Late Night Drabble - Tumblr Posts

A One Time Thing

So, um, I might have made the mistake of writing fanfic on my phone instead of sleeping. Again. I got randomly stuck by the idea of an AU where Sherman takes Stan and Ford away from their parents when they're kids and does his best to take care of them on his own, and I just knew if I didn't write it now I wasn't going to ever.

It had just been supposed to be a one time thing.

When Sherman had still lived at home, it wasn't entirely uncommon for him to be woken up by the timid knock of a small hand at his door, overlayed by the sounds of yelling and crashing from the kitchen downstairs. Somehow - call it practice, maybe - he could sleep through the cacophony of angry sounds. But at the first tiny tap of knuckles on wood, he'd be groggily pulling himself out of bed with a slurred "I'm coming".

Allowing his little brothers to take refuge in his room when mom and dad were at each others throats and the twins were too upset to sleep alone wasn't an uncommon occurrence. He was the big brother, by quite a lot actually, it was his job. He was born first so that he'd be there to protect them when they came after. So he'd already have the experience gained through trial and error. So he could test the waters and let them know where it was safe to step. So he could be there to save them if they started to drown, because if he wasn't, they'd pull each other under instead.

He needed to wade out into the frigid storm and get them back to shore. Even if he was still just a kid too. Even if his brothers were too caught in the current to realize it. Even if the sharks were closing in. Even if there was blood in the water.

Blood.

Stanley's nose bled as Sherman hauled him up bodily, grabbed Ford's hand, and slammed the door to their parents' house with one last string of profanities thrown over his shoulder at their dad.

It was just a one time thing. That was what he told himself as he drove the two eight year olds to his cramped apartment and put them to bed on the couch with an icepack for Ford's black eye and a couple of tissues up Stan's nose. It was just for one night. Just until Pa calmed down enough that Sherman didn't feel violently ill at the idea of leaving the kids with him. Just until Sherman could trust that his brothers would be safe at home. It was just a one time thing.

A day stretched out into a week. A week became a month. A month became a year. Sherman had to leave them in the apartment more than he was comfortable with. He didn't want to, he lived in a crappy area, and there wasn't anything for them to do. He promised he'd try to get more time off, but someone had to pay the bills and no matter how burned out he was, he was not going to take a nine year old up on his offer to "help" by pickpocketing. Stan got himself into trouble enough as it was already. They were decently self sufficient at least. They could keep eachother occupied. Sherman still felt like he was failing them when there where entire days he didn't see them awake. When he had to be out for college classes before they even woke up, and stay out for late night shifts until long after they'd put themselves to sleep. He had to turn down coming to Ford's spelling bees and Stan's sports competitions. He had another job interview.

He hugged them, and promised it was just a one time thing.

Sherman's little brothers didn't complain as much as the other children did. He wondered if that was normal. The few times he could get off early enough to pick them up and walk them back to the apartment, he usually saw the other kids their age whining at their parents about all sorts of things, but the twins rarely ever protested anything. It wasn't like they couldn't. He remembered them both nagging and being stubborn with him when they'd all three lived at home. They were his brothers, they were supposed to be difficult with him. They were supposed to tell him that he couldn't boss them around.

They never did.

It couldn't be normal. He asked if it was, the first time he had to go to a parent teacher conference. Teachers worked with kids the whole day after all, they should know what was normal and what wasn't. All he'd gotten out of it was a lot of questions and sceptical glares. He assured the teacher he was only there because their real parents couldn't make it.

He assured them it was just a one time thing.

Feeding three people on one 20 year old's budget was hard. People his age were supposed to be spending their money on movies, dance halls, and dreams of motorbikes. Not pasta and bread. He was pretty sure Stan shoplifted a few snacks when he allowed the twins to go with him to run errands, but he wasn't about to bring it up. He couldn't bring himself to tell him no. He just wished he could pay for it instead. The fact that he had to stretch their budget to the point where he couldn't even buy his twelve year old brother a few sweets made him feel like a failure. Not nearly as much of a failure as when he looked in the pantry the night before his next paycheck and found nothing but a pack of instant noodles and some random leftover ingredients from the birthday cake he'd managed to squeeze into the budget. He put food colouring on the noodles and joked to the kids that it was worms. They ate it with joyful shrieks and the ultimate preteen-boy accolade of "gross".

