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bellshazes · 1 year ago

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dreaming up a syllabus for an imaginary course on metanarratives about gameplay, which i think would go something like:

unit 1: who do you think you are i am - auto-documentary & games

Vlogs and the Hyperreal, Folding Ideas

The Slow Death of Let's Play Videos, Meraki (to ~10:00)

World Record Progression: Mike Tyson, Summoning Salt

ROBLOX_OOF.mp3, hbomberguy

Life as a Bokoblin: A Zelda Nature Documentary, Monster Maze

optional: Braindump on the History of Let's Plays, slowbeef

unit 2: what like it's hard? - intro to challenge narratives

Chapter 26: Games as Narrative Play: Two Structures for Narrative Play, Rules of Play

A different kind of challenge run: Minimalist 100% (BOTW), Wolf Link

Surviving 100 Days on Just Dirt, Mogswamp

Can You Beat DARK SOULS III with Only Firebombs, the Backlogs

Is it Possible to Beat Super Mario 3D World while permanently crouching?, Ceave Gaming

The Pacifist Challenge - Beating Hollow Knight Without Collecting Soul [CHALLENGE] - Sample

optional: How to 100% Snowpeak Ruins in under 15 minutes, bewildebeest

unit 3: nelly you don't understand, i AM the narrative - form and function

The Future of Writing about Games, Jacob Geller

Can You Beat GRIME Without Weapons?, the Backlogs

Mushroom Kingdom Championships, Ceave Gaming

My Life as a Barber in Hitman 2, MinMax (Leo Vader)

MyHouse.WAD - Inside Doom's Most Terrifying Mod, PowerPak

optional: Mega Microvideos, Matthewmatosis

the theme and structure is mostly intended to introduce at least one critical or historically contextual work followed by examples of the type of narrative in question.

in unit 1, this is the idea of "How do people talk about their own experiences in the context of YouTube and playing video games?" across three rather different kinds of documentaries. unit 2 is intended to take that lens of who is telling what tale and dial in on challenge running, where i first noticed the way some videos turn the story of overcoming a challenge into its own narrative that is distinct from but related to the narrative events of the game itself. unit 3 circles back to the bigger picture with a variety of examples that, to me, are maximally metanarrative, the emergent story of the player-narrator now functionally replacing the game's embedded narrative.

bonus unit: broken narratives

Glitch & the Grotesque at the MLA, Sylvia Korman

Watching time loop movies to escape my time loop, Leo Vader

The Stanley Parable, Dark Souls, and Intended Play, Folding Ideas

Breaking Madden, Jon Bois

The TRUTH about the Pizzaplex in FNAF: Security Breach, AstralSpiff

this one is highly underdeveloped, but i'd love to work out something more robust building on randomizer challenges that produce intentionally bizarre, semi-ironic "lore," and bois-esque endeavors to break games so hard the story itself crumbles. but that's really out of scope so i'm just including the links to things i couldn't bear to get rid of. more rambling abt the challenge runs I chose under the cut.

Challenge runs represent one of the most obvious places to start, due to being extremely plentiful and having a hook that makes a "here's how I did X thing in Y video game" format almost unavoidable. Minimalist 100% is an underrated and sweet straightforward example that I mostly include as a baseline for reporting-out style narrative; here are the facts, here's what happened, this is the thing that it is. Mogswamp's 100 Days on Just Dirt is similar in style, but the physical measuring of days is a delightful and, more importantly, external narrative device.

Now oriented, we get a taste of Ceave Gaming's narrative approach to Mario challenges with the no-crouching run, and while we still aren't at the degree of player-characters being constructed for the narrative's sake, the spirited belief in crouching sets the stage for other rhetoric in more extreme cases we'll see later.

The Backlogs' entire body of work qualifies here, but GRIME is the strongest inspiration for putting this list together. I include the DS3 firebombs run because what was initially a factual description of how his wife's use of firebombs inspired him to play differently in the original DS1 firebombs run has developed into full-blown multi-game narrative arc with the Firebomb Goddess (his wife, who also voices the character) compelling his in-game character to achieve his destined quest. Grime takes that even further,

In-Game Documentaries

I include Life as a Bokoblin mostly as a contrast to My Life as a Barber - there is a level of fictionalization and roleplay involved in the Zelda in-game documentary that highlights exactly what I want to single out when I am talking about metanarrative, the story about a story.

#peter posts #mc meta #<- close enough #also i will add some context for the rest of the docus too since the summoning salt is on here for a VERY SPECIFIC REASON

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piningforstan · 2 months ago

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Stay With Me

Summary: Stan needs you to tend to his wounds and, no, you can’t ask him about it.

Pairings: Stanley Pines x GN!Reader

Word Count: 1.2k

Warnings: some fluff, drinking, smoking, a brief description of the wound

A/N: I just imagine mullet Stan not being able to tend to his wounds properly after his fight with Ford and only trusting you to help him😭 also I’m not a doctor so this is probably medically inaccurate

A knock at the door roused you from your sleep.

Well, more like jolted you awake and sent you into a spiral of fear and panic. You belted your robe and padded down the stairs to peer through the window. A blast of frigid air burst from the door as you wretched it open, snow swirling inside and melting. “Stan?”

“Hey,” he said simply. He weaved on his feet. Under the light of the porch, his face was grey.

“What are you doing here? It’s the middle of the night.”

“I’ll, uh, ‘splain later. Can I come in?”

You ushered him in, glancing worriedly out your lawn before shutting the door. Stan’s darkened form lumbered into the kitchen where you followed him, switching on a light. He removed his jacket.

“Stan, what is —?” You choked. From where he sat at the table, back to you, you could see a wound burned into his right shoulder, clearly neglected. “Holy shit.”

With trembling hands, Stan lit up a cigarette.

“Stan, what happened?” You hovered over him, unsure where to start.

“Doesn’t matter,” Stan said quickly. “Can you patch it up?”

“Patch it up? This looks like an infected second degree burn.”

“Is that a no?”

You let his harsh tone slide over you. Not only were you used to it, being a nurse, but you sensed that something was wrong and Stan was badly shaken. Instead of prompting him for answers, you hurried into your medicine cabinet for your first aid kit. You didn’t have half the supplies that you would’ve at the hospital, but you needed to at least disinfect the wound first to prevent infection. The contents of the kit spilled out onto the table as you rummaged through them, cursing under your breath.

A cloud of smoke billowed from Stan. You snatched the cigarette from him and tossed it in a half-empty glass by the sink. “At least let me fix this before you kill yourself with that.”

