A/N I've had this idea in the works for a few years now, so buckle up! It's a long ride ahead, but I hope it'll be a fun one. I have no guarantees I'll be updating all that frequently since I'm in school... actually, I can pretty much guarantee I won't have a steady update schedule. ^^; Whoops. But I'll do my best to not leave you guys hanging for too terribly long!

Anyway. This takes place about seven years after Stan gets kicked out, so enjoy homeless and very broke Stan. ^^

The wind cut through his ratty jacket like it wasn't there, biting and bitter and cold. His fingers fumbled over the payphone, the numbers pressed before Stan could even think about it. He slammed the phone back on the receiver as soon as it started to ring, pressing his head against the icy metal. Great. There went his last quarter, and he still couldn't even muster up the courage to call his brother. It had been over seven years since he ran away (definitely ran away, not kicked out, no, that stung too much to say), and he hadn't managed to stay on the phone long enough to hear Ford answer once.

Fine. That was fine. It wasn't like he needed help anyway. He was doing fine on his own - he had made it out of Columbia, hadn't he? Made it out, and fled so far across the border he wouldn't be surprised if he came across Canada any day now. At least in Canada they didn't know him, and it wasn't like sneaking past border control was a new thing. He definitely wasn't running because he was scared though. Not at all. He could handle it.

He dug his fingers into his pockets, wincing at the absolute lack of anything they found. A gum wrapper and a peso. He was pretty sure he had some food in his car, if some questionable canned meat counted. Cans didn't go bad, so it should be fine. And the snow falling could be water. Warmth was another question entirely, but anything was better than the stale heat of a Colombian prison cell, so Stan figured he could just suck it up and deal with it. The feeling in his fingers would come back eventually.

"Gotta find some food," he grumbled, breath fogging in front of him.

Maybe there was a dumpster around. It wouldn't be the first time, and it didn't even count as stealing. Probably. It was just until he figured out a new business strategy and got back on his feet anyway. Maybe Canada wasn't such a bad idea after all. He just had to figure out a new name to go by.

Stumbling away from the phone, Stan ignored the weakness in his legs and the aching in his lungs. It was just a bug, it would pass. He was sure of it. Wasn't like he had money for a doctor anyway, and he was pretty sure the whole lot of them were quacks. Food and a good night's sleep would fix him right up. They seemed to be the general cure for anything.

Ducking into an alleyway, Stan squinted through the gloom before blinking.

Was that...some sort of little man? It looked like one, big red hat and more beard than body. It turned to face him, hissing before scampering off into the dark. Stan rubbed his eyes.

"You're hallucinating, Stan," he mumbled to himself. "Get a hold of yourself. Probably just an ugly squirrel, or a bald raccoon or somethin'."

At least that meant that there was probably edible trash in there. Animals were good at sniffing that sort of thing out - that was how he ended up following a donkey through half of the state of Utah. It was a long story.

Rummaging through the battered tin cans, Stan perked up to find a half-eaten stack of pancakes. Half-eaten just meant half to-be-eaten, and he didn't hesitate, shoveling them in. Sure, they were cold and stale. But they were also drenched in maple syrup, and that was probably one of the best things he had tasted since he had conned his way into the kitchen of that restaurant back in New Mexico. Or maybe it was Arizona. He was banned from both now, so it didn't really matter.

Letting out a sigh, he leaned against the building, rubbing sticky hands together to try and get some warmth back in them. He really hoped it was just the lack of streetlights out here that was making them look blue. He stuck then in his armpits just in case, not that there was much warmer. Everywhere seemed to be cold and stiff, and the wind was only picking up.

Stan stifled a cough, making sure his hood was pulled down low enough to cover his ears. As big as they were, they seemed to catch every breeze. Nice when it was hot, but it was just a recipe for frostbite when it wasn't. Maybe going north in the winter wasn't the best idea, but he didn't really have a choice (he still wasn't running though, no - he was just meandering through the states. He definitely couldn't still taste blood and feel the ache as his teeth dug into the inside of a locked trunk he thought might be his grave).

Well. There was no point standing here and freezing to death, dwelling on memories that definitely didn't happen. Hauling himself off of the wall, Stan's teeth started to chatter loudly together, seeming to make his whole body shake with them. Grinding them together didn't do anything but make them slam harder together with each tremor, and he gave up, a low pulsing headache building behind his eyes. It was probably stress or some bogus thing like that. He definitely wasn't sick. Definitely. (And he definitely remembered where he parked his car. ...Definitely. He was just sightseeing now, that was all.)

Walking down the street, towards the direction he was pretty sure his car was in, Stan didn't notice his feet start to stumble and trip over every crack in the pavement. He was more focused on staying upright, clinging stubbornly to walking with a dogged determination that had gotten him through more than a few tough situations. His thoughts grew just as hazy as his vision, the snow building up and his awareness going down. He just kept walking. He'd get there eventually...wherever 'there' was. What was he looking for again? A card? He knew card tricks. That might be it. A bar? He liked those too. He was sure he would know it when he saw it though.

Stan was clueless to the fact that he was walking further and further from his car, the only shelter he really had. Even if he had been aware of it, his brain was too muddled from fever and cold to be able to understand it. He didn't notice when buildings turned into trees, asphalt into dirt, alleys into bushes. He barely even noticed when his legs stopped working, just laying numbly in the snow. It felt oddly warm, and he found just enough control over his body to curl into himself, trying to protect the little kernel of heat in his chest. He thought it would be bad if it went cold. He wasn't sure though, not anymore, not of anything.

He definitely wasn't sure if he was hearing a voice when one cut through the wind. It sounded distant, fuzzy, and a small grin quirked at Stan's frozen face. With ears as big as his, he would've thought he could hear that panicked voice better. It could just be a hallucination though, some deep down wish for that quarter not to have been wasted, for that courage to stay on the phone to have stayed. Stan wasn't sure about that either. But he was sure about one thing, as his eyes slid shut and his body went still:

That voice sounded like home.

A/N Thanks for reading! You can interact with the story more at ask-doublehelix on tumblr. Favorites, follows, and reviews are always appreciated!

~Aiva