Chapter Text
“Hey, sweetcheeks!” you roll your eyes and nearly break the coffee put on the hot plate when you set it down. You straighten your forest green apron and spin on your heel.
“Listen blockhead -” you whip around with your fists clenched.
“You know Wendy, right?” he carries on anyway, the creep. Mister Mystery, more like mister moronic. No, you used that one last week. The need for an insult sparked new life when he clucked his tongue and gave you a once over.
“I said, you know Wendy Corduroy, right?”
You purse your lips but spit it out anyway. “Yes, now listen you shyster -” you start with renewed force. You’re ready to give Pines a piece of your mind about calling women pet names in public. No matter how much you like it, or how much it makes your cheeks heat. This was a place of real business.
“She and my handyman are handling an errand for me, and I need someone to babysit the kids. You want the job?”
“What!” you screech, utterly confused how Stan Pines can side-step any mess he makes with the delicate skill of Fred Astaire.
“I said-” he puts both hands on the counter and leans in, and you catch aftershave and cheap cologne and cedarwood “-do you want the job?” He leans in close, close enough that you can see his eyes sparkling behind the gruff persona. He gets off on negotiating, you just know it, and it’s sickening, sickening!
You continue to stare at him, dumbfounded by the interaction. But past him, the other customers don’t seem perturbed or plussed by local tourist trap owner Stan Pines. He’s just another oddity. Another walking fossil in the pacific northwest. As normal as Bigfoot. “ Why ?”
He leans a hip into the counter. “Look, kid, I’ll pay you good. Better than this joint. Wendy said you’re reliable.”
You stare, the room feels hot. It’s incredible how he does it, makes you think you’ve been part of the equation for longer than a split second. It’s why he can con so many hapless people, you think.
“Be at the Mystery Shack at seven. Don’t be late!”
He disappeared like smoke. And before you knew what you were doing you were scrambling over the counter and pulling the cheap screen door open to yell after him as he dodged traffic to his still running Diablo. Again, none of the customers nursing their steaming black coffees even looked up, as they were used to this kind of encounter.
“Don’t ever call me sweetcheeks again! And I want fifteen an hour!”
“Twelve! Seven tonight!” and he drove away.
This was the typical fashion for how Stan solicited babysitting jobs from you. He’d seen Wendy have a conversation with you for longer than five minutes once and suddenly you were Wendy’s best friend and that made you available for babysitting.
He came in the store and pretended that he’d only heard of you in passing. Not like you’d been in his house a dozen times. You screamed at one another for two minutes. Then you babysat later in the day. It beat most interviews.
Stan wasn’t a bad guy. He made a living, and he took care of his great niece and nephew like they were his own offspring. And he paid pretty well too, when you harangued him to pay up. And you appreciated a man who got down to brass tacks. Stan doesn’t snivel. He says it like it is. Sometimes to his detriment. Most of the time, you correct.
He was just one of the oddities of Oregon you had learned to love after you moved down here from Seattle. Seattle had the Fremont Troll, Gravity Falls had Stan Pines. And other things. Whatever was in the woods here gave you the creeps. The slow moving days and comfortable seasons gave you a chance to catch your breath and re-evaluate what you wanted your life to look like. The words that came to you were “sleepy” and “rested.” So you bought a cheap little house, got a job at a coffee shop to support your free-lancing, and occasionally babysat for Stan. It kept you busy, and it meant you could have a garden.
It was lonely though. The men were hicks or perpetual bachelors or had three children already, which left your prospects low. To young, to doomsday prepper, to mildly insane. The other coffee shop barista dropped hints that you should try to talk to the more eligible men - usually the ones with three children already. And by hints, she left condoms in your purse. She must have seen a prime candidate yesterday, because the little foil packets taunted you and your lack of good sex at the top of your bag.
You huffed and slung your hair into a messy bun that bounced with every step toward the Mystery Shack. At least babysitting the kids would get your mind off of the lack of men in your life.
Before you could even knock on the front door it opened wide and Mabel tumbled out.
“You’re here!” she squeezed your middle, and her face squished against your sternum. You wrapped your arms around what you could reach and ruffled her hair. “We’re going to do makeovers, and I want to go through your purse! Can Candy and Grenda come over? They’re actually already here, girls she’s here-!” Mabel pulled you inside, toward the yells of approval from the living room, and out ran Dipper.