Stan grumbled a response, but it was half-hearted. You got to work disinfecting the wound and cleaning it up. Stan never once complained, shoulders tensed, wincing only once you applied the disinfectant. Vaguely, in some distant, secretive part of your mind, you admired the feel of muscles reacting beneath your hands, the intimate proximity to him. From your position crouched over Stan, you could make out his profile, his clenched jaw and thousand-yard stare.

You prepared a bandage. A strange design was embedded in the reddened skin, almost like a brand. You’d have to keep an eye on the wound, but hopefully you could stave off the infection.

“When did this happen? You should’ve come straight to me,” you told him. If he didn’t look so obviously pained, you would’ve smacked him upside the head for not seeking treatment sooner.

“S’not a big deal,” Stan mumbled.

Some of the color had returned to his face.

“Stan, yes it is. You could’ve died from the infection.”

“It was just an accident in the lab.” His brave face faltered slightly, a slip of emotion like the silver belly of a fish flashing in dark waters. “I deserved it anyway.”

You frowned. “I doubt that’s true. Can I get you anything? Are you hungry?”

“I could use a drink.”

You dug out an old bottle of whiskey that an ex had left behind. He insisted on drinking out of the bottle, knuckles white — shaking, but not as violently as before. You had taken his jacket off the back of the chair and used spare material to stitch it up from the burn. It must’ve been horrible if it burned through the jacket and into his skin so deeply. You watched him sip the whiskey and wince occasionally, not able to completely recline in the chair.

“You should stay here,” you said after who knows how long, both of you content in the silence. Before he could protest you added, “I have a shift tomorrow so I’ll be gone most of the day. But I can keep an eye on you and I know you won’t be doing anything else stupid.”

The corners of his mouth twitched. “Thanks, kid, but no thanks. I’ll be fine.”

“At least just tonight.“

“Fine. But I’m sleeping on the couch.”

You nodded your approval. After he polished off the bottle and you peeked at his wound again, you got him set up on the couch with pillows and a blanket. He looked small, boy-like, tucked under the covers and looking so vulnerable. Your heart panted. “You’ll be alright?”

“Ain’t gotta worry about me,” Stan replied. The sounds of his snores reverberated through your house before you even hit the stairs.

You awoke to Stan yelling. For the second time that night, or, well, morning, you jolted up and ran down the stairs without even snatching your robe. Bleary eyed and stiff-limbed, you staggered downstairs to find Stan thrashing on the couch, blankets thrown to the floor. He was crying out in his sleep. You knelt down next to him.

“Stan. Stan. Stan!”

It took you shaking his shoulders for him to come to, eyes widened and looking surprised to see you. “What? What’s going on?”

“You were having a nightmare.”

“Oh. Sorry.” He propped up on one elbow, running a hand through his dark curls. You adamantly kept your gaze from drifting to his chest, partially revealed in the white tank top he had worn to sleep in. “I, uh, been having a lot recently. Did I wake ya?”

“No,” you lied. “Are you okay?”

“Fine.”

You brought him a water. Sweat sheened his forehead but you suspected it was from the nightmare and not a fever from the infection. Still, you double checked the wound again. Some more pus oozed out along the edges that you cleaned up. It was clear, though, so nothing to worry about. Yet.

You bid him goodnight and moved to leave but felt a large hand grasp your wrist. “Would you, uh, would you mind stayin’?”

Surprised, you turned to him. His expression was so desperate, pleading, that you wordlessly agreed. Stan looked satisfied at this. You sat near his socked feet and pretended to sleep, though there was no way you could now. Not with him so close, so scantily dressed, raw and vulnerable.

It didn’t take long for him to lapse into another nightmare, twitching and muttering. Concerned, you reached over to console him. It was in that moment that he trapped you against his chest, looking for comfort, his heart beating furiously. You stilled. The nightmare slipped away but you were stuck, having fallen between his legs and lying completely on top of him. You did your best to wiggle free but he refused to budge.

Slowly, nervously, you put your head down. Stan, still asleep and unaware of the situation, kept his arms around you. He was big and warm and soft, and you were awfully tired. You reasoned that he needed his sleep, and if staying here meant that he could rest without disturbance, then you would happily fulfill this service for him.

It didn’t matter that you had dreamed of this before, cuddled up next to him, his shallow breaths rustling your hair. That you were overly awake of his hand on your hip, the way that you fit perfectly against him.

No. Nope.

You were just helping him out, like you did with his shoulder. Just helping out a friend.

A friend.

Right?

#gravity falls #stanley pines #fanfic #writers on tumblr #writing #grunkle stan #stanley pines x reader #stan pines #stan pines x you #stanley pines x you #stanley pines oneshot

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dotdot-is-here · 23 days ago

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Heart to Heart pt.2

Part two is finally here!! I couldn't post this earlier because I'm travelling rn and rarely get wifi (I'm having a lot of fun! :D) for those who didn't read part one, this is inspired by @citricacidprince 's take on the Relativity Falls au

Now let's get to the angsty little Stan twins! I hope i got their characterization right

Summary: On the aftermath of the portal opening for the last time, both sets of twins have some conversations

Stanford is crouched on the floor, pressing his ear against the wooden door while Stanley waits impatiently by the foot of his bed.

"Well? What did they say? What are they talking about?"

Stanford doesn't answer. He closes the door gently and gets up slowly, still facing the wood.

(What does the author- great uncle Mason- the real grunkle Mason- whoever the hell is downstairs even have to apologize for?)

(It doesn't make sense. It doesn't make any sense. Why would he forgive her so easily? So quickly? Heaven knows Stanford wouldn't have let go of it just like that.)

"Why didn't you press the button?" He blurts out.

He can see the way Stanley tilts his head in confusion from the corner of his eye.

"Huh?"

He didn't mean to have this conversation now. He doubles down anyway, "You heard me."

There's a pause in the air as Stan processes the question. As he tries to place Ford's tone.

"..wait, are you serious? You're mad about this?"

Ford turns to his twin and throws his arms in the air. "Stanley the world could have ended! And you don't even care!"

"But it didn't! I get that it looked pretty scary in the moment but hey, now we have a new grunkle!" Stan makes big gestures with his hands in his response, the same way he does when he tries to downplay his way out of trouble with their parents, "I took a risk and it all turned out fine."

Stanford can feel a headache forming, and he resists the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose, "A risk? Is that all you have to say? Stan this is not like the stupid bets you take when we play cards this was a doomsday machine! The warnings-"

His twin rolls his eyes and waves him off, "Oh, warnings schmarnings! Quit being so dramatic."

