Chapter 1: You Call It Madness (But I Call It Love)
Chapter Text
“This would be over SO MUCH FASTER if you'd just let me set it on fire! Or turn it inside out! Or send its legs to Jupiter or owwwww watch it!”
The Dungavenhooter was in close pursuit, snorting and grunting through its massive nostrils, its glowing eyes focused murderously on the tantalizing triangular bait dangling just out of reach as it crashed through the evergreen forest of Gravity Falls.
“Shut up! I’m trying to concentrate!” Ford panted as he ducked a low-hanging branch (uncaring, apparently, when the branch slapped across Bill’s face as he swung wildly from the fishing pole slung over the human’s shoulder). He dodged around a craggy pine, running in a practiced serpentine pattern as the massive crocodilian beast tried its damnedest to crush the pair of them into a fine, snortable mist.
“This- is- so- STUPID!” Bill continued to shout as he was jolted by each step. Splinters scattered across his form as the nearest tree was obliterated by a swing of the beast’s tail, and he let out a dramatic shriek as Ford plunged down a root-studded incline towards the trail.
“All going completely according to plan!” The man snapped back, fumbling in his coat pocket for the flare gun.
“Oh, well in that case I take it back!” Bill screamed sarcastically.
The monster whipped its tail at them again, cratering the slope they’d just scrambled down, and a chunk of debris caught Ford’s shoulder and sent to gun spinning away into the brush.
“WHAT NOW, GENIUS?” Bill howled, but was cut off by another piece of debris bouncing off his flat planes and making him spin like a suncatcher. “Oh, fuck, I’m gonna puke!”
“You’d better not!”
A roar alerted them both once more to the creature bearing down on them with lethal intent. Ford dove after his gun, but the Dungavenhooter cut him off by lunging into his path and swiping a webbed claw at him, snagging and shredding the tail of his coat. The swipe also managed to knock him off balance and Ford stumbled to one side just as Bill, unable to take the whirling motion anymore, swung involuntarily towards the beast and let loose with a flood of- well, presumably whatever nightmare demons ate- directly into its eyes.
The reptile roared again, clawing at its own face in misery as the substance stung its corneas. Ford, seeing his chance, snatched the gun from the dirt and fired a flare- not into the sky, as planned, but directly into one of the monster’s huge nostrils. Brilliant red sparks shot a blazing trail through the air as the Dungavenhooter shook its head frantically, now trying to crawl backwards and away from the burning in its skull- to no avail. With its nose glowing like a mutant reindeer, the fearsome critter rolled and thrashed about the undergrowth until, smoking and groaning, it collapsed.
Ford approached the fallen beast carefully, panting, and prodded it with a foot. When it didn’t move, he pulled out a vial from his coat and bent to scoop up a sample of the multicolored goop still dripping down its face. “I didn’t know you could vomit,” he said with mild surprise as he tucked the vial away.
“You’ve seen me drink and eat; what goes in can sometimes come back out,” Bill replied, wiping the remnants of the expelled whatever-it-was from his eye socket.
Ford frowned and looked back over his shoulder. “I have further questions.”
“Of course you do, Sixer.”
Before he could ask them, however, their backup came rattling up in the form of Dipper and Mabel, each armed with a net gun and elephant tranquilizer darts, in a golf cart driven by Soos.
“We thought we saw the flares through the trees! What happened?” Dipper asked urgently, hopping down from the cart.
“There was a slight deviation,” Ford admitted, brushing himself off. “But nothing serious.”
“Ha! Nothing serious, he says! You were almost dust, old man!” Bill shouted from his dangling position. “If I hadn’t been here you would’ve been pulverized! Smithereens!”
“If you hadn’t been here, the Dungavenhooter might not have become so aggressive,” Ford shot back, jostling the fishing rod so that the triangular demon bounced around wildly.
“ What is it with you people and treating me like a yo-yo?!” Bill thrashed ineffectually, trying to grab hold of anything to slow his spin.
Ignoring him, the humans turned toward the dead monster, which was still smoking slightly.
“A shame to kill it,” Ford sighed, looking over the corpse. “Still, its body will make a fascinating study, and the local lumberjacks can rest easy knowing they won’t be pulverized and consumed.”
“The Corduroy family will be happy,” Dipper agreed.
“I can come back later with Melody’s truck and pick up the dead dinosaur for like. A burial or whatever, if you want,” Soos offered, removing his hat respectfully. “A majestic creature deserves a proper funeral.”
“Thank you, Soos, but I would prefer you bring it back to the lab so I can perform a necropsy,” Ford said, scratching his chin thoughtfully.
“No problem, Doctor Pines. Contributing to science is also majestic. You dudes ready to head back to the shack? I think Stan ordered pizza!”
There was a general round of agreement, and as they all piled into the cart Ford untied Bill and placed him in his lap. Before Bill could voice any comments on this seating arrangement, the seat belt was pulled tight over his front, squeezing him warningly, and he rolled his eye and chose to remain silent.
Nearly two months had passed already since Ford, freshly ashore from his and Stan’s nautical adventures and back in Gravity Falls for the season, had answered the door of the Mystery Shack one morning to find two aliens wearing illegible nametags and sterile uniforms. They had, with irritating detachment, ignored Ford’s protests and deposited the once-all-powerful entity known as Bill Cipher in his and the kids’ custody.
“Grunkle Ford?” Mabel twisted in the front seat to look at him. “Do you think it would be easier to move Bill from one place to another if we just let him float again? You could keep the string tied to him like a balloon! Plus when we’re driving he could hang out the window like a kite!”
“We can discuss modifying the list,” Ford said, tiredly but not unkindly.
From his otherwise comfy seat, Bill grumbled and gripped the seat belt like he wanted to strangle it. Yes, of course. The List. With copies prominently displayed in several locations around the shack and the original hidden somewhere known only to Ford, The List was an ever-growing inventory of scruples and stipulations made by small, stupid minds to bind Bill and his magnificent, transcendental powers to this stinking mud plane. And thanks to the cosmic joke that was the Reparational Power Inhibitor (“’Reparational’ isn’t a word,” Stanford had tutted upon hearing the name), he had little choice but to obey every item on The List. Typically when he tried to go directly against a rule (and oh, had he tried), he simply found himself incapable of it- be that unable to speak, unable to move, or, in one instance, unable to stop moving.
There had initially been much discussion of something called Asimov’s Laws, followed by further discussion of why those wouldn’t work. In the end, they agreed to start with some basic, obvious rules (“No possessions or dream interference,” “No murder,” and “No deal-making”) and then wing it, adding or subtracting things as they went along.
His human jailers (ugh) had, at first, gone mad with power and added items to The List with feverish urgency, things like “Bill cannot leave a room without performing an elaborate ‘Please May I Leave The Room’ dance,” “Bill may not show anyone incomprehensible and impossible lifeforms that drive all who view them to the very edge of madness unless they ask him to for research,” “Bill may not use his floating powers to avoid stepping on the Legos scattered around his bed,” and “Bill must slam his arm in a drawer once per day” were on the milder end while “Bill cannot speak unless directly asked to by one of us” and “Bill must listen to whatever music Mabel chooses, for as long as she chooses, without complaint or violence” were genuine torture. Fortunately, a few days of malicious compliance were enough to make them reconsider, and the list had been edited, reworded and rewritten dozens of times- both to keep him from finding workarounds and, after some petitioning from Mabel and Soos, to keep him from harming himself. Over the following weeks, some of the rules that caused day-to-day inconveniences were lifted, replaced with more specific restrictions like “Bill may not leave the shack unaccompanied without express and detailed permission from one of us unless it is to prevent harm to a human and even then he must return to the shack as soon as it is safe to do so”. Really annoying, fiddly stuff.
When they had woken up the morning after the aliens dropped Bill off to find a massive herd of teakettlers milling around the yard and making an unholy amount of noise, they chalked it up to Gravity Falls’ usual weirdness. When a flock of carnivorous woodpeckers flew through a window and attempted to peck Bill to death, they were primarily amused and assumed the birds mistook him for a giant corn chip. When a rampaging sentient rose bush invaded the garden and tried to skewer Bill with its thorny vines, they grew suspicious, and when a dozen leech-men crawled out of the septic tank and suction-cupped themselves to the windows and doors, Ford began to run tests.
As it turned out, even without his dimension-altering powers, Bill put out a kind of ambient weirdness that drew the attention (and frequently the ire) of other weird creatures. Sensing an opportunity for research on the local anomalies, Ford and the kids began using Bill as bait in their cryptid-hunting adventures. When a rabid papier-mâché bigfoot began snatching and devouring tourists, they were able to use him to lure it into the nearby quarry and dissolve it in the lake below, and when a colony of nocturnal fungi started trying to consume the Mystery Shack, they used him to coax out the mycelial network into the hot summer sun, where it withered and died. Bill, for his part, seemed largely unbothered- even happy to be included. He only really complained when they began tying him up with fishing line and dangling him like literal bait for the monster of the week to snap up.
Throughout all that time, unbeknownst to them, Bill had been working on his own list.
His list was also under constant editing, but the items were secret and known only to him and Ford. It was like another mind-game they played, a fun little back-and-forth like in the old days! Bill would do something, some subtle and suave and extremely charming thing, and Ford would react to it so that Bill could gauge said reaction and make additions to his list.
Ohoho, the others could only wish they knew about his list! How they would writhe and seethe if they knew he had his own list with Fordsy!
His list didn’t have an exact title but if it did it would have been something like, “Bill’s List of Things That Sixer Wants From This Relationship” or perhaps “Bill’s Genius Multi-Step Plan to Convince Fordsy to Come Back and Maybe Grovel A Little”. It was shorter by a considerable amount than the other List, but he continued to add to it with every interaction. For instance, Item 1 started off as “Do NOT create a beautiful and enticing display of freshly-killed rats. Try gerbils,” but changed a day later to “NOT gerbils. Try guinea pigs? Humans definitely eat guinea pigs,” and was currently “Ok he didn’t mind the guinea pigs but it made Shooting Star cry, which made Sixer mad for some reason. So. Back to square one”. Everyone needs a secret hobby or project, and this list was Bill’s.
They reached the shack in good time, pulling into the parking space just as the pizza delivery guy pulled away.
“Pizza! Pizza! Pizza!” Chanted Mabel and Dipper as they disembarked, Soos quickly joining in.
Stanford grunted and stretched his shoulder, wincing slightly, before grabbing Bill by his top vertex and climbing out of the cart. “Ow, hey, I can walk y’know! It’s not like I’m gonna sprint off into the forest, Fordsy, come on!”
Grimacing, Ford relented and set his complaining cargo on both feet in the grass. He was right; there wasn’t much he could do like this to escape, and nowhere for him to run to if he could. If the Inhibitor didn’t freeze him in his tracks, the Axolotl would doubtless “recollect” him and deposit him back in his cell, defeating the purpose of this little rehabilitative experiment. The pair turned to make their way into the shack, Bill in front and Ford following close behind, just in case.
The forest around the shack was deceptively tranquil once more; a bird called softly in the distance and a squirrel chittered from somewhere above them. The sun was setting behind the trees and a few constellations were already visible in the sky. Bill slowed, staring upward, then fully stopped, and Ford had to halt as well to keep from bowling him over.
“Bill, what...” Ford trailed off as he caught sight of the look in that single eye- the stars reflected in that vertical pupil should have made the expression distant, almost alien, but to Ford it was a disconcertingly familiar mix of nostalgia and- if not regret, maybe something like longing. It was a mix he’d experienced himself many times during his thirty-year inter-dimensional journey.
A journey he’d been sent on thanks to Bill and his schemes, he reminded himself, shaking his head and nudging his ex-muse with a knee. “Keep it moving, Cipher.”
“Yup!” Bill chirped, like he hadn’t just been lost in cosmic nostalgia. He trotted up the steps, his little feet tapping lightly over the rickety wood, making a note to himself to try squirrels in his next display.
Chapter Text
Just under two months ago...
“Is this some kind of humorous inter-dimensional prank I’m not aware of?” Ford asked, staring down at the shimmering piece of- paper? Glass? Crystal?- in the outstretched limb of the alien creature from the so-called “Theraprism”. “Why in heaven’s name would I want a picture of Bill Cipher in my home?” He made an immediate and futile effort not to think of the multitude of portraits and likenesses he had once willingly and lovingly filled said home with.
The thin-faced, vaguely insectoid alien, whose job title appeared to translate to something between “orderly” and “warden”, grunted and tilted the thin sheet of whatever the material was, and Ford saw the image of Bill go sliding from one corner of the page to the other as if the surface were ice. “Not a picture. Him. Himself.”
“What we mean to say,” the other- he was going to go with “warderly”- cut in, “is that this is not a reproduction of the patient. This two-dimensional method of containment has proven the most effective for our needs, and for transporting him here to your custody.”
Stanford didn’t register the words for a moment, busy staring at the motionless flattened triangle and registering that- no, yes, there was the tiniest twitch, a sluggish flutter of eyelid and sightless rolling of pupil- it really was him. He looked… well, he looked strange without his usual adornments. No hat, no bow tie, only a little orange jumpsuit like one might see in one of Earth’s prisons. A jagged crack divided his surface- a scar? He was also smaller than usual, only a few inches across, but more than that he seemed small. His limbs sprawled listlessly and after that brief glance around, during which he didn’t seem to register Ford’s presence, he clenched his eye shut. Ford blinked his own eyes several times as the words caught up with him. “Wait, sorry, what? My custody? What are you talking about?”
“Axolotl’s idea,” said the first warderly, who appeared to be uninterested in elaborating. It flapped the material like it was shaking out laundry and Bill went ping-ponging across it.
“The Axolotl believes that the patient will progress much faster in his Indefinite Karmic Rehabilitation if given ‘the opportunity to grow in a conducive environment, with trusted individuals’,” the second warderly recited.
Stanford couldn’t believe what he was hearing; he burst out laughing. “Trusted individuals? Bill doesn’t know the meaning of the word ‘trust’, outside of something he can exploit! And- and- wait, progress faster? It hasn’t even been a year since he tried to destroy this dimension! How fast does your boss expect therapy- or whatever this is- to work?”
“Bill Cipher has been in the care of the Theraprism for eighty of your ‘millennia’. Thanks to the prism’s time dilation, we are able to offer our patients as much time as they need to heal and make reparations.” The creature’s voice had no particular inflection but its words felt practiced. “When our standard procedures did not achieve results within the first sixty-thousand of your years, he was moved to this form of dimensional containment for regressive treatment.”
Regressive treatment? What in the world- oh. He looked with fresh eyes at the flat plane his once-muse was trapped in. Bill had told him, after all, about his home world many years ago- had even shown him the tiny, brilliantly-glowing speck of concentrated energy he kept in his hat as a memento. He had been horrified to learn about the fate of Euclydia and its people, and while he now doubted some of the details of what had happened- particularly the vague description of the monster that had destroyed everything- he knew from his own research that the dimension really had once existed and that something terrible had happened to it. Returning Bill to such an existence, even without any other beings inhabiting it, seemed a bit… well, cruel. Less therapeutic and more sadistic. Good, Ford thought, with less satisfaction and conviction than he would have preferred. It’s no less than he deserves. “But- my custody? What do you mean by that? I’m certainly not qualified for- not that I would want to take him even if I were!”
“We anticipated as much,” the warderly said. “And therefor the Axolotl has given special dispensation for this case. If you, the human Stanford Pines and your associates, will take on the task of his containment and rehabilitation, your own criminal record will be expunged with no further stipulations.”
“My own-” He sputtered, indignantly. He was aware of the many inter-dimensional warrants out for the crimes he had, mostly accidentally, committed during his thirty year voyage, but frankly after preventing Weirdmageddon he had sort of assumed he was off the hook. Apparently not.
“Your rap sheet is much shorter, of course,” the alien agreed, perhaps sympathetically. “But would earn you your own stay in the Theraprism, or similar punitive cosmic measures. Of course, we aren’t here to enforce that at this time-”
“We’re not cops,” the first warderly, who had been rolling and unrolling the sheet of Bill’s imprisonment, agreed.
“-but we would be obliged to report your location and time to the authorities.”
“Blackmail,” Ford growled. “Your almighty Axolotl approves of such underhanded tactics?”
“The Axolotl’s more of a… big-picture type. Results over methods.”
The human ground his teeth. “If you think I’m going to agree to this-”
He was interrupted by the door slamming open behind him and the children tumbling into the yard.
"You can't take Grunkle Ford away!” Cried Mabel, who had apparently overheard the threat and was prepared to defend her great-uncle with the grappling hook she aimed at the two visitors.
“Yeah, whatever we have to do to keep him, we'll do it!” Shouted Dipper, who had apparently also caught some of the conversation.
“Kids, don’t-” Ford started, trying to place himself between them and the blackmailing beings.
“He just has to keep watch over this.” The second warderly gestured at the sheet, which its companion had just re-rolled into a tight scroll. “We don’t care what you do with it, we just have to see it delivered and explain the rules.”
“I accept deliveries for our parents all the time! I even learned to forge our dad’s signature from Grunkle Stan so I can sign for packages and stuff!” Mabel had yet to lower her voice or her grappling hook, but she extended the other hand.
“Good enough for me,” said the alien, dropping the sheet into Mabel's waiting hand before Ford could knock it away. She looked down at it quizzically before noticing the shape on it and dropping it with a scream. It landed in the dirt and Dipper, also recognizing their hated foe, immediately stomped both feet onto it as hard as he could. This seemed to have no effect on the material, or on the impassive warderlies, whose task was partially complete. Ford glared daggers at them, trying very hard to resist the urge to spit some creative swears into their smug inhuman faces.
“You have control of his powers,” explained the more talkative of the two. “He cannot access them currently beyond basic bodily functions, and you may use or limit them as you see fit. To use some of the bigger ones, you’ll have to fill out a form beforehand.” It ticked a few examples off on its serrated digits. “Time manipulation, inter-dimensional travel, species creation, film sequel-prequel deletion, Cenobitification, temporal patisserie, that sort of thing.”
“Control of his powers? That's so- vague,” Ford said, distracted briefly from his anger at the warderlies themselves and angry instead at the seemingly weak rules. He wrinkled his brow in annoyance. “How do we- I don’t know, keep him from regaining them? How do we issue commands?” This whole scenario already seemed like a mistake, and was frankly making him uncomfortable.
“Whoooaaah, so could we like- fire him like a ray gun at stuff?” Dipper asked, warming to the idea.
Mabel gleefully joined in. “Or make him turn all the trees into cotton candy?”
“Or use him to power a giant monster-fighting robot?”
“Or make him draw a giant kitten onto the surface of the moon?”
“Or make him turn himself into a slug? Or a worm with an allergy to dirt so he's always itchy and uncomfortable?”
The two aliens glanced at one another (possibly, it was hard to tell since the second one didn't appear to possess any eyes). “Sure,” said the first one with something like a shrug before turning back to Ford. “He can’t regain any powers without your express, written permission. Write commands on the Inhibitor sheet. You can have up to three beings authorized to make or remove commands.” It withdrew a slim, opalescent tablet of sorts from somewhere on its person and offered it to Ford, who flinched back slightly. “We’re running low on time for this trip, so I’ll just scan the three of you.”
“Wait, not the ch-” Once again he was ignored, the scanner producing a faint hum and pinging over his, Dipper’s and Mabel’s forms. “-ildren.”
“Hooraaayy, irresponsible access to power!” Mabel cheered.
“We get to pay Bill back for Weirdmageddon! This will have no downsides, probably!” Dipper joined in. The twins performed an elaborate high-five.
“Wait, does he just- stay in the weird paper prison?” Mabel asked, frowning. “He doesn't need to eat or drink or anything, right? How will we talk to him and make him learn lessons if he’s all flat like that? If we draw on the weird paper stuff will he be able to see it? Could we fold him into origami??”
With a businesslike motion, the first warderly reached out to take the so-called ‘Inhibitor sheet’, turned it face-down and gave it a crisp snap like the sail of a ship caught by a stiff wind.
Dipper shrieked as Bill popped out and flopped to the ground like a dropped pizza, closer to the size they were familiar with, and laid unmoving. He looked… aside from ‘bad’, he looked caught somewhere between his two and three dimensional forms; he cast a shadow as he fell and, while certainly not fully pyramidal, was at least visible from the side- perhaps a few inches thick, more so at the base and tapered toward the top. He’d made a faint thud when he landed face-down, so he likely had some weight as well.
“Thank you for your cooperation,” recited the second warderly, handing the now-empty sheet to Stanford. “We’ll be in touch to monitor your progress, if you make any.” Without another word or time for any of the humans to posit further questions, they both stepped sideways and seemed to slip through a crack in the air and light around them, vanishing with only the faintest smell of dimensional schism.
Ford pulled the experimental destabilizer pistol he’d been toying with recently from its holster and trained it on the prone triangle. With the expression of someone touching nuclear waste, he nudged Bill with the toe of his boot, then cautiously flipped him over onto his back. The demon’s eye was closed, but it slowly opened and took in his surroundings.
“Oh,” he said without inflection. “This one again.”
“Bill!” Barked Ford, jabbing the pistol threateningly toward him. “Tell me your purpose in coming here! What’s your plan, huh? Is this a prison break of some kind? How’d you survive after we erased you?”
Bill’s gaze moved languidly from the barrel of the gun up to Ford’s face. “Wow, this one’s vivid. You really, really sound like him.” Seemingly with effort, he raised one arm and patted the glowing pistol almost fondly. “Oh, it even feels 3D. They must’ve gotten the dosage wrong if my imagination’s getting this good again.”
“Wow, he does not sound normal.” Mabel peered around her grunkle’s leg to squint at the geometrical being. “Or, I mean not like his normal self. Which was abnormal all the time basically.”
“Sister, you have no idea,” Bill said cheerily. “Hey, this is a pretty fun one as far as these things go. And the scenery ain’t too bad! Hiya, Fordsy.” He… “winked”, or approximated a wink, up at Ford, who still had a gun pressed to one of the cracks in his body.
Understanding struck. “People trapped in sensory deprivation chambers or solitary confinement will often begin to hallucinate after a time. It makes sense Bill might think we’re not real.”
“Ha! Yeah right, I’m not some jelly-brained meat puppet who gets hallucinations, I’m just having very very realistic and involuntary daydreams that I have no control over!”
“That’s exactly-” Ford sighed in exasperation and pinched the bridge of his nose. “We are real, Bill. All of this is real. You’re in Gravity Falls, Oregon, in the United States of America, on Earth, in Dimension 46’\.”
Bill snorted, which was odd for a being with no visible nose. “Nice try, Pseudo-Sixer! I’ve been in this void for thousands of years! Real you has been dead for... probably more than half of those years!” His eye drifted away from Stanford’s face toward the sky above, his expression turning strangely distant.
This was going nowhere fast, but at least the little maniac wasn’t showing any signs of aggression. Yet. Keeping the gun steady with one hand, Ford lowered himself into a crouch (feeling his knees and hips protest wildly) and snapped his fingers with the other. “Bill, focus. You’ve been deposited here in our… care… by the Axolotl’s order, apparently. It’s been less than a year for us here since we killed you, we’re all still very much alive and I want to know why and how you managed to con your way into this farce.”
The snapping worked, sort of. Bill’s eye lost its misty look and narrowed suspiciously, focusing back on the human in front of him. “Okay, Mister Smart Figment,” he said slyly. “If we’re all definitely, totally really here in the ‘real’ world, how come I can only move on a flat plane? Huh?” To demonstrate, he began sliding sideways across the ground, seemingly with great difficulty given the dirt and gravel underneath him and the fact he was barely using his limbs. The overall effect was unsettlingly crablike, and the kids both scrambled away with cries of disgust. “Huh? Lookit this! Where’s your snappy comeback now, Fake IQ?”
“You moved your arm forward and upward thirty seconds ago,” Ford reminded him with something approaching concerned annoyance. “You fell through the air several feet and landed on the ground, in three-dimensional space!”
Bill was silent, but continued to scuttle slowly sideways with a disbelieving glint in his eye until he bumped into a rock and froze in bewilderment.
“Hang on,” Mabel stepped forward, rolling up the sleeves of her sweater (which bore the image of a pair of chipmunks hugging). “I used to do this all the time with Waddles, before he got too big. I’m training him to walk like people so I can sneak him into school!” She took a deep breath, steeling herself, and then bent down to firmly grasp Bill under each arm, scooping him up from behind so that his little legs dangled a few inches above the ground. “Ugh, why are you so heavy?”
“I contain multitudes. Also several bowling balls and a dead star I ate once on a dare,” Bill replied, almost automatically. He had tensed when she touched him but made no effort to claw, kick or get away. He looked mildly confused, maybe a little bored.
“Okay, well, I’m gonna try something drastic but I don’t know how many rotations I’ll manage with how weirdly dense you are,” she grunted, shuffling back a few steps to get better clearance.
Bill blinked, the confusion building in his expression. “Wait, what do you mean rotatiaaaAAAAAAAH-”
Mabel began spinning in place like an Olympic hammer-thrower, her arms lifting as the speed built until Bill was practically horizontal. Her intention had been only a few circles, to sort of shake up and reset the demon’s internal balance, but hadn’t realized how much his counterweight would effect the spin. “Uhhhh Grunkle Foooorrrd!” She shouted above Bill’s unceasing scream. “I can’t stoooopp!”
“What the heck is happening out here? Can’t an old man watch Detective Skullumbo in peace?” Stan barked, emerging from the shack with a mug of coffee in one hand and a rolled up newspaper in the other.
“Careful, don’t-!” Ford called out, but it was too late; Mabel’s grip on Bill slipped and he launched like a frisbee, sailing in an impressive arc that was unfortunately and abruptly halted by a tree trunk. Briefly, Bill stuck to the bark, his limbs wrapping around the tree cartoonishly, and then with a peeling sound and a groan he fell thirty feet to the forest floor.
“OH my gosh I am SO SORRY!” Mabel cried, running unsteadily (her gyroscopic balance still off after all that spinning) toward the yellow-and-orange heap with Ford immediately behind her. “Wait, am I?” She asked quizzically, slowing slightly and allowing her grunkle to pass her.
“Bill?” Ford crouched, reaching for but not touching the demon, who began to rise shakily onto all fours.
“Wait, did he say ‘Bill’?!” Yelled Stan from the stoop, dropping his paper and coffee and snatching his bat from the umbrella stand.
“You… do that… to your pet pig?!” Bill asked shrilly as he wobbled to his feet. “Kid, how is that animal not blood pudding by now?”
“I- no, I do not!” Mabel shouted defensively, crossing her arms. “I only used to pick him up and try to help him walk on his back legs and maybe do one or two little, gentle baby swings and I didn’t realize how strong I am or how much your weird shape would throw me off and WAIT, you’re standing up! It worked! I’m a genius!” She pumped her arms into the air victoriously.
Sure enough, Bill now stood gingerly on two feet, arms outstretched for balance. Not for long, though- a practiced swing of Stan’s bat connected with a solid crack and Bill bounced off the tree once more, flopping down the trunk like a sticky window toy and landing at their feet.
“Stan!” Ford scolded.
“What?! Don’t tell me you’re about to defend the little creep!”
“No, of course not! But you could have hit me or Mabel!”
“I wouldn’t! I’ve got a swing like Babe Ruth!”
“Hey, guys?” Dipper interrupted, a child’s golf club over one shoulder, prepared to follow Stan’s example. “Why isn’t he just floating?”
They all turned simultaneously to look down at Bill, who was once again climbing slowly to stand. He blinked blankly up at them, then down at where his feet connected with the ground. “Huh.” He balled his tiny hands into fists in concentration, his brow furrowing and his eye bulging. The cracks in his body sizzled briefly, shifting like television static below their surfaces. After a few seconds of this, with a muted sound similar to an old engine rattling, he rose a few wavering inches off the ground and stayed there, hovering unevenly. He looked back up at them in triumph.
“Do we think floating counts as a basic bodily function for him? Because if not I have some concerns about how ‘limited’ his powers are.”
“I mean, compared to everything he’d normally be doing it seems… kind of basic, I guess,” Mabel allowed, tilting her head.
“Hmm.” Ford withdrew the Inhibitor and a pen from his pocket, turned away and scrawled a short sentence onto its surface. The ink sat briefly on top of the glossy material and then seemed to sink in, becoming one with the flattened plane. Behind him, there was a soft thump as Bill dropped to the ground once again.
“Aw, c’mon!” The demon complained.
“Fascinating.” Ford rubbed his chin and showed the others his scribble- Bill may not use his floating powers. “Obviously, he could be faking, but this warrants further study.”
Bill stood back up, looking disgruntled, but made no other move to attack or run. He seemed a little more coherent- maybe all the collisions with the tree had knocked him out of whatever delusional state he had been in, though that could be temporary- and now just seemed mildly dazed. He rubbed absently at a spot on his back, as if the impact had bruised him.
“Well, what do we do with him now?” Asked Dipper, leaning on his golf club.
“Put him in a box and chuck it into the bottomless pit,” Stan suggested dryly.
“Make him shrink down and live in a hamster cage! With a hamster wheel! Make him eat pellets!” Mabel roared like a Roman emperor sentencing a gladiator to death.
“Ooh, we could put him in one of those cryo-tubes! Or dissect him in the lab!” Her brother added, warming to the topic.
“Yeah, or chop him up and sell his limbs as firewood! What are we talking about?” Bill asked, cheerfully joining the conversation.
“It’s worth running some tests on him, certainly,” Ford allowed, choosing to ignore the demon’s outburst. “But I think the first priority ought to be containing him somewhere we can keep an eye on him, and then getting a better idea of how this ‘Inhibitor’ works and what we should do with it.”
Bill made an irritated raspberry noise, either at being ignored or at the mention of the Inhibitor.
“Well, I still like my idea better, but if we’re talking this over we may as well do it in the house, so I can at least sit in my chair and be comfy while we figure out what to do with the dead-just-kidding-not-dead corn chip we’ve apparently been saddled with,” sighed Stan.
“I’ll go tell Soos and Waddles we’re having a family meeting!” Mabel scampered back toward the house.
The remaining three Pines members made to follow her, with Ford bringing up the rear where he could prevent any escape attempts from their new prisoner. Their progression indoors was quite slow, hampered by Bill’s short stride and everyone’s unwillingness to take their eyes off him just in case. When they reached the gift shop, Bill paused in the doorway and turned back to Ford, who instantly raised his pistol.
“Hey, level with me, Sixer,” Bill whispered, leaning in conspiratorially. “None of this is really, actually happening, right? I get it, hilarious prank for my brain to play on me, I respect it, this is definitely one of the better ones. But any second now I’m gonna blink and be back in the Inhibitor.”
Ford rolled his eyes. “No, Cipher, this is all real,” he sighed.
“Do you promise?”
Warily, Ford repeated himself, choosing his wording carefully just in case of demonic trickery. “I… promise to the best of my knowledge that this is all real and genuinely happening. And unlike some beings, I actually mean what I say. Now, follow me.”
Bill nodded, no longer meeting Ford’s eyes, but when the human turned to head further into the house he felt a slight tug and jolted in alarm, only to realize Bill had taken hold of the end of his coat and was sort of- holding onto it as they walked. He considered yanking himself free of the strangely tentative grip, but determined it was at the very least a decent way of keeping track of Bill’s movements for now and allowed it.
They settled on the living room as their venue of choice for the discussion, Stan sinking happily into his armchair and propping his feet up on Waddles while everyone else took up various seated or standing positions. Alerted by Mabel in advance, Soos had dug a large birdcage out of the storage room and they crammed Bill into it, his flat sides sticking out between the bars, as a short-term measure of security while they began their debate.
Ford cleared his throat and stood in front of the television, arms folded behind his back. “Along with our additions to the list, I suggest we need to set up a few ground rules for ourselves, too. I don't want any of us getting too free or careless with the power we now appear to hold- both over reality and over Bill himself. We need to always keep in mind that we are not like him and we don’t want to sink to his level.”
“With great power comes great responsibility,” whispered Soos reverently.
“Hey, I would be completely happy to sink to his level,” Stan interjected. “Heck, I’d even sink a couple levels below him. The Geneva Convention doesn’t apply to freaky little nightmare demons, I’m pretty sure.”
“Stanley, think of the example that would set for the children,” Ford chided gently.
“Ugh. Fine. What are your ground rules, Mister Fancypants Sudden-Morality McGee?”
It was, after much healthy debate, agreed that they could not do anything to artificially alter Bill’s emotions or mind (“Something tells me it wouldn’t work anyway, but even if it did, simply snapping our fingers and making him feel bad for what he’s done would render this whole endeavor pointless.”), could not force him to exert himself beyond his own abilities, and could not force him into a deliberately paradoxical situation (“For instance, ordering him to read the mind of someone with a metal plate in their skull,” Ford joked, lightly tapping his own head).
“Should we make it so he can’t modify his own physical form? What if he tries to, I don’t know, disguise himself as a human and convince someone that he’s being held prisoner?” Dipper asked cautiously.
“First of all, I am being held prisoner,” Bill interjected, gesturing to his cage. “And second of all, me? Look like a human? Euugch!” He stuck his tongue out of his eye, loudly gagging. “I’m the perfect lifeform, kid. I might hitch a ride in a dumb, unsuspecting sap or two- present company excluded of course, Fordsy- but even I have my limits! Your hideous meatsuits are barely tolerable as temporary hosts, let alone as long-term residences.”
“What do you mean, ‘present company excluded’?” Ford asked shortly. “You quite literally used me as a dumb unsuspecting sap and ‘hitched a ride’, quote-unquote, many times!”
(“And why did ‘present company excluded’ only apply to Grunkle Ford? You stole my body to ruin Mabel’s puppet show!” Objected Dipper, somewhat offended.)
“Aw, IQ, you were never dumb! Or a sap, exactly- what we had was special!”
Stan made a sound suggesting he had just thrown up in his mouth.
“But I think he might be telling the truth in this instance- I don’t think he can take on a human appearance in the real world,” Ford persisted, resolutely not making eye contact with Bill.
The debate continued long into the day, with Ford rolling in a chalkboard to sketch out several diagrams and a rough outline of the rules they all agreed on, as well as a few more they were still mulling over. Bill’s suggestions, which included such helpful ideas as “Bill can have all his powers back if he promises to only use them for comedy purposes” and “Bill can and should run an experimental surgical clinic out of the back of the shack until he gets bored with it”, had all been callously shot down.
Eventually, they had to pause for lunch. Stan volunteered to make grilled cheese sandwiches and the kids jumped enthusiastically onboard.
“Great! This has been fun and all but my legs are starting to go numb and I can’t just rip them off and shake em out anymore,” Bill said, sliding sideways out of his cage between the bars and dropping to the floor. Everyone stared at him in horrified realization.
“...huh,” said Stan. “Guess uh. Guess the birdcage wasn’t the best idea.”
“You could’ve just… done that at any time?” Dipper asked incredulously.
Bill blinked at them, then back at the cage, then back at them. “Yeah? The bars are like three inches apart. Which, I assume, is how the last resident vacated the premises.”
“I should have some warding equipment in the lab,” sighed Ford. “Hopefully enough to keep him contained until we figure out a more permanent solution.”
They all crammed in around the table in the kitchen while Stan cooked, and after a brief consideration Ford set Bill on top of the refrigerator, where they could at least see him if he attempted to go anywhere. The demon seemed egotistically pleased to be placed up high, and immediately began scanning for things he could throw or smash while Ford popped down to the lab to start gathering the necessary containment tech.
“Touch anything and I will glue a magnet to your back and stick you to the front of the fridge,” Stan threatened, jabbing a spatula toward the triangular miscreant.
“Ha! Then I’d be the almighty gatekeeper of your precious nutrition, you carbon-based idiot! Try it and see which one of us breaks first!” Bill swiped at the spatula but ceased his hunt for fragile objects.
Mabel, who had been surreptitiously feeding pieces of her sandwich to Waddles under the table, was struck once again by a question she’d had earlier. She turned to the demon perched on the fridge. “Bill, do you need to eat?”
“I am not making a sandwich for the guy who invaded my brain and tried to destroy the planet,” Stan said without turning from the stove.
“That’s reasonable,” Soos nodded.
Mabel glanced at Dipper, who shrugged in agreement with their grunkle. She bit her lip and looked down at her plate, then picked up one of the triangular wedges of her sandwich and stood on her chair to hold it up to Bill, who automatically flinched away from her hand. “You can have some of mine if you’re hungry.”
“Mabel, don’t share food with the enemy!” Dipper protested as Ford reentered the kitchen.
“Jeez, you hominids really will try to domesticate anything, huh?” Bill quipped, but made no move toward the offered sandwich. “Nice try, kid, but you’re not getting me that easy! Powers or no I still don’t have a metabolism; just cuz I can eat doesn’t mean I have to. You’ll have to find some other way to poison me! I wish you the best of luck.”
“She’s not trying to poison you, you paranoid polygon,” grumbled Ford. He set a box of half-assembled machinery on the counter and accepted a plate from his brother. “She’s offering because despite everything she’s a kind-hearted and well-meaning child, which I suppose you couldn’t possibly understand.”
“Aw, thanks, Grunkle Ford,” Mabel waved the sandwich temptingly one last time and, when Bill only narrowed his eye in wary apprehension, withdrew it and took a bite.
“Well, the good news is I found the equipment I was looking for,” Ford sighed, sifting through the box with his free hand. “The bad news is that it’s in much worse condition than I remembered. We can amend the list to include something to limit his ability to move around the house, but I’d still prefer to have something more tangible than the vague word of some cosmic deity.”
At his already-exhausted tone, Bill looked up. “Hey, I’m not thrilled about this either, but it’s not all bad, Sixer! Whaddya say we pick up where we left off before our little spat- remember, you had all kinds of plans for when we met face-to-face! Now that I'm here in the flesh we can work our way through em!” He batted his eye and did the best approximation of a sultry hip wiggle a creature with possibly no hips could do.
Wow, humans could sure turn some interesting colors! Ford went pale, then beet red, then nearly aubergine as he avoided making eye contact with anyone around him. Bill was looking forward to the next vegetable-based color when Dipper spoke up.
“Grunkle Ford… what is he talking about?”
“You didn’t.” Stan grit his teeth and dragged a hand down his face. “Tell me you didn’t.”
Mabel’s gaze darted between her Grunkles, to the geometric monster in the room with them, then back, unspeakable calculations occurring behind her eyes. “Oh… my… GOSH!”
“What? What?? What am I missing?!” Dipper asked frantically.
“Whatever it is, dude, I’m missing it too,” Soos whispered conspiratorially.
“I’ll tell you later, bro-bro,” Mabel patted Dipper absently, still staring into the middle distance in a kind of stunned awe.
“I am not humoring this conversation,” Ford said, aiming for stern but coming out strangled. “And neither should any of you. We should be focused,” he cleared his throat and regained his composure. “We should be focused on containment and suppression. Of Bill.” He turned and began rifling more aggressively through the box of metal parts. “I don’t supposed Fiddleford is due back anytime soon?”
“He’s supposed to be in Florida until the end of the season,” Soos said apologetically.
Mabel collapsed onto the table, her head in her hands. “Ugh, everyone is out of town this year! Grenda’s in Austria, Candy is at fancy photography camp, even Pacifica is away on that cruise! What am I supposed to do with my summer? I need a project!” She scanned the kitchen for inspiration and her eyes landed once again on the orange-clad convict atop the fridge. Bill was leaning precariously over the edge of the appliance so he could rearrange the magnets, cackling to himself. “Hmmm.”
Dipper, still not 100% clear on what was happening but recognizing the scheming look in his sister’s eyes, lunged in front of her in an effort to cut off whatever plot was starting to form in her brain. “Whatever that ‘hmmm’ is, I don’t like it.”
“Too bad!”
“Kids, finish your sandwiches so we can get back to writing demonic house rules,” Stan instructed.
By the time they’d finished their first draft of rules, written them down and then hidden the list while Soos kept Bill temporarily blindfolded by rolling a beanie down over his eye, it was long since dark.
“I’ll see what information I might have in my old notes tomorrow; for now I suggest everyone gets a good night’s rest.” Ford stood, lifting Bill with one hand.
“Don’t suppose I get my own room in this dump, huh?”
“Not a chance,” he replied sternly. “You’ll be in my room with me, where I can keep an eye on you. I don’t trust you not to try something if I put you in the lab. Powers or not, if you think any of us are letting our guard down with you around, you’re sorely mistaken! I will turn every molecule of my being, every ounce of my energy and brainpower, to the task of eliminating you once and for all if you so much as step a toe out of line!”
“Oh, Sixer, I’ve missed you,” Bill sighed dreamily, clasping both hands together and blinking adoringly up at the scientist. “I can’t believe you never joined my henchmaniacs; you do villain-speech so naturally!”
“I do not!”
“You absolutely do,” Stan called from the other room, overlapping with Mabel, Dipper and Soos’s “I mean, yeah you kinda do,” “You 100% do,” and “Sorry dude but you really do.”
Ford sighed in defeat and tucked Bill under his arm as he made for the stairs. The demon gave a strange little jolt- almost a shiver- and flicked through several colors like a TV changing channels before re-settling to yellow, but said nothing. Odd.
Once in his room, he cleared everything off the nightstand and plunked Bill down on top of it, scrawling hasty chalk runes around him to (hopefully) keep him in place overnight. He briefly considered the workbench and whether it would be useful or effective to nail the demon’s limbs to the table.
Unaware of this internal debate, Bill took in the state of the room. “Jeez, this place hasn’t changed much. Talk about a time capsule!” He patted the arm of the couch and watched a cloud of dust rise from it. “And you still haven’t bothered to get a bed! Sleeping in the lab most nights, eh IQ? Having lots of sweet dreams down there?”
Trying and failing to control the resurgence of red in his cheeks, Ford retorted without thinking. “I do not sleep in the lab! I don’t even live here anymore; Stanley and I are only here for the summer!”
“Ohoho!” Bill lit up, scooting as close as he could get to the edge of the runes without touching them and wrapping his arms around his knees. “Let me guess- you drive around the country in an RV? No, no, too pedestrian and soft for you- you sail around on a rugged little boat, having nautical adventures and bonding!” He rolled his eye so hard it spun fully around twice, a bit of body horror comedy that would have made the old Ford laugh nervously. Unfortunately, this Ford only glared at him stonily. “Aw, c’mon, Fordsy, tell me I called it. Tell me about your brother-boat and how wholesome and healing it’s been and how definitely-not-boring you’ve been finding it!”
“You know what?” Ford growled, “It has been healing. I have a relationship with my brother again after decades of isolation, I have friends and family and my own research to work on and I don’t think about you! As far as I’m concerned you’re dead, you’re a statue in the woods, and this-” He gestured at Bill’s crouched form, “-is just some blip, some anomaly I have to deal with for however long until my record is cleared and I can go back to not thinking about you and move on with my life! Now,” he sat heavily down onto the couch and remained there, stiff-backed, keeping one hand on his holster. “You and I are going to sit here in silence until everyone wakes up in the morning, at which point we will work on figuring out how to speed this whole miserable process along as much as possible. Do I make myself clear?”
Bill’s eye had grown wider and wider throughout that whole speech, and his color had shifted from yellow to red-and-black and back to yellow again. Now he sat perfectly still and staring, and the only hint of his reaction was a spot of red in the center of his face, just under his eye. He nodded.
“Good.” Frankly, Ford was a little shocked to get such a seemingly meek response from his former… whatever-they-were. Idol-turned-companion-turned-loathed-mortal-enemy. He sat back, still perfectly rigid, and crossed his arms, maintaining his glare.
Bill continued to stare back with that perfectly blank expression he was so good at. Doubtless, his docile demeanor was a trick, a ruse to hide some devious plot he intended to put to action the moment Ford let his guard down! Well, he wouldn’t be falling for that! Stanford Pines would sit vigil, protecting humanity from the dream demon’s sinister schemes, for as long as it took!
When Ford dozed off around three in the morning, Bill remained where he was. Obviously, the “sleeping”, complete with fake snores, was a test, a setup for him to fail so the humans would have an excuse to throw him back into the Inhibitor! Ha! Clever, Fordsy, but not clever enough! He would stay perfectly still, not even blinking, until Ford realized his trap was pointless and gave up. Even the runes surrounding him- there was a typo in the third line, rendering them essentially useless as a container. Another obvious setup! Oh, he’d sit right there until morning, exactly what they would never expect! He had infinite patience!
A squeak startled him, and he realized he’d been staring at Ford’s “dozing” face for a solid hour, during which the human had continued to snore and slump into the couch cushions. Hmm. Bill’s eye slowly moved away to locate the source of the squeak. There, the shadows in the corner- a rat had emerged, clearly used to the room being unoccupied, and was picking its way over to the workbench. Bill tracked its movements, his slitted pupil widening like a cat’s, and when the rat passed by the couch, he pounced.
One freshly-dead rat in hand, he realized he’d lost focus and failed Ford’s test- not only had he moved, he’d left the rune circle. However… he glanced at the still-snoring shape on the sofa. Ford hadn’t moved, hadn’t so much as twitched. Maybe it wasn’t a test? Which meant it was an opportunity! Bill looked at the dead rat again, then at the tall, narrow crack it had emerged from, and grinned. Humans loved breakfast in bed! Or, as the case may be, breakfast in couch. He set the first rat down on the carpet and padded his way toward the wall.
Notes:
Jfc this chapter ended up being so much longer than planned but I didn't want to split a flashback into multiple parts and get confusing with the timeline... Anyway, hope you enjoyed, please let me know (gently) if I've made any glaring errors!
EDIT: THIS CHAPTER HAS ART NOW HOLY SHIT GO LOOK AT IT: https://bsky.app/profile/spaceanakin.bsky.social/post/3lhnhq7ueuk22
SECOND EDIT: EVEN MORE ART HOLY SHIT YOU GUYS
https://www.tumblr.com/communities/billford/post/779052800044859392/some-doodles-for-the-fic-take-a-chance-by?source=share
Chapter 3: Too Sweet
Summary:
How it's going: stickers, pizza, necropsies, t-shirts.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The corpse of the Dungavenhooter required the help of multiple people and a platform truck to move, and by the time it had been safely ensconced in the industrial-sized fridge in the lab, it was past midnight. As tempted as he may have been to proceed with the necropsy, Ford still didn’t want to risk dozing off and leaving Bill unsupervised, especially in the lab, and so like every other night since the demon’s arrival, Stanford Pines sighed and headed up to his room instead of staying awake through the night.
The next morning brought heavy rain, and as Ford disappeared behind the vending machine with a mug of coffee in one hand and a bone saw in the other, the resident demon was left under the watchful eye of Dipper, Mabel and Stan. The muffled voices of Soos and Melody through the living room door told them that there were at least a few tourists seeking shelter from the downpour via the gift shop, and Stan turned on the tv and quickly fell asleep while the kids (and Waddles, who after a year under Mabel’s care now dwarfed both children) settled onto the carpet to engage in one of their new favorite activities: annoying Bill.
“So, these are like scars, right?” Mabel asked, poking at one of the cracks in Bill’s form with the end of a makeup brush.
“Nope, prison tattoos,” he lied automatically, scratching at the spot.
“Hmmm.” She made a face suggesting she did not buy that, and began rifling through the brightly-colored plastic bin she’d brought over.
“If they’re scars, does that mean your blood looks like static? Wait, do you have blood or is it more like hemolymph? Do you have organs?” Dipper tapped at his chin thoughtfully, looking over the subject with a critical eye.
“Boy, I hope not,” Bill said cheerfully, but he dutifully raised an arm and allowed the boy to roll up the sleeve of his jumpsuit and jab the sharp end of a pencil into the crook of his elbow.
“I wish Grunkle Ford would let us use his syringes,” Dipper muttered, when several minutes of pencil-stabbing failed to produce any blood. Mabel, meanwhile, had begun pulling stickers and band-aids from the Caboodle and sorting through them, selecting some and rejecting others according to some arcane criteria known only to her. When she had accumulated a sizable pile, she nudged her brother out of the way and began applying her collection to one of Bill’s scars.
“I can’t seem to find canary yellow concealer, because apparently the beauty industry isn’t just human-racist, it’s triangle-racist too,” she explained seriously. “So this is gonna have to do for now.”
Bill stared down at the puffy sticker depicting a purple ice cream cone declaring “Nothing Is Im-popsicle!”, overlapped slightly by a winking pink crustacean which read “You’re Shrimply Amazing!”. He considered pointing out that shrimp, with very few exceptions, did not possess eyelids and therefor couldn’t wink, which was why many shrimp had trouble communicating secret conversational codes or flirting with other shrimp, but wasn’t sure whether that counted as knowledge that might “drive one to madness” and so didn’t bother.
The hiss of the vending machine sliding back into place alerted him to the return of Ford, who strode into the living room wiping his hands of monster blood and took in the scene before him. Bill and the kids stared back with the blank expressions of people caught in an activity they’re unclear on the legality of.
“...Shrimp don’t have eyelids,” Ford said eventually, squinting at the line of stickers.
“Ah ah ah! Most shrimp don’t have eyelids,” Bill corrected primly.
“Huh- wha- what? There’s shrimp? Where?” Stan asked, jerking awake.
“You were supposed to be watching them, Stanley,” Ford chided his brother. “What happened?”
“I am watching them!”
“You were fast asleep!”
“I was not, I was resting my eyes!”
“Hey, Grunkle Ford,” Dipper interrupted, hoping to forestall the argument they were building up to. “Can I use some of your syringes?”
“Grunkle Stan, can we go into town and get yellow paint?” Mabel joined in. “I’ve been looking at paint chips and I think Sunnyside-Up or Fluffy Baby Chick would be closest!”
Stan and Ford paused guiltily, recognizing the attempt for what it was.
“Sorry, kids,” Stan sighed.
“Yes, my apologies,” Ford nodded. “I suppose I could have- handled that better. I know we’ve all taken great pains to remain vigilant and deal with this stressful situation.”
Bill rolled his eye.
“Thanks, Grunkle Ford,” said Mabel, relaxing and settling back onto the carpet as she pasted one last sticker into place. “But honestly, compared to last summer? It hasn’t been too bad. At least now we know what’s going on most of the time.”
“Yeah,” Dipper admitted, “Even the monster stuff is kind of fun now that nobody’s keeping secrets, and we have both of you here if anything goes wrong.”
Stan and Ford smiled fondly at their niece and nephew in a display of precious family dynamic that made Bill want to throw up again. Before he could slink away, however, Mabel had grabbed him and hoisted him up to display her work.
“Plus, we get to do stuff like this! Behold, my greatest improvement yet!”
“That’s me,” Bill said flatly. “A walking talking work of art. At last, I am beautiful.”
“Self-worth is an important part of the rehabilitative process,” Mabel said, possibly quoting one of the ancient self-help books she had found in the lost-and-found of Greasy’s.
“Sweetie, I don’t think self-worth is one of the many, many issues he has,” Stan said, torn between his hatred of Bill and not wanting to crush his grand-niece’s ambitions.
“He’s right, kid. I’m basically perfect,” Bill agreed, wiggling lightly until she let him drop to the floor. “But the glitter stickers aren’t bad, as far as useless ornamentation goes. I’ve worn worse!” He turned this way and that, admiring his new additions.
Ford cleared his throat and turned to Dipper, holding up a file folder. “Well, I’ve finished my anatomical notes on the Dungavenhooter- care to take a look?”
“Heck yeah!” The boy leapt to his feet, clutching his notebook and pencil, and they left the room already chatting about the finer details of cryptid physiology.
Bill sat back down, resting his elbows on his knees, and pretended to be engrossed in the tv, but his eye followed Ford’s back almost without his realizing.
“Just us cool kids left, right Grunkle Stan?” Mabel leaned back and elbowed her great-uncle companionably, scratching Waddles under the chin.
Stan chuckled. “Yup, this is now a nerd-free zone. Two cool guys, a pig, and a block of cheese covered in stickers.”
“You’re a block of cheese,” Bill muttered under his breath.
“He’s just cranky because he needs more stickers,” Mabel assured Stan and Waddles. She peeled one from a sheet and showed it to him. “Here, I was saving this one for last- where do you want it?”
Bill tore his gaze away from the hallway Ford had disappeared down and glanced at the offered sticker, which was a holographic image of some french fries, each with a cheerful smiling face and the caption “I’m Frying My Best!”. Wordlessly, Bill pointed to a spot above his eye.
“Hey, look!” She pointed out as she applied the fries to the indicated spot. “Detective Skullumbo is on! You both love Detective Skullumbo!”
“I do like his coat.” Bill faced the tv properly to watch the fictional murder mystery unfold. “And the way he annoys people.”
“It’s the one thing we can agree on,” Stan said grudgingly.
Eventually, Skullumbo reruns turned into infomercials and home shopping, and Bill, disgusted with this development, stood and joined Mabel when she announced she was going to the kitchen to make a snack.
“What’s on the menu, Shooting Star? Spaghetti and eyeballs? Dryer lint? The concept of good and evil?”
“Nope! I’m making pretzel pizza!”
“What the hell is-” he trailed off and watched in growing unease as the child dumped a bag of hard pretzels onto a plate, covered it with a squirt of ketchup and a handful of bagged cheese, and threw the whole heap into the microwave for seven minutes. “...Huh,” he managed. “Well, that’s gonna make for an excellent biological weapon, kid, congrats!”
“I’m basically a culinary genius,” Mabel agreed. “I can make anything into a gourmet meal with access to enough glitter and a microwave. I could teach classes on, like, foraging but for people trapped inside their houses instead of in the woods.”
“You’re a survivor alright,” Bill said, watching the microwave smoke and hiss. “Say, have you kids ever met a Skinamarink?”
“Like the old timey song?”
“You people have a SONG about that thing? You sickos.”
“I don’t think we’ve seen any,” she admitted after thinking it over. “What are they? Do they live around here?”
Bill laughed. “You’d better hope they don’t! They’re inter-dimensional a-holes who trap people in pocket dimensions and play with them like dolls.”
“Sounds like a guy I know. I think we’d be fine, then,” she snarked back, in the naive tones of someone who had never been Skinamarinked.
The microwave began to gurgle disconcertingly, and Bill decided it was time to vacate the room before it exploded in a shower of molten cheese and tomato.
In general, he avoided the museum and the gift shop, on the off chance that a member of the public caught sight of him and tried to kill him with a hammer or something. Now, however, the shop was closed for a restock, so he meandered in, conducting a halfhearted search for either the hiding place of the Inhibitor or a new species of rodent that might make for a good display.
He was arranging the dead flies on the windowsill into a triangle pattern when Soos and Melody walked in, each with an armload of boxes.
“Oh,” said Melody, slightly uncertainly. “Hi, Bill. I didn’t know you were… uh, it feels weird to say ‘allowed’ out here.”
“Sup, triangle dude.” Soos set his boxes down next to the register and leaned on the counter. “You wanna help with the restock?”
Bill bristled as he turned to face the couple. “Ha! As if, Question Mark! Not enough that I’m already a prisoner, huh? Gonna make me do unpaid labor on top of it?”
“Hmm, that’s a fair point.” Melody opened a box and began neatly folding t-shirts. “Do you even have any use for money? What would you want as payment?”
“Access to the Inhibitor and a lighter,” Bill said immediately.
“Heh, that’s a good one! This guy,” Soos laughed good-naturedly as he stacked postcards. “But we don’t know where that thing is even if we wanted to tell you, sorry dude! Plus I don’t think you’re supposed to do stuff with fire. I think that’s, like, on the List.”
“Ugh.” Bill dragged his hands down his face, clawing off several stickers in the process. “Access to a lobotomy pick, then, so I don’t have to interact with any of you.”
“Pretty sure that’s on the List, too.”
“Here,” Melody handed Bill a balled-up shirt. “Start folding, and we’ll think of something.”
When Ford had finished going over the best practices for conducting a field autopsy on new-to-science monsters with his grand-nephew, he made his way back through the first floor, glancing into each room and performing a head count out of recent habit. Dipper, upstairs writing in his journal. Mabel, in the kitchen scraping some kind of charred remnants out of the microwave. Stan, in his office shredding paperwork despite no longer working at the Shack. Bill, standing naked in the middle of the living room.
Wait.
Ford backed up. Sure enough, the demon was standing on the carpet blinking back at him sans his usual orange uniform. It felt strange to consider him “naked”, but without the bowtie and hat he really did look… well, nude. Even during the period of time when Ford regularly saw Bill in various states of intimacy inside his mindscape, he couldn’t recall seeing him completely without adornment. It made the faintly-glowing scars stand out all the more; apparently the stickers had fallen off already.
“What happened to your jumpsuit?” Ford asked suspiciously.
“Oh, sorry Doctor Pines, that was my idea!” Soos appeared in the doorway, bearing an armful of fabric. “I dunno if little Dorito guys get sweaty or dirty or whatever, but I figured he’s been wearing that thing for, like, a couple weeks now and it could probably use a wash. Plus, once I find the right size, the Mystery Shack gets free advertisement!” He held out one arm to display the child-sized t-shirts he’d selected.
“I don’t want any of us getting too comfortable around him.” Ford glanced down at Bill, who stared back with perfect innocence. “The jumpsuit was a good reminder that he’s a convicted criminal.”
“Aw, c’mon, Fordsy, isn’t a conviction or fifty practically a rite of passage for this family?” Bill asked sweetly, comparing the merits of a triple-wolf-and-moon shirt and a plain question mark shirt. “Besides, with my history around here it’s not like anyone’s gonna forget that fact. I’ve just got one of those faces that people assign criminality to, you know?” He winked, tossed the question mark shirt aside and tugged the wolf shirt over the angles of his body.
Ford pointed a finger at him menacingly and growled. “Do. Not. Do that. It’s bad enough seeing you in this house, I don’t want you staring at me.”
“Sure thing, Sixer!” Bill saluted jauntily, his eye rolling back in its socket to reveal a vortex of slimy tongues and sharp teeth, which grinned at him. “Better?”
Ford flushed angrily and stormed out of the room.
“Thomething I thaid?” Bill called after him, his voice echoing eerily.
Item #3: Avoid eye contact! Humans use eye contact to establish dominance; staring for too long reminds them of their own insignificant place in the universe and makes them unsettled!
Notes:
Oh my god I can't believe how many lovely comments this story has been getting! Thank you guys so much!! I really wasn't sure about posting this piece to begin with and now I feel like every interaction makes me excited to write more. <3
Also Bill's t-shirt is a nod to both the handyman AU and HorribleDynne, who suggested it.
Chapter 4: Clyw dim byd i agor dy fyd (Listen to nothing to open your world)
Summary:
Coffee, leprecorns, impromptu medical treatments, and a little bit of genuine conversation.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
“Grunkle Staaaaaan! Dipper ate all the Sugarmallow O’Cavity Cereal again! Can we go to town and get more?” Mabel hollered from the kitchen, waving an empty box.
