Chapter Text
You take a deep breath and let it out in one go, charging up the steps to the Gravity Falls courthouse. You pause just inside the door, scanning the wood structure ahead of you. Relief floods you when the secretary at the front desk flags you down.
“How can I help ya, hon?”
“Hi, uh, the social services office is in this building, right?”
“Sure is,” she replies brightly. “You head up to the second floor and it’ll be that first desk on your right.”
You tap the desk and give her a smile. “Thanks.”
The stairs must be original to the building--they creak louder than anything you've ever heard as you walk up them. In fact, it looks like everything is original to the building, and the building is original to the town. It's ancient.
There’s another woman at the desk upstairs, this one a little younger and more serious. She doesn't smile as you approach, just waits patiently.
“How can I help you?”
“I...don't know, exactly. I’m worried about a child, but I don't think he's really in danger , I was just hoping someone could check on him.”
The woman nods curtly and pulls a clipboard and papers out from a drawer. “Fill this out.”
The form reads ‘REPORT OF CHILD ABUSE’ in a large, blurry font. Their copy machine might be as old as the building too. Your eyes scan down the page, skimming the boxes. Name, address, name of mother and father, name of school, date of birth, your own name and address...this is more than you want to give, or even have .
“I don't know his address, he’s staying in a hotel with his father.”
She looks up at you for a moment, silent. “Is he a resident of the county?”
“Um...no, I guess not.”
“Well if he doesn't live in the county, we can't do anything. You’ll need to make a report with the county he resides in and they'll take care of it.”
“But I don't know where that is. I don't know what school he goes to, or--any of this, really. Can't I just give you the name and address and just have someone check on him?”
She heaves a sigh, takes the clipboard back, and picks up a pen. “Alright, what’s the name?”
“Tate Mcgucket.”
Her pen makes it halfway through his first name, then stops. “ Mcgucket ? Ma’am, the police see Mr. Mcgucket at least three times a week. Are you telling me he has a child?”
You start to sweat right away. “He--there was a kid, but--maybe he was just visiting.”
“Ma’am, if he has custody of a child we have real reason for concern. Is there or is there not a child living with Mr. Mcgucket?”
You're one ‘ ma’am ’ away from jumping over the desk at this woman. She’s just trying to do her job, you remind yourself. “No. I must be wrong, he must be visiting for the weekend. Separated parents, you know.” You grip your backpack straps tightly and give her a thin smile. “Thanks for your help.”
You turn and rush down the stairs before she can say anything else.
Tate’s a happy kid, he seems very intelligent and capable of caring for himself. You're not going to cry wolf when you haven't seen one yet. If social services will just remove Tate first and ask questions later, you won't give them an ounce of information. Even though Fiddleford’s a little... out there , Tate obviously cares for him. And he’s never been violent toward anyone besides Stan...that you know of...and hey, you feel like being violent toward Stan too sometimes. He just brings that out in folks.
You get behind the wheel of the Diablo and let your head fall against the steering wheel with a well-deserved thump . If there aren’t any trustworthy official outlets to help Tate and Mcgucket...you’ll just have to do it yourself.
You check the time and eyeball the fast-darkening skies. Stan’s been working nonstop recently, whether it’s on his top-secret basement project or the business, he barely does anything but work, eat, and sleep.
You’re running on a similar schedule, working all seven days of the week to keep the shack running and food on the table. Stan keeps apologizing every time you come home with dark circles under your eyes or sore feet from standing all day. He keeps promising that it won’t be like this forever, the shack will take off this summer as tourist season picks up, and he's going to make sure you’re taken care of. He won’t accept assurances that you think it’s worth it, and he doesn’t have anything to apologize for. It’s like Stan woke up one day and decided to pick up the whole world to keep on his shoulders. He feels like he’s responsible for everything and everyone, at the expense of his own health and happiness. Really, if he doesn’t start getting some sleep at night you’re going to have to stage an intervention.
You let out a sigh and start the engine. He probably won’t miss you for another hour--you’ve got time to check in on the Mcgucket boys.
