A/N: warning for some Super Duper Subtle implications of abuse coming up. blink and you'll miss it.

(double update because IM SO SORRY IT TOOK SO LONG! lots of stangst here to make up for it, though?)

Nine years old. Spring. A dark room, a nightmare, and a brand new bunk bed.

'Uh, hey, Poindexter?'

''M asleep, Lee. What's wrong?'

'Bad dreams again.'

'We can share a bed, like usual. Don't need to ask, just come up here.'

'I... I can't.'

It took Stanford a moment to process what his brother meant. "Oh," he said after a period of silence. 'You still scared of heights?'

Stanley didn't answer the question, just stared down at his hands. He'd always been afraid of heights. There wasn't any reason, and Dad always said he was a wimp, but he couldn't help it. Something about being high up just made Stanley need his brother there with him. That's how Stanley always felt when he got scared: whether it was heights or bullies or teachers or Dad, Stanford always made him feel better. That's why they had 'sleepovers' whenever Stanley had a bad dream. But now, Stanford had the top bunk, and when Stanley thought about climbing up those rungs and seeing the bedroom floor so far below them...

Before long, Stanley heard the soft creaks of his brother climbing down the ladder, then he felt a warm body climb into bed beside him. He smiled thankfully, wrapping Stanford in a tight hug. 'You're the best.'

'No, you're the best.'

That made something twist around in Stanley's insides. He'd never been the best at anything before. ''Night, bro.'

'Night, bro.'

Eleven years old. Summer. Sunny skies, beautiful beaches, and a shipwreck.

'Woooahh!'

'A shipwrecked sailboat! Possibly haunted by pirate ghosts!'

'This is the greatest thing I've ever seen! And I once saw a dead rat floatin' in a bucket!'

Stanford punched his brother, giggling. 'Eww! What's wrong with you?'

Stanley giggled back. He put his hands on his hips, surveying the wrecked boat before them. 'Huh...' An idea started brewing in his mind, and he looked back at his twin with a devilish grin on his face. 'Ya know what this thing's missin'?'

Stanford immediately understood and excitedly pulled off his shirt, holding it up proudly. 'Flags!'

'Hey, good thinkin,' Poindexter!' Stanley teased, playfully mussing up Stanford's hair before pulling his own shirt over his head. The twins laughed and roughhoused as they struggled to climb up the boat, the hot summer sun beaming onto their backs and shoulders. Once they managed to fasten their makeshift flags to the boat's mast, they wasted no time in pushing their proud discovery down the beach.

They laughed and played all the way, declaring to the world what they had found together: it was theirs. A silent understanding was building between them that they would always have this beach, they would always have this boat, and they would always, always, always have each other.

'Kings of New Jersey! Kings of New Jersey! Kings of New Jersey!'

Thirteen years old. Autumn. A Bar Mitzvah, a pair of Groucho Marx glasses, and an angry father.

'Lee?'

'Don't come in.'

'I just wanted to talk.'

''Bout what?'

Stanford sighed and leaned against the bathroom door, wishing that his brother would let him in. He always hid like this after Dad got upset with him. Just a few hours ago, Stanley had shown up to their seudat mitzvah wearing a pair of Groucho glasses. Dad was barely able to keep from blowing up in front of their friends and family members, and the moment that the celebration was over and all the guests had left the community center, Dad ripped the glasses from his son's face, crushing them in his hand, and ordered Stanley to get in the car. It was fairly clear what would happen as soon as they were back home. 'Well... I know Dad was really mad back there... Ma took me to get ice cream so I wouldn't see him yell at you.'

'He didn't yell at me.'

Stanford cringed. He knew what that meant. He never knew what to say when this happened... But he was desperate to cheer his brother up. 'Um, I thought the glasses were really funny.'

Stanley cracked the door open, peering out. 'You did?'

'Yeah! Who cares what Dad says? I was going crazy trying to answer all our aunts' and uncles' questions and watching everyone talk about us like we weren't in the room. The only thing that kept me sane during that whole thing was you making funny faces at me!'

Stanley chuckled softly and opened the door the rest of the way, pulling his brother into a hug. 'Thanks, Sixer.'

Fifteen years old. Winter. The blizzard of the century, a yearning for adventure, and an inadequate winter coat.

'You have to wear more layers than that, Lee.'

'Psh, maybe you do. Ya might be smart, Poindexter, but I'm tough! 'Sides, what's the worst that can happen?'

