Stan Pines was underwater, swimming against a strong current that made his arms and legs ache with the effort it took to keep him moving forward. It made him think of Glass Shard Beach, of home, when he was little and dove under the waves, wanting to see the fish and the plants that swayed gently down there in the depths. His mother always hated when he did that, because how was she supposed to know he was safe if he didn't stay where she could see him? He might be a strong swimmer, but he could still be swept into tide pools and pulled down by undertows. Then where would he be? Drowning, that's where. Unable to catch his breath and without his mother there because he'd been a bonehead and swum out of sight…

Wait. Breathing. He was breathing. The breaths he took were laborious and shallow, but they were there none the less. You weren't supposed to be able to breathe underwater…

With a jerk, he remembered where he was. He wasn't underwater. He was behind the wheel of his car. And he was about to veer that car right off this narrow country road and into a tree.

He yanked the wheel to the right, and even though his tires slid on the snow-and-ice-glazed ground, he eventually righted himself. He stomped on the brakes once the nose of his car was again going the right direction. He needed to gather himself, just for a second.

He'd been driving for six hours in this god forsaken cold, and fourteen hours the day before that. As soon as he'd left the barren oven of New Mexico, headed up to Oregon, he'd been enveloped by the month of January, which raged icy and unforgiving in the northwest. He'd even heard on the radio (he'd let it drone the first eight hours of the trip, but turned it off after that, when he developed a rager of a headache) that even the northern-most parts of California were getting more than the average amount of powder. Truly, it was a weather front to be reckoned with.

Under any other circumstances, the cold wouldn't have bothered Stan. He'd grown up in Jersey, for god's sake. Driving snow like this was the norm every year, and it typically wasn't even enough to get them out of school. He'd trudged through slush and flakes to get to the bus stop, and stood there waiting while it all soaked through his boots and made his toes go numb, at Ma's insistence.

And then there were the past ten years of his life in general. Living out of his car, with the heat that didn't always work, and only his jacket for a blanket, he got used to cold nights fast. He learned that, if you couldn't drive the chill out, you learned to live with it. Like a relative that had stayed too long after the holidays.

But for the past few days, the cold had not just lingered with Stan. It had burrowed under his skin, nestling there and refusing to budge, no matter how many layers he put on or how hot he managed to get the heater or how many scalding cups of gas station coffee he chugged down. It sent mighty chills down his spine without warning, making him quiver and tremble like a newborn bunny. It was frustrating, to say the very least.

It would have been manageable if he hadn't been so dog-tired. As a rule, he never got much sleep (only when the four walls of a crummy hotel room with a reliable lock were there to protect him; otherwise it made you vulnerable), and always felt a vague sense of sleepiness, but this was a whole different beast. This was a fog, a thick haze that clouded his vision and made him…blink out every now and then. That fir he'd almost collided with wasn't the first since he'd crossed the border into Oregon. At least once, he'd been jolted into awareness by the sharp honk of another car, alerting him that he'd drifted into their lane and nearly tore off their front bumper. He'd wave apologetically and pressed the gas a little more, willing himself to stay awake and in his own lane for the remainder of the trip.

Obviously, he'd not been incredibly successful.

After another moment or two, he gently pressed the gas, and the car continued its bobbing ascend up the road. He had to get where he was going. It was the most important thing he'd had to do since he'd been kicked out of his home at eighteen a little over ten years ago. He'd been summoned by Ford, the twin brother he hadn't seen in those ten years.

The postcard that had been slid under his hotel room door hadn't said anything other than that Ford needed him to come to a small town called Gravity Falls, but that was all Stan needed. He'd packed his meager belongings into a duffel bag, tossed it in the car, and headed out on the road within hours of receiving the summons. He'd shoved aside the fact that his muscles were sore and his head ached. Ford needed him, so he'd go. That was how it'd always been.

Deep down, somewhere in a part of Stan that was still hopeful and full of daydreams about reconciling with his beloved brother, that's exactly what he was headed to. He'd open the door to his brother's house, and instantly be met with open arms that pulled him close and mumbled tearful apologies. The soreness would drip from his body, like pulling off a heavy overcoat, and Ford would be his friend again, his brother, who cared about him and was so, so sorry he'd had to live the way he had, and he should have said something to keep Dad from tossing him out, should have fought harder, could Stan ever forgive him?

