Warnings - Angst, Set During "Time Traveler's Pig"
Gentle wasn't exactly Stan's forte, but when he came out to the totem to visit his little Niece, he kept his voice gentle. "Hey sweetie, you thinking about coming inside today?"
Mabel didn't answer, but she looked at him. There were bags under her eyes and she looked like she'd been shaking. Stan sighed heavily and plopped himself into the grass next to her. "That's okay," he answered, as if she had given him a vocal no. "I brought lunch," he went into the bag, and offered her a sandwich.
She took it clumsily and studied it, as if it were a foreign substance. "Ham and Cheddar," Stan announced proudly. Mabel dropped the sandwich on the ground in obvious disgust. Stan had just started to protest "Hey! If you didn't wanna -" when he was interrupted by Mabel's entire little body shaking with a hard sob. "Oh...oh no, hey...hey don't...don't do that. It's gonna be alright."
He reached out and gingerly pat her back, then rubbed. He wished she would turn and hug him. Or that he could pick her up and hold her until she felt better. There was only one thing that would make her feel better - and Stan needed more than a few days of planning to manage a Heist on Northwest Manor. Especially if the target was a living animal.
...Right, Ham was a bad idea. Stupid - "I'm sorry about the sandwich," he said. It was that easy to apologize to Mabel. Especially when she was like this. When she needed it from him. "Do you want a PB&J?"
There was a long, tense not-quite-silence, filled with the sound of Mabel trying to control her sobs and cheerful birds that just didn't get the mood in the background. Finally, Mabel gave him a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.
Stan considered that a victory.
"Okay!" he said, then he pushed himself back to his feet with a heavy groan. "PB&J it is!" Then he turned and headed back into the shack.
He'd find a way to make Mabel okay again. Whatever it took.
Summary: Enjoying the rain can have unexpected outcomes when there are people who care about you.
Word Count: 869
AO3
Coffee was better than tea. It wasn’t even a question. Eggs have yolks, the sky is blue, and coffee is better than tea. If you needed to sleep, hot chocolate beat out both. In a pinch, hot apple cider would do as well. Tea was the bottom of the barrel. So when the steaming mug was thrust into his hands, Stan braced for disappointment.
“I’m fine.” he growled. The harshness of his tone was blunted by the fact that the target of his words was Mrs. Ramirez, Soos’ Abuelita. He couldn’t be quite as gruff with her as others. Something to do with the fact that she managed to be as unfailingly kind as her grandson while also being inexplicably terrifying. He glared mildly at her as she fussed over the blanket she’d tucked around his legs and his lip curled when she rested the back of her fingers on his forehead like he was a child.
She tisked at him. “No fever. Yet.” there was too much force behind that last word.
Stan rolled his eyes. “You don’t have to fuss over me like this.” he insisted. “I’ve been out in worse storms. Recently!”
Abuelita, because that might as well be her name, shook her head at him. “You’re lucky.” she said slowly, deliberately, with a slight tremble in her voice that didn’t come from fear or age. For a moment she met his eyes, and Stan shrank away from her a little. Then she turned away. “Drink your tea.” she said over her shoulder before starting up the stairs.
Stan grumbled and shifted in his armchair under the blanket. Apparently, coming home soaked to the bone from a late spring thunderstorm wasn’t an option anymore. He supposed he should be grateful Abuelita had just pushed him into the bathroom and shoved a fuzzy bathrobe at him. Although, now that he thought of it, Stan wasn’t sure he could place who the bathrobe he currently wore actually belonged to.
The rain had been nice though. Fat droplets on his face, soaking his clothes and hair and leaving a layer of water over his glasses that left him almost totally blind. Rain in Oregon in May was warmer than rain in the arctic in November, but not so warm it didn’t leave his skin pleasantly chilled. Now the hair on his arms and legs was standing up as the rainwater evaporated in the warm room. A little too warm, if he was honest. Someone must’ve turned on the central heating. Stan might ask Soos about that. No way the kid could build a savings on pay from the Mystery Shack if he ran the heat this far into spring.
