#mostly because of Ford getting two things taken care of in one chapter

[crossroadsdimension]

Lucky!Ford AU

Whelp. It’s about time that I posted the next chapter for this. We get some very Ford-ish shenanigans in this one. :) Thanks to @howtotrainyournana for beta-reading this for me!

Chapter 3

“G-great-Uncle Ford?”

“Hm?” Ford stopped frowning at his breakfast and the hairs of his brother that happened to be stuck in it. “What is it, Dipper?”

The boy fidgeted a little under his great-uncle’s gaze. “I...I think I might know who has the second journal.”

“Well, why didn’t you speak up sooner?” Stan growled from the stove as he flipped a pancake.

“We weren’t sure whether or not he did have it, so we sent Wendy to spy on his house while you guys were downstairs yesterday,” Dipper explained quickly.

“Yeah!” Mabel nodded. “And when she got back, she said there was some strange stuff going on at his house, and she was able to confirm that he has it!”

“Who has it?” Ford demanded.

“Gideon Gleeful.” The redhead -- who had stayed overnight -- twirled a fork between her fingers. “Ugh, I hate that kid. He keeps stealing my moisturizer.”

Stan groaned. “I know you kids haven’t had the best of times with that kid, but do you really need to take out your anger on him by siccing my brother on that fake psychic?”

“The bolo tie he had was a psychic amulet!” Dipper shot back. “And he’s had this really weird obsession with the house!”

Ford’s eyebrows rose at that. “Psychic amulet?”

Stan also paused and looked over at Dipper. “Yeah, it is kinda weird that he wants our house when he already has one.”

“Weird nothing.” Wendy pulled a flashlight with a crystal tied to the bulb end out of her shirt. “I used Dipper’s shrinking ray to sneak into his house and poke around a little. Nearly got sucked up by the vacuum twice -- his mother never stops and I have no idea why -- and when I finally got to his room, I found a book that looked like Dipper’s sitting in what looked like some kind of shrine.”

“I didn’t see that when he shrank us,” Dipper muttered, frowning. “How did I miss it?”

“It looked recent; probably in the last couple of days,” Wendy supplied. “Honestly, I’m lucky that he wasn’t there when I was.”

“May I see that?” Ford motioned to the flashlight. As Wendy handed it over, he asked, “You called this a ‘shrinking ray’?”

Dipper’s eyes lit up. “Yeah! I found that crystal in the woods -- l-like you said in the journal, where you said you saw animals in strange sizes? There’s a whole lot of those crystals in the woods, and if you shine light through them at a certain angle, it grows or shrinks whatever the light’s aimed at!”

“Really? I assume flipping the crystal changes it between a shrinking and an enlarging ray, then?” Ford ran his fingers over the crystal on the flashlight in interest. “Fascinating!” He pointed it at his fork and quickly flicked the light switch, causing the bit of silverware to suddenly increase in size by a couple inches. He flipped the crystal over and reversed the increase in size a moment later. “Simply fascinating!”

Dipper bounced up and down in his seat. “I know, right?? I really wish I had access to a microscope or something so that I’d be able to see what the crystal’s structure is on a microscopic level! I’d have to be careful not to get my eye shrunk or doubled in size, though.”

“Well, obviously. And have you tried other kinds of light other than natural or incandescent? That could bring up a myriad of alternate affects.” Ford handed the flashlight back over to Dipper. “I would like a look at these crystal growths myself, as well.”

“R-really?”

Stan cleared his throat. “Don’t we have that journal and that Gideon brat to worry about first?”

Dipper slapped his forehead as Ford blinked a couple times, sliding back into focus and away from the discovery that Dipper had just shown him.

“Right, right! If he’s got the second journal, then we’ve gotta get it back from him!” Dipper slammed a fist into an open palm, reminiscent of an action from Stanley from years long past.

“Agreed.” Ford rose to his feet. “How old is this Gideon?”

“He’s younger than us,” Dipper replied. “Ten, I think.”

“And really creepy.” Mabel shuddered. “Not good boyfriend material.”

“Not to mention he’s been eating into my paying customers.” Stan scoffed. “He’s just a puny little stage magician.”

“Not just a puny stage magician,” Dipper responded. “He tried to kill me because I told him Mabel didn’t want to see him anymore! I bet he knows his ways around spells and who knows what other kinds of things because he’s got one of Great-Uncle Ford’s journals!”

Ford’s trigger finger twitched. “Where does he live?”

Dipper quickly gave Ford the address. “His dad owns a used car lot right next door.”

“Worst bunch’a lemons that I’ve ever laid eyes on,” Stan added. “Seriously, you drive one out of his car lot and it breaks down as soon as it gets on the street. I’ve seen that happen to bozos, and they just turn right around and go buy another one.” He huffed and rolled his eyes. “Wants me to sell to him. Like that’s ever gonna happen.”

Ford hardly listened to his brother as he moved away from the table. Checking to make sure that there was a blaster still at his hip (which there was), he started towards the door.

“Great-Uncle Ford, wait!” Dipper scrambled after him as Ford stepped out onto the porch. “L-let me come with you -- Mabel and I have gone against Gideon before; maybe we could--”

“Dipper, as much as I would appreciate your help, I don’t think it would be wise for you to come with me,” Ford replied seriously.

“We could distract Mr. Gleeful for you.” Wendy came up behind the two of them, Mabel right next to her. “He’s probably the only thing standing between you and that creep, and he’d probably call the cops on you if you tried to do anything.”

“Y-yeah!” Dipper nodded vigorously in agreement. “We’ve handled going up against them before -- it shouldn’t be a problem keeping his attention away from Gideon for...fifteen minutes?”

“Hm.” Ford inclined his head slightly. “Getting the attention of the local authorities would make things more difficult….”

Dipper, Mabel, and Wendy all fixed him with determined expressions.

“Very well; but do not let on that you are aware of my being in the area.” Ford paused to consider something. “Is he aware of what Gideon is up to?”

“Probably?” Dipper scratched his head.

“Try definitely!” Stan called from the kitchen. He appeared in the doorway behind the kids and frowned at Ford in his tan trench coat and red sweater -- clothes that had been untouched over the thirty years that Ford had been gone. “Least you could’a done is worn that black stuff you came in with. Give that brat a good scare while you’re climbing through his window or something.”

“No time for that,” Ford replied crisply. “Kids, you go on ahead and try to catch this ‘Mr. Gleeful’ and hold his attention for as long as possible.”

Mabel rubbed her hands together eagerly. “I’m gonna go call Candy and Grenda! I’m sure they’ll wanna help!” She scrambled back into the house and up the stairs, just barely avoiding the pig that came crawling out from under the kitchen table.

Wendy pulled something out of her pocket, smirking. “I bet Thompson and the others are up for egging his car lot again.”

“M-maybe we can TP them, too!” Dipper added. “Grunkle Stan went and got some more recently -- I’ll go grab a couple rolls!” He disappeared into the house.

“Now you’re talkin!” Wendy called after him with a laugh.

“Word of advice!” Stan called. “The cops may be dunderheads on the best of days, but they do still have a soft spot for that brat and his dad. You’re gonna need something to distract them with if they happen to get called in for vandalism!”

“Not a problem, Mr. P!” Wendy held what Ford guessed was a phone up to her ear. “Lee, get the gang together. Wanna bug Mr. Gleeful again? Yeah -- get the gang together and park by the junkyard. We’re gonna need a McGucket-sized distraction if we’re gonna keep the cops off our backs this time.”

Ford did a double-take. “You know McGucket?”

Something in his voice caused Wendy to look over at him with an odd expression. “Y-yeah, I’ll meet you there with Dipper and Mabel.” She pulled the device away from her ear and looked at Ford with her eyebrows furrowed together in a concerned expression. “Look, Mr. Pines 2, I don’t know what Old Man McGucket was like thirty years ago, but he’s a crazy old man who lives in the junkyard.”

“Crazy?” Ford repeated.

“Yeah. Whatever he saw in that portal thing must’a done something to his mind or something.” Wendy shrugged.

It took a moment for that to sink in; Ford shook his head. “No, no it wasn’t that. It can’t have been...the Nightmare Realm was nightmare-inducing, yes, but….” Something else flickered into his mind, then, and his eyes widened. “Oh, no. I told him to destroy that infernal device before it was too late!”

“What device?” Dipper came back to the door, arms full of toilet paper rolls.

“Candy and Grenda are ready to roll!” Mabel chirped as she followed after him.

Ford shook his head, forcing memories of another time into the back of his mind and adding something else to the short list of things he needed to do now that he was back in his home dimension. “Good. Then let’s move out.”

Dipper, Mabel, and Wendy clambered into what looked like a golf cart and took off down the road towards town. Ford followed after them at a decent run, his thirty years being on the run leaving him hardly winded by the time he left the woods and reached the town itself. Remembering the address that Dipper had given him, Ford turned down a few streets and jogged past some of the locals without so much as glancing at them. He noticed the wide-eyed stares he got from them; cries of “Stan, where are you off to in such a hurry?!” rang in his ears.

Obviously, Stan had become a bit of an important figure in the town. Or, at least, a well-known one.

Which meant that kicking him out of the house and onto the street would certainly get him a lot of flack for it. Maybe even a mob, if he was that unlucky.

Ford pushed the thought out of his head as he was passed by a blue minivan with a crowd of teenagers hanging out the windows and hollering at the top of their lungs while an old man with a really long beard danced on top of the roof. The dancing stopped after a moment when the old man and Ford’s eyes met for a second, causing Ford to blink a couple times out of confusion.

Is that…?

The van turned a corner sharply; Ford caught sight of Dipper and Mabel in the back window before the vehicle disappeared from sight. He slowed his run as he reached the turn in the street and peered around the fence.

The van parked a few blocks away from a rather nice-looking house; the old man on the roof stood there for a moment, then scrambled to pull something out of his beard as he leaned over to look down at the teenagers who were climbing out of the vehicle below him. He saw Dipper call something up to the man, who nodded and fidgeted a little before looking over at a fenced-in area across the street. He aimed an odd-looking contraption at the area and fired.

A moment later, a rather rotund man came stumbling out, patting out a fire that had manifested on his hat. He shook a fist at the old man, who screeched and leapt off the van before running off on all fours.

When Ford saw Dipper and the others start pulling out egg cartons and toilet paper rolls, he dashed across the street to the house.

“Gideon’s up on the second floor!” Wendy yelled as Ford jumped over the fence. He gave a quick wave in response before he started scaling the side of the house in order to get to one of the windows on the second floor.

“Wow!” one of the boys yelped. “Look at him go!”

“Less talking, more TP-ing!” Dipper yelped back. “Before Bud gets back!”

“You got it, little man!”

While the teenagers started hooting and hollering below him, Ford started peering through the windows of the second floor in an attempt to find the boy Gideon’s bedroom.

He was lucky enough to find the boy’s room at the first window, but alarmed when he saw what it was that the little white-haired boy was doing.

Ford grabbed onto the upper edge of the window and jumped forward into the window, feet first.

Crash!

The boy -- Gideon -- squealed like a pig and scrambled back in instinctive shock as the glass shards flew across the room. Some embedded themselves in the candles that were around the circle that had been drawn into the wooden floor.

Ford flew in and stomped down on the triangular shape that was in the center of the circle. He made it a point to scuff the eye out with a boot before he turned his gaze to Gideon and the familiar red and gold book that the boy was holding in his chubby little hands.

“Wh-who -- how dare you!” The wide-eyed expression on Gideon’s face quickly turned to one of anger. “Do you realize what you’ve done?! It took me hours to get that just right, and now you’ve broken the--”

“Give me my journal,” Ford growled, cutting the rant off. “Now, boy.”

“--circle -- your journal?” Gideon blinked abruptly in confusion.

“Yes. My journal.” Ford moved closer as Gideon scooted back across the floor, wide-eyed. “That kind of information isn’t something that a child like you should have access to. Hand it over, before you cause irreparable damage to the universe as we know it.”

“Y-you’re the Author?” Gideon’s back bumped against the wall, and he stared in dumbfounded confusion. “B-but -- y-ya look like Stanford Pines! A-are you--”

Ford reached down and grabbed the journal, all six fingers exposed for Gideon to see. The boy’s eyes widened even further as Ford growled out, “Stay away from my house and my research. The knowledge that these books contain is too dangerous for you to comprehend.” He turned and looked down at the circle that had been drawn in the middle of the bedroom floor and scuffed more of the lines, putting out the candles and making sure that the entire thing was completely unrecognizable, much less salvageable.

There came the sound of feet thumping on the stairs outside of the room, causing Ford to turn his head sharply.

“I-I have so many questions.” Gideon rose to his feet, looking amazed.

“I am not going to answer them,” Ford snapped in reply. “If I see you anywhere near my house again, I am going to make sure that you question the decision for the rest of your life.”

With that, he jumped out the window and rolled to a stop a short distance from the road.

The blue van that he’d seen before drove up in front of the house; one of the side doors was yanked open.

“Get in!” Dipper yelled.

Ford dove in without argument, and Dipper slammed the door shut as the man crouched between two seats -- and two teenage boys, who stared at him with wide, disbelieving eyes. The van lurched forward with a screech a moment later, leaving the Gleeful house far, far behind.

“Did you get it?” Dipper asked from where he’d scrambled into the back.

Ford held up the familiar journal, a number 2 written onto the hand on the cover. He quickly hid it away in his coat a moment later. “That boy was about to do something very foolish; I appreciate that you managed to alert me to his presence and had the foresight to check to see if he had it.”

Dipper made a noise that sounded like a muted squeal in response. “I-I’m just glad I could help, Great-Uncle Ford!”

“Thanks for the help, guys!” Mabel added.

“Dude, any excuse to egg that guy’s car lot is a good excuse.” The teenage boy on Ford’s left gave a wide grin. “He’s going to be so steaming mad, I bet you could cook an egg on him!”

The entire van burst out laughing, and despite himself, Ford found himself smiling a little at the thought as well.

“Ya know, Old man McGucket got a little freaked when he saw this guy,” the teenager on Ford’s right remarked. “Any idea why that is?”

Ford’s smile disappeared abruptly. “It’s none of your business.”

“Easy, dude, I was just asking a question.”

Ford saw Wendy look back from the front passenger seat for a moment, then looked at the rather round boy driving. “Stop by the junk yard again before we get back to the Shack.”

“A-are you crazy?”

“Thompson, just do it. This probably isn’t going to take very long.”

Thompson shifted nervously in his seat, but he did as he was told. A few minutes later, they had driven past a tall wooden fence and into a yard that was filled to the brim with wrecked cars and other devices that had long since lost their ability to be used.

Wendy turned around again and looked down at where Ford was crouched. “Mr. Pines, we’re here.” She paused. “He, uh...I don’t know if he remembers you, but--”

Ford shook his head. “If I come out into the open now, he’s going to fly into a panic and force himself to forget again with the memory gun.”

The teens exchanged looks at that in confusion.

“Memory gun…?” Dipper trailed off. “There was something about that in the Journal, but...didn’t you say that was destroyed?”

“I’d hoped it was. However, considering Fiddleford’s present state, I…” Ford ran a hand down his face. He couldn’t afford to let his emotions run rampant. “I don’t think that now is the best time to talk to him.”

Thompson seemed to take that as the signal to start backing out of the junk yard, but then a loud shriek came from somewhere outside the van.

“LET ME GO YOU VARMINTS!”

Ford’s head shot up at the old man’s scream, eyes widening. Before Thompson could punch the van back any further or bring it to a halt, Ford had pushed the side door open and barreled out of the van and into a small group of red-robed individuals, kicking and punching them back with a lot more force than was to be expected from most men his age.

Ford positioned himself between the bearded, hunched over, trembling figure and the red robes, scanning them quickly. When he saw one of them pull out what looked like a gun with a light bulb on one end, he lunged for him and flattened him against the ground.

Ford’s knee slammed down on the man’s hand, shattering the gun-like device.

Crack!

The yell of pain that came from the man a moment later indicated that Ford had broken his hand as well.

“How dare you!” one of the robed figures yelled. “That was from the founder -- our only remaining--!”

“Can it!” Ford barked back. “I’ll hit you so hard you’d think you’re the founder if you don’t get back!”

The man Ford had tackled scrambled out from under him, cradling his hand close to his chest as the others gathered around him.

“I wish we could unsee this,” one of them complained.

“You can’t unsee anything; those memory guns don’t work forever,” Ford snapped in reply. “The memories can and will come back, given the proper triggers.” He waved them off. “Get out of my sight, before I make you regret even more coming after this man.” He made a rather dramatic show of reaching for his blaster.

The red robes scattered, running out of the junk yard in a mad, scrambling panic, screaming at the tops of their lungs, “It is unseen!”

“Not anymore, you crazed lunatics!” Ford shook a fist after them, but they were already out of sight. He relaxed his stance and sighed, shaking his head.

“...Stanford?”

Ford turned his head a little at the nervous lilt in the voice behind him. He closed his eyes and sighed before turning around completely to look down at the man whose life he had just saved.

Fiddleford McGucket stared back up at him with wide eyes, looking Ford up and down as though he was searching for something. “I-Is...is that really you?”

Ford hesitated. He could very well turn and run and get the kids out of the junk yard with him at this moment -- he didn’t want to talk to Fiddleford now, but...if he had a chance, while he still remembered….

Ford sighed again and dropped down into a crouch, causing Fiddleford to scramble back a little at the movement. “It’s me, Fiddleford.”

Fiddleford stared at him with a disbelieving expression.

Ford fidgeted a little under the other’s gaze, adjusting how his trench coat furled out behind him. “I, uh...I destroyed the portal yesterday. I couldn’t before because...well, you were right, Fiddleford, and I ended up trapped on the other side. I did manage to find a way home without...without you know who getting through.”

Fiddleford sucked in a breath sharply at that, his eyes widening.

Ford’s gaze wandered away from his old friend and to what looked like a shack made out of scrap metal. Was that where Fiddleford has been living for the last thirty years? “He won’t be able to get into this dimension anymore; I’ve made sure of that.” He paused. “I don’t expect you to forgive me for everything that happened between us. At this point in time, I’m just...I’m glad to have seen you. I’d understand if you didn’t want to--”

Suddenly there was something -- no, someone -- colliding against his front, causing Ford to lose his balance out of surprise as Fiddleford slammed into him.

“You big idiot.” Fiddleford’s voice was muffled against Ford’s sweater as the two of them lay on the ground. “You big, idiotic idiot.” He lifted his head and looked at Ford, who was watching him with a saddened expression.

“I know,” Ford replied. “And I’m sorry for it.”

Fiddleford rapped his knuckles against Ford’s side, but the action didn’t have much force behind it. “You’re more muscle-y than I can remember.” He sounded slightly surprised.

“Thirty years on the run can do that to a man.” Ford paused, then reached up a hand and rapped it against the side of his head.

Clang clang.

The noise caused Fiddleford to stiffen up.

“I’ve taken precautions against the demon,” Ford explained. “He can’t get into my mind; no one can tamper with it, in fact.”

Fiddleford blinked owlishly a couple times, then reached up himself and rapped against Ford’s head, getting the same sound. He pulled his hand back quickly. “Ford, what happened to you?”

Ford looked away from Fiddleford at the question. “I suppose...I learned my lesson the hard way.”

“Well, I gathered that. You Pines are all too stubborn for yer own good! It’s like everythin’ has to be pounded into yer skulls before you learn anythin’!” Fiddleford started pounding his fists against Ford’s head, producing a cacophony of noise.

“Ow ow ow!” Ford pulled his head back and put his hands between his head and Fiddleford’s hands. “I may have a metal plate in my head, but that doesn’t mean that doesn’t hurt!”

“Good! Cause it means I can still pound more lessons in if ya don’t listen!” Fiddleford shot back. “Have ya made up wit’ yer brother yet?”

“Wha--”

“ ‘Cause I can remember him bein’ nice ta me more ‘n a few times, an’ if yer gonna keep on bein’ stubborn, then I’m gonna reinvent the memory gun an’ wipe out the incident that got you two feudin’ in the first place!” Fiddleford’s voice was slowly getting louder. “I know family feuds, an’ if ya don’ do somethin’ now, yer gonna end up splittin’ yer family in two fer so long that they’re fightin’ just fer the sake of fightin’, and then where are ya gonna be, huh?!”

The junkyard fell silent at that. Ford had a guilty sort of look on his face as he turned his head to look away from Fiddleford again.

“So go back and talk to him ya big lug!” Fiddleford started pounding on Ford’s head again, causing the other to react by pushing the bearded man off and scrambling to his feet. “Go on, git! An’ the next time I see ya, it better be wit’ yer brother!” He shook a fist at Ford in a threatening manner, but there was a spark in his eyes that said he was equally humored and angry.

Ford scrambled back to the van and climbed in, shutting the door behind him and dropping into his previous position between the seats as Thompson backed out of the junkyard and drove out of town. None of the kids looked at Ford; they must have heard most of the conversation.

Ford sighed and put his head in his hands, then felt a pair of hands on his back and glanced back.

Dipper and Mabel gave him reassuring sorts of smiles.

“If there’s anything we can do to help, Great-Uncle Ford,” Dipper said, “you can count on us.”

“Yeah.” Mabel nodded in agreement. “Anything to get you two to hug it out!”

Ford stared at the two of them with a sort of uncertain expression, then gave a quick little smile in response before returning his attention to the front of the van.

He wasn’t entirely sure what was going to happen now, or if the kids were in fact able to help him. He had been thirty years too far gone from this plane of existence, and it showed.

Ford found himself quietly dreading the amount of time he was going to have to spend adjusting back to his home Earth.

[neitherever-nornever-goodbye]

Number Five Fic Recs

I have spent days reading Five fics since season 2 aired, so I decided that I might as well start jotting them all down for anyone’s interested. It’s a long list, here we go xD

Completed

1.  Blood and Steel by @e-vasong, T, 6900 words

Diego gets shot. Five is evasive. There is a bit of an emotional reckoning, and neither of them are even vaguely equipped for it.

2.  Carry Him by ClaraCivry (Kat_Of_Dresden), not rated, 2422 words

`Five times Five's siblings carried him, took his weight.

Some hurt Five, some fluff, but mostly Hargreeves being worried and looking after him.

3.  Small Changes by calypso42, T, 3509 words

“I need to ask you something.” He set down the large stack of books he was carrying beside him. Klaus glanced at a few of the titles - Consciousness in the Brain - Memory & the Role of the Hippocampus - Soul vs. Matter: A Comprehensive Look at the Origins of Sentience - and grimaced.

“Are you… having an existential crisis, or something? Because I am possibly the worst person you could go to for that.”

...

When Five goes to Klaus to ask him something about his powers, Klaus doesn’t think much of it. At least, until he realizes that what he thought was simple curiosity was actually deeper than that, leading to a revelation about Five himself.

4.  Strike A Violent Pose by @ford-ye-fiji, T, 1268 words

And here he was, limping along with a twisted ankle, going to save his siblings from certain doom yet again.

5.  You are not alone by my_monster_are_real, T, 4259 words

Five doesn't like to be taken care of, but Allison doesn't care.

6.  They Could Care Less (as long as someone’ll bleed) by @ford-ye-fiji, M, 2835 words

Number Five is cornered once again by commission agents, but this time with his family.

-

Diego and Klaus learn something about their littlest-oldest brother.

7. Didn’t Give Me Time to Say Goodbye by rookflight, Gen, 1769 words

After dealing with the second apocalypse, Five takes time to think about everything that’s happened. Klaus seizes the opportunity for some quality sibling bonding.

8.  With Two Arms by karcheri, T, 3345 words

What it comes down to, really, is that Five had been too eager for results. Once it became clear to him that there was a connection between his powers and his energy level the obvious course of action, as he saw it, was to test this information. The hypothesis was this: higher energy levels = stronger powers and the easiest way to get more energy is to eat more. Pretty simple stuff. Too simple.

or Five times that Five starves himself and one time that he gets called out on it.

9.  Number Five The Monster Under The Bed by Kraeyola, T, 5460 words

It's easy to forget sometimes when you look at Five; small lanky body, little boy-scout shorts, and a perfectly pristine uniform. A smooth youthful face that's always wearing a too-serious expression for someone (supposedly) so young. Not that the siblings don't respect Five as an equal, it's just... well. It's hard to take him so seriously. Especially when he gets mad and makes such an adorable pouty face.

It's why they find it so difficult to deal with reconciling Five to the boy they (thought they) knew, to the boy they're seeing standing right in front of them. But you can't really blame them, can you?

After all, it's hard to believe things without witnessing them first hand.

There is a monster under the bed and it's in the shape of a thirteen-year-old boy.

10.  Nonlinear theory for dummies by Inkjade, Gen, 4786 words

After forty-five years of fighting, it's kind of hard to know how to stop.

11.  Vital Signs by aye_of_newt, M, 3524 words

Sometimes, it's difficult for Klaus to tell if someone is alive or dead.

When Five shows up, covered in blood after killing the Board, Klaus panics.

12.  Not with me by Claracivry (Kat_Of_Dresden) Gen, 5681 words

They never asked if any of that blood was his.

Five is bleeding, and he is also giving up.

AU to 2X07, with hurt Five because after all that boy has been through...

13.  Nothing’s Going on (and that’s the problem) by briegretful, T, 5231 words

(Directly after the season 2 ending, except everything's normal and everyone's still around) He did it. Five saved his family. They landed in 2019 and everything, somehow, worked out.

He's not sure how to deal with that.

or

Five struggles to deal with not having an apocalypse to stop, and his family tries to help him.

14.  A New Life by BirdInTheCave, T, 3884 words

Allison had convinced Ray to come back to 2019 with her and her family and after a month of being cooped up in the house with the other Hargreeves plus their own unconventional guests, Ray suggests they spend some time alone. He's still struggling to fully comprehend the new world he's stepped into but he's determined that with Allison at his side he can get used to anything. Allison can't find a reason to say no. She should have said no.

Luckily for her, Five will always be there for his family, now that he's back.

15. Side Effects May Vary by CivilBores, T, 6565 words

Allison crosses her arms. “Five,” she says firmly, “when was the last time you slept?”

“I don’t know,” Five says honestly. At Allison’s expression, he quickly adds, “But it doesn’t matter. I don’t know what it’ll take for all of you pea-brained idiots to realize that.”

“We may not be as intelligent as you, Five,” Allison says, “but at least all of us are smart enough to know how to take care of ourselves.”

OR

A week after the world is saved, Five convinces himself that he is still experiencing lingering side effects of paradox psychosis. His family has something to say about that.

16. The Walls Kept Tumbling Down by @ingu, T, 64888 words, 8 chapters

It started small.

There was a nagging ache in his chest, phantom pain from where the bullets had pierced his flesh, in the overwritten timeline that never will be.

(the one where rewinding time doesn't miraculously resolve mortal gunshot wounds)

17. Stay by maddienole, T, 6027 words

Five had saved his life once, many months ago. Maybe it was time for Klaus to return the favor.

18. Growing Pains by kakashi_mole, Not rated, 10520 words, Fiveya (personal fave, angst too much)

Number Five remembers his first kiss

Notes:    

Takes place after Season Two. A Five-centric fic. Some teenagers get growing pains, some don’t, but the last “cycles” of pain usually occur around age 13.

19. Another Cog in Murder Machine by @ford-ye-fiji​, T, 2463 words

Five finally gets the breakdown he deserves 

20. Sorrows Like Thunder Clouds by Emotionally_Detached (Yeah_Toast), T, 6953 words

He makes it. He time travels and makes it through another apocalypse.

He makes it, but his siblings don't.His siblings don't make it, except he's in his own childhood and they're still here, alive and thirteen and he can fix things.

He will fix things

On Going

1. “I’m Too Tired” by beastboy12, T, Chapters 2/?

A slight re-telling of the barn scene. Five manages to save his siblings, but at what cost?

In which the author takes a throw-away line in season 2 and runs with it.

2.  And We All Turn To Ash by @golden-redhead, Gen, Chapters 1/?

Seconds, not decades. 

The blue glow pulsed between his fingers and he pulled at the familiarity of the feeling, pulling until time and space bent under his touch, parting as he struggled to squeeze himself through just enough to jump and change the course of history. 

The energy, familiar but somehow different, courses through his body and then he moves, for a few precious seconds existing within the time and yet outside of it. 

-

a.k.a. Five is so, so close to getting them back home and making things right. And then he isn't.

3. Tangled in The Hanging Tree by TiredPigeon (TwistedSkys), T, Chapters 2/?

The timeline is still messed up, obviously. There is still so much work to do, still so much to fix. His siblings have questions and concerns, and they want answers.

Five just wants his nose to stop bleeding.

(Post-season 2, but I have no plans to speculate on season 3, so consider this fluff.)

Five is tired, his family is starting to notice.

 Thats all for now!

@tomatojuicem apologies for making you wait ;)

Lmk if theres something wrong with the link Notes: All these fics posted after season 2 aired, but not neccessary related to season 2

[ziracona]

so can u tell us a little about ur characterization of Lisa?? What's she like inside and outside of trials? Does she have a lot of lucidity, what were her relationships with others like, would she ever get better, do you think? ( im SAD.) Just. What's she like!! Also, same for Sally? Oh! And I'm rly enjoying two songs by Meg Myers which maybe you'll like? Running up that hill (Cover) and Desire. Maybe check em out? :3 - Sleepy

Sure!

My Lisa is from a bit before the archives for her placed her (early 1970s), because I wrote ILM back when there was no date given for many killers or survivors, so I just hoped they were historically accurate with the things they did mention & went through a fairly exhaustive list of drained swamps in the Southern US & paddleboat makes & placed her according to that data (it’s been a bit so I don’t remember the exact date without looking up my notes) in the 1920s-1930s, I believe? And in her early 20s, since she’s described as a girl & young woman, which DbD usually does only for characters in their early 20s. (Which I’d still assume is her age, bc even though her archives, if you go by them, have her in her teens, they’re not connected to the events of her disappearance/definitely happened before them.)

In trials, Lisa has like 0 lucidity. I talk about this some in chapter notes, so I’ll try to give a quick overview instead but sry if I restart myself. She’s so starved that any time she sees a living being, she is just completely overcome with hunger and can’t do anything but operate on it. Very scary. Feral. Like being attacked by a starving animal. She’s super out of it, and is completely wild and violent and has no control, only the need to eat. Outside of trials, if no one is around, she’s lucid again, but will remember trials and what she did to people, and spends that time in horror and despair. She’s tried to kill herself before, because the last thing she ever wanted was to become the thing she swore vengeance on (the Entity’s a real cruel motherfucker. Did the same to Rin, to Philip, to everyone it could. Likes to really twist decent people into what they would most despair to be), but in the realm, she’s stuck as it. She’s not really aware for trials, but remembers them with decent clarity, and is in constant agony over what she’s done. Unfortunately, suicide does not take in the realm, and every one of her attempts failed, just like her attempts to maim or tie herself up so she wouldn’t be able to hurt people did. She’s horribly alone and despairing, and also in physical agony. She’s at the worst end of what a human can be at as far as emaciation and starvation while still being alive goes, and that’s physically awful. It fucks up your brain chemistry too, and everything is just really fucking miserable all the time. It hurts to move, it hurts to breathe, your breath smells tastes like rotten fruit but in a way that’s so much worth than that can sound. She’s so hungry, her addons are things like dragonfly wings consumed to give her extra stamina. That’s the kind of bare sliver of relief she ever gets. God, poor Lisa’s life is hell. She’s completely heartbroken and isolated and almost dead. As far as relationships go, she didn’t have any for a long time. No one can really interact with her, because she goes feral at the sight of food. She’s kinda utterly alone. But briefly, when Alex, Philip, Vigo, Benedict, and Sally were a group, she kind of got stumbled into, and after a kind of nasty first encounter, was able to regain lucidity around other people, and had a truly sweet and memorable and invaluable bit of time with love and friends and other people. She was kind of in love with Sally, who did her hair for her and was really kind to her, and Sally liked her too. They were close. Lisa was close with all of them. But when things ended the way they did, the Entity took that away. Lisa remembers it, but she could never get them or it back, and was cast aside and left behind until the end of ILM, when she finally got peace and found happiness in finally getting to be at rest in the arms of a friend. Overal, she’s a fairly young and wide-eyed, bright, cautious, fun and sweet girl by nature, now massively traumatized and hopeless and broken, but still with a truly incredible amount of that kind nature retained. She would have really loved reading fantasy novels aloud and exploring the worlds of lore and history, travelling, seeing other cultures and geographic features and animals. Enjoys fashion too, and has a heart for designing and making cool, personal and cultural and symbolic tied designs, and would have been both great at that and loved it if she’d lived long enough. (Shoutout to @artianaiolanthe who inspired the fashion take & it is so suited to her I love it). A little shy, but an extrovert at heart under it, just a nervous one. Loved people. Liked climbing trees and fording brooks and baking bread and throwing rocks and baseballs to knock a target out of a tree and win a prize at little town fairs. Didn’t get the length or quality of life she was owed, and it’s just not fair or okay at all. Liked to watch the stars.

