Skip the A/Ns if you're just interested in the story.

A/N 30/04/2018 - Hello, everyone! My name is Katapultman and if you decided to click onto this first page then that means you'll bear witness to my first ever fanfiction! Due to my love for the show, I've had this idea lingering around for years on end, but I never got to writing it, so when push came to shove, I decided I ought to finally try and write a fanfiction about GF. Anyway, enough hearing me yammer about, you've read the summary, you're here, so enjoy the first chapter of a possible series!

A/N 24/03/2020 (Lengthy) - Hello, dear readers - new faces and those who have still stuck by the time of this update. Welcome to what I like to call the official "AUA 2.0" update - the update I teased in the A/N of my other one-shot fic (that I'd recommend reading) which included the grand rewrite I had embarked on for this fanfic of mine along with a brand new chapter.

Now, before diving into why I'd decided to rewrite my fic, I'd first like to clear up some parts of the story for returning readers - if there are such out there:

1. This story is not entirely rewritten. The plot is still the absolute same, only with more added scenes and major corrections. Really, if you want to receive the full experience void of terrible grammar, punctuation, sentence structure, and the like, I'd advise a reread. It'll probably be better.

2. No, I'm not blind, there aren't two new chapters, just one. I've just elected to separate the previous chapter - Chapter VII - into two due to its massive length and my own terrible planning. Along with the new chapter, that may give off the illusion of two new chapters.

So, if any of you dear readers care enough to know why I had decided to rewrite this fic, I will now explain. I think it's rather clear from the general tone in my first point that my relationship with the first iteration of the fic has changed sufficiently - and as it doesn't warrant saying, not in a stellar direction. Suffice to say, after looking back hard on what I'd accomplished up to Chapter VII, I didn't feel my current work up to the standard I had set for myself, both in terms of storytelling and objective quality. As for the former, I had major issues with my point-of-view structure and general consistency of said structure; as for the latter, I think it speaks for itself when I accidentally used a smut term as part of the name for my third chapter ("bondage", ugh; that's just from the top of my head - it's far from the worst blunders). I hope both issues have now been rectified to the best of my abilities and that with my decision to go back, I will have offered a better story in those two essential departments for you all to enjoy.

Now, a special thanks to all those who stuck with me and those who are tuning in (no matter when). I hope I can bring Chapter 10 soon and continue this rollercoaster of a story. That is all.

Of course, before diving into the fic, here's a teaser for the next chapter:

Now the time comes for the all-seeing-star to play its game.

But where to find a playmate? A star to match with a star, maybe?

That may be, but what of the boy?

Can the aroma of the elusive flower prove so swell

to make a boy so sleepless in pursuit of his quest,

as to ruin a new friendship kindled and plunge them all in darkness feeble?

I do not own Gravity Falls or these characters. They all belong to Alex Hirsch and, by extension, Disney.

Chapter I - The Arrival

Along with the many squeaks and peeps of any unfortunate wildlife which had found its way inside the building and the thumping of a ferocious breeze over the half-opened windows, only the unorderly static of a cheap and modest television echoed throughout the otherwise desolate, void of activity establishment known as the Mystery Shack. Nearly all lights in the house-turned-attraction were either purposefully shut off to conserve electricity, irrevocably damaged, or had never existed to begin with. Unwashed dishes, glasses, and silverware were piled up in the kitchen sink in a pervasive and grotesque manner which would have made most unfortunate souls stumbling upon it borderline nauseous. And that wasn't even mentioning the other facilities in the abode (especially the bathrooms!). The residence was, to put it bluntly, ugly - incredibly, distressingly, profoundly ugly.

But such a setting was all-too-familiar to Stanley Pines, self-proclaimed 'Man of Mystery' - from his own tawdry household attire, to the usual Gravity Falls public access TV evening program schedule - there was no mistaking it: this entire disparaging sight was the reality of his life, coalesced in the confines of his living room. And that was that.