And of course Stan would. He knew he'd never be able to hold what happened against Ford. The poor guy had been upset, hadn't had his head on straight. Even geniuses let themselves be blinded by emotion. He'd just lost his chance to go to his dream school, and to be fair, Stan had kind of accidentally been the reason that happened. Tempers were lost, regrettable things were said. But all that was going to change now.

Sure, it'd taken Ford ten years to reach out, but Stan couldn't exactly say he'd been much better. He'd lost count of how many times he'd stopped at a pay phone, dialed Ford's number, only to not say a peep as soon as Ford's voice came on the line before hanging up in a panic. He was as much to blame for the rift as his brother was. But now, things were going to be right again. He just knew it.

Stan shivered again, so hard he nearly lost his grip on the wheel. He just clutched it harder, unwilling to let it go, eventually making his knuckles turn white. Anything to keep him focused. He didn't want anymore distractions. He was nearly there. No more blinking out, no more whining about being cold and achy. Just a few more miles up this road, and he'd be with Ford again.

Even as the tail end of his car fishtailed a bit on a patch of ice, he nudged the accelerator again.

"Who is it?! Have you come to steal my eyes?!"

Stan pulled back as a sharp arrow, lodged purposefully in a crossbow, was pointed directly at his face. The sudden movement made him dizzy, but he tried not to let it show. He instead shifted his gaze to Ford. The latter twin had definitely seen better days. He was haggard and unkempt, at least days worth of stubble accumulated on his worn face. His eyes were wild, bloodshot, and Stan swore he saw one of them twitch as Ford leveled the crossbow at him. So much for a sweet reunion.

"Well, I can always count on you for a warm welcome," Stan said, furrowing his brow.

Clarity seemed to enter Ford's vision as he lowered the crossbow a bit. "Stanley…" he said, as if he didn't remember that he was the one who invited Stan up here, and finding him on his doorstep was a complete shock. "Did anyone follow you? Anyone at all?"

That small, optimistic part of Stan that had been hoping for a touching reconciliation was rapidly withering to nothing. "Yeah, hello to you too, pal," he grumbled tiredly. He was really starting to think he'd get a warmer reception staying out here in the snow.

Suddenly, Ford shot out an arm, and grabbed the front of Stan's jacket. With a yank, Ford pulled him inside. As soon as the yelp of surprise left Stan's throat, there was a beam of light shining directly into his eyes. The two-day headache that had been festering there intensified at the harsh light, and Stan let out a bark of discomfort. "Hey! What is this?"
Ford pulled away, snapping off the handheld light he'd shone into Stan's face. "Sorry. I had to make sure you weren't…uh…it's nothing. Come in, come in."

Ford turned away from him sharply, beckoning his twin to follow him, leaving Stan to close the door, which he did, as soon as his skull stopped threatening to explode. When he had his senses about him again, he turned his attention back to his twin. Ford was hunched over, pulling the trench coat he wore around his shoulders like it could protect him from something only he could see. Stan noticed that twitch in his gait again, this time spreading throughout his twin's entire body. It was like someone was poking him with invisible needles, making him jerk and jump like a voodoo doll. Stan shivered again, and this time, the cold had very little to do with it.

He followed behind Ford, and asked cautiously, "Look, are gonna explain what's going on here? You're acting like Mom after her tenth cup of coffee."

Ford was busy gathering up papers from a desk shoved against the wall. He sounded far away and harried as he said, "Listen, there isn't much time." He turned back to Stan, his eyes, if at all possible, even wider and wilder than when he'd met Stan at the door. "I've made huge mistakes, and I don't know who I can trust anymore."

Ford began to walk back towards him, his arms laden with books and papers. He stopped suddenly, and Stan followed his brother's gaze to a hanging skeleton close by. Ford's eyes narrowed to slits, and, balancing his abundance of papers in one arm, Ford reached up and turned the skeleton's head away from him. Stan noticed a slight tremble had worked its way into his brother's frame. Whatever reason he had for what he'd just done, it obviously rattled him.

