"So anyways, now he's named Jason Funderberker because Wirt has really good frog-naming skills," Greg was explaining in the backseat.

It was sunset, but the trees cast orphan blue shadows onto the road.

"Oh my gosh, what a coincidence! I have really good pig naming skills!" Mabel gushed. She propped her chin on her hand and batted her eyelashes at Wirt. "And matchmaking skills."

Wirt shifted in his seat uncomfortably. "Good what?"

"Me too!" Greg interrupted. "We should play Memory! I only lost two cards, so now we pretend the bird and the lumberjack match. In loss, they found each other," Greg said with a sigh.

Wirt smirked. "That's almost poetry," he remarked, nudging Greg with his elbow.

"Not like yours!" Greg insisted, nudging him back. He turned to Mabel. "Wirt does real poetry. He says it aloud at night and it helps me go to sleep."

Wirt blushed "Wait, you can hear me-"

Mabel gasped "You write poetry? That's so," her voice dropped to a hoarse whisper "deep."

Wirt took off his hat and scratched the back of his head, "Well, I mean, I don't know if it's deep, I tend to just piggyback off the styles of Whitman, Dickenson, other romantic era poets," his lip tugged to a humble corner of his face.

"Romantic poets," Mabel parroted. Her pupils were dilating at an alarming rate.

Wirt forced a breathy chuckle and flailed an arm in Beatrice's direction behind him.

"Can you ask how much longer?" he hissed.

"What? No way, this kid thinks I'm a ghost or something. You ask!"

"No, you!"

"How much longer?" Greg blurted. "Wirt and Beatrice want to know, but they're shy."

Beatrice and Wirt winced in unison.

"Aww!" Mabel gushed and patted Dipper on the shoulder. "He's shy around me."

"Just a couple more minutes," Dipper said. Wirt and Beatrice both twisted around in their seats to talk. Mabel turned and smacked the top of Dipper's hat like a drum.

"Dude! I think this Wirt guy likes me!" she squealed.

"Mabel, first of all, keep your voice down. Second, we have no idea who this guy is! He said he was born in the seventies. Grunkle Stan would have been like 10 when he was born. Can you just think about that for a minute? Plus, you know, the possibility that he's some kind of evil creature."

"Oh, come on Dipper. He writes poetry! Besides, you have a crush on an older lady," Mabel teased, poking Dipper on either side of the face. She made kissy noises at him.

"Sure, yeah, compare this to Wendy. The definite human Wendy. Right, yeah, totally the same thing," he droned through Mabel's sound effects.

"Beatrice," Wirt hissed. "This is getting super weird, what do I do? This girl is like, two feet tall."

"You're not seriously worried about that right now," Beatrice chided. "If she likes you, better for us! Milk it! Maybe she can help us get home."

"What do you mean 'milk it'!? She's like 10! I have zero interest in 'milking it'." Wirt turned back around and folded his arms.

"Fine, throw a tantrum, but it's not gonna get Greg home any quicker."

Wirt blinked. He looked sideways at Greg, sat watching the trees disappear behind them. His eyelids were starting to droop under the weight of the night they had had. He struggled to stay awake, but his head nodded in spite of him. Wirt took the teapot off Greg's head and pulled him close to lean on his chest. Greg willingly shifted his weight onto Wirt and nuzzled his head into a comfortable spot on his chest. Wirt found himself placing a hand on Greg's forehead to feel his temperature. He was a little cold, even under the hot sun.

"Maybe I won't need to do anything," Wirt suggested. "Maybe we'll figure this out real quick and it'll all blow over."

Hi, readers! I decided I should probably acknowledge myself as a person in here.

So chapter 3 is a little shorter than the others, but I promise it's gonna get interesting pretty soon here.

And if the Mabel and Wirt thing is uncomfortable, good.

Tell me what you think and what you hope to see! I LOVE hearing from you guys!

Thanks!