Stanley Pines hadn’t really planned on kids, but then, they managed to find him anyway.

A little Father’s Day tribute (a day late, whoops) to not just a great dad uncle, but the greatest uncle!

Soon I’ll be sixty years old, will I think the world is cold

Or will I have a lot of children who can warm me?

-Lukas Graham, Seven Years

Stan Pines always figured he would have kids someday. Sometime after his “ew, girls are icky” phase and the following “okay, girls ain’t so bad,” yet before the “well shit, you know what, guys are A-ok in my book, too.”

Having kids seemed the thing to do when you grew up. What usually happened, Filbrick would grumble, whether you planned for them or not.

Stan didn’t necessarily believe that to be the case; regardless, eventually having a rugrat or two was what he wanted, expectations be damned. Babysitting his nephew had given him an appreciative stance on kids. Just the way a baby looked at you, like you were sun and lit up the whole world with your presence alone, that was staggering to Stan, unlike anything he had ever felt.

Not wanting kids was fine, too, as Stan pointed out when Ford expressed his disinterest in spawning any of his own. As always, the brothers were more different than alike, identical or no. Stan pondered if that was the way it went with all siblings.

(“Fatherhood would simply be a major distraction to my research. In moderation, children can be fun company, of course; but they’re also messy, loud, disruptive, and desire a lot of attention.”

“Geez, Sixer, sound like yer describin’ me,” Stan snorted.

“Exactly my point.”

Stan scoffed, socking his smirking brother in the arm. “Shuddup, nerd. Keep talkin’ like that and Uncle Ford won’t be invited to my mansion for Thanksgiving.”

“Mansion?”

“Sure. What with all the treasure we’ll have plundered on our adventures, we’ll be livin’ the life!”

“Heh, right. After our adventures…" Ford thrummed a pen against his textbook, focusing intently on his homework. Abruptly, he spoke up, "You could start earlier, if you wanted. I wouldn’t hold it against you.”

Stan shrugged, winding his arms behind his neck. He shut his eyes, imagining the horizon stretched out before them, an ocean full of possibility lying ahead.

“Nah, it can wait,” he said around a grin. "Can’t leave my brother behind, can I?“

Ford smiled thinly, eyes distracted. Probably thinking about his chemistry test tomorrow.)

Stan didn’t really at any point decide that children no longer fit into his forecast. It was just, well, sort of a given. What with his destitute…situation. Look, it was simple math, the kind even he could do:

If you couldn’t feed yourself, you couldn’t feed a kid. If you didn’t have a roof over your own head, you wouldn’t have one for the kid. If you couldn’t afford to take yourself to the hospital when you were ill or injured, like hell you should subject a kid to that kind of poverty, if you could help it.

Too many choices had already been stolen from Stan over the years. He hadn’t chosen to be kicked out of the house at seventeen. He hadn’t chosen to drop out of high school. He hadn’t chosen to be a homeless youth. He hadn’t really chosen to be a career criminal, either, so much as stumbled into the gig.

But this, this he could still decide. That sort of agency over his future went a long way, when most of what Stan did nowadays was done of necessity, not preference.

Today was a momentous occasion. Yes, sir, for the first time in over ten years, local shyster Mr. Mystery had closed his profitable tourist attraction for the day! Call the papers, mused Stan, the aftertaste of whiskey sitting heavy on his tongue.

What was the occasion?

Filbrick Pines, age 67, had passed away. Last week, in the comfort of his own home, according to the obituary. He’s survived by his wife, two children, a grandson, and predeceased by his son, Stanley.

Old man’s funeral was set for today, and Stan was going to mourn – by having an emotional black out via alcohol – since he wouldn’t be attending, for obvious reasons (impersonating his twin being chief among them).

For the best, probably, as he could hardly imagine being able to play the part of perfect son that Ford had delivered effortlessly, or deliver a eulogy without causing a scene.

Doctors say his heart gave out, and to be honest, it’s the only proof I’ve seen that he ever had one in the first place.

Vaguely, he wondered what Filbrick had said at his own funeral. Who was he kiddin’? Most the man had ever spoken to Stan in one sitting was to tell him what a lousy, no-good mooch he was before manhandling him out the door. No, Filbrick had probably stood next to his bawling wife in silence. Perhaps he had been too ashamed for words - ashamed of his son or ashamed of his own actions, Stan would never know now.

I hope you felt rotten. I hope you blamed yourself. For every night I’ve spent cold, lonely and hungry, I hope you’ve spent double that wracked with guilt and shame.

Taking a swig of cold, burning whiskey straight from the bottle, Stan saved the sting that slid down his throat, and with a burst of rancor, Hope that’s what did you in. Your own goddamn remorse.