Admittedly, he didn't find that epiphany all that distressing. As a most glaring example, the fact that he wasn't at all bothered by the lack of overall household maintenance in the sections of the house he inhabited - as opposed to the lengths he went to ensure the ardency and glamour of the museum and gift shop - was telling of Stanley's characteristic frugality and penury when it came to life outside the costume. He also knew he couldn't ask his employees to do all the housework either way; even he realised it would be too much. And he grew to appreciate some aspects of his decadent lifestyle as well - most notably the ability to dress or eat however and whenever he wanted to.

So that didn't bother him that much.

But the monotony and falsehood which truly permeated his daily life did: wake up, eat, scam, eat, scam, work in the basement until he drops asleep and do it all again the next day; it wasn't a routine he grew to enjoy but he always felt powerless to alter it. His was a constant - a never-ending, singular scene, void of the intrepid and any semblance of variety. Stan still somehow allowed himself to care either way.

Why?

Well, first Stanley had to answer the prerequisite question - who was he, really? Some aged conman with a criminal record longer than most people's resumes who would cheat away until he died; who would be forgotten forever, to be left unacquitted for his mistakes? A lonely, shallow husk of a man with once vivid dreams and aspirations, family, and a brother who would go to hell and back just for him?

Was he either of those? Somewhere in-between?

Stanley didn't like asking himself those questions - they clung on his conscience akin to a parasite and ate him up. Moreover, reflecting on his troubling past was an experience he had never seen in a reprieving light either - just going with the flow and jumping to whichever lucrative opportunity birthed itself next was much more to his style. Yet now he was the one squandering his life away at saving a brother who might not even be there when (and if!) he eventually did find the remaining puzzle pieces to complete his mission. Stanley liked to believe and confide in the merits achieved of his thirty year-long undertaking, considering the scraps of information he'd been left to work with. But Stan knew no matter what feats he'd accomplished, thirty years were thirty years too many; far too many to have kept up his façade and far too many not to have advanced his understanding of the construct which still lurked below, inactive.

That dreaded machine…

It had ruined his life and made for the horrid finale to a harrowing, justified, but ultimately pointless feud - or so he believed it was pointless, anyway. It was comforting to blame and shout at something so otherworldly and mysterious which could not talk back or put him down any further than he already was; a way to cope.

In the end, Stanley knew there was no denying it: he had all those opportunities, all those chances to make up for his foolish actions - and he screwed up. Screwed up so badly that his entire being now revolved around lying, whether it was to customers, his employees, or himself.

And that alone was what made living all the more difficult with each passing day.

But he was well aware to realise there was no point in questioning his vocation anymore; because Stan was far too deep in his efforts to turn back - he couldn't stop. Not anymore.

Finally snapping out of his stupor and descending back into reality, Stanley ran a hand through his face and hair, an evident sluggishness and despondency in his movements. He heaved a gruff sigh and instantly felt the dryness in his mouth - it appeared his relapse had not only taken a mental toll on him, but a physical one as well. Stan decided to take to the dishevelled kitchen to alleviate the issue with a glass of water.

Walking into the room in question, Stanley's eyes instantly darted to the window facing him, and he quickly noticed the trickling droplets which cascaded the stained glass - of course, there had to be rain that night. With a glint of annoyance, he audibly (and rather vulgarly) remarked the intensity of the fall, the tumult of the rigid raindrops becoming an uncomfortably ostentatious presence in the kitchen. But that wasn't the source of Stan's frustrations. In truth, he was simply not keen on the prospect of taking extra measures the following day just to attract the usual traffic of tourist buses - the already rough roads that led to the shack would become borderline untraversable with a storm as rough as the one that now befell the area. Nevertheless, he sighed his annoyance off, begrudgingly accepting the new circumstances, and served himself water in his signature coffee-traced mug.

Deciding not to bide away more time (and considering he still had work to do down in the basement), Stanley decided to leave the kitchen, mug still in hand. But as he was making his way to the corridor and to the gift shop, he was suddenly taken aback by a happening he never suspected would strike him.

There was a… light knock on the back door - a knock so faint that, had he not been wearing his hearing aid, would've gone unnoticed. There was someone out there, awaiting a response at the one entry into the house designed to be as obscure (and uninviting) to outsiders as possible.