As far as getting better goes, mentally, totally. If they could get her out of the realm or break the Entity’s connection, she’d immediately stop killing. She has never done it of her own free will. She’s a sweet small town kid who was just trying to live her life. As far as physically goes though, Lisa is in one of the worst possible spots. Unlike say Amanda, who was on death’s door but healed by the Entity, or the Legion, who weren’t injured at all, Lisa was on death’s door and like Adiris, did not get healed. Just preserved in that near-death state and forced to work in it. Honestly, it’s possible she could survive long enough to get to a hospital and be saved, but at best, she’d probably live another year. When you starve, your body begins to catabolize/eat your own tissue to save itself, starting with fat, and ending with muscles and organs, which, when it reaches the heart, kills you. Lisa was so close to dead, the organ damage was probably awful, and would leave her with complications that would take her very young. The most likely thing, since she was saved literally seconds before death, would be for her to step outside the realm and immediately die. However, it’s possible she got lucky on body damage and could be saved—kinda up to interpretation—and if say, she was around for Quentin’s Vigil going healing batshit, and got some organs repaired that way, she’d have a real shot. (I also am sad. Lisa was actually the only determinate character in ILM to me/that I wasn’t sure the ending for, and while I am very happy with what ended up being her closure, I also would like to see her live for even more love and peace TuT. Lol, if I ever end up doing my goddamn four fate route fics like I’ve joked now a truly dangerous number of times about doing [>.> me @ me] then maybe she will get a variety of lives in the end). I’m glad you wanted to know! I really like and pity her. This poor kid really did nothing wrong, much like Rin, and just got eternally tortured for asking for help and justice against the monsters who took her life so violently. Fuck Brittany. (Read: the Entity.)

Ahhhh Sally. My sweet, sweet girl. Uhhh, not sure which of the Lisa questions you meant for her too, so I’ll try to speed-answer them all? Sally’s intelligent and understanding and thoughtful, patient, polite, almost elegant despite how impoverished she spent most of her life—she just tries to act like a lady and treat people with as much respect and esteem as she can (unless they suck lol). She’s also very mentally damaged and not there though, and has extremely unstable mood swings, especially into despair. Her relationships with the other killers were limited. She talked to & was on polite terms with any who would talk to her and not be condescending or a dick so openly she’d pick up on it (so like, on cordial terms with Evan, Herman, Caleb if she’d been there that long, but not like, Kenneth or Freddy or someone who wouldn’t bother to put up an act). But mostly, after figuring out she wasn’t really of any use to them, they quit communicating with her. Sally has been extremely isolated since shortly after being taken. She believes that the survivors are innocent and suffering and knows that they don’t deserve the hunt, but has no way to stop the whole system, and has been convinced by the Entity that if she does a good job and earns moris, the ones she strangles to death get to stay dead instead of coming back after death to suffer endlessly again, so she works very dedicatedly and slowly trying to earn kills to save them. It took her physical eyes when it got her and lets her see through it’s powers, and uses that to randomize what survivors look like in her memory so she doesn’t catch wise it’s the same people over and over and she’s not saving them at all. It’s extremely tragic. God it’s one of the most cruel Entity tricks, which is saying a lot. Poor gentle woman is Sisyphus pushing a boulder up a hill day after day year after year and she doesn’t even know how hopeless and meaningless it all is. : (

When the Vigo-Philip-Alex-Benedict team was going, though, she met and attacked, then was convinced to instead befriend them, and quickly became very attached and well liked by them. Met Lisa while with the group, and became extremely fond of her and loving towards her and was truly, truly happy for a brief period of time. Still remembers her, even as lost as all her memories are. Not her name, but what she looked like to Sally, and how her hair felt, and how nice it was. Sally would have considered everyone in that group a dear friend, and in ILM, Philip most definitely becomes her deepest, closest, and best friend, just like she does to him. She’s a very faithful woman to her soul. Loved her family, loved her husband and mourned him, worked as hard as she could. Cared for her patients, and did her best in that hell until the Entity slowly whittled away at her sanity until it broke her mind and left her convinced the only way to end their pain would be to give them death, and she had to do it to save them. Sally loves little pretty things and neatness and collections. Flowers, bows and ribbons, china and colored glass. She would have treasured gifts like decorative holiday cards and carved animal figures and left them on her mantle or carefully tucked in lovingly organized and decorated books she could open to revisit the memory. Likes dresses and skirts and the way the wind feels. Hopeful and very enduring. Loving. Had a mom heart, and will never really get entirely over the loss of her children, but is strong and kind and will find new love that makes life still worth living in other people. Will remember both kindness and cruelty a long, long time. Loved Quentin from the second he gave her flowers (Dwight: Quentin, why did the entity let you have three moms? Quentin: Because I fucking earned it >:[“ [author’s note: he did. God that poor kid...]). Loved Kate from the day she sat with her in a hospital and held her hand. Is like that. Remembers small kindness and treasures them.

Sally could definitely recover. Not all the way probably, physically or mentally, but by far enough to be complete and happy and realized and who she wants. She never meant to hurt people, so she really just needs some stability, and I think she finds that with her new family. I mean, it is a lot to adjust to. It’s been like nearly 100 years. The Entiry broke her mind, and she’s got some damage that just probably can’t ever be fixed, but a lot can be, with drugs and treatments and therapy and kindness and a good support system, and honestly, the biggest things she needs are people to keep her memories together and herself present, and influences to protect her from being manipulated and controlled now that she’s so suggestible and easy to hurt, and she’s got that. I am 100% certain that while some things—the scatteredness, the ease of slipping into other moods especially deep sadness, the different way of thinking altogether—never leave her, she gets better in the most important ways and is truly happy and quite functional and what she wants to be. While there’s no way (yet anyway lol. Cybernetics that good when?) to give her new eyes since the Entity ripped hers out, and she’s blind now, and can’t be changed, her seeing eye dog does a great job for her, and she’s very happy and adjusts well. She has a lot of friends to be her eyes, and learns to lean into what she can do and has a quite fulfilling and blissful life outside the realm in ILM.

Also: thanks for the recs! I’m going on a run soon, and I’ll add those to my iPod and give ‘em a listen if I can. Hope this answered what you wanted to know! ^u^

[need-a-fugue]

Why Not? - Chapter One

Summary: With a garage to run and a young daughter to, well… run after, Bucky Barnes doesn’t exactly have time for dating. And with his relationship track record – and the constant meddling of a certain overbearing best friend – he’s not so sure that’s a bad thing. But then he meets Annie – a rather insistent, pretty damn cute fellow car enthusiast – and it’s got him asking himself, despite all his hesitations, why not?

Author’s Note: Written for Little Darlin’s Mystery AU Challenge. Thanks to @sourpatchkidsandacokecan​ for triggering this… sprawling thing simply by supplying me with the prompt of Mechanic!AU for Bucky. It’s taken on a life of its own already… look at what you’ve done!

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x OFC

Warnings: Bit of angst, mostly fluff.

Chapter One

It’s late summer when the utterly recognizable Tony Stark first rolls up to the shop, driving in a blindingly white 1953 Corvette convertible… top down, rusty-red leather interior looking warm and lush bathed in the early morning sun. “Supposed to be one of the first off the line,” he tells Bucky, hopping out of the car and slamming the door just hard enough to make him flinch. “That’s what my dad said anyway. Pretty sure he loved the damn thing more than he loved me.”

Bucky’s jaw nearly hits the floor, breath catching in his chest as he steps outside the wide-open garage door to take a look. Drool practically drips from his lips onto the pristine white paint job, his eyes narrowing to slits at the glare off of the stainless trim. It is… perfect. Until he steps around to the passenger’s side and sees the damage. 

“Yeah,” Stark intones casually, not seeming at all embarrassed about the foot-long dent that runs the length of the door. “Minor parallel parking incident. You know how crazy things can get in upper Manhattan during rush hour.”

Bucky’s speechless. And a bit disgusted. And also unbelievably hesitant. “I… we’re not… I mean…” He lets his fingers gingerly press into the body to further inspect the damage, feeling the splintered paint, jagged, naked fiberglass beneath. “We do body work here, but… this is a different kind of beast altogether.”

The man simply stares at him, sunglass-cloaked eyes burrowing into him in an unsettling sort of assessment as his right foot – no doubt wearing a shoe that cost more than Bucky’s entire wardrobe – begins tapping out an impatient rhythm. “My assistant said I should come here. She said you could handle it.” He drops his glasses down just a bit, just enough to be able to peer over the tops of them at the still-reticent mechanic. He steps closer and leans in, reads the nametag standing out in bright white atop his pale blue shirt. “Bucky,” he reads aloud, rolling the name on his tongue. Then, one suspicious brow raised, “Bucky?”

“Yeah,” he mutters, jaw tensing, steeling himself for what’s to come. This wouldn’t be the first time some tool in a three-piece suit came in here and made fun of his name, talked down to him like he was nothing more than, well, some dumb mechanic.

The man’s shoulders draw up, pulling him into a proud stance, and he cocks his head again, this time in the other direction. Bucky feels the rest of his body tense up now too, certain that he’s somehow being… inspected by this stranger. Tony circles him slowly, stopping once he drops into the shade of the building. He takes a step back and leans into the brick façade, pulls his glasses off and wipes them clean with a freaking pocket square. “You married, Bucky?” he asks, staring down at his glasses.

Bucky barely moves, simply quirking a brow in the man’s direction. “Why? You proposing?”

He lets out a bright, high-pitched scoff. “You wish. I could give you everything you ever wanted and then some.”

“Because you have money? Didn’t anyone ever tell you money can’t buy happiness?”

Another scoff, this one deep and throaty and chased out by a dramatic roll of his eyes. “It certainly helps.” Tony’s gaze ticks over to Bucky’s left hand. “No ring,” he muses vaguely.

“Yeah, well, I got it caught in fan belt a few years back. Almost took off my whole damn hand.”

“Ah, so you are married,” he intones, the inflection revealing… is it relief? Or is it disappointment?

“Divorced,” he corrects, still caught up in this strange and sudden stare down. “Mr. Stark,” he tries finally, only to get shut down by a flippant hand waving through the air.

“Look, I got a lot going on today. I really don’t want to have to drive across town to some other garage. So…” He tosses the keys up into the air, landing them perfectly in Bucky’s open palm with a delicate clink. “Just… do what you can.”

He stands – stunned – for a long moment, unsure quite what to do as he watches the man retreat to the street and climb into a waiting limo. The entire interaction takes less than five minutes. Yet it feels… strange, certainly, but also somehow… weighty. Like meeting Tony Stark on this random August day, rolling these unfamiliar keys in his hand as he stands beneath the blaring hot sun means something.

He startles back to reality only once a heavy hand falls to his shoulder, Steve’s voice settling in his ear. “Was that…”

He nods, pulls in a deep and grounding breath – “Are all rich people… nuts?” – and turns to face his friend and business partner.

Steve simply shrugs. “Couldn’t tell ya… you’re the richest guy I know, and that’s just because you haven’t put in your half of the rent yet.”

                                                           000

They see a lot of Tony Stark over the next few weeks. At first, he stops by just to check in on the Vette, making it a point to slink into the garage first thing every morning until the job is finally done. Bucky assumes – once the ridiculously generous check is in his hand and the car is backed out of the shop – that they’ve seen the last of the man. But not two days later, he shows up with a 1932 Ford Roadster – nothing wrong with it, just thought they might like to see. And the following week he brings in his first Ferrari – a gift for his twenty-first birthday – to have the tires rotated.

Each and every time he stops in, Bucky gets the distinct feeling that he’s being somehow scrutinized by the man, dissected… thoroughly sussed out. He’s not quite sure why… perhaps it’s the barrage of – seemingly conversational – personal questions. Or maybe it’s the way he wanders around the garage, touching everything, inspecting everything. Maybe it’s the fact that he doesn’t ask anything of Steve the few times he pops out of the office to say hi, doesn’t interrogate him, nor really interact with him at all, his focus remaining wholly on Bucky.

It’s all very… odd. And unsettling. And if it weren’t for the fact that he lays down three times what the job is worth every time he brings in a car for some sort of unnecessary maintenance, Bucky would tell the man to take his creepy inquisition and hit the bricks.

But they’ve made almost five grand off of him in the last three weeks, and if he tells him to get lost, he’s pretty sure that Steve will castrate him with a zip saw. Truth be told, he’s on the verge of taking that chance, steeling himself to confront the eccentric billionaire when he sees the limo pull up yet again, cursing under his breath for a long moment before stepping outside to open up the garage doors.

Then he sees it, bright and gleaming in the burning hot sun as Stark whips around the corner and flies up into the bay, slamming on the parking brake before hopping out in a single deft move and leaning his hip onto the dark green door, smirk washing over his already rather smug face.

He gives him the basic backstory – upgraded rims and a new top, but otherwise an original… only 8,000 miles… one of just about thirty in existence.

But Bucky couldn’t care less about the words coming out of his mouth. And frankly, he doesn’t give a shit what kinds of questions or curious stares he’s about to receive from the grand inquisitor either. Maybe today they’ll get into his failed marriage, or that time he got arrested for assault. Or, hell, he’d even be willing to answer questions about his emo phase freshman year in high school. It’s all on the table. Stark can hang out and badger him all damn day if he wants, just as long as he lets him touch the spectacular specimen before him. He rounds the corner of the counter, certain that his jaw is dragging on the floor – and not giving a damn – and he steps forward towards the absolutely cherry 1965 Shelby Cobra 427. Un-be-livable. This… this is…

“This is a million-dollar car,” Bucky stutters out, his fingers lingering hesitantly over the hood, too nervous to even let them graze the body.

“More like 1.8 million,” he corrects with a shrug. “Could use a tune up.”

“A tune up? Are you crazy? Listen, there are people,” he starts, halting suddenly when a loud thump – followed quickly by a high-pitched squeal of laughter – sounds from the office in back. His head spins so fast, his neck cracks with the movement. But he quickly settles upon seeing Steve pop up into view on the other side of the plate glass window only to shoot him a swift thumbs up. Bucky shakes his head distractedly and turns back to Tony. “There are people way better equipped to handle this than me.”

Tony issues out a short psh, waving a dismissive hand through the air as he impatiently shifts from foot to foot. “You’ll be fine. I have faith in you.”

“I don’t know why,” he says with a snort, sneaking another lingering, sidelong glance at the car. He clears his throat harshly and turns back to Tony. “Mr. Stark, I don’t know that this shop even has enough insurance coverage to allow me to work on this car.”

“I could’ve sworn I told you to call me Tony,” he says, beginning his all-too-common practice of milling about the garage, absently touching things, picking up tools only to immediately drop them back into place. “Anyway,” he mutters, holding up a torque wrench and glaring at it as though the tool had personally insulted him. He throws it back onto the counter with a huff and faces Bucky once again. “I thought you were the owner,” he hisses out, words full of pure incredulity. “You and…” he waves a hand back at the blond man still lurking in the office. “Mr. Perfect back there.”

A look of utter bewilderment rolls across his face. “Well, yeah… but…”

“But nothing. Half the reason I own so many businesses,” he pauses for a beat, pursing his lips and looking down at the dark green beauty in front of him, “and things, is because I like doing what I like doing.” His eyes ping back up to meet Bucky’s, holding them tight in a sincere stare. “What do you like, Bucky?”

Silence. He says nothing, merely stares blankly at the man before him.

Tony rolls his eyes. “You like fixing million-dollar cars?”

Bucky shrugs. “Never really done it. That’s kind of my point.”

His deep brown eyes narrow suspiciously, head cocking to the side just the slightest bit. Then he drops a firm hand to Bucky’s shoulder and chuckles. “Nah, you like it.” He tosses him the keys – a very clear end of conversation – and turns to leave, his unofficial driver waiting out front in the limo. “Anyway, it’s… sticking a bit,” he says, waving his hand carelessly through the air as he walks backwards toward the garage door. “Just… take a look. And… I want you to know, I’m trusting you with something very important here. Don’t screw it up.” And with that, he turns and leaves.

Bucky stands painfully still, wide-eyed stare directed out the door long after Tony’s already begun his retreat back to his side of the city.

“Is that…?”

He spins on a heel, finding Steve bent over the Cobra, delicately grazing his fingers atop the windshield in much the same way Bucky had cautiously – reverently – done just moments ago. “Yeah,” he answers, not needing to hear the rest of the question, those words lost in the same stunned fog he feels himself still wading through.

“This isn’t a replica,” Steve hisses out, eyes blowing wide as he tosses a glance Bucky’s way. He’s met with a slow headshake, a rather disbelieving confirmation. “This is… it’s original?” A simple, slow nod. “Semi-Competition? This…” He straightens, pulling his shoulders back as he stands upright, letting out a long, low whistle. “I know everybody says he’s… eccentric. But…” He raises a brow, wide, crooked smile rolling over his features. “He’s really gonna trust you with this?”

Bucky reaches up and scratches at the back of his head, a rather confounded expression creeping over his face. “Seems like.”

The two men continue to stand, silently staring at the little convertible in front of them. A masterpiece. A legend. The wet dream of any car enthusiast. It’s amazing. Glorious. Perfect. And…

“No!” Bucky shouts, the sudden bellow pulling deep from his chest as he lunges forward just in time to stop the tiny, sticky, chocolate-covered tornado racing towards the work of art. Steve hops back as Bucky grabs the little girl, narrowly avoiding a tiny foot to the groin, when he swings her round and hauls her up into his arms. He spins her in his grip so that she’s facing him – wide-eyed smile and fat cheeks alight as raucous giggles spill out of her – and he raises a serious, commanding brow. “Do. Not. Touch.”

He adjusts the tyke on his hip, settling her into the crook of his left arm as he pulls a cloth from his pocket and begins roughly wiping at the melted streaks of chocolate on her face. She wiggles in his grip and pushes against his chest with a whiny groan, leaning away to see the car that Uncle Steve is so fondly caressing. “Pretty,” she croons, spitting messily around the cloth as he continues to drag it across her chin and lips.

“No more long johns for breakfast,” he declares, shifting to try and juggle her wiggly form with the rag so he can get at her hands.

“What’s a donut without chocolate icing?” Steve asks lightly, finally stepping over to help. He plucks a clean rag from the countertop and finishes wiping her down. “You are a mess.”

Bucky gives her a little bounce and looks at Steve with an almost chiding glare. “Yeah, well, you are a shitty babysitter.”

“Says the guy who just cursed in front of a four year old,” he counters with a smug smirk.

Bucky’s face hardens and sets into a scowl. “I’m not a babysitter. I’m her father. Different standard.”

“Shitty!” the little girl sings out gleefully, following it up with a wide-eyed, “Uh-oh,” upon seeing Bucky’s stare, his single, reprimanding brow raised high.

He shifts her to his other side, pulling away from Steve and sidestepping him to move over to the front of the Cobra. The austere set to his features quickly fades as dark curls bounce in his periphery and small hands clamp together behind his neck.

“What d’ya say, baby? Should we pop the hood?” he croons to the little girl in his grip, giving her a few swift bounces until her face splits with delight. “Yeah,” he mutters, swiping his fingers lazily over the front end of the car. “Let’s see what we’re dealing with here.”

[minijenn]

Random Keys/UF Crossover Ideas

Because I’m torn between both of my projects right now and I hate myself, here’s something that’ll only really appeal to the very niche audience of people who read both Universe Falls and Keys to the Kingdom. Basically its a list of somewhat spoilery (for Keys more than UF) headcanons of what it might be like if the Gravity Falls world scheduled to be in Keys was a Universe Falls world instead (in the sense that it still takes place in Gravity Falls physically but like... its set in the universe of Universe Falls (oy I’m explaining too much lemme just start rambling off the random ideas that have been popping into my head over the last several days of this hypothetical crossover of my two stupid fanfics):

For reference’s sake, on the UF end of things, this would take place somewhere around the middle of arc10ish, pretty close to Weirdmageddon as the GF world in Keys is gonna take place pretty close to Weirdmageddon too. 

For Keys, the trip to this world would still take place in the same spot the GF world does, so semi close to the end of the story, as one of the last Disney worlds of the fic (guess it wouldn’t really be a “Disney” world here but ehhhhhh) 

Guess I better give some context about what’s going on in each fic around that time; UF’s is easier to do so we’ll start with that; basically without spoiling a certain upcoming arc ender too much, during arc 10, everyone’s sorta frazzled what between all of the interdimensional travel, worries about Bill coming back and causing chaos, worries about the Diamonds possibly getting involved in stuff, shaken by the recent revelation that Rose allegedly shattered Pink Diamond and so on (basically there’s a lot going on in the leadup to UF’s ending hahaha) 

Context for Keys (again without getting too spoilery (gotta tread even more careful here) is that by this point in the story Sora is basically in nonstop Panic Mode about the whole norting thing thanks to a certain encounter with one Bald Old Fuckhead during the Aladdin world immediately before this; so Sora’s on the run from basically his entire support system cause he’s all worried about unintentionally hurting his friends (and he also just doesn’t want Riku or Kairi in particular to see what’s happening to him cause Disaster Bi). 

Cont. Context for Keys cause that last bullet point was Long: Despite all this fuckin Angst, Sora’s still out searching for the Keys on his own in the hopes of securing the final few for the guardians of light before he can be fully norted and forced into handing them over to the Organization instead 

Not to mention those freak relatively dark/light powers of his are alll outta whack cause he A. Doesn’t know how to control them At All and B. Is Emotionally Distraught so that’s only making things worse

And the entire gang is more or less out searching the worlds tryin’ to find Sora (he yeeted his Gummi Phone off a fuckin cliff or something just so nobody could get in touch with him smh what a waste of a perfectly good cell phone); among the teams that are out doing so include the one we’re gonna focus on here, Ven and Roxas  

Back to the UF end of things, I wanna talk about where each of the Mystery Kids are at this point; Steven is sorta all over the place with, again, the revelation that his mom could have been a murderer; Dipper is hella nervous about the idea of Bill getting his hands on the Rift (even moreso after RMD cause PTSD is Somethin Else kids), Mabel is in that mindset of not wanting the summer to end so they can all stay together, and Connie is basically (as usual) the only one with any brain cells as she’s trying to hold the gang together

(lowkey spoilers for the Keys GF chapters start here) So Sora arrives in Gravity Falls, suffering from all the angsts and anxieties and whatnot and just Not Having a Very Good Time Emotionally/Mentally as he starts lookin around for the Key in the woods or whatever

But lo and behold everyone’s favorite Evil Corn Chip just so happens to be spyin’ on him, and before too long Bill makes his appearance and acts all friendly to Sora, claiming that he can basically undo the whole norting thing (which he knows all about because of course he would, this is Bill Fucking Cipher we’re talking about here)

Sora’s skeptical but at the same time he’s sort of willing to do whatever he can at this point to keep his heart from being taken over by Mr. Bald Old Fuckhead and all Bill is asking for in return is for him to nab some sparkly snow globe that he claims already belongs to him but was stolen by some local family who Bill makes out to be pretty bad so hey, why not at least give it a shot? (dumb, the kid is dumb this is something we’ve established many times over by this point)

So Sora sets out to look for both the rift and the Key (while also being harangued by Xemnas who’s the Org. baddie of the GF world but errrrr i don’t have a ton of ideas about what he’s gonna do yet so we’ll just skip over that for now and focus on somethin else)

Something else being the fact that Sora happens upon a bunch of kids being attacked by a group of Nobodies, so he swoops in to save them even though the kids already look like they’re holding their own pretty well against them (two of them are out here swinging swords around, one’s really handy with that grappling hook while another one has some sort of magical shield? Its weird??? But cool imo) 

So they all team up to take the Nobodies out and following that, Sora meets and mostly hits it off with the Mystery Kids

Mabel is super hype (she kinda instantly crushes on Sora as soon as she sees him even though he’s too fuckin old for her); Steven and Sora radiate the same sort of Sweet But Sad energy so of course they’re best friends immediately 

Connie’s a lil bewildered by Sora (who the hell goes around swinging a giant key like its a sword, that’s just not practical???) but Dipper’s distrustful radar is instantly raised for a a number of reasons, but the biggest red flag he notices about Sora by far is that his eyes are yellow (btw by this point his eyes will more or less be completely yellow and his hair almost entirely white; he usually wears his hood up to try and hide that, but it got blown off during the forementioned fight) 

So the kids were out and about in the woods for mystery hunting reasons, mostly cause they were trying to cool their heads from all of the stress they’re under mentioned earlier (and cause hey, the summer’s ending soon and they gotta spend all the time they can together at this point) 

However, they quickly change gears when they learn about Sora’s quest to find some magical Key and they all eagerly decide they wanna help with that cause it sounds hella rad; Dipper would likely be the only dissenter to this plan, but he’d be lowkey about it, kinda deciding to keep a suspicious eye on Sora all the while (he doesn’t really act like he’s being possessed by Bill, but ya can never be too sure nowadays...) 

So they all set out in search of the Key (Sora decides not to tell them about Bill or the rift just yet, but even so right off the bat he’s basically decided “yes I’m adopting all four of these kids as my new little brothers and sisters and no one can stop me”)

So cut to the other end of things and we have Ven and Roxas who have basically only just met each other face to face for the first time (they’re both basically constantly doin that spiderman look alike meme); they’ve been more or less teamed up to look for Sora together tho, and they both got a massive guilt complex about the whole thing cause they used to be able to directly protect him inside his heart but now they can’t since they’re out of it so they’re determined to find him and make sure he’s OK

They also show up in Gravity Falls, arriving much closer to the Mystery Shack and the Gem Temple than Sora did; since its the closest thing nearby, the boys decide to venture over to the Mystery Shack to look first 

After some brief, confused yet fun conversation with Soos and Wendy, they bump into Stan and that initial meeting goes something like: 

Stan: Who the hell are you two supposed to be? You twins or something?

Roxas: No??? What the fuck is a twin??

Ventus, realizing that Roxas has like 0 real world experience or regard for world order at that moment right fucking there: (oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck) Ummmm YES WE ARE WE’RE TOTALLY TWINS AHAHA AREN’T WE BROTHER?

Roxas, immensely confused: What the hell is a brother??

And then Ford shows up and Roxas looks between him and Stan is just like “ooooh ok now I get what a twin is” and Ven is just like “oh my god I think Roxas managed to catch some of Sora’s stupidity after all asdkjalsdkalsd” 

Anyway after all this awkward confusion is over, Roxas and Ven bring up that they’re there looking for someone, and while neither Stan nor Ford are that invested, they do offhandedly mention maybe the Crystal Gems can help

Ironically enough, the Gems happen to burst into the shack right then and there, taking refuge from the surge of strange creatures swarming outside (Nobodies & Heartless); the Gems are rather overwhelmed by them since their weapons don’t work that great on them so they’ve come to seek Ford’s help (since he’s got all those weapons and lasers and shit he keeps stockpiled) 

In this Ven and Roxas end up meeting the Gems and both of them are just like :O (Ven’s lowkey like, “Aqua would get along great with these ladies, they’re total badasses just like her!”) and the Gems just kinda pass the boyos off like “yeah whatever there’s a fuckton of monsters outside meanwhile where are our kids?”

Stan and Ford are like *shrug* cause neither of them are very good at being Responsible when it comes to keeping an eye on these danger-prone kids and the Gems are just like *facepalm* “Morons” so they set out to find the kids and Ven and Roxas are like “well they know their way around here so why not go with them to see if we can find Sora too!” and so they all head out on a lil adventure

Then a whole bunch of stuff happens on both sides of the plot that I haven’t bothered to figure out; bunch of cute character interactions and whatever; insert possible second encounter with Xemnas in here somewhere where he basically shows up just to intimidate Sora but Sora’s like “no way jose, you touch any of these precious kiddos and you’ll Die” 

Somewhere in here, under... some circumstances, Sora and the MK make it back to the shack but like... everyone’s gone? (cause they all went out to look for them, didn’t even leave a note, fuckin rude) 

They search the house for anybody and then, on complete fuckin accident, Sora finds his way down into the basement (the portal room to be exact) and what else does he find down there but that thing Bill asked him to get (the rift)! 

Though he’s a little confused about why its there (Bill did say some awful family “stole” the rift from him, but none of the MK are awful, they a bunch of Good Kids); Sora still pockets it like a desperate dummy dumb anyway and doesn’t say a word about it to the kids because he thinks they might be too innocent and young to know anything about it anyway (he’s wrong of course because much like him these kids are Traumatized with a capital T but we’ll just ignore that for now)

Still on the search for that Key, Sora and the kids head out only to run right into Stan, Ford, and the Gems on the way out; course, Ven and Roxas are still with them and they see Sora and they’re like :D while Sora’s just like “aw fuck” and runs away from his problems like always

So he rushes off into the woods and who else would show up but that Motherfuckin Evil Corn Chip again who’s like “yo kid ya got the stuff” and Sora’s just like “brb having a panic attack rn” but then he ends up obliviously handing the rift over anyway cause again he’s incredibly desperate for any way out of his current horrible situation

Of course because I’m a sap for Drama, he happens to do so just as all four of the MK show up, having followed him into the woods and ohohohoh boy oh boy let’s just say them seeing Sora just up and giving the rift over to Bill would be a Moment (well, at least for Steven and Dipper cause they actually know what the fuckin rift is unlike Mabel and Connie who still wouldn’t at that point) 

So basically Bill is a little shit and takes the rift, but he can’t actually fuckin do anything with it cause he’s a physical object and he’s still intangible (or somethin like that idk I just don’t want Weirdmageddon to happen cause it would make things too complicated) so he’s like “fuck gotta find some stupid sap to possess so I can smash this dumb thing” and he nearly targets Sora (cause the kid was already stupid enough to help him in the first place so why not?) until Steven ends up being the one to fend him off using his shield 

Bill shrugs it off and makes off with the rift anyway (its like... hovering or something? idk I’m running out of steam) and everyone panics of course, especially Sora cause he’s just like “well shit I certainly Fucked Up didn’t i?” and the MK are both a mix of “YOU THINK?” (from Dipper and Connie mostly) and “imo not your fault Bill’s tricked just about all of us he’s an asshole” (from Steven and Mabel)

Amidst this a bunch of lil things also happen; the Stans and the Gems show up (along with Ven and Roxas), basically everyone is immensely confused (aka those who have no idea what the fucking rift is) and alarmed (those who do know what the rift is) that Bill has what he needs to more or less fuck the entire world over 

So everyone just decides to put everything aside and team up all together to track Bill down and get the rift back before he can break it (there’s a lot of heartwarming trust moments in here, mostly cause trust is like... the cornerstone theme of the GF chapters in Keys for obvious reasons) 

They eventually do find him and *insert big epic battle scene here* where everyone teams up to basically beat Bill to death or whatever (don’t ask me how they be doin that if he’s intangible, again I.... I’m tired and this post is long enough as it is) 

Yadda yadda yadda they beat him, get the rift back and effectively prevent Weirdmageddon from happening to begin with (which just does SO much wonderful fuckery for UF’s timeline moving forward but whatever, this ain’t about that) 

Oh and during that Climactic Battle Scene somewhere there’s some bit about Sora learning to better trust others/himself that leads to him getting the world’s Key? I-I I dunno its a work in progress...

