Chapter Text
It was a quiet stretch of Arizona road, lit by the headlights of passing cars, warm light illuminating the world brighter than the dim moonlight could. On either side of the highway, past a buffer zone, pine trees stretched across the landscape, a contrast against the typical stereotype of Arizona. Amongst them, the wind rustled through the cracks, a cold little breeze that couldn’t be felt in the safety of a heated vehicle, but one that nipped away at flesh when exposed. Like a sea, the leaves flowed in fluid motions, shifting and turning mesmerically enough to distract anyone who wasn’t focusing on driving. Below the turning of rubber wheels, Purple Heart Trail, the paved roadway currently serving as Interstate Forty, flew past.
The El Diablo rumbled softly as it carved its path across the asphalt-paved roadway, the tired man at the wheel releasing a deep and slow sigh. The unlit interior of the burgundy convertible was filled with a flurry of sounds; the quiet drilling of a trusty engine under the hood that made the car vibrate even when it wasn’t moving, the dull rushing of wind as it whipped past on the other side of the canvas top. His own breathing, of course, contributed to that noise, a symphony of little, quiet huffs as he focused all his attention on the road.
But, of course, that was discounting the final, most soothing sound to the man. The quiet snoring, coming from the backseat, a choir of two offering the sound subconsciously as they slept. Two tiny forms, tucked under a blanket they obtained in the last hotel they stayed at (and yes, he does know it sets a bad example, but it was getting cold - it’s the middle of January, for christ sake - and they didn’t have anything thicker stored away, so maybe they lifted a cover or two from the hotel. It was completely justified). With certainty that nothing on the road would take him off guard, and assured that they had a straight shot for the next couple miles, he let his eyes rise to the rearview mirror, adjusting it a little bit with his right hand to let it fall on the two little troublemakers in the back seat.
On the right, a little boy with fluffy, somewhat-curly brown hair sat, nose tinted a reddish color and red shirt draped on his shoulders. He had bags under his eyes, but try as the man might, he could never get the boy to sleep enough to make those disappear. Said boy was leaning against the figure in the left back seat, a girl with hair that reached down to her waist and a purple sleep shirt way too large for her frame, to the point it draped over her shoulder a little loosely, one that covered her legs almost down to the knees, though that was currently obscured by the blanket. Their little chests rose and fell in sequence, rhythmically, and almost practically in sync.
Two adorable little kids. His two adorable little kids, to be precise, a statement declared in his mind that filled him with a flurry of giddy, rather excited emotions. Even just the thought made his mouth quirk into a tiny, but warm smile. Their names were Mason and Mabel Pines - though, after he had given Mason the nickname Lil’ Dipper, based on the birthmark under the hair on his forehead, the boy had pretty much started going by it at all times, with even his sister adopting it with fervency.
He had always been somewhat of a family-oriented man. Sure, Pa kicking him out of the house at the age of seventeen probably didn’t help, but he’d always held family to a high regard no matter what. His falling out with his brother, the fiery mess that was his Pa tossing him a duffle bag and telling him to make a million dollars or never come back, neither of those can change that fact. You don’t replace family, he used to tell himself. You don’t replace family, but add to it, he tells himself now. Maybe it’s a change to his philosophy that came with the addition of children. Maybe it’s how he’s felt all along, just not knowing how to word it. He doesn’t know. What he does know, with ease, is he’d do damn near anything for the two little sleeping gremlins in the back of his car.
It’s been just over a year, coming up on fourteen months, since those kids came to him. Two little four year olds, approaching five, standing outside the door of his apartment he’d been staying at for the last couple months. What a day that had been, reading the little note a meek boy handed him while a little girl called him daddy.
They spent a lot more time on the move than any decent family would. He’s not sure how far behind Rico is, but he is sure the Colombian crime boss traced him back through Mexico early on. As of late, though, they’ve enjoyed the relative safety of New Mexico, though certainly not without that share of worries. He’s decently sure that Rico was shaken off back in Alabama, but that doesn’t stop him from answering the door with a bat in his hands, just in case. They'd settled down in Albuquerque, managed to stay in a hotel for three whole months this time around, even if said hotel had the very unappealing name of Dead End Flats.
