Chapter Text
“So, you doin’ anything over the holidays?”
Stan was shaving in front of his bathroom mirror. The foggy reflection didn't made it easy to see Rick, but Stan knew he could recognize Rick's skinny figure anywhere.
he was yanking his jeans on with such extreme vigor, wiggling his hips and jumping up and down, that it was almost laughable - almost, because Stan didn’t want another two week cold shoulder to happen because of Rick’s pride.
“Heh. Uh, no.”
Rick’s response was so definitive that Stan rose an eyebrow at him. “Really?”
“R-really really, Pines.” After Rick was done tying up the laces of his boots, he stood up to his full height. Walking across the room to pick up a shirt, Stan trained his eyes on Rick's ass out of habit. “You-you act surprised. What? Y-you, you think - you think I’ve got family to be with?”
Stan clenched his jaw, but remained silent.
“News flash: n-not everyone has a grand ol’ time around the holidays, Stan.” Tugging a shirt over his head, he turned around to eye him in the mirror. The little stubble he had around his chin grown across his whole jaw line, casting a light shadow. “H-hate to break it to you, b-but I’ve got no family left.”
Stan’s gaze dropped and their tense silence became awkward. He had never really asked Rick about his family before; he may be a "numbskull," but he knew talking about one's family was a touchy subject for anyone. He figured that if he wanted to tell him, Rick would. And if there was one thing Stan knew, it was that family could be a real pain in the ass.
“Hey, this isn’t - is this your shirt?”
“I think so.” The shirt Rick currently wore looked way too big on him.
Stopping just above his thighs, Stan’s old high school shirt look ridiculous coupled with Rick’s ripped jeans and smeared eye makeup. Rick looked at himself in the mirror's reflection with appreciative eyes.
“L-looks like it,” Rick confirmed, nodding, but didn’t make a move to take it off.
“You can keep it - “
“Yeah, looks better on me any-anyways, Pines,” Rick quickly interrupted. Stan refrained from rolling his eyes as he walked into the bathroom to get a better look, standing beside him.
Their differentiating body types was almost outrageous - everywhere Stan was big, Rick was thin. Every finger on Stan’s meaty hands was lithe on Rick’s, and even his large jaw bone was opposite of Rick’s weak, pointy one. But comparison aside, seeing Rick in Stan’s shirt made him happy in a way he couldn’t put into words, so he didn’t.
“Y-you - you done in here yet, stud, I’ve gotta take a piss.”
“Tsch,” Stan tried to say with a grimace, but ended in a smirk anyways. “Charming like always.”
"You know it, baby," Rick almost growling, wiggling his brow. "I'm like a fuckin' - I'm like prince fuckin' charming."
"That's debatable." Charm wasn't necessarily something Stan would put on Rick's Top 10 Attributes list, if you catch his drift.
Stan still didn't have his shirt on (since it now had a new owner) and there was no way in hell his barrel chest was going to squeeze into whatever piece of ripped-up cloth Rick identified as a shirt. Riffling through his drawer, his mind traveled to last night.
Having the whole house to themselves while Ford and Fiddleford were out chasing whatever weird eight-eyed turkey was causing mayhem on the streets of Gravity Falls coupled with Stan pretending he was too sick to go, provided them with the perfect evening to be alone. And with the meal they were having later that night, Stan thought - of course, the perfect way to end a day is food and sex.
Hence, how Rick came up in conversation earlier that week.
Ford and Fiddleford were not stupid, and not nearly as ignorant of Stan’s sexual activities as he thought they were. Turns out all those times Stan thought he and Rick were being quiet really was laughable - because they already knew about it by the time Stan finally told them that he had a sort of boyfriend (not that they ever had any clear label for that they had, but “sort of boyfriend” was better than “friends with benefits” or worse: “fuck buddy.” Anyways.)
"We know," Ford said.
"Okay - wait, you know?" Stan repeated.
"Yes, we know." Ford currently had his nose stuck in some papers, while half of it sprawled out on the table and the other half on the kitchen floor. Fiddleford's face was red now that Stan bothered to shoot him a look. Embarrassment wasn't quite the word Stan was looking for when his own face took on a more pink color itself.
"O-oh," He said. He started laughing nervously, then cleared his throat. We are never having sex with them in the house ever again, Stan thought, then rolled his eyes internally. Yeah, right. As if Rick would even listen to him.
"Well, you've never met him, but… and I know this is kind of a lot to ask of you guys, at such short notice, y'know…" Stan rubbed the back of his neck. "Do you think it would be alright if I asked him - Rick - if he could come over?"
