. Ford flinched back, dropping the shovel.

“Sixer!” Stanley called. “Norman turned out to be a bunch of gnomes! And they're total jerks!”

Three gnomes stacked themselves up and grabbed Stanley by the hair, swinging from it like monkeys. He yelped and went down.

“Gnomes?” Ford repeated, pulling out the journal. He flipped to the right page – ironically, the same page he'd accidentally shown his brother earlier. The same chubby-cheeked, starry-eyed drawing stared up at him. It was adorable in a creepy, infest-your-grandma's-lawn kind of way. “'Gnomes,'” he read aloud, “'Little men of the Gravity Falls forest. Weaknesses: Unknown.'”

Well that was unhelpful, Ford thought. When he glanced up, the gnomes had tied Stanley to the ground with a bunch of string, like a miniature Gulliver.

“Oh, come on!” Stanley shouted.

“Hey, hey!” Ford marched up to the lead gnome, shovel in hand. “Let go of my brother!”

“Oh, hehe, hey there!” The gnome smiled a little too stiffly. “You know, this is all just a big misunderstanding! Y'see, your brother's not in danger. He's just enslaved to all one thousand of us to become our gold miner for all eternity! Isn't that right, Stan-O?”

“You guys are butt faces!” Stan shouted. A gnome slapped his hands over Stan's mouth.

“Let go of him right now, or else!” Ford threatened.

Jeff glared at him, his face growing darker by the minute. “You think you can stop us, boy? You have no idea what we're capable of. The gnomes are a powerful race! Do not trifle with the –”

Ford scooped him up with the shovel and dumped him to the side.

He yelped indignantly. Ford ignored him and headed straight for Stan, lifting the shovel high and bringing the edge of it down on the strings. Stan jumped up and lashed out at the gnomes, knocking them down and giving them enough time to get away. He stopped to pick something up and Ford grabbed his arm, pulling him towards the golf cart.

“Forget it, Stan, just go!” Ford said.

“He's getting away with our servant!” Jeff yelled. “No, no, no!”

They scrambled into the golf cart. “Seat belt!” Ford barked.

“Mama's boy!” Stan barked back, but he put on the belt and Ford threw it in reverse.

Jeff watched them go, a dark fire burning in his eyes. “You messed with the wrong creatures, boy,” he growled. “Gnomes of the forest, ASSEMBLE!”

Instantly, gnome faces popped out from every nook and crevice in the clearing, crawling from the shadows, literally popping out of the woodwork in the trees. They scuttled towards him, linking arms, climbing onto each other's shoulders, as their collective shadow grew and spread over the ground...

Stan gripped the seat so hard his fingertips went numb. “Hurry, hurry, before they come after us!”

Ford grinned at him. “I wouldn't worry about it. Did you see those little legs? Those suckers are tiny!”

THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.

Ford braked as the whole ground shuddered under their wheels. A shadow fell over the cart and they turned.

Stan gaped. “Dang.”

A thirty-foot conglomeration of gnomes loomed over them, with fingers as thick as telephone poles, arms and legs as thick as train cars, and a huge, sharp-toothed face that came to a hat-shaped point.

Jeff sat at the very top of the point. “Alright, guys, like we practiced!” he called, and yanked a gnome's hat. The giant roared and lifted a huge fist.

“Go go go!” Stan yelled. Ford floored it just in time, and the fist hit the ground where they'd been just a split-second earlier. The fist smashed apart into a pile of angry gnomes. Stanley grabbed the seat for balance and watched, still looking back, as the gnomes quickly regrouped and thundered after them.

“Stanley what's happening?” Ford shouted.

“COME BACK WITH OUR SERVANT!” Jeff howled, his black eyes madder than ever. The gnome giant ran with incredible speed, closing the gap between them in a matter of seconds.

Stan blanched. “Hit the gas hit the gas!”

The giant whipped its arm at them and several razor-toothed gnomes snapped off its fingers and went flying straight for the cart.

Stan grabbed a bat from the back seat. “We got incoming!”

He unbuckled and stood in one smooth motion, hitting the first gnome in the gut with a perfect swing. It went flying into the trees.

“Home run, suckah!”

“Stanley!”

He turned. His brother was fighting off the rest – they were tearing through the cloth roof and climbing down the sides of the cart, shredding whatever they could reach with their teeth. Stanley grinned and wielded the bat like a spear, punching the stupid gnomes flat in the face with the blunt end. One of them tried to bite the bat and Stan smashed the end of it against the hood of the cart, squishing the gnome, which let go and bounced off into the road.

Another gnome swung down from the roof right next to Ford. He yelled, but before Stan could get to it Ford grabbed it by the back of its stupid little jacket and banged it several times against the steering wheel.

“Schmebulock,” groaned the gnome.

Ford smashed it one more time and let it go, and it rebounded off the cart and went tumbling in their dust.

Stan grinned at him. “Way to go, Fo–”

“SCREEEEE!”

A gnome came flying out of nowhere and landed right on Ford's face, squeezing Ford's ears in its vice-like grip.

“I'll save you Ford!” Stan dropped the bat and pummeled the gnome with both fists until he dislodged it with a killer left hook.

“Th-thanks, Stanley,” Ford stammered, swaying slightly and blinking several times.

“Don't mention it.” Stanley had been standing on the seat, but now he crouched down and peered out the back of the cart.

The gnome giant had been gaining all the time, but now it paused and grabbed the nearest tree. It was a redwood at least four stories tall, looked like it had been growing for over a century – and the giant just grabbed it and pulled it up like it was picking daisies! It took aim and threw the tree like a javelin.

“WATCH OUT!” Stan shouted.

Ford glanced back over his shoulder and the two of them yelled with fear as the tree sailed towards them – and then over them. It landed with an incredible BANG in the middle of the path ahead, completely blocking the road.

Stanley threw up his arms as Ford swerved, desperately trying to avoid the tree, screaming as it loomed closer and closer.

