#See if Stan and Ford were still on good terms none of this shit would happen

[aphroditusiscorroded]

I love the idea that Bill’s manipulation tactics are horribly obvious but Ford is so socially inept that it works on him perfectly

“He was a masterful manipulator.”

No bestie he was just nice to you and you folded like a house of cards

[anistarrose]

The Fishtank Between Time and Space (GF One-Shot)

Summary: Stan doesn’t think much of the pet axolotl Ford left behind… until he realizes hardly anyone else can see it.

Word Count: 2100

Warnings: none

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20653508

***

Stan initially figures it’s just a weird pet of Ford’s, simple as that. After all, Ford was okay with him adopting a possum and tying a knife to it when they were kids — little pink salamanders are frankly very normal, by the standards of Stanford Pines.

(Not to mention by the standards of the town that is Gravity Falls. Ford could’ve caught all kinds of disturbing creatures out there in the woods, like a feral gnome or a literal sentient fire... or like something that Stan hasn’t even laid eyes upon, only knowing of its existence from the creaking and rattling noises he always hears when venturing through the forest at night. But thankfully, Ford hasn’t invited any rabid beasts or dark entities that Stan knows of into his house, and Stan’s grateful for that.)

But the salamander — the “axolotl,” Stan learns after finally breaking down and doing some basic research — always feels just a little bit off, in a way he sometimes struggles to put his finger on.

He thinks it’s all in his head, how the beady eyes always seem to be fixed on him. How it never seems to stop smiling. How he’s never once seen it eat, even though the food pellets he gives it never seem to accumulate on the bottom of the tank.

He doesn’t know a whole lot about axolotls in general, and on the basis of that ignorance, he convinces himself that the salamander Ford left behind is perfectly normal.

Until one day a few months after Ford’s disappearance, when something rare happens — he has company other than the usual tourists.

It’s just Boyish Dan Corduroy, hired with some of the first spare cash Stan has had in a long time to come in and fix a few squeaky doors. But he takes his time lumbering through the living room on his way out, which sets Stan on edge. None of the secrets he’s hiding are possible to uncover from this floor of the house, but habit keeps him anxious. Throughout the rare times in his life in which he’s had a residence to call his own, visitors have almost always meant bad news.

Dan’s gaze lands on the fishtank, which has been diligently maintained as a healthy environment for salamanders even though the rest of the room is an unorganized mess. (There are a lot of jabs you could take at Stan’s character, but for whatever reason, he’s developed a soft spot for Ford’s old pet.) As always, the axolotl’s eyes stay fixed on Stan, even though the lumberjack is closer.

“You keep this tank pretty clean,” Dan notes. “You gonna buy some fish or something soon?”

“Well, I’ve already got the —” Stan pauses, realizing he’s not sure how to pronounce axolotl. “The salamander.”

Dan presses his face close to the side of the tank, inches from where the axolotl sits, gills twitching. “Really? Where?”

“You serious? It’s literally right in front of your face — that thing with the pink frills and the beady eyes?”

Dan steps back from the tank, throwing an arm behind Stan the clap him on the back. “Ah, I see what you’re doing! It’s a new attraction you’re testing out on me — the invisible salamander! Good one!”

“Are you — are you fucking with me? Can you really not see —”

But Dan’s already leaving. “Good luck with the Murder Hut business!” his voice boomed from the porch outside. “I’ll tell everyone to come visit your invisible friend!”

Stan whirls around back towards the tank. “Do you know what the fuck that was?” he asked the axolotl. “Who’s really pranking me here — Dan, or you?!”

The axolotl offers no reply, and Stan feels like an idiot for the brief moment in which he’d genuinely expected one.

“Maybe Ford did some weird occult shit to you, and you didn’t have a choice in the matter,” Stan mutters, shuddering slightly as he thought back to all the cracked prisms and X-ed out eyes he’d discovered in his brother’s house. “Or maybe I’m going crazy and hallucinated you all along.”

A bubble comes out of the axolotl’s mouth, rising to the top of the tank before bursting with a satisfying — and very real-sounding — pop.

“Thanks for the reassurance.” Stan tosses a handful of food into its tank, and trudges back to his bedroom upstairs.

There was one rule that Stan very quickly established as he began to run the Muder Hut — or the Mystery Shack, as he was thinking of renaming it — and that rule was not to keep anything genuinely supernatural around, unless it was vital to getting Ford back.

But the axolotl… well, it’s still up for debate whether it really is magical, but Dan hadn’t seemed like he’d been joking, and Stan’s pretty sure that if he was going to hallucinate, he wouldn’t imagine into existence a real salamander that he’d never heard of before with perfect accuracy.

Stan doesn’t want to get rid of it, though. He’s gotten used to the axolotl’s company and the routine of caring for it, even though its eyes still weird him out from time to time. And it’s already been around for months without showing any malicious tendencies, so… would there really be any harm in keeping it around?

***

Months, years, and then decades pass, and Stan’s relationship with the axolotl stays more or less the same. He feeds it and cleans its tank, it smiles at him, and he feels just the tiniest bit less lonely. It’s not much in terms of companionship, but Stan is happy to take what he can get. He talks to it sometimes, telling it about all the places he’s searched for Ford’s journals and all the roadblocks he keeps hitting while he works on reactivating the portal, and it always looks so encouraging.

But two things happen during those years — the first being that Stan becomes convinced that something supernatural is going on with that salamander.

Business is booming so dramatically that he can hardly handle it all on his own, and he goes through several handymen and cashiers before eventually firing each one. Almost all of them comment on the empty fishtank at one point or another, gesturing right towards the spot where Stan can see the axolotl floating, clear as day.

He definitely wonders if he really is hallucinating it after all, but then the second interesting thing happens: someone else notices the axolotl. Several someones.

“I didn’t know you had any pets besides the goat, Mr. Pines!” Soos exclaimes on his second full day working at the Mystery Shack, smooshing his face up against the side of the tank. “What a weird fish!”

Stan is so caught of guard that he doesn’t even think to explain that it’s actually a salamander. “Uh… yeah. It sure is.”

Soos frowns. “Something wrong, Mr. Pines?”

Stan folds his arms, shaking his head even though his mind is racing. “Me? I’m fine. Just wasn’t expecting you to spot the shy little guy, since it usually likes to… you know, hide from strangers. Now, were we going to try and fix the golf cart, or not?”

And that’s the end of the axolotl discussion with Soos, over as quickly as it had begun. During the rare occasions Stan leaves the Mystery Shack, he always instructs Soos to feed it, and the axolotl always seems happy and healthy when he returns. He cannot for the life of him figure out why he and Soos seem to be the only two people in the world who can see it, but eventually he gives up on wondering. A mystery like that would’ve always been more of a question for Ford, anyways.

When he hires Wendy, it takes a while for him to realize that she can see it too. She spends so many weeks passing by the fishtank and not commenting on it that when she finally brings it up, Stan nearly spits out his coffee.

“Where’d you get that salamander, Mr. Pines? My science teacher is looking for a class pet, but everyone just keeps suggesting boring stuff like hamsters.”

“Uh… it came with the Shack. Two-for-one kinda deal, you know.”

“Darn, I was hoping you fished it out of the lake or something. Then I could’ve just gone and caught one myself.”

A few years later, when the twins arrive for the summer, Stan’s heart aches as he watches them discover the fishtank for the first time.

“Hey, Dipper, come check this out! Do you know what kind of animal this is?”

“Whoa, is that an axolotl? That’s so cool! I think I read that in Aztec mythology, they’re associated with the god of twins!”

“Really? Then you’ve just made the perfect new summer pals, Mister Axolotl!”

“Don’t tap on the glass like that, Mabel. You might scare it.” Dipper notices Stan watching them, and immediately starts firing off question after question. “Where did you get it? Do you ever show it to tourists? How long have you had it? How long do axolotls live? It looks pretty small — is it still a juvenile? Do they ever get bigger than this?”

Stan sighs. “Kid, I didn’t even know how to pronounce the world ‘axolotl’ until you showed up today. All I know is how to keep it fed — anything else, and you’re better off looking it up at the library or on a computer or wherever.”

“Well, you at least know where you got it from, right?”

Stan scoops a spoonful of food into the tank, avoiding eye contact with Dipper as he headed back to the gift shop. “I do, but it wouldn’t be the Mystery Shack if I didn’t keep a few secrets, would it?”

Dipper groans. “You’re no fun.”

***

When the axolotl disappears, it hits Stan harder than it should.

Even after thirty years of taking care of it, he never quite thought of it as his pet. It always struck him as more like a roommate, if anything — a lovable little freeloader who came in on its own terms, and stuck around only because it liked the place. Stan’s never given any thought as to why, but he’s always just felt weirdly certain that it could leave at any time if it wanted to.

