#had one of those afternoons where suddenly the post nasal drip started and i got a headache and it was like. hey what the fuck!!!

[sleepinglionhearts]

Sometimes it's like. Ok, cool, small town, I can usually get a doctor's appointment same day, real quick and easy

And sometimes it's like well shit, small town, everyone is fucking sick, busy signal 4 times I call, get through and "oh, sorry, the earliest I could get you in is on the 22nd"

It is the 12th

[dumbass-bisexual]

Belgian Waffles, Hot: A Gravity Falls One-Shot

hey all you guys gals and nonbinary pals im back at it again with the stangst fics i hope you enjoy this along with all of my other works will be posted on my AO3. please feel free to let me know what you guys think!!!

Summary: Stan, in the midst of his grifter days, runs into some old friends.

“And that’s how you mop the floor. Oh, and, Sal? Make sure you wring the mop out before you put it away.”

I already know how to do this, Stan thought sullenly, remembering the days he and Ford had spent working in their father’s pawn shop as kids. He was somewhere in Kansas, currently living as Salvatore “Sal” Elmwood, an honest man making an honest living. Here at Crazy Bill’s Pancake House somewhere in the middle of Kansas. Where his manager was a gross 17 year old kid named Marty. Who had a face filled with acne and braces.

It had been almost five years since Stan had been kicked out of the house, and he was currently taking a break from the con man lifestyle. At least until the cops were off his tail, or he was struck with some new product inspiration. (The two always seemed to be connected for some reason.)

Wringing out the mop, Stan sighed heavily. It’d been a hard few years; he was discouraged in every possible way. He wasn’t really even sure why he’d gone to Kansas-- maybe because it was in the middle of nowhere. A fly-over state, always overlooked. Kind of like Stan.

And he was right: the cops hadn’t even bothered to come after him here. (Of course, he hadn’t made any new products in a while, but that was besides the point.) When his money started to run out, he’d picked up an application at the pancake house he frequented. The owner had taken a liking to “Sal”, who was a quiet guy from out of town who ordered Belgian waffles, hot, every other morning, and hired him on the spot.

If only Ma and Pa could see me now, Stan thought to himself as he dragged the mop across the floor, which, no matter how many times he mopped, was always sticky. Finally got a real job. Truth be told, Stan could be doing worse. Three seventy-five an hour to clean up after the locals and occasional tourist wasn’t too bad. At least he’d have some funds to his name until he came up with another sales pitch and was run out of the state.

Stan didn’t even bother looking up as the bell above the front door rang. It was three pm on a Wednesday in March. Probably Jimbob coming in for his afternoon coffee, Stan thought idly.

That is, until an eerily familiar voice made him freeze mid-mop.

“Well, I’m not impressed with this service.”

Stan’s heart suddenly threatened to beat its way out of his chest as he slowly turned to look over his shoulder.

Standing there at the seating podium was none other than Filbrick Pines. His father.

Along with his father was his mother, and another person with his back turned, reading the menu on the wall. Stan’s heart stopped altogether as the stranger turned around: he was once again face to face with his twin after almost five years.

Realizing he was staring, Stan quickly returned to mopping, doing a haphazard job so that he could retreat to the back.

“Really, Filbrick,” Ma Pines chided as Stan collected his mop. “They’re obviously understaffed. Have a little patience.”

Ducking his head down low as he rushed past, Stan could feel the judgement radiating from his father.

“Hey, you there!” Filbrick called, impeding Stan’s flight to the kitchen.

Heart racing, Stan stopped and slowly turned around.

“Uh…” he began, keeping his voice low, “you can sit wherever. We’ll be right with you.” Then he hurried to the kitchen, where Stu, the greasy cook, sat reading a newspaper.

Trying, and failing, to calm his nerves, he set the mop aside and wiped his forehead. He didn’t think his parents had recognized him, but there was no denying the way Ford’s eyes had followed Stan into the kitchen.

Stan, to the untrained eye, would be almost unrecognizable now. He had grown a full beard and shaved his head, and had invested in a pair of thick horn-rimmed glasses to hide his face. That, paired with an old baseball cap worn backwards on his head, Stan could easily pass for a different person.

But when you spend 17 years side by side with someone, you’d know them anywhere.

Stan was about to sit down when Marty came in from the office.

“Why aren’t you out there, Sal?” he asked, voice dripping with teen angst and the illusion of authority.

“I finished mopping the floor,” Stan replied gruffly. I could knock this kid to the ground if I wanted, he thought, which was followed immediately by, You need this job, knucklehead.

