Music

They said it could never happen. They said it was impossible. But then, it had happened: Stanley Pines had become sick of television.

"Mabel, Sweetie, do we really have to watch this? What's left of my brain is starting to leak out of my ears."

"SHH! Quiet, Grunkle Stan!" Mabel urged as she worked to cross every appendage that she had. "They're almost back! We're finally gonna see the big moment!"

Just then the TV buzzed off of its commercial and blared, "And now, back to the Season Finale of Women Fighting Each Other for a Chance to Marry a Total Stranger!"

Mabel let out a cheer just loud enough to cover up her uncle's groan. Honestly, a bunch of ladies fighting for some guy they barely knew? Who made this crap?

"Sandra," the man on the screen crooned, "I know we've only known each other for a short time, but that's why I feel I have to tell you- YOU GET A THORN!" The man then proceeded to throw an oversized thorn at the female contestant, who began to sob as she ran offscreen.

"Not Sandra!" Mabel cried. "She was my favorite!"

Stan's only response was to let out another groan, this one directed at the world at large. It was accompanied by a shorter, squeakier groan, and Stan looked to see Dipper coming to join them.

"Hey there kid," he greeted his nephew as the boy flopped onto his stomach next to his sister. "How's the interrogation going?"

"Iznot itergaton," said Dipper, his reply muffled by a mouthful of carpet.

"You'll have to speak up," said Stan. "I'm going deaf from having to listen to your sister scream about this disgusting bastardization of both love and television."

"IT'S ROMANTIC!"

Ignoring Mabel's outrage, Dipper rolled over onto his back and grumbled, "It's not an interrogation. Grunkle Ford and I just thought that maybe if we worked together, we'd be able to help McGucket get some of his memories back."

"But?" Stan prompted.

"But…" Dipper allowed the word to hang in the air like a dead leaf, until finally letting out a faint sigh to knock it down.

"Yeah," Stan grunted, "that's about what I expected."

Dipper gave no reply, and Stan wondered if maybe he should've been nicer in his phrasing.

"It's not your fault Dipper," Mabel offered, though as a bit of an afterthought, as she was still entranced by her show.

"You could've helped you know," Dipper griped. "You get along with McGucket really well."

"Yeah," Mabel ceded, finally looking away from the TV long enough to meet her brother's glare. "I could have. But you know, Dipper, this is one of those things that I don't think we're supposed to rush. Like, we can try to make Mr. McGucket remember his past all we want, but he's still going to need some time. In the mean time…"

"We'd just be making things harder for him," Dipper finished for her. "I know."

Stan sat up straight in his easy chair and looked back and forth between the two kids, who were now both looking down at their hands, the TV long forgotten. They both looked so...crummy. It wasn't right, he thought. A couple of twelve-year-old kids didn't deserve to be this sad.

Damn it, he wasn't going to let them be this sad!

"Alright, that's it," he announced, defiantly turning off the TV and hefting himself out of the chair. After a long day of doing tours, he'd been too tired to fully undress and was still wearing his white shirt and black pants. Once on his feet, he adjusted his fez, before making his way to the fish tank.

"Grunkle Stan?" Mabel crawled over to see what he was doing; the old man had opened one of the cabinets below the tank and was now rifling around in search of something. "What's up?"

"I'll tell you what's up," Stan replied as he pulled a large, dusty crate out from the back of the cabinet. "THESE are what's up!" He tossed the crate onto the chair, sending up a large cloud of dust. Once they were don coughing, the twins both got up to look into the crate.

"Wait...records?" Dipper asked, interested.

"Aren't these like the grandparents to CDs?" Mabel asked, flipping through the stack of old vinyls to read the covers.

"These," said Stan, "are history. An archive of some of the greatest music from the past couple of decades. I've got everything in there: Rock n Roll, Pop, Blues, R&B… Heck, I think I've even got some Bluegrass that I found when I first moved into the shack. You want a good time? Look in there!"

"These names are so weird," Mabel said in awe. "Bing Crosby, David Bowie, Art Garfunkel…"

"What's this one?" Dipper pulled a record out and and read the name on the cardboard sleeve. "Chubby...Checker?"

"Ah, here we go," Stan said, as he took the record from Dipper and went over to the old gramophone in the corner, a touch of excitement clear in his voice. "What better way to start things off than with one of the most iconic dance fads of the 60's?"