Then that little postcard slipped through the slot on the door.
It had been ten years. Ten years of dialing the same number on payphone after payphone, hearing that same achingly familiar greeting from the voice of his brother, only to get cold feet and hang up before saying a word. Ten years of running to and from, across the country and back, hell, to other countries and back, trying his hardest to earn the money he never truly would, at first so his family would accept him back, though now, he uses it all to keep his kids happy. Ten years of not keeping in contact with much of anyone, beyond the occasional phone call to Ma when he gets the chance, who is about the only person on the face of this earth who knows he has children (and oh, she adamantly hates that she can't do anything to help him, still tied to Filbrick and unable to provide for her free-spirited boy). Ten years without a lick of contact to his twin brother, not even so much as an inquiry through their mother, and then, suddenly, a postcard.
There was a television set up right across from one of the beds, specifically the bed that sat further into the single room apartment. The kids had taken that bed, and sat watching the flashing colors of late night shows quietly. Mable was on her stomach, arms propping her head up as her legs kicked slowly behind her, with eyelids starting to droop a little bit. Mason - Dipper, he should say - had seemingly already dozed off. He had made a stack of pillows into a sort of back support which he had used to sit up comfortably, though now, he was slumped against it and his eyes had closed. He's not sure what was playing on the screen, just some cartoon that Mabel had become infatuated with.
When the knock came to the door, Dipper bolted upright, while Mabel turned to look with a worried glance. Normally, their father might’ve shouted something about getting Rico his money, but the man had decided months ago that silence was better; he had kids to keep safe. Still, he gestured to the two with a sharp motion, telling them to hide, and both scrambled off the bed to the side hidden from the door, ducking for cover. He grabbed his bat, and held it in a ready position, only to still when a little slip fell through the door. Curious, he stepped forward and looked through the peephole, only to see a mailman stepping back and turning away.
The postcard was from some town called Gravity Falls, hidden away in the middle of Oregan, with the only words being "Please Come!" scribbled desperately against it, signed by Ford. The address of the sender confirmed the same. It’s more disheartening how little they truly had to drop than the fact they were doing so on such short notice, but it’s nothing the children aren’t used to. Which, with a bit of reflection that he’s had a decent hundred times over, he realizes isn’t any better.
He feels like such a lousy father sometimes, and who could blame him for that? Yet again, here he is, driving halfway across the country once more. It feels, somewhat often, like he’s holding them down with him, making them live this fairly non-stationary lifestyle with him, when they deserve so much more than that. There is little solace in it, but he does find the option of giving them to foster care both far too risk-worthy and something he personally isn’t willing to do. What if they split them up, he finds himself thinking. What if they give his kids to someone who’s even worse than he is? What if they give his kids to someone like their mother? When that last one comes up, he always shuts the line of thought down instantly, cementing the idea that while he’s not good at this, and while they deserve so much more, the alternative is far worse.
At least they love me, he’d told himself, over and over again. A little smile, hesitant it may be, flitted across his face again at the thought. Even if I can’t do all that much to fix our situation, even if I ain’t nearly the father they deserve, they still love me unconditionally, and appreciate everything I do for ‘em.
He can consistently get those wonderful kids of his two meals a day, not really counting all the snacks he smuggles to them in between to tide their stomachs over (which are far easier to shoplift than something worthy of a full meal). With how often he had slept in his car, he’d eventually switched out the backseat’s stuffing for a mattress embedded in the leather seat, for himself at first, though it makes it far easier for them to lay down and rest back there when he’s driving, like they were doing right now, and it makes him far more glad he did it than when he was sleeping back there on his own. When they had the money, sparse as it may be, he’d always take them out to a treat, that being whatever they could find. There was this diner in Dallas that’s considered quite the highlight of their adventures, a nice one stylized after the fifties that gave them a discount because Mabel is unfairly adorable and managed to win over all the staff.