And now, it has.

So he can’t help but wonder if it’s his fault. If he didn’t clean the tank enough, or cleaned it too much, or wasn’t fast enough noticing or resolving the situation with the lobster Mabel dumped in the tank.

Maybe it wasn’t anything he did. Maybe the axolotl just got bored of watching a man spending thirty years lying to tourists, forging his own brother’s signature, failing to learn quantum physics, and ultimately accomplishing absolutely nothing worthwhile.

Eventually, the kids notice and ask him, and this time he can’t spin it as a secret he’s keeping. He genuinely doesn’t know.

***

After Weirdmageddon, Stan’s memories are a two-thousand piece puzzle scattered across a tabletop, and he thinks he’s starting to fit some of the edge pieces together again, but there are still more gaps than connections. He remembers that the people who have been doting on him and showing him pictures are his family, and he remembers that he loves them and trusts them to help restore him to his former self, but progress is just… so… slow.

He doesn’t remember why they say he saved the world. He’s pretty sure they’re stretching the truth a little, but after seeing the way Ford’s face fell when Stan first asked why everyone was calling him a hero, he’s decided not to correct them.

So what if he doesn’t feel heroic? If it makes his family feel better, he’ll keep it to himself — it’s the least he can do, considering how many tears they’ve already shed for him.

But the first morning after his alleged act of heroism, while trudging through the ramshackle ruins of (he thinks) his house — a flicker of motion from behind cracked glass catches his eye.

The fishtank is nearly drained of water, but a familiar salamander sits in the puddle at the bottom, beaming at him. Stan blinks and rubs his eyes, wondering if he’s still dreaming, but then —

It speaks to him, in an ethereal and musical voice that resonates oddly in his ears, like he’s hearing the echo before he hears the words themselves.

I am so proud of you, Stanley.

“For what?”

Everything.

It dissolves into a froth of tiny, pink, glowing bubbles, which burst one by one as they float towards the top of the tank, and then the axolotl is gone.

***

(End notes:

So one day a few weeks ago, I just randomly woke up thinking “what if the Axolotl was only visible to the members of the Zodiac?” and several bouts with writers’ block later, here we are! Thoughts/comments/reblogs are welcomed as always!)

[thelastspeecher]

Superhero/villain AU - Baby Daddy Drama

It’s been a while since I’ve posted a ficlet!  I’ve been busy, haven’t had time to write up ficlets.  But I have a bit of a break right now, and since I won’t be posting the next chapter of Recoil until tomorrow (I decided I needed to edit it more), here’s some stuff I wrote up today.  I’ve danced around Tate’s role in the Superhero/villain AU, mostly because I couldn’t figure out the circumstances behind how he comes to be.  But I finally figured it out, so behold!  Tate McGucket’s origin story.

(Btw, I forgot to mention, but like in most of my nonsense, Fidds is trans in this)

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

              “They’re down,” Stan said, walking into the living room. Ford looked up from his book.

              “Good.  That took a bit longer than usual.”

              “Eh.”  Stan joined Ford on the couch.  “Thanks for letting us chill at your place for a while.”

              “No problem.  May I ask why, though?”

              “Fidds had a baby today,” Stan said casually. Ford’s eyes widened.  “Angie went to go see him and the baby, but we figured that we’d wait a couple days before the girls met their new cousin.  They can be hell on wheels, after all.”  Ford chuckled.

              “That’s an apt descriptor of them, yes.”  Stan’s cellphone dinged.  He dug it out of his pocket.  “Is that an update from Angie?”

              “Yep.”  Stan grinned at his phone.  “And a picture.  Aw, that’s a cute kid.  Not as cute as the girls, y’know, but still.  Pretty damn-”  His phone chimed again.  Stan’s face went slack.

              “Stan?” Ford asked, after a few moments passed in silence.

              “Shit,” Stan whispered.  He looked up at Ford.  “Ford…”

              “Yes?”

              “You- uh- nine months ago, you and Fidds didn’t-” Stan rubbed his face.  Ford felt dread begin to build in his gut.  “You guys didn’t knock boots or something, did you?”

              “Wh- my sexual history is none of your concern,” Ford blustered, trying to mask his growing unease.  Stan pinched the bridge of his nose.

              “No, I think it is right now.  Fidds’ kid has twelve fingers.”  A heavy weight settled in Ford’s stomach.

              “Pardon?” he asked.  Stan silently handed him his phone.  Ford looked down at the messages Angie had sent.  The first was a picture of a newborn swaddled in a white blanket, with a large nose like Fiddleford’s and thick, dark brown hair.  Immediately after the picture was a text.

              “Tate here has twelve fingers…” Stan’s phone chimed and buzzed as another text arrived from Angie.  “Fidds won’t say who the other parent is, but I don’t need your mom’s power to figure it out.  You need to talk to Ford right away.”  Ford swallowed and returned Stan’s phone.

              “I didn’t even realize he was expecting.  He didn’t tell me.”

              “Why?  He told everyone else.”

              “I- when we-”  Ford looked away, feeling a flush beginning to creep onto his face.  “I was very…emotionally vulnerable that night. Maybe he was worried about how I’d react.”  Stan was silent.  “As for why he won’t tell anyone outright who helped to- to conceive-”

              “Seems pretty dumb, since it’s obvious,” Stan muttered.

              “I assume Lute is there?”

              “…Yeah.”

              “He probably wants to spare Lute’s feelings.” Ford looked at Stan again.  Stan rubbed his face.  “I mean…”

              “Okay, yeah, you and Lute used to date, which is…really awkward for all this, but Lute’s not an idiot, and Fidds knows that. Lute can figure it out.  Why the hell would he keep his mouth shut when it’s this obvious?”  A strange look crossed Stan’s face.  “…Ford.”

              “Yes?”

              “When did you and Lute break up?” Stan asked in a dangerous tone.

              “…Nine months ago.”

              “Son of a-”  Stan put his head in his hands.  “Please tell me that what I’m thinking is wrong.  Please tell me you didn’t rebound from my brother-in-law by sleeping with one of my other brothers-in-law.”

              “If I was good at lying, I would,” Ford said softly. Stan let out a loud groan. “Look-”

              “Okay, how soon after the breakup did you two sleep together?” Stan interrupted.  Ford was silent.  “Stanford.”

              “That night.”

              “That night?!”  Stan whipped his head up to stare at Ford.  “Holy fucking shit, really?  While Lute was crying over the breakup, sitting on my couch and eating my ice cream, you were banging his older brother?  Son of a bitch, Sixer, the McGuckets aren’t the only family with twiggy, big-nosed farm boys!”

              “I- Fiddleford was visiting, we were reminiscing about our college days, and-”  Ford looked down at his book, still open on his lap.  “Even though Lute and I parted on amicable terms, I was still emotionally vulnerable.  Fiddleford offered me comfort and one thing led to another and-”

              “You do realize he’s gonna kill you, right?” Stan asked flatly.  “The day you two broke up, you slept with his brother.  And you didn’t just sleep with his brother, you got his brother pregnant!”

              “I didn’t know about that last part!” Ford snapped, slamming his book shut.

              “That doesn’t make the rest of it hunky-dory!” Stan shot back.

              “You’re not exactly one to criticize me for who I sleep with!”

              “God fucking-”  Stan ran a hand through his hair, which was beginning to smoke.  “You are not gonna bring me and Angie into this!  We made a shitty decision, yeah, but it wasn’t half as shitty as yours!”

              “You were archnemeses!”

              “You slept with your ex-boyfriend’s older brother the day you broke up!” Stan thundered.  He shook his head.  “God, my three-year-old daughters can tell right from wrong, but I need to explain to you why what you did was bad?”

              “I just- I don’t hear any of this vitriol being sent Fiddleford’s direction,” Ford stammered.  He could feel himself running out of steam, guilt beginning to replace his rage.

              “Two things.  First, he’s not fucking here.  Second, he just had a baby.  I’ll wait for him to be out of the damn hospital before I yell at him.”

              “How considerate,” Ford muttered.  Stan’s eyes narrowed.

              “Don’t get cute with me.”  He jabbed a finger at Ford’s chest.  Ford winced.  Stan was worked up enough that his powers were emerging; the jab felt like it was from a red-hot fire poker.  “You’re the one that fucked up here.  You couldn’t keep it in your pants long enough for the dust to settle from your breakup.  You and Fidds.  Lute’s not gonna be happy about this.”

              “You’re not going to tell him, are you?” Ford asked. Stan scowled.

