Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Hey, there ya go, you got it. Not bad, Gumdrop.”

Soos smiled as Mr. Pines praised his very first bit of handiwork: successfully screwing in a fresh light bulb over the cash register. A tingly warmth bloomed in his gut as the older man hefted him carefully off of the counter and back onto the floor, affectionately ruffling his hair.

“Thanks Mr. Pines!”

Stan grinned down at the twelve year old. After spending a mildly frustrating amount of time demonstrating the basic functions of the various tools he had laying around, he was glad to see the kid finally master a simple yet valuable handyman skill.

The last few days had been… trying, to say the least.

Stan kept reminding himself that Soos was young and that it was only his first week on the job, but the Mystery Shack had needed a handyman for longer than he cared to admit. He barely had time to run the shop properly by himself these days with the amount of daily customers that poured in, let alone get around to fixing the stuff that really needed it. He wasn't about to complain, but that meant letting a lot of small repairs go in favor of staying open for business. Maybe hiring a middle-schooler with absolutely no experience to fill that position hadn't been the best of his snap decisions, but what was done was done.

Soos was blissfully unaware of Stan's secret frustration though. The kid was a pretty fast learner, all things considered, and he was genuinely just happy to have a purpose that made him feel useful. Stan would be damned if he was gonna sully that feeling getting angry with him for senseless reasons (like Soos mixing up a hammer and a wrench on his first day – it was an honest mistake even if it was a little ridiculous as far as Stan was concerned).

Things were (slowly, but surely) finally getting fixed around here, and that was all that mattered. Hell, if nothing else, just having another pair of eyes around to alert him to anything that might pose a threat to the shack was a benefit in and of itself.

(And, if he was really honest, Stan also appreciated the company.)

“I think you've earned yourself a break,” Stan announced, feeling like he himself was in need of a few minutes without Soos practically glued to his hip. “Go ahead and take five, kiddo. Head outside for a bit. The weather's beautiful!”

Soos glanced nervously out the window for a beat, then looked back to Stan, putting on a brave smile. “Okay Mr. Pines! Just call when you need me back!”

Stan winked, flipping the tassel on his fez hat behind him.

He let out a small sigh of relief as the kid stepped outside.

Grabbing a broom and dustpan, Stan set to work sweeping up the glass shards leftover from the handful of bulbs Soos had inadvertently dropped. Poor thing was a mess of apologies each time it happened, and Stan made sure to reassure him he wasn’t in any trouble – failure is an important part of the learning process after all. (Besides, it’s not like he’d wasted actual money on the things anyway.) The kid was really giving this job his all, eager beaver that he was, and Stan was grateful for the help, even if it did require some cleanup and a bit of adjusting.

Stan had only just finished dumping the last of the mess into the trash when he suddenly heard a ruckus emanating from the yard.

“What kinda trouble can you get into in just a few minutes, kid?” he mumbled to himself as he took a gander out the shack window.

White hot flames of anger flared in Stan's chest as he discovered what was currently happening out on his lawn.

A rowdy group of three boys who looked to be at least a year older than Soos were riding their bikes in circles around the pudgy pre-teen, yelling indecipherable remarks and purposely aiming the dirt under their tires at him.

Stan scowled. He knew bullying when he saw it. His immediate instinct was to burst out the door and tell those boys to shove their bikes where the sun don't shine, but he forcefully held his knee-jerk reaction at bay. Stepping off to the side and straining to hear their chatter, he obscured his face so he could just barely see out the window. He wanted to give Soos a chance to handle the situation on his own before intervening.

Soos, to his credit, was standing proud despite the taunting.

“Come on guys, I'm just on break. I gotta get back to work soon,” Soos tried reasoning.

“Oooh, big fat boy's got a job, huh?” the tallest of the bunch sneered. “What's it for? Eatin’ half your bodyweight in chocolate bars?”

The bullies laughed, and Stan's fists clenched.

“No, I-I'm a h-handyman now. For the Mystery Shack! Mr. Pines taught me how to use a power drill yesterday.”

The corner of Stan's mouth lifted into a grin watching his new handyman's eyes sparkle with enthusiastic pride talking about his job. That little glint was definitely worth almost losing a finger the day before.

“Handyman?” one of the others piped up. “More like ‘candyman!’ I bet you could pound a nail in the floor just by sittin’ on it you fat freak!”

More laughter. Stan's fists shook at his sides, but he still held back.

“That's not very nice!” Soos yelled back, his expression morphing into a frustrated glare.

One of the bullies – the leader, from what Stan could discern – cast his bike to the side and stepped right up to Soos, violating his personal space in an attempt to intimidate. Stan rolled his eyes at the pathetic display.

“We're not nice,” the kid declared with a nasty smirk. Soos held the mean kid's gaze, his hands clenching into fists and unclenching as anger and anxiety were no doubt at war in his gut.

“Come on, kid,” Stan muttered, telepathically urging Soos to let loose on the little twerp. “Sock him! He's askin’ for it! Sock him!”

Soos only stood there, chin held high, silently daring the bully to provoke him. The others moved to stand behind the leader with their hands on their hips, as if the snot-nosed creep needed backup.

Then, the leader pushed Soos down, hard, making sure he landed smack in the middle of a mud puddle.

Stan's heart leapt into his throat. All three bullies started laughing again, and, all at once, reared their legs back to start kicking Soos in the stomach.

Okay, that tears it.

Time to bring out the hose.

Lightning fast, Stan slammed open the Gift Shop door, causing it to clatter as it swung back and hit the side of the shack, and whipped out his trusty garden hose. He skillfully cranked the weapon up to the most powerful setting and aimed directly at those nasty boys’ faces, blasting them with unwelcome freezing cold water.

“Get outta here, ya clowns!” Stan bellowed. “Scram! And I better not see any of you skulking around here again or it'll be your heads!”

All three bullies yowled like drenched cats and scrambled to get on their bikes and speed away as fast as they could pedal.

Stan smirked, satisfied with his handiwork.

“M-Mr. Pines?”