No matter how basic what provided would be considered to anyone else, no matter how simple the things he does might be to the folk who have steady homes and incomes, those two are unwavering in their joy at whatever he can provide, happy without any expectation beyond what they receive. Even the most simple of things, like getting some food and drink at a gas station, lifted or not, earns a wide, happy, genuine smile from them both. On one hand, it may well be rooted in something saddening, that being their prior treatment, but on the other hand, it makes him feel like he’s actually doing something worthwhile, providing what he can.
It terrified him, at times, thinking about what they went through with their mother, who he managed to figure out was Sarah Kovita after a bit of checking. Four years was a short amount of time, but enough to bring about not only some rather worrisome habits and questions, but enough to leave marks on their bodies. He’s seen the bruises that are only starting to fade, and though he hasn’t asked upfront, he’s fairly certain that, while maybe not their mother directly, her actions had led to them getting hurt more than once. Mabel mentioned boyfriends, and that likely means their mother was going through many different men before she finally got incarcerated. Dipper had just frowned and nodded with Mabel when she had mentioned it. He’s still not quite sure if it was Sarah who was hurting them, or these boyfriends who came and went, but either way, he made his vow to never let it happen again, and he plans to stick to it.
His eyes and focus finally flick back to the road, just in time to see a sign on the right as it approaches. It takes him a moment to read, of course - he always did need glasses, but his brother having them had always been more important, and then he didn’t have the money to get them anyways - but he charts it down mentally. “Exit one-hundred and sixty-five, Williams, Grand Canyon, half a mile.” Vaguely, he recalls that Williams, as the sign would imply, is considered the entrance to the Grand Canyon proper. With a moment’s thought, and an eye darting to the gas gauge that was drifting closer to empty, he nodded to himself.
It had been… already six hours since they had left Albuquerque. He grimaced at the realization. They had eaten when they left, but he was certainly getting hungry, and he’s sure the little ones in the back will agree with him that some food is in order. They had been munching on some chips to satiate themselves, but they probably should get some actual food in their stomachs. Williams might have one of those cheaper fast-food restaurants, right? Hopefully, he doesn’t want to waste all the money he budgeted for this trip early on.
With the sign for Exit One-Hundred and Sixty-Five hanging above, he pulled off the interstate, taking the longer decline to the intersection before pausing at the stop sign. There was no indication of the road name, though the signs at the other end of the crossing stated that left led to Williams, and right led to the Grand Canyon. The sign did, thankfully, point out that there was gas, food, and lodging in Williams.
He pulled the car into the first gas station that came up, which was actually right next to one of the town signs. It was a set of two pumps, dual-sided, underneath a roof. No other cars were present. As he was making the turn into the gas station’s parking lot, he noted that the sign specifically proclaimed that Williams was the best part of Route Sixty-Six, which clicked in his mind why this town was familiar beyond the connection to the Grand Canyon; they were driving on the famous Route Sixty-Six.
When he pulled to a stop, the El Diablo lurched a little bit. He started unbuckling his seatbelt, only to hear a quiet little shift behind him, the sound of fabric rustling. A moment later, a soft, young, feminine voice spoke out from the backseat. “...Mmm… Daddy?”
He glanced back to see her awake, though rubbing her eyes tiredly. Dipper was still asleep, it seemed, unaffected by the motion of the car. “Yeah, sweetheart?” The father asked casually, voice rough, though not all that loud.
She was about to answer, before a yawn overtook her, and she stretched her arms above her head rather comically as it rolled over. With the popping of her arms, she shifted a little, leaning back against Dipper absently. “Why we stopin’?” she questioned groggily.
He may have formed a lot of habits regarding cheating and lying, but being upfront and honest to his kids had always been something he strived for actively. Case in point; he would always tell his children exactly what was going on if they asked. “Gonna fill up the gas tank, then get us some fast-food.”
She blinked dowsily, giving a moment’s pause, before giving a simple, “Oh, m’kay.” Then, her eyes fell shut, and he saw her visually settle more comfortably against her brother, easily accepting the answer. It was a rather endearing sight, honestly, and the fond chuckle that escaped his mouth was but one indicator of such. A little smile subconsciously came upon her face, something that always seemed to appear whenever he laughed, as he pulled the handle on the door and opened it.
