#oclicious

“Good mornin’, gorgeous.” She straight-up grinned at that. They tangled lazy limbs together under the blankets and traded stray kisses through the drowsy stupor of waking.

After a while his palm drifted to her hip, fingers fanning out to confirm that yes, she really did have a butt as nice as those sculpted legs. Clary’s eyes opened slowly; she studied him in knowing amusement as he tinted pink.

“Is that your hand on my ass?”

“Maybe? It’s gotta go somewhere, right?”

“Mmhm.” She caught hold of his shoulder, pushed as she rose to pin him flat to the mattress, kissed him breathless and then wriggled out of his grasp like a determined eel while he was too discombobulated to put up a fight.

“Ah, c’mon, please, five more minutes,” Stan protested. Clary plunked his glasses onto his chest and he caught them on reflex.

“Sorry, sailor, but you promised you’d behave.”

“Five more minutes and y’won’t want me to.” Stan managed to hook the glasses into place and leered up as she swung her legs over and pivoted, perched neatly on the edge of his bed.

“That’s almost certainly true, which is why I’m going to head downstairs and get breakfast started.”

“Damn shame.”

“Just leaving you some incentive to come ashore sooner than later.” She corralled the bedhead chaos of her hair into its elastic, then leaned over to stroke the prickly line of his jaw. He turned into the contact, eyes half closed. “Besides, I guarantee that Mabel got the others on the trail early.”

“They’re almost six hours out - ” He paused, then dragged a hand down his face with a groan. “No, y’got a point. They’ll make it before lunch. She’s relentless. What time is it?”

“Quarter to eight. Eggs, potatoes, onions okay?”

“C’mon, like one flapjack?”

Clary’s smile flashed wide and she tapped him under the chin. “Pancakes on the side, you got it. See you in a few.” She strutted barefoot out the door with the bicentennial brandy dangling from one hand, filching his fancy Northwest Manor towel on the way past.

He wondered if she was always going to be this obnoxiously chipper in the morning. Having a chance to find out didn’t really sound so bad, though.

Stan swung by the office before he wandered back around to the kitchen. Clary manned a couple of skillets at the stovetop with professional ease. He dropped off a heavy folder on the table and slid in behind to loop an arm around her waist. “You’re gonna burn the onions.”

“If you keep nibbling on me like that, I just might burn the onions.” She didn’t, even with Stan unwilling to let go through the whole process, shifting to follow when she reached for the salt or the spatula. They devoured every crumb with little to say, slouched comfortably in their chairs. Her feet rested against his slippers under the table.

“Wanna give me a hand puttin’ that bottle back?”

“Find me a telephone book or something and I’ll do it.” Clary had a much easier time of it on the countertop. They came up with a couple massive cans of crushed tomatoes for her to balance on, Stan’s steadying hands at her ankles as she followed his instructions to get the hidden cabinet open and shove the brandy as far back as she could manage.

“All right, kid. One last job for the Shack’s honorary accountant before I cut y’loose for the season.” She picked her way back down the stepstool with a hand on his shoulder for balance, cocking a curious brow, and he nodded over to the table. “Got the receipts for ya.”

“Oh-ho. I’ve been wondering how we did.” Stan slid the folder over. Clary fished out her phone, pulled up some calculator thing, and her fingers started to fly.

She counted money as efficiently as any casino bunny, fwip fwip fwip fwip, slapping down the bills in mounting piles and sliding each into place below scrawled scraps designating Greasy’s, picnic supplies, servers, food. Stan sipped his coffee and watched in happy fascination. Every now and then she’d swipe a thumb along the edge of her tongue for traction on the paper.

“What’re you looking at,” Clary murmured after a few minutes.

“Two of the most beautiful things I’ve laid eyes on in years.”

Her lips twitched up at a corner. “And what are those?”

“A huge pile of honest money, and you.” He was coming to love pulling a blush out of her. “Where’d a paper-pusher learn how to count like that?”

“Wasn’t always a lawyer, darling.”

By the time she was done the stack of unassigned cash had grown a couple inches high. She flipped her phone around so he could whistle at the number, then scooped up the whole heap and riffled the bills with a sharp grin. “I’ll give you this much, you weren’t kidding about the summer money burning holes in everyone’s pockets.”

“Wouldn’t’ve pulled it off without our star attraction.” Stan raised his coffee mug in salute. ‘That’s all you, princess. Enjoy the fruits of your labor an’ all that.”

Her brow creased. “Really? Did Soos get anything off the top? I know we covered expenses.”

“Nah, he insisted. Gonna have to work on that.”

Clary squared the stack of profits, counted off three slim groups of a hundred bucks each, then placed the rest in the middle of the table. “Could you split that? Half for Soos, half for the kids.” She frowned for a moment. “Half for the kids’ college accounts, anyway, or a car fund or something. That might be a bit much for summer allowance.”

“You sure?”

“I didn’t do it for the money, Stan.” Her bare toes skimmed lightly up his shin under the table and he couldn’t help but twitch. “Besides, I’m definitely going home with the grand prize.”

“Fine. Fine, I’ll give it all to these ingrates you’re not even gonna see again for like a year, if you’re even willin’ t’come back to Gravity Falls, if I’m even back here anytime soon - ” The bluster did a lousy job of covering his blush but watching her grin as he scooped up the cash and stuffed it back in its envelope was well worth it.

“I might be. The place is growing on me.”

“Yeah, like a fungus,” he muttered, and she chuckled under her breath. “What’s that for?”

“These?” Clary picked up the three skinny stacks. “Hosts’ pay.” She slapped one down in front of Stan, tucked the second into her pocket and waved the third in front of his eyes. “And you’re taking me to dinner next time.”

“I thought you were pickin’ up the tab!”

“I’ll get the drinks, but dinner’s on you.” She winked and plopped the last few bills down. “All right, we’d better get decent before Mabel comes tearing in here hoping to catch us in flagrante.”

They cut it close, splitting up to get dressed and sharing the bathroom mirror for final touches. Her kerchief for the day was a thrift-store find, a riot of abstract hearts in shades of pink. By eleven they reconvened at the kitchen.

Stan settled down for a second cup of coffee. Clary glanced up from the ingredients for one last sour cream coffee cake as they heard the side door slam open and footsteps pelting up the stairs. “AHA!” came down along with the sound of another door banging against the wall, followed by “Darn it!”

Ford stuck his head through the doorway as the racket clattered back downstairs and turned down the hallway leading to Clary’s storage room. “Good morning, you two.” He and Clary exchanged a measured look. “Everything all right, Stanley?”

“Oh, we’re great, talked it all out, had a real nice evenin’.”

“AHA!” Bang. “Darn it!”

“Excellent! Fantastic, even! Precisely what I was hoping to hear!” Ford’s cautious expression cracked wide open and he grinned as he clasped Clary’s shoulder. “Welcome to the Pines circle, my dear, I’m afraid things may get rather odd from here on out but it’s a delight to have you aboard. Dipper, my boy! May I borrow your phone?”

Dipper shuffled through the doorway, holding up his phone for Ford to swipe on the way past. He dropped into the seat opposite Stan and rested his head on the table. “Morning, everyone.”

Clary pulled a warm plate of leftover pancakes out of the oven and set it in front of him. “Good morning, Dipper.”

“AHA!” Mabel skidded into the kitchen, blinked at Stan and Clary, then folded her arms with a deepening pout. “Oh, darn it, are you guys a thing yet or what?!”

That was about it for peace and quiet.

Stan slunk out of the kitchen as soon as he could get away with it, abandoning Clary to Mabel’s insistent interrogation. They’d need dinner eventually, and like hell he was going to let Clary cook again on her last night in the place, so he kept himself busy scraping ash and charred grease out of the neglected charcoal grill. As a result he had a perfect vantage point to watch Soos’ second batch of Monday tourists out on the grounds.

He also had a perfect view of a much newer but still decaled Tate-and-Backle pickup truck rolling in. McGucket scrambled down from the passenger side to meet up with Ford and a bemused Clary at her station wagon. They popped open the hood and both front doors, and McGucket started explaining the upgrades they’d made at a speed that would’ve been confusing even in easy earshot.

Stan tuned much of it out, watching warily to make sure nothing blew up, until he was distracted by a trickle of further arrivals. Grenda and Candy turned up on bicycles. Pacifica hopped out of a sleek black car, trailed by the driver lugging a heavy tote bag. They took over a corner of the yard to set up what proved to be a full-on badminton set. Mabel barreled out of the house a few minutes later with the battered box containing the lawn darts.

“Looks like we’re gonna have another picnic!” Soos ambled over with a bucket full of grill tools. “I’ll finish this up, Mr. Pines, there’re plenty of hot dogs in the deep freeze.”

Stan was streaked with soot to the elbows by now. “Yeah, fine by me, about time someone else took care of cookin’.” He glanced over to the Fairlane. Clary leaned against a fender with arms folded, engaged in intense conversation with both Ford and McGucket. With no idea what that was about, he headed in to scrub up.

By the time he wandered back out Wendy had arrived and was casually swatting a birdie over the badminton net. Pacifica and Dipper were lined up on the far side, both dashing desperately to keep up with smacking it back.

Clary sat on the battered old couch, legs stretched out, ankles crossed. Stan dropped into place alongside her and she tipped into his space a bit as the springs creaked under his weight. They traded a fleeting glance; Stan extended his arm along the top cushions and she settled easily into its curve.

“So, you and Stan, huh?” Wendy batted the birdie over the net without even a glance, looking Clary over with open interest.

“Yep.” Clary laid her hand over Stan’s at her shoulder.

“You know he’s a lousy boss and a total skinflint, right?”

“You’re not even workin’ for me this summer, Wendy!”

Wendy grinned back. “So, you kissed him yet? Tambry’s video was pretty blurry.”

“Oh, I’ve kissed him.”

“Prove it!” Mabel called. Clary turned, smooth as you please, and pecked Stan sweetly on the cheek. He returned the favor as a collective groan went up. “Oh, come on, that doesn’t count!”

“That’s all you get, ya thirsty little gremlins! You want a sideshow, go buy a ticket!”

They endured a few more catcalls and hoots from the peanut gallery, Clary shaking with low laughter, until she finally patted his hand and rose. “That’s it. I’ve got to go even this out a bit. Hey, Pacifica!” She hopped down from the porch and strode purposefully over to the net. “You game to pair up with me against Team Backwoods here?”

“Oh, it’s on, lady. I mean, you’re not as decrepit as Stan and Stan Two, but Team Backwoods rules. C’mon, Dipper.” Wendy tossed a spare racquet over and the four of them went at it with more energy than Stan could really bear to watch.

He watched anyway, slouched and more than content to let everyone else do the work for a while. Soos had the grill going by the time the sun had tracked far enough west to dip below the tips of the pine trees. Susan showed up with the karaoke machine, a winning smile and a cherry-pie bribe that got her a plate and a hot dog in short order. Soos’ Abuelita held court in a tufted armchair her grandson hauled out from the office. A scatter of mismatched lawn chairs popped up to support the mismatched guests as they drifted in.

Clary wandered back over to the porch with a couple of pop bottles dangling from one hand. “You know those lawn darts are totally illegal.”

Dipper yelped in terror as Grenda’s dart overshot the target and thudded into the ground an inch from his foot. “Of course I know! That’s why I tracked down a couple extra sets. Wanna grab a bite?”

“This doesn’t count as dinner, Stan.”

“Why not? You’ve got the drinks right there!”

“Not quite yet.” The bottles clinked as she set them down at the corner of the sofa and tipped her chin over to Ford. “These are the last two. Cooler’s empty.”

“Oh,” he said, then “oh.” The corners of her eyes crinkled with amusement.

It was so easy it was damned near embarrassing. Stan took one side of the cooler’s handle, Clary the other. They carried it sloshing between them until, with a perfectly coordinated swing, they dumped the icy meltwater right over Ford’s head.

Ford let out a steamwhistle shriek and bounced to his feet, sputtering in indignation. Clary set hands to her hips and stood her ground; Stan watched his brother deflate a little.

“Well,” said Ford. “I suppose you’ve got a point.” He shook water off his glasses, shoved back his drenched forelock and shifted attention to Stan.

“Oooohhh no no no no.” Stan held up both hands, rocking back on his heels. “You can dunk me once we’re back on the boat if y’want, but this’s payback fair and square, Sixer. You’ll have plenty of chances.”

“You’re right, of course.” Ford offered a hand to Clary. “One last dance, then? Even if it’s a bit damp?”

“Oh, by all means. Come on, I know that karaoke machine is around here somewhere.”

“Ford, you do not get to steal her, she’s gotta go in like twelve hours!”

Ford stole her anyway, that jerk. Someone got the music going and scattered laughter rose on the warm, still air as evening finally claimed the Shack. Hell with it, he thought, and slipped inside to rummage up what was left of the fireworks plus Clary’s scant handful of bottle rockets. Stan set himself up on the roof and fired off a single starburst to catch everyone’s attention.

“Hey!” That was Clary far below, hands cupped to direct her indignant shout. “Those’re mine!”

“Better get up here then!” he yelled back. Wendy pointed her at the gift shop and soon he could hear the vague scuffle of someone scrambling up the narrow ladder.

“Oh, god,” Clary muttered as she emerged a little ways up the roof. “This is steep.”

“Take it slow, you’ll be fine. C’mere.” Stan reached up and caught her hand. She warily picked her way down and stayed well away from the edge. “What, heights a problem?”

“Who likes heights?”

“Might as well get used to it, sweetheart, things’re gonna get a lot weirder than high places around us.”

Clary settled down after a minute or two as he lined things up, finally crouching near the edge as he handed off his spare matches. “Literal bottles for our bottle rockets?”

“Consider it creative recycling. Go get ‘em, kid.”

Fuses crackled and threw sparks as Stan set ‘em up and Clary knocked ‘em down, setting fire to everything he put in front of her, no rhyme or reason to it, a ragged fusillade of noise and light. They got ooohs and aaahs of approval from their audience anyway. She let the matches burn down to her fingertips and waved each out with a sharp flick of the wrist just in time to strike the next.

