Description: After a year of separation, you return to Gravity Falls to finalize the divorce your husband has long drawn out, but instead of finding Ford Pines, you come face to face with the stranger who's taken his name.
Stanley Pines x f!reader, reader is a teacher, strangers to friends to lovers, slow burn, angst, fluff, eventual smut (?), allusions to Billford/Fiddauthor
Status: In-Progress
Word Count: 32.9k
Author's Note: I don't really have anything to say this time, so I probably could've forgone the author's note, but I feel like the chapter looks naked without it. So here are some words to fill the space: Gadzooks! Eureka! Zounds! Crikey! Dipthong! Rectangle! (Thank you.)
You shuffled through the envelopes in your hand as you returned from the mailbox—bills to be paid, credit card offers, Backupsmore begging for alumni donations. You grabbed the newspaper off the porch, and upon re-entering the house, you were greeted by the aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafting from the kitchen. Stan must be up. Such was your new normal, and all was accounted for.
"Good morning, Stan," you said, still preoccupied with the mail as you sat at the kitchen table. Stan, still in his robe, grumbled a wordless response and poured himself a cup from the pot.
He shuffled over to the chair opposite you when, suddenly, he erupted in a sneeze so violent it thrashed the contents of his cup and threw him off balance. If you had to guess, approximately a third of his coffee splashed onto the floor.
"Bless y—Oh, my god."
His heavy-lidded eyes were accentuated by circles even darker than that of his usual brand of exhaustion. His nose, too, was redder than usual, and his mouth hung open, you assume because he couldn't breath any other way. His forehead appeared thoroughly clammy, and to top it off, a tissue, apparently used, was stuck to the stubble on the side of his yet unshaven cheek.
"You look terrible."
"Thanks," he said in a deep, nasally voice. "I can always count on you to make me feel good about myself."
"No, I mean—You're sick."
"Pssht. I'm healthy as a horse," he denied, sitting down and opening the day's paper to the funnies.
"You've got something on your face, by the way."
Stan felt around, then ripped the tissue away. "No."
You watched him as he sipped his coffee, sniffling here and there, wiping away the steady drip from his nose, phlegm rattling in his chest whenever he coughed.
"You aren't seriously considering working today, are you?"
He set the newspaper down. "We're not closing the Hut today. Someone's gotta bring in the bucks. Besides, I'm perfectly fine."
Stan had been very intent on boosting revenue since you'd broken his resolve on the whole insurance issue, but he'd been particularly hell-bent since your excursion to the Goldfield Festival. The coupon book you'd won had clearly struck a nerve.
"This book has somethin' for every business in Gravity Falls. Why didn't anyone ask me if I wanted to be in it? Even that sweaty schlock-pusher at 'Trash & Things' got a spot!" You thought it rich Stan had the gall to call out someone else for being sweaty.
"Probably because they knew you'd never actually give anyone a discount."
Stan didn't like that answer, so his next actions were taken out of spite, as they usually were. Amusingly enough, they didn't help his case much. In fact, they provided further evidence in support of your claim. As part of a new business strategy, he printed out his own coupons, but they were all worded in such a way that might give the impression of savings without actually providing any incentive to spend.
'Buy 1 knick-knack for the price of 2
& get the 2nd FREE!'
'Buy 1 Get 1 50% OFF
twice the price!'
'FREE Admission!
(valid 04/18/1984-06/18/1983)'
Unfortunately, after spending the last two or so months working at the Murder Hut, you were ninety-eight percent certain they'd do the trick regardless. It's funny, thinking back to those first few days. Stan's view on business seriously challenged your own values, and you were worried you, too, would get caught in the hustle and find yourself changed. Strangely, your experience working at the Murder Hut, seeing customers willingly throwing their money away, had only reinforced your value in education. You once saw a man fork over a twenty dollar bill because Stan claimed he was a magician and could make his money disappear.
'Mrs. Pines, why do you make us write so many lab reports?' This is why, children. This is why.
Stan, the stubborn man he was, was not about to yield. There was no way he was going to let himself take a day off. However, there was also no way you were letting him give tours today. For one, it would be disastrous to his physical health if he neglected to rest. Secondly, he would probably be the scariest thing on the tour, and driving away customers wouldn't be the best way to drum up business. You'd just have to convince him yourself, but how?
You thought about it for a moment, and you could only think of one thing that might sway him. You were going to regret this.
"Why don't you let me take over the tours today?"
Stan cocked an eyebrow at you, "You really think you could handle it?"
If you were being honest with yourself, you weren't sure, but you couldn't let him know that. Besides, you had a degree in physics. If you could graduate with high honors in a major notorious for instilling students with low self-esteem and raging imposter syndrome, you could do anything. After all, how hard could it really be?