"Whoa, wait," Dipper protested, having caught on. "Dancing? You're gonna make us dance?"

"I don't mind dancing," Mabel put in, "but isn't this music, like, really old and boring?"

"First of all," Stan grumbled as pulled the record from the sleeve and set it up on the machine, "if you think this music is boring you've got another thing coming. Second, we're doing this because we could all do with a break from all the terrible stuff that's been happening."

After a pause he looked over his shoulder at the two kids and said, "I worry about you two, y'know? I want you to be happy and...stuff."

The twins shared a glance, before giving their uncle slight smiles. Stan gave them a half grin in return before setting the needle on the record. He turned around and said, "Third, children, we are not gonna dance. We are gonna Twist!"

...

Fiddleford Hadron McGucket had never been much of a talker; but this was ridiculous.

Stanford Pines had been sitting across from, reading notes and eating a sandwich in dead silence for the past 10 minutes, and for the life of him, Fiddleford didn't know what to do.

The inventor looked down and picked some fuzz from the sweater vest Mabel had made for him - a really sweet gesture, that. Outside the sky was turning a pale shade of gray, and the clouds were gathered in close. He let out a small sigh, knowing that once he left here he'd have to go back to his home in the scrap yard, where he'd have to fix that leaky roof again if he didn't want to spend the night soaked.

In the mean time, Ford was irritated with him - that much was clear. And maybe he had a right to be.

But for God's sake, he'd tried. He'd tried so hard, while looking over those old notes, calculations, and drawings that Ford had presented. He'd tried while Dipper prodded him with random questions. But it had all been for nothing, because he still couldn't do it. He couldn't seem to force the memories of the time he'd spent with Ford, working on the machine. He couldn't remember anything before that when they'd been in college together. And he sure as hell couldn't recall what had happened when he'd been sucked half-way through the portal - that memory had been one of the first to go when he'd first started wiping his mind. Right after he'd given up on the project.

Now, here they were, thirty years later, and Ford was returning the favor by starting to give up on him. Fiddleford couldn't find it in himself to blame him; he probably would have given up on himself too.

With a sigh, he rubbed his thumb along the side of his empty coffee mug and said, "I'm sorry."

Ford was silent for a long moment, before muttering an offhanded, "What for?"

"For...I don't know. Everything?"

Ford's response was to let out a huff of irritation and pinch the bridge of his nose. "Listen, Fiddleford," he said. "I get it, okay. I know you're trying. And I know that this was a bad idea - I mostly did it because Dipper said he really wanted to try and help you."

Fiddleford nodded at that. "He's a good kid. Means well."

"Yeah, I noticed. So we tried. And it didn't work. And now we're sitting here."

"And…?"

"And the point is, that it doesn't matter. It didn't work, and that's fine. You need time, and that's fine. Now, if you'll excuse me," he said, getting up from the table, "I'm going to make myself another sandwich before the warden comes and tells me I have to go back downstairs."

Fiddleford leaned back with a sigh, watching as Ford pulled sandwich materials out of the fridge. "Alright then."

"Yeah," Ford said as he started constructing his sandwich. "After all," he mumbled, "it's not like it's my problem."

Well. That one hurt.

"Yeah. Not your problem," Fiddleford agreed as he got up to put on his new suit jacket that he'd bought as part of his efforts to try and get his appearance together (or at least to look less like a hillbilly; which is why he'd shaved). "None of it was ever your problem; you made that pretty clear."

Ford paused in the middle of spreading mustard on his bread. "What is that supposed to mean?" he asked, without turning around.

"What the Hell do you think?" Fiddleford spat.

Ford spun around, looking ready to fire insults at will - but stopped when the shack became filled with a strange noise. It sounded like-

It sounded like music.

COME ON BABY! LET'S DO THE TWIST!

"What the Hell?" Ford asked, voicing Fiddleford's thoughts exactly.

COME ON BABY! LET'S DO THE TWIST!

Curious, Fiddleford left Ford to his sandwich and went down the hall and into the living room. There, he saw perhaps the best thing he'd seen in a while: and old man, trying to teach two young kids how to do the twist.

TAKE ME BY MY LITTLE HAND, AND GO LIKE THIS!

And they were terrible. Mabel was giving it a good try, twisting from foot to foot, but her arms were all over the place, while Dipper looked like he was trying to smash an unseen bug. Then there was Stan.