The TV was off, the remote not in its place on the armrest. Between the hot tea in his hands and the slight ache in his joints, he wouldn’t be turning the TV on any time soon. So, it seemed silence would have to do. Or, near silence. It was still raining hard enough to drum audibly against the shack. A little howl of wind through places the weatherstripping had started to peel up. If Soos was gonna run the heat he’d want to fix that.
Warm and comfortable, Stan let his head fall against the back of the armchair and relax. After a moment, he was floating near the edge of sleep. A sweet little disconnected place he enjoyed but rarely got the chance to indulge. He jerked back just before going over the edge, remembering the hot beverage in his hands. Grimacing, he lifted the cup and took a sip.
Ginger.
The familiar, warm spice settled on Stan’s tongue and something in him melted. There were other flavors, but he recognized that one instantly. He took another sip of the tea and relaxed against the back of the chair again. This, he concluded, somewhat distantly, was unfair. How had Abuelita known exactly what kind of tea would get him? Or had it been dumb luck? He lifted his head to sip the tea again.
So now here he was. Warm and cozy in a fuzzy bathrobe with an equally fuzzy blanket tucked around his lap by someone’s grandma and sipping a mug of hot tea that he had to, grudgingly, admit was delicious. Well wasn’t he just living the cliche? And for a moment, he waited. The ghost of the feeling that he was waiting for the other shoe to drop passed through him. Then it was gone, and all was well.
Ford was safe downstairs. The kids would be up next month. For the moment, Stan was by himself; but not alone. It was a strange moment. Two years ago a moment like this, realistically would never have come, but if it had it’d be underscored by urgency. The feeling he’s wasting time. Needed to get back to work. It was hard to break out of that mindset. Here he was though, resting when he wasn’t particularly tired, drinking tea of all things. Accepting the comfort given by someone he technically barely knew but who had somehow become part of his family.
He sipped again at his tea, and listened to the wind and rain in silence.
Summary: Nightmares are nothing new for Stanley Pines. It's just these particular nightmares seem like they just might be cause for concern.
Word Count: 1663
Content Warnings: Nightmares. Suicidal thoughts, sort- of. ...are references to Bill Cipher a content warning?
AO3
When Stan first remembered exactly how his final confrontation with Bill had gone, he’d relayed the memory victoriously. “...and then I punched the evil little nacho chip right in the eyeball!”
“Gotta admit,” Dipper said. “I’m a little jealous.”
“Oh this one…” Stan agreed “This is a memory I’m gonna treasure.”
So he really didn’t mind reliving that memory in his dreams. Just when it happened three nights in a row, it started to feel a little weird. He told Ford on his way to bed the fourth night. “Just hope I don’t dream about Bill again.”
“You’ve been dreaming about Bill?” Ford was clearly alarmed.
Stan sought to reassure. “Just the part where we pulled one over on him and I smashed him to a million pieces.” he didn’t like the way Ford looked at him for a long moment. Seeking out signs of a lie in his face. He wouldn’t find one, as much because Stan didn’t really have noticeable tells as because he wasn’t lying this time. Not really. It was just the one moment over and over again, but sometimes it would distort. There wasn’t a better word for it then that.
That night the distortion happened after the punch connected. He watched Bill shatter. Watched the flames rise higher. There was a glitch, like an old video cassette. Then suddenly millions of gold pieces flew together from the far reaches of his empty mind and re-formed into a familiar, and unwelcome figure.
“YOU THOUGHT YOU COULD GET RID OF ME THAT EASILY?”
Stan didn’t bolt upright from dreams often. He had his share of nightmares. With everything he’d seen in his life, the returning memories of times he’d almost died or worse, Stan’s dreams were often unpleasant at best. This was the first time sheer panic had forced him upright upon waking. He gasped for breath a few times before catching it, heart pounding.
He laid back down after a minute, not the least bit tired. That hadn’t happened, he reminded himself. Bill had been destroyed with his memories. The problem was, of course, that his memories were back. So where was Bill? The question from the dream echoed in Stan’s mind, and with it, the faint sound of that monster’s laugh.