Sherman filled the largest glass he had with water and drank, quietly telling himself that it was just a one time thing.

The years continued to creep by, and the twins never complained. So he supposed he was doing something right. What exactly, he wasn't sure. It didn't feel like he was doing anything right. But he supposed he had to be, because his brother's never made a fuss. Then came that one night, one that felt eerily familiar, when there was a knock on his bedroom door. The hands that made the noise were larger, stronger than they'd been, but somehow still just as timid. At the first tiny tap of knuckles on wood, he'd groggily pulled himself out of bed with a slurred "I'm coming".

There'd been a military man at their school that day. Talking to their upperclassmen about war and duty and enlistment. Stan and Ford were still too young, it didn't concern them, and Sherman told them as much as both teens broke down. Sitting together wrapped in blankets and going around and around in aimless circles of attempt reassurance as he tried to assuage their fears. The silent threat that had been looming large but seemingly distant suddenly felt far too close. As if it could be upon them any day.

That didn't matter though. They'd be okay. They'd made it this far, they could keep going. Sherman wasn't going to leave them. Not when doing so would put them back home with Pa. That wasn't going to happen, they'd be fleeing to Canada or Europe or whatever before he let that happen. They wouldn't go back. He wasn't just going to let them go without a fight.

Eventually, he managed to get the two teens calmed down enough to fall asleep. All cramped together uncomfortably on his bed. Cramped, but safe and calm.

He hoped to whatever good was out there that it wasn't just a one time thing.

So, uh, I've been pretty busy these last few days so I'm sorry for the lack of posts. But I decided to finally finish up an old one shot drabble I've had sitting in my phone since January. So, ye.

Hope you like Werewolf Stan.

Stanley was absolutely massive. Ford didn't have a good estimate as he was far less cooperative with him in this state than he was with the children, but he felt heavier than either of them in human form. That was only the most noticeable difference Ford could distinguish between him and a regular wolf though. His teeth were larger, seeming almost too big for his mouth, and the claws reminded him or sickles. His frame was sturdier, more front heavy, characteristic of a lone hunter rather than a pack based predator.

Yet despite all of that, there he was now. Lying stretched out on the floor in front of the TV and letting the two children poke and prod at him without as much as a warning growl. Like a very polite golden retriever.

Ford had expected tonight's excursion to end with him returning home to finish compiling his research on the effects of the full moon on wendigo migration patterns, comparing his new data with whatever remained of his notes from thirty years ago, and - if his paranoia allowed it - maybe even get some proper sleep in. He had expected observing the solitary and very territorial beasts without being detected to be the dangerous part. The one during which he might risk being attacked. He had not expected to be thrown onto the floor and pinned by a large creature covered in scraggly grey fur the second he entered the house.

He had deduced that it was a werewolf the second he looked into its far too human eyes. But hadn't spared a single thought as to who the person beneath the fur might have been. He'd been to busy trying to push against it's broad neck to keep the furiously snarling maw out of range of his own throat. Too busy cursing his own curiosity for compelling him to leave his family unguarded with a full moon high in the sky, and fighting against the raw terror that clawed up his back and whispered in his ear that this creature - this monster - had surely already killed Stanley and the kids when Ford should have been there to protect them.

In the end though, by the mercy of whatever good there was out in the multiverse, there would be no graves to dig and no next of kin to inform because appearing out of nowhere as if herself sent by some form of divine intervention was Mabel. Alive, uninjured, Mabel.

She cried out in alarm and rapidly descended the remainder of the stairs despite Ford's breathlessly shouted demands that she return to the attic and barricade herself along with her brother. Mabel did no such thing. With the foolish fearlessness only a child could posesses, she threw herself at the head of the werewolf, grabbed two small fistfuls of it's fur, and yanked. Shockingly, the beast did allow itself to be pulled back. If only the slightest bit.

