#I NEED TO SMOOCH FORD AND STAN

[dragon-tidbits]

*looking with the most gay look* i love stans so much I'm even doing an oc based on that dating Stan sim

AYO LET'S GOOOOO May that OC have the best experience with the Stans

also oh man that dating sim made my heart pitter patter something fierce

[ford-pines-owl-tiddies]

alright ppl i officially finished my big Gravity Falls Rewatch! falling in love with this dorky old man all over again so have some certified cutie pie screencaps i took!

[sixerstanley]

Stancest but stan got truth serumed and confessed to ford and tries to smooch and act super lovey dovey except ford thought he was drugged and tries so hard to guiltily fight off Stan’s advances because no matter how badly he needs and want him, he thinks his brother truly doesn’t want this

YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS I LOVE STUFF LIKE THIS SO FUCKING MUCH DUDE U DONT UNDERSTAND. it reminds me of like sex pollen stuff but that would be a different thing

ugh ford feeling so bad because this is literally everything he's ever wanted and its right there but he cant, he cant accept it because stan doesn't actually want this, doesn't actually want him

but maybe his willpower breaks. just for a second. just for one second and stan kisses him. ford lets himself be kissed for a moment. a moment where he can try to memorize what it feels like to have stan's lips on his, a moment where he can memorize what it's possibly like to have something he can never have

and then he comes crashing back down to earth. backing away from stan, who's hurt by this, but ford can't handle this right now. he can't.

but someone drugged stan, someone drugged his brother and he has to be strong

for his sake.

[tutoriel12]

in response to your beautiful “fraud Stan” art (again, beautiful btw)

i think stanFORD was one of those dudes who hated nickname and was very serious about his full name being use at all times. the only one who were allowed to give him nicknames was his brother (who did it out of honest love) and bill (who capitalized on “love” to control him).

versus stanLEY was the sibling/brother/friend who had a million nicknames are responded to them all; stan, stan-the-man, s-man, stanny, stan lee not the comic man. other horrible name examples. he was used to changing his name several times that anything that remotely SOUNDS like a name, he’d answer to it; the only word that felt like a nickname he EARNED was “grunkle”.

again, your art is beautiful and i hope you don’t mind me throwing this at you. smooches <3

oh my goodness thank u so much!! <33 im both flattered and a bit overwhelmed by the reception that piece has gotten. ohh man im so glad you sent because i have so so many thoughts on both of them!!

anyway. ur so very real. stanford pines is someone that had a very established identity from the beginning. he was a genius brainiac that didn't fit in with other kids, singled out from the beginning both by personality and by body. his six fingers serve as a constant reminder that he can't be anyone else but him. of course he'd search for acceptance through the thing he ties his self worth to: his intelligence. of course he'd fall victim to the first person who told him his existence was something to be celebrated!! he looks at his name, once with distaste, nowadays with neutral acceptance. he's stanford pines, he has six fingers, and he does not do well with people.

on the contrary, stanley pines…didn't have any of that. he was overlooked by his father, wishing he could get the same recognition as ford. he didn't have any merits of his own. barely passing highschool, on the verge of losing ford, and seemingly destined to stay in glass beach forever, his teenage years were marked by a desperation to hold onto whatever connections he had. after getting kicked out, he still lives in the shadow of his brother - trying constantly to achieve a success that would compare to ford's brilliance. his name didn't mean shit; it was his brother who mattered. stanley pines can turn into whoever and whatever he needs because he never had an identity worth holding onto in the first place.

in an ironic twist of fate, stanley ends up living with his brother's name, borrowing off of his achievements in order to both survive and save him. the mystery shack is now a lively place for random kids he managed to sort of adopt in spite of himself. ford isolated himself from everyone that cared about him; stan took his life and made it into a home. he was never brilliant like his brother, but the love he has for his family transformed ford's path of destruction into one of renewal. he saved his brother by destroying his life.

it's the nature of twins have their existence intertwined beyond seperation. stanley and stanford's lives align to save each other.

[depression-pie]

Okay these ideas have NOT left my head so here’s two new Gravity Falls AUs inspired by @acerobot’s fanart of a Wandavision-esque Billford AU

The FIRST idea goes as follows:

Ford doesn’t stop working on the portal after Fidds leaves. He and Bill work together to take down the barrier around Gravity Falls, Bill putting together some half-assed excuse to justify why they would need to do it.

They get the portal started up and Bill starts the apocalypse, BUT he puts a new barrier around the town essentially shielding it from Weirdmageddon instead of containing it. He removes Ford’s memories of the betrayal, and since the town is safe from the chaos, Ford doesn’t realize anything is wrong.

So he and Bill have this little domestic life in their cabin in the woods, and he’s completely oblivious to the fact that outside the town is the end of the world.

But now Gravity Falls is considered somewhat of a safe haven for survivors, so people start moving there to get away from all the chaos, and Ford is reunited with his family, who immediately realize something’s wrong.

Will he realize what his husband’s been up to this whole time? Who knows

The SECOND idea is EVEN ANGSTIER

Because what if Bill trapped Ford in a fantasy bubble during Weirdmageddon. A fantasy version of Gravity Falls where everything is perfect, he’s not fighting with his brother, he’s still friends with Fiddleford, he has a perfect little family and a perfect husband and a perfect life.

And he doesn’t even question it, because the fantasy starts replacing his memories with new fabricated ones, fake memories of his perfect life with his perfect family.

Until Stan and the twins show up, and they’re terrified because they just witnessed Bill start a literal apocalypse and yet there he is, smooching it up with Ford of all people. And he acts like it’s all normal and fine, because to him it IS normal, but they all know it’s not.

Ford is confused why his family is acting weird, not realizing that they’re not the fake family he’s gotten used to, the fake Stan he talks to all the time, the fake Dipper and Mabel who are best friends with his fake kids.

And they almost want to stay too, because they want to live this perfect life, but they know it’s not real, so they do what they can to escape and rescue Ford.

And when they finally do burst the bubble, Ford is absolutely RUINED because he realizes it was all a lie, his perfect family, his perfect husband, his perfect kids weren’t real and he doesn’t know what to do with himself because he misses them.

Even though they’re not real he still has some of the fake memories, going on fake monster hunts with them, teaching them how to play the fake piano, watching them play with their fake friends and the fake Dipper and fake Mabel.

And even though it was all a lie he misses it and he’s heartbroken over the fact that, even though they were never real, he’ll never get to see that perfect family ever again.

And I’m sure when they face off against Bill, Bill tries to rope him back into it, promising to bring back their perfect family and their perfect life, promising that it could last forever if he gave up the equation.

And even after they defeat Bill he’s still plagued by dreams about that life, and he’s fucking ruined over it, and this ends one of two ways.

Ending 1: He finds out the kids from the bubble were actually child versions of the real kids that he and Bill had that he didn’t know about, and so he tries to create the relationship he should’ve had with them if Bill hadn’t kept them apart.

OR Ending 2: Like Mabel’s dream boys, the fake kids somehow survive the popping of the bubble (and even the closing of the rift), though they’re very confused about what happened, and Ford winds up finding them and taking them back home (though I don’t think he’d tell them what happened to Bill just yet).

Holy shit that was a lot of words. Can you tell which plot I’ve spent more time thinking about

Thanks @acerobot for inspiring this. This was all your fault

Also here’s what I think Cassie and Aaron (the kids) would look like if they were Dipper and Mabel’s age

[fish-bird]

If you look closely, or simply have working eyes, you can see exactly where I lost all motivation to draw. I needed an excuse to draw Grunkle Stan with an opossum, did not realize how hard they are to draw.

Stan would not canonically smooch any animal but Shanklin II deserves smooches!!

Well.

Maybe not. He’s kind of like that college friend who was cool at first but got too into philosophy, smoking weed, and navel gazing.

Stan conned both Shanklin II and Ford in this. He knew Shanklin probably was some sentient creature, Sev’ral Timez keeps knocking over his trash cans, and Ford still feels guilty about Weirdmaggedon and can probably catch Shanklin again tomorrow.

[cartoonsinthemorning]

OOOHHHHH OHOHOHO YES YES YES This is such a fun and clever expansion, I LOVE IT!! Let's play ball. My turn again. 1) Fem!Stan finding her true calling and being frighteningly good at it is so intoxicating. I'm inhaling her underdog-"stupid,useless"-girl to devilish MLM business woman pipeline like ko kainnn. I DON'T CARE her business practices are sometimes a widdol bit illegal- in fact, that makes her cooler. She's smart, she can read people, she knows what they want, HELL she know what they don't want, but she can sell it anyway. That's so hot of her. 2) I take, from the way you formulated things, that Ford isn't aware of the scummy part of the business- and that another big, messy break up between him and Stan is gonna happen (a Canon Event lmao) BUT- I think this is the first time I come across an AU where Ford and Stan's talents intertwine, and holy shit if they aren't a powerhouse??? because they basically elevate each other and compensate what the other is lacking? Like- Ford is a genius that can come up with serums, formulas- but he would be blind to their marketability, and absolutely uncapable at selling them to people, anyway. While Constance failed her most basic chemistry/science classes, but she guesses how to turn every formula into a desirable product. She'd also be able to keep Ford productive and motivated, by fawning over him and his creations (that's fundamental, imo- he'd just end up losing interest, without that ego-boosting component). In a universe where Ford is well-aware of Stan's illegal practices, but decides to embrace them too- they just become an evil power couple and make millions. You know what man, I don't mind that. 3) Ok like. There's a scene I can't stop playing in my head.

And for context, this is after years and years of Stan being talked down to, for being a girl, always got told to stop messing things up for men smarter than her, with her clumsiness- right? Set in a moment in time where Ford just began creating these formulas, after his sister's suggestions. And when he presents the compounds, explaining the effects, he's so skeptical about them- he says out loud- sure they work, but who would need a product that does X and Y and Z..? Meanwhile, Stan is bouncing off the walls, because she can come up with 4567890 uses for X,Y,and Z people would pay LOADS of money to get! She KNOWS they hit the jackpot! So, as she realizes Ford is still going, babbling he thinks he just wasted time on these, etc- Stan just euphorically GRABS his face and SMOOCHES HIM (forehead or lips, depending on what point of their relationship you'd prefer they'd be at), and tells him "You don't worry that pretty genius head of yours with those issues, 'aight, Sixer? I'll be taking care of that part for you, from now on". And she grabs the vials and RUNS. And poor Ford is still spinning in his chair- and he should be annoyed about his baby sister talking to him so condescendingly- and I mean he IS- but also. He's also so fucking turned on AHAHAHH

Please, I have so much love for your fem!stan, please tell me your thoughts about fem!mulletstan, or fem!drifterstan. I once read a fanfic where Filbrick kicking out Stan was just a scare tactic, I imagine he’d have the same sentiment for a female Stan as well, but he’s too prideful to go get his little girl after it backfires and she doesn’t come back home.

Meanwhile, Stan’s determined to prove she’s just as capable as any boy after years of being undermined for being born a girl! Even so, she’s not above using her feminine wiles to sling her FDA acknowledged merchandise, after all sex sells. Eventually she soon realizes that sex does indeed sell.