As Ford started walking again, Stan reached out and put a hand on his brother's back. It felt warm under his own icy touch. "Hey, easy there. Let's talk this through, okay?"

Ford seemed to slump under the touch. Stan couldn't tell if it was exhaustion or shame. He'd worn both himself at various points in his young life, and he knew for a fact that they could coexist very well together.

"I have something to show you," Ford finally said, voice strained. He turned back towards Stan, waving a hand in front of him melodramatically. "Something you won't believe."

Stan fought to keep himself from scoffing. His throat was suddenly feeling very dry, and he didn't know if he'd be able to keep it from turning into coughing. Instead, he just said, "Look, I've been around the world, okay? Whatever it is, I'll understand."

Ford said nothing in return, just heaved a heavy sigh and turned away again. He started walking, so Stan decided to follow.

Boy howdy, was that a mistake. As soon as he took a step, he wobbled, his knees suddenly turning to jelly beneath him. If he didn't grab on to something, he'd pitch forward and onto Ford's floor. Shooting out a shaking arm, he grabbed hold of the edge of a table, holding some kind of weird skull in a tank. His heavy, stumbling footfalls managed to capture Ford's attention, because he jerked around to face his twin again, a look on his face that screamed "Why did I leave the crossbow at the door?!"

"What's the matter now?" Ford asked, his tone bordering on annoyed. Through the dizzy haze, irritation crept into Stan's mind. He couldn't even pretend to be concerned? The cynical, bitter part of Stan that had been cultivated through a decade of criminal activity and fighting to stay alive burbled up in his mind, flaring like fire, and for a brief moment, he wanted to snap something back. But he didn't. The shivers were threatening to come back, so strong they'd knock him flat on his ass, until he really was sprawled out on Ford's floor.

Actually, that didn't sound so bad right now. It was warm in this little shack, and even though the cold still clung to his bones, he felt a little better than he had out in the car. Maybe he really should just lay down, worry about whatever Ford's problem was later. Tomorrow even. He was somewhere with locks, a way to keep people out. A good night's sleep wouldn't hurt anyone. Ford had waited ten years to drag him out here. He could wait another twenty-four hours until Stan had rested, just a little.

"Stanley!" Ford barked. It made Stan yank his head back up, despite every muscle in his neck protesting with pain and exhaustion. Ford didn't even seem to notice. "If you're done with the theatrics, could you at least try to keep up?"

Stan narrowed his eyes at Ford, and with every ounce of strength his limp noodle arms had in them, he pushed himself off the table and followed behind his brother. He kept his mind on his steps, making sure they didn't wobble. Ford lead him to the back end of the house, and to a door. Ford gingerly opened it, and Stan saw the hesitant nervousness in his eyes. Pfft, who was Ford for getting on his case about theatrics?

Ford disappeared past the door, so Stan continued to follow. There was a flight of stairs leading down, and the very sight of them made Stan's head spin. He watched as his brother purposefully trotted down them, papers flying out of his arms every which way. He knew that hesitation would only get more grumbling from Ford. Just thinking about it made his headache worse, and that made him even dizzier. Jeez, what the heck was wrong with him? It was a couple of stairs, and there was a handrail. He'd be fine.

He still took the steps carefully, methodically. The last thing he wanted was to trip and split his head open at the bottom of stairs leading to a spooky basement. Ford paid him no mind, simply got to the bottom of the stairs and kept on going. Stan eventually made his way down as well, and he was instantly met with a giant…thing.

He wasn't sure what it was. It was a huge, metal structure, strange symbols Stan couldn't even hope to decipher etched around the open hole directly at its center. On the floor in front of it were two more holes that looked like jet turbines, a lever sitting between them that Stan could only assume was meant to turn the device on and off.

Ford certainly hadn't been playing with kid gloves out here in the middle of nowhere.

"There," Stan said, "is nothing about this I understand."

He stared up at the metal thing while Ford launched into an explanation of what it was, something about punching a hole in the dimension.