Anyway after this there’s a lot of good character interactions all around, reconciliations between the UF characters and the Keys characters, particularly between Sora and the MK (again he’s adopted these kiddos and don’t you forget it)

So with the Key in hand, Sora starts to leave and Roxas and Ven almost convince him to go back with them until *insert Big Keys Spoiler here that results in the Organization getting their hands on that Key Sora just got and also results in Sora running away again cause... reasons*

And that’s the end of the chapters or whatever idk 

There’s probably more ideas I had in mind for this but I literally can’t do anymore my brain is dying 

I might possibly write this for reals someday i dunno I’m stuck in two personal hells here so I might as well combine ‘em

Yes I’m aware this post leans more heavily on Keys than UF but its set in the world of UF so fuck off 

Feel free to add on with any thoughts you might have about the idea

I’m tired

Amen 

[just-some-random-blogger]

One Million In One Day | 7

 GOT7 SugarDaddy!Jackson Wang x Reader + Park Jinyoung x Reader | Part 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 ? Characters: GOT7 Summary: His mother’s final wish is to see him be happy in a relationship, knowing that Jackson would be fine when she left him. But, damn, he didn’t have time for relationships, especially not since he was busy running his father’s billion dollar empire, thus the compromise: you. Word Count: 1k+ Warnings: Temper tantrums, stalking, TYPOS, etc.

Preview | Alternate Moodboard | Chapter 8 Teaser

A/N: I’m back after 2049 years. thank you for hanging in there uhm HAHHA

You’ll never believe it, but it was a success.

I blew a million in twenty four hours, and it was mostly used up on buying unnecessarily expensive clothing for my family and friends, and family friends, and friend’s family, and family friend’s family, and friend’s family friends, and paying off debt.

Needless to say I have acquired many expensive things and bought so many things I’ve always wanted to buy. I ended up donating all the clothes I did not really particularly care for to a charity, and a few couple bucks as well.

Another needless thing to mention is that I have never thought impulse buying would be so stressful, yet oddly relaxing at the same time.

Today I drove to school with Mark, whose car I payed off by the way.

It was no big deal. It wasn’t like it was a Ferrari. It was a Ford he had initially bought anyway. Unrelated note, I even bought his dog a Gucci cape.

Nari also knows about my engagement because of how many things I brought home at once. I thought it would be bad if I told her, but oh my goodness she was probably too supportive over everything that was going on.]

The funny thing about today is that I don’t have pocket money.

Mark and I laughed about it so hard.

I’m not worried though. I bought food at home anyway, and can walk back from school or hitch another ride with Mark.

Mark and I walked to class together, and on our way I saw Jinyoung.

I called for him and waved my hands, ready to run up to him. When he didn’t react, I figured he couldn’t hear me, so I just jogged up to him, knowing Mark would follow anyway.

“Jinyoung-ah,” I called once I was in front of him. I was taken aback when he grunt and pushed past me. I knit my brows and went in front of him once more, raising my hands to my sides to block his path. “Jinyoung.”

He scoffed and rolled his eyes, placing his hand on my shoulder, pushing me away, “Don’t talk to me.”

I felt my stomach drop at his words. By then Mark was here, pulling a face out of confusion. “Ya, what’s up?”

Jinyoung whips his head back and snaps, “What’s up?! What’s up is that I can’t trust my friends because they lie to me and go behind my back.”

I pull my head back, “What? We don’t lie to you Jinyoung!”

“Ha!” Jinyoung heaves in annoyance, “That’s another lie!”

At this point, he’s practically fuming red with anger. Mark tries to make him calm down by placing a hand on his shoulder but this only makes Jinyoung snap and shove Mark off. “Don’t you two dare talk to me in class.”

I huffed and let him walk away. Mark and I turn to each other, “He couldn’t be talking about... the money, right?”

Mark knits his brows deeply and shakes his head, “I don’t think Jinyoung would be upset about something like that.” He turns to me, “What’d you do?”

I pull my head back, “What’d I do? What’d you do?”

“I don’t do anything, remember? I literally sleep all day everyday. You on the other hand have a sugar daddy,” Mark says, whispering the last words.

I give him a look and slap his arm, “Shut up, there is no way he knows about that.”

Mark shakes his head, “Whatever you say, darling.”

Gosh, I hate it when Mark starts making sense.

All throughout the class, I couldn’t focus on Mr. Choi talk about truth. Instead my eyes were basically burning a hole behind Jinyoung’s head. It didn’t mean he turned back at all however.

STFU TUAN: he’s ignoring my texts

I huff and turn to Mark who was across the room due to the fact we arrived late and there were no longer any seats.

I try to text Jinyoung as well.

My heart skips a beat when my phone vibrates, but alas, it’s only Mark sending me a picture of myself from across the room.

STFU TUAN: u are so whipped

STFU TUAN: i feel so bad

I roll my eyes and ignore his text.

STFU TUAN: don’T VISIBLY IGNORE ME TOO!!!

At this point, Mark is blowing up my phone with keyboard smash. I huff and roll my eyes. I should not have paid for his phone bill.

Once it gets too much, I decide to finally reply too him. I open my phone only to see that I received a text from another contact.

Jackson Wang: Are you available today for a date?

I turn to Jinyoung, and suddenly, everyone in the room is standing up as apparently class was over. I scramble to my feet and look to see if Jinyoung was still there, but knowing how he gets when he’s upset, I catch him when he’s almost bolted out of the door.

I huff and find Mark walking towards me.

“So what’s the plan?” Mark asks once he’s in front of me. I huff and turn to my phone when it vibrates again.

Jackson Wang: Are you busy?

“Who’s that?” Mark asks and I ignore him to reply.

Me: i still have classes

“Oh my gosh, is that sugar da--” “I told you just call him sugar!”

Mark’s eyes widen and then he gets all smug, “You slick.”

I roll my eyes.

Jackson Wang: What time to you finish?

Me: about two hours from now

Jackson Wang: ALright.

Jackson Wang: Meet me here *photo attached*

Jackson Wang: Or should  i pick you up?

Me: Its fine ill go by myself.

---

“Over here,” I hear a voice say when I enter the restaurant. Upon seeing a sharply dressed Jackson Wang smiling, I couldn’t help but smile back as I walked over to him. He stands from his seat by the window and greets me when I get close enough.

But the hug I was expecting, turned out to be a kiss on my cheek. I feel my cheeks burn slightly.

Jackson pulls away and smiles, “Sorry.” He speaks in a low voice, “I think there are a few people hanging out here, trying to make sure you’re my real girlfriend.”

I raise my brows and move my head slightly to turn back, but Jackson cuts me off my saying, “Dior looks good on you.”

I freeze upon hearing that and stutter, “How-how’d you--”

“You get used to it. Also, there’s a subtle logo around here?” Jackson says, rubbing his chest, which makes me mimic and realize he’s been looking at my-- “Have you eaten yet?” he asks, breaking my train of thought.

I look at him and expect him to speak again, but find myself trailing off a “No,” instead.”

“Oh you haven’t eaten lunch yet?”

He then escorts me to the counter side and we stand to look at the menu... I guess. Jackson has his arm over my shoulder. He leans in. I feel goose bumps form around me when I feel his breath against my neck. “Don’t be concerned about them though, they’re just sent by some nosy relatives or friends.”

Once he pulls away, I clear my throat and find myself turning to him. Once his eyes meet mine, thinking of him seeing my probably flushed face made me panic and hide it... on his chest.

Jackson chuckles, and decides to embrace me and coo, “So sweet.”

He sounds like a natural. He must’ve had tonnes of girlfriends... or tonnes of fake ones. I can’t help but feel all sour over that, which is why I pull back and turn to him, “I want some chicken.”

He nods, “Then chicken you shall have.”

After ordering, we go back to our seats and I get a picture of just how pretty this restaurant is. Jackson notices me looking around, and so he asks, “You like it?”

“Yeah, it’s so instagram aesthetic.”

He laughs a little too amused at that, and so I turn to him with a questioning look. Jackson smiles, “I’m glad you think so, because I’m just about to take millions of photos of you and post them on instagram.” With that said, he pulls out his phone, “Of course, it you don’t mind.”

I hesitate to answer but find myself thinking I probably don’t have a choice. I then nod and do a peace sign, which makes Jackson squeal in pleasure, “AH CUTE!”

Jackson then pulls out his phone and takes rapid-fire photos of me. The shutter on his phone goes off so many times, I got all flustered as I was only striking one pose.

“Should I...” I say, changing poses.

“You’re doing great, sweetheart.”

I turn to Jackson behind his phone and give a dumbfounded look, “You’re not helping.”

Jackson doesn’t care and continues taking photos. I purse my lips and raise my hands, “M’kay, that’s enough photos for now.”

Jackson chuckles then begins to shake his head with a pout, “Nuh-uh, we have to take a selca first.”

I raise my brows at him and he begins to walk over. He then bends down and puts his forehead against mine, free hand going to my neck. He gives a smile to the camera and says “selca!” I turn to his phone and find myself visibly uncomfortable.

I try to give a smile, but I end up screwing my eyes shut and breaking away with a nervous laugh.

Jackson straightens up at that and chuckles at my reaction, “Alright. That’s enough for now. Don’t want you turning into a tomato on me.”

After eating, Jackson and I decided to walk around, arm linked together.

“How did you get here?”

I turn to him to see him looking down on me. “Taxi,” I quickly reply and turn away.

Jackson nods, “You should buy a car after this.”

All at once, the anxiety of spending money comes back, and then I find myself thinking of Jinyoung. I sigh, “I can’t drive.”

Jackson nudges me slightly and gives an amused face, “I’ll teach you.”

I can’t help but smile at him and shrug, “Alright.”

Jackson feels victorious and agrees, “It’s a date.”

At this point, we end up in this pretty neighborhood with pretty front yards and pretty porches. I couldn’t help but audibly note on this, “Look at that pretty house!”

“You’re prettier.”

I snort and shove Jackson when he says this. He chuckles and sidesteps due to impact. And because we’ve broken away, I got to look back behind us. I noticed that there were a bunch of guys who I recognized where from the restaurant.

I tense and move back close to Jackson, “They’re following us.”

He shakes his head, “Don’t mind them. We’re not doing anything wrong, except probably being young and in loooove.”

I cringe at Jackson and pinch his side. Yet again he seems awfully amused with himself. “If this is what it’s like dating you, I’m glad I’m not.”

Jackson pouts out in a frown, “Meanie! Also too bad because we are dating.”

I narrow my eyes at him, “Yeah, yeah, only until you’re tired of me though.”

The man’s demeanor visibly shifts, “That’s... not a nice thing to say.”

For a moment we look at each other and stop our walking. I suddenly feel bad for saying such a thing, though it may be true. “I...” but Jackson’s screech of a laugh cuts me off short, “Your face!”

I let out a breath and contort into annoyance, “well harty-har-har.”

Jackson is still catching his breath when I start walking again.

“Hey hold on.” 

Once he catches up with me, he places his hand on my shoulder again, “So tell me about your day? Has it been good, I mean, beside going out on a date with me.”

I want to give a sassy reply, but when I think back at what happened with Jinyoung, I end up saying something else, “It’s bleh.”

The man frowns, “Why is that? Is business math killing you.”

I can’t help but chuckle, “No... it’s fine.”

“NOOO TELL ME!”

“Jackson, it really isn’t.”

“Tell me!” Jackson exclaims in a screamo voice and I turn to him with an annoyed expression, “Geez, fine. I had a fight with my best friend.”

“Hmmmm, is it... the Jinyoung guy.” Jackson says warily.

My heart skips for multiple reasons at the thought that he remembers that. I nod in reply.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Honestly, he’s probably just being a drama queen. It’s his specialty. Doesn’t mean I’m not concerned though. He just as an awful way of coping, and his temper doesn’t help with it.”

Jackson nods upon hearing this, “Well, don’t worry too much about him then. You said he does this a lot so I’m sure he’ll come around.”

I nod at his words and he give me another pout, “hey, don’t go frowning on me.”

I proceed to force a smile. Jackson coos at this and pinches my cheeks, “Aw sooooo cute!” He then looks far off behind me, “Hey, you want some ice cream.”

I perk up like a child on Christmas morning. He laughs as I nod with enthusiasm. I proceed to run off to the stand. Jackson takes an opportunity to take a photo of the incident. When I turn back and see what he is doing, I cover my face and yell behind my hands, “Stop it!”

Jackson laughs lowly and says to himself, “I really can’t.”

Support me on ko-fi

Wanna see a teaser for chapter 8 cos i write v slow thank u for understanding that i just cannot do this on the regular lol asddffhekel

[thewarriorandtheking]

The Road to Mordor

The Warrior Queen: The Warrior and The King: Book II Chapter 3. The Road to Mordor

****************************************

Ten days later Thorin was following Kaylea Wolf out the gate of Erebor on his horse. He knew she was letting him accompany her against her better judgement, he had the feeling letting her heart overrule her mind was not something she often allowed. But it gave him hope, now that she had done it once for him, he was sure he would be able to convince her to do it again. She had tried to discourage him in every possible way, going on about the dangers and hardships on the road, including the Dorsai version of cram. But Thorin had remained adamant that he would travel with her and in the end she did not sneak out while he was sleeping, which she could have done, she agreed to let him come.

Balin and Fili were there to watch him leave. Thorin had named Fili regent in his stead and he knew his nephew would take good care of Erebor until his return. They had taken a few days to prepare for the journey; they would travel light, live off the land as much as possible and save the cram for Mordor where they would likely find nothing edible. The horses would have to look after themselves, though they did bring grain for days they had to ride hard. Kaylea did not seem concerned about Hector, Thorin supposed the wolf could always eat orcs if he got desperate. As they were saddling their horses he noticed that Kaylea was carrying a second sword with her. It was made of some black metal and the sheath was covered with strange runes. In fact, it was tied down with a leather thong covered with runes. Thorin asked her about it, but she would only say it was “for foes who are not among the living.” He was also interested to see the long scabbard she had with her the last time he had ridden with her, he was hoping for another look at that strange weapon.

 They rode past Dale and turned south, the plan was to follow the borders of Mirkwood to the River Running, then turn east across the Brown Lands. When they reached the Redwater they would turn south to come to the Ered Lithui well east of the Black Gate. It would be a long journey through some very empty country. Kaylea told Thorin she planned to take it easy for the first few days until he was more accustomed to spending a day on horseback, then they would start to travel longer. The first night they stayed at an inn on the south end of the Long Lake. Kaylea was worried at first Thorin would be recognized. He assured her his face was not well known and any Dwarves staying at the inn would be unlikely to give him away. Kaylea attracted attention, as beautiful women often do, but with her sword across her back and manly clothes she was a bit too intimidating for the men in the pub to want to do more than look. They enjoyed a pleasant evening and a good meal. Though they loved each other deeply, Thorin and Kaylea really had not spent much time together, just the two of them. Thorin was hoping this journey would give them an opportunity to get to know each other better. He really wanted to find out more about her mysterious land she so rarely talked about.

It rained overnight and the next day dawned brilliant and clear. As Thorin swung up on his horse he could not believe how good it felt to be on the road again. In the years before he came to Erebor he thought only of how he would like to stay in one place, though as a youth he had been quite adventurous, always wandering around and discovering new things. Now that he felt so young again, that part of himself seemed to be reasserting itself. While he loved Erebor and it would always be his home, his yearning to see what was over the horizon had been growing stronger in him lately. They rode out into the brilliant morning and soon came to the border of Mirkwood where they turned south along the forest’s edge. It was pleasant enough, but they were careful not to venture too far under the shadow of the trees. Thorin noticed a few rabbits about and thought he would try his bow on them, a couple would make a good meal. He hit the first one he shot at, running away from his horse, but right after he did Hector appeared from behind and sniffed at the dead animal. His disappointment was evident.

“I am sorry, Mister Wolf,” Thorin said with a smile. “I did not know you were hunting that one.” Hector picked up the rabbit and brought it to Thorin, who hesitated then took it from the wolf’s mouth. He removed his arrow and cautiously handed it back. The wolf quickly ate the rabbit and then trotted off. As they continued down the trail Hector flushed another rabbit and when Thorin did not shoot he gave him a long-suffering look. The next one Thorin again hit with his first shot. Hector brought it to him to remove the arrow and then ate it. This repeated itself two more times then when Thorin had shot a fifth rabbit, Hector brought it to him and trotted off, apparently tired of the game.

“That one is for our dinner,” Kaylea said. She had been watching the whole thing with some amusement, glad that Thorin was finally building a rapport with her wolf. “That is some fine shooting, my king.”

“One coney will make a poor supper,” Thorin said. “Find me one more, Master Wolf!” He called to Hector. He tied the rabbit to his saddle and watched as the wolf trotted in a searching pattern, nose to the ground. Thorin held his bow ready. “I confess I always expect him to answer when I say something to him. He does talk to you, I am sure.”

“Talk is not the right word,” Kaylea said. “He is not able to speak a language. He can put pictures in my mind.”

Thorin stared at her. He knew she and Hector were able to communicate somehow, but such a thing seemed utterly fantastic. “You are joking, surely.”

“No,” Kaylea said. Hector flushed another rabbit for Thorin, who shot it through the head with his first arrow. “Nice shot!”

That evening, as they were roasting the coneys over the fire. Thorin stood looking into the forest. It was the first time he had been near it since he had been held in the dungeons of the Woodland King. They were camped some distance from the trees, in a well-used campsite ringed around one side with rocks and a small spring bubbling up beside.

“I will never like this forest,” he said, almost to himself. “Too many bad memories.”

Kaylea looked up at him. “Surely you forgave Thranduil when he came to fight at your side against the goblin army?”

“No. I will never forgive him,” Thorin said. “And he came to make war on me, his mind was changed because that goblin army showed up. Also he came because there are jewels in Erebor he very much desires.”

“Did you not give him these jewels for his part in the battle? I thought all who participated were given a share.”

Thorin shrugged. “No share was given to the Elven King,” he smiled. “Unless Bard or Bilbo gave him a part of their share. It is what he deserves for holding us prisoner for so many months.”

Kaylea shook her head. “I would reconsider, my king. It is better to have friends as neighbors than enemies.”

“Thranduil is no friend of mine, and he never will be.”

 Kaylea and Thorin rode beside the forest of Mirkwood for several days. The road they were on was one of the main routes from Dale to Rohan and the South and they came to another inn near the ford in the River Running. Though he would never admit it to Kaylea, Thorin was a bit sore from days in the saddle and looked forward to a night in a real bed, especially since it would likely be the last before they turned east. At dinner that night Kaylea finally opened up and told Thorin a bit about her country. She told him the Dorsai was only a part of a very large and populous country, with many different kingdoms who were frequently at war with each other. The Dorsai was not rich in resources, the people supported themselves by selling their expertise in the arts of war, and they were greatly sought after by all who knew of them. The Dorsai were organized into nine different clans, they had no king instead they had a council that met several times a year where the leader of each clan had a vote. In the past the clans had made war on each other but there had been peace now for many years and different clans often fought side by side. It reminded Thorin somewhat of the Seven Families of his own people. When she described her home, Thorin could hear the love in her voice. A northern land along the sea, full of forests and tall mountains. Thorin also got the impression Kaylea did not like her lord much, though she seemed to know him very well. She would only say she was not required to like him, only respect him. Thorin felt there must be much more to this story, but he did not press her.

After dinner Thorin returned to their room first, Kaylea wanted to check on the horses before retiring. Thorin was waiting in bed when she came in. He liked to watch her undress, to see her body revealed as she removed her heavy clothes. She bore many old scars on her skin, but her body was so perfectly proportioned, so lean and sculpted she looked almost like a work of art. Kaylea smiled at him, knowing he was watching. She took off her clothes a bit slower than necessary, removing each of the sheaths of knives she wore deliberately and placing them on the dresser. When she approached the bed Thorin threw the covers back for her and she slipped in beside him.

“Be a shame to not make use of this comfortable bed,” he said, taking her in his arms.

“You are not too tired, my king?” Kaylea teased, reaching down to take hold of him.

“Never for you, my love,” Thorin replied kissing her, first on the mouth then her neck, working his way down to her breasts.

 The next morning they crossed the river and turned east into the Brown Lands, as they were called. It was a wide and largely treeless land of gently rolling grassy hills. At this time of year the hills were still mostly green, but the grass was already starting to brown. There were no villages or permanent settlements, the land was home to tribes of nomadic herders who lived among their cattle, sheep and goats, fattening their herds on the abundant grass before taking them to market in Gondor or north to Dale. Kaylea warned Thorin these nomads had no loyalties to any master and were suspicious of outsiders, if they encountered any they would have to proceed carefully. She knew they held Elves in a kind of awe, and they often took her to be an Elf, but she had no idea their opinion about Dwarves. The land was also often visited by orcs and other fell things, travelling from Mordor to the Misty Mountains or preying on the herds of the nomads. They would have to travel carefully, follow alongside the river taking winding paths among the hills to avoid being seen and keeping watch at night.

They travelled many days through this hilly country. Although it seemed monotonous at first, little valleys would open up between the hills with groves of trees, turbid streams and sometimes walls of exposed rock. Kaylea seemed to know the land well, and would lead the way to hidden campsites along the river, water for the horses and perfect for washing off the dust of the day’s travel. They fell into a kind of routine, travelling for much of the day before resting for some hours and then moving on again. In this manner they travelled for many days. They did not speak much as they were riding, but once they stopped they often found themselves sitting by the campfire and talking for hours. On the nights she washed her hair Thorin would do Kaylea’s braids and then she would lean back against him to sit and watch the fire burn down. One night when Thorin was lying with his head in her lap, Kaylea returned the favor. She was surprisingly fast at it, Thorin’s smile kept getting wider. As Kaylea was putting the last bead on, she looked at him quizzically.

“What is it, my king? Am I violating some Dwarvish custom?”

“Not at all, my love. We are properly married now.” Thorin reached up to stroke one of her braids. She laughed and bent to kiss him.

“The next time I am in Rivendell I am going to ask Lord Elrond if these are really Dwarvish customs.”

Thorin gave her his best innocent look. “I would not lie to you, my love.”

 Kaylea did not sleep as much as Thorin so she often kept watch. She would always lay down with him, often they would make love and she would curl against him until he fell asleep. Thorin found her bedroll one of the most comfortable he had ever slept in, it had some kind of cushion under it that made the ground much easier to sleep on. And sharing it with the woman he loved made the nights some of the best he had ever had in the Wild. The nights when Kaylea slept were his favorite, he loved to stay awake and listen to her breathing. Whichever of them kept watch they were usually up before dawn, Kaylea would make coffee and they would eat whatever was left of dinner the night before. Thorin found himself very fond of her Dorsai coffee, it was strong and had a faint flavor of cinnamon, a few sips and he was instantly awake and refreshed.

One morning after four days in this country they were following a narrow trail between the hills that suddenly opened up into a wide, level space. Kaylea reined her horse to a halt. There was a long spear planted right in the middle of the trail. Just as she stopped her horse a group of riders came around the foot of the hill at the other end of the valley. They were dressed all in brown, brown cloaks with the hoods pulled over their heads and heavily armed.  

Kaylea looked over her shoulder at Thorin. “Raiders. They will be after the horses. There may also be some behind us”

Thorin unshouldered his bow. “Looks like three for each of us,” he said with a grin.

Kaylea jumped off her horse and went to stand next to the spear. Just then another rider appeared, on top of the hill opposite them. He was dressed the same as the others, but the tack of his horse flashed with gold. “There you are,” Kaylea said softly. As she spoke two riderless horses cantered up the trail past them. Thorin turned to see Hector standing back down the trail behind them, panting.

So much for the riders behind us, Thorin thought to himself. He looked back towards Kaylea just in time to see her pull the spear out of the ground and in one smooth motion hurl it at the rider on top of the hill. It hit him square in the chest with such force he sailed off the back of his horse. Thorin urged his horse forward, notching an arrow in his bow. That was an impossible throw, he thought. Impossible. How did she do that?  

Kaylea swung up on her horse, loosing her bow as Hector flashed past them. The group of riders milled about in confusion for a second, their leader and two of their gang gone. When their horses saw the wolf coming at them, four of them bolted. The other two followed as Thorin and Kaylea picked off the riders with their bows, then rode in pursuit of the others. It was all over in just a few minutes, the horses of the raiders were fast but they could not compete with Kaylea’s Nihrain and Thorin’s Rohirrm mare. When the last raider was dead Kaylea stopped to catch and calm their horses. She then unsaddled them, giving everything a close look to see if there was anything they could use. Thorin dismounted to help, still shaking his head about that spear throw. He had seen Kaylea do a few impossible things, but what he had just seen was beyond reason. You simply could not throw a spear that distance, not with the speed and force to impale a body. It just was not possible, except apparently it was. The head raider’s horse came up to join the others, bridle flashing in the sun. Hector was out of sight but the animals were still nervous. Thorin and Kaylea worked quickly. One of the riders had a fresh haunch of some deerlike animal tied to his saddle, they took that and the box of salt and spices the man was also carrying. Then they piled the tack up and let the horses go free. They would later find their way to one of the herders on the plains, who could not believe his good luck.

Two days later they saw a spur of the Ered Luthui looming in the south and the terrain became flatter. The first day on the plain they encountered a group of herders moving a number of cattle in the opposite direction. They spotted Thorin and Kaylea but kept moving, their herding dogs stopped repeatedly to look at Hector but eventually moved on. The big wolf stayed close to Kaylea’s horse, apparently trying to look like a dog. Soon they came to where the River Running met the Redwater and turned south, now following alongside this larger river for two days before it turned to the east. Thorin remembered it later as a very long journey over monotonous country. Everything was different shades of brown, occasionally they would see herds in the distance and several times small bands of orcs during the night, but they passed through without incident. Finally they came to the Ash Mountains and the land of Ithilien in the foothills. The soils were rocky but tall fir trees and flowering bushes grew on the slopes and little grassy meadows opened up unexpectedly as they travelled. It was a fair land, a welcome change after the monotonous journey along the river.

“We must be very careful now,” Kaylea warned as they sat by the fire that evening working on her weapons. “There are not many eyes on this land but the mountains will be watched.”

Thorin nodded, he was rubbing some oil into the sword Kaylea had given him, making sure it was ready for action. He had not had occasion to use it except for sparring, he was rather looking forward to using it in a real fight.

“Where do we travel from here?” Thorin asked.

“I want to spend some time at the edge of the mountains, discover which passes are being used. Then there is an old path through the mountains about fifty miles to the east,” Kaylea said. “On the southern side there is an old watchtower, mostly a ruin now, at the edge of the plain of Udun. From there we will be able to see the fortress of Barad-dur, once we do that we will know if we need to go closer.”

Thorin was about to reply when his head was suddenly filled with the oddest vision. He was standing on the deck of a large sailing ship, he could hear the creak of the timbers, the crack of the sails. He was looking out onto a frozen sea which the ship was somehow moving over at a great speed. He could feel a cold wind on his face, and the sounds of a harsh language being spoken.

“Hector,” he heard Kaylea say softly and just as suddenly the vision was gone. He looked over at the wolf sleeping on the other side of the fire to see him raise his head and look at Kaylea. She looked at Thorin. “I assume you saw that.”

Thorin blinked, shaking his head. “What was that?”

“Hector was dreaming,” Kaylea said. “You remember I said he can put pictures in my mind.”

Thorin looked from her to Hector and back. “But what was that? Where was I?”

Kaylea took a deep breath, poking at the fire with a stick. “That is from a far, far country, much farther away than Dorsai, where they sail frozen oceans in tall ships.”

Thorin shook his head, he knew Kaylea well enough to know she would say no more on the matter. The vision had been so detailed, so intense. Thorin longed to be on that ship. “I envy you, my love, this life you lead.” He looked at her. “One day, I want to sail that ice ocean with you.”

She smiled at him. “Perhaps you will one day, my king.”

Read the complete adventures of The Warrior and The King on AO3 or FanFiction, author is akdogdriver. All three books now also on Wattpad.

@thequeenoferebor​ 

[layla256]

Key to Her Heart Chapter 2/52: Children’s Games

And here we go, the second chapter! I know the Slayerfest would have probably been a better episode to do this prompt with, but I don’t really have access to the episode since I’m on a cruise ship with no internet right as I’m writing this, so I figured I’d go with the next episode in season two.

Cause I love me some season two. Wonder why?

This was hell to write. Frankly, there’s about 200 words missing from this chapter, mostly because of the 2000 word limit. I was gonna have Faith finally show up in all her Single-Slayer glory, there was an entire conversation Buffy has with Spike about Ford and their friendship, there was a lovely torture scene where Spike’s feelings for Buffy start to come through, there’s an entire sub-plot with Buffy’s Mom and her gallery.

None of which I got to touch. So I’ve decided, since I have the extra time on my hands, I’ll start writing shoot-offs of the series. Things that have nothing to do with the Prompts as I’m writing them, but will definitely flush out the over-all story.

The prompt this time was: The most dangerous game.

Again, Slayerfest would have been perfect, but I barely remember the episode. I’ll have to start re-watching when I get home.

 Buffy wasn’t sure if she wanted to be flattered by Spike’s defense of her supposedly sullied honor or still horrified that his response to her assault had been to slaughter an entire frat house in her and her friends’ names.

Being fair, they were sacrificing teenage girls to a giant snake demon, so she wasn’t exactly upset that they were dead, but a voice sounding incredibly like her mother insisted that murder was still a very wrong thing and wasn’t to be encouraged.

Either way, Buffy had some serious thinking to do, which she figured was best done at the Bronze with bestie back up.

“Well,” Xander said, “I’ve given my opinion on the guys, so . . .”

Willow and Buffy both sighed. “‘Fuck ‘em,’” they quoted. It had been his mantra all night. Sure, he’d been the first on the Let’s-Stake-Spike train right along with Giles when he’d first heard, but the second his actual intentions had been revealed, they suddenly changed their tones.

“Extenuating circumstances,” Giles had called it, while cleaning his glasses for the fifteenth time that conversation.

“Well, someone got a potty-mouth while I was gone!” a strained voice called, bringing Buffy’s attention around to the familiar figure behind her.

“FORD!” She yelled out, not seeing the grin on his face.

  Spike couldn’t believe his fucking luck! He knew that Faith was a royal bitch to everyone (Buffy had complained about it plenty of times for him to get the picture), but to have a childhood friend turn her over to a Master Vampire to save his own skin? Spike had originally had his doubts when some posh human came and offered him the slayer on a silver platter in exchange for immortality. Had he not been able to smell the sick and medicine on the kid, he would have smelled a trap instead. Kid was dying and desperate, and Spike was just the kind of bad, rude man to take advantage

He would kill Faith, Dru would be able to drink her dry, then . . .

Then they would leave. Just like he wanted three months ago. His Dark Princess all healed up, they’d paint the town red before moving onto the next. This was, literally, the sole reason he came to this ruddy town.

Not why we stay, his demon whispered. Never before had he felt so strongly the urge to physically kick the damn thing. Yes, he knew bloody well that wasn’t why he stayed, or why the idea of leaving left him feeling more bereft than before, but it was completely and utterly a non-issue.