The tree had landed with one end propped up on a boulder, with just the smallest gap between the tree and the ground. Ford yanked the wheel hard to the right and the cart skidded under the tree, scraping off bits of bark with the roof of the cart. Ford lost control and the cart started tipping, zooming down the road on just its two right wheels. Stan grabbed the seat – he couldn't reach for the seatbelt or he'd fall out – and Ford pumped the brakes and the gas, trying to regain control. The cart fishtailed, skidding over the road, and finally tipped over, sliding the last ten feet to the Shack.

It took a full minute for Stanley to realize they weren't moving. His head was pounding and the ground spun underneath him. He pulled himself, groaning, from the wreckage of the cart. He glanced over to see his brother standing up shakily, grabbing the bent metal poles of the cart for balance.

The giant gnome stomped towards them, its huge shadow swallowing them up. At its top, Jeff's eyes glittered maliciously. The boys backed up until they were pressed against the wall of the Shack.

“Uh, stay back, gnomes!” Ford yelled shakily. He grabbed the shovel from the back of the cart and threw it.

The giant hit it in mid-air and punched it to the ground.

“AGH!” Ford and Stan jumped.

“Wh-where's Grauntie Mabel?” Ford squeaked.

Inside the Gift Shop, Mabel Pines was demonstrating the newest merchandise to a trio of slack-jawed visitors.

“Behold!” she declared, holding up a toy that looked like a plastic lollipop. It had a swirl pattern decorating the candy part and a string dangling from one side. “The world's most distracting object!”

She pulled the string and the swirl began to turn.

“Ooooh,” the tourists said in unison.

Mabel grinned. “Just try to look away, you can't!” They all stared at the toy, including Mabel. “...Wow, I can't even remember what I was talking about.”

Stan and Ford were trapped between the trash cans and some bushes at the side of the Shack. There was nowhere for them to run, and nothing they could use as a weapon. Stan stood partly in front of his brother, one arm thrown out to protect him. How the heck was he supposed to get them out of this?

“It's the end of the line, kids!” Jeff yelled, looming over them. “Stanley, get over here before we do something crazy!”

“There's gotta be a way outta this,” Ford whispered. He slid the journal partway out of his jacket.

Stan set his jaw. “I gotta do it.”

“What?” Ford grabbed Stan's shoulder. “Stanley, don't do this, are you crazy?”

“Trust me.”

“What?”

“Sixer, just this once.” He turned to look his brother in the eye. “Trust me.”

Ford looked from the monster to Stan and back again. He slowly released Stan's shoulder and backed up.

Stan strode forward. “Alright, Jeff,” he said loudly. “I'll sign your contract.”

Jeff frowned at him. “Contract?”

“Well sure. This is like, a legal agreement, right? I'm going to work for you for eternity and all. Any good boss knows we need a contract to make it legally binding, so I can't run away.”

Jeff rubbed his chin, considering. “I like the way you think, kid!” he said finally. He clapped his hands and started climbing down the giant. “Help me down there, Jason, thanks Andy, whoops – hey Jorge – whoa, watch those fingers, Mike.” He reached the bottom and headed for Stanley, practically strutting, while the gnome-giant stood silently behind him. Stan was thinking furiously, but it looked like he was right – the other gnomes were all staring at Jeff like they didn't know what to do without him. That's what he was counting on.

“Alright kid, where's the contract?”

“You're in luck! We can use the map we left behind earlier,” Stan said. He reached behind the trash cans. “I've got the map and a pen right here...”

He whipped out the leaf blower and switched it on in reverse. Immediately the suction began drawing Jeff towards the blower.

“H-hey, what's going on?!” Jeff tried to back up but slipped on the grass. He grabbed for the ground with his fingers, but the wind was too strong. It yanked him up and he was sucked straight down the pipe. The other gnomes gasped.

“That's for lying to me!” Stan shouted.

He cranked the suction to full. Jeff's body got sucked in until only his cheeks bulged over the rim.

“Ow, my face!”

“That's for taking my gold!”

Stan aimed the blower at the giant gnome monster. It grunted in surprise.

“And this is for messing with my brother!” He glanced at Ford and grinned. “Care to do the honors?”

Ford smiled back. “On three!”

“One!”

“Two!”

“Three!”

Ford flipped the switch to 'blow'. Jeff shot out of the blower like a high-powered rocket. He crashed straight through the giant's chest and out its back.

“I'll get you back for thiiiiis!” he howled, flying at high speed over the treetops and out of sight.

The impact shattered the giant gnome to bits. They broke apart, gnomes falling around them like very ugly confetti. In seconds the lawn was covered with battered gnomes. Their red hats were bent and grass stuck to their sweaty hands and faces. They blinked and looked around blearily, groaning and rubbing their arms and shoulders.

“Ugh...”

“My arms are tired,” one mumbled.

“Who's giving orders?” whined another gnome. “I need orders!”

Stanley shoved the blower at Ford and grabbed his bat. “Anybody else want a piece of this?!” he demanded, swinging the bat like a golf club. He smacked quite a few gnomes on the butt. Ford joined in on the fun, cranking the blower to maximum.

“Yeah, come on!” Ford shouted, laughing.

The gnomes squealed and fled, most of them scampering on all fours into the forest. The twins ran after them, whooping and hollering like maniacs. Even Waddles got in on the action, showing up just in time to drag the last gnome off by its hat.

Ford headed back to the house to replace the leaf blower.

Stan bit his lip. “Hey, Ford.”

His brother turned. Stan shouldered his bat and shoved his free hand into his pocket. “Um. Sorry for getting on your case earlier. I know you were just looking out for me.”

“Come on, don't be like that!” Ford said, smiling. “Did you see what a great team we made? That was awesome!”

Stan grinned a little. “Yeah...hey, wanna see something?” He brought his hand out of his pocket. Resting on his palm was an old, misshapen, yet unmistakably gold coin.

“Whoa, neat-o!” Ford said, bending for a closer look. “You think it's real gold?”

