Who's Asking?

Author's Note: Wow. You guyz really loved the last chapter, so I am excited to present to you the ending of our Goldfield Festival arc. This chapter has undergone many rounds of editing, and I am so glad it turned out the way it did because this one has me kickin' my feet. Hopefully, y'all enjoy it as much as I do. xoxo, Gossip Girl

"Hi, Antonio, it's so good to see you. How are things?" you asked with what you hoped was a reasonable and believable amount of warmth.

Your joints felt stiff, and it seemed no matter how deeply you breathed in, it was never enough air. You were thoroughly uncomfortable. It wasn't that you didn't love your students, it's just that you were mortified to see them after the way you ended things last year. You were supposed to be a professional. You were supposed to set boundaries. In a way, you did set boundaries, you just also happened to cross them in a spectacular display of self-destruction.

"Things are good with me. Physics got really boring without you, though."

"Yeah, it did," another one of your former students, Michelle, piped in.

"The new guy just lectured at us the whole time," Antonio explained. "But it's okay because I got into the engineering program at my dream school. I'll never have to listen to his monotone voice ever again."

"You did?" you asked, your smile relaxing into a genuine expression of pride. "That's amazing! I knew you had it in you."

"Thanks," he said. "I never thought I could do it. I probably wouldn't have even applied if it wasn't for you, y'know." Your heart swelled.

"And what about you, Michelle? Still planning on majoring in computer engineering?"

"Yeah, but I haven't heard back from any schools yet. I waited too long to submit my applications, but I'm hoping I'll get into at least one of the schools I applied to on the east coast," she said. You remembered how hard she was on herself, how she'd always dreamed of the ivy league. You hoped she'd learned to give herself grace.

"Well, I'm sure you've got plenty of big envelopes coming your way," you assured her.

"Is this your husband?" she asked, gesturing to Stan. You felt as though you were suddenly thrown back into your own body. You had forgotten he was even here.

"Yes, this is. How rude of me. Kids, this is Mr. Pines. Mr. Pines, these are two of my top honors physics students from last year, Michelle and Antonio," you introduced them.

"How's it hangin'?" greeted Stan.

A prolonged moment passed as your former students stared intensely at the man beside you. Antonio was the one to break the silence.

"Do better," he said.

"Okay, kids," you swiftly interjected. "It's been great talking to you, but I'm sure you've got more fun things to do than talk to a bunch of stuffy adults all day, so I'm going to let you get back to it. Enjoy the rest of your Goldfield Festival! Go Beavers!"

You promptly grabbed Stan by the crook of his elbow before taking off in the opposite direction.

"Sorry about that," you laughed nervously, taking quick strides. "I don't know why they'd even say anything like that. They're kids, and you know how kids are. Kids—Kids are... crazy is what they are," you trailed off, slowing to a stop and fidgeting with the ends of your hair.

"You must've been a great teacher," he said, offering you a soft but lopsided smile, then didn't pry any further. You were very appreciative he spared you from any further embarrassment.

"I guess... Maybe—Umm—Let's just go home. I think I've had enough excitement for one day."

"But what about the raffle?" he asked.

You just waved him away and said, "It's not that important. Sorry I dragged you out here today." You crossed your arms over your chest, keeping your eyes trained on your feet.

Stan had too much pride to admit it out loud, but he was actually having a really good time with you today. He'd committed himself to misery long before Ford fell into the portal, but today he felt different somehow. Today, he wasn't dwelling on past transgressions, of which he spent everyday deliberately reminding himself lest he forget. Today, the load he carried felt lighter, and he was surprised to find he didn't mind.

"Let's take a walk," he said. "If you still want to go home after, we'll go, but if you want to stay, we'll do whatever you want."

You cracked an unconvincing smile and nodded. Stan jerked his head, and you followed as he led you through the crowd.