"Absolutely, I could. I just have to make up some bullshit and they'll be eating out of the palm of my hand, right? And even if I don't rake in the kind of cash you do, at least we're not missing out on a whole day of sales."
"Y'know, it requires a certain amount of talent I'm not sure you understand yet," he challenged. "Luckily, you don't gotta worry about any of that because I'm feelin' just peachy."
"Really?" you asked, brows raised in amusement. "Then why haven't you cleaned up your mess yet?"
"Because... I was just about to right now."
He carefully stood up from his chair, squinting at you in defiance, then grabbed the dishtowel hanging on the oven door. He bent down to soak up the puddle of coffee, then WHAM! Dizzy, the pressure in his head far too much to handle, he fell to the floor.
He surrendered. Stan would stay hidden from customers, and you'd be running the Hut today.
You set up a spot for Stan in front of the TV, stocked with materials you'd gathered from all over the house. From your bedroom closet, you procured several fluffy blankets, which you placed on the floor next to his beloved recliner. From the bathroom upstairs, you took a box of tissues so Stan had a supply at the ready. From the kitchen, a bottle of cold medicine, which for a moment you hesitated to set on the T-Rex skull beside him.
"I can trust you with this, right?" you asked. Stan, with slippered feet propped on the foot rest, made a face at you, a grimace that said 'Who the hell do you think I am?' You raised your hands defensively. "Damn, okay, I was just checking!"
You glanced at the owl clock on the wall and decided you had enough time to get Stan a little more comfortable before you got ready for the clusterfuck of a day you were about to have. In the kitchen, you filled up your kettle and set it on the stove. As the water simmered, careful not to bring it to a full boil, you rinsed out Stan's coffee mug and tossed in one of your tea bags. When you heard the inkling of a whistle coming from the kettle's spout, you snuffed the burner and chased the tea bag with the water.
As it steeped, you figured it a good a time as any to select your outfit for the day. Passing through the living room, you saw Stan had already set up Cash Wheel on the TV, and he was buried under a mountain of blankets. He had one wrapped around his shoulders, and two draped over his lap. Good. Coziness was an essential ingredient to one's convalescence, and you were worried you'd have to fight him on this too.
Once back in your bedroom, you fumbled through your closet and rummaged through your dresser looking for a suitable outfit. You'd been spending most of your time in the office and the giftshop, so it didn't matter much what you wore. Normally, you'd just wear jeans and a casual button-up or a tee shirt, but today you were the acting face of the Murder Hut. Today, you'd have to dip into your old teaching clothes.
You chose an outfit that mirrored what you usually saw Stan wearing at the Hut: a white dress shirt and some pleated black slacks. Stan also usually wore a maroon tie, but you didn't have one of those yourself. You remembered the bowl of buttons right next to the cash register, the ones with the question marks on them, and thought perhaps one might help complete the look.
You jogged down the stairs and returned to the kitchen to finish preparing Stan's tea. You removed the tea bag and, judging by how much sugar he tended to take in his coffee, you sweetened it with a very generous serving of honey.
You presented the mug to Stan, holding it atop the mouth so he could grab the handle. He reached out, then sniffed at the steam rising from the cup.
"So, do I look ready to sell merchandise or what?"
"I already agreed to stay home. You really don't have to do this," he replied.
A part of you was relieved he wasn't holding you to your end of the bargain, but another part of you had too much pride to quit now. You weren't sure why, or to whom, but you needed to prove you could do this.
"Like you said, someone needs to bring in the bucks."
"Alright," Stan said, nodding. "Then no."
"Huh?"
"The look," he clarified, "you're missing something."
You cocked your head at him, as if to inquire what he meant. He simply stared back at you with tired eyes and a lazy smile.
Oh. Oh no.
"No," you protested, shaking your head. "I'm not wearing that."
"It's part of the brand, sweetheart," Stan insisted. He then held up the mug. "What is this, by the way?"
"Herbal tea."
"I don't like tea."
"That sucks. Drink."
You left Stan to his own devices while you finished up the morning's preparations. You recounted the money in the till, making sure you had the appropriate number of bills and coins for making change. Then, you faced some of the merchandise that had been jostled the previous day. Finally, you begrudgingly completed the look—you were officially the Murder Hut's tour guide for the day.
You turned the sign in the giftshop window from 'closed' to 'open' and waited for the first group of tourists to come through. Your heart was beating out of your chest, and only now did you realize you hadn't the vaguest idea of how you were going to welcome the tours, let alone give them. It felt just like walking into school without having a lesson plan for first period, but this was worse. At least teaching science was in your wheelhouse. This was a completely different story. Heavy is the head that wears the fez.
As the first bus pulled-in to the lot, you began to feel a bit faint, and your surroundings suddenly felt far away. Maybe you were coming down with whatever Stan had. The people started to file out into the clearing. You took a deep breath and adjusted tassel of Stan's fez before you stepped out.