Somehow, he fell asleep again. Once again, he dreamed of Bill. This time of the heart-stopping moments right before the deal. When he’d wanted to cough, but he needed the tightness in his throat for a convincing imitation. The slow oscillation between two symbols coming to a stop on a Shooting Star. Ford grabbing him by the jacket and Stan finding a thousand tiny things in his performance that weren’t quite right and the cold terror that Bill would see any one of them. The way the stuffed sixth glove finger sat awkwardly alongside the rest as he offered his hand.
He didn’t remember if the moment that followed was an accurate account of what it had really been like. Maybe he never would and honestly, Stan was okay with that. The feeling of being invaded. Of your very personhood being pushed below the surface and held under, like being drowned in spirit but not in body. The sudden, disorienting, lack of awareness of his body and the even more sudden, reorienting awareness of his mindscape and the high-pitched grating feeling to match Bill’s voice that something here was not his, and not welcome.
He woke when Bill opened the door.
Two dreams of Bill in the same night. That was concerning. He told Ford, who was alarmed for a moment before schooling his features into something calm and patient. “Well, it was a traumatic experience for you. The source of all of the damage your mind has suffered. Given your miraculous recovery, we shouldn’t be at all surprised there are a few lingering psychological scars.”
“Given my miraculous recovery,” Stan answered “Shouldn’t we be worried that’s not all that’s ‘lingering’?”
Ford was tense and pale and silent for too long before he said “You’re worried Bill has returned with your memories.” Stan nodded simply. Ford exhaled, blowing out a long breath and falling silent again. “Stanley, I have to believe your dreams are just that, dreams. Bill is - was, a capable demon. If he didn’t want his presence known, you wouldn’t be aware of him in any capacity. If he did...we’d have more trouble than simple nightmares.”
Stan studied Ford for signs as to whether or not he believed his own words. Ford wasn’t a great liar, but he’d grown up telling half-truths. Typically on Stan’s behalf. If nothing had changed, Stan would know it. Should know it. Instead, he found Ford’s expression unreadable. None of the open honesty of their childhood, of course not. Ford was much too guarded for that now. None of the subtle tells of a lie either. Stan didn’t know where they stood, so he said “Alright, but if they turn out to be more than just dreams…” he hesitated, and turned to go, calling the last over his shoulder so Ford wouldn’t have time to react to it. “You’re gonna shoot me in the head again, this time with a real gun.” and Stan was gone.
That, he was aware, had been a little bit cruel. He didn’t care. He got the message across while conveying it was not up for discussion. Ford was quieter than usual the rest of the day. Stan couldn’t blame him. He wanted to apologize, but he wasn’t sorry. He wasn’t willing to take risks on this subject, and Ford needed to understand that.
In his dream that night, Ford understood that too well. The fear was only there a moment when he woke, before he began noticing the inconsistencies.The panicked way Ford checked his eyes was lifted straight from his first visit to the Shack decades ago. The rough way Ford had grabbed him and pushed him to his knees and the cold of the barrel of a gun pressed to the back of his head were memories that didn’t even involve Ford. The gun, he noted, had been the wrong shape. Like the normal gun he remembered, not his brother’s triangular one. He wondered if in that situation he really would growl out “Sixer, it’s me.”
“Is it?” Ford hissed, his voice sounding just like a burn felt. “How can I know? You don’t even know! You asked for this!” Stan could hear his brother’s pitch rise, his words speed, panic setting in.
“Hey, hey, it’s alright…” he said softly. How was he, the one on the ground with a gun to his head, the one doing the comforting? “It’s alright, Ford, you gotta protect the kids.” and why would he say that? He would never say that, he reflected. Not while it was still him. Not without damn good reason. He’d said it though, so that could only mean there was good reason. “Do what you gotta do.”
Ford was breathing like he’d been crying and Stan wanted to offer comfort. But there was a gun to his head and even though he’d personally just given permission to fire, instinct kept him from moving his hands. “Goodbye, Stanley.”
Before he could say it back, everything went black. He didn’t even hear the shot.
“Okay.” he admitted to Ford in the morning. “I crossed the line yesterday, I’m sorry.”
Ford looked startled, then relaxed. “Was your comment malicious? Or were you merely trying to prepare me for an ugly possibility?”
Stan grumbled a moment, then “That second thing, yeah.”