Stan was trying to pay attention, he really was, but he'd never been good at any of this science junk. Ford had to remember that, at least. He didn't expect Stan to help him with this, did he? It didn't help that the chills were starting up again, and they were getting harder to hold back. The fog in his head was making him drowsier, taking away what little fight he had left in him. His legs were getting even more jellied than when he was upstairs. Was there something in the air down here?

Oh Christ, thinking hurt. His headache flared up like a wildfire directly behind his eyes, and even the dim dankness of the basement couldn't offer him any respite. The pain only made him dizzier, and the world spun around him once more, almost going full tilt. It reminded Stan of the time he and Ford went down to the beach on a windy day, when they were eight, and just let the waves knock them around - upside down and sideways and every which-a-way.

Was this just his messed up vision, or was he really swaying? It was hard to tell anymore. He was too focused on the cold now. He was sure the blood that flowed through him had been replaced by ice water. He felt it everywhere, from the tip of his aching head all the way down to his toes in shoes that were falling apart. He wanted to pull his jacket tighter around him (what good would that do for chills coming from inside you?), but he couldn't seem to make his hands follow his commands. They just were trembling in front of him, useless to him as two blocks of ice.

He felt himself tipping to one side, aware now that it was him doing the swaying. He quickly tried to right himself, but all that did was make the spinning worse. It was making him nauseous.

And was Ford still talking? Didn't he realize the world was turning upside down around them? That the temperature had dropped below freezing and soon, very soon, there'd be icicles forming on his weird metal thing?

Stan wanted to interrupt him. This all sounded very fascinating, and he was sure it was important, but could they go back upstairs and sit down, for just a minute? Please? He needed to sit down, he ached so much. He couldn't stand up anymore, his muscles couldn't take it. If he stayed down here any longer, he was going to freeze to death, fall apart, die where he stood.

He wanted to say all these things, but his throat was dry as sand. Nothing came out except a small, pathetic moan.

That got Ford's attention. Even through the haze, Stan could tell Ford was annoyed again. Stan wanted to tell him he was so sorry for dying in the middle of his dramatic rambles, but then he felt his knees give out completely, and the floor was inching closer to him. He thought, distantly, he heard running footsteps, someone calling his name. His last coherent thought was at least now he'd be able to lie down.

When Ford heard his brother moan behind him, he'd been ready to snap again. Oh, terribly sorry, Stanley, am I boring you?

He didn't have time to put up with Stan's jokes. He needed him. He was his last hope to stop Bill. He had to get those journals out of here, so no one would ever be able to activate this accursed portal ever again. At the moment he heard his brother moan, this portal had been all that mattered.

But when Ford whipped around and saw Stan falling to his knees, all of that seemed so very, very far away.

Ford moved faster than he thought himself capable, and was at Stanley's side to catch him before he fell face-first against the floor. He grabbed his twin by the shoulders, trying to steady him, kneeling down to offer Stan an anchor to keep him upright. He could feel a burning heat through the fabric of Stan's worn jacket, and wanted to yank his hand away from the sudden and unpleasant sensation, but he held fast. Stan was swaying so much, Ford knew that, if he let go, he'd just pitch forward again.

"Stan, you're burning up," he mumbled uselessly.

With a tiny groan of pain, Stan's head lulled back, resting against Ford's shoulder. The eyes that Ford had hastily shone light into to make sure they contracted were glazed over and sheer exhaustion dwelled deep within them. Drooping eyelids fluttered a little, desperate to close and to sleep.

For a brief moment, panic seized Ford. What if this was Bill? He'd been hearing that demon's voice and giggles for days now, even despite the plate. Could he have finally found a vessel in Stan? Playing a wounded gazelle to get Ford to let his guard down? His grip on Stan's shoulders wavered ever so slightly.

No. Ford shook his head, chasing his paranoia to the farthest recesses of his mind for now, tightening his grip in the fabric of the jacket. He'd know if it was Bill. You couldn't hide the eyes, the terrifying yellow slits that denoted Bill's presence. The body he held belonged only to Stan right now. And that body was burning with fever.

He needed to get Stan somewhere to lie down, out of this dank basement. That certainly couldn't be helping him. The first place he thought of was his own bedroom, up two flights of stairs, but better than the living room, which was currently a mess of papers and uncomfortable hardback chairs.