OOOHH Anon, tesoro, SAPESSI! You have no idea how happy your messages makes me, because you’re enabling me to YAP about my favorite topic, that I’ve been thinking about A LOT. Thank you so much! WARNING: Stancest is ALWAYS implied/established in my musings. The following lucubrations are no exception. In general, I think fem!Stan would get punished way less harshly than his canon male counterpart. Not that she’s coddled or untouchable- Constance would get hit occasionally, if she acts way out of the line, by both parents. But, I personally don’t think kicking her out would ever be a thing- not even as a threat: Given the time period/culture, the (horrible) assumption that throwing a teen boy out would not only be a punishment, but also a formative experience of sort- to make him self-sufficient- would NEVER be expected to apply to a girl. On the contrary: Constance would be perceived as someone that could NEVER be self-sufficient. Not only because she’s the “gentle sex”, but also because she’s a weird, off-putting dunce of a girl, unlikely to get picked by a wealthy enough- or even honest man that would take care and provide for her. If we were talking about a version of this universe where the machine accident happens like in canon, Constance would receive a slap across the face, as a punishment for what she did, and a particularly heated, demeaning tirade from Filbrick, imo. Now, that said--- I have two main favorite divergences, I’ve toyed with, for fem!Stan's future:

1) A version where Constance did destroy Ford’s machine, on purpose, in a fit of anger, because she’s subconsciously trying to get kicked out: rationally, she is aware how hard and scary it would be to run away from home, and that her family would look for her. But, if they HATED her, not only they wouldn’t feel bad, they’d also take the very hard decision for her, of cutting her out. But, what happens is that- they DO act like they despise her- but still, they won’t kick her out! It’s an outcome so painful and so humiliating, it’s the final straw that makes Constance snap and run away- to basically become drifter!Stan. And, Ford’s resentment and hatred, in this version, not only comes from Stan taking away his chance to go to his ideal College, but also because she abandoned him! Off to live her indecent, dangerous life with some biker- probably- when if, had she been patient for a few years- had she truly loved him as she said- Ford would had been the one to provide for her- spoil her rotten, even. Like, this is a universe where Ford was THE only eldest son, with an implicit duty to be his sister’s protector, and if you add in he’s been in love with her, too… In the 10-years-later reunion, Ford would have this incel-like feeling of pain and humiliation- because his baby sister at his door is wearing a miniskirt, and her hair is cut so short, and it’s evident she’s not that innocent anymore. But still, as tired and battered by life as she is, Constance would still NOT be begging Ford to be her savior and mer-- and let him take care of her! [Complicated incestuous tension ensues].

Version number 2) Constance accidentally destroyed Ford’s machine, just like in canon- but doesn’t get kicked out and- since she’s a girl and Ford is more protective and softer, after some silent treatment, he forgives her. And actually, he uses what happened to his advantage, to coax Constance into following him to Backupsmore: "it’s gonna take him so much more time to become successful, now that he’s relegated to that college, meaning he and Stan would end up separated so much longer! She’d have to remain at Glass Shard Beach all alone, for ages! But.. if she followed him, she could get a job, a room apartment of her own, and… nobody would know them, over there. They could even date in secret." And, Constance would hesitate, because she dreads an unfulfilling future as her brother’s accessory, but also, she is in love with him, and she inevitably internalized part of the sexism she’s been subjected to for most of her life, so… she accepts. Even pumps herself up, gaslights herself into thinking it’s gonna be a fresh, exciting new start, away from her shitty small town. And indeed… Even if the twins enjoy the relative freedom of their romance, far from home, inevitably Constance feels unsatisfied, like she just switched the background, but she’s still working as a waitress, doing nothing she truly loves, or feels good at. That’s when I like to imagine she ends up messing it up big time, by joining an MLM or something, in attempt to find her own success lmao. AND, it’s complicated, because she does find out she is actually GOOD at selling shit to people. This is her true calling! But, the business was scummy as fuck- to an illegal degree- and she ends up arrested for the first time. And, escapes from prison for the first time. Stan is a chaotic disaster, impossible to contain, in every universe. To make it short, once again the story goes back to its tracks, and Ford and Stan separate dramatically. Now, this version actually had a VERY angsty ship-focused sub-divergent version with Fiddleford involved, and a very jealous Ford. But I don’t even know if you’d be interested in that, so I’ll stop here. ++++ I do love that part of your ask, about Stan realizing she can use her sex-appeal to her advantage... To imagine her seducing people into helping her/condoning her schemes is so fucking sexy~ I will think of a specific scenario, because damn.

[fallen-gravity]

Soft Hearts and After-Midnight Talks

Ford can’t let go of the past. Mabel can’t stop worrying about the future.

Put together, they’re a melting pot of insomnia and overwhelming emotions.

AO3 Link

Love had never come easy to Ford. 

As a kid, his father always said it wasn’t manly to show affection. It made a man weak to wear his heart on his sleeve, and he was merely doing him a favor by showing him tough love, because out in the real world the men who put their emotions first would get torn to shreds. 

His mother tried her hardest, but she too had times where she was too busy running her psychic hotline or helping Pa run the pawn shop to pay him much attention.

Ford supposes the closest he ever had to unconditional love as a kid came from Stan. Whenever Ma or Pa were too busy, or the kids at school were screaming and running from his deformity, he knew he could always rely on Stan to be there for him. He’d always been the one to throw a punch for him, to talk him through a panic attack, patch up the scrapes and black eyes he’d received from Crampelter, or even assure him that getting a B minus on an exam wasn’t the end of the world, even if his eyes were rolling into the back of his skull the entire time he said it.

 But even that sort of love felt fickle. The night of the science fair, it felt as though something inside of Ford shriveled up and died, and he knew that the rejection from West Coast Tech was only the half the cause of it.

When Stan drove off into the night, it’s as if he took that shriveled up little piece of Ford with him as his grand final fuck you. 

After that, Ford tried everything he could. In college he buried himself into the research he was most passionate for, but that could only get him so far when Fiddleford would drag him to bed and force him to be alone with his thoughts. He’d tried going out drinking to forget said thoughts, but he learned the hard way that he was an emotional drunk and alcohol only made those thoughts worse. 

If there’s anything he did know, it’s that this lack of love in his life could probably explain how he was able to fall for Bill’s cunning tricks so easy.

“Unlovable?” Bill’s words still rang in the back of his head. “By the time this portal’s finished, you’ll have the whole world at your feet! You’ll be a household name! There’ll be thousands cheering the name Stanford Pines, the man who changed the world!” 

What a fool he’d been, blissfully ignoring all of the warning signs for even the slightest chance that a gateway between worlds could earn him love.

What an even bigger fool he’d been to turn away his brother’s love even after ten years of nothing but fear and resentment standing between them.

Ford sighs. He knows, logically, that dwelling on the past will only make things worse. He knows things are okay between him and Stan now. They’re setting off on their first journey on the Stan-O War II next week; things couldn’t get any better between them.

But he also knows that insomnia and intrusive thoughts are a package deal. He’d tried sitting out on the front porch to gaze at the stars and feel the late-summer air on his face to relax, but his inner demons always find their way. 

There’s a tiny knock on the doorframe behind him. He jumps at the noise, and turns to see who else could possibly be awake at nearly three in the morning. He’s half expecting Stan, but to his surprise it’s Mabel, sleepily rubbing at her eyes with one hand and holding a half-empty cup of ice water in the other. 

“Grunkle Ford?” her voice is groggy and strained. “Is that you?” 

“Mabel?” is the only comprehensive response that comes out. “What are you doing up so late?” 

“Dipper cursed me with his insomnia and now I can’t sleep” she pouts, and takes a sip from her cup like it’s a shot glass as he joins him on the couch. “Why are you still up, Grunkle Ford?” she squints. “I feel like I should ask you the same question” 

He chuckles. “Nothing you need to worry about, dear. I’m just doing some thinking”

“Hmmm…” she squints long and hard at him, like she’s trying to read his mind. “Okay, but I’m watching you. I’m the expert at annoying people until they tell me what’s bothering them” 

Ford can’t help but smile. “Noted,” he replies, and shifts his position so he’s facing more towards her. “What about you? I’m the expert in insomnia, so I can’t imagine it’s the only thing keeping you awake"

For the briefest of moments, Mabel’s playful smile drops. She hides the sudden shift by taking another sip of water.

“What? Psshhh…” she dismisses the thought with a wave of her hand. “That’s silly! Everyone knows insomnia means you can’t sleep for no reason. Some expert you are, Grunkle Ford” 

She smiles, but it’s strained, and fake, and nothing like the usual smile she flashes when she’s joking around. 

“Mabel.” Ford says once, in a firm yet soft tone, and she winces. 

“Okay, fine” she mumbles, and drinks the rest of the water from her cup before she continues. “I’ve been having some dumb thoughts too”. 

Ford shakes his head. “There’s no such thing as a dumb thought, Mabel. Even if it’s bothering you, it’s indicative of how you’re really feeling” he pats gently at his lap, inviting her to scoot closer. “Maybe I can help” he smiles, ever so slightly, ever so softly. “Even us experts mess up in our own fields sometimes” 

She moves too quickly into his arms for a hug for him to read her expression properly. 

“Then I feel like a big dumb hypocrite” Mabel murmurs into Ford’s sweater, her voice on the edge of breaking. 

Ford frowns, and places an arm around her to reciprocate the hug. “What for?”

Mabel scrunches up his sweater in her fists. “I...I made this whole big ordeal about Dipper wanting to stay here with you after the summer’s over for the apprenticeship, and I still don’t want us to be apart, but…”  she buries her face into his sweater, like she’s ashamed of herself for even daring to speak them. “...now that summer’s actually over, and Dipper and I are supposed to be leaving in the morning, I’m not sure I even want to leave” 

Her voice finally breaks, and she sniffles into his sweater. “Everyone’s always saying that the real world is so scary, and high school is the worst, and all these things about not knowing what you had until it’s gone, and...I don’t want it to be gone, Grunkle Ford, I love Gravity Falls. But I can’t just tell Dipper that, because then he’ll get all worried, and think that he did something wrong, because he’s already apologized for what he said when we were fighting a thousand times, and-”

Ford gently grips Mabel’s shoulders to cut her off, and pulls her away to make her look him in the eyes. “Mabel, are you going through all of this trouble because you’re worried you’re going to...miss Gravity Falls when you get home?”

“Not just the town!” Mabel exclaims, and rubs at her eyes with her wrist. “I’m gonna miss everything! I’m gonna miss the Shack, I’m gonna miss my friends, I’m gonna miss you and Stan,” she counts off on her fingers and sighs. “I miss everyone at home. I do. But now that I have so many friends here, I don’t want to feel like I’m leaving them behind”

There’s a brief pause, but before Ford can open his mouth to respond, Mabel goes on, murmuring so quietly it’s as if she doesn’t mean to speak out loud at all. 

“Or...I don’t want to feel like they’re leaving me behind.”

...Oh.

The fear of being left behind.

Forgotten.

The fear of becoming….unlovable. 

That….Ford knows better than anybody. 

“Mabel, listen to me,” Ford gently tugs on her chin to force her to make eye contact with him. “Nobody in this town is ever going to forget you. It doesn’t matter if you’re gone for a year, or three, or ten, I can guarantee that the next time you step foot in this town everyone’s going to remember the name Mabel Pines”

“You...really think so?” she blushes. 

“I know so,” he nods. “And it’s got nothing to do with Weirdmageddon, or saving the world, or any of that. It’s because you’re magnetic, Mabel. You’ve got a personality that everyone loves. I bet that pizza delivery man you became pen pals with is just sitting at home eagerly awaiting his first letter from you” 

She giggles. “I don’t know about that…” 

“Still,” Ford continues, “You’ve shown kindness to everyone, Mabel. People don’t forget kindness easily.” he gestures out towards the forest. “Gravity Falls may not be your home, but the people who lived here sure don’t seem to see it that way. You’re not just a tourist, or just some kid visiting her great uncle, you’re one of them.” he beams. “They’re lucky to have had you, Mabel, even just for the one summer” 

Her eyes have pools of tears in them, but the beaming smile on her face outshines them. She hurls herself at him in a tight hug, burying her face deep into his sweater. 

“I’m lucky to have you too, Grunkle Ford” she murmurs. “I love you”

I love you.

Ford hasn’t had those words spoken to him since he was a kid. 