              “Hell no.  But it doesn’t matter.  Underneath that blustery, overprotective twink exterior, Lute’s just as smart as Angie and Fidds.  He’ll be able to figure it out.  And he’s gonna be hurt.”  Ford felt his chest ache.  “He’s gonna be hurt that the ex-boyfriend he loved so much and parted on such good terms with slept with his brother.  And he’s gonna be hurt that his brother – the one he’s stood up for his whole life – would sleep with his ex-boyfriend.”  Ford slumped against the couch.  “He’s gonna use that anger of his to hide how much this whole thing hurts him.  He was so damned excited to have a new nephew to spoil, and now he knows how that nephew was made.”  Stan looked away.  “Lute and I might have started off rough, but we’re good now.  I’m not gonna be on your side this time.”  Stan stood up.  “I’m gonna take the girls and head home.”

              “But you just got them to nap.”

              “I don’t wanna be anywhere near you when Lute comes to your door demanding answers,” Stan said.  His voice was devoid of emotion.  “I sure don’t want my kids around.”  Stan’s phone chimed again.  Stan looked down at it.  His face hardened.  “Yep.”

              “What?” Ford asked weakly.  Stan shoved his phone in his pocket.

              “Lute figured it out.  He’s on his way.”

              “How bad-”

              “Count yourself lucky that he needs Angie’s help to make tornadoes.”  Stan began to head towards the room his daughters were napping in.  “You might wanna invest in some scuba gear, though.”

----- 

              The door opened to reveal Fiddleford, dressed in baggy clothes, a towel tossed over one shoulder.  Fiddleford rubbed the bags under his eyes.

              “I was expectin’ you at some point,” he said tiredly. Ford swallowed.

              “May- may I come in?”

              “By all means.”  Fiddleford stood to the side, allowing Ford to enter.  Ford had visited Fiddleford’s home a few times.  Each time, it had been somehow both cluttered and clean; every single one of the many pieces of machinery tucked away on some shelf or in a drawer somewhere.  Now, though, it was a mess.  Empty boxes for various baby-related items lined the hallway leading to the door.  In the far-off living room, Ford could see baby clothes and toys scattered on the floor.

              “How- how are you doing?” Ford asked softly as he stepped inside.  Fiddleford closed the door behind him with a shaky laugh.

              “I’ve got no clue how Stan ‘n Angie managed to deal with two at once.”  A shadow fell over Fiddleford’s face.  “Then again, no one in the fam’ly was just pretendin’ to be nice when they helped out with Danny ‘n Daisy.”

              “What do you mean?”

              “My folks are here,” Fiddleford said in a low voice. Ford’s mouth went dry.  “They wanted to stop by fer a couple days to help. And…well…once word spread about Tate’s parentage…”  Fiddleford trailed off.  “They’re goin’ easy on me right now, ‘cause I’m still a bit vulnerable.  But once I’m back to normal, I wouldn’t be surprised if my whole garden up and died, or if a freak windstorm dinged up the house.” Fiddleford sighed.  “Honestly, I wish they’d be upfront about their frustration. It’d be better than this fake cheerfulness.”

              “This seems rather…harsh,” Ford ventured cautiously. Fiddleford slumped against the wall, rubbing his face.

              “I wonder if their reactions would be dif’rent if we weren’t a fam’ly of villains.  The ‘no snitches, no traitors’ code runs deep.  And I’ve betrayed Lute.”  Fiddleford’s voice broke.  “My own brother.”

              “How is he?” Ford asked.  Fiddleford shook his head.

              “If I knew, I’d tell ya.  Within about five minutes of seein’ Tate up close, he stormed out.  Haven’t seen him since.  He’s- Lute ‘n Angie are awful sim’lar.  They struggle to keep their emotions under wraps, ‘specially in the heat of the moment. I get the feelin’ Lute knows he wouldn’t be able to control his powers if he spent time with me or Tate.  He might be fine if I got a bit scratched up, but he wouldn’t want Tate to get caught in the crossfire.”

              “It doesn’t help that Lute tends to use anger to mask his more vulnerable emotions.”

              “No.  It doesn’t.” Fiddleford bit his lip.  Finally, he let out a long sigh.  “Well, no point in delayin’ it.  Come meet the lil Tater Tot.”  Ford silently followed Fiddleford down the hall and into the living room. Mrs. McGucket sat in a rocking chair, holding a small bundle, while Mr. McGucket was tidying the room.  Mr. McGucket looked up at the sound of footsteps. His face twisted.

              “You!” he snarled, stomping over to Ford.  “Get out!”

              “Mr. McGucket, I just-”

              “Leave!  You broke my son’s heart and then broke it again!  Lute’s been devastated by this.”  Mr. McGucket shook his head.  “Can’t believe I was naïve enough to think that Stan would be the problem of the two of ya.”

              “Mr. McGucket-”

              “No arguin’, boyo.  Yer not welcome in this place.  Not after what you’ve done.”

              “Pa,” Fiddleford interjected.  “This is my home.  I let Stanford in.  He can stay until I kick him out.”  Mr. McGucket glared at Fiddleford.  The venom in his expression startled Ford.

              “If Lute hears-”

              “Mearl,” Mrs. McGucket said, still rocking back and forth in her chair.  “Stanford has a right to meet his son.”

              “Th-” Ford started.

              “Don’t thank me,” Mrs. McGucket said shortly. “Then I’d have to say you were welcome. And you aren’t.”  Ford’s body filled with ice at her vicious tone.  She got up from the chair and strode over. As she got closer, Ford could feel harsh, dry, hot wind biting where his skin was exposed.  Fiddleford looked at his mother, exasperated.

              “Ma.  Please cut that out.”

              “Hmph.”  Mrs. McGucket pursed her lips into a straight line, but the wind stopped.  “Hold out yer arms.”  Ford did as he was told.  Mrs. McGucket carefully deposited the bundle she was holding into his arms.  Ford felt his heart begin to race.  He carefully parted the infant’s bangs to reveal his eyes. Tate stared stoically at him, his eyes brown, rather than Fiddleford’s blue.

              “Hello, Tate,” Ford croaked.  Mr. and Mrs. McGucket exchanged a frustrated look before turning away and marching out of the room.  Ford swallowed the sudden lump in his throat.  “Fiddleford, I’m sorry that your parents are-”

              “We’re both to blame,” Fiddleford said.  He stroked Tate’s cheek with one finger.  “I refuse to let ya bear it all on yer own.” His voice was thick with emotion. Ford could only nod, unable to speak, the weight of everything that was happening finally crashing over him in full.

              “He’s very- he’s very handsome,” Ford managed, still staring at Tate.

              “I agree,” Fiddleford said softly.  Tate yawned widely.  Despite himself, Ford smiled.  He held out a finger.  Tate eagerly grabbed it with his hand.

              His six-fingered hand.  Ford had known Tate had twelve fingers like him, but actually seeing it in person was more than he could bear.  He let out a choked sob.

              “You all right?” Fiddleford asked.  Ford shook his head.  “What’s wrong?”

              “Well, my ex-boyfriend flooded my house, my sister-in-law refuses to let me in her house, my twin brother is following her lead, and the relationship I built with my sister-in-law’s family is crumbling.  And all of it is because of the conception and birth of my son.”  Ford closed his eyes.  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

              “I hoped it wouldn’t be obvious whose he was,” Fiddleford said.  “I thought I might be able to get away with no one suspecting a thing.”

              “Polydactyly is dominant.  There was a 50% chance he’d be like me.”

              “And 50% chance he wouldn’t.”

              “I just- you were really going to keep me in the dark?” Ford asked softly.  “About my son?  You expected to raise him as a single parent, never telling me whose he was?”

              “I hadn’t planned that far ahead.  All’s I planned was keepin’ it a secret from Lute fer a while. Maybe until he’d found himself a new main squeeze.”

              “What if I had gotten back together with Lute? What then?”

              “I…”  Fiddleford looked away.  “Like I said. I didn’t plan nearly as far in advance as I should have.  I just wanted to keep Lute from gettin’ upset like he did.”

              “No matter how long you held off telling him, he would have been upset,” Ford pointed out.  Fiddleford sighed.

              “Yer right.”  He rubbed his forehead.  “All I can hope for now is that he cools off a bit.  Give the sit’ation some time, and maybe I can build up a relationship with him again.”  Tate began to fuss loudly.  “He’s prob’ly hungry.”

              “Oh.”  Ford handed Tate to Fiddleford.  “I- I should probably go.  I have some work to do at my mom’s place.”  Fiddleford cocked his head curiously.  “She was the only person willing to take me in while my house gets repaired.”

              “Ah.”

              “Even still, she’s pissed at me.  Stan told her what happened.”  Ford rubbed his forehead.  “It feels a bit like it’s just me against the world right now.  And rightfully so.”

              “I’ve been feelin’ the same way m’self,” Fiddleford said softly.  He took a hold of Ford’s hand and squeezed it.  “Don’t worry.  It might take a while, but things’ll blow over soon.”

