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[nikxation]

The Power of the Sweater

Summary: Mabel finally gets that hug she’s been waiting for since Ford came through the portal.

This is a short little fluff-fic that I wrote for @endae‘s birthday. Happy birthday ya dork. Here’s some happy stuff for your happy day. :)

No one quite knows how she does half the things she does, but if one thing’s for sure: if there’s a Mabel, there’s a way.

Which only goes so far to explain how exactly she managed to simultaneously squeeze her two unsuspecting grunkles into a giant sweater in the span of three seconds, all without either of them seeming to register the action until it was already too late.

The sweater is huge, meaning it probably took her an entire week to make, even at her speed. Bright highlighter-yellow yarn fades down into neon green, stretching wide across the body, one normal-sized sleeve coming out of each side and a super wide neck opening into a loose turtleneck. A clock decorates the front with both little hands pointing to the twelve o’clock position where the word “HUG” is stitched in glitter-covered letters.

It’s almost atrocious.

The befuddlement plainly obvious on both of her grunkles’ faces upon realizing that they’ve both been ensnared is priceless, though.

“Mabel,” Ford says, glancing down at the clock design on the front with his eyebrows scrunched so far together they just about touch. “What… is this?”

“This, Grunkle Ford,” she addresses them from where she stands on the couch, “is the trademarked Mabel Pines Get-Along Sweater.”

“It wouldn’t be a trademark, Mabel,” Dipper pipes up from where he’s thrown himself across the armchair, glancing up at the chaos from behind his book. “A patent or copyright, maybe. But you’re not the first person to come up with a get-along—”

“Dipper, if you get me my camera in the next thirty seconds, I’ll tell you where I hid your chewing pens and that doll from your nerd game,” Mabel says. For all it’s worth, Dipper stutters something for about a half-second before he’s rocketing out of the room, narrowly avoiding hitting the door frame on his way out and up the stairs.

“Pumpkin, I’m still not following,” Stan says.

“And that is completely okay Grunkle Stan,” she says, stepping forward enough to smush his face between her hands. “You are still healing from crazy brain stuff so it’s perfectly normal if certain things are still confusing, okay?”

“I don’t…” he trails off, taken slightly aback as she lets go of his face. “Just because I don’t remember the name of a childhood pet possum doesn’t make this make any more sense.”

“You mean Shanklin? You remember him?” Ford asks.

“Was that his name? That’s—”

“As much as I need to hear more about this, it’ll have to wait,” Mabel cuts them off. “First, hug time.”

“Pardon?”

“You two need to hug it out, right now,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest. “Well, maybe in ten seconds when Dipper gets back with that camera.”

“Why does this feel reminiscent of that day you brought me back through the portal?” Ford asks.

“Because that’s exactly what it is,” Stan says.

“Ah,” Ford turns his attention back to his niece. “Mabel dear, this isn’t necessary. We’ve already made up, so everything is fine now. You don’t have to worry about us.”

“Besides,” Stan says. “Guys aren’t all touchey-touchey like you girls are. We prefer to bottle up our emotions and pretend we’re too good for physical displays of affection.”

“You’re family, so don’t worry, it won’t hurt your manliness,” she says, hopping off the couch. “And duh Grunkle Ford, I know you’re not fighting anymore. But you’ve been back for almost a month, and Dipper and I are leaving in a couple days, and you two still haven’t hugged it out! It’s driving me bananas! So, you two get to wear the punishment get-along sweater until you hug, and that’s that.”

“What if we just take it off?” Stan squints at her.

“Good question, Grunkle Stan,” Mabel says. “If you take off the sweater before hugging, then I’ll cry.”

“She will,” Dipper says, coming back huffing with Mabel’s camera in hand. “She can do it on command. It’s painful to be on the other end of.”

“I could probably live with the guilt,” Stan says, moving to shuck off his half of the sweater. But upon one sniffle from Mabel’s direction, he’s already clambering back in. “Okay okay called my bluff. But how would you know if we’ve hugged or not?”

“Dipper and I are with you two all the time. One of us would have seen.”

“What about nighttime?”

“You’re both super old. You’re asleep by nine most nights. Just two wrinkly kittens under a blanket watching old videos of when you were adorable and little that I totally don’t have photographic proof of.”

“What about if we did a handshake instead?” Ford asks.

“Too formal?”

“High five?”

“Too fast.”

“What about that thing that you kids are doing a lot now-a-days?” Stan asks. “The thing where you look like you’re sneezing into your arm?”

“If you two dab,” Dipper says, “I will personally cut you out of there myself.”

“No!” Mabel says, stomping her foot. “Hugs! Only hugs! The sweater literally has Hug Time on it!”

“Fine fine, okay,” Stan concedes.

Both boys look at each other, shuffling a little as if trying to get to some magically comfortable position, but only succeeding in pulling each other around inside the sweater. It’s all just an awkward mess for about thirty seconds, mumbles of “put your hand here” “I’m trying” “no I said here”. It all ultimately comes down to the both of them both unanimously grunting in annoyance, giving up any semblance of logic in this thing, and just going in for the hug. Mabel, always the planner, of course knew the exact amount of room they’d need to get there, and of course it’s a perfect fit, their free hands fitting perfectly to clasp the other on the back. Only—

“Tighter!”

