AN: Bonus chapter! I spent a lot of time thinking about how Stan and Ford wound up being single dads in this AU, and I wanted to share with you guys these first moments each of them had with their kids.

The worst thing about this whole situation was how ill-conceived it was. Ford winced. Poor word choice. The worst thing about this whole situation was how ill-planned it was. Better. If this had happened just two days later, Ford wouldn't even have been here to receive the package Jessica had dropped at his door; he'd already be on his way back to Gravity Falls to move into his now finished house. Furthermore, she hadn't bothered to knock on the door or anything, so it was pure chance that he had left and stumbled across what she'd left while it was still early in the morning. There were days when he didn't even leave his apartment, and then what would have happened? Ford was willing to concede the possibility that Jessica had found out about his upcoming move and knew he hadn't left yet, but there was no way she could have planned for his coffee pot breaking necessitating him leaving to go buy coffee at the convenience store around the block. Maybe that was the worst thing about this whole situation: that he was dealing with it before he'd had his morning coffee. Ford looked at the kitchen counter and sighed. No, the worst part of this whole situation was the whole situation. Ten minutes ago Ford hadn't even been aware that he'd gotten his ex-girlfriend – very, very ex – pregnant, and now he had a basket with a baby in it.

Ford peered into the basket once again, hoping to find something he'd overlooked, though what he could possibly find to make this situation better he didn't know. But no, still just the same three things as the last six times he'd checked. A tightly swaddled sleeping baby; a copy of a birth certificate declaring Mabel Kristen Pines had been born on August 31, 1975 to Stanford Phillip Pines – Ford had no clue why Jessica had bothered with his middle name if she wasn't going to get it right – and Jessica Anne Pines – nor did he know why she had substituted his last name for her own – and a note in Jessica's handwriting, right down to the little hearts for periods, saying, "Do what you want with her. I don't care."

Do what he wanted with her? Ford didn't want to do anything with a baby. He wasn't sure he wanted to have kids ever; he certainly couldn't raise a child on his own right now. But he couldn't just abandon the baby the way Jessica had either. Put her up for adoption, then? That seemed the most prudent choice, but how involved a process was that? Ford was moving in two days, the movers were coming to pick up his things tomorrow, he couldn't hang around for another week or two or more dealing with this if that was what was required. Maybe he could take her with him to Gravity Falls and then begin the process over there? Which meant keeping the baby for longer and having to transport her with him when he moved, which would be a hassle. On the other hand, short of finding a local orphanage and dropping the basket on their doorstep, there didn't seem to be a non-hassle option here. And that kind of abandonment once was more than enough for anyone's lifetime.

Ford looked down at the baby again. Just then her eyes opened up and she began crying. Vigorously. He had a very bad feeling about this. He unwrapped the blanket around her and cautiously peered into her diaper. Still clean. Thank goodness. He knew he'd have to change a diaper eventually, but he'd like to put it off for as long as possible. At the very least he wanted to put it off until after he had a fresh diaper to change her into.

If it wasn't a dirty diaper, then the baby was probably hungry. Ultimately that wasn't all that much better than the diaper scenario, since Ford didn't have any bottles or formula either. He was reasonably certain he could get both those things at the grocery store, but he did recall seeing a baby store not too much further away. It would probably be cheaper to buy the things at the baby store, and while he was there he could buy anything else he might need for over the next couple of days. Decision made, he wrapped her back up in her blanket and, lacking any alternatives, set her back down in the basket and took her out to the car.

It took ten minutes to drive to the baby store, and by that point Ford had given up any ideas of a one-stop shopping trip or doing anything that might hinder him from getting the baby her formula as quickly as possible. She had kept up her screaming for the entire car ride, and her cries had crawled their way into his brain, scratching at the inside of his head with a mounting desperate need to fix whatever was wrong.

He got out of the car and almost grabbed the baby, basket and all, before realizing how bad that might look. Instead he picked her up, leaving the basket in the car, and carefully carried her in one arm as he walked briskly into the store and down the aisles to grab what he needed. Then back to the front of the store to check out so he could rush back home and finally make the crying stop.

The cashier eyed Ford's purchases and then the screaming baby, and he swore if she made a disparaging comment right now, then he wasn't responsible for his actions. Instead she asked, "Your little one is hungry right this second, isn't she?"