Before he could remind himself all the reasons why it was a non-issue, a hand came across his face, scratching as it went.

Ah, Dru was in that kind of a mood today then.

“Stop all that glowing,” she demanded. “You’ll burn up my daisies!”

Spike sighed heavily, drawing on a full century of loving Dru through all these fits to keep his temper. “Dru, Princess, ‘m not glowin‘.” He calmly took both of her hands into his own, holding them firmly so she couldn’t attack him again.

“You are!” she insisted, struggling in his grip. Normally, she could have broken it by now, but that mob had really done a number on her. “You glow with her! I’ll not burn up with you! No sunshine for Daddy’s princess!”

Spike was in game face in an instant. Daddy, Daddy, Daddy, that’s all he sodding heard about. Every damn night his Dark Princess insisted on bringing up her wretched sire, asking after him, commenting on whatever he was doing, all of it. Frankly he was fucking sick of it at this point.

“A hundred,” he growled at her, shaking her in his grip. “A hundred fucking years, I’ve stood by you. When Darla left cause she couldn’t put up with your fits, when he left because of that fucking soul, I stayed and took care of you, loved you through every sodding demon you opened your legs for. Kept you safe and happy, and stayed. Never strayed a once. So whatever Miss Edith told you, get it out of your head now.”

As he panted with unnecessary breath, he saw tears well up in her eyes. Immediately, he felt like a pillock. He knew it wasn’t Dru’s fault. Between the visions and the regular bouts of insanity, the poor girl couldn’t tell up from down half the time. It had been decades since he’d lost his temper with her.

“Princess,” he whispered, moving to bring her into his arms. “Princess I-”

“Princess wants her Daddy!” she wailed, crumbling to the floor.

And, for the first time in a hundred and eight years, Spike let her and walked out of the room.

He had a Slayer to kill.

 “Let’s go people-watching,” Ford suddenly said, drawing Buffy out of her Algebra-induced state. Something she was grateful for because, frankly, she was getting sick of those trains. However, when his words registered, she gave him a sarcastic look, raising her eye brow at him in what looked like a very Spike-ish expression. “Come on,” he needled, sitting up straight on her couch. “It’ll be just like old times! You used to love playing ‘Story Time’.”

Buffy shuddered at the name. “Yeah, until we made that amazing love story.” Buffy didn’t have to finish the rest. It had been her favorite story by far, full of drama, romance, and perhaps a hidden connection to the Dutch throne (did the Dutch even have a monarchy? It wasn’t something she’d considered when she was ten) rivaling any she’d come up with before. All of which had come crashing down when she’d caught the morning news and discovered the guy was actually a serial killer and the woman his latest victim.

Story Time stopped being fun after that. These were actual lives. Sure, it was fun to joke that the old man feeding the pigeons was a retired CIA spy who had a Bond Girl retiree waiting for him at home, but for all Buffy knew he was a widower trying to make it day by day.

“I don’t know Ford,” Buffy finally said. “It’s just not a fun game anymore. Besides, it’s gonna be dark soon.”

Ford shook his head. “Look, I know this club, it’s just full of a bunch of teenagers. It’s, like, ten minutes from here. No big deal.” He smiled at her, exuding confidence and almost jittering with energy. “Come on. For me?”

Buffy sighed. “We’re back by nine though,” she caved. “I’ve totally got to actually finish this Algebra homework or Ms. Jefferson’s gonna eat my soul or something. She wasn’t very clear.”

 Buffy already wanted to leave, and they hadn’t even spoken to anyone.

A vampire club. Ford had taken her to a fucking vampire club, and she was pissed.

Sure, she knew these kinds of places existed. There were a few in LA. Hell, there was a ball held there every now and then. She’d thought it sounded glamourous when she’d first heard of it in high school. The pictures she saw in one of the goth kid’s lockers showed big ball gowns and costumes everywhere. She’d even thought about going to one once. If only for an excuse to dress up.

Then she found out that A.) Vampires and demons were real and they were far from glamorous, B.) She might be one of them, and C.) Some of the people at those things took the whole thing way too seriously.

She wanted to tell Ford that moment that she was going home. Fuck the game, fuck this club, and, a tiny bit, fuck Ford, but she couldn’t bring herself to do or say it. He was still her friend and, frankly, she wasn’t comfortable leaving him wandering Sunnydale by himself at night.

“Let’s pick,” Ford said, his tone an odd one that Buffy couldn’t quite place. She looked over and saw a smirk across his face, but it wasn’t mischievous or knowing. It was frightening. It reminded Buffy strongly of her night at the frat, and she found herself moving away from him carefully, gently reminding herself that she hadn’t had anything to eat or drink in hours, so nothing was in her system.

While Buffy was focusing on her breathing, Ford seemed to find what he was looking for. “Oh, how about them!” He pointed below them. “Those two probably aren’t going to murder each other tonight.”

Buffy wanted to scold him. The game wasn’t fun or entertaining, and what had happened to that poor girl wasn’t something he should be making fun of. However, her eyes drifted to who he was pointing to, and her throat closed.

Spike. Spike was here with Drusilla.

And apparently this Vampire Bar had a few more actual vampires than Buffy had originally thought.

“Ford,” Buffy said, “I’m leaving. Let’s go.”

Ford shook his head. “What? You don’t like my new friend?”

Buffy’s eyes widened. “Friend? Since when do you even know Spike?” Before Ford could answer, she was shaking her head. “You know what? No. Doesn’t even matter. So low on the mattering scale I can’t even see it. We need to leave. Now.”

Buffy knew how Spike was. If he was there with Drusilla, they were planning on feeding. Buffy couldn’t protect everyone.

Ford seemed to hesitate but nodded. “Alright. We’ll go out the back way, so he doesn’t see us.”

And Buffy was so thankful he hadn’t argued with her, she didn’t even think of how bad an idea that was.

 Spike was mere seconds away from ripping the little wannabe behind him apart with his teeth when one of his men signaled him. Ford had actually managed to get the slayer into the alley. Bloody hell, he certainly owed the kid.

Moving quickly, he left Drusilla behind. She hadn’t spoken to him since the incident that morning, but Spike frankly couldn’t bring himself to care.

Stepping outside with a grin, he started swaggering towards the two figures, curious why he didn’t smell Slayer. Taking a deep breath, Spike scented the medicine and sick from the boy, the beer and vomit from the alley, and finally, a familiar vanilla and steel.

Buffy.

He must have said her name aloud, because the two turned and looked at him, a smile on the boy’s lips and terror on hers. “Spike,” Buffy hedged, putting herself between him and the boy. The lying little shit. “Spike, please. He’s my old friend, just leave him alone, please.”

Suddenly, it all fell into place. The shit hadn’t lied. Not to him at least. He was just a sodding fool. A sodding fool who hadn’t tried to sell him Faith, but Buffy.

“Buffy,” he said firmly. “Go home, lock your doors, and make sure your mum’s all tucked in.” He stalked towards Ford.

“Spike please no. I don’t know what he said—”

She was cut off when Spike grabbed Ford by his throat. “He sold you to me Buffy,” Spike growled through his fangs. “Swore your blood to me in exchanged for being turned.”

Kill the demon demanded. He was inclined to agree.

“We- We had a deal!” Ford gasped, clawing at Spike’s hands futilely.

“Not anymore,” Spike declared.

 The next night, Buffy was sitting next to Ford’s grave, a stake clutched in her hands and tears in her eyes. “I’m not talking to you,” she said, not even bothering to look at Spike as he approached from behind. “You had no right to have your minions haul me off while you—” she cut herself off with a choked sob.

Spike sat next to her, gently taking the stake from her hands. “I didn’t turn him,” he assured her, “But I wasn’t letting you stay for what happened.”

Buffy wanted to be furious with him. To hit and scream until her heart stopped hurting.

Instead, she just sat next to her friend’s killer and cried on his shoulders.

[not-a-statement]

Chasing ghosts. Chapter 1

I’m finally posting the first chapter.

Forgive me for my grammar, like I said I'm not a native speaker, but I hope you'll find it at least readable.

As always big thanks to @edward-or-ford for all his help and guidance

I’ll soon figure out how to create a master post, but just for now I’ll leave a link to a prologue (if you haven’t read it) here

Hope you guys enjoy this chapter

New City, NY, August 31st 2024

Dipper set aside the empty glass and glanced around at the merry people gathered to celebrate the Pines twins’ birthday. There were friends, a couple of relatives, colleagues. Mostly the Zach Turner’s colleagues: Dipper himself did not have personal contact with many people every day. A freelance journalist is called freelance for a reason. But if you are a stockbroker, even a beginner, then you might be in this kind of crowd. All of them fit, most of them tanned (probably from a solarium), wearing fancy Trussardi polos, a full set in order to impress you. To make you believe that you are looking at a wealthy confident man who knows no worries and ready tackle any money issues.

No, It’s not that Dipper could blame them, it's just their job to look successful and reliable. But from all this dazzling crowd hanging out in the backyard of the house he began to feel a ruffling sensation in his eyes. As if somebody poured a bucket of transparent glue on each of them and after they were shot with a sequins canon or whatever. It’s just seemed that each movement of these people somehow refracted the rays of sunlight at such an angle to hit Dipper directly in the eyes with a piercing beam. But anyway, Mabel was probably over-delighted with this kind display. Somehow it became a sort of tradition for the past ten years: what was painful for Dipper was pretty joyfull for Mabel.

Pines mentally kicked himself for that last thought. It sounded terrible, even if he didn’t say it out loud. And it sounded even worse coming from the thoughts of a loving brother.

Hah, a loving ... brother. It's odd even to put these two words in one sentence…

Another mental kick. Don’t you even dare to think about your feelings for your own sister, not now. Better to not ever.

Disgusting thoughts.

Wrong feelings.

Bad brain. Very bad and being an ass right now. We need to focus on what is important: today's birthday. Stan could get to us from his backwoods. Dad and Mom are also going to visit in a couple of days, when they return from the next trip around the country. They are probably happy with their new life without the constant care of children, busy only with each other and with their dreams.

Everyone was happy. Why couldn’t Dipper at least relax a little and pretend that he enjoyed this noise, instead of constantly thinking about escape paths from this house filled with smiling mannequins and idle talk? From the house where every piece of furniture, every spoon from the gift set and every word uttered by its inhabitants would forever remind Dipper of what he lost, and more than that, what he could never get. It was taken away from him by this slender hard-built bastard with a radiant smile from ear to ear and the sweetest speeches that he poured in huge doses into the ears of everyone around him. All these manners, courtesy. Damn, was it really only Dipper that was sick of this man-made likeness? Did no one else see his essence? Why did no one else see him as the dirty bastard he was? And why was Mabel, sweet smart Mabel, so blinded by all his fake ... this fake ... facade?

Dipper let out a deep sigh and reached for the glass again.

You know what? Forget it. You once again begin to come up with wild ideas and seeing things. Not every man hovers around Mabel actually turns out to be a psychopath, a juvenile maniac or a bunch of wild Fae creatures.

Yes, but I was right then!

Because then you tried to protect your sister, not the girl you are in love with.

As if there is any difference.

Newsflash. Of course there is. Want an example? Okay second year at college, the black guy what’s-his-face? Always found an excuse to hang in your dorm room with Mabel. You do remember him, right? And how long did it take your eye to recover from swelling.

Hey, it's not my fault that he got into a fight.

It happens when you get a lot of suspicious glares.

There weren’t so many of them ...

Dude, he still probably thinks you are a racist or something.

The rumble of a bourbon being filled in a glass was almost a lullaby. Dipper did not even notice how he filled the vessel almost to the brim.

Well, that was great: he was talking to himself now! Not that it was the first time. He often arranged internal disputes on this or that topic, clashing his rational part with itself or with the sensual, but never before his emotional side sounded so offended and pitiful.

Dipper frowned, sipping an amber drink, which burned his tongue and throat, but at the same time it became a little easier to consider everything that was happening and himself in it. With this ease, eyelids grew heavy, thoughts became slower - only the footage of the last six months of his life began to flash before his eyes.

If it could be called that. A life ...

Life is something sensible, controlled in the most of things. With no comprehensible forecast, only with assumptions - and that's enough, believe me.

And this kind of floating in the time-space with rare interactions with random objects floating there as well could hardly be called a life. It's like flying on autopilot without a specific purpose. And even you can not enjoy a journey in spite of what they say. A kind of asteroid in the cold space.

Or more like....

Perhaps it's ... like a satellite? Yes, a satellite that spends its entire life quietly orbiting its planet - a circle after a circle, year after year. It's boring, but you can adapt, especially if you do not think about why you get in this orbit and what happened before. If you do not replay in your mind moments from the past when at the age of fifteen you started to notice things that should not have been noticed, when your sweating hands, weak legs and lack of words turned the simplest conversation into an attraction of strangeness and awkwardness. If you do not replay memories of prom night over and over again in your head, which you found an excuse not to go to having no date to bring along, and your sister spent the whole night accompanied by that tall blond guy from her Spanish class and returned only the morning after. Or how you secretly threw out letters from the MIT that was ready to tear you away from the opportunity to choose a college in the same city as Mabel did.

Collect all these pieces together, and here you are - Dipper Pines - a proud mayor of the city called "What am I doing with my life?". Population: one person.

No, not like that.

And you are ready to go out into the streets and tear leaflets to passers-by with an invitation to the seminar "Are you too happy with your life? I will tell you how to get rid of this feeling. Every Sunday at a local community center. BYOB"

Yes, that's better. I can at least raise a little money.

Wait, what am I talking about? I need to open my eyes ...

A little more ... a little more ...

Oh, No! Bad idea!

Too light! Too light and too many people!

Oh... damn it …

Hmm ... although what am I? This was like it before I fell into my thoughts.

And yes - I'm still here. In the backyard of this hellhole, where Turner dragged my May ... um ... my ... my sister in his clawed paws. And from this hell I will never get her out of.

Dipper opened his eyes a little wider and looked at Zach's two-story house with complete disdain. Painted in a sky blue color, with windows washed up to the illusion of their absence and a neat backyard with garden gnomes, miniature paths lined with wooden footbridges, solar-powered lanterns and a low fence separating this site from the neighboring ones, it fit perfectly into a quiet family scenery, which New City of himself represented. This house came in no comparison with a small apartment in Brooklyn, where the twins has lived for almost a year after moving to New York. The apartment, which was a witness of moments of happiness and sadness, where the TV sometimes wasn’t turn off til morning because of the another marathon of cheesy horror movies, which housed the whole world of two closest friends, who loved each other sincerely and unselfishly. And which kept the secrets of one of them about where in its sincerity and disinterestedness there were footnotes in small print.

At the age of sixteen, Dipper told himself that only time was needed and that everything would end, everything would pass.

Now that’s a funny statement. Like a film or a book with an open ending, it gives a choice. For example, how long will it take or what will end? How many more will a small gray spinning top spin before shaking and gradually slowing its course until it stops? And will it stop at all?

Well, anyway, Dipper learned one thing - nothing can depend only on his will and obey the dry logic and, therefore, control. At the age of eighteen, he began to feel how gradually the situation began to develop according to his own scenario, regardless of his efforts to manage it. At twenty-two he could hardly find an explanation for his actions and decisions, and six months ago …

Six months ago, the satellite nevertheless descended from orbit and began its journey through the cold dark and empty nothingness. Six months ago, time had finally passed and everything was over.

On that day he walked from the editorial office with a new assignment. It was Friday, there was nowhere to hurry, although on the streets of New York even if you do not want to you have to merge with the eternally rushing crowd. There was a smell of spring in the air, and no matter how cliched this phrase was, damn it, it was true. Even Dipper felt something like that. Light and warm whiff. For the short time that he walked from the editorial office, the world around acquired more color, more smells - not literally, New York, with its busy streets, always supplied smells even above normal. Everything around seemed to come to life, blossoming in all its glory.

Not surprisingly, Mabel was always so happy about the arrival of spring, wherever we were. Maybe I should learn from her? Observe her today while taking a walk in Central Park - why the guy can’t invite his sister to take a walk in Central Park? Also, it’s now so beautiful there - bare trees are just beginning to be covered with the first signs of foliage, old men and women and young lovers are walking slowly along the paths of the park, contemplating what’s happening around them ...

It is possible to pretend that there is no hidden sadness that there is no emptiness inside. You can just move your legs, do not think about anything and absorb the sensations. And all this next to the most beloved person in the whole world …

Immersed in these thoughts and not particularly paying attention to scurrying hurried to and fro people around him, Dipper did not notice how a lazy and pacified smile began to creep across his face.

At least today life is good!

Mabel was waiting for him in the Ferrara bakery on Grand Street, where she was heading after another interview. It turns out that it's not so easy to find a job in New York for a mobile designer, but Mabel was not one of those people who despairs even after four months of searching. Although it seemed to Dipper that her enthusiasm was already at an end, and only by some miracle she still finds the strength to get up in the morning. He wanted to cheer her up, somehow raise her spirits, even if she does not admit that she is sad. Show that he is near, that he was always and will be there.

He planned everything: meet Mabel after work, a walk in Central Park, pizza for dinner and several pre-prepared playlists to choose from - romantic comedies, musicals, horror films and detectives. When they were sixteen, they could spend the whole night before the TV screen watching this kind of marathon of films. It's clear, they are older now and they have work and responsibilities, but, hey - today is Friday.

Simple and sincere. Only two of them, together.

It sounds like a date. Something like that…

From Worcester Street, on which stood the editorial building, it was ten minutes to go to the venue. Turn to Grand Street and go east, bypassing Green, Mercer, Broadway, Crosby, Lafayette, Center, Baxter and Mulberry Street. Piece of cake.

Despite the fact that after the turn the only thing that he had to do was to be on the straight line all the time, Dipper repeatedly checked the route in Google maps to make sure that he does not get lost and will be in place on time. Yes, it sounds odd, but New York is a big city, and it needs to be able to navigate. He didn’t want to repeat the story when Mabel mistakenly left for Jersey City and Dipper had to explain to her how to send her geolocation message to find it and pick her up.

Although now, probably, Dipper with all the desire could not not find the place where his sister was waiting. Huge signboards to the owners of the establishment seemed to be not enough, so they hoisted a giant plastic cones with a multicolored ice cream on both sides of the entrance, put a showcase with sweets on the street, and on the visor above the entrance for some reason they’ve put an old red baker's truck or something like that. Only the red carpet leading inside was missing. Oh, no, here it is …

Mabel sat in the far corner at a table for two. Before her stood a half empty mug of latte (obviously with a syrup of bubble gum, how can one drink it at all?) And a barely touched strawberry cheesecake. A slight dreamy smile played on her lips, a look through half-open eyelids was directed against the wall opposite her, the cheek is propped up by the palm, and the head is slightly tilted. Oh, so might it be that today she was at luck?

And how did it always happen that in any situation, in any position and with any expression of her face, Mabel was more beautiful than all the girls, that he’s ever seen in his life?..

"Hi, sis," Dipper said with a smile. "How was today?"

Whatever Mabel dreamed of, she was deep in her thoughts, because only the creak of the chair being moved in front of her and the appearance of her brother in her field of vision could bring her back to reality.

"Oh, hello, Dip," she chirped smiling wider. "I didn’t expect you so early."

“What?” Dipper was slightly taken aback. “I thought that I was even five minutes late ... wait, is this sarcasm? ...”

"No, no," Mabel said, quickly removing her elbow from the table and tucking the hair into her ear. She scanned the bakery, as if not quite understanding where she was.

“What time is it now?”

"Um, seven o'clock, just the time we agreed to meet”

"Oh, already?" Mabel lowered her eyes slightly and began fiddling with the tips of her hair.

"The time flew by so quickly," she added in a half whisper. Her cheeks glowed softly.

“Yes, already”  something suspicious was in the behavior of the sister. But put it off, Pines. You were going to offer something.

"Well, how did it go this time? Everything’s worked out? Looking forward to the call?”

"Or I can call first," Mabel playfully giggled.

“Mmm? Can you call them first for what?”

Mabel raised her eyes to her brother, in which a certain perplexity was read. For another couple of seconds, the sweet mist of dreams in her gaze dissipated until something clicked in her head, and she finally realized what Dipper was talking about.

"Ah, yes," she did her jazz hands "an interview. Well, it seems that next month you’ll still have to pay for the apartment. "She sighed and took a mug of coffee with both hands, lowering her head," again ... "

"Hey, hey," Dipper reached out and covered Mabel's arm, "it's all right. It's not important, the main thing is that you find a place where you’ll be appreciated and where it’ll be interesting for you to work and manifest yourself. You're the most creative person in this world. Heck, they're just idiots, if they didn’t take you right away!”

Mabel looked into Dipper's eyes and sadly, but sincerely smiled.

"I'll help you with what I can and will be around," Dipper smiled back.

God, how beautiful she is. There were so many guys in high school who liked her that the fingers of Ford's hands would not be enough to count them. True, none of those who had the luck to be with her, did not last more than two or three weeks, because none of them saw that behind the beauty of her there is also a very sharp mind. The whole universe with its rules and colors was stored in this charming fair-haired head. But none of them seemed to notice this.

Unlike Dipper.

Mabel embodied all the things that he lacked so much: freedom, creativity, infinite energy. Without it, he would not be a whole person. No one would have him learn to enjoy life and look at the world from a different angle, different from the position of dry logic.

"Thank you, bro bro," Mabel said quietly. "It means a lot to me, really”

"Any time, May," Dipper snapped his hand away and looked at his watch. "We still have plenty of time until the sun sets. It's about 20 minutes by metro to the Central Park, so I thought that we could wind up our heads a little. What do you say? You didn’t have any plans for tonight, did you?”

Mabel looked away and blushed profusely, covering her mouth with her palm and softly giggling.

Oh no. No no no! He screwed up, did he? He said it as if he was inviting her on a date. Oh, damn, oh, damn it! He rehearsed this phrase so much that it sounded like a simple friendly proposal in order to funk up anyway ?! She knows, she knows for sure, and now this situation will become even more awkward.

Set the panic aside! I need to figure out how to get out of this. Just laugh it off or try to explain what he meant.

Shit, why his palms are so sweaty? Is he in the eighth grade again?

“It sounds tempting, Dip. I’d really like to take a walk now …”

Oh, my God, phew. Everything is fine.

"... but, you see ..."

But? What’s for but? But what?

"... I really don’t know how it happened ... it seems that I have a date tonight!" Mabel finished her phrase. Her eyes were just glowing with happiness. The smile was broader and more dreamy than before, which made Dipper feel cold in the lower abdomen.

“I really didn’t know that this is the case in real life, but when I was walking from Five Points here ... i mean, our eyes just met, and I realized that he’d come up to me and ask me some question or say something... I just don’t understand how you constantly experience such stress every time you try to talk to a girl, this has never happened to me ...”

But Dipper wasn’t listening anymore. Only now he finally noticed all the details surrounding them. Strawberry cheesecake - when was the last time Mabel allowed herself something sweet in the city? Of course, they were not so poor, but given the fact that Mabel still did not have a permanent job, she tried to save money and not squander the money of her brother over trifles. So it was a treat. Then, how did Dipper not notice the empty espresso cup standing on his side of the table? He was too busy contemplating his sister to draw attention to this and to the fact that Mabel was constantly fiddling a napkin in her hand, on which was visible the pen-written sequence of numbers and one word.

Zach.

He left her his phone number. Who does this now? What kind of moron should one be to do this, instead of just dictating a number to be recorded in the phone?

That invisible, light breath that warmed Dipper so far from the moment he left the editorial office was instantly replaced by an importunate cold draft, from which all the muscles of his face grew cold and numb, turning nis face into a fixed mask that did not express any emotion. The bright March evening began to be replaced by a dark emptiness.

And Mabel kept talking and talking. She was extremely excited by what was happening: so many emotions, so many assumptions and hopes. As many as many times the only one phrase sounded in Dipper's head:

It happened again …

Sooner or later, it should have happened, but why today? On the day when he finally felt a barely perceptible wave of happiness?

Sometimes it seems that the universe itself is against you. Whether you achieve something desirable say some fun and joy come to life - bam! Sign here, please.

On the one hand, you can, of course, decide that this is "designed" so, that it’s fate and junk, that everything is natural and the time has come. The time for whatever - for example, the time to give up.

On the other hand, one can regard this same "bam" from the Universe as an appeal not to relax and to act further, to become better, to grow and all that.

You can, of course, just not react at all.

It depends.

A lot of dependencies happens to be all around us. Someone sits for hours with a guitar, learns to play the way his or hers favorite performers do, someone shoves career needle into his or hers veins, someone’s obsessed with science - yes, there are plenty of examples.

And love is something you can depend on too.

It’s even addictive.

And for someone who already has a strong addiction, something smoother will ... be like ...

Damn ... words ... how to make them into sentences? ..

So, enough for today's memories.

And speaking about strong and smooth ... I need another drink.

The glass stood on the table right here. Where is it ... hey?

Hey!

What the...?

"You tell me. That's enough for you, kid."

Kid? Oh he didn’t...

Dipper opened his eyes, trying to make out the speaker with him. It would have been better if it was anyone, but Zach.

"I think you might have the wrong glass, buddy," he croaked, trying to focus on the figure of the man next to him holding a vessel with amber corn liquid.

“Oh yeah? And didn’t you have the wrong party, knucklehead? The last thing I want to see right now is how my nephew gets drunk as hell at his birthday party”

Wait…

Stan? ..

“No, Pope John Paul II. Who do you think?”

In a second, Dipper's eyes flew open, and consciousness returned to online mode. Was he talking all this time out loud?

“I ... um” Dipper uncomfortably fidgeting on the chair, adjusting the edges of the shirt that was pulled up and briskly brushing his hair with fingers.

"Stan ... how long ... are you sitting here?"

"What? You wanna know how much of that nonsense that you muttered I heard? Don’t worry, your secrets will die with me.”

Oh no…

Dipper swallowed nervously and nodded uncertainly, looking before him. Stan responded with a laugh and added, changing his tone from more strict to good-natured:

"It's a joke, kid," he lifted his massive hand onto his nephew's shoulder, "there's nothing for me to blackmail you. This time.”

If they were in another place and under different circumstances, Dipper would have laughed along with his Gruncle. Now he did not even try, because together with laughter it would have turned out to be some silly awkward likeness.

"And yet, what made you to portray that guy ... Kain Rivers? Give you a piece of cake in the hand, and there’ll be complete similarity.”

"You mean Keanu Reeves?"

“Him, too.”

Dipper sighed and lowered his head, covered his face with his hands. Stan, having sipped a little bourbon from the glass, put his hand on his shoulder again.

“Seriously, Dip, what's wrong?” he added worried.

“Nothing, I'm fine” telling lies to a man who has proved over many years that he is the most understanding and caring member of the family left a disgusting taste on the tip of his tongue. If someone than it would be Stan to always be able to hear out and help. He would lay down his bones for the well-being of his family. Maybe he can at least somehow pour out his soul? ..

“What did you feel when Gruncle Ford disappeared in the portal? What’s it like to understand that your closest friend’s gone forever?”

Stan also sighed, setting aside his glass, and turned to face Dipper.

“Listen. You and Mabel, as long as I can remember, have always been together. You grew up, studied, moved to another cities. As I said, you rarely see such a relationship between a brother and a sister. But sooner or later, both of you should have had other companions of life. This is normal - it’s so arranged in the world. People get married, have families, children, invite each other to their dinners, go to work, dig in the garden in the backyard. It’s not the same as getting lost in another dimension for thirty years. Mabel just got married, she didn’t disappear from your life. Yes, now you’ll be separated not by the walls of the rooms, but by a good one and a half hour drive, but ... I’m not a good speaker... anyway,” - he drank some more whiskey.

"You two are better than we were with my brother. I'm telling you this, Ford claimed it until his last breath - believe me. Even if you were separated by space and time, you’d find a way to find yourselves... I mean to find each other. Do you understand what I mean?”

Dipper looked at the old man. In Stan's glance, God bless his heart, confidence and love were read. As always. And although he did not come even a bit close to understanding what was going on in Dipper's heart, his words still warmed.

"Yes, I do, Gruncle," Dipper smiled slightly. "Thank you."

"Well, it takes more than a simple thanks to be stuffed" Stan laughed and rose from his seat, leaning on the cane, "if you knew what they feed you on the plane, you’d understand what I mean. Next time I fly business class, and you pay. I spotted like a table with snacks inside, it's time to visit it.”

With these words he headed toward the house, stepping unsteadily and constantly leaning on his cane. Dipper saluted him in the style of Lando Calrissian and frowned. It was not fair  to upset Stan today with talk like that. So much of a burden was falling on his shoulders lately, and then there's just a glimpse of joy. Still, not every day his grand-niece marries.

It's a pity that Ford did not live to see this day. I definitely need to take a couple of  days off and go to Oregon. Stan becomes too weak to regularly care for the grave.

“Dipper! Bro-bro!”

Oh no.

Dipper pulled a smile on his face and turned to the source of the sound. There she was, flying to him in a light purple summer dress with a white collar.

"Silly drunken little brother. Where did you disappear?“ Mabel laughed, catching him with an empty glass and a half-empty bottle.

Dipper rolled his eyes and smiled wider.

"Mabel, we're the same age. Also I noticed that one bottle of champagne was open before the guests arrived”

He frowned in a mocking way and rubbed his chin,

“Hmm ... But who drank the champagne?..”

He pretended to be chewing a pen, thinking hard.

Mabel stuck out her tongue at her brother and laughed loudly.

"You’re such a nerd!"

She plopped down next to him and laid her head on his shoulder.

“Just think of it, we’re twenty-five now. Do people even have to live so long?”

"I'm still surprised that you even lived to be of age, considering the amount of sugar you absorb daily ... Ow!"  light elbow pokes from her still caught him off guard.

“You deserved that. Be grateful that Mister Tickles didn’t show up for such conversations with your sister.”

“Okaaaay. Mabel, are you sure you’re twenty-five?”  Dipper quickly moved away from Mabel, who was ready to attack on his brother's ribs with his fingers spread out, and raised both hands, "Okay, okay! No more of that!”

"Good brother." Mabel nodded with a satisfied look. "And now, if you'll allow me, jokes aside."

She took a small rectangular bundle from her handbag hanging from her shoulder on a thin chain and solemnly handed it to Dipper.

“Here!”

Dipper took the package from his sister's hands and for a few seconds admired this neatly wrapped in a nice-to-feel gift paper object. It was a pity to spoil such beauty.

“Come on, open it!”

In one motion Dipper opened the package, and in his hands was a large, thick notebook of dark blue. On his soft leather cover was woven golden threads of a small pine tree. Dipper carefully opened the title page, which was encoded with a neat letter. This time Dipper's face was lit up with a sincere smile - they invented the cipher together, many years ago, when in the classroom they passed notes to each other or left them in lockers.

"Wow ..." Dipper sighed. "I ... um ... thanks, Mabel."

"You're welcome, Dip," his sister shone, "I just wondered where it's seen that Dipper wouldn’t have a journal, would he?"  she again laughed and wrapped her arms around him, pulling her brother in a bear hug.

“Happy birthday, Dipper.”

"Happy birthday, Mabel," he replied, breathing in the fragrance of her floral perfume. "I ... um-uh ..." he cleared his throat and pulled away. "My present ... it... I decided not to carry it with me, so it's in the house, but ... I'm sure you'll like it too.

“It would be better if it was so.” Mabel said haughtily. With these words she jumped up, grabbing Dipper by the sleeve of his shirt and dragging him toward the house.

"There's a whole bunch of them there! Gifts!” she skipped off to the house, taking her stumbling brother along with her. "Let's go! I can’t wait to open each one right now!”

