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Filbrick Pines hadn’t made a lot of mistakes. When his son was born wrong, he had thought he made one, when a twin followed, barely breathing, he had thought he made yet another one in the span of fifteen minutes. When his eldest moved out as soon as any job took him, he knew he had done right…except in his chest something twisted and told him he had done something wrong (which was impossible).
Filbrick Pines didn’t make mistakes… No. He married a beautiful woman who, despite the trouble, kept his life exciting and kept him feeling like he was stuck in his twenties forever. His eldest son, Sherman Pines, grew to be a brave man who received a medal to prove it and a good family man. His other son, Stanford Pines, one of the twins who he thought was born deformed and wrong (six fingers…for goodness sake-), was smarter than the whole Glass Shard beach piled together and more, living in his own fancy home with college sending him money (on purpose!) to keep up his studies.
So, no. Filbrick Pines did not make a whole lot of mistakes.
“MROWW!!”
Unfortunately, this was not one of the times Filbrick Pines could confidently say he didn’t make a mistake.
“Meow?”
“Mrrrowwwwmrrr!”
HISSS
Series of hisses and meows carry across the enlarged room and yet he finds that he can understand each and every sound. Finds that he is making said sounds himself.
“Stanford! What did you do?!” Sherman’s panicked meows interrupt his current thoughts of disappointment and disapproval and discombulation.
The cat before him, worryingly big (or is it him that is small?), was a mix of blacks that shone almost red with the bit of sunlight that peeked through the windows. Around its neck was a big fluffy coat that made it appear to be wearing a fur necklace, the bottom of its body was brown while its head, with its weird almost folded snout, was black.
When this cat turned to him, it froze, eyes widening in a way Filbrick had never seen before. The series of meows (or conversation) didn't stop but Shermie, the cat (yes his eldest son is a cat now it seems), was no longer paying attention.
“Don't blame me! Blame mother! I had told her not to touch anything!” Stanford embarrassingly whined like a child and that was when Filbrick was reminded of his beautiful wife.
“How could you blame your own mother, Stanford?” Caryn didn't sound as shaken up, nonchalantly meowing in a similar way she'd talk when she lied about her sticky paws.
Turning quickly, Filbrick faced his wife- wel…what was assumed to be his wife's chest. He craned his neck to look up, if he thought Shermie had been a big cat, this one was gigantic.
Caryn was a big fluffy cat, all soft fur and fluffy, her fur gracing down her body. Her eyes were the same brown Filbrick always loved, unlike Shermie's (which he noted now that had been the weird amber with a mix of green like his own).
As though she had been a cat her whole life, Caryn licked her paw gracefully, tail flicking back and forth suspiciously as she spoke.
“It's not my fault you left such a pretty jewellery just hanging around”
“Hanging around?” A hiss “hanging around?! How on this earth is a jewel in a glass case with a bolt just ‘hanging around’?!”
Stanford looked a whole lot like his mother in this weird cat form- and ain't that something? Filbrick is getting far too used to connecting them to these weird felines in front of him but what other explanation was there?
The cat was almost just as big as Caryn, same dramatic flair of fur but where his mother's has a beautiful black sheen, Stanford’s fur was a series of different browns, never as dark as his brother's. His eyes remained the same as Filbrick had assumed.
“This was a mistake” his own voice rumbled out in a form of a growl.
Three feline heads spun to face him, Caryn looking up before dropping her head dramatically as she realised he was no longer taller than she.
“...”
“...Pa?”
“Awwww-”
“Don't” Filbrick cut off Caryn's coos, her fluffy tail swinging in amusement (how can he even tell?)
“You look adorable, hun” she encouraged but from the way Sherman kept holding his laughter back, Filbrick highly doubted it.
“Remind me to never visit your place again” Filbrick grumbled out to his youngest son, who was now a cat, and shuffled out to where he knew a mirror was. Shuffled. Not walk.
He couldn't exactly comprehend why he couldn't exactly walk until he saw the monstrosity in the mirror.
Where before his hair was nicely trimmed and groomed now there was wild brown fur everywhere, sticking up like he'd gotten electrocuted. His lip was folded in almost like Sherman's but only more dramatically so, his face was droopy and his greenish lazy eye was out there for the world to see.
“...what is that monstrosity” he asked
“I believe you are a Persian Cat, father” Stanford walked in, a far more gracious walk with his freaky long legs “while mother is a Maine Coon. That would make Shermie and I a mix of the two”
Filbrick kept staring at the cat in the mirror; fat, fluffy and fatuous. Next to Caryn's tall and slender frame, Stanford's neat brown patterns and the glam of Sherman's fur, he looked like the most ridiculous living being in all of America. Heck- in the whole of the world…
“This was a mistake”
Stanley Pines had made a whole lot of mistakes. Everyone is familiar with his big one (everyone being his family), the one that set this whole string of mistakes going. Stanley broke Stanford's project but, not only that, he also broke his twin's future…
Of course, that wasn't his first mistake, he is Stanley Pines, thank you very much. His first mistake? Coming fifteen minutes late to his own birth! Actually, scratch that, his first mistake was being born, full stop.