Stanley Pines was a man Fiddleford still didn't know or understand very well, but there were a few things he did know about him. He knew that Stanley was Ford's brother, and that he'd been running the Mystery Shack for the past thirty years in Ford's stead. He knew that Stanley adored his niece and nephew, even though he might not have been willing to admit it. And now, he knew that he was one hell of a dancer.

"Come on kids, you're gettin it," Stan encouraged the twins, as he twisted his legs in perfect time to the music. "Just relax and twist."

"This dance is so weird," Dipper said, frustrated that he couldn't seem to get in sync with the fast-paced rhythm.

"Oh, this one ain't so bad," Fiddleford said, stepping fully into the room. At the sight of him, Dipper stopped dancing and looked a bit guilty.

"Uh, hey McGucket," he greeted. "Um. About earlier-"

"This one came out when we were kids, you know," Fiddleford interrupted, for both his and Dipper's sake - the kid had no business feeling bad for trying to help, and he didn't really feel like dwelling on the past miserable hour or two.

"You got that right," Stan said from his end of the room. "I remember it used to be coming out of every radio up and down the boardwalk in Jersey. Could barely walk down the street without hearing it."

"I know what'ya mean," Fiddleford chuckled. "I heard it every time my Daddy would take me into town - and do you know something? He hated it!"

Stan let out a barking laugh. "Same here; my old man thought this music was gonna be the end of society as he knew it."

"And weren't they right?"

After a round of laughter, the song began to wind down, and Mabel said, "Mr. McGucket, you were dancing!"

"Huh?" He looked down and saw that, sure enough, he'd been doing the twist right along with them. The music from his youth had settled into his bones so well, he hadn't even noticed that he'd fallen back into the old rhythm.

"Not too shabby there, McGucket," Stan commented as the next song came on and the four of them started moving to the beat.

"Why, thank you," Fiddleford replied, offering a playful bow in return. "By the way, I'd prefer if y'all just called me Fiddleford."

"Fiddleford?" Stan drawled. "You gotta be kidding me. Did your parents hate you or something?"

"Says the man whose name is nearly identical to his twin brother's."

"Point taken. However, there's no way I'm gonna spit out that entire mess of language every time I wanna say your name. So from now on, you're just plain old Fidds."

"Fine by me," said Fiddleford with a grin.

"Good," Stan smirked.

"Aw, look at you two," Mabel gushed. "Two old men making friends in what few remaining years they have!"

"Rude," Stan said and poked her in the ribs, which only made her giggle.

"Right," Dipper interjected, "so, uh, are we done with this whole dancing thing, or…?"

"Not by a long shot, kid," Stan announced as he went to switch out the records.

Fiddleford felt himself relaxing, and a smile came to his face. An evening of listening to old music with friends? No, that didn't sound bad at all. He looked at the crate sitting in the yellow chair and started flipping through the stack.

"You've got some good ones in here, Stan," he commented. "Oh, even some Bluegrass! Earl Scruggs, West Wind… Hey wait a second, these are mine!"

The realization flooded in as he said this, and knew it to be true. As he stared at the album covers, Fiddleford knew for a fact that he had bought these, listened to them repeatedly while working on his projects, and took them with him on the trip to Gravity Falls so that he could share them with his old college friend, Stanford Pines (not that Ford was ever a fan of Bluegrass, but that was besides the point).

"Wait, you remember them?" Dipper asked, sudden excitement in his voice.

"Yeah," Fiddleford replied, not catching the significance of the event. "I used to listen to them while I was working on the portal with Ford."

As if on cue, Ford chose that moment to come around the corner, headed for the vending machine and the hidden basement. "Don't worry," he grumbled at his brother, "I'm going downstairs, like we agreed."

"Wait, Stanford," Fiddleford called after him. "Hang on a minute; do you remember these?"

Ford glanced back and saw the records Fiddleford was holding. Recognition and surprise showed on his face. "Where'd you get those from?"

"I found them lying around," replied Stan, crossing his arms. "So I added them to my own collection."

"Your collection?" Ford scoffed. "That's probably pretty...hey wait, did you say you found those?" Ford marched over to the crate and started looking through it himself. After a second or two he cried, "HA! Here it is!" He pulled the record out and turned to his brother. "Seriously? I knew you'd done some stuff, but stealing a man's Simon & Garfunkel album is pretty low."