“Hi, Dipper,” you call as the other Pine twin sprints past you with a book, a disposable camera, some gummy worms, and a butterfly net. “Be back for dinner at 7:30,” you call after him. He waves and scampers into the woods. You take a deep breath of the cedarwood A-frame, of beeswax candles and maple syrup and smoke from what had probably been a small but containable fire from earlier in the day.
“Mr. Pines!” you call through the house. The girls are happily going through your purse. You had to yank a fistful of “grown-up things” - condoms - out of the bag before Grenda stuck her hand in to dig for your stash of Strawberry Mentos. You tucked the little foil packages into the back pocket of your jeans and kept walking through the house, taking the twists, looking for Mister Mystery.
“Oh, good, you’re here,” he says from behind you. You whip around to catch him tying his bow tie with quick fingers. He pulls his bedroom door shut. His footsteps are heavy as he walks past you and kicks open the office door. “This way!”
You hastily follow him into the office. It’s messy, same as the last time you saw it. He’s rifling through a shoebox of receipts and talking at you, as is his fashion. “Dipper’s been yapping about pixies or banshees or something. Whatever he brings home, don’t let it loose in the house. Grenda and Candy are sleeping over. Right?” he looks at you, like you know. You shrug. “I’ll be back around eleven. Eat whatever you want. You got a pen?” He holds out his hand expectantly.
“Business as usual then,” you say and dig through your pockets. In your haste, your hands knock the condoms from your purse into the floor. You dive for them.
“I need a pen, honey - what are you doing?” You look up from your hands and knees to see Stan staring down at you.
“I dropped something.” Your hand covers the pile of packets, and you try to fold them into your palm.
Stan grunts and walks past you. You shove everything back into your pocket and hurry after him.
“Kids! Be good!” A chorus of little girls' assurances follow from the living room. Stan whirls around and points a finger at you. In a hushed voice he says. “No boys over.”
So he did see them. Your cheeks burn. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Good,” he says, his voice is gruffer than usual. He snatches his keys. Then he’s gone.
The girls and Dipper and a jar of what you think are fireflies fall asleep in front of the tv. You slowly carry each kid to bed. Dipper first, then the girls to their pillow fort and tuck them under the blankets.
It’s nine, so Stan will be back in a couple hours. You curl up sideways in the yellow recliner and plan to close your eyes for just a few minutes. But the quiet lull of a summer rain on the roof, the rhythmic breathing of the Mabel, Candy, and Grenda send you to sleep. It’s a gentle nudge to your shoulder that starts to wake you.
You wake slowly, drifting toward a voice, then all at once to gentle shaking. “Hey, wake up dollface.”
You will open your eyes and find Mr. Pines leaning over you.
You drink him in.
His red string bow tie hands loose around his neck, and the top buttons of his shirt are undone. His girdle is loosened under his shirt. His scruff looks very inviting. He keeps his voice low so you just hear him.
“It’s past twelve, girly. Time to hit the bricks.”
You pull and maneuver yourself out of the yellow armchair so you can stand and stretch. When you open your eyes, Stan is still watching you, and your arms above your head, and the peak of your belly from the hem of your shirt.
“I’m leaving,” you say into a yawn. “Kids are sleepin’. No pixies in the house.”
“I can always count on your services.” He leafs cash out of his wallet, recounts it, and hands it over. You tuck it into your back pocket.
“Good night Mr. Pines,” you say, and leave the shack.
“G’night,” he responds, but his voice is distracted. Probably anxious to get out of his suit and into bed. He watches you from the screen door until you turn your car on, then he shuts it against the hoots and cricks from the towering Ponderosas and Douglas Firs. You watch lights in the window slowly go out in your rearview mirror.
You’re flipping through a magazine and taking a sip of your latte behind the counter. Your leg bops to the coffee shop music and you tuck a flyaway behind your ear. You rest your chin into the cup of your palm and sigh. The door chimes.
“Dollface!” Stan booms. Not that he needs to. Everyone in the shop is engrossed in their book or conversation, and there’s no need for Stan to yell. You grumble and let your head loll so you can eye him over your glasses. “I got a job for ya.”
Stan leans over the counter with both palms pressing into the varnished walnut.
“What time?”
“Six sharp. I kind of need you there the whole night.”
You scrunch your face, then let it go placid. In the most bored manner you can muster your flip the magazine page. “I want fifteen an hour then.”