              “Easy enough for you to say.  Aerokinesis runs in your family,” Ford said.  Fiddleford managed a small smile.  On impulse, Ford leaned over to kiss Tate’s forehead. “Goodbye, Tate.  I look forward to spending more time with you.”  Tate stopped fussing for a moment to stare at him in shock.  Fiddleford chuckled softly.

              “I think he’s lookin’ forward to it, too.”

[littlemonstersau-blog]

The Feels Awaken, Interlude 2: One Rogue Thought

Written by @jkl-fff

PART I - PART II [Interlude] - PART III - PART IV [Interlude] (you are here) - PART V [FINAL]

——————————————————————————————–

Bill, putting DVD back in case: Well, now you’ve seen ‘em all (until they finish the new ones, of which only Renegade 6 will be stupendous, and that largely thanks to everyone dying—much pathos by meatbag standards, much comedy by mine). So … Whaddya think, Fordsy?

Ford, taking in a deep breath: I think … I think I’m personally going to make a working lasercutlass (with SCIENCE!), drive to wherever the hell George Dufas lives—

Bill, helpfully: That would be Skyjogger Ranch, not too far north of San Francisco. I know, because I know lots of things.

Ford: Alright then, I’m going to drive to Skyjogger Ranch, and then I’M GONNA SHOVE MY HOMEMADE LASERCUTLASS RIGHT UP HIS SCRIPT-SPEWING ASS AND ACTIVATE IT!

Stan, startling awake in easy chair: Wha?! Huh?!

Ford: THAT WAS THE BIGGEST WRECK OF TRAINS THAT WERE LOADED WITH ASS-SHIT THAT I’VE EVER SEEN! [rises to his feet, stamps around, gestures emphatically] AND I’VE BEEN TO SEVERAL DIMENSIONS WITH EXTREMELY SHODDY RAILWAY INFRASTRUCTURES AND BOOMING, FERTILIZER-BASED ECONOMIES! MEANING SEVERAL DIMENSIONS WITH FREQUENT AND NOTABLE WRECKS OF ASS-SHIT-LOADED TRAINS!

Stan, rubbing eyes: Yeah, we picked up on your meanin’ there. [yawns, scratches self] What time’s it, anyway?

Bill, grinning at this development: What’d you think of the acting?

Ford: WOODEN! FLAT! LIFELESS! LIKE THIS FLOOR!

Bill: All George Dufas’s fault. Those were all highly acclaimed, highly trained actors, and highly gifted actors. He insisted as Director they act like they didn’t know how to. Like I said before.

Ford: WHAT?! WHY?! RRRAAARRRGHGHGH!

Stan, yawning: Moses, it’s past midnight already …

Bill, egging it on: Heh. And the depiction of non-human meatbags?

Ford: MOSTLY INFURIATINGLY RACIST CARICATURES OF HUMAN MEATBAG CULTURES—er, “human cultures”, I meant just “human cultures”—AND BLANDLY UNIMAGINATIVE OR INSUFFERABLY ANNOYING (LIKE JERKJERK)!

Stan, heaving himself upright: Hey, Sixer?

Bill: Hehehe! George Dufas’s influence again. And the use of the Force? The lasercutlass duels?

Ford: THE FIRST WAS SO UNDERUTILIZED AS TO BE FUCKING POINTLESS, THE OTHER SO OVERDONE AS TO BE SHITTING BORING! THEY MADE SWORDFIGHTING WITH LASERS BECOME BORING! HOW?! WHY?!

Stan: Sixer?

Bill: Hahaha! Still George Dufas! And the script?

Ford: THE SCRIPT?! WHAT SCRIPT?! THAT WAS USED, BARGAIN-PRICED TOILET PAPER! RRRAAARRRGHGHGH!

Stan: Sixer!

Ford: WHAT?! … Er, sorry. What?

Stan: It’s past midnight. Meanin’ it’s bedtime. You comin’ or what?

Ford: Gah! I couldn’t possibly sleep now! I’m too enraged!

Stan, shrugging: Well, I am. So … keep the nerd-ragin’ at, y’know, an “indoor voice” level of volume. ‘kay? [kisses him goodnight, shuffles out]

Ford, momentarily taken aback: Um … Where was I?

Bill, helpfully: The script. Which was also George Dufas’s fault. Basically, the whole prequel trilogy is a case study of what happens if you give a man who had one or two good ideas in the past— when there was an entire team of more talented people to shoot down his one or two thousand bad ideas and sculpt the few good ones— complete creative control of a project.

Ford, remembering how disgusted he is: No, it’s a case study of what happens if a tornado picks up a barn full of diarrhetic animals— A LITERAL SHITSTORM—hits a warehouse of blank paper, then some fuckwattle decides to gather up the pages and use it as a script! It made exactly 0.0 sense as a story! According to SCIENCE! itself there wasn’t even a measurable amount of sense made in this story! And, believe me, I understand that writing isn’t easy, but they had … How long exactly to work on the scripts?

Bill, promptly: Almost exactly16 years to work on the first one, then almost exactly 3 years for the second one, and another 3 for the third.

Ford, trembling with self-control: S-sssixteen years for one script? And that mmmakes … t-t-twenty-two years total to come up with … with that p-pile of hot, fffffuck-juggling shhhhhhhhhhhit … [loses it, explodes] OH MY VARIOUS ENTITIES OF COSMIC POWER FOR WHOM THE TERM “GODS” COULD REASONABLY BE USED AS A SHORTHAND, EVEN IF IT IS SOMEWHAT MISLEADING!

Stan, from the other room: Indoor voice!

Ford, stomping around: WE COULD COME UP WITH A BETTER PLOTLINE FOR A PREQUEL TRILOGY IN ONE NIGHT THAN THAT MOVING BAG OF NEGATIVE FUCKGUZZLE DID IN TWENTY-FUCKING-TWO FUCKING YEARS! AND Y’KNOW WHAT?! [takes Bill by the shoulders] WE WILL, GODSDAMNIT!

Bill, disbelieving: Really? You wanna do something with me?

Ford: AND IT’LL HAVE COMPELLING CHARACTER ARCS, AND SUBTLY DEEP WORLDBUILDING FOR THE GALAXY, AND THE FORCE’LL BE SHOWN—

Stan, from other room: IF YOU DON’T KEEP IT DOWN, STANFORD PINES, I’LL COME OUT THERE AND SHOW YOU MY FORCE RIGHT UPSIDE YOUR FOOL HEAD!

Bill, excited: Mabel left a bunch of … of arts and crafts stuff upstairs. We can use those for this! I’ll just … just run and get them! Hang on! [scampers up the stairs]

Ford, suddenly alone: … wait a minute … [stops short, looks around deserted room) What the freeze-dried hell am I doing?

Stan, grouching back in: What you’re doin’ is bein’ a pain in my ass—a loud pain in my ass!

Ford, almost panicking: No, I’m … about to write better plots for the prequels? With Cipher? I think?

Stan: And? What’s the problem?

Ford: And I don’t … I can’t trust him! That is the problem!

Stan: You can’t trust him to help write what is essentially gonna be a Cosmos Conflicts fanfic? [rolls eyes] C’mon, Sixer, it’s not like he could write anything worse than what we just watched. You were just goin’ on about that.

Ford, faltering: No, I mean, he’s still planning to takeover! No one can trust him, so what am I—

Stan: Just be the scribe yourself; that way, you maintain creative control of the fanfic and he can’t take it over.

Ford: I mean the planet! Er, the galaxy! Gah, no, the dimen—

Stan, deadpan: Oh, yeah, that’s a real dilemma right there. Can’t have Farth Bill takin’ over that nerdlinger galaxy, or we’ll hafta write a whole ‘nother generation of whiney Skyjoggers masterin’ the Force to confront him.

Ford, irritated: Damn it, Stanly, you know what I’m talking about!

Stan, rubbing eyes: Look, I’m gonna share some Old Wisdom™ I learned as a professional conman with you. And which, in fact, you yourself told me rather recently. [lays hands on brother’s shoulders, looks him in the eyes] You don’t hafta trust someone to work with ‘em, ya dumbass. And don’t hafta trust ‘em to be nice to ‘em, neither, ya dumbass. Or even to like ‘em, ya dumbass. You can do all that, while still not trustin’ ‘em … ya dumbass.

Ford, blinking owlishly: … What? I told you that? But—

Stan, slowly: Listen, I didn’t trust Bill at the start of the summer, but I still talked to him. Still interacted with him and was nice … ish and such. And only a week after? I had him workin’ for me. [gestures dismissively] Yeah, he caused some trouble at the start, but I didn’t lock him up ‘cause of it. I was patient with him, I showed him I’d work with him, and I showed the l’il bastard he can’t beat me at my own game— I always got an eye on him, so he can’t get anything major past me. And now? He’s just like any other employee I’ve ever had (except for Soos) … Slacks off and shoplifts about the same amount, too.