“You bet! I bet you could do some science-y thing to check the weight, but it definitely looks real. The gnomes said there was a ton of it buried all around the forest, but they couldn't dig it up. That's why they wanted me in the first place.”

“You know, I bet we could find it on our own,” Ford mused. “We could get a metal detector or something and go exploring in the woods. We could even make maps like real explorers so we'd know where we'd already checked.”

Stan looked up hopefully. “You mean it? We'll go hunting together?”

“Sure! I bet we'll find a ton of treasure.”

Stanley's smile widened. He felt like fireworks were going off in his chest. “Alright! High six?”

Ford grinned back. “High six.”

They smacked hands.

Grauntie Mabel was counting the day's profits when they walked in. She took one look at them and laughed.

“Whoa, what happened to you?” she asked. “Didja get hit by a bus or something?” She chuckled at her own wit.

Stan grunted for the both of them and the trudged towards the kitchen. Normally he shared her love of terrible jokes, but at the moment he was too beat-up and tired to care. For once he would probably go to bed almost willingly.

“Uh – hey!”

He and Ford turned back. Their great-aunt was rubbing the back of her neck like she was anxious. “W-wouldn't you know it, I accidentally overstocked some inventory!” she said awkwardly. “So, uh, why don't the two of you take one item from the shop. On the house, you know?”

Stan's eyes widened. “Like, for free?”

“What's the catch?” Ford asked, folding his arms.

She frowned at him. “The catch is do it before I change my mind. Now take something.” She smacked the register with her elbow and started organizing the bills.

Stan sped straight for the priciest items in the shop. A talking fish on a plaque? A stuffed frogadillo riding a unicycle? He could take whatever he wanted for free!

“Neat-o!” Ford said.

Stan looked over. His brother had found a keychain shaped like a flying saucer. Ford clicked a small button on the side and the whole thing lit up light blue, making the perfect paranormal-themed flashlight. He slipped a finger through the keychain's ring and spun it, making a circle of light shimmer in the air.

“This is so cool!” Ford turned to Stan. “What did you get, Stanley?”

Stan looked around. “Um...I think I'll get...”

Something caught his eye. A glint of metal from the Bargain Box, shoved to the back of a store. He leaned closer to check...and a smile spread over his face.

“I will have a...grappling hook!”

He aimed the weapon around the shop, pretending he was a fighter in the Ol' West. “Pew, pew, pew! Take that!”

Ford and Grauntie Mabel glanced at each other in surprise.

“Wouldn't you rather have, like, a T-shirt or something?” Grauntie Mabel asked.

“Are you kidding?” Stanley aimed at the ceiling and pulled the trigger. The hooks shot up, latched onto the roof beam, and yanked him ten feet in the air, where he dangled one-handedly from the ceiling. “GRAPPLING HOOK!” he shouted.

She laughed. “Fair enough!”

Ford sat in his bed later that evening, the blankets pulled over his knees as he wrote in the journal. He'd already filled in the “Weakness” areas of the gnome page: Leaf blowers and baseball bats!

He flipped to the first blank page, halfway through the book.

This journal told me there was no one in Gravity Falls I could trust, he wrote. But when you battle a hundred gnomes side-by-side with someone, you realize they've probably always got your back.

“Hey, Stan, can you get the lights?” he asked.

Stan had been bouncing energetically on his bed, grappling hook in hand.

“I'm on it!” he said. He'd already impaled a stuffed bear with it earlier, and its cotton innards clung to the hooks. He aimed at the lamp and fired.

The hook shot straight through the lamp and smashed the window behind it. The lamp sparked and died.

“It worked!” Stan shouted, and they laughed.

Ford slipped the journal under his pillow and laid back, his arms crossed under his head. He heard a rustling and knew that Stan had taken up an identical pose.

“This summer's gonna be awesome, Stan,” Ford said.

“Duh!” He could hear his brother's smile in his voice. “We're gonna find tons of buried treasure.”

“And monsters.”

“And babes!”

Ford threw a pillow at him. He heard a fwump and muffled laughter.

Ford closed his eyes, still smiling, thinking back to the last thing he wrote in the journal.

Grauntie Mabel told me there's nothing weird going on in Gravity Falls, but who knows what other secrets are waiting to be unlocked?

#gravity falls #relativity falls #smoll stan #smoll ford #grauntie mabel #gnomes #schmebulock #tourist trap #ria #ria ramirez #boyish dan #mystery shack

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redwoodwrites · 5 years ago

Text

Fun Hazard

AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13368537

Summary: Before the twins leave for Piedmont, Mabel takes them on a short adventure in the forest.

“BLAAAAAH!”

Ford woke up when something large and heavy landed on his stomach. He jack-knifed to a sitting position and fell off the couch. “Ow! Mabel?”

“IT'S FUN O' CLOCK, PEOPLE!” she bellowed. “RISE AND SHINE!”

Stanley, still sitting on the couch, groaned and cracked his joints as he woke up. Ford and Stanley had fallen asleep on the porch, reminiscing over their boyhood, sharing the adventures they'd had in the forest. At some point, Ford had fallen asleep against his brother, and apparently they'd stayed outside like that all night.

Ford squinted blearily at the sun. “Mabel, it's six in the morning. You haven't been possessed by a rooster again, have you?”

“Puh-lease. You see this sweater?” She stood back. Her handmade earth garb sported a stylized purple octopus with a blushing smily face. “Ain't no rooster's got style like Mabel.”

“Actually, with a double-negative –”

“Mabel?”

They turned. Dipper had appeared in the doorway, yawning and rubbing his eyes. He was soaking wet. “Please tell me you didn't rig the water-balloon alarm clock over my bed. It's too early to murder someone.”

“Then it's my lucky day!” she sang. “C'mon, everybody! We've got two days left at the Falls and I've got BIG PLANS! WOOHOO!”

It took a few minutes, and a lot of loud singing, but eventually Ford let himself be led into the kitchen. Mabel had one hand on his sleeve and the other on Stan's old robe, with Dipper trailing behind.