Ford fumes, "Dramatic?!"

"nothing happened Sixer! Let it go!"

"...this isn't about that right?" Asks Stan, once his words have rung against the attic walls for long enough.

Ford keeps his eyes on his untied shoelaces, "...I asked you to do one thing. I trusted you about the fate of the world Stanley." He makes his way to his bed, still looking down when he draws back the covers and adds, quietly enough his brother hopefully won't hear him, "And you chose to believe her over me."

Before Stan can even think of addressing that, Ford is already snapping, "couldn't you listen to me long enough to take something seriously?"

Stan's expression turns into something cold, buried feelings briefly coming to light.

"Well maybe it'll come as a surprise to you, Stanford, but just because you're smart doesn't mean you're the boss of me."

That night, they sleep with their backs turned against each other.

#gravity falls au #gravity falls #relativity falls #///dotwrites

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myohmyfalls · 2 months ago

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WIP - patch up

come get y'all's food! here's a sneak peak of a ford/reader bit i'm working on. reader is gender-neutral

"Here," he pulls out the chair and guides you to it, "sit down."

When you kneel he immediately crouches and takes your leg tenderly into his own hands, fingers tracing down your calf until they meet the scar. You wince, and he pulls back.

"Well, it's a good thing we weren't far," he sighs before tilting his head up to yours, "at this rate I would have had to practically carry you back to the shack. Upon further examination-"

"Having you carry me wouldn't have been the worst way to end the night," you try to make yourself laugh to break the tense air, but seized in on yourself at the effort.

"Don't. Please, you're worse than Stanley when we were overseas." One hand travels up to the kitchen table and grabs the first aid kit, the other still firmly planted on your calf. He fiddles with the kit, grabbing the necessary tools before returning his focus. "As I was saying, the creature's claws went deeper than I originally thought. You'll need a few stitches; nothing I can't do right now."

You sigh, then nod your consent. You obviously hadn't intended to end the night early like this. You were just trying to get a photo! Yes, you may have wandered back the trail while Ford was speaking, lost in his own train of thought, and yes you may have been following too closely - just trying to get that perfect photo to show the twins in the morning.

Your eyes shift downward to Ford.

...His shoulders look good at this angle. You can see the broad line of his back stretch across the thick fabric of his sweater. As he moves you can see the way his sleeves grip around his biceps as he moves. Your eyes had probably traced every muscular, perfect feature of his before you froze.

He's...on his knees. In front of you. On his knees. The second you flush at the realization is when you feel a sharp pain. You visibly wince and Ford pauses.

"Apologies, should have warned you first." He looks up to you and then hesitates, seeing the blush on your face. His eyes quickly shift between your features before returning to his work.

You feel the piercing pain one, two, maybe three more times before you grimace. Ford's hand reaches up to your knee and moves to rest at your inner thigh. His fingers start to trace soothing circles, something to distract you from the work he's doing.

"Halfway there, you're doing great." His hand on your thigh stays, still mindlessly tracing shapes as the other single handedly moves to finish the remaining stiches.

#my writing #stanford pines x reader #stanford pines fanfiction #gravity falls fanfiction #stanford pines #ford pines

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the-universal-sun · 6 days ago

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fiddleford finding stanley regressed upset about ford PLEASE 🙏

“Oh Captain, My Captain! Where are ya! Good ol’ Fidds’ made some lunch!” Fiddleford called out into the living room where he sat Stanley down in front of the Television with some blocks to keep him occupied while he whipped up a quick lunch. He looks around, the blocks and TV abandoned, Mr Wizard’a World playing softly on the screen. “Stanley?” He calls again, hoping for some sort of noise to alert him to where he’s gone.

Heart beginning to beat faster in his chest, he rushes to check the front door. Closed and locked. He sprints to the back door. Also closed and locked. His heart rate slows down, knowing his boy is still in the house. He goes by the basement door, and sees that it’s still locked. This makes finding him much easier, he doesn’t have to go down there, down to the portal. He heads upstairs to check the bathroom, it’s empty. He checks his and Stan’s room, he’s not on either of their beds, or in the closet. So he didn’t go an get more of his little toys.

“Stanley, hon! Come on out! It’s time for lunch, not hide n’ seek!” He calls out once more, heading towards Ford’s room. He hopes Stan isn’t in there, he knows going there always makes his boy upset, missing his big brother. He hears muffled sobs as he gets closer. He pushes open the cracked door and finds Stan on that ugly blue carpet, wrapped in one of Ford’s sweaters, crying his eyes out. Fiddleford crouches down as he comes closer to Stanley, angling his head down to catch his eyes.

“What’s wrong, Pumpkin Pie? Tell ol’ Fiddlesticks what’s got your eyes so wet, hmm?” He asks gently, already having an inkling on what’s got his boy so down and out. He hopes Stan’s up for talking, but he has a feeling, between his tears and how nonverbal he typically is when feeling small, that it ain’t happening.

He was right, too. Stan takes a heaving breathe, the deep breathe causing him to cough when it gets stuck in his chest. Fiddleford gently pats his back, helping rub the air from inside his chest. He waits until Stan’s stopped coughing, breathing a little more even now. When Stan gathers himself, he just points to the calendar on the wall. He insists on keeping the calendar in Ford’s room up to date so he knows the date when they rescue him from the portal (if they rescue him-no bad Fiddleford!), the date reads June 8th, and circled right under it is June 15…oh. Stan and Ford’s birthday, the first one they’re truly separated for.

“Oh my Honey Bun, I’m so sorry, I haven’t been keeping track of the days, I didn’t realize it was coming up so soon. Oh come here, lovey,” Fiddleford leans Stan on his lap, the man’s frame too burly to hold in his lap without the support of a chair, couch, or bed, “I know, I know, you miss your brother, I miss ‘im too. My little Bookworm. But we won’t forget him, we’ll make a cake for him, and get him some presents too, so he’ll have them when we get him back.” He pets Stan’s head rhythmically, rubbing his fingers down the bridge of his nose, up his cheek, and tucking some long hair behind his ears, trying to calm his tears down.

Fiddleford holds back his tears, he needs to be strong for Stanley, but…but…but he misses his Fordsey, his Chatterbox. He wants to celebrate his boys’ birthday with both of them, to see their joy, to see them okay and playing together all happy and family like. He sniffles, the thoughts getting to him, making his eyes burn. He doesn’t even realize he’s crying until he feels a hand wipe his cheeks. He opens his eyes to see Stan looking up at him, a frown marring his face. Stan sits up and pull Fiddleford down for a hug, rocking the both of them side to side as they cry together. Both missing Stanford Pines.

