this is one in a series of gravity falls fics i wrote for tumblr, re-posted here for convenience. enjoy!
"I'm comin', I'm comin'," Stanley groaned, setting a near-empty bag of potato chips aside to lift himself out of his recliner. He brushed some crumbs off the dirty A-shirt he wore and opened the front door.
The con-man peered down to see Old Man McGucket, still incessantly pressing the doorbell. His attire- and overall appearance- was slightly different than normal, to Stan's amusement. The umber overalls were traded out for a cross-patterned sweater vest over a white undershirt and some dress pants. His white beard was drastically shorter than before: minus the band-aid.
Stan got over his mild surprise to pry McGucket's hand from the doorbell and thrust it away.
"Yeesh! You break it, you buy it, pal. Doorbells don't come cheap these days," Stan uttered, the annoyance crisp in his tone. "What're you here for, anyways? To go through our trash? Marry my niece's pig?"
McGucket blinked before beaming up at him, seemingly unphased by the harsh insults.
"I was awonderin' if Stanford was home," he replied. Stanley froze up, unconsciously straightening his posture. The distant sound of Ducktective playing filled the silence between them. Slipping a hand under his fez to scratch his hairline, Stan hoped to the best of his lying abilities that he could sound convincing.
"Uh, I'm Stanford," he answered dumbfounded.
"No, nonono- not you, the other Stanford," McGucket said. His bandaged arm soared up in demonstration.
"Y'know the one! 'Bout this high, grayish hair, a tad on the awkward side… with them unconventionally attractive features 'nd whattnot?"
Trying hard not to let his bewilderment seep into his expression, Stan folded his arms and leveled himself down to McGucket.
"Look bud, I don't know if those garbage fumes finally got to ya or something, but you're spurting out a load of nonsense right about now," he insisted, poking the man's chest with his index finger.
"There is no nerdy dreamboat here, so why don'tcha get off my property and-"
"Stanley, manners." His twin showed up from behind and squeezed past him through the doorway.
Ford knelt down and lightly grasped McGucket's shoulder.
"Sorry about that, Fiddleford. My brother can be quite the impolite pain in the ass, as you may have already found out," he apologized.
"Wha…? Fiddleford?" Stan repeated, puzzled.
McGucket seemed to be ecstatic by the author's appearance.
"I don' mind none, but we need to leave now if we wanna git good seats. It starts 'round 8."
Tugging at Ford's arm, McGucket pulled him off the porch and started towards town, leaving Stanley there, suspended in a whirlpool of ignorance and jumbled thoughts about what the HELL had just happened.
It had reached about ten-thirty when Stan heard muffled conversation coming from outside.
He had been lounging on the bottom step of the wooden staircase ever since he said his "goodnight"s to the kids and re-filled Waddles' bowl with slop. Springing up, Stan squinted through the stained glass window to see make out two distorted figures next to each other. He carefully opened the door, just a crack, to allow the dialogue to be less muddled.
"Eh, I still think we should have gotten a refund for those seats. That woman had no right to bring her baby into an R-rated movie. What has happened to our society?!" Stan was quick to identify the hoarse voice as Ford's; partially due to the whiny nature of what he was saying.
A laugh followed. "Thirty odd years 'nd yer still that haughty city boy that won't let nothin' go," what Stan assumed to be McGucket replied. There was a break all of a sudden, and only the shuffling of feet could be heard. Ford chuckled.
"Here, let me help you with that."
Stan grumbled quietly and opened the door a little more to get some visual. He strained his eyesight only to witness Ford- his brother, Ford- locking lips with McGucket, whose legs were wrapped around the brunette's waist and latching onto his turtleneck sweater.
Stanley slapped a hand to his mouth to suppress any noise to come out of it. He pushed the front door shut and let out a burst of laughter.
This was too rich.
His pretentious know-it-all twin was dating a hillbilly.
Stan scurried over to his recliner and flopped down into it as he heard the jiggling of the doorknob. His mind was racing; trying to improvise as many jabs related to this new-found relationship as quickly as possible.
Ford sauntered into the living room, a somber expression glued to his face. Stan attempted to be nonchalant.
"Heya, Poindexter. How was your evening out?" he asked, failing to subdue the urge to grin. Ford glared at him, but there was something under the surface that made it seem more sad than angry.
"I heard you laugh," he told him, directing his gaze down. That wiped the smile off Stanley's mug.
"Ford…" he began, standing up. Stanford held up his hand.
"Whatever you're about to say, it's not necessary. I just… I didn't tell you about it because I knew this would be your reaction. You don't understand, Stanley," he stated, turning away from his brother. Stan frowned and rubbed his arm uneasily.
"I, er…. I didn't think you could hear me."
"Yeah? Well I could."
"Oh come on, Ford… You have plenty of things to make fun of me for! Like how I can't ride a bike, even after years of Pops tryin' to teach me, or how I secretly feed crackers to my stomach pretending like its a sentient thing-"
"Good god, you still do that?" Ford butt-in, repulsed.
"Yeah, yeah. But that's besides the point! I'm just sayin' the fact that you're Mr. Perfect and you're choosing to swap spit with THAT guy…"
"There's nothing wrong with him. You have no place to tell me who I can and cannot be involved with, Stanley," Ford snapped. "I am a grown man, and you're treating me like a child. Like Dad would've."
Stan's skin crawled at the comparison.
He let out a shaken breath and tumbled back into his chair. "You know I didn't mean to offend ya like that, Sixer," he responded quietly. Stanford, still faced towards the opposite wall, said nothing, so Stanley continued.
"I don't have a problem with you and- Fickleferd?"
"Fiddleford."
"Right… You two can go out all ya want. I'm sorry for bein' a jackass. I, uh, never wanna make you feel like you can't talk to me about this stuff."
Ford turned around to glance at him. "So… You're okay with me dating someone of the same sex?"
"Pfft, if I were I might as well out myself as a hypocrite. I've dated a few, y'know, back in the day," he confessed, placing his hands on his knees. Ford's face lit up.
"Really?" he said.
"Yup. In fact, before you start gallivantin' off with Old Man McGucket you might wanna see if that Vegas marriage to Goldie was annulled or not."