I love you.

It feels like he’s floating on air, and the most grounded he’s felt in decades. It’s freeing, and exhilarating, yet it’s comfortable, and warm. It’s unfamiliar, yet everything he ever lost. 

The words ring in his ears and bounce around in his chest before they settle comfortably into the piece of his heart that had been broken for decades.

I love you. 

Mabel Pines, after everything he’s put her through, loves him. 

A sound escapes him that’s halfway between choking and sobbing. He pulls her even closer into his arms, and silently vows to never let the cruel world dig its pessimistic claws into her for as long as she lives.

“I love you too,” he manages to whisper, and gives her a smooch on the top of her head.

[zodi-aries]

Ford likes picking Stanny up like a princess no matter how much Stanny protested. Always worried the older twin would get hurt since he was heavier.

But that never stopped Ford. It's started happening more, when his mother was asked to help sew a costume for the girl next door. It was for a party, themed of course as the disney princesses and this girl's favorite princess was snow white.

Ma needed a model to help with the stitches .... And unfortunately Stan was the only one closest in size to the girl.

So here he was plopped on the floor waiting for when his mother could tell him he could take this thing off!

Looking over at his mother's standing mirror in her room, Stan stood, turning this way and that. Stan blushed when he notices that the dress actually accentuated his already curvy hips. It was the corset like material lining the inside of the top of the gown. Stan whined, it was bad enough he was chubby and weak. Just last week, Ford had fought off advances from Crampelter when the bully had cornered Stan alone in the hall.

Ford really had been Stan's Knight in yellow shirted armour that day. Stan smiled fondly as he remembered when they got home and he held an ice pack to Ford's cheek as they sat on Stan's bunk. Stan scolded Ford, calling him an idiot for taking on Crampelter, Ford smiling happily and proclaiming with no shame, 'yea but I'm your idiot'

Stan leaned over and gave a gentle and quick smooch to Ford's bruised cheek.

Suddenly Stan heard his mother's bedroom door open. Turning to ask if he could finally take the dress off, the younger twin froze. It wasn't his mother standing at the door. It wasn't even his father. It was Ford, and his twin was looking much to pleased with the scene before him.

"So this is why you and Ma come and hide away in her room lately?"

"N-now look Ford, th-this is for the girl next door! Sh-s-she's going to a party, I-I'm the only one here whose h-her size!" Stan tried to explain. This was so embarrassing! Stan tried to cover his face as it turned redder and redder.

"Is my fair princess flushed?" Stan blinked and looked up at Ford, face cooling to a pink. "W-what?" Suddenly Stanley was swept right off his feet with a squeal and being held by his twin like the princess he was dressed as, his arms around Ford's neck to keep from being dropped, despite knowing Ford would sooner let Stanley land on him before he'd let his precious Honey Bun hit the ground.

"F-Ford p-p-put me down! You'll throw your back out!" Stan fussed.

Ford looked to be thinking it over, "Mmmmm no, no I don't believe I will! My princess can't expect me to let him walk when he looks so flustered. What could possibly have you so flushed Honey Bun?" Ford asked with a smile. "S-s-Stop! You already know!" Stan whined hiding his returning blush against Ford's neck. Ford chortled. "You look absolutely precious. Just perfect as my princess Honey Bun!" Stanley groaned but couldn't stop the small shy grin that spread on his face as he looked back up at Ford. 

@frost-flame I hope you don't mind, I used your recent post in this little drabble, I'm sorry it fit too perfectly and was too well timed. I had to. Anyway ENJOY!

[sirkkasnow]

16 Hang Onto A Good Thing With Both Hands

Ao3 link

7/29/13-7/30/13 Monday-Tuesday

Stan came to by slow degrees, warmer than usual, and peeled up an eyelid to survey the usual morning blur. His view was interrupted by what he decided was an eyebrow.

He kissed that lightly, then the orbit of the slumbering eye beneath it, then the bridge of the nose.

Clary was just beginning to stir as he drew her into his arms and left a stubbly trail of smooches along her cheekbone and down to the corner of her mouth. Her lashes fluttered and it took a moment for her to focus.

Eventually she smiled, soft and contented, and pulled herself in to rub her nose against his. “Hello, handsome.”

“Good mornin’, gorgeous.” She straight-up grinned at that. They tangled lazy limbs together under the blankets and traded stray kisses through the drowsy stupor of waking.

After a while his palm drifted to her hip, fingers fanning out to confirm that yes, she really did have a butt as nice as those sculpted legs. Clary’s eyes opened slowly; she studied him in knowing amusement as he tinted pink.

“Is that your hand on my ass?”

“Maybe? It’s gotta go somewhere, right?”

“Mmhm.” She caught hold of his shoulder, pushed as she rose to pin him flat to the mattress, kissed him breathless and then wriggled out of his grasp like a determined eel while he was too discombobulated to put up a fight.

“Ah, c’mon, please, five more minutes,” Stan protested. Clary plunked his glasses onto his chest and he caught them on reflex.

“Sorry, sailor, but you promised you’d behave.”

“Five more minutes and y’won’t want me to.” Stan managed to hook the glasses into place and leered up as she swung her legs over and pivoted, perched neatly on the edge of his bed.

“That’s almost certainly true, which is why I’m going to head downstairs and get breakfast started.”

“Damn shame.”

“Just leaving you some incentive to come ashore sooner than later.” She corralled the bedhead chaos of her hair into its elastic, then leaned over to stroke the prickly line of his jaw. He turned into the contact, eyes half closed. “Besides, I guarantee that Mabel got the others on the trail early.”

“They’re almost six hours out - ” He paused, then dragged a hand down his face with a groan. “No, y’got a point. They’ll make it before lunch. She’s relentless. What time is it?”

“Quarter to eight. Eggs, potatoes, onions okay?”

“C’mon, like one flapjack?”

Clary’s smile flashed wide and she tapped him under the chin. “Pancakes on the side, you got it. See you in a few.” She strutted barefoot out the door with the bicentennial brandy dangling from one hand, filching his fancy Northwest Manor towel on the way past.

He wondered if she was always going to be this obnoxiously chipper in the morning. Having a chance to find out didn’t really sound so bad, though.

Stan swung by the office before he wandered back around to the kitchen. Clary manned a couple of skillets at the stovetop with professional ease. He dropped off a heavy folder on the table and slid in behind to loop an arm around her waist. “You’re gonna burn the onions.”

“If you keep nibbling on me like that, I just might burn the onions.” She didn’t, even with Stan unwilling to let go through the whole process, shifting to follow when she reached for the salt or the spatula. They devoured every crumb with little to say, slouched comfortably in their chairs. Her feet rested against his slippers under the table.

“Wanna give me a hand puttin’ that bottle back?”

“Find me a telephone book or something and I’ll do it.” Clary had a much easier time of it on the countertop. They came up with a couple massive cans of crushed tomatoes for her to balance on, Stan’s steadying hands at her ankles as she followed his instructions to get the hidden cabinet open and shove the brandy as far back as she could manage.

“All right, kid. One last job for the Shack’s honorary accountant before I cut y’loose for the season.” She picked her way back down the stepstool with a hand on his shoulder for balance, cocking a curious brow, and he nodded over to the table. “Got the receipts for ya.”

“Oh-ho. I’ve been wondering how we did.” Stan slid the folder over. Clary fished out her phone, pulled up some calculator thing, and her fingers started to fly.

She counted money as efficiently as any casino bunny, fwip fwip fwip fwip, slapping down the bills in mounting piles and sliding each into place below scrawled scraps designating Greasy’s, picnic supplies, servers, food. Stan sipped his coffee and watched in happy fascination. Every now and then she’d swipe a thumb along the edge of her tongue for traction on the paper.

“What’re you looking at,” Clary murmured after a few minutes.

“Two of the most beautiful things I’ve laid eyes on in years.”

Her lips twitched up at a corner. “And what are those?”

“A huge pile of honest money, and you.” He was coming to love pulling a blush out of her. “Where’d a paper-pusher learn how to count like that?”

“Wasn’t always a lawyer, darling.”

By the time she was done the stack of unassigned cash had grown a couple inches high. She flipped her phone around so he could whistle at the number, then scooped up the whole heap and riffled the bills with a sharp grin. “I’ll give you this much, you weren’t kidding about the summer money burning holes in everyone’s pockets.”

“Wouldn’t’ve pulled it off without our star attraction.” Stan raised his coffee mug in salute. ‘That’s all you, princess. Enjoy the fruits of your labor an’ all that.”

Her brow creased. “Really? Did Soos get anything off the top? I know we covered expenses.”

“Nah, he insisted. Gonna have to work on that.”

Clary squared the stack of profits, counted off three slim groups of a hundred bucks each, then placed the rest in the middle of the table. “Could you split that? Half for Soos, half for the kids.” She frowned for a moment. “Half for the kids’ college accounts, anyway, or a car fund or something. That might be a bit much for summer allowance.”

“You sure?”

“I didn’t do it for the money, Stan.” Her bare toes skimmed lightly up his shin under the table and he couldn’t help but twitch. “Besides, I’m definitely going home with the grand prize.”

“Fine. Fine, I’ll give it all to these ingrates you’re not even gonna see again for like a year, if you’re even willin’ t’come back to Gravity Falls, if I’m even back here anytime soon - ” The bluster did a lousy job of covering his blush but watching her grin as he scooped up the cash and stuffed it back in its envelope was well worth it.

“I might be. The place is growing on me.”

“Yeah, like a fungus,” he muttered, and she chuckled under her breath. “What’s that for?”

“These?” Clary picked up the three skinny stacks. “Hosts’ pay.” She slapped one down in front of Stan, tucked the second into her pocket and waved the third in front of his eyes. “And you’re taking me to dinner next time.”

“I thought you were pickin’ up the tab!”

“I’ll get the drinks, but dinner’s on you.” She winked and plopped the last few bills down. “All right, we’d better get decent before Mabel comes tearing in here hoping to catch us in flagrante.”

They cut it close, splitting up to get dressed and sharing the bathroom mirror for final touches. Her kerchief for the day was a thrift-store find, a riot of abstract hearts in shades of pink. By eleven they reconvened at the kitchen.

Stan settled down for a second cup of coffee. Clary glanced up from the ingredients for one last sour cream coffee cake as they heard the side door slam open and footsteps pelting up the stairs. “AHA!” came down along with the sound of another door banging against the wall, followed by “Darn it!”

Ford stuck his head through the doorway as the racket clattered back downstairs and turned down the hallway leading to Clary’s storage room. “Good morning, you two.” He and Clary exchanged a measured look. “Everything all right, Stanley?”

“Oh, we’re great, talked it all out, had a real nice evenin’.”

“AHA!” Bang. “Darn it!”

“Excellent! Fantastic, even! Precisely what I was hoping to hear!” Ford’s cautious expression cracked wide open and he grinned as he clasped Clary’s shoulder. “Welcome to the Pines circle, my dear, I’m afraid things may get rather odd from here on out but it’s a delight to have you aboard. Dipper, my boy! May I borrow your phone?”

Dipper shuffled through the doorway, holding up his phone for Ford to swipe on the way past. He dropped into the seat opposite Stan and rested his head on the table. “Morning, everyone.”

Clary pulled a warm plate of leftover pancakes out of the oven and set it in front of him. “Good morning, Dipper.”

“AHA!” Mabel skidded into the kitchen, blinked at Stan and Clary, then folded her arms with a deepening pout. “Oh, darn it, are you guys a thing yet or what?!”

That was about it for peace and quiet.

Stan slunk out of the kitchen as soon as he could get away with it, abandoning Clary to Mabel’s insistent interrogation. They’d need dinner eventually, and like hell he was going to let Clary cook again on her last night in the place, so he kept himself busy scraping ash and charred grease out of the neglected charcoal grill. As a result he had a perfect vantage point to watch Soos’ second batch of Monday tourists out on the grounds.