* * *

“Son of a…”  the lighter was still sent to the garbage because of malfunctioning, and now all the hope remained that the houses still had matches. Dipper had already rummaged through all the drawers in the kitchen, but not even one sucker was found in this abundance of kitchen utensils and cutlery, such an absurd abundance for the apartment, now serving as a lonely young man's refuge.

Dipper's gaze wandered around the kitchen, the space in his eyes doubled, quadrified - in general it was multiplying in every possible way, and it was extremely difficult to focus on something definite.

Was it really necessary to get so drunk? He did not have a car in New York for the time being, he used to travel by public transport and a taxi, but this is not an excuse for finding a pub on his way home to Brooklyn and staying there until midnight. The morning will be very bad. Very painful and bad.

But, it looks like this is the problem of tomorrow's Dipper, not today's, who has a real business to do now.

He held his hand to the countertop, and staggered to the gas stove, which looked like the last chance to light a damned cigarette, clamped in his teeth. Unsafe last chance. After meditating for couple of seconds, Dipper shook his head, muttering "No, sir," and went to investigate further. Still an eternity, according to the present chronology of Dipper, was wasted - there were no lighters or matches in the house, so that the stove was again in his field of vision.

Still adhering to the nearby interior for a safety net, Dipper drove to the suspicious fire-breathing inhabitant of his house. The fire was only lit from the fifth attempt, and, bending over to the hotplate itself and almost putting his shirt collar on fire, Dipper finally sucked in the pungent tobacco smoke.

And, it turned out that trying to smoke his first cigarette in life right now was a bad idea. Even disgusting. Not only that, he immediately became overwhelmed with a heavy cough and the shaking of his diaphragm awakened something dark in the stomach, consisting of half of bourbon, and half of the birthday cake.

Oh, shit, shit, SHIT!

To the left from the kitchen into the corridor, to the end ... lights on...

Where’s this switch ?!

Oh no! ..

FUCK!!!

At the last second Dipper managed to touch the toilet before he utterly unpleasantly vomited. All thoughts and emotions were compressed into a dot, leaving the consciousness with a devastatingly pure emptiness.

At some point, it might even have seemed that Dipper had blacked out, but as soon as the last urge receded, he straightened leaning with his hands on the rim of the toilet bowl and stood on his unsteady legs and went to the sink, much more tired and much less drunk.

At least giving the face a splash and rinsing the mouth with a freshener will not hurt.

And what do we have here? Oh, nothing, just your dirty still green face with a week stubble and some substance smeared around your mouth.

Oh, gross, ew!

He pulled off his shirt right over his head, doused his face with cold water, rinsed his mouth and staggered into his room.

Well, that's my life now. Drinking, no permanent job, a broken heart ... what could be better?

Dipper hobbled to the bed and plumped on it, without even bothering to remove the veil and pull off his trousers.

At least here I can quit pretending, he thought, as the tears came down bombarding his pillow.

[rmjagonshi]

Whole Again - Chapter 15

Whole Again on AO3

Mason opened his eyes and found himself on a giant puffy, amanita mushroom. At least, he thought it was; he didn’t think normal amanita’s quacked when you poked them. The blue grass stalks towering above him and covered with purple and red dew drops seemed to shield him from the sun. He saw the shadow of a bird pass over him; it was a feathery monstrosity. He was dreaming, that was obvious, but the context of his dream was unusual. He couldn’t see much else beyond his little clearing and the sky, which was a seafoam green with pink wisps of clouds like the artist had started to run out of pint. Where was he? He didn’t remember ever imagining anything like this before; nor had he seen anything like it recently.  

Aloud screech of excitement – from the only person such a screech could come from – echoed in the empty air.

“Mabel?” Mason squinted his eyes and tried to shield his face as he scanned the tree, er grassline.  

“Dipper!” His head snapped up a moment before he braced himself for the impact of his sister launching herself from wherever she had been overhead onto his perch. She landed heavily and caused the mushroom to let out a chorus of distressed quacks.  

“oof. Ow, Mabel, you’re heavy.” He winced, voice strained with the lack of adequate air. He tried to push her off, but the more he struggled, the more the mushroom top quacked and jiggled and he couldn’t gain any leverage.  

“Oopse, ok.” Mabel wasn't getting any leverage either, but it didn’t matter much when a set of butterfly wings began to unfurl from her back. They unraveled slowly, the thin webbing damp and dripping with a milky substance. A few drops landed on his face and rolled down his cheeks. It was weirdly sweet, like coffee creamer, and kind of tasted nutty. When her wings were outspread, she flapped them a few times, spraying the mushroom and Mason with more sticky nectar before she lifted off into the air.  

“Is this better?” She called, hovering about four feet (was it feet, or were they really small) above him. They were very fancy wings, having multiple sharp points and curves and embellishment tails that hindered rather than aided flight. In fact, she shouldn’t be able to fly at all. And not just because the wings wouldn’t support her weight.  

“How…how did you…oh, right, I’m dreaming.” Mason scratched at his head and tried again to stand on the mushroom. It let out a heave and a long-suffering quack as he got his footing. It was like that bouncy castle Mike in the third grade had at his birthday party. Mason an Mabel had gotten into a jumping contest…they were asked to leave when the thing sprung a leak. It was a lot less fun than he remembered.    

“Yup, but oh so wrong” Mabel sang from above him, and spread open her arms and rained glitter and small plush strawberries down on him. A particular large berry bounced off his nose; it smelled like baby wipes. Where were they, a weird form of Mabel Land? “I found him!”  

“Wait, what?” Mason had taken off Wendy’s hat to shake the glitter from it – and try to wipe away some of that nectar before it dried – when he hear rustling in the grass forest beyond.  

“FOUR!” The mystery voice was rough, gravel in a tin can rough, and he would know it anywhere. The yellow object flying directly at his head was certainly unfamiliar.  

“What!” Whatever it had been – Mason assumed it used to be a tangy and creamy fruit – was now splattered across his face and shirt, staining the material a bright yellow as the pulp dripped off. He had only a passing moment to be upset when another fruit came out of the grassline and hit Mable. She seemed far less agitated at the mess it caused, instead laughing and crying out in exuberance at the two figures materializing at the edge of the clearing.

Stanley and Stanford Pines stood in all their seafaring glory. Stan wore a white t-shirt and faded jeans that looked as salt encrusted as his boots. He had on a tan trench coat, a read beanie and a pair of palm tree novelty sunglasses. Stan was smiling wide enough, Mason was sure his face was starting to hurt. Ford, however, was not smiling. In fact, if Mason was not mistaken, Ford looked down right livid, face pinched as though he was barely holding back the urge to scream at someone. Ford wore a blue sweater embossed with gold letters that spelled out ‘Nerdy’, brown trousers and stained boots, and a replica of the fishing hats Stan had sewn for Mason and Mabel; it read ‘Sixy’.

“Gr-grunkel Stan? Great Uncle Ford?” What in the heck was he dreaming. His dreams were never this lucid, even when he wanted them to be. He had spent a large part of the summer angry at his own brain that every time he dreamed of kissing Wendy, her face was foggy and blurry and it felt like he was moving through water. He knew when he was dreaming – usually – and this was way too real. It was almost like going into someone’s mi-

“Hey, he finally caught on. It only took Mable a few seconds. Ah well, guess some of us have to overthink things, huh Poindexter.” Stan flipped off the fishing hat so it hung around Ford’s neck and tousled Ford’s hair. Ford angrily pushing Stan’s arm away and flattening out his now pillow quality poof. Mason really should ask him how he keeps his hair that, well, voluminous. He suspected his uncle used a lot of hair gel, or hair spray. He did always have a distinctly chemical smell about him, but Mason always assumed it was due to Ford’s various experiments. Maybe he was a closet fashion aficionado?        

“Merry Christmas!...eve.” Stan spouted, faltering a bit at his correction but still keeping his signature Mr. Mystery grin. He knelt and spread his arms wide, expecting the twins to charge forwards and hug him. Mason carefully slid off the amanita to the ground, Mabel flapped her wings a few times and landed beside him. The twins looked at each other with concern; Mabel was no longer grinning and Mason was chewing the inside of his cheek. Stan’s arms drooped, a melancholy sigh escaping his lips to wrap around his form.

“Alright, alright. I can understand that. They are a bit tacky anyway.” Stan ran a few fingers up his cheek and hook into the hinge of his novelty glasses. With a flourish, he whips them off, revealing his normal glasses overtop deep brown eyes wit round pupils. Only then do the twins rush forwards.

“Grunkle Stan!” They shout in unison, each hanging off one of Stan’s arms. He smelled like salt water and a bit like fish, but neither one cared enough to be bothered. Stan wrapped one arm around each of them, one hand coming up to tangle in Mabel’s hair and the other nearly knocking off Wendy’s hat. Mason felt his cheek press into the fur and cold metal peeking out from Stan’s low shirt collar. It tickled his nose and the chain links were going to leave an impression in his face, but for the moment, everything was right.      

“This is hardy appropriate.” Que Mr. Grumpy Pants, Great Uncle Ford to spoil the moment. Stan let go of the twins and stood slowly, using Mason’s shoulder for leverage and nearly knocking him over. So, Stan got a lot stronger.

“Aw, common Poindexter, we’re in the middle o’the Bermuda Triangle. How else am I gonna get them their presents?” Mason recovered from his stumble and turned to look at Ford, who looked just as irritated as he had before, perhaps with a hint of deep seeded weariness. He rubbed heatedly at his eyes, six fingers pushing his glasses up to his brow. Even though he could probably change his appearance in the mindscape – Mable had been slowly changing her seater color during their exchange, it now sported a pineapple pattern – Ford looked tired. And not the ‘I need sleep because I stayed up too long working’ kind of tired, either.

“Bill, stop it.” Ford’s snap made both kids jump. Mable’s eyes darted back to Stan’s. They were still brown, but now they swam with unshed grief and shame.  

“Aw jeeze. Look, can ya, just this once, call me ‘Stan’? For them?” Stan gestured to the two twins with his open palms. It was Stan, though. His eyes were normal. So even if Mabel and Mason were wrong and it was Bill, he wasn't the one in control now…right? This was Stan. Out of all the things they had learned about Bill, the only consistency was his inability to change his eyes. Mason trusted him. Mostly. Maybe not completely, at least, not if his sister could get hurt. Mason’s eyes snapped to double check that Stan’s eyes were indeed still brown. They were.

Ford looked back and forth between the two teens in front of him and sighed. He couldn’t deny them anything, not when they were this close – even if it was just a mental projection. Ford, too, knelt and embraced the two kinds that had launched themselves at him. Ford’s sweater was soft, and his hug tighter. Mason felt his back pop and hear Mable let out a muffled squeak of protest, but Ford just squeezed them tighter. Ford held them for an awkwardly long time, long enough for Mabel – who LOVES long hugs – to get bored and start tracing the letters on Ford’s sweater. Their uncle needed this. Mason didn’t know why or what was going on in Ford’s head, but it was obvious he needed to make sure they were okay. So, they obliged him.  

“This was kinda a present for you too, ya know.” Stan mumbled, hand rubbing at the back of his neck where the hair had grown to cover it. It wasn't quite long enough to be considered a mullet, but it covered his neck and stopped maybe an inch before his shoulders. He avoided making eye contact directly, but he never turned away so that they couldn’t see his face. It made it easy to notice the slight blush creeping up his face.

“You shouldn’t be doing this.” Ford muttered into Mabel’s hair before letting them go, finally. His hands lingered on their backs, though, each set of six fingers toying with the cotton fabric. It was really weird how tactile it was in the mindscape. Everything here was just a mental projection of what was – and often what wasn’t – in the real world, but it all felt real.  

“I know, I’m gonna sleep for a day after this, but it’s worth it.” Stan just deflected with a grin and a laugh. Mason didn’t care if any of their hypotheses were right, there was no way that Stan Pines was not standing in front of him. He placed his hand on his shoulder, over Ford’s, and leaned into Ford’s arm. Mabel let go of Ford and bounded over to Stan, climbing up his torso to hang from his bicep like an overgrown monkey. She even swung back and forth, losing her wings in favor of a prehensile tail. Mason felt Ford’s grip tighten painfully, his nails leaving six grooves in Mason’s shoulder. Mason winced, but Ford let go when Stan hurriedly gathered Mable and set her back down on the ground. Stan took an obvious step back to distance himself, eyes fearfully darting to Ford.

“Common you two. Wh-where do you want to go?” Stan had recovered, but only just; his voice wavered and now carried a tinge of anxiety.

“What do you mean?” Mason interjected in an attempt to break the tension that has enveloped the clearing.

“Your Christmas present. Anywhere you want to go. Anywhere! All ya gotta do it tell me. I can’t read yer minds right now, too much energy goin’ inta keepin’ all our minds connected.” Stan explained with a dismissive wave of his hand, glossing over the specifics of how exactly he was able to do what he was doing. In fact, he didn’t bother explaining much of anything; he knew that Ford had told the kids everything – well, not everything, but everything important anyway.

“Anywhere?” Mable squealed, head already filling with all the possibilities of kittens and ice cream baby fighting.  

“Anywhere.” Stan countered. Anywhere they wanted to go. No limits. Well, heck, then where should they go first? Mason started towards Stan and Mabel met him halfway. They put their heads together, whispering and glancing over their shoulders occasionally to look at Stan or Ford. Stan pulled at his collar a bit, suddenly feeling nervous about the twins conspiring together. Ford was fairing no better, still gathering himself after the horrid recreation of his nightmare. The one that nearly broke him. The one that would have broken him if Bi-Sta…he hadn’t muted it. He wasn’t stupid, and had picked up on Ford’s anxiety immediately. Stanford prided himself on his ability to control his fear, but the kids were a whole different matter. He would always be fearful for them. Always.

It grew eerily silent, save for the breeze rubbing the grass blades together. The younger Pines twins had stopped talking and were now glancing back and forth between their Grunkles. Neither Stan, nor Ford had yet noticed, too wrapped up in their own heads. The twins glanced at each other and nodded, Mabel clearing her throat to gain attention.

“Decided yet?” Stan asked nervously. He wanted to get this thing started, he wanted to distract himself entertaining the kids, he wanted Ford to stop being so uptight; they were in the mindscape, there wasn't anything he could actually do to anyone here, even if he wanted to. It was talking nearly all of his concentration to make sure they were all on the same wavelength. He didn’t even think he could alter memories at this point, again, not that he wanted to. He wanted to show his brother that he wasn't going to hurt the kids, that he wasn’t going to hurt Ford, that he just wanted them to be happy, together.

“Animation Land Studios World!” Mabel’s shout might’ve actually shook the ground. Stan cocked his head at the unexpected request. Anywhere in time and space, anywhere in existence, even other dimensions, and the kids wanted to go to an amusement park. Albeit a very expensive and world renown one that most people sat on a waiting list of nearly five years to get a ticket, but still, an amusement park.

“Ok, you want the whole thing? ‘Cause that might take a while, that place had got more square acreage than the forest around Gravity Falls.” Not that he couldn’t do it, just, they might get to the edge and it might take some extra time to load. Real life lag. Or, ya’know, close enough.  

“Actually, we just want the Lightning Zapper Thrill Seeker. Mabel and I have always wanted to see if we could handle it. It’s supposed to go like 0 to 80 in eight seconds.” Both kids were giddy.

“A competition, eh? I suppose I could oblige ya. And ya can’t have a park without extra greasy and covered in sugar carnival food! Alright! I think I got it!” he said, cracking his knuckles.  

Stan clapped his hands and rubbed his palms together. He adjusted his posture, standing tall. His face closed, intense, and focused. In a few short moments, there was a stranger standing in front of them wearing Stan’s skin. He looked, well, like one of the guys on Mabel’s romance novels. It was freaky how just a subtle change could make such a huge difference. Stan sighed, faltered, and grimaced.

“Ah, kids, um…Ya, ya’know what happens, when I, ya’know, do stuff, right? I know Ford’s told ya, but, well, I know ya haven’t seen it fer yourselves yet. And, I didn’t wanna freak ya out, or nothin’.”  

Mable frowned. They knew, but Stan was right, seeing it in person (well, close enough) was something else entirely. Mason brushed the back of Mable’s hand with his own and she took the hint, interlacing their fingers loosely. Their heard Ford step up behind them.

“It’s ok. We know. Thanks for the warning though.” Mason nodded in agreement.

Stan sighed again, air pushed out between puckered lips as he closed his eyes and steadied himself. They waited a beat, then two. The ground began shifting, the dirt and sand grains vibrating away as asphalt rose from below. The giant grass and mushrooms faded in an out of clarity, pulsating out of existence. Stan’s eyes snapped open, they were bright yellow, elongated pupils. Mason felt Mable’s hand cling tighter to his; Ford bracing both teens with a hand to their backs.

It was different in person. So much different. Mason’s subconscious was screaming at his to ‘Run, get out, get away!’, but he held his ground. Mable and Ford helping to ground him. It was Bill. Except, it wasn't, and as the scenery changed around them, Stan’ eyes changed too. With every blink his eyes grew white, irises forming and pupils curving into perfect circles. With the last blink, the last trace of yellow, the ground stopped vibrating and they stood in the middle of Animation Land Studios World, right at the start of the line the eighth wonder of the world itself; The Lightning Zapper Thrill Seeker, the world’s fastest and tallest roller coaster.

The shock from seeing Stan perform magic wore off quick a Mason and Mabel jumped up and down and raced to the front of the line. Why, not, there was no one here, not even park attendants. Stan wobbled in place a moment before regaining his balance.

“Hey, wait up!”

The twins paused climbing into the front seat of the coaster to see a young boy, maybe their age – maybe a year or two younger – wearing a red and white striped shirt and jeans ripped at the knee. His left cheek sporting a band-aid, and a missing tooth. He jogged up to the twins and took a seat behind them, shouting, “Hey Poindexter, you gonna sit this one out?”

Ford muttered something that was lost to the distance between them and started a much slower and dignified pace to the coaster.

“Oh, come on, old timer! You can change. Or at least run!” The boy shouted at Ford, who continued his slow pace. The boy sighed, turning to the twins and mumbling, “Older brothers, right?”

The twins blinked in unison. “Stan?” Mable uttered the question Mason was having trouble articulating.

“The very same. Who’d’ya think it was?” The now confirmed Stan put out his hand ready to offer a greeting. “Heya.” Mason frowned this time, eyeing the child hand that started to flicker with blue fire. Stan shook his hand and arm to put out the flames and tucked them behind his head. “Yeah, well, we know each other already, so no introductions needed. ‘Bout time!”

Ford had just stepped up beside the stationary carts, arms crossed disapprovingly at Stan’s choice of form. After a few tense moments of the older twins eyeing each other, Ford stepped onto the coater beside Stan and flipped the safety bar down.

“Woohoo! Alright, let’s get this party started!” With a wave and blink, the safety harnesses slid and clicked into place and the bars dropped down. Mason and Mable were jittery and practically vibrating in their seats. The carts jolted and began the slow assertion to the top. A click every second, the cart shuttering every three seconds, the ground slowly fading away below them. Stan was starting to have second thoughts about this. He wasn’t completely cured of his fear of heights. The higher they went, the lighter and lighter his head felt. Every moment it seemed like they would stop, but it kept going, higher and higher and higher. Stan kept moving the clouds higher to make it seem like it was shorter than it was, but Mabel was too strong and materialized an airplane flying below their point on the ramp. Stan gulped and grabbed at Ford’s hand instinctively. Ford raised and eyebrow at the contact, but had no time to react. They crested the top and paused, the carts teetering on the precipice. All four held their breath as the front carts tipped forwards.

Mason was wrong.

It hadn’t gotten to 80 miles per hour in eight seconds.

It did it in four.

They slowed down a bit in the corkscrew, but gained momentum in the curve before the tunnel.

Wendy’s hat had grown hands and clung to Mason’s head like a cat to the ceiling.

Mabel’s hair wrapped itself into a tight braid to keep from catching.

Ford squeezed Stan’s hand and kept his eyes closed save for a few scant moments when they went upsidedown.

Stan could not actually lose his lunch, for multiple reasons, but his body felt like it was trying.

When they finally pulled back into the station and the cart slowed and stopped with a jerk, Stan let go of Ford’s hand.

Stan was heaving and swallowing down the urge to vomit.

Ford was staring at the underside of the station roof, trying to quell the sudden onset of dizziness. The twins were distressingly quiet. The next words uttered almost made Stan want to cry.  

“Again!” Mason and Mable called out in unison.

“NO!” Both brothers called out, but their pleas were ignored and the cart left the station.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

They rode the thing three times. Ford would refuse to ride another roller coaster ever again and Stan was feeling uneasy about the spinning coffee mugs ride. Stan didn’t want to be the ‘Old Foggie’, but he sat out of some of the more ‘high energy’ rides. They got hot dogs and corndogs and Stan and Mabel shared an elephant ear and got into an argument over whether it was called an aforementioned elephant ear or fried dough. Either way, they got cinnamon and sugar everywhere and Mason suggested the Splash Zone as the next ride.

Ford’s fluffy hair did not survive the Splash Zone.

Upon Mabel’s request, and Mason’s shy additions, Ford reluctantly changed form, sporting a white t-shirt, patched bomber jacket and corduroy pants. It was easy to keep up with the kids after that. He even had fun on the spinning swings.  

They wound up at the games corner and Mable was hitting bullseye after bullseye and winning prize after prize. The twins each hat a pair of inflatable, oversized boxing gloves and were playfully punching at one another. Ford had a balloon animal hat sitting atop his head and carried something that looked like a hamster in a business suit. Stan was collecting a bear with fairy wings and wand from the counter when Ford mentioned Dimension F-98/β.

It was a dimension where, instead of humans, all types of animals had evolved and gained sentience, built communities, cities and metropolitans, all living and working together. Mabel jumped at the chance to see it, Mason not far behind. With a few ground rumbles and eye blinks, they were standing in the main square of the major metropolitan city.  It was almost like New York Times Square if it had more curved architecture, more bright colors and more greenery. Plants of all types hung from the windows of the buildings and trees grew along the sidewalks. Animals of all different sizes walked or drove or rode variations of bicycles up and down the busy streets. Mable was frantic and followed behind each creature as it passed, imitating them to the best of her ability. A giraffe skateboarding, a water buffalo body builder, tiny gerbil business men, a gecko delivery boy, a duck couple corralling their eight ducklings, a snake zig-zagging his way through the feet of other animals and clutching a briefcase by his tail, frog men being bussed in as tourists and communicating via some language that consisted of more vowel sounds than there ought to be.

Mabel’s antics had Stan and Mason nearly rolling, even Ford found it in himself to smile. They located a city directory and Ford explained the layout of the city. Each district was divided based on climate and the sub-districts based on the major populace; savanna, arctic, rainforest, dessert, and a centralized urban area for non-specialized animals. Sub-districts in each major district were specialized for size and species differences. The rain forest district had a large area to the north reserved for insects and amphibians; the city and structures being built to accommodate tiny insect families. Suburbs lied to the outskirts for community based species like rodents and baboons, and the tops of the buldings were covered in trees and greenery and perches for the flight bird population. The ocean held another entire civilization, with fish and sea-bound mammals as the core populace. Coral reefs acted as telecommunication lines with one coral polyp sending a message to the next polyp down the line.

They used the tube system to travel to each of the major districts. They swung on vines in the rainforest, getting soaked in the process and dried off in the hot desert district. Mason and Mabel got into a sand fight and ran with a group of camel joggers that were eager to talk to the twins. Stan shoved a handful of sand down Ford’s shirt while he was distracted watching the kids. Stan paid for it when all three built him into a snowman in the polar district as a group of teenage penguins watched and laughed. They left his eyes and nose clear of snow, but shoved a carrot in his mouth to act as the snowman’s nose. Some passing snow leopard snapped a picture and they made it into the paper. The transit to the savanna district was closed for gazelle migration.    

They stopped in to talk to the mayor, a capybara by the name of Richard Waterhog, whom Ford had the pleasure of befriending when he had traveled through. Dream or not, it was proper to visit old friends, especially ones that pardoned you for stealing bananas. He’d been so hungry, and hunting was out of the question in a world where animals were sentient.

It was so strangely real that Ford wondered if Bill had tapped into Richard’s mindscape too, but once the mayor agreed to let Mable ride him like a horse, he knew it was a dream. Richard detested walking upon his front appendages, he was dignified after all. Well, he was until he had a few drinks anyway. Ford remembered the founder’s festival less than fondly. After three rounds, Richard turned into a raging flirt and had suggestively asked Ford to ride him. Ford had sputtered and politely refused, desperately citing the difference in their species would make copulation difficult if not impossible. Richard had laughed it off and bought Ford another drink that smelled of timothy hay.  

Ford could feel Stan giving him a hairy eyeball look after remembering his interactions with Richard, and he refused to answer Mason’s questions as to why he was blushing. Richard had insisted on a rather overly friendly hug from Ford as they left, and there was no doubt that it was Bill’s doing. Can’t read our minds, my ass!

Stan was barely keeping it together, face contorting every which way to not laugh, and Mable gave him a thumbs-up and a look she was way, way too young to be throwing him. He was never going to live this down. When Mabel tried to engage him in conversation “Hey Grunkle Ford, that Guinea Pig guy seemed to really like you”, Ford immediately changed the subject and started discussing the complexities of building a civilization underwater with Mason. Mable and Stan shared a quiet chuckle at Ford’s red face; Mason noticed, but decided his uncle’s business was private.

It wasn't long after that both younger twins expressed a desire to explore an underwater city, so another few blinks and they were on Elcoris 4, a planet in dimension A412 that was 90% water and the denizens had adapted to building underwater. They were humanoid with pale blue, speckled skin, webbing between their fingers, toes and attached to their arms and legs. They communicated via sonar, but could speak above water. A few flicks of Stan’s wrist and the four of them each had a bubble of air around their heads and flippers attached to their feet.

They swam in and out of buildings, kelp forests and into the drop-off of the continental shelf. Their guide, a man whose name Stan didn’t like and had instead called Drew, warned them of the drop-off and the potential for sea serpents. He warned that the deeper they went in the planet, the larger and more aggressive the monsters became, warning that if they went too deep, they would find a lava lake with a fire breathing dragon.

So, naturally, Stan gave them all depth suits and they went off searching for sea monsters. And sea monsters they found. In the darkness they came across a serpent like thing with bioluminescent jelly like tentacles protruding from its head, the mouth just a hole with concentric rows of teeth. They found a squid-like creature with pincers instead of tentacles. Mason spotted what looked like a cow in the distance then turned out to be a jelly blob that could turn into anything, save for a few differences like a badly made knock-off.

They made it to the lave lake, and saw the fire – rather superheated plasma as the water was not conducive to fire (but Ford wasn't going to hold that against a population that lived most of their lives underwater) – breathing sea dragon that was easily ten times their size. It was only slightly unexpected when Stan accidently teleported them back to the main city when the beast turned towards them. Nothing could hurt them here, it was a dream, but Stan’s protective nature was instinctual.

They spent the next hour discussing how something like that could survive down there with little to no food source and both twins again expressed desire to know about Ford’s multi-verse travels. He regained them with some of his tamer escapades such as the M-dimension and the time he got into a fight with a sofa and he, with great reluctance, showed the younger twins the ‘All-Star’ tattoo still on his neck even in a child form. He was careful to not mention his other markings.                      

At the end of the day – or night – the four found themselves on Glass Shard Beach. The iconic swing set from Stan’s mindscape was fixed, and had extended to accommodate four people. The dock in the distance bordered by both incarnations of the Stan O’War, and the StanleyMobile parked somewhere in the sand lot behind them.

The memories at the swings were so ingrained into each brother that they hadn’t realized they had changed until Mabel squealed in delight. Ford, startled and reaching for his side arm (that wasn't there) turned to Mable only to realize he now had to look down at her. Which, under usual circumstances was normal, but he had gotten used to being her height all day. Her eyes were wide and shining and her hands pressed into her cheeks. “Grunkle Ford! How come you never told us you were such a hottie!”

Ford sputtered, blushing for what seemed like the millionth time that day, and scratched at the back of his neck while avoiding eye contact. He was wearing the yellow v-neck from that night on the beach. Stan stood behind the younger twins wearing that damn white t-shirt, hair slicked back and acne scars. Stan just shrugged and mouthed ‘Sorry’ as he sat down on the swings. Mason turned in the sand and joined him, pausing only a moment to take in his uncle’s teenage form. Ford distracted Mable by promising to push her and they spent a good twenty minutes just laughing at how high she could get.

Mason and Stan got into a sand kicking contest and wound up losing their shoes in the process. They fell into play wrestling when Stan tried to give his nephew a noogie, over shot the lunge and landed in the sand with Mason sitting on his back.

This is what Stan wanted, all he ever wanted. He wondered if maybe he and Ford could find the fountain of youth somewhere and get some more time. More time to play with the kids, more time for days like this – when if they ever made it back to port – more time for games and stores, more time for them to be a family again. Stan lost all desire to put the boy in a head lock and instead gathered Mason up and hugged him tightly; sat in the sand and resting his back against the strut of the swing set. Ford had stopped pushing Mable to watch them, but now both he and Mable turned their attention to the sunset.

It was so achingly familiar, sitting in the evening air, feeling the bay breeze wash over them. Listening to the waves roll in, bringing in sand and cobbled to tumble the broken bottles into beautiful pieces of beach glass. They used to collect it for Ma, spending hours combing the fresh shards for that one smooth and polished piece. She made them into jewelry sometimes; Ford remembered Stan had been given one as a child that he wore proudly until some asshole kid called him a girl for wearing jewelry. Stan had always been…well, fighting himself in his pursuit to be manly.

Ford remembered Stan going through his wardrobe one day before the school year started and pulling out all of his favorite shirts – the ones he had to beg his parents for and who only relented because they were cheaper than anything else – and throwing them in a donation box. Pink, yellow, baby blue with little flowers embroidered on the collar, a purple one that said ‘free hugs’ (that was Stan’s favorite). They all went. It left him with not much else besides white t-shirts and a mustard yellow jacket. Stan had also tossed in the jewelry he had accumulated. The only thing he kept was a gold chain and pendant that Ford had bought for him; it was thick and heavy and was masculine enough for him to keep.

Pops had made some comments that week about the ‘Gays’ parading around in broad daylight. “They go around dressed like women, wearing make-up and hanging off each other like they ain’t committing sin. Like they ain’t sick.” Ford had seen Stan’s posture tense. The next day, he donated a bunch of old stuff to the shelter down the street, saying it was much too old to even try and re-sell in the shop. Ford, thankfully – though unfairly – never felt the need to do the same.             

He was jostled out of his depressed ruminating by Mabel standing from the swing he was holding onto and striding over the sand to reach Stan.

“I’m sorry.” She said, head hung low and voice full of remorse.

“What in the world for?” Stan nearly snapped, bewildered at the unprompted apology that seemed to come from nowhere. Mason, still sat in Stan’s lap frowned a moment before understanding dripped over his face like water. The boy took hold of Stan’s hand that was wrapped around his middle.

“I…I didn’t know if I could love you anymore. Knowing what you’ve done. But you did all this for us, even though you can’t be with us on Christmas. You didn’t have to, there was nothing in it for you, but you did it anyway because you love us.” Her eyes were wet now, and she was nearly pleading.

Ford felt Stan take hold of his mind while he poked and prodded at the memories of the younger twins. They saw the discussion between them, the theories, the fear, the guilt and the unknown. Could the kids still love Stan even if he was Bill?

“I wouldn’t say that. I got somthin’ out of it. I got to see you kids.” Stan shifted and knelt in front of Mabel, placing his hands on her shoulders to look her in the eye. He was Bill?

“I know things are…different now. I don’t blame you for feeling or thinking the way you did, or still do. I know I…scared you…before. I’m sorry.” Mason took one of Stan’s hands and squeezed. Stan was Bill?

