I've got the beats planned out so far, but we'll see how this goes.

I own nothing, as evidenced by the fact that the Mystery Trio don't have their own spin-off (admit it, we all want to see it). There's an artist somewhere who made a page of Circus!Stan AU drawings but I can't FOR THE LIFE OF ME remember their name, so if anyone has a clue, let me know.

Now, appropriately, on with the show!

Stan got as far as the trainyard before his anger couldn't be contained any longer. He lashed out with a devastating punch, but the solid wood of the boxcar refused to yield under his wrath. So he struck again. And again, every hit bringing back the rotten memories that landed him here in the first place.

"...and until you make us a fortune, you're not welcome in this household!"

Whack!

"..It wasn't my fault, officer, I swear, the guy just came out of nowhere!"

Whack!

"...repair job this big should run you... five, six grand?"

"And If I ain't got that much?"

"Then this car's a goner, buddy..."

Whack!

One stupid mistake. One stupid mistake in a seemingly endless line of stupid mistakes. And no amount of punching dumb boxcars would solve the fact that Stan could add home, car, and prospects to the list of things he didn't have. Instead of resolving anything, it just made him madder.

He slung a punch that glanced off the side of the boxcar, scraping a layer of skin off his knuckles and leaving behind a red smear. The shock of pain surged up his arms, through his chest, and tore out through his mouth in a guttural sound more frustrated and hopeless than hurt.

He stood, and yelled and cursed and ranted, and once the echoes of his outburst had faded beyond the darkening trainyard, he flushed at his foolishness. Spent, Stan slumped to the ground, staring blankly at his bloodied knuckles. What had been the point of that? He could yell at the world all he wanted, and the world would go on not caring.

Through his haze of hopelessness, a more resilient part of his brain worked a mile a minute. Without his car, what next? How could he make it as a traveling salesman if he lost the means to travel? How could he make it at all?

So deep was he in his thoughts that he didn't hear the crunch of gravel until it stopped. "You done, kid?"

Though his chest constricted, Stan kept his face schooled into cold indifference before raising his eyes. The man stood not five feet away, hands in the pockets of his long coat, face obscured from the deepening twilight by the brim of his tall hat. A light breeze played at his coat collar, but otherwise the man stood perfectly still. Creepily still.

Without moving his head, Stan glanced over to where he'd dropped his duffel bag. It flopped over a rail track, two, maybe three feet away, between him and the stranger. Could he rush over and retrieve his pocket knife before the other man moved? Already at a disadvantage due to his position, he didn't like his odds. Placate and deflect, then.

In the most neutral tone he could muster while still nursing his stinging knuckles, Stan answered, "yup," and left it there. Hopefully the man would leave it alone.

No such luck. "You alright? You, uh, in trouble?"

"Only if you're going to give me some." Stan didn't quite bite off the words soon enough. Open mouth, insert foot.

The man only tilted his head, allowing some light under the brim of his hat. He had quite the impressive moustache under there. "Do you need help?"

"Uh, no, I'm doing fine on my own, thanks." Stan eyed up his duffle bag again. Even if he couldn't get a clean strike in, the pocket knife might be enough to finally convince this guy to beat it. The longer he hung around, the more Stan could feel his hands start to itch and his shoulders tighten.

The man followed his line of sight to the duffle bag and Stan breathed a curse. So much for that. "Live around here?"

Deflect. "You ask that to every man you come across? Kinda creepy, if you ask me."

The man turned his head to Stan, and he got the distinct impression that at the other end of the stranger's scrutiny was a very dangerous place to be. The hair on the back of his neck lifted even as his hands curled into fists. He may be injured, but anger from the day's events was still potent enough to serve him well if it came down to a fight. He glared openly at the man now, ready to leap up and unleash his pent frustration.

They held each other's stares, unblinking, for an eternity inside a heartbeat. "Do you want a job?"

Stan's shoulders unknotted themselves and he blinked. "Uh... what?"

The man closed the distance between them, and Stan scrambled to his feet, fists clenched again. But the man reached into the inside pocket of his coat and produced a card.

Stan regarded him warily before relaxing his hands and taking the card. It was made of thick stock, with a gold foil circus tent printed on the front. If Stan knew his business cards, and he did, this one screamed of a higher quality than he could ever hope to afford. On the back in swooping black calligraphy read, "Circus LeBronte". Huh. No contact information. Seemed kind of pretentious.