As soon as the thought landed, his stomach reviled; Stan stumbled, disoriented, to the bathroom and made it to the toilet just in time to empty the cocktail of liquor stewing in his gullet. Couldn’t be sure, but he might’ve been crying a bit at that point, not that it mattered much, since the tears flushed down the drain along with every other bitter ounce of bile.

Moses, Stan hadn’t meant that. Only t-the cruel combination of booze, anger and grief made him even think it. He would never wish his father dead, despite the mangled, estranged relationship they shar…had shared.

Maybe it was wrong, maybe he should be more full of rage and resentment, rather than resign himself to emotions that would never find closure. Maybe he just lacked the fire needed to fuel that sort of grudge.

Rough times had taken their toll. Stan hadn’t forgiven his father, no. Simply too tired to defend himself against a one-sided argument anymore.

(The thing about being an unexpected kid was, well, you could argue that you never asked to be born – but you could counter argue that they had never asked for you to be born, either)

And Stan couldn’t blame the old man for everything. Filbrick hadn’t been easy on him, but then, Stan hadn’t been an easy kid to love. Always findin’ or startin’ trouble. Never bringing home anything of merit, besides a few boxing trophies, and grades he’d earned from sneaking answers off Ford’s test.

No doubt Filbrick had tried his damnedest to force his useless son to grow up and make something of himself. Stan had failed, like he always tended to, and Filbrick’s flaw was being earnest enough to point that out. Unlike Ma, who would sugarcoat things to spare his feelings.

Personality, my ass. Free spirit my foot. How about we admit I was a fuck up and leave it at that?

Logic said he should stop drinking, what with his current state. Head pounding, nauseas, aching - yet, the sharpness of his inner turmoil was dulled, so overall, an improvement. He would quit soon, anyway, before he got too close to oblivion. Not because he was overly attached his shitty existence, mind you.

Even if nobody else in the world required his continued health, Ford did, and the portal still had to be fixed – that goal in mind was sometimes the only thing that kept him from teetering off the brink of despair. About the only thing he felt useful for nowadays (when the guilt wasn’t eatin’ him alive from the inside out).

Yet what never faded with the tide, or fluctuated with his tumultuous mood, was Stan’s steadfast conviction: He was never going to have a family.

That was old news; Stan’s plans hadn’t changed, only his reasoning. He was financially stable, collected a steady income, and could support himself plus three if he so desired.

Except now the mere concept of family stuck in his craw like a cruel joke. Now Stan was just a miserable crook, a thief in a fraud’s skin, wiling away the years atoning for the ones he’d stolen from his brother.

Now, as he sat curled beside the porcelain, both king and prisoner of this wretched palace, Stan knew he never wanted the chance to fuck a kid up as badly as his father had him.

Best handyman Stan ever hired came to him by accident. Some might question the validity of employing a twelve-year-old. Without even asking his name.

Turned out to be one of the wisest investments Stan ever made, however, so those skeptics could go suck a lemon.

Wasn’t until the next day when the boy showed up wearing his new oversized shirt, and reported to Stan with a salute and a smile that he learned his name. Ramirez sounded familiar, and yeah, Stan recalled hearing about that a couple years ago, the poor young mother who had died so young and left behind a toddler.

Soos never mentioned a dad, either, and it didn’t take long for Stan to piece that puzzle together. But, for a kid who had lost plenty to mope about, Soos never seemed to be lacking in enthusiasm or wonder when he came for his shift at the Mystery Shack. Always punctual, come rain or shine.

It was only fair – not out of any sense of devotion or affection, pft, n-not a chance – hat Stan supposed he should return the favor.

Soos approached him one day at the end of his shift, all nervous, told Stan about a school play where he had been cast as Lumberjack #2. And if Stan wanted to see Soos in action, if he wasn’t terribly busy, it would be totally awesome if he attended. Additionally, it was free (by free, Stan discovered, Soos meant that he’d beseeched his Abuela to buy a second ticket so Stan would be more likely to say yes. Money wasn’t a luxury for a widow nearing her retirement, so if Stan slipped the plus some into her handbag during the play, well, anybody looking would assume he was up to his pickpocketing tricks).

He saw concerts. A confirmation. Ceremonies. A lot of times there were free food and refreshments provided, so there were certainly a few perks, besides Soos (and by proxy) his grandmother’s endearment.

They spent birthdays together, though the fact that it was indeed Soos’ birthday went carefully unmentioned, and instead they would fill the day with distraction, trips to the comics store and movie marathons and fre– er, okay, half-priced snacks.

Stan had never been to a graduation, not even his own, until he sat in the crowd at Soos’. Watching the kid receive his diploma before scanning the audience for family and friends, and beaming when he caught sight of Stan smashed between Abuela and Reggie’s madre, made up for his loss tenfold.