After that it was classic kid's stuff, small mistakes, really: chipping his tooth, finding a boat, having hopes and dreams (how stupid right? RIGHT?!), including twin (check first paragraph) in said dream, eating pa's leftovers that one time, getting an F, getting an F-, getting a C in English (“you'd get an A if only you paid enough attention to spell correctly, Stanley!”) and a B in art, losing in boxing, backtalking to ma, backtalking to Shermie, stealing candy, pranking literally everyone in Glass Shard Beach, Carla, crashing Carla's new boyfriend's car, playing loud music outside Carla's house, realising he didn't actually love Carla (was he capable of love?) but loved the idea of her and of being wanted, pranking that one specific lady for all the years he lived in New Jersey, eating pa's leftovers…
The list goes on, really. Stan can't remember most of it, he certainly can't remember the ones he makes now.
Yeah, okay, maybe he has a thought or two in the moment where he realises he made a mistake but he's not dead! And a mistake that doesn't kill him is no mistake at this point! Not when Stan's whole life is one.
“Shit shit shit-” his boots drummed against the pavement as he ran towards his car, he could hear the slam of a car door just down the road which was a very tell sign that he was about to have a car chase. Him being the one being chased, of course (Ladies!! Please! There's enough of him to go around!), it's the usual Tuesday at his point.
“Or is it Wednesday?” He asked himself aloud as he spotted his baby, his home, his- oh the door is open.
“I can never spell Wednesday” he grumbled because his brain was still stuck on Wed-nes-day, probably too panicked or overwhelmed to truly take in the fact that he was being chased and his car had been broken into. Well- broken into was a stretch, he left it unlocked because he had been planning to just take a leak in the beautiful wilderness of Oregon, he hadn't thought he needed to lock the door considering he was just across the road and it'd be quick.
He also hadn't thought a group of guys would have the same idea, said group being one he was familiar with. Familiar as in ‘steal car parts from their car and make a run for it but then come back to steal their gas too because you're out of gas in God fuck nowhere’ familiar.
Practically throwing himself into his car, Stan slammed the door shut and struggled with the engine because his gal is old (a classic lady, thank you very much), but eventually he managed, he always does.
The turn of the key sent the radio blaring ranchera crooning, making the moments his car stayed stationary as he slammed the gas almost far more dramatic than necessary.
Stan thought he heard something, almost like an extremely panicked yowl, and mentally noted that he needed to check his radio (along with the parts he stole and his whole car actually-) and drove off into the night.
Street lights flashed by him, the fuckers behind him flashing the high beams as though that was bound to stop him from speeding into the nothingness of the night.
“A mí me llaman el Gato Negro
Todas las leyes me buscan ya”
Gunshots painted the zoom of the wind past his ears, a shriek that sounded worryingly like a ‘MEOW’ came from the radio(?) but Stan was busy laughing maniacally.
“Soy peligroso, según lo dicen
Un desalmado y un criminal”
Reaching towards his glove box, accidentally brushing something soft on his passenger seat. It was far too good quality, like expensive fur, that Stanley found himself looking over despite still pressing on the pedal.
“Uh-” he froze, brain short circuiting.
“Mrow” the cat(?) replied.
Stanley Pines has made a whole lot of mistakes. Apparently leaving his door open was one of them now.
“Desde muy chico, me eché a los vicios
Todo lo malo conozco y-” BANG
Stan yelped and the cat(??) howled at the loudness of the sound, something hitting the back of his car.
“Shit!” Stan swerved towards the opposite side of the road, hoping the traffic coming towards them would…discourage them.
BANG BANG
“Conozco a todos los traficantes
Y criminales de la nación”
Stan rolled the window down aggressively, the road getting brighter as he drove. He could see the guys poking their little heads out despite the high beams.
“Stop shooting at my fucking car!” He waved a fist, realising a little later that there was light coming from them and from ahead.
“MEOWWW”
“Desde las sierras allá en Chihuahua
Con carga blanca viajaba yo”
Yelping, Stan swerved back into his lane as a truck drove past, honking all the way into the darkness. The series of panicked meows continued with the shooting.
“Puta mierda-” Stan glanced behind when he felt something hit only to freeze as many glowing eyes turned to him, all fluffed up fur and spooked.
“Wha-”
“MROWWW!!” The biggest of all shrieked and Stan felt the back of his hair rise with theirs.
“Right!” He turned back to the road and changed gears. He has absolutely no fucking idea what is happening but he sure got some idea on what to do.
Aggressively, Stanley changed lanes and quickly reversed, hooking his arm on the back of his chair to have a look behind. The guys speeding right past, swerving far too late.
With well practiced ease, Stan changed gears again and drove straight at them, not moving as their high beams went straight for him. He could feel something prick at his thigh.
Just at the last second, the guys turned to the side, not willing to risk it. Stan followed the example, turning back to his lane as he blinked his eyes rapidly to adjust to the night.
A manic laugh bubbled out of his chest and he whooped victoriously with a roll of the tongue, a powerful grito, as he disappeared into the night, giving himself one last speed on the empty roads with his hair in the wild wind before joining traffic like a good citizen.
“El Gato Negro no se despide
Desaparecé de la región
Cuando me miren todo de Negro
Y ojos borrados, ese soy yo”
Sherman Pines will be the first to admit his mistakes, he's a grown mature man.
For example, he made the mistake of listening to his father the moment the baby fever and the new father buzz washed away and he stopped being soft towards him. He made the mistake of letting his mother drink non-stop, hoping she'd come to a stop on her own when she was pregnant with the twins (had he stopped her would Stanford have been born normal? Would Stanley have been born breathing?) he had hoped she wouldn't drink in front of children.
