seiya234:

They didn’t do cards on Father’s Day. Never wished Stan a “Happy
Father’s Day” or got him presents. Mark was the kids’ father after all, not
him. And it wasn’t like… what the kids had with his nephew was nothing like
what living with his dad was like.

Mark, for better or worse, still loved them.

(Had he even ever heard Dad tell Ma that he loved her even?
Stan’s memory was shit but he really, really
doubted that that had ever occurred.)

But.

—-

What Stan Did Not
Tell His Nephew:

-“If you’re going to throw them away like trash then I’ll
take them in.”

-“Fuck off.”

-“You’re the dad, you don’t get to pussy out and not deal with this-“

-“Fuck off.”

-“Did you learn nothing from your mom, from your uncle and
your grandpa and me, come the fuck on
Mark.”

-“Did I tell you to go fuck yourself? No. Okay, go fuck
yourself.”

-“I’m sorry.”

What Stan Did Tell
His Nephew:

-“So can you throw some cash my way if I’m taking the brats
in? Food costs money, yanno?”

—

He hoped the guy, gal, or otherwise Mabel brought home could
cook because she sure as shit couldn’t.

Mabel bought edible glitter- from where, he had no idea,
because he knew Dipper wasn’t giving it to her through a deal and the store
didn’t sell it- and used handfuls in every meal she made. Same went for the
sprinkles that you put on top of cupcakes and ice cream. Mabel loved to mix
weird things together, like steak and chocolate syrup, just to see what would
happen. There would be weeks where Mabel got hooked on a certain taste, and
would just make the same thing over and over and over again.

Stan, if he was being honest, couldn’t cook worth a damn
either, but at least his food was dependable damnit. And when it wasn’t, there
was always Greasy’s.

Yet the June after the kids came to live with him, he came
down from his room one Sunday to find a big bowl of mashed potatoes, a turkey,
some weird green things that were probably
Brussel sprouts, and two faces looking at him worriedly.

Dinner was okay, he had better.

That dinner was one of the best meals of his life.

—

The first Father’s Day after Stan left (was kicked out) (left) was spent getting drunk and
throwing the bottles at the brick wall of a gas station in the middle of
nowhere Tennessee until the manager had finally had enough and chased him away
waving a shot gun.

The twenty fourth Father’s Day after Filbrick threw him away
was a call and an emotionless voice letting Stanford know that his Ma had
passed away, asking if he could spare some of his smarty pants genius money for
the funeral.

The fourth Father’s Day after Stan was kicked out (left) was
spent with a guy he met in the Castro, quickly moving from the alley to the
Stanmobile and ending in the rowhouse Tandy shared with five or six other guys.
The look on Ford’s face as he turned away from him standing in the street, the
final glare of light off his father’s glasses as he turned his back on Stan…. it
didn’t seem as important, not with Tandy’s lips on his, on other parts of him.

It wasn’t enough, it would never be enough, but for tonight
it was.

—

Stan looked in the rearview mirror at the two girls sitting
in his backseat.

Due to an incident involving Dipper, four cows, half the
football team, and an ill-advised quiche, prom had to be rescheduled until the
next time the Gravity Falls Community Center was free, which was the third Sunday
in June.

In the mirror, Pacifica, dressed in a ballgown that took up
most of the backseat, looked down to see Mabel’s hand carelessly on hers. Even
with his shit eyesight, Stan knew that she was blushing.

In the mirror, Mabel, in a dress of her own making that included
a pretty rock she found in the creek last week and beaded portraits of Dipper
and their friends, beaming like the sun as he drove them towards Senior
Prom.

When he pulled up, there was a photobooth outside taking
advantage of the summer light. The marquee read “Daddy and Me!” Weird hokey
shit which seriously didn’t even make since because the majority of the people
here were with boyfriends or girlfriends or fri-

“Come on Stan!”

Stan started. He hadn’t even noticed the girls getting out
of the car. (Getting old, Stan, getting slow)

“Uh, pretty sure you told me this wasn’t going to cost any
money kid.”

Mabel laughed.

“No silly! I want my picture with you!”

Stan froze. What to say, come on come on what to say-

He said nothing.

He got out of the car, and was thankful he still had his
suit on from the day as Mabel dragged him over to the photo booth, Pacifica
trailing along amusedly.

—

Times Mark and Anna
Called Per Week:

-Twice, always without fail on Wednesdays and Sundays

Average Time the
Calls Lasted:

-five to seven minutes

(not that Stan was keeping track or anything. He appreciated
their effort.

Really

He did.)

—-

Dipper was the same boy he always knew, a smart aleck know-it-all
with noodle arms who never bathed and was painfully dorky at times.

Dipper was a boy, still a boy no matter how much he and his
sister argued that they were big and bad teenagers now, and he was a demon.
Dipper was so young and he had done things that made even Stan want to hurl and
liked them.

Dipper and the random deer and cow carcasses that showed up
on their front lawn during lean months when the Shack wasn’t bringing in any
money.

Dipper and a random slap on the back that would dispel the
nagging cough or back pain Stan was having that day.

A demon covered in blood and darkness scrambling on his lap
in a way that Dipper would have never done Before and Stan said nothing, only
wrapped his arms around his bo- his nephew.

(A gold piece and a tooth left under his pillow one June
morning.)

—

But.

But parents who only saw them four times a year.

But three beautiful redheaded miracles (and he knew, Stan
knew he was being sappy as fuck, but he was too old to care any more) and the
day they looked at him as one and said “Grandpa!”

But in giving two lost kids a home getting one himself.

But the third Sunday in June.