Stan rolled his eyes. "Yeah, steal, that's the perfect word for all of this," he said, gesturing to the room at large."

"Whatever," Ford grunted before retreating to the basement (but not before snatching a Pink Floyd record as well). He left a rather awkward silence in his wake, and Fiddleford briefly wished he hadn't tried to make the connection with him. He looked back at the records, feeling a bit dejected.

"He seems kind of upset," Mabel said with concern for uncle. "Should one of us.."

"No," Stan answered before she could finish. "Ford's just a grouch who needs his alone time. So I say we give it to him. Sound good?" He offered Fiddleford a half-smile and a look that said, That guy is impossible to deal with sometimes, but I care about him, so let's just move on and show these kids a good time.

"Works for me," Fiddleford agreed, returning the look with his own crooked grin, showing he understood perfectly. He may have lost most of his memory, but he could recall most of his early days of raising his son, Tate. And if there was anything parenting taught him, it was putting the kid first was always Number One.

Feeling a bit nostalgic, he turned back to the records and pulled one out, a little bit of mischief suddenly sparking. "Now if you'll do me a favor Stan," he said, holding up the record, "and put this one on."

Stan glanced at the cover and immediately said, "Nope! No way, we are not listening to that. I don't even know why that's in there."

"Because they're a classic, perhaps?"

"About as classic as a dumpster!"

"Okay you two," Dipper interrupted, "all this vagueness means you now have to play the record, so that Mabel and I can make a judgement call."

"Bring on the controversy!" Mabel cheered.

"Fair enough," Stan said as he grudgingly set up the record. "But mark my words, you're gonna regret this." There was a moment of silence before the music broke through:

Oh yeah, I'll tell you something

I think you'll understand

When I say that something

I wanna hold your hand

"Wait, is this the Beatles?" Dipper asked, eyes widening.

"You got that right," Stan spat. "It's not bad enough that we had all of these hippies running around back in the day, but then a bunch of English hippies had to show up."

"Hush your mouth," Fiddleford said in mock rage. "The British Invasion was one of the greatest things to happen to music!"

"Blasphemy!"

"Sorry Grunkle Stan," said Mabel as she began move side to side with the music, "but I'm with Mr. McGucket on this one. After all, The Beatles are what led to all of the cute boy bands we have nowadays!"

"What?" Stan cried. He shot an accusing glare at Fiddleford. "It wasn't bad enough you made me play it, but you had to turn my niece against me too?"

Fiddleford gave Stan a sly grin. "Oh, it wasn't me. And it's not just your niece."

"Huh?" Stan turned to see what he was talking about and, sure enough, there was Dipper, dancing along to the song and mindlessly singing the lyrics, word for word.

I wanna hold your hand

I wanna hold your hand

"Ugh," Stan groaned, as the twins started bouncing along to the tune. "This was never supposed to happen. To think that both family and music would be turned against me; this is a dark day for the Mystery Shack."

Fiddleford had a hard time stifling his laughter, and Stan caught him trying to cover his mouth to keep it in. At the sight of Stan glaring, he finally let go and laughed full on. And after a moment Stan was laughing with him. And Fiddleford couldn't remember the last time it felt so good just to laugh with somebody over something ridiculous.

"Hey, Grunkle Stan," Mabel called, "if you have time to laugh, you have time to order pizza!"

"Wait, what?" Stan acted as if he'd never heard of such a word. "Pizza? Who said anything about pizza?"

"We're hungry!" Mabel shouted.

"Hungry!" Dipper chimed in.

"HUNGRY! HUNGRY! HUNGRY!"

"Okay, okay," the conman grumbled, heading for the kitchen. "Cool it, you sound you're trying to summon a pizza demon."

"Pizza demon?" Dipper questioned.

"Best. Demon. Ever." Mabel confirmed.

Fiddleford was in the middle of grinning at the exchange when Stan poked his head back into the room and said, "Hey, Fidds, would you mind joining me in here?"

The inventor stared at the conman and drew a blank. Join him? What was that supposed to mean? Why would Stan need to speak to him privately?

"Uh, sure?" he said, following Stan out of the room.

Once in the kitchen, Stan turned to Fiddleford and said, "Okay, first off, I'd like to know what it is that you want."

