Chapter Text
You climb out of a man’s car twenty dollars richer than you were before, wiping your mouth and yearning for the end of the night when you can get back to your room and your mouthwash. Rent's due in a week, though, so you push your glasses back onto your face and scan the street for your next customer.
"Hey! Kid!"
That is not a friendly voice. In the months since you started doing this you haven't had any run-ins with the cops yet, and you'd like to keep it that way. But the guy coming towards you doesn't look like any kind of cop you've ever seen: all he's wearing is a dirty t-shirt and jeans, both too tight for him, and his hair looks like he got halfway through cutting it and then gave up.
"Yeah, you," says the guy when he gets closer. "This block's mine, you got it? Scram. Go home to your mom or something."
"My mom's dead," you say, the words callous with long practice. "And since when is this your block? I've never seen you here before."
He crowds you up against the alley wall, face hidden in shadow, and your heart starts thumping. "Since now."
You brace yourself. Your dad despaired of ever making a boxer of you, but you're very smart and you remember how to swing, even if you don't exactly have the muscles to back it up. It's dark here and all you need is one good sucker punch—
But a car drives by just as you raise your fist, and the man intercepts your left hook and slams your wrist against the bricks. Then he stares at your hand, your freakish six-fingered hand, and in the glare of the headlights you see his entire face go pale.
"You're—" He chokes.
Like he’s seen a ghost. That’s what people call his expression. But you know that ghosts are non-corporeal up to level seven at least, and this guy is still touching you, running his fingers wonderingly across yours while his big arms keep you boxed in. He doesn’t look disgusted, but he’s not quite acting like the kind who gets off on your abnormality either; he just keeps staring at your face. And you, Stanford Pines, are no ghost.
“You know,” you say, proud that your voice doesn’t shake, “I usually charge for this.”
“Huh?” says the guy, then he jerks away from you, glaring in accusation. “What are you doing out here?”
You raise your eyebrows, gesturing at the tank top cropped short across your midriff and the ripped jeans that—if you do say so yourself—make your ass look fantastic. You’re wearing eyeshadow, for god’s sake. “What does it look like?”
The guy clutches at his hair, which frankly could use a wash. “You’re a hooker,” he says. “Oh, Jesus.”
You cross your arms, tucking your hands under them where he can’t see. You’re putting yourself through college, that’s what you’re doing, and this grubby-looking hobo has no right to judge the things it takes to get there. “And what are you, then?”
The guy just laughs. “Apparently I’m some triangle’s idea of a joke.” He turns a few paces away to shout at the empty sky. “Is this why you sent me here? Huh? You think this is fucking funny?” He kicks a trashcan and then circles back to you before you can decide whether or not to bolt. “Look, how old are you?”
“That’s none of your business,” you snap.
“It is unless you want me to drag your underage ass to the nearest police station,” the guy shoots back. “You’re supposed to be in school, not—not—”
“I’m nineteen, are you happy?” This guy can’t be much older than thirty himself, but he looks as scandalized as if you’d said you were twelve. “And for your information, I am in school.”
“You’re—of course you are. You fucking nerd. I can’t believe this.” He covers his face, continuing to mutter into his own (normal, five-fingered) hands.
Common sense is telling you to run far, far away, but common sense has never won out over the part of you that loves a mystery. This isn’t a brand of street-crazy you’ve encountered before, and there’s something just convincing enough about his concern for you that you want to know where it comes from. It’s been a long time since anyone cared what you did.
Eventually, mystery guy pulls himself together and looks at you again. “Look, how much for a night?”
He isn't looking at you the way customers do, though. Tourist season may be winding down with the chill in the air, taking most of your client base with it, but you still have your pride. “I don’t take charity.”
Something changes in the way he holds himself, and when he leans in towards you again, it’s a lot less scary and more—well. Not scary. “Who said anything about charity?”
Your mind whirrs. “A hundred dollars.” It’s more than you’ve ever asked for, more than enough to cover rent this month, and if he’s willing to put down that much just for you, you’ll really be interested.
“And you’ll stay with me the entire night?”
He sounds dead serious. There’s definitely something going on here that you haven’t figured out yet, but in science, the only way to get answers is by taking a few chances. Besides, you can take care of yourself. “Yeah. All night.”