Stanley reined in his presumptions, thinking rationally - a knock? At this time, at this weather and at his door? His instincts kicked in and he immediately knew something was up. Was it one of his prison escapee buddies or old business 'partners'? Stan did owe favours and money to a lot of people, and some might had wanted to come and collect; but he also had grave affronts with the law - which meant both possibilities were on the table. He had to be careful and assess the situation before acting out (which although rather uncharacteristic of him, was the smart course of action).

He slowly and silently tiptoed to the hardwood door, though the latter aspect not playing much to his favour - no matter if it was significant weight gain he had suffered as a result of leading his relatively sedentary lifestyle or the creaky floorboards making his every move audible - much to his dismay, secrecy was very much out of the window even after his first step. A slight tingle of fear even swelled inside him because of that.

Eventually, he reached the entrance and carefully peered through the embedded peephole. He scanned the immediate vicinity with a fiery jolt, yet only recognised the notable lack of the supposed visitor on his porch. Then, he looked down, and finally discerned the person from whom the timid knock had truly come. But it was no incarceration-hardened brute masking a cold vengeance to lure him out, it was no team of trained law enforcement agents prepared to take him down once and for all through an elaborate trap, but…

Just a small, hooded figure. A child.

Stan felt his shoulders slump yet brows furrow. On one hand, he was relieved to have had his wilder theories disproven and for the apparent danger to have dissipated. But on the other, there was still the underlying question that clawed at his mind - a question which was not deferred even after he drew the conclusion that said visitor was nothing less of an adolescent.

Who was out in search of him - and why?

He knew of only one way to satiate that morbid curiosity of his.

With a thrust of his hand, Stanley pried open the door and finally came in full view of the minor. It backed away slowly and raised its hands at the sight of the aged scam artist and the sudden impact of the cheap, blinding light emitted from the corridor's ceiling lamp. Stan squinted his eyes in an attempt to solidify a clear image of the kid, wanting to assert if he could identify it (not that he knew many children apart from some of the town's frequent delinquents and his great-niece and great-nephew - the latter of whom he was only sparsely acquainted with).

He was able to highlight some, but not all of its prominent features - rounded face, straight nose, blue eyes. It was through that observation and its general physicality Stan therein realised he was, in fact, face-to-face with a boy, possibly no more than twelve or thirteen years of age. Nevertheless, its ragged and slightly torn clothes didn't serve to subvert his already dubious first impression. Not to mention the fact that it definitely did not seem to be from Gravity Falls, as Stan shrewdly noted by the presence of the small backpack he carried and lack of clear resemblance to any of the townsfolk he knew.

The boy was the first to utter a word, "Uh, I'm really sorry for bothering you, sir. I just wanted t-to ask for directions." There was a noticeable quiver in his voice, yet he faced Stanley with a small resolve nonetheless.

"Er, directions to where?" Stan inquired as he darted his eyes between the figure in front of him and the dark, now entirely wet and unwelcoming forest.

"Um… like a bus stop or town? I'm sorry for taking your time and I promise I'll be out of your way, but it's just that I'm not... from around here."

The conman raised an eyebrow. "Yeesh, alright. Just tell me what the heck you're doin' out this late and we'll work it out from there."

Stan could barely make out the boy rubbing his arm before he heard him saying, "I… I dunno..."

Upon receiving that vague answer, Stan pondered on what he ought to do for a moment. In reality, he was only being asked for mundane directions from the shack, which was something he had been relatively used to doing (and charging people for; information is the most expensive commodity after all) considering he ran a tourist trap. Part of Stanley truly did consider just answering his query and leaving it at that. But something about the entire situation gnawed at him - the drizzling rain, the lightning raging around the woods, the howling winds and the insipid moonlight contrasting the shack's warm aura.

Stan knew he couldn't just let him walk away like that. Not without sacrificing what shred of conscience he had left to guide him.

At first, the thought of taking in a complete stranger sold it for him (and not in a good way). But then he did a double-take at his surroundings and the child's frail condition. As much as he liked to dismiss his handyman's superstitions about the town when they made conversation during work, Stanley was well aware that Gravity Falls was not a safe place; vile creatures and paranormalities lurked in the woods, which was why he always bore a distaste for them - much unlike his brother, whose fascination took to creating a whole dossier dedicated to the weird town.