“You’re bleeding me dry, sugarplum,” he says but picks up a napkin and pen from the counter and scribbles down the time. “Oh, you left this at the house.” He digs in his pocket and frisbees a little foil packet at you. In horror you snatch the condom out of the air and crush it under your arm. Stan smirks.
“You couldn’t just gently slide it across the counter?” you hiss. Stan leans in.
“When have I ever been subtle, sweetcheeks? Be there at six.” And he leaves.
You think about the interaction all day. He could have just thrown it away. Hell, he could have used it and forgotten about it. But no. He didn’t do those things. He gave it back to you.
You grip the steering wheel of your car. Something hostile and crude in your gut tells you Stan Pines wanted you to know that he knew you had the item in question at all. But why , your head asked.
You turn down the road toward the Mystery Shack. Your heart pumps. Why indeed. Stan is a salesman. Salesmen use what they know to sell . What was Stan selling, you wondered.
Mabel and Dipper grab your hands and drag you into the living room the moment you walk in the door. Both are explaining the rules of a board game they found in the storage closet to you, trying to one up each other with each rule. Soon you’re seated on the floor of the living room in front of a needlessly complicated version of what looks like Candyland and Shoots n’Ladders and Poker all rolled into one. Dipper carries a comically huge game manual and turns to the index. Oh boy.
“Kids, I need your girl for a sec’,” Stan says from behind you. He nudges your thigh with the toe of his shoe, so you follow him into the kitchen. You were kind of hoping he would just leave so you wouldn’t have to think about the incident earlier in the day.
“All right, ground rules,” he starts, and tugs a shooting star sticky note off the fridge. “Leftovers in the fridge. Pancake mix in the cupboard. No soda until eleven in the morning. Gotta start responsible drinking education early.” He scribbles a phone number down. “Call here if someone has to go to the hospital. And,” he grimaces and looks you dead in the eye, “no boys.”
You throw your hands up, face and body heating under the assumption. “What gives, Stan? I’ve never had a guy over while I babysit, I’m not stupid.” You avoid his eyes and cross your arms.
He sets a hand on his hip. “Well I wouldn’t have worried about it if someone wasn’t dropping literal hints that they’re good to go.”
“I wasn’t-! The other cashier dropped those in my bag, she was playing a prank. I only had them in my pocket so the kids wouldn’t find them,” you blurt out. “But thanks for not embarrassing me or anything,” you say, your voice welled with embarassment and sarcasm. You turn to go back to the game when Stan grabs the crook of your elbow.
“Hey, hey!” he says and lets you go when you turn back and square up. “Look, it’s none of my business. I just don’t want that stuff around the kids. Especially the hickville turds around here. You’ve got a body for days, sweetcheeks, you never know what kind of ick that’ll drag in.”
You ignore the last part and stutter out, “well I don’t want the hickville turds.”
“Yeah?”
In the space between that word and your blank response something shifts. A little electric snap. You stare at the center of Stan’s chest, at the glint of gold along his neck, and try to come up with an answer but your eyes zone out, so you miss Stan’s knuckles turning your chin up to meet his eyes.
“Eyes up, sugarplum, I asked you something.” Oh, that makes your stomach dance. He’s shuffled a little closer to you and you can’t help but notice how broad he is.
“Well,” you sputter, distracted by his forefinger stretching under the soft underside of your jaw, keeping your eyes looking up. “I don’t know. I don’t know what I want.”
Stan raises an eyebrow. The finger tucked until your chin feels like a brand. You aren’t hooked but something keeps you planted as he drifts his gaze over you, slowly, all the way down to your painted toes, and you dig them into the floorboards. When he meets your eyes again, you know the two of you have come to an understanding. This weird, penny-pinching curmudgeon with his wheels always turning.
“Well I know what I want, so when you figure out what you want,” he flattens his hand and gives your chin a little tap from underneath with his fingers, “you know where I am, and you know when I take lunch.” He waggles his eyebrows, grabs his keys, and calls the kids to kiss them goodnight.
“Be good, all of you,” he says, and ruffles their hair. “You too, toots.” He’s gone in a flash, and you pull yourself together to focus on the board game, but your mind wanders.
That night in the guest room, the crickets chirp and an owl hoots outside your window. The kids are asleep upstairs. The afternoon heat never wore off, so you lay half over, half under the covers. Thinking. The clock in the living room chimes that it’s one in the morning.
What do you want?