Explosions lit up her features in washes of color. The last rockets went up and she glanced his way, lifting the match to blow it out with a single puff of breath and a cocked brow.

Stan yielded to impulse and slung an arm around her waist, tugging her away from the edge - he landed butt-first, Clary half across his lap - and kissed her quick and hard, catching the edge of her front teeth in his lower lip for his trouble. The slow drag of her tongue soothed away that little hurt easy enough.

The asphalt shingles still held traces of the afternoon’s heat and Stan was more than content to serve as Clary’s pillow. “You could come upstairs tonight. If you want. Same rules.”

“Tempting.” She raised her head from his chest just enough to catch his eye, smile slanted and rueful. “Think I’ve got to decline, though, it’ll be hard enough to get out of here in the morning.”

“You could stay a little longer.”

“I’d love to. But I really can’t.”

Stan pulled a breath and let it go. “I get that. You gonna be okay? It’s a long-ass drive back to Maryland.”

“My nephew scored a cheap ticket to Vancouver and he’s going to drive the rest of the way back with me. I’ll head up to Seattle, do the necessary, then take a couple of days to spoil myself at a spa before I pick him up. We’ll be fine.”

“Sounds like you’ve got it covered. You keep me posted, right?”

Her grin was a sharp flash in the gathering dark. “You are gonna get so sick of your phone chirping at you.”

They rested there for a while, ignoring increasingly exasperated calls from the lawn down below. At length another scuffle scrambled up the ladder. Mabel thudded down on the roof, snapping a picture with her phone before Clary could do more than half sit up. “Oh, come on, you aren’t even smooching! Are you going to get downstairs for pie or what?”

Stan made it down the ladder first and managed to snag the last two slivers of pie. Soos passed out ice pops from the gift shop freezer over fruitless protests - the chicken picnic money would more than cover a bunch of popsicles, but it was the principle of the thing.

As the sky grew fully dark folks started to disperse. Clary handed out hugs and kisses and handshakes and exchanged a cheery wave with the departing McGucket that had to portend disaster somewhere down the line.

At the end it was down to Ford and Clary and Stan draped wearily across a trio of lawn chairs. Conversation had dwindled down to basically nothing. Clary’s fingers stayed hooked loosely into Stan’s.

He wasn’t sure if it was his effort or hers that kept their clasped hands swinging faintly between them.

“You all packed?”

“Nothing left but the overnight bag.”

“Gas?”

“Three-quarters of a tank.”

“Breakfast?”

“Cold cereal won’t kill me.” Clary rolled her head to curve him a tired smile and his fingers tightened down in hers. “I should get to bed. Need to be up bright and early.”

“Yup, suppose you should.” She didn’t budge for a good few minutes and he didn’t push. The lawn chair creaked when she finally rose. Clary’s kiss grazed his temple and lingered, and he leaned into it for as long as he could. Her palm pressed Ford’s shoulder as she crossed between them. Stan watched her head into the Shack, slipping easily into the shadows just within the door.

“What’s your take on her?” he asked.

“I like her better than that siren you spent most of February flirting with.”

Stan cackled. “Ah, he was cute. Best night’s sleep I’d had in ages.”

“He was going to eat you, you know.”

“You took care of it like a badass, and he turned out to be all kinds of helpful with that so-called Atlantis cipher you were tearin’ your hair out over. We came out ahead like we usually do. So.” He waggled brows at his brother. “When’re we hittin’ up the European coast?”

“I suppose I can move Finland and Lake Saimaa up the priority list,” Ford replied.

They both turned in soon after that, a bit before midnight for once. Stan sprawled across the center of his nice full-size orthopedic bed, taking up as much space as he wanted, and settled in to sleep.

He found himself staring up at the ceiling he couldn’t see. The house was quiet, all of the faint creaks of the joint familiar to his long-accustomed ear. Everyone was in their place - Ford in his basement fortress, the kids in the room they were going to outgrow for real by next summer, her down in the storage room that would go back to dust and old merch once she was gone.

Some wistful corner of his brain kept hoping she’d change her mind and come up to join him, but exhaustion dragged him under before she did.

Stan woke before his alarm went off, pulled himself together grudgingly and stumped downstairs into a minor Mabel whirlwind. Clary sat on the bottom step, posing for photos with Waddles and an expression of cheerful resignation.

“Great! Grunkle Stan, bend into the frame - yeah, right there - no, don’t just walk on by!” He went right past Mabel and her protests, Clary’s laughter chasing after him, and ended up in the kitchen. There was cold cereal, sure, but the last coffeecake as well, and he hacked out a chunk of that to stash at the back of the freezer for later.

He managed to get most of a cup of coffee down before Mabel hauled him outside into morning sunshine, shoving a small, squashy wrapped-and-beribboned package into his hand. “That’s for her, from you, got it? Okay! Hey Clary!”

Clary was halfway across the yard, overnight bag slung over one shoulder, but making little progress with Waddles trying to trip her up all the way. “Mabel, honeybee, could you please convince Waddles that I’m not trying to sneak off without saying goodbye?” Stan spotted Ford’s legs hanging out the passenger-side door of the Fairlane - probably screwing around with that black box he and McGucket had installed.

“Oh, I know you’re not sneaking off because we’re gonna bribe you not to. Presents!” Mabel sang. On cue, Dipper staggered out of the side door, blinded by the stack of brightly wrapped boxes he carried. Mabel plucked the stuffed blue whale out from under his arm and ran ahead to the station wagon. “But the only one you get to see is this one.”

Waddles disentangled himself and trotted obligingly after Mabel as Clary protested. “Mabel! That was a loan.”

“Lady Bluemington has taken a liking to you. Who am I to argue with the power of plush? Besides, you’re gonna be landlocked for months and I want you to be thinking of the glories of the open ocean.” Mabel’s hands described a familiar marquee arc in the air and to Stan’s amusement Clary went pink.

“I’m a pretty poor sailor, Mabel.”

“Now you’ve got plenty of incentive to learn! Right? Right!”

Ford took the overnight bag off Clary’s hands and tucked it into the back seat, along with the heap of presents. “No peeking,” said Dipper firmly, “and no opening those until you’re on the road! - or at least at the next rest stop, no more accidents!”

“No more accidents. I solemnly swear I’m going to get there in one piece.” Clary flashed the three-fingered Scout salute, then leaned in to peck Ford chastely on the cheek. “Thank you for all the repairs.”

“Ah, well, let’s not do that again. Thank you for all the lovely meals and the fine company. I look forward to continuing our discussion!” Stan eyed his brother warily and got an innocent smile in return.

“I guess that’s about it.” Clary looked over to the house and back to the car, tugging at her kerchief with a fingertip - it was the tiny nautical flags today - then bent and pulled Mabel in for a full-on embrace. Dipper got dragged along by his sister but didn’t seem too grossed out by the equivalent of auntie kisses. “I can’t thank you guys enough,” she said, muffled between the kids. “I really thought this trip was going to be awful but you’ve made it great. I’ll miss all of you.”

The strain in her voice was easy to catch and Stan shouldered his way in as Clary straightened. “All right, get lost, all a’you, I gotta show her a couple last things with the engine. G’wan! Get!” He waved shooing hands at the lot of them, and Ford nudged the gremlins back towards the house.

“Bye Clary!”

“Be careful out there on the road!” Clary flashed an approving thumb up for Dipper and watched the three of them disappear into the Shack, then leaned wearily against the Fairlane’s fender. Stan passed over his handkerchief and she sniffed into it for a moment.

“Ah, c’mon, it’s not that bad, it’s not like I haven’t figured out how t’spam you with text messages.”

Clary managed a chuckle and blinked at him over the hanky with glittering eyes. “She would’ve loved you guys.”

“‘Course she would’ve. We’re lovable.” Stan shifted his weight, shoved hands into his jacket pockets and ended up smashing Mabel’s squashy package in the process. “Uh - look, I got you a little somethin’ for the road - “

“Did you now.”

“Hey, you know there’s no point arguin’ with Mabel - “ Stan pressed the package into her offered hand; she tore off the crumpled paper to reveal a set of fuzzy dice crocheted in red with gold pips. Clary threw her head back and laughed. “See, now, if I could do a damn thing with yarn that is absolutely what I would’ve made you.”

“I love them. They’re perfect. I’ve got something for you, too.”

Clary dipped into her pocket and pressed an envelope into his palm. He sifted carefully through the glossy pictures inside, glitter stickers slapped into the corners. Stan and Clary bickering over eggs in the kitchen. Lit up by the glow of fireworks. In fishing hats, his expression more gobsmacked than he remembered it being. Leaning over the Fairlane’s engine. Spinning out across the museum floor in front of a dazzled crowd.

Stan held up the shot of the two of them dancing at Greasy’s under twinkling lights. “Mabel wasn’t even there for this one!”

“Probably lifted it from someone else’s video. She told me to make absolutely sure you got these.” The obvious question was sketched out in the worried lines around her eyes, but when he hesitated she patted his arm in understanding.

“There’s a lot you don’t know,” he admitted.

“That goes both ways. We’ll deal with it as it comes.”

“So, ah - “ Stan tucked the fresh memories into his jacket for later perusal and took a step to close the distance. “I mean I know I’m gonna see you again, so this isn’t exactly goodbye - “

“You’ve got obligations and so do I.” Clary swayed away, hands linked behind her.

“Oh I am gonna get to you, sweetpea. Though if I end up yodelin’ or stuffed into lederhosen or somethin’ there might be hell to pay.“

“A gift of a baby goat is traditional. Or so my niece claims.” Lowered lashes veiled her eyes as she sidestepped him with the practiced grace of a matador, slipping out of easy smooching range until his patience began to fray.

Stan played along for the moment, stalking intently after her. “You’re not gonna leave me here without a kiss for the road, right?”

“No way. But I’m waiting for our cue.” He managed to cut a quick glance over to the Shack without looking too much like he was doing it, and spotted the curtain pulled back just a bit by a little hand.

“I did not take you to be quite this mean, Miz Merrick.”

“It’s our job as responsible adults to pretend that delayed gratification is a good thing, darling.”

“Who’re you callin’ responsible?”

“Would you two just kiss already!?!”

Mabel’s rising yell of frustration went off like an air-raid siren. Stan grinned wide and rocked back on his heels. Clary cracked up, knees half buckling as she reached out. His hands caught her waist; he swept her half off her feet and kissed her laughing mouth until she dwindled to giggles and then to happy humming against his lips.

Stan held her tight for longer than he needed to, trailing firm kisses along her jawline, her arms twining up to loop around his neck as she sighed in pleasure and regret. “We really should’ve figured this out a week ago.”

“I have ways t’make up for lost time.”

He felt her shiver as she drew careful breath and leaned in to whisper. “I’m counting on it.”

They stayed entwined like that, her hair sun-warm against his cheek, until Dipper called out. “Can I look yet?”

Gently, grudgingly, Clary disentangled herself and drew away. His fingers clung to hers until she was out of reach. “I’ll text you when I stop for the night. See you around, sailor.”

“Take care of yourself, sweetheart.”

Clary lifted an arm, focus shifting as she waved enthusiastically at the rest of the crew on the porch. Her last look at him was wistful and soft but determined, and she winked a tiny wink as she pivoted away and marched up to the Fairlane, dropping into the driver’s seat and dragging the seatbelt across. A moment’s work set the fuzzy dice dangling from the rear-view mirror. The old wagon cranked up like a dream, the big V8 engine so quiet it did little more than purr as she pulled out down the drive.

Stan stood and watched her go until the last bit of blue had disappeared between the trees and the dust had settled. Mabel and Dipper came out to flank him.

“Soooo I guess we’re going to be seeing her again?” Dipper said hopefully.

“Yup.”

“Aaaaaand it was worth taking a chance on telling her what you really feel?” Mabel nudged him in the ribs with an elbow.

“Maybe more show than tell, pumpkin.” Stan’s face ached with a smile that wouldn’t fade. He turned back towards the Shack, clapping hands together. “All right, you two. Day’s young and there’s plenty to do. Who wants to help me haul the S back up?”

There was already a Clary-shaped hole in his immediate plans.

Stan had no idea how this long-distance thing would work, but he was eager to find out.

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Mabel shouts in pure frustration. “Would you two just kiss already!” Clary’s grinning at you like the sun just came out after two years of winter.

Kiss her.

Kiss her.

"You sure about that?'

"C'mon. Trust me." He spared a sidelong glance. Her eyes were wide in the faint light of the cabin, but she settled back warily into her seat.

"You've gotten us out in one piece before. I’m willing to gamble that you can do it again."

The handful of cockeyed reflectors that marked the edge of the bluff came up a little faster than he anticipated and he hit the brakes harder than maybe he should’ve, but Stan was able to lock it down a good eight feet back without any trouble. He heard Clary suck in a hissing breath and let it go slow.

The car went quiet as he flipped back the key. He left the dash lights and headlamps alone for the moment, watching from the corner of one eye as she wound down her window, popped the buckle and leaned forward to brace elbows on the dashboard.

By now they were past twilight into night. The car perched on a rocky ledge well above town. Twisted, scrubby pine clung to fissures in the stone, stunted enough not to block the view.

Stan rarely paid attention to what anything around here looked like, but at this time of year he admitted it was pretty impressive. Gravity Falls rolled out below like a sprawling tangle of Christmas lights. Pale gold and white sparked with occasional blue or red laced into the silhouettes of trees, all the surrounding forest faded down to velvet black in the dark.

Bare traces of midnight blue still clung to the western sky, but summer stars popped out clear and sharp in the vault overhead. Clary twisted, pillowing her cheek on a forearm and peering up through the windshield for a better view. “Nice. I never get to see this many stars back in Baltimore.” Her attention swung over to him and Stan busied himself with escaping his seat belt. “Where are we anyway?”

“There’re a couple little perches up here. This’s the one that’s hard to get at. The easy one is over there - “ He clicked on the highbeams, which reached out far enough to illuminate beaten dirt and a more substantial fence across a narrow ravine. “That is Lookout Point.“ She was beginning to chuckle under her breath and he ignored it. “Which is usually infested with teenagers, which is why we’re over here. Best place to get a look at everything before it disappears in your rear-view mirror, right?”