"A circus, huh?" He made a move to hand the card back, but the man held up a hand, so Stan tucked it into his pocket. Maybe he could repurpose it later. "What, you need me to scoop elephant crap?"

He glanced up, surprised, when the man laughed. "No, we already have a boy for that. We'll be in town for a week, we just found ourselves short-handed for backstage crew. There's always a lot to set up on opening night. What do you think?" He glanced around purposefully. "Unless you have better places to be?"

The tone indicated quite clearly that he believed Stan didn't, and he had to force his hackles down. The guy was right, after all, right now Stan had two choices: go with him, or hang around in this train graveyard until a sack of cash fell from the sky and hit him on the head. So, one choice. The man phrased it as an offer, which they both knew was just to cater to Stan's ego, but he could still refuse, so technically he was still free to make his own choice.

Stan rubbed his thumb along the corner of the card in his pocket. A week's steady pay could help him get his shammie product off the ground... "Just a week, right?"

The man nodded. "One week's labour, no contract, no paperwork. By the end of the week, if you want to go your own way, you're free to."

Sounded like a decent deal. Pros and cons to no contract, but the thought that he didn't have to sacrifice the next ten years of his life to this shady guy made Stan feel marginally better about accepting. One week, and then his dream of making a buttload of cash to rub in his Pa's face would take off.

Stan hooked his duffel bag over his shoulder. "A week sounds good." The man nodded again before heading back the way he came. Stan jogged to catch up. "Double pay because of short notice?"

The man tilted his head back to laugh, and finally Stan saw his face. Angular, with high cheekbones, and the moustache defining a hawkish nose. He had smile lines. Could guys get smile lines? "We'll see how you do after the first couple of days."

He didn't say no. Maybe Stan could negotiate higher pay. And, all things considered, working for a circus ranked miles higher than working the streets, especially in a place like Jersey. Things seemed to be looking up for him. For a week, anyhow.

After a week... well, he'd cross that bridge when he came to it.

Ten Years Later

Stan stood at the bottom of the trailer's steps, heart in his throat. He could feel it pulse in every vein, only able to draw comfort from the solid presence of Cordelia Delight standing just behind his left shoulder.

He put one hand on the railing, the farthest he'd gotten since he'd arrived five minutes ago. Come on, Stan, it wasn't so hard. He'd seen Benjamin LeBronte countless times over the past ten years, what made this time so different? Maybe because this time, he knew exactly what Benjamin wanted him for.

He glanced imploringly over his shoulder at Cordelia. She met his clouded eyes with her own cool, pupilless gaze. "You sure you don't want to come in? Wouldn't want to leave you alone with all the, uh, Menagerie chores after all." Not because he dreaded what was coming, no no. And certainly not because he was scared. Stan Pines didn't know the meaning of the word. The offer was solely for her benefit.

The twitch of Cordelia's mouth betrayed the fact that she didn't believe him for one second. "Best not," she all but purred in her odd accent. "When Benjamin summons one of us, it isn't because he wants to see someone else."

"Moral support?" He offered weakly.

Now she laughed, shaking her head. "Come, now. You're the fearless Stanley Pines. Surely the thought of our illustrious ringmaster pales in comparison to what you've faced alongside Theodore."

"At this point, I'd probably prefer the lions," he grumbled, but took another step up the stairs. "I'll meet you back at the Menagerie, if he doesn't decide to fire me outright?"

"Please," Cordelia stalked away, throwing the words over her shoulder as she went. "LeBronte would be an imbecile to fire you after that stunt in Colorado."

Stan winced as the terrified screams of the crowd echoed in his mind, though they'd quickly turned to cheers once he'd wrangled the wayward tiger back into her pen and they assumed it was all part of the act. The deep claw scars on his forearm throbbed at the reminder. "Or it would just give him incentive." But Cordelia was too far to hear, slipping into the shadows of backstage like a cat in the night.

Stan took a moment to glare at her retreating back (but not to stall, he wasn't stalling), then climbed the last few steps to the trailer door. For all the effort it took, he might as well have been climbing a mountain. Finally, once he was certain Cordelia wasn't about to come back and rescue him, Stan knocked on the door, the resounding clang clang swallowed by the silence of the surrounding carnival. Please don't be in, please don't be in...

"Come in!"

Well, so much for that. No way he was getting out of this conversation, may as well rip the bandage off. Stan took a breath to steel himself, then pushed into the trailer.