You weren't watching where he was taking you, instead keeping your eyes on the ground. Soon enough, concrete gave way to grass, and you looked up to find yourself in a wooded area, a clearing surrounded by tall trees. One of these trees had fallen some time ago, bestowing unto you a perfect spot to rest. You sat yourself on the trunk, then sat Renoir next to you—that's what you decided to name the near-eldritch monstrosity Stan had stolen for you. You didn't know why, but a French name seemed fitting.

Stan sat himself on the opposite side of you, not quite knowing what to say. He waited, hoping eventually you'd say something to fill the silence. You were usually the one to break the tension, but right now you weren't acting like your usual talkative self. Maybe this time it was his turn.

"Those kids seem pretty smart," he said. "I mean, ya already know I didn't take physics in high school, let alone finish high school, but I've heard it's a tough class."

"They are. Physics can be tough, but those kids worked really hard. I'm really proud of them."

You were silent again. Stan had tried to get the ball rolling, but it didn't take as well as he'd hoped. He'd just have to try again.

"I'm sure they know. S'probably why they look up t'you so much."

More silence. Alright. Maybe this would require a more direct approach.

"Wanna talk about what's eatin' away at you?" he asked.

You sighed, your eyes fixed on a bustling anthill over by your right foot. The fascinating thing about anthills is that however busy it appears on the outside, it's even busier on the inside. Each member of the colony works in tandem to ensure the colony's survival, and though it may not look it through the eyes of us giants, this society of laborers operates in an orderly structure. Each individual is assigned a role, and they fulfill that role to order. No negotiation. That's the way it has to be, so that's the way it is.

"Not really," you huffed.

Stan nodded. He sensed he would have to choose his next words carefully.

"I assume it's got somethin' to do with seein' those kids. Now, you don't gotta tell me anythin'," he said, searching for his next words, "but I do have one question for you: 'Go Beavers'?"

"I didn't know what else to say," you admitted. "It's the Gravity Falls High School mascot. Used to be a woodpecker actually, but they changed it the year I started working there."

"Why the change?" he asked.

"Well, Gravity Falls has a notable population of men who've taken woodpeckers as wives. They thought it was culturally insensitive, and you know how political correctness was all the rage in the seventies." You laughed to yourself. You really missed this place.

"Marryin' a woodpecker, is that even legal?"

"Yes, and the coalition responsible for the mascot change will not let you forget it."

He chuckled, raising his eyebrows in concerned disbelief. The more Stan learned about Gravity Falls, the weirder he thought it was. It was a town out of time, out of this plane of existence really. It was a natural fit for his brother, of course, but Stan could do without some of it's hokier traditions... And the bestiality, apparently.

However, seeing you here now, the faint yet fond smile on your lips, the way your palms sank into the moss growing beneath you, he couldn't help but think you belonged here too. You had this way of being unphased, of taking everything in stride, as it seemed to him. You weren't one to pass judgement. Well, that wasn't entirely true, but your judgement was almost solely reserved for his attractions. 'Beady little eyes,' he heard you muttering to yourself one day in the giftshop. Still, you met even the strangest truths with firm kindness. Gravity Falls was lucky to have someone like you, someone who could love it not in spite of its quirks but because of them.

"So... How's your Goldfield Festival been otherwise?" he asked.

You considered his question seriously, flitting through your recollection of the day. The memory of Stan fleeing from the skeeball machine stuck out, and you smiled.

"Not bad," you said. "It's been a lot of fun watching you make an ass out of yourself all day."

She's back, he thought.

"If you're still thinkin' about what happened with that skeeball machine earlier, I'd hardly call that 'all day'. Besides, that piece of junk was totally defective."

"Please," you laughed. "I'm starting to think you did it on purpose because you knew you were going to lose."

"Yeah? Well, I'm startin' to think your memory's defective too 'cause, from what I can remember, I was only twenty points away from beatin' you when the thing broke on me."

"Still doesn't change the fact I would've won," you goaded, glancing over to see if you'd gotten a rise out of him. Mission accomplished.