He also had a perfect view of a much newer but still decaled Tate-and-Backle pickup truck rolling in. McGucket scrambled down from the passenger side to meet up with Ford and a bemused Clary at her station wagon. They popped open the hood and both front doors, and McGucket started explaining the upgrades they’d made at a speed that would’ve been confusing even in easy earshot.

Stan tuned much of it out, watching warily to make sure nothing blew up, until he was distracted by a trickle of further arrivals. Grenda and Candy turned up on bicycles. Pacifica hopped out of a sleek black car, trailed by the driver lugging a heavy tote bag. They took over a corner of the yard to set up what proved to be a full-on badminton set. Mabel barreled out of the house a few minutes later with the battered box containing the lawn darts.

“Looks like we’re gonna have another picnic!” Soos ambled over with a bucket full of grill tools. “I’ll finish this up, Mr. Pines, there’re plenty of hot dogs in the deep freeze.”

Stan was streaked with soot to the elbows by now. “Yeah, fine by me, about time someone else took care of cookin’.” He glanced over to the Fairlane. Clary leaned against a fender with arms folded, engaged in intense conversation with both Ford and McGucket. With no idea what that was about, he headed in to scrub up.

By the time he wandered back out Wendy had arrived and was casually swatting a birdie over the badminton net. Pacifica and Dipper were lined up on the far side, both dashing desperately to keep up with smacking it back.

Clary sat on the battered old couch, legs stretched out, ankles crossed. Stan dropped into place alongside her and she tipped into his space a bit as the springs creaked under his weight. They traded a fleeting glance; Stan extended his arm along the top cushions and she settled easily into its curve.

“So, you and Stan, huh?” Wendy batted the birdie over the net without even a glance, looking Clary over with open interest.

“Yep.” Clary laid her hand over Stan’s at her shoulder.

“You know he’s a lousy boss and a total skinflint, right?”

“You’re not even workin’ for me this summer, Wendy!”

Wendy grinned back. “So, you kissed him yet? Tambry’s video was pretty blurry.”

“Oh, I’ve kissed him.”

“Prove it!” Mabel called. Clary turned, smooth as you please, and pecked Stan sweetly on the cheek. He returned the favor as a collective groan went up. “Oh, come on, that doesn’t count!”

“That’s all you get, ya thirsty little gremlins! You want a sideshow, go buy a ticket!”

They endured a few more catcalls and hoots from the peanut gallery, Clary shaking with low laughter, until she finally patted his hand and rose. “That’s it. I’ve got to go even this out a bit. Hey, Pacifica!” She hopped down from the porch and strode purposefully over to the net. “You game to pair up with me against Team Backwoods here?”

“Oh, it’s on, lady. I mean, you’re not as decrepit as Stan and Stan Two, but Team Backwoods rules. C’mon, Dipper.” Wendy tossed a spare racquet over and the four of them went at it with more energy than Stan could really bear to watch.

He watched anyway, slouched and more than content to let everyone else do the work for a while. Soos had the grill going by the time the sun had tracked far enough west to dip below the tips of the pine trees. Susan showed up with the karaoke machine, a winning smile and a cherry-pie bribe that got her a plate and a hot dog in short order. Soos’ Abuelita held court in a tufted armchair her grandson hauled out from the office. A scatter of mismatched lawn chairs popped up to support the mismatched guests as they drifted in.

Clary wandered back over to the porch with a couple of pop bottles dangling from one hand. “You know those lawn darts are totally illegal.”

Dipper yelped in terror as Grenda’s dart overshot the target and thudded into the ground an inch from his foot. “Of course I know! That’s why I tracked down a couple extra sets. Wanna grab a bite?”

“This doesn’t count as dinner, Stan.”

“Why not? You’ve got the drinks right there!”

“Not quite yet.” The bottles clinked as she set them down at the corner of the sofa and tipped her chin over to Ford. “These are the last two. Cooler’s empty.”

“Oh,” he said, then “oh.” The corners of her eyes crinkled with amusement.

It was so easy it was damned near embarrassing. Stan took one side of the cooler’s handle, Clary the other. They carried it sloshing between them until, with a perfectly coordinated swing, they dumped the icy meltwater right over Ford’s head.

Ford let out a steamwhistle shriek and bounced to his feet, sputtering in indignation. Clary set hands to her hips and stood her ground; Stan watched his brother deflate a little.

“Well,” said Ford. “I suppose you’ve got a point.” He shook water off his glasses, shoved back his drenched forelock and shifted attention to Stan.

“Oooohhh no no no no.” Stan held up both hands, rocking back on his heels. “You can dunk me once we’re back on the boat if y’want, but this’s payback fair and square, Sixer. You’ll have plenty of chances.”

“You’re right, of course.” Ford offered a hand to Clary. “One last dance, then? Even if it’s a bit damp?”

“Oh, by all means. Come on, I know that karaoke machine is around here somewhere.”

“Ford, you do not get to steal her, she’s gotta go in like twelve hours!”

Ford stole her anyway, that jerk. Someone got the music going and scattered laughter rose on the warm, still air as evening finally claimed the Shack. Hell with it, he thought, and slipped inside to rummage up what was left of the fireworks plus Clary’s scant handful of bottle rockets. Stan set himself up on the roof and fired off a single starburst to catch everyone’s attention.

“Hey!” That was Clary far below, hands cupped to direct her indignant shout. “Those’re mine!”

“Better get up here then!” he yelled back. Wendy pointed her at the gift shop and soon he could hear the vague scuffle of someone scrambling up the narrow ladder.

“Oh, god,” Clary muttered as she emerged a little ways up the roof. “This is steep.”

“Take it slow, you’ll be fine. C’mere.” Stan reached up and caught her hand. She warily picked her way down and stayed well away from the edge. “What, heights a problem?”

“Who likes heights?”

“Might as well get used to it, sweetheart, things’re gonna get a lot weirder than high places around us.”

Clary settled down after a minute or two as he lined things up, finally crouching near the edge as he handed off his spare matches. “Literal bottles for our bottle rockets?”

“Consider it creative recycling. Go get ‘em, kid.”

Fuses crackled and threw sparks as Stan set ‘em up and Clary knocked ‘em down, setting fire to everything he put in front of her, no rhyme or reason to it, a ragged fusillade of noise and light. They got ooohs and aaahs of approval from their audience anyway. She let the matches burn down to her fingertips and waved each out with a sharp flick of the wrist just in time to strike the next.

Explosions lit up her features in washes of color. The last rockets went up and she glanced his way, lifting the match to blow it out with a single puff of breath and a cocked brow.

Stan yielded to impulse and slung an arm around her waist, tugging her away from the edge - he landed butt-first, Clary half across his lap - and kissed her quick and hard, catching the edge of her front teeth in his lower lip for his trouble. The slow drag of her tongue soothed away that little hurt easy enough.

The asphalt shingles still held traces of the afternoon’s heat and Stan was more than content to serve as Clary’s pillow. “You could come upstairs tonight. If you want. Same rules.”

“Tempting.” She raised her head from his chest just enough to catch his eye, smile slanted and rueful. “Think I’ve got to decline, though, it’ll be hard enough to get out of here in the morning.”

“You could stay a little longer.”

“I’d love to. But I really can’t.”

Stan pulled a breath and let it go. “I get that. You gonna be okay? It’s a long-ass drive back to Maryland.”

“My nephew scored a cheap ticket to Vancouver and he’s going to drive the rest of the way back with me. I’ll head up to Seattle, do the necessary, then take a couple of days to spoil myself at a spa before I pick him up. We’ll be fine.”

“Sounds like you’ve got it covered. You keep me posted, right?”

Her grin was a sharp flash in the gathering dark. “You are gonna get so sick of your phone chirping at you.”

They rested there for a while, ignoring increasingly exasperated calls from the lawn down below. At length another scuffle scrambled up the ladder. Mabel thudded down on the roof, snapping a picture with her phone before Clary could do more than half sit up. “Oh, come on, you aren’t even smooching! Are you going to get downstairs for pie or what?”

Stan made it down the ladder first and managed to snag the last two slivers of pie. Soos passed out ice pops from the gift shop freezer over fruitless protests - the chicken picnic money would more than cover a bunch of popsicles, but it was the principle of the thing.

As the sky grew fully dark folks started to disperse. Clary handed out hugs and kisses and handshakes and exchanged a cheery wave with the departing McGucket that had to portend disaster somewhere down the line.

At the end it was down to Ford and Clary and Stan draped wearily across a trio of lawn chairs. Conversation had dwindled down to basically nothing. Clary’s fingers stayed hooked loosely into Stan’s.

He wasn’t sure if it was his effort or hers that kept their clasped hands swinging faintly between them.

“You all packed?”

“Nothing left but the overnight bag.”

“Gas?”

“Three-quarters of a tank.”

“Breakfast?”

“Cold cereal won’t kill me.” Clary rolled her head to curve him a tired smile and his fingers tightened down in hers. “I should get to bed. Need to be up bright and early.”

“Yup, suppose you should.” She didn’t budge for a good few minutes and he didn’t push. The lawn chair creaked when she finally rose. Clary’s kiss grazed his temple and lingered, and he leaned into it for as long as he could. Her palm pressed Ford’s shoulder as she crossed between them. Stan watched her head into the Shack, slipping easily into the shadows just within the door.

“What’s your take on her?” he asked.

“I like her better than that siren you spent most of February flirting with.”

Stan cackled. “Ah, he was cute. Best night’s sleep I’d had in ages.”

“He was going to eat you, you know.”

“You took care of it like a badass, and he turned out to be all kinds of helpful with that so-called Atlantis cipher you were tearin’ your hair out over. We came out ahead like we usually do. So.” He waggled brows at his brother. “When’re we hittin’ up the European coast?”

“I suppose I can move Finland and Lake Saimaa up the priority list,” Ford replied.

They both turned in soon after that, a bit before midnight for once. Stan sprawled across the center of his nice full-size orthopedic bed, taking up as much space as he wanted, and settled in to sleep.

He found himself staring up at the ceiling he couldn’t see. The house was quiet, all of the faint creaks of the joint familiar to his long-accustomed ear. Everyone was in their place - Ford in his basement fortress, the kids in the room they were going to outgrow for real by next summer, her down in the storage room that would go back to dust and old merch once she was gone.

Some wistful corner of his brain kept hoping she’d change her mind and come up to join him, but exhaustion dragged him under before she did.

Stan woke before his alarm went off, pulled himself together grudgingly and stumped downstairs into a minor Mabel whirlwind. Clary sat on the bottom step, posing for photos with Waddles and an expression of cheerful resignation.

“Great! Grunkle Stan, bend into the frame - yeah, right there - no, don’t just walk on by!” He went right past Mabel and her protests, Clary’s laughter chasing after him, and ended up in the kitchen. There was cold cereal, sure, but the last coffeecake as well, and he hacked out a chunk of that to stash at the back of the freezer for later.

He managed to get most of a cup of coffee down before Mabel hauled him outside into morning sunshine, shoving a small, squashy wrapped-and-beribboned package into his hand. “That’s for her, from you, got it? Okay! Hey Clary!”

Clary was halfway across the yard, overnight bag slung over one shoulder, but making little progress with Waddles trying to trip her up all the way. “Mabel, honeybee, could you please convince Waddles that I’m not trying to sneak off without saying goodbye?” Stan spotted Ford’s legs hanging out the passenger-side door of the Fairlane - probably screwing around with that black box he and McGucket had installed.

“Oh, I know you’re not sneaking off because we’re gonna bribe you not to. Presents!” Mabel sang. On cue, Dipper staggered out of the side door, blinded by the stack of brightly wrapped boxes he carried. Mabel plucked the stuffed blue whale out from under his arm and ran ahead to the station wagon. “But the only one you get to see is this one.”