Ford: … And you’re bragging about that?

Stan, smugly: Heh. Yep. Think about it, Sixer. For him, that’s huge progress.

Ford, reluctantly: I guess, but—

Stan: Listen, you don’t hafta trust Bill. Okay? You know already he’s up to something (or so you’re convinced, anyway), so he can’t trick you. You’ll be suspicious of absolutely everything, so he won’t be able to get something past you in the middle of, say, writin’ your stupid, nerd fanfic. Or talkin’ ‘bout an anomaly. Or just havin’ a civil conversation every now and then. Okay? This gettin’ through that metal plate in your skull? I mean, it should be able to since—not to put too fine a point on it—you suggested it to me not too long ago.

Ford: I don’t … need … to trust Cipher … to be nice to him …

Stan: Exactly. And—Moses on a moped!—his name is Bill. [turns, goes to leave, pauses in doorway] And for fffffuck’s sake, keep it down while you two do whatever. Some of us are tryin’ to actually sleep.

Ford, standing lost in thought: … can’t believe it … so simple … really have been a silly, old fool not to see it all along …

Bill, returning: Sorry that took so long. I got buried in an avalanche of Mabel’s spare sweaters while digging this stuff out. [unloads an armload onto the table, pulls up paper and pencil] Where do we start, Fordsy?

Ford, a little overwhelmed: Um … honestly, I’m not sure …

Bill: Hmm … Well, what’re the big problems that gotta be fixed? Let’s start with that. What made you mad in the movie?

Ford, after only a split second of thought: Midi-chlorians firstly. Those go, because the Force is a mystical power-energy thing— damn it all!—and not some sorta bacterial infection!

Bill, making a note: Good. Good. How about that Rule of Two? Speaking as a megalomaniac, I can say it’s stupid to only have one agent working for you. You’d get nothing done!

Ford: Um …

Bill: What? Oh, Yog-Sothoth’s sixth soleus, that was a joke.

Ford, deciding to believe that: R-right. Um … None of that immaculate conception or prophecy crap, either. That’s gone. Came out of nowhere, served no purpose, we don’t need it.

Bill, making a note: What, you don’t like the idea of Space Jesus? How about rewriting the romance so that it doesn’t just … happen, y’know? So that there actually is a romance, and not just two straight characters who bone ‘cause they’re the opposite genders?

Ford, getting excited: Moses, yes! And rewriting Otherkin so he isn’t some whiney kid who just … just does stuff because the plot needs some action! We could do that for all of them! We could make it all as great as it deserves to be!

[hours and hours of excited fanboy collaboration transpire …]

[sirkkasnow]

10 Let Someone Else Pick Up The Tab

Ao3 link

07/18/13 Thursday

The nerd brigade was in full control of the living room by the time Stan was up and about the next day. Graph paper, rulebooks and glitter-spangled character sheets were littered across the carpet. Clary sat enthroned upon the recliner with a bunch of pillows arranged to support her elbows. She leafed gingerly through some arcane tome tricked out with silver ink as Dipper hovered to one side, pointing out paragraphs here and there with a pencil and a note of shrill excitement.

“... so that’s what they did with the clerics in the latest rule update!”

“How are the warlocks looking in this edition?” Clary flipped to the back, then started paging through intently. Today’s kerchief was an improbable shade of star-spattered purple. One of Mabel’s scarves strapped down a towel-wrapped ice pack at the back of her neck. “They’re kind of garbage for one-shots, but if we get something longer-term going online I have a concept...”

“Ah, we - usually avoid warlocks - “ Dipper glanced over at Ford, who’d popped up with a frown from behind a cardboard screen. “But if we end up trying an online campaign we can talk! Today’s just an intro. Some puzzles, some mysteries, perhaps some villains.” He waggled dramatic fingers at Clary, who grinned back with an appreciative ‘ooOOOooo.’

Stan made to slide on by, intent on heading out to the yard and the cars and the testing-out of a happy engine, but Mabel caught sight of him and scuttled out in pursuit. “Grunkle Stan! Help me out for a minute, we need ice pops for these brave adventurers!”

“Hey, sweetheart.” He grinned at Mabel, caught Clary’s eye in passing and absolutely did not blush a little, nope, no way, he was too old and too jaded for that kinda nonsense.

Mabel squinted up at him appraisingly, planted hands at his back and shoved him towards the gift shop. “So?” she hissed between her teeth as they staggered down the hallway. “Gimme the 411.”

All he could manage was a thumbs up. Her eyes went wide and she yanked up the cowlneck of her sweater to muffle a high-pitched squeak of glee. “So, she asked me out, I guess, maybe when we’re in port, since we swapped phone numbers an’ all - “

“Did you kiss her?!”

“What? No!”

“You should. She gets all dreamy-eyed - “

“Mabel, she is a classy dame, you don’t rush that kinda thing!”

“There is no dame too classy for my Grunkle Stan.” She hugged him hard around the waist and ran off to the gift shop, leaving him dumbfounded. “I’ll grab you a pineapple one!”

He hauled both the toolbox and a pineapple ice pop out to the yard, late-morning sunshine laying across his shoulders with a warm and soothing weight. The Fairlane’s engine was familiar as the back of his hand after two weeks of tinkering with its insides. Stan propped up the hood and dove in, checking and re-checking his work, reaching in to tweak a connection or two. A low hum of satisfaction rumbled in his chest as he slid into the driver’s seat and shook out the keys.

A good half tank of fuel remained, so no problem on that front. The engine sputtered briefly as he coaxed it into life, then settled into an even cadence that was easy enough on the ears, but Stan cocked his head as he listened. A faint off note in the sound plucked at some distant memory. He leaned on the gas a bit, leaving the car in park.

Then blinked, as the subtle vibration he’d been registering resolved itself into something more rhythmic.

“Shit.” Stan yanked his foot off the pedal and flipped the key back towards him, the thrum of well-regulated combustion rudely interrupted by an earsplitting clatter that echoed off the surrounding trees. The engine took way too long to wind down into silence, something in its guts rattling around hard enough to jostle the suspension. He laid a hand across his brow and swore fervently under his breath.

Twenty seconds passed before the side door banged open and a blur pelted across the yard. Clary smacked into the driver’s side, barely catching herself against the window frame. Winded, she stuck her head into the passenger compartment, frantic eyes flicking across the dash and the dented hood. “That was a piston.”

“That was a piston,” Stan agreed grimly.

“What - what the hell happened? Is the engine dead?” She sagged against the car.

“Well - “ Clary made a strangled noise of protest and he winced. “No. No, no, it’s not dead but things just got more complicated. I swear this isn’t my fault.” His brother and the kids were almost there, trotting across the grass. “Ford, did McGucket get all that heavy equipment shifted up to his new place? We’re gonna need an engine sling at the very least.”

Ford looked a little stricken as he accepted Dipper’s phone. “I thought we’d need to take the wagon up there for the bodywork, but I hoped it’d be under steam by then. Yes, the garage should have everything we’re going to need and then some.” He scrolled through contacts and tapped a number, turning away to engage in low conversation.

Clary straightened, leaning hard on the door for support. “All right,” she whispered. “Fine. Not like it hasn’t been a comedy of errors since I crashed into the town jewel at the peak of the season.” Her hands came together with a sharp clap. “We’d better get the rest of my junk out of the car. May I have some help?”

There wasn’t much left to clear out at this point. Clary opened all the doors and the back gate, letting the kids shuttle the last couple of bags into the house. She handed a skinny box of bottle rockets over to Stan. “Leftovers. I guess we can fire those off when this thing’s finally done.”

Then she collapsed onto the edge of the driver’s side passenger seat, doubled over with her head in her hands. “Good Christ. We just can’t catch a break, can we?”

Ford dropped into a crouch with an ease Stan envied, looking up to her and speaking firmly. “We promised that we’d get you on the road again and we shall. We’ll understand, of course, if you want to cut your losses at this point. The offer of a rental stands, if you want to head up to Seattle and come back to collect your car.”

She was already shaking her head, laughing raggedly. “Come on, Ford. You understand the sunk cost fallacy as well as I do. Thank you, but no.” Clary patted the seat back. “Whatever it takes, it’s got to be this ride. Stan? Can you actually fix it?”

That stung a bit but he couldn’t blame her. “Yeah. I mean, it’s gonna be another week, maybe a little more, and we might be haulin’ McGucket in to help out some.”

Clary drew a careful breath. “Who exactly is McGucket?”

“Best mechanical engineer I’ve ever met,” said Ford.

“Town crank,” said Stan, and got a glare for his trouble. “What? They’re both true!”

Ford sighed and rose. “I’ve been hoping to introduce you to Fiddleford anyway. There might be quite a bit to talk about! Can you adjust your schedule to accommodate another week or so?”

