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Getting a complete copy of his body took some finagling, but here and now Ford knew that it was definitely, definitely worth it, and not just because Bill was willing to answer all the questions he had about how being made of paper worked and felt.
He could have done that by himself, trading quips back and forth, basking in the feeling of being in the same room as someone just as smart as him until he inevitably fought himself for dominance. But this… it was like he’d cheated and managed to bridge the gap between his and Bill’s dimension in one very important way.
His copy resembles him physically in every way, but the manner it slouches against the wall, butt propped firmly on the counter, reminds him of nothing more than Bill when he’s floating in space. Even the red handprint glowing on its cheek can’t remove the parallel entirely.
“Wow, this sure is a treat!” Bill grins at Ford eagerly, unsuccessfully trying to roll up his sleeve. “Ow, ow, yes, it looks like the clothes are part of the deal.”
Ford stares at it, the bizarreness that comes from seeing a seemingly three-dimensional body with a rip in its arm. He reaches out tentatively, touching Bill's torn edge. “Do you have a heartbeat now?” he asks. His copy should have waited for him to take measurements before inviting Bill in, but they had been so excited at the time. He still was.
“Why doncha test it yourself?” Bill says, and grabbing hold of his hand. He presses it against his chest, one six-fingered freak entwined with another. For a long second Ford is convinced he feels Bill's pulse under his palm, beating to a different tune than the shallow breaths that make his chest go in and out, but Bill shakes his head.
“No heartbeat here. My sense of touch is finely tuned enough to feel your pulse just fine, though!” Bill winks. “I’m pretty sure you couldn’t choke me to death either, even if you tried it. This body doesn’t care about that. Maybe you can glue the rip in my arm back together!”
There’s so many things he wants to try, things Bill suggested and things that spring to mind now, but nothing he wants as badly as he wants to luxuriate in the knowledge of being in the same room as Bill, alive and awake and perfectly sane.
Ford stands there, Bill’s feet hitting his thighs where he’s kicking them idly, but eventually Bill’s full smile dims. He stares into Ford's eyes.
“Charmed as I am to get a few swings at physical form, you have to know that me inhabiting a paper duplicate of yourself is nothing like me being here in person.”
Ford opens his mouth. His quip about how he’s writing down the differences in physicality between them is swallowed when Bill presses his mouth to his, perfectly chaste.
There’s no tongue, there’s barely any pressure. That doesn’t matter. The saliva on his lips eats Bill up like acid, starting with his smile. His eyes, crinkled in amusement, go soon after that, but his arms wrap around Ford stubbornly anyways, pressing them together as Bill melts. One hand rubs against his cheek, one wraps around his back, and Ford’s panicked grasp on Bill melts to nothing before his eyes.
When it’s done he stares at the puddle on the floor. Bill will be fine. He wouldn’t just do something like that without a plan. It probably doesn’t matter that this happened.
The puddle seems to smile at him yet. It seeps, ever so slowly, down to lap at Ford's boots.
It takes a few long, long minutes for Ford to gather himself and take a sample of the remnants.