“I'm gonna make you guys the best breakfast EVER!” she announced. “Smorelets and toast with jelly made from actual jelly beans and juice!”

“Fruit juice?” Dipper asked cautiously.

“Probably!”

Stanley snorted. “Yeah, no, I'm gonna cook 'cuz I ain't got a death wish.”

“I take it Mabel has cooked before,” Ford said wryly, taking a seat at the table.

Dipper shrugged. “Mostly she just makes Mabel Juice. You do not want to know.”

Stanley cooked pancakes while Mabel bounced around him, singing at the top of her lungs and pulling out every topping conceivable for said pancakes: the Jellybean Jelly, powdered sugar, Maple syrup, ice cream, and a rather frightening assortment of off-brand Halloween candy. No telling how old that was. As much as he loved the holiday, Ford made a mental note to stay clear.

Finally the meal was ready, and Stanley put a huge stack of pancakes in the middle of the table. Mabel insisted on putting the toppings all around the pancakes in a flower shape while Dipper passed out the plates. Ford, feeling rather obligated to help, offered to do the dishes.

“Sweet, now I can make as much of a mess as I want!” Mabel said gleefully. She grabbed a stack of pancakes with her hands, loaded her plate and drowned them with syrup. Ford laughed.

They settled down to eat. It was strange, eating with his family. Normally he was on the lookout for inter-dimensional bounty-hunters, and since his recent return to this dimension, he'd eaten in his lab (when he remembered to eat at all). This was different. Companionable. He found himself less interested in the pancakes than in watching his family.

Well, some of his family. Mabel shoved pancakes into her mouth at a frankly unnerving rate, so he quickly looked away. But Dipper and Stan, he noted, both ate their pancakes the same way: filling them with powdered sugar, rolling them up, and eating them like burritos.

Mabel caught him watching. “They call it the 'True Breakfast Burrito',” she said, spitting a few crumbs because her mouth was so full.

Dipper winced. “Ugh, Mabel...!”

“Don't just sit there, smart guy,” Stanley said, his mouth also incredibly full. He nodded at the pancakes. “It's a free-for-all. Take what you want.”

Ford took another pancake and put it on his plate, then scooped out a little pat of butter to put on top. He ate it slowly, listening to the breakfast conversation. Mabel and Dipper had planned a “Weirdmaggedon Outta Here” party for the supernatural creatures they'd met over the summer.

“We can do it tomorrow,” Dipper was saying. “Everybody's probably still freaked out over the whole Apocalypse thing, anyway. Betcha the hospital's packed with people.”

Ford raised his eyebrows. “The hospital? What made you think of that?”

“Oh, well...” He ducked his head. “I've, uh, been there before. Had some issues with...forks.”

“Ah.” One guess what that meant.

“Did you know Soos' mom used to be a nurse?” Mabel asked cheerfully, and poured maple syrup directly into her mouth.

Ford winced. “That can't be good for children.”

Dipper grinned. “Mabel hasn't exploded yet, but Stan and I took bets. I'm thinking she'll drop of a sugar coma by next Wednesday.”

“I've got money for this Saturday at the latest,” Stan said, putting another bottle of syrup on the table.

“Hey!” Dipper protested. “That's enabling! And cheating! You're not supposed to do anything to influence the bet!”

“Says you.”

Ford grinned. “I'm all for long shots. Put me down for three weeks from today.”

When they were done eating, the kids cleaned up and Mabel fed her pig. Stanley got dressed and Mabel hustled them all into the Stanley-Mobile car. There was a brief argument over who would stay to watch Waddles, but Mabel refused to stay behind, so they ended up squashing the pig in the back seat with the twins. They drove off, under orders from Mabel to head straight to the mall. Ford sat shotgun next to Stanley, who, quite frankly, drove as if he was half-blind.

“Are you sure you don't need stronger glasses?” Ford asked, gripping the car door as they took another wild turn.

“Sure I'm sure.” He ran over a road sign. “Just sit back and enjoy the ride, huh?”

“OOOOH!” Mabel shrieked, and Stan nearly flipped the car.

“What the Maple Syrup, Mabel?!”

“Grunkle Stan, Grunkle Stan, you have to stop the car!”

“What for?” he demanded, but Mabel opened the door and he stomped the brake so hard the car burned rubber. She jumped out, came around to Ford's door and pulled it open.

“C'mon, c'mon, Grunkle Ford, you have to see this!” she squealed.

“What, what is it?” he asked, but he let her pull him out of the car.

They'd stopped on a turnout, and the road, as ever, was lined with redwoods. Ford remembered the place dimly from his previous explorations of the forest. It was known for its weirdly glowing pink rocks and the little scampfires that liked to hide among them.

Mabel pulled him into the forest, the rest of the family hurrying to follow.

“Where are we going?” Ford asked her.

“You'll see...here!”

They came to a clearing and stopped. It was about ten feet in diameter, and most of the space was taken up with a pile of the glowing pink rocks, arranged in a distinctive heart shape. Stan came up on one side of him, panting, Dipper and Waddles close behind.

“Wow, Mabel,” Dipper said, surveying the area. “This looks like a lot of work. When did you do this?”

Mabel grinned, sweeping her hands exactly like Stan did when introducing an exhibit. “Welcome, Dipper and Gentlemen, to Mabel's Heart of Bold! I made it after that run-in with Cellestabellabethabelle.”

Ford winced. “Ugh. Her.”

“Haha, yeah...anyway, I was wandering around like a little lost kitten when I saw all these glowing pink rocks. And I thought, aw, they're like little hearts! And that's when I got this idea!”

Ford bent slightly for a closer look. “I thought scampfires collected these. How did you manage to get ahold of so many?”

“Easy! I taught them a neat trick and they let me keep the rock art until the end of the summer.”

“A trick?”

“Watch.” She stepped over to Dipper and whispered in his ear. He blushed and darted a quick glance at Ford.

“Mabel, seriously?” he whispered. “Here, now?”

She grinned. “Unless you have a better one!”