"Stanley," he said, looking down at his twin again. Stan's eyes were shut, so Ford gave him a gentle shake to wake him. "You can sleep all you want soon," he said, trying to keep his voice even. He couldn't afford to go into panic mode, not when he felt Stan shaking as he tugged himself back into consciousness with a protesting whine. "I need to get you back upstairs. Can you walk?"

Miraculously, Stan seemed to understand him, though his clouded eyes betrayed no such thing. He merely nodded limply. As if to add an extra bit of insurance that he could make it, Ford felt Stan grab at his shirt, gripping it as tightly as his trembling limbs would let him.

"Alright, we'll go slow," Ford said. "Ready? One, two, three." On the count, he started lifting with his knees, trying to get Stan back on his feet. He could practically feel Stan straining to help beside him. Stan had always been heavier than Ford, in muscle and in pure chub. It made him the perfect middleweight boxer. Less helpful was it to the cause of dragging him up two flights of stairs. Never was that more obvious to Ford than it was right now.

Still, he appreciated Stan's efforts to help, minimal as they were.

Ford walked like he was hiking through mud. Next to him, Stan tried to carry his own weight, attempting to pick up his feet to take steps, usually ending up just dragging them along. Ford had to tell him more than a few times to stop pushing himself so hard, he needed to relax. Stan either didn't hear him, or felt guilty about burdening his brother so much and continued.

As they reached the bottom of the stairs, the word "burden" gave Ford a moment of pause. He began moving an instant later, but the word still traipsed about in his mind as he began working his way up, one step at a time. A burden - that was what his dad had referred to Stan as the night he kicked him out, among other things. A burden, a screw-up, a failure, a mistake. That's why he'd thrown Stan out, never to let him return until he made up the money Ford would have made by going to West Coast Tech.

Something about that had never sat right with Ford. When Stan had been kicked out, the two of them had only been eighteen. The school year had been winding down, and Ford hadn't seen Stan back at all. He could only assume Stan had dropped out after that. How did Filbrick Pines ever expect Stan to make back money that a research grant and a lifetime of painstaking scientific study could achieve?

Ford knew the answer, deep down. Stan would never have been able to do it. That had been the point, he guessed. Their father knew Stan couldn't do it.

He supposed he'd known that answer ten year ago, when Stan was standing on the sidewalk after their fight, his duffel bag clutched close, looking much younger than eighteen as he held up a hand to the window, asking for a high six. He'd known the answer as he closed the blinds, angry and hurt and betrayed to the point where he'd convinced himself whatever happened to Stan, he'd brought it on himself for costing Ford his dream school.

As Ford reached the top step, and Stan started to sag heavier at his side, he tried to tell himself that he'd been right all those years ago. What Stan had done was awful, and it had cost Ford his dream school. He'd been right to turn away from Stan. He wouldn't be where he was today if he hadn't.

But look where you are, Sixer.

He wasn't sure where that voice had come from. He hoisted Stan up a bit, to keep him from slipping from his grip, and thought how it strangely didn't sound like the high-pitched taunts of an inter-dimensional dream demon.

The second set of stairs, thankfully, wasn't too far from the basement stairs, and his bedroom wasn't far beyond that. Venturing a look over at Stan, he saw his twin had closed his eyes again. Ford gave him another shake. "Wake up!" he commanded. Stan moaned again, but otherwise obeyed. He seemed to be focusing all his attention on Ford, giving himself something to zero in on, keep his mind awake and alert.

Ford decided he could help, "That's right, Stan, just keep your eyes on me. We'll be there soon. I can get you some water and some aspirin to help with that fever. You'll be fine. It won't be any worse than that time we caught the mumps. Remember? It was miserable, wasn't it? Well, I guess I should say when I caught the mumps, and Mom made me give them to you."

It was true. They'd been six years old, and Ford had woken up one morning complaining of a sore throat and hurting all over. His mother confined him to his bed, but by evening, he was scalding to the touch, and after an emergency house call from Dr. Pulaski, it'd been decreed that Ford indeed had the mumps. And, like with the chickenpox before and the measles two years after, Stan had been ordered to sit at his brother's bedside to catch it himself. Mom thought it built immunity, as her own mother had done with her. Pretty soon, both boys were sick and feeling weak as newborn kittens.