Stan’s attention immediately snapped to the twelve year old currently sitting in a sad little heap on the ground.

“Sorry kid, did I getcha?” Stan asked, turning off the hose and walking over to inspect Soos a bit closer.

“No, I-I’m…” Soos trailed off, sniffing and wiping his arm across his nose. Stan squatted down and placed his hand on Soos’ back.

“Hey, you alright there, Gumdrop?”

Soos sniffed again, his eyes starting to well with tears.

“My work shirt…” he whimpered. “They got my work shirt dirty.” The tears began to drip down his cheeks. Stan's chest tightened.

“Hey, hey, it's okay, Soos. We'll get you cleaned up in a jiff, no problem.”

Soos buried his face in his hands. “I'm s-sorry Mr. Pines, I-I tried to tell them I had to get back to work soon, but…”

Stan gently tugged Soos against his chest and patted his back in a soothing rhythm. Soos immediately wrapped his arms around the older man's middle, crying quietly into his suit.

“Shh, shh, it’s okay, I got you, kid. You ain’t got nothin’ to be sorry for. Those creeps came to your place of work and started causing trouble. They’re just good-for-nothing losers lookin’ to pick fights ‘cause they’re insecure about themselves.”

Soos wiped his eyes and leaned back. “Y-you think so?”

Stan placed his left hand on Soos’ shoulder and used the other to tilt the boy’s chin up a little. “I know so. Bullies are all the same. Heck, I had to deal with obnoxious little jerks like them all the time when I was your age.”

Soos fixed him with what Stan could only describe as a puppy dog stare with those shining brown eyes of his. “Really?”

Stan nodded. “Yep. That’s why my pop got me started with boxing lessons. I learned how to fight back.

Soos’ eyebrows raised in surprise. “You know how to box?”

Stan winked. “Sure do, kid.” Suddenly, his eyes lit up with an idea. “Hey, tell ya what, how’s about I show you some basic moves? Jab, left hook, uppercut, you know, the classics. We could set aside some time during the work day.”

Soos’ eyes widened and gleamed. “Really? You would do that for me, Mr. Pines?”

“Absolutely, Gumdrop.” He ruffled Soos’ hair affectionately, earning himself a genuine beaming smile. “Now, let’s get ya all cleaned up. I’ll give ya another work shirt while I throw yours in the wash.” He lent Soos a hand to help him up from the mud.

“Thanks Mr. Pines.”

The duo headed back into the Mystery Shack, and Stan got Soos settled in his beloved comfy armchair in the tv room with a fresh t-shirt one size too big while he haphazardly threw together some laundry to wash with Soos’ soiled one.

“Sorry I don’t have any more shirts in your size, kiddo.”

“That’s okay, I don’t mind,” Soos answered, slumping down and settling his chin onto his fist, letting out a forlorn sigh. Stan’s brows knit together in concern. Rubbing his chin in concentration, a thought suddenly occurred to him.

After rummaging around in some drawers here and there, Stan pulled out a few choice photos of himself in his younger years and walked back to the tv room.

“Lookie here, kid. That’s me when I was your age.”

Stan passed the photo over and Soos took it curiously.

“I was what you’d call a ‘wimp’ back in the day. I had no balance, no strength, and muscle? Heh, forget about it. But when I turned twelve, my old man decided it’d do me some good to start teaching me how to box. Toughen me up, y’know?” Stan replaced the photo in Soos’ hand with one from a couple years later. “It took a while and a lotta practice, but eventually, I started gettin’ pretty good at it.”

Soos whistled. “Wow.”

Stan grinned. “Yep, and by the time I turned seventeen, I was one of the best in my city.” He revealed the third photo, one where a teenage Stan appeared to be posing with a teammate, but whoever it was, they’d been cropped out. “See, I was kinda heavy back then, but I built muscle under the fat, and I got strong.”

Soos looked up at Stan questioningly.

“Ain’t nothing wrong with bein’ heavy, Soos. And don’t you ever let anyone tell you otherwise.”

Soos blushed and looked away, smiling softly. “Abuelita says the same thing.”

“Well, she’s right,” Stan continued. “And you and me, we’re gonna work together and build up your muscles. You’ll get strong just like I did and you’ll be able to fight back against those bullies! They won’t know what hit ‘em.”

Soos considered this for a moment. Then, he glanced back at Stan with a hard look of determination. “Okay Mr. Pines, let’s do it!”

Stan beamed. “Atta boy! Heck, we can start right now if you want. I’ll flip the sign in the window to ‘closed’ and we can pull out my old punching bag I got hidden in my office.”

Soos jumped up from the armchair with a newfound spring in his step. “Sounds awesome, dude!”

Stan gave Soos’ hair another ruffle and chuckled at the kid’s enthusiasm.

“Now, I don’t have any boxing gloves your size, but we can improvise with some gauze wraps,” Stan explained as they began to prepare. “And we gotta start slow. Don’t want you hurtin’ yourself.”

Soos nodded. “Got it, Mr. Pines.”

That first day, Soos learned the importance of balance, shifting your weight, and how to throw a mean left hook.

It became a well-worn pattern after that, one that both Soos and Stan looked forward to whenever business slowed to a halt around the shack.

Whether they realized it or not, this cherished bonding ritual was something that the both of them desperately needed.

Chapter Text

It was time to face the facts. Wendy Corduroy was losing her cool.

Which was a bad thing. A really bad thing. Wendy Corduroy never lost her cool.

But it was kinda hard to keep denying that it was, indeed, happening when she couldn’t get her hands to just. Stop. Shaking.

Sucking in her best attempt at a deep, calming breath, she rearranged the small counter displays near the Mystery Shack cash register again to try to quell her racing mind, but, again, it was to no avail. Her heart rate was steadily increasing, and the trembling was slowly creeping from her hands to the rest of her body.

God, was she sweating? She lifted a hand to her forehead and, sure enough, her fingers came back damp. What the hell was going on with her?

Wendy braced her hands against the counter and tried to level out her breathing. She was lucky there were only a couple of straggling patrons browsing casually right now – usually, moderate swarms of customers were totally no biggie for her, but today she had a feeling if that had been the case, it would have sent her tumbling over the edge.