“So we’re overlooking both town and the local makeout spot.” Her grin flashed in the half-light as she pushed back and made herself comfortable in the far corner of her seat. “I can’t believe how small it all looks from up here. Like your local tourist map but more accurate.”

“It’s not much, I know.” Stan snapped off the rest of the lights and the car went pitch dark. His eyes gradually adapted to starlight as the cooling engine pinged harmony to scattered cricket-song.

“You never did get around to telling me what kept you in Gravity Falls for three decades. There’s the business, sure, but it’s hard to picture you being contented out here for that long.”

“I’m not sure the business woulda worked anywhere else. Scratch that, I know it wouldn’t’ve.” Stan wished like hell that he’d thought to bring a cigar; it’d help keep his hands busy. He settled for resting his cheek against a palm, elbow braced against the window ledge, and tapping restless rhythm with the fingertips she couldn’t see.

“Was it Ford’s thing? The research he came out here to do? I’ve only managed to get bits and pieces out of him about it.” Clary toed off her sandals and tucked feet up onto the seat, glittering dimly across what felt like about a mile and a half of empty leather.

He squinted over at her outline. “What, you asked straight up?”

“He got this wistful look and told me to ask you.”

Stan sighed. “Typical. Kickin’ the hard stuff back to me.” She chuckled and he tipped his head back, staring up at the seams in the roof lining. “Look, considerin’ all the insane crap you’ve seen since you got here, you will not be surprised to hear that there used t’be an interdimensional portal in the basement.”

“What?”

“Maybe a little surprised. So yeah, he came out here for the local weirdness right after college. Me, I, ah.”

Stan closed his eyes, reminded himself that the need to keep secrets was pretty much over and done with, and spilled. “Long, and I mean long story short, Ford an’ I had a fallin’ out when we were on the tail end of high school. I got kicked out, barely talked to him or my parents for ten years, traveled the country tryin’ to make something work, got banned from a couple dozen states…”

Clary was tight-focused on him now, not the sparkling view, and he shifted restlessly under the weight of her shock. “Ford sent a postcard out of the blue one winter, ‘please come’, that was it, so I did. Hadn’t been banned from Oregon at least. I had no idea how bad it’d gotten for him.”

He had to pause, picking his way through the words. Years of practice kept his voice even. “I thought we were gonna work things out. He thought he was gonna tell me to get lost. Things like they were...words got said, punches got thrown...I accidentally pushed Ford through the portal to fend for himself an’ hop through dimensions for the next thirty years.”

It wasn’t like he hadn’t told bits of this story before in various ways, but it was always over a drink and with tongue firmly in cheek, impressing the hell out of some hapless dockside bar with every outrageous embellishment. This was a bare recitation of fact.

She looked stricken, from what he could make out. One hand pressed hard to her lips and he could about hear her thoughts spinning from where he sat. “Wow.”

“Ha. You’re tellin’ me.”

“You took over his identity so you could take over the house.” Clary’s muffled murmur was almost inaudible.

He must have twitched in surprise, because he caught the flicker of her rueful smile as she shifted over to the midline of the bench seat. “I do talk to people who aren’t you, Stan. It’s amazing what you can pick up behind the counter at Greasy’s. Thought it was odd that I heard plenty of stories about Mr. Mystery, but not Doctor Mystery until whatever weirdness went down last summer.”

Stan huffed out half a laugh. “Nosy much?”

“It’s been a month and I find you fascinating.” He cleared his throat and she poked him with a fingertip. “So you stayed. You stayed to make sure he got back.”

At the blurred edge of his vision he could make her out, leaning against the seat back. “I had nowhere else to go, and like hell was I gonna leave until he was safe, so yeah. Moved into the house, started up the Shack, found a way to pay the mortgage.”

“In spades, apparently.”

“I did all right. That all went into the Ford recovery fund, mind you.”

“Stan Pines, selfless. Never thought I’d see the day.”

“Sweetheart, you have no idea how wrong you are.”

Clary chuckled at that and he turned a little to meet the knowing gleam of her regard. “Here I thought you guys had it all figured out.”

“We do now, I guess, but that was a bumpy road and it didn’t come cheap.”

“You’re lucky.”

The faint wistful note in her tone tugged at his attention and he cocked a brow. She slouched, hands intertwined, looking out through the windshield at who knew what. “Not that I need to tell you that. I was in a hell of a state when I got here, and it’s been...nice...to have such good company. Sleeping in a house full of people instead of in another motel room, you and Ford, the kids and Soos and Melody...in spite of all the chaos, this trip would have been so much more bleak without the detour. Thanks for that.”

“Thanks for trashing the car, y’mean?” The sparkly fabric had slipped down enough to bare both her shoulders. Fragile starlight picked out the delicate lines of her collarbones. Dishevelment suited her, he decided.

“I promise to thank your brother for trashing my car before I go.”

Stan casually laid his arm along the seat back and Clary casually nestled into its arc, wriggling a little closer. “I don’t know why. You’re movin’ to Zurich for that fancy job, places to go, people to see, sounds to me like you’re doin’ all right.”

“There are things to look forward to. Doesn’t mean it isn’t lonely going at times.”

“You’ve got family there, right? Your sister and her kids and the grandies?”

She let that hang unanswered for a long moment, lashes lowered, and he found himself stroking her upper arm with his thumb to share a little comfort or stability or something. “It’s possible to live on the same planet and still be a million miles away.” With a subtle shift she pressed her cheek into him. “There’s been so much to deal with and I’ve had to be the tough one for the last couple years. I don’t know how the hell you kept it up.”

“I don’t suppose there’s anythin’ I can punch for ya.”

That won him a dry chuckle. “If only it were that simple.”

Stan dipped his head and pitched his rumble low in the general vicinity of her ear. “All right, then, how about we cross paths again somewhere down the line an’ buck each other up? We’re still on for that date, yeah?”

Clary quivered for a split second - still got it, yup - then rocked back a bit and lifted shrewd, cool eyes to his. “Answer me one question.”

“Shoot.”

“What the hell were you thinking?”

Dammit. Stan knew precisely what she meant. “We made a ton of money, y’know. Gonna cover all your expenses and then some, just you wait.” He waggled brows at her.

“Bullshit.”

“Needed to stress-test Soos and Melody’s crowd management skills while I was around to offer sage advice?”

“Nope.” Her expression was smooth as glass, that faint smile sketched along her lips, shallow lines at the corners of her eyes betraying careful amusement.

“Uh, wild coincidence that I walked into Greasy’s right when everyone was lookin’ to blow their summer cash on somethin’ spectacular?” That actually wasn’t too far off from the truth but she was already shaking her head.

“Nice try.” The smile softened into something a little more hesitant. “You don’t have to take any of this more seriously than you want to, Stan.”

He stared at her in momentary shock - had she misread him that badly? - then felt her fingers twining into his and had to turn away to look out the window for a second, the muddle of his intentions and all the calculated risk crystallizing so sharply in his head that it halfway hurt.

Stan muttered into his knuckles. “Iwantedtoshowyouoff.”

Clary’s clasp twitched in his. “Say that again.”

“I wanted to show you off!” He rubbed at his eyes, gritting teeth in frustration. “I mean – dammit, Clary, I got about everythin’ I ever wanted last summer, everythin’ I dumped thirty years of my life into settin’ right and then some, an’ that oughta be enough.” Stan let the glasses drop back down, searching her shadowed expression. “It’s not. You’ve gotta understand that I am one greedy asshole, always have been. I am selfish enough to want more than that.”

He hadn’t even noticed the tension winding tight in her frame, but he sure as hell noticed the twang of its release. The professional mask cracked clean through. There was nothing but blunt determination left in the line of her jaw and the sharp light of her eyes.

“Good.” Clary hooked two fingers into his neckchain and dragged him in; he followed all too willingly.

It was a wreck of a kiss at first. They shifted and huffed, incredulous half-formed giggles hitching in her throat as his glasses jabbed her cheek. His schnoz and her beak were both substantial enough to pose a bit of a challenge.

At last she swayed into the arch of his encircling arm. Stan chased after, finally finding the right angle to lock lips, his tongue grazing hers and dipping further. The faint mmh that caught in her chest sent a shiver of electricity right down to his fingertips.

He’d half forgotten what a pain in the ass it was to get tangled up in the car - it’d been a while - and the little noises she made took on a frustrated note. At last she pulled away enough to give him a direct, wry look, snagged his collar with quick fingers and drew him down.

Stan braced an elbow so he wouldn’t crush her, went for the slope of her neck and tugged impatiently at the scarf with his teeth. Clary freed a hand and fumbled the knot loose, then the fabric, sheer silk slithering into some dark corner and already forgotten as he trailed kisses up the line of her throat. His lips sealed over the frantic flutter of her pulse and the sharp ah that resulted dragged a growl out of him.

Things went blurry after that. A few bits got cast off here and there, her hair clips landing somewhere in the back seat, his medallion under the brake pedal after it whacked her in the chin. Reproachful teeth nipped at the edge of his ear when his chilly hand settled at her waist to stroke a long arc up her side, and he kissed apology along the line of her collarbone until he felt her shudder and freeze.

Stan made himself stop, dragging his head up with an effort from the bare slope of her shoulder, and, oh.

Well, shit.

His palm was trapped flat against her back, fingers under the bra band. Seemed he still remembered how to unclip these slippery bastards one-handed, because he’d just popped the first hook.

Before he could pull away and apologize, Clary’s fingers twisted into his rumpled hair at the nape and tugged – gentle, but commanding – and he met her eye to hazy eye. To his profound relief that wasn’t anger but a bright spark of glee and rather a lot of real interest. “Did you mean to do that?”

Stan felt himself go scarlet to the ears and thanked his stars that she couldn’t see it in the near dark. “Yes and no?”

A startled, pleased laugh rang in the space between them. He watched her think things over, taking a moment to do the same, and – she deserved better than the front seat of the El Diablo, but what could you do – he was absolutely here for this, which didn’t stop a choked groan from constricting his throat when she arched deliberately under him and canted hips up to press just so.

“Mm.” Fuck, she looked smug and he would’ve called her on it if he weren’t so distracted by her nimble hands between them, popping shirt buttons and sliding in under the slick fabric to stroke his chest. “Carpe diem.”

He’d hung out around Ford long enough to know what that meant.

The tone shifted from playful to purposeful in a blink. Stan’s supporting arm slipped around her, fingers threading deep into tangled waves as he sought her open mouth. Clary's flexed knee settled against his hip as he deftly undid hooks two and three -

...right about in time for the blare of a car horn, someone else’s car horn, to shatter the night.

Stan’s head hit the roof as he jerked upright. Clary recoiled so sharply she slid off the seat, curling in tight like a startled barnacle and compressing into the passenger footwell. Through the haze he could make out headlights across the way at Lookout Point.

“Son of a - ”

“SORRY, MR. PINES!”

God fucking dammit he knew that voice.

Pure adrenaline lent him speed he’d pay for later. Stan booted the door open so hard it tried to bounce back and sprang outside, bellowing like a wounded walrus. “I’M GONNA KILL YOU, ROBBIE!”

“IT WAS AN ACCIDENT, WE SWEAR!”

Stan leaned back into the cabin to flick the headlights on, highbeams still active. Robbie - that greasy kid who’d given Wendy so much trouble, of course he’d turn up like a bad penny at the worst possible moment - flinched behind the wheel and flung up an arm to protect his eyes. His girlfriend, the one with the purple hair and the chronic social media habit, was trying to hide behind her phone.

He clung to the door for balance. None of his blood was where he wanted it to be right this second but he was thinking just clearly enough to be livid. “I DON’T REMEMBER YOUR LAST NAME RIGHT NOW, ROBBIE, BUT YOU BETTER PRAY I NEVER FIND OUT!”

“W - WE WERE JUST LEAVING!” The kid was struggling to get his beater in gear. Stan could hear the pained grind-and-clunk of the transmission from here. “WE DIDN’T SEE YOUR CAR WHEN - ”

“YOU’RE DEAD, YOU HEAR ME, KID? DEAD!”

Robbie’s car lurched and screeched and peeled out way too fast for what he knew was a pretty rough road. Stan collapsed heavily onto the driver’s seat, both hands to his face as he tried to collect himself. As the roar subsided in his ears he registered faint noise behind him and pivoted, suddenly frantic. “Clary. You okay, baby?” If she was crying he really would have to kill the kid.

She was sobbing, all right, but with strangled giggling so profound that she couldn’t get enough air to do more than squeak. Stan deflated a little as she gasped and wiped her eyes and wheezed. At last she was composed enough to throw her head back and bray with uncontrollable laughter for a good minute.

“Yeah, very funny…”

“Oh my god,” she rasped. Clary groped around in the footwell until she came up with his chain and its medallion, then levered herself up onto the seat with a creak of springs. “That poor kid’s probably not going to stop until he’s in the next county.”

“Can’t even get a little privacy on a cliff in this town.”

“My hero. That was magnificent.” Stan rolled his eyes but held still as she clipped the chain back into place, hands light at his neck, and straightened his collar.

“Magnificent enough t’ pick up where we left off?” He knew better, but couldn’t resist the broad smirk. The interruption had blown a hole in the mood.

She smirked right back. “Moment’s passed, darling. Another time.” Clary curled forward and did that liquid thing women could do with arms twisting behind to refasten the bra’s hooks. Stan watched, openly appreciative, as she tweaked the spangled top more or less back into place. “We should head back and check in with the camping crew anyway, make sure nothing’s eaten them since dark.”

“Ha. Yeah, they’ll be fine, you have no idea what a mother hen Ford can be and that magnet gun’s not the only trick up his sleeve. I gotta ask, though.” He drew the back of one knuckle down the side of her pale, pretty neck, and smiled to feel her shiver.

“Go on…”

“You never answered. We still on for that date?”

She slung him an arch look. “What do you call a thousand lawyers at the bottom of the ocean?”

Stan snorted. “That’s the cheapest lawyer joke of all time.”

“Lowest common denominator, yep. Now answer me.”

“A good start.”