Yet there was also something much stronger that irked at his heart: the child before him did not seem like the ordinary lost kid Stanley would have ever expected to have come across; there was a certain tingle in his rhetoric and uncertainty in his actions which alienated him from anyone he had really encountered around his age. What little trinkets hung around the straps of his backpack led the businessman to the impression that he had travelled far more than the distance between Gravity Falls and any other nearby town.

He was… different.

And those odd parallels Stan had begun subconsciously drawing between the child's possible past and his own from the moment he had set eyes on its countenance were now hitting far too close to home. They poured like a stream: no time or money to lead a normal life, to get a shower, having dominant fear guide your every move, constantly jumping from one place to the other in search of safety and reprieve. It was all clear to Stan. The times he had lived through - ones laden with misery, loneliness and dismay - were such he had hoped no one, not to mention so young, would ever have the misfortune of even slightly sharing.

And he just couldn't stand for that.

He let out a heavy sigh, noticing that the preteen was now shivering from yet another strong gust of wind that passed over the tempest.

"Look, kid, I wasn't born yesterday - I get you're lost. And trust me, neither a bus stop nor a town's gonna help ya, so…" He paused, rubbing his chin intently, "why don't ya stay here for a night and we'll sort this thing out tomorrow, eh?"

The boy looked bewildered after having the suspiciously kind offer reach his ears.

"S-stay?" he asked. "I'm not sure... I'd just give you trouble."

"Frankly, kid, my whole establishment here reeks'a trouble, so you're gonna be the least of my worries."

"W-well..." He rubbed the back of his head - something clearly still on his mind - and sighed. "Sorry, but… but how am I supposed to know you don't wanna hurt me or something?"

With that uncertain response, Stan's impression that he was getting nowhere in easing the child's frantic fears was now - more or less - true. As a last attempt to assuage the boy, Stanley knelt down and grabbed both of his frail shoulders, determined to convince him in believing otherwise. But before he even uttered a single word, he stopped himself. Something wasn't right.

For the first time, Stan truly met his eyes and was on his level.

Only now did he realize the reason behind the child's reserved attitude: what Stanley saw was a scarred face - both physically and emotionally - with eyes that kept a dark history locked behind tendrils of a traumatised mind. Finally, Stan felt his connection with the boy's experiences cross from a strange observation he had made, to something very real.

The conman stared deeply into his eyes. "Listen to me, kid. I don't care if you don't wanna stay here now, I ain't letting you roam the forest alone, especially out'a this weather only to have god-knows-what happen to ya. I can tell by your face that life ain't been good on you. Heck, I can relate. But trust me when I tell you that no one can get through that stuff alone. I know I'm no one to ya, but I wanna help."

A momentary pause elapsed between both of them. The boy only stood, wide-eyed and mouth agape.

"And I promise I won't hurt ya or anything. I guess a lotta bad people've told you that before so that's why you don't believe me," he stated, earning a slight nod from the distressed child. "But know when I say I mean that. And in order for me 'ta help you, I'm gonna need your trust - at least for now." He steadily rose up, arms crossed.

A few seconds passed before the adolescent finally responded, "The only people who wanted to help me did it because they had something to gain outta it." He gazed longingly at Stan. "And you're telling me you… you're not like them?"

"Conman's promise," Stan said, a genuine smirk on his face.

"Well..." He let out a timid laugh. "I-I guess I'll at least have been fooled good if I'm wrong."

Stan chuckled, finding his jab rather amusing; the kid had spunk, he had to admit it. He even saw his face slightly light up before seeping back into its fearful and catatonic state.

"Alright, c'mon. This rain's gettin' on my nerves."

With that, Stan gently nudged him into the doorway and slowly closed the door. He led him to the barely lit living room and gestured for him to sit on the old, decayed armchair while he leant on the doorframe.

"So, uh, make yourself at home or whatever," Stan said.

"Y-yeah, thanks." The preteen took to the stool's comfort and removed his hood. His hands gripped firmly at his knees.