“Twice in one week? You kids are gonna eat me outta house and home!” Stan complained, already reaching for his keys.
“Mabel, I told you I don’t even like Sugarmallows, it wasn’t me!” Protested Dipper. He rubbed his eyes sleepily as he followed his sister’s voice down the stairs, still in his pajamas.
“Ha! A likely story! If it wasn’t you, who was it?” Mabel narrowed her eyes in disbelief as he joined her. “Melody and Soos? Grunkle Ford? Bill?!”
“What’d I do now?” The triangle in question pattered into the kitchen, looking similarly groggy, and began to clamber up the cabinets toward the coffeepot.
“Yes, what did he do now?” Ford came trailing in after him and made an identical beeline for the percolating machine, only to find that not only had Bill beaten him to it, he’d taken Ford’s favorite mug and the last of the available coffee. He turned his head to glare at the demon. “You don’t even drink coffee!”
Bill paused in the process of dumping sugar into his coffee, clutched the mug with all four limbs and looked at Ford innocently as he stuck his tongue out the bottom of his eye and into the coffee. Ford made a noise of disgust and looked away, waiting for more to brew.
Mabel dropped the empty box into the garbage. “Dipper ate all the cereal again,” she explained.
“I just said I didn’t!”
“...and now he’s trying to blame it on someone else!”
“Hmm.” Ford rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Well, we know it couldn’t have been rats,” he shot a glance at the resident rodent murderer, who took another tongueful of coffee. “I suppose we could have a ghost with some sort of cereal-related unfinished business. Or it could be…” He trailed off in dawning horror as a thought occurred to him. Bill, clearly having an identical realization, wordlessly passed his mug to Ford (who took it without thinking) and hopped from the counter to the table, where he peered out the window.
“What? What is it?” Mabel asked, nudging Bill to one side so she could look out as well.
“I don’t see any,” Bill reported. “But-”
“Hey, do you guys hear music?” Dipper asked suddenly, moving to join them.
Mabel tilted her head, listening. “Oh, yeah! It's like… Danny Boy being played on a tin whistle!”
“Oh, no,” groaned Ford and Bill in perfect unison. Ford automatically took a bracing sip of the coffee he was holding, realized with a jolt what he’d just done, and then, tasting that it had been prepared exactly how he liked it, reluctantly continued to drink it.
“Where is it coming from?” Dipper cupped a hand to his ear, trying to triangulate the source of the muffled tune. “It sounds close by, but I can’t tell…”
Everyone in the kitchen went quiet momentarily, listening. Something scratched and tapped below their feet, and Ford paled.
“Oh dear god, they're under the floorboards!”
Before they could react, the loose end of a board popped up, pushed by a hideous, jolly-cheeked face with mindlessly staring eyes and a short spiraling horn in the center of its forehead. The children screamed.
“Top o’ the mornin’ to ya!” Squealed the creature in an offensively stereotypical pseudo-Irish accent. It thrust two small front hooves out of the hole it had made and tried to climb out, but Ford ran forward and stomped down hard on the plank, slamming the little nightmare back under the floor.
“Leprecorns!” He shouted, stamping again for good measure. “Unholy half-leprechaun, half-unicorn abominations!”
“I remember reading about those!” Dipper said excitedly. “They were in your journal! I thought they’d be… less terrifying.”
“Yeah, something that’s made of two cute things should not be that scary,” Mabel agreed. “Are they dangerous?”
“Not to humans, unfortunately,” Bill said, hopping down from the windowsill and jogging across the kitchen to scramble up the stove towards the knives. “Unless you’re outnumbered by like a lot. And they’re really hungry.”
“Which these ones shouldn’t be, right? If they’ve been eating all our cereal,” Mabel asked nervously as more skittering and music sounded from below.
“Yeah, they’re mostly just super annoying.” Bill pulled the largest meat cleaver he could reach off its hook and hefted it with a joyful glint in his eye, only for Ford to immediately reach over and remove it from his grasp.
“The irony of you calling anything annoying…” He replaced the knife and then hoisted the demon from his stovetop perch, dropping him to the floor.
“Hey, what gives?” Bill asked indignantly, trying to scale the stove again and being held effortlessly back by Ford’s boot. “C’mon, there’s nothing in the List about me doing violence to magical creatures! Let a guy blow off some steam!”
“Absolutely not,” Ford nudged Bill hard enough with his boot to push him away from the range and toward the middle of the room. “Not indoors, and especially not in front of the children.”
Before Bill could protest further, another board sprung loose and two leprecorns came crawling out, followed by a third erupting from under a cabinet and yet another from the trashcan. Bill shrieked and leapt up Ford’s leg when one of the mutants lunged toward him with a shrill cry of, “Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral!”
“Sixer, kill it! Kill it!”
“Why are they here?” Asked Dipper in alarm as he and his sister crouched on the table, pulling up their feet to avoid the eerily leaping, cavorting creatures. “The journal said their habitat is deep in the forest, or at the ends of rainbows!”
“They must have moved in when Bill killed off all the rodents; blast it, you threw the ecology of the house into total disarray!” Ford shook his leg, trying to dislodge the clinging triangle while keeping the leprecorns at bay.
Bill clutched stubbornly onto the human’s pants, curling his fingers into one pocket for security as he rolled his eye. “I'm never gonna hear the end of that, am I? Sorry I killed all your precious rodents, next time I'll keep them alive and just release them into your bed since you love them so much!”
“There won't be a next time!”
“Top o’ the mornin’ to ya!” One of the leprecorns leapt up and chomped onto Bill’s ankle, and the demon’s eye bugged out of his head as he flailed both legs and tried to kick the attacker away. Ford spun, swinging both passengers in his own attempt to dislodge them with no success.
The leprecorn that had crawled out of the trashcan shook off a banana peel and hopped onto one of the chairs, taking aim at the colorful pattern of stars and hearts on Mabel’s pajamas. It sprung into the air, demented grin bared, and connected face-first with an iron frying pan, dropping like a stone to the floor.
Stan swung the pan again, sending another hooved creature crashing into the cabinets with a satisfying clang. “What the heck is happening in here? What are these things?!”
“Leprecorns!” Shouted Dipper, dodging another projectile.
“Excellent, Stanley!” Ford turned quickly toward his brother, still shaking his leg in his futile attempt to free himself. “Iron is a perfect deterrent for fey creatures!”
“Get em, Grunkle Stan, get em!” Mabel cheered.
“What?” Stan glanced at the pan as he nailed the leprecorn chewing on Bill’s leg with enough force to pin it to the wall by its horn. “Oh, uh, yeah! I knew that! Definitely!” The last leprecorn standing let out an irritatingly high-pitched piping sound and jigged its way toward the door, but Dipper dropped a soup pot over it, trapping it.
“Ha! Quick thinking, well done!” Ford congratulated his nephew. He reached down to unhook Bill’s fingers from his pocket, letting the demon drop to the floor.
Bill did not land gracefully. For some reason, his legs failed entirely to support his weight and he crumpled the second his feet hit the ground, struggled upright and brushed himself off. “Oh, so it’s fine to crush them flat with a frying pan but not fine to chop them into mincemeat? Honestly, there’s no pleasing you people.” He felt strange. An odd, uncomfortable sensation radiating upward from his ankle, hard to name exactly…
Dipper winced. “Ooh, Bill, your uh… your leg is…”
He looked down. The leg that the leprecorn had been gnawing on was twisted at an odd angle, crumpled like a chewed-up straw.
Oh, that's what that sensation was: pain! Wow, it wasn't nearly as funny in first-person.
Bill tried to share that revelation with the room, but what actually came out was a sort of squeaky, wheezing gasp, and he toppled over onto his back plane, clutching the limb.
Ford tutted and reached down, scooping him up with both hands and then switching to one when Bill shrank to a more handleable size. “Hmm.” He set the demon onto the table, holding him in place with his palm, and everyone leaned in to peer at the injury as Ford prodded at it.
“Yeesh, that looks nasty,” Stan commented with a wince. “I didn't even know he had bones to break in those little toothpick legs.”
“I don't usually!” Bill complained, trying to twist in Ford's grasp enough to watch the proceedings. “I store all my bones in a separate compartment, so I know where they are when I need them!”
“That doesn't make any… wait, so what do you normally have in your limbs?” Asked a curious Dipper.
Bill blinked at him. He didn't have a definite answer, honestly, and as much as he was enjoying being pinned by a big six-fingered hand, the pain was actually starting to make his vision swim and his thoughts go blurry. “Limb… juice…?”
“Hold still,” Ford warned. “I'm going to reset it.”
Bill squeaked again, sounding like a rusty hinge.
“Sixer, do not do demon surgery on the kitchen table,” said Stan wearily.
“Yeah, we eat there! And we haven't even had any breakfast yet!” Dipper put in.
“Shouldn't you give him painkillers first?” Asked Mabel, looking concerned.
Everyone looked at her, then looked at Bill.
“I… suppose…” Ford slowly acknowledged. “Although I have no idea whether normal analgesics will have any effect on him, or negative interactions.”
“Worth a try, right?” Bill asked encouragingly. “I promise not to sue for malpractice! Gimme the drugs!”
Ford frowned at him. “You know, painkillers would have been nice back when you drove nails through my hand .” He pressed a little harder with the same hand, and Bill shrank down further, seemingly involuntarily.
“But I thought you said we were supposed to be not sinking to his level!” Mabel pointed out.
Stan rolled his eyes. “Look, give him the painkillers or don't, I don't care, just don't do whatever freaky medical stuff you're about to do in the kitchen. Bathroom or lab, pick one.”
Ford sighed and lightened his grip. “You're absolutely right, Mabel. Thank you.” He lifted Bill again, noting the lack of protest with mild surprise. “We'll go to the lab; most of my medical equipment is down there anyway.”
Dipper followed them into the hallway toward the gift shop, his notebook in hand and pencil at the ready. “Do leprecorn bites have any magical properties? Are they venomous?”
Bill's eye widened in feigned horror and he grabbed Ford's wrist. “Fordsy, he's right! Cut the leg off! Quick, before I turn!”
“Don't tempt me,” Ford muttered, but his mouth quirked up at the corner in what might have been amusement.
“Dipper, come sweep up these freaky little horse monsters!” Stan called from the kitchen.
“The one under the pot is starting to move around!” Added Mabel.
The boy tucked his notebook away and hurried back, leaving Ford and his cargo to descend the hidden stairs into the lab. The portal and its remnants were long since gone, of course, and the space had been further cleared for more research equipment and lab tables, one of which he deposited Bill onto. Ford had taken extensive measurements and readings when he’d first tested Bill’s “weird field”, poked and prodded him with medical instruments and kept the results tucked away in his files. X-rays and other scans had proven mostly inconclusive; either whatever chitinous material Bill’s body was covered in bounced back the radiation or the weird field itself had some scrambling effect. He had determined that the demon did, in fact, possess a circulatory system and could bleed, but whether he had other organs, bones (other than teeth), or any kind of typical body plan remained largely unknown.
A brief sift through one of his locked cabinets later, Ford turned back to Bill with several syringes, antiseptic and medical tape. He frowned in mild surprise when he saw that the subject hadn’t moved from where he’d been placed, but he only cleared his throat, organized his tools and after considering for a moment said, “This will be easier if you’re not quite so small.”
Bill blinked and looked down at himself, as if he hadn’t been aware of his own shift in size. He seemed to focus, much like he had when he’d initially arrived and had to concentrate to float, and slowly he grew from a few inches tall until he had returned to what Ford had come to view as his “normal” size.
“Good. Thank you.” Ford ignored the way Bill’s color flickered strangely at the words and picked up one of the slender black arms to press the needle home. “As I said, I don’t know whether this will have any effect with your physiology, so we’ll wait a minute to see if it works. Tell me if you feel anything strange.”
Bill cocked a brow. “Define ‘strange’.”
“You know what I mean. Anything out of the ordinary for you in this form.” Ford palpated the mangled leg gingerly, his forehead furrowed. “Interesting. I don’t feel any bone fractures or… well, any bones. Do you genuinely have a fluid pressure system like an insect?”
“Limb juice,” Bill said blearily.
“I- yes. Limb juice. It does seem that way.” He sat back, scratching his head, and then reached for the leg again. “Well… if that’s the case…” He pinched Bill’s foot by the heel between his thumb and forefinger, got a good firm grip, and gave a single sharp pull.
Bill screamed as the limb straightened with a crunch, his body flashing black and white and red in rapid succession and then resettling to a washed-out yellow as his scream died to a whimper.
“There!” Ford said, pleased and fascinated. He reached for a pen and nearby clipboard and quickly jotted a few notes to transcribe later into his file on the demon.
Said demon caught his breath and shrieked, “WHAT. HAPPENED. TO WAITING. FOR THE DRUGS TO WORK?!”
Ford winced at the volume and set the pen down. “Well, there was no guarantee that they would work.” He watched as the leg slowly went from crumpled flat to rounded, seemingly reinflating now that whatever pneumatics kept Bill’s body going were able to flood back into the wounded area. The limb filled out and then swelled, looking irritated and tender compared to its counterpart. “Hm. Don’t move.” He unraveled some of the self adhesive bandages and then pinned Bill in place again while he began wrapping the injury. “We’ll keep an eye on it; I don’t see any obvious broken skin but it’s difficult to tell.”
He glanced up at his “patient”, who was, in a rare moment of compliance, keeping perfectly still and watching him with the intensity of a hiker trying to determine whether the bear running toward them was black or brown. How the tables had turned.
Not letting himself wander too far down that line of thinking, Ford kept his attention on the task at hand, adding some gauze under the bandage at the joint to allow for better movement. When he finished, he released his hold and picked up the clipboard again, adding a few shorthand scribbles for his notes. Finally, discomfited by the silence, he spoke.
“You’re… being remarkably quiet all of a sudden.”
Bill looked at him with an inscrutable expression and Ford hurried to add, “That wasn’t an invitation to begin talking, to be clear.”
The demon let out a raspy little laugh and then shrugged. “Just waiting to see if you were gonna finish what you started back there and crush me like a bug. The anticipation was killing me, ha!”
Ford’s cheeks colored in what could have been shame or anger or both. “I already said I wasn’t going to do that.”
“...but if anybody gets to, it should be you, right? That’s what you were thinking,” Bill said confidently. “And you’re so right, pal! You could wrap those twelve gorgeous meathooks around me and snap me like a glowstick! It’ll be fun and cathartic!”
Okay, the drugs were working. Ford went even redder, subconsciously tucking his fingers into his pockets. “Absolutely not. I’m not about to play into whatever trap you think you’re setting for me. What, if I kill you now you get to skip all this and jump right to reincarnation?”
Bill chuckled again. “Not how that works, IQ. There’s a whole… there’s rituals and paperwork and agreements and all kinds of stuff they gotta do first. Reincarnation’s got rules. If I die here, that’s it! Splat.” He clapped his hands together to demonstrate, then trailed off into giggles, letting his arms fall to the table. “So, y’know, shoot your shot.”
“No.” He said it reflexively, then repeated it with more conviction. “No, Bill. Even if I took you at your word- which I’m not doing, ever again- why would you want me to kill you? Just for the knowledge that you’d, what, gotten me to give in and break my own rules? Or knowing that I wouldn’t be able to clear my record?”
He received a look of blank incomprehension in return, and he sighed heavily, pulling over a lab stool and sitting down, resting his elbows on the table. He didn’t know what he expected, trying to have a coherent conversation with a high Bill Cipher, but he forged onward anyway, changing the subject.
“Something I’ve been curious about… today’s incident aside, you seem to be handling the, er, dimensionality of this new form with very little issue. Does it not bother you, being in a physical body?”
Bill shrugged. “I had a physical form for a little while before I was mercilessly tricked and killed-”
Ford snorted.
“-but obviously that was when I was at the height of my powers, and I could sort of. Do whatever I wanted with reality. So the physical form was more of a fun incidental perk, and I didn’t get to do much with it before I lost it.”
“And now?” Ford leaned his chin into one hand, propping it up.
Bill looked at one of his hands, flexing the fingers. “Now? I guess I had enough time inside the Inhibitor to kind of get used to being in a body again, just didn’t have anything much to do or anywhere to go with it while I was in there.”
“Do you miss all of it? Being all-knowing, all-powerful, or as close to it as you were?”
Bill scoffed. “Obviously.”
Ford gave him an odd look. “You told me once, decades ago, that you were incapable of sleep, that the constant barrage of information and awareness that came with being that powerful rendered it impossible. But now, here, I've seen you sleep. I think you miss parts of it, like being able to possess people and toy with their minds, but I also think you've realized you're better off without some of it. I think you've been forced to be present for the first time and it's made you…”
“What? Soft? Don't play dumb, IQ, it doesn't suit you! If it weren't for that stupid List, I'd be turning all of you inside out and using your guts as dental floss!”
“I wasn't going to say soft. I was going to say stable, or… aware of yourself. Grounded.”
Bill grumbled and folded his arms, looking away. “Yeah I’m grounded, you made sure of that with your little ‘no floating’ rule!”
Ford actually chuckled at that, and Bill’s eye darted automatically toward him to take in his amused expression. “I meant it in a good way, Bill. I think, frankly, that you’re incapable of real change at this point. But I also think that being cut off from that much raw power has been… good for you.”
Bill didn’t answer.
“You disagree, I’m sure,” Ford said, watching him.
He shrugged again. “It’s… quieter,” he admitted uncertainly after a pause.
Ford waited to see if he would elaborate. When he didn’t, he cleared his throat and asked, curiously, “And that’s a bad thing?”
There was another pause. “I don’t know. Maybe. Could be worse, could be better.”
Something about his tone sparked the beginnings of a hypothesis in Ford’s mind. He scooted closer, noting the way Bill’s attentive look tracked him. “Tell me about the inside of the Inhibitor cell. Describe it to me.”
“I don't want to,” Bill said automatically, shifting his gaze but not questioning the change in subject.
“Was there any sound in there?” He pushed, knowing that had Bill had access to his powers he would have reduced everything around them to ash and made Ford’s mouth vanish in that moment. The freedom to interrogate him without any threat of punishment, with no route for Bill to escape by vanishing or waking him up or possessing him, made him bold.
“I don't want to talk about-”
“I think it was silent in there, and that drove you crazier than you already were. Nothing but your own voice, your own failure, no one to worship you or fear you or listen to what you have to say. I think you can’t stand the quiet because it frightens you.”
He watched the demon’s eye slam shut and his limbs press into the table, like he was trying to flatten himself down and disappear. His intuition had been right on the money. Bill was afraid, and not in his usual dramatic way; he was afraid in a way that made him freeze, made him shrink down. It sat wrong on him, contradicted the impressive and exciting image of an all-knowing chaotic god that would forever be burned into Ford’s mind as his first impression.
Ford sighed, feeling not exactly guilty but- tired. He should have felt victoriously accomplished, learning of his enemy’s weakness, but he just felt weary to his bones.
“I’m not…” He made himself ignore the way Bill tensed at his words. “I’m not threatening to put you back in there. We’re not doing that. But just… stop trying to goad me into playing your games.”
Bill opened his eye slowly, his expression back to that strange, distant one Ford had glimpsed a few times. His spoke haltingly. “When I was in the Theraprism. I thought, uh, that you’d. Well. I thought more time had passed.”
“I remember,” Ford said carefully.
“It should have made me feel better, right? You felt better when you thought I was dead, didn’t you? Why did it feel so much worse, thinking you were dead?”
Ford didn’t have an answer for that right away; his mouth felt dry and his throat hurt. “I… suppose you wanted the satisfaction of killing me yourself.”
“Ha. Yeah. Probably that, right? No other reason.” Bill was still staring at the ceiling, his eye half-lidded.
Seized with a foolish urge, Ford reached out and picked Bill up, helping him to sit upright and keeping one hand braced behind him. “On a scale of 1-10, how bad is your pain right now? From the leg.”
“Oh. The leg.” Bill poked at the soft cast his limb had been swaddled into and gave a little “so-so” gesture. “Kinda hard to say. Mostly numb. Hurts when I touch it.”
“Don’t touch it, then.”
They both laughed weakly at that, and Ford offered his other hand. “Do you think you can stand on it?”
He could, as it turned out, after a fashion. His gait was uneven thanks to the padding and the drugs but he was able to wobble in little circles around the tabletop without screaming, and Ford deemed that good enough to bring him back upstairs. As he was reaching forward to carry the demon out of the lab, Ford paused.
“Would you…”
“What?” Bill asked, watching his extended hands warily.
“Would you try to do something while you’re here?”
“I can’t make deals, bub. You’re the one who put that on the List!” He planted his hands on his lower corners in annoyance.
“Not a deal, Bill, just- I’m asking you to do something, of your own free will, for me.”
The last two words seemed to work; the skeptical look lifted somewhat and he looked up from Ford’s hands to his face. “...what do you want?”
Ford took a breath, certain he was about to sound like an idiot, but strangely determined to ask anyway. “I’d like you to try thinking about why you find silence uncomfortable. Or, I suppose, try to think of ways the quiet can be a good thing- I hardly expect you to start meditating, but I think this could be an opportunity for you to find a… a happy medium between constant noise and total silence. Not everything has to be one or the other.”
Bill narrowed his eye again. “What are you, a shrink now? Taking that Theraprism arrangement a little too seriously, huh?”
The breath escaped in an exasperated sigh and Ford rolled his eyes. “Yes, well, more fool me for asking.” He grabbed Bill from the table and headed back upstairs.
The kids and Stan had just finished dumping leprecorns into the woods and were returning with the wheelbarrow when Ford and his patient emerged. Dipper ran in to show his grunkle his sketches of the little creatures, and Ford set Bill carefully onto the floor of the gift shop to let him walk free. Soos, who had met the trio in the yard and helped put the wheelbarrow away, caught sight of the bandaged demon as he entered the room.
“Whoa, what the heck happened there?”
“Mauled by a tiger,” Bill lied easily, trying to scale a shelf and failing thanks to his hobbled leg and the drugs’ reduction of his already-limited depth perception.
“One of those dumb little horses bit him,” Stan corrected as he and Mabel joined the rest of the group.
Soos leaned down and offered a hand to Bill, who took it with great reluctance and allowed himself to be hoisted onto the top shelf, where he sat clutching a snowglobe for support as the world swam around him.
Mabel approached the shelf and scrutinized the injury, no doubt thinking of ways to decorate the cast. “How's your leg?”
“What, this old thing?” He reached down and slapped the bandaged limb, hoping it would spin like a pinwheel. It did not, but the resulting spike in agonizing pain made his eye water and his entire body flash red.
Ford looked up from Dipper’s journal in consternation. “Bill, don't try to do comedy bits with your broken leg.”
Bill gasped dramatically and clasped a hand to his chest. “Do you even realize what you just asked of me?”
“It will heal faster if you don’t agitate it.”
“All he does is agitate,” Stan put in sarcastically.
“Oof, yeah, trust me, you don’t wanna make it worse.” Mabel produced a scrapbook from somewhere and flipped through it to show Bill a series of pictures. “My friend back home broke her leg doing roller derby, and she had to have a cast, but because she’d qualified for the next round of the tournament she glued wheels onto her cast and went back for more and broke her other leg and then she was in a wheelchair for the whole school year!”
Bill squinted at the pictures, absently plucking at the edge of his bandages. “Hmm. Did she win the tournament?”
“I mean, yeah, her team came in first place,” Mabel pointed to the last picture, where a girl with both legs in neon pink casts held up a massive trophy, surrounded by other girls with black eyes, missing teeth and broken noses. All wore hugely proud grins. “This was maybe the wrong example to show you, now that I think about it.”
“Let me try,” Dipper took the scrapbook and turned to a different page, then presented Bill with an image of a sad-eyed pug wearing a plastic cone around its neck. “If you mess with your cast we’ll put you in a cone, okay? I don’t know how it’ll work with your weird flat body but we will find a way and you will hate every second of it.”
“Okay, okay, fine!” Bill raised both hands defensively.
“Now then,” Ford handed Dipper’s notebook back to him and patted each of the twins on the back. “Once you’ve had breakfast, I’ll show everyone how to leprecorn-proof a house!”
“Yaay! D-I-Y! D-I-Y!” Mabel slung her arm over her brother’s shoulders and they hurried ahead.
Bill peered down at the suddenly-daunting distance between his perch and the floor, then turned his saddest, most pleading look to Ford. “Gee, I guess if I’m supposed to avoid messing up the cast I shouldn’t walk around on it… maybe somebody oughtta carry me?”
“Don’t push it,” Ford said archly, before walking swiftly out of the room to follow his niece and nephew.
“Yeah, good luck with that, buster,” Stan added sarcastically as he joined them.
“Aw, I gotcha, triangle dude.” Soos scooped Bill off the shelf and carried him arm-throne style after the rest of the group. “Hey, I bet I could fit you into a papoose or like a BabyBjörn pretty easy!”
Weighing disappointment at being carried by anyone that wasn’t Ford against kind of enjoying the arm throne, Bill groaned at the indignity of the image conjured. At that point he might just prefer the cone.
Item #4: Something about quiet?? Figure out how quiet is a good thing. Maybe talk less? Is that what he wants?? He looked happy when I wasn’t talking. How am I supposed to share infinite knowledge without talking??? Is this one of those “one hand clapping” riddles? Everyone knows the answer to that one is to break all the fingers on the hand!
Notes:
Dammit I should've called this chapter Too Sweet instead of the last one aaaaaaugh why are chapter titles the hardest part of writing
Chapter 5: A Human's Touch
Summary:
Nightmares, arguments and a new rule.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
“That’s it, Fordsy,” Bill encouraged, his legs stretched in loops around the human’s waist. He reached up and ran a hand through Ford’s thick brown hair, another hand cupping his jaw while two more clawed red lines up and down his shoulder blades.
“Ah- ah, god, Bill, you’re so- this is incredible!” Stanford panted, his cheeks glowing red and his glasses sliding halfway off his nose as his hips rutted again and again into the hole Bill had formed in himself. His fascinatingly round buttocks clenched with each thrust and the demon couldn’t resist sliding yet another hand down to squeeze them, startling a surprised yelp and an extra-hard jolt from his adorable Sixer. “I can’t believe you’d- someone like you would let me-” Ford grasped one of the many hands caressing his face and kissed the palm, smiling when a shiver ran up Bill’s arm in response.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m a benevolent wonder,” Bill quipped, trying to cover how weirdly flustered that gesture had made him by gripping the human’s ass a little firmer and guiding him to move harder, faster, creating a feedback loop of pleasure for them both.
“You are.” Ford was still beaming down at him, and now there were stars shining through the lenses of his glasses. “You are a wonder. You’re everything.” He was stroking his fingertips lightly, worshipfully, over the flat planes of Bill’s body, leaving tingling little trails along every point of contact.
He was so perfect. This naive, dorky, brilliant, squishy little human from this stupid nothing planet was somehow the most perfect thing Bill had ever seen in a trillion years, so much so that it almost hurt to look at him. It did hurt to look at him. Bill’s eye stung, but he couldn’t tear his gaze away. He was about to say something dangerous.
“I think I-”
“My muse? What’s wrong?” A finger brushed against the corner of his eye, wiping at the moisture that had formed there. “Did I do something?”
“What? No! Uh, I was just-”
“Did you do something?” Ford’s tone became accusatory, gruff with decades of resentment and fear.
“No! I mean I- not yet anyway, I- there’s still time, I could-”
“What did you do?” The fingers touching him curled into a cold metallic grip, unyielding, and it hurt so much to look at him, to see the stars reflecting off the gold gleam of his skin. “What did you do, Billy?!”
His scream as he woke was cut short when he flopped out of his bed and bounced off the hardwood floor before landing on his face.
A few beats passed as he calmed down, and he braced both hands against the boards and pushed upright with a groan, tilting on his bad leg. Moonlight filtered through the colorful glass of the window and turned the room into a sketch of silver and blue shadows, and he went through a reassuring little ritual- count the number of circles in the window, check the shape of the doorknobs, touch the fabric of the couch- all the same, unchanged, solid. There were crickets outside, an owl, the distant scream of a gnome being carried off by said owl- real sounds, real things. Lastly, he looked at his “roommate”, sleeping on the couch.
Ford was turned away, curled on his side and tucked into the cushions, fluffy tufts of grey hair visible above the blanket. His sides rose and fell evenly. Alive. Real. Bill breathed out a sigh of relief and began to crawl up the side of the couch toward his own heap of bedding on the table.
A gasp made him freeze; had he woken Ford? The man’s breathing changed, stuttered and caught on what sounded like a “no, no, you can’t!”, and then he turned over and Bill saw the twisted expression he recognized instantly- had been the cause of more times than he could count. A nightmare.
“Fordsy?” He took a cautious step closer. “Sixer?”
There was no response; Ford only shuddered and twitched and made a faint, panicky sound under his breath.
“Hey,” Bill reached out with one hand and lightly touched the human's forehead- maybe he couldn't interfere with dreams anymore, or get inside that beautiful metal-capped cranium, but he could do this, right? Physical touch, comfort even- he wasn't even a little bit practiced in it but he could try, at least.
Ford muttered something incoherent and Bill tried stroking first one, then both hands in slow circles over his temples. That felt like a normal ‘comfort’ thing, he thought, trying not to acknowledge the weird fluttery feeling kicking up inside him. “Shhhh,” he tried. “Shhhhh, Fordsy, easy does it, quiet that big brain down before you give yourself an early heart attack.”
It was definitely working; Ford's whimpers died down to the occasional quiet grumble, his breathing softened and evened out and his brow lost its furrowed intensity. Hey, turned out Bill was absolutely nailing this ‘comforting’ thing! He was the king of comfort! He was-
Ford's breathing changed suddenly. His eyes had drifted open and were now locked onto the demon crouched in front of his face, who froze like a one-eyed deer in the glaring lights of a semi truck. There was an infinitesimally brief moment- one Bill would have lived in happily for centuries, epochs, eons- where Ford’s expression upon seeing him moved from confused fear to something soft and warm and open, something like-
“Hi-” Bill started, which broke the spell and caused several things to happen in very quick succession- Ford’s face twisted in horror and he jerked upright, yanking the sheets with him which sent Bill crashing backward onto the floor, something from the side table went flying (an empty cup, he would later learn, thrown with haste but not precision by the panicking human) and slammed into the light switch, flooding the room and briefly blinding both of them.
“Aaugh, why-” Bill began again, but was cut off by a furious cry.
“What- what the HELL ARE YOU DOING?!” Ford’s voice cracked with fear and anger as he shouted, scrambling for the gun under his pillow and pointing it at the demon. “Trying to sneak into my brain again, Bill?! You know that won’t work! What, were you going to gouge my eyes out? Smother me?”
Bill sputtered. “I- no, I was just-”
“Just what?! Just trying to pull out all my teeth?! Trying to make me reveal the location of the Inhibitor? Or the equation?!”
“I was trying to make you relax!” Bill bit out. “You were driving me crazy with your all your whining and whimpering! How am I supposed to get any rest with you thrashing around over here?!” He sneered, crossing his arms defensively. “And I couldn’t do any of that stuff even if I wanted to! Remember?! I was just-!” He cut himself off, furious and embarrassed.
Ford fell silent too, watching him with crazed eyes, his chest heaving with each breath. He swallowed, seeming to gather himself again, and snarled, “I don’t want you touching me! Ever! Do you understand?”
“Loud and clear!” Bill spat, turning his back on the human and marching back to his own bed.
Item #5: Don’t initiate physical contact! Humans are weirdly touchy about touching- especially Sixer! Apparently it’s completely fine for him to grab me and sling me around like a ragdoll but the reverse is a big no-no!
Notes:
Hope you enjoyed that comparatively tiny aperitif of smut! The upshot is I'm able to crank out these shorter chapters a lot faster.
Chapter Text
Ford had stomped out of their shared room early the next morning, before Bill had the chance to wake up properly, so the demon was sulking lightly in his bed and halfheartedly contemplating shredding a few of the books on Ford’s bookshelf as he watched sunlight move slowly across the room through the window.
A familiar shadow fell across the carpet, and he looked up in barely-disguised excitement.
“Sixer?”
“Guess again, pintsize.” Stan stood in the doorway looking grimly determined. “I told Ford to take the kids for ice cream and go to a park or something, get some of the basement stink off him. Knowing my brother, they'll wander into the woods and find a nest of baby bandersnatches or whatever, run around having an adventure and then be home around dinnertime.” He waved a hand dismissively, then fixed Bill with a cold stare. “So it's just you and me, corn chip.”
Bill's eye widened and his pupil narrowed as something like fear crept up his back. Just because Ford hadn’t taken him up on his offer of revenge-crushing didn’t mean his twin wouldn’t. His gaze darted toward possible exits- the crack in the wall had been patched after his rat hunt; if he ran into the bathroom he'd be cornered, and he knew from experience that the window couldn’t be opened. He chose to bolt towards Stan, hoping to take him by surprise and run out through the gap between his legs, but his own bad leg slowed him and Stan had clearly anticipated that move, catching him easily by the collar of his shirt.
“Not so fast, slick.” The human hoisted him into the air and Bill kicked frantically, trying to wriggle free or slip out of the shirt, to no avail.
“H-hey, listen pal,” Bill said with false ease that was absolutely not undercut by the tremor in his voice. “Howsabout we call us even, huh? I invaded your dimension and broke some of your stuff, you killed me- we're square, right?”
“For the Weirdmageddon stuff? Yeah, I guess killing you is a fair trade- or it would be if you'd actually died-”
“I diiiiid! I prommy!”
Stan ignored him and continued, “-but for messing with my family? For breaking my brother's heart? Oh, there ain't no ‘square’ for that one, buster.”
Bill stopped squirming and hung frozen in shock, rotating slowly. He hadn’t- sure, he’d tricked Ford, deceived him, corrupted his mind a little and maybe did some light, flirty torture and psychological warfare, but most of that hadn’t been his original intent! If Ford had just agreed and gone along with the plan, had just built the portal and joined the crew and stayed forever and ever and ever-
He blinked at the wooden floorboards as they passed by underneath him. Had he really broken Ford’s heart? How? That would imply that he’d had it at some point, not just his devotion and his worship and his unwavering attention.
“Now,” Stan said, moving into the hallway with his captive. “There's a marathon of black and white old lady movies and a nap with my name on it, and I don't wanna have to worry about you bothering Soos and Melody or skittering around the house unsupervised with your horrible little gremlin feet.”
Bill looked uncertainly at his feet; they looked the same as usual to him, despite one being wrapped in bandages.
“So here's my solution.” They'd reached the living room, and Stan set Bill onto the floor before inverting a laundry basket over him, weighing it down with several encyclopedias and a stone paperweight for good measure. “You're gonna stay in there, and if I hear one complaint about the movie outta you I'm gonna spray you in the eye with Dipper's disgusting teen body spray.”
Bill squinted doubtfully. “That's it? You're not gonna rip out my eye, stuff me full of rocks and dump me into the quarry? Flay me alive and turn me into taxidermy for your museum? Cover me in syrup and throw me to multi-bears? C'mon, I'm giving you gold here!”
Stan settled into his armchair and reached for the remote. “That all sounds like a lotta work. I’ll keep it in mind for when you really get on my nerves, but you haven't done much yet, besides be obnoxious and get rid of the rat problem. And honestly it seems like the kids are miles ahead of whatever punishment I could come up with.”
“They are disturbingly good at finding music that makes me want to chew off my own face,” Bill admitted with grudging respect.
“Yup, those two are gonna go places!” Stan wiped a proud tear from his eye. “Now pipe down, the credits are starting.”
Notes:
Sorry it's another short one with not much happening, but I love Bill being forced to bond with people against his will. You WILL be part of this stupid family and you WILL be confronted with what you've done you dumb triangle.
Chapter 7: The Sound of Silence
Summary:
The gang does some house repairs and has a picnic, Bill and Ford reminisce, Bill reveals something.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The process of leprecorn-proofing the shack had ended up being a multi-day one, requiring not only the patching of various cracks and crevices around the base of the building but also a series of additional wards for good measure. As the resident weirdness expert and weirdness generator, Ford and Bill had been assigned the warding part of the task, while Soos and the kids took on the physical repairs.
The best deterrent for leprecorns, as it turned out, was redcap urine- difficult to get in large quantities, and despite Bill’s generous offer to simply coat the entire shack in the stuff if they allowed him access to his powers, they opted to mix the small amount they were able to source online with a batch of house paint and scrawl warding runes along the outside of the building instead.
Bill, who had also been banned from graffiti-ing the place with harmful glyphs, rude slogans or creative illustrations of people dying from violent diseases, dragged his brush through the thick, tarry mixture they’d produced. “Yeesh, this stuff stinks something fierce. You know it’s bad when the guy with no nose thinks it smells!”
With a sigh of annoyance, Ford rolled up his sleeves, crouched down and reached for his own brush. Even with Bill’s “help”, this would likely take all day- he anticipated having to check and recheck every ward the demon painted, on the strong chance that he would find some loophole that allowed him to put up monster-summoning runes or other such unhelpful pieces.
Bill, immediately distracted by the sight of Ford’s bare forearms, tripped over a rock and dropped his brush in the grass. He popped back up, brushing dirt off his face and staring at the hairy, scar-dotted skin revealed to the daylight. One mark in particular caught his attention; a jaggedly branching white line that crawled from Ford’s elbow to his wrist.
“Ooh! That’s a fun one,” Bill started to reach out with the intent to poke the scar in question, then recalled their most recent secret rule and stopped just short of making contact. “Where’d that come from? It’s not one of mine, I have those all memorized.”
“What? Oh.” Ford rotated his elbow to look at the old injury. “That was a shot from a lightning gun, in Noir Dimension X. An especially persistent and dangerous bounty hunter named Szasz Szobasz pursued me for a number of years.”
Bill went unexpectedly quiet and suddenly became industriously interested in watching the paint dry on the most recently-added rune.
Ford, instantly suspicious, narrowed his eyes at the demon’s triangular back. “He pursued me for a number of years,” he repeated slowly, “And then he stopped abruptly.”
“Huh, weird!” Bill said with unconvincing nonchalance. “Must’ve gotten bored! Or moved on to a better offer! You know bounty hunters, they’re so flighty. That’s why none of them have emotionally fulfilling relationships.” He picked up his brush and began picking bits of grass off it.
“Bill. What did you do.”
Bill spun around, waving his paintbrush dramatically. “What? Me?! What makes you think I had anything to do with him being fed his own slow-cooked arms and legs and then left stranded on a desert planet?! You have no proof!”
“Let me guess,” Ford rubbed at his forehead tiredly. “You hired him to hunt me down, but he didn’t do it fast enough for your liking and you got impatient.”
“Ha! Wrong! Pyronica hired him!”
Smirking victoriously, Ford folded his arms. “And the reason you... ended his contract?”
“Oh, uh.” Bill glanced at the paint again. “Yeah, haha, you got that part 100% right! It wasn’t because he got too close to actually killing you, because that would be stupid, right? Insane!”
“Bill, you-” Ford’s expression was that familiar battle between amused and appalled, and it was hard to say which was winning. “You can’t have one of your minions hire someone to do a job and then kill them for doing that job!”
Outraged, Bill dropped his brush back into the bucket and stomped his uninjured foot. “Hey, one: I can do whatever I want, or I could back then and two: shouldn’t you be, I don’t know, relieved? Grateful, even?”
Ford scoffed. “I might have been grateful if you hadn’t been the cause of my problems in the first place!”
“You would’ve been bored without someone causing you problems! I know you, IQ, you need something to solve, a challenge, a little spice!”
“So you hired assassins and bounty hunters?!”
“How else was I supposed to keep tabs on you while you were running around between dimensions?”
“You weren’t! I didn’t want you knowing where I was or what I was doing!”
“And that’s why I had to get the best assassins and bounty hunters! Because you deserved the best! And because I knew you’d outsmart them! It was part of our whole sexy cat-and-mouse thing!”
“We never had a sexy cat-and-mouse thing! We just had me, running terrified for my life and trying to find a way to kill you, and you being an insane menace!”
“And I loved that for us,” Bill said earnestly. “But I think we’ve both matured to the point where we don’t need to play will-they-won’t-they games anymore.”
“God, it’s like talking to a brick wall,” Ford muttered.
“Ha ha! Good one, Fordsy!” Bill pointed at the brick pattern on his lower half and waggled his eyebrows. “There’s that rapier wit I missed! But seriously, as much as I hate this whole Inhibitor arrangement, this is a huge step up from sitting around the Nightmare Dimension. Or Theraprism.”
“Right,” sighed Ford. “It’s a relatively short sentence for you, in the grand scheme of things, isn’t it? You’re looking forward to your reincarnation or whatever, I’m sure.”
Bill blinked. “Oh. Yeah, that too, definitely. But I was mostly talking about this-” He gestured back and forth between the two of them. “Y’know, getting to chat with you whenever I want, not just when you fall asleep or summon me.”
Ford stood abruptly and marched a few paces away. Bill watched him go in passive confusion until he felt the pull of the Inhibitor reminding him to stick close to his human chaperone outside the house, at which point he trotted after Ford’s retreating figure.
“Hey, slow down pal, some of us have legs designed for zero gravity and also a cast!” The demon panted as he caught up. Ford had stopped at the edge of the parking lot and was standing with his hands clenched into fists at his sides, staring into the distance. Bill peered into the woods, trying to figure out what he was looking at. “What’s uhhh… what’re we up to over here?”
Ford didn’t respond.
“Ah, the ol’ silent treatment, eh?” Bill wagged a finger up at the human. “Well check this out: silence appreciation, just like you wanted!” So saying, he turned toward the woods and fell into a vacant, wide-eyed stare, his arms hanging limp at his sides.
The wind rose and died down. A woodpecker drummed on a tree nearby. The rhythmic tap of Soos’ hammer echoed in the background.
“Pretty noisy silence if you ask me,” Bill said as an aside, his stare unbroken.
Ford moved next to him and Bill automatically looked up at him. He was half expecting to see the man aiming an irritated kick his way; he was not expecting to see Ford hunching in on himself and shaking with some kind of silent emotion that slipped back and forth between weeping and laughter.
“Hey, whoa-” Bill stepped back in alarm.
Ford pulled off his glasses and rubbed his knuckles into his eyes, backing up until he bumped into a tree and slid down its trunk to sit on the ground. The indeterminate breakdown died back to weak chuckles and the odd sniffle, and he leaned back to press his head against the bark of the tree, breathing out. Cautiously, Bill approached and sat next to him, splaying his legs awkwardly in front of him and watching the human out of the corner of his eye.
After another long pause, Bill coughed and tried, “Uh, that Szasz guy could still be alive. Technically. He wasn’t fully dead when I last saw him, anyway. So. If you were worried about-”
“I’m not worried about Szasz,” Ford sighed, replacing his glasses.
Bill jolted, partly in surprise at hearing him speak and partly in annoyance. “Wha- then what the hell was all that about?!”
“Just…” He looked back at the house and rested one arm on his folded knee. “Just realizing some things.”
“What things?”
“None of your business.”
“Wow, harsh. And I can’t even make you a deal for the information.”
“I wouldn’t take any deal from you even if you could.” Ford had closed his eyes, which meant Bill had no reason not to indulge in staring openly at his profile.
“What if, uh…” The demon had to shake himself and restart the thought aloud. “What if instead of a deal it was just a free and willing exchange of information? I tell you something, you tell me something?”
“Still sounds like a deal,” said Ford with a wry twist to his mouth.
“If it counted as a deal, the stupid Inhibitor would stop me from making it,” Bill pointed out.
Ford considered. “How about this,” he offered, opening his eyes a crack. “You tell me something true and meaningful about yourself.”
Bill waited for the second part of the sentence, but when none came he prompted, “And?”
“And I will consider telling you what I realized.” Ford closed his eyes again.
“What? But that’s-!” Bill sputtered. “You want me to bare my guts or something, and you’ll consider if it’s worth your time?! What happened to the going rate being a penny per thought?!”
“Free and willing exchange, you said.” Ford shrugged, as if he couldn’t have cared less about the conversation.
Bill growled in frustration, clawing at his eyelid. “Rrrrgh, I know what you’re doing! You think I’m gonna fall for some entry-level reverse psychology bullshit? Do you have any idea what kind of quad-recursive negative uno-reverse psychology I survived in therapy?!”
“I don’t care if you ‘fall for it’ or not.” Ford opened his eyes once more, then sat up and stretched. “It was just one small realization, anyway. Why should you care about one measly human’s passing thought?” He raised a brow almost playfully and Bill wanted to either punch him or put Ford’s entire head inside his mouth.
“A thought from literally the only human brain on the planet that’s ever been worth anything!” He ranted to the sky, rising to his feet to better project his fury. “Why the hell do you think I spent so much time and energy trying to recruit you, you brainiac minx!”
Ford’s teasing expression slid back to something closer to wariness. “Stop that.”
Bill paused in his long-suffering soliloquy, lowering his raised fists. “What?”
“Stop…” Ford waved both hands in Bill's general direction, expressively. “Being cute . It won't work.”
Bill blinked rapidly in confusion. Cute? He wasn't being cute. When he was cute it was a deliberate choice, and he wasn't currently making that choice. The rest of the time he was an unknowable and terrifying avatar of chaos to be respected, feared and worshiped.
He sat back down. “Y’know, Fordsy, you're the only being in the multiverse who could get away with calling me that.”
“Ha! Not anymore,” Ford pointed out, grinning. “Anybody could call you anything now. Stanley could call you an adorable little dumpling and you couldn't do anything about it.”
“I could vomit,” Bill reminded him, but a matching smile could be heard in his tone.
They both fell quiet after that, and it was… well, it wasn’t the worst. Some kind of songbird was chirping above them, and Bill watched a fat green caterpillar with fuzzy spines down its back crawl steadily up a nearby branch.
“Something true and meaningful, huh?” Bill repeated in a half-whisper like he was turning over a riddle in his head.
Ford hummed and glanced at him curiously.
“You don’t want, like, the recipe for your favorite mindscape cocktail? Or the exact coordinates of the primordial world-serpent?”
“Nope.”
“Ughhhh.” He flopped onto his back and stared up at the canopy.
Another silence passed by, peppered with the sounds of nature and distant voices.
Bill knew what he could tell Ford. It had popped into his mind almost immediately when the human had made his request. Something true and meaningful, something he’d never shared with anyone, not even those brain-scraping Theraprism busybodies. After all, he’d willingly shown Ford the last speck of his home, before… well. So he knew exactly what piece of information he could offer up. He was just. Having a hard time articulating it, for some reason.
“Do you-”
“There you guys are!”
Bill jerked in surprise and sat up to see the kids and Melody standing over them.
“Taking a break?” Dipper asked his uncle, who smiled.
“Well, I’m an old man,” Ford accepted a lemonade from Melody, who was carrying a tray of glasses that sweated in the heat. “I can’t paint wards all day like I used to.”
Mabel unrolled a blanket she’d brought with her and sat on it, the other humans joining her. “How are the runes coming?”
“Almost done,” Ford replied, making no mention of the disruption in their paint-applications. “And how are the repairs?”
“Dipper hammered his thumb and I got twelve splinters!” She proudly displayed her bandage-laden fingers while her brother looked embarrassed. “Soos says we’re doing great.”
“Excellent!”
Bill watched the four of them chatter and felt something strange and unidentifiable creep up on him. The door to the Mystery Shack opened and he saw Stan and Soos emerge and approach the group with another tray. Their voices faded and the birdsong and wind devolved into a kind of monotonous high-pitched drone echoing in his brain, the sensation of grass and dirt and bark against his body withdrawing into numbness until the droning coalesced into words he could discern.
This isn’t for you. You know what you did. This isn’t for you. YOU KNOW WHAT YOU-
“Bill?”
He jumped and looked quickly around as all the ambient sound came rushing back in at once. Melody was holding a glass toward him, looking at him with concern and Ford was still talking to his brother but he was watching Bill out of the corner of his eye and they were looking at him and they would know what he-
Knock the drink out of her hand you don’t know what they put in it you can’t trust-
Bill stretched an arm out and accepted the glass, resolutely ignoring the tremor in his hand. Soos and Mabel scooted so that there was a perfectly Bill-sized space between them and he shuffled slowly forward until he felt the worn-soft fabric of the blanket under his knees. Melody smiled and turned back to the conversation, and as a compromise Bill ate the plastic straw from his drink.
The rest of the day passed in a blur; the repairs and runes were nearly finished by the time the sun set and they called it.
He and Ford were each settled into their respective beds and beginning to doze off when Bill spoke.
“Fordsy? You awake?”
“Nuhhh. What? You say something?” Ford slurred, lifting his head slightly to squint toward the faintly-glowing shape on the nightstand.
“That offer from earlier. I thought of something.”
Stanford shifted under his blankets and propped his head up on one hand. “Hmm, yeah? Go ‘head.”
Even with all that thinking and preparing, it still took a few beats for Bill to get the words out. “Do you know what it sounds like when an entire dimension dies in the incomprehensible void of pan-dimensional space?” He sat up to look at Ford, his eye open wide and blank. “It sounds like nothing. It sounds like billions and billions of agonizing deaths in the most perfect, absolute silence there is.”
It was hard to tell in the dark, but it looked like Ford was staring at him- maybe stunned by his sudden burst of honesty, or measuring his own response.
“Bill, I… no, I didn’t know that. That’s… that’s awful.”
Bill twitched like someone waking up, tearing his gaze away and tittering uncomfortably. “...Yeah. I guess it is.” He laid back down and stared at the window for a minute, then popped back up. “Hey, so, c’mon! That was personal and true and whatever! So what did you realize?”
Ford grunted like he was thinking it over, then fell silent. When his pause lasted a bit too long, Bill leaned forward and hissed, “Hello?!”
A rumbling snore was all he got back.
“Seriously?” Indignant and humiliated, Bill debated hurling the lamp at his roommate, decided that although it would certainly wake him up it would probably not make him inclined to share any revelations, and laid back down.
Notes:
This chapter was a bit of a struggle to format, which is why it's longer than the last one. Hope you enjoyed it!
Chapter 8: Less Rare Than Scarce, Less Diamond Than Rough
Summary:
Bill has a crisis, Ford meets some tourists, Bill has another crisis, and Mabel has a plan.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Bill was, quite frankly, too mortified at himself to bring up the conversation the following morning as they both woke up- what the hell had he been thinking? Why not just hand Ford a list of his weaknesses or give him access to every recording of every session the Theraprism had forced him into? Why not just blubber like a pathetic little baby about his “tragic backstory” and watch Ford laugh his ass off? He shook himself off and propped himself up against the lamp to flick through one of the gardening magazines he’d appropriated from the living room. Starting today he would double down on the list- less talking, less looking, more rodents! Playing it cool was the name of the game.
“I want to run some more tests on this ‘weird field’ you’re putting out,” Ford called from the bathroom as clouds of vapor drifted out from under the door. “See if I can’t figure out some sort of… dampener/amplifier, for convenience’s sake.”
“Knock yourself out, IQ!” Bill lounged onto one side, scanning the glossy page and its articles about how to grow the biggest and best black mulberries with minimal interest. “I’m always happy to be the world’s most beautiful and overqualified lab… rat…” He trailed off as the bathroom door opened and Ford emerged from the steam dressed only from the waist down, his glasses fogged and his hair- all of his hair, oh hey, when had all that fascinating additional body hair shown up and why had Bill not seen it in exquisite up-close detail yet?- damp and dripping. His arm flexed as he reached up to adjust his glasses and boy, wow, that human muscular system sure was something! Ha ha! The way the… bicep and pectoral and all the other ones just sort of… moved and connected and did all kinds of stuff under all that skin! Why was it even more enticing now that he couldn’t see through every layer of flesh and bone? Plus now there was a fun little layer of fat around his middle that folded in a way that was truly compelling! Wow! When had the room gotten so hot? Must’ve been all that steam from the shower.
“Bill? What’s going on? You went quiet there.”
“Tits,” said Bill, before he could stop himself.
“What?” Ford took off his glasses, wiping them on the towel slung over his shoulder before replacing them. “I didn’t catch that.”
“Uh, I said something normal.” Bill dropped the magazine and slid off the nightstand, hurrying toward the doorway before he did something stupid and rule-breaking like touching or extended eye contact or dropping to his knees and begging Ford to fuck him.
“Where are you going?”
“I forgot I uh, left the refrigerator on fire. Gotta go.” He bolted out the door before any more questions could be aimed his way, then leaned against the wall of the stairway and doubled over with his hands on his knees, taking deep calming breaths and trying to keep from screaming or exploding. He attempted to slap himself across the face for good measure but the “no self-harm” rule of the List activated and his hand just glanced off an invisible barrier before connecting.
Ford watched Bill sprint out of the room and heard what sounded like a muffled shriek of frustration from the stairs a moment later. That seemed worth investigating, but by the time he’d pulled on a shirt and stuck his head out to look, Bill had moved on to elsewhere in the house. More curious than suspicious, Ford trailed slowly through the Shack, glancing into rooms that seemed likely spots for the demon to have vanished into.
When he eventually wandered into the gift shop, he was greeted by the sight of Soos leading a tour and a gaggle of out-of-town folks being shepherded towards various tchotchkes.
“Oh hey, Doctor Pines!” The current Mr. Mystery waved and several tourists turned to look at Ford. “Here we have Doctor Stanford Pines, the original owner of the Mystery Shack! He’s a renowned expert and researcher of all things weird, mysterious and unexplained!”
The crowd ooohed appreciatively.
“Yes, good morning!” Ford wasn’t quite sure whether to call Soos by his name in front of customers or if he was meant to maintain the “Mystery” schtick, so he stuck with an awkward wave. “Any chance you’ve seen-” He paused. It wouldn’t be a good idea to mention Bill’s name, on the off chance that A: there were people in the tour group who were aware of Weirdmageddon, despite the Never Mind All That law, or B: there were people in the tour group that might be easily susceptible to Bill’s influence and might become curious. “Any chance you’ve seen our guest recently?”
“Sorry, Doctor Pines, haven’t seen him!” Soos looked around briefly, then turned his attention back to the cluster of people. “Uh, but of course, anything could happen at the Mystery Shack! Mystery abounds! Things and thingummies around every corner! Speaking of which, if you’ll all follow me…” His voice faded away as he led the group outside toward the Bottomless Pit.
Ford sighed and turned to continue his search, but a voice halted him.
“Excuse me! He said you’re a weirdness researcher? Could you tell us more about that?” A man and woman in their mid-thirties had lingered in the shop, smiling eagerly at him.
“The wife and I just love weird things!” The man said enthusiastically. “That rock that looks like a face? Crazy! And the Sascrotch? Wow!”
“The taxidermied bat-eyeball creature was my favorite,” added the woman.
“Well, uh…” Ford blinked a few times in surprise but quickly warmed to the topic, happy to talk about his work. “Certainly, I can tell you about my Theory of Anomalies, or the Gravity Falls Weirdness Bubble, or I can list a few of the more localized and unique species in the area…” He tapped thoughtfully at his chin, debating which lecture to start with.
“Whoa- do you have extra fingers? Honey, look at his hands, look how freaky!”
“I- uh-” He was briefly thrown off. It was nothing new; he'd heard comments about his polydactyly all his life, but thirty years with almost no human contact had made those comments fade slightly and he was less prepared for them than he'd have liked after all that time.
“Oh how fun! You're like a living exhibit! Is that from the ‘weirdness’ radiation or something?”
Ford bit back a retort and tucked his hands into his pockets. These people were being insufferable but they were customers in Soos and Melody's place of business and it wouldn't help anything if he was rude to them or threatened them with a molecular disintegrator. “No, I am not an exhibit, and no it's not an effect of the anomaly field,” he said shortly, but they were already talking over him.
“Here, hon, take a picture of me with the six-fingered man!” The man slung an arm around Ford's shoulders with grating familiarity and she pulled out her phone.
“I just said I'm not-”
“Hey, can you do a peace sign for the picture? Or devil horns?”
“Here, I'll take the picture,” offered a new voice from knee height. Before either tourist could react to being addressed by a walking hazard sign, Bill had reached up and snatched the phone from the woman's hand. His eye rolled back and was replaced by a fanged maw, into which he promptly dropped the device and began crunching.
The couple did not react well. “What… what the hell is that thing?!” The man screamed, grabbing at Ford's shirt and pointing at Bill like it wasn't clear what he meant.
“It ate my phone! My brand new phone!”
“Lady, that's the least of your problems.” Still chewing splinters of expensive glass and microchip, Bill made a limp-wristed gesture to her ensemble. “With that haircut and fashion sense, you're more of a walking exhibit than Sixer there! I'd call you a freak, but you're too boring for the title. No wonder that guy's screwing your neighbor!” He jabbed a thumb at the man, who went pale.
“Bill-” Ford started to raise a hand in warning as the woman stared at her husband, but Bill wasn't done and he rounded on the guy.
“And you! Grabbing stuff that's not yours is only funny when I do it or when I tell people to do it! In your case, it gets you shot dead with your pants down at age forty-three! But I'm not telling you by who, don't wanna spoil the surprise! Ooooh, is it your neighbor's husband? Your wife? A total stranger? Who knows!” He spat a fragment of phone at the man's shoes, rolled his eye back out and winked.
At that point the couple cut their losses and fled, and their voices could be heard arguing from the parking lot as they ran for their car and peeled out toward the highway.
Bill stood in the doorway of the Mystery Shack to watch them go, his hands on his “hips” and his expression thunderous until they'd vanished from sight. Ford joined him and watched the dust clouds from their departure trail away.
“...I didn't know you could still see the exact time and cause of people's deaths,” he said mildly, after a minute.
“Oh, I can't. That part was a lie.” Bill leaned one arm against the doorframe. “But I guarantee that little revelation is gonna lead to some hilarious paranoia! And before you complain that they could’ve been paying customers and blah blah lost revenue blah blah, check this out.” He waved the wallet he had liberated from one of the fleeing tourist’s pockets, his eye scrunched up in a grin.
Ford sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, then glanced down at his own hand with a slight frown. “I had that handled. You didn't need to step in.”
Bill twitched, then looked away in annoyance. “Psht, I know that! You think I did that for you? I just had a craving for phones and psychological warfare! It doesn't count as maddening knowledge if it's not true, I guess.”
“Bill.”
“What?!”
“Thank you.”
Bill's eye widened in shock- he couldn't have heard that right. He peeked upwards to see Ford smiling at him, and for a split second Bill's entire body flashed hot pink as a wave of warmth passed through him. “Uh,” he stammered, sounding extremely calm and normal. “Yeah, yup! Any time!”
“I’ll just…” Ford plucked the wallet from the demon’s unresisting fingers. “Put this in the lost-and-found for a few days, just in case.”
“Uh-huh.”
Bill staggered out of the shop in a daze and went to lie down on the floor for several hours in the living room. What was happening to him? Something kept heating up or fluttering around inside his body. Was he growing organs? Did he already have organs and something was wrong with them?