Gas was an expense he didn’t much want to deal with, so he was very thankful it was only a dollar a gallon at this little store. If the next few gas stops were like this, then they could easily make it without reaching for any of the money he doesn’t want to mess with right now. Quietly, as the gas pumped into his convertible, he tilted his head upwards to the starlit night sky, listening to the distant echo of other vehicles driving along the interstate, with the symphony of crickets and other insects buzzing and singing around him. It took about a minute, but once he was done, he shook the nozzle off and hooked it back to the pump.
The ignition kicked on, and the car started moving once more. He pulled out onto the main road again, making sure they were good for a moment before glancing up at the rearview mirror once more. Mabel was still awake, it seemed, though tired. Her eyes were settled on the window, watching the lights of buildings scroll by. Dipper was, miraculously, still asleep, seemingly unaware of the stop entirely.
“Ya up fer some, uh…” he trailed off, looking out the window for a moment for any signs, before noticing one denoting a few restaurants. When he had started speaking, Mabel had glanced up to him in the rearview, and he returned his gaze to meet hers. “...Some Mcdonalds, kid?”
With two blinks as she processed his words, she gave a small smile and nodded, eyes falling shut rather comically as she did so. When she opened them again, he jerked his head to the side, a silent directive, and she nodded again in understanding. She turned to her side, the blanket on her shoulders shifting as she placed a hand on her brother’s shoulder and shook softly. “Dip dip, wake up,” she told him, her voice a stage whisper.
After a moment, the boy stirred, his face scrunching in an adorable little tired expression, before he mumbled a quiet “Mmm?” He scrubbed away the sleep from his eyes absently. “Wh’ssat?” he slurred distractedly.
“Food,” Mabel answered, both as if that question that Dipper asked was actually understandable, and as if the term explained literally everything. Sometimes, their father wondered if it was twin telepathy between those two.
So Stanley Pines cleared his throat softly. “Ya up fer some McDonalds, lil' Dipper?” He asked, twisting the steering wheel and taking the right turn towards the large, glowing M sign he could now see from this position. He was thankful that these places didn’t close until midnight on weekdays, something he’d learned in his many times taking the children to different fast-food chains across the nation.
“Mmhmm,” Dipper hummed quietly in reply, a tiny smile appearing on his face as he settled back against his sister, just for a minute or two longer.
Driving along an interstate, he considers, is rather easy. It’s just a simple list of things to keep track of at the same time, far simpler compared to driving in densely populated cities and other locales. He really just has to keep track of the cars nearest to him, any big-rigs that he most definitely does not want to drive next to, and keep an eye out for any hidden cops along the way who might pull him over because it’s a boring night. That last one is less of a concern than ever, truthfully, because he doesn’t quite hold on to those driving habits he used to have as he traveled the states.
That's the thing about having two little bulbs of light and love sitting in the backseat of his car; he's suddenly overwhelmingly aware of the fact that all of his actions can lead to harm. Perhaps it was a symptom of his low self-image and self-esteem, combined with the conditions of his life and the perils that faced him at each turn, but he never quite cared that much about the smaller stuff. Driving carefully, eating a consistent set of meals, or even renting a hotel room more often than not, it all was an effort he put none towards, because it didn’t quite matter as much as making money or staying as far away from Rico as physically possible. Now, though, it’s all different.
Maybe the care for himself hasn’t improved nearly as much, but the fact is, he is truly putting forth that effort to improve the small things, because he realizes with unsettling clarity how risky such acts are now. His driving is no longer detrimental to anyone around him, hotels are a far more common occurrence than sleeping in the car, and he actually brings them all to places to eat enough times to satiate them when their snacks are not enough (and maybe he still has problems eating properly, sometimes giving up his own meal so the kids could eat when the money was too scarce, but it’s progress, and that’s what matters).