“But hey, we can do this again, just give me a few weeks to rest, ok? This takes a lotta brain power.” Stan was BILL! How could Stanford have forgotten? This whole time? And Bill was taking control of his mind, their minds. This had to stop. NOW!  

“Bill, that’s enough!” Stanford’s words were like a blade slicing through the air.

Stan just looked at a spot above Mabel’s shoulder and sighed, the pain and sorrow dripping from his form. His hand fell limp and lifeless from Mabel’s shoulder, fingers catching on the sleeve of her sweater.  

“Yeah. Ok.” His eyes were downcast as he stood and took a step away from them. She could see he wanted to cry. Heck, she wanted to cry.

It was gradual, the change. His eyes glowed yellow again as he aged, like a movie and fast-forwards. It was hardly a ten count when the teen was left behind and the old and grizzled man that was their uncle stood before them. Grunkle Ford had changed as well, face pulled back into a look filled with anger and hate.

“Hey, it should be morning now. Should probably let you kids back, huh?” The beach was fading faster than they could process. They were falling, or being pulled away from the beach and their grunkles. Mabel looked back and saw a nightmare. Stan’s body contorted, growing in size, and taking on a triangular shape. Her vision blurred and he was jolting awake before she was able to register the voice that still haunted her dreams.

Was he Bill, or Stan? She thought she knew.  

Previous

Next

Chapter 1

[nightfoliage]

Fic - Falling Into You

Pairing: Stanford Pines/Stanley Pines - Stancest

Prompt: Ford and Stan fall into the bottomless pit.

Summary: Ford and Stan come back to Gravity Falls in order to see their family for the summer. However, not everything is resolved between them.

Tags and Warnings:  Incest, established relationship, Ford being a creeper, obsessive behavior, watching people without their permission, toilet activity (not sexual), denial, falling (literal), light angst, and characters accepting death too easily. And kissing. More dark than I usually write, but I don’t think it’s as dark as the tags make it out to be.

Author’s Note - This is a gift for @magicalshy!!! I’m sorry it took me so long to fulfill this prompt. I hope you enjoy it~

This was written before Journal 3 came out. (I brushed the dust off, and it took me a while to edit, but it’s here now!) Might be a bit obsolete as a result. 

Word Count: ~4700

Read below or on ao3: http://archiveofourown.org/works/12077613/chapters/27589686

 The journal falls onto the table noisily and without grace. It shakes various objects around the table with its landing, but Ford manages to steady the most important thing on the table: his coffee. He frowns at the near loss of his beverage, but that expression is wiped away when he spots the journal on the table. Ford abandons his coffee and snatches the journal up and tucks it under his arm.

 “Where did you find this?” Ford asks. He tries to keep the question light, but can’t help the suspicion creeping into the tone.

 Stan doesn’t answer, simply keeps his arms crossed and his brow furrowed.

 Ford’s eyes dart to it’s last known hiding place, taped behind the bookshelf. He had been sure Stan wouldn’t find it there.

 Stan follows Ford’s look. When Stan’s eyes lands on the hiding spot, his gaze intensifies.

 “Did you read it?” Ford asks.

 Stan doesn’t answer, but his fists tighten and Ford can hear his knuckles audibly crack.

 A resounding ‘yes.’

 Ford sighs and rolls his eyes.

 Before Ford can explain the new journal, (why he’s keeping, how important it is, how Stan really shouldn’t worry about it) his twin audibly growls and leaves the cabin. From the stomping, Ford can tell that his brother is now clomping around deck, messing with the sails, fiddling with the ropes, and bring an utter nuisance.

 Ford rolls his eyes again continues to drink his coffee.

 Stan can do whatever the hell he wants, Ford is not going to go chasing after him when he’s clearly emotional. A year on a boat with his twin has taught him that sometimes it was best to let Stan’s anger ride out than to experience it head on. Sooner or later his twin will calm down and see reason.

 -000-

 Stan hasn’t spoken to him.

 Besides an odd grunt, or a look in his direction, Stan doesn’t even acknowledged him, let alone talked to him. And it doesn’t seem like Stan is going to talk to him anytime soon.

 Ford thought he could hold out, wait for Stan to come talk to him, but he’s not sure he can wait any longer.

 He’s.. lonely.

 Maybe Ford has become, dare he say spoiled with the amount of attention he’s received from Stan for the past year?

 They no longer share a bed, Stan takes to sleeping up deck at night under the stars. They don’t share meals, Stan eats at odd hours: before he wakes up, small snacks while they’re sailing, and definitely after he falls asleep.

 Most noticeably, they don’t talk anymore.

 It’s the absence of their conversations that drives the last nail in the coffin for Ford.

 Talking to Stan is easy. Even in the beginning when they were still shying away from revealing too much, from being themselves again, they could fall back into old habits. The words were mostly frivolous, they hadn’t been brave enough to talk about anything else. But they could talk enthusiastically to each other, about boat types, about outfits and rations, about who had more sailing experience.

 Arguments about the best fish bait led to sharing stories about Dipper and Mabel. For the two old men, it was so much easier to open up about the kids then themselves.

 Then it couldn’t be helped that they started to talk about their years apart. It inevitably lead to them talking about their years together. They started talking about their past selves, nostalgia thick in their voices, sharing their old memories together.

 It wasn’t all easy. Not every memory was some light hearted conversation. There were many rough nights that ended in shouts and slammed doors. (But they never touch, not when they’re angry.)

 However, the conversations- and arguments, are what they needed.

 When they had been young, they were so open with each other and completely closed to everyone else. No one could penetrate the shell that they had wrapped themselves in. In their situation it wasn't surprising that their isolation made them close themselves off to everyone, including their twin.

 Each conversation helped them air the room, open up, and heal.

 Even now a good talk with Stan can make Ford emotional. A good talk can warm his heart, make him smile and laugh, and- make him happy.

 Ford hasn’t heard Stan’s voice in days.

 Maybe Ford took for granted the attention his twin has showered on him this past year. He thought he could wait Stan out. He has been without his twin for decades.

 However, this is the first time this year that Ford’s been denied the attention of his lover.

 Although, lack of conversation does not mean that Stan isn’t taking care of him. In fact, that’s one of the few things that hasn’t changed. The ship is kept clean and in fantastic shape. Stan makes food for him every morning, and he often finds a snack for him on the table or the counter. And Stan will still point out anomalies and odd phenomenons to him.

 All without speaking to him

 What he wouldn’t give to hear Stan’s voice at the moment.

 Maybe he should try to initiate the conversation. Perhaps he should even apologize. At the very least he wants to hear his brother’s point of view.

 He tries to, but pauses right before the act. Something dark and bitter curls inside him and tells him to stop, to leave it alone, that he doesn't have to do anything.

 After all, the new journals he’s been writing, well, they’re unorthodox, but his last ones have proved useful, life saving in fact. They help him catalogue their journey. There’s no need to take action.

 Sooner or later the situation will resolve itself one way or another.

 -000-

 Perhaps Ford would be the one to initiate a resolution to the conflict.

 Stan still hasn’t spoken to him.

 Stan continues to take care of him and protects him. His brother clearly has his back in a conflict, but now Stan has barely touched him all this time.

 Stan was always the instigator of the touches between them: a slap between the shoulders, rough pats on the back, grabbing his hand to squeeze, brushing a kiss across his knuckles…

 Ford rubs the space between his knuckles absently, remembering the sensation of Stan’s lips against his skin.

 He shakes his head and tries to put it out of his mind.

 What an extreme reaction to him keeping a journal. Ford didn’t think he deserved the cold shoulder for keeping the journal. It was just data he wanted to keep and remember, something they could both look remember fondly, nothing Ford should be ashamed about.

 He repeats this to himself over and over again, especially when he aches to take Stanley in his arms.

 -000-

 Something has to give, but it’s not going to be Stanford Pines.

 The more Ford thinks about it, dwells on their conversation, mulls it over in his head, the more bitter and angry he gets.

 He imagines their talk a thousand different ways, but in the end, the scenarios he likes best are the ones where they talk about the journal. Hasn’t silence been the cause of their many problems in the past?

 So Ford refuses to break down and be the first one to talk.

 The spite and the strength of his emotions keeps him from letting his loneliness interfere with this creed.

 Instead, Ford has taken to following Stan around without his twins knowledge.

 Oh sure, Stan must know to a certain degree that Ford is aware of him, but this goes beyond  being close simply because the space is small. Ford is constantly shadowing Stan, making sure he always knows his twins whereabouts. He likes to get just close enough so that any sound that Stan makes, he can hear.

 It’s rather tiring, he hasn’t had to be this hyper aware since some of his darker days in the multiverse, but it’s also rewarding.

 He discovers that the go to song that his brother used to sing, a now old dancing number, has been replaced. Some discrete texting with Dipper reveals the song that Mabel, Dipper, and Stan sang together to defeat zombies together.

 Ford finds himself surprised when he sees that Stan is ambidextrous, like himself. He knew that his brother was strong in both arms, and rather proficient when it comes to fighting, but Stan has always favored his right hand, a habit that came from his boxing days. But now Ford knows that Stan can do more delicate work with both hands: cooking, tying a knot, texting, and more.

 Ford feels as if he can’t discover anything new about his brother, until he spots Stan opening a secret compartment in the boat by messing with one of the godawful decorations that his twin loves.

 The first time Stan does it, he’s speechless. He’s listless the whole day, and that night he can’t go to sleep until he rubs the velvet clown painting for himself to see the stash of goodies inside. There are cigars (typical), chocolates (so this was where Stan was hiding them), a stash of prunes (if he could get away with it, Ford would take some), and what looked like trinkets that Stan liked to send back to the kids. When he spots the exotic and weird sea shells and stones, Ford quietly closes the painting and removes any traces of himself.

 Over time, Ford discovers the compartments that his brother has built: in the banisters, the walls, and the crown molding. The clown painting seems to be a one off.

 No wonder Stan had found the journal. Stan probably triggered one of Ford’s secret compartments in the boat.

 It’s a surprise they hadn’t found out about each other’s secrets earlier.

 Finding the first compartment unleashes something in Ford and he looks into all of Stan’s compartments. Most of them are like the first, goodies, gifts, and mementos from the kids. A few others contain money, IDs, and mountains of pictures of their family. It says a lot about Stan that these are the items he likes to keep safe and untouched.

 (Ford wonders what that says about himself. What he hides are his journal, sketches, ideas, concepts that others wouldn’t understand. It’s an old habit, he supposes.

 But Stan isn’t everyone. Stan is someone he should be able to trust with this, especially this.)

 He pushes the thought out of his mind.

 Ford continues to watch Stan, and Stan continues to ignore him.

 Which only increases the pleasure that Ford has over watching Stan without his knowledge. He’s enjoying the chance to watch and observe Stan. He hasn’t had the chance to do this for a long time. He can take his time to observe Stan. (And he’s noticing more about his brother from observing, then by interacting with him. Interesting.)

 Then there are times where can’t observe, but can only look at Stan in awe.

 Stan is beautiful.

 From the lines of his body, to the way he moves, Stan is beautiful.

 Ford finds himself staring at Stan every chance he can get.

 (And if Ford find himself staring a little too long, a little too much, if he starts to record Stan instead of just watching him, then that’s his secret. Perhaps recording his brother was crossing a line, but watching the recording is the only way they can be in the same room with him instead of hiding behind a corner out of sight.)

 He watches Stan haul sails, call the kids, and even listens to him when he’s in the bathroom.

 (Ford is strangely fascinated by the way his brother goes to the bathroom. There is something about hearing his brother’s waste hitting the water that interests him and he wonders if it’s anything like his bowel movements.)

 And maybe he is becoming too obsessed.

 The watching, the recording, it’s not healthy, Ford can admit to that. However, admitting to having this problem doesn’t stop Ford. He’s replacing their interactions with the watching but his fixation hasn’t quite approach Bill Cipher levels, so he thinks he’s okay for now (maybe).

 They should talk to each other instead of continuing their purposeful passive aggressive ignorance of each other.

 Ford doesn’t allow himself to be the one start a conversation. This is Stan’s problem with him, therefore it should be Stan’s responsibility to solve this if he thinks it’s a problem.

 -000-

 Days have passed, the kids have been messaging them pictures of their last days of school, they’re docking at the pier in Gravity Falls and Stan hasn’t initiated a conversation.

 It’s worrying Ford. He’s reluctant to even eve consider it, but he may have to be the one to initiate the talk. Perhaps he could manage it before they reach the Mystery Shack. In the would be best, there was no way Stan would run if he was driving the StanMobile.

 Mind made up, Ford decided not to worry until the time comes to talk. He does his best to be casual and listens in to Stan’s conversation with Tate.

 “Hey Tate, you treatin the StanMobile well?” Stan says with a grin.

 (Ford twitches. Stan hasn’t looked at him let alone smiled at him.)

 “Don’t worry, Stan, the car’s going a-okay. You staying for the summer?” Tate answers.

 “Yeah, Mabel and Dipper are coming back in a few days. I’ll bring them around sometime.”

 “Tate snorts. “Maybe this time you’ll catch your own fish instead of stealing them,” Tate says, but without any malice.

 Stan launches is a tirade about he’s actually bring more business for Tate, thank you very much, and how he just happens to be a very competitive fisher. Tate, used to the ramblings of old men, nods at just the right moments and manages to steer the conversation so that by the end of it Stan is promising to bring the family over and actually pay for fishing equipment. Stan is grumbling at the result, only because he doesn’t want one of the best fishing holes in Gravity Falls to go out of business. Tate thanks Stan for the business.

 Stan goes to get the car ready and Ford is left alone, staring at his twin’s back

 When he finally looks away, Ford notices Tate looking at him. The man tips his hat and Ford gives an awkward wave back. Tate goes back to his business, thank goodness.

 Ford hurries over to the car. He fusses with their belongings and tries not to let his rampant jealousy make him do something rash.

 That’s Fiddleford’s son after all, not just anyone.

 However...

 How could Stan talk to anyone, but not talk to him?

 -000-

 The drive is tense and Ford it too wrapped up his thoughts to make conversation. Stan drives fast, even faster than usual, and they make it to the shack in record time. He parks and gets out of the car to unload the back. Ford follows Stan through the back entrance.

 Stan hesitates near the stairs. Ford looks down and thinks he knows what’s this about. Is Stan going to try and sleep in a different room from him.

 The thought gathers and boils up inside him. He tosses the bag to the side, it clatters loudly on the ground and Stan whips around to look at it. His eyes are wide.

 “Ford-”

 Ford slaps a hand over his brother’s mouth and surprisingly Stan lets him. Ford slowly removes his hand and Stan stays quiet although he’s clearly confused. Ford stalks over to his bag first and then returns to drag Stan out the door.

 Stan follows along, obedient and quiet, and somehow that makes Ford angrier. His brother hasn’t been acting himself and Ford’s going to change that once and for all. If Stan wanted an apology, he was getting an apology.

 They make their way across the grounds and away from the Mystery Shack. Stan frowns when he realizes their destination.

 “The Bottomless Pit? Sixer, you know that-”

 Ford whips around and raises the item that caused the whole mess in the first place.

 “You happy?” He yells, holding up the journal. “I’m going to get rid of it once and for all!” Ford waves the journal a little too enthusiastically and his momentum carries him backwards.

 “Ford!” Stan finally moves into action and springs forward. He ignores the journal, eyes only on Ford.

 Ford is having none of that. He takes another step back to get out of Stan’s reach and waves the journal in front of him. This is supposed to be symbolic dammit. Throwing the goddamn journal away was supposed to be another way of apologizing. His brother stopped talking to him because of it’s existence and now he doesn’t care about it? He doesn’t want it gone?

 Well Ford has already made up his mind and what he’s going to do with it.

 He moves to toss the accursed thing into the pit, while Stan moves to catch him. Ford tries to fend his brother off, while Stan desperately tries to lay a hand on him. A moment later Stan has a grip on Ford. Instead of wrenching Stan’s hand off like he intended, he stumbles and brings Stan with him.

 Then nothing matters except for the fact that they’re falling.

 Maybe in a different timeline Ford would be able to react quick enough, but he's tired, his concentration is shot, and all he can think about is the damn journal. He does not swing them back over onto solid ground with their momentum, instead Ford let them fall.

 They’re pressed chest to chest, their limbs tangled together, faces inches away from each other.

 Ford sees Stan’s eyes widen and can see him rear back. Maybe Stan could have saved them, pulled off a miracle, but Ford has a sudden thought. It’s no good if Stan manages to save them after Ford has given up. The hand that’s not wrapped around the journal, wraps around his brother’s middle.

 Ford closes his eyes as he hears Stan softly gasp.

 Now he doesn’t have to stare into Stan’s eyes as they fall for all of eternity.

 He concentrates on the wind whistling past his ears, the warmth of Stan’s body against his own, and the light behind his eyelids that disappears. When it’s gone, he knows they’ve dropped low enough that they can no longer see the sky.

 After all those years, what a way to go-

 Stan sucker punches him in the nose.

 “Ow!” Ford sees stars and grabs his nose. “Ow…” It doesn’t feel like anything is broken, but the punch had come out of nowhere. He opens his eyes and blinks. Stan is pulling away? No, he’s pulling a hand back- Ford realizes Stan’s winding up to take another punch.

 He manages to dodge this one, by hugging Stan closer, but he notes that he swing is half-hearted.

 They spin around in a slow circle, carried by the momentum of the punch. Stan mock struggles and Ford holds him tighter.

 Stan keeps wriggling even as Ford demands, “What was that for?”

 Stan struggles a little bit more and actually growls next to his ear (which makes Ford shiver) before stopping completely. Ford shifts, unintentionally rubbing his cheeks against Stan’s. The other man sighs and turns his head closer.

 Ford’s chest grows tight and he has to stop himself from clinging onto Stan.

 “Well,” Ford muses aloud, “I guess this isn’t the worst way to go.”

 Stan snorts. “Really?” He says.

 The words are soft and affectionate and Ford can feel himself warm up. He wish he could have heard that tone weeks ago, but he’ll take it now. He missed Stan speaking to him.

 Ford hums, happier than he has been in days. “I always thought that I would die by your side.”

 Stan doesn’t reply, but gently nuzzles his ear. Ford is very content with the action and relaxes as Stan wraps his arms around him. Even if this is the end, he’s glad that it’s with Stan.

 “I’m sorry,” Ford finally admits.

 “You’re saying sorry?” Stan tries to pull back, but Ford keeps him locked in the embrace. He would prefer not to look into his brother's eyes when he’s admitting he’s wrong.

 “If saying sorry was all I needed to do to stop this mess, then yes, Stan, I’m sorry.”

 The words echo an older apology, months ago. Why doesn’t he learn from his mistakes. If only he swallowed his pride and tried talking it out with Stan earlier.

 Stan is silent and still.

 Ford doesn’t blame him. He can’t stand the silence anymore and starts spilling more and more secrets into the void.

 “I know you have a- an issue against my journals,” Ford continues, “and I wasn’t thinking about your feelings when I made this one.”

 “Ford-”

 “Let me continue, Stanley.” Stan huffs and Ford can feel his skin tingle. “I just couldn't help- it's habit- to want to keep a journal on things that fascinate me.”

 Stan grumbles a bit, but Ford forges on.

 “You fascinate me, Stanley.”

 Stan’s grumbling stops.

 “The journals are a part of me, they’re part of what kept me sane-” Stan snorts at that, “-yes, they kept me sane, Stan. They were a physical object I could trust that wouldn’t be altered. I’ve always placed my trust in my journals so writing a journal about you…”

 Ford trails off, hoping that Stan will pick up the slack of the conversation, but he doesn’t and Ford has to keep going. He brought this on himself, after all.

 “Okay, maybe keeping a journal…”

 “Filled with smutty drawings of me, Sixer?” Stan interrupts.

 Ford sighs.

 “Smutty- have you been reading Mabel’s romance novels again? And for your information Stanley, I’ve poured myself into those drawings, made sure they were anatomically correct-”

 “And then you put them in a boat, a place where the kids have access too, with a journal obsessed nephew-”

 “I took that into consideration!”

 “Ford, I found the journal and I couldn’t find your other journals for thirty years. Then the kid found it the first day he was here. You do not hide the journals that well.”

 Ford knows the next step to this conversation is that he’s supposed to disagree, make a witty remark benefiting of his intellect, but all Ford can do is close his eyes and curl in closer to Stan.

 Then he starts to laugh.

 This is how things are supposed to be: arguments that later dissolve into long nights where they cling to each other. It’s perfect, Stan is perfect, and all he wants is for this moment to stretch on for eternity.

 But eventually they’ll die.

 The laughter continues to bubble up somewhere inside him and he lets go of Stan. Separated from his brother, Ford can feel the wind again, it’s rushing past his ears and ruffling his hair and clothes. This is really it. After the portal, after Weirdmageddon, after Bill Cypher, after being on the sees with Stanley, this is how he finally dies?

 “Goddammit Ford, we aren’t going to die,” Stan says, gently running a hand over him.

 Ford lets out a giggle that’s just shy of hysterical. He tries to brush his brother off of him. He doesn’t deserve the comfort.

 “But we are Stan, a bottomless pit shouldn’t be possible, but it’s possible in Gravity Falls. I mean, I didn't think we could survive everything that has happened to us and look! Now we’re finally going to end it all, but at least it’ll be by your side, I promised that, and I’m going to be able to keep that promise.” By the end of his rant, Ford is more than a little hysterical, but he hopes he got the point across to Stan.

 Stan sighs and mumbles ‘hot belgian waffles,’ under his breath.

 Hm. Not the reaction Ford is expecting after his impassioned speech. Ford lets his eyes open. He’s surrounded by complete darkness. Isn’t this a hopeless situation?

 Stan blows a breath out, “Ford, we’re going to be stuck in this whole for fifteenish minutes, then we’ll be spit right back out.”

 “Stan,” Ford says slowly, “this is the bottomless pit.”

 Ford can hear Stan scratch his head. “A bottomless pit is considered a bottomless pit if we never hit an end right?” He asks.

 “Yes, that much I can agree with,” Ford replies.

 “Soooo, Sixer, if we’re brought out at the beginning and we never met an end then it still lives up to it’s name, right?” Stan says with a huff.

 Ford blinks, then turns the words over in his head. “Yes. That does seem correct.”

 “It’s the kids all over again,” Stan grumbles. “Listen, Ford, long story short, I fell into the pit once with the kids and it spat us out of the hole, okay? We’re going to come out of this alive.”

 “Oh.”

 “Oh? Is that all you can say?” Stan says with a huff.

 What else can Ford say? He already apologized, already spilled thoughts and emotions out of his mouth because he thought they were dying. What else does Stan want him to say?

 “You’re so fucking dramatic, Ford. Can’t do anything by halves can you,” Stan says, but without any malice. His hands are running over Ford’s face gently, reassuringly, lovingly. Ford lets himself lean into the touch now that he knows that this isn’t the end. Ford thinks about putting up a token argument against the words, but is silenced by a kiss.

 “Making another fucking journal with smutty pictures of me, then stalking me, and finally this? Sixer, you dumb ass,” Stan whispers against his lips, then kisses him again.

 Ford reluctantly pulls away from the kiss. “Are you trying to apologize?” he asks.

 “No,” Stan replies. “You're the one that owes me another apology. And stop apologizing when you think we’re going to die, you better not let this become a pattern, you hear me?”

 Ford has to steal a kiss before he manages to push the words past his lips, “I’m sorry, Stan.”

 Stan snorts again. Instead of discarding Stan’s words, he analyzes them instead. Perhaps he has been apologizing when their lives are threatened instead of apologizing when he should have. It’s a bad habit he’s built.

 After he fell through the portal, there were a lot of instances where Ford could have died. In those moments, Ford has always dreamed of apologizing and making up with Stan. It was his idea of small luxury, devoting some of his brain power to the fantasy instead of his survival.  

 But now Ford isn’t in that situation anymore. He’s no longer alone, trying to get by on his wit and his ego. He has Stan now. He doesn’t have to survive, not anymore.

 He can live now.

 “I’m sorry,” Ford says again. This time the words are heartfelt and he thinks he understands why Stan wants an apology.

 “Hmph.”

 Stan doesn’t sound very satisfied.

 Ford can fix that.

 “How long did you say we had in here?” He asks innocently.

 Stan grumbles, “Time passes weirdly here, maybe ten minutes. Ten long boring minutes.”

 “How about I make it up to you?” Ford says.

 “Oh?” Stan sounds interested, good. Ford wants to be happy with Stan and he can admit the situation interests him.

 Ford  gropes around in the dark for moment, but manages to gently cup Stan’s cheek in one hand, and grips Stan’s hip with the other. He makes sure to flex the hand on Stan’s hip just how his lover likes it. Ford can feel Stan shiver against him and Ford presses his thumb in the space where Stan’s navel and thigh meets.

 Stan fists the front of Ford’s sweater reeling him in. Their foreheads meet unexpectedly, but it makes Stan chuckle so Ford smiles as well. Stan turns just so, and now they're breathing each other’s air, still connected.

 The action makes Ford’s mind go blank and he has to remind himself to keep actively touching Stan.

 “I love you,” Ford whispers, then kisses Stan hard, so he doesn’t have to hear an answer.

 Stan kisses back and lets his hands wander down.

 You’re amazing, Ford wants to say. You’re so wonderful, Ford want to whisper to Stan as they start to struggle out of their clothes. You’re absolutely perfect, Ford thinks and the words repeat over and over in head. He doesn’t get the chance to say the words.

 Later, he thinks. Later, Ford will write it all down in his journal and read it aloud to Stan.

[saiyanqueenreads]

Constant Reminder

Summary: Not for the first time Stanley wondered if maybe… being banished from home might have been easier. Disclaimer: Not mine. Just playing in Alex’s wonderful sandbox Warnings: A not-so-happy family environment and a heaping helping of self-esteem issues. But we already knew that…

Chapter 1: Fallout Cloud

Stanley Pines couldn't recall the last night he'd gotten a full night's sleep.  It must have been before... Before.  He stared sleepily at the ceiling above his head, still not feeling familiar with it even after all these weeks.  It greeted him each time his dreams woke him though, dark unfinished wooden beams so different from the familiar sight of bunk slats and the underside of his brother's mattress...

“Can you explain what this was doing next to my broken project?!”

“Ho-kay. I might have accidentally been.. horsing around-”

“This was no accident, Stan.  You did this! You did this because you couldn't handle me going to college on my own!”

“Look, this was a mistake!  Although if you think about it, maybe there's a silver lining. Huh? Treasure hunting?”

“Are you kidding me?  Why would I want to do anything with the person who sabotaged my entire future?!”

“You did what you knucklehead!?”

“Stanley? What's goin' on in here?”

“Wait no, I can explain!  It was a mistake!”

“You ignoramus!  Your brother was gonna be our ticket out of this dump!  All you ever do is lie and cheat, and ride on your brother's coattails.  Well this time you cost our family potential millions!”

*Ggggggrrrrrrrrp*

Well if his dreams hadn't woken him, a growling stomach probably would have.  He'd been getting enough food to keep him going, but... well, it wasn't the second helpings he'd been used to up until that day.

Stan was tired.  Lonely and tired.  The kind of tired that came from not seeing any future on the path that lay ahead of you.  There were two more weeks until high school graduation, three weeks until his and Ford's 18th birthday.  Well, two weeks until Ford's graduation and Ford's birthday... he, himself, would simply be done attending school forever and age in a quiet inevitable march of time.     

Heh, inevitable... there's a fancy five dollar word coming from someone like him.       

“And since yer too useless to ever earn the fortune you've cost us, you're gonna spend the rest of your worthless life making it up to this family boy.  Now march!”

“Dad-”

“Stanford, go to your room.  It's yours now.  This idiot won't be joining you...”

“What?!  Let go'a me!  Stanford, tell him he's bein' crazy!”

Gray walls, cold stone and bare save for the storage boxes lining them, greeted him when his eyes snapped open again.  He felt the last remnants of spring's night chill in his bones and he clutched the blanket he'd been provided around his shoulders and curled his legs closer to his torso, hugging them to his chest.  It warmed his feet and, if he were being completely honest, it felt a bit soothing.  The basement was a miserable place.  Fitting, Stan had decided after the first week sleeping there.

Taking a moment to silently listen to the world around him, the younger twin could make out faint footfalls above him.  His mother.  No one else in the household was even relatively light on their feet.  He needed to get up then.  Maybe he could steal a few moments alone with her.  His mother was the only person who still l-   

Laying here wasn't useful to anyone. Useful...

Stanley was elbow deep in a sink full of breakfast dishes, relishing listening to his mother softly describe the latest neighborhood housewife drama while she replaced items into the refrigerator.  Before he wouldn’t have really cared.  He might have nodded along, but he wouldn’t have really listened to his mother go on and on about people that he only vaguely knew of.  But now…  Now being part of a casual conversation was wonderful, even a mostly one-sided conversation.  He shook his head as she described the possible torrid affair Mrs. Torez three doors down was having with Sunny, the neighborhood butcher.        

A reply was on the tip of his tongue when footsteps brought every movement of his body to a screeching halt.  Even his heart felt like it had paused in its beating.  There was no mistaking the commanding presence as it stepped into the kitchen, suit and tie already impeccably straightened, and sunglasses firmly in place.  In that frozen moment Stan couldn't help but note that he couldn't remember what his father's eyes looked like.  Couldn't remember ever seeing them.

Sunglasses or not, he could feel the heat of the glare directed his way.  He quickly averted his eyes and went back to scrubbing the grease out of the egg frying skillet he was holding, quickening his pace.  His small moment of reprieve was over now.  He needed to let those things go anyway.  His job, his purpose, was to make things easier for his family.  After everything he'd cost them it was the absolute least he could do.

“Fil-”

“NO Tamara!  This is the last straw.  It's one screw up too many.”

“You can't just throw him out onto the street!  He's just a boy!

“Man enough to ruin this family's shot at the big time.  And he's not going on the street, so you can sheath your claws woman.  Can't repay us if he skips town, can he?   But like hell he's staying here.”

“Then where-”

“If he wants to have a place in this home again he'll have to EARN IT!  Until then he can live in the basement.”

An slap to the back of his head brought him sharply out of his thoughts.  Had he fallen asleep?  Again his father's tinted glare burned into him.  “Get confused there meathead?  Dishes ain't that complicated.  Or are you just slacking off?”

“No sir,” Stan quickly rinsed the pan he'd apparently ceased washing long enough to garner the man's notice.  “Sorry sir,” he murmured.  He doubled his efforts and soon the remaining cookware was spotless in the drying rack.  Grabbing a towel from the bottom drawer he went about drying and storing the dishes as quietly as possible.  His father turned his attention to his coffee, his breakfast, and (most importantly) his newspaper.  Having the man's attention turned elsewhere unknotted a bit of the tension that seemed to have automatically formed in the younger twin's entire body. 

Through all the twisting and turning that came with replacing the dishes Stan caught his mother, who also seemed to have stiffened up since his father joined them, giving him a look that was difficult to identify.   It might be pity.   Which is silly, because it's just dishes.  It's just Pops.  It's just... how things are now.

Placing the final spatula away the teen finally turned to the additional plate of food that sat on the counter that he’d been pointedly ignoring since his mother had finished plating breakfast for herself, his father, and his still absent brother.   He’d made the mistake on that first morning of thinking he could sit at the table.  He, and eventually his mother, knew better now.  Eating at the table was for family.  And he was nowhere near earning back his right to be considered family.  He picked up the plate and walked out.

“There’s mail to be taken to the box again today,” his father’s voice drifted after him.

“Yesir.”  More of Ford’s college financial aid applications.  While Ford was smart enough to deserve his pick of nearly any school he wanted, the possible full ride he’d cost his brother was not forthcoming from other top colleges. Ford had been spending a significant amount of effort filling out applications, attempting in the weeks since The Incident to find money to attend college at all. 