At some point, Dipper wandered into the room and found him staring sightlessly at the ceiling.
“Uh. Bill? What’s going- what are you doing in here?” The boy asked, nervous but curious despite himself.
Bill blinked and turned slowly toward him. “Figures you would be the only one around to witness my tragic demise. Wish I could say it's been a blast, Pine Tree, but I'd be lying and I'm not ‘supposed’ to do that anymore. This is it, this is the big one.”
“What,” Dipper said flatly, but Bill bravely and heroically ignored his interjection and carried on with his last words.
“I leave all my earthly and unearthly possessions to uh…” he paused, hand hovering dramatically over his forehead as he considered. “...I guess you can all fight over the t-shirts and the Theraprism drawings but Sixer gets my hat and tie to remember me by. Tell my henchmaniacs... I resent them.” He let his arm flop weakly to the floor and wheezed out a final breath.
“Bill, I’m not supposed to swear- at least not without Grunkle Stan around to make sure I do it correctly- but what the hell are you talking about?”
“What’s going on in here?” Mabel joined her brother in looking quizzically down at the demon sprawling on the carpet.
“He says he’s… sick?” Dipper replied dubiously.
“Dying,” Bill corrected impassively.
“Whoa, from what?!” Mabel leaned over the supine triangle, her hair dangling around him like a curtain. “What are your symptoms? I watch a lot of medical dramas, I can totally help.”
“Ugh.” Bill patted the area that served generally as his torso. “Weird fluttery feeling. And I haven’t even been eating bugs. Plus a fever, probably.”
“I see, I see.” Mabel pulled a glitter pen and flip notebook from her pocket and began, presumably, jotting down medical notes. “And can you recall any events or interactions that may have led to these symptoms? Speedboat accident, blow to the head causing amnesia, witnessing the murder of your spouse by a mysterious masked figure? Anything like that?”
Bill thought it over. “Ate a phone, but that’s nothing new. No speedboats, no spouses- oh.” The image of Ford smiling gently flashed through his mind again and the weird feeling doubled. “Sixer said ‘thank you’ to me. And uh. Smiled.” His fingers curled into the fabric of his t-shirt.
“Interesting.” Mabel finished writing, tucked her pen behind her ear and withdrew a sticker from the notebook, which she pressed onto Bill’s cast. “If you’ll give me a moment to confer with my fellow doctor, I’ll have the nurse come in to take your medical insurance and tell you all the latest hospital gossip.” She grabbed Dipper and hauled him out of the room, sending Nurse Waddles in to flop onto the rug next to the “patient”.
Bill lifted his leg and glanced at the newest sticker. It was a stereotypical cartoon bone with a fracture in the middle and a smiling face, with the words “It’s going tibia okay!” in yellow script. Not bad. He lowered his leg and returned to staring at the ceiling.
“I think this is really serious. I think… I think Bill might actually really like Grunkle Ford.”
“Aw, gross, Mabel!”
“I’m serious!” She repeated.
“Even if that’s true, which, ew- what do you want us to do about it?”
“Well…” She snuck a peek back into the living room, where Bill had flipped over to lay face-down on the rug. “I think I might have an idea.”
Notes:
Man we're starting to get into the good meaty parts now (and I don't just mean Ford being topless ayoooo!)
Hope you are all still enjoying!
Chapter 9: Interlude #2: The Council
Summary:
Mabel puts her plan into action!
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Mabel paced back and forth in front of an easel set up with a jumbo sketchpad, holding a pointer stick as she addressed the group she’d gathered on a semicircle of chairs in the attic.
“Okay, gang, I’ve called you all here because together we form Gravity Falls’ Council of Romance! We’ve got Soos, who holds the record for highest ever score on the Datability Test!”
Soos waved.
“Then we’ve got Melody, who brings a mature, sophisticated lady’s perspective!”
“Not sure how I feel about being called ‘mature’, but I’ll take sophisticated!” Melody laughed.
“We have Dipper, for the skeptic’s input!”
“You told me this was a ‘secret meeting of the utmost importance’, not another weird romance scheme. And why am I the skeptic? I believe in romance!” Dipper protested. “And why the heck is Bill here?!”
“Please, hold your questions for the end of the meeting,” Mabel said sternly. “And lastly we have me: Mabel! Resident expert on all things romance!”
Bill, who was seated on a three-legged stool in the center of the room, raised a hand.
“Yes, Bill?”
“Why am I here?”
“Because you need our help!”
“With what?” Bill asked warily. “Wait, are you all turning on your uncles and giving me my powers back? What a fun twist, I love it!”
“Nooo, with Grunkle Ford! We’re gonna give you romantic advice and maybe a makeover if there’s time.”
“Oh.” Bill blinked at her, slowly straightening in his chair. “That’s uh… yeah, actually, that… I mean sure, let’s see where this goes.” He tried for his usual flippancy but sounded slightly stunned.
“Yeah, I’m out,” said Dipper, climbing off his own stool.
Mabel grabbed him by the shoulders and stared seriously into his eyes. “Dipper. Look at me. Listen. Look and listen.”
“Ow, why are you so strong- ow, ow, okay, I’m looking and listening!”
“Romance,” said Mabel forcefully. “True love. Redemption!”
“You’re just aggressively saying concepts! Ow, quit Vulcan nerve pinching me! When you said you wanted to do something about Bill liking Ford I thought you meant something to make him stop!”
“Why would I do that?! Dipper, focus: if Bill and Grunkle Ford are in love, Bill has no more reason to destroy the world! Look, I made a diagram.” She released him and flipped a page on the easel to show a series of drawings, most of which depicted Bill colored in with varying levels of red over yellow marker (“evilness level” according to the helpful key). There were a variety of romantic activities portrayed, up to and including a wedding with Bill in a veil, and the “evilness level” appeared to diminish with proximity to Ford.
“They make up, Grunkle Ford stops being sad about the past and his powerful hero aura influences Bill to stop being evil, or at least stop doing murder, Bill gets out of jail early for good behavior and uses his magic for amazing things like bringing back the dodo and making vegetables taste like bubblegum, and the next time a big evil bad guy shows up we have Bill on our side and he and Grunkle Ford kick its butt and become superheroes!” She whipped up the last page with a flourish to show Bill and Ford in dynamic poses and masks, Ford dual-wielding laser guns and Bill alight with blue flame as they struck down what appeared to be Godzilla.
“Rad,” Soos whispered approvingly.
“That’s pretty rad,” Melody echoed.
“Am… I supposed to be hearing this whole scheme of yours?” Bill asked confusedly.
“Do you want expert romance advice or not?” Mabel snapped, pointing at him in dire warning.
“Yep! Piping down.” Bill saluted and went attentively silent.
Dipper crossed his arms stubbornly. “I am absolutely not giving Bill Cipher tips on hooking up with Grunkle Ford! And neither should you!” He looked ill just saying it.
“Okay, don't think of it like that then. Because yeah, gross. Think of it as… a teaching opportunity! Teaching Bill to be a better person!”
Bill swallowed the sarcastic remark he was about to make, but he did roll his eye to make it clear how he felt about that sentence.
It worked, though; Dipper’s face grew contemplative as his inherited love of lecturing took over. “Well… Grunkle Ford is definitely too smart to fall for Bill’s tricks again. And when it backfires Bill will be really humiliated…”
“Not freaking likely, Pine Tree! You’ll be the one who’s humiliated when Sixer and I are-” he squinted at the illustrations. “-waltzing and eating flowers! Ha!”
“It’s supposed to be a tango with a rose in your teeth, but close enough!” Mabel nodded to Bill and patted Dipper as he sat reluctantly back down.
"Whatever you say, kid! I'm ready for advice! Maybe some human perspective is the secret sauce I've been missing! Lay it on me, gimme all your best ideas!”
“Here's an idea: kill yourself,” said Dipper.
“Ha! You think I didn’t try that ol’ chestnut after the first thirty years in Theraprism? I got so creative with safety scissors they had to ban ‘em from the whole pocket dimension!”
“Yikes,” Soos muttered as an aside to Melody, who nodded, looking worried.
Mabel interposed herself between her brother and the agitated demon before the conversation could get any darker. “Okaaayy, some workshopping to do on our brainstorming techniques but let's keep trying! I brought magazines with some helpful quizzes and advice columns, but we can go over those later. For now, Bill, how about you tell us about Grunkle Ford?”
Bill leaned forward in his seat and kicked his legs delightedly. “Happy to! What do you want to know? His social security number? His earliest memory? How to tell which opening chess maneuver he’s going to use?”
“How about we start with… what do you like about him?”
Bill sat back, looking puzzled by the question. “...Everything?”
“Aww!” Melody put a hand to her chest, charmed.
Dipper, unintentionally filling in his role as the skeptic, crossed his arms and raised a brow. “Really? You can’t think of anything you don’t like about him?”
“Maybe the stubbornness, or the know-it-allness?” Soos tried.
“Or how he forgets to shower and smells like gross old man sometimes?” Mabel offered.
“Or the fact that he dedicated his life to killing you?” Added Dipper.
“Nope!” Bill began to count each trait off on his fingers, refuting them as he went. “The stubbornness is important- it’s how we maintained our fun long-distance thirty-year back-and-forth thing. The know-it-allness is adorable. The stink makes him easier to locate. And the killing me thing- come on, that’s like one of my favorites! That’s how I knew he cared!” He sighed and leaned against one hand, staring off into the distance for a moment before blinking and popping upright. “Ah! I got one! I hate that he’s mortal!”
“Well that’s… uhh, not likely to change.” Mabel winced apologetically.
“I knowww, he shot down every offer of immortality I made back in the Fearamid. Ugh.” He stared into the distance again, thinking. “Maybe by the time I get my powers back he’ll have reconsidered. What do you think?”
“Ehhhh…” She winced a second time.
“I think maybe Ford doesn’t like the idea of having to watch those he loves grow old and die without him,” Melody said, trying to be helpful.
Bill narrowed his eye. “What, so I have to make all of you immortal? Ugh, fine! I could’ve just done that back then if he’d asked!”
“Not everybody wants to live forever, dude. That’s just how it is.”
“Rrrrrgh!” He tried to claw at his eyelid but only managed to drag his hands down his face in exasperation.
“Okay,” Mabel patted his arm consolingly. “How about instead of focusing on hypotheticals, we work on stuff you can do now?”
“Like what?”
“Well, like… you used to know him really well, right?”
“Literally better than anyone else ever could,” Bill said with perfect sincerity, his eye flickering like a lightbulb.
“Okay, well, maybe we don’t phrase it like that, but- if you knew him that well, you must remember some of his likes and dislikes, right?”
“Sure! He likes theoretical topology, piano, drinks that taste like Boccherini’s Passacalle on violin and cello, collecting vermin, pushing the laws of man and science-”
“What was that about vermin?”
“Oh.” He blinked. “Yeah, he has all those dead bugs.”
“W- his moth collection?” Dipper asked, tilting his head.
“Yeah.” Bill waved an encompassing hand. “Bugs, rodents, gnomes, all those things humans think are vermin. Pretty hypocritical if you ask me.”
“Is- is that why you keep bringing him dead rats and stuff?”
“Of course.” He paused, a thought occurring. “Do you think I should try gnomes next?”
“Worth a shot,” said Soos in the same moment as Dipper’s, “Absolutely not,” and Melody’s, “Wouldn’t that count as murder?”.
“Hm. You’ve got a point there, Meat Lady. Okay, not gnomes. Capybaras?”
Mabel gasped in horror, and Dipper leaned forward before that idea could go anywhere. “Bill, why not just… get him more moths? You know he likes those!”
“Psh, he’s already got a bunch of moths!”
“So get him some he doesn’t have yet!”
“Hmmm.” Bill tented his fingers and narrowed his eye in deep thought. “So I should bring him a swarm of moths. He loves swarms of things.”
Melody cringed at the mental image. “Um, maybe bring them to him dead and in a frame. Like his other moths.”
“Got it.” Bill pulled a small notebook from inside his shirt and began scribbling into it.
“You could also try just asking him what he likes instead of assuming,” added Dipper, warming to the conversation a little. “And actually listening to his answer.”
“I always listen, I just sometimes disregard what I’ve listened to when it’s inconvenient,” Bill replied, still writing.
“Okay, so can you try actively listening,” Mabel agreed. “And you can get him a nice gift. What else? Maybe try helping around the Shack more? You’re already sort of helping with the monster hunts, but a good partner is ready to help with household chores too!” She pointed to one of the magazines, which offered “Fellas: Top Ten Dishwashing Techniques To Drive Her Wild!!”.
“Yeah, I guess doing more ‘community service’ couldn’t hurt,” Dipper nodded.
"Maybe you could write a nice apology letter to the town, for traumatizing them and trying to destroy everything,” suggested Melody.
“But I'm not sorry for that,” Bill said plainly. “What do I care about a bunch of human yokels?”
“Some of those ‘yokels’ are our friends!” Mabel said, putting her hands on her hips.
“Are you sorry about anything? Like… is regret an emotion you can even feel?” Asked Dipper, preparing to take notes.
Red.
Blue.
Silence.
Can we talk?
Stupid, stupid. Weak.
“I'm sorry I didn't kill all of you when I had the option,” Bill replied without enthusiasm.
“Guess we should've seen that coming,” Dipper muttered to his sister.
Mabel seemed unconvinced. “Nothing else? Are you sure?”
Can we talk?
“Nope. Nothing.” Bill stretched, cracking his knuckles in an exaggerated show of nonchalance. “What's the point of apologies, anyway? If you did something wrong the first time you just go back in time and do it better, and if you can't time travel you're f- screwed and the person hates you forever or until you kill them.”
“I mean.” Melody blinked, surprised. “The point is that the people who were hurt get to know that you regret your actions, that you acknowledge your wrongs and are trying to do better, and maybe if they accept it you can move towards forgiveness. Weren't you in therapy before this? Did they not go over apologizing and making amends?”
“Eh, if they did I wasn't listening.”
“But you just said-”
He leaned forward, interrupting. “Wait, back up. So if I apologize to somebody- not that I'm going to- they get to decide whether it works or not? They get all the power? What's the point, then?!”
“Well, it’s not about power. And the point is that they might feel better, and you might feel better, and have a better understanding going forward.”
“Sounds like a scam.”
“Hmm.” Melody watched him carefully for a moment. “Well, maybe you don’t care about the town, but you’ve made it pretty clear you care about Doctor Pines, and I think he might appreciate a heartfelt apology. You could start there.”
“But what if I do everything correctly and he still doesn’t go for it?”
“Then you accept that situation with grace and dignity,” Mabel answered sagely, then cocked her head and amended, “You can do some moping first, if it helps.”
“Yeah, Bill, don’t be a Gideon,” Dipper warned.
“Or a GIFfany!” Put in Soos.
“Yeah, don’t be a Gideon or a GIFfany! Hey, are we just learning that there’s inherently something creepy and possessive about people whose names start with G?”
“Hmm. No, Grenda’s pretty normal.”
“What about Gorney?”
“Jury’s still out on Gorney.”
“But,” Bill interrupted, trying to bring the conversation back to his focus of concern. “But if it doesn’t work and he doesn’t want anything to do with me, what do I…” He hated how pathetic he sounded but there was no getting around it now. “...what do I do?”
The humans looked uncomfortable for a few moments.
“Well,” Dipper rubbed the back of his neck, looking away awkwardly. “You, um… you move on? With your life? Maybe get a hobby that doesn’t involve global domination?”
“Yeah! You work on yourself.” Mabel patted her hand over her heart, then reached for one of the stacks of magazines she had prepared. “You could get bangs! Although you’d have to grow some hair first. Or maybe try dating somebody else!”
“Maybe don’t,” Dipper cringed. “I don’t think inflicting Bill on some other human is gonna help matters.”
“I don’t want some other human,” Bill said sullenly. “Or nonhuman. Or human-alien hybrid. Or pan-dimensional energy being. Or howling void.”
“That’s kind of sweet and weirdly touching.” Mabel opened one of the magazines to a two-page spread of inoffensively handsome human men with their shirts off. “But here! Check out all the hunky boys that could be out there for you!”
“I don’t care about hunky boys,” groused Bill, but he took the magazine and examined it just in case.
“Well, I don’t have any magazines about hunky grandpas, so you get what you get.”
Item #1: Do NOT create a beautiful and enticing display of freshly-killed rats. Try gerbils. NOT gerbils. Try guinea pigs? Humans definitely eat guinea pigs. Ok he didn’t mind the guinea pigs but it made Shooting Star cry, which made Sixer mad for some reason. So. Back to square one. Give him moths. Give him already dead moths. Give him already dead moths, in a frame.
Notes:
Little bit of a filler chapter but also this dialogue was so fun to write.
Chapter 10: I'm Still In the Process But I'm Making Progress
Summary:
Bill gives Ford a present and helps with a science project!
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
“Helloooo Fordsy!” Bill was practically vibrating with anticipation as he approached his old pal down in the lab. He’d forgone his usual t-shirt (it was laundry day) and had opted instead to stick one of Mabel’s origami stars onto himself with sticky-tack, slightly to the left side of his body like a pocket square. Mabel had offered a variety of makeover options but this had been the least intrusive and he actually found the star sort of appealing.
“What do you want now, Cipher?” Ford asked warily without looking away from his basement workstation. “I’m still not letting you have unfettered access to the kitchen equipment; I don’t care how good a cook you claim to be or how many times you promise not to poison anyone.”
“Still being stubborn about that one, huh? You’d change your tune if you’d ever tasted my atom-splitter souffle! But no, I actually have…” He pulled a wide picture frame from behind his back, where it had somehow been hidden despite being considerably larger than he was. “A gift! For you!”
“Whatever it is, I don’t want-” Ford glanced at the frame, then did a double-take and turned to get a better look. Three rows of point-mounted moths stared back at him, a kaleidoscope of rich browns and blacks, burnt oranges and vivid reds. They were mounted in slightly haphazard and amateurish fashion, but they were beautifully intact and unfamiliar species. “How did you get these?”
“Stood on the roof at night with a flashlight and a net until the Moth Man showed up, let the kids hit him with brooms until he exploded, caught the moths he exploded into. Almost got headbutted off the roof by that stupid goat.” He glanced down at the display with a mix of pride and dissatisfaction. “These were the best I could do without leaving the immediate area, since I can’t go any-freaking-where without one of you ding dongs and this was supposed to be a surprise. If I’d had my powers I would’ve just made a cool new type of moth with six wings or something so you’d match, but nooo-”
“Bill,” Ford said, his mouth twisting as he fought not to laugh. “Stop bringing me dead animals, please.”
The demon slumped, lowering the frame. “Dammit, I knew these weren’t good enough but when I tried to convince the others to help me source some better ones it was all ‘Oh Bill stealing from the zoo seems bad!’ and ‘Bill we’re children we can’t drive!’ and ‘Bill stop stealing my credit card and trying to order expensive moths online!’. Honestly, it’s impossible to get good help around here!”
Ford snorted, losing the battle, then gave in and burst into laughter. Bill immediately straightened, his eye shining with accomplishment.
“Let me see.” Ford bent and took the frame in both hands, holding it up to the light. “These are wonderful. I don’t recognize any of the species; they may all be new to science. I wonder if they’re at all related to the goth moths I’ve seen around the woods, or the unique Automeris I caught when I first arrived… The eyespots are a bit similar, even if these look more like Geometridae...” He placed the frame on the desk, already contemplating where on the wall it could hang, and turned back to Bill with a little half-smile. “Thank you. I’m still not giving you your powers back, though, if this was meant to be some sort of bribe…”
“Jeez, Sixer, so paranoid! Can’t a triangle get his favorite human a gift of a bunch of dead bugs without it being suspicious?”
“Everything you do and say is suspicious,” Ford replied without animosity, trying to cover the urge to squirm in his chair at the nostalgic and dubious honor of being dubbed Bill Cipher’s favorite human.
“Ha! Yeah, fair enough.” Bill approached the desk, preparing to climb up the drawers, and without thinking Ford reached down and offered him a hand. Pleasantly surprised, Bill took it, shrinking down just enough to sit in the calloused and familiar six-fingered palm and wrapping his own hands around Ford’s thumb (purely for stability, they both told themselves) as he was lifted smoothly up to desk-height.
Rather than immediately depositing his cargo and going back to work, Ford held Bill over the desktop so he could see the sketches and calculations of his idea for a weirdness field dampener. “What do you think?” He asked, knowing he didn’t need to explain any of his scribbles to his former muse, who could read his shorthand literally backward and forward. “I’m focused on the dampening effect only at the moment, but once I get that nailed down it should be child’s play to reverse-engineer an amplifier…”
“Hmm.” Bill rubbed at the space below his eye and squinted contemplatively. “Why not just throw one of those size-altering crystals into the filtration switch? You’d reduce the heat output and it wouldn’t need to be recharged as frequently, plus you’d have your amplification built-in if you reverse the crystal.”
“Oh.” Ford’s eyes widened, sparkling with new ideas, and before Bill could make another comment the human had placed him on his shoulder and begun to feverishly erase and alter his designs. “That’s an excellent suggestion, I hadn’t even thought of that…” He murmured half to himself as he worked.
Bill stifled the urge to reminisce aloud on how like old times this was, focusing instead on drinking in every close-up detail of Ford’s features. Figuring it wouldn’t technically be breaking the rules since he hadn’t initiated the physical contact that was still technically unbroken, he took the opportunity to scoot a little closer and very delicately twine his fingers through that thick silvery head of hair. When Ford didn’t react, he let out a soft sigh and continued petting him, keeping the touch as light as possible.
A solid ten minutes went by, and the combination of Stanford’s body heat, the rhythmic scratch of his pencil, and the occasional rumble of his voice as he muttered his way through an equation or alteration had Bill’s eye drooping closer and closer to shut as drowsiness crept up on him. It had been a late night hunting the Moth Man and then pinning and framing all those moths, and this was the most comfortable he’d been in… decades or centuries, depending on what counted as real. Maybe he could just rest his eye...
“...ill. Bill?”
He jerked upright, blurting, “It was an accident!”
“What?” Ford’s voice came from right up against him still and he froze like a cornered animal, pupil shrinking, taking stock: he was still perched on Ford’s shoulder, but he’d somehow managed to wrap his arms around the human’s neck and was leaning into his cheek, pressing their faces together. His uninjured leg was tucked up underneath him, and his bandaged one hung down Ford’s chest.
Slowly, he looked to the side. Ford was staring at him, unmoving despite having his own personal sleep paralysis monster cuddling his head. Bill retracted his arms and braced himself for more shouting and throwing of objects- a repeat of the last time he’d gotten this close. Shit, and last time he hadn’t known about the no-touching rule, so he’d really fucked it up this time-
When Ford reached up for him, Bill flinched and tried to crawl away from both the approaching hand and the face he’d been clinging to. “Wait, wait, I’m s-” In his haste he forgot that he had nowhere to go from his shoulder seat but down, and he toppled into empty air.
“Damn-” Ford twisted in his seat and fumbled after Bill like he was a bar of soap in the shower, catching him in both hands before he could hit the floor. He breathed out a sigh of relief and then replaced it with a scolding, “Don’t scare me like that!”
“Wh- scare you?!” Bill asked indignantly, thankful for being caught and angry at himself for needing to be caught, for being grateful for such a thing. He’d shrunken down even further when he was trying to get away, an automatic fear response that he resented, and now he fit easily in the cradle of Ford’s twelve digits. He focused on sizing back up, but suddenly two thumbs pressed down on his middle and pinned him, firmly but not painfully, in place.
“Hold on.” Ford’s voice was stern and Bill found himself automatically obeying before he’d even registered the rest of the sentence. “Your cast is falling apart; all that size-changing must have loosened it.” He brought Bill back up to the desk and shuffled aside some of his papers, carefully moving the frame to rest on top of the stack, and placed the demon down on the cleared space. With a light grunt of exertion, he pushed off with both legs and wheeled his chair across the room to grab latex gloves, rubbing alcohol and a few other items, wheeling back over to find that Bill had thankfully remained where he’d left him.
Ford held him in place with one hand while the other snipped steadily through the layered bandages with a pair of medical shears. Bill shivered when the cold metal glided across his flesh, some part of him half-expecting to feel the blade turn and slice into him- at this size, a single well-placed snip would take off the whole leg! What would it feel like in this form? It would hurt, he was sure, but if it was Fordsy doing it, maybe it would hurt good. It would keep Ford’s focus on him, anyway.
The bandages (and the remaining stickers) fell away into a little heap and Ford leaned forward, squinting. “A bit bigger, please.”
Bill obeyed, sizing himself up until he was only a bit smaller than his usual, and the scientist took hold of the healing limb to get a better look at it. He pulled gently until the leg was straight, then began squeezing it lightly with his other hand, starting at the ankle and working his way up toward Bill’s body. The inky black of the leg, which was at times glossy as an oil slick, matte like rubber or even an insect-like iridescent, was now slightly marred by a few more silvery-static hairline scars in the rough shape of a bite. The initial swelling must have hidden them, Ford speculated as he rubbed a thumb over one of the healed-over punctures.
“Interesting. I had half expected it to heal like an insect's cuticle, but it's still remarkably flexible.” He coiled Bill’s leg around two of his fingers like a phone cord, then released it and watched it spring back into its normal shape.
“Cool,” said Bill, managing to sound only slightly strangled as he resisted the urge to melt into the manhandling like he was getting a massage. It was simultaneously the most relaxed and the most tense he’d been in ages; he felt like molten gold was being poured through his physical form, but every inch Ford’s fingers moved up his leg felt like an inhale and no exhale, a balloon close to bursting. The air smelled like lilac and rubbing alcohol and sweat and ozone.
Ford caught the strange note in the demon's voice and the odd rigidity of his posture. “Does that hurt? I should have asked first.”
Bill hesitated. If Ford's intent was punishment, maybe for the hair-fondling and neck-holding earlier, then admitting that the touching wasn't painful would make it stop. Then again, if his intent wasn't to cause pain and Bill lied and said it did hurt, the touching would also stop. It was a gamble either way. “It's fine,” he said at last, as neutrally as possible.
He'd gambled wrong, apparently; Ford frowned and withdrew his hands and Bill tried not to slump in disappointment.
“Well, aside from the scarring it looks like it's healed up nicely.” He discarded the crumpled bandages and gave the leg a final once-over before nodding in satisfaction. “And in quite a short amount of time, too! I wonder whether that’s a natural part of your physiology or some latent effect of your powers.”
“Your guess is as good as mine, IQ.” Bill poked at the new scars, annoyed at the physical reminder of such an embarrassing injury, and stood up to take a few cast-free steps around the desk.
“How does it feel?”
He shrugged, did a few squats followed by a quick, jaunty tapdance across the cleared space. “Not too bad! Guess Fez won’t get to take me out back and shoot me like a racehorse after all!”
“He was kidding about that. Mostly.”
Notes:
God it's fun to make them be weird little oblivious freaks about each other.
Chapter 11: Sumer is Icumen in
Summary:
The town finds out.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
It was another overcast day and the humans of the Mystery Shack were gathered in the gift shop, halfheartedly debating over what to do for dinner while Soos and Melody counted out the till for the day. Ford had left Bill in their shared room for the time being and was busy arguing in favor of Chinese takeout alongside Mabel and Stan (Soos and Dipper wanted pizza again and Melody was voting tacos) when something outside caught his eye. He left off discussing the merits of sesame chicken and approached a window, peering into the evening at the flickering blobs of light that briefly resembled giant fireflies.
“There appears,” observed Ford calmly, “to be a decently-sized mob of townsfolk outside.”
The debate paused and everyone looked up in alarm and confusion. One by one they spotted the gathered silhouettes of several dozen people standing on the grassy patch just outside the Shack’s entrance.
“Maybe they're here for the tour?” Soos asked with a shrug. “I did just put up the new leprecorn diorama.”
“They're holding torches.”
“...maybe they really hate the new leprecorn diorama?”
“Has Grunkle Stan done any new scams lately?” Mabel pondered, tapping at her chin thoughtfully.
“Not since StanCoin fell through,” Stan said, similarly deep in thought before shaking himself out if it. “Hey, wait, why would they be after me?! We have a literal demonic space criminal living here! They're probably after him!”
“I'm afraid you may be right.” Ford glanced out the window again. The crowd was growing restless, and seemed to be debating about who should knock on the door.
“But how would they have even found out he's here?” Asked Dipper. “It's not like he's been walking around town; he's been in the shack and the woods and that's it!”
“...ah.” Ford recalled Bill’s recent interaction with the public and how well it had gone, and he winced.
Melody watched as a few people broke free of the crowd and shuffled toward the door, then got into an argument and retreated back to the group. She tutted and pushed the door open, stepping out onto the gift shop porch and was swiftly followed by Stan, Ford and Soos. “Hi! Can we help you folks?”
The mob, startled at being addressed directly, all flinched back and a wave of whispering broke out until a few citizens emerged as representatives.
“A couple tourists came into the diner screaming about an evil yellow triangle that attacked them at the Mystery Shack,” said Lazy Susan.
“He hardly attacked them,” Ford muttered with a scornful roll of his eyes.
“Ha! They must've been talking about the wet floor sign! It's yellow and triangular and people are always slipping and falling around it!” Stan announced very loudly to hide his brother's words.
One or two people seemed to buy that, but there was still a general discontented rumbling from the mob.
“So you’re absolutely sure he’s not back?” Blubs asked directly.
“Psht, of course he’s not back!” Mabel reassured everyone as she and Dipper joined the rest of the group on the porch, letting the door swing shut behind them. “Don’t you think we would all be freaking out if he was back? Do you see us freaking out?”
That was more effective than Stan’s floor sign ruse; a sigh of relief seemed to go through the crowd.
“She’s got a point!”
“Yeah, if he was back I was absolutely gonna freak out!”
“Me too! I feel so calm now! I’m gonna use this torch to toast a marshmallow instead of setting fire to my surroundings in a blind panic!”
“Wait…” Dipper glanced around, counting the group on the porch. “How many of us are out here? Is anyone inside the house with-”
Bill may not be in the house alone; if there is not at least one human also present in the house Bill will be teleported to the nearest group of two or more people from the approved list.
Pop!
The crowd's heads turned as one to look at the bright yellow triangle that had just conspicuously popped into existence at the front of the Pines family. Said triangle turned slowly around to see the torch-bearing mob, all of whom looked ready to dispense justice à la the villagers from the Frankenstein film.
“Oh shit,” Bill said (or tried to say- the “no swearing in front of the children” rule automatically filtered his curse into an error noise to all within earshot).
“It is him! I thought he was dead!”
“How is he back?!”
“Why is he here?!”
“I’m gonna freak out so bad!”
“Is the world ending again? I knew I shouldn't have gotten out of bed this morning!” Whimpered Toby Determined, dropping his (thankfully unlit) torch and covering his head.
“Quick, kill him before he starts zapping people's facial features off!”
“So sorry, we'll be with you in just a moment!” Melody told them in her best customer service chirp. She grabbed Stanley and Stanford and yanked them into a huddle, Soos and the kids immediately joining. Bill ducked behind the curtain of Ford's coat.
“Any ideas?”
“I could hide him under my shirt and run into the woods,” offered Soos (Bill retched quietly but said nothing). “We give them the wet floor sign and let them kill that, then come back when the coast is clear!”
“That seems like a very short-term solution, but keep brainstorming,” Ford said.
“I could pretend I still have all my powers and that I’ll kill them if they don’t leave,” Bill piped up. “Or better yet, you could let me actually have my powers back and then I could make them leave!”
“How bout we tie him to a branch and let people pay five bucks a pop to swing at him like he's a piñata?”
“Stanley, that would very likely kill him.”
“Okay, so we charge ten bucks a pop.”
Mabel shook Stan's arm in admonishment. “You can't let them kill him! We're redeeming him through the power of love!”
“Mabel, sweetie, a guy like Bill isn't gonna be redeemed by the power of love.”
“How dare you,” Mabel hissed, her eyes narrowing dangerously.
“More importantly,” Dipper cut in with a nervous glance at the mob. “If he dies, will Grunkle Ford's record still get cleared?”
“Crud.” Stan glared at Bill, who had graduated from hiding behind Ford's coat to gripping it like a life preserver. “You couldn't just keep outta trouble, couldja? Too much to ask from the big bad space Dorito.”
“Those idiot tourists had it coming!” Hissed Bill.
“Why, what did they do?” Asked Melody curiously.
“Enough huddling!” Screamed Manly Dan, obliterating a signpost with a punch. “Time for justice!”
“We don't want that thing anywhere near our town!” Added someone near the back.
“Unless it's stuffed and mounted on a wall!” Someone else cracked.
“He turned Durland into a rock! An actual rock, not just my metaphorical rock!”
“Yeah, he used a bunch of us as part of his chair! I didn't consent to be a chair in that particular instance!”
“He used me as a spinner for evil party games!”
“He wrecked my home! And my marriage!”
“Wait, how did he wreck your marriage?”
“Listen, blaming him is cheaper than couple's therapy, okay?”
“Burn the Shack down with him inside!”
“Hey, hey!” Stan held out both hands to interrupt the growing fervor. “We all hate the guy, but aren't you all forgetting? By talking about what he did you're breaking the Never Mind All That law!”
They recoiled and most turned to look at the mayor and two police officers questioningly.
“He's got a point, I don't want to get tasered in the face!”
“Well what if we just kill him without talking about why? That's not breaking any laws!”
“Crap,” said Stan. “They found the loophole.”
“Get ‘im!” Said Mayor Tyler, raising his torch. “Get ‘im!”
The crowd surged forward and Bill scrabbled frantically at the door like a cat begging to be let in.
“Alright, enough!” Ford drew his pistol and fired a warning shot into the air, then trained the gun on the mob, who came crashing to a halt. “I invoke the ancient law of Blood Feud!” He roared. “By right, no one gets to kill Bill Cipher but me!”
“Ooooh,” said most of the crowd, impressed.
“Hang on,” complained one skeptic toward the middle of the group. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of that law!”
Ford glanced frantically at Stan, who immediately stepped forward to help bolster his brother’s made-up law by pointing at the doubter and shouting, “Ha! This guy’s never heard of the ancient law of Blood Feud! What a rube!”
Sensing blood, the rest of the horde began laughing along with him.
“Yeah, what a rube!”
“Everybody knows about that law!”
“I definitely do, for sure!”
“Yeah, I’ve absolutely heard about it before today!”
“Me, too! But just for people who maybe forgot it, what is it again?”
Stan coughed. “Well, of course, it’s a law so old it predates the town, and it says that, ahh… uh…”
“As the person who’s held a death-grudge against Bill the longest, Grunkle Ford has first dibs on killing Bill!” Dipper supplied.
“And anyone who usurps the law and cuts in line gets their soul ripped out by ghost eagles!” Mabel added, waving her arms dramatically.
“Absolutely, that’s all correct,” Ford nodded quickly, lowering his pistol slightly but not putting it away. “No one hates Bill Cipher as much as I do, and no one may claim his miserable life but me.” He was very deliberately not looking down at Bill, but he could sense the demon staring at him from his position still pressed against the door. “And while I decide how and when to finish him off, we’re using him to study and deal with Gravity Falls’ anomalous activity.”
“So he’s like your… life-debt unpaid research assistant?” Someone asked, raising a hand.
“Well…” Ford winced at the description, waving his own hand in a so-so gesture.
“Technically he’s not unpaid,” Soos pointed out. “He’s on the Mystery Shack employee register and he gets paid under the table in cash- the traditional Mystery Shack way!”
A mulleted man stepped forward, scratching his head quizzically. “Wait, so when y’all helped me out with that rampaging bigfoot dummy…”
“That’s right!” Mabel pointed at him. “Bill helped us lure it into a trap! And when you-” She singled out another citizen, who jumped guiltily. “-were trying to fill in that acidic pond in your backyard and it kept dissolving all the dirt you put in and spewing out toxic clouds, Bill was the one who told us it was actually the open stomach of a giant underground creature with acid reflux!”
“That industrial-sized barrel of antacids did do the trick,” the citizen nodded.
(“Yeah, along with all those corpses of wealthy family members you dumped in there over the years,” Bill muttered.)
“And when that herd of teakettlers was wandering around making so much noise nobody could sleep, he helped divert them back into the woods,” Melody recalled.
“And when that Dungavenhooter was snorting up lumberjacks, he helped us take it down!” Mabel finished, pointing at Manly Dan, who lowered his torch, chagrined.
“Givin’ the bait a lotta credit there…” Stan said aside to Ford with an eyeroll.
“It’s working, though,” Ford whispered back.
Sure enough, the bloodlust of the crowd was fading to a mixture of confusion, contrition and relief.
“Well… I guess if he’s not gonna destroy the town or eat anyone’s eyeballs it’s okay…”
“Yeah, I don’t wanna get tasered in the face or carried off by ghost eagles.”
“I suppose the Pines family would know best about dealing with him,” Tad Strange added with a nod.
“...I do like his puma shirt,” admitted Mayor Tyler. (Bill glanced down at today’s shirt which very clearly displayed a panther, but figured it was in his best interest not to correct anyone.) “Okay. I guess if he promises he’s not here to kill everyone and take over the world, he can stay.”
All eyes turned once more to Bill, who jerked in alarm, his eye darting around nervously. “Oh, uh… yeah, I promise?”
“Great!” The mayor clapped and faced the horde of townsfolk. “Okay, everyone! Crisis averted, you can all go about your lives!”
A mildly confused cheer went up, and one by one, torches were lowered or extinguished. The few citizens that remained unconvinced were mercifully shepherded away by friends or swept along in the dispersing crowd, and soon it was as if there had never been an angry mob about to burn down the Mystery Shack at all.
“That was close,” Melody sighed, holding the door for everyone.
“Agreed. Bill, let go of my coat.” Ford swept into the house and through the gift shop to the vending machine, punching in the code.
“Wait, Grunkle Ford, where are you going? We still haven’t decided on dinner yet!” Mabel protested.
“Whatever you all decide is fine,” he said, not looking back as the machine whooshed to one side to admit him. “I have to finish up some notes; call me when the food arrives.”
He disappeared into the lab, the vending machine sealing behind him before Bill could follow him like he’d been trying to do.
“Huh. Weird.” Soos shrugged and returned to the register to finish his count. “Well, Triangle Dude, I guess that means you get his vote on dinner.”
“Do not give him that power,” Stan said flatly. “He’s just gonna vote for, I dunno, blood or human teeth or something.”
Bill stopped staring at the vending machine and turned to blink up at the group. “What are the options?”
“Chinese, pizza or Mexican,” Dipper recounted.
“Mexican. Infinite empanadas.” The demon folded his arms decisively.
“Uh, they don’t… I don’t think they serve those… on this planet,” Melody said, apologetic.
“Okay, then human teeth.”
“See!” Stan pointed at him. “What’d I say? Revoke his voting rights!”
“We’re never gonna get dinner,” groaned Mabel.
Notes:
Ford: only I hate Bill enough to get to kill him!
Bill, overwhelmingly horny: i think I hauve covid
Chapter 12: How Could Anybody Have You & Lose You & Not Lose Their Mind Too?
Summary:
Bill and Ford talk and things... escalate.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
True to his word, Ford emerged from the lab when dinner arrived (since no consensus could be reached, they defaulted to burgers), and the meal passed uneventfully, Stan and Ford regaling the table with tales of their nautical exploits on the Stan’o’War and Soos updating them on his plans for the renovations of the Shack.
The day wound down from there in much the same way as had become customary over the summer months; Soos and Melody went back to their shared apartment in town, the kids retreated to their upstairs bedroom to read and craft until bedtime, Stan dozed off into his post-dinner pre-bedtime tv nap in the living room and Ford brought Bill back to their shared room for the evening. He’d also brought the Weirdness Field Modifier prototype, intending to continue tinkering with it at the workbench in his room until he grew tired.
They both settled into their normal routine, with Bill perching on one of the arms of the couch to disinterestedly page through one of the gardening magazines he continued to steal out of the mail pile, pretending to read tips on growing Spanish jasmine while Ford tried not to take notice of his repeated glances.
Finally Bill cleared his throat and set aside the magazine, standing and stretching with false casualness. “Sooo, nobody hates me as much as you, huh?”
Ford sighed heavily and set down the prototype. He wasn’t getting much done on it at the moment anyway; he’d been screwing and unscrewing the same panel back into place for the last five minutes like a nervous fidget. “I knew you were going to find some way to read into that.”
“Hey, did I say it was a bad thing? I’ll take hate over indifference any day, Sixer! Hate’s a strong word, lots of passion.”
“I hated you for thirty years, Bill, it’s more or less second nature to me at this point.”
“Yeah, but before that you liked me!”
Ford looked at him with hawklike intensity. “Bill, I loved you before that.”
That… was not what he had been expecting to hear. Ever. Bill sat back down very suddenly, his eye wide and a flash of pink darting across his face faster than a blink.
Ford was still watching him, and the sharp look in his eyes slowly softened into something contemplative. He stood, pushing the chair back under the workbench, and removed his coat, draping it over the back of the chair.
“Do you remember,” he began as he kicked off his mud-crusted boots in preparation for bed. “The other day, when I said I’d realized something?”
“No, I’d completely forgotten- of course I remember that!” Bill said testily. “I also remember you were real stingy about sharing said realization!”
Ford shrugged, neither agreeing nor denying. “I realized… that you might not have been lying. About enjoying spending time with me. And that made me realize that maybe you hadn’t always lied- or hadn’t only lied- when we were together before. And I thought about how much easier it would have been for you to just wait until another genius human came along, instead of spending all that effort to hunt me down or convince me to join you, and I thought about those stupid ‘can we talk’ notes you left me when we fought the first time and I thought… I realized you genuinely had- liked me, in your own horrible way. And that you hadn’t really ever stopped the way I had, you didn’t hate me the way I hated you and that was- that was painful to think about, because you hurt me and you frightened me even though you felt that way about me. You were cruel, Bill. I wish I could make you understand that. I wish…” He sighed deeply, pushed both hands through his hair and looked away, exhausted. “I wish we had talked, really talked. And I wish you hadn’t been so cruel. Maybe things could have been different.”
“I’m sorry.”
Ford’s head popped back up in shock. “You- what?”
Bill was staring at him with a look of- something strange, bleak, almost weary. “I’m sorry I… handled it badly. When you found out about the portal’s real purpose and didn’t want to talk anymore.”
They held each other’s gaze for a long, uncertain moment.
“Tell me something,” Ford said, slowly.
Ah, familiar territory! “Anything! Whaddya wanna know?”
The bird-of-prey look was back. “When you say you ‘handled it badly’, do you mean you wish you’d handled it some other, particular way you’ve thought of, or do you mean you genuinely didn’t know how to respond to the situation in any other way?”
“Psht, I know everything!”
“Patently untrue.” Ford approached the couch and stood over Bill, hands at his sides and expression intrigued but patient. He was waiting for an answer.
“Well that- yeah, no, that- hah, you always were good at coming up with the tough questions, huh IQ?” He scratched at one of his edges, avoiding eye contact and thinking it over. “I guess I- I mean, yeah, like you were saying, I could’ve just waited until some other human with the right brain came along, but. I didn’t want… I just wanted it to be you. And when it wasn’t gonna be you I felt-” He blinked rapidly and pulled himself away from that thought. “Listen, why does it matter? Can’t I just- say I’m sorry and admit I fumbled the landing on that one?” He glanced up at Ford, who was still watching him with a pensive expression.
The human sighed and lowered himself onto the couch, a few cushions away from Bill. “I imagine it’s too much to ask if you’re sorry you lied to me all that time, too.”
“Well, of course I’m not sorry about that- how else would I have gotten you to listen to me and build my portal?”
“Why did you never just- I don’t know, explain that you were trapped in a decaying dimension and ask for help? Why did you disguise it as some grand scientific challenge for the betterment of the universe?”
“HA! You just answered your own question, IQ! Would you have actually given the time of day to a pathetic inter-dimensional refugee, a cosmic chaos being reduced to begging a measly human for rescue?”
“I- wh- YES! Do you not hear yourself?! I would have been overjoyed to help you!” Ford shouted, hands clenched into fists. “It would have been the pinnacle of my achievements, something I could be proud of instead of my deepest shame!”
“Yeah, right! And what would that make me? Indebted, that’s what!” Bill sneered.
“It would have made us equals!” Ford thundered. “Or at least something closer to it than what we were- I worshiped you as a god, Bill, I trusted you completely and you never trusted me in return! How could we have possibly had anything close to the relationship you claim to want with that kind of dynamic?!”
“But that’s-”
“What?”
“I- I don’t know!” Bill snapped, but his eye darted to one side, losing some of his conviction. “That’s just- that’s what love is, right? Or, or just- relationships! In general!”
Ford fell silent for a moment, seemingly in bafflement. “Bill- no! Good god, Bill!” The look on his face warred between rage and- maybe sorrow? Pity?
“Don’t do that!” Bill jabbed a finger toward the human, his own expression furious, his eye flashing red and black. “If I’m not allowed to look at you, you’re not allowed to look at me like that! I’m not some sad little science experiment or some, some pathetic stray!”
“No,” Ford said, disgustingly softly. “You’re not.”
He hadn’t been prepared for that response; Bill deflated a little and looked away and Ford cleared his throat before continuing.
“I guess it's for the best, anyway. Even if you had presented it that way, your ultimate intention was the same. You would have brought your ‘henchmaniacs’ through the portal and brought about Weirdmageddon, and I would have been just as responsible.”
Bill crossed his arms. “Eh. I guess. Would’ve saved you a couple decades of dimension-hopping, anyway.”
“I could have done without most of that, yes.”
“Most, huh? Not all?”
“Well…” Ford sighed and leaned back, his expression growing distant and thoughtful. “As a scientist, of course, it was… a truly unique experience that no one I knew had even dreamed of. That is not,” he shot a glare at Bill, “A thing for you to take credit for, or to try to twist into claiming it was a positive thing I should be grateful for, or anything like that.”
“I wasn’t going to!” Lied Bill.
“...but in between the near-death experiences and harrowing nightmares there were… moments of indescribable beauty. Incredible discoveries. Allies, too. Friends, I suppose.”
“Friends, huh?” Bill repeated, doing his best active listening and not at all burning with jealousy. “Anyone I know?”
“As if I would endanger their lives by telling you any of their names.”
“Ooh, protective! Sounds like more than friends to me!”
“You’re ridiculous.” Ford looked away in annoyance but his flushed cheeks gave him away.
“Ridiculous is all I know how to be, baby!” Bill laid on his front and propped himself up with both hands on his face, kicking his legs like a gossipy girl at a sleepover. “Soooo, spill the deets! Fifth-dimensional orgies? Messy breakups with living planets? What kind of sci-fi space guy romance got you going while you were away? Or, ooh-” His eye widened and he batted his lashes at Ford. “Was there nobody ? Were you saving yourself for me all those years, Fordsy?”
“I was not saving mys- ugh.” Ford rubbed tiredly at his eyes, pushing his glasses up to his forehead. “I- dallied, occasionally, during my travels,” he allowed, awkwardly.
“And?”
“And it was- oh, I don't know. Unfulfilling, usually. They weren't-” you, his traitor brain supplied. “-uh, what I expected. I suppose.”
The downside, he had very quickly learned, to having repeated sexual encounters with a dream demon in the dream realm was that, frankly, nothing in real life could compare after that.
“And you?” He asked, mostly to shift the topic of conversation away from himself. “I imagine you were engaged in all sorts of Nightmare Dimension debauchery for the last thirty years, and before that too.”
“Hey, sometimes to seal a deal you gotta give somebody a little braingasm or two. Maybe a custom dream where they get to fuck twenty clones of themselves inside a black hole or get ripped apart and sewn back together with their organs on the outside, that kind of stuff.” Bill scrunched his eye in disinterest. “But the last couple decades? It just doesn’t have the same zest it used to.” He wistfully traced a finger across the fabric of the sofa, stopping inches away from Ford’s leg as he reminded himself of the no-touching rule. “Nobody’s cerebral cortex does it for me like yours did, Sixer. No one ever will.”
Ford swallowed, then shook himself and shifted his leg away. “Hilarious,” he said dryly. “But I know better than to buy that. Even now, with all this- I called it a blip when you first got here, but- you've been alive for longer than the human mind can even conceive, and if this ‘rehabilitation’ nonsense works, you'll doubtless go on to live even longer. This, all of this, everything you and I did together, every day I spent trying to find a way to kill you, every day you spend here- that's a blip. Our lives mean nothing to you because they pass in the blink of an eye for someone- some thing - like you. Before our solar system has even gone cold, you'll have long forgotten me. I mean- us, this. All of this. You’ll, uh,” he chuckled humorlessly, “You’ll ‘get over me’, as the kids say.”
Bill sat bolt upright, looking affronted. “Whoa, hold up, listen. I mean yeah, a lot of that stuff is true about human lives meaning nothing and the fact that I’m basically a god.”
“Not the phrasing I used.”
Bill ignored him. “Like you said, I've been around for billions of years. Do you have any idea how many beings I've met? How many minds I've interacted with? I lived a trillion years before I met you, and you were the first being in all that time who got me- I actually, ugh, I used to look forward to you falling asleep so we could talk! Time meant nothing to me and I would still get impatient! It was pathetic! And then, on top of all that, you actually beat me! ‘ Get over you’? You’re Stanford Filbrick Pines . Even if- when - I get my powers back, even if I jump into another dimension where you joined me and I made you immortal or where we haven't met yet or where I won the first time, I'll never meet you again. And I already botched it, heh.”
Ford was silent, staring at Bill like he was seeing a ghost. The demon continued, unaware, seemingly ranting almost to himself now.
“You were this hot, isolated, perfectly brilliant nerd with an ego to rival mine! You were literally everything I could have asked for and I lost you and I didn’t even realize I had you! It’s infuriating! I wanna go back in time and strangle myself except I can’t because I don’t! Have! Any! Powers!” His little hands curled into furious, ineffectual claws as he stared down at them.
“You wouldn’t be able to strangle yourself anyway,” Ford managed at last, trying not to focus on the heat creeping up his spine from being described so glowingly. “You don’t have a neck and you don’t need to breathe.”
“Ugh.” Bill let his hands fall limp and slumped back against the arm of the couch.
“Why tell me all of this? If you're so afraid of me having power over you.”
“I guess because… it doesn't matter anymore? What difference will it make? I can't change any of it, especially not like this. I can't make you want me back.” The reality of saying it out loud seemed to take all the remaining energy out of Bill and he visibly dimmed, his color going dull and his glow fading.
“That's… true,” Ford said slowly, like he was realizing it himself. “You can't make me do anything I don't want to do. Not anymore.”
“Yeah, yeah, rub it in why don't- whoa!” Ford had grabbed him and hauled him in midsentence and suddenly there was a pair of lips pressed to his eye and whoa holy shit he was being kissed! By Ford! Ford was kissing him! A million alarms and fireworks and angelic choirs went off simultaneously in Bill’s mind and he quickly let his eye sink back and his mouth take its place while colors flicked fast and bright enough across his surface that Ford had to close his own eyes against the sensory chaos.
The kiss had begun urgent but uncertain, and when Ford felt the shift from eye to lips he opened his mouth and introduced teeth and tongue, eagerly met by Bill’s. Beside himself with joy and perhaps a bit too enthusiastic, Bill practically fed Ford his tongue, the impossibly long muscle slithering wet and hot around his own and two more snaking free of Bill’s mouth to lick their way up Ford’s throat, his jaw, the curve of an ear. In retrospect, that was maybe too much too fast, but when Ford moaned in something like broken relief and clutched at him even harder to pull their mouths flush, Bill decided he’d made the right move.
They parted with an audibly wet smack! and stared at one another, breathing hard, for about ten seconds. Then Ford made a wordless sound of desire and lunged in again, biting hard at the edge of Bill’s shape and sliding both hands up and under the t-shirt he wore.
Bill allowed him to strip the shirt off and fling it into a corner of the room, but when Ford began tonguing a line following the jagged crack along his face, he couldn’t help but gasp, “Fordsy, can I-”
“Shut up,” Ford groaned against his scar. “Just- I want to stop thinking for a bit, please- this doesn't have to be anything serious, alright? Please, just-”
“Shutting up!”
Yes! He screamed inwardly. Yes, fuck yes, it's happening! The list is working, keep it up!
As if to reward him for obeying, Ford drew him back in and pressed a kiss to the spot below his eye where his bowtie would once have sat, then another just above it, and then Ford pulled back and made unbroken eye contact as he ran just the edges of his blunt teeth from the forked tip of Bill’s tongue up to his mouth. It was, as Bill knew, a display of dominance, and it was absolutely working on him. It got even better, in fact, when Ford half-broke that kiss to very deliberately open his mouth, slide forward and swallow so that Bill’s tongue sank into the back of his throat, down, deeper, until the two tongues lapping at Ford’s skin could press against the bulge of it from the outside.
Something burst into flame inside Bill at that, and a staticky whine escaped him before he could catch it. One of Ford’s thumbs drew circles over the bricks along his back, and Bill’s hands must have crept up without his realizing it because they were buried in the human’s thick hair and twining it around every finger, scratching lightly at his scalp.
Ford drew back again, off of Bill’s tongue, and took several deep breaths with his eyes closed. Terrified he might be about to change his mind and say Just kidding, gotcha or Actually that was gross and I’m leaving or something equally devastating, Bill remained frozen where he was and did not make a sound.
Once again, following the secret rules served him well: Ford opened his eyes and gave him a look that could have reignited a dying star before dropping him onto the couch and leaning back just enough to hurriedly yank off his turtleneck and undo his fly. The sweater joined Bill’s shirt in the corner, followed by the belt and undershirt, and then Ford was propping himself up against a few of the pillows with his legs spread and his torso exposed and one hand sliding into those boring black boxer-briefs he wore to take out his cock and Bill may have been a god and an almighty being of pure energy and all that jazz but he was, in that moment, a simple triangle with simple needs.
He crawled toward Ford’s growing arousal and the hand that was now slowly pumping up and down it like a creature dying of thirst crawling toward an oasis. All three tongues retracted and reformed into one flattened, spit-shiny organ that unfurled hungrily toward his target; the air tasted like Ford Ford Ford finally yes and he raised his hands to touch-
Item #5, don't initiate physical contact! Shit, wait, how was he supposed to-? He halted, tongue hanging out and drooling onto the bedding, hands hovering in half-curled claw positions.
Thankfully, Ford solved the issue for him by grabbing his top vertex and dragging him down onto the human’s erection. It slid, blood-hot and thick, over Bill’s tongue and into his eye socket with a squelch.
“God!” The word seemed to burst out of Ford like he couldn’t help it, and he followed it up with a hoarse, “Fuck!”
Thrilled already by that reaction, Bill pressed himself further down, feeling the head of Ford’s cock hit the back of his socket-throat and bulge outward. He let his tongue spool further out, creating a slick channel for the remaining shaft that wasn’t buried inside him and lapping at the balls with its forked tip. His eye was dripping with vitreous and aqueous humors, running down onto his tongue and Ford’s dick and making the whole mess wetter, easier to fuck into. It was good, it was familiar, and he wanted to hold onto something, wanted to reach up and get a couple handfuls of that hairy chest or wrap his arms a dozen times around those thick thighs or- whoa! He stopped himself just shy of grabbing Ford’s hips. That had been close!
Ford moaned shakily, squeezed Bill’s sides and brought him up and down the shaft with long, hard strokes. His breath ghosted heat over Bill’s back, a teasing not-quite-touch that only made him want more. Before he could settle into that rhythm, though, Ford was drawing him all the way off his dick and letting him drop backwards onto the couch cushions, dripping spit and precum and eye fluids down his front.
“Can you, uh.” Ford went, if possible, even more red, and made a circle with his index finger and thumb. “Like you used to? Wait, can you even do that in this form? Was that a mindscape only thing, or a restricted power thing?”
“Not a problem, Fordsy!” Assured Bill, who had absolutely no clue whether it was, in fact, a problem. He reached down, dug his fingers into a crevice between two bricks- so far so good- and pulled. For an awkwardly long moment, there was nothing but a vague sense of strain, and then a distinctive, cartoonish pop! as a flat void opened in the space between his legs. Phew. He flashed Ford a thumbs up and the human snorted in amusement and smiled at him, his cheek dimpling and his eyes warm-
Item #3, avoid direct eye contact! With minimal scrambling, Bill flipped over so that he was face-down into the pillows. Not ideal, but he could make it work!
“Good to go!” He announced with confidence he only somewhat felt.
Ford approached slowly, as if uncertain, and laid one palm over Bill’s back, the thumb lightly tracing back and forth over the divot of his scar. It sent a little buzz through his core, a kind of almost-pain-almost-numb tease that was just the right side of pleasant.
When Ford entered him it felt like- well, a sense of pressure and heat and familiarity, but it was as if he was feeling it from far away. Being unable to tap into Ford's nervous system and experience his sensations was sort of taking some of the fun out of it, but it wasn't bad, exactly. Not painful, anyway. More importantly, Ford made a broken noise of pleasure and seemed unable to keep himself from driving deeper into the hole Bill had made for him, rutting forward until his hips met Bill’s lower edge.
Fingertips found the corner of his eye, slid along the underside of his eyelid and hooked into the wet cleft there, seeking out and fondling his tongue from its hiding place behind his eyeball. Ooh, that was pretty good! Bill gave the questing fingers a tentative lick, curling around them and getting as much of that familiar taste as he could.
“You feel amazing,” Ford rasped, and oh, that was even better! “God, I missed this.”
Now it was starting to get good! It still wasn’t the same level of reality-melting pleasure that came from fucking in the dreamscape, but he was getting a delicious little tingle every time Ford spoke that he thought he could definitely get used to. Six digits dragged down Bill’s back, catching on the grout between bricks, and he shivered at the sensation, just barely holding back the whimper it prompted.
Ford slowed again. “...You're being very quiet.”
Aw, yes, here came the praise! Finally, he was being rewarded for all that list-making and rule-following! It was all worth it!
“Is something wrong?”
Wait, what?
“Bill?” Not only was he not showering Bill with praise, he was actively stopping! “Your color is- you’ve gone dim, what’s- what’s going on?”
Dim? He peered down at himself; he hadn’t even noticed his usual ambient glow receding. Deciding it was worth it to bend the rules to answer in the hopes that it would clear up whatever the issue was and they could get back to it, Bill twisted slightly so he could see Ford’s face and spoke: “I'm, uh, I'm following the list?”
“The List?” Now Ford was frowning, pulling away- no, no, no, dammit! “What do you mean?” He blanched, the frown shifting towards worry. “There's nothing on the List relating to- to us doing something like this! That would be a wildly inappropriate misuse of power!”
“No, not that List, braniac! Relax! I mean, y’know, our list! The secret one!”