Huh? What did he want? Now that was a loaded question. He wanted a lot of things. He wanted to get his memories back, good and bad. He wanted to patch things up with Ford, and with his son. He wanted to quit having nightmares. He wanted to feel, for the first time in years, like he was safe.

"I…" he stammered, trying to figure out how best to answer Stan's question. "I suppose…"

"I mean, normally I'm a pepperoni kind of guy, but if you'd prefer veggie lover's or something, we could always find a way to make that work."

Oh. Pizza.

"Um, pepperoni sounds just fine to me," he recovered.

"Great," Stan grinned.

While Stan ordered the pizza, Fiddleford was wondering what had gotten into him to make him think that Stan Pines of all people would be asking him deep, meaningful questions. Sure, they seemed to be having a good time together, but…

"Alright," Stan said once he'd hung up the phone. "Now, that food's on the way, I can ask you something more important." The taller man turned and gave Fiddleford a piercing look before saying, "Are you okay?"

Was he…? Well he was on the verge of giving up on trying to understand what direction this conversation was going, that was for sure.

"What do you mean?" he asked in return, not wanting to jump the gun once more.

"I mean…" the conman glanced around, and rubbed the back of his head, trying to think of the right words. "I mean, well, we were having a good time in there until Ford showed up, and I'm used to him acting like a jerk lately, but you looked really hurt and I just kinda wanted to know if you were alright?"

Fiddleford blinked in confusion. "Why do you care?"

The question made the conman turn a little red and say, "No reason! I was just, ya know, concerned for my fellow man or whatever. I mean, if you're fine, that's great, but if you're not I thought maybe we could...talk...or something."

After taking a minute to let this awkward speech soak in, Fiddleford tried to fight back the smile that was threatening to take over his face. Instead a small laugh escaped, and he managed to say, "Well look at you."

"Huh?"

"You're just a big marshmallow, aren't you?"

Now that one made him really turn red, and Fiddleford could do nothing but snicker at the sight of a man his age blushing like an embarrassed teenager.

"W-whatever," Stan stammered. "Just trying to be nice…"

"I know Stan," Fiddleford said in earnest, once he'd gotten done poking fun. "And I appreciate it. It's true: Ford and I don't seem to get along as well as I think we used to. There's a lot of years between us. I'm sure you can probably understand even better than I can."

"Yeah," he murmured. "Yeah, I can."

"Nothing that we can really do for it at the moment, though, it seems," Fiddleford said as he looked out the window. The sky was really dark now, and the kitchen was quiet enough that he heard a slight rumble come from off in the distance.

After a moment, Stan broke the silence to ask, "So. What now?"

The inventor considered. "Well, I'd say that we should go back in there and see if we can't show those kids a good time."

The two shared a smile and Stand said, "Sounds like a plan to me."

…..

Rain pattered on the roof in a pleasant melody as thunder rolled across the land, sending a shudder through the walls of every building. It was a large but comfortable sort of storm, the kind that could put a body right to sleep. Dipper and Mabel had proven this point, falling to sleep almost immediately after Stan had sent them to bed. Now it was just him and Fiddleford, sitting on the floor of the living room, listening on of the last of the records.

They'd done it all - they'd listened to everything, from the early 50s to the 90s, from Rock n Roll to Bluegrass, from Elton John to Lynrd Skynrd, the four of them had listened to it. They'd eaten pizza, sipped Pitt cola, sang along, and danced in every possible combination of partners. The twins had teased a bit when the two old men had started to dance together, but shut up quickly when they saw just how well they complemented one another; Fiddleford's slight frame and still-nimble limbs went well with Stan's bulk and steady feet, and before long they were "cutting a rug" as it were.

"You're pretty good you know," Stan complimented as he sipped his soda. "The dancing I mean."

"Not bad yourself," replied Fiddleford. He was holding a record, staring at the cover wistfully. "You know," he joked lightly, "it's sort of funny."

"What's that?"

"Dipper and your brother spent all morning trying to get me to remember my past. And I've spent months on my own, trying to get things to come back. But after all that, one evening of listening to music and being with your family has brought back more than I ever could have hoped." He reached for a stack of records and held them up one by one. "The time I got my first car. A party I went to at college. My cousin's wedding. The day Tate lost his first tooth; and that's just the big ones. There's a bunch of other little details too." He smiled fondly at the vinyls in his hands. "I guess music just does that to people - brings back memories."