The cool October air immediately receded under a blanket of warmth and the lingering smell of cigar smoke. The trailer was bigger than most, but appeared cramped for all the paper and blueprints strewn across every available surface. On the wall directly opposite the door hung a massive map of the United States, half-blacked out with dark scribbles and pockmarked with holes made by countless tacks over the years.

Majorie Clark - or 'Mama Misfortune' to her clients - perched on a counter, pale legs crossed, a thick ledger in one hand and her cigarette holder cradled daintily in the other. It was unlit, thank goodness, a single spark could probably set the whole trailer aflame. She deigned to glance up briefly at his arrival, wrinkled lips pursing before going back to her ledger.

Leaning over the table in the center of the room, still adorned in his red suit from the night's show, stood Benjamin LeBronte. His tall, silk top hat rested serenely by his hand, oddly out of place anywhere other than the ring. He straightened upon seeing Stan, his thick moustache pulling upwards in a smile and yikes was it just the lighting, or...

"You're looking a bit grayer than usual," Stan motioned to his own (unfortunately hairless) upper lip.

Benjamin laughed, curling the end of his facial hair in that habitual way he had. Man, he really got that look to work for him. What might Stan look like with a moustache? Maybe Cordelia had some sort of cream that could help out with that.

"Ah, yes, one of the unfortunate effects of age." Benjamin's eyes gleamed. "Not that you would know, of course."

Stan grinned back, some of the residual tension fading from his shoulders.

Majorie cleared her throat, and Benjamin shot her an amused look before inspecting one of the papers on the table. "Speaking of, I do need to ask you something, Stanley."

And just like that, the tension was back. Stan's prepared speech crashed into his brain like a tidal wave and flooded through his mouth. "Wait, stop, I know what you're going to ask."

Benjamin and Majorie exchanged another glance. "You do?"

"Yeah, and don't get me wrong, I'm flattered and all that, but I just don't think it's necessary, you know? Bippa and Babbit have a solid routine, and they certainly don't need me up there screwing it up. It's worked for years and they have a good thing going, do we really need another walker? I sure don't think we do. So thank you for the opportunity and everything, but I think I'm good."

There. Precise, logical, definitive. It made perfect sense to him, so why were Benjamin and Majorie staring at him like he'd grown an extra head?

"Stan," Benjamin sounded like he was equal parts trying not to lose his patience and burst out laughing. "What on earth are you talking about?"

Any certainty he may have retained about his speech drained. "Isn't... isn't this about me learning the tightrope?"

A beat of silence. Then, Majorie laughed. "Of all the ideas! No, you were certainly correct in saying Bippa and Babbit have monopoly on that front." A smirk pulled at the corner of her mouth. "Besides, to learn the rope, one must first have a basic sense of balance and grace. We'd be better off teaching one of the horses."

Okay, ouch. Now Stan was almost tempted to learn just to prove her wrong. Maybe he could ask Babbit to set up a low rope for him to try.

"You're close, but not quite right," Benjamin brought another paper to his face with the practiced ease of someone trying to look nonchalant. Stan's eyes narrowed. What were they planning?

Benjamin waited a beat before speaking again, the showy bastard. Stan could wait him out, he'd had plenty of practice. "How old are you, Stanley?"

Okay, not what he'd been expecting. "Uh... twenty-seven."

"And you know a good deal about the circus, yes?"

Stan puffed out his chest. "Please, I know almost as much about the circus as you do." Ten years in an intimate company would do that to a person, and Stan's special position as the 'Floater' ensured he could drop smoothly into any act or operation as needed.

Well, save the tightrope.

Benjamin and Majorie glanced at each other again, and Stan wished they would stop hedging and get to the point. Every second they spend dodging around the issue sent a nervous twitch through his hands, and he flexed them to try and calm down.

Finally, Benjamin's moustache betrayed his grin. "How would you like to bridge that gap?"

Immediately, his prepared speech sprang into mind again. "I told you, I don't think the rope is a good idea."

Majorie groaned, but Benjamin laughed, hearty and loud enough to reverberate off the walls of the trailer. "Not the rope, Stan, the ring!"

Only Stan's reflexes stopped him from getting smacked in the face with a smooth, black object. Once he'd gotten his heartbeat under control, he realized that he now held Benjamin's top hat in his hands. His eyes flicked back and forth between the ringmaster and his prized hat, one eyebrow nearly reaching his hairline. "I don't get it."