Ford looked up, and fixed his glasses, putting on a gentle smile. "Sure, Stan."
"Thanks, Ford," he said, relieved.
Fiddleford coughed at Ford from across the table, trying to communicate something to him with just his eyes.
"Ah, um…" Ford's face fell as he nervously glanced at Stan. He very minutely shook his head before getting up. "Well, if that's all, Stan, we better get back to work. I'm going to, the uh, bunker to get some…samples." He looked at Fiddleford before patting Stan's shoulder. "Thanks for asking. We'd love to meet him, Stan." Then he left.
"Well that wasn't weird," Stan announced obviously.
"I don't know what you mean," Fiddleford said, his face already buried back in the papers in front of him. Stan rolled his eyes as he left the kitchen. Nerds.
_
So there Stan was, debating whether he was really going to go through with this, because "the worst he can say is no" response doesn’t really apply when Rick could, in reality, do so much worse. Laughing in his face and making fun of him would be just the beginning. He was always sort of an ass, but this could be potentially horrifying.
Was Stan really going to put himself out there like that, only to receive severe backlash? How insane, how stupid, would that be?
But he thought more about what Rick said before. I’ve got no family left.
He knew what it was like - hell, he’s lived that way for years. He knows what it’s like to spend Thanksgiving eating gas station pizza in your car, or dine and dash a highway dive over the holidays.
Stan’s done some pretty terrible shit, but it could have been avoided if he had people to be with who cared about him even a little bit. And Stan wouldn't expect Rick to think of them as family - Rick would probably get nauseous just at the thought - but he doesn’t want him to be alone either.
Rick announced his return from the bathroom with a loud blech, making Stan roll his eyes.
“Hey…” Stan called, and when Rick looked over at him, he hesitated. “So, I was thinking about what you said earlier, and. uh, what about… maybe you could…”
“Spit it out, Pine Tree,” Rick said with a bored expression.
“I’m getting to it, cool your jets,” Stan fired off before sighing deeply. “What if…you came over to eat with us for Thanksgiving?”
There was a pregnant pause before Rick threw his head back, laughing meanly.
Apparently laughing in his face wasn't as far from the truth as Stan thought.
He frowned. “It’s not that - “
“Oh, ho ho ho - no, Stan - that’s hilarious!” Rick clapped his hand on Stan’s shoulder. Rick’s usually handsome demeanor was marred by his bitter laughter, and Stan regretted even thinking about asking him. “Imagine it! Me with you-your brother, and - and that hillbilly guy, eating together. Jesus, Stan, you should get into comedy.”
“Alright, already.” Stan shoved his hand off of his shoulder, his ears burning. “I get it. You don’t always have to act like a fucking dick about these kinds of - ”
“W-woah there, Pines - ” Rick reached for him again, but when Stan shoved his hands away again, he forced his arm to sling across his shoulders. “No, really, I could get - I could get into it. Maybe, maybe not the stupid, earth holiday, but consider this - “
He pulled Stan so close to him that he thought Rick was going to kiss him, which wouldn’t have gone over well. The last time Rick tried to kiss him when he was pissed, Stan nearly socked him in the jaw.
“Wh-what if it’s just you, me, and a good, long weekend at some sexy hotel, huh? Eating my ass has to be way better than eating some - some fucking turkey.”
Stan couldn’t believe Rick was serious, but then again Rick was hardly serious.
“I can’t,” Stan said, backing up slightly. “This is my family, Rick. And they’re not - well, we don’t always get along, but… I just thought, I dunno…” Stan felt mortified that he was even saying this out loud, but there was no going back now, was there? “I just thought that maybe you’d like some people to be with. Even if it is a ‘stupid, earth holiday.’”
Rick’s brow shot up a second before his face grew blank.
Great. Stan’s stomach twisted into knots. Here comes the cold shoulder.
Rick always withdrew into himself when Stan shot him down, but he couldn’t hide the fact that he was obviously trying to look like he wasn't affected. God forbid Rick show that he gave a damn about something for once.
“W-wh-what? You think they’d even care - that they’d really want you there?" Stan couldn't help but flinch at Rick's tone, but he didn't back off. "You and your bro still have issues - a million and one issues to deal with. A-a-and I may be the smartest guy in the multiverse, but a fucking - a fucking retard can see this train wreck a mile away.”
Hot anger flooded his body, and he felt his hands clench into a fist. “You don’t know shit about my brother, Rick.”
O-oh, but I do, don’t I?" Rick thinks this is just a big joke. Stan began to feel sick.
“Rick, c'mon…" he started.