“Well,” Marty began, in his annoying nasal tone, “Brenda’s kid is sick, and Marcia isn’t in until 4:30, so it looks like you’re gonna have to take this table.”

Stan’s heart stopped as he felt his blood freeze in his veins. Shit.

“Uh… a-are you sure about this, Marty?” Stan stammered. His heart was going to explode out of his chest if he wasn’t careful.

But Marty was already invested in untangling the headphones to his fancy new Walkman and going to sit in the office doing nothing, and get paid more than Stan doing so.

“Just do it, Sal,” Marty replied noncommittally. “I’m sure you know the menu well enough at this point.” And with that, Marty rounded the corner and slammed the office door.

Hands shaking, Stan donned an apron and grabbed a notepad from the counter.

“You got a pen?” he asked Stu, who hadn’t so much as moved during Stan and Marty’s entire exchange.

Stu sighed and handed Stan the pen he kept behind his ear.

“Make sure you write neat,” he grumbled without looking up from his newspaper.

Stan nodded and, steeling his resolve, shuffled out to greet his family.

“Uh… hello,” Stan began, making his voice low and gravely. “My name is Sal, and I’ll be your waiter today.” So far, so good. “Can I, um, get you started with anything to drink?”

Filbrick was the first to answer.

“How’s the coffee here?” he barked, not looking up from his menu.

“Best coffee in the state of Kansas, sir,” Stan replied quickly. He knew the line by heart now, which was good, considering that his heart was currently ricocheting around his ribcage.

Filbrick considered Stan’s response before saying, “I’ll be the judge of that.” And with that, he went back to studying his menu.

“And for you, m’am?” Stan asked, making eye contact with his mother for the first time in almost five years.

Stan had to fight to keep his features neutral as he watched the storm of emotions that passed over his mother’s face.

Stan watched as she looked at Ford, and then back at Stan, mentally comparing the two. She finally shook her head before looking back down at the menu.

“Sorry,” she said slowly. “You… remind me of someone. I’ll have a coffee as well.”

“For-- for you?” Stan asked, turning to face his brother, catching himself last minute from saying his brother’s name, which had almost rolled off of his tongue so readily. Stupid. You don’t know them, remember?

“Coffee. Black.” came Ford’s quick reply. He held Stan’s gaze for a moment before averting his eyes back down at his menu.

“Well, what are you waiting for, a kiss on the cheek?” Filbrick asked, agitated. “Get us our coffee, boy!”

Stan jumped, his gaze with his brother broken. He’d forgotten how… demanding his father was.

“Uh, yes.” Stan shoved his notepad in his apron. “I’ll be right back to take your orders.”

Stan all but ran back to the kitchen, where he grabbed three coffee cups and saucers. Hands shaking, he poured three cups, and grabbed a dish for the creamer.

He couldn’t stop thinking about the way Ma had looked at him. His heart ached at the way she convinced herself that this man in front of her couldn’t be her Stanley-- she’d lost him a long time ago.

And Ford. There wasn’t a doubt in Stan’s mind that Ford knew. How could he not? Stan had shared everything with his brother for 17 years. A beard and some glasses wasn’t going to change that. The way Ford had answered him was like a knife twisted in Stan’s gut. Ford was no doubt angry about the way he and Stan had… left things. Stan could only hope that Ford wouldn’t say anything, especially in front of Filbrick. Suddenly, Stan wasn’t so keen on his parents seeing him now.

“Alright, three coffees,” Stan said, keeping his voice low and gravelly. “What can I get you folks to eat?”

Filbrick almost cut Stan off with his curt reply. “Eggs benedict. Home fries on the side, and white toast.”

Stan’s heart sped up again as he took the time to neatly write out his order. He didn’t need Stu on his bad side too.

“For you, m’am?” Stan asked, ignoring the pang of longing as he turned to his mom.

“I’ll just have scrambled eggs and some wheat toast, hun.”

Stan’s heart shifted into overdrive as he turned to Ford, whose eyes were still focussed on the menu.

“I’ll have the…” Ford looked up and locked eyes with Stan. “Hot Belgian waffles.”

Stan felt the blood drain from his face as Ford called him out. Ford couldn’t have made it any clearer that he knew who Stan was if he pulled out a bullhorn. And all directly under the noses of their parents.

Guess you really get to know someone in 17 years.

Sensing his father’s rising anger level, Stan tried to shake off his brother’s gaze and regain his composure.

“I’ll put those in and have them out in a few minutes,” Stan said, struggling to keep the tremor from his voice. Then, he gathered up everyone’s menus and retreated to the kitchen.