'Well, if your body temperature drops, it could weaken your immune system, and your T-cells won't be able to signal the presence of a threat to summon antiviral proteins in time to efficiently combat antigens, then you come into contact with a rhinovirus, and before you know it you've got-'

'A cold? Then I'll get to stay home from school, and everyone wins.' Stanley flashed a cocky grin at his brother.

Stanford rolled his eyes, chuckling. Stanley was always so stubborn; it wasn't worth the argument. Besides, Stanley was tough. He'd be okay.

They decided to split up so they could cover more ground, spending the snow day scouring the icy beach for parts to use on the Stan O' War. They decided to meet back at the sailboat after a few hours of searching so they could get back home. 2:30 was the agreed time—not surprisingly, Stanford was sitting on the old sailing yacht by 2:28.

He looked at his watch as he waited for Stanley to show.

2:30.

2:33.

2:36.

It wasn't rare for Stanley to be late, but as 2:45 came around, Stanford let himself start to worry.

He waited for 3:00 to pass before he went looking for his brother.

It was almost 4:30 when he found him lying a few feet from the water, curled up for warmth.

'Stanley! Are you okay?' Stanford rushed to touch his brother's face, and it was cold as clay. He looked down at his body and the light zip-up hoodie was soaking wet, sticking to his body and letting the freezing air pierce through. 'Lee, what happened?'

'Saw somethin' in the water,' Stanley mumbled, barely audible.

'You dork,' the older twin sighed. He quickly unzipped his brother's jacket and peeled it off, shedding his own coat and wrapping it around Stanley.

'No,' Stanley protested weakly, 'Ya need it...'

"I'll be fine, Lee. I'm wearing layers. You know, to stay warm?"

Even in his lethargic state, Stanley managed a small, feeble smile. "Know-it-all," he accused.

Stanford rolled his eyes, helping his twin pull the sleeves of the coat over his arms. It was kind of small on him – ever since Dad put them in boxing, Stanley worked endlessly to excel at the sport, building muscles as he clung to the chance to be good at something – but at least it was warm and dry. 'Come on. Let's get you back home. Can you stand up?'

Stanley didn't offer a real answer; he just groaned.

Stanford sighed, trying to calculate a plan. He just removed his hat and covered Stanley's ears, then took his twin's hands for the sake of warming them. They sat in silence as they waited for Stanley to gain the strength to stand up, and Stanford wished he had been more forceful when he urged his brother to dress appropriately for the weather.

'Sixer?' Stanley said softly after a while.

'Yeah, Lee?'

"Lee?"

Stanford's eyes fluttered open and blinked in the warm, orange light. He tried to sit up, but he was cardboard and clay, a uselessly stiff body.

Where am I?

"Stanley, are you okay? Where are you? What happened?"

Wait.

Hadn't he been far, far away from home? He hadn't spoken to his brother in three years, hadn't been on good terms with him in thirteen. And hadn't he been lost in a tundra? In another dimension, one with nothing but snow and mountains and a single great white beast.

But now, Stanford wasn't surrounded in blinding white snow under a pale wisteria sky. Everything around him was black and grey, washed in a gentle orange glow.

After much persuasion, Stanford was able to convince his body to move, to slowly sit up and look around.

That's when he saw the giant.

It was disturbingly human-like, the first thing Stanford had experienced in years that actually resembled the humans he left behind in his own dimension. Ten feet tall with obsidian skin, the giant sat cross-legged in the cave and watched its lantern create wild shapes and shadows that flickered against the walls.

It looked over at Stanford with wide bat-like eyes and grunted softly before mumbling to itself in a strange, unintelligible language. It stood up and started walking over to where Stanford was lying on the ground.

The fugitive flinched, expecting the worst, but the giant simply pressed a large hand on Stanford's chest and gently pushed him back onto the ground.

It spoke again in its strange dialect, looking concerned.

"Wh-where am I? Who are you? What happened to me?"

It patted its chest rhythmically, signifying a heartbeat, then softly put its hand over Stanford's heart and didn't move at all. Slowly, Stanford realized what it was communicating.

No heartbeat.

"I died."

"Ya what?!" Stan exclaimed, slamming his fists to the table.

Surprised at the interruption to his story, Ford looked at his brother with wide eyes. "I... well..." He stared at Stan, at loss for words, and there was a long, pregnant silence.