“What?” Ford asks.

“I said hug tighter! You two are barely touching each other!”

“That’s kinda the point,” Stan grumbles.

“Do it!”

“Geez kid, alright.” Stan says, proceeding to hug Ford tighter, Ford responding in kind.

“Tighter!”

“Mabel.”

“Tighter!”

“If I squeeze him any harder we’re both gonna run out of oxygen!” Stan complains.

“Then you’d be doing it right!”

“Mabel, I think they’ve had enough,” Dipper says. She huffs in response.

“Fine, I guess you’re right. Picture?”

Dipper holds up the camera and takes the picture, the flash momentarily blinding and the camera spitting out the developed photo a few moments later. Mabel grabs it and inspects it carefully, making sure she’s satisfied.

“Alright you two,” she says, gingerly storing the photo in her sweater for scrapbooking later. “You’re free. Consider yourselves all made up now.”

“Thank Tesla,” Ford says, immediately scrabbling out of the sweater. “It was getting unbearably warm in there.”

“Says the guy wearing a turtleneck in the middle of the summer.”

“Trust me, I’m doing you a favor.”

“What? Got an embarrassing tattoo I should know about?”

“I don’t have to answer that.”

“Okay, now you have to show it to me.”

“Anyways, Mabel,” Ford redirects. “You know we really are fine, right?”

“Now you are.”

“No, I mean before,” he corrects. “This was very… sweet of you, but it wasn’t necessary.”

“Grunkle Ford, you two are standing two inches closer together than you were before,” Mabel says. Ford glances down at the distance between he and Stan as if to validate that. “I think the Mabel Pines Get-Along Sweater is a proven success.”

“I’m pretty sure that doesn’t mean anything,” Dipper says. “You literally had them shoved together inside a sweater.”

“Um, I’m pretty sure it means a lot of things, Dipper.”

“Really, it doesn’t.”

“Two whole inches!”

“I’m gonna go chop some wood or something to make me feel manly again,” Stan says, promptly shuffling out of the room.

“I should really patent this.”

“Mabel, two inches is not statistically—”

“Don’t doubt the power of the sweater!”

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14 When All Else Fails, Make Amends

Ao3 link

07/27/13-07/28/13 Saturday - Sunday

Good luck with cleanup, was the message that chimed Stan awake in the morning.

Clary had already gone down to Greasy’s by the time there was enough daylight to work by. The usual suspects, minus the kids who were still sacked out upstairs, gathered to bring the Shack’s yard back into something resembling order before the first tours of the day showed up. They settled for getting some of the tables and chairs stacked away into the loaner truck and leaning folded tents against the lee side of the house. Another few trash bags got added to a mountain that would require a special pickup from the town garbage truck.

Stan had gotten a report on the night’s numbers from Soos, though, and that kept his steps light no matter how many discarded party cups he had to pick up.

A chill wind had blown through somewhere in the wee hours which kept the work bearable until the sun finally made it above the treetops. Dipper and Mabel eventually staggered out to collapse on the couch. They’d recovered enough energy to razz the cleanup crew, at least until another text from Clary chimed on all the Pines’ phones at once.

Lunch special is complete! Who wants a full pancake breakfast on me?

“Heck yes!” shouted Mabel. “Come on, people, wrap it up, it’s free pancakes!”

They’d managed the equivalent of sweeping most of the trash under the rug, as it were. Soos waved them off as Stan loaded himself, Ford and the kids into the El Diablo and ran everyone down to the diner.

The Saturday morning crowd was more dense than usual. Someone had written Clary Merrick’s Chicken Dumplings! on the chalkboard at the front door. “Good grief,” Ford muttered.

“Cursed by our own popularity,” Stan agreed as he shouldered the door open and held it for the kids.

Susan met them with a pink-cheeked giggle. “That was some party, huh? Come on, we’ve got a booth reserved for ya.” She shooed the four of them down to the far end and poured coffee. “Server’ll be out in a minute!”

Stan was expecting Clary. When she showed up in a pink uniform and a crisp white apron, pen tucked behind one ear, he cracked up and couldn’t quite stop himself. They’d even slapped a bit of masking tape over her nametag and scrawled in CLARY with a marker. She looked down her nose in wry disdain. “Very funny. I’ve got another forty minutes to go and then I’m done for good, so order up before my employee discount evaporates.”

“You look lovely,” Ford said, valiant as ever. She winked, smile widening, and Stan hit him with a warning kick under the table.

“So.” Mabel’s eyes were gleaming. “We can have anything we want?”

“Anything at all, honeybee.” Clary flipped out a ticket book and readied her pen. “What’s it gonna be?”

Ford and Dipper were relatively straightforward. Mabel’s order rattled on for most of a ticket-book page, Clary making swift notes as she went. Finally she glanced in question at Stan, who smirked. “Anything?”