"That's it, princess. Let's go again so we can settle this once and for all," Stan challenged.

You supposed you weren't ready to leave just yet, but the sun was beginning to set. The festival was nearing its end, as it ended every year, yet you still had more you wanted to do.

"Actually," you piped up, "let's go on the ferris wheel. Mayor Befufftlefumpter is going to announce the winner of the raffle soon, and I want to go before he does."

Stan began to perspire. "Wouldn't'cha rather kick my ass in skeeball?" he asked, now devoid of any previous competitive resolve.

"Hey, you said we could do anything I wanted," you reminded him, pointing at him with one hand as the other rested on your hip.

"Yeah." He gulped. "Yeah, I did say that, didn't I?"

You, now reinvigorated with the spirit of a thousand blooming goldfields, were oblivious to Stan's unease. The ferris wheel was the centerpiece of the festival, and you were so determined to extract the most fun out of what little daylight you had left, your usually sharp discernment skills had gone completely out the window. So rather than inquire Stan about why he was so sweaty all of a sudden, you grabbed Renoir, hopped back on over to the fairgrounds, and trudged through the crowd to get in line for a ride, completely unconcerned.

Your preoccupation, however, wasn't the sole contributor to your obliviousness. Stan himself was doing his damndest to push down the anxiety bubbling up in his gut—or maybe that was just the corndog coming back for revenge. Nevertheless, he was trying to play it cool, nonchalant, demonstrably indifferent. As long as he didn't think about it too hard, he could pretend he was feeling a-okay.

This approach was working just fine up until the very moment he stepped onto the gondola and it began to sway beneath him. Unbalanced, he stumbled over his feet before crashing into his seat. He was sweating again.

"Nice one, Pines," you teased, climbing into your seat with far more grace than Stan was able to muster. You lowered the lap bar down, and off you were.

Stan looked down and watched as the ground below began to retreat. This isn't so bad, he reassured himself, taking deep breaths. It was easy to keep his composure at first, but as the tram rose higher and higher, his breathing grew quicker and more shallow.

"Are you okay, Stan?" you asked, having finally noticed the way he was white-knuckling the restraints.

"M-Me? I'm fine," he said through gritted teeth as he stared you down with intense persistence. His eye twitched, he glanced over the side of the gondola, and the dam broke. "HOLY FUCK, SHIT SHIT SHIT. I CAN'T GO OUT LIKE THIS!"

"Stan, are you afraid of heights?" you asked. He didn't respond. "Stanley?"

"Listen," he pleaded, "I've got a lot of stuff I need t'get off my chest real quick! One time, I accidentally dropped Ford's toothbrush in the toilet and I just put it back and pretended nothin' happened!"

You tried to come up with some sort of response, but you were at a loss. You weren't sure if he was confessing to you or some greater being out there in the universe. He continued.

"I never told nobody this, but I really love keepin' up with telenovelas. I don't care if they were related, Paula and Alberto were meant to be together!"

You covered your mouth with your hand, once again at a loss for words. You let him go on.

"A few years ago, I was eating in my car and spilled mustard on my shirt. I didn't have any napkins, but I was passin' by a pet store," he told you, pausing as though he was truly ashamed. "I used a cat!"

You couldn't help it. You tried to stop yourself, but he was just so ridiculous you burst into laughter. The look he gave you—so sincerely bewildered and betrayed—had you absolutely roaring. You shook your head as the laughter continued its assault to let him know you didn't mean to take joy in his genuine fear. You weren't sure how effectively you were communicating this.

"You're laughing? I'm about to die of a heart attack and you're LAUGHING?"

"I'm s-sorry," you broke through your giggling. "You're—You're right. You're right." You quickly recovered from your fit and placed a hand over Stan's, still tightly gripping the lap bar. "We're almost at the top. After that, things can only get better. Renoir believes in you!"

"WHO?!"

You held up the stuffed... thing, and Stan's look of horror twisted into one of disgust at the sight of its ugly mug.