That reassurance hadn’t lifted the look of worry; if anything it was worsening. “Bill… what are you talking about?”
This wasn’t going well. Maybe if he explained in simpler terms, they could get back to it. He flipped over fully, ticking off items on his fingers. “No talking, no eye contact, no touching- I know there’s more but I figured those were kind of the important ones in this situation, right?”
Ford stared at him in incomprehension for a moment, then jerked away suddenly as if bitten. “You… you’ve been making- what, behavioral notes on our interactions? Was this all just another psychotic mind-game for you? To what end? Just to trick me, again?” He stood, pulled his pants back up and started snatching his remaining clothes from the floor, pulling them on in a rush.
“I cannot believe you- no, yes, I can believe you would go to this length, but I don't understand why you would- did you even feel anything during that?” He demanded furiously.
“I mean.” Bill blinked, crawled to the edge of the couch, still reeling from confusion at the sudden change of tone and loss of warmth. “Yes. No? What do you mean?”
“What do I-?!” Ford gestured wildly, the shirt clutched in his hand flapping. “The sex, Bill! Did you feel anything while I was-” He cut himself off, too humiliated and hurt to finish the question.
“Um,” said Bill, his eye darting around nervously like he might find the right answer written on the wall somewhere.
Ford gaped at him. “Then what the hell was the POINT of all that?! What could you possibly hope to achieve with this new manipulation?! Were you hoping to, what, to blackmail me afterwards? To seduce me into telling you the location of the Inhibitor? What?!”
“The point was that you liked me again! That was it!”
Silence fell over the room.
Ford swallowed, his bare chest heaving, his eyes hard behind his glasses. He seemed to struggle for a moment before spitting out, “That was a pathetic lie. Try to come up with a better one next time.”
He turned and stormed out, disappearing into the darkness of the hallway.
“Ford, wait-!” Bill dropped off the couch, went running after him- only to slam into an invisible wall at the room’s edge, toppling backward to the floor. Right. Bill may not move around the house at night without express permission from Ford, Stan, Dipper or Mable Pines. How could he forget?
He sat in the doorway, squinting into the shadows and straining to hear returning footsteps until sleep claimed him.
Notes:
Hiiiii please don't kill me with hammers
God editing this chapter took forever I kept making so many changes... anyway hope you liked it! Bill is really gonna get put through the wringer starting now, heads up!
Chapter 13: If You're All Alone When the Pretty Birds Have Flown
Summary:
Karaoke time!
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
“Bill! Biiillll!” Mabel’s voice carried from the stairway and cut through the sound-dampening effect of the depression fort Bill had tucked himself into. It was now mid-afternoon of the third day of Ford avoiding him; he’d spent the first day camped outside the vending machine hoping to catch the man when he emerged, but eventually Stan had grabbed him and returned him to Ford’s empty room to spend another night waiting in the doorway. When the following morning arrived with no sign of Ford, Bill had changed tactics by building his little fort (a tactical choice, he’d told himself, like a duck blind and not a sad little wallowing cave) to wait for Ford’s return.
He remained under the cushion-and-laundry heap on the couch, thinking vaguely Her vision’s based on movement, I’ll just lie here and play dead and she’ll oh wait no that’s dragonflies ah crap-
Despite his efforts, two strong child-hands grabbed him and hauled his limp form from the heap. “Come on, sleepyhead. Music time!”
“Really gotta kick a guy when he’s down, huh kid? I admire your ruthlessness.” His eye remained listlessly half-lidded as she toted him toward the attic. Dipper joined them, carrying a set of toy microphones, and they passed Stan at the base of the stairs.
“What’re you kids up to? I see you dug Pyramid Boy outta whatever hole he was hiding in.”
“We’re subjecting Bill to karaoke torture!” Dipper called back over his shoulder.
“I’ve made a mix CD!” Mabel added proudly, waving a disc covered in glitter.
“Call the authorities,” Bill said without hope. “I’m being warcrimed.”
“Ha! Proud of you kids,” Stan toasted them with his mug of coffee. “Have fun!”
They reached the attic and Dipper set about plugging in the machine and getting the music going while Mabel cleared a space for a stage and set Bill in front of it. She was kind enough, at least, to put a pillow down and place him on it, where he immediately slumped onto one side and laid staring ahead.
“Still sleepy!” Mabel shook her head and propped him up with a second pillow.
The music started in all its upbeat, overplayed glory and the kids began enthusiastically hollering along with the lyrics while Bill tried to will a power outage into existence. It could have been worse, technically- at least the music wasn’t that synth-heavy blaring Mabel tended to favor, and he could more or less tune it out and dream of crawling back into his couch fort to die like an injured raccoon, or of getting his hands on whatever miserable excuse for alcohol Stan might have hidden under the floorboards.
The song switched over to some sort of rock ballad and he imagined hunting down the band that performed it, carving open each member and stuffing them inside each other in descending order according to size, turducken-style.
Mercifully, that song was on the short side and it, too, quickly gave way to a sparkly disco pop jam.
Oh, this one he recognized. Knew the words to, even. His foot began to tap quietly along to the beat, and before long the natural performer in him couldn’t resist- when the chorus arrived he sat up and belted it out like he was onstage. The kids both did a double-take, missing the next few lines in their surprise.
“Bill, why do you know a BABBA song?” Dipper asked, torn between laughter and shock.
“You think your rinkydink little planet’s the only one with karaoke?” He replied. “Your uncle and I sang this song ten times in a row one night and got thrown out of a bar!” He wisely and magnanimously omitted some of the details of that story, including that technically the patrons of said bar had only seen a single human man singing, unaware of the demon sharing his body, and what the two of them had gotten up to after being kicked out of that bar, since he assumed scarring the children with that kind of knowledge would count as “harm”. “Turns out mindscape duet skills don’t transfer to real life.” He sighed wistfully, recalling the giddy, red-faced young scientist singing into an imaginary microphone, watching him with sparkling, adoring eyes.
“I guess getting kicked out and banned from places is kind of a family trait, huh?” Dipper asked his sister rhetorically.
“My dream is to some day be banned from as many bars and libraries as both of them,” Mabel replied with admiration. “So far I’ve only managed a couple craft stores and the zoo back home.”
“Ha! Try getting banned from an entire plane of existence, kiddo,” Bill boasted, trying to shake off the odd, gross feeling that had crept up on him. It was similar to the sensation he got when he accidentally thought about Euclydia- like nostalgia but painful, or like the opposite of the satisfaction he usually got from accomplishing mayhem. He was sure there was a word for it but he was certainly not going to take the time out of his busy schedule to examine what that word might be.
The song had ended, and with the discovery of their shared musical interest, Mabel leapt up to skip songs until she found one that suited. “Here’s another BABBA one!” She handed Bill a hairbrush to use as a microphone and picked up her own as the song began with a choral chant.
If you change your view (take a chance)
(Take a, take a chance-chance) I'm the first in queue
Honey, I'm still free (take a chance)
Take a chance on me (take a, take a chance-chance)
If you need me let me know, I’ll be there for you (take a chance)
If you've got no place to go, when you're feeling blue (take a chance)
Oh, he knew this one too. It had played once in Ford’s mindscape during the early days and the human had expressed some embarrassment at first, but when his muse responded by creating a live BABBA concert performed in miniature by rat-cockroach hybrids, he had laughed in delight and relaxed some. Years later, their partnership broken and access to Ford’s mind cut off, Bill had played and replayed the song in his own private corner of the Nightmare Dimension while he drank himself into the closest thing he could get to oblivion.
Gonna do the best I can and it ain't no lie
If you put me to the test, if you let me try
Take a chance on me
The irony wasn’t lost on him, of course. He’d had his chance- his second chance, even- and he’d just gone and blown it, again. Even in his more optimistic delusions he knew the likelihood of a third chance was fleetingly slim. Before Mabel had wrenched him from his laundry heap, he’d been replaying every moment of the encounter, going over what he’d done wrong. If only he’d been better about not making noise- or if he’d just made the right noises? Or if he’d just not mentioned the apparently-not-a-shared-secret list.
This was stupid. He’d gotten distracted and missed a couple of the lines; he shook himself and started again. His grip on the hairbrush grew tighter until his knuckles strained, and when he sang the next few lines his voice came out strange and wobbly for no reason.
Let me tell you now
My love is strong enough
To last when things are rough, it's magic
You say that I waste my time
But I can't get you off of my mind
No I can't let go
'Cause I love you so
Suddenly his eye stung, and he felt something hot and wet drip down his face- ah, he must have started spontaneously bleeding from the eye. Odd, but not the worst thing to happen.
“What's- Bill, are you crying ?” Dipper turned down the music, looking alarmed.
“What? No. Obviously not. Ha! Could you imagine?” He clawed at his eye, hoping to draw additional blood just in case, but was thwarted by the stupid no-self-harm rule on the stupid List as his fingers merely rubbed at the eyelid. “I'm just, uh, leaking some kind of. Eye juice. Or coolant. Probably.”
The twins exchanged looks, and Mabel reached under her bed to pull out a small hand mirror, turning it to reflect Bill's crumpled, wet face back at himself. “Doesn't look like coolant to me,” she said. “As an established teenager I can confidently say I recognize tears when I see them. I subscribe to Beautiful Men Displaying Emotions Magazine and everything!”
“How many issues of that could there possibly be?” Bill asked in bafflement.
“He's dodging the question!” Dipper yelled.
“Get him!”
The kids lunged forward before Bill could scramble away in a panic, Dipper grabbing him around the middle and Mabel slamming the door shut to cut off his escape.
“Gahh! Put me down! It's just allergies, I'm just allergic to your terrible music!”
“Talk!” Dipper hoisted him a further few inches off the ground so his legs dangled ineffectually as he kicked.
“Talk or I switch the music to Boyz 2 Slightly Different Boyz!” Mabel threatened, hoisting the boombox over her head.
“NO PLEASE! Anything but that!” Bill squirmed futilely. “Okay, fine, it’s not coolant! The song made me sad! Are you happy?! I don’t wanna talk about it! PUT ME DOWN!”
Loud steps thundered up the stairs and the door flew open with a kick; Ford burst in with weapon in hand.
“The door was closed and I heard shouting- what’s-” He took in the frozen tableau: Dipper holding a teary-eyed demon in a wrestler’s lock Stan would have been proud of and Mabel preparing to bring a boombox down in a crushing blow. “What’s uh. What happened?”
Fuck. As if the situation weren't humiliating enough, now the kids would blab to their grunkle about Bill's extremely uncool weakness and involuntary idiot traitorous body functions and Ford would laugh and realize he was a pathetic sap who cried over 70s pop instead of an eldritch god and no amount of list-making or rule-following would bring him back from that fumble.
“Bill's got allergies,” Dipper volunteered, releasing his hold and letting his triangular prisoner drop to the floor.
“Yeah, he's- he's allergic to attic dust,” Mabel agreed, waving the floppy sleeves of her sweater around to stir up the motes of dust that were, indeed, prevalent in the room.
For a moment Bill was genuinely too stunned to react, but when all three turned their varying stares toward him he twitched, eye darting around, and went, “Oh uh… achoo?” He wiped exaggeratedly at his eye. “All the… yeah, ooh, all the dust. Aargh, my sinuses that I have.”
“Hmm.” Ford glared at him, assessing, then flashed the kids a smile. “Well, good work figuring out a vulnerability of his, children! I'm sure we can find a way to weaponize it in the event that he tries to take over again.” He shot Bill one more look of distrust and headed back downstairs.
“Why'd you do that?” Bill demanded the second the old man was out of range. “You had me dead to rights, perfect nightmare-level humiliation opportunity, why wouldn't you take it? Unless- ah. Blackmail, huh? I'm proud of you kids, that's admirable initiative there. Alright, what do you want? Gold? A cooler full of spare organs? An undead army?”
The kids stared blankly back at him, like it hadn't occurred to them what an insane thing they'd just done.
“Girl code,” Mabel said solemnly, thumping a fist against her chest. “Telling a friend's crush about their crush on them is one of the worst examples of frenemy behavior. Especially in front of the friend. Extra especially when the friend is already sad about it.”
“Yeah, I- ok not sure about the ‘girl code’ part of that but I second the statement.” Dipper waved a hand to clear away some of the stirred-up dust. “We would be pretty bad friends to embarrass you like that, and we'd be even worse if we tried to blackmail you about it.”
“But I'm literally not your friend! We actively hate each other!” Bill protested half-heartedly, not bothering to mention that Ford definitely knew about his “crush” already- that that was, in fact, the problem.
They looked at each other again.
“Good point,” said Dipper with a grin. “I guess we should go call Grunkle Ford back in and tell him the truth!”
“Yeah, there's nothing in the girl code about revealing an enemy's crush on someone,” Mabel shrugged with exaggerated thoughtfulness. “Hey Grunkle Ford-!”
“WAIT FINE, HAVE IT YOUR WAY! WE'RE FRIENDS!”
Notes:
Listen, I tried to rewrite the original ABBA lyrics to be more like the legally-distinct-style BABBA songs in the show but I’m not a musical person and I gave up halfway through. Forgive me.
Chapter 14: Houses Swallowed By the Earth, Windows Thick With Frost
Summary:
Bill and Ford try to talk.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
By the time he was “allowed” to leave karaoke, they had moved away from BABBA's greatest hits and onto the works of some modern artist Dipper favored (Chappell Palomino? Something horse-related anyway), and Bill felt weirdly less inclined toward throwing himself into the Bottomless Pit.
He clambered down the stairs one step at a time, having learned his lesson the last time he tried to take a longer stride on them and ended up bouncing like a slinky the entire way down to the landing, and he had almost reached the bottom when Ford reappeared.
After three days of his absence broken only by the brief interruption in the attic, Bill drank in the sight of him: rumpled, unwashed, frowning sternly. The same pants and sweater combo he'd been wearing when he'd stormed out of “their” room. Damn, he probably reeked of old sweat and body odor; Bill hurried down the remaining steps in the hopes of catching a whiff of his favorite stink as he frantically tried to think of a conversation topic that would keep Ford from leaving. Fuck, all that stalking and waiting and he hadn't even practiced what to say the next time he saw him!
“We should- talk,” Ford said in a stilted tone, saving Bill from voicing the first thing that came to mind (which, given his focus at the moment, would have been an extremely complimentary but most likely poorly-received comment on the human's hygiene). His hands hung at his sides, clearly fighting the urge to fidget or to shove them into his pockets.
“Sure,” Bill said agreeably, and he followed Ford down the hallway to the parlor- away from any prying eyes or listening ears, he noted.
Ford made a half-circle around the room, not-not-pacing, before sitting awkwardly on a wooden rocking chair and nodding for Bill to do the same.
“The other night,” he began, avoiding eye contact. “I was… angry.”
“I got that.” Bill ignored the other chair and clawed his own way up onto a nearby low table to sit facing Ford, who sighed forcefully.
“I shouldn’t have… I was irresponsible. I gave into nostalgia, and I shouldn’t have. I ought to have known better, recognized what you were doing.”
Wow, that hurt. “Jeez, Sixer,” he managed with a pale imitation of his usual laugh. “Brutally honest, as always!”
“One of my many flaws, yes.” Ford continued before Bill could point out that he didn’t mind usually, wouldn’t call it a flaw. “Another is that I can be- blind to peoples’ intentions. Especially yours, obviously. Even more so when I’m being told what I want to hear.”
“I wasn’t just-”
“Bill, please.” He sighed again and looked up at the ceiling, following the pattern of the wood grain. “I suppose I wanted to… go back. To when things were easier, to before I knew what you really are. Which was foolish of me, and dangerous, of course. I can’t trust you, and in a way this was a reminder of that. A reality check.”
“Oh.” Bill looked away, aware of a sudden sharp pain somewhere inside himself. “Yeah.”
He fell silent.
Ford carried on. “I liked- I liked talking to you. I missed it. I liked how easy you were to talk to, how easy it felt to be around you when I'd never- I'd never felt comfortable around others.” He stared down at his hands, resting open on his lap. “You never looked at me like I was something strange or like my intellect was frightening, or like the ideas I had were ridiculous. You weren't just my muse, you were my friend, even more than F- Fiddleford,” he stumbled over the name, feeling a twinge of guilt at the truth to his words. “When things fell apart between us- when you betrayed me-” He choked out a miserable laugh, pulled his glasses off to press the heel of one palm into his suddenly-damp eyes. “It's so stupid- the first thought I had was ‘I should call Bill and tell him about this’. Who else did I have? Who else could even comprehend-?”
There was a light touch on his free hand, still resting on his knee. Bill leaned forward, stretching one arm to wipe at a tear that had escaped down Ford's cheek. “You, uh. You have people now, like you said. Family and stuff,” he said, instead of I had the same thoughts, all of them. I felt the same way, or I liked that we only had each other, I didn't understand why that wasn't a good thing, or Sometimes I still don't understand, even now.
Ford tolerated the touch, leaned into it for a few beats, and then his eyes opened and he pulled away with a frown. Right. Bill withdrew his hands and dropped them back into his lap.
People. Was that really the difference, the point where they diverged? He had people, and Bill didn’t. Ford took a deep breath, settling himself, and his voice was steady when he asked, “What happened to the last speck of Euclydia? You showed it to me once, you said it was the only thing you had from your world. It was precious to you. Where is it now?”
It was an odd leap, but Bill answered without hesitation. “Where do you think, genius?”
“The Theraprism must have confiscated it, right? They would-” Ford fell silent, goosebumps raising on the back of his neck as he realized where he had recognized that shimmering light from. “That's… they couldn't have…” But of course they could, he realized. If the Axolotl was powerful enough to save Bill from death, to offer reincarnation, to remove his powers entirely, then taking a tiny glowing dot of matter and stretching it out, turning it back into a flat plane the size of a poster and filling it with an endless void would likely be child's play.
“Knew you'd figure it out,” Bill said tiredly.
“How could they have-”
“Psh, for someone like Frills? Probably pretty easily. Just took it and rolled it out like pizza dough.”
“No, not- not physically how, I mean-” Ford felt sick. “How could they? All that was left of an entire world and they used it to- what, to torture that world's last surviving member? That's…”
“Whoa, easy does it, IQ, you look like you're about to blow a gasket,” Bill interjected in mild alarm. “First off, it doesn't count as torture legally if they label it therapy, so- loophole! Second, I think the idea was kind of a ‘poetic justice’ thing.”
“How is that justice?”
“Ford,” Bill’s voice was almost gentle. “Who do you think destroyed Euclydia?”
Ford knew. He'd known, deep down, even if he'd denied it from the moment Bill had first told him about- “A monster,” he said softly.
Bill met his gaze steadily. “I always was one. Right from the start. You know that better than anyone, Stanford Pines.”
Ford closed his eyes, unable to take that stare. As many times as he'd wanted the truth from Bill, he hated getting it now. “I know.”
Notes:
Very short one again, just for better narrative flow. As always, I love hearing what people think!
Chapter 15: Interlude #3: Moping
Summary:
Bill does his best attempt at coping with the tools at hand, Stan interrupts and/or intervenes.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
This was officially Bill’s new low.
He’d had Ford’s room all to himself for a week, and while yes technically he could walk around the house during the day, he’d felt no desire to do so after his and Ford’s last talk. Occasionally Mabel came in and left him glasses of some kind of hellish fuchsia beverage with plastic toys floating in it, and Soos and Melody were taking turns knocking at the door and “checking in” like a pair of unusually caring warderlies. Every now and then he thought he heard Stan or Dipper’s voices in the hallway, but he hadn’t seen or even heard Ford since their chat in the parlor.
Mabel had told him he could mope in the event Ford rejected him, so in lieu of his usual go-to coping strategies (heavy drinking, hard drugs, filling people’s eye sockets with live ants, increasingly creative attempts to shuffle off his immortal coil, all of which were banned by the List) he’d been having himself a good long mope. The Theraprism had tried to curb his coping mechanisms in what they called a “healthy, productive, less self-destructive” manner and encouraged things like arts and crafts, and maybe they were onto something there, because he had found Puppet Hour weirdly enjoyable.
So here he was, stuffing one of Ford’s pillows into one of his turtleneck sweaters so he could prop it up against the back of the couch and cuddle up to it like the most pathetic heartsick idiot loser that had ever existed.
Suddenly and with no warning, the door swung open.
“Alright, what the hell did you do?” Demanded Stan as he stomped into the room, only to freeze as he caught sight of the tableau before him.
“It's not what it looks like!” Bill yelped and tried to fling the incriminating dummy across the room with flailing desperation. It landed solidly and very visibly in the middle of the rug, and Stan's expression went from mild exasperation to a mix of disgusted disappointment and weariness as it traveled from the pillow wearing his brother's sweater to the demon who had very obviously put the sweater on the pillow.
“Criminy, it's worse than I thought,” he muttered under his breath before refocusing on the extremely guilty-looking Bill. “You wanna tell me why my brother's sleeping in the lab again?” His eyes darted back to the pillow. “I mean, I think I can hazard a guess, but…” He shuddered in repulsion and pointed a finger at the triangle on the couch. “Quit bein’ a little creep to him. He's got enough problems thanks to you, he doesn't need to add back pain from that lousy camp bed to ‘em.”
Bill nodded, arms up placatingly. “You got it, Fez, whatever you say! So, uh, he didn't…” His hands lowered and began twisting the hem of his t-shirt nervously. “He didn't tell you already? About what- what happened?”
Stan rolled his eyes. “He just said you two had a ‘disagreement’ and that he's ‘giving you space’, which I can tell is a crock.” He glared suspiciously at Bill. “Why are you asking? What did you actually do?”
“N-no, no reason!” Bill replied in a shrill panic. Oh hell, what could he say? If Ford hadn't told his brother what happened already, it either meant he was too embarrassed to talk about it or that he was weighing his options. If he was embarrassed, then revealing the truth to Stanley would only piss Ford off and drive him further away. If he was still thinking things over, well… then there was a chance, however slim, that Ford would decide it was actually fine for them to carry on in secret! Slim or not, Bill would take what he could get (and simply never examine his feelings on the matter! He was great at that!!). What he wouldn't give to be able to see into alternate timelines again, to figure out what he needed to do to ensure that outcome! “Uh, yeah, like you said- I mean, like he said- we had. An argument. About…” He looked quickly around the room for inspiration, drawing a blank. Quick, quick, something that Ford would feel strongly about but Stan wouldn't know well enough to question! “Mmmath?” he tried.
Stan raised a single brow, looking deeply unimpressed. “I dunno how he bought into your crap for so long. You're a lousy liar.”
“Uh-”
“Look, just-” Stan held up a hand to stop whatever fresh lie Bill was about to come up with. “Just figure it out. I don't like having you here, obviously, but you seem…” He cast another uncomfortable look at the pillow carcass. “...upset. And Ford's hardly said a word to anyone, and frankly I've spent too much time already with my brother not speaking to me.”
Bill gave a miserable little salute that failed entirely to come off as chipper as intended. “Heh. Yup. Bill Cipher, professional family destroyer since Year Negative a Trillion.”
Stan looked at him strangely. “Listen, corn chip, you messed up a lotta stuff, but me and Ford? We had issues way before you showed up. Quit givin’ yourself credit for every bad thing in my brother's life.”
Bill didn't know what to say to that. He blinked up at Stan, who grunted in mild discomfort at the wide-eyed look.
“Anyway. The kids and Soos are settin’ up a game of Monopolize: The Landlord Simulator and they wanted me to tell you they need someone to be community bank, since I apparently ‘cheat’ and ‘hoard all the money even though it's fake’, the little ingrates.”
“And they think I'll do a better job?” Bill asked incredulously. “How bad are you at Monopolize?”
“Hmph.” Stan crossed his arms with a huff. “I don't need to defend my gaming strategy to a guy that lost the global domination game because he couldn't tell the difference between six fingers and five! Are you comin’ or not? Mabel also said to tell you she's making ‘pretzel pizza’, whatever that is.”
“...yeah, fine.” Bill stood and dropped from the couch to the floor, brushing himself off. “But don't think I'm doing this because you pep-talked me into it! I'm only going because games of Monopolize always end in violence and bloodshed and I want a front-row seat for that.”
“Sure.” Stan rolled his eyes and headed for the door, willfully ignoring the way Bill started to follow, paused to make sure he wasn't watching, then ran over to the fallen pillow-sweater dummy and picked it up to return it to an upright position on the couch.
Notes:
I swear they will eventually make up. I swear it.
Chapter 16: And I Reach Deep Down Within, But the Pathways Twist and Turn
Summary:
Huh, I wonder what Ford's up to...
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Ford sat staring down at the sheet of paper, his hand hovering over it with pencil at the ready. He'd been looking at the same sheet for the last hour, and just like every other time he'd attempted to start his latest biweekly report, he'd gotten as far as writing “Progress update #7 re: Theraprism Patient ‘Bill Cipher’ by Stanford Pines PhD” before his hand had faltered. The pneumatic tube that had manifested in the wall of his lab the day after Bill arrived sat open and empty, waiting as it had been for the past week to vacuum his neatly-written notes directly (he assumed) to the Theraprism.
Ford cleared his throat, adjusted his hold on the pencil, and wrote, Bill's recovery from the previously stated leg injury continues to-
He erased the line and started again.
The patient's physical health is stable. Socialization is-
He frowned, erased, started over.
A recent lapse in judgment-
Growling under his breath, he scribbled out the sentence with enough force that the paper tore, and he crumpled it up and chucked it toward the basket labeled “INCINERATE”, where it landed alongside the balled-up remains of dozens of other attempts.
He reached for a fresh sheet from the nearby notepad, but as his fingers brushed it he hesitated again. Why the hell was this so difficult all of a sudden? It's not like the Theraprism or the Axolotl or whoever don't already know about the… past metaphysical relationship between you and Bill. And you never had difficulty writing about that before, in your journals! For research, of course, which is what this is!
Just write down what happened: Bill attempted to manipulate and seduce you back into a physically intimate relationship, you caught on before he could spring whatever trap he had planned, everything is fine! You even managed to get him to reveal more information about Euclydia and his origins!
…but was that really, exactly right? He massaged his temple and tried to banish the look on Bill's face from that night- open, earnest, astonishingly vulnerable, and then- confused, alarmed, desperate - and then the other day, briefly, looking up at Ford when he burst into the attic room with actual tears spilling down his face as he hid behind the children's well-intentioned lie about allergies-
Acting. It was an act, Bill was saying and doing whatever he needed to get whatever he wanted out of Ford, out of everyone. Just like he'd done thirty years ago.
Was he?
Wasn't he?
Except.
Bill wasn't much of an actor, at least not to Ford's eye. What he felt, he telegraphed, in glaring colors and loud noises and outbursts of energy. Even when he'd been manipulating Ford, posing as his “muse”, he'd favored lies of omission and cackling sarcasm over flat-out untruths. He hadn't been… not himself, for lack of a better term, he'd just presented the better parts of himself. He'd always been unsettling and a little horrifying, and in his naivete Ford had kind of enjoyed being unsettled, had found the horror charming. It had been exciting at the time, being chosen by something, someone so- eldritch, so alien, so…
Monstrous.
A monster.
I always was one. Right from the beginning.
What did that mean?
That's just what love is , right?
Did he really not know?
That night had been a manipulation, he told himself firmly, but maybe there was some truth to Bill's words that even he didn't realize he'd let slip.
It was a hypothesis worth investigating, at the very least.
He leaned back in his chair and stretched, wincing when what felt like every joint in his body popped after however-many hours of inactivity.
As a concession to the other humans living in the house- his house, technically, he might add- he’d made use of the chemical shower in the lab and changed into the clean clothes Stan had shoved at him, but that had been… perhaps two or three days ago? He might be due. He raised an arm and gave himself a sniff, decided it could be worse, and hoisted himself up from the chair, intending to head upstairs into the main house.
He was startled out of his own recursive thoughts when the door to the lift slid open and Dipper stepped out. “Hey, Grunkle Ford! We’re gonna play Monopolize: The Landlord Simulator! Do you think you could take a break and come play with us?”
“Oh!” Ford adjusted his glasses and smiled. “Why, I haven’t played that game in decades! Yes, I was just about to come up for a bit to clear my head anyway; a bit of friendly capitalistic backstabbing sounds like just the thing!”
“Really? Great!” As always, the boy’s enthusiasm brought a smile to his grunkle’s face, and they re-entered the elevator together. Dipper’s own smile fell slightly as they rose toward the gift shop. “Um. Hey, did you and Bill have like. A fight or something?” He scratched nervously at the back of his neck and glanced at Ford. “Because if you did that’s totally understandable! But. Uh, I think Grunkle Stan was thinking about inviting him to play too. But obviously we can just not do that! Because it’s supposed to be family boardgame time, not-”
“Dipper,” Ford interrupted kindly, before the poor kid could work himself into an anxiety spiral. “It’s fine. Bill and I had a… disagreement, but we’re not fighting. And it will be easier to keep an eye on him if he’s focused on playing the game with us, anyway.” He winked and tapped the side of his nose conspiratorially.
“Oh. Oh!” Dipper perked up and winked back. “Right! Good thinking!”
The board was in the process of being set up, Stan and Bill bickering back and forth as they organized the piles of cards and paper money, and the distinct smell of burning tomato and cheese from the kitchen informed them of Mabel’s location.
Bill froze mid-argument as he caught sight of the approaching pair, and then he hurriedly set the stack of cards he’d been shuffling down and stood, backing up toward the hallway. “Hey, look at that- you’ve got your trustworthy community bank! I’ll just get back to-”
“Nonsense,” Ford said, just shy of too jovial. “No need to leave on my account!”
“Yeah, Ford makes an even worse bank than I do!” Stan added. “He’s always trying to ‘optimize the system’ and goin’ on rants about how poorly thought-out the monetary values are or whatever; it takes forever just to get him to hand out the cash! Besides, the kids assigned you bank duty- despite my protests- and until they release you from that duty you’re gonna sit your narrow butt down and play the game.”
Outnumbered and a little unsettled by Ford’s change in tone, Bill paused in the doorway. “O… kay…”
His hesitation and the oddly subdued manner in which he’d offered to leave only attracted Ford’s suspicion, and he folded his arms behind his back and cleared his throat while Dipper took a seat on the rug. “Actually, Bill, if you wouldn’t mind?” He tilted his head to indicate that they might step into the hallway for a moment. “I thought of a question I need to ask you.”
The slightly hunted look didn’t leave Bill’s eye, but he nodded and the two slipped down the hall and into the office just as Mabel returned to the living room carrying a smoking plate of burnt pretzels and cheese.
Ford waited until Bill had scuttled up the side of the desk and settled next to the battered old rotary phone before he closed the door (slowly, so as not to alarm anyone) and took a breath, gathering his thoughts.
“I want to ask you something relating to one of the things you said… the other night.”
Bill’s expression, which had been a now-familiar mix of wariness and curiosity, shifted quickly toward carefully-schooled neutrality. “Sure thing, Sixer! Ask away! What is it, something about the Nightmare Dimension?”
“Define love for me. Your definition. Please.”
The neutral expression remained, almost frozen in place, but Bill’s body did that tv-static-flicker Ford had seen a few times before and he laughed nervously. “Again with the tough questions! Kinda putting me on the spot, here, IQ- you're the walking dictionary, I'm just a vessel of pure cosmic chaos! But okay, let’s see… it’s where you get really worked up about the other person and you wanna squish their face and put them in a blender or put a bow on them and show them off or like… drop them off a cliff or lobotomize them!”
Ford squinted at him. “That’s… okay, I know I asked for your definition, but I think what you’ve just described is more like ‘cuteness aggression’.”
Bill scuffed a heel against the top of the desk, avoiding eye contact. “Whatever! Close enough! ’Love’ is just a bunch of goopy chemicals that make humans act stupid around other humans! It’s like your gateway drug to hate!”
“So you’re saying your species has no concept of love? Not even platonic or familial love?”
“I didn’t say that! Of course everybody back home loved me, especially my family! Nobody minded that I was born wrong- they actually loved that about me and they all believed everything I said!”
Wait, what? Ford’s head snapped up. “What do you mean, ‘born wr-’”
Bill plowed on as if he hadn’t heard Ford, crossing his arms like a shield in front of him and avoiding eye contact. “So yeah of course my species has the concept of love! They all felt it and they all died anyway, because like I said- that’s how it works! Doesn’t matter if it’s romance or family or tennis, Sixer- love hurts! It’s inevitable! The trick is to make sure you never feel it, and then if somebody feels it at you, you gotta hurt them before they hurt you! Then if they’re still alive, it turns into hate, which is way easier to deal with!”
Ford had that weird sad look on his face again, and he asked quietly, “Is that why you did what you did to me?”
“I-!” Bill cut himself off, throwing his arms out angrily. “No. Yes. I don’t know! I do the things I do because I’m insane, why does it matter?!”
“Your intent matters, Bill. I may not love you anymore, I may not like you-” Bill winced and shrank several inches. “-but I still want to understand you, as best I can. I want to know whether you did all of it out of frustration or confusion or petty viciousness, like a child pulling the wings off a fly. If you really do want to be useful, you can help my work by answering my questions.”
“Aha!” Bill pointed one finger at him accusingly, growing again. “See, I knew it! You play up your whole ‘betrayed sob story’, but you only liked me when I was an all-powerful being of pure energy and infinite knowledge, hypocrite! Now that I’m stuck in this scummy physical downgrade with no powers I’m just another anomaly to be catalogued in your dumb journal!”
“Bill, I liked you because you were helpful and smart and you made me laugh and didn't mock me or my interests. You understood me, or you seemed to.”
“Yeah right! I’ve been helpful and smart and made you laugh a ton of times this whole summer! I’ve kept count and everything!”
Choosing to ignore that last part, Ford rolled his eyes. "The difference is I’ve seen who you really are, now. I’m not naive enough to believe you would do any of those things without some sinister ulterior motive anymore.”
Furious red flashed across Bill’s form for an instant, only to be chased away by that washed-out pale yellow before resettling to his usual dim glow. His hands, which had briefly curled into angry claws, tangled into the hem of his t-shirt and took out whatever frustration he was feeling on the threads there. “Yeah. Fine. I guess you got me. Consider me thwarted,” he said bitterly.
That was much too easy. Ford narrowed his eyes at him again but decided against pushing it for the moment; this conversation had already taken too long and he didn’t want the kids or Stan growing suspicious and overhearing any of it.
He let out a short sharp breath through his mouth, took in a long one through his nose and said, conciliatory, “To assuage my family’s concerns, I will stop avoiding you and I will sleep in my room again. But there will be no repetitions of that night’s events, and no mention of it ever again. Understood? We go back to being reluctant roommates until the end of this little custodial experiment.”
“Got it.” Bill’s tone was flat and he was staring fixedly at the floor. Suddenly his eye widened as if remembering or realizing something, and a flash of pink colored his bricks. “Uh. Gimme a- gimme a second to reorganize some stuff in the room before you go back in there, willya? I did a little- redecorating in your absence, nothing permanent, just uhhh trying out some different feng shui-”
“After the game,” Ford said, opening the door and holding it for Bill to walk through. “I’ll give you ten minutes to tidy up whatever rodent massacre I assume you’ve strewn all over the walls.”
“Cool. Perfect. Yeah, just a lot of- rat guts and stuff. The usual.” Still avoiding eye contact, Bill walked out into the hallway and the pair rejoined the remaining Pines members, who had finished setting up the board and were in the process of selecting their tokens.
“Hey, why do you get the duck piece?” Dipper was asking when they walked in.
“Because I found it first! Quack quack!” Mabel poked her brother’s cheek with the bill of the tiny rubber ducky, making him laugh as he pushed her hand away.
“Fine, then I’ll take the battleship!”
“Nope!” Stan reached forward and plucked the piece from his nephew’s fingers. “I’ve got permanent dibs on that one, sorry kid!”
“What? You can’t have permanent dibs on a game piece, that’s not how it works!” Dipper protested, trying to reach for the die cast token only to be held back by Stan’s slippered foot.
“Sure it is; me and Ford had a snowball fight that lasted three days to determine who got dibs on which piece back in the winter of ‘56!”
Ford chuckled ruefully and patted the boy’s shoulder. “Sorry, Dipper, but I’m afraid I am sworn to uphold the Token Treaty of ‘56. Although, Stanley, it should be ‘Ford and I’, not ‘me and Ford’.”
Stan shook his fist playfully at his twin. “Watch it, wise guy, I might be outta shape but I could still whoop your butt in another snowball match!”
“It’s the middle of summer.”
“I have my ways! You think I can’t get a shipment of snow smuggled over from Canada? Try me!”
Ford snorted and bent over the box, digging through the remaining pieces. “Speaking of ‘dibs’… hmm, my usual piece doesn’t seem to be in here- did it get lost?”
“No idea. Which piece was it?” Dipper leaned in and lifted the plastic shell inside the box to help him look.
“The top h- uh-” Ford cut himself off, feeling his cheeks redden as he quickly corrected himself with a lie. “The thimble.”
“Oh.” Dipper picked the piece out of the pile and held it up. “It’s right here, Grunkle Ford.”
“Ah, haha, so it is! Must’ve missed it, old eyes, you know!” He accepted the thimble and ignored the very pointed look Stan was giving him.
Mabel cleared her throat and held up the rules. “Okay! Community bank, please dispense two hundred dollars to each player!”
Bill, who had been shockingly quiet throughout all of that, blinked and refocused. “You got it, kid!” With a flourish, he shuffled the stack of paper bills and began distributing them. “Hey, is this one of those economy games where the stock market can crash? Because if so I will be accepting bribes of gold bullion and real estate!”
“Aw, c’mon!” Stan complained. “He’s openly accepting bribes and I’m still the ‘less trustworthy’ player? At least I was sneaky about my corruption!”
“He can’t actually take bribes,” Dipper said without looking up from his cards. “Apparently they count as deals.”
“Hmph.” Stan grumbled but let the matter drop.
Busily examining his own cards, Ford held out his hand to accept the brightly-colored paper money, only to look up in surprise when the weight in his palm was more than it should have been. There were the two hundred dollar bills and there, holding them down, was the pewter top hat. Surreptitiously, he glanced at Bill across the board, but the demon was avoiding his gaze as he continued to hand out the starting cash.
Ford sensed everyone’s eyes on him as he swapped the thimble for the top hat on the starting space, but mercifully no one chose to comment on the change.
Notes:
Feels good to post one of the chunkier chapters; I'm stoked to get the next few posted since they were some of the first parts I ever wrote of this fic. Hope you all enjoy!
Chapter 17: And There's No Light Anywhere, and Nothing Left to Burn
Summary:
A new monster makes itself known!
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The next two days passed without incident, albeit with a certain air of discomfort and awkwardness. In an effort to apologize for his retreat to the basement (and not, he told himself, to avoid spending too much time around Bill), Ford dedicated extra effort to spending time with the kids, setting up a rousing and challenging game of D, D & M D, which Soos and Melody joined them for. Stan, like a good brother, took on the task of what he called “demon-sitting”, which involved forcing Bill to join him in the living room for a series of period piece romance films. Ford suspected it also involved the consumption of mass quantities of ice cream, if the empty cartons in the garbage were anything to go by.
For an additional bonding activity, Ford and Dipper were currently scouring newspaper articles for news of any stranger-than-usual local occurrences; there had been no monster incursions since the leprecorn invasion and they were both itching for a good research opportunity.
“Ooh, Grunkle Ford, look at this! This could be something!” Dipper announced. “Buck Smuckley, a nearby farmer, reported a dozen of his cattle being drained of blood in the night! And a group of scouts at the Red Pines Campground found their scoutmaster dead in his tent two mornings ago, covered in weird bite marks and dried out like a prune! The newspapers are claiming a chupacabra is on the loose!” The boy excitedly waved several clippings.
“That’s ridiculous,” Ford pronounced before he’d even seen them. “A chupacabra wouldn’t come so far north, and even if one did there’s no way it would prey on cattle and humans over goats. The campground is less than a quarter mile from Midge Middleton’s Goat Yoga Retreat; it would have targeted that first.” He turned to glance at the loose papers, then did a double-take at one of the photos, snatching it from Dipper’s hand. “Wait. I know these marks.”
“So it’s not a chupacabra? What is it?”
“It’s a squid vampire. Quickly, gather the others! There’s not a moment to lose!”
They called a meeting around the table in the far corner of the living room, where Ford laid out several of his old journals along with the articles Dipper had found.
Mabel had fixed up her version of a cocktail for the meeting, which essentially consisted of Mabel Juice and olives and which only Bill was capable of consuming without gagging. He was, in fact, drinking it out of a martini glass he’d found in the kitchen while he perched atop the light fixture over the table to get a better view of everything.
Ford pointed to the (surprisingly graphic for a local newspaper) photo of a cow corpse, looking desiccated and covered in the kind of sucker marks one might expect to see on a sperm whale. “The attacks, as Dipper has discovered, are making their way closer and closer to the Mystery Shack. I believe the squid vampire will reach us tonight at the earliest, possibly tomorrow night if it stops to feed on the way.”
Dipper raised a hand, repeating the name back with a confused head tilt. “Is it really a vampire squid? Aren't those like. Strictly aquatic? Not to mention they're only like a foot long.”
Shaking his head, Ford wagged a finger and corrected him. “All true of the vampire squid- not only do its adaptations to aphotic depths mean it would be unable to survive our surface, it also subsists on oceanic detritus, not blood!”
“Save the marine biology lecture, professor.” Stan rolled his eyes and cracked open a cola, leaning one arm on the back of his chair as his eyes roved over the spread of papers and books with minimal interest.
“However,” Ford cleared his throat, getting back on track. “We are in fact talking about the squid vampire, Vampyrus teuthidus, an altogether different and much deadlier beast! I encountered one during my travels to the pelagic dimension. In fact, it's possible it followed me here from there.” He flipped through a journal until he found what he was looking for and presented the illustration to the group: an elongated humanoid form dressed in dark clothing with ten limbs emerging from its back, each tipped with a hook-toothed club. Its face was pale and featureless except for two massive staring eyes, one on either side of the head.
“It looks like that internet guy. Uh, the Skinnyman,” Dipper observed. “Wait, no, the Slanderman? I can’t remember.”
“Ooh, it totally does!” Mabel leaned forward, bracing her palms on the edge of the table to get a better view. “Except with big fish eyes!”
“It feeds through these suckers,” Ford explained, tapping the drawing. “They latch onto prey and suck the blood directly through the arms.”
“Oh. Not the tentacles?”
“Technically only these two long ones are tentacles. The rest are called arms.”
“Aw, man, I'm never gonna get to meet a hot vampire,” Mabel sighed. “They're all either gnomes or fish.”
“Cephalopods,” Dipper and Ford corrected simultaneously.
Stan interrupted. “Alright, science nerds, how do we kill this thing? A stake? Garlic?”
“You could make calamari,” Bill suggested, swirling his drink. He received several looks of horror and disgust in return. “Oh, what, really? It's only human- shaped , it doesn't count as cannibalism!”
“Would silver work? I may or may not have an unconfirmed stash of probably real silver in a safe somewhere,” Stanley offered reluctantly, his eyes darting to a conspicuous map that hung crookedly on the wall.
“It might be worth a try,” Ford mused. “Truthfully, I never defeated a squid vampire myself; I ended up having to flee the region before our final confrontation. So its weaknesses are still a bit of a mystery to me.”
One by one, heads turned to look at the only other inter-dimensional expert in the room.
“Oh, now you want my opinion,” Bill huffed.
“It would make this a lot easier,” Ford said reasonably. “After all, you have billions of years’ experience with cosmic horrors.”
“Yeah, bein’ one himself,” Stan muttered. “Do we really want to rely on life-or-death information from the guy who tried to kill us all?”
“If you're gonna be that way about it, maybe I don't feel like sharing my space vampire murder tips!”
“Listen, you little-”
“Stanley, please,” Ford patted his brother on the arm and looked back to the miffed demon. “Bill, it would be very helpful if you would lend your knowledge to this endeavor. I, for one, would appreciate your advice.”
It was impossible to miss the way the little triangle perked up at his words, turning toward him like a flower toward the sun. Helpful and smart. Ford had said it himself, he’d liked Bill when he was helpful and smart.
“Just like old times, eh, IQ? Alright, fine, I'll pitch in.” He crossed his arms and glanced away, making a show of his reticence despite the urgent swirling resurgence of that flutter from earlier. “You were on the right track, but you forgot one important bit- sunlight, baby!”
(“Eugh, do not call Grunkle Ford ‘baby’,” Dipper gagged in the background.)
“But not just any sunlight!” Bill continued, raising a finger. “You need the type of sunlight you'd get from the pelagic dimension's suns.”
“Of course!” Ford thumped a fist into the opposite palm in realization. “Light from an indigo supergiant star! The squid vampire is a nocturnal deep sea creature; the light will cause immediate cell death if intense enough!”
“You know it, Sixer!”
“Brilliant!” The pair grinned at one another until Stanford remembered that there were others in the room with them, at which point he turned sharply toward the door. “I’ll run down to the lab and make some alterations to my chromatic solar ray! The rest of you, start securing the windows and doors! I’ll meet you upstairs in an hour!”
“Hey,” Stan caught up and snagged his brother by the elbow as he left the room, pulling him into a corner of the gift shop. “What the heck was that in there?”
“What was what? My presentation on the squid vampire?”
“You know what I mean. ‘Oh, Bill, thank you so much for your input, ooh what a brilliant idea Bill’!” He mimicked in a scratchy falsetto, complete with rolling eyes and clasped hands. “You'd better not be falling for his crap again; I can't afford another thirty years of journal-decoding and portal-building.”
“Stanley, don't be ridiculous.” Ford scoffed quietly. He paused, checked the hallway, and pulled the door shut before lowering his voice and explaining. “Bill is a being of pure ego. I've calculated that the best way to obtain his cooperation is to play into that fact, to flatter his sense of self-worth and, frankly, his obsession with my opinion of him.”
“Listen,” Stan sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don't care what happens to the corn chip, but I've played cards against him enough times to know he's got absolutely no poker face. We all saw the way he lit up back there; hell, he's managed to convince poor Mabel he's in love with you or something-”
“He's not,” Ford interrupted, hurriedly. “Bill is quite literally incapable of love. He doesn’t understand what it is.”
“-but he's not an idiot. What's gonna happen when he realizes you're stringing him along? I'm worried you're playing with fire, here, Sixer.”
“I appreciate your concern, Stanley, but I know what I’m doing. Bill has always been easier to manage when he thinks people are playing along with his game; he hardly expects to be played himself. It’s why we won the first time.”
“I can't believe I'm the one saying this but does he really seem like the same guy we beat last time? Seems to me he got a taste of ‘the world post-Ford’ back in his jail cell and he didn't like it.”
“I know what I'm doing, Stanley.” Ford pulled his coat on brusquely. “It's a manipulation, that's all. It's what he does. Don't tell me you're buying his nonsense all of a sudden; you've been perfectly capable of seeing through him up until now.”
“Yeah, I have been,” Stan agreed, sounding irritated. “So maybe you oughtta listen to me and quit while you’re ahead. Messing with him like that can’t lead anywhere good.”
Scowling now, Ford turned away from his brother and marched toward the vending machine. “We can discuss this later. For now, we have a vampire to kill.”
Notes:
LOOK LOOK EVERYONE LOOKIT THERE'S NEW FANART!! FEAST YOUR EYES!! My favorite is the depiction of Mabel's vision for wedding!Bill in his little veil.
https://zabkillkitten.tumblr.com/post/780394042515177472/i-was-re-reading-take-a-chance-and-was-inspired-3
Chapter 18: Two Hands, One Heart, Every Reason to Bite
Summary:
The gang does a little impromptu vampire hunting.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Mercifully, squidpire-proofing the shack was much easier than leprecorn-proofing it, and didn't require the use of any noxious bodily fluids from other mythical creatures. Oddly in keeping with familiar vampire lore, Ford told them, the squid vampire could not enter a dwelling unless invited, so all they needed to do was board up the windows and lock the doors, avoid being grabbed by any intruding arms or tentacles, and stay indoors until he had finished the modifications to his chromatic solar ray.
“Hmm.” Dipper paused, resting the hammer he'd been using against one shoulder. “Hey, Mabel- do you want me to leave Waddles’ cat-flap door un-nailed so he can still go to the bathroom outside?”
“He knows how to use the litter box, that's why Soos set it up!” She called back from the next room. “If only Gompers would follow his example- wait, where is Waddles?” Mabel turned to scan the area, but only saw Gompers. The aforementioned goat had been brought inside, very much against his will, and was currently perched atop the dinosaur skull in the living room and gnawing on the arm of the chair. “He was just here- Waddles?”
A shrill squeal ripped through the air, a sound of animal fear.
“Waddles!” Mabel screamed, flying toward the front door.
“Mabel, wait!” Dipper and Stan took off after her, Stan grabbing his baseball bat in a rush.
Waddles was just barely visible in the dim light as he came bursting out of the treeline, running for his life towards the trio of humans. They met at the far end of the parking lot as something else tore free of the woods, the silhouette of a tree come terribly alive and moving faster than the eye could track.
The squid vampire slithered liquidly across the packed dirt, rearing up to its full height with its arms arching like ten scorpion stingers, prepared to strike. It hissed, colored light pulsing rhythmically down its shadowy body, and Stan immediately put himself in front of the children, wielding his bat with both hands.
“Not a chance, bub!”
The creature’s hiss rose to a screech and it lunged. His bat knocked away the first tentacle with a resounding crack, but as quickly as he deflected it another took its place, grappling the bat and swinging him around while another latched onto his shoulder. Stan grunted in pain as the fangs plunged into his skin and the twins screamed.
“Grunkle Stan!”
“Kids- get- back inside-” Stan strained, trying to fend off the remaining arms in vain.
The squid vampire moved to strike again, only to flinch as something made of glass, water and glitter exploded against its back.
“Hey sucker!” The voice was loud and piercing, even obnoxious, and impossible to ignore. The squidpire whirled toward the source, its bulbous eyes fixing on the two-foot-tall triangle that stood between it and the house.
Bill hefted another snowglobe, tossing it up and down. “Get it? It's funny because I'm mocking your anatomy!”
Apparently not possessed of a sense of humor, the monster screeched again, its phosphorescent lights flashing faster and faster in anger.
Bill was unimpressed. “Yeah, yeah. If any internet famous nightmare monster with dapper fashion sense is gonna kill this family, it's gonna be me!” He hurled the second snowglobe, but the creature was prepared for it this time and it batted the projectile away, turning to keep its focus on the meal it had trapped rather than this new annoyance. Bill narrowed his eye. “Nothin’ doin’, huh? Alright,” he pulled a strange device from behind his back- something like a squat parabolic microphone with a chunk of crystal at its center rather than an audio receiver. “Let’s get weird!”
He aimed the Weirdness Field Modifier at himself, made sure the switch was set to Amplify, and pulled the trigger. There was no visual cue, but a strange low-frequency wamp-wamp-wamp noise buzzed through the air and when the squid vampire’s head suddenly spun back towards him he knew it had done its job.
The magnified pull of Bill’s aura was too much for the creature to ignore; the arms holding Stan released him and it focused all its attention on the newly-irresistible prey.
Stan struggled upright with the help of the children and stared briefly in shock at the sight of Bill freaking Cipher protecting the Pines family.
“That’s right, dumb-dumb, follow the target!” Bill began running in a wide circle away from the house, trying to keep just out of reach of the squid vampire as it wheeled to follow him. He miscalculated almost immediately, swerving to avoid a rock and getting yanked into the air by one leg as a tentacle found its mark. He kicked as he was hoisted, but kept chattering like he couldn’t help himself. “Boy, all those squid brain smarts and you still can’t keep up with the concept of a basic distraction! Talk about an evolutionary dead-end!” He pointed to the doorway of the house, where all four mammals had safely run inside and shut the door. The squid vampire shrieked in annoyance and Bill laughed. “Ha! What now, idiot?”
The nine remaining squid limbs slammed into his body at once, crunching through his exoskeleton.
“Oh, right,” he said, as both realization and pain hit him.
With every fanged mouth latched onto a single target, the creature made a sound like a milkshake going through a straw and began draining every ounce of staticky blood in his body. Apparently whatever blood-producing mystery organs he might have had couldn’t keep up with such an intense drop in pressure, because no sooner had he spoken that last witty retort than he felt his vision go dark and his limbs go cold.
Killed by a stupid back-galaxy Lovecraft reject, he thought faintly. This is almost worse than being killed by Stan. At least no one’s watching.
The squidpire gave one more powerful slurp and Bill felt his body start to crumple inwards like a juicebox. Suddenly the suction ceased, several of the clinging maws yanked back as if burned, leaving him dangling, and he managed to pry open his eye to see the monster reeling away and clutching at its guts in pain. Another mouth detached, and another, and when the squid vampire began to scream in otherworldly terror, its lights flashing like a strobe, it dawned on him.
“Ha! Haha!” He cackled with as much smug glee as he could manage through the wooziness. “You are what you eat, pal, and you just ate one Bill's worth of pure concentrated nightmare juice! You can't hold all that energy; your dumb squid body's gonna rip itself apart!”
The last set of fangs ripped free, trailing static in an arc, and Bill staggered and landed heavily in the grass. The squidpire howled in agony, every limb thrashing independently as its nervous system shattered against the onslaught of psychic chaos.
Clutching his hands over as many bleeding holes as he could, Bill watched with satisfaction. “Yeah, great, very dramatic- could you die a little faster? I honestly have no idea how much of this stuff I can afford to lose in one go and-”
Suddenly the tone of the scream changed, intensifying and raising in pitch until it visibly warped the air around it. Dark energy crackled unevenly in the monster's eyes as it turned to fix Bill with a stare of utter madness. Energy that looked strangely familiar.
“Hey, that looks like-”
Bill woke up.
The silence was all-consuming and complete. The white plane stretched on unending.
“What-? Did those jerks put me back in the Inhibitor?! Is this the thanks I get for heroically saving you morons?!”
There was no response. His own voice came out as a muffled whisper, barely audible even in his own head.
“Haha, I get it, you twerps finally developed a sense of karmic comedy! Hilarious! I'm almost proud! Now let me out so I can kick you in the shins!”
There was a response this time, but it came in the form of the mind-deafening, sound-inverting voice of the Axolotl.
To whom to you speak?
What answers do you seek?
There is no one else here,
I thought that was clear.
“Ugh, not you again! Why'd you pull me back in here? I thought I was doing pretty well! Did you see me? I let a squid suck my blood and everything! I let a kid put stickers on me! I played poker with Stan and I didn't even cheat!”
See you? I'm not sure what you mean.
Throughout all this time, it is here you have been.
“Baloney,” retorted Bill, trying and failing to cross his arms- his limbs were weirdly heavy. “You sent me back to Gravity Falls for human meatbag reparations or whatever! If your memory's that bad, maybe you ought to check yourself into your stupid Theraprism!”
No, Billy. I'm afraid none of it was real. It was a test, to see if you could learn from your mistakes.
“But- no, but he said-” He caught himself. “Hey, wait, why did you stop rhyming? You usually rhyme.”
Silly Billy, why would I rhyme? Asked his mother. Are you a poet now?
“M- where did- wasn't Frills here a second ago?”
Is this a new game, like your stars? You're so imaginative!
“No, hang on, the stars are real! It was all real!” He insisted, pointing up- or trying to. His hand wouldn't quite- his arm wasn't obeying. “Just look- listen, listen, even if you can’t see them, you can at least hear them, can’t you?”
My muse, sang the stars. My muse, my world, center of my universe.
Stars don't make noise, Billy. Everyone knows that, his father chided. Stars make silence.
Stars absolutely do make noise, the stars said, miffed. The convection zone of a star creates constant waves of pressure that can be interpreted by advanced equipment as a surprisingly musical sound. It just doesn't travel through the vacuum of space.
“See?” Bill asked his parents urgently. “You heard all that, right?”
No, son, no one heard any of it.
I'm here, Bill, I'm waiting for you, the stars murmured. I’ll wait as long as I live. Come back to me. Open your eye! Bill, wake up!
Were they worth it, Billy? Asked the scattered implosion of his mother. Were the stars worth it? Oh, tell us about them! Are they beautiful? Are they worth it? Do you love them more than us? Are they worth it?
“Wait-”
Are they more important than everyone else? Are you? You selfish creature. Why can't you just be content? Why couldn’t you just… be normal?
“No, wait, I didn't-”
Look what you did. Listen. Listen to what you did.
“I didn't mean to- it was an accident!”
We wanted what was best for you. Now look at you- talking to the ghost of some insignificant human.
“He’s not ins- what do you mean, ghost? He's- I can hear him! He's in- in Gravity Falls, Oregon, uh, in the United States of Whatsit, on Earth, in Dimension 46’\.”
Bill, said the Axolotl gently. He's been dead for millennia. You destroyed the earth and everything on it over a billion years ago. We’ve been over this.
“No, no I didn't! They stopped me, they tricked me and I died and that's how I ended up here!”
If you refuse to move past this delusion, you will never successfully reincarnate.
“Then I don't want to reincarnate anymore!”
You have to accept the truth.
How had he not noticed the giant pins piercing his limbs, pinning him to the flat surface behind him? He strained upward, trying to tug himself free. The cracks down his surface splintered and grew, searing pain, his arms and legs shredding apart but it was working, he was slowly pulling off of the pins!
“The stars are real! It was real, he promised! Ford, tell them!”
The stars were silent. The white plane stretched on unending.
Notes:
Not gonna lie, I've been so excited to post this chapter. As always, let me know what you think!
Chapter 19: Don’t You Think It’s Kinda Cute That I Died Right Inside Your Arms Tonight?
Summary:
Ford takes a leap of faith.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
“Bill!”
Ford dropped the freshly-discharged chromatic solar ray, uncaring now if it shattered, and ran as fast as he could across the parking lot towards the pale yellow shape. He scooped the demon's supine form off the ground and rushed back to the house where the others were waiting, leaving the charred corpse of the squid vampire behind. Bill was eerily light in his arms, and he flinched with each step Ford took, his eye fluttering and rolling sightlessly as more of that fizzing, color-shifting blood stained the fabric of the man’s coat.
Mabel was already moving forward with a towel when Ford reached the doorway, and he took it gratefully, wrapping the demon in it as tightly as he could to slow the blood loss while he hurried toward the lab. Everyone else followed him down the stairs, hovering in the kind of near-silence of a held breath, of hoping that the worst won’t happen so long as you hold that breath.
Ford swept his elbow across the workbench, clearing a space, and set his bundle down. “Dipper, could you bring me the suture kit? It’s on the shelf behind me, to my left.” He rolled up his sleeves and pulled on a pair of surgical gloves as Dipper hurried to fulfill his request. As quickly and carefully as he could, he unwrapped Bill and looked over the damage. “Wait. Not the suture kit. In the refrigerator, behind the blood packs- there’s a syringe of gel. Bring me that.” The gel was an algae and fungi blend from one of the more medically-advanced dimensions he’d visited, designed to fill wounds and stop bleeding; there was no way he could stitch Bill’s hard exterior, but he thought he might be able to sort of… caulk them, like cracked drywall. If that failed, he could try the staple gun.