The corners of her eyes crinkled, though she kept a straight face. “Anything. Keep in mind that I already know you’re a lousy tipper.”

“How exactly d’you expect me to figure a tip on zero dollars?”

“Maybe you should give some consideration to services rendered.” Clary tilted her pen over towards the wall clock. “Thirty minutes.”

“All right, all right.” He made a show of studying the menu, then settled on the best of the club sandwiches - extra turkey, extra bacon, extra pickles, easy on the mayo - with a short stack of pancakes, hash browns, and everything else he figured he could get away with stuffing into a takeaway box. Clary didn’t flinch, mildly taking it all down as the kids’ eyes widened.

She ferried it all out over the next fifteen minutes. The scarred surface of the booth table was jammed near to overflow with pancakes, side dishes and Mabel’s assorted syrups. Stan chomped into his sandwich with gusto. Nothing was quite as delicious as free food. He watched in amusement as Clary waltzed up and down the diner to refill coffee and clear plates.

The clock had about made it to noon when she swung by the Pines table again. “Got everything you need, hon?”

“Doin’ fine for now but I wouldn’t mind seein’ the dessert menu - “

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Pines, but it’s time for my shift change.” Clary straightened, reaching behind to untie her apron. “Hey, Susan?” she called out.

“What’s up, sweetie?”

“I quit!” Clary tossed the apron over the counter and slipped into the booth, Dipper scooting over to make room. She reached across the table and nimbly stole the untouched half of Stan’s sandwich.

“Hey - “

“Who’s paying for this?” she shot back.

Stan must have looked crestfallen, because both the kids were beginning to giggle and Clary was struggling not to join them as she took a bite. “Fine. I’ll consider this my tip. Sorry I missed you all this morning - did cleanup go all right?”

Ford pushed his empty plate to the middle of the table. “I believe we managed to get it all under control. Will you be coming back to pack this afternoon?” Stan settled for the pancakes, still sulking a bit.

“I’ll get started. Looks like I’ll be staying through the weekend, so long as that’s okay. I want to get a decent night’s sleep or two and I still have some unfinished business in town.” Clary settled back with a sigh and accepted a spare napkin from Dipper. “I’m so glad everything went well.”

Mabel squinted down the table from her seat by the window. Her eyes flicked to Stan, who did his best to radiate innocence. “So maybe until Monday?”

“Tuesday, I think.”

“Great.” Mabel clapped hands together smartly and turned her razor focus to Ford. “Grunkle Ford, now that we’ve got all the obligations out of the way, can we make time to head out on that ghost expedition of Dipper’s? I’m pretty sure we could get it done in one overnight hike.”

Dipper blinked in surprise next to Mabel, then flinched - Stan was pretty sure that was a pink Mary Jane tagging him in the ankle. He caught on quick, though, and leaned forward with eager eyes and steepled fingers. “That’s right. I’ve figured out a route that’ll hit everything worth investigating and it’ll be one day out, one day back. If we head out tomorrow morning, we could make it in plenty of time for dinner on Monday!”

Ford tensed up, unused to being the center of both their attention. “...I’d hate to abandon our guest for the last couple of days before she departs.”

“Oh, I’m stayin’. Lots of cleanup t’do, yet.” Stan swabbed up maple syrup with another forkful of pancake.

“I’ll get the truck back to Tate and clear up the last loose ends,” said Clary. “I still owe a few people favors.”

“We can’t go incommunicado - “

“I can show Grunkle Stan how to use the tracking rig, and we can carry your uplinks, right? We’ll be in touch the whole time! Listen, we’ve already sketched out what we know are the safest stretches of the woods after the glitterbomb thing, and we can check on the aftereffects while we’re at it.” Dipper fished out a notepad and started scribbling.

Stan felt his brother’s resistance begin to crack. “Mabel, you want to come along on this - ?”

“You bet. I’ll be your documentarian.” Mabel tugged out her phone, sat back and got a snapshot of the whole table. “We can borrow that action camera thingy and get some video too. Come on, the weather’s going to be perfect for a couple days and we have to get it all done before we start doing birthday planning!”

Ford blanched. “We just finished the biggest party we’ve ever thrown - “

“That’s no reason to rest on our laurels. We’re about to turn fourteen, we’re going to high school in the fall, we’ve got to throw one heck of a bash. What we did over this last week? Nothing but a rehearsal!” Both Stan and Ford inched back a bit in their seats.

“Easy, Mabel. I need some recovery time and they probably do, too.” Clary polished off the last bite and dabbed at her lips with the napkin. “If you’re done, why don’t we pack up and maybe we can figure it out on the way up to the Shack?”

They were still hashing it out when Susan came over with a couple of takeaway boxes. Clary settled up and left too much of a tip, as usual, which wasn’t even going to her. Some of the things that woman did made no sense.

Stan held the door for everyone as they headed out into the sunshine. He turned a palm out behind his back and scored low-fives from both Dipper and Mabel as they passed.

By the time they were back home - Clary had walked that morning, so she joined them in the car - Mabel, Dipper and Ford had negotiated more or less exactly what the kids wanted. The house echoed with voices and footsteps as camping gear, cameras, maps and backpacks were rustled up from various corners.