Get a grip, old girl she told herself. Only half an hour ‘til break time. You can freak out later.

She couldn't even really pinpoint what the problem was. Maybe a bit of everything?

Sometimes she needed someone to talk to about stuff, to vent about her frustrations or annoying customer interactions (of which there were always plenty), but her brothers and dad were absolutely no help on that front. Hell, her family honestly barely paid her any attention at all these days. She might as well not even exist as far as they were concerned. And her friends were always far too busy screwing around to even consider having any kind of deep conversation with her. Essentially, she felt more or less alone, stuck with nagging thoughts and daily irritations that kept piling up, but nowhere to go with them, and it didn't feel very good.

On top of that, only a few weeks in and school was kinda kicking her butt. The workload was increasing, and at 15, she was quickly realizing how little time she had left before she'd have to choose a college to attend that would ultimately determine what she'd be tied to for the rest of her life. The idea of trying for something boring yet well-paying like a business or computer science degree made her skin crawl; she could barely keep her eyes open in classes she actually didn't mind so much now, let alone the ones that bored her to tears. It's not like she was a bad student or anything, but academics had never been particularly interesting to her. So the looming threat of the inevitability of college and entering the real, adult world hanging over her head was, well, a ticking time bomb that lived in the dark recesses of her mind. She tried not to dwell on it too much, but those fears managed to break through when her anxiety ran high.

Everything was happening way too fast, and she couldn't even tell anyone how much that really bothered her, deep down.

Because nothing bothered Wendy Corduroy.

Not even the fact that those dawdling customers who were previously content to shop at a quiet snail's pace before were now both approaching the register at the same time, looking like they wanted to eat her, and–

Oh God.

Wendy staggered back on wobbly legs and fought against the nausea churning her stomach. Her back hit the wall, an intense dizziness descending like a thick fog and settling in the back of her skull. Her heart hammered wildly against her chest as she started wondering why the room was suddenly spinning.

Jeez, she's gonna pass out right here in front of everybody, isn't she? She's gonna pass out and fall down and hit her head and get a concussion and bleed all over the floor–

A pair of strong, callused hands were instantly supporting her weight, braced around her torso and easing her carefully into a sitting position against the wall.

Stan tucked a strand of Wendy's hair out of her eyes, apprehension shooting through his limbs. “Woah, easy there. You're alright, kid. Deep breaths. Put your head between your knees.”

He guided Wendy down and got her secured, then turned back to the register to get those stray customers out of here as quickly as possible (luckily, both patrons were alarmed by the situation and considerate enough to hurry along). Then he deftly flipped the window sign to ‘closed’ and knelt down next to the hyperventilating teen.

Stan was fortunate to have caught Wendy's unnaturally pale complexion out of the corner of his eye as he had started moving some new merchandise out onto the sales floor. He knew the look of an active panic attack all too well – his nerdy, nervous brother Ford fell victim to them far more often than what was healthy for a growing young man, especially during midterms and finals seasons back in high school (even though he'd always go on to ace all his exams in the end anyway).

So, lucky for Wendy, he had a few grounding methods up his sleeve.

Stan placed his hands firmly on Wendy's shoulders, squeezing lightly to give her a physical sensation to concentrate on. “Wendy,” he spoke clearly and directly. “Wendy, can you hear me?”

Wendy trembled violently, and her breaths were still dangerously shallow, but a tiny bit of color had bloomed back into her cheeks. Her head snapped up to look at him and she gripped Stan's forearms with both hands.

“Good, that's good,” Stan muttered. “Now Wendy, I want you to do something for me. Look up at my eyebrows. Can you see my eyebrows?”

It took a few seconds for his question to register. “W-what…?”

“Look at my eyebrows, hon. Can you do that?”

Wendy's eyes flicked up. “Y-yeah, I… I see them.” Her voice was strained.

“Good, now, count the hairs.”

“Huh?”

“I got a lotta eyebrow hair, kid. See if you can count each one. Just try for me, okay?”

Wendy's own brows furrowed in confusion (good, she was at least alert enough to find the request odd), but she did as she was told, focusing on the older man's bushy brows and attempting to count the numerous hairs, whispering as she went.

As she counted, Stan shifted his grip on her shoulders to settle his hands on her upper arms, gently massaging her biceps with his thumbs. Then, he began to take deep breaths, in through his nose and out through his mouth. After a few seconds, as he had hoped, Wendy started mirroring him, finally calming down her breathing.

They breathed in unison for a few minutes, and Wendy's iron grip on Stan's forearms eventually slackened. When it seemed she'd spent enough time counting brow hair, he switched to a different tactic.

“Good job, honey, you're doing great,” he praised, smiling in relief. “Now, I'm gonna go get you a glass of orange juice, and while I'm gone, I want you to look around the shack and name off every object you can see that's yellow.”

“Yellow?” she repeated.

“That's right, yellow. Say the objects out loud if you have to.” Stan carefully stood up and waited a second, making sure Wendy could sit up steady on her own. In the past, he'd try to choose colors for Ford that were difficult to spot since his twin always thrived on challenges. But for Wendy, he purposely chose yellow knowing for a fact it was one of the more prominently displayed colors in the place; his instincts told him she'd feel calmer with an easier search. “I'll be right back.”

Stan hightailed it off to the kitchen and filled a generous glass to the brim with ice cold orange juice straight from the fridge. Passing through the tv room on his way back, he snatched a spare pillow from his chair for good measure.

Wendy was dutifully naming off items when he re-entered, scanning the racks and shelves for even the tiniest sliver of anything she could identify as yellow and saying the names out loud to herself. With a bit of effort and ignoring the creaking in his knees, Stan sat himself down next to the teen and interrupted her verbal listing by handing over the glass of juice.

“Here, drink this, but do it slowly. Take sips,” he instructed. She clasped her hand around the cool glass and discovered, to her delight, that she was no longer shaking.

