It was only with mild surprise that Stan woke up young again.
Gravity Falls weirdness wass unreliable on any given day. The state he was in didn't seem to be going away anytime soon.
So Stan grits his teeth and heads downstairs to make breakfast anyway. This is still fine. He was still fine.
He can't afford to keep the Shack closed another day, so he improvises his usual look a bit. The jacket stays even if it's a bit big on him and the shoulders aren't as filled out as they normally are. But he doesn't have to shove himself into the girdle and counts that as a win. Beneath the jacket he dons a plain white T-shirt and a pair of old jeans from the back of the closet.
They might have been Ford's at one time, though they seem kinda small...
Mabel calls his outfit 'hipster-business casual' when she sees him and he has no idea what that means.
Wendy is off work that day, leaving him without a teen-speak translator.
Absent-mindedly, Stan wonders if she'd caught sight of him yesterday at the lake.
Hopefully, she hadn't and the weirdness will be gone in the morning.
In all, the day turns out pretty uneventful ― aside from a few tourists giving him extra tips after tours.
They thought it was adorable that he was so interested in the 'family business' and laughed when he claimed he was well into his fifties.
Not with that baby face, they'd say.
Fine ― if they wanted to throw more money at him, he wouldn't complain.
Before long, the day is done and Stan eagerly shucks the blazer and his jeans in favor of boxers and a T-shirt.
He avoids the mirror, memories of Glass Shard Beach plaguing his every step.
He swears he can hear his mother on the other side of the wall, schmoozing some schmuck over the phone. Sees his father glaring at him from the corner of his eye.
Feels the phantom hands of his brothers on the stairs, Shermie's large and powerful on his shoulder while Ford tugs at his sleeve more hesitantly.
Stan shudders and leans against the hallway wall, squeezing his eyes shut against the memories.
He breathes deep and carries on, planning on joining the twins downstairs when the scent of dust and wax catches his attention.
A long-forgotten door beckons to him from down the hall, filled with waxy faces of celebrities and fictional characters.
Huh, he'd forgotten all about these guys.
Outside, he can hear Soos and the kids coming and can't resist the set-up for a good prank.
Having to hide in a dark, dusty room for a chance at a jump scare is worth it.
Stan cackles at the twins' screams before bundling them up in a bear hug.
"It's just me!" he crows joyfully. "Your Grunkle Stan!"
They scream once more out of reflex before settling down.
"Grunkle Stan, what is this place?" Mabel asked, flopping over his arm to stare upside down at the displays.
Dipper wriggles in his grasp, in danger of being dropped, before Stan sets them back on their feet.
"Behold ― the Gravity Falls Wax Museum!" Stan declares, proudly spreading his arms and spinning on his heel. A born showman even as a young man. "It was one of my most popular attractions... before I forgot all about it."
More like got creeped out by the things and hid them away so he didn't have to look at them anymore.
Like Ford's old room.
The loss of wax Abraham Lincoln makes him pout and whine, but Mabel is quick to offer a solution.
It's amazing to watch the kid work through the night, but when she refuses to stop and sleep, Stan puts his foot down.
He manages to get some food in her and gets her to take a nap, but the girl is too much like Ford to stay down for long. She'll be up soon and Stan will have his hands full.
The next morning was... interesting.
This time, when Stan woke up as a teenager, he didn't question it and went about his business. Mabel was still passed out on the couch in the living room, fingers sticky with wax and glitter as she took a small break from her work. Stan puts her pancakes in the microwave and eats a quiet breakfast with Dipper, both of them too out of it to form proper conversation.
Stan didn't know if it was a side-effect of being a teenager again, but it was incredibly difficult to wake up before noon. His mind felt like it was running on empty until the sun reached its peak in the sky. On the other hand, it was easier to stay up at night. It'd work out in his favor when he got his hands on Dipper's journal. Whenever he could swing that.
The kid had it hidden well and never left it laying around in the Shack.
Stan could feel that the answers to getting his brother back were closer than ever and the set-back of keeping it secret at the same time was almost too frustrating to bear.
He huffed to himself and slumped down onto the couch outside, half dressed in his usual attire. The summer morning was turning out to be a hot one and he was already sweaty enough. The jacket stayed off, draped over the arm of the couch and in-reach in case a tour bus suddenly appeared.