Stan left them to it and sidled up to Clary. She’d barely made it up the outside steps and simply leaned into the side door’s frame, watching the chaos swirl past. “So?”

“So.”

“We on for this weekend?”

She shifted enough to catch his eye. “We’re on.”

“Tomorrow lunchtime?”

“Perfect. Looking forward to it.” Clary pushed off from the doorframe, her smile a warm flicker. “See you for dinner. Me, I’m going to go sleep like the dead.”

She was as good as her word, too, disappearing into her storage room for the remainder of the afternoon. Stan gave up almost immediately on keeping up with the kids and sacked out on the couch for a good couple hours.

Dinner came early, thrown together from admittedly excellent leftovers. The conversation consisted mainly of intense discussion about safe trails, the most sheltered spot to set up camp and various anomalies that both Ford and Dipper wanted to catalog on their overnight.

Clary didn’t even blink save to ask a question or two. She was playing it frosty, which meant Stan was too, which meant Mabel was glaring daggers at both of them after half an hour of innocuous discussion and list-making.

“I’ll get the plates,” Mabel declared loudly when they were mostly done. “Grunkle Stan, help me get all this back to the kitchen!”

He obeyed, trailing along after with an armload of dishware, and dropped it off in the sink only to be accosted by Mabel standing on the stepladder and towering over him. “Well?”

“Well, what?”

“I am not spending two whole days distracting the nerd brigade so that you can finish cleaning up the lawn, mister.” Mabel set hands to her hips and stared him down. “She’s done being mad and that’s great. So what are you going to do about it?”

“Take it easy, pumpkin, I’ve got it all handled.” Stan dragged the stepladder a few inches closer so that she could help dry dishes.

“You’re going to tell her how you feel?”

“I’m gonna tell her I hope I can still see her again after all this.” Because oh boy anything else might be more complicated than he could handle. “An’ then we see what happens, I guess. Don’t worry ‘bout me, sweetie. Your grunkle’s a master at the art of romance.”

He winked and she rolled her eyes. “Don’t you dare let her get away. This one’s a keeper.”

“Uh huh. Pressure much, Mabel?”

The expedition headed out bright and early on Sunday morning after a hearty breakfast. Clary and Stan waved them off from the porch, watching them strike out into the forest with packs and walking sticks. Mabel made a point of spinning on her heel as they hit the treeline, flashing a wink and a double thumbs-up with such enthusiasm that Stan wondered if she’d sprained an eyelid.

Clary's smile was brilliant even behind the cover of her hand. “She’s about as subtle as a sack of sledgehammers.”

“Definitely gets that from my side of the family. Think you can make yourself scarce for an hour or two?”

“I have a few people to visit, a couple bills to pay, and then I’ve got to start packing.” She hooked the car key out of her pocket and gave the miniature Mystery Shack dangling from it a twirl. “Meet you for a late lunch?”

“Anytime before three’s probably fine. You be careful in that thing, all right? I haven’t had time to really go through the guts...drives all right, at least, but with McGucket messin’ with it…”

“I will be careful. Scout’s honor.” She flashed him a three-fingered salute and jogged off to the Fairlane. Stan watched warily as she buckled in, fired it up, and headed out down the long drive, then fished out his phone and started making calls.

He had a productive few hours in her absence, helping Tate load the loaner pickup with the last batch of party chairs. Dipper had left the laptop behind, and after some fiddling Stan managed to get the tracker going. A trio of colored dots marked Ford and the kids on a projected trail map.

Mabel answered first when he toggled the uplink console, her bright voice warbling with distance. “Love Patrol Alpha Summer Expedition Number One, reporting! Is that you, Mystery Base?”

Stan grumbled in resignation. “Yeah, yeah, Heartbreaker, that’s me. Listen, I got the map goin’. You three holdin’ up all right?”

“We’re making great time, and I am documenting everything! Not a single track, not one tiny clue is going to escape our notice while we’re out here. Grunkle Ford says it’s about another two hours until we get to the spot Dipper wanted to look at so badly, and after that we’ll make camp.”

“Uh. Great. Keep us posted, okay? I might be doin’ dinner or somethin’ with Clary so maybe we’ll check back in before bed and then at breakfast time.”

“We’re not going to have any emergencies while we’re out here, come ooooonnnn.” Stan closed his eyes for an exhausted moment, unwilling to lay odds on that. “It’s all under control. You two have a nice time and be ready to tell me everything later, got it?”

“Roger, Heartbreaker.”

There were a few other bits and pieces he wanted to line up for the day and those fell into place easily enough with a quick trip down to Greasy’s. By the time he heard the distinctively smooth, deep note of the Fairlane’s engine as it rolled up around two-thirty, he had a couple of trout butterflied, deboned and laid out on ice. Stan fired up the skillet and had butter sizzling merrily as Clary leaned into the kitchen doorframe.

“All done for now, and what, pray tell, have we got for lunch?”