There’s a loaded gun in the car now, tucked in the glovebox. It’s not the first time he’s kept a gun inside that space, most definitely not, but the purpose has changed. Perhaps it has always held the means of defense it was intended for, and he certainly knew he’d use it if one of the thugs he’d had a run in with tried to smash in his window, but it was also there as a less savory option. An escape, in a way, if (though, at the time, he’d convinced himself it wasn’t if, but when) he took the cowardly way out. Now, it’s serving the intended purpose of protection once more, for he would not take that way out. Not when he has people relying on him.
For the first time since he’d been thrown out the door of his own home, with a duffle bag pressed into his arms, and a brother turning his back in the window above, he had more than a single reason to keep going. That, in and of itself, was enough to change his whole perspective. It was as terrifying as it was motivating.
He huffed a quiet sigh at the familiar line of thought, eyes shifting to the side for a moment to look out the window. Past Williams, the pine forests gave way to open Arizona desert, the more familiar look of the state. Vast stretches of dirt, sand, and dead grass, with scattered bushes and resilient trees. It continued outwards for a few miles, flat for the most part, until it merged into the distant hills and mountains. The passing scenery was rather distracting, he thinks, but he’s seen enough desert for a lifetime at this point.
Eyes shifting to the digital clock that was built into the dashboard, they were approaching eleven now. He would definitely need to stop soon, if only to get some shuteye before continuing tomorrow. Preferably, not too far from a place where he could grab the kids some breakfast and himself some coffee, since they’ll probably end up waking up by eight in the morning. His eyes shifted back up, waiting for a good minute before a sign finally came into view. According to that sign, Seligman was sixteen miles away, Kingman was eighty-six, and Los Angeles was a whole four-hundred and six miles away.
He could easily make the time to Kingman in about an hour and a half at the rate he was going (and yes, contrary to the belief of the principal back in Glass Shard Beach, he can do basic math). It’s the bigger town, and while it’s further than Seligman, he was rather confident it would have better options regarding both food and possible hotels with front desks open at ungodly hours. It’s not that he and the kids can’t sleep in the car - they have a good few times - but he’d prefer to give them a room, and with the leftover money from the Arkansas job that he’s been using for this trip, he’s confident he can at least get them a room for almost every night.
In a way, it was almost a shock, how long it took him to recall that he could switch off to the ninety-three, and take it all the way up to Vegas if he wanted to. Then again, perhaps it wasn’t, he thought with a rather sardonic curl of the lips. Vegas was a concoction of money-making failures, one-time flings, an ex-wife that he’d much rather not think about, and a baby mother currently residing in one of the prisons in town. Vegas, as far as his time in it goes, has been a complete and utter mess, and with the kids in tow and a destination in mind, it really shouldn’t surprise him that the town is at the end of his thoughts. He would say nothing good had ever come of Vegas, but, well, in a way, there were two good things that came from that hellhole of a city.
Once he stops off at Kingman, gets some sleep, and feeds the kids, he could probably truck it all the way to Bakersfield without a major stop along the way. He’ll probably stop there before pulling onto Interstate Five, give the kids a bit of a rest and probably shoplift them a few more snacks and treats from whatever sorry schmuck is working the gas station he decides is easy pickings, From there? He kinda wants to take a detour and stop by the beach. The Kids haven’t gotten to see the sea on the west coast, only the southern gulf and the eastern coast. West coast beaches are something else, especially at sunset. There’s nothing like a California sunset.
He knows that his brother’s message was somewhat urgent - it was literally the words “Please Come!” written on a postcard, which, in his brother’s standards, is his way of being straightforward and to the point - but he finds himself completely justified in pursuit of entertainment for his two little kids. His brother would understand, right? If he could take the time to send a postcard instead of a call (which his brother could do, considering he clearly had the address of the hotel they’d been staying in), then he clearly has some time. Probably.
“Daddy…?” a distinctly young male voice spoke out from the backseat, spurring him from his thoughts. It audibly held fatigue, the tone of someone who just woke up from slumber.
Stan’s eyes darted up to the rearview to see the sight of his son, rubbing away at his eyes. The boy was leaning against his sister, both mutually holding each other up. They had pretty much passed out right after they all finished eating in Willaims, and had been mostly content to stay asleep since. “Yea, kid?” Stan questioned in return.