Ford was sure that Stan remembered (how could he not, he still teased Ford about being a leper well into their teen years), but Ford went on babbling about their week of misery together, how Ford had read the entirety of Tom Sawyer and most of Treasure Island out loud, to occupy them both; how they played so many games of go fish and rummy that they vowed never to play either game again once they were healthy; how they drew pictures of Crampelter and then doodled all over them, adding devil horns and a few stink lines.

Stan watched Ford's face the entire time he babbled about the mumps, right up until they were in the upstairs hall. Much to Ford's surprised and pleasure, he saw Stan's lips twitch into a smile. He'd forgotten how much he missed Stan's smile these days.

The smile was ripped away suddenly though, when a rattling, hacking cough erupted from Stan's lungs. The force of it surprised both the brothers, to the point where it nearly knocked them down.

Even though they were almost directly outside the open door to Ford's bedroom, Ford made them stop, and together they waited until the hacking subsided. Ford even tested the waters and gave Stan's back a gentle rub. He could only imagine how many muscles Stan had managed to pull when the fit had started. The weak whimper of pain Stan let out when he'd finally finished and took in a shaky breath only confirmed that suspicion.

"It's okay, Stan, we're nearly there," Ford said gently, giving his brother's back a soft pat before they continued on their way. He ducked them both through the door, and found himself never more relieved to see his unmade, overstuffed bed in his life.

He brought Stan over and managed to keep him upright long enough to sit him down on the edge of the bed. He started unzipping the jacket (he hadn't noticed how filthy it was on the way up, how did Stan put up with it?), and was shocked when Stan's trembling hands came up and fumbled to stop him.

Ford mentally slapped himself. It might feel like Stan was burning up to him, but Stan probably felt like he was freezing to death. His brain was working overtime to fight whatever disease coursed through him, and his body was trying to compensate.

"Stan, it's okay," Ford said, taking his brother's hands in his own. He had to admit, they did feel incredibly cold. He'd venture to say they were the only thing that was on Stan's burning body. "It's okay. I know you feel cold, but we'll take care of that soon. We'll get you under some blankets so you can sweat this out, okay? But the jacket will be uncomfortable, so I think you should take it off. Can I do that for you?"

Really, the reason Ford wanted Stan to lose the jacket was because it was probably a hive of germs. As soon as he got it off and got Stan somewhat more comfortable, he was going to toss it in the washing machine on hot and dump in as much detergent as the machine could handle.

Eventually, Stan nodded, probably too tired to continue picking the fight. Too tired to maintain that trademark stubbornness he'd inherited from their father (all the while refusing to admit he'd inherited anything from Dad). Ford let out a sigh and unzipped the jacket the rest of the way, slipped Stan's limp arms out, and tossing it away as soon as it was off, as far from him as possible.

Underneath the jacket wasn't much better. Stan wore a simple white t-shirt, not at all thick enough to keep out the biting chill of the driving snow outside, which picked now of all times to remind the brothers it was there by making the window at the other end of the room rattle. If the fever was already giving Stan chills, Ford couldn't imagine how miserable he must have been on the way out here. He had to fight another pang of guilt as he helped Stan lay back.

As soon as Stan's head touched the pillow, he was out like a light. No amount of shaking or calling to him would bring him back to the land of the conscious now, and Ford decided that was probably for the best. He pulled his sheet and comforter up and over Stan, even going so far as to tuck in the edges. He looked back at Stan's face to see a few strands of the long, brown hair had fallen into his twin's face. He found himself shaking his head. Leave it to Stan to grow a freaking mullet. Ford brushed the strands away, deciding he'd deride his brother about his fashion choices later.

He decided that now was as good a time as any to wash that foul-smelling jacket. Maybe grab a few more blankets and bring back some cold water for Stan. It might help with the fever. He stooped down to pick up the jacket as he headed out the door, and grabbed the knob to shut it. But then, a feeling of unease coursed through him. It didn't linger long, but there was no denying that it had been there.

Ford left the door open and headed downstairs.