Dipper appeared at his elbow, holding out the syringe. “Why did he do that?” The boy asked, voice hovering between worry and anger. “Why did he help?”
Ford had no answer for him- none that he could trust himself to voice. He moved mechanically, patching with the gel, wiping static as it welled and spilled over, packing and wrapping what he couldn’t staunch with gauze. The cracks across Bill’s body had spiderwebbed out like broken glass, and Ford was seized with the urge to keep wrapping him in bandages, to hold him together, as if he would shatter into a thousand pieces at any second. He certainly looked like he would.
Bill’s eye had closed, and he’d stopped flinching at every touch, but it seemed more from a weakening of his motor control than from relief. His arms and legs laid limply, small irregular spasms running through them every few seconds. He didn’t visibly breathe, and there was no real way to take his pulse, but Ford knew dying when he saw it. His mind filled with blank, automatic panic, something screaming over his own pounding pulse behind his ears- no, no, no, it can’t be, this cannot be. Think, dammit!
His legs moved before his brain had caught up, to the refrigerator, the blood packs, the blood packs, that was it- human blood, deer blood, snake blood, he threw them aside uncaring and yes, there- the remaining samples of blood he’d taken from Bill. He snatched the half-full pouch from its icy cradle, turned, already fumbling with a clamp. He knew from experience that the flesh of Bill’s arms was much softer and more pliable than his main body, that he could get a needle inserted, he just needed to move quickly, quickly. He attached the tubing, palpated the bag, turned his head frantically looking for the- Stanley had read his mind, had pulled the IV stand from the corner it was kept in and wheeled it toward the table without a word. Ford hooked the bag up, picked up one of Bill’s arms- didn’t concentrate on how fragile and cold it felt- and slid the needle home, taping it into place.
They all watched as the glowing, silvery blood found its way through the tubing and disappeared back into its owner’s body. He didn’t know if it was enough, he had no idea what he would do if it wasn’t enough- he continued to patch the smaller wounds, hoping.
Bill suddenly convulsed, a weak scream ripping out of him. His limbs twitched and curled inward like a dying spider, and Stan had to step in and hold them out of the way so Ford could continue. He screamed again, and as agonized a sound as it was at least it was a sign of life.
Ford took one of Bill’s hands between his thumb and forefinger, squeezed gently, then harder when there was no response. "Open your eye! Bill, wake up!”
“What's happening to him?” Mabel asked tearfully, watching the demon thrash.
“I don't know for certain,” Ford said, trying to keep his voice and hands steady as he worked. “But I suspect when the squid vampire consumed enough of his blood, it began to gain some of his dormant powers.”
“Those lightning bolts!” Dipper blurted, remembering. “He used to be able to zap lightning bolts that made your worst nightmare happen! That's what that looked like!”
Ford nodded, filling in the last wound and peering down at the demon’s unconscious form as he stripped off the gloves. “He may be trapped in his own nightmare, whatever that might be.”
Stan sighed, his own bandaged shoulders slumping. “Any other time I'd say it serves the little creep right, getting a taste of his own medicine. But after that…”
The blood bag was empty; Ford detached its tubing and taped a cotton ball over the puncture in Bill’s arm, his thumb lingering to feel the tremors running under the surface.
“What if-” Mabel reached forward, her small hand mirroring Ford’s atop Bill’s other arm. “What if we did that dreamscape thing? Would that help him?”
“Hey, yeah!” Dipper joined his sister, carefully avoiding the bandages to lay his hand alongside hers. “We could all go in, like we did for Grunkle Stan that time!”
Ford shook his head. “It's too dangerous. Bill is an unfathomably ancient creature; his mind would likely be incomprehensible to us. A normal human's psyche could be utterly obliterated, or lost in there forever.” He hesitated. “The only one of us who might stand a chance in there is- me.”
“What?! Sixer, you just said a human would get obliterated!” Stan protested immediately.
“A normal human,” Ford repeated, already grabbing candles. “I've not only had prolonged contact with Bill's mind before, I've had years of experience with astral projection and psychic defense techniques!” He glanced around at the lab, cramped with all of them huddled around the table. “Let’s move him upstairs to the living room; there’s more space to make the proper ritual circle there.”
“Ford, slow down! Listen to yourself- you're gonna risk your sanity for Bill? I know we've all been warming up to the guy, but a year ago he wanted us dead! What if this is a trick? What if he traps you in there?!”
Ford hesitated. It was a completely logical, reasonable assumption. A decade ago, a year ago, a month ago, he would have agreed with his brother.
“I… I trust that he won't hurt me. And I need you to trust me.”
For a moment it looked like his brother wanted to argue further, but Bill convulsed again and let out a tiny, frightened sound of pain and Stan winced, then sighed. “What do you need us to do?”
They assembled the candle ring in the living room and propped Bill up in a little blanket and towel nest on the armchair, where he lay twitching and shivering as Ford quickly worked to get the candles lit before stepping back to look at his family.
“If I’m not out in ten minutes, pull me out.” He waited until they’d all given him a nod before closing his eyes and beginning the chant. He slid free of his body-
-and fell headlong into a screaming, shifting pit of chaos.
Notes:
Slightly shorter chapter this time, next one will be a doozy!
Chapter 20: With Your Feet On the Air and Your Head On the Ground
Summary:
Ford travels the dreamscape inside Bill's mind.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
If a human’s mind was a house, Bill’s was a labyrinth the size of a continent. An M. C. Escher painting on acid, with walls and voids and doorways that constantly consumed one another and twisted off into new shapes. Colors with no name, no earthly description (there, for just an instant- was that Fordtramarine?), flashed and flickered and died like fireworks. The noise was indecipherable, a cacophony of voices laughing, screaming or whispering over snippets of mismatched music and staticky alien echoes.
As Ford tried to calm himself, to slow his fall and gain control, he saw shard after shard of fragmented memories flick past, some drifting toward each other to briefly form images and others whirling away. His own face glowered back at him, then dissolved into glittering splinters and swirled down towards a trapdoor that opened like a yawning, fanged mouth. A pulse or shockwave shot forth from that portal, a massive wall of pressure that washed over him and knocked him backward and was- silence. The wave, however briefly, killed all noise as it passed, inverted and muted the colors and made the whole loose structure shake.
That looked vaguely promising, so he angled himself toward it.
As he drew near, he saw that what he’d mistaken for jagged teeth was actually a mosaic pattern of blue and red triangles, lining the inside of the door and spiraling downward. He pulled his limbs in tight to avoid snagging anything on them and sank through the doorway before it could close.
The trapdoor gave way to a dark tunnel of sorts, a drifting pit reminiscent of Alice In Wonderland’s well where his fall slowed to a more controlled speed. More doors or windows floated past him, labeled in cryptic codes that scrambled and rescrambled into things like “Phobias”, “Awkward Teenage Years”, “Portal Attempts”, “Ford Being Hot part 67852” (Ford elected to skip right past that one), “Guilt Vault DO NOT OPEN” (which was, notably, hanging open, its chains and locks dangling) and “Teeth Teeth Teeth Teeth”. A ribbon of what looked like film- too far for him to make out the tiny images on it- shot past him and briefly scrawled out “WHERE LIES THE STRANGLING FRUIT” against the dark background, then flattened and rewrote itself into “THIS IS NOT FOR YOU” as he passed it.
He caught hold of a velcro sneaker the size of a wardrobe and paused there a moment. This was the kind of opportunity he’d spent decades of his life in pursuit of; he had complete access to everything that made Bill tick, his fears, his weaknesses, every memory, every deal he’d made, every lie or truth he’d ever told.
The dreamscape shuddered around him, the colors inverting again as another wave of silence passed.
Ford braced himself with an arm in front of his eyes, squinting toward the source of the wave. It seemed to emanate from further down, rising up like a bubble in the ocean and passing up the curlicues of the tunnel. It passed over him, the brief silence making his ears pop, and vanished upward and outward. The sounds rushed in after it, the sensory assault fighting for clarity in his overwhelmed human brain: fussyeaterbabyBillywouldn’tdrinkunlessit’ssilly, OHGRAVITYFALLSITISGOODTOBEBACK, Irealizedthatyoumightnothavebeenlying, thedoctorsaidthreesipsadaywouldmakethevisionsgoaway-
Ford reeled, clutched at his ears and shook his head to free himself of the clinging voices as he spun through the aftershocks. He turned, planted his feet on the underside of a door labeled “Great-Grandma Equilateralia’s Soup Recipes” and launched himself toward what he hoped was the bottom of the tunnel.
There was no bottom, as it turned out- the tunnel darkened further, then opened suddenly into a dizzying expanse of stars.
He floated downward, swimming through the cosmos. Under lighter circumstances, he would have reveled in the beauty of it, the way the planets and nebulae seemed to pulse with light and sound in a constant symphony, but he was driven on by the urgency of his mission. There, fixed and still amidst the swirling watercolor of space, was a flat white square so bright it hurt his eyes. He drifted toward it, catching hold of the edge of it to anchor himself. It was hard to gauge its size; from one angle it looked no wider than a few feet, from another it seemed to stretch into eternity. Its surface was flat and cool like glass, and through it he could see tiny, distant shapes- three triangles? No, just one- wait, three again. When he tilted his head he could almost see the outline of another, larger creature, but it was fleeting. He pressed his ear to the glass, hearing muffled voices.
Look what you did. Listen. Listen to what you did.
“I didn't mean to- it was an accident!”
We wanted what was best for you. Now look at you.
Ford recognized Bill’s voice, but the anguish in it struck him as fundamentally wrong- Bill Cipher was never anguished, he was never afraid or hurt- Ford winced at that last one, thinking of the current state of Bill’s broken body. He didn’t know the other voice- voices? They seemed to multiply and change with every sentence, and as they spoke another wave of deafening silence rippled out from the window, warping the galaxy in its path.
If you refuse to move past this delusion, you will never successfully reincarnate.
“Then I don't want to reincarnate anymore!”
You have to accept the truth.
“The stars are real! It was real, he promised! Ford, tell them!”
Ford jerked back in shock, then immediately pressed himself back up to the glass. Could Bill see him? “Bill!” He shouted, cupping his hands around his mouth to amplify the sound. “Bill, can you hear me? Up here!”
There’s no one there, Billy. There was never anyone there.
Take your medicine, Billy, no more of this nonsense.
If you don’t take the medicine the doctors will have no choice but to operate.
We’re doing this because we love you, Billy. We want you to have a normal life.
We love you, Billy.
“Stop, stop, stop-” The distant yellow shape was growing further and further away into the white void below, his voice shrinking with him.
“Bill!” Ford hammered his fists against the window urgently. The other two triangles, red and blue, continued to flicker in and out of visibility, their voices alternately accusatory and pleading. He had an unpleasant sneaking sensation that he knew who they were, but he also knew that if he allowed himself to be drawn into the nightmare he would be of no help in getting them both out of there.
Another voice spoke, in a sort of inverted sound that made Ford’s ears ring.
Why did you do it, Bill?
Why not be content?
Were the stars worth the price
of your world being rent?
“I- I don’t know, I didn’t know, I told you it was an accident, it wasn’t supposed to happen that way-”
It hurts so much, Billy.
Another pulse, strong enough that it almost knocked Ford away from his perch. They were coming faster now, and he tried to fight down the rising panic and wrongness of hearing Bill have what sounded like a full-blown panic attack and focus on a solution. Think, Stanford, think- you’re in Bill’s mind and it’s overwhelming but it’s still a dreamscape, there are still rules. He took a deep breath, ignored the way his chest hurt at Bill’s distant muttered litany of I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry, and pushed with his own mind, forcing dream-reality to bend to his will. A sledgehammer appeared in his hands, and he swung it with all his might.
The glass didn’t shatter at the first blow- it bowed and stretched and seemed almost to writhe like a living thing, and Ford drew back the hammer again, brought it down over and over as he yelled until his throat hurt. “You have to wake up! You have to hear me, Bill, I’m right here! This isn’t real, it’s just a bad dream, you have to come back with me! Mabel is real, Dipper is real, Stan and Soos and Melody- we’re all real, I’m real, Bill! I need- I need you, please, my-”
The glass exploded.
For exactly half a second, the screams of a hundred billion dying Euclydians pounded against Ford’s mind and he felt his projected body’s eardrums burst and bleed, his sense of self wavering under the tsunami force of many-made-one-made-nothing all howling in pain and fear and confusion- and then it ceased. He raised his head, reminded himself of his individual shape and being- Ford Pines, human, alive-aware how-much-time-left?
The stars wavered, erupted, melted into each other in cascades of liquid fire until the entire dreamscape was ablaze, all without a sound. Ford twisted in his small radius of unburning void, searching for Bill, and dropped the hammer, which immediately burst into flame and disintegrated. Shards of glass or crystal or- he didn’t want to think about it- drifted past, some melting when they got too close to the wall of fire. The atmosphere- if it could be called that- was either searing hot or blazing cold, his skin couldn’t seem to tell the difference.
“Bill!” The strength of his own voice was almost startling over all that oppressive nothingness. “Bill, where are you?!”
“No no no no no- please, no-”
The voice was small, a mantra whispered thoughtlessly under one’s breath, but in the silence it was enough for Ford to hone in on. Over the wall of fire, past the burning nebula, behind a spinning whirl of plasma- Bill was hunched, facing away, his movements frantic as he continued to mutter.
Ford drifted closer, was almost on top of him when he was able to make out what he was doing: floating in front of him was a loose collection of what looked like flat glass shards, sharp-edged pieces in pale blue and red, and he was desperately trying to stick them back together like a puzzle. Every time he got one in place, another would begin to wobble and slip free, and he continued to mumble to himself as he pulled them closer.
“Bill?” Ford tried, keeping his voice soft. “Bill, I’m here. You have to-”
“F-Ford?” He whipped around to meet his gaze, eye wide and panicked. The fragile shapes in his hands trembled and collapsed, his concentration broken, and suddenly multiplied. Bill screamed in frustration and anger and more hands sprouted from his sides as he started over, plucking the shards and trying once again to piece them together. There were more now, not just the two triangles, and they were more complex shapes- shapes Ford began to recognize as they came together. A five-pointed star trailing a rainbow, a simplified pine tree, something like a crescent moon or maybe an oyster or a fish- even as they started to come together, they fell apart again.
“No, no, wait wait no- NO!” Bill’s voice twisted with rage as the pieces slipped through his dozens of fingers to litter the burning cosmos. He rounded on Ford, his form splitting and unfolding into a Penrose nightmare of teeth and angles. “YOU! THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT!” His howled words shook the dreamscape and bursts of sparks exploded from the melting stars.
Ford jerked away automatically, shielding himself from the shower of sparks with one arm. “Bill, listen-”
“YOU BROUGHT THEM HERE!” A forest of arms dragged Bill’s form toward him as it shuffled and reshuffled into more jagged and impossible shapes. “IT WAS HARD ENOUGH WHEN IT WAS JUST THE TWO, NOW LOOK AT THIS MESS!” He swiped one limb through the sparkling pieces that drifted around him, and they caught the light and refracted it into spiraling bursts of memory- Dipper’s face reflected off a cloud of cosmic dust as he held up an old Polaroid camera and squinted into the lens, Mabel’s laughter echoed through the gravitational warp of a nearby sun, and for a split second Ford tasted lemonade and plastic, of all things. “YOU DID THIS!”
Struggling against the sensory onslaught, Ford pushed back. “I don’t know what you mean! I didn’t bring anything here; this is your mind!”
Bill roared his fury, his eye a blazing black hole and his twisting shape pulsing red, and the force of the sound shattered the pieces around him into even smaller shards, some spinning away to be lost in the void. The reaction was instant; Bill folded in on himself like a house of cards and turned back toward the remaining fragments, his expression terrified. His many arms began to regather the glimmering pieces and he tried, once again, to puzzle them back together. His attention was completely on them, and Ford cautiously approached again.
There were, Ford thought, eight shapes altogether, each of a slightly different-colored crystalline or metallic material. They were familiar- not just the triangles, star, tree and oyster, but he knew the question mark, he could make a pretty good guess on the one that resembled a cartoonish bone-in hunk of meat, and the last- the six-fingered hand composed of solid gold instead of pale crystal- he would have known blind. With the additional damage, none of them would hold their shape longer than an instant.
“Wait, wait, I can fix it, I can fix it, look-” Bill’s many hands were turning back, reaching inward and prying at the cracks in his surface, wrenching at them until they fractured outward. Without hesitation the hands grasped at the shards he’d made in himself and yanked, ripping them loose, some left to drift away into the void on ribbons of static while he manically began to jam the ones in his hold into the empty spaces remaining in each shape. Bright yellow splinters glowed against blue and red and translucent white, turning the colors sickly, but they held. Encouraged, Bill redoubled his efforts, tearing more pieces out of his own form with one free hand while two more pieced together and rotated the sage green question mark shape, filling the gaps in its curves.
The cracks in Bill’s surface shivered and spread. Unnoticed or unheeded by their owner, the bricks of his lower half began to slip loose, a tremor of instability like a house in an earthquake.
“Bill, stop! You’re falling apart!”
This time Bill didn’t spare him a glance, only kept up his urgent pace. Ford swam toward him through the burning field of stars and grabbed him by the arm, and the touch was apparently enough to startle Bill out of his reverie once again as he jumped and his many arms faltered, briefly losing their hold.
Unattended, the question mark shattered and spun away.
“Bill, look at me.” He spoke firmly but kept his hold on Bill’s arm as gentle as he could.
Slowly, painfully, the single eye turned toward him.
“They’re here because you brought them- because you-” He almost couldn’t believe the words as they left his mouth but he knew they were true, knew he was right. “Because you want to keep them safe.”
A glitch ran up Bill’s crumbling body, like a shiver, and he gave a hard blink, glared incredulously at Ford. “Don’t you understand anything?! I can’t keep them safe! That’s not what I do. That’s not how it works!” He shook again, his tone changing back to that low scheming mutter to himself as he turned back to his task, as if he’d forgotten Ford was there. “No, no, I can game the system this time, that’s all it takes! This is working, it’s working.” He ripped another piece of himself free and forced it into a gap in the golden surface of the six-fingered hand shape, which shuddered violently but held its form while Bill continued to glitch and spasm. “There! Now just-” Two of his hands clamped around the shape with all their might, forcing it to keep its form. Bill laughed with unhinged, manic relief. “Just gotta keep-”
He spun in place, reaching for the now-loose collection of fuchsia pieces that made up the star-and-rainbow shape. “Just a couple more of these bad boys-” He wedged another shard of yellow into place, another one, until the shape was complete, and squeezed it together with another four hands when it began to tremble unstably. “There, see?” His jovial tone didn’t seem to be aimed at anyone in particular anymore. “Not a problem! Geez, why didn’t I think of this earlier?”
He reached for the question mark’s pieces again, but the hand he reached with overshot its target and went flying, detached, into one of the walls of flame to crisp away into nothing. Bill looked down at himself, seeming to notice the extent of the damage for the first time. His bricks had come loose, no longer held by any grout or tissue, and most of the arms he’d sprouted had split or torn free like so many uprooted grass stalks. Blinking rapidly, he tried to force another arm to grow- it half-formed from the buzzing silvery nerves along the crack in his side, and he screamed as if shocked by the pain when it trembled and disintegrated.
“Listen to me.” Carefully, Ford reached for him, arms going around his dissolving form from behind in an embrace. He took hold of Bill’s two remaining arms, soothed twelve digits up to his wrists and squeezed gently. “Let go.”
Bill, who had been watching him unblinking, jolted and clutched harder onto the golden statue. “No!”
“Bill, it’ll be alright. Let go.”
“I- I can’t!” Bill’s voice twisted around a sob, his fingers shaking with the effort of holding on. “It’ll fall apart! It’s all I- it’s the only thing-”
Ford pressed his forehead to the flat, hot-cold surface of Bill’s back, closed his eyes. “You don’t need it. You did it already, Bill, you kept them safe. It’s okay, you can let go.”
Bill squirmed in his arms, and Ford kept his hold steady.
“Come back with me,” he said against the smooth static buzz of the scar beneath his lips. “Let it go and come back with me now. It’s time to wake up and come home.”
Another sob wracked him, but Ford felt the straining tremor in Bill’s arms lessen as his grip began to falter. He raised his head and watched as Bill’s fingers slowly, slowly relaxed their hold, and his thumbs rubbed circles into Bill’s wrists as the golden hand drifted loose and fell apart. The yellow fragments, almost indistinguishable against the gold surface, hung frozen in place while the remaining metal pieces floated further away.
Bill made a shuddering sound of misery in his arms, and Ford used his hold to curl around him. The yellow splinters began to draw back toward their owner as if pulled by gravity, reforming.
The many-colored shards of the broken shapes drifted out into the burning cosmos, reflecting the light of the flames, and as the pair watched they began to expand and catch fire themselves, each piece alive with the brightness of a new star. With an unearthly but strangely musical thrum, they exploded into supernovas, pink and green and white and gold and colors the human language would never have words for, and as they settled into place Ford recognized the shapes of each new constellation.
“Oh…” Bill said softly, drawing his arms back until his hands rested lightly in Ford’s palms. “...can you see them?”
“I see them,” Ford assured him, smiling. “They’re beautiful.”
Notes:
Dear reader, you don't know how many times I've edited and rewritten this chapter since I started writing this story. It's a relief to post it finally but I suspect I'll be coming back to tweak parts of it later.
As always, let me know what you think!
Chapter 21: I Am This Great, Unstable Mass of Blood & Foam
Summary:
Bill wakes up.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Bill opened his eye slowly, blinking against the flicker of candlelight. A cluster of human faces immediately filled his view, expressions ranging from teary to cautious to furious, and he flinched back, then winced when the movement jolted a dozen injuries.
“You’re awake! It worked!” Mabel shouted, too close and too loud. After the silence of the Inhibitor, it was like a breath of fresh air.
“What worked?” He asked uncertainly. He felt like he’d been dragged through six different temporal rifts at once and then dipped in sulfuric acid, or like he’d spent a few years getting rearranged like a Hellraiser puzzle in a not-very-fun way. His body, his stupid mostly-physical body, felt unimaginably heavy and hard to move and it hurt, and for a second he wondered if the pins were still there. Pins? What pins? His mind felt fuzzy. He squinted up at the people staring down at him. “Wh- where’s Ford?”
“I’m here!” Stanford appeared from his left, looking rumpled and bleary-eyed but manically awake. It was a familiar look on him, recalling his younger self after a few nights of uninterrupted portal work. “Everyone’s here, we’re all real!”
“Huh. That’s a weirdly specific way to say that.” Bill looked him up and down. “What the heck happened to you? You look crazy.”
“Uh, well…” Ford glanced guiltily at their surroundings. Behind him, Stan shook his head and rolled his eyes, but he was fighting back a relieved grin.
“What did you…” Bill looked at the circle of candles and put two and two together. “You… you went inside my dreamscape? Ford!” He grabbed at the man’s face, little claws digging in weakly. “Are you insane?! What if it had been a trick? What if I’d trapped you in there with me?!”
Stan choked out a laugh.
“It wasn’t, and you didn’t,” Ford said calmly through squished cheeks.
“You're shaking really hard,” observed Mabel.
He withdrew his hands from Ford's face and looked down at them to see that she was right; tremors ran up his limbs and through his body and he realized that was why the room had suddenly become blurry. “S'just cause it's- it's freezing in here,” he said, surprised none of the humans seemed bothered by the drop in temperature.
“It's not, you're just in shock,” Ford replied, pulling off his coat and wrapping it around Bill like that was a perfectly normal thing for him to do and not something Bill had daydreamed about for decades. “The adrenaline- or your body's version of it- is wearing off. You'll likely be in a lot of pain soon.”
“Goody,” said Bill, only half-listening as he clutched the bloodstained coat closer to himself, which did nothing to lessen the shivering but did make him feel better.
“That blood you pumped back into him coming straight outta the fridge probably didn't help either,” Stan added. “I mean, it helped living-wise, just not temperature-wise. Think I got some heat packs still stashed away in the coat closet.”
“I'll grab the analgesics, you get the heat packs.” Ford tucked the coat a bit closer then stood, patting his brother's shoulder, and hurried toward the basement.
“Right.” Stan followed suit, glancing at the children. “Be right back. Uh, holler if anything else goes wrong.”
They nodded solemnly as he left, and for a long moment the living room was silent save for the sound of Bill shuddering as chills and creeping pain wracked him despite his best efforts not to show any weakness.
The kids glanced at one another, having one of those spooky wordless twin conversations, and then in sync they climbed up onto the armchair and settled on either side of him.
“W-w-what,” he tried to say in alarm, legs kicking weakly under the coat as he tried to escape. “Wwhat the f-f-<error sound>.”
They ignored his confusion and huddled closer, which was warm, dammit, but it was making his eye sting again and he wasn't sure it was worth the trade-off. A porcine grunt alerted him to the presence of Waddles, who was tall enough now to place his head on the armrest, wet nose snuffling in concern. Bill gave in and reached a shaking hand out to pat the pig's head.
Ford returned first, Stan right on his heels, and in the interim between the pain really hitting and the painkillers Ford injected him with taking hold things got even hazier. He was warm and then cold and then warm again, and he was moving somewhere and the room swam and he was no longer able to follow the conversation around him.
“Here, I've got him.” The coat was lifted away and the ceiling changed and then he was looking up at Ford's face.
“You're so beautiful,” Bill told him blearily. “You were worth it, you'll always be worth it. All of it. I wish you could've met them though, they would've liked you.”
“Is- is he speaking in colors? How is he doing that?”
“He's speaking Euclydian, I think. Bill, English, please. What do you need?”
“I- don't- knowwwww!” He warbled miserably.
A sigh, or possibly a soft laugh. “Okay, I'll take him from here. You all get some rest, I'll wake you if anything changes.”
Then Bill was crying, absolutely sobbing and babbling into something warm and soft but firm- maybe he'd found that Ford-sweater-pillow again- and he must have been hallucinating from the drugs, because for a while he could feel hands gently cradling him, rubbing circles into his back, and he could hear Ford's gruff but soothing voice murmuring things like “I know, I know,” and “Shhh, it's alright, you'll be alright,” and most ridiculously of all (which was how he knew it was a hallucination) “I forgive you, Bill, you don't have to keep apologizing, shhh, get some rest.” Then he was being moved again, or he was floating, no wait he was falling, the hands were gone and he was being left to drown and he panicked, flailing with leaden arms for something to hold onto until the (imaginary) voice returned and said, “Okay, I'm here, I've got you- I'm not leaving, I'm just moving the blankets, I promise I'll stay.”
Notes:
Huge thank you to everyone who commented on the previous chapter, you guys are so lovely and really made my week!!
Short fluffy chapter this time, with more fluff ahead!
Chapter 22: It Just Don't Come Natural to Me to Think That You'd Want Me for Me
Summary:
Recovery, revelations, and some cautiously confused optimism.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Eventually he emerged from his strange drug-and-pain-induced twilight state and slowly recognized the sloped ceiling of Ford's room. He was on the couch instead of his little side table, and he was swaddled in enough blankets to smother an army. Ford was nowhere in sight, and he wasn't sure whether he was relieved or upset by that- on the one hand it confirmed he had only been imagining everything after all and that was good because that meant he hadn't embarrassed himself as badly as he'd thought, but on the other hand it had felt- nice.
“If you're lookin’ for Ford, I told him to take a break and get something to eat,” announced Stan, who had appeared in the doorway.
“Urgh.” Bill rubbed his eye and tried to focus. “Here to put me outta my misery, Fez? Finish the job?”
“And undo all my brother's hard work? Not freaking likely,” Stan replied, approaching the couch. He had a laundry hamper under one arm, and Bill tracked his movements as he withdrew a stack of clean towels and some of Ford’s pajamas from it to set them on the arm of the couch. Catching the sharp, animal wariness in that single eye, Stan stood back and shook his head, as if disappointed or amazed. “Sheesh. Are you ever not on-edge?”
Bill only narrowed his eye at the human, who snorted.
“Right. Look who I’m talkin’ to.” Stan bent down with a grunt and began picking up a few of the loose items scattered across the floor- a towel that had gone stiff with dried, silvery bloodstains, a couple socks, an undershirt riddled with holes from wear. He reached for Bill’s blanket heap, not commenting on the way the demon flinched, and made a face as he carefully tugged free the battered and bloody mess that was Ford’s coat, adding it to the hamper. Bill had to curl his hands in on themselves to keep from snatching the coat back.
Wait. That jogged something. “You said Ford’s… taking a break? From what?”
“From being a cushion for your triangular butt.” Stan rolled his eyes and straightened his back. “Like something straight outta one of Mabel’s hospital drama shows, sitting watch all freaking night.”
“Sitting watch? Over me?” Bill gestured at his bandaged and mangled state. “What the hell did he think I was gonna do, turn into a squidpire and go on a rampage?”
Stan let the hamper drop with a thud so he could stick both fists on his hips and fix Bill with an unimpressed stare. “You can’t seriously both be this dense. He’s a genius and I thought you were supposed to be some fountain of infinite wisdom or something, how am I the smart one in this situation?”
“I’m on drugs!” Bill protested weakly.
“He’s worried about you, dumbass. He was afraid you were gonna croak in the middle of night or somethin’ if he wasn’t watching you, or that you were gonna get caught in another nightmare. Cripes, the two of you are gonna give me a migraine.”
“But that- he-” The memories of last night solidified a bit in his mind, and he fell into stunned silence. Okay, okay, so some of that was real and not imaginary. How much? He certainly couldn’t ask Stan, and if he asked Ford he’d likely only embarrass himself further.
“Listen,” Stan scratched at his stubbly jaw and looked away awkwardly. “I know I’ve been givin’ you a hard time- deservedly, to be clear- and we’re still not square or anything, but Ford told me a little bit about uh, I guess your parents?”
“He did what?” Bill hissed, trying to sit upright to properly emote his outrage. “That- that lousy-”
“Relax before you rupture something new, short stuff, he didn’t give me details. Just sort of a… broad strokes overview.” Stan poked him in an uninjured spot with just enough force to push him back down. “But look, I get being a screw-up from a screwed-up family. Maybe not on the same level, and I’m not saying we’ve got stuff in common because that might make me hurl.”
“Likewise,” said Bill, without venom.
The human chuckled and poked him again, gently, easily avoiding the little claws Bill swiped halfheartedly at him with. “My point is, you can be a fuckup over and over and you can still choose to try and get better. To fuck up a little less. It doesn’t undo the shit you’ve already done but it… it helps. And I think you’re realizing that.” He stretched, brushed himself off and picked up the hamper again. “Anyway. What I’m sayin’ is, keep trying.”
Bill watched him go in a stunned silence, finally managing a, “Thanks,” toward his retreating back.
“Yeah, yeah.” Stan waved a flippant hand over his shoulder and kept walking.
Bill must have dozed off again because the next time he opened his eye the patch of light from the window had gotten a bit brighter and migrated across the wall and Ford was trying to close the door behind him as quietly as possible. He was still in his dirt-and-blood stained pants from the night before, although he’d removed his sweater at some point and was down to a black t-shirt, worn gray and rusty bleach-spotted here and there, leaving his unfortunate but amusing neck tattoo fully on display. He had a book tucked under one arm and a mug of something steaming in the hand that wasn’t slowly pushing the door shut.
He turned, tiptoeing on socked feet, and froze as he caught sight of Bill, awake. He looked, now that Bill could see him more clearly, absolutely exhausted- his five o’ clock shadow more stubbled, the bags under his eyes deeper than usual, the lines at the corners of his mouth more pronounced. There were smudges of dirt on his forehead and cheek, and flecks of what might have been more dried blood.
“I’m back,” he said, unnecessarily.
“Hi,” Bill croaked.
“Hi.” A little half-smile ticked up Ford’s face and he set the book and mug onto the side table. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine,” he replied instinctively. Then, after an assessing pause, “...kind of sore.”
Ford nodded. “I can give you another shot of painkillers if you’d like; I need to make some further refinements on the dosage but it seemed to help you last night.” With unselfconscious efficiency, he shrugged out of his t-shirt and began to undo his belt.
“Maybe in a bit,” said Bill, who didn’t have enough energy to pretend not to watch with rapt fascination as Ford kicked out of his grubby pants and reached for one of the loose pairs of pajamas Stan had left behind. “You wear such boring underwear,” he added, because that was the only non-explicit thing that came to mind and he wasn’t sure where they stood on those kinds of comments at the moment. “You used to have those boxers with fun patterns on them! What happened to those?”
Ford scoffed. “Those fell apart within my first year through the portal.”
“Heh, yeah that makes s- WAIT,” Bill struggled to sit as upright as he could manage, his eye bugging out. “You mean to tell me you were freeballing your way across the multiverse for thirty years?!”
“Well, I- listen!” Ford sputtered, face going red, and he straightened to pull his pajama pants up over his hips before picking up a new, nearly identical t-shirt. “It wasn’t like I had packed a bag! I had to make do with what I had access to!”
Bill had to lay back down in his blanket pile to avoid passing out or screaming. After a moment, the couch shifted as Ford settled gingerly onto the next cushion over.
“What was that, last night?” Ford asked, not quite looking at him. “Why did you do it?”
“Do what?” Bill asked, panicking as he scanned back over his actions throughout the day, wondering which one in particular could have upset the human. Oh, crap, that was it! “What, leave the house? I came right back! I was even gonna come back voluntarily, I just got knocked unconscious first! I wasn't breaking any rules intentionally that time!”
“No, Bill, that wasn't what I meant.” Ford's voice had a strange timbre to it, almost a tremble. He still wouldn't turn to look at him as he continued, “You put yourself in harm's way to protect Stan and the children. Nothing was compelling you to do so, you could have let them be torn to shreds and it wouldn't have been your fault- you were virtually powerless in the situation and were just as likely to be harmed as they were. You made yourself a target to save them. Why?” Finally he turned to fix Bill with a furious stare, so intense the demon shrank back slightly. “You had nothing to gain from protecting them, so why did you do it?!”
Bill could only stare at him. Why had he done it? Because even if it hadn't been his fault, he knew he would be blamed if they were killed? No, not that. Because for some reason the idea of the Pines family being torn limb from limb not only wasn't as funny as it used to be, it actively made something like cold terror seize him? He couldn't say that out loud, he'd never live it down. Because being included in this miserable crew of disgusting humans made him remember small, hideous things like blue and red and stars and home ? That was too agonizing to even think about, let alone give voice to.
“Because they're yours,” he managed at last. Shit, that wasn't much better. Before he could clap a hand over his eye in embarrassment, Ford had grabbed him, twelve digits digging into his sides, and was suddenly kissing him hard and desperate.
Bill figured he could blame the lingering effects of the drugs for the split-second delay in his response, but as soon as his brain caught up with what was happening he pushed forward into the kiss with a needy whine.
Don’t fuck this up don’t fuck this up don’t fuck this up went the chant in Bill’s mind, and he tried to grab hold of Ford’s shirt collar for added security but his arms were still infuriatingly noodly and only barely brushed against the fabric, unable to get a firm grip on it.
Ford’s lips parted around a sharp breath, but before Bill could use that opportunity to slip him some tongue, he broke the kiss, sat back- no no no wait no-!
“Dammit, I shouldn’t be- I shouldn’t have done that,” Ford muttered, chagrined.
“No, you should! You absolutely should!” Bill willed strength into his stupid limbs and managed to sling one arm around Ford’s shoulders, the other dropping to his lap to scrabble at the button of his pajama pants.
“Bill.” It was humiliating, how easily Ford was able to catch Bill’s hand, lifting it away from his groin and returning it to the blanket heap.
He strained against the gentle hold. “I’ll do it right this time, just gimme a chance!”
“Bill, no, that’s not what I-”
“I’ll do all the work, you won’t have to lift a finger!” Bill offered. Pride? Who cared about pride when he could feel his- what was this, his third chance?- slipping through his fingers. “You won’t even have to look at me!” Don’t leave don’t leave don’t leave make him stay make him STAY-
“Bill!” The hands keeping his arms still moved up and framed Bill’s side edges, Ford redirecting his focus and, possibly to keep his focus, moving in to sear another kiss against his fluttering eyelid. As a tactic, it worked, but once again when Bill tried to deepen it Ford pulled back. “I don’t…”
Bill actually growled, trying even harder to force his limbs to obey and lock his human back into place.
Sighing, Ford left one more lingering kiss on Bill’s face- a consolation prize- before he sat back, taking his big, warm hands with him. “I don’t want to put further stress on your body after everything you just went through.”
His body? He didn’t care about his body, Ford could fuck his body to pieces if that was what would get him back. “Forget the body, what about all the stress I’m under from being yanked around by your little moments of ‘maybe interested maybe not’ red light green light! I know I said the will-they-won’t-they stuff was fun but I can only take so much before I lose it and start setting things on fire!” Finally, he managed to get his arms to obey enough to grab Ford by a couple handfuls of his thick hair. “Just tell me what I’m supposed to do and I’ll do it!” His grip lost its strength almost immediately and his arms fell back down to the blankets, little bolts of pain shooting up his limbs.
Ford, who had gone a flattering shade of pink over the hair-grabbing, went an even darker shade of red at those words. He wouldn’t meet Bill’s gaze but he cleared his throat, took a deep breath and shut his eyes before speaking. “I’m- I am. Interested. I’ve never stopped wanting you, Bill, as much as I would have liked to,” he began, each word pulled from his mouth like a tooth. He opened his eyes and the stern, nearly-fierce look returned. “But we can’t do anything while you’re injured, and it can’t be like it was- like last time. I don’t want it to be like that. Do you understand?”
“Totally,” Bill agreed, elated over that admission and also extremely unsure which element of “last time” Ford objected to. The list? Probably the list stuff. Okay, so maybe eye contact and touching were allowed. To test this new theory, he reached out, slow enough that Ford could pull away at any time, and touched his hand lightly.
Immediately and seemingly with great relief, Ford rotated his wrist and gripped Bill’s hand in his own, even covering it with his other palm so that his callous-roughened fingertips could caress their way up the slender limb. For a long minute they were both silent, Bill basking in the attention and trying to repress the nagging voice that suggested this was all a further hallucination, and Ford seeming to think something over as he continued to trace mindless patterns against Bill’s skin.
Finally Ford spoke. “There’s something I should tell you.” He winced and looked away, toward the door, but didn’t release his grasp on Bill’s hand. “I’ve been… part of the arrangement with the Theraprism, this whole summer, I’ve had to… they required that I send in ‘updates’, ‘status reports’, whatever you want to call them- on you. On your… condition. Your behavior.” He closed his eyes tightly, ashamed, opened them to look at Bill.
Bill was staring back at him steadily, still listening, still holding onto him. “Yeah?”
Ford’s jaw dropped. “Wh- ‘yeah’? That’s your reaction?”
“Fordsy,” Bill arched his brow. “Did you seriously think I didn’t know? I hardly expected them to just drop me off on this dirt ball- me, their most difficult and prestigious patient- and leave everything to a bunch of meat bags. The Theraprism doesn’t let anybody so much as sneeze without taking notes for some stupid patient file; they’re galaxy-class hoverers! Of course they’d demand updates!”
Ford was still gaping at him. “What- but it’s a- a huge invasion of your privacy, it makes me a hypocrite after all the fuss I made over your ‘secret list’, are you- how the hell are you not angry?”
“I’m not angry at you,” Bill stressed. “Eventually I’ll get all my powers back and I’ll melt that stupid crystal hunk and everyone working in it until they’re erased from every timeline and there’s nothing but a smoldering slag heap drifting through the infinite void, which I will then eat over a plate of spaghetti and shit out into another, deeper void.”
Ford snorted.
Bill relaxed back into his blankets for a moment, then remembered something and popped back up, ignoring the way the movement twanged screaming pain across every injury. “Hey, wait a second, I am mad at you! You told Stan about my parents? How the hell do you know anything about my parents?!”
“Oh.” Ford looked away uncomfortably, withdrawing his hand. “Bill, I… I was inside your dreamscape. You know that. I didn’t go hunting for information, but I couldn’t avoid hearing and seeing some things. And I could… extrapolate some others.”
“Oh, extrapolate, he says,” Bill rolled his eye and managed, after several clumsy attempts, to fold his arms over his front to display his annoyance.
Ford sighed and turned his steady gaze back to Bill, gathering his thoughts. “When you told me about the sound of a dimension dying… I thought I understood what you meant, but I’ve realized there was more to it, more you were trying to show me. The same way you showed me the last piece of your home.”
His voice was too soft, his eyes were too warm, warning bells were clashing with tenderness over the buzz of static in Bill’s mind.
“I don’t wanna talk about-”
“Euclydia,” Ford spoke the name gently, trying to soften the blow. He saw it hit Bill with all its force anyway, and his hand crept back toward the blanket almost without his notice, fingers curling around the hem- not quite making contact, not quite offering touch, but verging on it. “Euclydia was an accident. Wasn’t it?”
“I don’t wanna talk about it,” Bill said again, wretchedly.
“That’s fine,” Ford said kindly. “You don’t have to. But if you’d… if you’d like to. At some point. I promise I’ll listen.”
“It doesn’t matter. It hasn’t mattered in billions of years.” He said it like a mantra, like something he’d repeated to himself so many times he’d lost count. “They’re all dead either way, so who cares?”
“I told you,” Ford finally allowed his fingertips to brush Bill’s arm again, soothing against a patch of unbandaged skin. “Your intent is important, Bill. It doesn’t change what’s already happened, it’s true, but- it does matter.”
Bill permitted the contact- managed not to lean into it like the touch-starved idiot he was. “Would you have believed me even if I did tell you?” He asked skeptically.
A yes, of course , formed in Ford's throat but he faltered, thinking it over. “No. Probably not. Especially not right then.” He hesitated again, and then carefully shifted his hold on Bill’s arm so he could bring it to his lips and press a kiss to the back of the hand, a weirdly formal gesture that made Bill jolt and flash neon pink.
Too much, too perfect, it couldn’t be It doesn’t work like this trust no one trust no one-
“So that’s why you’re- acting like this?”
“What do you mean?”
“Being… nice to me,” he all but spat the word. “What, you saw a little peek at my mindscape and now you feel sorry for me? Yeah, sure, Euclydia was an accident but I’ve done way worse since then!” A lie. Nothing could be worse than that day. “You don’t get to just- flash those big brown eyes and forgive me and expect things to work out!”
“I don’t have the power to forgive you for the things you’ve done to others, Bill. And there are infinite factors determining whether things ‘work out’, but I’d like-” Ford took a breath. “I’d like things to work out. For both of us, whatever that looks like.”
Bill- didn’t know what to say to that. That was what he wanted, it was all he wanted, more than getting his powers back, more than taking over the multiverse, more than taking a wrecking ball to the stupid Theraprism. But if there was one thing he’d learned, one lesson that had been drilled into him over the millennia, it was that the things he wanted came at a price, and that price tended to be everything he had. What would this, this thing that he wanted more than he’d ever wanted something before- this thing Ford might have been offering- what would it cost him?
He didn’t voice any of that out loud, but his worry must have shown on his face, because Ford only gave him another little half-smile and then settled down onto the couch, reclining against the arm with a pillow propping up his back. As he did so, he brought the entire bundle of blankets with him, placing the soft heap complete with triangular patient down on his torso as he leaned back. He reached behind himself with one hand and picked up the book from the table, propping it against his half-bent legs and flipping it open.
“If it’s alright with you,” he said, “I’ve been catching up on some reading, and this seemed to help with your- troubled sleep, earlier.”
“Uh-huh,” Bill hummed, baffled and cozy and overwhelmed. He let himself slump in the blanket nest, feeling Ford’s body heat through the layers, his eye growing heavy.
Ford cleared his throat and began to read in a low, steady voice. “’The life histories of two species of Maculinea found in Japan, M. teleius and M. arionides, are not as well studied as their European counterparts-’”
Half-dozing already, Bill still managed a fondly teasing little snort. “Nerd.”
“Mmhm.” Ford reached up with his free hand to adjust the blankets, leaving his thumb lightly touching Bill’s side as he continued. “’However, one distinctive facet of the biology of these species is that, in addition to parasitizing colonies of the ant Myrmica ruginodis, as in Europe, both M. teleius and M. arionides in Japan enter and survive successfully in nests of the ant Aphaenogaster japonica...’”
The book was well-chosen; wave after wave of boring bug facts washed over Bill in Ford’s soothing voice, and as much as he wanted to relish being held by his human, the words pulled him down into sleep within minutes.
Notes:
My initial summary for this chapter was "Bill learns not exactly the right lesson bc Ford still has a huge ego and gets horny about it lol".
At first I was going to post the first part as its own solo interlude chapter, but I felt like waiting and uploading as one big chapter flows better.
EDIT HOW COULD I FORGET: NEW ART NEW ART EVERYONE LOOK AT THE NEW ART https://www.tumblr.com/knotsoangelic/782185088106545153/please-tumblr-quality-dont-fail-me-now-it
Chapter 23: Interlude #4: The Council Reconvenes
Summary:
Bill receives visitors and has a realization.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
He wove in and out of sleep for the next few hours, waking once for another dose of painkillers and dozing contentedly off to the sound of Ford reading, interrupted only by him muttering comments and critiques of the book to himself.
The next time Bill woke fully was to the realization that not only had he been removed from his perfect napping spot on Ford’s chest, but Ford had actually left the couch and was standing at the door, speaking to someone in a low voice.
Bill rubbed his eye and pushed himself upright enough to see several figures standing in the hallway, and despite millennia of instinct telling him that this was clearly a setup for an assassination attempt while he was weakened, he fought down the urge to hide under the couch and instead grumbled, “Whuzzit?”
Rather than flinching guiltily or slamming the door, Ford turned to look at him over one shoulder with a smile. “Oh, you’re awake. You have visitors.” He stepped back enough to reveal that the figures in the hallway were Dipper, Mabel, Melody and Soos.
Groggy, Bill blinked at the group. “Cool?”
Ford chuckled and moved further back so they could file in. “Well, I’ll let you all have the room while I pop into the kitchen and lend Stan a hand with lunch.” Either missing or ignoring the way they all winced- Ford was not a good cook- he gave Bill one more of those warm looks and stepped out into the hallway.
Distracted by that look, Bill didn’t notice the four remaining humans moving until they’d already clustered around him, standing over his little couch nest, and he froze like a prey animal, watching them. Shooting Star, Question Mark and Pine Tree all had their hands behind their backs, concealing something, and his limbs tensed under his blankets even as he knew he wouldn’t have the strength to get away if they all pulled out hammers or knives.
Mabel moved first, drawing something square from behind her with an excited smile, and he forced himself to keep perfectly still.
“I made you a card,” she said, showing him the folded piece of paper covered in so much glitter it could have set several fires if exposed to direct sunlight. “There was more glitter but it fell out on the way down here.” She handed him the card to examine more closely; the outside read THANK YOU in multicolored puffy paint and the interior bore a drawing of her rendition of him as a superhero, defeating the squidpire with a flaming punch while a cartoon Waddles looked on in amazement.
“I brought you the newest one of those magazines you keep taking from the mail,” Dipper added, placing the gardening catalog within reach (Hazel Trees & More! the cover promised). “You don’t have to keep stealing and hiding them, by the way, I’m pretty sure you’re the only one who reads them.”
“And my abuelita sent over a big batch of rice pudding, which is like the best for when you’re sick, wait til you try this stuff dude,” Soos hoisted a tupperware container that must have weighed close to five pounds.
“Okay,” Bill said cautiously, waiting for some kind of follow-up or caveat. “Why?”
They all gave him that wide-eyed look of human confusion.
“To help you feel better,” Melody said, reaching down to tuck the blankets a bit more snugly around him. “The kids told us all about how brave you were, and how you got hurt, and we want you to know we appreciate it and to help you recover.”
Now it was Bill’s turn to look wide-eyed back at them, lost.
“Well,” Melody continued. “We’ll let you get some rest.”
Following her lead, they all began to move toward the doorway, and Bill, seized by impulse, forced himself to speak.
“Hey,” he said, already hating the uncertain way his voice sounded. “I have a… a question. For Gravity Falls’ Council of Romance.”
Mabel gasped, spinning to face him and clasping her hands to her cheeks and staring at him with huge, starry eyes like all her dreams were coming true. Everyone else halted and looked back at him in surprise.
Well, he’d already started, he might as well commit. “What’s… how do you define ‘love’? Like, the human version. Obviously I know all about the real definition. But I want to hear, y’know, the dumb human rendition. For reasons.”
Mabel squealed at a high enough pitch to make every dog in a ten-mile radius howl, and Dipper had to reach over and thump her back to get her to inhale again.
“Well, are we talking about strictly romantic love?” Melody cocked her head, keeping her voice lightly curious but shockingly not judgmental. “Or are we talking about like… family and friendship too?”
“...Any of it. I don’t know.” He winced. “I mean I had- I loved my- I used to have family,” he managed painfully, hearing static buzz in his own voice on the last word. “But it's been. A while.”
The pause that followed was an agonizing eternity that probably lasted only a few seconds in real time, but before he could backtrack and say he’d been joking or laugh it off with a Haha, gotcha, Question Mark had cleared his throat and spoken up.
“It’s… I guess it’s sorta knowing that they get you,” he said slowly, clearly thinking through each word carefully. “On like a bone-deep level. Or, well, on a- a molecular level, if you don’t have… uh, bones or whatever.”
Dipper chimed in. “You care about them, even when they annoy you or make you mad. And you know they have your back, even when you annoy them, or even if you have a fight.” He slung an arm around his sister and they grinned at one another.
“You think about them when they’re not around. Being around them, even just thinking about them, feels… warm. And you want good things for them, you think about their well-being, sometimes even before you think about your own,” Melody added.
“But it’s- it hurts, right? It’s supposed to hurt.”
They all did that “Bill said something upsetting again and we are Very Deliberately Not Looking At Each Other even though we all want to” thing he’d come to recognize, and Mabel said, “I mean… it can, definitely. Especially when the other person doesn’t love you back, or just doesn’t love you the same way.” She paused again, looked at him like she wasn’t sure whether to voice the rest of the thought. “Um. Our therapist says it’s totally possible to hurt somebody and still love them. Or to love somebody and still hurt them, I get them mixed up. And that it’s important to talk things through. And it can be really scary. But it’s not supposed to be scary and hurt always. It’s supposed to feel safe.”
That was weirdly reassuring; if love was supposed to feel safe then he could relax a little and know that what he was feeling couldn’t be that because he hadn’t felt safe in… oh, ages. Longer than forever.
Except. Well.
I guess you can never really go home again, can you?
I sure can’t! My dimension was entirely burned out of existence. Wanna see the only thing left of it?
...why had he shown Ford the last speck of Euclydia, all those years ago? What had possessed him to share the only piece he had of home with some pathetic human when he’d never shown it to so much as a single Henchmaniac?
Because Ford was special. Because even back then you knew he wasn’t like anyone you’d ever met, knew he was-
Melody interrupted his introspection (Whew! Bullet dodged, he thought) by saying, “For me personally, finding Soos was like… finding my missing half. I know it's a cliché, of course, but what can I say?” She shrugged. “It's a cliché for a reason.”
“Gross,” said Bill, looking very studiously at the floor.
It couldn't be that simple, it couldn't. Because if it was that- if it really was what they'd described-
No, he knew it was. He'd known for ages. As good as he was at denial- and he was an absolute grandmaster at denial- he'd run out of places to hide, corners of his mind where he could stamp down the fact that he was-
That he had been in love with Ford the whole time.
“Fuck,” he tried to say, though of course with the children present the oath was filtered into a brief, harsh buzzing sound.
Melody coughed, possibly covering a laugh, and patted Soos on the shoulder. “Well, we should go… open the shop. Right?”
“Oh, yeah! Totally forgot about work,” Soos chuckled before hoisting the groaning container of rice pudding. “I’ll pop this in the fridge, you just say the word when you want some, okay dude?”
Bill managed a mute nod.
The kids seemed to pick up on the unspoken hint in Melody’s words; Dipper gave him a little wave and followed after the adults. Mabel lingered, watching him thoughtfully, and when he looked up she leaned down- slowly enough that he didn’t flinch- and hugged him carefully before following her brother out of the room.
Bill stared quietly at the card, thinking about definitions and meanings and safety, until a fire alarm began to beep loudly from somewhere and the sound of brotherly bickering drew his attention to Ford’s expulsion from the kitchen. He propped the card up next to the magazine and settled back down among the blankets, letting himself drift off while he waited for Ford’s return.
Notes:
Not sure why but this chapter absolutely kicked my ass. Maybe it took forever because I know the first big smut chapter is just around the corner and I wanted to post that one more than I wanted to edit this one lol
Chapter 24: STEM ART
Summary:
Not a full update, I just had to make this its own chapter because I commissioned stemmmm on tumblr for art of the ending of Chapter 20 and I need EVERYONE TO SEE IT
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
ALSO LOOK AT THE BONUS DRAWING FROM CHAPTER 22:
Notes:
Sorry to anyone that got jumpscared by the additional update but I absolutely needed to put these images in everyone's face immediately.
There's also been so much incredible art from readers so far I'm thinking of doing a big art roundup chapter at the very end with embedded images instead of just links, so it's all in once place, but obviously I don't want to do so without permission from the artists.
Edit: link to the Tumblr page! https://stemmmm.tumblr.com/post/783004964711710720/oh-bill-said-softly-drawing-his-arms-back
Chapter 25: And I'm Used to That, But I Could Get Used to This
Summary:
Bill recovers some more, and things... progress.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The following week passed in a blur of sped-up and slowed-down jags as Bill recovered and the household went back to normal, more or less.
Unfortunately, once the initial confusion and the worst of the pain had abated, Bill proved to be an absolutely lousy patient. If someone (typically Ford) wasn’t actively watching him, he alternated between attempting to “prove” how recovered he was by performing unwise physical activities (attempting to scale the workbench, running laps up and down one of the hallways, climbing the stairs) and hiding in increasingly difficult-to-find locations when he managed to worsen his injuries from said activities. Threatening to tie him to the couch did nothing to help (“Ooh, Fordsy, don’t threaten me with a good time!”) but threatening to let Soos follow through on his BabyBjörn idea finally convinced him to stay put.
Ford, meanwhile, was still working on figuring out the right dosage of pain medication for Bill; he’d tried a few different compounds looking for one that wouldn’t make him quite so… well. Mostly he took to whatever analgesics Ford tried with the enthusiasm of a twentysomething frat bro who had yet to experience a single consequence in his life, only to quickly dissolve into either loopy, slightly incoherent delirium or weepy clinginess.
At one point Ford had thought for certain he’d found the right balance when Bill had merely settled calmly into his blankets as the drugs had kicked in, but when Ford, preparing to head to the kitchen for a snack, had asked if he wanted anything else Bill had turned to look at him and responded in a half-awake voice, “There’s nothing that has ever existed or ever will exist across any universe that I want, have wanted or will want more than I want you.”
And Ford had. Well. He’d had to sit down very suddenly, all thoughts of food vanished from his mind.
“...also maybe some of that rice pudding would be good,” Bill had added after a moment’s thought, apparently unaware of the effect he’d had on the man.
The forest had settled a bit since the defeat of the squid vampire; the only disturbance had come from a kindle of scampfires that had gathered around the Shack, crackling excitedly and refusing to leave until Ford realized they’d never de-amplified Bill’s weirdness field. Once he’d recovered the modifier and reversed its effects, the scampfires had scurried amiably back into the woods.
It was evening, not long after dinner, and Bill was sitting through yet another one of Ford’s careful, thorough, and infuriatingly medically-appropriate exams (no amount of innuendo or promises of “Oh doctor, I promise not to sue for malpractice if you wanna check me for a prostate!” would convince the man to let one of the exams slip into something less professional and more late-night sleazy). At least Ford had allowed the procedure to be relocated from the lab to his (their) room; he claimed it was for convenience’s sake and Bill certainly wasn’t about to argue against the much more comfortable setting.
Even Bill’s necessary state of undress wasn’t enough to tempt Ford away from his work as he removed the last bandage and frowned pensively at the web of shimmering scars left behind. He ran a fingertip over one of them, making Bill shudder, and gently traced it to where it trailed off just above Bill’s arm before taking hold of the limb.
Bill enjoyed the contact, and when Ford’s touches shifted from clinical to casual, fingers running down his arm, he felt a surge of hopeful anticipation. “So, do I pass inspection, doc?”
“Mm. You’ve healed up nicely, it seems.” Ford was staring distractedly down at where Bill’s hand rested cradled in his palm, and he slowly raised his thumb to rub the velvety texture of Bill’s skin. “You don’t… remember much from when I entered your dreamscape, do you?”
“Uh…” He panicked briefly, casting about for the correct answer. He’d wracked his brain trying to pull up any details from Ford’s risky rescue mission, but all he could recall were snippets- the void, his parents, everything burning because of him- most of the fuzzy memories were of pain and fear, except for…
His hands resting in Ford’s, like this but different, Ford behind him, around him, safe, safe- I see them, they’re beautiful.
“Of course I do!” He said, because Ford was still waiting for an answer and he didn’t have one. “Psht, I remember the whole thing in perfect detail! Such perfect detail we don’t even need to talk about it or-”
“Bill.”
He slumped a little, feeling a spike of frustration that was immediately smoothed away by the repetitious stroke of Ford’s thumb over the back of his hand. “...fine, no, I don’t really remember,” he admitted.
Ford nodded, his eyes still downturned. “I suppose that’s for the best; it was hardly the most pleasant experience. Fascinating, though. Beautiful, in some ways.”
They’re beautiful.
“...I remember,” Bill said tentatively. “I remember wishing you were there. And being glad when you showed up.”
Ford looked up at him, and his expression made something in Bill ache, and then he was leaning towards him and they were both moving and they were kissing again, and Bill would have jumped up and down and performed a dance in celebration if he wasn’t a little busy at the moment.
This kiss wasn’t like the others; it wasn’t urgent or starving or desperate. It began slowly, with Ford stroking a thumb up and down Bill’s side angle and gently nuzzling his lips against Bill’s closed eye. He stayed there as if he had all the time in the world, as if he was happy to simply press soft kisses to Bill’s front all day with no agenda.
Well, as wonderful as that was, Bill did have an agenda.
“Want me to, uh, crack open a hole so we can move this party downstairs?” He asked with a sultry eyebrow waggle.
His generous offer was met, not with a grateful ‘Oh yes Bill I would love nothing more!’, but with a scrunched-up look of displeasure that bordered on unease. “You said you… you couldn’t really feel anything that way, didn’t you? The last time?”