Stan motioned for her to scooch forward, and as she did so, he slid the pillow behind her so it was sandwiched between her back and the wall. She flashed a weak smile as she gratefully leaned against the comforting cushion and took a few swallows from the glass.

They sat in silence for a minute, Wendy staring off into space while nursing the juice, and Stan patiently hovering next to her, monitoring her progress. She'd gotten through half the glass when reality finally hit her, and before she realized what was happening, hot tears started to well up and spill down her freckled cheeks. She set her juice off to the side and clapped her hand over her mouth, suddenly horribly embarrassed.

Stan had never once seen Wendy cry. Hell, he'd never seen the girl get very upset over anything. A pang of worry ran through him at the sight of her sudden tears, and he reached over tentatively to give her a few soft pats on the back.

Wendy crumbled at his touch and, deciding to throw her inhibitions directly out the window, leaned over onto Stan's chest and sobbed.

Briefly startled by her reaction, Stan jumped, then brought his arms around her and just held her in a warm embrace while she cried.

After a few minutes, Wendy's cries receded to sniffles. Looking around for tissues or a roll of paper towels and coming up short, Stan decided to sacrifice one of the t-shirts on display within reach. He tugged it off the hanger and passed it over to Wendy with a sheepish grin. “Sorry kid, this is all I got.”

Wendy accepted the novelty shirt with a quirked eyebrow, devolving into a fit of giggles as she wiped her face and blew her nose into it. Stan chuckled too, relief blooming in his chest to see her slowly coming back to herself.

“Feelin’ better now, Wen? You kinda scared me there for a minute. Almost gave an old man a heart attack.”

Wendy snorted, then let out a heavy sigh, balling up the soiled shirt, tossing it onto the counter, and drawing her knees up to her chest. “Yeah, I'm good now. Thanks Mr. Pines. Sorry I uh… had a bit of a meltdown.”

Stan scoffed dismissively. “Don't worry about it! I was just afraid you were gonna keel over and hurt yourself.”

“No, I meant…” Wendy trailed off, looking down. “The whole… crying thing…” Her cheeks flushed bright red.

Stan looked at her seriously, choosing not to acknowledge her embarrassment so as to avoid making it worse. “You ever had a panic attack before?”

“Panic attack?” Wendy glanced back at him, confused. “What are you talking about?”

“Oh Wendy, that, unfortunately, was a panic attack. Trust me, I've seen it before, lots of times.” Stan's eyes took on a faraway look for a few seconds. Then he shook his head as if to erase some bad memory. “Hyperventilating, racing heartbeat, sweating, feelin’ like you're about to faint – that's what happens during a panic attack. Luckily I got to ya before you actually passed out. And I gotta hand it to ya, you did great getting yourself grounded again.”

Wendy cocked her head a bit. “Grounded?”

“Calmed back down. Returned to the present. Y'know, feeling normal again.”

Wendy turned Stan's explanation over in her mind. “Huh… I guess… well, I do freak out a little. Sometimes,” she added, eyeing him warily. “But… all those other times were never this bad.” She rubbed at her forehead with the pads of her fingers, shaking her head. “No, I don't think I've ever had one before. Until today, that is.” She gave a nervous laugh, lacing her fingers together and bringing her arms around her legs. “I'm… I'm sorry I didn't think to say anything ab–”

Stan held up a hand, halting her in her tracks. “Don't you dare apologize, kid. You got through it with flying colors. That's all that matters.”

Wendy smiled, wiping the heels of her palms across her eyes. “Thanks for helping me through it, Mr. Pines.”

Stan smiled back. “No problem. And for the record, panic attacks will do that to ya. Make you cry. They mess with the ol’ nervous system and set your emotions all outta whack. So don't feel bad about that, either.”

Wendy looked away bashful, but still smiling.

Faint visions of Ford, his face scrunched in agony, sobs ripping through his chest as the tears just kept coming flashed in front of Stan's mind's eye without warning.

It would always take him ages to finally calm down. Stan hunched in on himself a little remembering that intense worry and then pure, stark relief that would flood his system when his twin breathed slowly and evenly again, the tears finally diminishing to nothing.

Wendy sniffed, jerking Stan back from the hauntings of his past. He cleared his throat.

“Now, finish up your orange juice. You're gonna need the energy ‘cause you're gonna be feelin’ the effects from this for the rest of the day.”

Wendy rolled her eyes, but picked up the glass anyway. “Oh joy.”

They sat for a few more minutes in comfortable silence until Stan couldn't stand to avoid the question any longer.

“So uh… is there anything you might wanna… talk about? Anything that's been botherin’ you lately?”

Wendy winced. She knew this was coming.

What the hell could she tell him?

She ran her fingers through her hair, thinking. “I don't know, it's… it's complicated, I guess,” she finally answered. Her voice cracked as she all but squeaked out her next sentence, looking as though the statement physically hurt to say aloud. “I'm just… really stressed out about a lot of stuff. All the time.”

Stan shifted to face her more fully. “Like what?”

Wendy closed her eyes. “I don't know… school… what kinda college I'm gonna have to pick… stupid customers,” she named off, highlighting the major ones.

Stan snorted a little through his nose. “Well that's understandable.”

“I know I don't show it,” Wendy continued, “I try to stay cool. ‘Laid back and chill,’ that's my thing, y'know? But…” she trailed off and scrubbed a hand down her face. When she spoke again, her voice was barely above a whisper. “I think I have a real problem with anxiety.”

Stan's brow crinkled in concern. “Hmm, that's not good. Take it from me, kid; Stress'll eat away at ya ‘til there's nothin’ left if you're not careful.” This was, unfortunately, a fact the older man knew deep in his well-worn bones. The stress of missing his brother coupled with his dogged effort to get that damn portal working again had definitely taken its toll on him over the years.

Wendy just blew her hair out of her face in frustration. “I know, but I don't really have anyone I can talk to about stuff, y'know? My friends are doofuses, my brothers are too young and rowdy to understand, and my dad is, well, my dad. He's the exact opposite of sensitive and understanding. I mean, you've seen… how he is.”