Standing in the entryway, next to an end table with a stack of five letters all with Ford’s name on the upper left corner, Stan picked at his breakfast.  He’d really messed things up for his twin, and thinking of how badly he’d screwed him over left his appetite severely dampened and his breakfast tasting like ashes in his mouth.

Sometimes he wondered if things would ever be ok again.  Stanford hadn't said a word to him or looked him in the eye since That Night, and, despite being able to focus on nothing else, he still had no clue how he could fix things. Maybe he'd destroyed things beyond the point of being fixed.  

Setting the no-longer-appetizing plate of food down and picking up the mail, he sighed and headed toward the door.  “He'd have been better off if I'd never been born.  An only child with a bright future.”  

Closing the door behind him, Stan never noticed the human shadow frozen in the stairwell.

[need-a-fugue]

Why Not? - Chapter Two

Summary: With a garage to run and a young daughter to, well… run after, Bucky Barnes doesn’t exactly have time for dating. And with his relationship track record – and the constant meddling of a certain overbearing best friend – he’s not so sure that’s a bad thing. But then he meets Annie – a rather insistent, pretty damn cute fellow car enthusiast – and it’s got him asking himself, despite all his hesitations, why not?

Author’s Note: Written for Little Darlin’s Mystery AU Challenge. Thanks to @sourpatchkidsandacokecan​ for triggering this… sprawling thing simply by supplying me with the prompt of Mechanic!AU for Bucky. It’s taken on a life of its own already… look at what you’ve done!

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x OFC

Warnings: Bit of angst, mostly fluff.

Chapter Two

“We just want to check the throttle shafts,” Bucky murmurs, bent low and looming over her tiny shoulder, pointing at the carburetor. “See? Right here. See that groove in it?” He cocks his head to watch her as she closely investigates, bright blue eyes a mirror of his own as they narrow, searching for the divot. A hint of her bubblegum tongue peeks out from the corner of her mouth as she tries to find the elusive mark. He feels a sudden swell of warmth collect in his center – in his chest, where this precious little girl lives, forever entwined with his heart – and the corner of his mouth pulls up into a crooked grin.

She nods firmly, one single, definitive bob of her head. “Yep.”

He pulls upright, dropping a steadying hand to her back as she leans even closer to get a better look. “That is our problem.”

“Oooh,” she breathes out, tone utterly genuine.

He takes a step back and watches as she gingerly pokes at the carb, careful not press too hard with her perfectly pudgy forefinger. And again he smiles, crooked and wistful, as he thinks back to the very first thing his father ever taught him about cars – and damn was there a lot that the old man had taught him. It was how to clean the carburetor. He was nine, maybe ten years old. And since that time he’d cleaned out, rebuilt, and replaced hundreds of carbs.

Of course, most of today’s cars are different beasts altogether, fuel-injection engines taking over and all but eliminating the pleasant pastime of solving puzzles like this. Nowadays it seems like he barely gets to solve anything at all. With a million and a half electronic sensors over every inch of every vehicle, always spinning out error codes and warnings, most of his time at the shop is spent plugging in a computer to read an error and then ordering some ridiculously expensive new sensor for a pain-in-the-ass repair that should take little more than twenty minutes, yet somehow takes up the whole damn day because some genius engineer decided to bury the tiny damn sensor under a dozen other damn parts that are damn near impossible to remove!

If Bucky had a dollar – even just one measly little dollar – for every time he chucked a tool and stormed off in frustration when working on some Mercedes or Audi or other fancy piece-of-shit car, well, he’d be able to buy Steve out of his half of the garage.

He’s pulled suddenly from his wandering reverie by the steady tap-tap of hard-soled shoes on the concrete floor. He straightens quickly, tearing his eyes away from his little girl just long enough to catch a glimpse of the woman approaching.

A subtle, ahem falls from her lips, followed by an almost nervous sounding, “Oh, hi,” when she sees him peek out from behind the car. “Hi.”

Bucky recognizes the woman immediately, despite the form-fitted suit and classy looking heels she’s wearing in lieu of her more typical cutoff shorts and T-shirt. “Hey,” he says, wide grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Bronco, right?”

She nods, bright smile splitting her face and setting off the deep dimples that he – for some inexplicable reason – remembered resided on either side of that pretty, full-lipped mouth. “Yeah. Yeah, you remember me?”

“Course,” he says with a nod of his own, his hand falling down to the shoulder of the little girl beside him, tugging her back a bit as she pitches forward on her stool and nearly topples into the engine compartment. “’75 Bronco wagon,” he announces, casually righting the kid and holding her steady without ever taking his eyes off of the woman. “Don’t see many of those around. Especially in the city.”

Her expression falters just a bit at the realization that he remembers her car more so than her. But she recovers quickly, flipping her long dark hair over her shoulder and stating simply, “Yeah, that’s my baby.”

He frowns suddenly, quickly wiping down his hands and stepping around the car to approach her. “Something wrong? Everything looked good when we did the oil change a few weeks back.”

“Oh,” she nearly exclaims. “Yeah. No. I’m… I’m not here for…” She steps closer, her fingers lazily trailing along the side of the Cobra, eyes ticking down to her feet as her cheeks gain a peculiar rosy blush. “I’m Mr. Stark’s personal assistant.” She reaches out a hand as though prepared to shake – as though they hadn’t already met before… over a blown-out tire, some rusted paneling, a busted transmission, and an oil change that she damn well could’ve done herself. “Annie.”

His eyes linger on her outstretched hand for a long moment before finally accepting the greeting. “Annie, huh?” he asks, kicking himself for not knowing that already, for having somehow committed her face to memory – and her car – but not her name.

She sputters nervously for a beat, about to correct herself – Angela – mentally tearing herself a new one for using her childhood nickname instead of the adult moniker that a woman should go by, when a scuffle and a squeal sound from behind the hood of the car as the little girl awkwardly hops down from her stool, shouting at a rather piercing level, “I’m Lana!”

Bucky steps back and grabs her by the arms to steady her and settle her on the firm ground, nudging the wobbling stool to keep it from tipping. He shakes his head fondly as she scurries over to the woman, bouncing on her heels in front of her.

Annie’s face seems to light up, her bright green eyes going wide and crinkling at the corners as she drops down to the four year old’s level. “Lana, well it’s a pleasure to meet you,” she says, extending her hand for a shake.

The girl accepts, dark ringlets bouncing in time with the body-quaking handshake she offers. And the corners of Bucky’s lips inadvertently tick up.

“Lana,” Annie repeats languidly, letting the two syllables dance over her tongue. “What a beautiful name.” The little girl lets out another giggle and releases her hand, hopping away, back to her father’s side. Annie watches her go for a moment, still grinning sunnily, before rising and slinking around the car, lazily tracing a finger over the fenders until she gets to the front and peeks under the hood. “How’s she coming along?”

“Not bad,” Bucky breathes out as he leans back and wipes his hands on a rag. “Think we might need to replace the throttle shafts. Right, baby?” he asks, glancing down at the kid by his side and giving her a little bump with his hip.

She hops back to avoid the hip check and gives her father a pointed don’t do that glare, the look being almost identical to the one he’s received on countless occasions from her mother. He stifles a laugh and rolls his eyes, ticking his chin at her to indicate that he’s still waiting on a response. She heaves a giant sigh and gives a definitive nod, lips tightly pursed, brow slightly furrowed. “Yes,” she states, very matter-of-factly before returning her gaze to the woman now reaching into the engine compartment.

“It’ll probably just be another day or two,” he tells her. “We should have everything I need, but I still want to check out the turbo.” He bends down, dropping a knee to take a quick glance beneath the car. “And I’d like to get her up to take a look at the suspension.”

“As long as you can get her driving like she used to,” she says. She looks down at him for a brief moment before her eyes narrow and tick to the side, a rather mirthful glow filling them to the brim.

Before he can turn to catch a glimpse of what she’s looking at, tiny arms attack him from behind, his little girl throwing herself into his back – from a full run, he’s sure – and gripping tightly around his neck. He pitches forward, awkwardly catching himself with one hand while his other moves to loosen her fingers and free his windpipe. Maniacal giggles echo in his ear, but all he can see is the bright, gentle smile of the woman standing above him.

He clears his throat once Lana’s grip slackens and reaches around to hoist his baby higher on his back, standing effortlessly and letting out a single rich laugh when her giggles turn to a swift shriek of excitement. She lets out a small oof and settles her arms around his shoulders, curling her warm body around him. “Sorry,” he murmurs, a bit bashfully. “There was an incident at daycare. We don’t usually let little monsters run free around here.”

Annie bites back a laugh, actually chewing the corner of her mouth to do so, and says simply, “I wondered why we hadn’t met before.”

He cocks his head at the woman, only just now registering what she had said about the car a moment ago. “You drove this?” he asks her, his voice carrying a hint of surprise as he casually bounces in place to keep his monkey-girl amused.

She chuckles lightly as she watches the little girl’s face continue to shine. “Yeah,” she breathes out. “Got a soft spot in my heart for Mustangs. We’re a Ford family.” Her eyes flicker over to meet Bucky’s. “My dad had one… a ’67 Shelby GT.”

“Ooo,” he intones with a hiss. “Nice.”

“Yeah. We restored it together. He’s still got her, though she’s trapped in his garage,” she says with a frightful countenance as she looks over at Lana and successfully pulls a giggle.

Bucky gives his girl another bounce and cranes his neck to look behind him. “Wanna tell her what’s living out back in our garage right now?”

She shoots her head out from behind her father’s, giant toothy grin on her face as she states proudly, “Stingray. 19…” Her voice fades off as she gives a dismissive shrug.

“68,” he supplies.

“Wow,” Annie responds, drawing out the word and nodding appreciatively, never taking her eyes off of the little girl’s satisfied face. “You’re really lucky.”

“Well,” Bucky starts, self-deprecating smirk blooming, “it’s not exactly – ”

“Lana!” cuts him off mid-thought, the call tumbling in from the back bay. Bucky spins to see Peter hopping towards them, goofy smile on the disheveled teen’s face as he approaches. “Hey,” he says, locking onto the little girl’s eyes as she peeks out over her dad’s head. “It’s lunch time. I thought you were gonna eat with me.”

She twists and tugs in an attempt to scurry off her father’s back, and he grunts out a, “Wait,” as he awkwardly dips to lower her to the floor. “Pete,” he mutters, standing back up and glancing at the kid. “How’s the Mazda going?”

“Oh, fine, Mr. Barnes,” he declares simply, giving a small nod as Lana takes a firm hold of his hand.

“Pete-er,” she corrects haughtily. “There’s a er, Daddy.” She tugs and pulls at Peter until he relents and lets her drag him over to her new friend. “That’s Annie.”

“Hi, Annie,” he says with a grin and a wave.

“She’s Stark’s assistant,” Bucky mutters with a raised brow.

“Oh, wow,” he intones, countenance lost somewhere between shock and intrigue. “That must be… something.”

She shrugs. “Sometimes it’s hell. Sometimes… heaven.”

“Pete,” Bucky starts before staring his little girl down and tacking on the, “er… wants to work for your boss someday.”

“Well, I mean… yeah…” the kids stutters out. “You know… maybe… I mean…”

Bucky chuckles lightly, catching a glimpse of the boy’s bright pink cheeks from the corner of his eye. He rocks back on his heels, shit-eating grin on his face as he goes on to say, “It’s all he’s been talking about since he showed up here with that Vette a few weeks back.”

Annie’s eyes narrow. “He brought the Corvette here?” she asks, brows furrowing in confusion.

“Yeah.” He shrugs. “Needed some body work. Passenger’s-side door, some paneling.”

The narrow gaze flips in an instant, eyes blowing wide. “He damaged the Corvette?” she asks, tone positively aghast.

“Yeah,” Bucky mutters, looking down as Lana grabs hold of his wrist and gives a swift, firm tug. “Something about parking in the city. What, baby?” he asks distractedly.

“I’m hungry,” she whines, hanging off of him and leaning back so far that her hair almost touches the ground.

“Your lunch’s in the fridge. Peter’ll help,” he tells her, voice low and soft as he gives the teen a swift nod and hands her off, watches as the two head back to the office. He turns back around just in time to see the shock on Annie’s face finally begin to wane, utter bewilderment filling in behind it. He laughs despite himself, the twist of her features, subtle crinkle of her nose as the gears so obviously click and sputter and turn inside her head. “No clue, huh?”

Her eyes pop up to meet his, suddenly freed from their ruminating. “Sorry,” she sputters. “No.”

His own brow twists in confusion as he recalls something the cocky billionaire had mentioned on that first visit to the shop. “He said his assistant recommended us. Was that you?”

Her mouth gapes open, bobbing helplessly for a long, silent moment as a deep red blush begins creeping up her neck. “Well, I mean… yeah. I… I mentioned you… Because I use you. I mean… not use you. I mean…”

He feels a laugh bubble up his chest, his jaw suddenly aching from holding a smile so wide and stretched. “You okay there, doll?” he asks through the chuckle, for some reason absolutely delighting in her sudden discomfort.

“What?” she bleats. “Oh, yeah. Yeah, sorry.”

He narrows his eyes at her suspiciously, though he’s not quite able to keep them from crinkling at the corners as amusement continues to wash over him. “What exactly did you mention to him?” he asks coyly, taking a single deliberate step forward. The blush blazes then, firing up her cheeks, extending to the very tips of her ears as her eyes dart frantically around the room.

“I don’t… what do you mean?”

It had been a long, long time since Bucky had made a girl blush, made her practically buzz with nervous yearning just from a look. Or at least it had been a long time since he’d taken notice of it. Natasha and Steve were always telling him, trying to point out to him the effect he has on women. She was totally flirting with you. That woman was eye-fucking your brains out. Stop being so dense. But, really, those two are more desperate to get him laid than he’d ever been himself. They’d say just about anything to get him to move on, move forward with his life. And let them live theirs.

And besides, he knew. Back in the day – the days before dirty diapers and marital strife and a struggling business – he hardly ever spent a Saturday night in his own bed. Or if he was in his own bed, there sure as shit wasn’t a cold, empty spot beside him.

But that was the old Bucky Barnes. It might’ve been a mere five or six years in calendar time, but to him it seemed like a lifetime ago.

And yet, when that old grin he used to wear – the cocky, teasing, suggestive crooked tilt – perks his lips in a familiar pull, it feels utterly natural. Just like muscle memory.

He takes another step closer, his eyes trailing down to Annie’s exposed clavicle, the part of her body where the blush tapers off to show subtly tanned flesh peeking out from beneath a pale pink silk blouse. “You said you mentioned me,” he reminds her, quirking an eyebrow as he locks onto her deep green eyes, the color eerily similar to the pristine paint job on the Cobra at their side. “To Stark… what’d you tell him?”

She clears her throat, blinking only once to collect her composure. The bright red remains splashed across her skin, but her eyes settle on his, her once agape mouth pulling into a tight, firm line, twisting up at the edges to show off the effort being put into biting back a smile. “I told him,” she starts, small, subtle lilt to her voice. “That you were great with the Bronco.” His brow lifts higher, a silent invitation for her to go on, and she cocks her own high to match. “And that you were cute. And that I might… I don’t know…” She shrugs, her gaze ticking away for just a fraction of a moment. “Be… interested.”

He nods slowly, appreciatively, and does his best to shift his face into an impassive mask. “You told Tony Stark I’m cute?”

She snorts out a laugh, loud and utterly undignified. “Yeah, I guess I did.”

His brows twist together, face pinching tightly in a sudden realization. “He was checking me out. Sizing me up,” he mutters vaguely, lips parting as he huffs out a quick, “Huh.”

“I didn’t tell him to,” she says abruptly, pitching forward onto her toes, seeming a little too enthusiastic with her denial. “I never asked… I mean…” She shakes her head and breathes out a laugh. “He gets sort of attached to his assistants. The ones that last anyway. He’s getting ready to marry one of them.”

Bucky’s mouth clamps shut, lips curling into a frown.

She laughs again. “I didn’t mean…that made him sound sort of creepy. No, it’s just… when you devote yourself to work all the time, the only real friends you make are, you know, at work.”

“So Tony Stark is your friend. And your boss. And your… matchmaker?”

“No,” she bleats out. Then, “Maybe,” amid a rather perplexed look. She shrugs. “He means well.”

“He put me through the fucking inquisition,” he mutters, feeling suddenly nervous. He brings an open palm to the back of his neck, scratches wildly at his scalp as his face twists. “Did he… did he tell you that? Or… tell you anything?” he asks, thinking back and trying to recall just how many bullshit answers he gave the man, how many irritated glares and fabricated stories.

A brilliant smile rolls over her face, one that somehow manages to immediately put him at ease, his fingers slowly slipping from his hair and back down to his side, casually tucking into his pocket. “He just told me that he gave me an in… and then said I should go check on the Cobra.”

“Ah,” he breathes out simply, rocking back on his heels.

“So,” she drawls out languidly before beginning to awkwardly pivot back and forth on the balls of her feet. Her hands clasp tightly behind her back, eyes nervously roaming the floor for a brief moment before rising to meet his. They seem to lighten two full shades as they lock onto his – admittedly – curious gaze. “Can I buy you dinner?”

[onceuponamirror]

heart rise above

///// CHAPTER 7

summary: It wasn’t an experiment with freedom borne of some Americana fantasy; rather, a road trip of purely logistical intentions. The plan was simple. Drive from Boston to Chicago for his sister’s college graduation. That’s it.

Or, he drives a Ford Pickup Named Desire.

Mechanic!AU

fandom: riverdale ship: betty x jughead words: 30k chapters: 7/19

[read from the beginning] [read the latest]

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But time makes you bolder Even children get older

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On Sunday morning, Jughead wakes up with a sunburn.

It’s his own damn fault; in the rush to appease the wide-eyed beseeching of Betty and the subsequent distractions of her overall presence, he hadn’t thought about sun protection until late into the afternoon and the damage had already been done.

A part of him whispers: worth it, but a smarter, far more logical side reminds him he could’ve enjoyed Betty’s company while still applying sunscreen. Alas.

But at least most of the burn is not on his face, and rather his chest, which he’s fairly certain hasn’t seen the light of day in years and probably won’t again for some time. Luckily, for someone with such vampiric tendencies, he manages to tan fairly well, so while it will never be quite as attractive as Betty’s golden glow, it should settle into an olive tone soon.

He stands in front of the motel bathroom mirror and slaps water onto his face, because now his mind is back to conjuring images of Betty strewn out beside him, her hair tangled and loose around her shoulders, and it’s been driving him mad since before bed last night.

It’s bad enough he’s got words like sun-kissed floating around in his thoughts, further destroying any credibility he has left with himself; he doesn’t need to be further tormented of memories of her in that fucking white swimsuit.

“Goddamnit,” he mutters, as it happens again. He points at himself in the mirror, and says, flatly, “No.”

Jughead can accept that what he feels is attraction, can acknowledge he has the evidence of that literally burned onto his fucking skin, but that doesn’t mean he gets to torture himself any more than usual. No, what he needs is a day spent in the company of his best friend, a big cup of coffee, followed by a second one, and absolutely zero time with Betty.

He’s already tried the cold shower.

Anyway, given that it’s a Sunday, he doesn’t have the usual excuse to hang around her, as she won’t be at the garage and he hasn’t been allowed any opportunity to invite himself along anywhere else. It’s probably for the best.

He gives his reflection one more warning jab of the finger and then goes to dress. He hesitates with the suspenders, after Betty’s little dig about them, but then feels silly for it. Even if he does have something of a crush, he’s not about to change his entire ethos (carefully crafted down to the fit of his jeans) in the course of one week.

Besides, he’s fairly sure she was just teasing him. Or he hopes so, because he knows it speaks to his tumultuous childhood that he still wears so many layers all at once, ready to sleep wherever he may need, change clothes without arousing suspicion. Like his habit with frugality, it’s hard to kick, even in adulthood.

He throws on an old, cozy t-shirt, ties a flannel around his waist, piles anything he needs for a burst of inspiration into his messenger bag, and then heads for Archie’s room.

“Ready for breakfast?” He asks, when the door swings open.

“Yeah,” Archie says, even though he’s not at all dressed. “Just gimme like, one minute.”

Jughead wanders into the room while Archie rushes around, throwing clothes onto the bed. “Just in case I don’t have time to change before my date tonight,” he explains when Jughead raises an eyebrow. He’s known Archie to wear his sneakers to a wedding and not bat an eyelash, so he’s not quite sure what to do with this flustered version of his best friend.

“You really like this girl, huh?” He says, watching Archie narrow down his choices to two shirts.

“A lot,” Archie breathes, settling on the nicer one, a soft blue button up. “Alright, let’s go.”

They head out and make the short walk to Pop’s. At this point, Jughead has taken nearly all his meals at the diner, so when he’s greeted by name by the owner and a passing waitress, he just has to shrug listlessly under Archie’s curious look.

“I like the food here,” he says simply.

The two of them settle into a booth, drop their orders, and receive their coffees. Once their server is gone, Archie clears his throat. “So…” He begins, obviously with an attempt at prompting.

“Don’t start,” Jughead replies with a groan. He’s just started to enjoy his coffee and the last thing he wants is to regress into some moonish idiot again. “I don’t want to talk about her.”

Archie’s forehead wrinkles. “’Her’? Who is ‘her’? I was just going to ask you about how your book is coming. Wait…are you talking about Betty?”

“Aw, fuck,” Jughead mutters, cradling his head in his hands. “Never mind, forget I said anything.”

“Nu-uh, you went there, so let’s talk about it.” Across the table, Archie chuckles and starts to count on his fingers. “First, you invite her and her friends to hang out with us, which…like, I’m definitely not complaining, since one of those friends is Veronica. But when have you ever done that? Then, the fact that she got you swimming? I can’t remember the last time I saw you swim.”

“I swim,” he says defensively. “We were literally at the beach last week.”

“Yeah, and you just stood there with your feet in the water. And yesterday you guys were acting all…like you knew her. I think there’s something you’re not telling me.”

Jughead takes a stalling sip of coffee. “I asked her to teach me how to fix the truck, okay? Just because I wanted to learn for myself so I could take care of it later on. That’s it. There’s no Machiavellian subplot going on, so stop acting like I’ve been body-snatched.”

“So you’ve been what, hanging out at her garage?”

He bites at the inside of his mouth. “Well, yeah.”

“This whole time?” Archie asks, his eyes bulging.

“No,” Jughead snaps brusquely. “I mean, Jesus, we’ve only been here for like, five days. I’ve been writing, mostly. Just…also spending some time at the garage. For educational purposes.”

Archie stares at him, and then bursts out laughing. “Alright, now I get all those little looks she gave you yesterday,” he says, shaking his head. Jughead glowers at him, though more frustrated with the fact that he has the adamant desire to shake Archie and beg him to explain what he means by little looks.

(Something else to torture himself with, undoubtedly.)

“Educational purposes,” Jughead repeats darkly. Maybe if he says it enough, he’ll believe it.

“Nah, you like her,” Archie says, after a moment of deduction. “I’ve known you my whole life, bro, you can’t pull that shit with me.”

Jughead wrestles with how to deny it with any stronger language to make Archie back off, but then deflates and sighs, losing the will to argue. “It doesn’t change anything.”

And that is the truth. He can admit to Archie, he can admit it to himself, but neither of these actions will have any sort of effect on the outcome. In less than three weeks time, he will be piling into his truck, driving to Chicago, and then heading back to Boston with his sister to resume a normal, Betty-free life.

He’s self-loathing, but even Jughead isn’t sure he’s that self-loathing as to let himself get in any deeper with a woman he’ll never see again. It’s already bad enough that whatever benign little crush he’d felt for her before yesterday has been replaced by a magnified appreciation for the way she’d looked next to him, tousled by the river and tanned and soft-eyed, and—this is just after one day at the beach. He’s more than a little afraid to find out what else his imagination is capable of.

Archie looks confused. “What do you mean, it doesn’t change anything? I’m seeing Ronnie, and we’re in the same situation. Doesn’t stop us from having fun.”

Jughead sighs, and crosses his arms onto the table. “I’m not you, Archie. I don’t do casual very well. Go big or go home, right? Well even if I go big, I still have to go home to Boston. We live in different states, Arch. What, am I supposed to ask her out and then we go on a few dates and then we’re long distance for however long we can convince ourselves it’s a good idea? I mean, think about it.”

“You’re already planning a long distance relationship? You haven’t even been on one date,” Archie points out, raising his eyebrows.

Jughead groans. “I just mean—what’s the endgame here? What’s the point?”

“To get laid?” Archie suggests plainly, his hands in the air. “To have a connection with someone? To get to know somebody? To open up?”

“Yeah, because I’m so well known for all of those things. And—anyway, you’re making a dangerous assumption that she’s even interested,” Jughead reminds him, downing the rest of his coffee and slumping in his seat.

“I think that’s a pretty safe bet,” Archie says slowly, and then looks painfully amused at how quickly Jughead’s head jerks back up.

“What, that she’s interested? Come on, I’m trying to be realistic here,” Jughead says, scrubbing a hand across his face. “You’ve seen her. She’s way out of my league, pal.”

The look he gives Jughead borders on outright pity, which he decides is far worse than smug. “Maybe, but you’re really over-thinking this. Just…try not to think so much and go ask her out.”

Coming from someone who Jughead has witnessed jumping into far too many situations without consideration and getting in way over his head, this advice does little for comfort. “Well, I’m a writer, all I do is think, write, and mope, and over-think some more.”

Archie sighs. “Alright, look. I know you, Jug, so I won’t push you on it, because that won’t help. But, I’ll just say this: better to have loved and lost than not loved at all, right?”

He stares across the table. “How is it you can quote Tennyson at me but still don’t know who Stevie Nicks is?” Jughead moans, hiding his face in his hands.

“I know who he is,” Archie scoffs, which only proves Jughead’s point. He groans again, but this time it’s because his eyes have been closed too long and he’s attacked by visions of Betty swimming in circles around him, moving in the water like a mermaid luring a sailor to death.

When he brings his head out of his hands, Archie is watching him with understanding eyes.

“It’s why it’s called a crush,” Archie offers, shrugging. “It sucks.”

But Jughead is thinking about the river, and how he was too worried to swim out to where the water turned too dark to see the bottom; all that latent symbolism is finally catching up to him. But, still.

Should something happen on the way out, not knowing if he was able to touch down just wasn’t worth the risk.

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Jughead’s solution is true to form.

Rather than follow a lick of Archie’s advice, Jughead doubles down on his theory that no good will come of allowing himself to spend more time with Betty. While his best friend barrels on full steam ahead with Veronica, starting to see her practically every night, Jughead retreats further and further into his hotel room.

He even gets invited to go to dinner and dancing with Archie and Veronica and, wink, dude, Betty will probably be there, but he ignores the text until late and then sends a weak reply of sorry, didn’t see this till now.

Perhaps it’s his old friend Abandonment Issues rearing its ugly head again, but he decides that the more he sees her, the more he likes her, which won’t do. When he follows that train of thought, the more drawn to her he is, the more occupied his thoughts are with a very simple desire.

And that scares the shit out of him.

Because no matter how many times he circles back to it, there’s no way for him to walk away from this without becoming more miserable than he was already. He’s just not Archie; he’s always been all or nothing. He can’t casually date someone, nor can he wrap his head around the idea of not thinking ahead.

He’s already afraid of a good thing, but what happens when that good thing has no good ending? It’s not star-crossed, it’s not romantic; it’s just impractical.

So he throws himself into his writing, and luckily, it welcomes him with open arms.

That is, until it doesn’t. His outline takes shape, his characters find their moxie—and then he hits a snag four chapters later, around the same time that his character gets his first real lead and starts to work with the police. Namely, his love interest. He deletes, rewrites, sacrifices whole scenes—even the ones with the bit of dialogue he really liked—but he can’t seem to shake the indecision that has begun bleeding through.

If he thought about it any harder, if he even just squinted at it, he probably wouldn’t be able to deny the resemblances between his character’s issues and his own. Which is exactly why he chooses not to analyze such realities—though at least Jughead doesn’t have a fresh dead body on his hands.

Still, he is just as plagued by the sad, sharp eyes of the blonde riddle in his book—and every time he tries to fix it, or grow their relationship realistically, he ends up wanting to throw his computer across the room.

This is junior year of college all over again, only much worse. But if he’s not thinking about solutions for his love arc, he’s thinking about book reviews and his publisher wanting a book tour for the sequel, and the inherent pressure of a follow up novel, and comments online, and even the film rights speculation floating around on Reddit—a far-fetched rumor if he’s ever heard one. Even if there’s something to it, he’s sure he’ll be last to know, and can kiss it goodbye once his sequel hits the stands and tanks as much as he expects it to.

On Thursday morning, he sends off his latest frustration to his editor, hoping she has some thoughts for him, and decides to go buy some snacks. He’s been trying to write in his room lately, but he’s already sick of vending machine candy and he needs a new toothpaste anyway, so he walks to the grocery store, scowling the whole way.

He throws a range of essentials into his basket, and then, hearing JB’s voice in his thoughts, decides to also grab a bit of fruit, lest he fall prey to the supposedly inevitable case of scurvy she’s always hocking him about.

Jughead heads to the drink aisle, and then, with his hands full of soda, nearly barrels into someone turning away from the opposite wine section. “Fuck,” he mutters, as a bottle slips from his hands. He drops down to grab it, but it rolls out and hits the foot of the woman he almost walked into. He glances back up, and is completely unprepared for it to Betty.

She squats down to his level, grinning. “On a health kick, I see,” she says, reaching the bottle of soda first. She picks it up and hands it to him, which he takes after a moment.

“Yeah well, the name Jughead Jones is synonymous with Whole Foods,” he mumbles, straightening. “Thanks. And, uh, sorry for almost running you over.”

“Something a girl always dreams of hearing,” she laughs.

Her hair is down again, and she brushes a smoothing hand against it as his eyes run over her wavy tresses. She looks nice—well, she always looks nice, but today she looks nicer than usual. Maybe it’s the way her hair falls along her neck, or the swishy pink skirt, or the black short sleeve button up, or maybe it’s just because she’s still smiling at him and he’s just too far gone to see past it.

She adjusts the bottle of wine cradled in her arms. “So,” they say at the same time. There’s a fumbling and awkward amount of pausing while they both ask the other to go first, but eventually she tries again.

“So, how have you been? Haven’t seen you in a few days. You missed a fun night of Archie and Veronica’s basically undressing each other on the dance floor, by the way. Never again am I third wheeling.”

He chuckles, cringing at the thought. “Great, now I’m going to have to absolve my eyes of that mental image, so thanks for that. I’m not sorry I missed that, but I didn’t mean to leave you hanging. I just got bit by the writing bug,” he offers by way of explanation.

“And here I thought you were avoiding me,” she says, with something like a nervous grin. “Or got sick of me, maybe.”

“Impossible,” he sighs, and it’s true, even though he has been avoiding her. A pang of guilt hits him, hard; it hurts to hear that she’d thought his opinion her was anything less than glowing. Fuck. He’s been an asshole, but he honestly didn’t expect she’d have spared him a passing thought. “I’ve just been busy with the book, I’m really sorry. Got in my own head a bit.”

“Oh,” Betty breathes. Is it relief in her big eyes, or is that just what he hopes to see? “No, no, it’s fine. I’m glad to hear that. Make some good headway, then?”

He shifts his basket in his arms so he can scratch his chin. “Yeah. Kinda,” he says. His eyes, desperate for something to do other than stare hopelessly at her, fall to the bottle of wine. “Bit early for a drink, don’t you think?” He asks, intending for it to be a joke, but he thinks of his father as he says it and it comes out sounding all wrong.

