Who's Asking?

Author's Note: It took me forever to write this chapter, and I'm not really sure how I feel about it. In any case, I'm really excited to share Chapter 4 next week. It's probably my favorite chapter I've written so far. I suppose the old adage is true: you win some, you lose some.

You laid in your bed, but you did not sleep. Despite the exhaustion tugging at your eyelids, a nervous buzzing in your body kept you awake, and in your lucidity old memories taunted you.

The looming redwoods stretched on for miles, and you watched each one pass by through the passenger side window. You'd made an attempt to count them, but you'd long given up by the time the car slowed to a stop and Ford cut the ignition. You turned to him and saw the gentlest smile spread across his lips.

"Welcome home, my dear," he cooed. Your chest flooded with warmth at the honeyed sound of his voice.

You unbuckled your seatbelt and moved to open the door, to which Ford tutted playfully. He insisted you stay seated before exiting the car himself and walking around to open the door for you. He held his hand out, which you graciously accepted.

"My my, Stanford Pines, you are quite the gentleman," you teased as he helped you from your seat.

Once you were out of the car and on your feet, he shut the door behind you. You didn't wait for him. Already you found yourself drifting toward your new home, completely entranced—it was a rustic A-frame log cabin accented with beautiful stained glass windows. You were already imagining the cool summer nights sitting on the porch and the warm winter evenings cozying up by the fireside. This was the beginning of your new life together.

You turned to him and asked, "You built this for us?"

"Do you like it?" he asked, scratching the back of his neck, a lopsided smile upon his face.

"Are you kidding me?"

You closed the space between you, practically slamming your body into his as you enveloped him in a tight hug. You felt his cheek nuzzle into your hair and breathed in his familiar scent, something coniferous and reminiscent of his name.

In a messed up way, you found yourself glad he seldom slept in bed with you those last few months. It gave your comforter the chance to forget that scent. To breathe it in again would be too much. Even the thought of it made your stomach churn.

You tried your best to be a good wife. Why wasn't it enough?

You tossed and turned for hours in an attempt to clear your head of those nagging thoughts, but your efforts didn't amount to anything. You couldn't get comfortable, and your brain wouldn't shut the hell up. By the time five a.m. rolled around, you had officially given up. If you were going to fall asleep, it would have happened by now, so you figured you might as well do something productive with your waking hours.

You sat up and swung your legs over the side of your bed, stretching your arms above your head to work out the tension that had built up in your back overnight. Sighing out one last yawn, you willed yourself onto your feet and prepared yourself to face another day. At this point, another series of thoughts began to nag at you.

You had been such a mess yesterday, and you felt awful about the way you had treated Stan. First, you had threatened to shoot him, and still he had attempted to comfort you upon learning your husband was stranded in another dimension. And you were so caught up in your own baggage, you didn't stop to consider how he must have been feeling. You'd lost your husband, but he had lost his brother. The cherry on top? You blackmailed him into a phony marriage. Your agreed upon arrangement was probably the best possible conclusion to yesterday's saga, but no amount of rationalizing would erase how shitty you felt about it all.

You wanted to do something to make it up to him, to apologize for your tactlessness... and for the violence. It was decided: you'd cook him breakfast as a way of saying 'thanks for being so considerate even though I victimized you multiple times'.

Now having a clearly defined mission, you stepped into your slippers and started your trek toward the kitchen. As soon as you left your room, you could hear Stan's snoring from down the hall. He must be living in the spare bedroom Fiddleford used to sleep in. From the sound of him, you assumed Stan was a heavy sleeper, but you did your best to creep down the stairs as quietly as you could anyway, careful not to wake him.

The air downstairs was cooler, a frigid reminder of Gravity Falls' chill winter mornings. The sun had yet to rise, but you opened the kitchen blinds out of habit regardless, then opened the fridge to see what you had to work with.

You were concerned.

All Stan had was a half-drank six pack of beer, a few slices of American cheese you were almost certain you'd bought yourself, and an opened can of 'The Brown Meat'.

To put it more accurately, you were not concerned—you were disturbed. How was this guy still alive?

No matter. If you owed Stan an apology, it wouldn't hurt to do some shopping for him too. You quickly took a look inside the cupboards and scanned the room for anything else you might need, making a mental list of things to pick up at the store. The only other things he seemed to have in the kitchen was some watered down generic brand dish soap and a set of salt and pepper shakers. Your list was going to be longer than you thought.

You crept back upstairs, returning to your room to rummage through your purse for grocery money. Your revolver stared at you from the bottom of the bag. Deciding you didn't need it for a simple grocery run, you stashed the gun in the drawer of your nighstand. Then, you began to count the cash still left in your purse. You were down to your last few hundred bucks, so you crossed your fingers and hoped it would be enough to cover any necessary expenses.

Now all you had to do was yourself ready for the day ahead. You held your hand to your breath and considered grabbing the toothbrush from the duffle left in the backseat of your car. You couldn't remember the last time you'd replaced it, so you added it to your mental list and decided to brush your teeth when you came back.

The one thing that couldn't wait until later was a shower. You were much too tired last night, and you were even more tired now, but you were desperate to wash off the remnants of yesterday's drive. You'd driven sixteen hours to Gravity Falls, and your skin sure felt like it.

You strolled to the bathroom and pulled back the shower curtain.

Fuck.

He only has 2-in-1.