There's also the mistake of allowing Stanford to seek out his father's approval more than necessary until he just began seeking everyone's approval, getting drunk on the praise and allowing them to mold his brain and make him believe he was a ‘freak’ that needed to prove himself, make him believe Stanley was anything good and was all ill intent despite all the memories they had.
As for Stanley…that was a whole other level of mistakes. Sherman Pines had made the mistake of not being there to calm Stanley through his destructive rage, wasn't there to scold him over how wrong it was to destroy his own brother's project thanks to his fear of being left behind… But mostly of all, Sherman's biggest mistake was hanging up on Stanley, finding out too late why exactly he had called.
So when Sherman Pines had noticed the familiar red car with the white top, he couldn't help the fluttering of hope that arose in his chest.
“Hey guys” he called to his family, now turned cat all thanks to ma and Stanford “take a look at this”
The others came to join, Shermie could feel his tail (weird) move in a pleased way as he read the letters on the car plate. His ears rose higher as his mother gasped in delight.
“It's Stanley's car!” his mother gasped, already walking around it as though Stanley might be hiding under it or something. Stanford came to sit by his side, rolling his eyes which made his tail smack the ground in annoyance despite himself.
Meanwhile, his father was still shuffling towards them.
“We should be looking for a way to undo the curse” Stanford turned to him “not participate on some silly family reunion”
“Silly? You haven't seen your own twin in years!” Sherman argued but stopped because it sounded an awful lot like a cat fight. He attempted to compose himself, clearing his throat like his father did often when awkward (or wrong) but it came out as a weird cough.
“You're brother is right, Sherman” Filbrick, his father, finally caught up to them “we need to get rid of this hocus pocus at once”
“I don't exactly want anyone seeing me like this” Stanford continued for his father, brushing his ear before looking back to the car “much less him”
“But maybe he could help” Shermie felt himself say, sounding small and hopeful.
“Peh!” His father scoffed “Stanley? Help? With something like this? He could barely help himself in school, what makes you think he can help with this?”
“Got it!” A cheerful voice interrupted their spat, catching their attention.
Looking over, Shermie not only found his mother but the door of the ElDiablo open with her already inside, a fanged grin directed at them full of pride. Shermie felt his mouth open in disbelief, he was sure the other two Pines men(cats) were doing the same.
“Well? Come on in” His mother invited like it was her car to invite them too, prancing around and jumping to the back seats.
“I'm not staying out there in the cold, smells like rain” she commented and, truly enough, it did really smell like rain.
As the first drops hit his fur, Sherman found himself letting out a small surprised “MEOW” and immediately hopped into the car, nestling between the pedals as he looked out towards his younger brother and father.
Stanford rolled his eyes once again but relented and gave one graceful hop inside the car. As he entered, he immediately scrunched his nose and began to look around.
“It reeks in here” he hissed “I thought he loved this car?”
Certainly, it was shocking to see the state the car was in knowing how Stanley had been with it, paying extra for the customer plate and going on about his ‘baby’ all day. Shermie had watched Stanley spend hours outside with the car and even had helped out a few times, loving the way his little brother's eyes lit up when he offered to help–
“Sixer never wants to help me even though he's smart enough to” he'd complain “not to mention he always interrupts me and correct me when I talk about my baby” and talk he did, rambling about his car in the same exact way he used to do as a kid about the sea and sea animals and his one unfortunate pet possum…
Perhaps that had been another mistake of Sherman's, listening and encouraging one of Stanley's short interests. Now look at him, moving on from his own ‘baby’ like he had grown from all the fun facts (that weren't always fun- Sea Bass eating their own eggs is not fun, thank you very much), like he had never cared about it.
A thud brought his attention back to the present, causing both Stanford and he to turn and watch their father (who looked ridiculous, by the way) hang from the edge of the car door, his claws scratching the bottom of the car as he scrambled.
“What are you two doing?” Filbrick hissed “help me up”
Sharing a glance with his brother, Sherman noted the slight amusement in his eyes as he sighed. Chuckling, Sherman hopped off the car and used his head to push his father up while Stanford followed his example, only he insisted on using his front paws.
It took longer than they'd like to admit but soon enough they were all in Stanley's car, his father going on about how Stanley “can't even keep his car kept, much left his life” as he climbed on the passenger's seat with difficulty because he insisted on it and refused to be in the backseats.
Sherman welcomed himself to the back where his mother's already was, quiet with ears hanging low.
“Ma? What's wrong?” He asked, surprised he could tell her emotions so easily now with a single glance.
Ma didn't reply, her eyes settled on something on the floor of the car. Sherman followed her gaze to find…
A ratty old blanket full of holes.
And a familiar black bag that he had seen in the corner of his parents closet once when he was playing hide and seek with the twins….
“What are you two doing?” Stanford sniffed, shaking his head with a “eugh” as he joined them at the back.
Bursting open with things Shermie both recognised and didn't, the duffle bag sat there for display. He could see clothes, a notebook bursting at the seams, some business cards that both belonged to Stan and didn't, some…lingerie and a pack of condoms that were dangerously close to an unnamed package.
Sherman felt his heart drop to his stomach and jumped on the bag, stuffing the things inside as his fur began to rise against his will. He didn't think his mother saw, he hoped so at least, he didn't want her to connect the things Stanley might have–
Oh God…his little brother… his little brother might have–
“Shit!”
Startled, Shermie squeaked as he watched a long haired man jump into the car and slam the door closed. There was shouting but the man wasn't listening, he simply turned the key and–
“MOSES!” His brother shrieked as music began to blare before he, ma and Shermie met the back cushions of the car as the crazy man (that smelled oddly familiar now that he thought about it-) sped away.
