Chapter Text
As much as he knows he isn't a night owl, Stan never really considered himself a morning person either. He’s a sleep person--as in, most happy when asleep . The phone ringing at ungodly hours of the morning, as far as he’s concerned in the moment, is one of the quickest ways to make him very cranky.
“S’better be good,” he grumbles, throwing blankets off his legs. He stumbles down the hall and grabs the ancient wall-mounted phone off the receiver, shouting “What!”
There’s a second of silence on the other end, Stan swears he’ll wring Soos’s neck if this is another butt dial call.
“Stanford?”
Oh, of course. Of-fuckin-course. It's Sherman. Stan clears his throat and leans against the wall, sighing and putting on his best “Stanford” voice. “Sherman, why in the world are you calling me at—” he shifts to check the clock in the living room, “six in the morning?”
“I’m sorry for the hour, Stanford. It’s rather urgent. You remember Mabel and Dipper?”
His back straightens. Remember ? Of course he remembers. He adores them, even if he doesn’t do much but send birthday cards and a little trinket around Hanukkah. “Did something happen to them?”
“No! No, the kids are alright.” Sherman sighs over the phone, and Stan empathizes with the exhaustion in it. “You see, Marlene took a fall last week--”
“Is she okay?”
“Yes, Ford, everyone’s alright, will you please let me finish?”
He winces at the slip of Shermie’s tongue. It happens every now and again, even after asking his family to let him go by ‘his’ full name, but it still hurts every time. If Sherm even remembers, it doesn’t show in his voice.
“Marlene fell. She’s alright, but she’ll be in physical therapy for a few months, and she needs help getting around. I told Aaron that I wouldn’t be able to watch the kids this summer, but they dropped them off this morning anyway.” He punctuates the sentence with a sigh. “I can’t do both.”
Stan rubs a hand over his face, and even though he’s pretty sure he knows what his big brother will say next, he says, “Sorry, Sherm. Don’t see much I can do about it--”
“Stanford, just for a few weeks. Until July, at most, just until Marlene has healed up a bit.”
“Sherman,” he grumbles, “it’s the height of tourist season. I have--” the portal, which is as dead and unresponsive as ever. “I have projects going, things that can’t wait.”
He grouses something on the other end, and Stan hears Marlene murmuring something soothing. When Shermie speaks again, it’s with very thinly veiled frustration. “It’s been thirty years, Stanford. I haven’t seen you since Pa’s funeral, and neither have the kids. They want to get to know you--”
“Oh, don’t give me that bullshit.” That sounded a bit too much like Stanley, not Stanford.
“He’s not coming back,” Sherman says with an air of finality, and Stan physically recoils from the phone. “And I’m not getting any younger. Neither are the kids, and I think it’ll be good for all three of you to spend some time together.”
Stan doesn’t respond for a minute. He wants to scream into the phone, HE IS, HE IS COMING BACK, HE’S NOT DEAD I DIDN’T KILL HIM, HE’S COMING BACK I JUST NEED A LITTLE MORE TIME-- But that’s not what he meant, and Stan knows it. He rubs at his eyes and wishes he was still in bed.
It was thirty years as of February. He spent the anniversary alone, in the basement, with a case of very cheap beer and that god-damned journal. The cloud over the house hadn’t lifted since then. In fact, it only got darker as his birthday-- their birthday--drew closer. Maybe Shermie’s right. Maybe he really isn’t coming back. But the twins...well, it’s been a few years, but they had been a contagious source of warmth and laughter at that funeral. Ma couldn’t stop smilin’ at ‘em.
Stan turns to face the wall, lets his forehead fall against it with a thud, and sighs. “Just a few weeks?”
“Just a few weeks.”
Ah, to hell with it. He can handle a couple’a kids for a month. Right?
When Soos and Wendy arrive later that morning, Stan’s pacing a rut in the floor of the gift shop.
“Whoa,” Wendy says, putting her things down on the counter. “What’s got into you, Mr. Pines?”
He stops, facing them, with his hands clasped behind his back. He moves them to cross over his chest. “Either of you know where I can find a couple’a twin beds--cheap?”
“Uhhh, no?”
“The laser tag place that used to be the mattress store might have some old ones,” Soos says. “A kid threw up in there last week, it was gnarly.”
“Ew,” Wendy says, elbowing Soos in the gut.
He laughs. “The little dude puked everywhere . Why do you need them, Mr. Pines?”
Stan pulls his fez off his head and turns it in his hands a few times. “My, uh, niece and nephew are gonna come stay for a couple’a weeks.”
Wendy stared for a moment, then burst into laughter. She slips behind the counter and sits heavily on her stool before she finally stops. “Yeah right. You, taking care of kids?”
Stan throws a glare at her, feeling indignation rise in his chest. It’s not that ridiculous.
“Oh shit,” Wendy says, eyes widening and turning to Soos. “He’s serious.”
Stan crams the fez down on Soos’s head and jabs a finger in Wendy’s direction as he makes for the door. “Watch the language.” The finger turns toward Soos. “You’re in charge ‘til I get back.”
The gift shop door shuts so hard that the windows shudder.
Wendy and Soos look between each other, completely awash in disbelief.