Waddles disentangled himself and trotted obligingly after Mabel as Clary protested. “Mabel! That was a loan.”

“Lady Bluemington has taken a liking to you. Who am I to argue with the power of plush? Besides, you’re gonna be landlocked for months and I want you to be thinking of the glories of the open ocean.” Mabel’s hands described a familiar marquee arc in the air and to Stan’s amusement Clary went pink.

“I’m a pretty poor sailor, Mabel.”

“Now you’ve got plenty of incentive to learn! Right? Right!”

Ford took the overnight bag off Clary’s hands and tucked it into the back seat, along with the heap of presents. “No peeking,” said Dipper firmly, “and no opening those until you’re on the road! - or at least at the next rest stop, no more accidents!”

“No more accidents. I solemnly swear I’m going to get there in one piece.” Clary flashed the three-fingered Scout salute, then leaned in to peck Ford chastely on the cheek. “Thank you for all the repairs.”

“Ah, well, let’s not do that again. Thank you for all the lovely meals and the fine company. I look forward to continuing our discussion!” Stan eyed his brother warily and got an innocent smile in return.

“I guess that’s about it.” Clary looked over to the house and back to the car, tugging at her kerchief with a fingertip - it was the tiny nautical flags today - then bent and pulled Mabel in for a full-on embrace. Dipper got dragged along by his sister but didn’t seem too grossed out by the equivalent of auntie kisses. “I can’t thank you guys enough,” she said, muffled between the kids. “I really thought this trip was going to be awful but you’ve made it great. I’ll miss all of you.”

The strain in her voice was easy to catch and Stan shouldered his way in as Clary straightened. “All right, get lost, all a’you, I gotta show her a couple last things with the engine. G’wan! Get!” He waved shooing hands at the lot of them, and Ford nudged the gremlins back towards the house.

“Bye Clary!”

“Be careful out there on the road!” Clary flashed an approving thumb up for Dipper and watched the three of them disappear into the Shack, then leaned wearily against the Fairlane’s fender. Stan passed over his handkerchief and she sniffed into it for a moment.

“Ah, c’mon, it’s not that bad, it’s not like I haven’t figured out how t’spam you with text messages.”

Clary managed a chuckle and blinked at him over the hanky with glittering eyes. “She would’ve loved you guys.”

“‘Course she would’ve. We’re lovable.” Stan shifted his weight, shoved hands into his jacket pockets and ended up smashing Mabel’s squashy package in the process. “Uh - look, I got you a little somethin’ for the road - “

“Did you now.”

“Hey, you know there’s no point arguin’ with Mabel - “ Stan pressed the package into her offered hand; she tore off the crumpled paper to reveal a set of fuzzy dice crocheted in red with gold pips. Clary threw her head back and laughed. “See, now, if I could do a damn thing with yarn that is absolutely what I would’ve made you.”

“I love them. They’re perfect. I’ve got something for you, too.”

Clary dipped into her pocket and pressed an envelope into his palm. He sifted carefully through the glossy pictures inside, glitter stickers slapped into the corners. Stan and Clary bickering over eggs in the kitchen. Lit up by the glow of fireworks. In fishing hats, his expression more gobsmacked than he remembered it being. Leaning over the Fairlane’s engine. Spinning out across the museum floor in front of a dazzled crowd.

Stan held up the shot of the two of them dancing at Greasy’s under twinkling lights. “Mabel wasn’t even there for this one!”

“Probably lifted it from someone else’s video. She told me to make absolutely sure you got these.” The obvious question was sketched out in the worried lines around her eyes, but when he hesitated she patted his arm in understanding.

“There’s a lot you don’t know,” he admitted.

“That goes both ways. We’ll deal with it as it comes.”

“So, ah - “ Stan tucked the fresh memories into his jacket for later perusal and took a step to close the distance. “I mean I know I’m gonna see you again, so this isn’t exactly goodbye - “

“You’ve got obligations and so do I.” Clary swayed away, hands linked behind her.

“Oh I am gonna get to you, sweetpea. Though if I end up yodelin’ or stuffed into lederhosen or somethin’ there might be hell to pay.“

“A gift of a baby goat is traditional. Or so my niece claims.” Lowered lashes veiled her eyes as she sidestepped him with the practiced grace of a matador, slipping out of easy smooching range until his patience began to fray.

Stan played along for the moment, stalking intently after her. “You’re not gonna leave me here without a kiss for the road, right?”

“No way. But I’m waiting for our cue.” He managed to cut a quick glance over to the Shack without looking too much like he was doing it, and spotted the curtain pulled back just a bit by a little hand.

“I did not take you to be quite this mean, Miz Merrick.”

“It’s our job as responsible adults to pretend that delayed gratification is a good thing, darling.”

“Who’re you callin’ responsible?”

“Would you two just kiss already!?!”

Mabel’s rising yell of frustration went off like an air-raid siren. Stan grinned wide and rocked back on his heels. Clary cracked up, knees half buckling as she reached out. His hands caught her waist; he swept her half off her feet and kissed her laughing mouth until she dwindled to giggles and then to happy humming against his lips.

Stan held her tight for longer than he needed to, trailing firm kisses along her jawline, her arms twining up to loop around his neck as she sighed in pleasure and regret. “We really should’ve figured this out a week ago.”

“I have ways t’make up for lost time.”

He felt her shiver as she drew careful breath and leaned in to whisper. “I’m counting on it.”

They stayed entwined like that, her hair sun-warm against his cheek, until Dipper called out. “Can I look yet?”

Gently, grudgingly, Clary disentangled herself and drew away. His fingers clung to hers until she was out of reach. “I’ll text you when I stop for the night. See you around, sailor.”

“Take care of yourself, sweetheart.”

Clary lifted an arm, focus shifting as she waved enthusiastically at the rest of the crew on the porch. Her last look at him was wistful and soft but determined, and she winked a tiny wink as she pivoted away and marched up to the Fairlane, dropping into the driver’s seat and dragging the seatbelt across. A moment’s work set the fuzzy dice dangling from the rear-view mirror. The old wagon cranked up like a dream, the big V8 engine so quiet it did little more than purr as she pulled out down the drive.

Stan stood and watched her go until the last bit of blue had disappeared between the trees and the dust had settled. Mabel and Dipper came out to flank him.

“Soooo I guess we’re going to be seeing her again?” Dipper said hopefully.

“Yup.”

“Aaaaaand it was worth taking a chance on telling her what you really feel?” Mabel nudged him in the ribs with an elbow.

“Maybe more show than tell, pumpkin.” Stan’s face ached with a smile that wouldn’t fade. He turned back towards the Shack, clapping hands together. “All right, you two. Day’s young and there’s plenty to do. Who wants to help me haul the S back up?”

There was already a Clary-shaped hole in his immediate plans.

Stan had no idea how this long-distance thing would work, but he was eager to find out.

Tumblr masterpost

Mabel shouts in pure frustration. “Would you two just kiss already!” Clary’s grinning at you like the sun just came out after two years of winter.

Kiss her.

Kiss her.

Kiss her.

[thelastspeecher]

I am in need of stute but I can't think of anything. So maybe High school au where they awkwardly give each other chocolales? Stan tries to stay tough while doing it while Lute is not afriad to get giggly about it? They go to the park and smooch while sitting in one of the bigger trees (Lute convinced Stan to climb up with him.)?

Two months after the fact, here it is.  Some High School AU Stute.  I mostly followed your suggestion, but deviated slightly, like I often do.  It’s still gay and cute tho.  So consider your order filled.

              “Woo-hoo!  Go get ‘em, Stan!” Lute shouted from thebleachers.  Stan blushed underneath hishelmet.  He waved at Lute.

              “Yerpersonal cheerleader decided to show up fer practice again, huh?” asked Pat,one of Stan’s teammates.  Stan shrugged.

              “Guessso.”

              “Sucksfer him, though.  He showed up late.  We’re already done fer the day.”  Pat winked at him.  “You should tell him the actual times wepractice, so’s he can harass ya the entire time.”

              “Shutup,” Stan muttered.  Pat strolled away,laughing.  Stan took off his helmet.  The football coach walked over to Stan.  Stan snapped to attention.

              “Goodhustle out there today, Pines,” the coach grunted.  Stan grinned.

              “Thanks.”

              “But, uh,tell that fan of yours to tone it down a bit, will ya?  We can’t have him distractin’ the team just‘cause he’s yer friend.”

              “Yeah,I’ll, uh, I’ll take care of it,” Stan said. The coach went off to talk to some of the other players.  Stan waved at Lute again and headed over tothe bleachers.  He got there just as Lutehad finished climbing down.  Lute grinnedat him.

              “Thatuniform looks mighty nice on ya, Stanley.”

              “Duh.  I can make anything look good,” Stan saidfirmly.  Lute’s grin broadened.  He stood on his toes slightly to mess withStan’s hair.

              “Ugh, yerall sweaty.”

              “I justfinished football practice, McGucket.  Ofcourse I’m sweaty.”

              “Mm-hmm.”  Lute rocked back onto his heels.  “Sorry I didn’t make it fer the entirething.  The chickens got loose and we hadto track ‘em down ‘fore I could watch ya play.” Lute huffed.  “Didn’t even get tosee ya tackle someone this time.”

              “Yeah, uh,in the future, if you show up, don’t shout that much,” Stan said.  Lute blinked. “I mean, I like it.  I like havin’my own personal sexy cheerleader.  Butthe coach is getting on my case about it distracting the other players.”

              “…Fairenough.”  Lute winked.  “Can’t really blame ‘em fer gettin’distracted by yer ‘sexy cheerleader’.”

              “I’mgonna regret calling you that, aren’t I?”

              “Maybe,”Lute drawled, drawing out the word in a teasing manner.  Stan rolled his eyes.  “Go get yourself changed, Mr. Star FootballPlayer.  Then we can waste some time‘fore Ma ‘n Pa expect us back at the farm.” Stan looked at him questioningly. Lute shrugged.  “I may have told‘em that yer practice runs longer than it does, so’s we could get some alonetime.”

              “Heh.  I like your style,” Stan said.  “That’s prob’ly why I’m dating you.”  Lute looked around before quickly planting apeck on Stan’s cheek.

              “Meet meby the truck when yer changed.”

----- 

              Lute parkedthe truck right next to a large apple tree. He climbed out the window of the truck, clambering onto the roof.  Stan stuck his head out the window.

              “What thehell was that?” he asked.  “Did youforget how doors work or somethin’?” Lute shook his head.

              “Nope.  I need the extra inches to reach yer surprise,”he replied.  Stan sighed.

              “By theway, why didn’t you tell me we were heading to the farm?”

              “I toldya we were goin’ somewhere we could be alone.”

              “Yeah, soI wasn’t expecting that place to be your parents’ property.  We literally drove past Angie on the way in.  That’s not alone, Lute.”  Lute crouched on the roof of the truck and puthis head down, dangling in front of Stan’s.

              “Angie’skeepin’ guard.  She’ll make sure no onecomes into the orchard.”

              “How muchdid you have to pay her?”

              “A coupledays’ worth of chores.  It was a steal,really.”

              “Also, areyou supposed to drive right up to the orchard like this?”

              “You care‘bout rules all of a sudden?”

              “No.  I care about my boyfriend’s parents groundinghim, keeping him from going on dates with me.” Stan poked Lute’s nose.  “‘Causemy boyfriend actually does care aboutrules and doesn’t like sneaking out when he’s been told not to.”  Lute chuckled.

              “Don’tworry, I’ve got everything worked out. Even convinced Fidds to run interference.”

              “Youbribe him, too?”