Betty blinks down at the bottle. “This is just a gift,” she explains, holding it up. “I’m heading up to Hudson today. To get your compressor part, actually. The wine is part of a thank-you; Adam’s letting me come get it right away. He called me when he got back last night.”

Jughead feels instantly suspicious of this Adam person. What’s in it for him to be so helpful? Then he frowns, remembering Kevin’s ominous mumbling about this guy Adam. He’d gotten the impression that he was interested in Betty from that, and that sends a flare of jealousy straight to his stomach. Is this why Betty looks a little dressier than usual? For him?

“So soon?” He asks, swallowing. “You’re ahead of schedule, then.”

Betty lifts a shoulder. “Well, I know how eager you are to get back on the road.”

He wants to punch himself in the face. Wants to tell her he hasn’t been able to get her out of his head all week, especially not after rolling around in the sand next to her while she wears a swimsuit straight from the set of Baywatch. Wants to tell her he has suddenly no foreseeable desire to leave Riverdale, or her.

“I mean, I still have to be in Chicago at the end of the month,” he says slowly, remembering himself. That won’t change, so there’s no point in beating around the bush. “But I’m not…it’s not like I’m rushing out the door.”

It’s as close to “I like you” as Jughead can get right now, and he’s fairly sure it’s a lost cause to attempt telepathy, but he tries it anyway. Betty smiles softly at him.

(No point in beating around the bush—that is, except for the one labeled: Jughead’s feelings for Betty.)

“That’s good to hear,” she says, her lips wrapping around the words in a melodic sort of way.

“Yeah, as we’ve previously discussed, turns out Riverdale’s not all bad,” he says, as they start to wander through the aisle. It’s another attempt at cryptically hinting that he likes her, but unsurprisingly, it doesn’t land.

Betty scoffs. “Careful there, I wouldn’t want the town to get a big head.”

“I mean, it’s no Phoenix or Tallahassee, but…” He grins at her rolling eyes. “A little bit of luck, spit, and shine, and it’s well on it’s way to being a real Toledo.”

“Look out,” she drawls. She’s getting bolder with her sarcasm; he wonders if he’s rubbing off on her.

She ends up tagging along with the rest of his shopping trip—they debate his taste in toothpaste brands, which Betty points out is the same one her sister buys for her kids, and she tells him that one apple does not actually keep a doctor away and he needs to buy more fruit, so she leads him back to the produce aisle and fills his basket with oranges and something called a lychee.

“You sound like JB,” he mutters, as she launches into a monologue about vitamins. “She’s a vegan, now. Me, the human garbage disposal, with her, my legume-loving sister. She’s always on my case about my diet. I don’t know how we’re going to live together.”

Betty glances over, her fingers pausing over a peach. He leans against a large crate of fruit. “That’s the other part of the reason why I have to get to Chicago with the truck. I’m helping her move back to Boston, and she’s gonna live with me until she figures out her next move. Which, if she’s anything like me, means she’ll be sleeping in my home office till she’s 30.”

She arches an eyebrow. “You’re a best selling author, and you’re 26.”

He squints right back at her. “Did you google me?”

She burns bright red and pretends to be very interested in procuring the right peach. “No,” she says. “Okay, yes. But after you revealed yourself as JP Jones, I just wanted to confirm. I’m a big believer in fact-checking citations and bibliographies, Juggie.”

There she goes with the nickname again; the one that sends his heart into a sickeningly gushy plunge. He hates it, and he loves it.

He wiggles his eyebrows at her. “Find anything incriminating on me during your journey into the deep web?”

She tips her chin into the air. “You’ll just have to see,” she sniffs, and then snags his shopping basket from his arms and deposits the peaches she’s spend the last few minutes selecting for him. He stands there for a moment, his lips lifting as he watches her move on to inspecting an ear of corn.

Betty glances back over her shoulder with a teasing grin, and his breath catches. She’s so beautiful.

“What are your thoughts on America’s most popular vegetable?” She asks, holding the corn up to the light.

“I think I don’t have anywhere to cook anything, no matter how prevalent it is to the industrialization of American farm,” he says, pushing off from his perch and snatching the corn from her hands. He tosses it back into its crate. “I’m cutting you off, Cooper. No more produce.”

“Well, I have a place to cook,” she says quickly, and then blushes. His eyes widen; it almost sounds like she’s inviting him to dinner, but then she picks the corn back up and continues. “I could—maybe I want it for myself.”

He puts his hands in the air. “Fine, fine. I mean, it’s your complicity with the corruption of factory farms, but fine.”

“Says the guy with a basket full of high-fructose corn syrup,” Betty points out, her eyes rolling. “And sorry, what is your logic here? I buy organic corn, therefore I support factory farming?”

“There is no ethical consumption under capitalism,” Jughead says, a finger in the air. “So I might as well go out with my guns slinging, some soda in hand.”

“Then you’ll leave me and my opinion on corn alone,” she replies, gathering a few ears into a little brown bag. He puts on a look of faux pretense, but takes his shopping basket back and transfers the vegetables and her bottle of wine into it. When she starts to protest him carrying her groceries, he just walks ahead.

What Jughead intended to be a way to kill time has now turned into a full hour, but at this point he’s dragging his shopping trip out as much as possible. When they part ways, Betty will go to see this Adam person, and give him this bottle of wine and maybe even smile at him in her soft, secretive kind of way, and then probably fall into his arms and—

“Juggie?” Betty asks, freeing him from the Gone With the Wind-esque nightmare playing out in his thoughts.

“Hm?” He asks, snapping back to attention.

Betty is reaching back into his basket, and he realizes they’re at the check out counter. “I should probably get going,” she says, glancing at the large clock hanging over the grocery line. He has no excuse to delay her any longer, so he nods and they move forward into line. She deposits her wine and corn onto the conveyer belt, says hello to the person behind the register, and starts digging through her purse for her wallet.

She waits for him while he pays for his groceries, and then they both head for the exit silently. Once again, he feels so stupid for avoiding her this past week. He should’ve been enjoying what little time he has with her, rather than falling victim to the self-fulfilling train wreck of his life.

He walks her to her car, gives her a little wave of goodbye as she slips into the driver’s seat, and turns on his heel. And then— “Hey, Juggie?”

He spins around absurdly fast. Betty is leaning out of her window, her arms folded out over the top of the door. “Yeah?”

“Do you want to come with me?” She asks, tilting her head at him. “We can get the compressor out of the way and then go get a nice lunch, or something. Hudson is cute, there’s lots of stuff to do.”

His brows furrow, as this is at odds with his presumptions about Betty’s nice outfit and the bottle of wine and the interested man waiting to meet with her. But he’s already shot himself in the foot once, so he’s not about to do it to the other.

“Sure,” he says, in what he hopes is a casual voice. He deposits his bag of groceries—luckily nothing perishable—into the back of the car and then comes around to the passenger’s side.

He settles in beside her, a warm feeling in his chest and something odd stuck in his throat.

Betty beams at him, and then turns onto the open road.

.

.

.

.

.

.

[scribefindegil]

False Prophets

[Ao3]

Just because Stan’s injured and the brothers are trying to sail to port doesn’t mean they can avoid anomalies altogether.

Set between Chapters 12 and 13 of Fisherman’s Knot.

Fluffstravaganza commission for @dana-willowfeather, who asked for Stan saving the day with his cunning and trickery! It turned out to be more of a Stan/Nuala teamup, but I hope you enjoy it!

It was supposed to be a simple matter of getting directions.

Of course, Ford chided himself, nothing he did could ever be simple. There must be some unwritten law of the universe, nay, multiverse, against Stanford Pines ever getting any kind of break. All he’d wanted to do was make sure they were on the fastest route to Boston, out of the path of any storms or ice shoals. It was a simple enough request.

And yes, he could have just thrown the King Cod back into the ocean instead of taking it up on its offer to help them in exchange for its life, but they’d used prophetic fish to navigate before and it had turned out fine! He should have had no problem answering its riddles! And—all right, really he should just stop making excuses and see if there was anything useful he could do before he lost consciousness and was dropped into the maw of a horrific sea monster. Maws? There might have been more than one of them. He hadn’t been able to get a good look before his vision started going spotty.

The writhing mass of coils that were wrapped around him grew tighter, and Ford felt the last gasp of air squeezed from his lungs. His chest was burning and he was sure his ribs were creaking like an old battered ship about to succumb to the storm.

He strained every muscle he could. He bit at the serpent’s leathery skin, his teeth sinking into its flesh and his mouth filling with salt and slime. The thing probably didn’t even notice. If it did, the little damage he could do was comparable to a biting insect—annoying at worst, and more likely to lead to swatting than any real harm.

Or perhaps human saliva was toxic and he’d bring down the beast eventually. Cold comfort, but it was the kind he’d taken before. He had always managed to escape before actually dying, though. Well, obviously. He wasn’t dead yet. He was . . .

Rambling. Self-defense, letting the brain focus on something other than the fact that its time was rapidly running out. Not a very useful self-defense mechanism as these things went. It might be if there was anything he could do, but he was trapped and his head was full of needles and his lungs were full of fire and—

“Hey fish-face!”

Ford could breathe.

He gulped air down into his oxygen-starved lungs until his heart rate steadied and his vision cleared, and then turned his head toward the voice. Stan stood there, gripping the rail of the boat with one white-knuckled hand. He was pale and tousle-haired and his right arm was still bound to his chest, but he stood up tall and smirked at the serpent, a fiery glint in his eyes.

“I got a proposition for you.”

*

It was hard to make coffee with one hand. It was hard to do much of anything. Stan set a bad example for Nuala when it came to silverware, shoveling food straight into his mouth so that he didn’t have to cut it. On the first day he’d needed Ford to help him get dressed, and his five o’ clock shadow was turning into a real beard now that he didn’t trust himself with a razor.

Fortunately, Ford had a tendency to leave forgotten half-drunk cups of coffee scattered around the boat. They were usually too cold for the sugar to dissolve, but they were better than nothing. Better than asking Ford for help.

He’d give it, of course. That wasn’t the problem. In fact it seemed like he’d done nothing but help since they’d returned from Atlantis—always making sure that Stan was warm enough, that he’d eaten, that the painkillers were working. He was starting to feel like a spoiled kid, or one of those stupid little dogs people carried around in handbags—the kind that couldn’t do anything on their own and only existed so that a certain type of people had something to dote on.

There was a mug on the table, barely touched and still warm, next to a pile of Ford’s notes. Ha. That was more like it. If he drank that it would just be stealing, not charity.

Stan sat down and dumped a mountain of sugar into the coffee. Now Ford wouldn’t make him give it back.

He’d taken his first sip when the hatch swung open and Nuala stalked inside.

“Hey!” Stan called. “Why the long face?”

The selkie sat down across from him and flopped headfirst into the pile of care package goodies they hadn’t figured out how to put away yet. When she sat up her mouth was full of chocolate-chip cookies.

She started to say something, remembered that she needed to swallow, and chewed her way through the rest of the cookies in a shower of crumbs.

“Stanford says I’m not allowed to eat fish with hats,” she said. “I caught one but he took it away to argue with and then he laughed at me.”

“Ford?”

“The fish.”

Hat . . . they’d run into one or two of those before, hadn’t they? Stan flipped through the notes in front of him. Selkies . . . yetis . . . merfolk . . . notes on the golden nautilus, overwritten with angry red ink . . . and . . . there!

“Like this?” he asked, holding up a page labeled “Riddle-Me Fish”.

Nuala scowled and pointed and the middle drawing. “The fancy one.”

“King Cod,” Stan read. “This creature will share its supernatural and prophetic blah blah blah . . . riddle contest? Is my brother out there having nerd talk with a fish?”

Nuala shrugged, and Stan felt a pang of jealousy at how easily she moved her shoulders. “It said he got one free question for saving its life but if he wanted anything complicated they needed to have a ‘battle of wits.’ Stanford got all giggleflappy about it. That’s when I left.”

Stan sighed fondly. Of course Ford would get excited at the chance to prove that he was smarter than a magic fish. As long as it gave him something to focus on besides hovering around Stan like a broody hen, Stan was fine with it.

They’d run into a few of the fish before—mostly caught in the nets, although Ford had reeled one in once. It was surprisingly gracious for something that had just had a hook stabbed through its lip, and had warned them of an upcoming storm that none of their instruments had predicted. It had been one of the crowned fish. The ones that wore top hats were less helpful—they’d tell you things but be awfully snooty about it, so usually Stan had to threaten to fry them a few times before they’d co-operate.

The prophetic lobsters, now—

The boat shook. Stan grabbed onto the table to steady himself, but it didn’t stop him from smacking into the wall. A stab of pain shot through his arm and his vision swam. The coffee tipped over, spilling onto Ford’s notes, and Stan would have stopped to clean them off except he’d heard something from outside right before whatever it was had hit them. Sound didn’t travel well into the cabin—he could tell that Ford had been talking earlier, but he hadn’t been able to make out any of the words. Now he wished that he had.

If he’d known what they were saying, he might also know what had made his brother scream.

Stan grabbed the notes about the Riddle-Me Fish and shoved the damp pages into his coat pocket.

“What was—” Nuala began.

“Don’t know, but I’ll bet you anything we’re about to find out!” Stan stood and stumbled for the hatch, Nuala close at his heels.

He turned back towards her. “No, you wait.” He said. “Wait and listen. We may need the element of surprise.”

Nuala nodded grimly and let him go ahead.

There was a monster in the water beside the boat—some kind of sea serpent. They hadn’t seen one in a while. Weren’t supposed to see them at all, not after they’d painted all those swirly white lines on the bottom of the boat to confuse their silhouette. Ford had been so proud of himself when he figured that out.

Ford—

Far above the boat he could see a pair of worn boots and a shock of gray hair among the serpent’s coils. The boots were kicking and the hair was tossing back and forth. Still alive. Stan breathed out.

The serpent had no eyes but it had an enormous mouth, long and cavernous and lined with serrated teeth as far back as Stan could see. Seaweed hung from its face and one long whiskerlike tendril draped down its neck, the fancy-hatted fish at the end of it.

All right. He had one working arm and no weapons and only the sketchiest idea of what he was up against. Story of his life.

Stan stepped up to the rail and shouted.

*

“This is a terrible idea!” Ford tried to yell, but even with the serpent’s hold on him loosened he didn’t have enough breath in him to speak. He hadn’t been able to answer the fish—the serpent—the creature’s riddle. Stan didn’t have a chance.

The thing closed its mouth and moved its head closer to the boat, stopping just a few inches away from Stan’s face. He kept glaring at it, but Ford watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed. He wasn’t even wearing a proper coat, just rushing out headlong into danger like he always did. It would be impressive if it wasn’t so infuriating.

The sea serpent loomed above Stan and the tendril . . . appendage? Line? The . . . thing that anchored the crown of the serpent’s head to the King Cod twisted itself up so that the fish hovered high above the boat, its crown glinting in the sunlight. It was the fish that spoke. As far as he could tell, the serpent only roared.

“We must engage in a battle of wits,” said the creature. Exactly what it had said to him. As it spoke, it shifted its coils until Ford was dangling upside-down, one ankle held by the tip of the serpent’s tail.

“Stan, you shouldn’t—” he tried, just in time to hear, “All right, then. Double or nothing. I win and you let my brother go. You win and I’ll hop right into your mouth, no questions asked.”

“Don’t!” Ford yelled. “Stanley, it’s not—”

“Not a problem, exactly!” Stan looked up and grinned at him. He . . . wasn’t nervous. Or if he was he was doing an excellent job of hiding it. But Ford was getting better at noticing his brother’s tells, and Stan was grinning without that extra tension around his eyes or the too-wide Mr. Mystery smile.

“You must answer my riddle to win your boon,” said the creature.

Stan locked eyes with the King Cod and flashed his teeth. “Come on, fishy. Hit me with your best shot.”

“I wind at those whales gray-haired, living I thirst; Togetherless the waves, racing some rain useful to shore, Most skillfully, liberal with me, I suffer hurt. I am the darkness of the earth; Be silent, but I shape, scarred by iron And pass men in the honeycombing Over them an often-giver of victories, created gold. I keep my snow half-hides the whirlwind to my lord Beneath the key's power he has not eaten; I was left no creature. Ever the Lord's bidding overed me, The Image for Answer?” 

The same riddle it had asked him. Ford held his breath, dangling there from the serpent’s tail with the crash of the waves and the rush of his blood pounding in his ears. He was helpless as he watched his brother stare down the monster. His defiance was admirable, but defiance wasn’t what they needed right now. They needed weaponry, they needed intellect, they needed answers. Ford should have been able to answer the question. He was the one who protected them from this sort of danger, but he couldn’t even solve a simple riddle, and now they were both going to—

The serpent shook its tail and opened its mouth wider. It might have been light-headedness or the oddness of perspective that came from being upside-down, but it looked like Stan smiled.

“Easy,” he said. “You’re a fish stuck to a snake who can’t tell a real riddle to save your own creepy-looking skin.”

Ford was too stunned to respond. Perhaps the King Cod was, too, because Stan went on, “You’re not one of those magic fish at all. You’re just a two-bit con artist designed to catch nerds, and believe me, as a two-bit con artist myself, you aren’t even doing it right. People are supposed to think you’re harmless right up until you’ve caught ‘em in that big snakey mouth of yours. But I already knew what you are. Big mistake to stick around once you’ve lost the element of SURPRISE!”

He shouted the last word and then ducked down behind the rail, and then—

Ford had always turned his back when Nuala transformed. He could tell that it took her longer to shed her sealskin than to put it back on, but it still seemed like an ungainly process.

He would never have imagined that she could change in midair. But it was a woman who came barreling out of the cabin and leapt over the rail and a seal that opened its mouth and caught the false King Cod up in a blur of silver and a snap of teeth. Ford had approximately five seconds of unabashed wonder before the serpent convulsed, releasing his ankle and dropping him headfirst into the sea.

*

“So how many times am I going to have to fish you out of the ocean?”

Ford sipped at his coffee and shivered under yet another mound of blankets.

“I live in hope that this will be the last.”

Stan scoffed, rubbing a towel affectionately into Ford’s hair. “Not likely. This one’s a born troublemaker.”

Nuala headbutted his good shoulder. “Speak for yourself.”

“Hey!” Stan drew back in mock horror. “Who was it that saved our butts back there?”

“Me!” said Nuala. She grinned at them toothily. “And if Stanford had just let me eat that fish to begin with things would have been fine.”

“You were amazing back there,” said Ford. He looked up at his brother. “Both of you. How did you know what to do? I would have just kept arguing with it until it ate me.”

Stan clapped him on the back. “Well, that’s what you need me for! Did you really not notice that its crown was made of shiny scales instead of gold?”

“Not at all,” Ford admitted. “I was too drawn in by its—”

“Totally meaningless riddles? I gotta tell you, bro, sometimes things don’t make sense just because they don’t make sense.”

Ford sighed. “I suppose you’re right. Still, it’s fascinating! Anomalies disguised as other anomalies! I’ve never seen a sea serpent with a lure, and certainly not one capable of speech! I’ll need to completely overhaul my classification scheme!”

Stan snorted. “Nerd.”

“Trickster.”

Nuala rolled her eyes. “Humans.”

Ford extricated a dry page from the coffee-stained piles on the table and began scribbling furiously.

“You’re still shivering,” said Stan. “Let yourself warm up first, knucklehead.”

Ford stood and shuffled over to the stove, blankets swishing along the floor behind him. Hot chocolate it was.

“And make some coffee for me, willya?” said Stan. “I deserve it if I’ve gotta be the smart one today.”

Ford smiled, shook his head, and put on the pot.

The false King Cod's riddle was created using a predictive text emulator and a set of Anglo-Saxon riddles from the Exteter Book.

[badonkodank]

A Simple Word So Heavy

ao3

Chapter Two: I Continue To Make Them

The second time he says it, he wishes he hadn't. He hates the way it comes out, the way it makes him sound so bitter and resentful, but he can't seem to find a reason to think himself wrong for it.

Stanley tried with all his might to keep them from kicking him out, he really had. He'd hidden in the bathroom, he'd stolen extra money in an attempt to pay them off, and had even offered to do things he didn't want to, or know how to, do. All of it ended up in vain, though, and they had thrown back onto the streets with little sympathy.

The people of Pennsylvania sure were tough. Not as tough as the New Jersey natives, but still harsh enough to have no problem with making an eighteen-year-old sleep in his car in the middle of a particularly chilly September.

Gathering his bag from where it'd been thrown to the ground, Stanley huffed and made his way back to the StanleyMobile. He ignored the fact that he could almost see each puff of breath that came from his mouth, but couldn't so easily brush aside the cold that had already begun seeping into his skin like a poison, leaching away the last reserves of warmth he'd managed to find himself. Not even the jacket he'd recently acquired could protect him at that point, which added the promise of a harsh winter to his growing "reasons staying in Pennsylvania is a bad idea" list.

He knew he just needed to toughen up, get used to it because with colder weather coming down the pike he would be getting a lot more miserable; if he still had nowhere to stay the car would be the warmest place for him.

He knew he was being wimpy- a drama queen, really, when he thought about it. After all, there were people who had to deal with the same crap he did. Some of them even had it worse. Probably. Yeah, there were people who didn't have cars.

Still, how many of those people had been kicked out of their house and then banned from their home state in less than a year? He'd yet to run into any with that issue. But then, he did try to avoid anyone who looked remotely homeless. The last thing he needed was someone even more desperate than he was threatening to gut him if he didn't give them the few possessions he had.

Thankfully, it wasn't hard; all he had to do was keep away from anyone that looked anything like him.

Yet the fact that he even had to worry about stuff like that was almost as pathetic as his upset over being cold. At his age he should've been having to worry about so much less- like what college, if any, he was going to, or something equally mundane. But nope, instead he was stuck out here, having to deal with the type of crap he wouldn't have had to if he was still at home.

He wished that just once he could find a place to spend the night that was comfier than the small confines of his vehicle; that just once he could sleep properly because he felt safe. But no, that was never in the cards for him. Why would someone like him ever be allowed to have the smallest amounts of comfort- wasn't like he deserved even one night's rest. That was just the price to pay for what he'd done.

Though, how much was he supposed to expect to pay? And for how long?

Stanley would bet the last five dollars he had in his pocket that Stanford wasn't experiencing any sort of discomfort similar to his. In fact, he was sure his brother was settled into his bed wherever he was, not even thinking about whether or not he was okay. He bet Ford wasn't worried about him in the slightest.

He'd thought for the first two weeks that it would blow over, that his twin would realize letting Filbrick kick him out had been a mistake, that maybe he'd reach out, encourage him to come home, because nothing as silly as a fight over an accident could destroy their bond. Then he hadn't, and Stanley had realized just how serious it had all been for Stanford. After that he had hoped that Ford would perhaps see him on one of his ads for the Shammies and contact him through that… he hadn't. And once he'd been run out of New Jersey without a word from his brother he'd started losing hope that Ford would ever contact him.

He'd called Ma the month before and asked about how things were going. She'd told him that Ford had graduated. He'd been valedictorian. Stan hadn't been surprised to hear that. He'd gone off to college, but when he'd asked, she hadn't said which one. He could understand that decision; if he'd known where his brother was, Stanley couldn't be certain he'd have been able to stay away.

Not that he should've been eager to run to Stanford's side. Because… it wasn't like his brother was making any attempts to go after him. Ford had abandoned him. He'd completely cut him off from his life over one stupid accident that cost him a school. A fucking school. Honestly, the more he thought about it, the more ridiculous it sounded and the angrier he got.

He was out on his own, miserable, lonely, and having to fight for scraps of food in order to survive, and where was Ford? Worrying about him? Feeling bad for letting Filbrick get rid of him? Looking for him? Nope! He was off at some other college enjoying himself and working towards making his life better, because of course he'd had other options lined up. He was Stanford Pines, genius extraordinaire!

Ford's life hadn't changed in the slightest, meanwhile his had turned to shit. Because of his brother. His brother, who still had family, still had a home to go back to if things didn't work out for him -which, yeah right- and who more than likely had other friends by now. He still had things to look forward to, and live for.

The only thing Stan ever had to look forward to was a decent meal. And money was all he could really afford to live for; if he didn't have money, he was no better than the rest of the scum of the streets.

It was hard to feel bad for messing up when he knew his brother was still alright. It was hard to feel remorse when Ford was still continuing on as if nothing wrong had happened, while Stanley couldn't get a room for one night in the crappiest motel because he was broke.

He threw his bag into the passenger seat and locked the car doors as he sat, reclining the seat back as far as it would go. He wasn't even certain he'd be allowed to stay in the lot for the night, but he'd take what he could get, and if the staff didn't notice and left him be, that was just fine too.

Sure, his situation could have been worse, but it also sure as hell could have been better. So when the brunet settled in the seat, curling in on himself to preserve body heat, he found himself glaring at the roof, his bitter mumble going unheard by everyone save himself.

"Goodnight, Stanford."

The second time he says it, it's an accident, a slip of the tongue, and it shouldn't be a big deal. He wants to punch himself in the face for it.

Stanford had been at Backupsmore for a week, getting used to the routines of the school and throwing himself into his classwork. He'd been so focused for many reasons, the main being his desire to graduate as soon as possible. The less time he spent there, the better.

"Mostly bug-free dorms" his ass.

Although, while the dorms themselves were less than desirable, the company was quite a bit nicer: Fiddleford Hadron Mcgucket. The name was a mouthful so he'd let Ford know it was alright to call him whatever he saw fit. Ford had decided upon just calling him by his full first name; he could struggle to the end, it wasn't an issue.

Upon first introduction, Ford had seen Fiddleford as one of the strangest people he'd ever met. The interesting accent and ability to talk a mile a minute about nothing much at all had been the more prominent of features Ford had taken note of -excluding the nose, of course… not that he was one to talk. To say the least, the first few days around the young man had been awkward.

He'd acknowledged the other's existence, he'd been polite and he'd made it clear that he wasn't really looking for friendship, but it seemed the southerner hadn't gotten the clue. Every time he'd walked into the room Fiddleford had readily offered a smile and asked him how things were going. He was so damn nice, and Ford had found himself quickly relaxing around him despite his best efforts to keep a distance.

For some reason he felt at ease around the other man. It was as if they'd known each other for years instead of less than a month. He didn't know why that was, and he refused to give the voice in his head that told him exactly why it was so easy the satisfaction of listening.

Because Fiddleford was nothing like Stanley.

Fiddleford was kind, and caring, and he actually gave a damn about what he had to say. He didn't call him a "nerd-robot" when Ford went on his long tirades about specific, less-than-normal interests, and he certainly didn't interrupt him when he was talking. Fiddleford was a kindred spirit; he understood what it was like to be the smartest person in the room. He understood how lonely that could be. He understood that it made making friends difficult as a child, which contributed to why he acted the way he did around people now. He just… he understood in ways Stanley never had.

So no, Fiddleford was nothing like Stanley.

Fiddleford wasn't selfish and he didn't wreck things.

"Ya alright there, buddy?"

Ford looked up from the textbook he'd had his nose stuck in, tilting his head when he looked at Fiddleford. "Huh?"

"Well, ya just looked upset there. Was just wonderin' what's on yur mind." The southerner shrugged, his blue eyes flashing with concern that, for once, Ford didn't appreciate.

He sighed heavily and shook his head in response. "It's nothing. I think I might be tired."

"Makes sense," Fiddleford chuckled, "ya'll've been readin' for three hours straight."

"Mm," Ford hummed in agreement but made no move to get up. In fact, he went back to his book. He could see the disapproving look his friend was sending him out of the corner of his eye but feigned ignorance, because while it was true he'd grown tired, he didn't want to sleep just yet. He hadn't managed to cover nearly as much material as he'd meant to; his jumbled Stanley-centric thoughts had distracted him.

Stupid Stanley. Even when he wasn't near he was making life difficult for him.

"Stanford?"

Ford ignored the hesitant prod, frowning as he tried harder to focus on the words on the paper. It proved difficult when his eyes started burning as the fatigue truly set in, but he refused to just give in to something so simple as mild ocular discomfort.

However, it seemed he wasn't having any of it, because a moment later Ford had to jerk his head back to avoid the hand that shot into his line of sight in order to snap the book shut.

"Bed, Stanford. Now."

He could've laughed at his friend's attempt to sound forceful, but knew that would do more harm than good. Even if he couldn't sound very intimidating, he had a way of making Ford feel bad about not doing things in the same way Ma could, with a small disapproving glance and the slightest chide in the tone of voice.

Well, seeing as there would be no use arguing, he supposed if he wouldn't be allowed to study bed did sound like a good idea.

Ford didn't bother changing into his pajamas before flopping into bed. It would take too long to do so when it was already so late, and he didn't have class until closer to the evening hours the next day so appearance during the day wouldn't matter. Besides, he'd already pulled too many all-nighters.

Fiddleford laughed at him and muttered about how he was a lovable dork or something equally as fond and insulting, and proceeded to flip the light off and get into his own bed.

"G'night, Stanford."

"Goodnight, Stanley."

There was a beat of silence as Ford laid there, frozen in shock over what he'd said. He definitely had not meant to say that. It had only come out as a mumble, though, so maybe Fiddleford hadn't heard?

The silence was broken a second later by his roommate's soft voice. Ford wanted to curl up and die.

"Who?"

The question hung in the air like smoke, thick and heavy. The unsaid answer left a brackish taste in Ford's mouth and he felt as if he would choke on it. He hadn't meant to say that. He hadn't meant to ever mention Stanley's name around Fiddleford. He was supposed to remain a secret- a nothing in the back of the mind where he belonged.

Suddenly, he no longer felt tired, but suffocated.

He had to get out- get some fresh air before the bile in the back of his throat could make any attempts at freeing itself.

Ford got up abruptly, groping in the darkness a moment before swiping his room key from where he'd remembered leaving it on their shared desk. He didn't bother with grabbing his shoes only because he knew finding them in the dark would not be an easy task and he didn't want to turn on the light and bother his friend.

"Ford?"

Oh, right, he hadn't said anything.

"It's, ah, it's nothing," he stammered as he found his way through the black and gripped the doorknob. "I'm going, uh, for a walk. Don't wait up for me."

"Wait, Stanfo-"

He closed the door behind him a bit harder than necessary, not wanting to hear the apologetic tone his friend's voice had taken. It wasn't Fiddleford's fault, so he shouldn't have felt the need to give an apology. He hadn't known. He still didn't know. He never would know, because he wasn't supposed to. Nobody was supposed to.

Stanley's name was a stain on their family. All he'd ever been was a lazy cheat who used people to get places. Nobody outside of their town needed to know about him. Nobody.

The likelihood of Fiddleford letting it go, though, was slim to none. He knew he would have to come up with a convincing lie to tell for when the man asked again. Either that, or he'd have tell the truth…

Yeah right. Oh, if Filbrick could only hear that thought. As if he'd ever want anyone telling the truth about Stanley. It was funny, he acted as if doing so would paint a negative light on him as the parent, when it was easy to see how Stanley had brought it upon himself.

Still, Fiddleford would ask. He'd asked because Ford screwed up. Big time.

Stanford leaned back against the wall of the hallway while releasing a heavy sigh. He was aware of the reasons he'd said Stanley's name instead of Fiddleford's, but it was still… frustrating. He knew it had only been a slip-up, a mistake born of the repetition over the length of his childhood. After all, he has never said goodnight to his roommate before and the only other person he'd said it to up to that point had been Stanley, so it wasn't a huge surprise that that's the name that had come out. It had been nothing more than a habitual accident and nothing more. It hadn't meant anything.

He released a shaky breath, relaxing his neck back until his skull thudded dully against the spackled drywall. It was interesting how, even knowing all of that, it still felt as if a rusty rail spike had been shoved between his ribs.