"I hope so," Ford said. Because if he fed the baby and she still kept crying, he might just go insane.

The cashier nodded and looked over her shoulder at the other cashier. "We've got a baby emergency here; I'll be back in ten." She stuck Ford's receipt in his bag for him, then grabbed the whole bag and started walking off with it.

"Where are you going?" Ford demanded, hurrying after her.

"We're going to the break room. We've got a hot plate in there for just such occasions." Which Ford took to mean she was going to help him get a bottle for the baby now instead of having to go back home first, which he was profoundly grateful for.

In the break room Ford paced back and forth bouncing the baby at the cashier's recommendation. It didn't make the crying stop, but it wasn't getting any louder either, which was something at least. Meanwhile the cashier quickly and competently made up a bottle for him. She was so competent in fact that when she handed the finished bottle over, he was tempted to ask her to feed the baby as well. But he was trying to be responsible about this, which likely didn't include handing the baby over to random strangers to be fed, no matter how capable they seemed.

Ford stuck the nipple of the bottle in the baby's mouth, and she latched on instantly. Her eyes went wide as she began sucking greedily at the bottle, and the room was filled with the blessed sound of silence. Ford let out a sigh of relief as he watched the baby eat.

The baby was watching him back. After getting over her initial surprise at finally receiving the food she'd been asking for, her little slate blues eyes fixed themselves on his face. One arm managed to work its way free of the loosely wrapped blanket and reached up toward the bottle. She landed on Ford's hand instead, her tiny little hand gripping around his pinky. Ford was utterly transfixed.

The baby – Mabel wasn't just a baby he realized, she was a little person. A little person that Ford had helped create. She was a living being, with her own thoughts and emotions and wants. Maybe those thoughts and emotions weren't that complex now, but they would be someday, and she was counting on him to get her there. She trusted him, he could see it in her eyes. This was his daughter, and after less than an hour together she already believed in him one hundred percent. It was as though in that moment when she grabbed his hand in hers, Ford's center of gravity had shifted right out of his body entirely and into the little one in his arms. She needed him, and he couldn't possibly give her up.

"I don't have any idea what I'm doing," he confided, "but we'll figure it out together."

Stan pulled up to the house, then double checked the address. This was definitely it. He couldn't decide if this was exactly the kind of place he would have expected Marilyn's parents to live, or the exact opposite. Either way it was two, three times as big as anywhere Stan had ever lived, and at least ten times as nice. He got out of the car and walked up to the front door quickly, feeling like he had a target painted on him. There were dirty back alleys that felt less dangerous than this neighborhood, except here instead of a knife in the back, he'd get the cops called on him for bringing his grungy self to their perfect middle class suburbia. Well, let them. He didn't want to be here anymore than they wanted him, and he'd leave as soon as he got what he came for.

He knocked on the front door. Almost immediately it was opened by a woman who looked a bit like Marilyn had, if Marilyn had been about thirty years older and had sported a pinched expression a bit like she had just sucked on a lemon. "Finally," she said.

"I told you it would take me three hours to get here. I wasn't exactly in the neighborhood when you called." If anything, Stan had gotten here quicker than he'd told her he would.

"Of course you weren't," she said. Stan couldn't decide if she sounded annoyed by the inconvenience or grateful that trash like him wasn't allowed anywhere near her normally. Either way Stan was going to tell her the fuck off, but then he stepped inside the house and lost all interest in her entirely.

Right inside the entry there was a stairwell. Sitting on the bottom stair with a backpack on one side of him and a suitcase on the other was Mason. Stan's son.

He was so big. Last time Stan had seen him, the only time Stan had been allowed to see him, Mason had been a tiny little bean, not quite seven pounds. Now he was an actual little person. His slate blue eyes had darkened to a chocolate brown like Stan's, and he had hair now, slightly curly brown, also like Stan's. His son looked like him. Yeah, Stan could maybe see some of Marilyn in there too, the little button nose instead of Stan's big schnoz, but his son looked like him. That was…

Stan walked up to Mason and crouched down in front of him. He'd come up with a million different things he wanted to say to his son when he finally got to see him again, had spent the whole drive over practicing the exact words, but now he couldn't remember any of them. "Hi there. I like your lizard," was what he ended up on, and what a fucking dumb thing to say.