“That I have.” Stan nodded and plucked off his fez hat to run his hands through his hair. “You know, my old man was kinda like yours back in the day.”

Wendy's eyes widened at his admission. “Really?”

“Yep. He was about as sensitive and comforting as a brick wall. Hell, the only time he ever smiled was when customers at the pawn shop bought big ticket items.”

Wendy folded her arms across her chest. “That's rough.”

Stan just grunted in affirmation. That was a can of worms for another day.

“Do you at least have any hobbies?” he eventually asked, breaking the momentary silence that had followed. “Stuff you like to do to get your mind off things and relax a little? It's always good to focus on somethin’ else once in a while.”

Wendy shrugged. “I mean, I watch TV, I read magazines… sometimes I chop wood to blow off steam, but that's more my dad's kinda thing than it is mine.” She paused then, trying to come up with anything else. Then she thought of something, but hesitated a moment, unsure of whether she wanted to admit it. In the end, she bit the bullet. “I guess… sometimes I paint.”

Stan caught her eye and held her gaze, his interest suddenly piqued. “You paint? Really?”

Wendy looked off to the side in embarrassment, her cheeks flushing lightly. “Yeah you know, it's funny… I've never told anyone that before.” She chugged back the last bit of her orange juice and leaned up to set the glass on the counter. “My mom used to finger paint with me when I was little, and I guess I just kept up the habit, in a sense.” Her eyes glazed over a little, a sad smile dancing across her lips before disappearing. Then she shook her head at herself. “I know it's kinda lame.”

Stan's eyebrows shot up. “Are you kiddin’? That's not lame at all!” He grinned when Wendy looked back at him, pleasantly surprised. “Art is… well, art! It's a form of communication, it's an expression of emotion, it's… it's a way of life!”

Wendy couldn't help but snicker at Stan's enthusiasm. “Dang Mr. Pines, are you an artist?”

“Me? Nah, not unless you mean con artist!” he chuckled, earning an eye roll from Wendy. “I was never too good with ‘fine motor skill’ junk,” he continued, miming air quotes. “Hell, even my handwriting is crap. But I do appreciate the medium.” He shifted a bit to face her, serious now. “Wendy, if painting is something you really like doing, you should do it more often. Get into some art classes at school, y'know? Try out some different tools, get better at it!”

Wendy looked down, considering his words. “I did take an introductory class last year, but… yeah, I suppose I could try to fit in some more art electives this year.”

“There ya go!” Stan gave her an encouraging pat on the shoulder, and Wendy beamed a genuine smile, finally looking completely recovered. “And hey,” Stan continued, gently gripping her shoulder, “if you ever need someone to talk to about stuff – anything, anytime – I'm all ears for ya, kid. Just say the word.”

Wendy looked away but nodded gratefully. Stan really was the best kind of old man.

“Well, guess I better get back to it,” she announced, standing up and stretching. “I'm sure I went way over break time.”

“Eh, don't worry about it,” Stan replied, wincing as he attempted to get up from the floor. Wendy took his hand and hauled him up, trying not to laugh as the older man grunted and groaned with the effort. Leveling her with a grim look, he added “don't get old.”

Wendy just snorted.

Stan glanced at the clock. “Hey, y'know what? Why don't ya take the rest of the night off. It's close enough to closing time anyway.”

“You sure? I don't mind staying.”

“You've just been through the wringer, kid. Go home and get some rest. You need it.”

Stan beamed at her, and Wendy returned the smile. “Thanks Mr. Pines.”

“Yeah yeah, just don’t get used to it. I can’t afford to be lettin’ you go home early all the ti–”

Wendy cut him off with a sudden hug. For the second time that day, Stan startled at the unexpected contact, then brought his arms around the teen and patted her lovingly on the back a few times before she abruptly and self-consciously tore herself away.

“Thanks Mr. Pines,” she repeated softly, glancing off to the side.

Stan smiled warmly. “Anytime, hon.”

Wendy did, in fact, sign up for additional art classes for the second half of the school year. She discovered that not only was she skilled in painting, she also had quite a knack for sculpting and throwing on a pottery wheel.

By the end of the spring semester, she was chosen to take part in the schoolwide art show. Her family and friends did try to support her in the venture, but none of them really understood her work and couldn’t appreciate it in any significant way.

That was, of course, except for Stan Pines, who was the very last guest to arrive at the show. He was the only one whose thoughts actually provided some constructive feedback for her. Thoroughly amazed by her work, he offered to let her sell some of her pieces at the shack, to which she immediately accepted.

The two originally negotiated a 50/50 split, with half the profits going to the shack and the other half to Wendy herself. But one day, Wendy started getting suspicious.

“Hey, Mr. Pines, I thought we agreed on an even split,” Wendy brought up after Stan gave her her first cut of the money she'd earned. “I mean, I'm not complaining, but this is definitely more than what it should be.”

Stan, as Wendy should have expected, acted like he had no idea what she was talking about. “That's what you've earned, kid. Are you sayin’ you think my math is off? I've been runnin’ this business since before you were born!”

Wendy narrowed her eyes at the older man. “But I thought you said the shack needed a little extra–”

“The shack'll be fine, Wendy. Just accept the money. You deserve it,” Stan cut her off with a nod and a wink.

She finally pocketed the money and grinned. “Thanks Mr. Pines.”

Wendy snuck peeks into Stan's office every once in a while when he wasn't looking after that. She noticed he had a few of her paintings mixed in with the other bizarre things he had displayed on his walls, but she decided to keep her discovery of this to herself.

Chapter Text

Mabel gasped as she spotted the end of a furry blue tail disappear into the mouth of a cave up ahead.

“Dipper! Over here! It just went into that cave!”

Dipper whipped his flashlight in Mabel's direction, and both twins scrambled over to the cave entrance, poised and ready with their disposable cameras.

Today's monster hunt was looking to be much more successful than the Gobblewonker debacle had been.