              “Nah.  Blackmail. Works better fer him.  Angie’s theone who responds well to bribery.  Ferfuture reference.”

              “I’llkeep that in mind next time I need something from your siblings.”

              “Mm-hmm.  Now if you’ll excuse me, the blood’s rushin’to my head and I still need to grab yer surprise.”  Lute stood up again and began to rummagethrough the branches of the apple tree.  “Ah-ha!  Here it is!” Lute climbed back into the truck through the window.  He grinned at Stan.  “Here.” He handed Stan a red heart-shaped box. Stan opened the box.  “Surprise!  Happy Valentine’s!”

              “Theseare my favorite,” Stan mumbled, looking at the candy nestled inside thebox.  Lute nodded.

              “Yep.  Asked Ford.”

              “Wow.”  Stan swallowed.  “Thanks. I, uh, I didn’t- I didn’t get you anything.”

              “It’sfine.  Yer company is gift enough.”  Lute leaned over to plant a kiss on Stan’scheek.  “And I know yer ma is still gettin’settled, so y’all don’t have much spare change. ‘Specially not fer secret boyfriends.”

              “Still…Ishoulda got you somethin’.”

              “No, no,it’s fine.”  Lute smiled at Stan.  “I mean it. And I wasn’t plannin’ on gettin’ ya candy, ‘cept I had a spare couplebucks from when Fidds paid me to do his chores while he worked on his robots.”

              “Do anyof you actually do the stuff you get assigned?”

              “At thispoint?  Prob’ly not.  We just trade around to get the ones we want.”  Lute cocked his head, still smiling.  “But do ya really want to talk ‘bout my fam’ly’schore schedule?  Or do ya want to makeout?”

              “Uh, thesecond one.  Duh.”

              “That’swhat I thought.”  Lute and Stan leanedin.  A loud hoot echoed through theorchard.  “Dagnabbit!”  Lute immediately turned the truck on.

              “What?”

              “That’sAngie’s signal.  Guess the blackmail Iused on Fidds wasn’t good enough.”  Lutepeeled out of the orchard, leaving tire tracks in the dirt.  “Oof. Goin’ to get an earful fer that.” He grinned at Stan.  “But I got tospend a few minutes alone with ya.  So I’dsay it’s worth it.”

[journalxxx]

Awesome And Emotional Multichapter Fics That I Will Never Write - 1

Stan and Ford learn of this far-off, mysterious cave which is feared by the indigenous population because whoever dares to explore it never comes back. If it smells like trouble, they obviously have to check it out. They take off well equipped, with the proper clothes and weapons and tools and even oxygen supplies. It turns out that was a smart choice, because at some point the atmosphere in the cave suddenly turns almost unbreathable, with oxygen level barely sufficient to stay conscious, and they have to put masks on to keep going. Other than that, the cave is pretty much unremarkable, until suddenly a sneaky face-hugger-like monster thingy downs on Ford from the ceiling and almost eats his face off, destroying his mask.

And since it would be far too easy to just let them back-track to the exit from there, let's say it happens right next to a deep crevice which is conveniently not high enough for the fall to kill or incapacitate them, but it is steep enough to prevent them from climbing back up. The facehugger makes it rather unsafe for them to just wait there for the locals to get worried about them, so onwards it must be, in the remote hypothesis that there might be a secondary exit somewhere. The problem is obviously the atmosphere, which isn't ideal for heavy physical activity on Ford's part. Stan insists on sharing his supply, which Ford declines because, due to varied atmospheres he's had to adapt to in different dimension, he's kind of used at being short on breath, and he also has those fancy breathing techniques of his that help him recover more quickly and stay more level-headed than Stan would, not to mention the fact that the more time they spend messing the equipment and arguing about this whole thing, the more air they waste, the more they get distracted and expose themselves to further attacks, yada yada, soon enough Stan grumpily accepts to keep his mask and they start moving. It kind of works at first, but obviously, as time goes on, they need to stop more frequently and at length for Ford to catch his breath, even if he begrudgingly accepts to take a few lungfuls of Stan's air a couple of times. At a certain point Ford, one measured sentence after another, suggests that Stan should leave him behind and come back for him later, once he's found help. Their oxygen supply is limited and they have no idea how far the exit may be, if there even is one, and whether the oxygen levels in the atmosphere might drop even lower before they get to it. If he stops and waits there, Ford should be able to remain awake and vigilant enough to defend himself from any potential attacks, but if they both keep going and run out of air in a more dire environment that causes them both to faint, they're both as well as eaten. It's a sensible suggestion and Stan's obvious reply goes along the lines of 'Fuck you, I'm not leaving you here alone' Ford doesn't have the mental and physical strenght to go against Stan's stubborness so fine, they keep going a bit further, until Ford straight up blacks out and Stan needs to hoist him on his shoulders and bodily drag him forwards. Now, since I'm more of a psychological thriller fan than a horror junkie, I'm gonna toss away the face-hugger like the overused cliche plot device it was and decide that, I don't know, it choked on the plastic and died, I don't care, it won't appear again. But I do invite you to think about Stan's massive stress during the next hour or so. Eyes and ears peeled at the tiniest noise, knowing that if the thing attacks, he probably won't even time to drop Ford and reach for the gun before he gets his face eaten. Trying to give his mask to Ford a couple of times, but realizing that, holy fuck, how did Ford even stay awake that long, the air is so suffocating that one minute without the mask is enough to get him black bubbles in his vision. Finding out that indeed, he can't afford to give the mask to Ford for longer than a handful of seconds at a time, because he would probably faint, and that would be it. Keepins the mask for himself for the sake of moving forward, and hating himself for it, for every time he mocked Ford's hippie yoga sessions and every goddamn cigarette he smoked. Keeping Ford's face close enough to his neck so that he would notice, hopefully, if he were to stop breathing at some point, because he can't check every goddamn minute if he's still doing it, or it'll take them forever to reach the exit, which is totally just past the next corner, right? He almost can't believe when finally, finally, a faint glimmer appears somewhere in front of them, and he almost drops Ford on the spot to check on him and slap him awake or something. But no, no, come on, what if the alien thingy attacks them right there and then when they are almost safe, wouldn't that be lame as fuck. Besides, Ford's probably good, if the exit is that close, the atmosphere must have balanced out some time ago, and he's still breathing, so all good right? All good, definitely, absolutely. So he just keeps dragging him for another handful of painstakingly slow minutes, until they can finally tumble in the grass at a reasonable distance from the entrance. For good measure and for Stan's own peace of mind, considering there's still a surprising amount of air in Stan's tank and that they're in some hellishly hot and damp tropical place where even mosquitos sweat, Stan jams the mask on Ford's face while he tries to poke him awake. Which Ford eventually does shortly afterwards, gaping around himself in disbelief looking all like 'holy shit, how deep did we get, don't tell me there really are dinosaurs down here' Then a beautifully heartwarming conversation follows, along the lines of 'wait what, you dragged me all the way out?' 'no, I gave the alien my beefy jerky and he called a taxi for us, turns out they're really nice. Shut the fuck up and breathe, you fuckface' 'jfc that was such a poor idea, you burnt through the oxygen supply much more quickly and advanced much more slowly, if the exit had been further-' 'jfc I should have choked you in your sleep when I had the chance" Eventually Stan manages to glare Ford into silence and. If we assume this is one of those delightful pre-stancest scenarios. This is exactly the moment where silence falls, and they don't really have anything else to do but stare at each other and realize how close they got to disaster and feel in general very awkward and weird. And Stan is just kneeling there, glancing around to make sure nothing is creeping on them, feeling a ridiculous amount of relief just from seeing Ford breathing calmly while laying limply on the ground, and if that doesn't mean that his brother is a goddamn handful of a problem he doesn't know what does. Ultimately, they go back to the ship and Ford immediately starts making plans on how to eradicate the nasty creature safely. Something which Stan isn't exactly enthusiastic about. An argument easily arises, with Ford obviously wanting to do The Right Thing and free the village from the dangerous cave dweller and Stan, yeah, getting that, but also wanting to establish some firm ground rules, first of all no more self-sacrifing bullshit talk, for any reason. Whatever retort Ford might have regarding tactics and smart use of resources gets cut off when Stan bursts out with the classic 'BECAUSE I'D RATHER DIE THAN LOSE YOU FOR THE THIRD TIME, YOU MOTHERFUCKING IDIOT' trump card that. Kind of guts Ford and opens the way to some long-needed heart-to-heart talk that will eventually lead to smooching and. You know the drill. The end.

[sirkkasnow]

08 If You’ve Gotta Fight, Fight Dirty

Ao3 link

07/17/13 Wednesday

Most of the old tools turned up in Soos’ usual closet, packed away into a not-new but well cared for hinged toolbox. The manual-crank drill and a batch of bits came easily to hand. Tracking down the hardware took a little longer. Staying in motion was automatic, his brain whirring all the while, settled by the steady incremental progress of physical labor.

There were a hundred good reasons not to get involved. He counted them off in the back of his head without much regard for keeping track as he sifted through jars of salvaged bolts and screws.

Stan padded down a few steps to the sublevel at the back, an odd space whose roof was too low and too slanted to be good for much of anything but stuffing boxes into. The great purge of last autumn had cleared out an eccentric pile of junk. Potentially useful odds and ends of machinery and materiel accumulated over decades had been rendered moot overnight. Between Soos and the brothers they’d hauled most of it out over the course of a few sweaty days. There wasn’t much left to clear from the center.

He was living the dream right now. Everything was going well and there was no reason to screw with a good situation.

The hand drill bit into wood in near silence. He routed out holes in each corner beam and mounted heavy screw eyes there, twisting until the steel squeaked. Absent, precise twitches of his fingers braided eye splices into the ends of the heaviest nylon rope he’d been able to find. Those got crossed at the corners of the room, bound and padded with strips of salvaged bubble wrap and triple thicknesses of packing tape.

Baltimore might as well be on the moon relative to the places he’d been in the last year and the places he and Ford were planning to visit next.

Stan looped S-hooks into the ropes’ eyes and set it all up, spanning from corner to corner. By the time he finished it was a bare suggestion of a boxing ring. When he leaned into the lines they stretched and shifted, the screw eyes groaning faintly in protest, but everything held to his satisfaction.

Complicating everything right as it was all going well for once should have been the very last thing on his mind. Fuck’s sake, she was just a tourist.

The background rattle of his thoughts ground to an abrupt halt. Stan sat on one of the crates he’d pushed off alongside the door and plucked off his glasses, laying a hand over aching eyes. He knew lies, he knew perfectly damned well when he was lying to himself, and that right there was a thin lie poorly told.

She hadn’t been just a tourist since she’d stuck her neck out for him the night he’d made some reckless choices regarding car repair and home décor and dragged her along for the ride. Hell, that had pretty much gone out the window the minute she started spitting bad lawyer jokes back at him. Dammit.

The thinking had tired him out more than the improvised engineering but he was, at last, worn down enough to snatch a few black and dreamless hours of sleep well after midnight.

Intensifying sunlight through the curtains kicked him out of bed again earlier than he would have liked. Stan managed to get halfway to respectable before he decided coffee pretty much had to trump everything else and dragged himself down to the kitchen. The kids were already up, empty cereal bowls ignored on the table as they bickered out their plans for the day. “Mornin’, gremlins. Anyone else up yet?”

“I think Grunkle Ford is still passed out in the lab,” Dipper volunteered. “At least no one’s gotten around to making coffee.” Stan set up the coffeemaker with fresh grounds and dumped in a potful of water.

“And Clary was here for a few minutes, then said she was heading down to Greasy’s for breakfast. Craving bacon or something.” Mabel’s chin rested in both her hands, her smile uncharacteristically sly. “How did you sleep, Grunkle Stan?”