Stu had already fired up the grill when Stan rushed back into the kitchen, ready to begin cooking. Stu wordlessly took the paper Stan ripped off of his notepad and began making the food for Stan’s family.

Stan sat down heavily in the chair in the corner and wiped his forehead, mentally psyching himself up for his next encounter with his family. He couldn’t believe how brazen Ford was being. His brother was obviously still furious with him, even after all this time and separation.

I wonder how they see me, Stan thought, adjusting his baseball cap. Just another loser living in the middle of nowhere. Especially compared to my genius brother.

“Hey Sleeping Beauty,” Stu called, snapping Stan back to reality. “Your food’s up. Get it while it’s hot.”

Stan steeled his resolve as he moved to balance everyone’s plates, a trick he had picked up from a carnie back in Illinois. Back then, he was carrying boxes of contraband Smile Dip, but the premise was still the same.

“Alright folks,” Stan said brightly, passing out plates. “Eggs benedict, scrambled eggs, and,” he met and held Ford’s gaze, “Belgian waffles. Nice and hot.”

Stan broke his stare with Ford, unsettled. Was that pity he saw in his brother’s eyes?

“I need more coffee,” came Filbrick’s voice, making Stan jump. He had to suppress his instinct to cower, even though he knew Filbrick couldn’t hurt him here.

Clearing his throat, Stan replied, “Sure, sir. Can I get anyone else anything?”

“I’ll take a refill as well,” Ma added, giving Stan a reassuring smile.

“I’ll be right back with that,” Stan chirped, hating the sound of his customer service voice.

Stan quickly punched in the prices for their meal, and grabbed the bill as he took the coffee pot over to their table.

“I can take that whenever you folks are ready,” he said before making his way back into the kitchen.

Stan sighed, wiping his dirty glasses on the t-shirt under his apron. I need a drink, he thought idly, knowing his shift wasn’t over for another four hours.

Marty picked this time to make another appearance.

“Sal, once you bus that table, the bathrooms need cleaning. I don’t want any complaints during the dinner rush.” And with that, he retreated to the office, where Stan could hear the Walkman blaring some stupid new-fangled music before being muffled by the office door.

“What dinner rush?” Stan muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose before putting back on his glasses. “It’s Wednesday.”

Stu snickered from behind his newspaper, but didn’t move from his chair.

Stan was a little off put by Stu showing any emotion other than a vague sense of contempt for, well, everything, but he didn’t question it. He figured a guy like Stu would be good to have on your side, especially when the cops came calling.

Stan waited a few more minutes before going to check on his family. Your table. You don’t know them, remember?

“It’s not really a big deal,” Ford was saying as Stan approached the table. “They’re just announcing the fact that I got my doctorate. It’s a small ceremony, really. I’ve already completed all the hard work.”

“Well,” Ma replied, wiping some jam off of her mouth, “I think it’s wonderful. We’re proud of you, aren’t we, Filbrick?”

Stan watched as his father finished his mug of coffee before giving a noncommittal shrug. “I’ll be impressed when he starts bringing home some money.”

Stan could feel his brother’s pain as a sharp pang in his chest as Ford lowered his eyes to the table. Heh, he thought, guess neither of us are worthy of praise in the eyes of Filbrick Pines.

Taking the silence as a moment to intervene, Stan stepped up to the table. “Did everything turn out okay, folks?”

“Fine,” came Filbrick’s short response. Then, he handed Stan the book with their payment and stood up to leave.

Stan stepped back and opened the book to find exactly $10.43, the cost of their meal. Stan’s heart sank as he realized that Filbrick had not tipped him.

Stan, crestfallen, made his way to the cash register when he noticed Ford making his way to the restroom.

“I’ll be right there,” he said to Ma, who had paused at the door before following Filbrick out to the car.

Stan busied himself with putting away the money, and taking a bus pan to the table as Ford left the restaurant. But he stopped short, shocked by what he saw at table 23.

Sitting there, on the table, was a crisp $20 bill that had most definitely not been left there by Filbrick Pines. Stan looked up sharply out the window, and made eye contact with his brother one last time before his family drove away.

Stan quickly shoved the $20 in his pocket before making his way back to the kitchen, where Stu was still reading his newspaper.

“Do you know them?” Stu asked, startling Stan, who was still focussing on slowing his heart rate back to normal.

Stan glanced up out the window, where he could still see the sun glinting off of the windows in his father’s car retreating off into the horizon. He could still see his twin’s knowing gaze as the car drove away.

“Yeah…” Stan said softly. “They’re… old friends.”

And with the weight of a crisp $20 bill on his mind and in his pocket, Sal Elmwood picked up his mop and went back to work.