After a long moment, in which you try your hardest to look worth a lot of money, he finally sighs. “You got yourself a deal, Sixer. Let's go.”
You should probably complain about the nickname, but when he says it like that, you discover you don’t really mind.
Apparently, Mr. Mystery lives in the motel just a few blocks from where you’d been standing. You try to act like you do this sort of thing all the time, but in truth most of your working hours are spent on your knees in the privacy of other people's cars; just crossing under the streetlights on the walk there makes you feel overexposed. You fidget with your clothes while he fights the lock on his motel room. Any passerby is sure to know exactly what the two of you are doing.
Finally the door opens, and your newest customer grins and waves you in. “Ladies first.”
“Uh, you’re the one with the long hippie hair, man.” You throw him a peace-V, waggling your eyebrows.
“Uh, it’s called a mullet, and where I come from they’re all the rage.” He gives the back of your head a friendly shove. “C’mon. Get inside.”
You saunter into the room when you’re good and ready, making it clear that it was your idea and not his. “Where do you come from, anyway?” you ask. You don’t see any sign of a suitcase.
“Man, I don’t even know where I am right now,” he says. He picks up a red fleece-lined jacket from its heap on the mattress and tosses it at the nearby chair. “Make yourself at home, I guess.”
A cockroach scuttles over the carpet when he kicks off his boots. Yup, just like home.
You clear your throat, self-preservation kicking in late as always. “Cash up front, please.”
“Right.” He thumbs through his wallet and hands you a wad of bills. “Hundred, right?”
You flip through the cash, trying not to let your eyes bug out, and when you look up he’s watching your hands. “This is more than a hundred.”
“Is it?” he says, scratching the back of his neck. “Call it a tip, I guess.”
Carefully, you fold the money away into your back pocket. “I haven’t done anything yet.”
He chews his bottom lip. "Look, uh." He shrugs. "You really don't have to do anything. You can just take the money and, I don't know, buy yourself dinner."
Like you can’t feed yourself? Who does he think you are? "I told you, I’m not looking for handouts."
"I bought a night," he retorts. "No one said how I had to spend it. Maybe I get off on having teenagers glare at me."
"I'm not a teenager!"
"You're nineteen, poindexter. And you're sure whining enough for one."
Just because you get shrill when you're angry doesn't mean you're not right. "Fine," you say, crossing your arms. "I'm glaring at you. Now get off."
His face turns pink, and he scowls. "That's not funny."
"What, are you shy?" You give him a slow and obvious once-over, lingering deliberately on his crotch, and he goes even redder. "Because I don't see anything to be shy about."
He crosses his arms. "Sure, I'm a catch. That doesn't make this a good idea. Now I'm going to go take a shower, and you just—stay put and don't go anywhere."
"I'm going to hear it if you jerk off in there," you announce as he retreats to the bathroom.
"I'm not jerking off!" The door slams.
What kind of person hires someone to not have sex with them? You hear a rush of water filling the bathtub, then the spray of the shower. It also sounds like he swears a few times, but not in the fun way.
There’s only one way to find out who Mr. Mystery really is: you snoop.
Your task would be easier, of course, if this guy actually had any belongings. The pockets of his red jacket contain a paperclip, one peso, and a packet of sugar; the stains in the fabric appear to be coffee (the elbow) and motor oil (the cuffs). Does he only own one outfit? You poke around in the closet and only discover two more cockroaches for your trouble; the dresser drawers are empty. No wonder he smells so much like sweat. His wallet, which might give you some real information, is nowhere to be found. You realize it’s most likely still in his jeans, which are in the bathroom, where your client is currently showering.
Nakedly. Alone. Alone and naked. And probably jerking off.
Well, Stanford, are you a hundred-dollar hooker or aren’t you?
The bathroom door opens when you push it—maybe this motel’s locks don’t work, but then again maybe he left it unlocked on purpose. You take off your sneakers, and then, slowly, your jeans. He's muttering to himself in there, but you can't make out words over the sound of the water. Steam fogs up your glasses, so you put them on the sink. You remove your shirt, kick off your briefs, and then pull back the curtain.
"Holy shit!" yelps your mystery man, flailing to cover his dick.
“Hey, mister,” you say blithely. It’s all a blur to you from this distance anyhow. “Need a hand?”