“What, hole-wise?” Bill blinked. “Yeah, I guess not. It was just sort of a conveniently-placed pocket dimension, not like… part of me.”
“Then no, thank you,” Ford said, still stroking both thumbs lightly up and down his front plane. “If we’re going to have sex I want it to be with you, to be something you can feel. And frankly the idea of sticking my penis into a disconnected void with no knowledge of where it leads is a bit unnerving.”
Bill rolled his eye. He was almost tempted to mention that if Ford would just tweak the List a little bit to allow him access to the mindscape again, they wouldn’t have to bother faffing around with all the inconvenience of physical bodies, but he knew Ford couldn’t- or wouldn’t- modify the List without the others agreeing to it, and attempting to explain that change would be… yeah, that was unlikely. “Wait, so the problem with last time was that the hole wasn’t part of me? Then why'd we have to wait til I was healed up? I had so many holes you could've easily widened!”
“First of all, those were open wounds- I don't know whether you're susceptible to infection, but I know for certain now you're susceptible to pain-”
“Pain is a sensation! I thought that was your point!”
“-and that neither of us would have enjoyed that experience. Secondly, we don't have to have penetrative sex, Bill.”
“What?! But you love that stuff!” Bill gestured with both hands. “That’s why we had so much of it in the dreamscape! You were always thinking about it, horndog!”
Ford went predictably red at that comment but he pushed the embarrassment aside to say, “Of course I was always thinking about it, I was young and obsessed with you! Just because I think about something doesn’t mean we have to do it. I don’t want to just- use you!”
“Why the hell not?! I’m enthusiastically consenting to being used, I can take it!”
Ford ground his forehead into his palms, groaning. “That’s not what I want, though. The point isn’t for it to be something you sit through and tolerate for my sake- the point is for us both to feel good!”
“Huh.” Bill thought about that revelation for a beat. Tentatively, he said, “The kissing was good. Is good.”
Ford looked up. “We can do more of that.” He smiled, relieved.
“Ooh, and the talking felt good!”
“How so?”
Bill shrugged one shoulder. "I mean, with that voice, you could read me the multiversal phone book and it would be sexy, but I guess if we wanna get specific, it was. Good. When you, uh, said nice stuff. About me.”
Ford snorted. “Why does that not surprise me?”
“Hey, pal, you asked!” Bill jabbed an accusatory finger at him, but Ford only caught it and gently squeezed his hand, which instantly threw off his train of thought.
“I did,” the human agreed, smiling. “Please, continue.” He lowered his head and nuzzled his cheek into Bill’s palm, the texture of his stubble creating pleasant feedback.
"Hhhhhh,” said the former muse of wisdom and knowledge, intelligently.
Ford chuckled softly and leaned in, keeping Bill’s hand pressed to his face as they kissed again. When they parted he cocked his head thoughtfully. “Alright, let me rephrase- was there anything in particular you didn't like last time?”
Bill took a moment to re-spool his brain and tried to focus on answering the question. “Not being able to look at you.”
“Alright.” Ford nodded for him to go on. “What else?”
Bill shrugged. “I dunno! I guess it wasn't as fun because I couldn't tap into your brain and feel what you were feeling, but that's not like. A deal-breaker.”
“You can't think of anything else?”
“Ugh, what does it matter? I haven’t really thought about it in likes and dislikes, I don’t care if you wanna stick stuff in me or have me stick stuff in you or tie me up and cut me open! Whatever new perversion you’re into, I promise I’ll be on board! I just like you!”
Ford's eyebrows shot up to his hairline and he had to pause to bury his redder-than-ever face in his palms.
For a moment it looked like the human was trying to stifle laughter, and Bill grew indignant. “What? What?! What's so funny about that?!”
“No, no, nothing- please, I wasn't laughing, I promise.” Ford raised his head and recaptured Bill’s hand. “I was thinking that if my younger self could see me now, he would die of envy. Not a thought I've had often.”
“Hmmm.” Briefly, Bill pictured that reaction, and then got distracted imagining both iterations of his favorite human being in the room with him simultaneously. “Now there’s a thought…”
Either he’d spoken his idea out loud or Ford knew him well enough to read his mind; he arched a teasingly unimpressed eyebrow and grumbled, “Yes, I’m sure the version of me with less joint pain and more naivete would be ideal, but you’ll have to make do with the current model, I’m afraid.”
“What?! Whoa, hey!” Bill yanked his hand free and grabbed Ford by the face, insistently intent as he said, “Listen, young you had all sorts of appeal- a juicy brain all full of potential, big trusting starry eyes, unwavering attention- but current, older you? Phwoaugh, awOOga!! Talk about aging like fine wine! Even more knowledge crammed into that noggin, a hardened bad-boy edge, dedicated hatred- not to mention all your fun new textures!”
“My textures?” Ford repeated, trying to sound skeptical but failing to hide the chuckle under the words.
Bill, who had been debating whether mentioning the tits thing would be appreciated or not, looked up in mild surprise. “Wh- yeah, Sixer!” He rubbed both palms over Ford’s jawline. “More stubble!” He moved one hand down and slipped it under the hem of Ford’s shirt to rake his fingers through the human’s chest hair (and sneak in an opportunistic grope of the chest itself). “Extra-thick body hair and meaty parts! Plus all the hot scarring and-” The hand on Ford’s face squeezed lightly, pushing up one of his cheeks. “Wrinkles!”
“Wrinkles aren’t typically seen as a desirable trait by humans,” Ford said, sounding flustered.
“Psht, like humans know anything about anything.” The hand inside Ford’s shirt looped up and out his collar to rejoin its partner, caressing his jaw. “Wrinkles on your face, wrinkles on your brain, they’re all good! Love ‘em!”
“You-” Ford’s face went hot under Bill’s palms but he cleared his throat and spoke again. “You’re also. Very attractive. Uh, to me.”
“Oh, yeah? Say more.” Bill leaned back to display the goods, eyelid lowered lasciviously. It worked as intended; a soft laugh escaped Ford and his hands returned to where they belonged: on Bill.
“I like…” He slid one palm up and down one angular side, his gaze turning focused. “I like how expressive you are. I like when you let me see how you’re feeling, what you’re thinking. When you say something ridiculous, just to me, as if you’re just trying to surprise me into laughing and you light up when it works...” He smiled and gave Bill’s corner a gentle squeeze that made his knees buckle. “I’ve always liked that I got to see the real you, even when it was ugly or when it should have frightened me.”
That was too much; he’d expected a comment on how straight his lines were or maybe a corny geometry joke, not-
-sharp angles and all.
Before he could say something stupid, he used his grip on Ford’s face to drag him closer, demanding his lips again and glowing in delight when he obeyed immediately. Ford opened his mouth and captured Bill’s tongue, nipping it lightly with his blunt human teeth before laving it with his own shorter tongue, rejoining their mouths to swallow Bill’s eager sounds. Six digits traced geometric patterns over the random, jagged lines of static scarring and regular, even bricks.
Ford broke away for air, his eyes dark and focused. “Did you know your bricks don’t line up?” He asked curiously.
“Wha- what? Huh?”
“These,” Ford ran his thumb tenderly over the grid of indented lines along the front of Bill’s body, getting an excited little shiver. “And these,” he moved his hand down, pressing one fingertip to the brick pattern on his underside. “They don’t match up; the lines don’t- uh-” The human faltered slightly at the way Bill moaned when he was touched there, high-pitched and breathy like he hadn’t even intended to make the noise. Ford swallowed, his throat suddenly very dry. “They, uh, they don’t… line… up,” he finished lamely. His fingertip continued to trace and retrace the outline of the brick at the center of the pattern, and with every repetition Bill squirmed and hiccuped out half-gasped little moans, his own hands clawing at Ford’s sweater, his neck, his jaw, whatever they could reach. Curious, Ford switched his movements from tracing the outline to pressing on the central brick again with two fingers, and along with Bill’s squeak of surprise he heard- and felt- a faint, sticky squelch. The brick… gave slightly, shifting under his touch, and he felt the welling of a thick, almost oily substance from the surrounding outline.
“Fascinating,” he muttered, varying the pressure he applied and feeling the surface under his fingers continue to shift and flex.
“You’re such a fuh- hucking nerd,” Bill panted, and then his limbs went stiff and his voice cut off as that central brick kind of- melted back into his body, leaving a wet, fleshy void that seemed to greedily suck at Ford’s fingers.
“Absolutely incredible! Did you control that happening? What did it feel like?” Ford pulled his fingers away and tipped Bill onto his back, peering down at the newly-revealed space between his legs. “Oh, it’s sort of- it’s dark, but there’s a glow of sorts under the- is this skin? A mucous membrane?”
“Oh my fucking-” Bill covered his eye with both hands, steam escaping the cracks over his body as embarrassment and arousal warred in his brain. “It- it- I don’t know, it felt- different! Weird, I guess!”
“Weird how?” Ford’s head popped back up, concern suddenly written all over his face. “Bad weird? Are you in pain? Do you need to stop?”
“No, I don’t need to stop, I need- ugh!” Bill clawed at his eyelid, pulling it downward and rolling his eye up in frustration.
“Could I…” The human glanced down again, licked his lips unconsciously. “Could I try something?”
“Experiment away, Sixer. You know I love being your lab r- holy fuck!” Really, he should have seen it coming, but frankly nothing could have truly prepared him for the sensation of Ford leaning in and pressing his mouth to the newly-revealed orifice- rubbing his lips over it, teasing the tip of his tongue against the edges and then dipping in to get a taste. “F-Ford, oh my- a-ah!” Evidently his inarticulate noises got the message across; the tongue slid deeper, until Ford’s nose was pressed hard against the surrounding bricks, nuzzling in like he didn’t care about breathing ever again. Bill clawed his hands into Ford’s hair, grabbing two fistfuls and grinding up into that fucking mouth as it lapped and kissed him down there. Every stroke rocked waves of brand new, shivery pleasure through the core of him, and he felt something internal rising to meet it.
Ford moaned, sounding pleasantly surprised, and pulled back, his tongue trailing shiny threads of something slick and faintly iridescent that now covered the entire lower half of his face. He ran a finger through the sticky substance, gathering it and squinting at it like he wanted to keep a sample, and that shouldn’t have made him more attractive but it did. “Hmmm. Interesting. Surprisingly herbal-tasting, almost floral. Slightly mineral aftertaste...”
“Don’t stop!” Bill whined, trying to drag him back down by the hair.
Ford didn’t obey, because he was evil, but he did look extremely pleased with himself for the results thus far. “Did you know there’s a sort of- appendage inside you?”
“There was an appendage in me, and I’m trying to put it back in there!” Bill screeched.
“No, no, I mean-” Ford looked down with a brow furrowed in scientific curiosity as he licked his finger absently, and it wasn’t fair that he was so hot. “There’s a kind of- it’s almost like another tongue or tendril inside your- hm, your cloaca? What would be the correct term?”
“I’m gonna kill you,” Bill threatened weakly. “For real this time. I’m serious.”
Ford laughed and pushed his thumb up against the now-slick entrance, pressing gently until the first knuckle popped inside, prompting a full-body twitch from Bill. He rotated the digit, sinking deeper, and sure enough felt something slither and wrap around it, squeezing and pulling like it wanted to draw him in further. “Incredible,” he murmured again, and Bill shuddered happily at the praise. “Are you moving it deliberately, or is it instinctive?”
“I don't know! I didn’t even know I had that thing down there until a minute ago! I've never done this in physical form before!” Wait, shit. He hadn't meant to say that out loud.
“You…” Ford was staring at him in a sort of half-shocked, half-starved disbelief. “Are you serious? Bill, you’re a trillion years old.”
“So?!” Bill’s ability to form a coherent defense was rapidly dwindling as the thumb inside him started to stroke gently upwards in a motion that would have been soothing had it not set off a constant series of fireworks in its wake. “I ghhhh I just always did st-stuff haaa ah ah-ha in the dreamscape, like we used to-!” He writhed, wrapping his legs around Ford’s arm and locking his ankles together.
Ford’s expression shifted toward something like solemn awe, oddly reminiscent of the way he’d looked the first time Bill had ever manifested to him. It was a funny juxtaposition, or it would have been if not for the intense smolder in the human’s eyes, undercutting the rapturous look with a hint of “I am going to study you under a microscope, and I am horny about that”. Ford leaned in and trailed his lips over the bricks lining Bill’s front, speaking softly. “I’m honored, my muse, to be given this opportunity.”
Before Bill could combust from a confusing mix of humiliation and arousal, the thumb was removed and Ford shifted back, readjusting his position. His belt buckle chimed against his fly as he undid them both before sitting upright to strip off first his turtleneck and then the lightweight shirt he wore underneath it, baring scars and tattoos and hair and Bill drank in the sight like the greedy creature he was.
Ford tossed the shirts aside and resettled, tucking one knee under himself and reaching with both hands for Bill, who remembered he could touch as much as he wanted and crawled forward into Ford’s arms to bury his face in the man’s chest. He slid his own hands up Ford’s torso, dug his fingers into the delicious padding over his stomach and his firm pectorals, circled and pinched his nipples. A sharp breath burst out of Ford and he bent his head to kiss Bill’s highest point, simultaneously rubbing two middle fingers against his slick hole. When the soft cleft immediately gave, almost sucking the digits inside, they both groaned, and Bill’s legs went slack to allow himself to sink down on the fingers.
Ford slid his free hand under Bill, supporting his weight as he rose and fell. That viscous internal fluid dripped down his wrist as he drove his fingers upward, and Ford gasped again as that mysterious tendril appendage wound around them, joined by more of its kind as Bill’s body welcomed him. “This…” He cleared his throat, trying in vain to sound calm and relaxed and not desperate with lust. “This part of you seems to be… fairly deep. I wonder whether it’s also some kind of pocket dimension, or if you’re just, well… bigger on the inside. If it is another pocket dimension, it seems to be connected to you physically, so you can feel it.”
“Y- you can fucking say that again!” Bill rode Ford’s fingers harder, his eye rolling back to let his tongue loll out of his sharp-toothed mouth. Ford quickly used his supporting hand to bring Bill up close enough to kiss him, his own tongue catching on the fangs and spreading coppery blood into the kiss. With a delighted noise, Bill stretched his arms down and plucked at Ford’s open fly, reaching in and drawing out his blood-hot erection. He ran his palm appreciatively up its impressive length and swirled one fingertip around the head, and Ford broke the kiss with a muttered curse.
“Fuck, Bill-”
The little break in that stoic in-the-name-of-science facade only drove Bill crazier than he already felt; he clenched down around Ford’s fingers so tight that more of that shimmering goo squirted around them, only serving to lubricate and sink them further into him and his legs thrashed involuntarily, his tiny fingers clawing desperately at Ford’s shoulders. “Fordsy please, please fuck me, pretty pretty please I need it I’ll do whatever you want please put your dick in me-”
Ford did not immediately comply, but he did moan out loud like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing, jam his face between Bill’s legs once more to shove his tongue alongside his fingers and frantically eat him out like it was the last and only thing he wanted in life. It was fantastic, and it was not what Bill had asked for, dammit, and he hooked his knees around Ford’s ears and half-sobbed half-begged his way through an orgasm as it shattered every atom of his being.
The hand that wasn’t knuckle-deep inside him was clutching him possessively, stroking, pulling him closer to Ford’s mouth with every spasm and twitch his body made as if afraid he’d disappear. Like there was any chance he was gonna go anywhere, with the waves of brain-blinding pleasure rocking through him with every pulse around Ford’s fingers and tongue. The sensation never seemed to peak and fall, only to rise higher, and his pleas jolted out of him in glitching, fragmented nonsense, no longer English or any recognizable language.
Finally Ford had mercy, or maybe his jaw was just sore, and he pulled away, and if his mouth had been covered in Bill’s slick before now it was literally dripping down his face and neck, his stubble glittering with the stuff. He was panting heavily, and looking both insufferably smug and astronomically exhilarated as he took his fingers out of Bill and pulled off his glasses- which would have been a bit unsanitary if the glasses hadn’t also been splattered in iridescent cum.
“That was… that was amazing. How- how do you feel?” He asked, setting the glasses aside and wiping at his mouth before returning both hands to pet lightly at Bill’s shivering form.
Bill may not have needed to breathe, but he found himself gasping for air a few times anyway before he could recover enough to even think about forming coherent sentences. How did he feel? How the hell was he supposed to answer that when he was busy trying to regather his particles from the various galaxies they’d been scattered across. He felt… He would come up with the words to describe it later, possibly new words never before used in any human language. In the meantime, though, he needed to tell Ford something.
Bill tried to reach for him, but both arms were like cooked noodles and he only succeeded in shakily arching upward, his limbs draped haphazardly over the gently-caressing hands. He tried to speak instead but only managed a tiny, wobbly whisper.
“What?” Brow knitted in concern, Ford leaned down and brought his face closer to better hear him.
Bill tried again to reach up, succeeded this time and grabbed Ford’s ears with both hands, pulled him even closer and whispered with utmost sincerity and urgency, “Put. Your. Fucking. Dick in me.”
If steam could have shot out of Ford’s ears, it would have. “Are- are you certain? That seemed uh-” His gaze drifted downward to the utter mess that had been made of the sheets and cushion below Bill and he briefly lost his train of thought. “-uh, intense. If you’re feeling sensitive-”
“Stanford Pines if you don’t fuck me in the next ten seconds I will find a way to kickstart Weirdmageddon 2; I don’t know how exactly but I will do it-”
Ford cut him off with a sticky kiss, his shoulders shaking with laughter. “Alright, alright. Who am I to deny the demands of my muse?”
“That’s more like it.” Bill laid back, exaggeratedly folding his arms behind himself, and spread his legs as wide as he could, digging his heels into Ford’s hips.
Still grinning, Ford reached down and took hold of himself, shuffled his knees into the cushions to get a better angle, and guided the head of his cock to Bill’s entrance. His breath rushed out of him in a harsh burst at the first push, the girth of him gliding inside without a hitch thanks to the mess still dripping out of Bill.
Bill himself let out a glitching, buzzing whine as he was entered and didn’t stop until he felt Ford’s hips against his underside, wiry hair tickling against his bricks.
Ford’s voice was strained with the effort of keeping still as he asked again, “How do you feel?”
Full was the word that popped into his mind. I love you was the much sappier thought that followed immediately after. “Good,” he said lamely, distracted by the way Ford was looking at him all warm and close and by the army of miniature Bills inside his own head that were screaming as loudly as possible DO NOT TELL HIM YOU’RE IN LOVE WITH HIM, YOU IDIOT. DO NOT SAY IT. GET IT THE FUCK TOGETHER AND ACT LIKE YOU KNOW WHAT YOU’RE DOING!
“You- you can move,” he added instead.
Ford took a deep breath like he was preparing to meditate or plunge headfirst into water, braced himself against the cushions, framing Bill with his forearms, and rocked his hips carefully into him.
Bill’s eye rolled back and he fought to keep it open and focused on Ford above him instead of closing it and completely losing himself in the sensation. Fuck, how had he never gotten around to doing this in physical form before? What had he been thinking, displaying Ford in chains before his Henchmaniacs during Weirdmageddon, playing games and trying to get the equation instead of immediately hauling the old man into the penthouse suite and breaking in Bill’s newly physical body until neither of them could move, much less think about achieving or thwarting global domination?
...Sixer probably wouldn’t have been on board at the time, given all the… the everything, he thought absently, before the next pump of Ford into him banished any coherent thoughts from his mind.
“Oh,” said Ford, his voice already sounding raw and ragged. “Oh, god. Bill. Bill. Oh, I can- I can feel you-” He gasped as the tentacle-tongue structures wound around him eagerly, lapping at the head of his cock and squeezing him, suckling at him, and for a few breaths his body took over and he drove mindlessly into the irresistibly delicious heat of his muse.
“Fordsy,” Bill whimpered, unable to get any other words out. He wound his arms around Ford’s arms, up and behind his neck, knotting both hands into his hair. Every roll of Ford’s hips dissolved reality and sent cascades of new sensation rippling through him, the strange internal tentacle organs greedily pulling Ford deeper and feeding pleasure pleasure pleasure back to Bill. “Ooh, F- Ford- fuuuuck-”
Ford turned his head, seeking the nearest part of his lover and finding a loop of arm, nuzzling his flushed, sweat-glowing face into it and kissing his way along it. “Is it- is it okay?” He asked blearily, trying to slow his movements and seek out the best angle. “Is this-?”
Bill cried out, louder with each thrust, his fingers clawing at Ford’s scalp and his feet arching. “Yes, yes, s’perfect!”
Ford dug the fingertips of one hand into the bricks surrounding Bill’s entrance, rubbing circles into the slick that squeezed out around him every time he moved, and ran the palm of his other hand over Bill’s lower eyelid, soothing and thrilling. “It feels good?” He asked again, desperately trying to last as he felt his orgasm building almost embarrassingly quickly.
“So fucking good, don’t stop-” Bill’s tongue unfurled from his eye and licked a line up Ford’s chest, the hair plastered down with sweat, and Ford shouted a half-finished word when the tongue found his nipples and circled them, rough-gentle-rough.
Trying to delay the end, Ford reached down and tried to get a firm grip around his base, but Bill followed the motion and moved snake-quick, grabbing his wrist and returning his hand to where it had been stroking his eyelid. “I- I’m gonna-” Ford tried to explain, fumbling his words. “I can’t… Bill, it’s so much, I won’t last-”
Bill growled, half-words half-flickering-colors, as his tongue found its way up to Ford’s mouth again, insistent, and Ford swallowed it without protest, moaning helplessly.
“Good,” Bill said, either in praise of Ford’s obedient tongue-swallowing or in response to his attempted explanation. “I said don’t stop, didn’t I?”
Ford tried once more to form a coherent warning, but could only manage a feeble, fucked-out, “Mmmph!” His hands returned to Bill’s sides, gripping him and using the leverage to drive faster, harder, into him despite his feeble attempts to hold off.
“Yes, yes-” With an enormous effort, Bill focused on words as his human, his beloved Sixer, fucked him towards oblivion. “That’s it, Fordsy, I want all of it, gimme, fill me up-”
The muffled cries intensified and Bill withdrew his tongue from Ford’s throat just in time for him to gasp and hoarsely shout, “Bill!”
He fell forward, hips still flexing and grinding deep as he did just as Bill asked, pumping him full. Bill clenched and came around him, howling, every inch clutching him closer and deeper, like he could merge them into one if he held on hard enough.
The rippling squeeze of Bill’s body kept rolling over Ford’s member, drawing every drop into that strange cavity until he couldn’t take anymore. Groaning, he pushed himself up onto one shaking arm and slowly, carefully pulled out, and the flood of their mixed fluids that oozed out after him was enough of a sight to make him twitch. I wonder if the taste of him is different pre- and post-coitus, his brain, apparently uncaring for the limitations of his exhausted body, provided speculatively.
Instead of giving in to temptation and diving back in with his tongue, Ford compromised by kissing a path up Bill’s leg, very briefly getting distracted by the minute twitches of musculature that followed each touch, finally working his way up the warmly-gleaming golden surface of Bill’s body and to his waiting mouth. Bill moaned softly into the kiss, hands roaming over Ford’s shoulders, his spine, his waist, over skin and scars and muscle and fat, hungry for every inch.
At last, Ford drew back, panting and smiling ruefully. “We should probably shower, huh?”
Bill’s eye popped open indignantly. “After I worked so hard to get you all sweaty?! Hell no!” His arms, tangled around various parts of Ford, squeezed him like a possessive python.
Ford burst out laughing. “Alright, alright.” Blindly, he reached behind himself and fumbled at the nightstand for the tissues. “But, uh, at the very least we ought to take care of this-” He ran a finger over the dripping mess between Bill’s legs, startling an undignified noise out of him. “-and perhaps relocate to the other end of the couch.”
Bill squirmed, enjoying the aftershocks the light touches sent through his oversensitive form. “I’ll allow it,” he said, magnanimously.
Ford laughed again, cleaning him with gentle motions before tossing the wad of tissues in the vague direction of the trash can. He wound an arm around Bill and brought him close, scooting to the far side of the sofa and making himself comfortable against the cushions. Without hesitation, Bill buried his face in Ford’s chest (taking a few deep whiffs while he was there), muttering incoherent half-thoughts, and dozed off into a dreamless sleep.
Notes:
GOD FINALLY. Hope the smut was worth the delay!
Man, I remember when I thought this story was gonna be like, twenty thousand words MAX and now look at this thing. Anyway we're about three quarters of the way through lol.
(Also will I ever stop ending a chapter by having someone fall asleep? Time will tell.)
Chapter 26: Carin' More Than I Show, Lovin' More Than You Know
Summary:
The morning after!
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Sometime before sunrise Bill blinked back into awareness. He was lying on his side, propped in place half by the pillow and half by Ford’s hand, which curled and uncurled in a slow, unthinking caress. The motion slowed to a halt when he stirred, and he opened his eye to see Ford’s face inches away, blinking owlishly.
“Did I wake you? Sorry.” The human’s normally deep voice was even more phenomenally gravelly, his hair a bird’s nest and his stubbled jaw still spotted with dried flecks of Bill’s fluids.
Trying to keep his own voice steady against a fresh wave of desire, Bill teased, “Were you watching me sleep? Sixer, you creep.”
Ford huffed out a soft laugh, his breath tickling against Bill's bricks in a distractingly pleasant manner. He rolled onto his back, resting one arm behind his head, and Bill shrank down slightly to take advantage of his new position by climbing onto him and laying flat atop his chest. Smiling contentedly, Ford brought his other hand up to lightly trace the network of scarring along Bill's back. “S'nice,” he mumbled.
“What, the scars?”
“No, this. Waking up with you here.” He ran his knuckles up and down one of Bill's edges, which was simultaneously soothing and arousing, and Bill twitched and curled his legs together, digging his own hands into Ford's chest hair. Ford continued, “Back when we were… well, not sleeping together but…”
“Bumping brains? Dream-fucking? Doing the ventral tegmental tango?”
“...yes. That.” Ford's fingers had begun, either unconsciously or as mild retribution, to rub gently at the spot he now knew concealed Bill's entrance. “By the very nature of what we were doing, it only took place when I was asleep, or when you were in my body . I couldn't wake up with you afterwards, or, I don't know, make you breakfast even if you don't have to eat- I know we occasionally ate or drank in the mindscape, but it was always something you conjured, not something real.” He flushed a little, ridiculously, contrasting the sweet mental image with what he was currently doing- the brick had quivered and given way, and he was following it with one finger as if to map out exactly how that process functioned, working the pad of his finger in small circles while Bill loosened and moisture gathered under his touch. “I also couldn't do things like this,” he added, allowing the digit to slip inside that clenching, needy heat and sliding it deeper until his knuckle pressed up against the soft membrane.
“Hnghghargle,” Bill managed. At his current size, Ford's finger felt huge, and the slightest movement had it knocking against every nerve ending at once.
“Yes, precisely!” Said Ford brightly, much too chipper for someone actively fingerfucking a dream demon. “It’s sentimental, I know, but I used to think about this kind of thing all the time.” It was unclear whether he meant the cuddling and waking up together or the fingerfucking, but Bill was a bit too focused on the latter to ask questions. Ford chuckled, recalling, “It was even on that spreadsheet I’d made. A little over-the-top, I suppose, in retrospect, but frankly I’d never really had such urges until then and, well, you know how I like an organized plan.” As he carried on reminiscing, he had begun rubbing a second fingertip against the rim of Bill’s hole, and while the words remained distant and mild, his pupils absolutely eclipsed his irises and his eyes were focused with rapt attention as he very slowly inserted the new digit in alongside the first.
Bill shuddered and whimpered at the stretch, raking red lines down Ford’s chest that stopped just shy of drawing blood as he ground back into the hand’s steady rhythm. “Hey, s-speaking of plans and spreadsheets and all that,” he said, trying for a similarly unaffected tone and failing as the fingers inside him curled and continued to unlock new and humiliating noises he hadn’t known he could make. “Hahhhhow’s about we mmm, ooh, start working our way through some of ‘em now, like right now?” He waggled his brow enticingly, willing Ford to get the hint and get to the main event without him having to beg or otherwise embarrass himself further. He’d do it, of course, but he was really hoping Ford would just read the fucking room.
Ford did not read the room. Ford sat up and took his fingers out of Bill, whose nonexistent heart briefly leapt in anticipation of something bigger replacing them only to be crushed when Ford set him down on the bedding and pushed the blankets away from himself like he was going to stand up and leave the couch!
“Ah, I'm uh…” Ford had the audacity to look bashful. “You have to understand, a human male at my age can't, er, perform as frequently as I could in my thirties… I might need a little more time before I can manage again.”
“Fucking… drink a protein shake or take a pill or something,” Bill half-demanded half-pleaded, rocking back and forth against a fold of blanket and absolutely ruining the material. “Don't just leave me like this!”
“Oh, I wasn't planning to!” Ford hurriedly reassured him. He propped a second pillow on top of his first, then settled back down with his neck better supported. “I was thinking you could sit on my face!”
“That's why you're a genius!” Bill scrambled up Ford's torso.
Some time later (Ford had, in fact, “managed” again), the two staggered into the shower and cleaned up, stripped the sheets off the couch for laundering and got dressed.
As Ford reached for the doorknob, he heard distant laughter and shouting, footsteps coming down the stairs- Stan and the kids, it sounded like, headed for the kitchen most likely. He winced, hesitant, and turned back to look at Bill, who was right on his heels.
“We… should wait. To tell them,” he said slowly, apologetically.
Bill blinked. “Tell them what?”
“About…” Ford gestured between the two of them. “You know, this. Us. They might not… well, it may be better for me to tell them in a more controlled setting. Sort of build up to it.”
“Oh.” He glanced at the pile of bedding in the hamper. “I mean. I think they're gonna know. We weren't especially quiet.”
Ford went beet red but shook his head, brushing aside the concern. “No, no- Stanley removes his hearing aids before bed, and the kids’ room is at the opposite end of the house, upstairs. Nobody heard us.”
Bill shrugged. “Whatever you say, Sixer.”
Ford relaxed. “You don't mind waiting?”
“Kid, I've been humanity's best-kept secret since before you guys were only one species of hominid! I've got no problem keeping this relationship on the down-low!” He snapped his fingers and winked. “I'll take you however I can getcha!”
Ford smiled at him with overwhelming fondness and bent down for a kiss. He was still smiling, small and private, when he straightened and headed for the door once more.
Besides, the thought crept up on Bill, what do you think will happen if they do find out? Sure, the kids are fine with it in theory, but they’re kids- too naive, too forgiving- what kind of say will they have when Stan finds out? It’ll be the same old story, the monster corrupting his brother again, ‘Sixer come to your senses,’ ‘Oh you were right Stan I don’t know what I was thinking,’ and then back to the Inhibitor or the Theraprism for you, no more influencing impressionable minds, no more stars, no more board games, no more Ford-
“Are you coming?” Ford was holding the door open, looking back at him curiously.
“Yup!” He followed on autopilot into the kitchen, where Stan was already busily scrambling eggs and the kids were competing to see who could fill a glass with the most orange juice without spilling.
Ford moved to the coffeepot, lifted it and gave it a little shake to gauge how much was left and nodded, seemingly satisfied. Stan moved around him to distribute eggs and paused on the way back to pluck two mugs from a cabinet and hand them to his brother to fill.
Bill paused by the entryway and watched the general activity for a moment, flooded with an unidentifiable mix of sensations.
The toaster popped, and without looking away from the pan Stan said, “Get that, wouldja?”
Ford was busily pouring coffee and the kids were attempting to slurp the spilled puddles of orange juice directly from the tabletop, and Bill startled when he realized Stan had been addressing him. Quickly, he climbed up to the counter and fished the four slices of toast out and onto a waiting plate, stretching one arm out to deposit the plate on the table. He pulled four more slices of bread from the open bag, plunked them into the toaster and then crouched on the counter to wait for them.
Ford set one of the two mugs down next to him before taking a seat at the table to drink his own coffee, and Bill was briefly puzzled until he saw a third mug already resting by Stan’s elbow atop the stove shelf. He’d assumed the two mugs were for each of the brothers; he shot Stan a look of confusion and suspicion but the man was still focused on his cooking.
You didn’t watch him make it, he could’ve put something in there they’re all being too calm they’re up to something-
He wrapped his limbs around the mug and slowly lifted it to his eye to take a sip. Hm. Lots of sugar. Ford must have remembered how Bill took his imaginary tea from their meetings in the dreamscape and carried the knowledge over.
The second round of toast popped up and he gathered it into a stack, hopped off the counter and added it to the plate, holding back one piece for himself as he headed back to his perch.
Mabel reached for a slice, then paused with a butter knife in one hand and watched him move across the kitchen. “Bill, are you limping?”
Ford choked on his coffee and Bill froze in place. “Uhh. Oh, yeah, hah, just the ol’ leg injury acting up!” He patted the limb in question and skittered up the cabinet to cram the piece of toast into his eye-mouth, hoping that would deter any further questions.
Notes:
Bill is. He's doing his best guys. Two steps forward one step back, we're getting there.
Chapter 27: Have They Really Domesticated Me?
Summary:
Greasy's has a health code violation, and Bill gets a stomachache!
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
As if to counterbalance the idyllic charm of that morning scene, the next day’s breakfast was something of a disaster: they were out of coffee and juice, the toaster wasn’t working and the stove was being temperamental. Finally, at the pleading looks of the children, Stan capitulated.
“Alright, everybody in the car! We're going to Greasy's.” He dumped the frying pan into the sink, where it hissed and steamed furiously, and grabbed his keys.
“Yaaaay!” The kids both leapt from their chairs and ran for the door, already yelling about pancakes.
Stan shot a look at Ford and Bill, the former of whom was still leaning against the wall by the table while the latter perched the agreed-upon “appropriate” distance away on the windowsill. “You too, Poindexter and Pointy. Soos and Melody are in Portland today and I'm not makin’ my brother Bill-sit while me ‘n the kids eat pancakes.”
“Oh.” Ford looked up in surprise. “Are you sure that's wise, Stanley? I wouldn't want to cause a disturbance.” He darted a look at Bill and back to Stan, raising his eyebrows as if to remind his twin of the demon's disturbance-prone nature.
Said demon was busy weighing the likelihood of Ford being lured into a quickie the second the car left the drive against his own desire to be somewhere other than the freaking Mystery Shack. Frozen by indecision, he stared unblinking into the middle distance.
“Eh,” Stan shrugged. “The whole town knows about him bein’ here, might as well rip the band-aid off. Who knows how long we’re stuck with him, right? I’m not planning my whole however-many-months around leaving somebody at the house to watch him. Besides, what’s he gonna do, run away? Those carnivorous woodpeckers are still out there; they’d find his day-glo butt in no time.”
Bill blinked out of his internal debate and lazily flipped Stan off. Stan let out a bark of laughter and returned the gesture.
“Well,” said Ford cautiously. “Alright.”
The kids, seated in the backseat of Stan’s boat of a car, looked up in surprise when the door swung open and Bill clambered in, squeezing between the two of them.
“Bill, are you coming to Greasy’s?” Dipper asked in mild disbelief. “Is that… is that allowed? Won’t people freak out?” He glanced nervously toward the front of the car, where his uncles were settling into their respective seats.
Stan adjusted the rear-view mirror. “They won’t freak out if he doesn’t stir up trouble, which he’s not gonna do, right?”
“Of course,” Bill said, batting his eye angelically. “I would never deliberately cause a scene around dozens of unsuspecting moronic townsfolk on my first public outing since Weirdmageddon.”
“...right,” Stan said.
“Not instilling a ton of confidence, there,” Dipper noted.
“Maybe we should just stay here…” Ford started to say, but Mabel interrupted.
“Oh come on, guys, he’s joking! He’s just excited for pancakes and socializing! Right, Bill?” She looked at him, grinning encouragingly. “Here,” she stuck her hand out as if to shake. “Promise not to cause a scene, okay?”
Bill blinked at her extended hand, raising his brow as he waited for her to realize what she’d just done.
“Oh, right. How about a pinkie promise?” Mabel offered her hand again with pinkie extended, and Bill noted Stan watching carefully in the mirror.
He looked at his hands. “I don’t… think I have pinkies.”
“Just- ugh, pinkie equivalent then!” Dipper rolled his eyes and buckled his seat belt. “C’mon, guys, I wanna get breakfast!”
“Ffffine.” Bill reached out and curled his smallest finger around Mabel’s. “I promise not to cause a scene at the diner, today, while we’re getting breakfast. Happy?”
“Yup!” Mabel buckled herself in and sat back happily, and the car rolled away from the Shack.
The drive was short but enjoyably chaotic, with Stan and Ford taking turns slapping each other’s hands away from the radio dial as each good-naturedly ribbed the other’s musical taste while the kids flicked rubber bands at one another over Bill’s middle seat, only occasionally and accidentally pinging them off his flat sides. He, in exchange, only occasionally snatched a rubber band from the air as it zipped past and pinged it at the radio buttons to add to the chaos.
The trees blurred past and thinned into houses and businesses, and at one point Bill looked up and caught Ford’s eye in the mirror. There was just enough of a lull in attention inside the car- the kids had run out of rubber bands and were attempting to scrounge more from the floor, while Stan was yelling abuse at a slow-moving van ahead of him- for Ford to send one of those soft, warm smiles that reduced Bill to a triangular heap of jelly. The moment quickly ended when Stan cracked a joke that was lost under the blaring of the car horn and the music, and Ford turned his attention back to pointing out street signs and red lights.
Greasy’s was moderately busy with the tail end of the morning rush by the time they pulled into the parking lot.
The diner went predictably but still eerily quiet when they entered, every patron either turning to blatantly stare or trying desperately to avoid staring. A mix of fear, anger and morbid curiosity filled the room like a cloud, as familiar to Bill as his old hat, and with it came the urge to ham it up, lean into the evil overlord shtick and really give these bumpkins something to stare at-
Something nudged him and he glanced to his left to see Dipper holding up a single pinkie finger and looking at him intently.
So what? He’d made a promise, not a deal. He could break a promise, easy. That waitress with the lazy eye was approaching; he could scramble up the hostess stand and scatter menus or knock the whole thing over or…
He deflated. All that would do was spook a few idiots, upset the kids and Stan and disappoint Ford.
Lazy Susan waved them toward a table. “Hi, Pines family! Hi, Evil Triangle! Here's your booth and your menus!”
“He’s called Bill,” Mabel said cheerfully, scooting into a seat.
A few moments of jostling and rearranging and menu-scanning later, Bill was wedged into the booth with a window on one side and Mabel on the other. Ford sat across from him, enthusiastically engaged in describing the best methods for capturing and releasing a plaidypus to the children while his brother occasionally cut in with snide remarks. The food arrived in short order, hot and appropriately greasy, and the platter of pancakes Bill had ordered (in lieu of hard liquor or escamoles or any of the other perfectly reasonable things he’d tried to order) were placed in front of him.
He raised a forkful to his eye, then paused as a funky smell caught his attention.
Hmm. Narrowing his eye, he took a deep sniff through whatever all-encompassing sensory organ he had in this form and recognized the delicate and subtle blend of chemicals that made up the crushed-up substance someone had sprinkled in with the powdered sugar on his pancakes. Rat poison. Cute!
After a second sniff to make doubly sure his was the only dish to receive that particular topping, he twisted in his seat and looked over the top of the booth to make eye contact with the cook, who flinched and ducked down slightly. Still staring, Bill brought his fork up and stuffed a bite of fluffy, poison-doused pancake into his eye-mouth. The cook looked harrowed and quickly turned back to his grill.
The conversation carried on around him while he tuned in and out and tried not to get caught staring at Ford’s hands as he talked. When one of those hands reached across the table to steal a bite of Bill’s pancakes, however, he snapped back to reality and slapped the fork out of Ford’s fingers. It landed with a jarring clatter on the table, and the conversation halted as they all looked at him strangely.
Ford rubbed at his hand, cocking his head quizzically. “If you didn't want to share you could have just said so.”
“Hey, share away, pal, but I doubt your tolerance for rat poison is as good as mine!”
“Tolerance for- what?” Ford reached across the table again and lifted one of the half-eaten pancakes to sniff at it, recoiling at the pungent garlicky tang.
“Relax,” Bill said as he saw the beginnings of panic fill the human’s eyes. “It’s not in anyone else’s food or I would’ve said something; I know how fussy your delicate meat-prisons get over toxins.”
“Bill, aren’t you in a meat-prison now?” Dipper asked as he pushed his own dish away from himself.
Bill rolled his eye. “Obviously, I’m in a way cooler and better meat-prison than any of yours, kid, but I was trying to be nice and not body-shame.” He stabbed his fork into the pancakes again, intending to take another bite.
Dipper rolled his own eyes right back at Bill and swiped the fork from his hand, stealing his plate and pushing it to the end of the table. “Stop eating poison.”
“Why is everyone talking about poison?” Asked Lazy Susan, who had appeared to refill their coffees.
Stan jumped in before Ford could, which was probably for the best. “Somebody tried to off the little ex-overlord over here with rat poison. Which, hey, I totally get, but I sorta thought everybody got it outta their systems already with the torch-and-pitchfork routine a couple weeks ago. This kinda sneaky thing ain’t kosher. And trust me, I’m the resident expert in sneaky, underhanded, non-kosher-”
“Rat poison?” She repeated, loud enough for several customers to lower their own utensils in alarm and the cook to twitch guiltily. “But that’s not on our menu! It’s for the rats that we definitely don’t have!” She winked manually at them before turning to look at the cook, who slumped apologetically. “Joe, you can’t poison paying customers!”
A patron piped up, “Yeah, Joe, didn’t you hear about the Blood Feud law? If you kill him you’ll get ripped apart by eagles! Then where would I get my breakfast?”
“More importantly, what if that plate had accidentally gone to someone else? We got kids here!” Stan yelled.
“Sorry,” Joe said, chagrined. “Won’t do it again.”
Susan shook her head, hands on her hips, and turned back to the table. “Sorry about that. The meal’s on the house!”
Stan perked up immediately. “Oh, well, in that case-”
“We’ll take the rest to go,” Ford growled.
“Why didn't you say anything?!” Ford demanded angrily as the group made their way along the sidewalk toward the car.
Bill waved his arms defensively. “Hello?! I was trying not to make a scene!”
“But why did you eat the pancakes? You could have just not eaten, or asked for some of someone else's!”
“Oh, please! You've seen the stuff I eat normally! What's a little zinc phosphide gonna do to mhurrrk-” He doubled over midsentence as a powerful cramp wracked his gut and before he could turn away he was spewing chunks of pancake and technicolor goop all over the sidewalk.
Mabel patted his back while the others hovered nearby, and Ford watched with barely-disguised worry.
“Do we, uh, need to take him to a hospital?” Dipper asked his grunkles nervously.
“There aren’t any hospitals within the town’s limits,” Stan said, tapping his foot in thought. “We could take him to the local doctor, I guess. Or the veterinarian.”
Bill waved the idea off- there was only one doctor he wanted laying hands on him, thank you very much. “I’m good, I’m good, just gimme a minute to-” He burped. “-to get this stuff outta me.”
“I can make an antidote back at the house,” Ford said, his hands itching with the urge to scoop Bill up and- hold him, fix the situation, something. He stuck his hands into the pockets of his coat.
Stan leaned close and nudged his brother with an elbow. “Hey, if he survives this, we could come back and make this a regular thing.”
“Absolutely not-”
“Infinite- free breakfast- lifehack-” Bill got out between gags.
“Exactly! See, he gets it.” Stan unlocked the car and began unfolding a beach towel in the backseat. “Now get on the towel, ya little Rasputin, I don’t want you ruining the upholstery.”
“Hey, uh, Pines family? And triangle... guy?” A hesitant voice sounded from behind them and they turned as a group to see a man cautiously approaching, wringing his hands.
“Kinda in the middle of something,” Bill said before clutching his stomach again and puking up another round of sludge.
“Right, uh, but you are the people who help with… weird creatures?”
“I’m- not- a people.” One (hopefully) final splatter hit the concrete and Bill straightened, wiping his eye.
“Don’t say that!” Mabel tutted at him, offering him a tissue before addressing the man. “We’re working on it. He’s mostly a person.”
“Oh,” the man said, seemingly unsure how to respond to that. “That’s… that’s fine, I’m not- I don’t discriminate about that kind of thing. I vote Democrat. Usually. Look, I can see you’re busy, can I just...” He fumbled in his pocket for something and Ford briefly reached for his gun as if expecting the man to draw a weapon. He didn’t; he pulled out a piece of paper and scribbled on it in pen, then offered it to the group. “Here’s my number; I’m having an… issue with some kind of creature sneaking into my shop and eating all the plant fertilizer, and I heard you guys solve these kinds of things, so…”
Everyone stared at him in mild confusion but finally Dipper stepped forward and accepted the number. “We don’t usually, uh…”
“Oh, money is no object!” The guy hurried to say. “Whatever your consulting fee is, I’m happy to pay it! I’ve heard you guys are the best in the business!”
“That we are! Pines Family Supernatural Pest Control, best there is!” Stan said before anyone could explain that they’d never charged anyone for anomaly removal before or that these kinds of things tended to just sort of fall into their laps and that this wasn’t really a business model. He snatched the slip of paper from Dipper and stuffed it into his breast pocket. “We’ll be in touch and get that fee figured out! Now scram!”
The man obeyed quickly, possibly sensing the increasingly impatient hostility radiating off of Ford the longer they stood in the parking lot instead of driving home so he could make the damn antidote.
Bill was largely oblivious to the impatience, too busy processing the bizarre reality of being implicitly included in the “Pines Family” part of Stan’s on-the-spot made up business. He felt- weird. Maybe he just needed to throw up again.
They piled back into the Stanmobile and rumbled onto the road again, and Bill tried to stay perched on the towel while he slid around the back seat.
“Sorry, by the way,” he muttered to Mabel as he kept his eye fixed on the treeline to avoid focusing on the internal cement-mixer style churning that was happening every time they took a sharp turn.
“Huh?” She looked up from the to-go box she had been shoveling fistfuls of waffle into her mouth from. “Did you just-”
“Don’t make me repeat myself, kid, this is humiliating enough already.”
“But,” she wiped her mouth on her sleeve and closed the box. “But what are you… sorry… for…?”
Bill narrowed his eye at her, unsure whether she was genuinely asking or trying to lead him into a more groveling apology. From the corner of his eye he could see Dipper pretending not to listen in, and he wouldn’t have been surprised if Stan and Ford were doing the same in the front seat. Ugh.
He rolled his eye and crossed his arms. “I broke the pinkie promise, I know. I caused a whole scene, I made us leave the stupid diner, I can’t be trusted in public, this is why we can’t have nice things, blah blah blah. I’m sorry. There, I said it again, that should count toward the next time I <error sound> up.”
Mabel was staring at him, and Dipper was no longer pretending not to listen. “Bill…” She spoke slowly, frowning. “You didn’t cause a scene, you got poisoned. Someone tried to kill you.”
“Yeah? And?”
“And- well, that wasn’t your fault!”
“It kinda was a little bit, if you think about it,” Dipper said, playing devil’s advocate. “If Bill hadn’t destroyed the town, that guy wouldn’t have tried to kill him. Plus Bill knew the pancakes had poison in them and he still ate them.”
“That still doesn’t count as causing a scene!” Mabel insisted, folding her arms resolutely. “Pinkie promise unbroken!”
Bill eyed her suspiciously but relented with an, “Okay, kid, whatever you say.”
“That’s right!” She grinned. “Yet another point for the power of Mabel!”
Notes:
Sorry this chapter took a while; I had a birthday and a bunch of family chaos! Hopefully next chapter will be up quicker!
Also Bill jfc can you stop getting your shit absolutely wrecked for like five minutes.
Chapter 28: I Don't Wanna Live in Worry, Oh No No No, Not Again
Summary:
Bill gets invited to a party and freaks out.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
“Soooo, our birthday is coming up in a few days!”
Bill glanced up from his gardening magazine (Gum Cistus perfected!) to see both kids standing across the gift shop counter from him, grinning excitedly. “Yeah, I know.”
“You do?” Dipper blinked in surprise.
“Ford told me. And Soos. And Stan. And it's on the calendar.” He lazily turned a page (peppermint blossoms- more than meets the eye!). “Don't worry, I'll make myself scarce on the day.” He'd already planned it out- he'd leave his gifts for the twins with Ford, who had promised to sneak them anonymously into the pile with the other presents when the guests arrived, and spend the day in Soos’ break room.
Dipper and Mabel looked at each other gleefully.
“Hmm, that might make it kind of hard for you to participate in party games,” Dipper said, producing a card from behind his back and presenting it to Bill.
“What.” He accepted the card like it was about to explode, turning it over to see a riot of color in the form of marker ink , puffy paint and stickers that coalesced into the words YOU'RE INVITED!! Dipper and Mabel's FANTASTIC FOURTEENTH!! He stared at the words blankly, then looked up at the children warily. “Okay, I know Stan's idea was hilarious but you guys realize I'm not actually a piñata, right? Like- if you hit me enough times with a bat you're not gonna get human candy, you're gonna get guts and chunks of whatever this form is made of. Which, hey, if you kids have decided that's what you're into now, go off, but-”
“You're not invited as a piñata, you're invited as a guest, silly!”
“As a- Shooting Star, aren't you forgetting what happened last time a crowd caught sight of me? You really wanna spend your party explaining Ford's made-up Blood Feud law to all of your friends?”
“Oh, everyone already knows about you being here!”
“They what?! How?!” Bill twisted to look at the nearest window as if expecting a SWAT team of teenagers to burst in and tackle him.
“I've been emailing them all summer! Just because they haven't been here doesn't mean we haven't been talking!” Mabel chuckled and rolled her eyes.
“Yeah, and Wendy says she's been following my blog since her dad told her you were here, so she's already updated Robbie and Tambry and the others on the situation and they all promised me they wouldn't try to kill you with hatchets or set you on fire or anything!” Dipper added enthusiastically.
“That's… great…” Bill said weakly.
“So you'll be there? We're gonna have the karaoke machine set up and Grunkle Ford already promised he'd sing! Plus Soos is gonna set up a bunch of carnival games and a cotton candy machine!” Mabel clapped her hands in excitement.
The eldritch nightmare demon known as Bill Cipher looked into the beaming, hopeful faces of one of the two sets of human twins that had caused his downfall and felt his resolve collapse like a souffle.
“Sure.”
Ford was stretched out on the couch in their room, scowling at the tablet in his hands as he scrolled through one of the websites Mabel had shown him and tried very hard to resist the urge to get into what she had called “a twitter fight” with any of the morons spouting their nonsensical opinions for all to see. When Bill walked in holding a piece of folded paper and looking dazed, it was a welcome distraction. “Everything alright?”
“The, uh, the kids want me to be at the party,” Bill said slowly, still in disbelief.
“Oh!” Ford sounded surprised, but only mildly so. “That's marvelous! So they're not, er, concerned with the other guests’ reactions?”
“A… apparently they already know everything?!” Bill scratched lightly at the scar next to his eye in a nervous tic and began pacing back and forth across the wooden floor. “Or they know whatever version of everything Shooting Star and Pine Tree have been telling them, which could mean anything!”
“And you're concerned about how they might respond to your presence? Or how you might act in front of them?”
“Psht, no! Of course not!” He scratched faster, then realized what he was doing and quit with a scowl. “I just- haven't been to a party in a while! That's it! And this will be a lame human party anyway, probably not even any hard drugs or cannibalism like your species used to do.”
Ford, who had been reaching for Bill’s arm to stop him scratching, sat back and looked at him thoughtfully. “...you know, Bill, if you're anxious about being around so many people, you can just politely decline the invitation.”
“Not a chance! My reputation as the multiverse's greatest party animal would be ruined!” He waved off the suggestion with the hand still holding the card. “Besides, the little runts put all that effort into inviting me, I wouldn't want to disappoint my fans!”
“Then…” Ford ran a hand through his hair, suddenly feeling a touch of nerves himself. “Why not just spend the party sticking close to me? You could shrink down and sit on my shoulder; that way you'll be able to see better and there's no risk of someone stepping on you or crowding you.”
Bill had frozen at the first few words and was staring at him, some inscrutable emotion playing behind his eye. He shook himself out of whatever it was and laughed uncertainly. “As if, Sixer- think about how that'd look, me clinging onto you the whole evening! Party or no party, if your brother sees something like that he's gonna clock this,” he gestured between them, “for sure!”
Ford nodded slowly, considering. “You're right.”
“Ha, of course I am-”
“So let's just tell him before then.”
“...what?” For the second time in as many minutes, Bill was speechless.
Ford spread his hands. “Let's tell him. Or, well, I'll tell him. It'll be best if he hears it from me.” He craned his head to squint at the calendar. “Let's see… the party is in four days, so if I tell him tomorrow he'll have an extra two full days to process the information. We’re also meant to go and deal with that fertilizer-eating creature tomorrow afternoon, so we’ll have an excuse to clear out of the house for a bit, if need be.” Pleased with himself and his flawless plan, he turned a triumphant grin toward Bill, who was still staring.
“But,” he said uncertainly. “But what if he freaks out? He’s gonna freak out.”
“He won’t freak out,” Ford replied confidently. “Because I will explain things very reasonably and logically to him, and he will understand.”
“Uh-huh. Mhm.” Bill nodded along, arms folded thoughtfully as he backed toward the bathroom. “And he owns how many guns, exactly? Excuse me while I go find a new crack in the wall to hide in.”
Ford rolled his eyes, stood up from the couch and reached for Bill again. “He’s not going to shoot you.”
Bill stopped backing up and allowed himself to be scooped into Ford’s arms, but he continued voicing his concerns. “Oh, right, because last time he killed me with his bare hands, no gun needed! Great point!”
“He’s not going to kill you,” Ford insisted, trying to sound reassuring and not amused. “Besides,” he added, trailing a fingertip up Bill’s side before enfolding one of his hands in a six-fingered hold. “Wouldn’t you like to be able to do things like this more often?” He traced the pad of his thumb in circles against Bill’s palm, smiling indulgently.
Damn him.
“You make a convincing argument, Sixer,” Bill said, gripping Ford’s hand and pressing it firmly against his face to encourage more touching. “Fine, but if he kills me you have to promise you’ll feel terrible about it.”
“I promise,” Ford said solemnly, before breaking into a laugh and lowering his head for a kiss.
Notes:
:) Oh boy, can't wait for the birthday party! :)
Chapter 29: I Swear, I Will Die Trying
Summary:
The day does not go as planned.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The following day started slow and lazy, in defiance of Bill’s twitchy anxieties, with the kids already buzzing about their upcoming party, Soos and Melody joining the family for breakfast before opening the Shack, and Stan looking forward to an all-day marathon of Ducktective and Skullumbo reruns.
Figuring his brother’s good mood was the best possible setup for a potentially difficult conversation, Ford waited until Stan was washing the dishes post-meal and approached, taking up the position next to him and beginning to dry off each dish as he finished rinsing it.
“Stanley, could I… talk to you? After we finish with these?” Ford asked, nodding at the plate in his hands.
“Uh-oh. I don’t like that tone,” Stan replied, semi-teasing as he turned to face his brother. “What’d you break? Or, more likely, what’d you break?” He addressed that last part to Bill, who had just appeared in the doorway.
“Nothing as far as you know! You’ve got no proof!” Bill snapped back in a similar semi-joking manner without missing a beat before ducking halfway behind the wall.
Ford sighed. “Neither of us have broken anything, as far as I am aware. No, it’s nothing for you to worry about, it’s just- well, it’s sort of-”
A loud, consistent knock at the back door interrupted the conversation, and Stan made a face of annoyance, pulling off his gloves. “Sure, Sixer, we can talk, but if this is the cops comin’ to arrest you for some kinda space crime you gotta give me a better heads-up next time.”
He opened the door and a strange, flat voice said, “Stanford Pines?”
He closed the door.
“Ford, that was supposed to be a joke I made just now,” he said over his shoulder. “But there are two aliens outside lookin’ for you.”
Ford paled. He and Bill looked at one another with the same thought, and Ford whispered an urgent, “Go to the basement. Now. I’ll deal with this.”
Bill ran as the knocking started up again.
Stan, bless him, was already reaching for the bat in the umbrella stand when he opened the door- just a crack this time- at Ford’s nod, and he squinted suspiciously at the pair of warderlies on his doorstep.
“Stan… ford Pines?” The first one asked again, sounding less certain.
“You got a warrant?” Stan replied automatically.
The second warderly was holding one of those tablet devices Ford had seen previously, and it beeped faintly when he took a step forward.
“Stanford Pines,” the second alien tried again, addressing Ford this time. “We haven't been receiving your updates on the patient's progress.”
“Updates?” Stan turned to look at his twin, who was avoiding eye contact. “You were supposed to be sending updates?”
“I have been sending them!” Ford protested. “But then it, well, it felt… inappropriate. To keep sending them.”
The taller warderly gave what might have been a shrug. “Either way, the Theraprism has determined this experimental section of treatment is complete. The Axolotl says you’ve made great progress, so we’re allowed to overlook the breach this once. Just hand over the patient, and your record will be cleared and we can get out of your hair/scales/dermis.”
“...hand him over?”
“Yeah, the Inhibitor too, please. We’ll pop him back in there ourselves, no need for you to do it.”
“But-” Ford and Stan looked at one another and then back at the aliens. “But if he’s been doing so well and made so much progress, surely he doesn’t need to-”
“Standard procedure,” they said. “His little day trip is over, he goes back in containment.”
“Yep,” agreed the shorter of the two. “Standard procedure. Not because it’s funny or nothin’.”
“Yo, dudes, what’s going on over here?” Soos rounded the corner in his Mister Mystery uniform, Mabel and Dipper on his heels. All three looked perplexed. “I just saw Bill go sprinting down the steps like he was-”
“You guys!” Mabel shouted, noticing the warderlies.
“Why’re you here? What’s going on?” Asked Dipper, matching his sister's alarm.
“Who’re they?” Soos stage-whispered.
“We work for the Theraprism,” the first warderly explained, sounding increasingly exasperated. “We’re here to collect Bill Cipher. If one of you would go and get him and the Inhibitor, we’d love to make this as quick and painless as poss-”
“I refuse to comply!” Ford announced sternly. “Even for a nonhuman chaos entity, this treatment is inhumane and I won't stand by and let you undo all the progress he's made!”
“Yeah! If you want Bill you'll have to go through all of us!” Mabel screamed, aiming her grappling hook with lethal intent.
“Mabel, please-”
“She's right, dude! Little Triangle Guy is part of the team!” Soos declared, stepping shoulder-to-shoulder alongside Ford.
“He’s not going anywhere!” Added Dipper, stretching a rubber band and taking aim.
The aliens’ expressions were difficult to read, but they seemed to shift from bored routine to something more like irritation.