Sherman Pines can admit to many mistakes but he is struggling to admit to this one of entering his brother’s car is one of them.
BANG
Nevermind. This was definitely a mistake.
It was hard to understand what was going on with the Mexican(??) music being too loud, the speeding and the shouting out the window but even Shermie could tell they were being shot at- that the man was being shot at.
It wasn't until the man turned after a gunshot that sounded far too close, that Sherman felt his heart (that had previously dropped to his stomach, remember?) drop all the way down to his feet.
Looking at them, dumbfounded, was his little brother, Stanley. His hair had grown, covering his eyes a tad, and time had shaped him into a grown man instead of a boy (because he had been a boy when he was kicked out), all strong jaw and stubble.
“WATCH THE ROAD!” His ma shouted
“Right!” Stanley, because that is Stanley, jumped and turned to do as told. He drove with practiced ease, changing gears and driving backwards like he had done this many times before.
Heart, meet whatever is beneath the ground.
When the chase was over, his brother celebrated but all Sherman could feel was regret. Sherman Pines can admit to his mistakes and it takes no effort to admit that hanging up on his little brother had been the biggest one.
“Oh oops- forgot to close my fly” Stan glanced down and let go of the wheel, with both hands, to close it up, with both his hands.
“STANLEY! THE WHEEL!!” Stanford shrieked
“GRAB THE FUCKING WHEEL YOU MORON!” Filbrick joined in, his paw on his son's thigh and gripping it like his life depended on it (or Stanley's?).
“Oh oops” his little brother chuckled and grabbed the wheel again. Only after he zipped himself up. Overall he seemed pretty okay with having random cats in his car.
“No! We are getting further away from Gravity Falls!” Stanford stood on his hind legs and pressed himself against the window.
“Whats wrong with that?” Sherman looked over before feeling something touch him on the head and slide. He blinked, trying to look but all he saw was his ma–
“If we want any chance to be turned back, Gravity Falls is more likely to have the solutio-” Stanford stopped as he looked over, freezing.
“Ma….are you grooming Shermie right now?”
Caryn, his mother, stopped, tongue still out when Shermie looked up to check. She looked surprised herself
“I don't know why I did that” she smacked her ‘lips’.
Soon enough, the car came to a stop. When Shermie looked up to check where they were, he found Stanley looking at them curiously, just staring and blinking dumbly at them. Shermie blinked back.
“Uh…woah- okay. Wow” Stan turned back to face the front before reaching for his glove box and-
“IS THAT COCAINE?!” Shermie eyed the little baggie in his brother’s hand.
“Nope. Still here- heh-” Stan put it back and returned to stare at them. And then his father. Although he did pull back a bit, looking intimidated by their father's new ridiculous form.
“Welp. They're bound to leave by themselves” he slapped his hands on the wheel and opened the door, stepping outside.
He also opened the back doors for them, looking expectantly at them. When none of them immediately left, Stan did an extravagant bow to them, hand pointing outside invitingly. Shermie almost felt delighted to actually hop out.
“Your freedom awaits you” Stan tried again “shoo shoo”
“Rude” Stanford came to sit on the edge of the seats, glaring at his twin (if they could still be called that). Their mother came to join him, watching her son silently with these eyes Shermie couldn’t quite place. Sherman sighed and decided to attempt their way out of…these bodies.
“Brother” he stepped over, looking up at him with his brows drawn “it’s us, your family. I know it may be hard to believe but-”
“Mew meow meow morrow….meow mew mew”
Stan blinked, watching the talkative fella talk away instead of, you know, hopping right out of his car.
“Mhm” Stan nodded along because it felt rude not to, his own brows furrowed like the cat’s as he tried to focus on what the actual fuck was happening. For a moment it looked as though the cat looked relieved.
“Look, man, I don’t have any food for you” he finally delivered the bad news, afraid the cats would somehow get attached to his good for nothing ass “and frankly, I don’t have food for myself. I can’t exactly take you in” he explained.
There was silence as all heads (including Mr Grumps in the front seat) turned to him.
“Yeesh. Talk about judgemental” Stan pulled back and scratched the back of his neck “you guys are in no place to judge! You broke into my car! Your standards are very low! I mean- High! Very high standards!” he corrected, panicked as he looked over his car
“Please don’t break down on me” he whispered to his baby, his car,
Sighing, Stan eyed the little convenience store he parked outside of then turned back to the cats. Well, they ought to leave by themselves eventually, right?
“Mew! Meow mewo meow mewo mew mew!” The cat kept arguing away, the big brownie one seeming to give some sassy responses before hopping out on their own. Stan looked down at the tall fella who looked back up at him. He gave a little nod in thanks and was shocked to see it nod back.
Okay…. He needs food. And water. Pretty sure his urine earlier did not smell great- Oh yeah. He also needs to wash his hands.
The cat in front, the one Stanley is having a whole lot of difficulty making eye contact with (both because of how disapproving it looks and because one eye is literally facing outwards), shuffled around in the front before tumbling out of the front door. Its fur stuck up all crazed and it shook itself adorably, Stan chuckled.
The cat did not seem to like that, hissing in his direction.
Eventually, the talkative cat hopped out as well, looking upset and defeated as the brown one scolded(?) it. Stan doesn’t understand what is happening but the tall brown one doesn’t seem happy.