“Smart man.” Clary leaned in, laying a delicate, deliberate kiss upon his lips like he was something rare and precious. Stan melted a bit in his seat. Both her touch and her lowered eyes lingered as she redid a few of his buttons, then slid back across the cabin to buckle in. “We’re on. I hope it doesn’t take us until next year, though.”

“What, not gonna cuddle up on the way home?” He fired up the car, the reliable old engine rumbling smoothly to life, and put it in reverse.

“Get this land yacht back on asphalt and drive like a half-blind old man, then yes.”

“I always drive like a half-blind old man.”

“I am not reassured.”

It was an easier drive back out. He actually took pains to dodge the worst bumps this time. Once they were on the county road Clary popped the seat belt and slipped beneath the curve of his welcoming arm. The radio crackled protest as she fiddled with the dial. Pickings were slim late on a Sunday night, and she finally settled for 80s schmaltz. Stan groaned, more for show than anything, and she elbowed him in the ribs. “You’ll live.”

“I may regret it, but I’ll live.”

The moon’s waning quarter still hadn’t made it up by the time they hit the Shack’s long drive, meaning it was a bit before midnight at least. The El Diablo glided easily into its slot alongside the Fairlane. “So if you’re not too tuckered out after all that, I maybe got one last little thing for dessert. You game?”

“I’m game. Need to get my hair back under control, though.” Clary squeezed his hand, tugged on her sandals and hopped out the passenger side, leaning into the back seat to retrieve his jacket and her hair clips. “See you in the kitchen in a bit?”

Even tangled and stiff with hairspray, he liked the tumble of waves falling around her features. “It’s nice down!”

She pulled a face at him. “I’m going to run a brush through this mop and grab something a little warmer to wear. See you in a couple minutes.”

They parted ways at the door, Stan upstairs, Clary down her hallway. The house’s unaccustomed quiet was downright strange after last week’s chaos, but familiar. He was humming some awful 80s power ballad under his breath by the time he got Dipper’s laptop and Ford’s antenna rig set up on the kitchen table. The uplink program was bright with alerts, message lines cluttered with incoming texts and photos - apparently the nerd brigade had found exactly what they were looking for.

“Man, we are late,” he muttered, and punched the couple of buttons that would let him page through to Ford.

The uplink connection crackled to life almost instantly. “Stanley, you are late! Where have you been?!”

“Havin’ a nice night out, Sixer. See you’re not dead yet, that’s good, find anythin’ memorable without me?”

Ford did something on his end to get the rest of the crew on speaker. By the time Clary showed up with her hair brushed back and a well-worn zip hoodie over a t-shirt, both Dipper and Ford were talking a mile a minute and Stan was struggling to keep up with the pictures and videos they kept referring to.

“Hey gang!”

“Hey, Clary!” A good fifteen minutes of excited chatter followed. Stan had some trouble tracking once she sat down across the table, drawing idle fingertip circles around the rim of her water glass and smiling right at him.

Mabel insisted on the last word, as usual, shooing Ford and Dipper off to bank the campfire. Her voice came through pitched low. “So did you guys have a nice evening? Because Tambry’s online update feed sure suggests you did….”

“Uh, what now? How have you even got internet out there?” Stan glanced across the table in confusion. Clary blinked back, but was already skimming through something on her phone. After a few moments she choked faintly and turned the screen so he could see a post title: Most Terrifying Moment Of My Short Life.

The video was dark and blurry, thank mercy for small favors, but Stan’s furious roar came through clear as a bell. He laid a hand over his eyes as Clary began to chuckle.

“What were you doing out at Lookout Point, hmmm?”

“Stargazing,” Clary replied, utterly deadpan.

“Suuuuuuuure you were. Are you two a thing yet?”

Clary quirked a brow at him and shook her head minutely. Stan considered. “Yanno, pumpkin, we’re still figurin’ it out. I mean, we made our apologies, we’re friends an’ all that, so I’m sure we’ll hear from her again somewhere down the line.” He reached across the table to hook an index finger into hers.

Mabel’s muffled wail of protest rose on the tiny speaker. “You’ve gotta be kidding! I manage to get you a full day alone and you still can’t make up your minds? You’re perfect for each other and you’re both too old to goof around!”

“I don’t know what to say, honey, we’re both very careful people.” Clary’s clasp tightened in warning as Stan ducked his head and swallowed shocked laughter. “We’re probably going to watch a movie or something before we get to bed. All of you be careful, got it? I expect to see you for dinner tomorrow.”

“Are you sure we shouldn’t get back earlier? I’ve got a multimedia presentation on Grunkle Stan’s most amazing feats ready to go! I know he’s a little rough around the edges but personal hygiene isn’t everything - “

Stan spluttered indignantly. Clary bit her lip and winked. “I already know he’s amazing, Mabel. Let us enjoy the rest of our evening and we’ll talk tomorrow.”

“Yup, great job, sweetheart, be careful out there an’ don’t give Ford too much trouble. Whoops, connection’s waverin’, gotta scram, seeya soon.” The speaker squawked with a rising woooOOOOoooo of interference as Stan grabbed the antenna’s tip and swirled it around. He stabbed a couple buttons to kill the call. “Welp. Guess we know where she stands.”

“I feel a little mean, but could we maybe enjoy being a thing for more than an hour without it being public knowledge?”

“Are we a thing?” Stan squeezed her hand and rose, dragging the stepstool out from its usual corner.

“You think you’re getting rid of me after all that? I already know precisely how much of an asshole you are. That kind of info is gold.” She watched him clamber up onto one of the countertops, sitting back with arms loosely folded. “You all right up there?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine, this’ll just take a minute.” He reached way up over the shelves, ran his fingers lightly along the right plank, jabbed a thumb into a knot in the old wood and pulled when he heard the latch pop. “Ford put all kinds of weird hideyholes into this place. Found ‘em all, at least I think.”

Stan stretched and twisted and grunted, ignoring Clary’s quiet chuckles from the kitchen table, and finally fished the bottle he wanted out of the back of the hidden cabinet. She stood by as he cautiously stepped off the counter and picked his way down the stepstool. “Here, check this out.”

“That is an awfully convoluted way to store your booze.”

The squat, long-necked bottle he’d picked out dropped into her grip with a faint slosh. “I’ve got two inquisitive-as-hell teenagers in the house, an’ Mabel is gettin’ pretty good at pickin’ locks. Most of this was here before I was, anyway.”

Clary ran her thumb over the dusty label and her brows popped up. “1976. Bicentennial cognac, no less. What the hell was Ford doing with stuff like this?”

“Heck if I know. I think he got a bunch of junk as gifts when he finished off some of those degrees - found an entire drawer full of handkerchiefs, fancy pens, congratulations cards, that kinda crap. There’re a couple more bottles wedged back there, never really took a close look.” He shuffled across the kitchen to pick through the glassware. “So, up for a nightcap? Do some actual stargazin’?”

Amber liquor gleamed against her palms as she tilted the bottle carefully to catch the light. “This is a decent label. Probably worth something just for the year.”

“Great. Then it’s worth bustin’ open for a celebration.”

Clary cracked him a half-delirious grin, like a teenager about to get into serious trouble. “Drinking this out of juice glasses would be an absolute crime. Let’s do it.”

They ended up on the porch, sitting on the top step for a better view of the sky. Stan fired up the cigar he’d retrieved from upstairs while Clary popped the bottle seal and tipped a bare thimbleful of aromatic liquor into each little glass. They clicked the enameled oranges together and sipped. To Stan it was pretty much just vaguely fruity booze, but she hummed in quiet approval. “Not bad, for a one-horse town.”

“Nothin’ but the best at the Mystery Shack.”

“I feel like I should argue that point, but I really can’t.”

The conversation meandered at intervals between comfortable silences. Eventually he tugged out his much-abused, overstuffed wallet and let her thumb through his photos. She chuckled under her breath as he explained some of the background. Really, that picture of Waddles duct-taped to Gompers didn’t make much sense no matter what kind of spin he put on it.

“Pretty recent stuff.”

“There wasn’t much worth keepin’ track of until last year, not gonna lie, though there’re a million pictures of Mr. Mystery with tourists out there somewhere...nice little side racket.”

“Do you keep money in this wallet from time to time?”

“Nah, I sew hidden pockets into everything for that.” He slipped his arm around her as she snorted in undignified laughter. “C’mon, show me your zoo.”

Clary’s pictures were all digital. She swiped through them, pictures of crooked cobblestone alleys and green flower-starred hillsides, pictures of her pretty dark-blonde niece and two gorgeous little girls, one about ten, one barely more than a toddler.

“My niece is Callista. That’s Nathalie, and the baby is Irene. This’s Phil…” The nephew was a handsome, square-jawed young man with a model-quality smile and a tendency to make funny faces in the background of the family shots. “The family athlete. He runs, he swims, he does that insane Swiss thing where you take the train up into the mountains, strap on your skis and hop out when you’re where you want to be…”

Stan let her ramble and watched her hands. He poured another tiny splash of brandy into her glass when she lifted it up to him. “These’re recent, too?”

“This spring.” One of her fingertips tapped uncertain rhythm against the phone’s corner.

The silence drew out for a while - not uncomfortable, just resigned, maybe - and at length he asked the obvious question. “Got any of your sister?”

She didn’t go stiff, exactly, though there was a subtle exhale. “It didn’t end as well for us as it did for you.”

He felt his heart sink a little for her sake. “Don’t have t’tell me anythin’.”

There was a chuckle, soft and dry as a fallen leaf. “We’re in need-to-know territory now, I’m afraid. It’s easier to show than to tell.” Her swift fingertips flicked across the screen of her phone, pulling up a folder, and within that a long series of dated photos. “This is Charlotte. Charlie.”

Clary’s sister was at least twelve or fifteen years older, blonder, beautiful in a blue-eyed way with a killer smile. A couple of the earliest snapshots could have been plucked from among the seniors in the high school yearbook he hadn’t been around to collect. The bubble cut gave way to a long flip, then went feathered in a familiar image: three blondes in sunhats, lined up oldest to youngest like nesting dolls.

The faces shifted by degrees as she skimmed through. Charlie’s hairstyles went on changing over the years; Callista and Phil started out tiny and grew older; Clary herself was only an occasional presence with her hair drawn back into its familiar knot and variations on her ever-present kerchief.

The shot she paused on was a portrait against a bright blue sky. Clary’s arm draped protectively around Charlie’s shoulders. They wore matching sunglasses, matching defiant grins, and matching designer scarves - Clary’s at her throat, Charlie’s tied jauntily around her shorn head.

Only a handful of pictures followed that one. Charlie’s face and her smile grew thinner but the defiance never wavered. The last was a badly lit candid shot of Clary curled up asleep against her sister on a couch, Charlie pressing a kiss to her brow.

“This was supposed t’be a two-man trip,” Stan said after a while as the screen dimmed.

“Mother died last February. Charlie this January. Last year sucked.” Clary’s laugh was faint and humorless. “Really a candidate for the worst of my life. I spent most of it flying back and forth between Denver and Zurich. Hammering out issues with Mother’s estate, trying to support the kids…we’d been making plans for years. Museums, river cruises, palaces, cathedrals, Paris, Rome…this fucking cross-country tour….”

He could make out her shadowed features by the porch light, mouth bitter and taut. “She made me promise that I’d do this, with the stupid car. Made me promise to do a bunch of other things I didn’t much want to do. Wrote up a bulleted list because she knew I’d make a spreadsheet of the thing and work my way through it. She was right, though, goddamn it.”

Crickets sang into the quiet as Clary forced her breathing to steady. When she spoke again it was measured, and stoic, and barely audible. “She knew me better than I knew her and I will never get to fix that.”

Stan picked up her glass, sloshed in another dollop of brandy, and pressed it into her free hand. She looked down at it for a tired moment, then raised it in salute. “To absent friends. I’m sorry to dump all that on you.”

“To better days.” He tapped his glass against hers. “An’ I promise, they do get better.” They drank slowly and watched the waning quarter-moon track up through the treetops.

“You better take good care of your damnfool brother.”

“Oh, I do. I try, anyway. Some days’re harder than others.”

Leaning into her felt so nice, despite the deepening chill and the gradual stiffness in his legs, that he resisted the weight of weariness longer than he probably should’ve. Eventually he allowed his arm to tighten around her and pressed his cheek into her hair. “It’s gettin’ late an’ you’re gonna be on the road soon. We both oughta get some shut-eye. Anythin’ I can do to help you crash out? Wanna doze off in front of a flick?”

“Mmm. I might stay and watch the stars for a while longer. You probably can’t see how gorgeous it is out here, you’re so used to it.”

“You’re gonna sit here an’ brood half the night, aren’t ya.”

“I love that you’re a sharp observer of the human condition, Stan.” Clary accepted his empty glass with a tiny smile. “I don’t know if I like it as much when you focus it on me.”

Stan shoved the cork home in the old bottle, knowing full well that he should respect her privacy, then felt the words bubble out of him unbidden. “Nope. No way.” She turned a gimlet eye upon him, but he shook his head, resolute. “No damn way. What you oughta do is spend the night.”

Her brows shot up. “What, were you planning to banish me to the back seat of my car?“

“You oughta spend the night with me.” Clary froze in gratifying shock. He took the opportunity to stroke her sharp chin with the pad of his thumb. “C’mon, you already know I make a pretty decent pillow.”

Flickers of expression crossed her features, almost too fast to follow, surprise-amusement-annoyance-grief-exhaustion. “All right. That’s a pitch. Are you going to sell me on it?”

“Sweetpea, if I laid an unwanted hand on you I’d pull back a stump.”

“Ha! You’re not wrong.” She cocked her head, eyes softening. “I think you might be weighing your odds, though.”

Stan cleared his throat. “Maybe a little. I swear I’ll behave. Look, it’ll be warm. If you need t’talk or somethin’ in the wee hours you can just wake me up. I’ve done - “ He paused, because her lips were beginning to tremble. “I’ve done more’n my share of rough nights alone.”

Clary pulled it together by main force of will, blinking a few times, the fine line between her brows deepened into a sharp notch. After a long minute or so she closed her eyes and sighed. “All right,” she murmured. “My air mattress or your lumpy bachelor twin?”