He screwed up his face, thinking, then sighed. “I got nothin'. Fine, here we go.”

The twins faced the rocks, opened their mouths, and sang:

Friday night, and we're gonna party 'till dawn Don't worry, Daddy, I've got my favorite dress on! We're rollin' to the party, the boys are lookin' our way...

At this point the rocks, which had been glowing a steady pink, began to pulse with a reddish light. The longer the twins sang, the stronger the pulses, until they were flashing pink and red. Then, under Ford's amazed gaze, the rocks began to change color. The whole heart rippled like a rainbow was flowing over it, a dazzling display of turquoise, indigo, orange, and butter-yellow. Ford caught his brother's eye and grinned – Stan's face was bathed in green light, exactly the color of money.

“Green suits you,” he whispered, as the lights played over their faces.

Stan grinned back. “Me? Look at you.”

Ford looked down. His body was glowing yellow. He stared at it for a second, then started laughing. Stan slung an arm around Ford's shoulder and Ford leaned into his brother, listening as Stan joined in the song.

Oooh-oh! Girls do what we like, Oooh-oh! We're takin' over tonight.

The song ended and the rocks gave a last burst of brilliant color, lighting up the trees like miniature fireworks. All four Pines thrust their fists in the air at once.

“Pines! Pines! Pines! Pines!”

A/N: This was just a quick thing, but I think I like how it turned out. Hope you guys liked it, too!Also please feel free to leave a comment and check out my other works!

#gravity falls #grunkle stan #great-uncle ford #family bonding #dipper pines #mabel pines #after weirdmaggedon #rock art #scampfires #power of mabel

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redwoodwrites · 5 years ago

Text

Bad Dreams

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13339278

A/N: This story takes place after Dipper and Mabel have returned home. They've started their own paranormal investigation club, the Haunt Hunters, and are doing pretty well...except for the occasional nightmare... A touch of angst, a hint of Billdip, and a whole lotta Mabel. Enjoy the fluff!

Dipper woke up sweating. His shoulders were shaking and those little stabby fork scars on his arms were burning. He sat up. His scalp felt like it was trying to crawl off his head.

Well. Obviously not going back to sleep tonight.

He swung his legs over the bed. Ew, so much sweat. If he showered now, he'd wake everybody up, but at least he could at least change his clothes. Maybe wipe off his face.

He got up slowly so his bed wouldn't creak. Mabel was flopped over the top bunk bed and one foot hung over the rail, covered in a bright pink heart-patterned sock that literally glowed in the dark. He avoided it carefully, grabbed a semi-clean change of clothes off the floor, and felt his way out of the room to the bathroom.

He reached the bathroom and shut the door, so the light wouldn't bother anyone. He flicked it on, wincing at the sudden glare. He had to stand with his eyes squeezed shut until they adjusted. He cracked them open, a little at a time. When his eyes stopped throbbing, he shucked off his clothes and threw them on the hamper. He put on the clean ones and then stepped to the sink to wash his face. He turned on the hot water faucet at full blast, to make it heat up faster, and glanced at himself in the mirror.

His reflection grinned horribly, and its eyes burned yellow with slitted pupils.

“HIYA, SMART GUY!”

Mabel startled so badly she nearly fell out of bed. She gripped the rail, her heart pounding, her ears ringing from the scream.

“D-Dipper?”

Dipper didn't answer.

Oh, boy. She quickly swung over the rail and dropped to the floor. Her brother was sitting up, grabbing at the blankets, doing that funny breathing thing he did when he was trying not to panic. His hair stuck out in all directions, hiding his face, but his mouth was open as he gasped for breath.

Before Mabel could move or speak, their parents ran into the room. “What happened?” their mother asked, panting. “Who screamed?”

“I just woke up,” Mabel said truthfully, stalling for time. Sometimes Dipper was too freaked to talk, which freaked out their parents, which freaked out Mabel, which freaked out Dipper. It was not a good cycle.

“Are you kid alright?” their father asked. “Mabel, what on earth are you doing out of bed? Tell me you didn't sleep walk! If you fell off the top bunk –”

“No, no, I promise, I was awake when I fell. Kidding!” she said with a laugh. “I didn't fall. Seriously, I'm okay.”

Their mother stepped closer, peering behind Mabel, who was blocking the view to Dipper's bed. “Dipper? Are you alright?”

“I'm okay.” She heard Dipper scoot back so his mom could see his face. Mabel glanced at him. He looked pale and pasty and haggard, but he was an internet addict so that was a typical look for him. At least he wasn't breathing funny anymore. “I just had a nightmare," he said. "Sorry I woke you.”

“Some nightmare,” said their father. “You want a glass of water?”

“No, no, I'm fine.”

Their mother insisted on tucking them both back in and fussed over Dipper's blankets until she'd practically cocooned him.

“Aw, look at him!” Mabel squealed. “He's gonna metamorphose into a beautiful nerd!”

“Well, he's got the 'nerd' part down,” their father grumbled, and he grinned and ruffled their hair.

Finally their parents were gone. Mabel waited a little while before she poked her head down over the railing.

“So,” she said, and he knew what she meant.

“I'm really okay,” Dipper said, keeping his eyes closed. “Honest.”

“I hate when that happens,” Mabel said conversationally. “Like, you know you're okay but your brain insists on making horror movies in your sleep. You can't even eat popcorn to make it a worthwhile experience!”

“I didn't know nightmares could be a – you have nightmares?”

“Oh sure! Mostly about Waddles getting turned into Bacon Bits, or accidentally pressing the red button so Grunkle Ford never comes back, or that Grunkle Stan and Grunkle Ford get killed at sea and we never hear from them again and we spend the rest of our lives searching forever and never find them until we die.”

“I feel like that got progressively worse.”

Mabel shrugged, which, since she was hanging upside down, meant moving her shoulders up towards the ceiling and then back again, like an opposite-shrug. “You wanna know what I do when I get a nightmare?”

He cracked open one eye. “Eat ice cream?”