He huffs. “Seriously, St—kid. I’m glad you apparently still have a conscience here, but I’m not gonna skint on you if you don’t put out. Just take the night off.”
You’re not one to turn down free money, but his refusal to take interest in your entirely acceptable body has nettled your pride. “Maybe I want to suck your dick.” You squint down at the anatomy in question, which is—sizeable, if not entirely hard yet. Did you imagine that twitch just now?
“No one wants to suck dick for money.” He turns his hips away, gesturing between the two of you with his other hand. “See us? We are what happens when people hit rock bottom. I have no idea how you ended up like this, but I know how I got here ain’t pretty. Just be glad you didn’t learn your tricks in Colombian prison.”
So that’s why he’d been trying to take your territory before he decided to buy you instead. This whole thing makes no sense. “If you’re a hooker too, why would you give your money to me?”
“I’m beginning to wonder that myself.” He turns his back toward you, grabbing the shampoo bottle and scrubbing roughly at his hair.
There’s some sort of wound on his right shoulderblade, red and angry-looking.
You step into the bathtub behind him. His back stiffens, but he doesn’t turn around, letting you put your face up close to the strange geometric burn marks. Something about the shape of them seems familiar. You trace your finger just above his skin, feeling the heat even through the running water. “What happened?”
“Long story,” he mutters, and then he laughs, a harsh wet thing. “I guess you had to be there.” The next sound he makes is more like choking, and the shoulder beneath your hand shakes.
You’re not sure what to do with this. The hooker/customer relationship is one you can understand because they want something from you, whether it be a handjob that’s a full finger friendlier than usual or just a willing mouth to fuck. But this guy won’t take what you're offering, so what does he want instead? You’re good at giving people physical release—that is your entire job these days—but all your life, you never did get the hang of giving comfort.
After a minute, he sniffs and wipes his face. "Fuck. I got shampoo in my eyes."
A fine spray of water has settled on your eyelashes, and you blink it away. "That's because you're doing it wrong." You reach forward and lift the hair off his forehead, still slippery with soap. “No wonder your mullet looks so gross.”
“You’re gross,” he mumbles as you run your fingers through his wet hair. It’s ratty at the ends, but even with your blurry vision, the tangles are no match for your extra-dextrous hands. You add more shampoo.
“Did you know that healthy hair and skin are two of the most basic attractors when evaluating a mate?” you say, working the lather in slow circular motions all the way to the root. “You’re never going to get any johns if you go around all greasy like this. It’s primal instinct.”
He turns around while your hands are still in his hair, twisting you up and making a hopeless mess of everything once again. “Are you seriously using biology to lecture me about how to be a better whore?” he asks.
You scowl and rest your wrists on his shoulders, trying to work your fingers free. “There’s much to be learned from the animal kingdom,” you begin, and then he grabs your face and kisses you.
Oh, wow, you are both so extremely naked. He breaks away saying “Sorry, sorry about that,” but you tighten your grip to hold him in place.
“Don’t apologize,” you say. “Do it again.”
And he does.
Kissing is not part of your usual repertoire, but it must be part of his, because he's really good at it. You open your mouth and he does something to your tongue that you recognize as one of your best tricks when you're sucking someone off, which is—well, now you understand why it always gets such a fervent reaction. Not to be outdone, you tug on his bottom lip and press your wet bare thigh up between his legs.
"Ah, Fff—fuck." He breaks off, panting against your cheek while water sluices down both your faces. "This is—a bad idea."
You scrape your fingernails down his chest and give his dick a squeeze of greeting, smug to see that precome has already begun to pearl at the tip. "Want me to stop?"
"Nh," he says, and bites his lip very hard. Maybe you should be biting it instead. Just as you're about to try, he exhales a loud "Oh, fuck it," and cups his hand around your own cock.
"I'm," you begin, but falter. You're fine? You don't need help? It's rare enough for you to even get hard while you're servicing a customer, much less for them to take notice or try to do something about it. His hand brushes up your erection and you buck forward, losing track of your purpose completely.
"Fair's fair, Sixer," he murmurs.
You start stroking him off too, but your technique is not up to your usual standard. It's very difficult to focus. "You paid for me, not the other way around," you protest.