"Oh god, put that thing away," he squeezed out, sounding like he was ready to throw up.

Reaching the ride's apex, you reminded him not to look down as you, yourself, looked out to the world below. Your field of view extended to each corner of the town, which from here looked like a scale model framed by an orange creamsicle sky. The people in the streets were so small from up here—a colony. You, not knowing much about entomology, found yourself wondering what happened to the ants that couldn't fulfill their roles.

Stan released his grip on the lap bar and grabbed your hand, giving it a squeeze, but his eyes stayed shut as you made your descent back to Earth. Eventually, the ride accelerated to a halt, and the tram lurched one last time. Stan opened his eyes. He had survived.

You slid off the seat and hopped back on the ground. Stan stood up, wobbling as the sudden perturbation rocked the gondola. You offered him your hand for balance. He hesitated but reached out his own, accepting the offer.

Once his feet were firmly planted upon reliable earth, he sighed out a slew of inappropriate exclamations. Your instincts nudged you to remind him there were children around, but you nudged them back. He needed this.

"I promise I will never make you go on a ferris wheel ever again," you vowed. He waved you away.

"You didn't make me do anythin'. I'm the idiot who got on the death trap in the first place."

"But you do know you don't have to do anything you don't want to, right?" you assured him. "You're allowed to say no."

"Noted," he said, chuckling breathlessly.

"How about a little practice? Do you want to head home: yes or no?" You weren't ready to leave, but Stan deserved the out. You'd completely understand if he wasn't feeling up to it anymore.

"And miss seein' the look on your face when I win the raffle? No way."

You punched him on the shoulder, perhaps a little bit too hard considering the 'ow' that left his mouth on impact, but he laughed through the pain anyway.

As if on cue, the crotchety voice of Mayor Befufftlefumpter boomed over the loudspeakers, alerting all fairgoers still in attendance. "COME ONE, COME ALL. GATHER 'ROUND THE STAGE, FOR THE RAFFLE DRAWING WILL COMMENCE IN FIVE MINUTES!"

You smiled wide, wasting no time pushing past the other attendees to secure a spot close to the front of the stage. Generally, you'd consider yourself a pretty passive person, but this was serious business. While it was statistically improbable your name would be the one called, and while the raffle drawing itself involved zero skill on your part, you were determined to win by sheer force of will.

The Northwests were already onstage, boasting their enormous wealth just by virtue of standing there so handsomely, a testament to their looming influence over the town. As an educator, you weren't one to think badly about any child, but that twerp, Preston, seriously gave you the creeps. When you were still teaching, you were relieved to find out his family had enrolled him in private school. You didn't know if you could've stomached teaching him for even a single day, let alone an entire year.

The old mayor hobbled up the stage steps to be greeted by raucous applause. In unison, the town whooped, whistled, and hollered for the excitement to come.

"Welcome, everyone, to Gravity Falls' annual Goldfield Festival! I hope everyone has been having a splendid time as we usher in the bountiful spring of eighty-four!" cried the mayor to more thunderous applause.

"Now, the moment we've all been waiting for," said Befufftlefumpter, pausing for dramatic effect, "IT IS TIME TO ANNOUNCE THE WINNER OF THE RAFFLE! And, if I do say so myself, we have a very exciting prize for our winner this year!"

The crowd was now screaming so loudly it wouldn't be unfounded for neighboring townships to assume Gravity Falls was host to some sort of cult ritual.

A lackey presented the ticket bowl to the mayor. He stuffed his hand into the sea of tickets, fishing around for a bit until he seized one lucky scrap of paper between his frail fingers. He pulled it out slowly, tantalizingly. He read the name in silence, holding the ticket inches from his face, then peered up at the crowd. Seconds were beginning to feel like hours, and the suspence was killing you. Just spit it out, dammit!

The mayor spoke into the microphone, and you heard his voice echo through the speakers spread across the fairgrounds—he had called your name.