“Nope!”

“Eat ice cream with popcorn?”

“Nope!”

“Throw literally everything in the fridge into the blender and make the worst possible version of Mabel Juice ever?”

“No, but now I definitely want to try that tomorrow. No, what I do is think of a real thing that really happened, something just as good as the nightmare was bad, and I focus on that.”

“What do you do for a Grunkles-Lost-Forever dream?”

She paused. Dipper's nightmare must've been really bad. What would cheer up a nerd?

“I think, if I were you...I'd remember that one time you found an alien saucer with Grunkle Ford. You did say it was, and I quote, 'the best day of your life.'”

“Ah, yes, the day I accidentally pushed you into accidentally starting Weirdmaggedon.”

“Work with me here, Dip-Dop. Before that you know you were having a great time. Actually...” She pulled herself back up and climbed down the ladder. All that hanging upside down was starting to give her a Grenda-sized headrush. She scooted onto Dipper's bed and sat cross-legged at the foot of it. “You never did tell me what happened. You wanna tell me now?”

He picked his head up and looked at her for a minute. “I really am okay,” he said.

“If you don't tell me, I will tickle you,” she said, raising a finger threateningly and touching his big toe through the blankets.

“Mabel, I'm tired. I just want to –”

“SO BE IT!”

He squealed with laughter as she grabbed his feet and started tickling with all her Mabel powers. He was so tightly wrapped up he couldn't even fight back. And when it looked like he was about to get his arms free, she body-slammed him and started tickling his neck.

“Mabel, Mabel, stop!” he gasped, laughing so hard tears rolled down his cheeks. “Seriously! I'm gonna pee!”

She sat up, grinning from ear to ear. “Alright, Count Dorkulus, story time! Stor-y time! Stor-y time!”

“You are the worst,” he said, but he was still laughing as he sat up. He told the story, starting with how Ford blew up his face every morning to get rid of five o' clock shadow all the way through staring down a big alien security droid with a rail gun the size of a Maserati.

“Wow, Dipper, that sounds amazing,” Mabel said admiringly. “You're like a hero from a science fiction movie!”

“Yeah, well...” He grinned and rubbed the back of his neck. “It was really cool, that's for sure. I wish we could have more adventures like that, but I guess not every place is as weird as Gravity Falls.”

“I dunno, bro, with you here I think we give the Falls some decent competition.”

He threw a pillow at her.

“And we did just fight off a buttload of gremlins at school,” Mabel said. “Who knows what other wild stuff the Haunt Hunters will face? I bet we'll get world-famous and have to travel to all the weirdest, most haunted places in the world!”

“Yeah! Like that forest in the Rockies with all the Bigfoot sightings! Or that one house in Colorado with the baby hands on the window!”

“Oooh! I bet the Hand Witch would love it there!”

They talked and planned until it started getting light outside. Luckily it was the weekend, so they knew they'd get to sleep in. Mabel was too tired to climb back to her own bed. She crawled up next to Dipper and stole the top blanket. The fell asleep facing each other, their foreheads just touching, their faces gilded with the soft gold of the rising sun.

A/N: So I know the whole “bad dreams” idea has been done to death, but the idea WOULD NOT leave me alone until I put it down on paper. Digitally, anyway. MENTAL SYSTEM PURGED! Also, for more Dipper and Mabel after the Falls, please check out my work “Haunt Hunters,” where the twins have started the Haunt Hunters club and investigate paranormal events.

#gravity falls #dipper pines #mabel pines #bad dreams #nightmares #angst #comfort #after the falls #bipper

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redwoodwrites · 5 years ago

Text

Being There

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11890179

Summary: Stan and Ford stop for a drink while traveling the sea. Unfortunately, things do not go as planned.

A/N: Hello! This is actually my first fanfiction ever, and of course I had to do it on two of my favorite characters. I hope you enjoy it!

“We're gonna get so drunk!” Stan shouted, fist-pumping the air.

“At least we won't have to drive home,” Ford said with a smile, stepping out of the boat. They'd been sailing for weeks, and Stan had made him promise they'd stop at the first port they came to – which just so happened to be lined with grungy-looking bars. Ford had never been indulgent of alcohol. The closest he'd come was the (probably spiked) punch at their high school prom. Stan hadn't done much drinking, either, but his whole face had lit up like a menorah as soon as he saw the bars. How could Ford turn him down?

Stan threw an arm around his shoulders. “This is gonna be great! We're gonna get drunker than a couple of college frat boys!”

“'Drunker'?”

“Yo, Ford, you know what happens to people who correct grammar...”

Ford winced, and Stanley grinned.

“THEY HAVE TO PAY THE TAB! WOOHOO!”

Stan led them straight to the first bar. It looked like Stan's kind of place: dark, dirty, with a sign out front that said Fish: $20.00. Beer: Almost free.

The bar was small. There was barely room for the four tables inside; to make up for it, they had stools instead of chairs. There were a couple of slope-shouldered fishermen in the corner, but otherwise they had the place to themselves.

Ford wrinkled his nose. The place smelled decidedly rank.

“Stan, maybe we should patronize a diff-”

“YO BAR GUY!” Stan yelled. “What's cheap and filled with alcohol?”

The bartender turned and squinted at Stan with rheumy eyes. “A vodka with extra rocks,” he said.

“Nope – THIS guy!” Stan laughed, pointing to himself. “Or I will be as soon as I get that vodka!”

“I'll have the same,” Ford added. “And a plate of fish, please.” He had, after all, done his reading. A full stomach slowed the intake of alcohol. He'd indulge his brother, but it always paid to keep one's wits about.

They sat at a table by the window. Ford set his hand on it and instantly regretted it; the table was sticky, and he pulled his fingers away with a slight sucking noise. He sincerely hoped his chair wouldn't do the same when he finally stood up.

“Aw, man, you ever see a place this dirty?” Stan said loudly.

“Stan!”

“And the lighting! Those bulbs are dimmer than a Mystery Shack tourist! I bet this guy pays squat for maintenance!”