“The lumpy bachelor twin got hauled off and torched while I wasn’t here to argue – after I got all the cash out of it, fortunately. I’ve got a nice new orthopedic full-size. Tight quarters, but not that tight.”

She slipped her free arm around him for a momentary hug, then eased out of his half embrace to rise. “I’ll drop off the glasses and get my pajamas. You go pick up all your laundry.”

“I don’t need to pick up my laundry,” Stan groused, levering himself stiffly upright. He accepted Clary’s hand when she offered, grumbling all the way. The brandy went back upstairs with him because hell if he was going to climb the counter again to stash it in the hidden cabinet. He had time to change into the usual sleepytime uniform of boxers and tank top and was tossing discarded socks from the floor into the hamper when her knock came light upon his door.

At least the sheets were fresh, even if he’d forgotten to make the bed, as usual. “Uh – one sec.” Stan stalled until he’d gotten the last of the dirty clothes rounded up, then let her in, rubbing the back of his neck as she stepped through to survey the sorta-controlled chaos of his personal domain. There was one sad bedside light which left the far corners dim – just as well he’d never upgraded to a decent reading lamp.

The pajamas were lightweight, a loose jersey shirt over shorts, her hair pulled back into an unruly ponytail. Stan squirmed a little as she swept eyes across the room, missing nothing. Her smile widened by slow degrees. “In my defense I wasn’t exactly expectin’ company.“

Clary nudged at his chest, then his bicep, turning him around. “It’s your space. I don’t care. Go on, get, I’m sleepy here.” He shuffled obligingly over towards the bed, then stilled as he felt her palm come to rest at the back of his right shoulder. The careful arc of her thumb traced over the burn scars – he’d been in actual sleeves all month. She hadn’t seen it.

“That, ah. That’s – “

She leaned in, her warmth making the length of his back prickle, and kissed him right at the base of the neck where the most stubborn of his stiff vertebrae jutted. Stan shut up. “If I need to know you can tell me another time. Bed. Now.”

It took a few minutes of shifting around, fitting in with no space to spare, but eventually they nestled face to face with the blankets pulled over. Clary plucked the glasses from his nose and set them behind her on the nightstand. Stan tugged at her ponytail with a sad questioning look and she crinkled her nose at him. “Men and hair,” she muttered, but pulled out the elastic and put it aside, then reached way out to snap off the lamp.

They gradually relaxed together in the near-dark. One of Clary’s hands eased between them to rest against his breastbone. Stan leaned in to kiss her temple, listening to the low rusty rumble of her chuckle and then the rhythm of her breathing as it grew deep and even.

He drifted across the line into peaceful sleep without really noticing he’d done it.

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Clary looks over, sober-eyed. “You don’t have to take any of this more seriously than you want to, Stan.”

I am serious enough to see where this goes in a couple months.

I am completely serious.

Really he hadn’t minded much. The prospect of blowing the summer in Gravity Falls wasn’t unattractive. Dipper and Mabel’s parents had jumped at the chance to cut the kids loose for school break just like they had last year, and the grand-nibs were eager to get the hell out of Piedmont.

The Mystery Shack, so far as he’d heard, was thriving and Soos was more than happy to host everyone. Free room and board wasn’t anything to sneer at and the place had definitely been classed up under new management.

But with no demons to deal with, no secret project in the basement, no immediate crisis to manage, enduring several weeks of relative normality was beginning to drive him smack out of his mind.

He stirred himself from staring out the office window to take another look at the Stan O’ War supply list he’d been idly working on. Adjusting the glasses, again, didn’t do a thing to make sense out of his own handwriting. Might as well be trying to disentangle one of Ford’s homebrewed ciphers.

Maybe it was time to take a field trip. He could probably slip across the Nevada border without too much trouble. Surely the kids could keep themselves busy in Las Vegas for a day or two.

He was daydreaming scams, always a pleasant way to pass the time, when the faint sound of rattling metal he’d just barely begun to notice suddenly resolved into something very immediate. The entire Shack trembled as something impacted with terrible force.

With a grunt of surprise he shoved back his chair and headed for the nearest outside door.

---

This is Dodging Disaster the Mr. Mystery Way: Stan Pines’ Guide to Life and Love, an unauthorized novelization of the free and fantastic Swooning Over Stans: A Gravity Falls Dating Sim, released on 6/21/2018. It’s great. If you haven’t played it you should. Go on, now, I’ll wait.

All credit and all praise to the writers, artists, coders and infinitely patient project managers who created the game, and thanks to each of them for putting something so awesome into the world.

All credit and all praise to my sweet friends who read this nonsense and offered constant encouragement and feedback, in particular mothteeth, rosielibrary, A_Shining_Star and WandererofStars.

This story is essentially complete, although yes, I am still frantically editing the last couple of chapters. I expect to post chapters throughout the month of July at a rate of two or three a week.

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Son of a bitch, thought Stan, pushing himself into a jog across the lawn. He hadn’t made it halfway before the woman in the wagon clapped both hands over her startled mouth and burst into tears. Ford winced, backing off with the penlight he’d been waving in her face. Stan put a hand on his brother’s shoulder and drew him back another step, leaning in.

“Hey. Hey, ma’am, you okay in there?”

He got a shaky nod that did nothing to interrupt a series of faint jagged sobs, the kind of tears you got when you were trying very hard not to cry. The driver curled in on herself, knees tucked up, a ball of misery he had no idea how to unravel.

Mabel popped out of the nearest door and skidded to a halt in open-mouthed surprise. Stan pointed her way. “Mabel! Pumpkin, go get a box of tissues and a cold washcloth, all right? Ford, what the hell?”

“I have no idea! I heard it just when you did. I was in the lab – “

Stan pinched the bridge of his nose, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“ – testing the new safety features I just installed on the magnet gun.” Ford looked over his shoulder in dawning horror. “Which must have pulled this victim of circumstance right into the house.” Mabel was already back, dashing to the driver’s side with tissues and washcloth in hand. Her bright voice rang out in greeting and got a muffled response.

“Sweet Moses, Ford, you’ve done it this time.” Stan pulled himself upright with a sigh, doing the mental math and eyeing the damage to the Shack’s shingling. The wagon had definitely gotten the worst of it, he decided with a twinge of relief. He noted a few details – Colorado plates, occupied bike rack, the clutter of an extended road trip jammed into the rear compartment. “Ma’am?”

The woman in the wagon had uncurled a bit, finally, pressing the washcloth to her face. She lowered it to reveal fine, sharp features, grey eyes pink at the edges. “Clary,” she said, thick-voiced, then cleared her throat. “Clary Merrick.”

Mabel was patting Clary’s knee. “She says she’s okay! Clary, these are my grunkles, you’ve met Ford and that’s Stan. Welcome to the Mystery Shack! I’m really sorry about all of this!” Her eyes tracked over to Ford, who was looking guiltier by the second.

“It’s all good, Mabel. Just an accident, right? We’ll get a tow truck out here for this poor unfortunate – “

“I’ll take care of it,” said Ford.

Stan bit back a laugh. “You, fix this mess?”

“I’ve figured out a few alien vehicles in my time – “

“You kiddin’ me?”

Stan turned away from the car, tugging Ford along with him. “You do see what kinda shape this thing is in, right? This was somewhere between vintage and decrepit before it got friendly with the Shack. I can probably get it runnin’ again, but unless you have an engine-repair gun hiding in that lab of yours, that’s gonna take time.”

“Stanley. This is my fault.” The corners of Ford’s eyes crinkled with distress and Stan swore internally.

“Look. Fine. We can let her stay here for the night and I’ll take a look in the mornin’, but you’re gonna modify that magnet gun to iron out body panels or we won’t get too far.” Behind them, a heavy click marked the release of the seat belt.

“A tow truck would be fine. I’d really hate to impose.” Clary stepped unsteadily out of the station wagon, pushing out behind her with a careless hand to close the door with a firm thunk.

The four of them watched as the S from the Shack sign wobbled, skittered with increasing speed down the roof and thudded with a deep crunch square into the center of the crumpled hood. A last hiss of steam welled, faded and died.

Clary laid a hand over her brow, drew a long, steadying breath and turned away. “I’d be happy to take you up on a spare room for the night. Thank you so much.”

Their guest – Stan had to keep reminding himself, guest and not expensive, potentially litigious annoyance – pulled a small overnight bag out of the back seat and trailed after the family to the house, pausing to swap phone contacts with Mabel on the way. Waddles trotted by to check out Clary’s ankles, prompting exclamations and explanations on the way inside. He couldn’t blame the lady. Few people expected to be accosted by a pet pig.

Clary spent five minutes in the washroom and emerged looking…polished. Eyes clear, tear blotching gone, hair tucked smoothly away into its twist. The jaunty little silk neckerchief wrapped snugly twice and knotted at her neck had been set straight. Her glance drifted across Stan’s without really sticking and she offered a careful smile, tagging along with Mabel for what sounded like a house tour.

Stan recruited Dipper as an assistant. Clearing the spare room went fairly quickly, boxes of old merchandise stacked off to one side. He fished out a marker and tagged a few for later discount – some of this stuff had to be six years out of date by now, not quite old enough for a retro sale.

“ – and here is your room! Which is now almost completely clear of terrifying cursed artifacts and where you are guaranteed to have a great night’s sleep!” Mabel burst through the door and tossed a heap of pillows on the almost-inflated air mattress, ignoring Dipper’s hey! of protest as he labored away at the foot pump.

Clary stuck her head in, then leaned through the doorframe just enough to drop off a pile of blankets, linens and a large stuffed blue whale. “The whale’s on loan,” she said, when Stan shot her a flat look of disbelief.

“We’ll make the bed,” Mabel sang. “You two go get acquainted!” She nudged Dipper aside and took over foot-pump duties with enthusiasm.

“Uh – yeah, I guess we’ll see you guys in a couple minutes?” Dipper scooped up the sheets. “We’ve got this.”

Stan found himself ejected into the hallway. Clary blinked up at him, expression softened by maybe a quarter smile. “Mabel is a force of nature.”

“You said it. C’mon, sounds like you already got a pretty good look at the joint.” Stan tipped a thumb over at the connecting door. “I don’t suppose you’ve ever been to the Mystery Shack before?”

“I’ve never been to Oregon before, but I know the name, at least. Saw a bumper sticker – “

“Ha!” Clary rocked back on her heels in surprise. “Hear that, Ford?” Stan yelled in the general direction of the kitchen. “Those bumper stickers were a good investment! And Sixer says they’re too ‘plain’ and ‘graphically simplistic’ and ‘don’t even have an address on them Stanley how is anyone supposed to find the place’ to attract customers.”

“Well, they are graphically simplistic!” Ford leaned over to call back through the kitchen doorway. “I don’t know how she found the place, let alone thought ‘What is the Mystery Shack’ was compelling.”

“No, no, I liked it. Very minimalist. What’s the point of advertising the Mystery Shack if there isn’t a little mystery to solve on the way? Besides,” her voice dropped into a barely-audible rumble, “I’d say it was the magnet gun that was really compelling.”

She’d said that in perfect deadpan, and Stan’s grin went wide. “I like you, Clary. How about I give you a tour sometime tomorrow, regular price.”

That got him a doubtful sidelong frown, and Stan laughed. “We’ll eat in like half an hour. Feel free to unpack or get interrogated by Mabel or whatever. Congratulations, you’re the most interestin’ thing to have happened here all summer.”

Twenty minutes later Ford had managed to pad out dinner with some odds and ends from the freezer. They swiped a kitchen chair to wedge in at the dining table. Clary now sported a Mabel scarf pinned across her chest, anchoring a dishtowel-wrapped bundle of what had to be frozen peas at her left shoulder. Stan reckoned she was anticipating a bruise from the seat belt. Smart. Mabel, bless her, led in with loud enthusiasm about the pleasures of summer in Gravity Falls, and a round of questions followed as he loaded up his plate.

“I’m a lawyer,” Clary said into a still moment. “I specialize in federal tax work.”

He hadn’t been tuned in to the conversation, but that particular combination of phrases was enough to both douse Stan’s nerves in ice water and trigger a regrettable reflex. He set an elbow on the table, leaned in, and said: “What’s the difference between a lady lawyer and a pitbull?”

Clary’s focus snapped to him. Stan raised an eyebrow.

The professional mask didn’t slip, but there was a spark of hot defiance at the back of her eyes. “Lipstick. Why did New Jersey get all the toxic waste and California get all the lawyers?”

Stan almost laughed – apparently there was something human in there after all. “Jersey got to pick first. What’s the difference between a dead skunk in the road and a dead lawyer in the road?”

“Skid marks in front of the skunk. What’s the difference between a lawyer and a boxing referee?” Clary relaxed with an arm draped along the back of her chair, looking at him with her chin cocked the slightest bit in challenge. Mabel had both hands over her mouth, stifling a giggle; Ford and Dipper both looked like they wanted to dive for cover.

“A boxin’ referee doesn’t get paid more for a longer fight.” He’d pinned down the accent now – she sounded like Ford, faint traces of a mid-Atlantic cadence all but buffed off by too much damn education. Not Southern enough for Virginia, so – “You’re a long way from home, Maryland.”

“Could say the same for you, Jersey,” she fired back, lips quirked, aware that she’d had the easier lift. “Long Branch?”

Shit, she had him within thirty miles. Stan rolled with it, slung her a finger-gun and a wink. “Close. Baltimore?”

Clary rolled her eyes in return. “There’s not much else in Maryland, but close enough, hon.”

That took some of the starch out, and the discussion relaxed a little. Clary chatted museums with Mabel and Dipper, displaying all the trademark enthusiasm of a hopeless nerd, which was probably going to make dinner even more exhausting than usual for the next few days.

Stan lobbed an occasional joke at Clary for the rest of the meal. She swatted them back with the easy contempt of a bored tennis pro. He was going to have to do some research, because she definitely knew more lousy lawyer cracks than he did.

They left the dishes for later. Ford perched atop the skull side table, Mabel made herself at home on one arm of Stan’s recliner, and Dipper helped pile up a mountain of pillows for himself and Clary. “Are you all caught up on Ducktective?” he asked as Stan got the TV going and started skimming through channels.

“Never seen it, I’m afraid.”