“Wha you thinkin’?” the boy asked, sleepy tone a little slurred. A yawn broke after his words, and he stretched his arms up, careful not to jostle his sister with the movements. Afterwards, the boy’s mouth clicked shut, before opening again when he was settled. “You got dat thinkin’ face right now.”
The man snorted, always finding that blatant way kids explain things funny. “You’re right, kid, good job.” He always gave congratulations, even for the smallest things, and maybe that stems from his own fears of being too similar to his Pa, but at the same time, the warm, tired smile that broke out across the boy’s face always made it worth it. “I’m thinkin’ about a lot of things, I guess, but right now?” He made sure the boy was meeting his eyes in the rearview before finishing his sentence. “‘M thinkin’ about how lucky I must be to have you two adorable little blessings in my car, heh.”
Dipper, as per usual when he receives a compliment, flushes and bows his head meekly at the praise, but the man can see the pleased, warm smile on the boy’s face even still. “I love you, daddy,” he says, voice a meek little whisper, and oh, no matter how many times that boy’s said it before, it still makes their father tear up every time.
So, smiling genuine and warm, Stan takes a quick breath to stop himself from actually crying, and replies with “I love you too, kiddo.” He adjusts his hold on the steering wheel, eyes slipping away from the rearview mirror back to the road. “Get some more shuteye, alright? We should get into town in about ‘n hour or so.” His lips twitch further up at the tiny hum of affirmation that answers his words, followed a few minutes later by the sound of soft snoring joining that of the boy's sister.
Once upon a time, when naivety ruled his mind and denial led him to chase dreams of fortune that never could’ve been further away, he had fooled himself into believing if he just obtained all the money he cost his family, they’d accept him back. Even when he knew it wasn’t true, that such a fantasy could not be real, he pushed on anyway, always using that same justification to explain away his dangerous jobs and gambling. He stayed in denial, unable to accept the idea that his family wouldn’t accept him back, not if he fixed his mistake, acting as though some simple money being handed to his father would let him return to those who he loved. At best, it was a foolish dream, and at worst, it was a worthless hope. He realized that the moment that believing in that lie wasn’t the only thing keeping him alive.
When the kids came into the picture, he wouldn’t quite say that those dreams of fortune dissipated, though they certainly weakened to the point where he rarely follows the urges to gamble, and he certainly has stopped messing with any criminal activity above a misdemeanor. Rather, the focus of the goal shifted. Instead of getting millions to regain his family’s love and return to the place he called home, he wanted that money to buy his kids whatever they may want. To give them a stable home, to offer them an actually good life, to feed and clothe them. The money’s no longer about his own personal gain, it all stems back to those two wonderful kids of his, and how much he thinks they deserve the world. They certainly deserve more than he gives them right now, though.
Yet, no matter how little he gives them, no matter how small or common it may be, it’s like he does give them all they want. They smile with wide grins that crinkle their eyes, give him hugs so tight that you’d think he got them the best thing in the whole wide world, and they’d tell him that they love him. No matter how small, they seem to think it’s the biggest. No matter how cheap, they treat whatever he gives them as though it was worth those fictitious millions he dreamed of. He can’t provide it all for them, but they treat it as though he does. Does it stem from their mother’s treatment? Or are they truly so happy to receive anything from him? He doesn’t quite know. He wishes he could understand it better.
Unconditional. Their love, their happiness, their joy, it's all just so unconditional, and he isn't used to that. Ma, in a way, is the only one in his life who he can say loved him unconditionally. Pa's philosophy of tough love, as Ma called it, didn't seem like love anymore, and his brother had left him behind after a single mistake. Carla had left him for a hippie, Marilyn had just wanted his car, and Sarah was one of his few one-time flings that so happened to give him the best things to ever happen in his life. Love had always come with a price in his experience. Pa's price was respect, with the added bonus of punishment if that price wasn't met. Ford's price had been to stand by his side unwavering, until he wasn't needed anymore, then to be cast aside with no resistance. He's not sure what he did wrong with Carla, but he knows it's his fault; he didn't meet her price.