"And," Stan added, holding up his soda can, "brings people together."

The two shared a grin and hit their cans together for a toast before going bottoms up. Fiddleford finished first, and he was wiping his mouth, he commented, "You know Stan, I really have to thank you."

The conman choked on his soda just a bit. "Thank me?" he coughed. "Thank me for what?"

Fiddleford tilted his head as if it was obvious. "Well, for having me here. Letting me be with your family for a day. For...talking to me."

At this Stan looked away and gave a shrug. "It's nothing really. Anyone would do the same. I mean, you're a person after all."

"But that's just the thing Stan…"

The conman turned to see the inventor sitting up straight. After all the dancing, he'd gotten a bit warm and ended up hanging his coat and sweater vest on the rack next to Stan's fez and jacket, and was now sitting in his slacks, shirt, and socks, having removed his shoes. Stan had also taken his shoes off and put on his slippers, and (he thought self consciously) with his shirt untucked and his gray hair mussed, he probably looked a wreck.

That was why he couldn't help squirming just a bit as Fiddleford continued, "Stanley, before this summer, you were the only person in this entire town who treated me as if I was a person. Everyone else would laugh at me, and make fun, but never you. Everyone else acted as if I was less than human, less than an animal. But not you."

Stan shifted a little and looked at his hands, unable to hold the inventor's gaze. "A lot of people don't understand what real hardship is like. I do. I know what it's like, to be treated like you're dirt, and I could never do that to another person."

He could feel Fiddleford nodding next to him. "In a way it's nice to have someone that understands."

"Yeah. It is."

They sat in silence for a moment as the smooth blues music came to a stop, and they were left with nothing but the sounds of the storm, neither of them willing to break the comfortable silence.

After a minute or two, Fiddleford let out a breath and started to ease himself off the floor. "Well," he yawned, "I'd better head home."

"Huh?" Stan balked at the idea. "In this storm?" Stan hefted himself up and Fiddleford paused in putting on his shoes. "You can't go outside in this; it's too dark! You'd get washed away!"

"I've seen worse."

"Worse nothing - you'll stay here tonight."

"Huh?" the inventor looked genuinely surprised. "Oh, well, Stan I don't-"

Stan held up a hand to stop him. "No excuses. You can sleep in my room."

"What? Your room? But Stan…"

"Save it, Fidds."

Fiddleford paused before swallowing his protests and managing, "Why th-thank you Stan. Honestly, I don't know what to say."

"You don't have to say anything," the taller man insisted. "It's not a big deal. I'll sleep in here or on the couch or something."

This was met by a smile so warm, Stan felt himself start to turn red again.

"Uh, in the mean time," he said, stepping away and over to the gramophone, "we've still got one record left!" He picked it up. "Let's see who it is. Oh, look, it's Elvis! Can't believe we forgot about the King himself!"

"Stan?"

The conman paused in the middle of dropping the needle to look over his shoulder.

"Thank you."

They held each other's gaze, a soft, tired smile creasing Fiddleford's face, soon joined by a sheepish one from Stan.

"No problem Fidds," Stan murmured. "I've had a pretty damn good time getting to know you."

"Guess music really does bring people together," replied Fiddleford.

The possible implications of those words caused Stan to widen his eyes and, without noticing, finally drop the needle onto the record.

Wise men say

Oh no, Stan thought without moving his gaze. This song.

Only fools rush in

"Um…" he looked down at his feet. "Did you want to maybe, uh, dance?"

But I can't help

Stan saw two socked feet come to meet his slippers, and looked up as Fiddleford took his hands and led him to the center of the room.

Falling in love with you

They drew each other close, and danced in slow circles, not meeting each other's eyes, not needing to.

Shall I stay?

And they both had the strange feeling that right now, in this moment, something was happening.

Would it be a sin?

That something was beginning.

If I can't help, falling in love with you?

And if they happened to be dancing as a pair of twins, previously thought to be asleep, looked on, then they wouldn't have noticed.

Nor would they have cared.

Falling in love with you...

(AN: The song's mentioned include Chubby Checker's The Twist, The Beatles' I Want to Hold Your Hand, and Elvis's I Can't Help Falling in Love With You. I own none of these; they all go to their respective artist/companies. Also, I don't own Gravity Falls (though that's probably obvious))