“Only the good stuff. Fresh this mornin’.” He waggled brows at her as he strapped on an apron, dredged the fish and tossed the first fillet into the pan.

“There is no way you had time to go catch that.” She headed for the fridge, reaching in to pull out a few containers of leftover sides.

“Hey, I delegated. Tate came by to get the pickup and he dropped these off. Guy’s, like, a fish whisperer or somethin’, he walks down lakeside and they jump into his creel, it’s weird.”

They swung around each other comfortably in the confined space. Clary set up the table with plates and glasses, not bothering to do more than pop the lids off a motley assortment of Tupperware. The conversation was relaxed and drifting - the most scenic route to Portland, the best lunch counter on the way to Seattle.

Clary sat back with a sigh once she’d finished off her trout. “That was worth the wait.”

“It’s nice t’have lunch right out of the lake, isn’t it? Saved my bacon a few times the first couple years here.” Stan gathered plates as she scrubbed the serving containers. “So, if you can put off packin’ for a little while - you seen the new exhibit yet?”

“You know, I haven’t? Things were too nuts last week.” She leaned aside to let him drop the plates off in the sink, kept on washing and handed them off one by one once he had a dishtowel.

“Up for a private tour? It’s Sunday, last batch of payin’ customers was like half an hour ago.”

“With pleasure.”

Once they’d stacked away the last of the glassware, Stan offered his arm. She laid a hand lightly at his elbow with a quirked little smile and he led her out through the unaccustomed quiet of the Shack.

“So we’re already gettin’ rave reviews.” The museum was silent save for their footsteps, sunlight pouring in bars of honey gold across the plank floors. “‘Mr. Mystery’s still got it.’ And ‘It’s Air-Conditioned!’ I think Soos is already workin’ up a plush or a keychain or somethin’.”

They ducked through the exhibit’s moss-draped doorway, the interior almost chilly and dark enough to disorient after the main room. Stan laid his hand over hers to keep her close as they wove through the narrow corridor. He and Soos had done a hell of a job here on short notice, he thought, with some nifty projection work and vents set up to blow cold air across the feet of tour-goers.

He’d written most of the spiel and leaned over to half whisper to Clary as they walked slowly through. “Dark things dwell in the far corners of these northwest woods, y’know. Things that slumber under our mountains an’ spread nothin’ but shadow when they wake an’ roam the world.”

“This all sounds suspiciously familiar.” Excitement hummed under her low murmur; she was as thrilled as any tourist.

“‘Course it does - this’s all new to us, missy, but the Shack’s crew of intrepid adventurers just got back from a dangerous trek all the way out into the far reaches - “

They rounded a corner, the sound of tinkling glass drifting up over a tiny hidden speaker, and she actually flinched at the forced-perspective replica of the crystalline stag set up to sparkle ominously at the far end of the space. Stan squeezed her hand in reassurance, trying not to laugh. “Mabel did that one. Nice, eh?”

“This is fantastic.” Clary looked up into the darkness overhead, where he’d set up a scatter of glinting glass eyes picked out by pinlights. “You did all this in like two weeks?”

“Well - not alone. Soos an’ Melody have been crankin’ up the exhibits since they took over the Shack. This’s what kept us all so busy while you were cookin’ for everyone in town. C’mon.” He tugged her down past the Crystalline Abominations display, where the lighting came up by subtle degrees. “Check this out.”

Clary’s original taxidermy critter, tidied up and reworked a bit, perched on a branch in a glass case. The placard read ‘mustela merrickii’, explaining its exotic origins and its favored diet of nightmares, and beside that sat a portrait of ‘Dr. Clara J. Merrick’ in old-timey explorer’s gear rendered in sepia inks.

Stan rocked back a step, utterly pleased with himself, as her eyes popped wide and she clapped both hands over her mouth. “This all okay? Ford did the watercolor over there. Seemed only fair t’name it after you.”

She was quiet for a few seconds too long. He shifted his weight from foot to foot until she turned, splayed fingers only half hiding her sly, delighted grin. “You couldn’t wait to get rid of me when I first got here. This whole routine was designed to creep me out and scare me onto a bus.”

“...yeah, that’s fair. You turned out to have a stronger stomach than I expected.”

“Ha. I’m glad I exceeded expectations.” Clary bumped her shoulder into his. “Thank you for letting me leave a mark here. I must have a copy of that portrait - I had no idea Ford was an artist, too.”

“We may or may not have included a nice rendition in your partin’ gifts.”

She cracked up as they wended past winged weasels tangled in shadowy papier-mache tentacles. “Do I get the home game? Have I scored the grand prize?”

“You’ve got a workin’ car, I guess, but as for the rest of it, what were you hopin’ to take with you?” She pulled the curtain aside at the end of the walkthrough and Stan brushed past, half holding his breath as he stepped out into the light.

Clary looked him up and down, her mouth quirked with something between amusement and regret. “I cut a bulk deal with Soos for snowglobes and a couple bobbleheads, so that’s covered, but I can’t say that’s all I was interested in. What’re you doing tonight?”