He would give them anything if he had that ability within his power. They deserve it. He wishes they didn't move around so much, wishes he could feed them as much as most financially stable folk could, wishes he could give them their own rooms with more toys and games than the couple they have stuffed in the duffel bag. He wishes they could play on the carpet of a living room while he sits on a chair watching television, like families should. He wishes he could give them everything they could ever want or need.
Slung under his arms is his trusty duffle bag, a black-fabric cylinder that holds the majority of his possessions, as well as a decent selection of items he owned for the kids - that is, decent by homeless standards. Behind him, the soft pitter-patter of sock-clad feet meet the concrete underneath, trailing behind silently with a distinct feeling of resolute tiredness wafting through the air. It was an absolute blessing from whatever damn deity lives up in the clouds, the fact that one of the open rooms was on the first floor. He knew the kids wouldn't be able to make it up those stairs, and he also knew they'd just fall asleep in his arms if he picked them up, which is far too big a challenge to handle with the duffel bag in hand.
Room fifteen, as he had been told by the receptionist who was absolutely judging the clearly homeless single father, was a single-bed hotel room, meaning he and the kids would need to share. Not that he minded that, of course - it was rather customary for the kids to use him as a pillow when they slept somewhere new, or in the car. They both, through the means of Mabel, claim it to give them better sleep when they’re in unfamiliar places. He’s not sure if that’s entirely true, because they still do seem to have nightmares, but if they think it helps, who’s he to stop them? The weight at his side or pressed against him, in a way, helps him just as much as they say it helps them.
The key slips right into the lock, and with a little shove, the door cracks open, the frame creaking as it does so. The room, when the light flicks on, is nothing really that special. Tacky wallpaper with wooden furniture, a bed with white sheets and yellow-ish covers, a table across the room from that bed with a small television sitting on it. The bathroom, he notes, is directly to his right, just beside the front door, though it’s nothing grand. There’s a few stains here and there, but in a way, it’s somehow better than the apartment they’d rented at Dead End Flats. He gives a melancholy smile at that thought.
It takes no time at all to make themselves at home. Their belongings are confined to a duffle bag under his arm and the two absolutely not stolen backpacks the kids lazily slung over their shoulders when they all got out of the car. He can see the fact that, having been awoken from their food coma, they were practically asleep on their feet, so, as soon as the duffle bag was set at the foot of the bed, he helped them shuffle the backpacks off and set them at the bedside. He shed the red jacket he’d kept since it was shoved into a duffle bag back in his room in Jersey, and with a stretch that pops just about every bone in his body, he groans aloud before he falls onto the bed, and huffs a loud sigh. A moment later, the clambering rustle of fabric as two little tikes climb up after him follows suit.
The bed, thankfully, seemed to be a queen-sized mattress, which meant he had enough space to shuffle around a bit and get comfortable, while the two little ones did the same. He took up the majority of the right side, while they both pressed against him on the left, clutching one-another. With a sigh, he leans his head back against the pillow, while Mabel shifts a tiny bit to get just a little more settled, using his arm as a pillow. “You two comfortable?” he asks, gravely voice betraying his true fatigue, when they’ve both eventually stopped squirming around.
“Mmhmm,” Mabel hums in reply, her own voice taking on a quality of sleepiness that made it slightly slurred. One of her arms was grasping Stan’s shirt, while the other was wrapped around Dipper, who had one wrapped around her in turn. A quick beat of silence, then she whispers “Goodnight daddy, love you.” Dipper also mumbles something, probably a mirror of what Mabel had just said, but his head was buried in his sister’s side, so the words were incomprehensible.
With a sheen to his eyes that nobody could see in the lack of light, Stan replied in a softer, though still characteristically gruff, tone. “Goodnight, ya little gremlins,” he offered. “I love both of ya too.” Like usual these days, it didn’t take quite as long to fall asleep as it once did, hearing two little symphonies of breathing at his side, and feeling the weight holding him in reality and away from his thoughts.