“You’ve never seen it?! Oh my gosh, there is so much going on this week! Listen up, I’ll explain the basics!” Dipper plopped onto a pillow next to Clary and managed to keep it more or less to a whisper, going squeaky as he got to the really good bits.

The whole room went tense and silent for that week’s reveal, then exploded in groans as Mabel waved a dismissive hand at the screen. “Oh, come on! DipDop called that twist like a month ago.”

Dipper puffed out his bony chest. “Well, Mabel, once you’ve seen real weird, mere fiction gets a lot easier to predict.”

“Uh huh. Those real dishes aren’t gonna do themselves.” Stan headed Dipper off at the pass with a brief glare of warning and hauled himself upright. “Clary, you mind helpin’ me round all that up?”

Ford gently shooed the kids up to bed as Stan and Clary cleared the table and headed for the kitchen. She tossed the bag of peas back into the freezer and headed over to join Stan at the sink, taking up a dishtowel, accepting clean glasses and swiping them dry as he passed them over. “That was an adventure.”

“There’s a ton to catch up on, there. Last season was pretty good. You gotta laptop or somethin’?”

“Mmhm. Not sure how much time I’ll have to spare for binge watching, though. What’s your read on the car?”

“Need to have a look under the hood for that. At least a couple days, and honestly, maybe a little more.” Stan watched her lips compress from the corner of one eye. “That thing’s a classic, if you wanna put it charitably.”

“You’re being charitable. I did have – “ Clary smiled briefly up at Ford as he joined them to start on put-away duty. “I did have some work done on it before I left just to make sure it wouldn’t break down. The plan was for a pretty long trip. Not that it matters much at this point.”

“What’s a girl from Maryland doing out in Oregon with a Colorado license plate?”

“I inherited the car. I’m driving to Seattle to scatter my mother’s ashes in the Pacific.”

And damn, what a way to kill a line of inquiry. She handed a dry plate off to Ford, who put it in the appropriate cupboard, looking a little lost. For a good thirty seconds it was nothing but running water and the clink of china.

“So – does the timin’ matter? We could get you on a bus, hook you up with a rental?” Stan was running the mental math again, and yeah, like it or not this one was going to be on him and his brother. Well, dammit.

“She’s dead, Stan, no one’s in a hurry. Least of all me.” A tiny, bitter twist pulled at one corner of her mouth, but she looked up to Ford and her tone was sincere. “Listen. This was an accident, I get it. A very weird accident. I was already planning to make a sort of travel holiday of this, and I’ve got no issue staying in Gravity Falls for a little while – I’ve got the bike and plenty to read. Can you recommend a hotel? A B&B maybe?”

Yes! thought Stan, then No! as Ford opened his mouth and started playing gracious host, of all things. “I wouldn’t dream of it, Clary. I know it’s crowded, but we already have a room set aside for you, and at the very least I can promise you won’t be bored. You’d be right at the center of activity here! I can suggest some hikes, we have lots of games, there’s the lake and the Shack itself of course. You should be able to reach almost anything with that bicycle.”

Stan did his level best to make please, no, come on already faces at Ford over Clary’s head, which was difficult because she was so damned tall. The twins only had about three inches on her. Ford was either missing the signals or being deliberately oblivious. Stan mentally wagered on the latter.

“I’m tempted,” Clary said carefully.

“Please, just sleep on it. I know it’s been a difficult day, and again, I’m so sorry to have put you in this predicament.” Ford lightly plucked the last glass from her fingers and reached up to set it into its place. “We’ll check on both the car and your shoulder.”

For a moment Clary’s lashes dipped down and her fingers twisted into the dishtowel. “All right. You’re very generous, Ford, Stan, thank you. We can go over it in the morning. I’m afraid you’re right, it’s been one hell of a day and I should get some rest. Good night, gentlemen.”

“Good night, Clary.”

“G’night.” Stan dropped a couple of ice cubes into a glass and lifted it in dismissive salute as she headed out towards the repurposed storage room, then gave Ford his very best ‘What the hell, Sixer’ look. What he got back was wide-eyed mock innocence and a shrug.

“Seriously?” Stan said, letting his brow smack lightly into the freezer door.

“I owe her,” Ford said with as much dignity as he could muster. “And it seems to me that she could use the company.”

Stan tapped his head against the freezer twice more before straightening with a groan.

“You were getting bored anyway.” Ford spared Stan a knowing glance.

“I have not been that bored.”

“You were bored enough to take another shot at Dungeons, Dungeons and More Dungeons last week.”

“Yeah, that ended in flames. Let’s hope this doesn’t.”

“She’s interesting, that’s for certain! Perhaps we can make a few minor upgrades to the engine before we send her out again….”

“Ford. Do not.”

It was too late, of course, it had been too late well before Ford had voiced the idea, and he was already jotting notes in his spare pad as Stan watched him wander down the hallway. He’d be up until two in the morning, as usual.

Stan topped off his glass with water and shuffled off towards his own room. Bored. Pfft.

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Clary is talking to the others at the table, and you think you catch something about her doing federal tax law stuff. Yikes.

Crack a lousy lady driver joke.

Crack a lousy cryptid joke.

Soos sidled up to him early the following morning. “Hey, Mr. Pines, business is awesome! We’re in great shape to host the dance next week! Here’s the thing, though, I’m really close to having the new Dreaming Denizens darklight exhibit done.” He clasped hands together in anticipatory delight. “We could do a grand opening that night but I can’t find time between tours to work on the critters. Can you maybe help out for a day or so?”

So he’d had to leave the two lunatics unsupervised while he assembled a batch of fierce, hissing, taxidermied flying minks. There was no way to turn down Soos or an opportunity to upsell the dance tickets.

He cornered Ford for a lecture before Tate swung by to pick him up, something like that thing had better still be street legal when I get up there or so help me. Ford made a bunch of almost-certainly-hollow promises that they’d respect the sanctity of Clary’s mom’s precious vintage touring vehicle and that was that.

Stan put the whole thing out of his head for most of the day, focused on patching together the little monsters they’d need for the exhibit, and was washing up in the kitchen when he heard Clary’s level voice spike in surprise.

He stuck his head out into the hallway and found her by the side door, staring in disbelief at her phone. Ford’s voice was just audible on the speaker. " - sure you still want to keep the old paint color? This is a fine opportunity to change it if you'd like!"

She had a hand pressed to one side of her face, fingertips pushing in hard at the temple. "Ford, that was mint-condition factory-original paint when I got here. Arcadian Blue. What happened to the rest of it? You were just supposed to fix the hood!"

"Well, Fiddleford and I thought we'd rechrome everything while we had the opportunity, since we had the windshield out. Then we saw a chance to improve the safety features while we were at it - did you know cars of this vintage are practically death traps? I'll have to take it up with Stanley - " A distant, hollow boom sounded on the phone. Clary's visible eye squeezed tightly closed. "Whoops! I'll get back to you shortly!"

The line went dead.

Clary slumped against the wall for several seconds. “I have made a terrible mistake.”

He bit his lip and patted her shoulder warily. “I’ll, uh. I’ll give him a call an’ make sure they behave themselves. It won’t end up any more of a death trap than it was when y’got here.”

She laughed at that, the same ragged laugh he’d heard when the piston blew up in the first place, then looked up to him with a pinched smile. “You sure you mean that? I get the impression that those two can get a bit out of hand.”

Stan ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah. About that. Maybe I shouldn’t’ve taken a day off, but we’re so close to havin’ the new display done...I’ll get up there an’ have it all under control before things get too weird.”

“Promise?”

“Trust me, sweetheart.”

She laughed at that, too, just a little cynical pfft, but her eyes softened in a way he very much liked and she hooked her index finger into his for a fleeting clasp. “I trust you,” Clary murmured. He damned near bent to kiss her right there before the racket of Dipper coming down the stairs set him rocking back two steps and clearing his throat.

Dipper paused before he made the left turn to the outside door, looking them over in scandalized confusion. Clary just smiled. “Good luck with the winged weasels, Stan. See you for dinner.”

By Saturday morning there was a menu tacked to the fridge. Clary’s tidy angular script promised things like ‘baking powder biscuits with honey butter’, ‘brown sugar bourbon baked beans’ and ‘deviled egg red potato salad’. She’d been running all over town with her little borrowed pickup to line up supplies.

At this point Stan was pretty sure anticipation might kill him if the stress of getting everything done on time and keeping the Fairlane project on track didn’t get him first.

He managed to swing by the manor to check on the station wagon - still blue, thank mercy, the hood now snapped back into its original shape and the cracked windshield replaced. Ford showed off the GPS they’d installed and McGucket chattered endlessly about the new frictionless coating they’d applied to the engine cylinders. Half of it went right over Stan’s head and at length he waved hands in frustration. “Just tell me it’s gonna run as well as it did before she got here!”

“Oh, much better!” they replied in tandem.

Stan stopped dead, squinted at their innocent faces in profound suspicion and groaned. “Y’know what. I don’t have time t’ double-check all this right now, you both know that, and so I’m leavin’ it to your tender care. I swear if anythin’ you two do harms a hair on her head, there’ll be hell t’pay. Got it?”

McGucket blinked in rheumy surprise. Ford had that faint thoughtful look Stan was getting really tired of, but he nodded in agreement. “You have my solemn word, nothing but some very minor improvements to safety features and performance. It’ll be more than safe enough to trust the kids in.”

“Fine. Fine. You’re both gonna sit down an’ explain everythin’ before she leaves, though.”

“Of course!” Ford’s most reassuring smile was in full force. Stan didn’t trust it for a second, but it would have to do for now.

There were a few more errands to run as the long afternoon wound down. Stan tacked up posters for ‘Mr. Mystery’s July Jamboree!’ around town as he went. By the time he finally pulled into Greasy’s he’d relaxed, humming an absent tune as he headed in to hang one last poster and pick up a coffee.

“Hey, Susan,” he called as he parked at the counter, swinging a look around the joint and its collection of regulars in for an early dinner. He was the center of attention, because of course he was and no one in this burg was any good at being subtle about it.

“Oh, Stan! It’s so nice to see you, sweetie,” she said in her usual tone of cheerful obliviousness. “How’s it been going this week? I hear the party’s going to be quite the thing!” Susan poured him a cup of familiar potent black sludge. “That tourist lady of yours has been through a couple of times. She’s really nice for an out-of-towner, good tipper and all. Was in the other day for breakfast, you know, wearing your jacket. Went pink as a petunia when I asked her about ya!” Her laugh was surprisingly sweet and she tugged her slack eyelid up, then down. “Wink!”

Stan busied himself with dumping too much sugar into his coffee. “Yeah, I mean, she’s all right I guess. Pretty good company for a hoity-toity type.”

“She came in yesterday asking about supplies.” Susan set her elbow on the counter and leaned in, conspiratorial. “Said she was gonna do a picnic at the Shack next Friday right before your big event.” Her voice dropped to a stage whisper. “Why, she asked if I could bake a couple cherry pies for her! What’re you up to, Stan?”

“Well. Y’know. An exclusive little gatherin’.” Stan settled himself, sat back and sipped slowly for effect. “Just friends an’ family.”

“I’m surprised she’s stuck around this long, nice city girl like that.” Blubs anchored the end of the counter, Durland seated one stool over and working his way through a ham-on-rye. “She has to have seen everything Gravity Falls has to offer by now. The Shack, the mall, the museum, the bottom of the lake….” Both of them chuckled over that one. “Maybe she should just hang up a shingle out there. We could use a lawyer.”

“Well, Stan could use a lawyer,” said Durland to a general rumble of laughter.

“You guys trashed her car, right?” came from one of the far corners. “That weird brother of yours made the brakes cut out or something so now she’s stuck here getting it fixed? We all know you’re too cheap to actually send it up to Portland.”

A prickle of annoyance nudged at the back of his eyeballs. “We offered and she decided she liked my face enough t’let us do the work. Should be done in a couple days. She’s just hangin’ around for the dance party.”

“Oh, I’m sure she likes ya, sugar.” Susan hid a giggle behind one hand.

Blubs tugged down his shades for a direct glance. “You did fish her out of the drink.”

Manly Dan scoffed from the far side of his mountain of meatloaf. “Stan Pines hasn’t managed to keep a lady around for more’n a couple days in all the years he’s been here. I’ll believe it when I see it!”

Stan slugged back a swallow of bitter, bitter coffee in an effort to not spout off, then did it anyway. “What, y’think we kidnapped her or somethin’? She’s here because she wants t’be!”

“Now calm down, all of ya.” Susan looked around the murmuring diner in reproach. “She’s been nothing but sweet to everyone in town. I’m sure it’s gonna be a real nice picnic.”

“Excuse me!” Mayor Cutebiker’s skinny arm went up from a few booths down. “Is that going to be included in the party ticket price? I need to know when I should show up!”

“What?” Stan’s shoulders twitched in surprise. “No, no, the party thing’s only for the dance, people.”

Dan bared teeth in one of his terrifying smiles. “I’d pay just to meet the woman willing to put up with Pines for three weeks.”

“What’s she serving, Stan?”

“Are you two going to dance?”

The whole place got the wrong idea in about three seconds. Stan could barely get a word in edgewise as conversation erupted, people pestering him about prices, about the new exhibit, about who’d be hosting the party that night.

Something snapped in the back of his brain.

“ALL RIGHT,” Stan roared, and the chattering crowd quieted in anticipation. “Listen up, because I’m only gonna say this once: Miz Merrick’s willin’ to make a very limited number of tickets for dinner available. Eighty-five a head. That’ll get you into the dance party and the Dreamin’ Denizens exhibit, too. This is a one-time engagement, folks, the lady’s a class act an’ I’ve seen the menu. It’s gonna be an event for the ages.”

He zeroed in on the nearest pretty face, hit her dead on with the full-headlights smile and the finger-guns, and was gratified to see her half-swoon against her companion. “Whaddaya say? First come, first serve!”

Fistfuls of money appeared as if by magic. Stan leaned over to whisper to Susan. “Sweetheart, lend me that ticket book, would’ja?” Starry-eyed, she handed over both the book and her pencil stub, and he started scribbling out tickets for Clary Merrick’s Chicken Picnic! on two-part carbonless guest checks as fast as he could.