“Might have somethin’ in mind. I mean, y’know, if you’re up for it.” He held up both hands as she drew indignant breath. “All I’m sayin’ is that there’s no way you went thrift shoppin’ with Mabel and got out of it without somethin’ glittery, right? Show me the gaudiest thing you’ve got. I’ll make it worth your while.”

“What time?”

"Right around dark? Don't worry about dinner."

She shook her head at him but her eyes were sparkling. "Sounds good. I'll track you down out on the porch."

They split up for the rest of the afternoon. Stan spent half an hour tidying up the car, vacuuming out the random debris that had accumulated through the summer’s errands and adventures. Clary steadily trekked back and forth between the Fairlane and the house. Boxes and bags slowly filled in the wagon’s wayback, more stuff than she’d come in with for sure.

Once the day began to fade, she slipped off to take over the bathroom for a quick shower, then vanished into her storage room. Stan went through after and took some time scrubbing himself to respectability. He shook out the old bronze hustle suit from the back of the closet, the scent of cedar sharp in its synthetic fibers. This thing had never needed an ironing since he’d picked it up years ago and it didn’t need one now, which was great, because he had stuff to do.

He still looked damned good in it. Stan squared himself up in front of the mirror, splashed on a bit of his favorite aftershave to make him extra irresistible, got his hair where he wanted it and strolled out to the yard.

Striking a casual pose against the front fender of the Stanleymobile was fine for like, a minute, but his back was beginning to creak in protest by the time Clary finally stepped out onto the porch. Stan pulled himself upright with a suppressed grunt and headed over to meet her as she came down the steps.

Mabel had delivered, all right. Clary’s outfit was some kind of barely-structured 80s-vintage tunic top over skinny leggings, all steely spangles that managed to both drape and cling distractingly, one shoulder and its black bra strap left bare. The scarf was amethyst silk shot with silver threads, hair twisted up and secured with a couple of borrowed glitter clips to tumble down in waves. Her fancy purple eye makeup was definitely out of Mabel’s makeover kit.

“Not half bad,” he said as off-handedly as he could, and she flashed him a grin.

"Sauterne gold." Clary reached out to straighten his lapels and tapped the heavy medallion at his breastbone. "Don't you embody an entire decade of regrets. You wear it a lot better than that old sedan did."

“It was a good decade! They don’t make ‘em like this any more, am I right?” He swept an arm out in a grand gesture, indicating his own awesomeness as he caught her hand in his. “C’mon, let’s book it, we’ve got the evenin’ to ourselves and I don’t wanna waste a minute.”

'Where are we headed?"

"That's a secret." Her eyes rolled heavenwards but she trailed along at his side, allowing herself to be handed into the car and buckling in as he headed around to slip into his own seat.

“No hints whatsoever?”

The car rumbled reassuringly to life and he piloted out along the drive, fingertips tapping along the window frame. “Only if you close your eyes.”

The sky was darkening rapidly, a smudge of deepening blue through the trees, and her smile was a bare glint in the passenger-side shadows. “We’re going to Greasy’s.”

“There is a lot more to town than Greasy’s!”

“I’ve spent most of the last week at Greasy’s and we are absolutely going there, because you know better than to take me to the local bar.” Clary leaned against the window and obediently closed her eyes.

“There are actually a couple classy joints in this burg, I’ll have you know.” Which of course they weren’t going to. The El Diablo rolled smoothly on down to the diner. Stan glanced over to make sure she hadn’t peeked, then hopped out, scooted around the front of the car and drew her door open. “All right. You good to step out blind?”

“So long as I have you to lean on.” She got her feet on the pavement, her hand latched in at his elbow, and he leaned back a bit to get her upright. Stan managed to kick the door closed behind them and got her up to the front step.

“All right, all right, take a look already before I regret this more than I do.”

She obliged him, lashes fluttering up, and gasped in delight that was at least half manufactured. “Why, Stan! It’s Greasy’s! Only it’s all twinkly!”

“Very funny.” He had managed to get the twinkle lights going with the bribed-and-blackmailed help of a couple of the staff, and the diner glowed against the dark backdrop of late evening. “Look, I thought we’ve had more’n enough big drama for the week, right? So this way we can snag a snack, someone else can cook an’ handle the dishes, it’s Sunday night so it’ll be pretty dead….”

“Do we get to dance?” Clary’s hip grazed his as they stepped inside. The late-night waitress spared a cheery little wave from behind the counter. As he’d hoped the place was pretty much empty since he’d kept his preparations so modest - no sound system and definitely no inviting the locals.

“All taken care of.” He pointed down to the booth at the end, where Mabel’s karaoke machine sat sparkling on the table, a tiny disco party light duct-taped to the top. Stan walked Clary down with solemn dignity even though she was laughing into his shoulder. “Lady’s choice. Anythin’ you want.”

“Anything at all?” she needled, kneeling on the bench seat to flip through the tunes on offer. “You’re leaving yourself wide open there, Stan.”

“Princess, I am at your disposal tonight.”

Clary glanced back at him over her bare shoulder, eyes narrowed. “Ditch that jacket and show me how fancy those feet can get.”