Your mouth fell open. You couldn't believe it.

Time continued in slow-motion. Some members of the crowd stormed off with a huff while others cheered you on, and above the noise, you could hear the faint inklings of teenage voices hollering things like, 'Go, Mrs. Pines!'

Time resumed as normal when you felt a hand clap you on the shoulder. You turned around to see Stan, a cool smile splayed upon his lips. Your own shocked expression was replaced by one of insurmountable glee as you grinned back with all your teeth.

You shoved Renoir into Stan's arms, and your legs, seemingly of their own volition, carried you to the stage, where the mayor of Gravity Falls presented you with the grand prize. You couldn't hear what he was saying over the ringing in your ears, but taking the prize into your hands, you could feel it was truly something special. You looked down upon the magnificent beast: a small book whose cover read 'Best Bargains in Gravity Falls: Coupons Worth Up to $20,000 in Savings!'

What a beauty.

"Would you care to say a few words?" asked Befufftlefumpter. He thrust the microphone into your hand before you could answer.

You scanned the crowd before you, suddenly all too aware of your own existence: your posture, your breathing, everything. You saw the familiar faces of former students interspersed between those of artisans, lumberjacks, mechanics, cashiers, and everyone in between. Earlier, you'd been so caught-up in the fear you might humiliate yourself in front of your students again, but now that you were standing on this stage—a winner—a realization dawned on you, one that freed you from the confines of your own trepidation: they weren't your students anymore. You could say anything you wanted.

"I have so many people to thank for this here coupon book," you said into the microphone. "First, I'd like to thank the pretzel guy for providing me sustenance so I could be here to accept my prize. I couldn't have done it without you. I'd also like to thank everyone in attendance for watching me win. You're all the real MVPs here tonight!" You caught Stan's eye in the crowd as he clapped along with the rest of them. "And I'd like to thank my husband, Stan Pines, for coming with me today even though he's a big ol' grump who hates fun and sucks at skeeball."

The crowd went wild. Mayor Befufftlefumpter went to grab the mic out of your hands, but you stopped him to make one final announcement.

"One more thing, one more thing," you called out, waiting for the ruckus to die down. "Is Daryl Blubbs here in attendance today?" You squinted, the last sliver of the setting sun shining in your eyes as you looked out into the crowd to see if you could find him. A raised hand broke through the horde, and you pointed to him. "There he is. I just wanted to say SUCK IT, DARYL! Yeah, I bet you and your twenty-five inch TV are pretty jealous of me right about now."

You began to pass the microphone back to the mayor, but stopped short, jerking it back for one last declaration: "GO BEAVERS!"

You finally shoved the microphone back into the mayor's grasp and jogged off stage with both arms raised, showing-off your prize in one hand and throwing up a peace sign with the other. You weren't sure if the crowd was still cheering or if you were just hearing your own blood rushing through your head. Once you'd cleared the stairs, you ran back toward Stan with such velocity you would have crashed into him if he hadn't put his arms out to stop you. Your body was absolutely buzzing with adrenaline.

"So, Pines," you said, poking at him, "what's it like being married to a winner?"

He rolled his eyes. "Oh, great. Is this what I'm gonna have to deal with from now on?"

"C'mon, now. You can't deny there are perks," you said, fanning the pages of your coupon book in his face. You then slipped the book into the breast pocket of his jacket and patted it down over the fabric. "Go buy yourself something nice," you teased, then breezed past him en route to the Murder Hut.

Stan turned to follow but halted when he felt something stuck to the bottom of his shoe. A raffle ticket. He quickly crumpled it in his hand, frantic to dispose of it. He thought he'd taken care of all the evidence, but clearly he had gotten sloppy. He thought about stuffing it in his pocket, but instead opted to stick it in his mouth. Half chewed, he swallowed. Stan had said you wouldn't get to see his best work in a place like this, and he intended to keep it that way. You could never know.