Somehow while he was talking, the lightbulb in the lamp above their table mysteriously vanished. (Not that it was any dimmer or brighter than before; most of the light came from the sunshine glancing through the window.) Still, he was pretty sure he saw the bartender watching through slitted eyes.

Ford grinned, leaned over and plucked the bulb from his brother's sleeve. “Let's not steal more than we want to pay for. We still have to buy more supplies and rations tomorrow.”

“Aw, don't be such a spoilsport, Sixer!”

The bartender arrived before Ford could answer. He hastily replaced the bulb as the man slammed down their orders and stalked back to the counter, muttering about the quality of his clientele. Not that Ford could blame them – when Ford glanced down at the table, his fork had disappeared.

“Stan!”

His brother grinned, making no attempt to pretend innocence, and waved the fork under his brother's nose. “Missing something, Sixer?”

“Give me that,” Ford laughed, making a grab for it. Stan snatched it back and dangled it again, teasing him. “You're not even drunk yet!” Ford protested, making another grab. Stan kept it just out of reach and Ford leaned over to get it. Stan was laughing so hard he could barely keep a grip on it anymore, and Ford grabbed it and then pulled Stan's beanie and pulled it over his face for good measure.

“And let that be a lesson to you!” Ford joked. Stan roared with laughter. Ford had seldom seen him look so happy, and he hadn't even gotten drunk yet. He glanced at his cup, wondering what they'd be like when they became...inebriated. Well, he planned to keep from getting too drunk, and with that thought, he cut the fish with his fork and took a bite.

Fire!

Ford had never expected the fish to be spicy but it was instant, the ghost pepper sending pain like hot knives under his tongue, cutting the roof of his mouth, burning his eyes. He gagged and spat the fish into his hand.

“Whoa, Ford!” Stan started pounding on his back.

Ford's eyes dripped tears, but the pain wasn't alleviated in the slightest. In desperation, Ford grabbed the vodka and swallowed, holding a block of ice on his tongue. The fiery oil felt like it was searing the very jelly of his eyes. He covered his face with his hands, as if he could rub out the agony. It burned beyond belief, there was a roaring in his ears, his tongue felt swollen and his eye was stinging, it was burning, it was dripping blood –

He jerked back from the table and scrambled for the door, half-blind with tears and panic. Stan and the bartender were yelling and then there was a pressure on his arm and the bright light of the sunlight suddenly hit his face. The added pain made his bile rise and he gagged.

“Ford, Ford, just talk to me,” Stan was saying.

“My eyes are burning,” Ford gasped.

“That bad? Hang on, I got this –”

Stan half-dragged him towards a blurry building farther down the street. Ford grabbed his brother's shoulder, gripping it tightly in one hand while he scrubbed brutally at his eyes with the other. He wanted to claw them out, he wanted to end the burning, they're bleeding my eyes are bleeding he caught me again I can't fall asleep get out of my head get it out get it out –

Stan shoved something into his hands, but they shook too badly to hold it, and Stan guided it to his mouth. Some kind of bottle. Ford chugged whatever was in it until it was empty, and Stan handed him another one. He couldn't even taste it, but it was thicker than water, like a smoothie or a syrup. He drank the next bottle, and the next, and the next.

It wasn't until the sixth one that the agony began to ebb. He noticed they were sitting down, leaning against something hard that poked at his back. He tried to look around, but his eyes were still watering too badly.

“Tilt your head up a minute,” Stan said, and gently poured water onto his face, soothing his eyes. Ford hoped fleetingly that Stan used bottled water, but it was still so painful he couldn't hold onto the thought.

“It's okay, Ford...I know it hurts, but you'll be alright,” Stan murmured, his gravelly voice soft.

Ford realized that he was crying. His shoulders were shaking less with pain than with fear. At least the continued production of tears would help wash out the spice, he thought distantly. It was as if his mind had divided into two: one half paralyzed with fear, the other a cold observer. He couldn't seem to stop crying. Stan handed him another drink, and another, and another. He drank them all and still the tears came. He hadn't expected to recall his experiences with Bill quite so strongly. He tried to catch his breath.

“That bartender can forget a tip,” Stan joked.

Ford managed a smile, more for Stan than anything else. He tried to talk but his voice cracked with a sob. He sank forward, covering his eyes with one hand.

“C'mon, Ford. This isn't just about the fish, is it?” Stan asked. Ford shook his head, still hiding his face.

He'd never gotten around to telling Stanley about the...events that happened before Stanley's arrival in Gravity Falls. It had just never come up. And now that it was finally relevant, Ford couldn't bring himself to find the words. Shock and shame burned in his throat.

There was a long pause.

“Alright,” Stan said finally. “Just...just tell me what you need.”

Ford held up the empty bottle with his free hand. Stan replaced it with a full one and Ford drank it down. When that was gone there was a new one in his hand before he could ask. Stan stayed right next to him, one arm resting on Ford's back, handing him drinks whenever he needed them.

After a long time, Ford felt the stinging spice begin to ebb. His eyes watered, but no longer dripped tears, and he could almost feel his tongue again. He took several deep breaths, wiped at his eyes, and straightened up.

It was some kind of convenience store. They were sitting on the floor in front of the soft drink section, over a dozen empty bottles littered in the aisle around them. The wrappers indicated he'd been drinking some kind of fruit smoothie. Looking left, Ford could see a part of the window at the front of the store; it was just down the street from where they'd started.

“Well,” Ford rasped, “so much for getting drunk.”

Stan laughed, playfully slapping his shoulder. “I dunno, I think one of us sure got a lot to drink!”

Ford chuckled a little. Based on the vacant spot in the shelf, they'd pretty much cleaned out the smoothies.

Stan was ready to put the empty bottles back and hide them behind the few remaining ones, but Ford insisted on paying. He didn't want to do anything to cause trouble, especially in a foreign country, or make them wanted men. He'd had enough of that sort of life on the other side of the portal.