"'Oh, Ford wants me back! My bro - my own twin wants me back!'" Rick was mocking Stan in a poor impression of his voice, but it didn't deter Stan from really wanting to punch him in the face. "Oh but wait - he doesn't really want me here anymore. I – I’m so surprised, I feel so used! So abandoned! Guess he doesn't want - doesn't really want me here when he has a much b-better, much smarter partner - '"
"Rick, shut up."
"'That follows him around like a puppy! Guess he finally got a new bitch, and doesn't need me around anym - '"
"Rick," Stan shouted loud enough that it made Rick snicker. "Shut the fuck up, already, or I - ”
“Or you'll what." Rick leaned in, and turned his head to the side. He wanted Stan to punch him? "Those are fighting words, tough guy. If you had any - if you really had the balls to hit me, you'd do it.” Then he tapped his cheek with two fingers.
Stan was at a loss for words. His anger washed out of him and was replaced with such mortification that he couldn't even maintain eye contact with him. Jesus, was that really what Rick thought of him?
"I’m not going to hit you, Rick."
"Pft." Rick leaned back, his arms folded in front of him. "Thought so."
What was it about Rick that made him want Stan to hit him? He knew Rick was pretty fuck up, but…
“I don’t fucking need this,” Rick suddenly snapped, snatching his leather coat from Stan's chair.
Stan's heart took a dive for his stomach, “Jesus, Rick, at least let me make my point - "
“Yeah, I g-got your point right here - " Rick flipped him off, straightening his collar with the other hand. "It’s going to be a train wreck, and you-you know it, and you j-just want me to tag along to your stupid fucking plan just in case it doesn't go as well as you think it will. Admit it, I’m your rebound."
Stan just stared at Rick. Where was this even coming from? “Rebound from what, Rick?”
“From your brother - n-not, like, sexually. Jeez, Stan don’t give me that look. You already told me threesomes are out of the question, whatever. The point is, I’m just some t-tight squeeze you can fall back on if things go to - go to shit. I'm not your fucking shoulder to cry on.”
“You’re blowing this way out of proportions,” Stan said, shaking his head. “I can’t believe you would honestly think that of me, Rick.”
“Oh, like you haven’t thought worse from me? ‘Traveling dimensions is bad for you, Rick. Fucking various alien species is wrong for your health, Rick. Stay with me and - and experience a new level of hell in the form of a fucking holiday with my 'family,'" he said, using air quotes.
“That’s because you're an asshole,” Stan snapped.
“Ugh,” Rick scoffed, rolling his eyes. “I can't believe you think that of me, Stan,” he mocked.
“Are you - ?” Stan rubbed his hands on his face in a vain attempt to rub out his frustrations. “You’re fucking kidding me, right.”
“See, this - this is why I never spend the night here. A nice good fuck is wasted on morning-afters like this, Stan. I can't - can’t even say 'I told you so,' cause it’s still my fault like always.” Rick palmed his portal gun, but Stan noticed his hands were shaking.
He was about to say something when he heard the front door open and two additional voices filled the home in a chatter.
"Stan!" his brother called from the bottom of the stairs. "Get up! We snatched the Gobblergoblin, but we need your help getting it out of the cage."
"You need to go," Stan hissed just as Rick shot a slap of green goop on his bedroom door.
"Way ahead of you," Rick muttered, and stepped through it without another word, not even looking back.
Stan stood there, staring at the door for a few moments until the door burst open.
"Shit-!" Stan nearly fell backwards.
"Stan, are you alright?" Ford asked, concern in his eyes.
"Uh, yeah," he said a bit flustered. "Sorry…"
"Its fine, but we need your help… um, Stan?"
"Yeah?" he said behind his hands as he rubbed his face.
"Why don't you have a shirt on?"
"Oh," he said, looking down and feeling like his ears were on fire. Did he seriously fight with Rick without a freaking shirt on? "Sorry, I - uh, I just woke up."
"Okay," Ford said uncertainly before clearing his throat. "But - well, we could really use your help downstairs. This mutated turkey spits acid, and the cage isn't holding up well."
"Right, sorry, sorry. I’ll be down in a second."
After Ford closed the door, Stan went to find a shirt until something horrific dawned on him.
Looking back down at his chest, he groaned when he saw very clear red and purple markings on his flesh that were obviously very fresh. Shit. There was no way Ford didn't notice - Stan was way too pale for it to be hidden.
"Goddamn it," Stan muttered as he bitterly dug around for a shirt.
_
"It is too bad that your friend didn't show up."