“If you don’t comply with our return order, you’ll be in breach of contract.”
“And harboring a fugitive.”
“Not to mention threatening Theraprism staff.”
“Ha!” Barked Stan, pulling the bat fully from the stand and placing himself between the kids and the aliens, just in case. “Trust me, in this family that’s nothin’! Now get off my lawn!”
“Yeah! Do your worst, you fascists!”
“Mabel, who taught you that word?”
“Once again, if you don’t comply, we will have to file charges-”
“And we’ll just get into the house another way and find him,” put in the second warderly.
“-and you would all be facing prism time yourselves.”
From the other side of the house, glass shattered.
Bill had hidden as well as he could in the basement, climbing up onto the boiler and wedging himself into the corner, close enough to the window that he could faintly hear the conversation taking place. Or he would, if he could drown out the chorus of voices whispering into his mind at the thought of going back-
-back to the void, back to the infinite flat plane, back to-
Come home, Billy, come back where it’s safe, where people are safe from you-
You didn’t think this could last, did you? You knew this wasn’t real. He said it over and over again, this is a blip.
“Shut up,” he hissed furiously, trying to listen to what the humans were saying.
It worked, astonishingly. They died down just in time for him to hear Ford announce his refusal. Bill relaxed slightly, feeling warmth and relief and when the other humans joined in that sensation doubled, tripled, until he felt like he could float without his powers, and then he heard-
Wait. If they didn’t comply, they would-
No, no, no, no - Bill clawed frantically at the window, gouging out chunks of sealant. They didn't know what they were saying, they couldn't end up in the Theraprism, their stupid feeble human minds would dissolve like wet tissue in seconds! He could take it, he could withstand anything- better the prism, better the 2D isolation ward, better the void than this!
“WAAAAIIIT!” He burst through the window, scrambling through broken glass and sprinting around the corner of the Shack toward them. He tripped over a stump in his haste, landed flat on his face, scrabbled upright and was running again before he was even on two legs. “WAIT!!” He overshot slightly, skidding to a halt with hands outstretched in front of the two Theraprism workers. “I'm here! I'm here, I'm complying, take me away! You can't take them!”
“Bill, what are you doing?” Ford stepped forward, bending toward him protectively. “Get back inside- they want to put you back in the Inhibitor!”
“Either he goes in the Inhibitor and the three of us leave, or all of you go in stasis cuffs and we call a transport vehicle to pick up everyone,” droned the taller warderly. “Look, we’re already halfway through, the patient is here and complying, just tell us where the Inhibitor is so we can do our job.” They unclipped a heavy-looking device- a temporal stun gun; Bill was intimately familiar with them- from their belt and hefted it meaningfully.
“The Inhibitor is in the bunker in the woods! In a cryogenic chamber!” Bill blurted.
“You- what- you knew where it was?” Ford was temporarily astonished enough to forget the urgency of the situation. “How?! For how long?!”
“Where else would it be?” Bill hissed back, edging toward him while also trying to keep both warderlies in his view.
“Hmm.” The first warderly did that little sidestep that allowed them to disappear, returning a split second later with the glowing scroll in one claw. They unfurled it, and Bill flinched at the sound. “Alright, Cipher, you know the drill. No funny business, no sudden movements.”
“Wait! Can’t we say goodbye first?” Pleaded Mabel, her eyes welling.
“Sorry,” said the second warderly. “We’re on a time crunch, you know how it is.” They began punching a sequence of commands into their small handheld tablet.
“What about visiting?” Ford asked desperately as the Inhibitor began to glow brighter. “Does the Theraprism allow visitors?”
The alien not pressing buttons looked at him in mild surprise. “For regular patients, yeah sometimes. Not for isolation ward ones, though. You might be able to get a special pass if he continues to demonstrate good behavior for the next couple millennia.”
Ford shook his head. The time dilation of the Theraprism might mean that those millennia would pass quickly for the humans, but he could only imagine the damage that much time pinned in the flat expanse of the void would do to Bill. “Please, that’s not-”
“Ford,” Bill interrupted. He could feel the pull of the Inhibitor on his physical form, the strain as it started to compress him back to two dimensions. He had to say it, he had to say it now while he still could. “I l-”
A flash of light and a warping in the atmosphere and they were gone, the unfinished words hanging in the air.
Notes:
RUG PULL!
*sprints away*
Chapter 30: I'm Begging Mercy, Is There Any Good Inside of Me?
Summary:
Bill makes a decision.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Bill couldn’t say for certain how long he’d been in the Inhibitor this time, but it didn’t feel like all that long before he was popped back into three-dimensionality in a massive, crystalline chamber. Disoriented, he glanced around and took in three things in quick succession: he was back in his stupid orange jumpsuit, he was floating again instead of being humiliatingly bound by gravity, and the Axolotl was watching him from the far side of the room. It floated, too, but in a way that suggested swimming through the atmosphere, and as its titanic bulk drifted closer to him it smiled gently, the feathery gills at the corners of its face lifting.
Hello, Bill.
“Hey, Ax.” He couldn’t summon much of his normal bravado or even anger; he just felt weary beyond anything else. Weary, small and sad and… resigned, for the first time ever.
It is good to see you again. How are you feeling?
“None of your business,” Bill said automatically, then blinked. “Why aren’t you rhyming?”
I thought this conversation might be easier if we spoke in-person, the Axolotl explained. Without any barriers. The rhyming is just the best way to filter my speech for mental communication.
“Huh.” Bill didn’t really care, but Sixer would have had all sorts of follow-up questions about that. Sixer. His eye stung and he turned in midair to face one of the softly-glowing pastel walls so the big amphibian wouldn’t see his expression crumple. It didn’t work, of course; Frills just drifted closer and encompassed Bill in its huge, pudgy limbs, rotating him so it could hold him lightly in one webbed palm.
I’m proud of you. You did very well.
“Whatever.” Bill wiped at his welling eye, losing the battle. “If I was doing so well, why can’t I just stay there? I bet I could get even better!”
You know it doesn’t work that way, Bill. The sentence-
“Yeah, I remember. Fine.” He tugged the sleeves of his jumpsuit down over his hands and looked down. “So, what, I get a debrief on what good progress I made and now I go back into 2D isolation? Or do I get upgraded back to my padded cell?”
Bill, your sentence is complete. You are rehabilitated.
“I- what? Really?!” He jolted upright, treacherous hope rising through him. “So I can go?” How long would it take to get back to Earth from here? Did the Theraprism offer an inter-dimensional cab service?
Oh. The Axolotl’s pleased smile fell slightly. Well, yes, but it doesn’t work like that. I’m sorry. Your sentence is up- you have earned your reincarnation.
“Oh, my- right. Uh.” Okay, okay, he could still figure it out- he’d be in some other form but if he had his powers back, he could still find his way back to Earth and explain the situation to Ford and-
Bill. The Theraprism council and I have discussed your unique case. They have suggested that measures should be put in place to ensure you do not fall back to your old habits.
“...What kind of measures?” Bill asked warily.
We settled on two options for you to choose from. The council offers to reinstate your powers, your immortality and your old form-
Bill perked up.
-but your memories and knowledge of dimension 46’\ will be removed and destroyed. You will be unable to perceive its existence, and all memory of you will be wiped from it.
“What?!” He felt the hope drain away. “But that’s- but that defeats the whole purpose, doesn’t it?! What’s the point?!”
They feel that a fresh start will do you good, if you are no longer… fixated. The Axolotl shifted in what might have been annoyance or mild frustration, its colossal tail swiping against the far wall.
“I don’t…” Bill pulled his knees up and tucked his arms around them. “What’s the other option?”
Reincarnation, it said slowly. But with conditions. Limitations. You will keep your memories, your self, but your form will be one chosen from a list approved by the council, and you will be sent to a time and place of my choosing. And Bill… It leaned down and brought an eye the size of a bus to meet his. You will have only one lifespan. No more powers, no more reincarnation, just one life.
“That one,” Bill said immediately.
The Axolotl pulled its head back, gills fanning out in surprise. Fair, he’d surprised himself.
Maybe you should look at the choices for your form, first. It waved the hand not holding Bill and a series of images drifted into existence, displaying each creature in motion. Most were from worlds far from Earth, but all had one thing in common- they were creatures without speech or communication. The council had anticipated that he might try to reach out and seek assistance, and they wanted to circumvent it. Dicks.
He flicked through the images, feeling despair grow, until he reached the last one and stopped, his finger hovering over the creature’s familiar form. Oh. It made sense, he thought with a sad chuckle. He pointed. “Yeah. This one.”
You are certain? The Axolotl watched him with a look of concern. You will no longer be infinite, and that creature has a very short lifespan in comparison with some of the others.
“I know.” Bill’s hand trembled but he nodded. “I- I think I'm okay with that? Holy fuck why am I okay with that?!” He tore his gaze away and looked up at Frills like it would have an explanation.
It only smiled at him again, serenely. As I said before, I am proud of you. It cupped the hand he was held in and patted him very carefully on the back with its soft pink fingers.
Bill closed his eye for a moment, thinking it over one more time. He was being stupid and weak- he could have everything else back, he could be a god in some other universe, in twenty other universes. That kind of power was worth some measly memories, wasn’t it? What would he be giving up, really?
They would be better off, a familiar little voice informed him correctly. They would be happier without the burden of knowledge. The burden of you. If you're ever owed anyone anything, you owe him that happiness. You already got what you wanted; this is the cost.
But you're selfish, aren't you?
You've always been selfish.
He opened his eye and met the Axolotl’s stare again. “Could I ask you for… just one more favor?”
Notes:
Thank you to everyone who left me ominous and dire comments on the last chapter. It shows u care. *blushes*
(And hey, happy Bill Gets Held Day! He technically gets held in this chapter!)
Chapter 31: Le Passé Qui Te Suit Te Fait La Guerre
Summary:
Ford tries to process.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The kids were curled up on either side of Stan in the big armchair in the living room; Mabel had cried her heart out and Dipper had done his best to comfort her while fighting off his own tears as Stan held them both. Now all three were asleep, and Ford had drifted rudderless and numb back to his room.
He stood staring at the couch in the dark for a long while, then finally switched the light on and approached the little pile of shirts and blankets that had made up Bill’s bed on the nightstand. He touched it, lightly, wishing to feel an angular body beneath the fabric, to hear a disgruntled “whaddya want, Sixer?” from the demon who, it turned out, loved to sleep in given the opportunity.
There was something hard and flat under the pile, and his heart skipped a beat as he dug for it- but of course it wasn’t him. Instead, Ford found a small notebook. Frowning, he sat on the couch and flipped it open.
The first several pages were dedicated to a series of crossed out schemes regarding different types of rodents, ending at last with the words “Give him already dead moths, in a frame,” which weren't struck through but underlined for emphasis.
Whatever item #2 had been, it had evidently not worked as Bill had hoped, and was crossed out with such ferocity that it was rendered illegible.
Item #3 and onward read: Avoid eye contact! Humans use eye contact to establish dominance; staring for too long reminds them of their own insignificant place in the universe and makes them unsettled!
Item #4: Something about quiet?? Figure out how quiet is a good thing. Maybe talk less? Is that what he wants?? He looked happy when I wasn’t talking. How am I supposed to share infinite knowledge without talking??? Is this one of those “one hand clapping” riddles? Everyone knows the answer to that one is to break all the fingers on the hand!
Item #5: Don’t initiate physical contact! Humans are weirdly touchy about touching- especially Sixer! Apparently it’s completely fine for him to grab me and sling me around like a ragdoll but the reverse is a big no-no!
Item #6: Don’t be
The last one was unfinished, with only the start of a letter that could have been a y or maybe a v. The next few pages were blank, possibly leaving room for more items on the ridiculous “secret list”, but then came a page covered in stickers, carefully peeled and kept intact to be placed in the notebook. A box of french fries that read “I’m frying my best!”, a cartoon bone that read “It’s going tibia okay!”, a diagram of a proton that read “Stay positive!”.
A twenty dollar bill was paperclipped to the other side of that page, with a sticky note that said in Soos’ scrawl “First Mystery Shack paycheck! Sorry it’s not a real check dude but idk if you got a bank account lol :)”.
The next page contained a photo, held in place by another sticker (a beet and a carrot that said “I’m rooting for you!”), from the day they’d found a lingering leprecorn in the basement; they’d had to lure it out with a trail of marshmallow cereal. The image showed a scuffed but grinning Melody holding up the annoying creature by its hind leg, like a fisherman displaying a catch, while Soos looked on admiringly and Stan crouched nearby to sweep cereal from the floor back into the box. The page after that was another photo, this one held in place by a sparkly purple bandage, of Dipper and Mabel squashing into frame to take a selfie with a slightly blurry and alarmed-looking Bill (they had learned early on that he didn’t photograph well, and tended to show up fuzzy and out-of-focus). In the background was a boombox, and a toy microphone could just be seen in Mabel’s hand.
The page opposite that one was lined with the squashed and dried remains of several moths of varying sizes, and the one after that contained another photo of the kids and Bill standing next to the ladder that led to the Shack’s roof- each child was wearing improvised armor made from duct tape, pillows and phonebooks and holding a broom and Bill was holding an unshaded lamp, all looking determined. It looked like the picture had been taken by Soos; a mirror in the corner of the photograph showed his reflection holding the camera. A fourth photo captured Bill, perched slightly awkwardly on one of Soos’ shoulders so the pair could point to the freshly-painted sign on the gift shop wall that warned, alongside the “No Refunds” signs, “Rude Customers Will Have Their Phones Eaten”.
A sheet of paper had been torn from a different book and tucked behind the next page; it was one of Dipper’s sketches depicting a cartoonish but recognizable Moth Man being bonked over the head by simplified doodles of Mabel and Dipper. It looked like he had started to add Bill to the drawing, but had scribbled him out and, judging by the wrinkled paper, crumpled up the page and thrown it out.
There were torn out pictures and snippets from magazines, seemingly random odds and ends including several playing cards (one of which had a bite taken out of it), a piece of glass that may have been from a phone screen, and the invitation to the kids’ birthday party along with several scribbled notes in one of Bill’s cryptic angular languages that, as far as Ford could decipher, were the early stages of his plans for the children’s gifts. Scattered sporadically throughout the pages, mostly drawn in the upper corners and margins, were crayon renderings of blue and red triangles drawn in greater or lesser profusion according to some opaque logic that Ford wasn’t privy to.
It seemed like that was the end of it, but on a whim (or because he didn’t want to close the book) he flipped through all the remaining blank pages until he saw that there was something at the back, on the inside lining of the notebook. It was a candid photo, this one of Ford. He was mid-laugh, it looked like, and the image was held in place by a dozen or so gold star-shaped stickers.
Ford’s eyes had welled at the sight of the sticker page without him even realizing it, and now he was weeping in earnest. The numbness retreated, overwhelmed by a wave of sorrow and outrage and heartbreak, and he curled himself around the notebook, clutching it to his chest as he buried his face in a pillow and let it overtake him.
Notes:
Shout-out to Megarhyssa for encouraging me to be evil, and shout-out to NitrousOxide who was forced to endure a four-and-a-half hour car ride with me during which I would not shut up about this story.
Chapter 32: Interlude #5: A Visitation
Summary:
Ford receives an unexpected visitor, and a few clues.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Ford’s dreams were a fragmented blur, half-remembered snippets of himself wandering down corridors searching for something he’d lost, chasing or being chased by something that laughed and screamed and called his name until he rounded a corner and found himself in a featureless pastel space, floating weightless. After a disoriented moment, he recognized a slightly altered version of his own dreamscape, and his heart leapt in hope as he turned, hoping against hope that he’d find Bill seated, smiling at him from across a chessboard-
But he was alone, surrounded by gentle purple and blue clouds. No chessboard manifested, no grid of impossible geometry or burning apocalyptic visions. Nothing.
A voice- or, no, an inversion of a voice, a void that formed words-
I am pleased to greet you at last, Stanford Pines,
Though I wish it could be during happier times.
I wished to give thanks for all of your help
With my most difficult patient, who can’t be here himself.
He recognized the voice, he realized, knew it from Bill’s nightmare. “You’re… you’re the Axolotl. The being in charge of the Theraprism.”
The dreamscape shifted, soothing lights and distant chimes rolling in waves. He was aware of something, some colossal presence, that somehow remained just out of his line of sight. Why was it here? Was it after a final report, an exit interview? No, surely something like that would have been handled by an employee or an automated system… This had to be something else, and Ford wasn’t about to pass up the chance to fix things.
“You say Bill can’t be here himself, but aren’t you in charge of that? You could- you could let him come back. Surely in these past few months alone, he’s shown that he’s capable of change, of growth.”
The colors shifted again, the chimes moving from clear metallic ringing to the soft clatter of bamboo, the very distant peal of a bell.
Ford Pines, pleading for the life of one
You once considered your world, your stars and sun,
Were you not betrayed and filled with hate?
Why should you now concern yourself with his fate?
It was strange. He knew that. He was aware of how ridiculous this must seem, of how furious his past self would be at his present; he had spent thirty years hating Bill with every fiber of his being and yet...
“Things are different now,” he said, first to himself and then louder, projecting it toward the alien being. “Everything is different! He’s changed, I’ve changed, I don’t want him gone- none of us do! If you could have seen his mindscape the way I did, if you could see how he-” He loves them, he thought in agony, and for a moment the dream was black and blue and filled with stars and vibrant constellations in familiar shapes, and he felt the phantom pressure in his hands as his living body clutched harder at the secret journal he’d found. He loves us.
The image rippled, and Ford caught a brief flicker of an emotion other than his own- something like a wave of pleasant surprise, and then the dream was back to that gratingly calm pastel void.
He has proven remorse, and friendship and love,
So two choices were given to him from above:
To begin his endless life anew,
A blank slate without thoughts of you,
A being of power in distant dimension,
Restored, but never your name to mention.
Ford shook his head, puzzling through the rhyme. “Never my… so he gets his powers back but, what, loses his memory? Becomes a god in some other dimension?” It was… both better and worse than he could have hoped. He told himself he wanted that for Bill, a clean slate, a chance to be something good, but a deeper, more selfish and honest part of him raged against the idea. Who was this creature, to decide such a thing? To erase everything Bill had done, everything he had meant to Ford both good and bad, everything Ford had meant to him?
The other choice afforded to him,
To live and die at another’s whim.
His memory intact but powers taken,
A short-life sentence with speech forsaken.
“So his other option is to keep his memory but lose everything else? To choose mortality and- and powerlessness?” He knew which one Bill would choose. It was a ridiculous comparison; the loss of a few short memories to a creature that lived on a timescale incomprehensible to the human mind- the choice was obvious. An innate, indignant rage built in him at the pointlessness of it all. “You can’t just- swoop in and slap him into a new body and undo all the work he’s done! He was trying, he was changing, he-” His voice broke and he clapped a hand over his mouth, pressing hard to keep from sobbing or screaming.
He has changed, that much is true.
Thanks to your family, and to you.
“So let him stay,” Ford pleaded. He didn’t care about pride or dignity; he would beg on his knees if he had to.
I cannot change the deal that was made,
No matter how he wished to have stayed.
The choice to protect you was his alone,
Be glad that at least you helped him atone.
“Bullshit.” He twisted in the dreamspace, trying to hunt down the omnipotent being and force eye contact. “There must be a loophole, a caveat to the deal, something! There’s always something!”
Alas, in this matter I cannot help you,
Though often a loophole can be found, it’s true,
The rules in this case are old and unbroken,
Bound at the moment his last words were spoken.
His sentence complete, he will be reborn
In another time, another form.
To live eternal and forget,
Or keep his memories and regrets
To reincarnate, to live and die
Within the blinking of an eye.
A promise I made to him as a friend,
To see you again before the end.
So when his rebirth comes to be,
At galactic time 42:03,
To 1975 he will go,
As Automeris occulo.
“To- to 1975? But that's the year I- that's before we met, I won't even recognize- wait, Automeris occ… ulo…” Ford was familiar with the scientific name; of course he was, he had been the one to discover the strange species of peacock moth with only a single eyespot in the center of its body rather than one on each hindwing, after all. It had been the one of the first new creatures he'd found to be localized solely to Gravity Falls, right when he'd arrived. He’d taken it as a good sign, and even though he'd only ever found the single type specimen- which had been so easy to catch, practically flew into his net oh god- he kept it framed and mounted as the jewel of his collection. He had shown Bill that very moth, commented with admiration at the time on how strangely it resembled his muse.
“But I- he knows what happened to that moth, he knows that I- why would he agree to that?” His hands were trembling as he remembered the giddy excitement of removing the specimen from the kill jar, pinning it delicately into position with the wings flared just so to best display the eyespot.
He had his options, one or two.
He made his choice and he chose you.
The Axolotl actually had the nerve to sound slightly chagrined.
He would be displeased if he knew I was here
Telling you of his fate, I fear.
But hold fast your memories and speak his name,
Remember with fondness and not with shame.
The threads of his future are tied to the past,
And we hope that this way he will find peace at last.
“This isn’t-” fair, he stopped himself from saying, knowing how foolish and childish it sounded. He knew, he knew from years of experience that the concept of fairness was an illusion, that no amount of screaming and fighting and railing against the cold universe would bring about an ounce of fairness, but it- wasn’t- fair! “There has to be something. Please. Please. I can’t, I can’t be without him. I don’t know how.”
Be his fate bound to moth or to godhood or stone,
Only truest of magic could summon him home.
“What- what do you mean? Stop speaking in riddles, just tell me!”
The voice had faded, though, and the dream was doing the same, the colors melting away and the chimes receding into distant static.
“Wait!” He thrashed awake, his face wet with tears, and lay gasping back sobs for half a minute while his conscious brain processed what had just happened. Bill’s notebook lay against his chest, and he automatically folded his hands around it, squeezing, feeling his heartbeat through the thin paper and plastic cover. 1975. Automeris occulo. Another time, another form.
He could go back in time! He could call Blandin, call in a favor and borrow a time travel device- steal it if he had to- and go back to 1975 and-
-and what? Capture the moth before his past self could? Cause a paradox? What would he do with Bill-as-a-moth even if he did successfully catch him? Automeris moths had no mouths as adults; they lived only long enough to reproduce and then wasted away. At best, he could keep Bill comfortable and safe in captivity until his new body gave out. They could have that little extra time.
Wait. Time. The Axolotl had been so specific, not just about the time Bill would be sent to but the time at which they would send him. There had to have been a reason for that. Truest of magic… summon him home…
“Stanley! Wake up!”
“Aaugh-” Stan squinted and shielded his eyes against the sudden glare of his bedside lamp, fumbling automatically for his glasses with his other hand. “Sixer? What the heck-”
Ford beat him to it, grabbing the square frames and sliding them onto his brother's face. He was standing in a half-crouch next to the bed, either freshly-dressed or having slept in his clothes, and his expression was the one bordering between panic and elation that Stan recognized as his genius-epiphany-in-the-middle-of-the-night face. “Stanley, get up, quickly! I need your help with something urgent!”
“Ford, I know we all had a rough day, you most of all, but I just got the kids to bed an hour ago-”
“No, no, Stanley, I had a dream! I was visited by the Axolotl, it gave me all the clues I needed and I think if we work quickly we can save him and- and-” His excitement fell at the look of worry on his twin’s face. “I sound crazy, don't I? This is… this is a crazy idea.”
Stan hesitated, then took a deep breath and sighed. “No crazier than usual, Poindexter. What do you need me to do?”
Notes:
All is not lost! (Also thanks for your patience everybody, I was on vacation so this update was slower than usual)
Chapter 33: In The Forest Is A Monster, And It Looks So Very Much Like Me
Summary:
The gang enacts Ford's plan.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
They agreed that the kids should get as good a night’s sleep as possible, so Ford and Stan did much of the preparatory research and gathering of supplies in a rush through the wee hours of the morning.
Only one more time did Ford pause, just before sunrise, his voice hushed and his eyes harrowed, to ask, “Am I asking you to help me make a terrible mistake? Is this- the last time I did this, the world almost ended, am I just deluding myself into making the same-”
Before he could work himself up into a frenzy, his brother had grabbed him into a bear-hug, holding him until his ribs ached. Ford’s shoulders heaved once, his eyes burning.
“Whatever you decide to do,” Stan said, “I’m here, and I’m gonna help you. You’re not doing this alone.” He gave Ford another squeeze, then released him to wipe at his own eyes, grinning wryly. “Even if he comes back all evil-overlordy and tries to kick off another apocalypse, we beat him before- I bet we could do it again, probably without even erasing my memory!”
Ford chuckled weakly, pulled off his glasses and mirrored his twin in rubbing the heel of his palm into his weary eyes.
“Now,” continued Stan briskly. “You finish writing your nerd notes; I’m gonna start another pot of coffee and then call Soos.”
Ford nodded.
They waited until a bleary but awake Melody and Soos had arrived at the Shack before they went to wake the kids. Neither of them were thrilled at being disturbed so early, but once they both registered the hurried words of their uncles, they bolted to alertness.
Breakfast was eaten quickly, while Ford caught Soos and Melody up on the events of the previous day and then attempted to lay out his plan as quickly and efficiently as possible.
“I believe,” he said, sketching out a simple diagram on the chalkboard he’d wheeled into the kitchen, “That what the Axolotl was hinting at was the key to bypassing the Theraprism’s reincarnation system. At the exact specified time, Bill will enter a state of flux as they shift him from one state of being into another- there will be a brief window during which he will simultaneously exist and not exist, when we can disrupt the process and break him out of that dimension-” He circled the small triangle he’d drawn in the upper corner and drew a line from it to the little rendering of the Shack he’d done in the lower corner. “-and back into ours, removing him from the Theraprismic timeflow.”
Dipper, who had been taking notes, stopped and scratched at his head with the tip of his pencil. “Okay, but how do we… do that?”
“Ah!” Ford raised a triumphant finger. “Using these clues!” He tapped the two lines of neat cursive at the opposite corner, the last two rhyming lines the Axolotl had delivered in their dream meeting. “See here- ‘Be his fate bound to moth or to godhood or stone, Only truest of magic could summon him home’.”
Mabel’s eyes widened in awe. “Oh my gosh- the truest magic is love! We’re gonna save Bill with the power of love!” Overwhelmed by what was apparently the realization of all her wildest dreams, she grabbed the nearest person- who happened to be her brother- and shook him back and forth with surprising strength.
“Everything anime ever told me is true!” Added Soos with equal excitement. “Friendship and love are the strongest magic in the multiverse! And card games, sometimes.”
Ford coughed, going slightly pink, and attempted to gently correct her without dampening her enthusiasm. “I- well, what I’m intending for us to use is a true summoning. This combination of symbols I’ve prepared along with the multilayered aspect of the linguistic pattern in this-”
They were all staring at him, expressions ranging from eager attentiveness to blank incomprehension and, in Stan’s case, a slight shake of the head that suggested Don’t bother. Ford sighed.
“I- that is- yes,” he relented. “We’re going to save Bill with the- the, ah, power of love.”
“I knew it,” Mabel said in hushed reverence.
A few short hours later, they were gathered in the forest as Ford laid down the finishing touches to the wide double circle of glyphs, the yellow spray paint still gleaming wetly against the grass and dirt.
They had done their best given the deadline and the fact that so many of the original zodiac were absent; Mabel had brought a borrowed hairband of Pacifica’s and a can of Gideon’s hairspray, Dipper had found Wendy’s old employee name tag and one of Robbie’s fingerless gloves. Everyone else stood in their assigned positions, with Melody taking the place of McGucket.
In the center of their circle rested Bill’s statue. Tufts of grass had crept up the half-buried stone over the past year, and moss had begun to grow over a few spots. The morning light caught on the gossamer filaments of a spiderweb stretched between the extended hand and the edge of the top hat, and Ford noticed with a sense of dread and urgency that there were the tattered remains of a moth’s wings caught in the web, evidence of the occupant’s previous meal.
All the more reason to hurry, he thought, connecting the last two lines and stepping back to take his place.
“And…” He watched with laser focus as the milliseconds on his watch, set to Galactic Standard Time, rolled toward 42:03. “Now!”
The chant was an altered form of the one they had all been familiar with; Ford had modified it and combined it with a forbidden summoning he had learned in the lost libraries of what he called the Hypatian Dimension. Woven into the words was the equation Ford had worked out, the key that would once have allowed Bill to break free of Gravity Falls’ barrier and which would now, he hoped, allow them to pull him into it.
The wind kicked up, blowing through the trees in an eerie shriek, which seemed like an encouraging sign. When the wind died down and nothing else occurred, that hope faltered, though no one paused in their chant.
Ford's watch ticked on. The minute rolled past, and then the next one, and Ford couldn’t tell if the others were still chanting because his pulse was thundering inside his skull, his throat was going hoarse as he kept repeating the words. Beneath his feet, the yellow outline of his own six-fingered hand mocked him, brought back the sight of Bill shattered, Bill tearing himself apart to hold a gold hand together, Bill looking up at the sky in his arms and asking-
Can you see them?
I’ll never meet you again.
Ford, I l-
There's still time, there has to be time, Ford's mind whispered, pleading against reality. It can't have been for nothing, it can't have all led to-
A touch on his shoulder pulled him out of the looping thought, and he opened the eyes he hadn’t been aware of closing. Stan’s face was sympathetic and weary, his hand on Ford’s shoulder firm but not demanding. He said nothing, but Ford understood.
“Just… give me a moment.” He couldn’t stomach turning to face his family and accept defeat, to put his back to Bill’s statue and acknowledge that it was just that- a statue, a frozen monument to his failure and what could have been. He crouched in front of the statue- or, more accurately, fell to his knees like a puppet with its strings cut, all the sleepless energy that had propelled him leaving his body suddenly, and pressed his palms to the flat, cool stone. He could feel the others gathering behind him as he bowed his head, and one by one their hands joined Stan’s on Ford’s shoulder, his back, silent and supporting.
Ford dug his fingers into the moss and lichen, feeling grit under his fingernails, and wanted to scream. Instead he leaned his forehead against the raised curve of the statue’s eye and mouthed the word Bill once, twice, whispered it into the unfeeling rock.
He stood- couldn’t tell if he’d made himself stand or if he’d been helped to his feet by the others- and took one heavy, dragging step backwards, still not turning. Another step, hands still gentle against his back, feeling something pulled from his body with every movement like he’d left it frozen against the stone. Mabel’s hand curled around his slack fingers and squeezed.
The first sound was quiet enough that he almost missed it, his ears already writing it off as an ambient sound of the forest, a twig snapping, even as his heart leapt in hope. Then- there, again- a faint creak, a pop. A sudden, jarring CRACK loud enough to send birds flying overhead.
The statue shuddered, dust rising off of it and catching the light.
Elsewhere, within the depths of the Mystery Shack, there may or may not have been a faint pop! as a framed moth ceased to exist and vanished from the timeline.
A split formed across the face of the statue, perfectly matching the scar across the real thing, a strange kind of bright-dark light shining through the seam, and then the stone shattered. Instinctively everyone threw an arm up to shield their eyes, and when the dust cleared and they lowered them, Bill Cipher was prying himself up from the half-sunken pose he’d been summoned into.
“Urgh, ugh, what-” he rubbed his topmost angle like he had a headache and squinted blearily at his surroundings. “This… doesn't look like 1975. Where's the sepia filter? Why am I not a bug egg?” He seemed to register the group of six humans standing over him, and his eye narrowed further in suspicion. “None of you are the right age and most of you shouldn't exist yet. Is this one of those deathbed hallucinations I've heard so much ab- WHOA HEY!”
His confused rant was cut short by Mabel, who had plowed into him like a linebacker and was now clinging with all four limbs as she sobbed into his bowtie. Before he had time to process that, Dipper had followed his sister and thrown his arms around Bill, and then Soos had joined, hoisting all three into the air in an encompassing hug while Bill shrieked in alarm. Melody grabbed on from the other side, sandwiching him and squeezing until his eye bugged out.
“It worked, it worked, it worked!” The twins were shouting over and over, now laughing more than they were crying.
“WHAT worked?!” Bill asked over them, his little legs kicking uselessly as he tried to free himself from the human tangle. “What is HAPPENING?!”
“Ask Poindexter over here,” Stan suggested, unable to hide a grin as he slapped his brother on the back. “Some kinda nerd mumbo jumbo about bypassing the time thingy and fluxy whatsits.”
Ford didn’t correct his brother; he was silent and staring, feeling himself shake with relief and disbelief.
“Grunkle Ford came up with a plan to save you!” Dipper exclaimed in his place.
“With the power of love!” Mabel added for good measure.
“Okay, this is absolutely a hallucination,” Bill muttered. He’d given up on trying to squirm his way to freedom and was allowing himself to be affectionately crushed with the long-suffering and slightly baffled expression of an alley cat being brushed.
“Bill,” Ford said at last, his voice breaking.
Like a tide receding, the kids released their hold and stepped back, and Bill turned toward Ford, his eye wide- distantly Ford’s brain registered that he was floating again, but he was too overcome to pay particular attention to that fact when Bill was looking at him like that.
“Fordsy,” he said, his own voice equally broken.
Ford’s mind was a blur of thoughts, of a thousand explanations and accusations and three words repeated again and again, but for the moment he simply held out his arms. Bill moved forward in a short jerk, as if on impulse, and then once more as he rushed to throw himself into the offered embrace, and Bill Cipher came home.
Notes:
Beloved reader, I ended up rewriting this chapter basically from scratch twice and ended up breaking it into two pieces, so here is the first part while I'm feeling satisfied with it; next part may take a couple extra days.
Chapter 34: I Could Even Learn How To Love
Summary:
Bill returns to the Mystery Shack!
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The Theraprism’s reincarnation alignment chamber had been cold; Ford’s arms were warm. The chamber had been hard, its crystalline edges closing in and preparing to compress him into a new shape; Ford’s chest was soft and wrapped in the familiar pilled fuzz of his completely unseasonable red sweater. The chamber had smelled like disinfectant and hemolymph; Ford smelled like he’d spent three days rolling around on the forest floor in place of showering. Bill never wanted to be anywhere else.
Distantly, he heard Mabel’s surprised voice. “Hey, your scars are gone!”
“They are?” Bill leaned back (not very far, as Ford maintained a firm grip on him) and looked down at himself; sure enough, the jagged web of static had vanished, leaving unbroken yellow brickwork. “Huh. Look at that.” He wasn’t… quite sure how he felt about that. He flicked a hand over his old bow tie, its satin black catching the light with a faint color-shifting sheen, and he felt a bit better.
“Fascinating,” said Ford, using one hand to gently prod at the smooth surface of Bill’s back. “I suppose the stone vessel must have worked as a kind of physical reset; we’re lucky your memories are up-to-date or we could’ve had a serious challenge on our hands!”
“Oh, kind of like a save point in a video game!” Dipper added, crouching to examine some of the loose, glittery dust that had fallen when Bill’s statue exploded.
“Not a bad way to put it,” Ford agreed.
Curious, Bill turned in Ford’s arms so that he was facing outward and squinted at the summoning circle. He went to lift off, to float over and get a better look, and had to tap Ford’s elbow a few times before the scientist would release him.
“But this- hm. Huh.” Bill hovered in a rapid, assessing circle around the mishmash of glyphs. “Oh, ohoho, I see what you did here, very clever, but-” He rotated again, his brow furrowing. “Hang on, this shouldn’t have worked. You can’t just use totems in place of living people, it’s- the flow of energy is totally different! And these runes are in a completely different dialect from these ones and the syntax is all wrong- at best this spell should have blown up everything in a ten-mile radius, not functioned as intended! How the heck did this work?!”
“I told you,” Mabel said smugly. “We used the power of love, and love is stronger than syntaxes or dialects or whatever!”
For a moment Bill looked stunned and confused, but then he shook it off and rolled his eye, covering. “Yeah, sure, Shooting Star, except for an emotion-based summoning like that to work the emotion has to come from the summoner, not the summonee. Nice try, though! Next theory!”
Mabel planted her hands on her hips stubbornly and declare, “It did! We’re your friends and we care about you! Deal with it!”
“Yeah!” Dipper joined his twin, slinging a supportive arm around her shoulder.
(“Eh, I could take him or leave him,” said Stan, who had been struggling not to cry for the past several minutes.)
Soos, who was actively crying, blurted, “Mabel’s right, dude!” At his side, Melody nodded in firm agreement.
Bill glanced from one human to the next as if waiting for the punchline, his pupil darting back and forth as he tried to reconcile the impossibility in his head. “What kind of parallel dimension did I get dropped into-”
“Bill,” Ford interrupted, insistent. When he saw that he had Bill’s attention, he reiterated softly, “Mabel’s right.”
Bill blinked at him, a flustered kaleidoscope of colors flickering across his surface before settling back to pink-tinged yellow, and he crossed his arms as he turned back toward the rest of the group. “Okay, fine, but don’t expect me to start saying it back to all of you; I’ll get hives!”
(“I mean, you basically just admitted you love us like twenty seconds ago,” Dipper pointed out with a snicker, but he did it quietly.)
“That’s fine,” Mabel said magnanimously. “The important thing for everyone to learn here is that I’m always right!”
“That feels like a dangerous precedent to set, but it’s one I fully support,” Stan shrugged.
“Hang on…” Bill picked a bit of grit off of his shoulder and flicked it away, peering once more at the runes. “If this spell was like a reincarnation bypass jailbreak thing… Whoa, wait, you broke the Theraprismic laws of timeflow? For me?!”
“I… well, yes,” Ford admitted, going red in the cheeks.
“What were you thinking?!” Bill spun toward Ford, grabbed the lapels of his coat and got in his face. “Don’t get me wrong, you adding to your list of inter-dimensional crimes will never not be hot especially when you do it for me but Ford! What! If! They! Come! After! You!” He shook the human back and forth with each word, his eye straining out of its socket in stress.
Ford reached up to catch his glasses as they almost slid off his nose and held them in place as he stammered. “I suppose, I- that is- er-”
“You didn’t even think about it?! FORD!” Screeched Bill, blood vessels popping in his eye.
“It’s fine! I think! I think I have a- kind of a pass from the Axolotl!” Ford explained as he used his free hand to touch one of Bill’s wrists soothingly. “It appeared in my dreamscape and gave me the clues I needed to bring you back! It wouldn’t have done that accidentally, or with the intent to entrap me, would it?”
“Frills told you?” Bill didn’t relax, exactly, but he seemed to contemplate that bit of information for a moment. “But why- but it knew I…” He put two and two together. “Wait, so the two options were a test? A TEST?! FRILLS WHEN I CATCH YOU- WHEN I GET MY HANDS ON YOU I’M GONNA-”
“Bill!” Ford was smiling as he interrupted the demon’s rant by leaning in for a kiss- which did serve very successfully as far as interruptions went- and when he pulled back the smile became a laugh. “It worked out, didn’t it?”
“...I guess. Fine. I won’t swear an oath of vengeance or whatever, even though I know you love those,” said a mildly dazed Bill, who was feeling very agreeable after the kiss.
Ford glanced down. “Ah, speaking of getting your hands on someone… not that I mind, but perhaps we could return to the ground?”
“What? Oh.” Bill followed his gaze to see that not only were they floating ten feet in the air, but he’d also sprouted several additional arms and wrapped them securely around Ford, clutching at his waist, his shoulders, his legs, stroking absently at his spine.
With some reluctance, he lowered them back to the ground and retracted his limbs, and the two of them turned to be suddenly and sharply reminded that they weren’t alone and that everyone else had just witnessed that entire display. Mabel, Soos and Melody looked charmed beyond words, Dipper looked embarrassed, and Stan… Stan was staring at them with a terrifyingly blank poker face.
Ford coughed, trying to cover the way the bottom dropped out of his stomach and explain before the situation could blow up in their faces. “Oh, we were uh- I was going to tell you that, er, our relationship- Bill’s and mine, that is-”
Stan’s expression shifted from neutral to deeply unimpressed. “Kids, hands over your ears for a minute.” When they obeyed, he continued. "Sixer, I know I’m the dumb twin but gimme a little credit. I got cataracts, I’m not blind. You suddenly walking around relaxed and smiling like you just got back from a week in the Bahamas the same morning he shows up walking like a cowboy- gross, by the way, I got enough trauma rattling around up here and I did not need that mental image- you two very conspicuously not standing near each other anytime anybody else is in the room with you, plus I had to physically hold you back from going to Greasy’s and killing their cook after the whole ‘poisoning’ incident…”
“Oh.” Ford and Bill glanced guiltily at one another. “I… Stanley, you’re not dumb, don’t say that,” Ford managed, for lack of anything better to offer.
“We thought you’d freak out,” Bill said bluntly.
“Oh, I did,” replied Stan, poking the kids to let them know they could uncover their ears. “But unlike some people I know how to be subtle. I freaked out for three hours in my room and then got over it.”
“Hmm, that, uh, that doesn’t seem like the healthiest-” Melody started to interject, but Soos patted her shoulder soothingly and whispered, “Shhh, they’re bonding.”
Ford rubbed at the back of his neck, struggling his way through the awkwardness of the conversation. “It’s not… this hasn’t been going on the whole time,” he clarified. “It was a recent development. And I didn’t… I didn’t intend to hide it from you or keep secrets, I just-” He halted, looking at his brother and trying to figure out how to voice that it wasn’t like before, this was different, this was good and he was terrified of how right it felt.
Stan sighed and stepped forward to clap both hands onto his twin’s shoulders. “Ford, you’re a grown man. He’s a grown- uh, triangle. You don’t have to justify whatever this is to me, especially not with my dating track record.” He stepped back gestured loosely to the two of them. “If this makes you happy-”
“It does,” Ford affirmed, watching Bill go pink again out of the corner of his eye.
“-and as long as the world ain’t about to end,” Stan emphasized, semi-joking. “I’m fine with it. I don’t know how the heck you’re gonna explain it to Shermie and the rest of the family without them throwing you into a loony bin, but we can figure that one out later.”
“If you get thrown into a loony bin I’ll break you out,” Bill promised, coiling an arm around Ford’s hand.
“We’ll help,” Dipper added, and Mabel nodded solemnly.
Melody, who had begun gathering up the various borrowed items from their respective spots in the summoning circle, stood up and cocked her head. “Couldn’t you just bring Bill with you to meet them? Like for Thanksgiving or… something…?” She trailed off as everyone looked at her with the same stunned expression.
“That’s… an excellent point,” Ford said, looking at the sky. “With the chant we used, there’s every chance Bill could break through the Gravity Falls bubble now. We’ll have to run a few tests beforehand, of course-”
“Bill!” Mabel stabbed an excited finger at the triangle in question. “Can you fly to Japan and bring back a real live Growgremlin?”
Bill vanished in a blur, then reappeared holding a struggling, screeching yellow creature the size of a raccoon and wearing a t-shirt that read I Broke Into The Secret Lab Where They Create Actual Growgremlins And All I Got Was This T-Shirt And Shot At By Armed Guards.
“Yes,” he said.
Mabel squealed joyously at the sight of the fuzzy genetic monstrosity in Bill’s arms. The creature squirmed its way free and dropped to the forest floor, hissing at all of them before sprinting away into the underbrush.
“That’s probably fine,” Bill said, dusting off his hands and snapping the t-shirt away.
“So I guess your powers are back,” Dipper said, cautiously intrigued. “Does that mean the Inhibitor is gone?”
“Good question.” Bill scratched thoughtfully at his edge, then slowly and deliberately brought his hands together in a single clap. His top hat appeared, or one just like it, and he turned it upside down and tapped it over his empty palm. Two items fell out: a flat piece of shimmering metal or crystal, about three inches across, and a single brilliantly-glowing speck that had once been an entire world. More concerned with catching the speck, Bill let the first object bounce to the ground, where it landed at Ford’s feet.
Ford stooped to pick up the roughly square-shaped whatever-it-was. It was surprisingly heavy, with a pin at the back and a line of text endlessly scrolling across its surface. To his surprise, above the text was a name in bold: Doctor Stanford Filbrick Pines.
“Hmm.” He adjusted his glasses and squinted down at the writing, which appeared to be the same three sentences repeated in different languages. “I can only read some of this, but it seems to be a sort of badge of office… This first line reads ‘Licensed Theraprism Rehabilitator’. I guess I'm… sort of a deputized monitor? A parole officer?”
“Sure, we can call it that,” Bill agreed breezily, floating closer to get a look at it. “But you know the next two lines read ‘Emotional Support Animal’ and ‘Don't Pet Me, I'm Working', right?”
“What? No they don't. You're messing with me.”
“Maybe! Maybe not!” Bill dropped the glowing speck of Euclydia back into his hat and popped it into place before zipping up to perch on Ford’s shoulder.
“Huh,” Stan groused. “Not sure I like the idea of my brother getting licensed as some kinda space narc.”
“Fair enough,” said Ford, turning the badge over in his hands. “I’m sure I could turn it down. Although I suspect the position would come with a decent stipend, knowing how-”
“Congrats on the new job!” Stan interrupted loudly as his mood pulled a rapid 180 at the mention of money.
“Yeah, congrats Grunkle Ford! Hey, do you think this means you could fire those two jerks that came to the house? They-” Mabel cut herself off with a huge yawn, the excitement of their mission and reunion finally wearing off and giving way as the previous night’s few short hours of sleep caught up with her.
“Alright,” said Stan. “Back to the Shack, everybody. I’m old and I need a nap.”
There was a token grumble of protest from the kids, but soon the entire group was on their way homeward, relieved and exhausted.
“By the way,” Stan glanced at Bill as they set off for the house. “Don’t go thinking you can just date my idiot brother without consequences. You’re getting a patented Pines Shovel Talk once I wake up whether you like it or not, got it, corn chip?”
“Can’t wait!” Frankly, Bill was still riding the combined high of having apparently escaped death, of the loose collection of humans he’d somehow come to consider his having missed him enough to break him out of time itself- and the fact that they’d gotten through the whole “telling Stan” thing without it blowing up in their faces. Stan could have threatened him with anything at that point and Bill would have cheerfully agreed.
They passed the treeline, and Bill had never been so happy to see Ford’s repurposed research station in all his life. The Mystery Shack glowed serenely in the mid-morning light, sunbeams catching on the occasional flying insect (and absolutely no one flinched when a large yellow moth drifted past on the breeze). Waddles was waiting by the door, and he came forward to greet them, grunting contentedly when Mabel pet him and rearing up to give the newly-returned Bill an affectionate sniff. He let most of the group move past him before giving in and scratching the pig behind the ears, though he heard Ford stifle a chuckle.
As they reached the gift shop entrance, a strange wave of déjà vu overtook Bill like vertigo, bringing him to a halt in the doorway.
“...Bill?” Ford slowed to a stop behind him.
Bill made a small, distant sound of acknowledgment but didn’t move forward yet. Instead he slowly reached out and touched the doorframe, rubbed his hand absently over the grain of the wood as his eye traveled across the familiar outlines of the counter, vending machine, shelves of tchotchkes, and various stuffed oddities. Unchanged, solid.
A light touch against his back told him Ford had moved closer, gently offering reassurance.
Real. It was all real. He was pretty sure.
“I’m good,” Bill said, half to Ford and half to himself.
Melody, who had already moved with the rest of the group into the main house, stuck her head back into the shop. “Hey, Soos and I are gonna get started on some lunch for everybody if you guys want to take a quick siesta and maybe, uh,” she glanced at Ford, trying to put her thought tactfully. “Freshen up?”
Ford blinked at her.
“You stink, Sixer, go take a shower!” Stan called from the living room, where he was already ensconced in his armchair. “Change your shirt, anything!”
“I’ve been busy!” Ford protested, but he set off toward his room.
Bill followed, sympathetically patting Ford’s back. “I don’t mind your carcass stink, Fordsy!”
“Yeah, you wouldn’t,” Stan muttered as they passed him, and Bill stuck his tongue out at him.
“Gross,” said Dipper, climbing the stairs. “That’s still gross.”
“I think it’s beautiful,” Mabel, who was notably out of olfactory range, insisted lovingly. “Anyway, wake us up when there’s food!”
They slipped into Ford’s room- their room once again- and as Ford kicked off his boots Bill floated over to the couch, staring down in surprise at a familiar but out-of-place object: on Ford’s pillow sat the plain, ring-bound journal he’d been using all summer to scribble in and store various odds and ends. Someone- presumably Ford- must have dug it out from the bottom of his bedding and placed it there.
“Ah, that-” Ford followed his gaze and went slightly red, looking caught out. “I, uh, that was just-”
“I love you,” Bill said bluntly, instead of any of the suave or witty teasing remarks he’d intended.
Similarly, whatever words Ford had been working up to seemed to vanish; his breath left him in a careworn sigh and whatever energy had kept tension in his frame fled.
Uncertain whether that sigh was one of relief or reluctance, Bill hurried to add, “You don’t have to say it b-”
“I love you, Bill.”
Bill cut himself off, eye wide. Ford smiled at him, one of those little smiles he’d given him privately over the past few weeks, and stepped close to stroke a hand down his side.
“Are you that surprised? Really?” He asked, genuinely curious, as he watched Bill’s stunned reaction.
“Uh, psht, of course not!” Bill said quickly, leaning into the touch. “Of course you do!” He added, instead of asking Are you sure?
Reading his mind, apparently, Ford continued the gentle touch and murmured, “I can say it again, if you need. And again.”
Bill tittered nervously, but he wound an arm around Ford’s wrist and pressed his hand more firmly into himself. “Careful, Fordsy,” he purred. “You keep saying that and we won’t make it out of this room anytime soon.”
Ford laughed, leaned in and kissed him. When he pulled back he said, “That’s a fair point; I ought to get cleaned up and changed in any case.”
“What, wait, no!” Bill whined. “Don’t give into societal pressure, Sixer, you’re perfect as-is! Just because a bunch of other humans think you stink like roadkill doesn’t mean-”
“You’re welcome to join me in the shower,” Ford said mildly, already shrugging out of his coat.
“What I meant to say of course was ‘What are we waiting for, let’s get steamy’!” Bill quickly amended, following hot on Ford’s heels into the bathroom.
Ford’s laughter rang out again, echoing through the door as it closed behind them.
Notes:
Oh my god this chapter just kept getting longer every time I edited it! Hope you all enjoyed it. Next chapter will be smut!
Chapter 35: I'm Just As Exposed If I Take Off My Clothes
Summary:
Bill and Ford celebrate being reunited!
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Unsurprisingly given the difference in the amount of clothing they each wore, it took Ford longer to undress than Bill, although the Euclydian did draw out the process on his end, slowly and sensually removing his hat and bow tie with a suggestive eyebrow waggle that earned him another laugh.
He used the additional time to start the shower, waiting for the old pipes to provide hot water and, when they took too long for his liking, simply snapped a new water heater into existence. No sooner had he done so and leaned into the shower to admire his handiwork than Ford’s hands had stolen around him from behind, scooping him into an embrace. Ford slipped into the now-steaming shower and turned Bill to face him, pinning him to the wall.
“Ooh!” Bill wriggled delightedly in Ford’s grasp. “Oh Doctor Pines, are you gonna do a full physical on me?”
“I do want to check you for any potential lasting damage from the transference,” Ford said without irony as his eyes traveled across the triangular form in his hands. “But for now, I think I’d prefer something slightly less professional, if you don’t mind.”
“When have I ever minded mmh-” Before Bill could even finish his quip Ford’s lips were seeking his out, and he happily obliged. Ford’s thumbs dug into his lower corners, fingernails scratching a dizzying sensory overload against his back. In return, Bill wrapped both arms around Ford’s torso and pulled him closer.
“We should wait until later,” Ford panted against him, neither slowing nor stopping.
“Yup,” Bill agreed, grinding against the hand that had snuck between his legs. “Totally.”
“So we probably shouldn’t go getting worked up,” Ford added between the wet, sucking kisses he was trailing down Bill’s side toward his corner.
“Of course, of course.” Bill shuddered, his eye rolling back under a fluttering lid as he felt Ford’s tongue work its way along the brickwork at his base. His hands found their way into Ford’s hair, grabbing fistfuls to ground himself, and several more arms sprouted from him to slither down the human’s body. “We’re not getting worked up, we’re just- oh- Ford!”
Ford pulled back and wiped his mouth, sucking liquid from the tip of his thumb before it could be washed away by the shower. “We should be quiet, too. Until later, anyway.”
“Right,” Bill managed, trying to concentrate only to lose focus and slide down the tiles behind him the second Ford removed the hand that had been holding him upright. He floated back up to his former height, watching Ford’s face go slack and his eyes glaze over when the soft, slippery touch of Bill’s extra limbs wound around his cock and gave him a single slow stroke.
An idea took hold of Bill’s mind, a visual that formed and quickly captured his attention. He peeled away from the wall and moved closer to Ford, who happily allowed himself to be drawn into a deep kiss. When Bill’s many arms began to wind around his legs and waist, Ford only moaned and rocked his hips forward, rolling little thrusts into the points of contact like he couldn’t help himself.
When Bill used those arms to hoist Ford into the air and pin him to the opposite wall, Ford yelped in surprise. “Ah- Bill?”
“Mmmhmm?” More arms wrapped around Ford’s hips and ankles and wrists, under his ass, supporting more of his weight and gently lifting his knees to expose him to Bill’s hungry gaze. With a slick sound that was audible even over the rush of the water, Bill’s tongue emerged from below his eye, thick and coiling sinuously toward him.
“Oh fuck,” Ford moaned at the sight of it, his breath ragged already. “Yes, yes, Bill-”
“Shh, Fordsy,” Bill gently slipped a hand up to Ford’s open mouth, thumbing his lower lip. “I thought you wanted us to be quiet?”
“Dammit,” Ford groaned mournfully before leaning his head forward to pull Bill’s fingers onto his own tongue. He mumbled around them, “Guesh you’w hawe to occufy my mouf shomehow, won’ you?”
A thrilled shiver ran up Bill, represented visually by a wave of pinkish-red that rippled up his bricks and made his eye glow brighter. “Ooooh, I love the way you think!” And then, simply because he could now, he added, “I love you.”
Ford beamed at him as much as was possible with his mouth full, mostly conveying the expression with the crinkled corners of his eyes. His hands, held securely in place at his sides, turned so he could stroke his fingertips up and down the coiled black limbs keeping him supported and bound.
Filled with lust and adoration, Bill floated forward and let his tongue writhe its way closer to the waiting heat between Ford’s legs, watching him tremble in anticipation and feeling his throat constrict as he swallowed around Bill’s fingers.
There was a sudden loud thud from the bedroom, which turned into several thuds as someone hammered at the door. They both froze, eyes wide and darting frantically toward the bathroom door they’d left carelessly cracked open.
“HEY,” Stan’s full-volume yell carried through both rooms as he gave one more bang on the door. “IT’S ME STAN. FOOD’S READY. STOP DOING WHATEVER YOU’RE DOING AND COME EAT.”
Ford spat out Bill’s hand and called back. “We can hear you! You don’t need to shout!”
“IF YOU SAID SOMETHIN’ I DIDN’T CATCH IT. I TOOK MY HEARING AIDS OUT.”
“Huh, pretty smart move for being the ‘dumb twin’,” Bill remarked, slowly and reluctantly withdrawing his tongue.
“WHATEVER SASSY REMARK SHORT STACK JUST SAID WAS WASTED, FYI. STILL CAN’T HEAR YA.”
Bill’s expression turned crafty. “I mean, if nobody can hear us anyway…” The many grasping hands on Ford began to squeeze and pet at him once more.
Ford arched his back and gasped sharply, pushing his chest into the pinching points of contact. At the same time his legs stretched out, and his heel accidentally caught the temperature valve, plunging them both into a frigid rain and shocking an undignified shout from each of them. Ford jerked in Bill’s hold, which loosened enough to drop his feet to the floor.
Ford grunted in displeasure but turned into the cold spray, grimacing and letting out another pained hiss as his body’s response to Bill abated.
Bill swore mutinously under his breath but followed him as he stepped out of the shower. “Just when it was getting good.”
“Probably for the best,” Ford admitted, still shivering and wincing as he toweled himself off. “If we wait until later, I can take my time with you.”
Bill made a sound like a swarm of bees, which would have been slightly difficult to interpret were it not for his eye following a droplet of water as it ran down Ford’s neck. Ford caught his gaze and flushed under it, shooting a look that ended up more bashful than it was sultry over his shoulder as he turned toward the bedroom, letting the towel drop behind him.
Ford banged on the (thankfully closed) bedroom door a few times just in case Stan was still in the hallway, to let him know his message had been received, and then he moved to his hamper of clean clothes and began digging for a pair of underwear. When Bill trailed in after him, hat and bow tie replaced, to perch on the desk and leer at him, Ford shook his head hard enough to spatter him with cold water and make him yelp. Bill retaliated by pulling one sock from each pair out of the hamper and floating them just out of arm’s reach, so Ford had to settle, laughing, for wearing a mismatched pair. Of course, the moment he finished doing so, Bill released all the hovering socks to rain down on him with a cackle. Eventually, they emerged and trooped upstairs to joined the others in the kitchen.
After lunch, Soos and Melody decided to open the Shack for a few hours, and the steady trickle of visitors kept everyone busy for the remainder of the day (startlingly, several tourists had made the trip hoping to see the “phone-eating triangle monster” they’d read online reviews about).
Stan, sensing a prime opportunity to make his brother’s life slightly miserable in repayment for the loss of sleep and the horrifying knowledge of Ford’s sex life, kept locating the newly-reunited couple every time they tried to sneak off and assigning them each new tasks and chores. He even recruited the unsuspecting kids into his scheme, encouraging Dipper to follow Bill, peppering him with questions about the Theraprism, and Mabel to draft Ford into helping with party decorations.
By the time the shop closed and Melody and Soos (after a final round of tearful, relieved hugs) went home for the day, the pair had given up trying to escape and both sat, fondly resigned to their fates, through dinner and a rowdy game of Monopolize. Bill allowed himself to be subjected to several more crushing hugs from the kids before they headed off for a well-earned full night’s sleep. Stan shot his brother a Look which Ford interpreted as “I’m happy for you both but if you wake me or, heaven forbid, the kids up with whatever freaky shit you’re going to do there will be no portal or ritual in existence to bring you back from where I’ll send you” and then he, too, retired for the night.
“I know we were mainly focused on worrying over telling Stanley, but I really ought to sit the children down and explain things to them as well,” Ford sighed as they returned, at last, to their room. “I don’t want them thinking… well, in any case, I should talk to them about this.”
Bill snorted. “Not sure how much ‘explaining’ you’ll have to do; the kids have been trying to coach me in ‘grunkle romance’ all summer.”
Ford stared quizzically at him for a moment, then chuckled as he pulled the door shut behind them (and locked it, just in case). “Spearheaded by Mabel, no doubt?”
“Mmhm.”
“The ancient and powerful Bill Cipher, accepting romantic advice from a thirteen-year-old.”