“Just fine, sweetheart.” Stan reached way up for a mug. Both niece and nephew looked at him in disbelief. “What?”

“You like her.” Mabel was showing teeth in a wide knowing grin. Dipper tapped fingertips anxiously against each other, but nodded in agreement.

Stan leaned against the counter with a groan - god it was too early for this. “That woman’s been nothin’ but trouble, I’ve caused her nothin’ but grief, and if we’re both lucky I’ve got that junkheap of hers fixed enough that she can get the heck outta here and never look back. We both got places t’go and things t’do, kids.”

“Responsibilities,” Mabel sang, syllables stretching out, and Stan’s eyes narrowed a little. “So I guess you didn’t spend half the night running around to do something nice for her.”

“You two were supposed to be asleep.”

“I might have been working in my journal,” said Dipper. “Mabel might have been a little wired on sugar and getting stuff down in her scrapbook.”

All three of them eyed each other, Stan weighing the possible merits of turning this into a lecture on minding your own damn business and discarding the idea as way more trouble than it’d be worth. “All right,” he grumbled. “Yeah, I’m tryin’ t’do somethin’ nice since yesterday went completely sideways. If you wanna make plans for the day that get you the heck outta the house, then I might overlook your total failure t’go to bed on time.”

“Deal,” they chorused, sweeping up phones and notebooks and vacating the table in an instant.

“Library first, Mabel?”

“Yup! I’ve got a couple of confidential stops to make after that.” Mabel shooed Dipper out ahead of her, spun on her heel in the doorway and winked at him on her way out. “Have a swell day, Grunkle Stan! See you at dinnertime!”

Stan grunted in vague assent, pouring a cup of coffee and sloshing in a little milk. Yeah, that wasn’t ominous at all. He killed time collecting the twins’ breakfast debris, finished off the first cup of coffee, then headed upstairs to scrub his carcass a little closer to presentable.

He was well into the second cup of coffee half an hour later and getting restless when his phone, stuffed into a back pocket and forgotten, buzzed. Startled, he fumbled it out for a text message from Mabel - a contact, he realized after a moment’s confusion - CLARY trailed by a bunch of winged hearts and smooches. After a few false starts he stabbed enough buttons to save the thing to his tiny contacts list. It twinkled there at the top, above DIPPER and FORD and then MABEL.

Indecision made his fingers twitch. Finally he punched the number and jammed the little chunk of a phone, thick in its waterproof case, up between ear and shoulder.

After two rings he got a reply, all cool professional velvet. “C.J. Merrick.”

For a long second that didn’t compute at all. “Uh, Clary?”

A startled pause hung there before she replied, voice warming. “Why, Mr. Pines. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

That voice did things to him. He shoved the thought down. “Listen, I know you’re out but I’ve got a surprise for you back here at the Shack. Can y’wander back in when you’re done with breakfast?”

“Sure. I just got done, actually, let me settle up and I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

“So you know, it’d be worth your while to get out those tennis shoes again. And maybe a t-shirt.”

She chuckled darkly, a low rumble that made his toes want to curl. “If this is another round of errands, I’m out.”

“Absolutely not, we’re stayin’ on house grounds this time.”

“Thank mercy. See you at the Shack, then.”

Stan shoved the phone back into its pocket and paced the kitchen for a minute, knowing he needed something else, trying to remember it and finally settling on a plastic pitcher full of water and all the ice he could scrounge out of the freezer. By the time he rounded up that and a couple of glasses, he’d heard the door and footsteps heading off towards her room. In another minute or two Clary stuck her head in at the doorway. His jacket was draped around her shoulders and she looked amused as hell about something. “Good morning, Stan.”

“G’mornin’, Clary. You doin’ all right? Got some sleep?”

“I did, thanks. I was pretty worn out last night. What’s up?” She shrugged out of the jacket and hung it on the back of a kitchen chair. Today’s kerchief was some kind of patterned yellow. The bike shorts, tennies and faded t-shirt she’d changed into - this one read ‘REAL MEN PLAY GAMES’, right under a crudely rendered 38-sided die - would do fine.

“You’ll see.” Stan handed off the two glasses and led the way back through the house, pitcher heavy in his hand. “How was breakfast? You look like you enjoyed it.”

“I met a man from Washington state,” she said, and he looked away because he didn’t trust himself to keep a straight face. “His name’s Mike, he has a lovely new speedboat, and you wouldn’t believe how glad he was to talk to someone who isn’t a local. His SUV is stuck at Gleeful’s while they fix a flat tire.” There was a tiny wicked smile curling a corner of her lips. “He has been having a little trouble making friends in town.”

“Damn shame, that.” Stan tugged open the storage room door with a flourish and she swanned past him only to come up short against the rope lines a couple feet inside. He eased in after and set the pitcher down on a crate, then plucked the juice glasses from her nerveless fingers to put them alongside. “So I was baskin’ in the glow of my shiny new Klouneng, thinkin’ about last week….”

“You weren’t kidding,” Clary murmured, looking over the sketched-out boxing ring.

“Well, no, of course not! Anyway, you said - uh.” Stan put an awkward hand at the back of his neck, watching her carefully. Her expression had gone flat neutral. “I know a few things about how t’stand and fight, you know? Thought I’d show you how to throw that punch.”

The silence stretched for one or two seconds too long, one of her hands absently flexing. He was beginning to think he’d really stepped in it when she bent and slipped between the ropes. “Let’s do it.”

“All right.” His chuckle was half relief as he scooped up the spare handwraps and the old gloves, ducking in to stand beside her. “Gimme the right one, let’s make sure you don’t go bustin’ a knuckle here.” Clary laid her hand into his, the other tucked behind her back. He started binding across the palm, then between the fingers, with a bit of exaggerated care he couldn’t seem to help. She watched him all the while from behind downtilted lashes. “So this’s all about protectin’ the little bones. Whole thing goes under the gloves. Not that you’re gonna do a lot of hittin’ here, but these are your livin’, so….” The end of the wrap sealed off neatly at her wrist. “Next.”

“I could probably type with a pencil clutched in my teeth if I had to.”

“Let’s make sure y’don’t have to.” The outside fingers of her left hand twitched delicately as she gave it over into his grip and he frowned down in brief confusion. There was a notch in the outer edge of the palm, a long-mended scar from some deep, sharp cut. Stan wrapped her up with the same precise care he’d given the right hand, watching the pinky and ring finger twitch again as he cut between with the wrap. “This gonna be a problem?”

“It hasn’t been. The nerves never quite came back.”

“You’ve seen the handwraps before?”

“I did take self-defense classes for a while. Never boxing.”

“I can tell. You can’t hit worth a damn. I’m just gonna step behind you,” which he did, letting the thump and creak of his steps telegraph his position.

Clary huffed a soft laugh and he felt a bit of the tension ease. “The whole principle was to let gravity and concrete do most of the work, then run like hell. Besides, you were singing a different tune the other night.”

“I was tryin’ to make you feel better about bloodyin’ my nose!”

“Liar.”

“Prove it.” Stan tapped Clary at back and hip and wrist with the bare pads of two fingertips, guiding her gently as he explained the stance. She actually had a little understanding of the basics, weight well distributed, pivoting to let force flow all the way from core to knuckles. There was some wiry strength to work with in that square-shouldered frame. A lot more leg than arm, he absently noted, his bicep brushing hers as he reached to straighten her wrist. “Elbows in, that’s it. Snap it back.”

Defense came easy to her. Getting her out of the shell was clearly going to be the problem, so he coaxed and cajoled and got her to take swings at empty air - decent jab, he decided, but hesitant on anything stronger - until she was just bored enough with it to stop thinking so damn much, then reached for the gloves. “Not bad! So now you get to actually hit somethin’.”

Clary’s glance skittered around the mostly-empty room, then back to him, narrowing. “What, you?”

“You can try.” Stan dangled the gloves, read the doubt sketched in broad strokes across her features, and considered. “I’ve had a lot of practice at this, Clary. You just tag me real light - “ He held up a palm, and at the expectant sidelong flick of his eyes, she grudgingly jabbed him there. “Yeah, like that, easy. I can read you like a cheap paperback.“ She snorted, and he laughed, keeping it light. “Okay, okay, you’re a terrifyin’ enigma in all other ways, don’t worry ‘bout that. But you are not gonna hurt me.”

The flicker of her expressions was complex, but after a moment she released a held breath and offered her right hand. “Attagirl. Now, this won’t be so bad, I promise, you’ll learn somethin’. Just think of it as a dance.”

“With fists.”

He pulled the laces on the first glove wide and eased it over her fingers. “Sure, with fists. You watch me, I watch you. A shift in weight, a twitch in the shoulder or the eye, you can see where your partner’s goin’ an’ react. Get enough practice an’ it’s reflex, straight from the gut.” The gloves were a little too big, no shock that, and Stan took his time snugging down the laces. Clary flexed the right hand, testing the glove’s give, then offered him the left. “Not that one round of practice is gonna get you the reflexes.”

When he was done he looked her over. She’d been silent the whole while, watching with teeth set lightly into her lower lip and a line drawn between her brows. Stan enfolded her wrist in his hand, a fleeting squeeze of reassurance, and her smile flickered for a bare instant. “I’ve had some practice in taking an opponent’s measure, you know.” Clary stepped back to give him some room. “Go on, Stan. Wrap up. Let’s give this a try.”

“Right, right.” His own wraps took a minute to slap into place, fingerless sparring gloves over those since he wasn’t expecting to hit anything. Relaxing into the familiar half-coiled posture was almost comforting. “Come an’ get me.”

She was stiff as hell at first. Reluctance dragged at her limbs, and it took a good few minutes of him catching or deflecting her tentative strikes before that began to improve. The worry on her features chipped away with each swing, replaced by furrowed focus as sweat began to bead at her temples.

Dusty sunlight tracked along one edge of his improvised ring. By now it must have been close to lunchtime, the room heating up.

“I know you can put a little more force into it than that.” Stan caught another jab. “You don’t have to move quite so much. If you’re gonna run, then run, that’s the right response sometimes an’ you’re fast, but if you gotta stand up an’ fight you’ve gotta commit to it. Conserve your energy, ‘cause you’re gonna need it to hit.” He held up a hand to signal stop and left her standing there while he retrieved cold glasses of water for both of them. “Drink up.”

“Thanks.” Clary clutched the glass between both gloved hands and sucked the water down in long, relieved gulps, dumping the last couple tablespoons over the crown of her head. “I think I’ve got one more round in me before I collapse.”

“Tough bird like you, worn out so soon?”

“Mmhm. How’re you holding up, old man?” She licked her lips and grinned up at him, all brass despite the sweat and her obvious weariness.

Stan plucked the glass out of her awkward grip and dropped it off back on its crate. “Old age an’ treachery will beat youth and enthusiasm every time, kid.”

“I’m not that young.” Clary came at him warily at first, then loosened up - he almost felt it as something clicked behind those grey eyes. Damn it, she was younger and probably a little more fit and she’d finally figured out how to get her legs into it. One solid swing whiffed way too close as she poured her weight in from toes clear up to knuckles. It was an overextension and he had ways to counter that weren’t strictly fair, but she took advantage of his hesitation and followed up with a couple of well-angled jabs that forced him back a step.

They were both breathing in hard gasps at this point. She still had some juice in reserve, not much, but enough to push him back once more. When he caught her next blow it was a sharp, stinging impact, and he grinned to see her satisfaction. “All right,” he got out, catching her other fist as she lunged in to follow through. Momentum nearly smacked her into his chest; she pulled herself up short just in time. “Whoa, easy! Nice work - you could maybe get decent at this if you wanted to.”

“We done for now? Because that’s about all I’ve got.” Clary backed off a bit, which was just as well because cripes she was close, and Stan remembered to let go of her gloves.

