Hello! This is my first Gravity Falls fic, as well as my first try at an AU.

To any Americans out there, if you know any New Jersey facts or terminology which you think might be interesting, please do leave it in form of review or message. Your country is stupidly big, and I don't know nearly enough about it. I'm not even completely convinced it's actually real. Prove yourself to be real!

Fiddleford had long since stopped looking out the coach window.

When he'd first set out from his hometown of Hazard, Tennessee, he'd stared in fascination at the sleepy green landscapes and farms as the coach rolled on through Tennessee and on through the state of Kentucky. He was only nine years of age, and had never left Tennessee before. By the time they'd crossed the border between West Virginia and Pennsylvania, however, his excitement had waned considerably. When he was bored usually he practiced on his banjo, but looking at his fellow passengers, Fiddleford doubted that would be wise. He tiredly shuffled a pack of cards his Pa had given him, as the hours marched on. As the time passed, the villages they passed seemed to get bigger, until they turned into towns, even small cities.

Then at last, New Jersey. When the Rapid Raccoon coach finally pulled into the bus terminal of Glass Shard beach, it was seven in the evening. The boy jumped to his feet, fell down, quickly gave his feet a quick massage to wake them up, got back to his feet, and fished his luggage out from under his seat. He climbed off the bus, sighing at his new surroundings.

The sun was already setting, since it was mid-October. In the distance, Fiddleford could see the hazy outline of a funfair on the quay. A Ferris wheel, almost as big as the lighthouse. Perhaps his Aunt Clara would let him visit it sometime...

"Why are you standing there gawping like that?" demanded a sharp voice beside him. "I had to get a taxi to get here, you know. You're wasting time." He gazed up at the thin wiry figure looming over him.

Fiddleford himself had only the dimmest recollections of his Aunt Clara, although he knew she was his mother's sister, and had moved to the east coast pretty much the second she could when she was younger. She'd visited a few times when he was just a baby. Ma had given him a photograph of her sister "just in case", and the woman seemed to fit the description; tall, wearing drab but respectful clothes and a tiny pair of glasses barely balanced on her nose. She had the faintest tinge of a Southern accent on her tongue, but spoke in controlled tones, almost as if she were embarrassed of it.

"Yes ma'am. Sorry ma'am." Aunt Clara sniffed.

"Well. At least your father hasn't managed to wring all the manners out of you yet. You will call me 'ma'am' or 'Aunt Clara' from now on, alright? I don't hold with 'Auntie', or other disrespectful terms like that. Now come on. The taxi is waiting." With that the woman strode away across the dusty tarmac, making Fiddleford trot behind with his luggage.

Fiddleford focused on the streets outside as they took the taxi to Aunt Clara's house in the Lead Paint district. It seemed to be a very vibrant and densely populated area; there were more people just strolling on the sidewalks than actually lived in town back home. He saw a few boys his age, and his pulse quickened. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad after all, he thought, if he got to make some friends.

"I'll expect you to be out of the house during the day, apart from mealtimes," noted his aunt at last. It wasn't so much a request as a statement. "I'm sure there's plenty of bad types for you to fall in with, as young boys do. And you did come here for fresh sea air, so you have to be outside at least some of the time." The taxi came to a halt. "Here we are. Don't forget your things."

Aunt Clara's house was an old robust-looking thing made of brick, as tall and thin as the owner, and fenced by a forboding iron railing. From looking at it, Fiddleford could count three floors counting the attic. Imagine so much space belonging to just one person!

"Wowee! I didn' know your house was so big, ma'am!"

"The houses are very cheap around here, compared to New York anyway. Don't be fooled; the street is back to back with a Tabasco sauce factory. And talk properly, for goodness sake."

"Sorry." It occurred to Fiddleford as he followed his aunt into the house that this "sea air" that everyone was yapping on about wasn't so nice after all. It smelled an awful lot like automobile gas and Tabasco sauce to him.

Dinner was a quiet affair. Aunt Clara was obviously used to eating alone, and Fiddleford had to perch on a wire garden chair with several cushions to eat his sausages and boiled potatoes. He was quite short for his age, it had to be said. After ten minutes of eating in silence, Fiddleford risked a question.

"Say, Aunt Clara?" His aunt gave a noise of acknowledgement. "What'd you do as a job?" For once, it seemed as though he'd said the right thing, as Aunt Clara gave a hint of a smile.

"I'm actually a few things. At the moment, I'm writing a book about archaeology. I took a Masters in it, you see, while I lived in Manhattan." There was no mistaking the pride in her voice. "Although of course, that doesn't pay well. So during the day, I work as a typist."

"What's that?"

"I copy letters for a businessman."

"What do the letters say?"

"Complaints, mostly. Or asking for money."

"Oh. Do you like doin' that?"

A crease appeared between Aunt Clara's eyebrows. "That's quite enough questions for one day. Boys talk too much, and they're far too curious. Now eat your sausage- it's expensive." Fiddleford dutifully ate his expensive sausage, then made himself scarce to put his things upstairs.

The room he'd been assigned was on the first floor at the back of the house, which meant that if he stood high on his toes, he could peer over the cinderblock wall of the Tabasco sauce factory. The smell was strong and spicy, and made his eyes water if he breathed in too deeply, but was oddly warming. As he got out his pajamas, and retrieved his toothbrush for bedtime, he wondered what could possibly be waiting for him here. After all, he was here for six months at least. Surely something had to happen before he was allowed to go home...

Twenty minutes later, in his pajamas and in bed, he realised he'd completely forgotten to say his prayers. Only been in a foreign land for a couple of hours, and already he'd become a heathen! But the covers were so musty and warm, and his legs somehow didn't want to move... perhaps it wouldn't hurt if he just said them here? God could hear you anywhere, Ma had told him, not just at the end of the bed.

"Dear Lord," he mumbled, his eyes slowly slipping shut. "Please bless Aunt Clara, and let me make a friend while I'm here, however long that is. And please help everyone back home in Hazard, especially Ma. Amen..."

And Fiddleford fell asleep.

So, first chapter! Good? Bad? Terrible? Meh?

No seriously, are you even alive?! ANSWER ME! *sigh* Anonymous users.