Just being there for Soos, more than his biological dad ever had, seemed to be enough. Enough to repay the kid’s boundless loyalty to Stan.

(Years and years down the line, at his son’s wedding, Stan would no longer be a mere spectator, but a participant, the best man to boot).

Stan’s new cashier wasn’t the gem that Soos was, not in terms of fulfilling the duties required to obtain her paycheck. Oftentimes, Stan found her with her nose buried in a magazine or throwing rocks at cans out on the back porch.

"Wendy! Stop slacking and go slap some prices on this merchandise!”

“Chill, Mr. Pines, I’m on it,” she said breezily, typing away at her phone. "This is my very on-it pose,“ she assured, gesturing to her laidback posture.

"You better be on it soon or you’ll be out of a job,” Stan grumbled as he went to join the next tour group.

When he returned, there was a line of chumps ready to buy, yet no cashier to ring them up.

“Soos, take care of the register, will ya?” Stan ordered, cursing under his breath.

Wendy wasn’t lurking in any of her usual spots; however, as he passed by the door to his office, he noticed it was open a crack. To his confusion, he heard her speaking aloud, talking to somebody.

He peered inside, saw Wendy with her phone held against her ear in one hand; meanwhile, the other pinched the bridge of her nose, and her forehead was creased like she had a helluva headache.

“Dude, how did you guys eve – ugh, never mind. No, I don’t know how to fix that!” she barked, a hushed shout. "Yeah, Dad’s gonna have a cow. What do you want me to do about it?“

More talking on the other end of the line, and with each word, she appeared to grow more exhausted.

Finally, she groaned, utterly exasperated. "Look, I’m not mom, okay? Pete, I gotta get back to work. Yeah…yeah, I know. Alright, bye.”

Wendy sighed after she hung up, slumping against the wall. “Oh, man,” she mumbled to herself, sounding conflicted between guilt and annoyance. Without a word, Stan left her in private, affording her the moment she needed to collect herself.

Trying to make heads or tails of what he’d witnessed, Stan started to second guess his lazy employee. And she was lazy, irreverent, crap at following orders; yet underneath all the teenage slang and attitude, she was just a teenager, and attempting to act like one while dealing with a bunch of adult responsibility being laid on her shoulders.

Looking back, Stan could relate.

And it occurred to him that work was Wendy’s way of unwinding from the stresses of home and school. That her job, was easygoing compared to everything else on her plate.

So if Stan added a few more hours to her schedule, well, that was hardly out of the kindness of his cold, dead heart – wasn’t like he’d be paying her overtime, after all.

Stan Pines would be hard-pressed to pinpoint when exactly his views on family had shifted.

He realized the change in himself a muggy June night while he lay awake, for once not tinkering with portal, but hand-stitching a pair of names on two twin fishing hats.

Eh, no time to dwell on it now: Family Day was tomorrow at the Gravity Falls lake, and if he was going to surprise Dipper and Mabel, Stan would have to finish the stitching before sunrise.

It was no secret that Dipper was self-conscious over his toughness. Or lack thereof. Frankly, Stan would be the first to point out how scrawny and prepubescent he was; for a twelve-year-old, though, that was pretty standard.

Hell, as far as he was concerned, Dipper didn’t have to worry – already he had twice the courage and backbone as Stan had had at his age.

But telling Dipper would seem too much like pity. Sincerity wasn't Stan’s strong suit, and Dipper had a knack for sarcasm that rivaled his own, for which Stan was unaccountably proud.

Point being, the kid didn’t want to be handed compliments – Dipper wanted to earn them, feel like he deserved the praise. He was more out to prove himself to himself than he was others and damn it, the boy resembled Stan in all the wrong ways.

Anyway, that’s why Stan figured the kid could use with some toughening up, so Gravity Falls could do for him what boxing had done for Stan. He wasn’t so stupid to see that Dipper resented him for the convoluted tasks shoved at him, but geez, should see the kid’s face light up when he finished them all on his own.

Sometimes the most complicated approach reaped the most rewarding results.



Both his niece and nephew were extremely talented. Whereas Dipper’s giftedness was apparent the minute you handed him a complicated puzzle or code to decipher, Mabel’s was evident in her manner, her art, her intuitive perception that could glance right through most barriers.

Her talents weren’t always academic. She wasn’t a math whiz, she was an artist, one who could sculpt a full-scale replica overnight. Cook an omelet in the shape of a man’s face. She would frolic around the forest searching for unicorns longer than she could stare at a textbook. Give her a deck of cards and she could bluff the competition into the dust.

Mabel wasn’t a “conventional” genius, at least not by society’s standards. That didn’t make her any less deserving of praise.

So if Stan was a little overly vocal about her accomplishments, sue him. If he taught her to play cards and watched her bluff the competition into the dust, that was worth the ante he lost to her prowess. If Stan kept every drawing she presented him hanging proudly on the refrigerator, he would soon run out of room ( eh, guess he’d buy a bigger fridge).