He tossed his jacket onto the unoccupied booth seat, then ducked his head to grin as a familiar disco bassline overlaid with swooping strings welled up on the karaoke speakers. “What, no Glenn Miller? Not gonna wring another couple slow dances outta me?”

“This is no ballroom. We’re going to have to improvise.” Clary crooked a finger at him, pacing backwards onto open floor where the smaller tables had been moved aside. “Come here, loverboy.”

Stan rolled his shoulders, cracked his knuckles and stalked out after her with rising glee.

The world contracted to the circle of his arms and her within it. No paying customers, no expectations, no obligations, nothing but the determined steady thump of the beat and the faint insistent nudge of she’s leaving at the back of his head - he pushed that down and aside.

He had better things to worry about. Balance and counterbalance played out in turns and dips. Clary leaned into his palm at her waist and spun away, strain and flex flowing through his frame according to rhythm and melody and her trust in his grip.

For three tracks there wasn’t a word to say, just an occasional huff of breath or a chuckle. The fourth song was a slow one and he cautiously eased into her space. Clary looked up to him with narrowed, knowing eyes. Her arm slipped around his shoulders and she settled against him - no ice block this time - so he laid his cheek against her hair, their feet light, tracing out overlapping box-steps without a hitch.

He wanted so fiercely to stay there in the bubble of the moment that he had paid no attention to the slow trickle of people who’d wandered into the diner, but a faint cough from a booth somewhere down the line drew his attention. Stan swore under his breath as he counted heads. They’d picked up an audience and at least one idiot was angling a phone down their way.

Clary laughed dryly as a pivot gave her the same view. “Why don’t we take a quick break and let some of them come take over the floor.”

“Long as you’re willin’ to DJ, that sounds fine to me.” She left her arm linked in his as they returned to their booth and swept her professional hostess’ smile across the room. Embarrassed observers picked up menus or sheepishly shuffled down to dance in the space they’d just vacated.

“Chocolate shake? We should split it. Lunch was late.”

“On it, sweetpea.” He left her fiddling with the music queue and caught the waitress in passing to place the order, watching the swirl of traffic up and down Greasy’s center aisle. Apparently word had gotten out that Clary was about to go, and Gravity Falls wasn’t quite done enjoying the novelty of the Shack’s temporary-resident lawyer.

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly,” Clary said gently to Manly Dan as Stan stomped back down to their booth with shake in hand. “My dance card’s full tonight. Perhaps I’ll be back for a visit sometime. I won’t forget!”

Stan skewered Dan with a glare that actually shifted the big fella back on his heels and slid onto the seat alongside Clary, between her and the rest of the crowd. “You’d think they’d move on to somethin’ else by now,” he groused as she unwrapped the straws.

“What can I say? People keep telling me it’s been a dull summer compared to last year.”

They only got through half the shake. Constant interruptions from well-wishers grew more frequent as the place became more packed - no way this was a normal Sunday crowd, people were coming in for a last gander at Miz Enigma - and Stan’s patience was stretched painfully thin by the time Clary finally leaned over to murmur into his ear. “Why don’t you bring the car around to the side. I’ll be right there.”

“About time we skipped,” he gritted out, cutting through to the front door with heavy strides. His last glance caught her perched upon the table’s edge, microphone in hand, thumbing through songs and chatting with a couple of the museum staff.

The El Diablo glided smoothly up alongside the diner. He sat and waited, thumbs tapping an annoyed staccato on the steering wheel, listening to the muffled racket of enthusiastic singing from within.

Five minutes.

Ten.

Fifteen. He was about ready to charge in there and throw her over his shoulder, scandal be damned, when the side door opened a sliver and Clary slipped through with his jacket over one arm. She dropped into the passenger seat and fumbled with the belt in her haste. “I got the sheriff going on a medley. Get us out of here, please.”

The tires were already squealing as he backed up and peeled out along the main drag. “So am I rubbin’ off on you or what? That was pretty slick, though I like a little flash an’ dazzle on the way out.”

Her low chuckle was edged with sharp relief. “Maybe I’ve learned a thing or two. Any chance we can find some peace and quiet?”

Stan took a left, cutting away from town into dark, dense pines. “I know just the place.”

Tumblr masterpost

Clary plucks the pen from behind her ear and flips open the ticket book, looking over the table expectantly. “What’s it gonna be?”

Sandwich!

Pancakes!

Everything!