Once again, Tate is the one to answer the door. “Pap ain’t here,” he says flatly.
“Oh.” You stand in the doorway with Tate, surveying the room. It hasn’t changed much. “I just wanted to come by and say hi.”
“I dunno when he’ll be home.”
“No, I wanted to say hi to you ,” you say with a smile.
Tate tilts his head up to look at you, giving him just the slightest glimpse of hazel eyes behind that thick fringe of hair. “Really?”
“Really really.”
He throws the door open to let you in.
You do a cursory look-around. “Do you have any games? Or cards?”
He brightens up and runs over to a backpack slumped over in the corner. After some digging, he withdraws a colorful deck rubber-banded together. “I got Go-Fish!”
“That’s perfect.”
He goes right to the bed and pulls himself up to sit cross-legged at the headboard. You perch on the edge, facing him, while he deals out cards. They all have cartoon illustrations of fish on the inside, along with the name of the fish. No suits or numbers here.
“I like to play Go-Fish a little different,” you say, gathering up your hand. “My best friend and I tell each other fun facts instead of saying go fish.”
He presses his lips together, thinking. “What kinda facts?”
“Whatever you like. You could tell me about that book you were reading, or something you learned in school…”
“Okay,” he says with a nod. “You got any trouts?”
“Nope. But I do have a sister and two nephews.”
He picks up a card and brightens. “Fish-fish, I got my wish!” he sings.
You laugh. “What’s that mean?”
“Oh, that’s how my mamma plays. She says if you get the fish you were lookin’ fer, you get to say ‘fish-fish I got my wish’ and take another turn.”
“That sounds fun. Where’s your mamma at?” You try to keep your voice casual, but this kid is no idiot and he picks up on the line of questioning right away.
“You got a catfish?”
“Sure do, here you go.”
He ducks his head while he sorts out his matches, carefully and evenly spreading them apart on the comforter. “Mamma’n Pap had a big fight ‘n she said she can’t be around Pap no more if he ain’t gonna be kind.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
“You gonna play your turn?”
You make a show of examining your cards. “Hmm. Do you have a goldfish?”
He shakes his head. “What kinda thing should I say?”
“Anything you want.”
He taps his chin. “My favorite constellation’s the archer.”
“ Very nice.”
The game goes along uneventfully. You don’t try to press any more, but it doesn’t escape you that all of Tate’s fun facts are somehow related to space. As he gathers up the cards and shuffles clumsily, you ask why.
“My mamma’s an astronomer,” he says proudly, chin jutting out. “She works for NASA and someday I’m gonna work there too. She says I’ll be plenty smart ‘nuff.”
“I’m sure you will be. You're already very smart.”
He beams. “Can we play again?”
You really shouldn't. The sun is set and Stan’s gonna wonder where you are eventually. “Sure. Just one more though, my friend’s expecting me home.”
With a resolute nod, he shuffles the cards again, tongue stuck out in concentration. “Yer friend’s Stan Pines, right?”
“Yes he is. Does your dad talk about him a lot?”
He shrugs. “He used to. I met his brother a long time ago.”
Your head snaps up and you stare for a moment. “You met his brother? When?”
He shrugs again, chin tucked to his chest. He’s not fiddling with the cards anymore. “Stan told me not to tell. He...he don’t like talkin’ about his brother.”
“It’s okay, you can talk to me about it. Stan talks about his brother with me all the time.” It’s not exactly a lie, but it isn’t completely the truth either. But this is the first time you’ve ever heard Stanley mentioned by someone besides Stanford--you’re not going to let it go without at least trying. “What was he like?” you coax gently.
He wrinkles his nose. “He wasn’t good at cleaning, his house was stinky. But he was real nice, he had real big hands.”
Kids really do notice the weirdest things. “Did your dad know him too?”
“Yeah, they were friends ‘til Pap started hangin’ out with those bathrobe guys.”
Bathrobes. Bathrobes? What in the world is this kid talking about?
“Can we play now?”
“Right, of course. Sorry kiddo, I won’t ask you any more questions.”