“Then there’s no need for apology.” Ford stated. He looked at Stan. “If anything, I should apologize. I’m sorry, Stanley. I won’t be following your demand. Regardless of the circumstances.”
Stan looked at him, then laughed. “You hear yourself? You’re apologizing for not being willing to murder me. What are we?” he laughed again, and Ford cracked a smile. Stan was still smiling when his laugh died down. “Don’t get me wrong.” he said, serious despite the smile. “I’m still scared. I know too good to be true when I smell it and our little happy ending here reaks. So be careful. Don’t...go outta your mind careful or go shooting without notice but. If it’s ever...you know. A choice. You know what I want.”
The way Ford looked at him then was uncomfortable. It was soft and open and something right on the edge of a smile stayed on his lips and Stan felt the weight of it. “I shouldn’t be surprised.” Ford said after a moment. Stan decided he didn’t want to dig into whatever led to that comment and mumbled something about cooking for them.
Stan still had nightmares after that, but they were about other things. Sometimes, they were memories. Sometimes they blurred memory and intangible fear. Bill was a subject sometimes, but often enough he wasn’t that Stan began to feel his anxiety about that particular series of dreams ease. Then one night, he had a good dream.
The kids were back for another summer. Dipper was noticeably taller than Mabel now, and made a show of rejecting Stan’s offer to mock her with him. Soos in the Mr. Mystery suit, but still sitting on the floor at Stan’s feet as they all watched an episode of Ducktective together, which proceeded to take over the dream and give Stan the exact series of plot twists he hadn’t realized he wanted from the show. For some reason, he still woke up startled. Breathing labored. It was only with a moments reflection that he realized he’d spent the entire dream anxiously waiting for something to go wrong.
He knew what to do to keep that from coming true.
Stan laid back down, lesson learned for the moment. Then, after several moments silence, he groaned aloud.
For the life of him, even minutes after the dream ended, Stan couldn’t remember those Ducktective twists his subconscious had made up!
Summary: In the space of 24 hours one March Day in 1974, Stanley Pines experienced approximately six “firsts”
Word Count: 1593
Content Warnings: Homelessness, Prostitution, Implied Gang Activity, Seeming Suicidal Thoughts, Actually just Call of the Void.
Notes: Because I fluffed too hard last week have this fucking mess of a chapter for week two.
AO3
Stan knew he was in trouble when the air from his engine vents started to smell like cotton candy. He probably should’ve pulled over then and checked the engine, but he’d been less than three hours from his destination, and he’d been making good time. He could check the engine when he got there. He was still the better part of fifty miles away when the Stanleymobile sputtered to a halt in the middle of the highway. Some colorful curse words later and Stan had managed to coast onto the side of the road.
His first impulse was to just try to do the fix himself. The puff of pure white smoke that billowed up when he opened the hood put an instant end to that fantasy. He was out of his depth. So then there was a tow truck and an assessment at a garage in the wrong town. A balding man in overalls named Mike outlined everything wrong with his car to Stan in a droning voice and Stan felt dread set in. Then the bills came, and dread gave way to panic.
They’d keep his car until he could pay them. What’s more, they’d charge him for keeping his car too. The irony was more bitter than the shitty free coffee Mike offered customers. Stan was days away from a big break, a job that could make him hundreds if not thousands of dollars overnight. He had a meeting scheduled tomorrow at one, fifty miles away, to get him started on the path to his fortune, but was currently too broke to get to it. He had three cups of the coffee and braced himself for his first night without even the shelter of his car.
Hours later, just before sundown, sitting on a bench with his jacket pulled tight around him against the still chilly early March evening, Stan kicked his own ass back into gear. He wasn’t gonna give up. He wasn’t gonna turn into some hobo begging on a street corner. He was gonna make it. This opportunity had fallen right into his lap and he’d be damned if he let a little car trouble keep him from it. He needed cash? He’d find a way to make the cash.