Mason squeezed the stuffed animal, giving Stan only a little darting glance before ducking his head again. "'meleon."

"What's that?" Stan asked.

"Itsa 'meleon," Mason said, holding the stuffed animal out so Stan could see he was right, in addition to being pedantic and annoying.

He grinned. That sounded exactly like something Ford would have said at that age, and for once the reminder didn't hurt. "You're right; it is a chameleon. You're a smart kid, aren't you?" he asked. Mason nodded. "That's pretty great. You know my two favorite people in the world are real smart guys."

Mason finally looked at him – really looked, not just glanced – and smiled. "Thanks."

"You're welcome," Stan said.

Mason looked at him a minute longer, then frowned. Not an unhappy frown, a thoughtful one. "I have something," he said, and he opened up his backpack.

"No, don't unpack," Marilyn's mom said. "You're supposed to be leaving."

Stan glared at her. He'd forgotten the woman was even here, and that was a reminder he didn't appreciate. "I haven't gotten to see my son in almost three years," he growled. "If he wants to show me something, then he's going to get a minute to show me something."

"Fine," she said. "But don't make a mess, and be quick about it."

They would take as long as they took, and maybe a minute more just for the pleasure of pissing her off. Stan didn't say that though, just turned back to Mason, who was now looking nervously back and forth between Stan and Marilyn's mom. "It's okay. What've you got there?" Stan asked.

Mason gave Marilyn's mom one last look, bit his lip, then nodded at Stan. He reached into his backpack and pulled out a photo. Stan recognized it right away. Of course he did, it was the photo from his and Marilyn's wedding. Geez, he had looked so happy back then. Granted, he had been pretty drunk, but even still. He'd thought Marilyn had really wanted him, and she was going to give him a second chance at having family. Turned out all she wanted was his car, and the only thing she ever gave him was something else for him to lose.

Mason pointed to Stan in the picture. "That's my dad," he said. He looked up at Stan, expectant and hopeful. Of all things he looked hopeful, and Stan was not crying.

He wiped under one eye. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm your dad," Stan agreed. "You're going to come live with me now, okay?"

"Okay," Mason agreed. He carefully put the photo away, zipped his backpack back up, and slipped it on. He reached for the suitcase too, but Stan picked it up before he could grab it.

"I've got it for you, buddy," Stan said. He looked around and frowned a little. "Is this all his stuff?"

"That's all of it, but the suitcase is Marilyn's." The woman pressed her lips together for a minute. "We can consider it an inheritance."

"How generous," Stan muttered. "C'mon Mason, let's go." Mason slipped his hand into Stan's. Stan squeezed it, and the two of them walked out of the house.

As soon as they'd stepped outside, Mason turned and waved. "Bye-bye Grandma."

"Oh. Goodbye. You two take care of yourselves." For a second as she looked at Mason, Stan thought he saw a genuine emotion on her face, one that wasn't snobby condescension. Did she actually care about her grandson? Would she want to see him here and there in the future? Not that Stan cared what she wanted, but if Mason wanted to spend time with his grandparents too…

She caught him looking, and her expression soured again. "That was not license to come back here asking for money the way Marilyn used to. I loved my daughter, but she's gone now, and I won't be spending any more time cleaning up after her bad decisions."

Fine. That worked for him. "Don't worry, you won't ever be seeing us again," Stan told her. He turned around and kept walking.

He wanted to storm off, but he couldn't because he had to walk slowly enough for Mason to keep up. Then he couldn't do it because he couldn't stay mad right now. He finally had his son back. After three years, he was finally going to get to raise his son.

"Dad? We going home?" Mason asked.

Shit. He was going to have to raise his son. How the fuck was he going to be able to do this? He thought about the motel room he'd packed up and cleaned out in a hurry when Marilyn's mom had called him and told him to either come pick Mason up or she was taking him to an orphanage. He thought about all the other motel rooms, cheap apartments, people's sofas, his car, all the places he'd stayed in the past years. He even thought about Glass Shard Beach, but he threw that idea out as soon as he had it.

"I don't know where were going," he confessed, "but we'll figure it out together."