Why does this kid know Stanley? And why did Stanley know Fiddleford? And why is Fiddleford so convinced that Stanford is possessed? And what the hell is up with this bathrobe thing? You want nothing more than to grill the kid for answers, but that’s not fair to him. You told him you came to play games, and you’re not going to make him feel like some kind of informant. Especially if it’ll get him in trouble with his dad.
Next time, Fiddleford better be here. If he knows something about Stanley, maybe something Stan himself doesn’t know, you’re going to find out.
“Stan, I’m home!”
You pull the door shut and drop your backpack by the front door. To your incredible surprise, Stan is sitting on the couch with the TV on.
“Whoa, what’s with this?”
He looks up, eyebrows furrowed. “Whaddya mean? It’s Jeopardy night.”
You fall into the couch beside him, snuggling in close. “I just didn’t think--well, you’ve been working so much that I didn’t expect you to be up here.”
He rubs a hand over your arm. “I know. I’m sorry.”
“S’okay.”
You fall into a comfortable silence, listening to his heart beat while your head rests on his chest, him watching whatever show is running before Jeopardy will.
“Where were you anyway? Didn't your shift end at four or somethin’?”
You stiffen involuntarily. “I had to run some errands,” you lie, like a lying liar.
“Ooookay,” he drawls. He must be able to tell you’re avoiding the question, but he blessedly doesn’t push it any further.
You take a breath in to speak, then stop yourself. After a moment of hesitation, you carry on. “What was-- is your brother like?”
It's Stan’s turn to stiffen against you. “Why d’you wanna know?”
You shrug, shoulder digging into his ribs when you do. Lying didn't used to come so naturally to you--only when you started having to lie to keep your sanity did that change. You still despise him for that. Now the lies roll off your tongue. “You're working your ass off, hoping so hard that he’s still out there…I just don't know anything about him.”
“Hm.” He stares blankly at the TV for a while. “He’s the stupidest smart person I’ve ever met. He’s a fuckin genius, C, but he just--he doesn’t understand people . Frustrates the shit outta me. And I miss 'im.”
Guilt hits you like a brick to the face. You put your hand over his heart and try to pull yourself in closer. “I’m sorry.”
He rests his cheek on top of your head. “Y’don’t gotta be sorry. This whole thing’s my own damn fault anyway. I’m so close to making it right.”
You lapse into comfortable silence, watching a commercial for dish soap. The picture flickers once or twice; one of you will have to adjust the antenna before long.
“Why do you do that? Why do you just assume everything’s your fault?” You didn’t intend for the question to come out so forcefully, but maybe it’s really what you meant. It’s stupid to be mad at him for taking responsibility, most people want that in a romantic partner, but he takes it too far.
He chuckles. “I dunno, cause it usually is?”
You pull away, looking him in the eyes. “That’s not what I’ve seen. You’re a good man , no matter how hard you try to convince everyone otherwise.”
He won’t meet your gaze after that. “Got a reputation to keep up,” he mumbles.
“Mhm, and people to keep at arms’ distance.”
His lips part as he finally looks back up. The surprise just as quickly turns into a frown, and with an over-dramatic pout he says, “You nosy prick.”
You laugh, and lean in to kiss that pouty lip. “You’re getting lazy with the nicknames, I’ve heard that one a few times.”
He continues the pouty charade. He very well could do it the whole night--he has before. “You’re mean, dunno why I keep you around.”
You settle back into his side as the commercial break ends and the Jeopardy title card rolls across the screen. The first round plays through, Stan muttering answers and swears under his breath. You’re watching, and reading the words on the screen, but still not really paying attention.
When it breaks for commercial, you have one more thing to say. “I want to help you find him. Your brother. Whatever I can do, I want to help.”
He chuckles, rumbling deep in his chest. “You already do, stupid. Yer keeping me sane.”
You smile briefly. “Do you think...do you think it’s possible that Mcgucket guy knows something?”
He turns his head just slightly, enough for you to catch his skeptical expression. “That cuckoo clock? I don’t think so.” He lets the words hang for a moment. “Has he been bothering you?”