"Welcome one and all to the most mysterious spot in Roadkill County! I hope you're prepared for... for what's about to happen!" You had no idea what the hell you were talking about, but you held the designated money jar out to the prospective patrons anyway. "For just twenty dollars, you can learn the truth about the world you once thought you knew." Hmm. That wasn't so bad.
That was probably the highlight of the tour. You didn't realize just how difficult it would be to think on your feet. Majority of the time, you sounded like a comic with a bad sense for observational comedy:
'What's up with that?'
Given how awful your performance had been leading up to it, you hardly had it in you to even attempt selling anything in the giftshop. You just sat at the register, hoping your customers wouldn't need any coaxing to waste their money. How did Stan always come up with stuff to say? While you had the tongue of a failed comedian, Stan had that of a cult leader, or—at the very least—that of a pushy gameshow host who really wants you to risk it all. Luckily, this morning's tour group was smaller than usual, so any damage you did to the Hut's reputation would be minimal. Stan didn't have to know about that.
After ringing up the last customer in the group, you decided to check-in on Stan. As soon as you walked through those saloon doors, he had something to say.
"Why was it so quiet in there?"
You rolled your eyes. "Shut it, Pines."
He had some other smart retort at the ready, but you ignored him as you breezed through the living room and into the kitchen. Several minutes later, you returned to him with a steaming bowl of something in your hands.
"Sit up," you demanded. Heeding your command, Stan pulled back the lever on his recliner, and you placed the warm ceramic dish in his hands. You had made him chicken noodle soup.
He blinked. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“It’s Campbell’s,” you said.
“Still.”
Stan couldn't remember the last time he'd actually eaten soup on such an occasion. Usually, when he got sick, he'd swallow a handful of pills and suffer through the day, thinking about his ma back home. She had always taken care of him when he was sick. He wondered how she was doing now. The last time he'd seen her was at his own funeral, but he spoke to her as little as possible then. After all, she could always tell her boys apart.
How could you, Stanley? he scolded himself. Why'd you have to go and break your poor mother's heart?
“Yes, I slaved over the hot stove for minutes. The least you can do is eat," you joked. He chuckled for a moment, but his laughter quickly died out, his weak smile marred by the deep creases forming in his forehead.
“Why are you being so nice to me?” he asked.
You, yourself, chuckled. What a ridiculous question. “What do you mean?”
“You’re taking care of me. Why?”
“Because you need to be taken care of," you started, trying to come up with some other answer that might satiate him, "and that’s what friends do.”
“We’re friends?” he asked.
“What did you think we were?”
Stan stared at nothing in particular, a thoughtful look upon his face, before concluding, “I’m a pain in the ass, and you’re forced to put up with me.”
You laughed again. “You are a pain in the ass, but I don’t mind. You’re… entertaining.”
“What’s that s'posed to mean?”
“Haha! Yeah. I’ve got another bus coming in. Feel better!” you exclaimed, and just like that, you disappeared behind the saloon door.
You smiled to yourself. Really, it would be a while until the next bus showed up, and you knew that Stan knew that, but it was fun to give him a taste of his own medicine. In the meantime, you'd probably just keep yourself busy stocking merchandise and playing sudoku until the next tour group arrived.
This second tour of the day started similarly to the first. You decided to keep your introduction more or less the same. It worked, and that was good enough. Everything else, however, was in desperate need of revision.
You thought back to your first attempt. What a disaster.
You considered that perhaps the reason you failed so fantastically was because you were trying too hard to be like Stan. He excelled at selling wonder, telling jokes, and spinning tales because he played to his strengths. Stan lived in the realm of lies and deceit, which naturally lent itself to the crafting of fiction. You had no purchase over this realm. In fact, you'd go so far as to call yourself a bad liar. Where you found your best self was within the realm of science, a discipline in which the pursuit of truth was doctrine. Maybe you could find a way to play to your own strengths.
It was time to test your hypothesis. Leading the group up the steps to the showroom, you inhaled deeply. Showtime.
"And now, your gateway to the as yet unexplained!" you announced, flinging the doors wide open.
You scanned the room, assessing each attraction in search of one that spoke to you. Alas, you'd come up with something to say. The group followed you to a display featuring one of Stan's newest creations—a grotesque amalgam of scales and feathers.
"Behold, the Gizzard Lizard: half chicken, half lizard! Now, scientists define a species as the largest distinct group of organisms capable of breeding and producing fertile offspring. By that definition, the Gizzard Lizard is not a species. Look at it. This thing is dead; it can't reproduce. However, if you're ever in the woods and happen upon a live Gizzard Lizard, you may very well have stumbled upon the opportunity to classify it as a species yourself!"