Half an hour later he was driving back up towards the Shack. Almost eighteen hundred bucks was jammed into his back pocket along with a stack of IOUs. He was already puzzling out where to beg, borrow or steal enough chairs and tables to accommodate a crowd this large, and wondering just how much fried chicken Greasy’s could crank out on like four days’ notice.

He was also figuring out how the hell to survive through the end of the day, because Clary was going to kill him.

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The whole diner erupts in excited conversation, and everyone in here has got the wrong idea. They want to come to Clary’s picnic! And they’re willing to pay for the privilege!

Absolutely not!

Talk up the dance instead.

Stan made to slide on by, intent on heading out to the yard and the cars and the testing-out of a happy engine, but Mabel caught sight of him and scuttled out in pursuit. “Grunkle Stan! Help me out for a minute, we need ice pops for these brave adventurers!”

“Hey, sweetheart.” He grinned at Mabel, caught Clary’s eye in passing and absolutely did not blush a little, nope, no way, he was too old and too jaded for that kinda nonsense.

Mabel squinted up at him appraisingly, planted hands at his back and shoved him towards the gift shop. “So?” she hissed between her teeth as they staggered down the hallway. “Gimme the 411.”

All he could manage was a thumbs up. Her eyes went wide and she yanked up the cowlneck of her sweater to muffle a high-pitched squeak of glee. “So, she asked me out, I guess, maybe when we’re in port, since we swapped phone numbers an’ all - “

“Did you kiss her?!”

“What? No!”

“You should. She gets all dreamy-eyed - “

“Mabel, she is a classy dame, you don’t rush that kinda thing!”

“There is no dame too classy for my Grunkle Stan.” She hugged him hard around the waist and ran off to the gift shop, leaving him dumbfounded. “I’ll grab you a pineapple one!”

He hauled both the toolbox and a pineapple ice pop out to the yard, late-morning sunshine laying across his shoulders with a warm and soothing weight. The Fairlane’s engine was familiar as the back of his hand after two weeks of tinkering with its insides. Stan propped up the hood and dove in, checking and re-checking his work, reaching in to tweak a connection or two. A low hum of satisfaction rumbled in his chest as he slid into the driver’s seat and shook out the keys.

A good half tank of fuel remained, so no problem on that front. The engine sputtered briefly as he coaxed it into life, then settled into an even cadence that was easy enough on the ears, but Stan cocked his head as he listened. A faint off note in the sound plucked at some distant memory. He leaned on the gas a bit, leaving the car in park.

Then blinked, as the subtle vibration he’d been registering resolved itself into something more rhythmic.

“Shit.” Stan yanked his foot off the pedal and flipped the key back towards him, the thrum of well-regulated combustion rudely interrupted by an earsplitting clatter that echoed off the surrounding trees. The engine took way too long to wind down into silence, something in its guts rattling around hard enough to jostle the suspension. He laid a hand across his brow and swore fervently under his breath.

Twenty seconds passed before the side door banged open and a blur pelted across the yard. Clary smacked into the driver’s side, barely catching herself against the window frame. Winded, she stuck her head into the passenger compartment, frantic eyes flicking across the dash and the dented hood. “That was a piston.”

“That was a piston,” Stan agreed grimly.

“What - what the hell happened? Is the engine dead?” She sagged against the car.

“Well - “ Clary made a strangled noise of protest and he winced. “No. No, no, it’s not dead but things just got more complicated. I swear this isn’t my fault.” His brother and the kids were almost there, trotting across the grass. “Ford, did McGucket get all that heavy equipment shifted up to his new place? We’re gonna need an engine sling at the very least.”

Ford looked a little stricken as he accepted Dipper’s phone. “I thought we’d need to take the wagon up there for the bodywork, but I hoped it’d be under steam by then. Yes, the garage should have everything we’re going to need and then some.” He scrolled through contacts and tapped a number, turning away to engage in low conversation.

Clary straightened, leaning hard on the door for support. “All right,” she whispered. “Fine. Not like it hasn’t been a comedy of errors since I crashed into the town jewel at the peak of the season.” Her hands came together with a sharp clap. “We’d better get the rest of my junk out of the car. May I have some help?”

There wasn’t much left to clear out at this point. Clary opened all the doors and the back gate, letting the kids shuttle the last couple of bags into the house. She handed a skinny box of bottle rockets over to Stan. “Leftovers. I guess we can fire those off when this thing’s finally done.”

Then she collapsed onto the edge of the driver’s side passenger seat, doubled over with her head in her hands. “Good Christ. We just can’t catch a break, can we?”

Ford dropped into a crouch with an ease Stan envied, looking up to her and speaking firmly. “We promised that we’d get you on the road again and we shall. We’ll understand, of course, if you want to cut your losses at this point. The offer of a rental stands, if you want to head up to Seattle and come back to collect your car.”

She was already shaking her head, laughing raggedly. “Come on, Ford. You understand the sunk cost fallacy as well as I do. Thank you, but no.” Clary patted the seat back. “Whatever it takes, it’s got to be this ride. Stan? Can you actually fix it?”

That stung a bit but he couldn’t blame her. “Yeah. I mean, it’s gonna be another week, maybe a little more, and we might be haulin’ McGucket in to help out some.”

Clary drew a careful breath. “Who exactly is McGucket?”

“Best mechanical engineer I’ve ever met,” said Ford.

“Town crank,” said Stan, and got a glare for his trouble. “What? They’re both true!”

Ford sighed and rose. “I’ve been hoping to introduce you to Fiddleford anyway. There might be quite a bit to talk about! Can you adjust your schedule to accommodate another week or so?”

“My next firm commitment is in September. I arranged to leave most of the summer open. I will admit I expected to spend most of it on the road.” Clary’s smile was crooked.

“The McGuckets would be happy to have us as soon as we can arrive. Is it all right to line up a tow truck?”

“Go for it. Thank you, Ford.”

Ford’s smile was the warm, reassuring one he tended to bust out for the customs agent when they’d come skidding into some obscure port with inadequate paperwork. “Shouldn’t take much more than half an hour.”

Stan watched him head back towards the house and sat heavily behind the steering wheel. Clary studied her feet, then pitched backwards with a groan, legs hanging out the door as she sprawled across the back seat. Both hands came up to cover her face. “Aaaaaaauuuuuugh.”

“You all right over there?” He set the fireworks down in the footwell and draped an arm over the backrest, peering down in concern.

“Everything hurts and I want to cry.”

Stan fidgeted. Extending reassurance had never been his strong suit. “Listen...McGucket is definitely a little nuts but he knows his way around a combustion engine like nobody else. Between him an’ me we’ll get it runnin’.”

“This damned car.” She sounded so tired. “I had one job this summer, get this thing from Colorado to the west coast, then back home to Baltimore. I haven’t even made it to the Pacific yet!”

“Pretty roundabout route for gettin’ back to Maryland.”

Her breath hitched. “Yes,” she said. “I suppose it is.” Clary let her arms fall, one drooping to the floor, the other crossed over her abdomen, and stared up at the roof light. “Stan, I’m glad I’m here. I hate that I don’t have any control over being here.”

Stan tried out comforting responses in the back of his head for a couple seconds, words sticking in his throat. “Well, if you’re gonna be here another week, we’re doin’ the dance thing next Friday. You an’ I could actually, y’know. Dance. If you want,” he clarified as her eyes swiveled over to him.

Clary was silent just long enough to make him nervous, but at last the unhappy line of her mouth softened. “I meant what I said. I’m not taking it back. Even if the car still isn’t running.” She lifted a hand and hooked her index finger into his at the seat back, letting the weight of her arm hang. “Let’s dance.”

She was beautiful in her exhaustion. Stan shifted to hide a widening smile against his shoulder and tightened his one-digit clasp in hers. “Great. I’ll see ya there. Gonna be quite the swank party.”

They trailed the tow truck in the El Diablo, Clary tucked into the front seat, Ford in the back with the kids. Dipper narrated choice bits of Northwest family history all the way, none of it flattering. Clary kept glancing back to him in astonishment. “They were really that bad?”

“They used to be, but they don’t have all that dirty money to throw around any more! And, uh. Pacifica’s okay.”

Mabel jabbed him in the ribs with an elbow.

“Ow. Anyway, McGucket ended up buying the place at the end of last summer, so it’s probably changed a bit, but it’s huge! I haven’t been up there since the big party last year. Hey, there it is.”

Clary looked up to the vast lodge-style manor on its hill as they rounded a curve and emerged from the trees. “Stan?”

“Yeah?”

“This town doesn’t make any sense.”

“Thought you’d figured that out by now.” He swung the car up along the long drive, squinting up at the mansion. “I never did manage to slip into this joint while the Northwests were runnin’ it.”

“It takes a lot of money to be that tacky. Clary, Dipper is definitely taking us on the tour.” Mabel hooked an arm firmly through her brother’s. “We’re gonna let the machine geeks go at it for a while.”

“I don’t know, Mabel....”

“C’mon, you said it wasn’t haunted any more! What’s the harm? I’m sure the Northwests took all their awful family portraits with ‘em....”

The kids bickered all the way up to the garage, which was as oversized as the rest of the place. He could just glimpse a tinkerer’s dream of equipment in there – stuff he recognized, stuff that looked to be custom built, some massive grease-encrusted hunks of machinery that must have come up from the town dump along with McGucket.

The man himself was a lot less grease-encrusted than he used to be. McGucket still sported the overalls and the spectacles, but he was scrubbed, bright-eyed and less stooped, and the missing teeth had been patched in through some kind of dental wizardry. Mabel and Dipper hauled Clary off for introductions while Stan and Ford got the wagon unloaded, oriented and nudged into the open bay.

One thing hadn’t changed at all and that was the language. McGucket’s conversation was as peppered with hick-isms as ever. “What a pleasure to meet ya, miss! Ford’s filled me in on yer situation and I’m real sorry y’got stranded out here, but we’ve got the stuff t’get ya right on the road again! I hear there’s a thrown piston t’fix?” He, the kids and Clary, her eyes widening a little with every twang, took off on a tour of the further corners of the space. An occasional snippet of discussion drifted back Stan’s way as he tried to focus on the immediate necessities.

“Just as well she already knows this place is a little strange.” Ford caught Stan’s jacket as it was tossed over, then shucked his own coat and hung both up on pegs.

“Not sure I’d’ve brought her up here without knowin’ she wouldn’t flip.” Stan got the Fairlane settled into place, set the brake and went looking for a dolly.

“You wouldn’t believe some of the things he’s built! McGucket can do stuff with old cars that’s practically miraculous--!” Dipper was nearly hopping in excitement as the little tour group rounded the far end of the garage. Stan glanced up, caught his nephew’s eye and dragged pinched fingers along his lips: zip it, kid. Dipper blinked, went a little red and reined himself in. “I mean he’s not going to do anything weird to your car. Grunkle Stan will make sure of that.”

“Of course not! Why, it’d be a crime to take apart such a pretty thing.” McGucket caught one of Clary’s hands in both of his and peered up in watery-eyed sincerity. “I promise we’ll take real good care of it. Mabel, honey, y’said you wanted t’take a quick tour? I can send ya up with Tater if y’like.”

Stan hauled up the hood and latched its support into place, listening in. Clary’s polite smile finally loosened up into something genuine and she tightened her grip in McGucket’s. “That’s your son, right? I’d love to see the place. Mabel says it’s something else.”

“Sure is! Left up most of the fancy stuff, gold doorknobs an’ all that claptrap, might have t’swap ‘em out next time we need some for circuit boards or whatever...” McGucket fished a heavily modified cell phone out of a pocket and chattered into it as he led the other three up towards the house.

“Gold what?” Stan asked under his breath as they went out of sight.

“Don’t ask. I’m not sure whether he’s serious and it’s not worth crossing the path of the latest Patrol-O-Bot prototype to find out.” Ford peeled out of his sweater and hung that up next to his coat. “Where do we start?”

It took most of an hour for McGucket to make it back down to the garage, by which time they’d gotten the engine fluids drained and the banged-up hood removed. “Nice dings y’got there! Ford, she said it was that magnet gun o’yours did the deed? Maybe we can set up opposin’ fields, pop that sucker nice an’ flat again?”

Stan rolled his eyes a little and tuned out the dense cloud of nerd words that McGucket and Ford generated every damn time they crossed paths. Gibberish along the lines of ‘get a few more horsepower out of it’ and ‘polymer coatings’ and ‘increased fuel efficiency’ bounced back and forth as he methodically disassembled and labeled everything in the engine compartment.

They were all sweaty and grimy by the time Clary and the grand-nibs reappeared. Clary looked up at the sling-suspended engine with worried eyes, then drew breath and squared her shoulders, jangling a set of keys by their fish-shaped fob. “Guess who’s got a loaner,” she sang. “Tate is spotting me his spare truck. He let me raid the larder up at the manor, too, so I’ve got dinner covered. Anyone mind if I run the kids back down to the ranch?”

“What, all we had t’do for some replacement wheels was wreck the car even worse an’ drag it up here?” Stan grinned over her way and she grinned back, relaxing a shade. “Lookin’ good so far, Clary. Sure, seeya back at the Shack this evenin’.”

“Thank you, fellas. Thank you, Mr. McGucket!” Clary shouldered a canvas bag and headed for the far end of the garage.

“Call me Fiddleford!” came out from somewhere under the Fairlane.

The loaner turned out to be a lightweight pickup with ‘Tate & Backle’s Bait & Tackle’ decaled on the doors. Dipper, Mabel and Clary all loaded themselves in. Clary fired it up with a low roar and with three shouts of ‘wooooooooo!’ they peeled out down the long, curving drive back towards town.

“They’re going to get in trouble, aren’t they?” Ford peered out after them from behind the bulk of the kitbashed machinery he’d been using for cover.

“Less trouble than they’d get in if I were drivin’! C’mon, let’s finish pullin’ these pistons.”

Stan and Ford didn’t head back down until nearly sunset. They’d borrowed one of the manor’s ludicrous excess of bathrooms for showers, and Stan had ‘borrowed’ one of the thick, fluffy, pure-white, gold-logoed bath towels to take home through the simple expedient of folding it up and stuffing it under his arm.