Dipper had spent the last couple weeks paying close attention to any and all town gossip pertaining to anomalies and the paranormal, hoping to successfully track down a creature that he and Mabel could snap photos of to submit to the Wacky News Monster Photo Contest. (Secretly, he also hoped they'd be able to discover something that even the mysterious Author hadn't found yet. Something that would get his name out there in the world of paranormal investigation.)

His luck had taken a complete 180 turn when he decided to follow-up on rumors of a strange six-legged cat with blue fur allegedly hanging around the caves and crevices buried deep in Gravity Falls’ forests. Mabel needed almost no convincing at all to join him in his hunt – hearing that the creature was some kind of bizarre cat (that was cute to boot) was enough to entice her to tag along. Now, they were closing in on the creature with ease. Getting a few decent photos was sure to be a cinch!

“Keep your finger on the button, Mabel. I have a good feeling about this one and we are not missing it.”

“Oh I'll do ya one better, bro bro. If we can get this kitty to come up to us, I'm gonna grab it and take it back to the shack! If it's as cute as everyone says, how could Grunkle Stan say no?”

Dipper rolled his eyes. “For now, just focus on getting good pictures. We have to show that it's blue and has extra legs or else they'll just think it's a normal cat.”

Mabel lifted her camera and placed her finger firmly on the button, flashing her brother with a metal-toothed grin.

Dipper nodded, and together, they stepped into the small cave.

Luckily, it was still daytime, so the sun filtering in the entrance illuminated the interior enough to where their flashlights provided plenty to see by. And they didn't have to wander too far in before they spied that sky blue tail flicking from behind a stalagmite.

“Be careful, Mabel, don't scare it,” Dipper whispered.

Mabel crept as close as she dared to the creature, grinning when it peeked its face out from the clump of rock formations it had retreated into. She crouched down and aimed her flashlight away from its eyes.

“Here kitty kitty,” she whispered. “Come here. Come on out so we can see your wittle face.”

“And your legs,” Dipper added, trying to line up a shot with his camera.

Mabel pulled out the chunks of bacon she'd snagged from breakfast from her skirt pocket and held them out. “I got some tasty bacon for you. Mmm, yum yum.”

Miraculously, the creature started inching toward her, intent to smell the offered treat. Sure enough, the rumors really were true – as it moved forward, Dipper could easily count six furry legs, three on each side of its body.

“Haha, yes! Mabel, this is it!” Dipper made sure to whisper, but he could barely contain his excitement. “I can’t believe it really has six legs!”

Mabel let go of the bacon bits as the creature finally decided to take a bite. “And it's adorable!” She tentatively patted the top of its blue head, and it just closed its cat-like eyes, seemingly content.

Dipper expertly lined up the perfect shot with his camera, but before he could press the shutter button, Mabel gently grasped the creature under its first set of armpits.

Both twins realized the dire mistake a second too late.

The creature immediately hissed, causing Mabel to pull back as if she'd been burned. Then, to the siblings’ horror, the cat began to transform in front of their unblinking eyes.

Its mouth opened impossibly wide, revealing row after row of razor sharp teeth that seemed to go on forever down its elongated throat. It stretched and grew until its head – which was now composed entirely of a massive gaping maw and two horrible glassy fish-like eyes – hit the ceiling of the cave. All six furry legs formed mouths filled with sharp teeth to match its main mouth, and nasty purple spikes jutted out from its back.

The monster let out a gurgling, screeching roar.

Dipper and Mabel screamed.

The twelve-year-olds shot out of the cave like rockets, inadvertently dropping their cameras and flashlights in their panic. The monster tore after them, using the teeth on the ends of where it's feet used to be as claws to shred the ground underneath it.

“What the heck is that thing?!” Mabel exclaimed, keeping up with Dipper's pace.

“I don't know! All the reported sightings only mentioned its cat form!”

Even running for their lives, the twins weren't quite fast enough for the furry blue beast. Dipper yelped as his right ankle was suddenly ensnared in a hot, wet bundle of knives dripping with goopy saliva.

“Dipper!” Mabel screeched to a halt as her brother was dragged away. Armed with nothing, she followed his path, balled up her fists, and reared back, punching the jaws gripped tight and deadly around Dipper's ankle, which was now visibly bleeding. The monster wouldn't budge, even after bashing it three times with all her might. Scanning the forest floor around her in search of something useful, Mabel finally spotted a hefty branch with a wicked tip.

Positioning the stick like a javelin, Mabel ran towards the monster and jammed the sharp end directly into its bulging, pulsating eye.

The monster recoiled, snarling in pain and finally letting go of Dipper's ankle. While it was busy swiping at its now ruined eye, Mabel quickly helped him to his feet, and the two set off running again.

The beast recovered from its injury surprisingly fast, flinging its leg-mouths wildly through the air as it galloped toward them. Mabel cried out as one of them managed to slash across her face, scuffing her cheek and leaving a slimy trail of neon green blood leftover from its eye socket.

“Mabel!” Dipper doubled back when he saw Mabel crumple to the ground holding her cheek. Now it was his turn to help her up from the ground. “Come on, come on, we gotta get outta here!”

Mabel grasped Dipper's hand firmly with her own, and neither twin let go until their burning lungs and aching muscles had carried them all the way back to the front lawn of the Mystery Shack.

The creature was, unfortunately, just behind the twins, tearing through the grass and screeching at the top of its lungs as it barreled toward them.

“Oh man, oh man, what do we do?!” Dipper pulled roughly at his hair in a frenzy, squeezing his sister's hand.

“We gotta find somewhere to hide!” Mabel suggested, gently untangling Dipper's hand from his hair and then giving both his hands a good squeeze to get him to focus. “The shack! C'mon!”

The twins bolted toward the front door, but before they could barge in to safety, the door suddenly flew open.

“Grunkle Stan!” they exclaimed in unison.

Stan's eyes immediately locked onto the unholy abomination still hurdling directly toward the shack.

“Hot Belgian Waffles! What the everloving–”

“No time to explain!” Mabel interrupted. “Just let us in! It's after us!”

Stan ushered the kids inside with no hesitation, slamming the door and pulling shades down over all the windows.