Stan raised an eyebrow, just then noticing how pale the preteen seemed after the veil of his cowl - and their own impeding preconceptions about each other - had been lifted.

"You're lookin' pretty worn out. Wanna eat something?" Stan offered.

"Oh!" He piped up from the chair. "No, no. I'm... good!"

"I can tell you're lying from a mile away, kiddo," Stan smugly retorted. "So just... I dunno, grab a bite to eat out of the fridge."

Immediately after that, Stanley noticed how perplexed the preteen had looked.

"Alright, alright." Stan tried to properly adapt to the situation at hand. "How 'bout I, uh, leave this with you if ya get hungry during the night?" He held out a granola bar in one hand and a Pitt Cola he had snagged from a nearby counter in the other.

The boy puffed. "If you insist..." He grabbed only the snack (rather forcefully, Stanley noticed) and headed into the hall. Stan took this as a sign and propped open the soft drink for himself.

"Room's up the stairway, to the right. Bathroom's next to it."

The child nodded as he started to proceed up the creaky steps of stairs. Halfway through his climb, the sound of Stan's muffled steps caused him to turn and face the aged grifter.

"Hey, uh, kid - one last thing. I wanted to know if we could tie the face to a name, y'know?" He offered his palm. "I'm Stan. Stanford Pines," he stated, using his brother's name as a pseudonym the same way he had for thirty years now.

The boy hesitated before finally extending his small hand himself.

"I... I'm, um, Matthew. Nice to meet you," he stated with the slightest hint of a forced smile.

Stan cocked a brow. "Got a last name?"

Matthew immediately frowned and bit his lip. Stan was well aware of the burden of sharing something so personal considering what he could do with it had he any closeted malintent. He had to try and ask either way.

"Ah, I get it. Alright then, nice knowin' ya."

The preteen gave a small nod of understanding in return and continued up the stairs, soon becoming fully shrouded in the enveloping darkness of the corridor.

Stan took one final sip from his soda. "Heh. Welcome to Gravity Falls, kiddo."

With the now empty can of Pitt Cola, Stanley hastily retreated back to the kitchen to dispose of it. As he did so, he decided to sit down on one of the chairs next to the coffee table and gather his bearings (this time with a more mature beverage at his side).

Contemplation was something Stanley had found himself doing quite often that night. Many a question passed through his mind: was it really sound to take in some random street child? What if he couldn't find out who he was and would have to decide what to do about him? What if something were to happen to him while he was under his watch? It was unnerving, to say the least, to think about those possibilities. He had to do something, but what?

Stanley felt something he hadn't felt in years: conflict. He knew the life of scamming and cheating gullible tourists daily had made him soft and complacent to an extent, but he did not think it would have hindered his ability to distinguish from the rational and clearly emotional. Had he not caught his near-silent plea for help, he was certain that the child would have been lost even more or worse by now. But what if he had brought more trouble than worth by betraying his judgement by taking him in?

Stan quickly realised that there was no answer to his conundrum - not yet at least. He knew there was little point in questioning what was already done and dusted, just like there was little to be gained in berating himself over what happened with his brother so long ago. He decided he'd just have to wait and see what fate had in store for him.

Having only drunk half of his beer, Stanley swiftly whisked it away and stashed it into the hiding spot in the cabinet furthest to his right, away from any prying hands. Making his way out of the kitchen once more, he finally went on to indulge in yet another fruitless hour-long research session in the lab (without a knock on the door distracting him that time).

And with that, as quickly as the exhilarating evening came did the restless night part in the borders of the shack's basement.

If there was really one thing the 'Man of Mystery' had learnt that night, it was that one could never be too sure about what to expect from even the most usual of nights - that there is a beauty in the tedium, because it makes you take the good with the mundane, and cherish it all the more; that sometimes the most unpleasant of truths hide in the most broken of hearts; and that people, for all their masquerading, truly are not what they seem.

For the first time since he could remember, Stanley Pines was actively interested to see how the tomorrow would turn out. He didn't have a good or a bad feeling about it - no, he was intrigued.

Why? Maybe because life was just about to get a bit less dull after all...