What was left was the very beautiful black cat that sat inside his car and stared up at him with these…almost human-like eyes. Stan found himself looking back in silence, feeling a sort of shame and sadness creep up on him.
“Come on, little lady, I promise I’ll grab you something to eat from the shop if you come out” he pleaded.
The cat’s ears drooped but she hopped on out anyway, circling the others before sitting next to the shortest, weird eyed, one. He softly closed the door, offering her a thankful smile.
“Mew?”
“Hm? Oh- how did I know she was a lady?” Stan made conversation as he closed the other door and locked his car, flashing a grin “just look at her, only a lady carries herself like that”
Stanley has disappeared into the convenience store, leaving all the four of them outside like the irresponsible adult he was. Filbrick huffed a disappointed sigh, something he hadn't done in a while. He remembers doing it daily when Stanley used to live with them.
“What's eating at you, dear?” He asked, finally breaking the silence that had stretched ever since Stanley had gone in.
Caryn stared into the night, the faraway sky lifting with dull pinks that made her fur look almost like a dark red from here.
“Your son is homeless”
Filbrick Pines hadn’t made a lot of mistakes.
“You made your son homeless, Fil”
Every hair on his body began to stand, the feeling sending chills down his spine which made the feeling worse. His claws tried to dig into the pavement for balance as the night began too bright and the whisper of the rain a loud roar.
Filbrick Pines isn't an idiot. He saw the state of the car, he could smell the scent of moldy food and dirty clothes and the faint familiar smell of blood. He saw the glimpse of a revolver in the glove box the moment his son had opened it to grab a bag of drugs.
Filbrick had seen the way his hair had grown and become unkempt, he had seen the grease from up close, had seen the eyebags of his lazy son that loved to nap around the house and on the beach until he became more red than tan. He had heard the manic laughter as his hands trembled on the wheel for a short moment, he had smelled the sweat as he called out the window and had noted the hardening in his boy's eyes when the first gunshot had rang.
Filbrick Pines hadn’t made a lot of mistakes… but perhaps he didn't need to. He had one mistake that made up for all the lack of the others… He had Stanley.
Or maybe he didn't…and that one itself was a mistake.
“Oh hey!” Stanley’s voice carried over “you guys are still here”
Walking over, Filbrick noted the clink of something coming from his pockets as he sat down on the curb next to them. Filbrick felt his snout scrunch at the thought of a Pines sitting on the floor so easily, it was disgraceful.
“Don’t worry, don’t worry” Stan waved his hand as though calming down wild animals. Which…he supposes they kind of are now. Except they’re not wild nor do they need to be calmed down.
With a dramatic wiggle of his fingers and a wave of an arm, Stanley made a can of tuna pop up in his hand, gasping with his free hand on his head. His eyes and mouth were comically wide, it reminded Filbrick of the times the boy would rush forth to show him a failed magic trick (“I can see the cloth poking out of your pants, Stan”) or a new silly comic (“That is not how you spell ‘crack of’. And what do big octopus have to do with it?”). The memories made his chest feel weird.
Well, just like back then, Stanley always found a way to make Caryn laugh. Caryn chuckled softly, the sound weird coming from a cat but it warmed his chest to hear it. However sad it sounded.
“Does he expect us to eat that?” Stanford scrunched his snout in disgust
“Well…It is tuna. At least not actual cat food” Sherman always did try to see the positive of things. He tried too much, Filbrick thinks.
“I am not eating that” he grunted, turning away.
Then the smell hit him. It was divine and potent, wafting through the air and dragging his head back to face the opened can of delicacy. The other three gathered, all their eyes on the single can of tuna, eyes surely dilated. He thinks Stanley chuckles but is far too focused on the food as he dives for it. It hadn’t even crossed his mind how hungry he was until this very moment-
A head pushes lightly at him and Filbrick returns to himself. The can is small and won’t be enough to fill him up so he pushes back and allows his family to feed. He licks his lips and sniffs which comes as a loud snort from his screwed up face.
Caryn is munching away before she seems to come to a similar realisation and sits up to watch their children feast. The two made sounds that he remembers the stray cat, that lived in the alley of the Pawn Shop, making when he put out leftovers for it before it decided to mooch off him and invite itself into his home like it paid the bills- if Caryn saw him sitting in his chair late at night with the fat bastard in his lap it wasn’t his choice.
A sudden shadow loomed over him and Filbrick quickly turned, heart hammering as he felt his ridiculous fur fluff up with a hiss. A hand froze.
Stanley was looking at him, his hand hovering over his head like he had been about to pet him… Oh Moses, he had been about to, hadn’t he? His face was this neutral blank that was so unlike the kid he raised, his eyes widened a little at the attitude he received from the cat he had been about to pet but they quickly softened into something so Stan-unlike.
“I get it” he spoke lowly, hand retreating into his pockets, rummaging around and pulling out an used and bent cigarette “I don’t like hands on me neither”
Taking deep breaths, Filbrick forced himself to relax, watching the man his son had grown to be. The homeless man his son had grown to be.
“You’re a good dad”
The flick of a lighter and burn of a flame brought life to that sad cigarette trapped between chapped and dry lips. The lips had dried blood, probably from the habit Stanley had since a kid of biting the skin off it- along with his nails. A quick glance at the hands revealed that habit was still on-going despite the times he had put hot sauce in his finger tips to stop him.
Stan quirked his head towards where the others were eating and Filbrick followed his gaze, sitting next to his youngest after years of being apart.