“How in the holy heck did you two get yourselves into trouble in under an hour?! I swear, I let you wander the woods by yourselves one time, and–”

“We know, we know,” Dipper cut in. “We were just trying to get pictures of it! Wacky News magazine is offering a thousand dollars for the best monster photo in their contest!”

The beast outside slammed its body full-force into the side of the Mystery Shack, rattling shelves and merchandise. Stan's eyebrows shot up.

“You got a camera on you?”

The twins shook their heads. “We dropped them all near the cave when it attacked,” Dipper answered.

“I just don’t understand it,” Mabel muttered, pressing her hand to her sore cheek. “It was a cat!

Stan whipped his head toward her, brows furrowed. “What do you mean it was a cat?”

“When we started following it, it was just a blue cat with six legs,” Dipper explained. “According to all the reports, it had only ever been sighted like that. We cornered it in this cave and it acted all nice at first.”

“It ate bacon bits out of my hand!” Mabel added.

“But then Mabel tried to pick it up.”

“I was super careful! But I guess it got scared or something.”

“And then it transformed into… that,” Dipper finished, jerking his thumb toward the door currently still being bashed by the beast.

Suddenly, Mabel's eyes lit up with an idea. “Dipper! The hose!” she gasped.

“The hose? What about it?”

“Well, this thing started out as a cat. Cats hate water, right?”

Dipper grinned. “Mabel, you're a genius! Grunkle Stan–”

“Way ahead of you, kid!” Stan called out from his office. He reappeared a few seconds later brandishing the garden hose.

“You can get to the hose from inside the shack?” Dipper asked, confused.

Stan cranked the weapon to the most powerful setting. “Sometimes we get customers who overstay their welcome. Luckily, you kids haven't met that kind yet, but trust me, this thing comes in very handy when dealing with the creeps of the world.” He stepped up to the door and grasped the handle. “Now, I want both of you to stay back. You're injured enough as it is. I don't wanna have to send two body bags back to your parents at the end of all this.”

Dipper and Mabel nodded, dutifully stepping behind Stan and shuddering a little at the thought.

“Ready?” Stan unlocked the door and turned the handle. “Three… two… one…!”

Stan threw open the door and immediately blasted the creature right in its ugly face.

Letting loose a horrendous screech, the creature staggered backward and fell onto its side. Stan kept the hose trained on its face, smirking as he watched it react as if the water was burning it. He and the twins looked on with morbid curiosity as its grotesque body started morphing once again, shrinking down until it had returned to its original cat form.

Stan finally switched off the hose when the small blue cat started scampering away with its tail between its excess legs.

The three Pines continued to stare, dumbfounded, for a few more seconds until Stan broke the silence.

“Well, that was insane.”

“I don't think I'm gonna be able to trust kittens ever again,” Mabel announced, her mouth pulled into a defeated frown.

“So much for that thousand bucks…” Dipper added, shoulders slumped.

Stan closed the door and turned toward the twins. “Hey, the important thing here is, you kids are safe. That's all that matters.” He chucked the hose in the direction of his office, then knelt down in front of them both, placing his hands on their shoulders. “I don't want you two goin’ off by yourselves like that again, you hear me?”

Dipper and Mabel nodded. They could tell their Grunkle wasn't angry – he was scared. His voice wobbled a bit behind his usual gruff tone, and his brows drew together in concern.

“I would say ‘no more monster hunting,’ but I know you'll just sneak off in secret if I tell ya that. So, from now on, someone's gonna have to chaperone if you insist on exploring the woods. I do not want either of you knuckleheads gettin’ hurt on my watch.” He paused then to give them both a quick once-over. “Well, more hurt than this anyway. Yeesh.”

The twins winced when they finally really looked at their own injuries, their adrenaline from the past half hour or so that had kept their minds distracted from the pain and focused on survival now wearing off.

“Come on over to the kitchen table. I'll grab the first aid kit and start gettin’ you two taken care of.”

Stan got them settled at the table, then headed off toward the bathroom to gather supplies.

“That was crazy!” Mabel exclaimed, running her hands through her messed-up hair.

Dipper let out a defeated sigh. “We were so close,” he lamented, crossing his arms over his chest.

Both twins were still trembling. They glanced at each other, taking in the dirt and scratches on each other's faces, and all at once began to giggle, releasing all that pent up tension.

The giggling turned to full-bellied laughter, but after a moment, they felt tears start to prick at the corners of their eyes and lumps starting to form in their throats. Dipper and Mabel made eye contact once more, then threw their arms around each other and cried softly, the stress from the attack having taken its toll.

They held each other and let the tears flow freely for a few moments, then broke apart, Dipper moving to swipe furiously at his tear-stained face.

“Better stop, or Grunkle Stan’s gonna make fun of me,” he sniffed.

Mabel's brows furrowed. “What? Why would he make fun of you? We just survived a horrible monster attack!”

Dipper used the edge of his shirt to wipe the tears from his chin. “Cuz I’m… crying.”

“So? We’re both crying.”

“You’re a girl! Girls get to cry. But for guys…” he trailed off, looking to the side. “It makes us look weak. Stan will just laugh it up if he catches me.”

In the bathroom, Stan was hurriedly grabbing the shack's first aid kit and cramming as many extra supplies as he could carry into his arms. He headed out of the bathroom back toward the kitchen, but stopped short when he heard the kids talking. Carefully, he crept toward the wall to keep himself hidden as he eavesdropped.

“...already pretty much hates me.”

“That’s ridiculous, Dipper! Stan does not hate you.”

Stan’s stomach dropped.

“Yes he does!” Dipper's voice continued. “Think about it Mabel; he always picks on me in particular! He’s always bossing me around and making me do all the hard stuff! Unclogging the toilet, washing all the dishes, chopping firewood, digging clumps of hair out of the shower drain, getting rid of the bats that wind up in the kitchen – the more painful or difficult or horrible the chore is, the more likely it is that Stan will force me to do it! He never asks you or Soos or Wendy to do any of that stuff!” He paused to let out a frustrated-sounding sigh, and Stan’s heart clenched in his chest.