"I want you to be the ringmaster!"

Stan dug a finger in his ear, inspecting it. Nope, clean. "I'm sorry, I must have fallen asleep for a second. I dreamed you'd just asked me to be the ringmaster."

Even Majorie cracked a smile at that. Ha! Victory! Benjamin came around the table to stand in front of him, and Stan's good humour vanished under the weight of the sincerity in his shining eyes. Oh, this was... this was no joking matter.

"Stanley, you were right about me not getting any younger, and I won't be around forever." No way that train of thought was going to end well. Or accurately. Stan was almost certain Benjamin could talk his way out of death if he wanted to.

Still, he eyed Benjamin suspiciously. "Is there somethin' you're not telling the rest of the crew, or..."

Another chuckle, this one not quite so loud but just as warm. "No, I promise I have no plans to die soon. But I'd like to train someone to take my place if I have other business, or if I suddenly find myself unable to do as many shows as I used to."

"'Delia sometimes steps in for you, doesn't she?"

He waved a hand. "Cordelia has her own projects with the Menagerie. No, I was hoping I could train someone on a more permanent basis, and, well," Benjamin reached out, a hand settling on Stan's shoulder. "I'd like to keep it in the family."

Stan's heart stuttered to a stop. No way. No way. "You... you're joking, right?" He most definitely was not. "I can't... I mean, I've never done it before, how do you know I'd even be any good? I'm sure I'd screw it up and let you down~" like he'd let down so many people in his life. Stan couldn't handle another one.

Benjamin cut through his babbling with a dismissive scoff. "Nonsense, I've seen you barking the games. You have charisma and a natural draw. Plus a flare for showmanship! Remember Colorado, Majorie?"

"How could I forget? Quite the feat, Stanley."

Benjamin spun back to Stan, a kind of manic excitement in his eyes, the kind he got whenever he tried something new and daring. "See? A compliment from Mama Misfortune of all things! Trust me on this, Stan, you're the right person for the job."

Unable to match Benjamin's thrilled stare, Stan dropped his eyes back to the silk top hat in his hands. Oops, he'd crushed the brim a little when he'd caught it. This close, he could see other little imperfections in the hat too: patches where the silk wore thin and loose threads. "You really think I can do it?" The question was hardly more than a breath.

Benjamin's hand came up to rest on his other shoulder. Stan forced his gaze up, nearly floored again by the wildfire of belief dancing on Benjamin's face. His throat closed. "Stan, I know you can do it. There's no one else in the family I would have picked." His eyebrows raised, softening his expression into something more... imploring. Benjamin wasn't just asking him to train as a ringmaster, he was practically begging for it! "It's your choice, but I hope you'll agree."

Stan felt the astonishingly important weight of the hat in his hands and looked at his friend's open face and really what else could he say other than, "yeah, sounds good." Well, maybe he could have been a bit more articulate. But the beam lighting Benjamin's face like sunshine didn't seem to be too picky.

The man practically bounced back to his spot behind the table, one long finger tracing a line from their current location to the west coast. "If we start now, we can... yes, that'll work quite excellently! Right, after we pack up the train tomorrow, come to my suite and we'll get started on the semantics of it all. By the time we get to our next location, you should be ready for your first solo performance! Perhaps I should get some teaching materials in order, I've never had to do this before... oh well, we can learn together! How does this all sound, Stan?"

If he was completely honest, he'd tuned out half of Benjamin's ramblings to try to calm his heartbeat. But he'd been following along enough to murmur, "whatever you say," through his thick fog of disbelief. Him. A ringmaster.

It seemed to be enough for Benjamin, who threw himself back into his planning with reckless abandon. No half-measures with that man. "Excellent, excellent. Now go and get some rest, you'll need all your senses tomorrow."

Stan moved to place the top hat back on the table, but Benjamin swatted at his hands. "Ah ah! No, you keep that for now, get a feel for her. She's a good one. Off with you, I have work to do!"

And that was for sure his cue to leave. Stan didn't dare put the hat on just yet, holding it gently in one hand and turning the trailer knob with the other. Should he ask? Oh, why not. "Uh, Benjamin?"

Only a half-effort hum indicated he'd heard Stan at all. That was as encouraging as anything.

"Where is our next venue?"

Benjamin didn't look up from his maps, but a secretive smile curled over his mouth. "A little town in Oregon with a taste for the mystical, my boy. Gravity Falls."