It was after the meal - which was fucking awesome, thanks to Fiddleford. Who knew the guy knew how to cook so well? And if the question of whether Southern comfort food should be served during Thanksgiving, the answer should always be fuck, yes.
"Nah, it's okay," Stan said, shrugging. He didn't tell them what really happened, just hinted that Rick was busy and they were kind enough to drop it. He was a little peeved that Fiddleford would bring it up again, though.
Ford was outside, feeding some of the creatures they kept in the bunker and Stan was assigned dish duty. He didn't mind, though he wondered why Fiddleford chose to hang out beside him instead of joining Ford, or foregoing Stan's presence for something else nerdy.
"Um, Stan, excuse my forwardness," Fiddleford started hesitantly, and Stan looked over at him. "But this friend…he is with you, right?"
"Oh, uh…" Stan laughed nervously before trying to figure out how to answer that. He knew not to be scared, because really - fuck what anyone thinks, right? But it was still awkward nonetheless. "Yeah, I mean. You heard what I said to Ford yesterday, so..."
"I know, I know," Fiddleford said, "it just makes me wonder why your boyfriend wouldn't want to stop by and say howdy, at the very least." catching onto the Stan's grimace at the word "boyfriend," he rose an eyebrow. "I’m guessing you two fellows ain't exclusive?"
"In a manner of speaking…" Stan said, embarrassed. He liked Fiddleford alright, he was a bit hickish for his tastes, but he was friends with his brother. But this was slightly…weird.
"Can you not tell Ford?" Stan asked. "I know I haven't been the best…uh, house guest."
"No kidding," Fiddleford said, but he wasn't mean and Stan had to laugh.
"Yeah, but just… Rick's different. He isn't one to get tied down. Ford may not be a prude, but I know my brother well enough to know he’d find it…‘distasteful.’"
Fiddleford inspected him behind his glasses and Stan swallowed under his calculating gaze. Geez, what was it about nerds that made their looks almost soul-searchy?
"I do wonder - and pardon me if I’m poking my nose around where I shouldn't, mama always said I had the tendency to do that. But, it sounded like you really like the guy, Stan."
"I do," he nodded.
"Beyond…whatever you currently have with him, I mean."
"Oh," Stan's voice fell flat.
"I don't mean to bring in a big stink about this, but I can't Stand not helping a friend. That being said, I think you should consider the fact that this…Rick might not want what you do. He might never." his eyes were soft and Stan's heart tightened in this chest just a hair. "And, this is just my unsolicited opinion, but if you want to move on without him, no one would blame you."
Fiddleford stopped talking and just looked at him, and Stan realized that his eyes were watering. Turning away, he blinked rapidly, trying to laugh it off.
"Sorry, got soap in my eyes," he said, waving it off.
Fiddleford waited until Stan was more composed before he put his hand on Stan's shoulder.
"I’m sorry for upsetting you - "
"You didn't upset me," Stan said defensively.
"Well, in any case, I’m sorry. And I know you have your brother, but I do hope that we can, in some ways, become friends." Fiddleford smiled, and Stan couldn't help but smile back.
When he finally took his hand off, Stan felt like a weight was lifted off his chest. He felt…better. And he had Fiddleford to thank, of all people.
Guess the old hillbilly isn't so bad, after all.
"I thank you for letting me poke around in your brain for a bit, Stan," Fiddleford said, flashing one last warm smile.
"Yeah…" he drifted off, watching him leave the kitchen.
He faced the sink again, noticing his hands have been partially submerged underwater during most of their conversation, and were all pruny. Cursing, he took his hands out and started wiping them on his shirt. Sighing, he decided to take a well-deserved break from washing dishes and opened the fridge to take out a can of cold beer.
Sitting at the table, he drank his first gulp slowly. Mulling over his conversation with Fiddleford, he put the can down and it took a minute to register that he had put them on some of the papers thrown across the table.
"Shit," he hissed, taking it off quickly, but a wet ring had already leaked through quite a few of them. They looked important, too. "Goddamn it."
They’d already given him shit about using coasters before, and it would be really awkward after the positive conversation he had with Fiddleford to try and explain why so many of their papers were wet.
This is what happens when you think the entire house is your goddamn workspace, he fumed, getting up to fetch a towel to try and save some of their work, when the front door pounded loudly.
Shooting up, he rolled his eyes. Ford must have locked himself out in his rush to feed whatever creatures he kept in the bunker. Again.
"Alright, Ford, hold onto your pants," he called, walking up to the door.
And saw none other than Rick Sanchez slouching just outside the door.
"Heh, I’m not Ford, but holding on - onto my pants will be a little hard arouuggGGHHnd you, babe."