They sit like that for what feels like hours, just holding each other, consoling the other in the silence of Ford’s room. When Fiddleford feels like he’s got himself a bit more under control, he sits up, a slight blush on his cheeks as he stammers a bit, feeling better but also a tad bit embarrassed that he had to be consoled, he’s the adult right now, he needs to keep his emotions strong and in check in front of Stan, to be brave for him while he’s little. He can’t even do that! What kind of a man are you, Fiddleford-

“Wha-?” He feels Stan grab his hands and pull him up with him. When he gives Stan a questioning look, he points to his stomach and rubs it. Oh, right, it’s lunch time. He made Stan a sandwich with all the fixings, “Right, right. Come along, El Capitan! Your pal, Fidds has whipped you up the best sandwich you’ve ever done had in your life!” He quickly gathers himself, switching gears, and holding Stan’s hands as they leave Ford’s room. He slowly walks down the stairs, looking back to make sure Stan doesn’t trip on a loose board to step on a nail before leading him into the kitchen. He sits his boy down in front of his little plate, the one with playing cards decorating it, with a sippy cup of fruit juice next to it (Stan will pour the whole thing on his face trying to drink it as fast as possible), his sandwich cut into four squares. Fiddleford learned that difference between his twins. Ford likes his sandwiches cut into four triangles when little, Stanley will only eat it if it’s cut into four squares.

He ruffles Stanley’s hair, kissing his head and giving him a soft “thank you” as he goes to sit across from him at his own plate. As he settled down to eat, he feels Stan hands clasp his own, he looks up to see his Pumpkin slowly eating his sandwich. He says nothing, eating his own sandwich with one hand, his sweet boys hand in his other. The rest of the day has the same air as lunch, Stan following him around, holding his hand and cuddling him everytime he sits down. Fiddleford can tell Stan needs him, he’s his safe place from his despair and pain. But Fidds needs his Captain, too, his anchor from his nasty thoughts and grief over Ford, over his memories, and that damn portal.

As Fiddleford and Stanley make a fort to sleep in in the living room, they really need to get one larger bed to sleep in together when needs be (maybe a king for all three of them), Fiddleford resolves to take Stanley shopping for birthday gifts for Ford. He knows it’ll be bittersweet for both of them, but it could also help lessen this pressure they both feel at the thought of missing Ford on his birthday. As he finishes reading Possum Magic, his snuggle bugs favorite book, he looks down and sees Stan’s open mouth, spilling some drool out, and laughs softly. He wraps his arms securely around him, hoping to shield his dreams from any nightmares he may have, and buries his nose into Stan’s hair, smelling his “arctic mountain” shampoo, and wills his own dreams to be good.

And of course they are, how could they not when he’s wrapped around his baby.

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ckret2 · 1 year ago

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Editing's going faster now. Here's chapter three of The Mystery Shack Takes Human Bill Cipher Prisoner. (Real title TBD.) Edited 7/31/2024 for TBOB compatibility!

####

In the middle of the night, Ford knocked on the attic door: "Eye check!"

Mabel and Dipper groaned.

"No complaining! This is for everyone's safety." Ford opened the attic door. "This will be the last one before Stanley and I take over guard duty, you can get some uninterrupted sleep then."

Mabel squinted up at Ford's flashlight with her blanket pulled up to her nose. Dipper groggily sat up as Ford inspected his eyes, but then he snatched the flashlight. "You too."

"Good thinking, Dipper. I know I'm me, but the rest of you shouldn't take my word for it." Ford crouched by the bed and let Dipper shine the flashlight in his eyes.

"Okay, clear." Dipper handed it back.

Mabel yawned. "What if Bill got colored contacts? We wouldn't be able to tell he's in someone's head, right?"

Ford froze halfway out the attic doorway. "Nobody go back to sleep! I need to do another eye check!"

The entire household groaned.

####

Once Soos reassured the Pines that Bill was "Still sleeping like a creepy, tied-up baby," he and Melody went to bed as Stan and Ford took over guard duty.

Usually, the cellar was one of the least interesting rooms in the shack. A water heater, a washing machine, storage for some old furniture and electronics. But when Stan and Ford opened the cellar doors, the first thing Ford's flashlight beam fell on was the body of Bill's puppet, face covered in a cloud of hair, curled up small on the bare mattress at the bottom of the stairs. The bright yellow and purple in the dull room was as shocking as a scream.

Ford quickly turned his flashlight off. He stood stock still on the top step.

Stan locked the doors behind them. "So, uh. Do you wanna just... stay up here?"

Ford nodded stiffly. "That seems wise. It keeps us between him and the only exit."

"Yeah. Smart thinking."

They sat on the stairs together.

Even with the flashlight off, Ford couldn't stop seeing the figure curled up below—invisible in the dark but nevertheless vividly, dreadfully imagined. It changed the room, transforming it into a tomb. The walls seemed to tilt in on the unconscious, unseen silhouette, forcing Ford and Stan toward the thing that wanted them dead.

Ford tried to remind himself of how he'd seen Bill last fall, when his family had found Bill's book and laughed over his pathetic attempts to wheedle them into helping: as a dying has-been, a dimming light. It was harder to cling to that dismissiveness in the same room as Bill. From this close, Ford felt like the thing he was in the presence of was less like a light bulb about to burn out and more like a neutron star about to collapse into a black hole.

After about fifteen minutes, Ford was on the verge of being driven insane by his own heartbeat pounding in his ears (and was "We'll Meet Again" playing in his head for the first time in over half a year because Bill put it there or because he was thinking about Bill?) when the cellar's silence was interrupted by a soft shuffling-creaking on the mattress below.

Ford elbowed Stan. Stan snorted and started awake. "Huh—what—?"

"Shh!"

There was more shuffling—then a gasp that turned into a sharp, strangled scream.

Stan and Ford simultaneously put a hand on each other's shoulders to keep each other from doing anything rash.

For several seconds, there was nothing but heavy, shaky breathing; it steadied; and a high, fearful, feminine voice called out, "Wh... where am I? Am I tied up? What happened? What—"

Ford turned his flashlight on. The person on the mattress flinched, blinking heavily at the sudden light. "Hello? Wh-who are you? How did I get here, what do you want with me?"

"All right, calm down," Ford said brusquely. "Tell me, what do you remember?"

"I..." The person on the mattress frowned in concentration. "It's a blur. The last thing I remember is... is... a book about a golden triangle?"