Filbrick Pines hadn’t made a lot of mistakes… but he thinks… he thinks making his Stanley say that may have been one of them.
Caryn Pines may be perfect but even she makes mistakes.
For instance, she once or twice thought marrying Filbrick was a mistake but then she eats and realises she was hungry or he apologises in the privacy of their own room with a chip bouquet of flowers or jewellery and they're good. Not a mistake because she barely makes any.
Still, there was the time she kept drinking when pregnant with the twins and had truly thought she messed up when her second baby (she had no idea it had been two) just didn't want to leave her. Stanley grew to be quite clingy of her and she supposed he would have grown in her belly if the doctors hadn't dragged him out…
The mistake hadn't been the drinking then but perhaps it had been the times that boy had clung to everyone and anyone in the family. Perhaps the mistake had been Caryn being too tired for her baby when he came running to her for comfort but she was too busy nursing the wine, sending him to his brothers instead. Perhaps the mistake had been letting Filbrick be a father in his own barbaric way, doing everything right except the loving part…of there was even one.
Caryn had made the mistake not to listen to her eldest, having to watch him leave through the front door with packed bags and a simple agreement to let her see his little one when she didn't change her ways. Caryn had made the mistake of being even more stubborn and pointedly not change after that.
She may be perfect but even she looks at Stanford's hands and wonders where she went wrong, if Sherman had been right and she should've just soldiered on instead of turning to alcohol… But Stanford is perfect. Stanford Pines is smart and adorably curious, her perfect little boy who held his twin's hand everywhere he went, who often sent shy smiles whenever she held both her twin's hands on a walk.
Stanford always spoke of things she didn't understand but she loved listening to it anyway (even if a bit much at times). When had her little boy began talking like his father? Was it her mistake not to correct it like she hadn't corrected Filbrick earlier on the ‘loving family’ business?
“Okay. So you're not leaving. Got it”
Caryn stared at the familiar black duffle bag on the floor of the car. It was lumpy and depressing looking, no doodles of stars or homemade pins from bottle caps like Stanley loved to add. It looked exactly like the day it had disappeared from the closet, although much older.
Caryn Pines may be perfect but even she makes mistakes… sitting idly by, a spectator, had been one of them.
“Next time I won't feed you” her little free spirit grumbled as he pulled to park again in some secluded place if the lack of noise indicated anything.
It was nighttime and the smell of rain had made itself scarce as Stanley stepped out of his car. Caryn wanted to follow but was afraid the moment she stepped out, Stanley would rush to shut her out.
“I'll stay” a gruff meow promised and Caryn barely spared her husband a glance before hopping out of the car as well. The quiet sound of the radio carried outside as she approached the boots of her boy.
His boots were old, falling apart like the one pair of shoes he had always insisted on wearing despite having thrown a big fit about how tight they'd been the first time he'd tried them on (“come on sweetie you can't be crying about it, can you? It's just shoes…. If maybe you'd worn them before instead of going barefoot everywhere-”). Caryn had a feeling this wasn't about the love or the comfort of the boots, there were holes on his soles that let the rain tickle his feet with the freezing cold.
“Hm?” Stanley, who'd been reaching for the inside of his boot, paused as he noticed her “Hey there, little lady”
Caryn was his mother, there was nothing little about her, but she'd be lying if she said she didn't like being called lady.
Stanley chuckled, pulling a knife from his boot (why would he need to keep one there? Caryn didn't want to know) and she should've been afraid considering she was a cat and not his mother this very instant but she trusted her son. She trusted Stanley not to hurt innocent animals despite his fascination with dead ones- Stanley was always an animal lover, whether they were alive or not.
“Came for some fresh air?” he made idle conversation, checking the sharpness of the blade “thought you made yourself at home in my…well- home?”
A sick mixture of regret and guilt brewed in her chest at those words, that confirmation. Her baby, her little free spirit, her Stanley was homeless… and she had simply stood by and watched.
Bringing the knife up, Stan grabbed the front of his bangs that got over his eyes and began trimming them carelessly. A few hairs drifted down, a few landing on her nose, tickling her nose and dragging a sneeze from her.
“Oops” her baby laughed, clearly amused by the sound she made, a few hairs shorter than the others. He looked ridiculous…but his smile made her think he was beautiful.
It certainly was weird to have looked down at her baby all her life, seeing those big doe eyes look up to her from his chubby freckled face. Suddenly he was her height and they were seeing eye to eye and now… Now she wonders how tall her son really is.
With a wiggle of her butt, she prepared herself and hopped up on the front of the Stanley-Mobile, scrambling at the smooth surface as she overestimated her jump and slid down-
A hand set on her side, steadying her. The hand was big and calloused, nails bitten and scars decorating the knuckles. When Caryn looked up, she found Stanley looking back at her with his eyes upturned with amusement and silent laughter.
“Careful, lady”
So. The cats decided to stay. That's cool and all, they're kind of cute, except Stanley can't take care of them.
He likes animals too much to put them through what is Stanley Pines.
The big black cat stares up at him with those serene and weird eyes that make Stanley feel heard even though he's very much not speaking. His hand is still settled on the extremely soft fur- he'd like to rub his face in the texture but he's not sure where this cat has been and if he'd get scratched for being touchy.
The lady tilts her head and pushes it against the palm of his hand with a force that surprises him. He obliges and brushes his hand over her head and back, feeling something melt in his chest. It feels…it feels…
It feels like feelings.