The next morning, the cash was on the end table beside the first real bed Stan had slept in for almost two years. It was in an envelope with the name “Oren” scrawled across the front in hurried, lazy script. That’d been the name Stan had given last night, he hadn’t wanted his real name attached to his only plan. Stan was grateful that morning. Not only had he woken up alone, but the owner of the house he’d slept in had left him enough money to cover the cost of his car repairs but also enough for a round trip bus ticket to his meeting and back. He’d utterly failed to negotiate for that, too nervous about the prospect of what he was offering. Yet here it was, enough for that and a good meal after. Or several crappy meals if he skimped, which, when did he not?
Then he’d stood up and sharp soreness tore through him. He gritted his teeth, reminded himself that he was close to success and he would never have to do anything like this again. Then he walked out of the empty house. He was halfway across the lawn when he realized he absolutely should have stolen stuff while he was inside. It was too risky to go back. So he walked to the bus station, got on a bus, and made it to his meeting ten minutes late.
Half an hour later he wished he hadn’t.
The last twenty-four hours had been a lot of firsts for Stanley Pines. First time his car broke down, first time lying about his name, first time with a man, first time exchanging sex for money, first time on a greyhound bus, and first time having a gun pointed at him.
Things had gone badly. They’d been off to a rocky start when he’d been late, but he’d smoothed that over with a few jokes at his own expense and soon the meeting was well underway. The sales part of the job, Stan discovered quickly, was a front for casing homes for robberies. He wasn’t totally sure how he felt about that, and made a few jokes to that end. One of them crossed a line. Then there was a gun and Stan spent just under a minute trying to talk them down before he ran.
He just had nowhere to run too.
He wanted to just get in his car and drive away at top speed. That had momentarily joined the ranks of wanting to go home, or sail the world with Ford though. Impossible. He needed another plan. At first, he just thought he’d hide out at the bus station, but two men in dark suits lurking by the far door had changed that plan.
He killed an hour in an inconspicuous coffee shop with the best scone he’d had since he was a kid. You’ve got to enjoy the little things. It was an expensive little thing but it kept him at a table in this hole-in-the-wall long enough to come up with a plan. Not that it was much of a plan. Really, it was just the obvious. He walked.
He tried to stay off the highway at first. Take a back road. Back roads don’t have much shoulder though, and half a dozen cars blew past him at a matter of inches away. What’s more, one of them cut around a ledge and it was a choice between leaning hard into a jagged rock wall every time, or standing on the edge of a cliff inches from a foot-high guardrail. Stan chose the later, and spent a lot of time looking over the edge of the cliff. By the third time the unwanted thought that he could always jump crossed his mind, he’d decided the highway might be a better choice after all.
Stan didn’t know how long he was walking on the shoulder of the highway before he gave up and started sticking his thumb out when cars passed. He knew he was sore in a way he never had been before. The muscles in his thighs and ass and up through his lower back all protested the abuse he’d put them through. What with the walking and the running and the...and last night. Had that only been last night? He’d been so hopeful then that he’d have everything put together by this time today. He’d been so wrong. One dumb joke and he was out of a job and looking over his shoulder for someone who thought he’d picked up too much information on how their gig worked.
The dark blue four-door sedan that actually stopped for him looked almost as old as Stan, and the woman driving it looked old enough to be his grandmother. “Where are you going, young man?” her voice had the high, wavering pitch that one would imitate when attempting to sound like an old lady. She was wearing a mostly pink muumuu and had her bright white hair done up fancy. Stan said the name of the nearby town where he’d left his car, and the woman waved to him, flapping her hand inwards at the wrist. “Hop in, hop in. I’ll get you there.”
Stan did as asked and bit back a groan as he took the weight of his body off his legs and back, and swallowed a whine as that weight redistributed to his ass. When he trusted himself to open his mouth again, she’d been driving for several moments. “Thanks.” he breathed.
“Sure thing, sure thing.” the lady responded. “Were you walking very long?”
“Coupla hours.”
“Oh my.” and the lady was off, jabbering away about how many miles a day she would walk in her youth, and the scoldings she would get for ending up so far from home. Stan listened to her talk the way he’d listen to the radio, letting the noise fill the air and sink into his bones. He’d make noises of agreement or astonishment here and there to keep her talking. It helped quiet the spinning thoughts he’d been alone with too long that day.