Ford exchanged a glance with Stan. "What did the triangle do?"

"I think he offered me some kind of bargain? After that, I'm not sure... I think I remember sleepwalking—"

"That was Hebrew," Ford said. "You speak fluent Hebrew?"

The person below blinked. "Jewish school?"

Stan snorted.

"Fine," Ford said. "Where are you from?"

"You mean, before all this? Arizona—I'm from Sedona—how far am I from home—?"

"And," Ford said, "that was Latin." Stan wheezed.

Open mouth. Shut mouth. Open. "I... majored in classical studies—"

"Give it up, Bill."

The expression of innocent fear melted away into a tired, almost bored look. "Ha. All right, I'm too tired to talk my way out of this one." Bill's natural voice wasn't much deeper than the affected one he'd put on, but it sounded somehow harsher. "It was worth a shot." He struggled in his restraints to roll over. "Turn off the light, would ya? My head's killing me."

"Leave it on," Stan said.

Without looking at them, Bill said, "I can make my voice very annoying."

Stan said, "Leave it on, and I'll get a sock and duct tape."

Ford turned off the flashlight.

When Bill had been unconscious, he'd been a vague, undefined threat. The dark seemed different now. Less frightening. Knowing Bill was awake made it easier to remember what he was:

A pest. A nuisance. A pain in the keister.

Stan quietly pantomimed chucking something at Bill's head, then muttered under his breath, "I don't know why he's tired. He's almost got a full night's sleep."

"I don't know if he's ever controlled a human body for this long," Ford said. "Much less been magically trapped in one by a unicorn belt. Maybe prolonged psychic puppetry drains his energy—"

"Or maybe he's a wimp," Stan cut in. "That's what I was going for, I'm suggesting he's a wimp."

Ford snorted quietly. "Or he's a wimp."

There was no sound from below. Either Bill had already fallen back asleep, or he was doing a darn good job of pretending he had. For a moment, Stan and Ford remained silent, listening.

Then Ford stood, unlocked the door, and quietly left.

####

There was a clatter at the attic window. Dipper and Mabel both bolted upright, fully alert—they'd never quite gotten back to sleep—and exchanged a terrified look.

There was a second sharp tap. They scrambled out of bed, peered out the window—and then flung it open. "Wendy!"

Wendy froze in the middle of winding up to throw another stone. "Hey! Dipper, Mabel! I couldn't sleep, I was worried about you guys. Is your secret weird paranormal thing over?"

Dipper and Mabel leaned out of the window. They were wearing pajamas and matching tin foil hats.

Wendy stared at them. "I'm... taking that as a no." She bit her lip to keep from laughing. "You guys look exhausted."

Mabel groaned. "It's been keeping us up all night. It's impossible to lay down with tin foil on your head?"

"And we've been getting checked on every couple hours," Dipper said.

"Plus it might not be safe to sleep!"

"And—" Dipper grimaced. "And we can't even talk about it until it's over..."

"Okay, yeah, got it," Wendy said. "Secret family business, it's cool. Just—tell me you guys are safe? I don't want you to get eaten by a T-Rex-nado or something before we get to hang this summer."

Were they safe? They exchanged a look. Mabel tilted her head and shrugged uncertainly. Dipper said, "The threat... is... securely contained."

That time, Wendy did burst out laughing. "Okay! I'll accept that. I already told Soos, but—call me if you need backup, all right?"

Mabel stuck a thumbs up out the window. "You got it!"

"Thanks, Wendy."

"I'll see you in the morning if the Mystery Shack's open," Wendy said. "If not... I dunno, my day'll be free, maybe we can do something? If you don't have to deal with the contained threat."

"Yeah, that sounds great," Mabel said. "I'm gonna see Grenda and Candy sometime tomorrow, buuut I don't think Dipperhas anything planned—"

Dipper kicked her ankle. She kicked his back, grinning.

"Awesome. See you tomorrow, then."

When Wendy had biked away, Dipper said, "You're not gonna spend all summer teasing me about last summer's crush, are you?"

"Nooo, I'm not, I promise! But I had to get one in." Mabel laughed and flopped heavily on her bed. The old mattress springs wheezed. "Besides! I know your heart belongs to that girl at the judo club who likes you."

"Mabel, I don't—" Dipper paused. "Do you really think Kelsey likes me?"

Mabel laughed again. "Good night, Dipper."

Dipper shut the window. They both got back in bed, slid under their covers, and stared at the ceiling. And stared at the ceiling. And stared at the ceiling.

"Pssst. Dipper."

"What is it?"

"I can't sleep. Can you?"

A heavy sigh. "No." Voice low, as if afraid they could be heard all the way from the cellar, Dipper said, "I just keep wondering—did we really trap him in that tourist before he escaped? Or did he escape as soon as he fainted?"

Mabel kicked off her covers, sat up, and turned to face Dipper, hugging her knees. "Actually, I think we did trap him. I... kinda think Bill can't escape?"

Dipper sat up as well. "What do you mean?"

"The last time we saw him, he was stuck in that weird fleshy book or something, right? And he was trying to get our blood, not to shake the book's hand or something."

"Books don't have hands."

"You could draw a hand on one! I'm saying what if he used all that blood to make a body or something?" Mabel asked. "Remember how I wrestled him when he was you? Your body was really, really cold. Like, dead-cold. But when I was drawing on Bill's face, his skin felt..."

"... Normal." Dipper had spent six hours tackling Bill. When he'd been trying grip Bill's arms and ankles so he couldn't flail free, Dipper hadn't noticed anything unusual about Bill's body—but not noticing anything unusual was unusual, wasn't it?

"Yeah. Normal. So—what if he's not controlling somebody? What if he, I dunno, used somebody's blood to magically turn into a human or something? Like a unicorn."

"Unicorns don't do that."

"Unicorns can turn into humans if a wizard helps! That's not the point. The point is..." Mabel struggled to put her mountain of emotions into words, and finally, simply finished, "...what if he's just a human now?"

They both had to sit with the suggestion, waiting to see if it filled them with relief or dread. A human was less powerful than whatever Bill had been; but in some way, the human body shielded Bill, too, making it impossible to properly confront and defeat him.

"What if his human body is like a Trojan horse?" Dipper asked. "And this was all a big trick, and he's just—waiting inside it? For one of the remaining micro-rifts to the Nightmare Realm to widen, or for somebody to finish some ritual with his book, or—or the perfect moment to return to his real body?"