Withdrawing his hand, Stan stares at the black cat in front of him and the black cat stares back, looking almost disappointed.
Stanley has done a lot of bad in his life but nothing has made him feel quite as guilty as those big sad eyes. Ouch.
Whatever, he has some hair to get rid of, it was getting annoying always brushing his hair back or blowing it out of his eyes- not to mention, dangerous. His vision isn't already great and pairing it with a blindfold made of hair will only make matters worse.
Once his bangs were short enough to be simply brushed to the side, Stan eyed the cat and then his surroundings. It's dark and she is a black cat so there's no way anything could see her and snatch her up, right? She'd be safe.
…
“Ugghgghhhhgghh” he groaned dramatically and scooped the cat up, closing the front door and instead crawling in the back seats.
“Meow?”
“Yeah yeah, don't get used to it” he grumbled, settling her on his duffle bag, it was full of clothes so it ought to make a good cushion. He'd known he'd been using it as a pillow for years.
“Move, shoo” he waved the others away from the backseats so he could lay down. He kicked off his boots since he was in an area safe enough to do so and closed the door with his foot-
“Si supieras lo que he hecho por venirte a ver”
“Crap, I forgot the radio on” Stan sighed miserably, he had just gotten comfortable too
“Si supieras lo que he dicho por verte otra vez”
He sat up, listening to the lull of the guitar, he needed to turn his car off to save battery but when he looked over… it looked so far.
“No te enfadarias nunca y no dudarias de mi amor por ti”
“Meow” something fluffy tried to get his attention but Stan’s eyes were already drifting to the little photograph hung up on the visor. Two young faces looked back at him- well, no. The faces were looking at each other but it’s a way of speech, okay? He is looking at the photograph of an ignoramus and an intellectual.
With teeth clenched, Stan brushed off the non-grumpy smaller cat away to reach for the radio’s off switch.
“Si supieras que he mentido por volverte a ver”
His rough hands found the fragile paper instead-
“Si supieras lo que lucho por poder salir”
And Stanley layed back down with the photograph in hand, looking at the faces in the darkness as his chest grew heavy. There was meowing going on but it sounded far off and submerged in comparison to the crooning of Chavela Vargas.
“I knew buying Vargas’ CD was a bad idea” Stan whispered mainly to himself, it sounded choked up. The sniffle that followed didn’t help him feel any less pathetic.
“Nadie en casa me comprende, todos me censuran mi forma de ser”
Mouthing along to the words, Stanley carefully set the photograph to the back of the front seats, afraid that he may wrinkle it while sleeping. He laid on his side, pointy ears blocking his view of the photograph before a curious kitty popped up, all wide eyed and annoyingly adorable.
“Mrrow?”
“Yeah” Stan sighed, exhausted. “I should get rid of that CD” he agreed with the brown cat, petting their head which earned him some annoyed batting from cute paws.
The photograph began to blur all by itself, more blurry than Stanley was used to, so he closed his eyes to not watch the faces fade away and stopped mouthing along to the words. Swallowing down the discomfort in his chest, Stan felt the familiar strangling feeling of sadness trying to force its way through his eyes and lips in the form of tears and sobs.. But Stanley was a big boy now, a man, and had long learned to kick sadness’ butt ever since his father shouted at him for crying.
“Y verte y hablarte cada vez que yo quiero”
Men don’t cry. Boys don’t cry. Pines don’t cry.
The memory is hazy behind the darkness of his eyelids. All he remembers is the blotch of yellow that is his father, some random teenager with a snotty voice pointing at him as he cried over… He doesn’t remember. He thinks he had his arms out, reaching for his father- he is always reaching towards something, isn’t he? Towards someone…
In his memory the yellow flushes an angry red, and there is noise. Very loud shouting, another finger jabbed at him as his hands were pushed away… Then, sunglasses turn away and the smell of cigars fade into the distance.
“I did not raise you to embarrass yourself like that”
A small hand finds his own though, perfect six in broken five. It makes it a bit easier to swallow his cries.
“Y verme y hablarme cuando lo quieras tu”
Stanford Pines isn’t one to make mistakes.
Perhaps trusting his twin had been one, yes. And perhaps leaving out a cursed jewel (despite being safely stored) when his greedy family was visiting was another. Perhaps keeping such a jewel that, apparently, turns you into a cat might have been a mistake itself. And, yes, perhaps following his older brother into his twin's (check start of paragraph) car was a mistake, considering they were most likely faraway from Gravity Falls, the source of weirdness and, most likely, a solution.
No, we are not going to mention how all he did was complain and not stop anyone from doing so. This is all against his wishes.
No, we are also not going to mention how he'd been staring at the photograph on the sun visor while his mother went after his twin. Definitely not mentioning the squeeze in his chest and the comfort he got from his older brother (that was now much shorter than he was hah!) as he sat next to him, sides pressed.
We are not mentioning any of that because it did not happen. If it did, it would be a mistake on its own.
“Stanley speaks Spanish?” Stanford poked his head to take a closer look to his twin, double checking if he really was mouthing the words correctly or was pretending to.
Stanley had really let himself go. Stan's hair had grown and his bangs covered his eye-oh! No they didn't. Must have been his imagination.
Stan was a weird mix of frail and strong, the muscle he had as a kid was there but while before he couldn't lose his chubby (“I'm bulking, Sixer!”) now he had more of the boxer build he had tried so hard to get. His eyes, however, were sunken and his jaw going the same way, all sharp and strong and sprinkled with a stubble that speaks more of “I'm having a tough time” than “I am a tough guy” like Stan was probably hoping for.