The mood for drinking was thoroughly ruined, so they bought their supplies and headed back for the boat inside an hour. They decided to stay docked until tomorrow, in case they wanted to actually get drunk, but until then Ford had plenty of work to keep him occupied – several samples to check and compare against yesterday's observations, checking Dipper's homework on the spread and extinction of klatoblepones in Europe, assigning him work on the hypothetical introduction of supernatural species via airplanes, responding to the comments left by his scientific colleagues on his most recent essay eliminating narwhal as a relative of the unicorn...

Stan kept him company, playing paddleball, sleeping at the table and doing general puttering things. Ford wasn't really paying attention, but he was deeply grateful for the company. He knew he had to give Stanley attention tomorrow, maybe actually get to the 'drinking' part of the bar experience, but for now he needed the distraction of his work. He really didn't want to think about...

It didn't matter. He had work to do.

It was well past 2 AM when Stan woke up, hunched awkwardly over the kitchen table. He blinked groggily, wiped the drool from his lip and groaned as he sat up straight. Being old was a real pain in the...

“Ford?” Stan said. Last thing Stan remembered, his brother was sitting across from him, clicking away on the computer. The laptop was exactly where he'd left it, but Ford was nowhere in sight.

Stan got to his feet, gritting his teeth as his joints popped and ached. This far north, the cold was not easy on his arthritis. He made a mental note to get some painkillers at the drugstore before they left. Make that two bottles, since Ford might need them, too.

He poked his head into the bunk room, but both beds were empty.

Great. The nerd was probably freezing his butt off on deck. Why didn't he just stay down below? Stan wouldn't care if Ford was still shaken up over what happened earlier.

Not that Stan really knew what happened in the first place. It obviously wasn't about some bad fish.

This wasn't the first time something like this happened, either. Once, they'd docked at a little town in Canada to get some supplies, and decided to check out the local tourist trap just for fun. Ford had taken one look at a little glass prism and practically bolted out of the shop. Or the nightmares – last week Stan had woken up to screaming in an alien language. He'd shaken Ford awake, but his brother wouldn't tell him what the dream had been about. It was like some part of him still thought he had to do the “lone wolf hero” thing.

It was driving Stanley crazy. Didn't his brother know how much Stan loved him by now? He wouldn't care if Ford was all shaken up. Heck, he wouldn't care if Ford cried on his shoulder like Dipper after a fairy bit him. Ford was his brother. They were supposed to stick together, to trust each other. Not that either one of them were good at the whole “sharing feelings” crap, but still...

“Stupid genius,” he muttered. Grabbing a jacket and a blanket from his bed, Stan headed out the hatch and onto the deck.

Ford was leaning against the rail, staring at the lightening sky. His back was to Stan, but his shoulders looked stiff and hunched.

“How long you been out here, Sixer?”

“Not – not long.”

He came up beside his brother and raised an eyebrow. “Ford, you got frost on your face.”

Ford scrubbed at his cheeks.

Stan stood next to him for a while, looking over the ocean. It felt good to be beside his brother, but he hated watching Sixer hurting. Whatever that spicy fish had triggered for him, it wasn't anything good.

This is driving me crazy! Why doesn't he ever just tell me what's wrong?

“Oh yeah – I brought a blanket,” Stan remembered suddenly, holding it up. It was one of Mabel's knitting creations, soft as kitten breath and pink as an embarrassed flamingo. “Let's go siddown and cover up, huh?”

They settled themselves on the bench nailed to the outside wall of the cabin. Stan spread the blanket over their legs and sat back. He was literally biting his tongue, trying to keep from bugging Ford. If he's not ready to talk then shut yer yap, he thought like a chant. Shut yer yap, shut yer yap, shut yer yap...

This was just killing him.

He thought of a question that felt safe to ask. “Are you...ok now?”

Ford sighed. “Yes.”

“Have you even slept? You look like you could really use the rest.”

Ford leaned back with a sigh.

Stan made himself let it go. “Hey, remember when we shared a bed at Aunt Sheila's as kids?” he said. “We always thought it was so awkward because she made us sleep in the living room...so we stayed up and built pillow fort mazes for hours.”

Ford smiled a little. “I do. Complete with booby traps. Remember the nacho chips?”

“Oh, man!” Stan laughed. “By the time we finally found 'em they'd gone way past green and hit purple mold!”

“Exactly the same color as her drapes,” Ford said.

“I guess the one good thing – after Dad chewed us out – was that we never had to go back after that. I hated being away from the Stan O' War.”

Ford didn't say anything for a moment. Then, to Stan's surprise, Ford leaned against him a little. He was sort of hunching, like he didn't quite know how to do it.

“Hey, Sixer?”

“It brought back memories of being possessed by Bill,” Ford said bluntly. “I know you've been trying not to ask. I'd rather...I'd rather not go into detail. But I wanted to tell you...I...appreciate your being there, and not pushing me for information. The smoothies were a great idea.”

The way Ford's head was angled, Stan couldn't see his face. He just stared at his hair for a minute. Appreciate? Did he really just say that? Was that nerd-talk for 'Thank you'?

“Well...sure, Sixer,” he said. “Anytime.”

“And I am sorry I ruined our drinks.”

“Come on. You see the state of that dump? Guy probably spits in a glass and calls it vodka.” Stan waved a hand. “There's a dozen other bars on the street. If you're up for it later, we can always grab a gin or something somewhere else.”

He wrapped an arm around his brother. In a few minutes, Ford started to nod, and then his head dropped softly onto Stan's shoulder. Stan leaned into him a little, balancing them. This could work, he thought. Ford liked that Stan had helped him. Ford trusted Stan to help him. Even if Ford wasn't ready to tell him everything, Stan could work with this. Just being there for his brother. It's what he'd wanted to do the whole time, anyway.

Stan smiled, listening to his brother's light snoring, and watched the sun rise.

#grunkle stan #great-uncle ford #sea grunks #possession #flashbacks #angst #comfort #bonding #thank you Stanley #gravity falls

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