“My next firm commitment is in September. I arranged to leave most of the summer open. I will admit I expected to spend most of it on the road.” Clary’s smile was crooked.

“The McGuckets would be happy to have us as soon as we can arrive. Is it all right to line up a tow truck?”

“Go for it. Thank you, Ford.”

Ford’s smile was the warm, reassuring one he tended to bust out for the customs agent when they’d come skidding into some obscure port with inadequate paperwork. “Shouldn’t take much more than half an hour.”

Stan watched him head back towards the house and sat heavily behind the steering wheel. Clary studied her feet, then pitched backwards with a groan, legs hanging out the door as she sprawled across the back seat. Both hands came up to cover her face. “Aaaaaaauuuuuugh.”

“You all right over there?” He set the fireworks down in the footwell and draped an arm over the backrest, peering down in concern.

“Everything hurts and I want to cry.”

Stan fidgeted. Extending reassurance had never been his strong suit. “Listen...McGucket is definitely a little nuts but he knows his way around a combustion engine like nobody else. Between him an’ me we’ll get it runnin’.”

“This damned car.” She sounded so tired. “I had one job this summer, get this thing from Colorado to the west coast, then back home to Baltimore. I haven’t even made it to the Pacific yet!”

“Pretty roundabout route for gettin’ back to Maryland.”

Her breath hitched. “Yes,” she said. “I suppose it is.” Clary let her arms fall, one drooping to the floor, the other crossed over her abdomen, and stared up at the roof light. “Stan, I’m glad I’m here. I hate that I don’t have any control over being here.”

Stan tried out comforting responses in the back of his head for a couple seconds, words sticking in his throat. “Well, if you’re gonna be here another week, we’re doin’ the dance thing next Friday. You an’ I could actually, y’know. Dance. If you want,” he clarified as her eyes swiveled over to him.

Clary was silent just long enough to make him nervous, but at last the unhappy line of her mouth softened. “I meant what I said. I’m not taking it back. Even if the car still isn’t running.” She lifted a hand and hooked her index finger into his at the seat back, letting the weight of her arm hang. “Let’s dance.”

She was beautiful in her exhaustion. Stan shifted to hide a widening smile against his shoulder and tightened his one-digit clasp in hers. “Great. I’ll see ya there. Gonna be quite the swank party.”

They trailed the tow truck in the El Diablo, Clary tucked into the front seat, Ford in the back with the kids. Dipper narrated choice bits of Northwest family history all the way, none of it flattering. Clary kept glancing back to him in astonishment. “They were really that bad?”

“They used to be, but they don’t have all that dirty money to throw around any more! And, uh. Pacifica’s okay.”

Mabel jabbed him in the ribs with an elbow.

“Ow. Anyway, McGucket ended up buying the place at the end of last summer, so it’s probably changed a bit, but it’s huge! I haven’t been up there since the big party last year. Hey, there it is.”

Clary looked up to the vast lodge-style manor on its hill as they rounded a curve and emerged from the trees. “Stan?”

“Yeah?”

“This town doesn’t make any sense.”

“Thought you’d figured that out by now.” He swung the car up along the long drive, squinting up at the mansion. “I never did manage to slip into this joint while the Northwests were runnin’ it.”

“It takes a lot of money to be that tacky. Clary, Dipper is definitely taking us on the tour.” Mabel hooked an arm firmly through her brother’s. “We’re gonna let the machine geeks go at it for a while.”

“I don’t know, Mabel....”

“C’mon, you said it wasn’t haunted any more! What’s the harm? I’m sure the Northwests took all their awful family portraits with ‘em....”

The kids bickered all the way up to the garage, which was as oversized as the rest of the place. He could just glimpse a tinkerer’s dream of equipment in there – stuff he recognized, stuff that looked to be custom built, some massive grease-encrusted hunks of machinery that must have come up from the town dump along with McGucket.

The man himself was a lot less grease-encrusted than he used to be. McGucket still sported the overalls and the spectacles, but he was scrubbed, bright-eyed and less stooped, and the missing teeth had been patched in through some kind of dental wizardry. Mabel and Dipper hauled Clary off for introductions while Stan and Ford got the wagon unloaded, oriented and nudged into the open bay.

One thing hadn’t changed at all and that was the language. McGucket’s conversation was as peppered with hick-isms as ever. “What a pleasure to meet ya, miss! Ford’s filled me in on yer situation and I’m real sorry y’got stranded out here, but we’ve got the stuff t’get ya right on the road again! I hear there’s a thrown piston t’fix?” He, the kids and Clary, her eyes widening a little with every twang, took off on a tour of the further corners of the space. An occasional snippet of discussion drifted back Stan’s way as he tried to focus on the immediate necessities.

“Just as well she already knows this place is a little strange.” Ford caught Stan’s jacket as it was tossed over, then shucked his own coat and hung both up on pegs.

“Not sure I’d’ve brought her up here without knowin’ she wouldn’t flip.” Stan got the Fairlane settled into place, set the brake and went looking for a dolly.

“You wouldn’t believe some of the things he’s built! McGucket can do stuff with old cars that’s practically miraculous--!” Dipper was nearly hopping in excitement as the little tour group rounded the far end of the garage. Stan glanced up, caught his nephew’s eye and dragged pinched fingers along his lips: zip it, kid. Dipper blinked, went a little red and reined himself in. “I mean he’s not going to do anything weird to your car. Grunkle Stan will make sure of that.”

“Of course not! Why, it’d be a crime to take apart such a pretty thing.” McGucket caught one of Clary’s hands in both of his and peered up in watery-eyed sincerity. “I promise we’ll take real good care of it. Mabel, honey, y’said you wanted t’take a quick tour? I can send ya up with Tater if y’like.”

Stan hauled up the hood and latched its support into place, listening in. Clary’s polite smile finally loosened up into something genuine and she tightened her grip in McGucket’s. “That’s your son, right? I’d love to see the place. Mabel says it’s something else.”

“Sure is! Left up most of the fancy stuff, gold doorknobs an’ all that claptrap, might have t’swap ‘em out next time we need some for circuit boards or whatever...” McGucket fished a heavily modified cell phone out of a pocket and chattered into it as he led the other three up towards the house.

“Gold what?” Stan asked under his breath as they went out of sight.

“Don’t ask. I’m not sure whether he’s serious and it’s not worth crossing the path of the latest Patrol-O-Bot prototype to find out.” Ford peeled out of his sweater and hung that up next to his coat. “Where do we start?”

It took most of an hour for McGucket to make it back down to the garage, by which time they’d gotten the engine fluids drained and the banged-up hood removed. “Nice dings y’got there! Ford, she said it was that magnet gun o’yours did the deed? Maybe we can set up opposin’ fields, pop that sucker nice an’ flat again?”

Stan rolled his eyes a little and tuned out the dense cloud of nerd words that McGucket and Ford generated every damn time they crossed paths. Gibberish along the lines of ‘get a few more horsepower out of it’ and ‘polymer coatings’ and ‘increased fuel efficiency’ bounced back and forth as he methodically disassembled and labeled everything in the engine compartment.

They were all sweaty and grimy by the time Clary and the grand-nibs reappeared. Clary looked up at the sling-suspended engine with worried eyes, then drew breath and squared her shoulders, jangling a set of keys by their fish-shaped fob. “Guess who’s got a loaner,” she sang. “Tate is spotting me his spare truck. He let me raid the larder up at the manor, too, so I’ve got dinner covered. Anyone mind if I run the kids back down to the ranch?”

“What, all we had t’do for some replacement wheels was wreck the car even worse an’ drag it up here?” Stan grinned over her way and she grinned back, relaxing a shade. “Lookin’ good so far, Clary. Sure, seeya back at the Shack this evenin’.”

“Thank you, fellas. Thank you, Mr. McGucket!” Clary shouldered a canvas bag and headed for the far end of the garage.

“Call me Fiddleford!” came out from somewhere under the Fairlane.

The loaner turned out to be a lightweight pickup with ‘Tate & Backle’s Bait & Tackle’ decaled on the doors. Dipper, Mabel and Clary all loaded themselves in. Clary fired it up with a low roar and with three shouts of ‘wooooooooo!’ they peeled out down the long, curving drive back towards town.

“They’re going to get in trouble, aren’t they?” Ford peered out after them from behind the bulk of the kitbashed machinery he’d been using for cover.

“Less trouble than they’d get in if I were drivin’! C’mon, let’s finish pullin’ these pistons.”

Stan and Ford didn’t head back down until nearly sunset. They’d borrowed one of the manor’s ludicrous excess of bathrooms for showers, and Stan had ‘borrowed’ one of the thick, fluffy, pure-white, gold-logoed bath towels to take home through the simple expedient of folding it up and stuffing it under his arm.