[reportwire]

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Ok so like i forgot to post the next chapter

OK SO I WROTE THIS CHAPTER THE DAY BEFORE ED CAME BACK TO THE ARMY IM S O S O R R Y) Chapter Five Wilfre screamed after what seemed to be the thousands of lashes had stopped after one more. Tord smirked, placing down the whip on the tray of torture devices and watched Wilfre panting, choking on air that couldn’t seem to get into his lungs fast enough. Marks littered his arms and back, a few seeming to be bleeding. “You sure you want this to continue? You look ready to break” tord cooed, bending down so he could try to look through Wilfre’s mussed up hair and into his eyes. “F-fuck you” WIlfre stuttered, glaring at Tord. “Do not underestimate me, I can take it. Just do not touch Ed or Keira” Tord chuckled, standing up “you’ll break eventually whether it’s mentally or physically. You’ll pass out eventually from exhaustion, you are human after all” Wilfre growled at Tord and attempted to break his binds but, it didn’t work.”How about a serum? I doubt you’ll want to take it willingly so i’ll just inject it into your arm.” tord hummed, walking over to his metal table and grabbing a needle. “When I get out of this your ass is grass” Wilfre growled, tensing at the sharp needle holding its lowing green cont*ents. “We’ll see about that.” tord grinned, walking over to Wilfre and injecting the serum into his arm. Wilfre grunted but held back from letting out any noises. He could feel his arm pulsing and twitching, his whole body slowly beginning to shake. “What the fuck did you put in me” a thing sheen of sweat gathered on his forehead, his whole body tensing and relaxing, tensing and relaxing, over and over. His blood felt like molten lava, a cough beginning to rack his body. “I see it’s affecting you already” Tord sang, taking out a clipboard and pen “just a new experiment i’m working on. I want to make super soldiers. Be happy, you’re the first one to test the finalized product!” Wilfre screamed, his body seeming to be alight in flames by now. “This is the loudest you’ve screamed for me! How delightful!” Tord cooed, writing a few things down on his clipboard. “WILFRE!” a shout could be heard down the hall, followed by loud banging on the cell bars. “Keira, calm down! He’s fine! He’ll be ok!” was followed shortly after but the banging wouldn’t seiz. Tord smirked and placed down the clipboard on the metal table. He let out a chuckle, leaving Wilfre’s cell and locking it behind bhim before walking to Keira’s. “LEAVE HIM ALONE LEAVE HIM ALONE LEAVE HIM ALONE” Keira had repeated, shaking at the bars but stopped at the sight of Tord. “aw is the little toy getting bored and jealous from not being played with?” “nobody is gonna wanna play with some ugly ass cyborg that cant even fix his own hair” she blurted out, realizing she shouldn't have said that and quickly covering her mouth. Tord frowned, glaring at her and opening her cell before walking in.”you want to say that again?” he growled out, walking closer to her. Keira shook her head no, backing up in her cell. “Get over here brat” He snapped, grabbing the front of her shirt before punching her. Keira kicked her legs, trying to hit Tord but it was useless. Not eating or sleeping left her weaker than she normally was. He continued punching her over and over until she gave up fighting back, letting her body go limp. “Good” he spit out, dropping her to the floor. Her whole body shook and she made an attempt to go curl up in a corner in hopes he would leave now but he stomped his foot down on her back. “Don’t move bitch” he snarled, grabbing a needle from his coat pocket. “I’ll give you the same thing he got. You don’t deserve my time” he bent down, watching the fear in her eyes grow before harshly injecting the needle in her shoulder, making her whimper in pain. “St-stop” she whimpered out, blood running from her nose due to Tord breaking it from punching her over and over. “Not now” tord smirked, taking the needle out once the contents were emptied. Keira whimpered, shaking and curling up in a ball where she lay, hands behind her head as she violently shook. Tord lifted up his head and looked outside of the bars to the cell, staring straight into Ed’s cell and into his eyes. “You’ve been awfully quiet.” he left Keira’s cell before walking over to Ed’s. “i’ve got nothing to say to you” Ed spat, glaring at Tord. tord chuckled, unlocking ed’s cell and walking in. “you know, I could probably break them sooner if I did one thing” he closed the door , looking behind him to make sure Keira was watching. “What’s that” Ed glared, staying seated in the corner. Tord pulled the gun from his pocket, a grin on his face. “Killing you right in front of them. How does that sound” Ed tensed up, hearing a quiet whimper from Keira’s cell, followed by a ‘no!’. Footsteps could be heard down the hall, a soldier dragging in Dipper and looking for Tord to see what to do with him. Seems like they’ll be getting more than what they bargained for. “Red leader sir, we have another soldier from the train. What do you want me to do with him-” the soldier was cut off by a loud bang, Keira screaming after and Dipper looking wide eyed. Ed’s body fell forward, blood pooling around his head. This was much worse than Dipper could ever imagine to be happening to his friends. (Bonus) NOOOOOOOOO EDDDDDDDDDD!!!!!!! WHY U DO THISSSSSSSSSSSSS NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO Als Oops Fuck you i fixed it o pooling has one “l” XD STOPSTOPSTOPSTOPSTOPSTOPSTOPSTOPSTOPSTOPSTOPSTOP S2g i willllllllllllllll Kill you Stop STOPPP NO *dabs* its too late Its hgappeninh I did the dab De a t h NO THERE IS STILL TIME YOU CAN STOP FUCKK PLESAE THATS NKT HOW YOU SP E L L F U C C *satan lllaugh* PLEASE wtf Since when were you satan????? Since now ??? I have a friend Last name FUCK WRONG BUTTON last name means “satan” in another language Its me Its lowkey me Nah Idk Ive never heard anyone have a cooler last name Its literally a shorter version of dragon

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