“No, no. I mean, I saw him in the parking lot when you were sick last month. He--” you stop yourself. How far are you going to take this lie? How far can you take it without Stan smelling something fishy?
“He what ?” Stan’s voice has that razor edge to it that hints at that scary willingness he has to demolish anyone or anything that looks funny at you.
“He didn’t do anything, Stan,” you say flatly. “He just mentioned--” you suck a breath in through your teeth. “He mentioned your--your brother.”
His eyes narrow on you. Alex Trebec is talking on the TV again, but his attention doesn’t so much as flicker toward it. You squirm under his scrutiny.
“No he didn’t.”
You blink. “Yes he did, he said something about his...hands…” Your heart lodges in your throat when Stan’s jaw sets like that.
Seconds pass like hours as Stan’s eyes search your face. You’ve never seen him look so... cold .
“Charlie, there’s some dangerous shit in this town. Stay away from Mcgucket, and whatever you think you know about Stanley Pines --you don’t .”
His tone knocks the wind out of you. It takes a moment too long to get your reply out, it sounds small instead of angry. “What is that, some kind of order?”
Something in his expression changes--softens a little, like he’s just now remembering who he’s talking to. “No, that’s not what I meant. Just--be safe, okay? I ain't tryna push you around, C, I just don't want you gettin’ hurt on my watch.”
“Sure, whatever. I'll watch out for garden gnomes.”
The Jeopardy theme starts up again, fading into commercials. “I'm serious,” Stan says. “This stuff with my brother--some of it I gotta do alone. Not ‘cause you can't help, just because...it's my mess, and I don't want you gettin’ into it.”
“Oh please. Keep all the secrets you want, Stan, but your messes are my messes now and vice versa.”
He grumbles nonsensically—not in words so much as a general sour attitude. “Yer nosy and pushy.”
God, for as much as you love him, you really could just punch him sometimes. “And you're stubborn as a fucking ass,” you mumble back.
But you slowly get sucked in by the TV again, and get a little satisfaction from Stan getting a few questions in a row incorrect, and eventually you find yourself leaning into him automatically. His arm wraps around your shoulders automatically, and by the time the final Jeopardy comes around, the anger in your chest has burnt itself out.
These days, you don't sleep alone very often. Usually you settle down at the end of the day with Stan, in his room, and wake up sometime later to find him gone. He’s usually reading in the kitchen or working in the basement, so you know better than to get up and look for him now. But you still don't consider it sleeping alone, because he's there when you fall asleep and he usually sneaks back to bed sometime before you wake up, too.
So you don't sleep alone very often, unless you and Stan don't agree on what’s bedtime. This is one of those nights. You go to sleep in your own bed and roll your eyes when, half an hour later, you hear a door shut in the distance and know he’s gone down to the basement.
In your dream, you follow him into the basement. The stairs spiral downward endlessly and your voice echoes as you call for him, but he disappears into the darkness below. The room at the bottom of the stairs is lit harsh neon yellow, and it’s so silent that you feel self conscious of breathing. The corners of your vision are dark despite the light around you, and a single door stands on the other side of the concrete room. Stan is nowhere to be seen.
You know it’s a dream. You have it almost every night now, with some wiggle room on the details like lights and the presence of writhing bodies or snakes on the floor. But knowing what it is doesn’t make it less unsettling. It doesn't make you rest better. It doesn’t make you any less tempted to open the door. So you open it, and blue light spills into the room.
It comes through the floorboards in neat rows as you thrash against your bedsheets and a deep electrical moan rattles your chest like a bass guitar. You can’t tell if your eyes are open or not--are you dreaming? The bed shakes violently, hard enough that you grab onto a pillow for dear life as if it’ll keep you rooted to the mattress. Glass shatters on the other side of the room and the throbbing hum reaches a crescendo.
Every lightbulb in the room flares to light, then pops as it burns out. You sit in the middle of the bed, breathing heavily and listening to glass rain from the ceiling. It sounds like the hall light broke too. And it’s too silent to breathe.
You weren’t dreaming.