The Stanleymobile’s usual parking spot was a lot emptier without the wagon angled in next to it. Mabel was waiting for them on the couch when they finally pulled in, snapping her scrapbook shut as they ambled wearily towards the house. “Gentlemen! Have we got a meal for you! How’s the car?” She waved them in towards the dinette.

“In pieces,” Ford said dryly. “It’s a good start at least. What did you make?”

“Oh, you’ll see.” Mabel waggled eyebrows at both of them and vanished off down the hallway. “Have a seat! We’re almost done!”

The dining table was dolled up with a tablecloth Stan was pretty sure had been a curtain last week and a candelabra nicked from a Summerween exhibit. He grabbed a chair just in time to dodge Dipper, who scurried in to drop off a plate lined up with neat rows of salami-wrapped mozzarella, olives and tiny pickles. “Appetizers!” he called in passing, doubling back to the kitchen.

Stan exchanged glances with Ford, shrugged and reached for an olive. “This oughta be entertainin’.”

A low argument between the younger twins, just loud enough to be audible, was intercut with sporadic bits of crackling radio. Clary walked through to set a pitcherful of water and a few glasses on the table, then leaned in to speak softly. “The soundtrack was not my idea, got it?” Stan was struggling to stifle laughter by this point; Ford resolutely bit into another pickle.

Eventually the crackle settled down into what sounded like distant cocktail-hour strings. Mabel marched in first and set down a bowl of fancified rice. “For your consideration, tonight’s menu is produced by our executive chef, Miz Clary Merrick!” Dipper and Clary shuttled in serving dishes until the table was loaded down - garlic bread, a couple different green things he didn’t pay much attention to, and chicken in some pale lemony sauce.

Ford’s nose actually twitched. “Where on earth did you find capers?”

“The pantry up at the McGuckets’ place is bigger than my entire kitchen. You wouldn’t believe the weird pickled things in there. Capers were easy.” Clary laid a napkin across her lap and reached for the rice. “Let’s eat.”

The whole spread turned out to be about a dozen steps above meatloaf. Stan demolished a pile of chicken piccata, went for seconds and found himself fork-dueling with Dipper over the last bit. “Settle down, you two.” Clary nudged back from the table. “There’s pie for dessert. Maybe after we’ve digested for a couple of minutes. But first - “ She steepled her fingertips and looked out critically across the empty dishes. “I have a proposal to make.”

Mabel bounced a little in her chair. “We want to throw a picnic!”

Clary glanced heavenward. “My sainted mother,” she said, kicking the nearest leg of Mabel’s chair, “was a terrible cook, but she had a few specialities and one of them was the family fried chicken. We’re going to have the big dance thing next Friday. So, with your permission, Ford, Stan.” Her chin dipped as she looked at them in turn. “I’d like to host a picnic lunch that afternoon for you guys and anyone else you think I should meet before I pack it up and head out.”

Stan conceded the last bite of chicken to Dipper - kid needed all the protein he could get anyway - but stole the serving dish and swabbed out every trace of sauce with a crust of bread. “Is your fried chicken half as good as this stuff?”

“Better.”

“Sold.”

Mabel beamed, teeth and braces gleaming, and - too late - Stan sensed the trap. “Fantastic! So we’re gonna need to do a bunch of prep.” Her scrapbook came out onto the table, bang, and she flipped it open to a page festooned with tiny curling streamers. Clary deftly snatched plates out of the way, handing them off to Dipper, who ran them to the kitchen. “We’ve got an invite list started, but Clary and I will need to schedule a couple of meetings. You know, to get everything organized since she’s gonna host. That means we have to get Grenda and Candy and Pacifica over here to help out - we need glamour consultants!”

“This means a slumber party, doesn’t it.” Ford’s eyes narrowed, but Stan didn’t see any way to wiggle out of it this time.

“Since everyone’s scattered all over town, it only makes sense to gather here, doesn't it? We'll have to talk about the menu, the décor, the clothes, the music, there's a lot to do.” Clary plucked the piccata bowl from Stan’s slack fingers. “I’ve been extended an invite which I’m honored to accept, so there’ll be adult supervision. Surely we can host for one night?”

Ford groaned quietly. Stan raised both hands, knowing when he’d been beat. “Fine. Deal. As long as you deliver on dessert.”

“Oh, I’ll deliver. Has everyone got their second wind?”

“Heck yes,” chorused the kids. Clary stacked up the remaining dishware, whisked it away and returned with some kind of lemon curd pie dolloped with whipped cream. It was too tart, too sweet, completely delicious and almost gone by the time they were all too stuffed to eat any more of it.

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“I’m glad to be here, Stan. I just hate it that I’m stuck.” She stares up at the dome light with tired eyes.

You could take a day trip to Bend with the bike.

We could probably get in another fishing trip.

“I should take you to the hospital.” More groans. “My upstairs study isn’t too cluttered. We’ll set you two up on the couch, I’ll keep an eye on you for the night, and I can probably allow each of you to nap for an hour or so at a time. That’s the best I can do.”

“You’re not gonna give either of us a moment’s peace otherwise, are you.”

“No.” Ford folded his arms and frowned down at them both. “Go on, go get pillows. You can finish giving me the details about your encounter today.”

Clary shot Stan a fleeting, resigned smile, swallowed a long gulp of water and pushed back from the table. “See you in a few minutes.”

They reconvened at the study, the space cluttered as ever if less dusty. Clary rubbed her eyes as she looked around, tossing pillows and blankets on the couch and taking an armload of books off Ford’s hands. “How’s this going to work?”

“Short naps. I’ll wake you up every hour or so to check the pupils and ask some of the usual questions. Coherence checks, really.”

“Yeah, we might as well stay as awake as we can.” Stan finished locking in the legs of a card table in one corner and hauled up three mismatched chairs, then plunked a battery lantern in the middle. “Sixer, can she crash for a while? She did all the hard work out there today.”

“You’re no lightweight, Stan, but you are the one who got a snootful of glitter.”

“I did not. Just a little dusty.”

Clary dropped the books off at the foot of the filing cabinet, dragged a chair out with her heel and settled into it with a sigh. “Serious question, you two.” She reached out to flick on the lantern, getting little more out of it than a wan circle of pale yellow light on the table’s surface. “Are we going to talk about the fact that we were running for our lives from champagne bubbles of explosive death this afternoon?”

An awkward silence hung on the air. She blinked, sleepy and implacable, at Stan and then at Ford.

“I’m fairly sure it wouldn’t have killed you,” Ford said at length, squaring up a stack of books that Stan knew for certain had been crooked for years. “I’ll know better when I head out tomorrow to document the aftermath. Turned you into shambling crystalline abominations, maybe.” He paused, lifting his head with a faint frown. “Perhaps we should do the cinnamon-and-formaldehyde treatment. Just in case.”

“No,” said Clary and Stan in unison.

“It’s just a thought.”

Stan rummaged a deck of cards out of a drawer. “Like I said. Gravity Falls is weird. S’what got him out here in the first place.” He nodded to Ford as he dropped into the chair opposite Clary and began to absentmindedly shuffle. “If this changes things, offer still stands, we’ll rent you somethin’ to get you to Portland or whatever.” He meant it in all sincerity but let the cards snap together with a tiny bit more vehemence on the next pass. “If you’re gonna stay, though, stayin’ with us is the safest option, no doubt.”

She smiled a little, watching his hands. “Are you warning me that things could get even weirder?”

“‘Course not. Simply statin’ the facts.”

For a little while the soft slap-and-clatter of the deck was the only sound.

“I think,” Clary finally said, “that I’m still all right with staying until the car’s fixed. I want to be included as you’re analyzing that stuff, Ford. And if there’s anything else I ought to know about, I expect to be in the loop.”

“You’re not going to dismiss all of this as hallucinations from heat exhaustion or the like, then?” Ford kept his tone level, but Stan could hear the hopeful note in it.

She laid a hand over her brow and peeked up at Ford through splayed fingers. “I believe in evidence. I’m not so stubborn that I can’t accept what I’ve personally experienced. And I promise you, I was coherent through all of that mayhem.”

A quick, pleased smile plucked at a corner of Ford’s mouth. “Fair enough.” He took the third chair, setting down a notebook, a penlight, one of his favorite pens and Clary’s action camera. “If you’re not going to sleep right away, let’s review your afternoon. I know what your routes looked like, so it won’t be hard to track down the sites….”

Stan dealt himself a hand of solitaire and mostly listened, interjecting now and then when he could clarify a point. Ford had always been a thorough interrogator and Clary was a good witness, offering a clear timeline and careful descriptions which Ford kept cross-checking against her shaky video.

She was yawning more than she was talking by the time he was done. “Eyes,” said Ford, and Clary winced as he checked each pupil. “Sleep. I’ll get you up for another check in an hour or two.”

“Yes, Doctor Pines.” She shuffled over to the couch and stretched out under a blanket. Within two minutes her breathing went deep and even. Ford turned to Stan with bright, undimmed interest, and he gathered up the cards with a sigh.

“Okay, go on, pick my brain, but you’ve already got most of it.”

He lost track of time almost immediately once Ford let him get a quick snooze. The wee hours dragged by with alternating moments of consciousness and too-brief sleep interrupted by stupid questions.

“What’s the capital of South Dakota?” Ford asked somewhere around three-thirty.

Stan squinted up at Ford, rubbing at watering eyes. “Who cares?”

“I’ll take that as a correct answer.” One thumb tilted over towards the couch, where Clary was down for another shift. Ford’s voice lowered. “What’s your take on her?”

That was a more interesting question. Stan leaned back in his chair enough to make it creak. “What d’you mean? She’s sharp, sure, she’s been better company than I thought she’d be.”

“She didn’t panic today, and she’s taking the local weirdness in stride. Which of course might mean she’s a federal agent.”

Stan shook his head fractionally. “Gettin’ your magnet gun to malfunction at just the right moment would’ve been a neat trick. No, there’s a couple things she doesn’t wanna talk about, but not that.” He glanced over to Clary. “She’s still wearin’ her neckerchief.”

“I’m wearing turtlenecks in July. I’m sure she has her reasons. In any event, she’s quite adaptable, and we could use a lawyer - “

“No, no, no - “ Stan flapped a hand at Ford in frustration, struggling to keep his voice down. “What in the hell do we need a lawyer for?”

“You’re still legally dead, Stanley. I wouldn’t mind being able to fly again.”

“She’s a tax specialist!”

“She’s an experienced attorney, and don’t you think trustworthiness should trump everything else?” Stan glared. Ford sat back, fingertips tapping in sequence along the penlight’s barrel. “We’re not going to be out on that boat forever, you know.”

That shut him up, as Ford knew perfectly well it would. Stan tipped his tired head back and gnawed on his lower lip for a while. “When did the world get so damn small?” he muttered, a question that neither of them needed or much wanted an answer for.

Eventually Ford rose, nudging Clary awake with a careful hand on her shoulder to run her through another series of questions. “Pierre or Bismarck,” she murmured blearily, “I can’t remember which. What time is it?”

There were three clocks in immediate eyeshot, all of which read something different. Ford checked his watch. “Five fifteen.”

“Almost morning. Fantastic.” A faint glimmer of pre-dawn light was beginning to tint the sky, the room’s multicolored window marginally less dead-black than it had been. Clary pushed herself upright with a groan and shambled over to the card table. “Deal something out, Stan, we might as well stay up until breakfast.”

“I should keep checking on you until at least noon after that, but I can let you get a few hours in a row. You both seem to be fine.” Ford made himself at home in the third chair. Stan squared the deck, shuffled a couple of times, fished out the two of diamonds and dealt the rest out in three piles.

Stan felt himself fidgeting after two quick and uneventful hands. Sheer fatigue was wearing down his usually uncrackable poker face. The other two were unreadable anyway as the room slowly filled with the faint light of early morning, the lantern’s dim circle overwhelmed until Ford shut it off. Clary scooped up the cards of the current trick and stifled yet another yawn with the back of her hand. “At this rate none of us are gonna manage to come out ahead.”

“Well, we’re more or less evenly matched.” Ford set his fanned cards facedown, checked his watch again and jotted a note. “Eyes, Clary.”

She sighed and obligingly let Ford take her chin in his fingertips, angling her head so he could check each pupil with his penlight. “Of course we’re evenly matched. All three of us have been counting cards.”

Stan snorted in disbelief and slapped his cards on the table. Ford’s laugh was lower and rustier than usual - even he was starting to wear down. “You too? Really, Clary? Really? I expect that kinda crap from my own brother!”

“I majored in math, man, I specialized in statistics and data analysis. Of course I’m counting cards. You’re the one hellbent on cheating at hearts.”

They bickered for most of another hour as the stained glass went translucent and jewel-bright. Stan tried out a half dozen variations, trying to find some way to outfox the others, but anything they couldn’t count cards on he couldn’t count cards on, and he didn’t have the sleeves to hide anything. Clary kicked him in the shin after one particularly egregious attempt, the blow softened by her floppy sock and her low husky laughter. She left her foot resting against his slippered one which was all right he supposed.

Stan was showing off a couple of the simpler card-cutting tricks when the doorknob rattled, then turned, the door creaking open to reveal a startled Dipper and Mabel. All five stared at each other in confused silence.

Mabel clapped both hands to her face. “You had a slumber party and you didn’t tell us?!”

“Not quite a slumber party, I had to make sure they were both all right - “ Ford clambered to his feet, pink with embarrassment. Mabel pointed in accusation at the rumpled blankets and pillows on the couch.

“You three were up all night! Come on, Grunkle Stan, Grunkle Ford, you have to let me host one now.”

That set off a quiet but intense argument. Mabel was doing a fine job of mustering a logical case in favor. Clary set down her cards, rubbed her eyes and curled a tired smile for Dipper at the doorway. “Breakfast?” She nudged Stan’s foot with a toe. “Make me a couple of pancakes, would you? I think I’ve earned those.”

“Deal, kid. Think we both have.”

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“Are we going to talk about the explosions?” Clary looks tired, but determined.

I’m pretty sure we were both seeing things.

Methane. It’s always methane.