Mabel hugged her knees a little tighter. "But if he could leave the body any time he wants, do you think he'd just wait?"

"He was patient enough to wait billions of years to get into our universe."

"I don't think that counts. He would've gotten here sooner if anybody else made a working portal, right?"

"Then... I don't know."

That was just it. They didn't know.

They didn't want to talk about the dread pooling in their stomachs and creeping up the backs of their necks. They didn't want to talk about their anger—the injustice that he was back, that this wasn't over, that even after he died he just kept finding new ways to harass them, that another summer was going to be overshadowed by him.

But if they weren't talking about that, what else could they talk about? It was all they could think about. For a moment, they just sat together in silence.

Which was when they heard Ford yelp in alarm.

####

Soos had answered the knock on his bedroom door holding a baseball bat.

Ford drew back, hands raised. "Soos, it's me! What's this for?"

"Sorry. It's been a crazy night. I keep having dreams about the Roman Senate assassinating Bill? Like, Julius Caesar, except he's a triangle?" Soos put the bat down. "Anyway, what's up? Is it time for another eye check?"

"Yes, but that's not the main reason I'm here."

Still in bed, Melody groaned, "Are all these really necessary?"

Soos had to use his fingers to hold his eyes open for Ford's flashlight. "'Fraid so. Bill's really good at taking over people. He's got Dipper, he's got Ford... One time he got me! That doesn't really count though, it was in a dream. Not my dream, Stan's. Also, he didn't exactly take over me—?"

"All right, you're clean." Ford looked at Melody, decided that since he'd had confirmation that Bill was still in the body in the cellar it might be a little too rude to examine a half-asleep young woman in bed, and offered the flashlight to Soos so he could check his fiancée instead. "What I really came up here to say is that Bill woke up. Now we know he's still in that body."

("Melody, have I told you lately that you have really pretty eyes?" "Awww, Soos.")

Ford cleared his throat. "Stan's 'friends' are waiting. Time to gag him and go."

Soos's expression hardened. (It wasn't terribly intimidating.) "I'll get the sock and duct tape."

Melody rubbed the spots from her eyes. "Are you up for this? You've got a long drive, and you've been up all night looking at everybody's eyes."

"I've lost more sleep than this thanks to Bill," Ford said wryly. "I'll be fine."

"You're sure? If you need someone to help drive..."

"Melody, you're an angel for helping as much as you have. Especially when none of this is your problem yet." Even though she occasionally spent the night with Soos, she wouldn't be moving into the shack until after the wedding and honeymoon, which they'd scheduled for after the summer tourist rush. She shouldn't have to worry about the shack's crises outside of work hours. "And I know you have reservations about—how we're handling this."

Melody shrugged ruefully. "I mean—I don't like that you've got the demon triangle in your cellar, but Soos says you're some kind of insane space wizard and an expert on this stuff, so..." In the dim light, she flashed Ford a strained smile. "Just—I guess—tell me if there's anything else I can do to help prevent the apocalypse."

Insane space wizard. Ford hoped that was a compliment. "Just hold down the fort while we're moving Bill. Thank you."

####

Dipper and Mabel pulled their ears away from the attic door. Dipper whispered, "Anything could go wrong while they're moving Bill. Do you think we should...?"

"Pfff!" Mabel rolled her eyes. "C'mon bro, is that even a question?"

Wordlessly, they put on their backpacks—already packed—and pulled sweaters on over their pajamas, and tiptoed downstairs with their shoes in their hands.

####

Ford inspected Stan's eyes again before he said, "Soos will be down in a minute."

Stan blinked the lights out of his eyes. "You'd better not keep doing that while I'm driving." He shut the cellar door so that if Bill woke back up, he couldn't listen in on their plans to relocate him.

"You're not going to drive. I am."

"Come on! It's my car!"

"It's night, you have cataracts, and you already fell asleep during guard duty."

"I wasn't asleep, I was resting my eyes!"

"In the dark?" Ford asked. "Would you prefer Soos or me to drive?"

Stan grumbled and crossed his arms, but decided he wasn't going to win this fight. He nudged Ford and changed the topic. "Now, that Latin was all Greek to me—but is it just me, or is his Hebrew better than yours?"

He was saying it to be annoying. Ford knew he was trying to be annoying. It worked. Ford was annoyed. "Well—of course he's better. He's probably been speaking it three thousand years. And his accent's probably just as old."

"Ah, excuses. Bet his Latin's better, too."

He was doing it on purpose. He was doing it on purpose. "You wouldn't know Latin from Latvian!"

"This isn't about me." Stan gave Ford his most annoying grin. "Hey—when did you pick up Latin, anyway?"

At least he wasn't teasing anymore. "I took it for an undergrad foreign language requirement."

"You just couldn't go for something useful that living people speak, huh?"

"On the contrary, Latin's been enormously useful in my study of weirdness. It's very popular with sorcerers and occultists alike," Ford said. "And it got us out of that bar brawl in Atlantis, didn't it?"

"That gobbledygook was Latin? I thought it was some kind of mermaid language. Or Italian," Stan said. "Good job going to the only college in the world teaching Conversational Latin, I guess."

Ford grimaced. "Actually... I only learned to read and write Latin at Backupsmore. The reason I can speak it... is Bill."

"Oh," Stan said. "Right."

An uncomfortable silence settled over them, the way it always did when Stan asked where'd you pick up—? or how'd you learn about—? and Ford had to say Bill. It was an answer that demanded more questions that Stan didn't really want to ask and Ford didn't really want to answer. Usually, when Ford said Bill, Stan changed the topic.

Ford didn't mind avoiding it. Sure, Stan already knew the most humiliating parts of Ford's history with Bill. How he had waxed poetic—called Bill divine, a deity, blessed, a miracle, a muse—been inspired to draw sunrises and sunbeams and constellations and nebulas because a mere drawing of an eye in a triangle couldn't convey the all-encompassing awe Ford's muse filled him with; how Ford had blindly trusted Bill with his body and mind; how he'd really thought that monster was his best friend. So it wasn't as though Ford had anything left to hide. Talking about Bill wasn't shameful anymore.

It was just... painful. It was hard to talk about just how enraptured Ford had been by an interdimensional grifter. Hard to talk about how nothing else had enraptured him so much since. All that for a two-dimensional two-bit con artist who'd been slumming it in the lawless no man's land between civilized dimensions, now chained up on a dingy mattress in Ford's cellar. Nothing sparkled quite like fool's gold.