You studied the crowd for reactions. Judging by the 'ooh's, 'ahh's, and the look of television static behind their eyes, this approach was working. You spent the remainder of the tour sharing tangentially related science facts and coming up with scientific names for each supposedly biological attraction.
At some point, you even brought out one of those toys you used to keep in your classroom—a bird balanced about its beak on the tip of the plastic pyramid. The suggestible tourists were so mesmerized by the way the bird bobbed back and forth that they paid no attention to your misleading claim that it possessed 'unexplained' properties. It's able to balance because the bird is weighted such that its center of mass is located directly below the bird's point of balance, but you didn't tell them that, so technically it was unexplained.
You didn't have to try very hard to sell merch after that. While Stan primarily appealed to pathos, evoking feelings of curiosity and awe in his audience, you appealed to ethos, weaving associations between the trusted science of modern day and the fantasy you were trying to sell. Your methods took less upkeep, but Stan's brought life to Murder Hut. You could fill-in as acting curator for the day, but ultimately he was the brand. This place wouldn't be what it was without him.
Although you managed to land a good number of sales, you were disappointed. Your performance was alright this time, but it wasn't like you had much of an audience. This group, like the last one, had been smaller than usual. Unfortunately, this wasn't a one-off occurrence either; in general, foot traffic at the Murder Hut had been dwindling for a couple of weeks now.
You and Stan would have to sit down and work through a solution at some point, but for now you'd settle to check-in and make sure he was still alive.
Soft snoring could be heard before you even stepped back into the living room. In his chair, Stan slept with his jaw hanging open, drooling slightly from the corner of his mouth. Every so often, his light snores were interrupted by a violent snort. He sounded unbelievably congested.
Careful not to disturb him, you gently pressed your knuckles to his clammy forehead. He was burning up. You removed one of the many blankets draped over him, then went to the kitchen to wet a rag in the sink. Once it was thoroughly soaked, you wrung it out until it was merely damp and laid it across his head. That should feel better, you thought.
Leaving him to rest, you turned down the volume on the TV, which was now showing hour-long infomercials, and retreated to the office. You had quite a bit of time to kill until the next bus came in, and you had invoices to log. Such was the rhythm of the day, alternating between the museum, the giftshop, the office, and your living room. You were a busy woman.
Though you'd done okay getting through that second tour, your act was inconsistent the remainder of the day. Being 'on' all day was exhausting. You couldn't believe Stan was managing all of this on his own before you arrived. Of course, he was hardly keeping up with the books, but even without all that, this was a tough gig for one person. Still, this man did it all himself, and he did it all for his brother. You were glad you'd made him rest today. He deserved it.
After the till was counted and the floors were swept, you collapsed at the dining room table, fez toppling off your head.
"I'm never doing that again," you declared, laying your head down on your folded arms.
"How'd we do?" Stan asked, his voice deep with sickness.
"Ugh, let's talk about it tomorrow," you groaned. "How are you feeling?"
Stan was sick. He didn't need to be bothered by declining business, and you certainly didn't have the energy to stomach any more shop talk at the moment.
"I'm not dizzy anymore, but it's still hard to breathe."
"Wait a minute," you told him and got up from the table.
A minute later, you returned with a tiny jar of magic—Vicks VapoRub. Your muscle memory kicked in and you instinctively began to twist the lid open yourself. You paused, then handed the half-screwed container over to Stan, still resting comfortably in his chair. You felt like you were standing weird. Were you standing weird? Where do people usually put their arms?
"Just rub this on your chest, and it should clear you up," you told him.
Ford was always pretty healthy. He had a strong immune system, so on the rare occasion he did get sick, he was totally out of commission. You'd take care of him much like you'd taken care of Stanley today.
Stan opened the jar and stuck his nose in it. Clearly, he was unprepared for how strong the scent would be, coughing as tears gathered in his eyes.
"You gotta go easy on this stuff," you said. "A little goes a long way."
Indeed it was strong, so strong you could smell it from where you were standing. The scent brought back memories of Ford laying sick in bed, your hands on his chest, his sleepy voice whispering 'thank you's and 'I love you's. You'd brush the hair off of his sweaty forehead and lean down for a kiss.
'Darling, please. I'll get you sick.'
'I don't mind,' you'd say and kiss him anyway.
"Alright. Well, I'll leave you to it. I'm just going to go change and I'll be back down to make dinner," you said, then took off up the stairs.
"Hey," Stan called. You stopped, then walked back down the few steps you'd taken.
Peering around the frame of the doorway, you asked, "What's up?"
Currently trying to decide what type of expression Stan should have here. 🤔🤔
He is playing possum (pretending to be dead) 🪦💀
If anyone wants to try doodle any expression themselves, feel free to try. Would love to see if anyone comes up with goofy stuff (amd different artstyles make it more hilarious ngl)