“Yeah, we’re done before one of us keels over of heat exhaustion or somethin’.” He beckoned and she gave over the right hand, tugging with her teeth at the laces on the left glove while he worked on the other. Once those and the wraps were off they both collapsed gratefully onto the couple of crates by the door.

“Thanks for taking it easy on me.”

“Didn’t take it that easy. Your instincts aren’t bad.”

“So how’d a - “ He watched her sift through words, lips half-shaping a few options until he chuckled at her struggling to be tactful. She canted a brow at him in reproach. “How’d a showman of your caliber pick up all this expertise in fisticuffs anyway?”

Stan winced, peeling off his handwraps one by one. “You know Jersey. Town didn’t have much goin’ for it other than the boardwalk. Neither one of us fit in real well - I mean, you’ve seen Poindexter in action, an’ he’s always been like that, maybe worse, so focused on whatever that big brain can get goin’ that he loses track of the practical end of things, y’know? So it was my job to protect the both of us. Somebody had to be the tough one, and it’s what I was good at, ‘til Ford an’ I - “

He caught himself, swallowing words that’d just be too much - man, they’d both really worn themselves out, his guard was down - and when he continued it was with more caution. “When I left home I spent a fair few years on the road. I was a worse trouble magnet than you are. Knowin’ how t’fight is what got me through. I mean, it wasn’t all bad - “

Clary watched him with a sort of quiet weight, like maybe understanding, which made no damn sense. He tugged up the shoulder of his damp shirt and dabbed uselessly at his upper lip. “It wasn’t all bad, you stay tough long enough and you kinda forget how not to be - and hell, at least I was in the right place to run into you - “

Stan stiffened in his seat, blinking. “Oh,” he said. “Damn. That’s what I forgot. Towels.” He made to rise and bolt to the kitchen. That’d buy a minute to clear his head, because he really needed to shut it. “I’ll be right - “

Clary pressed something into his hand. Distracted, he stared down at it, registering yellow, then plucked at the fabric. Tawny gold, a soft and heavy weave, patterned with tumbling circus strongmen and their tiny barbells. Her kerchief.

Stan shook it out, patted down his neck, and only then ventured a glance.

Clary sat on the edge of the crate with elbows braced on her knees, hands loosely interlaced. The scar was…not so bad, as clean-cut and faded as the one in her palm, until she turned her head away and a little tension made its twisting length and angle along the left slope of her throat clear. The worst of it stutter-stepped to cut sharp and deep over the sheltered thrum of her carotid artery.

That had probably come close to killing her.

Something protective and furious sparked behind his breastbone.

He tilted his chin to indicate his focus, and saw her eye swivel to track him.

“That of a piece with the hand?”

“Yes.”

“Plate glass?”

“Yes.”

“Accident?”

“No.” Clary straightened where she sat, watching him with subtle apprehension.

“There a face I should be lookin’ to break?” he said at length.

“He’s dead. He’s been dead a long time.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time I punched a dead man.”

Her lips parted. She blinked twice, then dissolved into low shocked laughter. He smoothed the fabric of her kerchief between his fingers and felt his heart lift a little. “What, you don’t believe me?”

“Oh no. I believe you completely.” Her hand slipped into his for a quick squeeze that lingered. “You’re a treasure. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

He squeezed back lightly and found he didn’t feel like letting go just yet. “What’cha doin’ after dinner?”

“Didn’t have any plans, really.” A faint tired smile softened the line of her mouth. “Got something in mind?”

His throat was dry, her hand was still linked into his and come on he’d been done with being nervous over this kind of crap when he was like fifteen. “Movie?”

A huff of surprise caught on her teeth and she tipped back until her shoulders hit the wall. “Yes,” after a still moment. “Sure. Please.”

Stan let out a half-held breath, pressed the kerchief into her palm and closed her fingers over it. “G’wan now. That’s enough dancin’ for one day. You should go get a shower, drink as much water as you can stand, get some aspirin because you are gonna be feelin’ it by nightfall, I can tell.” He waved shooing hands at her. “I’ll handle cleanup and it’s someone else’s job to cook tonight, you got it? Go get a nap or read a book or actually make like it’s vacation. I’ve put you through the wringer enough the last couple days.”

She didn’t argue. Clary snapped out the kerchief and tied it loosely around her throat. Habit lent precision to the process - she centered the widest part over the scar, brought the ends around, offset the knot to the left without a hitch. “I can tell I’ll barely be able to move tomorrow.”

“After our fishin’ trip, I’m surprised you got outta bed.”

“Places to go. People to see.” She came to her feet with a sigh and pressed his shoulder in passing. “That nap sounds like a great idea. Thank you, Stan, that was fun and educational.”

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Clary doesn’t say a word and doesn’t look back at you, studying her hands, vulnerable with her neck bared.

At least you got out alive!

Is there someone I can punch?

Silent support.

[thelastspeecher]

Rainy day cuddles; Stay-at-home-Stana please!

16. Rainy day cuddles

There is cuddling, but it’s all at the end.  Still pretty damn cute, if I do say so myself.  Oh, and Danny and Daisy are like, 6, and Emily and Emmett are about 3 or so.  I think that’s in line with what we discussed for this AU’s timeline, and if not, then just insert whatever ages actually work lol.

Send me an AU and a number and I’ll write you a ficlet!

               Angie hummed as she cleared thedishes from lunch.  She walked over tothe sink, but was intercepted by Stana, who gave her a kiss on the cheek.

               “What was that for?” Angieasked.  Stana grinned.

               “Like I need a reason to kiss mywife.”

               “Mm.  What do ya want?”

               “It’s not so much what Iwant.  It’s what they want,” Stana said,gesturing to the living room, where their four youngest children were sittingquietly on the couch.  Angie stared.

               “Did someone break somethin’?  ‘Cause I only ever see ‘em all sit sowell-behaved when they did somethin’ wrong.”

               “No, Ma, we want you to go to thepark with us!” Danny said.  Angieblinked.

               “What?”

               “We know it’s your day off,”Daisy said, “but we really really want you to come with us.”  Angie chuckled.

               “Sweetlings, ya don’t need touse yer good behavior points to get me to spend time with ya.  Day off or not.  I’d love to go to the park, spend some timewith my babies.  How ‘bout y’all go getyer shoes on, and we can go?”  The twosets of twins cheered and jumped off the couch, then rushed into theirrooms.  Angie chuckled again.  “Those kidlets crack me up.  Stana, mind takin’ a step outside, see if Ineed to tell ‘em to grab a jacket?”

               “You got it, babe.”  Stana smooched Angie one more time beforewalking outside.  She put her hands onher hips and surveyed the front lawn.  Agnome was trying to steal one of the plastic flamingoes Angie had gotten in thename of irony.  “Nasty-ass buggers,”Stana muttered, but didn’t try to stop the gnome.  It was a pleasant fall day, slightly brisk,but not too much.  The kids would be finewith long sleeves or a thin jacket. Stana opened the door, intending on telling Angie, but stopped uponfeeling something wet splat on her head.

               That better not be bird shit. Stana looked up.  Another large raindroplanded on her face.  Other raindropsquickly followed.  Stan rushed inside andclosed the door quickly.  Angie looked upfrom the dishes.

               “So?” she asked.  Stana peeked out a window.  The rain was coming down so hard that shecould barely see the gnome on the lawn finally make away with theflamingo.  

               “Not too cold, but if anyonegoes out for a second, they’ll get drenched,” Stana replied.  Angie dried her hands and walked over toStana.

               “Oh, no.  The kids’ll be heartbroken.  They were lookin’ forward to this.  There aren’t goin’ to be many more chancesfor day trips, what with the girls goin’ to kindergarten next year.”

               “Ready!” Danny chirped.  Stana and Angie turned around.  Angie smiled apologetically at her children.

               “So sorry, babies, but it’srainin’ right now.”

               “Ooh, park in the rain!” Daisysaid, punching the air with her fist. Stana shook her head.

               “Not unless you wanna swimthere.”

               “No park?” Emory asked,crestfallen.

               “No, squirt, not today,” Stanareplied.  Emmett sat down and took offhis shoes, pouting.  Angie frownedthoughtfully.

               “Maybe we can’t go to the park,but do any of ya want to have a rainy day movie marathon?” Angiesuggested.  Emmett looked up.

               “Yes!” he said eagerly.  He looked at his older siblings.  Emory took a seat next to his twin and tookoff his shoes as well.

               “Okay,” Danny said.  Daisy nodded.

               “Can we watch the movie with thelions?” Emory asked.  “Rawr!” hedemonstrated, to help Stana and Angie remember what lions sound like.  Stana chuckled.

               “You got it, kiddo.  Any objections?”  The other three shook their heads.  “Lions it is.”

—– 

               Three hours later, Stana andAngie lay on the floor, four of their five children snuggling them intensely, asleep.  Stana looked at the clock.  

               “Gotta go pick Molly up fromschool in a bit,” she whispered to Angie. Angie nodded and scooched a bit closer to Stana, to lean her head on herwife’s shoulder.  Emory made a smallnoise at the movement, but continued sucking his thumb in his sleep.  Danny likewise shifted slightly, but didn’twake up.  “Why did you manage to get theones that don’t wake up to sleep on ya?”

               “Like attracts like, I s’pose,”Angie replied, stroking Danny’s head in her lap.  Emmett mumbled something and suddenly latchedonto Stana’s arm.  Stana sighed.

               “Great.  Now there’s no way I’ll be able to get outtahere without wakin’ him up,” Stana grumbled. Angie played idly with Emmett’s six-toed feet.  

               “Do ya think they’ll figure itout?” Angie asked.

               “Figure what out?”

               “That they ain’t our biologicalchildren.”

               “Uh, was it a different AngieMcGucket that gave birth to Emory and Emmett? And a different Stana McGucket that had the girls?” Stana askedsarcastically.  Angie rolled her eyes.

               “You know what I mean.”

               “…Yeah.  I think they will figure it outeventually.  Probably take ‘em a while,since we were careful ‘bout it.  Used ourrespective twin brothers.  They looksimilar enough alike to be siblings, not…geez, they’re not all evenhalf-siblings biologically, are they?”

               “Nope.  They’re cousins.”

               “Son of a-”  Daisy made a quick movement, cutting offStana’s expletive.  Stana and Angiewatched with bated breath.  Daisy settleddown again.  “Well, Molly knows already.  The girls ‘ll figure it out as soon as theywalk into a biology class.”

               “Maybe they won’t.  They got Uncle Fidds and Uncle Ford, who hada biological child together.”

               “Yeah, but that’s different.”

               “Might take a while fer ‘em tofigure out why it’s a dif’rent situation.”

               “True.”  Stana kissed the top of Emmett’s head.  “God, Emory and Emmett are gonna be upset.”

               “I feel like all of ‘em would besome degree of upset.  Their uncles aretheir fathers.  Well, half of their DNA.”

               “Yeah, but their cool Uncle Lutecontributed to Danny and Daisy.  Nerdy,weird Uncle Ford helped make Emory and Emmett,” Stana said.  Angie shook her head, trying to hide asmile.  

               “Yer really hopin’ they turn outsporty, huh?”

               “Or smart like you.  The cute, not-nerdy kinda smart.”

               “They got my good looks.  Half the way there.”

               “They all got your good looks.”

               “Yours too,” Angie replied,smooching Stana’s cheek.  Stanagrinned.  She checked the clock again.

               “Aw, shit.  Gotta go get Molly.”

               “You do that, darlin’.  I’ll watch the herd,” Angie said, nestlingherself snuggly among her children. Stana began to move slightly, but stopped.  “What?”

               “They trapped me, the littlebastards.  I don’t wanna wake ‘em up.”

               “They ain’t bastards.  We were married when we had ‘em.”

               “…Yeah, you’re right.”