But—it was also impossible to ignore a topic that was sleeping just a flight of stairs away. Stan shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his gaze on the weeds sprouting in the shack's parking lot. "So," he said, and Ford nearly flinched. "How are... uh..." Stan cleared his throat and tried again. "You good?"

Ah, the famed emotional sensitivity of Pines men. Ford tried to think of a way to express the tumult of negative emotions that running into Bill again had reawakened. "Eh." He made a so-so gesture with a hand. (He'd always been better at expressing himself in writing.) "I'm not as surprised as I wish I was. As soon as his book showed up, we knew this was possible."

Stan nodded. "I always kinda thought you were waiting for this." (Had Ford been waiting for it?) "You weren't... expecting it, right?"

"Wh—? No! Of course not! It just stands to reason—an indestructible book by a professional con artist, it only has to fall in the hands of one person ready to be manipulated—that doesn't mean I wanted—"

"Whoa, easy Sixer. I'm not accusing you of anything, I'm just... you know—checking in." Stan put a reassuring hand on Ford's shoulder. "You're the one who's called yourself a recovering Cipherholic, gotta make sure my brother's not falling off the wagon."

Ford supposed that was warranted. He couldn't deny that even now, he didn't fully trust himself around Bill. "There's no risk of that." Especially not with Stan looking out for him.

"You sure? Not interested in asking him about the secrets of the universe?"

"Absolutely not."

"Maybe some time travel kung fu tips so you can go for your black belt?"

"As I recall, Bill claimed he was self taught," Ford said, with a tone of faint disapproval. "If I'm going to ask anybody for advice on time travel combat, I think it should be Dipper and Mabel." He could feel himself relaxing a tiny bit. It didn't make the whole situation better, but it was reassuring to remind himself that even with Bill right there, Ford wanted neither to follow him until the end of time nor to hunt him to the ends of the earth. "I just want to get rid of him."

Stan paused. "Yeah." His hand dropped from Ford's shoulder and he crossed his arms. "You and me both."

####

Apparently Bill really had fallen back asleep that fast, because he didn't stir as the Pines and Soos gagged him and carried him into the back of Stan's car. Soos sat in the back with the prisoner and his baseball bat, and Ford and Stan silently envied him for not having to turn his back on Bill. The car pulled away from the Mystery Shack with its headlights off.

Moments later, Dipper and Mabel followed on bikes.

####

(If you enjoyed, I'd appreciate a comment!)

#wendy corduroy #mabel pines #dipper pines #(for the art)#bill cipher #human bill cipher #(for the fic)#(ironically bill does the least out of anyone this chapter but like it's ABOUT him)#gravity falls #gravity falls fic #fanfic #bill goldilocks cipher #my writing

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fangirlwriting-stories · 9 days ago

Text

Intervention

Summary: Relativity/Reunion Falls AU, Mabel and Stan have a talk.

Masterlist

...

It’s when Stan gets upstairs and finds that Ford has moved his weird stuffed animal collection that is the absolute last straw.

“Okay, no,” Stan snaps, and Stanford immediately spins around from where he was setting a notebook on the nightstand. It looks like one from downstairs in the craft store.

“Who said you could move my stuff?” Stan says, crossing his arms. “That’s my nightstand.”

“Oh, uh— sorry,” Stanford says. “It was cleared off when I put this here, so—”

“It wasn’t cleared off when you got here. That’s my stuff!”

“Well, I thought you must have moved it—”

“That was your first mistake then, wasn’t it.”

“Hey, come on,” Stanford says, clenching his hands into fists at his sides, before seeming to catch himself and shoving them behind his back. He still glares at Stan, though. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“The fact that you think so is just more proof of how much you’ve done wrong!”

“What does that even mean—”

“Hey!” comes a new voice, and both of them turn around to see Grauntie Mabel standing in the doorway.

“I moved your weird stuffed animal collection, Stanley,” she says. “Ford needs a place to put his things too.”

“But this is my room!” Stan snaps. “He’s just taking everything—”

“That’s enough,” Grauntie Mabel says. “Come here, young man. We need to have a talk.”

Before Stan can protest, she takes his arm and walks him out of the room. They make it down to the bottom of the steps before Stanley yanks his arm free.

“Let go of me,” he snaps. Grauntie Mabel lets him move away, but turns and crosses her arms, still appearing very firm. She moves so she’s standing in between Stan and the attic.

“Stanley Pines, I have had just about enough of this,” Grauntie Mabel says. “Ford has not done anything to warrant this kind of treatment from you. Why are you acting like this? It isn’t like you.”

“I’m being the unreasonable one?” Stan says, throwing his hands up. “You just let another kid stay here without asking me first! And he’s in my room and he’s moving my stuff!”

“I told you, I moved your stuff,” Grauntie Mabel says. “I’m sorry I didn’t talk to you ahead of time. I should have done that. But that isn’t Ford’s fault. And he came here because he wanted to meet you.”

“Great, he’s met me. He can go home now.”

“Stan.”

“Why? Why does he have to be here? I don’t want him here! Things were good before he showed up!”

“Things might be even better with him,” Grauntie Mabel says. “How would you know if you don’t give him a chance?”

“You know you don’t like brussel sprouts but you said you’ve never had them!”

“That’s a vegetable, Stanley,” Grauntie Mabel says, sounding slightly exasperated. “He’s a person. And having a sibling can be a really amazing thing.”

“Oh, how would you know?” Stan says, crossing his arms.

Grauntie Mabel takes a deep breath. “I think if you gave Ford a shot, you would really like him,” she says.

“I don’t want to give him a shot.”

Grauntie Mabel gives him a look. “Why on earth not, Stan? You want to give everyone a shot.”

“Not the stupid boring twin who my parents probably only kept because he sucks,” he snaps.

Grauntie Mabel’s eyes widen. “Hey,” she says, though her tone softens. “Now that’s not fair.”

“Oh, that isn’t fair? What about them picking him over me! How is that fair?”

Grauntie Mabel crouches down and puts a hand on his shoulder, all of the anger in her eyes replaced with concern. “It isn’t fair, Stanley,” she says gently. “That’s not what it’s about.”

“Well— what is it about, then?” Stan asks. His voice cracks on the last word, and he glares down at the ground. “Why wouldn’t they want me? Did—” he sniffs. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No,” Grauntie Mabel says firmly, and Stan finds himself being pulled into a tight hug. “Sweetie, no, you did not do anything wrong, you were just a baby.”

“But then why would they keep him and not me?” Stan asks, burying his head in Grauntie Mabel’s chest. “What did I do?”