Her name was Daisy Adams, and she drove through a McDonalds and got Stan a burger because he’d absentmindedly been honest about the last time he’d had more to eat than a small scone. She had four children and going on ten grandchildren, and she’d been going to the same town as Stan for a bible study. Stan wondered vaguely if she’d be helping him if she knew what he’d done the night before. She dropped him off at the garage, informed him that she’d be praying for him, and left to arrive late at her bible study.
Stan paid his bill at the garage. He shook hands with Mike and had another cup of coffee. Then he got in his repaired car and drove away.
A low, black, two-door pulled in as Stan pulled out, and a chill went down his spine. He spared a moment to hope it was nothing. To assume Mike would be okay. Then he pulled onto the highway, and did his best to never think of it again. Any of it. Meanwhile, it was time to put as much distance between himself and the last 24-hours as possible.
The contest for Geoff’s crown was won by Ryan the sorcerer. It was a brutal competition that took more out of Ryan then he expected. High demands of competitiveness and brutality, even spirituality. The surprise that pushed him ahead of Geoff’s champion was the test of self-sacrifice; of self-inflicted pain. For years to come, Ryan would proudly bear the scar of his own arrow.
Under Ryan the kingdom saw a great surplus of beef and other meats. Ranchers took up most of the land, and the practice of animal husbandry flourished. Many suspected he’d worked some kind of magic over the animals of the land. It was true, animals loved the sorcerer for his innate magic. Even when he chose to slaughter them he was feared rarely. Some even said his closest companion was the cow he affectionately called Edgar.
In all Ryan ruled fairly, albeit distantly. As often in his laboratory testing his magical methods as on his throne. His friendship with Michael, the close second in his bid for the throne, deteriorated into a bitter rivalry. The hunter that would have been king feeling usurped in this land of kept beasts. In the end, some say it was this rivalry that drove the king Mad. Perhaps there is some truth to that, as it was Michael’s actions that led Ryan to darker magics.
An attempted theft of Edgar, for the purpose of setting him free. The domesticated cow did not survive his freedom and, unbeknownst to the king, what should have been a simple ritual to call a lost animal home surged with a strange, necromantic power. Ryan knew the animal called into the hole that was Edgar’s home was at first not Edgar. Not until it set hoof in the hole. Then it was. The soul of the dead cow possessing this new one was a rush unlike anything Ryan had felt before.
The Creators are somewhat misnamed. It is less that they created the world humanity lives in, and more that they...shaped it. Took what was already coming to be, and molded it to their liking. The creators hardly created anything at all. Instead they used the creation for their own purposes and heralded the dawn of a new era of beings.
It’s for this reason that some of their most irreverent priests began calling them Roosters.
This fit the humor of the gods, and over time, to the horror of the very priests who coined the term, the name Roosters spread for the five creators. Until it came to eclipse their perception as gods or creators at all. They were seen as nothing more then cocks crowing the dawn of something magical. This world.
Of course their names were lost to history. Of course few remember even the closest of the gods. He who walks among men as mortal. Who adopted great heroes and set them on the land. Fewer still know of the old Dragon in the mountains, who has not been seen since near the dawn of time, hoarding his gold. And while even a child could tell you there were five Roosters, not even the most devout servant of the gods could tell you anything but their names.
So when Geoff Ramsey brought the wildlands to bear and named himself King of a good portion of the world, few complained, and fewer still so much as considered who he might be. The only ones who knew his identity were, perhaps strangely, those closet to him. Stranger still, those who knew who, and what, King Geoff truly was were by far the least reverent to him.
After all, who respects a god who would rather just be a King?
King Geoff gathered the best and brightest to him. Jack the builder, Ryan the sorcerer, Mogar the Champion. Ray of the Roses as well and Gavin the Creeper Child he’d adopted nearly as his own. They were High Court, they were those closest to him.
So the day Geoff told them he was giving up the crown was one of confusion, and fear. The begging him not to cased instantly when he promised his court each a chance at the throne...should they best all the others in games.
This was the beginning of a poisonous ambition that infected the Kingdom for generations to come. It was hardly the beginning though. King Geoff had ruled for too long, as a god, a Rooster, a King. It was high time he took a rest. Hid more completely among mortals.