A rustling around the side of the porch had him tensing instinctively, too many years on the streets and in nasty situations to let him relax for long. Even using his twin's identity didn't keep him safe from everyone after him. And with this face, it'd be even harder to keep convincing people he was the real Stanford Pines.
Stan slipped his hand into his jeans pocket, fingers sliding into his brass knuckles. Even in this body, they fit like a glove, the only consistent part of his life from the past 40 years. The knuckles had come with him from New Jersey, the one thing he'd ever chanced lifting out of his old man's shop.
The thought of Filbrick finding out that Stan stole from him was still a chilling one.
Stan positioned himself to watch the side of the porch as casually as he could, muscles lax in preparation to move whatever direction he needed to.
It probably wasn't the kids ― they were naturally noisy. So was Soos. The only other person who'd be hanging around the Shack was...
"Who are you?"
Wendy.
The girl really was cool as ice, merely raising a curious brow as Stan explained his plight.
"That's some freaky shit, man." She said finally, dropping onto the couch beside him instead of heading inside. The slacker. "But you've still got your memories, right? You're not just, like, mini-Stan Pines from 1940 or whatever?"
Stan pinned her with an irritated look. "How old do you think I am? You kids have no idea how age works."
"So?"
"And stop swearing! The kids are around here somewhere."
"They'll hear worse in high school."
"Yeah, but I ain't gonna have them go home talkin' like that and have their parents come up here to murder me."
"Would they even recognize you like that?"
Stan grew quiet, his brow furrowing as he stared into the treeline.
No, they wouldn't.
The last time he'd seen his nephew as himself and not using Ford's name had been back in 1972. Back when he really was seventeen.
Alex had been a baby back then, wailing in his grandmother's arms as Filbrick threw Stan into the street. He'd never known an uncle aside from Ford.
Or, at least, the man he thought was Ford. Alex had visited once when the Shack was still the Murder Hut. They'd spent the month fishing and riding the backroads through town, Stan teaching the kid how to drive and use bad pickup lines on girls.
It'd been the highlight of his thirties. He'd hoped it would be the same when the twins came down to visit.
It was turning out to just be weird.
"I'm sorry, man." Wendy said suddenly, drawing Stan out of his memories about a freckle faced kid with too many freckles to count.
"It's fine, kid." He sighed, rising to his feet and sliding on his jacket. "Go on and get to work. We've got customers to rip off."
Wendy hummed in agreement, her eyes sharp beneath their lazy lids. She held her tongue, though, and he was grateful for that much.
Mabel was missing from the couch when they came in, a nest of blankets the only indication that she'd ever been there.
"Kids?" He called, moving into the parlor. "Where'd you― GAH!"
By some miracle, Stanford was standing in front of him. The twins and Soos crowded him, only that familiar face visible over the kids' heads and grinning at him.
Which was weird.
Even when Ford smiled, he never looked like that. And he certainly wouldn't smile at Stanley.
"Grunkle Stan!" Mabel cheered, dripping glitter onto the hardwood. "What do you think of my masterpiece? I thought about recreating this new, young you ― but that would have been pretty confusing for the customers. Like a waxy twin!"
A waxy twin.
That's all it was.
Ford was still trapped on the other side of the portal, likely hurt and resenting Stan.
"Grunkle Stan? Are you... alright?"
Dipper crouched down next to him, brow furrowed in concern.
Stan sucked in a deep breath, vaguely acknowledging that he'd stopped breathing at the sight of what he'd thought was his brother. It wasn't Ford. Just a wax figure.
And the twins were looking at him strangely now. Time to redirect.
"Can a teenager have a heart attack?" He asked seriously before pasting on a cheesy grin. "Because that hunk is making my heart do flips!"
The twins laughed, the tension breaking as Soos helped Stan back up. It was strange how easily the handyman could lift him now, like he weighed nothing more than a sack of potatoes. And he handled him so gently. Like a child!
Stan remembered when Soos was the child, all chubby cheeks and wide eyes as he followed him around the Shack. Like a little baby duck.
He'd been a pretty cute kid, honestly.
Ugh. Being young again was turning him into a sap.
He needed to change the subject and Wax Stan had just given him the perfect idea.
"Kids," he grinned eagerly as he drew them near. Mabel had a light shining in her eye, apparently on the same wavelength as him. Dipper looked more skeptical. "The Wax Museum is back in business!"