Dark brown eyes met his own and Stanford was hit with a tsunami of nostalgia with a single look. Stanley's expression was down, eyes more shiny than they ought to be… Stanford had seen such eyes before. He'd seen those eyes on a smiling face, on a quick glance before wide gestures of hands took his attention or before a back was turned to him. He'd seen those eyes on a frustrated face, on a kid that sat impatiently in class, on a kid that tugged at his hair and bounced his knee or punched his way into second place…
Stanford had never been able to tell what those eyes were, he had thought that it had been just boredom, but here with Stanley who isn't smiling or trying to distract him from that look or is….so still, Stanford can finally understand what those eyes are. What those emotions that swim in the mudslide of his brother's eyes are…
It's sadness. It's exhaustion. It's defeat.
It's everything Stanley Pines is not and Stanford had missed it.
“Hey!” A sudden hand is on his head and Stanford swipes at it. What's with him acting like he's the big brother? Patting his head like he is a mere child (or a cat)!!
Finally, Stanford’s message must have come across because Stanley dropped his hand. Good. Stanford huffed, watching his brother who simply closed his eyes and got comfortable, body curling up in the backseats (because he was homeless) and casually went to sleep right there (because he was homeless) like had done nothing wrong at all (his twin was homeless-).
Stanford felt his ears prick up as they caught onto a small sound. He hadn't been sure what until he heard it again: Stanley's breathing.
Stan's breath wasn't deep, in fact, it stopped for far too long before returning shakily as the music carried on.
“Stanley?” Ford found himself whispering a quiet and pathetic ‘mew?’ as he watched his brother's chest spasm, body curling up further as though in pain.
“What's wrong with him?” His father grunted from the front seats, face turned to watch them as Shermie climbed up and gently shook Stanley.
“Stanley? Stan? Come on, talk to us” his big brother pleaded, pawing uselessly on Stan's shoulders.
Stanford watched with wide eyes as not a sound escaped his twin, face screwed with tension as his chest did the weird movement again. Was his brother having a seizure? But why?! What was happening-
A sniffle. A hand rubs at his eyes uselessly as tears squeeze past the tightness of his clenched eyes.
“¿Cuándo llegará ese día que no me separe nunca más de ti?”
Stanford froze at the sound. Or the lack thereof.
Stanley was crying. Silently so.
“¿Cuándo llegará la hora que salgamos juntos, pero sin mentir?”
When had his twin learned to cry so quietly? It had to be after he left, right? It couldn't have been before then because…because that meant Stanley could have been crying in his bunk at night and Stanford would be none the wiser.
How many evenings had Stanford studied through with his brother napping, curled up in a similar fashion while facing the wall? How many times had Stanford shrugged a shiver during his brother's sleep or a sniffle he simply covered a blanket with? When had Stanley learned to cry mute?
“Y verte”
Without much of a thought, Stanford found himself scrambling up onto the seats, pressing himself between the non-existent space of Stanley's arms and his chest.
“Y hablarte”
Stanley made space for him, arms that had been wrapped around himself as though trying to keep himself from falling apart, as though he was trying to recreate the feeling of an embrace, came apart enough for Stanford to squeeze himself through.
“Cada vez que yo quiera”
Here, pressed against Stanley's chest, Stanford could feel every spasm and hitch of breath, the quietest of whines that compressed itself into the quietest of squeaks past his throat.
Stanford laid there, wide eyed, staring into nothing as he took in each painful thump thump of his brother’s heart. He wants to hold his hand, he finds out… He wants to hold his hand like all the times Stanley had held his when he was embarrassed of them, when he hated them.
“Y verme”
Lifting his hand, Stanford stares at a small paw. Small and powerless and, because the universe thinks he is a joke, still with an extra digit.
“Y hablarme”
Stanford Pines isn’t one to make mistakes… But as he stares at his little paw, lonesome and empty, he recalls a hand lifting up, trying to reach for his. It’s far away, it is normal and perfect and it calls to him.
“High six?”
Maybe…maybe Stanford Pines has a few mistakes of his own. Maybe he was far too afraid to admit them.
“Cuando lo quiera-”
The music stops and Stanford has only half a mind to check why. Tilting his head backwards, he sees a paw on the button of the radio. It’s his father’s.
Sherman has cuddled up against Stanley’s belly when Stanford turns his head to check on the other’s, his bright amber eyes look back at him sadly, his ears lowered pitifully and tail wrapped protectively over Stan. Meanwhile, his mother’s long body has taken place over Stanley’s head, making a sort of halo as she grooms at Stanley’s disgusting greasy hair.
The loud erratic thumping of his brother’s heart slows and his breath hitches, frail and craven, hiding behind the tightly shut gates that are his lips. Stanford presses closer, wishing he could help, shuffling closer until he’s eye to eyelid with his brother.
Gently, he presses his forehead against his, a rumbling bubbling from his chest out, drowning out the sound of his twin’s cries. Brown eyes just like his own finally meet his, they’re wet and grief stricken. Stanford looks into Stanley’s eyes and slowly closes his own, opening them just as slowly to find the tears have finally slipped from their cage, cascading sideways on his brother’s face and dripping from the bridge of his nose onto the worn leather of his car where the seats are perfectly Stan-shaped from years of sleeping and laying there.
Stanford Pines isn't one to make mistakes. That doesn’t mean he has never made any.