After a good twenty seconds of scowling at his brother expectantly, waiting for him to explain himself, Stan couldn't take it any longer. "Ya literally died, Ford, and you're just gonna sit there and look at me like a friggin' owl?"

Ford shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Listen, Stan, I'm sitting right in front of you. I'm alive. What did you assume happened? I had been resurrected?"

"Well... yeah? Isn't that where we're goin' with this?"

"No, Stanley. I only thought I was dead."

"Ya said ya were dead, though!" Stan exasperated. "Who tells stories like that?!"

"I did it for effect!"

"Well, effect achieved, pal. Now, what the hell actually happened?"

"I... was still delusional from the hypothermia. In my amnesiatic state, I remembered nothing that happened after the beast sunk its claws into my back. I assumed that I had bled out from the injury and I was now in some sort of an afterlife."

"Afterlife," Stan scoffed. "Ya really were delusional."

Ford just nodded. He and his brother had both abandoned religion long ago.

"So, what the hell was that giant thing doin' with ya?"

"Communication with the giant was very difficult at first, but it eventually began to draw small pictures on the cave walls to tell me what had happened. It found me in the snow after I had lost consciousness, and it was able to sense that I was alive, albeit barely. It took me into its cave and, using its peculiar abilities, it strengthened my life force, raising my core temperature while ensuring that my blood pressure remained high enough that I wouldn't die from the shock of my blood vessels suddenly expanding from warmth. The gash in my back was mending itself and my leg no longer felt broken. The giant was healing me."

"Sounds like a real stand-up guy. It fix your thing-a-ma-whatchit too?"

"The rift indicator? Unfortunately, no. The giant wasn't able to solve all of my problems. But when I asked it if I might be allowed to stay in its cave in order to remain alive long enough to fix the device and enter the next dimension, it seemed to understand my request and it extended its hospitality for as long as I may need it."

The fugitive stayed in the cave with the giant for several weeks. It often left for days at a time, but Stanford was safe within the orange-lit walls of the shelter. Food, water, and firewood were scarce as ever in the wasteland, but the giant's powers kept him alive and warm.

He always thanked the creature profusely; despite it having no ability to speak any of the dozens of languages Stanford had learned over the years, it seemed, to a certain extent, to understand when Stanford spoke. So, Stanford spoke.

As he tampered and fiddled with his invention, he rambled on about his thoughts and theories regarding the nature of the issue. He knew that the giant most likely did not understand, or at least didn't care, but it seemed to have no objection to listening to the scientist's stream of consciousness.

And after all of those memories of Stanley that resurfaced while Stanford limboed between consciousness and death, maybe he felt some comfort in having someone to talk to.

Once the invention seemed functional, Stanford felt a familiar warm satisfaction spreading through his chest. Pride.

Experimentally, he pointed at a wall of the cavern and adjusted several of the switches until he received a reading. A grin lit up his face and he looked up at the giant, bowing deeply in appreciation and expressing his thanks.

To his surprise, before he was able to pass through to the next dimension, he felt a large, atramentous hand weigh firmly on his shoulder.

He turned around and the giant's inky gaze bore into Stanford as he spoke.

"You are a strong warrior, Stanford Pines," it said in English. Then, it stepped away and offered a short bow to the fugitive. "One day, you will triumph over your enemies, no matter the odds against you."

Stanford gaped up at the giant in wonder. Incredible... It must have been able to learn the language while Ford was speaking to himself in the cave. He quickly regained his composure and gave a nod, determination creasing his brow. "Thank you," he said once more.

Then, he turned, widened the gateway to the next dimension, and stepped through.

"What the hell was that thing?"

"I don't know," Ford admitted, looking down at his half-cup of coffee, which was cold by now. He took a drink anyway. "In my notes, I called it Winalagalis."

"Weenie-leg-what-iss?"

"Winalagalis. The native peoples of British Columbia revere Winalagalis as their god of war. He travels the world, wages wars, rules the wintertime, and brings spirits back from the dead. So I named the giant that I encountered after him, for the sake of documentation."

Stan hummed, sitting back. "Well, I'm glad ya didn't die, Sixer. Woulda been real pissed if I opened that portal and didn't get ya back."

There was a certain mourning playing distantly behind Stan's eyes as if the outcome of opening the portal only to receive a dead body had been a possibility that he actually considered. A painful tug plucked at Ford's heartstrings and he looked away, not wanting to think about what kind of a state he left his brother in.

"I'm glad that you didn't die, as well, Stanley," he whispered.