Shampoo and conditioner were also going on the list, but at least your good towels were still here.

After successfully scrubbing the grime off your body, you pulled on an old button up and some jeans you hadn't seen in quite a long time. The fit was a little big on you now, but they'd do.

The trip to the store itself was uneventful. You'd been responsible for all the shopping when you were with Ford, and because nothing changed in this town (except for your husband and your house), you were still able to navigate the most efficient route through the store. You took great pride in this.

When you arrived back home, you were again careful to move quietly as you unloaded the groceries in the kitchen. You wanted breakfast to be a surprise. Also, you still weren't sure how to act around Stan yet, and you felt you needed a few more minutes to prepare before he woke up.

Now that you had some real ingredients to cook with, you got to work mixing up pancake batter and heating up pans. This was an old routine you didn't mind. It had been a long time since you last cooked a meal yourself. After you and Ford separated, you didn't actually end up settling down anywhere, so it was nice to be in your own kitchen again.

After flipping your last pancake, you laid six strips of bacon on a hot frying pan, then maneuvered yourself to the coffee maker to put on a fresh pot. You heard the stairs creaking behind you just as the beans began to brew. You turned your head to look at him. Stan's hair was still mussed from sleep, and he was sporting a white tank top paired with plaid pajama pants.

"Good morning," you greeted him with a sheepish smile.

"What's all this?" he asked. His voice was especially gruff in the morning.

"Oh, you know," you started, "wifely duties." Stan huffed out an amused grunt and grabbed a mug out of the cupboard without saying anything.

"You have great timing, by the way. How do you like your eggs?" you asked, flipping the bacon with a spatula.

"I'll eat 'em however you make 'em, toots," he said, then poured himself coffee from the pot. You stared at him for a second.

"The question I asked was, 'How do you like your eggs?'" you repeated. Another moment passed as he took a sip from his mug.

"Sunny-side up."

"Coming right up," you told him, cracking two eggs into another pan. "By the way, I don't know how you take your coffee, but I bought some milk and sugar too." You nodded your head toward the cupboard.

He shuffled over and set his mug down on the counter. You watched out of the corner of your eye as he proceeded to pour what you would consider to be an egregious amount of sugar into his coffee. He topped off his cup with a splash of milk, leaving barely enough room for him to stir without spilling. Stan took a sip, and with the taste to his liking, sat down at the kitchen table. You got the impression that the food situation you'd awoken to this morning wasn't exactly a matter of choice.

Once the eggs were done cooking, you plated the food and set them down in front of him. You sat yourself in the chair across from him, your own cup of black coffee in hand.

"Dig in," you commanded him, grabbing your own fork and knife.

The two of you enjoyed breakfast in silence, still unsure of how to interact with each other. You had started to feel a little more comfortable with each other at the diner yesterday evening, but progress was not a linear path. It would take some time for the both of you to get used to each other's presence—an adjustment period.

Stan lifted his plate and used his fork to shovel the last of his pancakes into his mouth, barely chewing before he swallowed.

"Thanks for the food," he said, looking into his coffee cup. "You didn't have to do that."

"It's the least I could do considering I almost shot you in the face," you replied, offering him an awkward laugh.

"You can say that again." His eyes drifted up from his mug to peer into yours. He looked so tired.

"I'm serious. I'm really sorry about... everything. This town has an uncanny talent for turning otherwise rational people into paranoid miscreants," you admitted.

"Don't sweat it," he said before downing his last sip of coffee. "That wasn't the first time I've had a gun to my head, so it was a pretty normal Tuesday all things considered." A low chuckle rumbled through his chest, as if he had just told a joke.

"Well, it was my first time pointing a gun at anyone, so I'm still really sorry," you said more earnestly this time. He chuckled again.

"You could've fooled me."

"Really?" you asked, quirking an eyebrow. "Did I seem like I knew what I was doing?" Stan was smirking now.

"It was a solid hold up. Very intimidating," he assured you. You couldn't tell if he was fucking with you or not, but a proud smile crept its way onto your face regardless.

"So, what's the move for today, bossman?" you asked.

"Well, my firsy tour today is scheduled around ten, so I should have enough time to get ready and show you around the place before any customers start schleppin' over."

"Sounds like a plan," you replied.

This worked out perfectly. You knew things would be different around here since Stan moved in, but you hadn't gotten the chance to look around much yet. Ford's lab space had begun to eat up the square footage of your living space by the time you packed you bags, and if the front room was any indication, Stan had reversed some of his renovations. It was homier now, like it used to be. You were curious to see what else Stan had changed.

You stood up and began to clear the table, but didn't make it very far before Stan started snatching plates from your hands.

"Hey, what're you—"

"You cook, I clean, right?" There was that toothy smile of his again. It drew a smile from your lips too.

"So, Stan Pines is a gentleman," you teased.

"I'm just trying not to get shot," he quipped back, dropping the dishes in the sink and tossing a dishtowel over his shoulder.

That's when you noticed it. Hiding beneath the towel, Stan had some sort of marking on his back. It was peaking out from under his tanktop. You didn't get a very good look at it before the moment passed, but the symbol appeared to have been scribed onto raised skin. He was branded.

You had only recovered a few small fragments of Stan's history since meeting, and already you did not know what to make of them. Before yesterday, his mere existence had been an absolute mystery, and now he was standing before you, a whole human being carrying around his own baggage just like everyone else. Your chest ached.