If he cheered her on at whatever she set her mind to, no matter how trivial or absurd, Stan considered it his small contribution to the less-deserving society that she was bound to take by storm.

And for the record, 100 gummy worms up her nose? An impressive feat in his book.

Stan happened to be home alone when Pacifica knocked once before twisting the knob and throwing open the door herself, like she owned the place. Stan grunted and waved her in, anyway, since she had basically become part of the Pines family troupe (especially now that her an’ Mabel were making googly eyes at one another).

“Soda?" he offered.

"No thanks,” she declined, cringing. “How do you drink that disgusting brand?”

“Acquired taste.” Stan shrugged as took a prolonged sip, grinning madly. “One could say, it’s the pits!”

Pacifica rolled her eyes. “Hilarious.”

Stan huffed; the youth didn’t appreciate his humor as they ought. Getting down to business, he asked, “So to what do I owe the honor, princess?”

“Just dropping by," she answered breezily. Stan could spot that lie in his sleep, and waited until Pacifica, in a faux-casual tone, added, "I’ve finished the paperwork for my emancipation.”

“Really?” Stan replied, brows raised. “Thought your folks were treatin’ you better ever since the apocalypse?”

If that wasn’t true, he could always pay a visit to Preston Northwest later.

“They’re alright,” Pacifica admitted. “But with money tight, protecting my own interests seems the best bet for the future. I don’t ever want to have to rely on them again.”

Be at their mercy again, Stan read between the lines, and felt a tug on his heart that was equal parts sorrow and relief.

“Good for you, kid,” he congratulated, sincere as could be. “Did something similar myself.”

Emancipating yourself from your parents, being abandoned by them. Potato potahto.

“Yeah, the only thing is,” she continued, “I have to have an adult be in charge of my trust, at least until I turn 18. My lawyer recommended someone with no ties to my parents. Someone I could trust…”

Stan nodded, contemplating her viable options. “Maybe try Lazy Susan? She’s a peach; and she knows a thing or two about saving money.”

Pacifica stared at him for a full two minutes before her face twisted wryly.

“Actually, Stan, I was asking you.”

Stan spat out his soda. Pacifica gagged, stepping away from the mess.

“M-Me?” Stan choked, blinking at her in amazement. “Kid, I made a career outta swindlin’ people outta their savings, and you wanna give me the key to yours? Do you know who I am?”

“You’re the man who opened up your house to the whole town when we needed a place to hide, including me,” Pacifica interjected firmly. “You’ve got a crusty, gross old man exterior but – I get that. Sometimes you have to be cold on the outside to protect what you’ve got underneath.”

Stan cracked a smile, ducking his chin to hide it. Based on her snort, something told him Pacifica had seen.

“Well, that and you had the best endorsements of all the candidates," she went on, her voice fond. "Dipper and Mabel, those dorks think the world of you.”

“Heh,” said Stan, scratching the back of his neck. Uncharacteristically bashful.

“Dorks, yeah. But they’re my dorks, I guess.”

Every June, it was ritual that Dipper and Mabel visit Gravity Falls, and spend three months to build upon their mountain of ever-growing memories.

Somehow, without Stan truly noticing, another ritual had taken form; on a certain Sunday in June, people around him felt the need to shower him in gifts, and let him hog the TV, treat him to a large breakfast, even though that was his job.

The gifts ranged, depending on the person. From Soos, it might be a an odd knickknack or homemade attraction with a punny twist. Once Melody gave him a boxset of The Duchess Approves with special director’s commentary. Towards the end of high school, Mabel crafted an eyepatch for what they called his worse eye (both of ‘em were pretty bad), drowning it with glitter and flair, and Stan wore it way too often. First year in college, Dipper had made him a copy of a corny Claymation movie he’d made himself.

Wendy would slide him a bottle of alcohol (before she was the legal age to buy it, and what a chip off the ole block, implied misdemeanor an’ all). Pacifica’s had class, a bottle of fancy cologne or a snazzy wristwatch, usually with a snide note attached – “To cover that old man smell” – that would have Stan chuckling to himself for hours.

Stan refused to mention these presents as anything other than random acts of kindness, probably a result of some chemical in the drinking water – because it was a known fact that Stanley Pines, confirmed bachelor and miserly old codger, had never fathered any children.

Rather, for whatever reason, they had chosen him.

Maybe Filbrick had been correct on one account - you couldn’t always plan for kids. But Stan found he didn’t mind the surprise of them entering his life.

Not one bit.

Father’s Day ain’t always a special or celebrated event, so here’s to all those who - Stan Pines is now your honorary father/grunkle figure, if you want him and all the Stancakes you can eat.