The Stanleymobile’s usual parking spot was a lot emptier without the wagon angled in next to it. Mabel was waiting for them on the couch when they finally pulled in, snapping her scrapbook shut as they ambled wearily towards the house. “Gentlemen! Have we got a meal for you! How’s the car?” She waved them in towards the dinette.

“In pieces,” Ford said dryly. “It’s a good start at least. What did you make?”

“Oh, you’ll see.” Mabel waggled eyebrows at both of them and vanished off down the hallway. “Have a seat! We’re almost done!”

The dining table was dolled up with a tablecloth Stan was pretty sure had been a curtain last week and a candelabra nicked from a Summerween exhibit. He grabbed a chair just in time to dodge Dipper, who scurried in to drop off a plate lined up with neat rows of salami-wrapped mozzarella, olives and tiny pickles. “Appetizers!” he called in passing, doubling back to the kitchen.

Stan exchanged glances with Ford, shrugged and reached for an olive. “This oughta be entertainin’.”

A low argument between the younger twins, just loud enough to be audible, was intercut with sporadic bits of crackling radio. Clary walked through to set a pitcherful of water and a few glasses on the table, then leaned in to speak softly. “The soundtrack was not my idea, got it?” Stan was struggling to stifle laughter by this point; Ford resolutely bit into another pickle.

Eventually the crackle settled down into what sounded like distant cocktail-hour strings. Mabel marched in first and set down a bowl of fancified rice. “For your consideration, tonight’s menu is produced by our executive chef, Miz Clary Merrick!” Dipper and Clary shuttled in serving dishes until the table was loaded down - garlic bread, a couple different green things he didn’t pay much attention to, and chicken in some pale lemony sauce.

Ford’s nose actually twitched. “Where on earth did you find capers?”

“The pantry up at the McGuckets’ place is bigger than my entire kitchen. You wouldn’t believe the weird pickled things in there. Capers were easy.” Clary laid a napkin across her lap and reached for the rice. “Let’s eat.”

The whole spread turned out to be about a dozen steps above meatloaf. Stan demolished a pile of chicken piccata, went for seconds and found himself fork-dueling with Dipper over the last bit. “Settle down, you two.” Clary nudged back from the table. “There’s pie for dessert. Maybe after we’ve digested for a couple of minutes. But first - “ She steepled her fingertips and looked out critically across the empty dishes. “I have a proposal to make.”

Mabel bounced a little in her chair. “We want to throw a picnic!”

Clary glanced heavenward. “My sainted mother,” she said, kicking the nearest leg of Mabel’s chair, “was a terrible cook, but she had a few specialities and one of them was the family fried chicken. We’re going to have the big dance thing next Friday. So, with your permission, Ford, Stan.” Her chin dipped as she looked at them in turn. “I’d like to host a picnic lunch that afternoon for you guys and anyone else you think I should meet before I pack it up and head out.”

Stan conceded the last bite of chicken to Dipper - kid needed all the protein he could get anyway - but stole the serving dish and swabbed out every trace of sauce with a crust of bread. “Is your fried chicken half as good as this stuff?”

“Better.”

“Sold.”

Mabel beamed, teeth and braces gleaming, and - too late - Stan sensed the trap. “Fantastic! So we’re gonna need to do a bunch of prep.” Her scrapbook came out onto the table, bang, and she flipped it open to a page festooned with tiny curling streamers. Clary deftly snatched plates out of the way, handing them off to Dipper, who ran them to the kitchen. “We’ve got an invite list started, but Clary and I will need to schedule a couple of meetings. You know, to get everything organized since she’s gonna host. That means we have to get Grenda and Candy and Pacifica over here to help out - we need glamour consultants!”

“This means a slumber party, doesn’t it.” Ford’s eyes narrowed, but Stan didn’t see any way to wiggle out of it this time.

“Since everyone’s scattered all over town, it only makes sense to gather here, doesn't it? We'll have to talk about the menu, the décor, the clothes, the music, there's a lot to do.” Clary plucked the piccata bowl from Stan’s slack fingers. “I’ve been extended an invite which I’m honored to accept, so there’ll be adult supervision. Surely we can host for one night?”

Ford groaned quietly. Stan raised both hands, knowing when he’d been beat. “Fine. Deal. As long as you deliver on dessert.”

“Oh, I’ll deliver. Has everyone got their second wind?”

“Heck yes,” chorused the kids. Clary stacked up the remaining dishware, whisked it away and returned with some kind of lemon curd pie dolloped with whipped cream. It was too tart, too sweet, completely delicious and almost gone by the time they were all too stuffed to eat any more of it.

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“I’m glad to be here, Stan. I just hate it that I’m stuck.” She stares up at the dome light with tired eyes.

You could take a day trip to Bend with the bike.

We could probably get in another fishing trip.

So, that dance thing’s coming up on Friday.

[novantinuum]

A Tale of Two Trollhunters (Ch. 2)

AO3

Fandoms: Gravity Falls, Trollhunters

Rating: T

Words: ~2500

Summary: Glass Shard Beach, 1967. When the trollhunter Kanjigar perishes years before he was supposed to, the amulet of daylight finds its next champion in a seventeen year old Stanley Pines. Now essential in the destiny of both the trolls’ subterranean world and the human one above, Stan, along with his twin brother and girlfriend, must fight to protect both worlds from the dark forces creeping in at the edges.

But destiny has a way of being unpredictable.

A Gravity Falls/Trollhunters fusion AU. Kind of a drabble series?

Note: Little to no knowledge of Trollhunters is required to understand this, I think, since Stan is going to discover this world for himself.

First chapter | Next chapter

Chapter 2: Daylight

Stan awoke to a soggy pillow, soaked in drool. His nose and mouth scrunched up in disgust as he wiped the slime off of his cheek. Already sensing from the dull throb behind his eyes that today would be more exhausting than usual, he dragged himself out from under the covers. He yawned, taking inventory of his surroundings. Ford was already halfway down the road to alertness and readying himself for the day, rummaging through his drawer for a clean pair of socks. Outside their window, he heard his dad shouting, the reason already explicitly clear to him. His brows threaded together, fingers fidgeting at the hem of his boxers. Aw shit, the man sounded pretty pissed off... “You okay?” “What? Uh-“ He flinched at the sudden address, Ford’s concerned expression focusing into view. Good grief, it was just his brother, just good ol’ Ford, nothing to bolt out of the room like Carla’s neurotic dachshund over. “Yeah, I’m fine,” he said, grabbing a pair of jeans off the top of a pile of clothes he’d scattered on the carpet by his bed. He gave them a sniff, and satisfied that they couldn’t stand up on their own, slipped them on. “Just had a really weird dream...” Images flowed through his still-waking mind, of iridescent blue and runic shapes. His journey to the beach at dawn, reading the text on the side of the amulet... the armor, the sword. It all seemed so unimaginable in hindsight, but the longer he was awake the more details he realized lined up pristinely with those foggy memories. He recalled hiding the amulet under his pillow when he finally returned to his room, and lo and behold it was still there. Granules of sand dusted his sheets, tracked in from the beach. Normally he’d wash his feet off before entering the apartment but this morning he failed to do so. And his father’s obvious anger this morning was proof that he indeed- as feared- impulsively shattered one of the pawn shop windows with a rock to make it appear as if a thief had entered in the early hours. None of it was a dream after all. However, he’d only know for sure once he got time alone to read those magic words again. “Good weird or bad weird?” Ford asked, tugging on his sneakers.

“Eh, I dunno. It’s all too fuzzy,” he said with a shrug, and slipped the amulet into his backpack when his brother was turned. “But probably no weirder than anythin’ your brain comes up with, yeah?” 