“You didn’t do anything, sweetheart,” Grauntie Mabel says. “Neither of you did anything. This is on your parents, making a really unfair and awful decision. It is definitely not your fault, and it’s not Ford’s either.”

Stan’s breath hitches, and when Grauntie Mabel pulls him closer, he breaks, and starts crying into her shirt. She doesn’t say anything, just holds him close and lets him.

Stan isn’t sure how long they stay there, but Grauntie Mabel doesn’t rush him at all, even though Stan’s pretty sure all the crouching isn’t good on her old lady knees.

Eventually, though, Stan pulls back, wiping at his eyes.

“Are you feeling any better?” Grauntie Mabel asks.

Stan shakes his head and sniffs. “Not really.”

Grauntie Mabel gives him a sad smile. “That’s okay, bud. This stuff is real hard. I’m sorry you got it all sprung on you. If I’d known Ford was going to show up, I would have told you first.”

“Why do you keep callin’ him Ford?” Stan asks. “I thought he said his name was Stanford.”

“I thought it might be easier to differentiate. Since you’ve both got ‘Stan’ in the first part of your name.”

Stan sniffs again and looks down, fidgeting with his fingers. “Didn’t have to do that before,” he mutters.

“True,” Grauntie Mabel agrees. “Sometimes you have to adjust things to make room for other people. But it’s worth it, buddy. Can you trust me on this?”

Stan meets Grauntie Mabel’s gaze. She definitely seems sincere.

“Grauntie Mabel?” he asks. “Why did you want me?”

“Aw, how could I not?” Grauntie Mabel says, and before Stan can say anything, she scoops him up into her arms. “One look at those cheeks, who wouldn’t want to pinch ‘em?” She proceeds to do just that, and Stan squeals in protest, trying to push himself backwards off Grauntie Mabel’s face. It just makes her laugh.

She stops after a second and gives him a warm smile. “Listen Stanley,” she says. “There’s not a thing you can do that would get rid of me, okay? I’m always gonna want you around.”

“Promise?” Stan whispers. His voice shakes more than he’d like.

Grauntie Mabel pulls him into another tight hug. “I promise.”

��

After a little bit more time to cool off, Stan does go upstairs to apologize to Stanford— to Ford? That does sound better. He’s not sure what exactly he’s expecting to see when he opens the door to their bedroom, but it’s definitely not Ford putting all of his weird stuffed animals back on the nightstand, the notebook from before tossed haphazardly on the spare bed.

“Hey,” Stan says. It comes out more awkward than he wants.

Ford turns to look at him. “Uh— hey. Sorry, I didn’t know how you had these set up before, but I tried to balance the weight distribution so it’s less likely they’d fall—”

Stan snorts. “Man, you really are a nerd, huh?”

Ford fixes his glasses and doesn’t reply.

Stan sighs. He walks over towards Ford, trailing his gaze on the ground so he doesn’t have to meet his eyes. “Look,” he says. “I’m sorry I’ve been kinda sucky to you. I just— wasn’t expecting any of this. I thought my Ma and Pa were dead. I didn’t know I had a secret twin brother who my parents like more than me. It just— doesn’t feel good.”

“I wasn’t trying to make you feel bad,” Ford says quietly. “I just learned I had a brother I never met, and I wanted to meet you. See if you were better than what Pa said.”

Stan winces. “Guess I messed that up,” he mutters.

There’s a pause, and Stan glances up to find Ford looking thoughtfully at him. “What?”

Ford shakes his head. “You didn’t mess it up,” he says. “You said sorry. That already makes you better than Pa.”

Stan blinks. “That’s not a very high standard.”

Ford shrugs.

Stan doesn’t know what to say to that, so instead he just keeps going with what he’d planned to say.

“So really I just meant, uh, sorry I treated you like them picking you was your fault,” he says. “‘Cause it’s not. Just… do you think we can try a do-over? I promise I don’t actually think you’re a weirdo.”

Ford looks away, and Stan can’t read the expression on his face for a second. But then his gaze turns determined, and when he turns back to Stan, he nods. “Do-over,” he says. “Deal.”

Stan smiles and holds out his hand for a shake. But Ford looks at the hand like it’s going to poison him.

“Uh,” Stan pulls his hand back. “Sorry?”

“No, I—” Ford shoves his hands behind his back, and his cheeks turn bright red. “I don’t like handshakes.”

“Oh,” Stan says. “Okay, no worries! See, we’re getting to know each other already! What do you want to do instead?”

Ford looks startled, like the question had never occurred to him. “Uh…”

After a second, Stan can tell he’s struggling, so he waves it off. “Well when you figure it out, let me know. For now, let’s find a new spot for my weird stuffed animals collection.”

“Why do you call it that?” Ford asks, as they both turn back to the nightstand.

“‘Cause all of them are weird or messed up in some way!” Stan calls happily. He grabs one and hands it to Ford. “This is Steven, he’s a stuffed kitty who had a tear down his side when I bought him. So I fixed him up and now he has a cool scar!” He grabs another one and hands it over too. “This is Eyeball. He’s a spider where they put one eye that was different from the rest. See, this one’s got a pupil, and none of the rest of them do. This is Sally, she’s a crow with a cracked plastic beak. And Grauntie Mabel helped me make this one, it’s Shmebulock, he’s my favorite gnome. And this is my last one for now, she’s Nina the octopus! She’s got an extra arm. When Grauntie Mabel and I are out shopping, if I see a weird stuffed animal, she lets me buy it and add it to my collection! Cool, huh?” He balances the last one on top of the others in Ford’s arms.

Ford’s staring at them with an expression Stan can’t quite put a name too. After a second, he nods. “Cool,” he says softly.

Stan nods in approval of Ford’s approval, and then turns around, surveying the rest of the room to try and think of a better place to put it.

“You know, I think if I got Grauntie Mabel’s help we could build a cool display shelf! We can put it above my bed, so I have easy access! What do you think?”

When he turns back around, Ford has set all the stuffed animals down on Stan’s bed except for Nina, who he’s staring at.

Stan grins at him. “You like Nina?”

Ford fiddles with Nina’s extra tentacle and nods.

Stan grins a little wider, walks over to Ford, and pushes Nina closer towards him. “All yours.”

Ford looks up at him. “What? You don’t have to—”

“Nah, it’s okay. Consider it part of the apology. Just help me look for more, okay?”

Ford nods, a smile growing on his face. “Okay,” he says. He squeezes Nina a little tighter but doesn’t say anything else.

#gravity falls #stanley pines #mabel pines #stanford pines #relativity falls au #reunion falls au #my fic

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