He looks up, close enough to you that his eyes are in perfect focus. "Well, you know what I want?" he says quietly. "I want to see you come so hard that every single thought in that big brain of yours goes right out the window."
He accompanies that with a twist of his grip that leaves you shaking. You are in so much trouble. "Well—unh—the customer is always right," you manage.
He grins. "And no refunds." With that, he kisses you again.
It's a good thing he wants you to come, because you don't think you'll be able to stop yourself. Everything is a haze of steamy gasps and rushing water, his hand bumping into yours as you both try to make the other one lose it first. Even with the shower’s spray, your body feels too hot all over, and you're squinting to catch his expression but he keeps doing things that make you need to close your eyes.
You’re not completely useless, though: biting his neck makes him lose his balance so bad he has to let go of you to catch himself on the wall. You take full advantage, showing off how your wide grip can hold both of you at once, and he groans as his cock slides wetly against yours in the warm circle of your fingers.
"God," he gasps, "fuck, why do you have to be good at this?"
"Born gifted," you reply, and you're even coordinated enough to wave at him with your free hand.
He laughs and knocks his forehead against yours, squeezing your ass to pull you closer. "I missed you," he says, so soft you're not sure the words are real. Then, louder: "Fuck. Ah—"
You speed up. Even if this feels different—is, objectively, different than anything you've done before—that doesn't mean he knows you, not really. You don't know him. You’re just two strangers groping each other in a motel shower, and you’re here because he paid you to be, right? Just because he’s kissing your neck, and—and parting your thighs and—
“Nnnngh,” he groans beside your ear. His hips are starting to jerk out of rhythm. “Come on, you too, show me how you like it—come on—Ford, god, Ford—”
And you come, just like he told you to, as a sudden pit opens up in your stomach.
Your customer isn't far behind you, spilling hot and sticky all over your hand and the mess of your own release. He doesn't seem to realize what he said. You let go of him and step back as the evidence of what you just did gets washed down the drain.
"Why do you know my name?"
It takes a second for the dazed look on his face to be replaced by panic. "I don't! Uh. You know, uh, I actually say weird shit during sex all the time, it's a serious condition, lucky most people want my mouth full—"
You flap past the shower curtain, only barely remembering to grab your glasses and clothes on your way out of the bathroom. He curses and follows you.
“Ford! Shit, I mean—just wait, please, just wait one second!”
“My name is Stanford,” you snap, struggling into your too-tight jeans. “Nobody's ever called me Ford. You’ve been acting like you know me this whole time but I’ve never seen you before. Either tell me why or leave me alone!”
“Look.” He grabs his red jacket and ties it backwards around his waist, haphazardly shielding his wet, naked body. “It’s a long story, okay? I’m sorry I made you—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to take it that far. You just—surprised me.”
“That part is what you paid me for.” Your wet hair makes your shirt unpleasantly cold once you wrangle it back on, knocking your glasses askew. You straighten them and stare at this man who calls you by nicknames you don’t know. “Why were you planning to just give me your money and walk away? Who are you?”
His broad shoulders don’t look so intimidating when he hunches them like that. "You don't belong out there, you know that," he mutters. "Why you always gotta be so stubborn, huh?"
"That doesn't answer the question," you say. "How do you know who I am? Tell the truth."
He rubs his shoulder, the one with the burn. "I—okay. The truth is, I know about you because I know your brother."
You can't believe this. "I told you to tell the truth."
"That is the truth!" he protests. "He's kind of a fuckup, but he's a good kid, he talks about you all the time—"
"Yeah, nice try," you say. "The only problem with that is I don't have a brother."
You expected him to come up with some other far-fetched explanation. Instead, he looks like you hit him. "What?"
"I don't have a brother." You meant to sound angrier, but the horror in his expression is freaking you out. "Why would I?"
"But it's you," he says, stepping forward. "With the six fingers and the nerdy glasses and—aren't you Stanford Pines? Weren't you born on October first?"
"How do you know that?" you demand.
He stumbles to the bed and sinks down on it, his head in his hands. You can see him shaking. "Bill Cipher, you son of a bitch," he whispers.
"Who is that?" You go and plant yourself in front of him, but he doesn't answer. "What's going on? Why would you think I had a brother?"
He looks up, face pale. "Because," he says at last. "Where I come from, it's me."