He grinned, playfully elbowing him. Ford gave him that look he was so often at the receiving end of, complete with a single tilted eyebrow. Obviously he was not awake enough yet to enjoy some innocent brotherly pestering. A shame, really. He had a lot of quality material piling up. “Actually,” his twin said, pulling his bloated knapsack over his shoulders, “I haven’t remembered any of my dreams in much detail for a few years. So I can neither confirm or deny how weird my dreams may or may not be.” “Or what if- oh my god, what if all you dream about is boring everyday stuff, like reading, or eating a sandwich or taking a test?” he laughed. “But you’d never know because you can’t remember!” “Well, at least the subject of my dreams is actually mysterious, and I don’t talk in my sleep,” he quipped back, glancing pointedly at a spot somewhere behind him. Stan followed the path of his eyes to the polaroid of Carla pinned to the wall, and flushed a deep red. “S- shut up!” Ford grinned deviously. “Tell that to yourself.” ____

Stan exited through the pawn shop, locking the door behind him. Not that it helped much, with one of the front windows shattered to fragments. He cringed at the sight of glass scattered across the sidewalk, his father standing above the mess as he spoke with the local police. Uh-oh. Police becoming involved in this mess couldn’t pan out well. Damn, he wished he had more time to think through a plan before doing the first idiotic, impulsive thing his dumb mind could come up with. All he knew at the time was that he needed a way to keep the amulet without his dad knowing, which meant he couldn’t merely take it. If it went missing without a ruckus, he was sure he’d be suspect numero uno. But if it looked like an unrelated criminal broke in and stole it... he might have a chance to get away scot-free. So yes, he threw the rock. So sue him. The only trick to the plan now was convincing his father that he knew nothing about this. He yanked his worn backpack straps further up his shoulders, and walked towards him. “I see you’re finally up,” his dad greeted, as the police officer returned to their car. “Ford left for school fifteen minutes ago.” “Yeah, uh- what happened here?” he asked, feigning (what he hoped could be taken as) shock. “Some cretin threw a rock through the window while we were sleeping and stole that piece I showed you,” his dad huffed, crossing his arms. “There’s no sign of it, or any potential suspects.” “Geeze, that really sucks ass.” “Indeed it does,” he muttered, lightly kicking at a pile of glass with the toe of his shoe. “And it’s gonna ‘suck ass,’ as you so delicately put it, for all of us- repairs like this aren’t within our month’s budget. Hope you like rice, beans, and canned soup, son, because seems we’ll be having a lot of it.” “Aw, man. Is there anything I can help with?” Stan asked, scratching at his neck. His father crossed his arms and turned to appraise the damage once more. “I could use your eyes,” he admitted softly. “You’re the only person besides me who actually saw what it looks like. If you see that amulet, or anything suspicious around town, you let me know.” “I can do that,” Stan said with a nod. And it wasn’t entirely a lie, either- he’d definitely be keeping watch for any more strange occurrences after what happened early this morning. The catch was, he didn’t plan on ever telling Dad. He clasped his hands together. “Welp, I’m off to school. See you tonight.” The man merely hummed in response, and returned to scowling at the damage suffered by the pawn shop. ____

“For the glory of Merlin, daylight is mine to command,” he recited in a whisper, concealed from bystanders’ sight in the shadows of a back alley. With a pulse of light from the amulet, his feet lifted off the ground exactly like they had before. The armor materialized around him, and the grooves glowed blue for a second as he unceremoniously dropped to the ground, stumbling a little with the sudden added weight. He grinned, flexing his fingers. Very much not a dream. ____

“Are you okay?” Carla asked, leaning against the wall. She combed her fingers through her long curly hair, body language spiked with worry. “Yeah, ‘m fine,” he said as he unceremoniously dumped his notebooks in his locker. He fished through the crumpled papers in his backpack in search of his half-finished math homework, sneaking a glance at the amulet secured in one of the inner pockets. “Why does everyone keep askin’ me that today?” “Oh, I dunno, maybe ‘cause you look like you haven’t slept a wink in days?” she pointed out with a playful smile, and brushed the side of his face with the back of her knuckles. He eagerly leaned into her touch. They hadn’t seen each other since Friday, an unfathomable length of separation which in the world of teen romance might as well be a lifetime.

“Just had a rough night. I’ll be okay, babe.”

Her face dawned with realization. “Oh, is this about your family’s shop?” she said under her breath, carefully watching those passing by. “I saw it when I walked here. God, I’m so sorry that happened to all of you!”

“Naw, it’ll be fine,” he said, and slung his backpack over his shoulder. “It’s just a busted window, an’ hey, at least they barely even stole anythin’!” The final bell rang, gracefully interrupting his train of thought. Teens still loitering in the halls broke into sprint. Poor suckers, vying to reach their classes before teachers marked them tardy. As much as he’d love to avoid sitting in class for another excruciatingly long period, he knew far too well that he better follow their lead and dash as well. After all his offenses this term, Ms. Morgan had become annoyingly adept at catching him in the act of sneaking to his desk late.

“Go run, I’ll see ya’ at lunch,” he said with fondness, and kissed her cheek.

A wide smile blossomed across Carla’s face and she grabbed his hand, pulling him back to gift him with an additional kiss on the lips. “See ya’!” She retrieved her own bag from the ground and joined the flow of other students running down the hall.

Stan smiled dreamily, kiss still on his mind as he closed his locker and began the long march to Room 198, in the other wing of the school. He slowed down as he passed the first water fountain. Eh, procrastination at his locker already doomed him as tragically late- why bother running? It’s not like he cared about school that much. And so as the time passed ten o’ five he found himself entirely alone in the halls, excluding the hypnotizing ticking of the clocks.

Before he knew it the tempo of his march lined up with the timepiece’s.

The teen passed an empty classroom, and screeched to a stop faster than a crash test dummy flung mercilessly against a barricade. The hairs at the nape of his neck prickled with fiery intensity. He could swear he felt someone’s eyes locked onto him from within, from deep in the shadows. Feet propelled him at a crawl, and he slid flush against the door frame, wishing more than anything the amulet was in his hand now and not buried in between crumpled week old assignments. He closed his eyes, focusing on the rhythm pounding in his chest, focusing on what was real… what was tangible. Biting down restraint, he peered through the open doorway…

And saw absolutely no one.

Nothing but empty desks and half-erased blackboards. Not a soul stood in here. God, no one was spying on him. It was nothing but his overstimulated imagination, working overtime ever since he found that weird magical amulet.

“You dolt,” he scolded himself. “Gettin’ worse then your own twin.”

Go to class, his subconscious nudged him, and suddenly nothing else in the world sounded better. Go to class and forget about all this nonsense for a moment, Stan. It’s nothing.

It’s nothing.

____

He kicked a stray rock on the beach as he crossed the wind swept sand later that evening, wearing shoes for once. Ma would be proud, he thought, stifling laughter. His destination- the Stan O’ War- stood regally a few miles down shore, sail stretched tall and proud but tied off on the mast so the wind couldn’t catch it. Ford planned to meet him there soon, and then he’d whisk him into the caves to show the amulet in secret. That was his full plan, at least. First, one particular spot by the docks called intensely for a visit.

The mound of rubble acted as a significant enough landmark that he spotted it a fair distance away. His pace quickened, no longer paying any heed to avoiding piles of broken glass. Breath heavy as he came alongside it, he sat down next to the shattered stone. When his brother showed him this yesterday, feeding him theories about rock monsters, he’d scoffed at him. Back then he’d seen it as Ford bein’ Ford: comin’ up with wild conspiracy theories and desperately vying to find something out of the ordinary to prove he had a place in this world. He always understood why his bro felt so attracted to theories like that, but all the same he feared encouraging them, because what if others judged him even more for it? Ford was bullied enough already, he didn’t need a larger target on his back. Now, however- he slipped the amulet from his back pocket, holding it tightly in his palm- he imagined it’d be silly not to listen to him at least a little.

With the recent confirmation of the existence of magic, Stan couldn’t shake the theory that these two things were connected, amulet and stone. He wasn’t sure why, as being found on the same day was a harmless enough coincidence. It was more of a gut feeling, rising up swiftly within his core, vying to boil over with answers he wasn’t sure he was prepared for. Not for the first time his search for the truth left him lost, yearning with feverish intensity to understand his role in fate’s turning, if fate did in fact exist. Ma, despite being a fake phone psychic, wholly believed in fanciful stuff like that. When he and Ford were kids she used to tell them how she ‘sensed they were fated to bring balance to this world.’ Stan always thought it was one of those confusing adult metaphors then, and years later brushed it aside as empty parental encouragement.

But nevertheless, playing devil’s advocate, what if? What if destiny did play a role in directing people’s actions? What if there was a reason why this amulet ended up in his possession, how it called by name? The amulet’s crystal pulsed blue, and he gripped it ever tighter. He stood at the edge of a precipice, he could sense it. If only he were as clever as his brother, maybe then he’d know how to connect these cogs together.

Ford would join him in a few minutes, though. Best then to begin his walk towards the ship.

He traversed the shore, for once not able to find comfort in the gentle breeze of sea air or the sight of endless ocean horizon his heart ached for. What if something went wrong? What if the amulet wouldn’t work around other people, and Ford thought he was making fun of him? Or what if he snitched on him for stealing it from Dad? With so many negative outcomes to consider, should he risk telling his brother in the first place?

And yet… what would happen if he chose to keep it secret? He’d never kept secrets from his twin before, never. Where Ford went he followed, and vice versa.

It was written in their DNA.

____

I’m nearly finished writing the next chapter for this, excitingly- which will be the twins’ first meeting with Blinky and Aaarrrgghh. Such a fun bunch to write for, haha! Since this is a kinda... niche AU, if you enjoyed this I’d appreciate any comments on AO3 or reblogs you could give as support <3

Thank you for reading my madcap AU nonsense lol