"No! Bad!" She admonished firmly, as if she was handling a rowdy pet, rather than a monster the size of a small car made out of muscles and teeth.

Before Ford could move to put a stop to her suicidal overconfidence, she had somehow managed to plant herself firmly between her still prone great uncle and the werewolf. The large unkempt animal lunged at Mabel. Maw open and snapping at her neck. For a second, Ford could have sworn he actually felt his heart stop. But there was no blood or screaming. Instead, jagged yellow fangs caught the fabric on the back of her sweater collar. Tugging her back like a mother wolf grabbing a disobedient pup by the scruff of it's neck. She yelped as her backside connected with the floorboards, but showed no further signs of distress. In fact, as the animal worriedly shoved it's snout in her face with such force and hurry it nearly knocked her over, she giggled. Tiny hands pushing it away with little regard for how close her fingers were to it's teeth.

"Ew, your nose is all wet!" Mabel laughed.

Again, it was Mabel who broke the stalemate. Quietly pressing a hand to the werewolf's side and slowly stepping closer to Ford again. She didn't remove her hand from it's fur, letting it trail along with her as she carefully moved. As if the only thing keeping the creature restrained was her small hand resting reassuringly in its pelt. Ford was half convinced it was.

Ford was absolutely dumbfounded, but despite his fight or flight instincts practically screaming at him to get Mabel away from the creature now, it showed no signs of hostility at all. At least not aimed at the child. The second Ford attempted to push himself back up off of the ground a deep rumble tore from the werewolf's throat. It whipped it's head around, instantly alert again. Eyes blown wide and assessing, ears pressed flat against it's head. It took one markedly distrusting step to the side, very deliberately placing itself between Mabel and Ford this time. Never letting the man out of eyesight. Ford glared back, hoping against hope that rising to the challenge wouldn't escalate things. Faltering gave animals the confidence to attack: A painful lesson permanently etched into his skin.

The creature let out another rumbling growl as Mabel apparently stepped closer to Ford than it was comfortable letting her, but this time all it took was another firm but gentle reprimand for the growl to break into a low whine. It's eyes flitting worriedly between Ford and Mabel.

"It's okay." She spoke carefully, reaching out to take one of Ford's hands in her unoccupied one. The growl flared up again, even if just for a moment. "No. It's okay, Grunkle Stan. It's just Ford."

She pressed Ford's palm to the werewolf's head, between it's - too human, too sharp, deep brown - eyes. His fingers sunk into the fur, Mabel's small hand still splayed on top of his. His fur was thinning, missing in patches over gnarled scar tissue, and almost the exact same shade of grey as...

"Stanley?"

Recognition finally flickered in those familiar brown eyes. Only to almost immediately be replaced by horror. Stan pulled his head back swiftly and pressed himself low against the floor. He covered his face with two enormous paws, and let out a low, guilty, whine. Ford just watched in stunned silence.

Ultimately, Mabel had convinced both her grunkles to move back into the tv room, gone to wake up her brother, and insisted on settling down to watch a late night movie. No doubt all in a valiant effort to lift the tense atmosphere. So there they were now: Mabel was doing her best to braid the longer fur around Stan's neck, cramming every hair clip she owned into his wild mane, while Dipper lifted, squeezed, and turned one of his massive paws over in his hands, trying to make an accurate sketch of it. All while both children were half-laying on him like a scraggly pillow. Mabel had even brought her pet pig down from the attic, and despite what Ford had expected and feared might happen, even in wolf form Stan showed absolutely no inclination to harm what logically speaking should be a very natural prey animal. All he did was grumble, and shove the pig away with a padded foot when it began to nibble at his ear.

He was the very picture of self control.

And yet he'd attacked Ford.

His own brother hadn't recognized him. Had categorised him as a threat.

As Ford watched from the doorway as his small family settled down into the comfortably tired haze of domesticity, he wondered how he could have ever let something like this happen.