“I guess that is true…” Mabel admitted quietly. “But-but that doesn't mean he hates you!”

Yes! Stan thought. Listen to Mabel, kid!

“And then on top of that, he always makes fun of me for basically everything!” Dipper went on without stopping to consider his sister's retort. “The way I dress, the books I like to read, my voice, my sweating problem…” he trailed off in a hushed tone, clearly embarrassed. “You and Stan are constantly giving me a hard time!”

“Come on Dipper, we're just goofing around when we tease you,” Mabel replied.

“Well, it starts to get old after a while,” Dipper grumbled, huffing another sigh. “Stan hates me, Mabel, I know it. And the last thing I need is to cry in front of him and give him more ammunition against me.”

Both twins sat quietly after that, and Stan's heart sank.

Dipper's words had cut him to the quick.

How could the boy think he hated him? He was only a little harder on Dipper sometimes to toughen him up; that was the way his own father had toughened him up when he was Dipper's age, and it had worked like magic. He remembered gradually gaining both strength and confidence after Filbrick had started him with boxing lessons. As complicated as his feelings were regarding his old man, he had at least always been thankful for that – being able to fight back was a vitally important skill, after all.

And his teasing honestly was just his way of goofing around and being playful. It was all in good fun!

Mabel seemed to understand the situation just fine, so why didn't Dipper?

If everything the boy had just said was anything to go by, it seemed Stan’s way of handling the matter was only making things worse. Perhaps Dipper needed an entirely different approach…

(And he supposed it wouldn’t kill him to be a bit more sensitive with the kid.)

After mindfully schooling his features, Stan re-entered the kitchen.

“Okay, knucklehead and knuckleheadette, line up at the sink here, and we’ll start by gettin’ ya cleaned up.”

Dipper and Mabel obeyed, waiting patiently as Stan hefted them up to sit on the counter one by one to wash the dirt and grime from their cuts and scrapes. Some antiseptic swabs and a handful of bandages later, Mabel was settled back at the kitchen table holding a bag of frozen peas to her swollen, sore cheek. That left Dipper to try to put up a brave front while Stan thoroughly inspected the most severe of their injuries – his bitten ankle.

“Well, the good news is, ya won’t be needin’ stitches. But this is gonna sting.”

Dipper eyed the antiseptic warily for half a second before sucking in a deep breath and sitting up a little straighter, determined not to react. But he winced despite himself as Stan started swabbing the multiple tooth punctures scattered around his ankle.

Stan could see the unshed tears welling up in his eyes that he was fighting to hold back.

“Y'know, it's okay to cry, Dipper,” he said gently, making sure to let the boy know he was entirely serious.

Dipper shook his head vigorously. “I'm not crying, Grunkle Stan. I-it doesn't even hurt!”

Stan felt a chuckle bubbling up at the obvious lie, but he held it back, keeping his voice even. “Alright, but… it's okay if you need to. You kids,” he paused to glance over at the pitifully slumped, shaking form at the kitchen table that was his great-niece. “You've just been through a lot. Heck, sometimes it helps to cry a little about it. There's no shame in it.”

Mabel sniffed loudly, then pressed her hand over her mouth to suppress a sob.

Dipper finally broke. He tried his best to keep still as he allowed another wave of tears to overtake him.

Stan finished wrapping up his ankle and was about to lift Dipper back down to the floor when he was suddenly pulled into a trembling, wet hug.

Stan's eyes widened in surprise, but he wrapped his arms around the pre-teen and rubbed circles into his back, letting him cry in peace for a moment.

“It's alright, Dipper. I'm here,” he whispered against the boy's mess of curls. “I'm proud of ya, kiddo.”

Slowly, Dipper calmed himself and leaned back to give his Grunkle a questioning look. “R-really?”

Stan grinned. “Always.”

He paused while a small smile finally bloomed onto Dipper's distressed little face, then continued, setting him back down on the floor to stand next to his sister and addressing both twins. “You and Mabel made it home safe. Ya did good.”

Mabel sniffed loudly once again, then let out a contented little squeal and hopped up from her seat to bulldoze into Stan and tackle him into a hug herself.

Stan stumbled a bit with the sheer force of it. “Whoa! Okay, okay, family group hug, then. C'mon! Everybody in!”

Dipper rolled his eyes as Stan pulled him in to join his sister, but he brought his arms around the two anyway, a comforting warmth settling in his gut – the most snug and safe he'd felt all day.

That night, the twins found themselves hopelessly unable to sleep, both of them just laying motionless in their beds and staring up at the ceiling.

After a full half hour of silence, Mabel blew a frustrated raspberry and let her arms flop down at her sides.

“I can't sleep. Dipper, are you still awake?”

“Yeah. I can't sleep either. I just keep thinking about everything that happened today.”

“Me too.”

They let a few seconds pass between them. Then, Dipper spoke again.

“Grunkle Stan said he was proud of me.”

Mabel turned toward her brother and cracked a knowing grin. “See, I told ya he doesn't hate you.”

Dipper smoothed some wrinkles out of his blanket and smiled to himself.

Suddenly, both kids’ ears perked up when they heard careful footsteps climbing up the attic stairs.

Speak of the devil, Stan peeked around the curtain and flashed a sheepish, lopsided grin.

“Y’kids can’t sleep?”

“Nope,” Mabel confirmed.

“How’d you know?” Dipper asked.

“Eh, just had a feeling.” Stan pulled a stray stool over so he could sit at the end of the twins’ beds. “I know you kids might be gettin’ a little old for bedtime stories, but uh…”

He glanced up at his great niblings to gauge their reactions and was encouraged by their intrigued expressions, so he continued.

“Did I ever tell ya about the time I helped deliver a baby in a church in Alabama and then got arrested for wearing a fake mustache when the cops and paramedics showed up?”

Dipper and Mabel both shook their heads, sitting up a bit and looking enthralled already, so Stan regaled them with the tale, leaving the attic echoing with bright, happy voices and the music of laughter.

All three Pines slept safe and sound at the end of the night.