“Hey, listen, with the way I was striking out with you I figured it was time to get a little human perspective! And it helped, didn’t it? Well, that and the almost-dying.”
“Hmm,” said Ford dubiously. “I’d like to take the opportunity to clarify that you do not need to keep risking death to convince me of the sincerity of your feelings, or to prove yourself worthy of this relationship or whatever else you were thinking.”
Bill twitched guiltily and then recovered poorly, darting glances at him and away as he said, “Whaaaat, I- that’s- psht, that’s not even-”
“Bill.”
“I’m not trying to prove anything!” Bill insisted, his assertiveness wilting under the force of Ford’s skeptical glare.
“You were going to let me kill you! You did let me kill you, technically!”
Bill threw his hands out in exasperation. “Yeah! I mean, I was gonna die either way; this way I’d get to guarantee I’d see you and you’d get to tick the number one item on your bucket list: actually killing me! I was doing both of us a favor!”
“That’s not-” Ford’s voice trembled. He took a deep breath, caught hold of Bill’s hands and looked at him intently. “Bill, I don’t want to kill you anymore. I don’t want you to die. I love you, and I would like you to stay with me, as you are, alive. Please.”
“Oh.” Bill blinked down at the calloused thumbs rubbing circles into the backs of his hands, then back up at Ford with a slightly teasing glint in his eye. “I mean, I guess I could do that. But what about the sacred law of Blood Feud?”
That startled Ford into a laugh, but he composed himself enough to solemnly say, “Ah, you’re forgetting about the secret clause that states the feud may be replaced by a blood bond if the parties involved fall in love. The words just get swapped out.”
“Hmm, makes perfect sense to me!” Bill nodded cheerfully. “Are there still ghost eagles involved?”
“Naturally.” Ford said with a grin. He slid one hand up Bill’s arm, cupped his face and gently stroked the space between eye and bow tie before moving in for a kiss. It took no time at all for them to pick back up where they had left off earlier, and with only a briefly awkward shuffle the made it to the couch.
Ford’s fingers scratched back and forth across Bill’s front, teasing against his bricks and occasionally pulling back from their increasingly-filthy kiss to drag his blunt human teeth up one side or the other of Bill’s angles. Bill in turn wound his tongue out from behind his eye and down Ford’s throat, pumping in and out and curling against his palate while Ford moaned appreciatively.
When Ford’s hips slotted up against one of Bill’s legs and began rolling against it slow and steady, almost as if he wasn’t aware of his own actions, Bill couldn’t take it anymore.
“Fordsy, Ford, I want- I want-”
“Yes? What do you need?” Ford looked attentive. “Tell me.”
“Put- put your fingers-” His tongue lolled out of its socket, dripping.
“Here?” Ford rubbed two digits over the velvety texture of said tongue, slid them up the length of it and, almost shyly, into the space between tongue and eyeball. “Like that?”
“Ahfuck- yeah-” Bill grabbed him by the wrist and tugged him closer, trying to encourage him to jam more inside the cavity. Ford obeyed breathlessly, looking awed as he watched five fingers disappear into Bill’s maw, and he stroked the pad of the thumb over the bulging lower lid from the outside. “Fuuuuck,” Bill moaned, shuddering and curling inward, his entire being focused on the sensation as Ford rotated his wrist slowly until his fingers were gingerly cradling the wet, warm orb of Bill’s eye from within.
“Amazing,” Ford whispered, voice hoarse. “Could I...”
“Yes, anything, do it do it do it,” Bill chanted, his tongue coiling around the human’s arm up to the elbow.
Ford leaned down and dragged his own tongue over Bill’s eye, at the same moment squeezing and massaging the underside of it with his buried fingers, and Bill howled, his legs splaying open to allow a gush of slick liquid as that hidden orifice revealed itself again. His eye rolled back, his entire form wracked with tremors as Ford continued to rub him from the inside, following those six magnificent digits with deeper laps of his tongue.
Finally Ford took a brief respite, drawing back just enough to look Bill in the eye as he asked, “Did you just-?”
“Uh-huh.” Bill’s normal loquaciousness had abandoned him; he ran his own tongue between the fingers Ford had inside him and reached out to grab the other hand, dragging it to the spot between his legs and guiding Ford to press the calloused heel of his palm there so the overwhelmed demon could grind against it.
Breathing hard at the sight but clearly trying to maintain an air of scientific inquiry, Ford quirked an eyebrow. “I take it f-from your behavior that you could, ah, keep going?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Excellent,” Ford withdrew both hands with separate sticky noises and Bill protested wordlessly. He tried to work quickly at stripping off his clothes, but halfway through undoing his belt Ford was caught by a thought. “How many times, I wonder, could I make you do that in one night? We should run some tests; depending on your refractory period, I would theorize that with your internalized power source and the fact that you don’t typically need hydration or rest, I could bring you to orgasm at least a dozen times… of course, the potential issue would be the fact that I would have to take breaks, but I’m sure we could find a creative solution. What do you think?” He glanced down at his partner in curiosity.
Bill was staring wide-eyed up at him, limbs akimbo. He whimpered.
Ford chuckled. “Sorry, too much?”
“Definitely not too much,” said Bill, managing to find his voice.
“Oh, good.” Ford dropped his pants and underwear, kicking them away, and crawled back onto the couch toward the waiting demon. “I would hate to think an ancient, all-powerful being of chaos could be overwhelmed by a few simple words from a single measly human.” He licked two fingers and slid them into Bill’s hole with no resistance, the digits gliding in thanks to the color-shifting fluid that was oozing out onto the cushions. He made a mental note that perhaps a towel would be in order next time.
“D- doesn’t count-” Bill squirmed and his eyelid fluttered as he tried to focus enough to form sentences. “Doesn’t count when it’s y- ooh- you-!” Another finger joined the first two and he had to restart his thought. “You’re- you’ve got- special-”
“I suppose that’s a fair point,” Ford conceded, though Bill had hardly made a coherent point. “I do have certain advantages.” He used his free hand to gather some of the slick excess from around his fingers and stroked it onto his erection. “Inspiration, one might say.”
Bill whined and gripped the thumb of the hand that was inside him, using it as leverage to begin riding Ford’s fingers in earnest. The tip of his forked tongue peeked out from under his eye in concentration, and Ford smiled at the bizarrely cute expression.
“Oh, I’m sorry, was I not going fast enough?” He teased, slightly crooking the three digits Bill was bouncing on to make him lose his rhythm as another sensitive spot lit him up from within. “Please, allow me to correct my error. Unless you’d like to finish like this for now?”
“Not- fair-” Bill panted, squeezing down on the fingers as his internal tonguelike organs slithered and sucked at them. “Nnhhghgimme your- give- ffffuck me!”
Ford laughed at that, but he withdrew his hand despite the somewhat garbled message. He gently rearranged Bill on the cushions, propping him up a bit more, and traced the head of his cock around the dripping, twitching orifice. “Hmm, maybe I need you to ask a little more nicely than that.” He kept his voice as steady and cool as he could, but his breathing hitched with each gentle rub and it took every ounce of self-control not to immediately give in and drive himself into that endlessly greedy, perfect hole- especially when he felt the slippery graze of the tentacle-like structures just barely able to emerge for a taste of him, pleading without words.
Bill growled, his grout flashing red and black in a threatening display that meant absolutely nothing, and tried to reach a hand down to grab Ford and pull him in, but the human caught his arm and lifted it, tenderly but firmly, to press it down onto the pillow. Another arm emerged, then another and Ford laughed again, releasing the first limb. “Should’ve seen that coming, huh?”
Bill made a noise of agreement but his attention was aimed toward maneuvering the extra limbs into grabbing Ford, wrapping one around his waist and another around his hips, a third taking hold of his dick and sliding slippery coils up and down it until Ford shuddered and his arms gave out, dropping him to his elbows. Bill took advantage of the position, using all his arms in concert to pull his captive human forward and into him, and they both cried out as heat met heat, Ford’s cock slipping in until their hips ground together.
“I win,” Bill tried to gloat, but it came out in a needy whisper as he stared into Ford’s lidded brown eyes, gone hazy with lust and half-obscured by fogged glasses. He wrapped his legs around the man’s waist along with the arm that held him, just to be extra sure he wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon, and shivered when the gesture made Ford brush yet another spot that sent pleasure bolting through him.
“Congratulations,” Ford managed with a fond half-grin that turned into a bitten lip and a shaky breath when Bill clenched- tight, wet, hot- around him. “God, you’re so- you’re everything.” He rocked his hips once and they both moaned, meeting each other stroke for stroke as he rolled into a slow, steady rhythm.
Bill reached up with one of his free hands to touch Ford’s jaw, rubbing the stubble there before moving up to run fingers through his hair. “Fordsy. My Sixer.” He let out a glitchy little sound of bliss on a particularly deep thrust. “Ah- ah- please-!” His hands clutched at whatever skin they could reach, squeezing at random places on Ford’s body- the crest of a hip, just under his left buttock, his lower rib, the back of his neck- all of which sent tingles zinging straight to his brain.
“S- see?” Ford rocked against him and felt the internal tentacles coiling sinuously up his shaft. “I knew you could- oh- ask nicely.” He kissed the arm closest to his face. “We both win.”
Bill snorted, dissolved into half-gasped giggles that made him pulse ecstatically around Ford.
Ford’s fingers stroked down the edge of Bill’s body reverently and he bent down as best he could in their position, not quite close enough to kiss but close enough to whisper, “You’re mine, Bill. I defied time and gods to have you again and I intend to keep you.”
“Oh fuck, yes,” Bill’s eye rolled back under his fluttering eyelid at the words. “More, more, keep going-”
“Bill Cipher, I claim you as my own,” Ford panted, speeding up. The words he spoke were not from any particular ritual or prayer, but they carried the weight and power of something ancient. “So long as I live, you are mine to love, as I am yours. My home is your home, my heart and soul are bound to yours.”
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, oh fu- oh my fucking- yes, fuck yeah, I’m yours, all of it-” Tears dampened Bill’s eyelashes and glistened on Ford’s fingertips as he delicately wiped them away.
“Do you understand now?” Ford’s voice grew louder to be heard over the steady slap of his hips meeting Bill’s, the wet sound overlaid with the high-pitched moans that jolted out of the demon with every breath. “I don't need you to be a god, or a paragon or anything else. I am choosing you as you are, I want you.”
The tears were falling freely now and Bill wrapped his limbs around Ford like he couldn’t get enough, pulled him in and stuttered, “I’m- I’m gonna- oh fuck I love you, I love you Ford you’re my favorite, you’re my only-”
“My muse,” Ford crooned, watching him adoringly. “My beloved, my Bill.”
Iridescent liquid gushed across his belly as Bill wailed and came again, his eyesight whiting out and his limbs squeezing around Ford like a vice before going slack as he rode the sensation. Ford kept up his pace, pumping in and out of him and encouraging the orgasm to last while Bill clenched and twitched around him. When the shouting died back down to whimpering, Ford rolled onto his back and brought Bill with him, making him yelp at the shift and the new angle as Ford began to pound up into him with relentless drive.
Bill sobbed and writhed, his legs kicking weakly at the overstimulation as gravity and his own body conspired with Ford, leaving him with no choice but to take every thrust, every shockwave of sensation. He was so full , Ford was so deep , he was gonna fucking die ! “I- I can’t-”
“I think you can,” Ford rasped, slowing but not stopping, grinding up into the spot that made stars shoot across Bill’s vision. “I’ll stop if you need me to, but I think you’ve got one more in you. What do you say?”
Bill whimpered again, his fingers digging ineffectually into the human’s flesh, seeking something to hold and ground himself. One hand got a firm grip on Ford’s ample chest hair, anchoring himself there with a skin-prickling handful that earned him a breathy grunt, but any smug satisfaction he might have gained from the sound was quickly chased from his mind when Ford picked up the pace again in earnest.
One of Ford’s hands moved up from his side and caressed his lower eyelid, wiping tear-smeared mascara with the backs of his knuckles once more. In a flash, Bill wrapped his free arm around Ford’s wrist and plunged his hand into the fleshy wet maw of his eye, tongue slathering up his fingers. Strange colors flickered across the air, vivid flashes that Ford recognized as Euclydian words but didn’t have the time or remaining brainpower to focus on translating.
Fortunately for him Bill quickly slipped back into English, the words tinged with a kind of brightness as they spilled from him. “Yes, yes, keep going, I- oh- F̴᷂̄́᷇o̷̺̬͉ͣ͊͋r̶̻͕̖̰̝̫͚̞͎͒᷉᷅̑̿ͯ͒᷁͛ḑ̷̳̠̯̲̱ͫ︠ .”
Bill’s shape glitched, split and reformed between thrusts- three separate segments, twitchily rotating as they pulsated with black light- yellow pixels clustering and scattering- a golden idol with dozens of arms extended, clawing- a constellation drawing inward, preparing to go supernova-
This one was wordless, almost soundless, as Bill doubled over with the pulses of it and made tiny, desperate glitchy noises, utterly overwhelmed by the intensity of the climax.
His glow grew brighter, stinging Ford’s eyes, but he refused to look away, and when blue flames licked up his arms and across his torso, spreading from Bill’s incandescent form without burning, he lost what remaining coherence he’d had left, gasping out a scattering of syllables that weren’t quite words as his own orgasm took him.
It took a few moments after the spots had cleared from his vision and the breath returned to his lungs for Ford to hazily notice that the lighting in the room had changed. Still panting and woozy, his glasses lost who-knew-where at that point, he squinted at the strange blue illuminating the walls, playing along their surfaces like-
“Oh, hell!” Ford sat bolt upright, ignoring the whiny protest of Bill in his lap. “Bill, the room’s on fire!”
“Whug?” Said Bill, his eye unfocused and limbs limply strewn over Ford’s legs.
“Shit, uh-” With shaky, uncoordinated movements, Ford stood (Bill slid bonelessly onto the couch with another incoherent complaint) and threw a blanket over the nearest ghostly flames, attempting to smother them. It did nothing, but up close he noted that the fire, while spreading, was not actually burning anything. He breathed a sigh of relief. “Bill?”
“Eehhhghnghrgh.” A noodly arm extended from Bill’s supine form, drooped across the floor a few feet before raising and snapping its fingers. Instantly, the flames vanished, leaving no trace of smoke or damage. The arm stretched further to loop around Ford’s waist and begin reeling him back toward the couch, but after two steps Ford halted, peering around once again as he realized the room was now in total darkness.
“What happened to the lights?”
“Who caaaaaares?” Unwilling to move from his sprawl on the couch, Bill flicked the hand at Ford’s hip and let a small flame gather in the palm, enough to light the room. With his other hand, he located Ford’s glasses (they had fallen between two cushions and were hopelessly smudged and smeared with various fluids) and delivered them after a perfunctory wipe.
Ford accepted them, then took hold of Bill’s wrist and lifted it, using his hand like a torch to examine the lamp next to the bathroom. “...Hmm.” He leaned toward the glass. “It would appear that the bulb melted.” He allowed the loose pressure of Bill’s arm to haul him closer to the sofa, stopping again to examine the lamp on the nightstand. “And that bulb is now filled with… what looks like seawater and several live specimens of Carukia barnesi. Fascinating!”
Bill pushed himself upright on his elbows and blinked. “Huh.”
“Have you ever done this before?” Ford gave the bulb a gentle tap with one fingertip, watching the tiny creatures drift.
“What, cum so hard I made jellyfish spontaneously appear and the room catch on fire?” Bill asked sarcastically. “No, can’t say I’ve had the pleasure- literally! Ha!” The hand in Ford’s grip turned and held itself up for a high-five.
“Hm. Maybe you emit weirdness waves involuntarily when you’re ahem, stimulated enough. We can do some experimenting, of course, gather some data...” A thought, which should probably have occurred earlier, struck Ford and he winced. “Uh. As far as you can tell, was anything else in the house… affected?”
“Anything in the house?” Bill paused, as if reaching out with his senses. “...No,” he answered after a beat.
Ford breathed a sigh of relief and climbed back onto the couch, allowing himself to be wrapped in a cocoon of slim black arms. “Fine, then. Everything else can wait until tomorrow.”
Bill made a mumbled sound of agreement, his eye already closing. He was vaguely and distantly aware of the fact that the totem pole outside had suddenly become alive and ambulatory and was currently tromping through the woods confusing and terrorizing the local nocturnal wildlife, but like Ford had said- everything else could wait until tomorrow.
Notes:
HOO BOY that chapter was a beast to edit lmao. Hope y'all enjoyed the smut! Up next will be the birthday party!
ALMOST FORGOT LOOK AT THIS BEAUTIFUL ART FOR THE PREVIOUS CHAPTER: https://www.tumblr.com/wstzkgjw/787960485519720448?source=share
Chapter 36: We Could Go Dancing, We Could Go Walking
Summary:
The kids have their birthday party! Bill gets bullied, sort of!
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The kids must have sent invites to everyone in Gravity Falls and then some; the party was absolutely jam-packed with humans of all ages (and, Bill noted, a small number of non-humans in disguises of varying effectiveness). Streamers and balloons decorated the ceiling of what Stan referred to as the “floor room” (“All the rooms have floors, Stanley, this was the Research and Development Room!” Ford had said despairingly), and Soos was happily manning the DJ booth, while outside in the surrounding yard partygoers served themselves punch and- for the risk-takers- Mabel Juice to go with the snacks laid out on long tables.
Ford was looking dapper and professorial in an elbow-patched cardigan Mabel had knitted him, although he kept self-consciously tugging the collar of his shirt up in an effort to keep his embarrassing neck tattoo hidden. Bill had kept his hat on but had chosen to replace his bow tie once again with an origami star, this once made of glittery silver paper that reflected the lights like a miniature disco ball.
True to his word, Ford had stuck close to Bill- or rather, allowed Bill to stick close to him- throughout the party thus far. Truthfully Ford seemed relieved to have an excuse not to mingle too much, perpetual wallflower that he was, and they spent the first hour or so lingering at the edges of the room, avoiding the nervous or occasionally angry gazes of some guests.
The avoidance couldn’t last, of course, and before long the pair found themselves cornered by the town’s former heiress.
“So,” Pacifica crossed her arms, the ice in her drink clinking gently. “Mabel says you're, like, not evil anymore.”
Bill blinked at her in surprise. He and Ford glanced at one another, then back to her and both gave a simultaneous “ehh” hand gesture.
She looked unimpressed. “She also said you got some of your powers back. So can you still, I don't know, rearrange people's faces like you did to my dad? Or turn people into stone or gold or whatever?”
“Hmm.” He flexed his fingers thoughtfully. “Haven't tried yet, honestly. Why, you got a particular target at this party you were looking to scramble?”
“Eugh, no!” She took a step back. “Seeing that once was nightmare-inducing enough, thanks.”
Ford cleared his throat. “Not that I'm encouraging such behaviors,” he prefaced, unable to hide the slightly mischievous glint in his eye. “But temporary face-scrambling might be a good addition to the list of threats for rude customers. Threats only, mind you. Not to be actually implemented.”
“Fordsy, I love the way you think!” Bill looped an arm around his human's shoulders and the two grinned at each other.
“Oh, gross,” said Pacifica mildly. “Mabel really wasn't kidding about you guys.” It was hard to tell whether she meant it as an insult or if that was just how her voice was, but she flicked her hair over her shoulder and slipped away into the crowd, apparently satisfied with the conversation, before either of them could ask.
After that, much to both their dismay, word seemed to get around that the evil triangular overlord of last summer was not, in fact, turning people inside out or freezing them in stone just for approaching him. This resulted in wave after wave of guests walking over and attempting to strike up a chat. The adults, at least, when confronted with the dual looks of “interrupted in the middle of a private conversation” disdain Bill and Ford had perfected, tended to get the hint and slump away, but the kids were not so easily deterred.
“Come down and be sociable!” Grenda bellowed up at Bill, who had shot up toward the ceiling at her approach and showed no sign of obeying despite her waving a bowl of corn chips over her head like she was trying to lure a squirrel out of a tree.
“Mabel said we could give you makeovers!” Candy added, holding up a multitude of brushes, lash curlers and eyeshadows.
Bill only clambered higher into the rafters. He might be willing to award Shooting Star makeover privileges, but her friends were unknown variables he wasn’t interested in allowing access to his face, thank you very much.
After another moment or two, Ford took pity and cleared his throat. “Children, perhaps the current environment is not conducive to such an activity.”
“What?” Shouted Grenda, who had climbed up to stand on a chair and was throwing corn chips into the air. “What do you mean?!”
“Ahh, I see,” said Candy, nodding. She patted her friend on the shin and explained as Grenda clambered down. “Bill is like a cat. We must let him come to us.” She steepled her fingers under her chin like a criminal mastermind in a movie, already plotting as the two of them moved away.
“You're very popular,” Ford said once they’d gone, not bothering to conceal his grin of amusement.
“The curse of natural charisma,” Bill bemoaned, drifting down to perch atop Ford's head, and lightly grip a handful of his hair as an anchor.
“Hey, Poindexter! There you are!” Stan waved at his brother as he sidled through the crowd. “Man, this place filled up. Good thing you've got a neon traffic cone on your head, makes you easy to spot!” He winked up at Bill. “Looks like you're finally good for somethin’!”
“Oh, I'm good for lots of things,” Bill quipped. “Tell him, Fordsy!”
“Eugh, do not tell me.” Stan's face wrinkled in disgust. “I don't ever wanna know. Ever. I will find that memory gun and use it on myself again.”
Bill cackled and Ford reached up to poke him.
“Best behavior, remember. That means no traumatizing Stanley.”
“Ugh, fine.”
“Anyway,” Stan shook off the heebie-jeebies and addressed his twin again. “Speaking of the memory gun, I was comin’ to tell you McGucket just arrived and he's looking for you.”
“Fiddleford is here? Excellent!” Ford scanned the room eagerly, spotting the crooked tip of McGucket's hat at the far wall, near the entrance. “I've been looking forward to speaking with him about the- uh, Bill?” His gaze moved upward when he felt the grasp on his hair and the slight weight on his head lift.
Bill had floated free of his seat and was hovering just above, hands tucked behind his back. “Yeah?”
“Aren't- are you coming?” Ford gestured invitingly toward his shoulder.
Bill gave him a look of skepticism. “Sixer, you really think he's gonna wanna see this face first thing? Not freaking likely!”
Ford frowned. “He already knows about you being here.”
“Uh-huh. And does he know about this?” He wagged a finger between the two of them to indicate their relationship.
“Well…”
“Yeah, I'll keep my distance.”
“Bill, he's not going to do anything to you!”
“Hate to say it but Hazard Sign's got a point,” agreed Stan. “I like the guy, but he'll build a death ray at the drop of a hat, and you two might not've been ‘an item’ but he was your best friend. I'd say you owe him a decent explanation of things before you drop that particular bomb.”
Ford winced and conceded the point. He looked up at Bill, hesitant to voice the obvious ‘Will you be alright without me?’ in his eyes, knowing how loathe the Euclydian would be to admit his anxiety in front of Stan.
Bill waved his concern away. “Go on, go catch up with your nerd buddy. I'll go outside and grab us a couple drinks. Yours is a double Mabel Juice on the rocks, right?”
“Bill, I'm in my sixties; I don't need to add heartburn and palpitations to my already-existing aches and pains.”
“Room-temperature tapwater it is!”
Ford rolled his eyes. “A normal cup of punch will be fine, thank you.”
“Coming right up, hot stuff!” Bill winked at him while Stan made retching sounds to one side.
His concerns at least temporarily alleviated, Ford chuckled and gave the pair a wave before shouldering his way into the crowd.
Bill watched him go, arms crossed thoughtfully before adding as a passing comment to Stan, “Pretty funny, you making a crack about them being an item, considering what you and Professor Hillbilly got up to in the eighties.”
“What we- wait, what?” Stan's head whipped toward him in alarm.
Bill glanced at him with a raised brow. “Oh, haven't got that particular chunk of memories back yet, huh? Forget I mentioned it.” Keeping his expression placid, he turned and floated over the crowd, heading up the stairs and deeper into the house while Stan shouted after him over the noise:
“What does that mean?! Is that why I keep having that weird mullet dream?! Get back here you stupid triangle!”
He’d just floated out the propped-open back door and was squinting through the throng of partygoers, trying to spot the drinks table and figure out a route to it that involved minimal human interaction, when something heavy and ensnaring fell onto him from above, dropping him to the ground. He had just enough time to register that it was some kind of thick rope net covered in metal weights, and that it must have been thrown by the figure he could now see crouched atop the corrugated porch awning, before he was dragged around the side of the Shack and into the bushes.
“Aw, c'mon!” The ropes weighed suspiciously heavy on his limbs, and he winced- what kind of maniac wove unicorn hair into a net? He had twisted enough that he was able to start chomping through the ropes when a boot-clad foot came down and pinned him in place.
Bill looked up into the grim faces of half a dozen teenagers. He recognized the red-haired one holding him down as Ice Bag, but the rest- Hoodie, Cellphone, Mullet, Skull Shirt and Popped Collar- were only vaguely familiar.
Ice Bag pressed down with her boot just enough to make him wheeze, an unspoken threat to keep him from calling out for help.
Joke’s on you, he thought. Nobody in hearing range would help even if I did scream! So there! Idiot!
Apparently satisfied that their prisoner wasn’t going to call out, Ice Bag commanded, “Tambry, read the charges.”
Cellphone popped her gum and read from her phone screen in a disinterested monotone, “Dimensional fuckery, town-wide apocalypse, general body horror creepfest, kidnapping, bad vibes.”
“Pretty bad rap sheet,” said Hoodie, not without admiration.
“How uh. How do we feel about ‘time served’?” Bill asked, spotting the outline of some kind of holster on Ice Bag’s belt.
She noted his gaze and rolled her eyes. “We did promise Dipper that we wouldn't kill you or maim you.”
“Right,” Bill said, his mind already racing through the infinite loopholes and workarounds of such a vague promise and providing him with a staggering list of the various ways in which they could inflict harm on him without breaking it.
Ice Bag fixed him with a piercing look and her mouth crooked up into a smirk before she leaned down and braced one elbow on her bent knee. “You know what's interesting? You got all those fangs out to chew through the net but you haven't even tried to bite my foot off to get away.”
The thought had occurred to him, of course. But immediately on its heels had been the thought of what would happen afterwards- screaming, blood, panic, we never should have trusted you, this is what happens the second we let our guard down-
He'd averted his gaze without even realizing it, and it was only when Ice Bag made a quiet little “uh huh” to herself, as if she'd confirmed some theory, that his focus snapped back to the situation.
“Maybe I'm just not hungry,” he said, trying for nonchalance. “Don’t flatter yourself, Ice Bag, you’re not enough of a threat to be worth biting.”
“You know we've all been reading Dipper's blog, right?” Her smirk had turned into a grin and she leaned back and folded her arms, lightening the pressure of her boot but not letting him up.
“Dipper says you got mangled by a vampire on purpose to save him and Mabel and Stan. And the pig,” Skull Shirt piped up. “And that you basically died.”
“And that you helped kill that monster that tried to eat one of my little brothers.”
“Plus Mabel said you got sent to some kind of space torture-prison for like a million years,” Hoodie added with morbid relish.
“And there was something about a moth or a butterfly, but that part was kind of hard to follow,” Popped Collar admitted.
“So how's that all balance out?” Ice Bag asked Cellphone, who had been typing away.
“Hm.” Cellphone consulted whatever cryptic system she had displayed and said, without inflection, “Still a little bit in the red.”
“Well, you guys know what that means.”
The teens attempted to chuckle sinisterly, to varying degrees of success, and there was a communal sound of rattling canisters before a brightly-colored avalanche of Krazy String sprayed the captive triangle, who sputtered and flailed in surprise.
When he realized that A: the neon goop was not, in fact, acid or mace or some other substance designed to blind him and B: the horrible teens were not going to stop spraying him until the cans were empty, he quit struggling and allowed himself to be buried under a pile of Krazy String until only his limbs were visible, sticking out to the side like little black twigs.
Eventually the last can died with a pitiful phweeeee sound, and Bill’s tongue swiped across his eye like a windshield wiper, clearing away some of the colorful mess. The teens made various sounds of disgust and admiration.
Still laughing, Ice Bag waved the others off and bent to pull the net off of Bill. “There, now we’re cool,” she said, grabbing his arm and hauling him upright, freeing him from his Krazy String shell. “Unless you turn evil again, then it’s game on and I’m getting my hatchet.”
“Seems fair,” he muttered, still wiping bits of string off himself as he moved through the shrubs and onto the porch.
She tilted her head, watching him, and then to his surprise she sat down on the stoop next to him, resting her elbows on her knees.
“What did you think we were gonna do?” She asked lightly. “You were expecting something else, I could tell.”
He shrugged. “Gouge my eye out? Spray me with bear mace? Maybe revisit Stan’s piñata idea?”
She made a face. “And you were just gonna let us? You didn’t seem big on fighting back.”
He made a face right back at her, not keen to be interrogated by a weirdly perceptive child for the millionth time since he’d been plopped back into this dimension. “Like you said, we’re ‘cool’ now.”
She snorted. “I mean, I’m cool with my friends too but I’m not about to let them spray me with bear mace. Unless it was for a dare, maybe. And I’m definitely not gonna let them gouge out my eye, dude, what the hell?”
Groaning, Bill flopped backward onto the creaking old wood of the step. “It’s easier,” he said finally, muffled through the hands he’d planted over his eye.
“What?” Ice Bag leaned over him, her voice baffled.
"It’s easier,” he said again, a little louder. “Eating rat poison, getting maced, that feels easier than going around saying sorry to people. It's hard enough apologizing to people I like , let alone a bunch of randos I made into a chair once!” He gestured broadly to the Mystery Shack, then to the crowd of partygoers.
“Whoa, dude,” she chuckled. “You like the Pines family?”
“Shit,” said Bill, his eye popping open as he realized he’d admitted that particular weakness out loud. “Fuck.”
Her chuckle became a full-on laugh, and she hucked the Krazy String canister into the yard. “Sorry, dude. Get denied the catharsis of punishment.”
“Get- wh- what the hell kind of teenager are you?” He asked in confusion. “Why are you casually throwing around terms like ‘catharsis of punishment’?!”
She laughed again. “I'm a teenager who's been through a lot of therapy. Twice now. First after my mom, and now because of your weirdo shenanigans last year.”
Bill squinted up at her. “I was in therapy for tens of thousands of years and you don't see me spitting out weird Buddha-wisdom phrases.”
“Man, I don't know what you were in but it does not sound like actual therapy.”
Bill made a noncommittal noise of acknowledgment and then lapsed into silence, staring at the sky visible between the slats of the awning. Finally he spoke again.
“Sorry, Red.”
“Ugh, I liked Ice Bag better.” She leaned back on her elbows to mirror him, gazing upwards at nothing in particular.
The back door opened, the muffled music following Dipper as he emerged from the house. “Wendy, we're gonna- oh, hey Bill- we're gonna open presents!”
“Cool!” She gave Bill a- possibly friendly- slug in the arm hard enough to knock him over and then she stood, brushed grass from her jeans and headed indoors.
“Where did you go? I was getting worried,” Ford told him when he floated back to him with two solo cups of punch.
Bill’s expression was somewhere between mildly dazed and deeply confused. “I think I just got hazed. By a bunch of youths.”
“What?” Ford frowned and picked a bit of Krazy String from Bill’s hat. “Are you… okay? Did they hurt you?”
The little shiver he got whenever Ford expressed concern for his wellbeing passed through Bill (he was still getting used to that sensation), and he pushed it aside for the moment. “Nah. Apparently we’re ‘cool’ now. Anyway. What happened with Specs? He gonna jump out and blast me with a laser?”
“Certainly not,” Ford said primly. “We had a very pleasant and reasonable discussion during which I explained the development of this relationship and the ways in which it does not mirror our previous entanglement, and he was very happy for me!”
“He couldn't hear you over the music, huh?”
“No he could not.” Ford sighed. “But we have made plans to meet for coffee and catch up, so I'll explain things more clearly to him then. Currently I believe he's attempting to teach Stanley a jig,” he added in bemusement.
Bill snickered quietly. Don't say I never did anything for ya, Specs!
They moved across the room to the heap of gifts that had been gathered in front of the DJ booth, and Soos turned the music down as the kids started in on them. For the first five minutes or so, Bill zoned out and entertained himself by changing the colors and molecular compositions of the balloons floating along the ceiling, reshaping them into geometric impossibilities until Ford noticed and gave him a gentle nudge.
At that moment, Dipper picked up a small, slim box wrapped in shiny silver paper that turned out to be tinfoil glued over newspaper. “Hmmm.” He turned it over in his hands to find the poorly-taped seam, ripped it open and tipped its contents into his hand.
“Oh, it's a- wow, a really fancy pen!” Dipper tilted the dark blue fountain pen so its gold nib caught the light, then eagerly grabbed a scrap of previously-discarded wrapping paper to scribble out a test sentence, only to sit back in surprise a moment later. “Is- does this pen write in code? ” He held up the piece of paper which rather than English held a sentence of incomprehensible glyphs and symbols in silvery ink.
“Ah,” Ford held up a finger and sought out his own gift from the pile, handing it over. “Perhaps you ought to open this one next.”
Intrigued, Dipper ripped it open and found a device similar to a jeweler's loupe attached to a strap so it could be worn over the eye. He put it on and gasped when the symbols refocused into “I am 14 years old!”. “Whoa! This is amazing ! Thanks Grunkle Ford! And uh-” He squinted at the tag on the pen case. “Thanks ‘Silas Birchtree’! Whoever you are!”
There was a brief pause while partygoers glanced around, looking for Silas Birchtree, who very conspicuously did not make an appearance. Ford, on subtly turning his head to look for Bill, found him absent. He sighed, unsurprised by the disappearance, and returned his attention to the children when Mabel excitedly announced, “Hey, I got something from Silas Birchtree too!”
She hauled a slightly larger box with identical tinfoil wrapping out of the pile and began tearing into it.
“It’s… a necklace?” She cocked her head in confusion as she withdrew a thick silver chain with a strange locket dangling from it. Tilting it to get a better look, she saw that the pendant held some kind of shimmery stone that shifted colors in the light in much the same way the ink from the pen had done, and that there was a word engraved on the back. “A necklace for Waddles!”
She turned to her pig, who was happily eating cake nearby, and looped the pendant loosely around his neck. As she clasped it, the stone flashed and the crowd gasped as an illusory image manifested, replacing the pig with a human boy roughly the same age as the twins. He grunted in mild surprise, glanced around, and returned to his plate of cake with abandon, seemingly unbothered by the change.
“Oh my gosh,” Mabel said, realizing. “I can sneak him into school with me!”
“Oh, boy.” Dipper groaned.
Giggling with delight, she reached up to unclasp the necklace, the illusion disappearing, and pocketed it. “Back to you, Dip-Dip!”
They carried on, working through their pile of presents before blowing out the candles on their shared cake, and soon Soos cranked the music back up and people returned to dancing and partying. Ford hung around the main room for a while longer, finishing his drink and chatting with the kids, before he excused himself and made his way up through the hatch above the gift shop and onto the roof.
Bill was sprawled over the timber planks with a stolen bowl of chips and half a glass of Mabel Juice, quietly watching as the sky darkened and the stars emerged. Ford joined him silently, settling next to him and laying back with his knees folded and one hand lightly resting atop Bill’s. The noise of the party became a gentle background hum, voices and laughter and music all rolling into one.
“Kid’s’re lookin’ for you,” Stan said from the access hatch, making them both jump.
“For me?” Ford blinked. “They just saw me.”
“Nah, not you- you .” He pointed at Bill, who huffed.
“Why, what’d I do?”
“Hey, am I a mind reader? No. I just pretended to be one briefly in the seventies.” Stan grunted as he clambered through the hatch. “Now go see what the birthday runts want; I’ll stay and make sure Nerdo doesn’t fall off the roof.”
Bill winced slightly at that, but Ford simply rolled his eyes and said dryly, “I think of the two of us, I’m more likely to survive a fall off this roof, Stanley.”
“Hey, I’ve survived falling off this building dozens of times; why do you think I walk around with a cane?”
Their banter faded behind him as Bill floated through the attic window and down the stairs to find Dipper and Mabel wandering the second floor hallway, clearly searching for someone.
“There you are!” Mabel shouted excitedly when she spotted the now-familiar triangular outline of their resident demon. She held up Waddles’ necklace as they approached. “Bill, your presents-”
He was already making a sputtering and ineffectual noise of denial before she could finish her sentence “What? What makes you think those were from me? I didn't give you anything, my presence is already a gift! You're welcome!”
They stared at him with annoyingly practiced patience until he sighed and floated down to eye level.
“How'd you guess? Did Ford tell you?”
“Nope!” Dipper tapped at his head proudly. “Deductive reasoning! One: for Grunkle Ford to have made a matching piece for my gift he had to have already known about the pen, and had time to consult with its maker for the decryption key! Two: ‘Silas’ comes from the Latin ‘Silvanus’ meaning ‘living in the woods'- the birch trees in the woods, the ones with eyes all over them? Obvious! Three-”
“I just had a feeling,” interrupted Mabel with a grin.
Bill grumbled and crossed his arms defensively. “Okay, fine, you got me. Whaddya want, an award?” He spotted the pen tucked behind Dipper's ear and sighed again. “Look, I made those back before I had my powers back, so they're the best I could- I mean I could get you something better now, like concert tickets or a Shmintendo or whatever, just say the word-”
“No way!” The twins shouted in perfect unison, loud enough to startle him into silence.
“Bill, these are really, really cool presents!” Dipper said firmly.
“Yeah, we wanted to talk to you so we could say ‘thank you’, not so we could swap them for something else!” Mabel added insistently.
“...Oh.” Bill blinked and uncrossed his arms, letting them hang below him. “Okay, well- you're welcome! Ha! I'm great at gifts!”
“Yeah!” She threw her arms around him in a hug.
“Urgh, gross,” Bill said, immediately returning the embrace.
“When we go back to California, I’m gonna knit you a sweater,” she promised. “So you have to come visit for the holidays with Grunkle Stan and Grunkle Ford, so I can give it to you.”
“I guess I could do that,” he replied, already tearing up. “If I’m not busy or anything. I’m a popular guy, after all.”
“Whatever Mr Popular, we get first dibs on Hanukkah,” said Dipper firmly, joining his sister in the hug. “Since we’re family.”
“You drive a hard bargain, Pine Tree, but you got yourself a deal.” Bill squeezed them both. “Oh, by the way, gimme a call when you run out of ink in that pen so I can send more.”
“Uh, okay,” Dipper said cautiously. “Can't I just buy a refill?”
Bill scoffed. “Fat chance, kid. You think that stuff grows on trees? Think again!” He paused. “I mean I guess it does technically grow, just not on trees.”
“Bill,” said Dipper with a kind of exhausted, unsurprised horror. “Did you fill the pen with your blood?”
“Noooo, that would be crazy! I filled it with ink synthesized from my blood!”
“Is Waddles’ necklace made with your blood too?” Mabel asked worriedly.
“Well-”
“Nope, never mind, don’t tell me! It’s a nice gift, I don’t need details!”
Notes:
While writing this I kept pausing and asking myself "Is this too saccharine?" but frankly I think the gang has earned some sickly sweet cutesy nonsense.
Only two or three chapters after this one! Thank you to everyone who's still here, it's been a long haul!
Chapter 37: Everything Stays Right Where You Left It
Summary:
Winter arrives in Gravity Falls!
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
One of the best parts of being able to float again was not having to set foot in snow, Bill had decided.
He drifted through the frost-lined forest, slipping between trees that creaked under the weight of dangling icicles and avoiding the occasional dusting of snow that fell when a bird or squirrel moved from one branch to another. As a concession to Melody and Soos, who would not be convinced that he was an immortal being once more and therefore not susceptible to hypothermia, he had wrapped the scarf from Soos’ grandmother around himself until he was a woolen bundle with legs before setting out.
A pair of scampfires frolicked past, melting a trail into the ice below and startling a snowshoe hare out of its hiding place. In the distance, birdsong just covered the rattle and click of a Hide-Behind moving from one shadow to another as it shied away from the reflected glare of the sun.
The area around the hollow tree had been swept clean already, leaving muddy slush and a layer of pine needles behind. Avoiding all of that, Bill floated up to grab the pull-chain dangling from the branch that shunted the metal hatch open. He set his foot on the first rung of the ladder that led into the bunker, and paused. “I’m coming down!” He yelled into the tunnel, his voice echoing. “It’s me, Bill! Do not shoot at me!”
“I toldja that first time were only cuz you activated ma fight-or-flight instinct!” Came the reply from down below.
Bill rolled his eye and began to slowly descend. “Oh yeah? And what about the twenty times after that?”
“Those times were fer laughs,” said McGucket, grinning over his shoulder at Bill as he came into view. The old engineer was poring over one of his blueprints for the upcoming McGucket-Pines Institute of Weird Sciences, making small corrections with a pencil and then tucking it into his beard.
“What're you doin’ down here anyway? Stan ‘n’ Ford ain't due in fer another couple hours, I figured you'd be helpin’ to spruce up the Shack til then.”
Bill glanced away in annoyance and muttered something under his breath.
“What was that?” Fiddleford asked, sarcastically holding an old-timey ear trumpet up to his ear as he leaned down. “Fraid you'll have to speak up!”
Bill growled menacingly into the horn but when McGucket remained unphased he groaned and repeated himself: “Ughhh we finished the cleaning and decorating an hour ago and Mel said I was gonna wear a hole in the floor pacing in front of the door and that I had to go outside for a ‘calming walk’.” As he spoke he began pacing again, arms folded behind his back and looking very much the opposite of calm.
“Why didn'tcha just float back ‘n’ forth instead of pacin’?”
Bill halted mid-step and blinked rapidly. “Dammit!”
McGucket hooted with laughter, slapping his knee before rising from his chair to stretch and wander towards the little station they'd equipped with a coffee maker. “Lookit you, big ol’ scary demon. They've been gone not three months on that boat and yer the one who's a wreck!” He chortled over his own wordplay and poured himself a mug of steaming coffee.
Prickling at the accuracy of the statement, Bill zapped a weak bolt of energy at the mug, instantly turning the coffee just below room temperature right as Fiddleford took his first drink. The man's eyebrows raised in surprise at the difference but he finished his sip before smirking.
“Joke's on you, I don't mind cold coffee one bit!” He took another smug swallow and returned to his seat, and Bill sighed, halfheartedly knocked over the cup of stir-sticks, and trailed after him.
“If'n yer so worried, why not just go with ‘em?”
Bill rolled his eye. “My quack therapist said it would be ‘a good sign of trust and stability’ if I could spend time away from Ford without, y’know, killing anyone or having a breakdown.”
“And?”
“And what? Do I not seem stable?” Bill spread his arms in a “look at me” gesture.
“Well, yer eye's bloodshot and I could sleep in them bags underneath it, and y'just ate a handful o’ wooden swizzle sticks when ya thought I weren't lookin'.” McGucket took another drink and leaned back in his chair. “Fer a normal person I'd say ya were on the verge of a psychotic episode. Fer you? I'd say yer doin’ fine as a frog's hair split four ways.”
Bill, who had slumped in defeat on hearing the first part of that assessment, straightened in mild surprise. “Thanks, I think.”
“Don't get me wrong, yer still ratfuck crazy and it's a good thing Ford's gotcha wrapped round his finger and whipped ten ways to Tuesday-”
“Aaand there it is.”
“-but it's nice to know ya care ‘bout ‘im.”
The demon grunted and kicked lightly at the leg of the table. “Yeah, yeah, tell the whole universe, why don'cha.”
“Don't need to, when you broadcast it so much.” McGucket set his mug down and pulled the pencil out of his beard. “Now, you wanna help with the plans fer this here thingummy? No sneaky changes or nothin’ though.”
Weirdly touched by the offer, Bill considered it for a moment. “Maybe next time, Specs. Thanks though. Think I'll go, I dunno, rearrange the furniture or something.” He turned and floated toward the hallway.
“If'n I see you start scatterin’ rose petals, I'm leavin’!”
“Good to know!”
Thusly warned, he drifted down one of the concrete-walled tunnels and into the bedroom. It had once served as Ford's last-resort wait-out-the-apocalypse chamber, with years worth of emergency rations and a fold-out single bunk, but with the recent remodeling they'd been doing, the sad little room had gotten a makeover. The fold-out bed was replaced with a queen-sized frame (Bill had remarked at the time that it didn't really need to be that big since he was small and preferred to sleep directly on top of Ford anyway, and Stan had hit him with a rolled up newspaper). The preserved and freeze-dried food packs were replaced with books and a few framed pictures and insects found their way onto the barren walls.
The heavy-duty decorating had started when Ford, half-jokingly, found and purchased a roll of bright yellow wallpaper with triangular patterns picked out in gold. It became less of a joke and more of a challenge when he actually papered one wall of their room in it. In retaliation, Bill had painted the opposite wall a deep chocolate brown that “perfectly matches your eyes, Fordsy!”. Ford brought home an area rug in the shape of the Eye of Providence, Bill painted another wall the exact same maroon as Ford's favorite sweater. Triangular bookshelf? Periodic table wallpaper on the last bare wall. Pillow shaped like a bowtie? Bedspread with a pattern of six-petaled lotuses that looked like hands. On and on the war of decor-based affection went until the place was suddenly fully furnished and looked like an unhinged but weirdly cohesive room, albeit with a color scheme from the 1970s.
Bill hovered in the doorway for a moment, taking in all the weird details with a deep sense of satisfaction. He didn’t start rearranging the furniture, but he did approach one of the bookshelves and start pulling books from it, glancing at the titles and dismissing them one after another. The rejects were flung backwards to hang in midair, a frozen flurry of open pages. Finally, he found the one he was searching for- the sturdy gray-green hardcover Ford had read aloud from when he was recovering from the squidpire attack.
Settling back against the pillows, he flipped through the book, hearing dry entomological statistics replayed in his favorite gruff human voice. Despite his jitters, he found himself nestling further into the bedding.
He didn’t doze off, exactly, but he must have slipped into a bug-facts-induced trance and lost track of time at some point, because suddenly the bunker door slammed shut in the distance and there were footsteps coming down the ladder, voices chatting in the entryway. Bill shot into the air, the book flying from his hands to join the others, and only at the last second as he heard McGucket’s voice fading up and out- leaving the bunker- did he manage to control the urge to fly down the hallway and launch himself at Ford. He was supposed to be showing how totally fine he could be with temporary separation and healthy distance, not waiting at the door like an anxiety-ridden pet.
“Play it cool play it cool play it cool-” He muttered, floating in frantic circles above the bed before dropping down and rearranging himself into a casual-yet-sultry pose, propped on one side with his leg cocked and his eye half-lidded. Perfect.
No sooner had he done so than Ford appeared in the doorway, scruffy-cheeked and windswept and still lightly crusted with sea salt that Bill looked forward to licking off of him. He had a large bag slung over one shoulder- not a sensible modern backpack but an antique canvas sailor bag like the history dork he was- and he glanced around as he entered their room.
“Interesting new storage system you have here,” he remarked playfully, batting aside one of the floating books.
“Oops.” In his haste, Bill had fully forgotten about those. “I mean, uh, yeah! Had to do something to liven things up, I was so bored- but also totally unbothered and fine!” He quickly corrected himself.
“Oh, good.” Ford’s eyebrows went up, a twinkle in his eyes. “So I’m not going to find, for instance, a pillow with one of my sweaters on it?”
“Who told y- uh, no! Haha, of course not!” Bill popped up from his carefully-arranged position before forcing himself back down into a nonchalant lean. “I’ve been way too busy but also very relaxed to be pining- hah, Pines-ing.”
“Hmmm.” Ford turned and slid a few of the books back onto the shelf, playing along. “I suppose we’ve gone longer stretches without seeing each other, after all. And being able to talk over the radio helped.”
“Yup, totally! Soooo, have fun on your little Northern jaunt? Didja bring me back a souvenir?” Bill asked suggestively, leaning back against the cushions to display the goods and remind Ford just what he'd been missing for over two months.
Unfortunately for him Ford was a gigantic nerd who immediately launched into an excited recounting of the journey. “Oh, it was fantastic! We were able to recreate a portion of the voyage of Sir John Franklin and we found some fascinating artifacts and spoke with the local-”
“Ford.”
“And it turns out there's a creature endemic to that area known as the Tuunbaq and some of the sailors on the HMS Erebus must have encountered it and-”
“Ford.”
“Hm?”
“Are you seriously gonna stand there talking about a bunch of old-timey British guys who died in the Arctic when I'm literally sitting here with my legs spread?”
“Oh!” Ford blinked as if noticing Bill's pose for the first time- way to bruise a guy's ego- and dropped his bag to the floor to begin shouldering out of his coat. “My apologies, allow me to rectify my blunder.” He kicked off his boots and crawled up the mattress toward his waiting partner.
“I mean, you can keep talking about dead British sailors if you want,” Bill hastened to add, squirming downward until he was flat against the blankets, all the better to let Ford loom over him. “It's not not doing it for me. Tell me about sextants and naval discipline!”
Ford chuckled and leaned close, propping himself up on his elbows so he could lightly kiss Bill’s eyelid. When he pulled back the look on his face was so fond and tender Bill could have burst into flame. “I've missed you,” Ford said softly, dropping the pretense.
Bill flickered in delight, barely controlling the urge to float them both up to the ceiling. Instead he kept his tone light and teasing. “What, getting your back blown out in the dreamscape from two thousand miles away wasn't enough for you? Sixer, you horndog!”
“ That- we only did that a few times!” Ford sputtered, going predictably red. “Which, to be clear, was wonderful, but I missed everything else . I missed waking up with you, being with you during the day, hearing you and Stan argue about tv shows, talking with you about our plans for the Research Institute- I missed you .” He paused, seeing Bill's wide-eyed stare. “What?”
The lighthearted teasing manner had melted away like butter in a hot skillet under Ford’s earnest, open affection, and Bill launched half a dozen arms out to wrap around the human and flip him so that he was the one bundled up against the pillows. Ford let out a startled laugh.
“ Good to know the feeling was mutual,” he said, pleased.
“Old man, I'm gonna suck the soul outta you,” Bill promised, crawling under the blankets. He popped back out briefly to add, "Not literally,” before disappearing into the bedding again.
“Appreciate the clarity.” Ford grinned, breathless, and then found himself more or less unable to speak or even think words for the next several minutes.
“How are you feeling about the, uh, upcoming trip?” Ford asked him as they both recovered some time later, sweatily sprawled across the kick-tangled sheets.
“Huh?” Bill peeled Ford's underwear off himself and flung it away before clambering over to lay facedown in his chest hair.
“The California trip.” Without needing to be prompted, Ford began stroking his fingertips up and down Bill’s back. “Are you nervous?”
“Psshht, I’m not nervous. What would I be nervous about?” Bill asked, nervously.
“Well, the children will be excited to see us,” Ford mused, staring absently up at the ceiling. “And I'm sure there will be family drama of some form or another; that’s just how these things go. At least everyone is already somewhat aware of the situation; I think if we’d had to explain both my reappearance and your existence to Shermie in the same visit he might have a breakdown. Although I suspect we’ll end up having to reexplain most of the events of this summer… I have no idea what percentage of my letters they believed.”
“That’ll be a fun surprise,” Bill snickered. “For everybody! On a scale of one to ten how prepared do you think they are for me to be an actual triangle and not like. A metaphorically-triangular human?”
Ford made a noncommittal noise and paired it with an ‘eh’ hand gesture. “We’ll see, I suppose.” Using that same hand, he grasped Bill’s palm and brought it to his face to kiss his fingertips. “I’ll be happy to have you with me regardless.”
The Bill Cipher of a year ago, a decade ago, a trillion years ago, would have likely raged over his current situation- soft, weak, vulnerable to a pathetic mortal- but the Bill Cipher of that moment, being tenderly held by the pathetic mortal who happened to be the love of his eons-long life, couldn’t have asked for a better fate.
Notes:
So this chapter is technically the end of the main story! The next chapter will be almost entirely porn (a little exploration of their dreamscape meeting!), and I may end up doing an art roundup chapter after that eventually, but chronologically this was it! I hope you all enjoyed, and I hope you'll enjoy the smut in the next chapter (with an exciting bonus that I'm so fucking stoked to include).
Chapter 38: So Much That I Wanna Do When I Dream I’m Alone With You
Summary:
Ford has a curious dream.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Ford had never been the type to keep to a regular sleep schedule- college had been a series of all-nighters and power naps, and in Gravity Falls he’d oscillated wildly between spending twelve-hour stretches in the dreamscape with his muse and days-long frenzied periods of working on the portal, which only worsened later when he tried anything and everything to stay awake. All of that meant his sleep habits tended to be… erratic at best.
Since the end of Weirdmageddon he’d at least made efforts to develop healthier tendencies when it came to sleep, but the combined lingering paranoia and frequency with which inspiration struck at three in the morning meant he hadn’t been especially successful.
When he did sleep, he tended to dream, and all too often those dreams left him waking in a cold sweat, reaching out for whomever he had failed to save this time- Stanley, Dipper and Mabel were the norm, but after the squidpire incident he’d had nightmare after nightmare of Bill falling apart in his hands, shattering into a million tiny glowing specks like grains of sand and blowing away. Then it was the moth nightmare, of watching his own hands pull Bill’s limp form from the kill jar again and again, pin him into place behind a pane of glass that pressed closer and closer and crushed him flat while Bill pleaded for him to stop.
Mercifully, since bringing Bill back, he’d found those dreams happened less and were easier to deal with when they did occur. His years of meditation and lucid dream practicing helped in most situations.
This particular night, for instance, had started off poorly- he’d found himself struggling for air at the bottom of the ocean, panicking as bubbles rose from his throat and his legs remained frozen to the seabed. A moment’s concentration, however, was all it took to regain control, and in the blink of an eye the oppressive waters had shifted toward a beautiful calm blue above him, the bubbles twinkling like stars as they floated away. Ford pushed off the sandy bed and toward the stars, and the dream moved and changed around him. Murky abyssal shapes became simple and pleasing geometric forms as the solid blue became tinged with purple and the stars swirled closer.
He drifted through the now-familiar setting, occasionally reaching out to lightly touch one of the rotating shapes and send it spinning off toward the hazy void. A chess piece floated into his periphery and he caught it in one hand, smiling. Not so long ago, being in this version of his dreamscape would have had him terrified, looking over his shoulder, trying to escape. Now he felt fond nostalgia looking at the surroundings he and Bill had spent so many hours in, debating theories and playing games and… well.
“‘Well’ what, Sixer?” A voice echoed behind him, and he turned to find himself staring into the giant eye of the dream demon he'd been thinking of. Bill was absolutely colossal; his pupil was roughly the same height as Ford and it tracked him with laser focus as he floated toward it. “I'd love to hear the rest of where that thought was headed!”
“Bill? How are- is this real?” He released the chess piece and reached out, seeking to touch but halting just before his fingertips could make contact with the surface of that enormous eye.
“Kind of a paradoxical question there, IQ- you already know it's a dream!” The eye scrunched up in amusement. “But if you mean ‘am I really here in your dreamscape?’, how's this for an answer?” A hand the size of a minivan materialized in the air above him, fingers splayed like it was about to crush him flat. Ford watched with only mild apprehension and made no move to evade the hand as it descended, curled into a fist with the pointer finger extended, and with the most delicate touch imaginable came to rest with the tip of that finger touching the crown of his head.
“Boop,” said Bill, and for a split second the purplish-blue background of the dream flashed white as every neuron in Ford's brain was reduced to a single-word function: pleasure.
He jerked in midair, eyes rolling back and jaw going slack as an embarrassing noise escaped his throat.
The finger withdrew just enough to start petting his hair instead of poking his skull, and Ford panted and tried to regain his sense of balance.
“That…” He swallowed and tried to subtly check his pajama pants for stickiness. “That doesn't really prove or disprove-”
“Boop!”
His head lolled back into the petting as every erogenous zone in his body lit up, and okay he no longer needed to check his pants. The touch was retracted again and he shuddered through the aftershocks, wiping drool from his chin.
“Alright, alright, fine, but how are you here? As far as we've been able to tell your dream interference abilities are gone!”
“Your guess is as good as mine, handsome!” Bill wrapped all four digits around Ford, gently cradling him, and the huge eye blinked and vanished to manifest his usual form only a few feet away, one arm ending in the giant hand holding the human and the other snaking toward him.
“You must have so- oh- some idea.” Ford tried to maintain his line of thinking but it became increasingly difficult when that second hand traced a line up the inseam of his pants, through the damp patch at the crotch and over his sensitive, twitching cock and back to Bill, whose tongue flicked out to lap the digits clean.
“Hmmmm.” Bill's brow furrowed in thought as he continued to lick his fingers as if oblivious to the way Ford had begun to squirm at the sight. “Welllll from the looks of this place it seems like you were reminiscing… maybe thinking about me…?”
“You know I was, you literally read my mind when you showed up.” Reasoning that he was in a dream and he may as well be comfortable, Ford began to pull off his ruined pants. If he knew that stripping naked in Bill’s hand was a gesture of vulnerability and trust that would drive the triangle to utter distraction, well, that was just a nice bonus.
“So there's your answer!” Sure enough, Bill followed the movement with rapt attention, his fingertips rubbing circles into Ford's bared skin like a massage. “You thought about me hard enough with that big beautiful brain that it counted as a summoning! That little improv binding ritual of yours probably made it pretty easy.”
“Improv binding- oh. Yes. That.” Ford thought back to his feverish, hungry words from that night, his claiming of Bill and the eager way Bill had submitted to being claimed. He could feel himself stirring at the memory, and he quickly imagined a fresh pair of pants into existence and slipped them on, adding his usual turtleneck for good measure and, almost as an afterthought, his boots. “Fascinating. I wonder-”
“Hey, I was watching that!” Bill protested, angling his hand and moving his fingers to try and keep Ford from covering up.
Ford fought for balance and batted away the thumb that inserted itself between his legs before it could begin grinding against him. “Bill, we've been over this. I just came- embarrassingly quickly, to be frank. I’m not in my thirties anymore; it's going to be a while before I can- what, why are you looking at me like that?”
Bill had drifted closer, his free hand on his hip and a familiar, giddy gleam of “I know something you don't know” in his eye. “Oh, Fordsy,” he cooed. “Did you forget who you're talking to?”
“That would be very difficult to do,” Ford replied dryly, shoving the insistent thumb away from himself with one foot.
“Good point! I’ll give you a hint: mind over matter, babe!” Possibly tiring of the teasing, Bill withdrew his hand and shrank it down to normal proportions, leaving Ford to twist and struggle his way upright in midair. “And I’m the master of the mind!”
To demonstrate, he zoomed backward a ways and began to unfold like origami, his bricks flipping and realigning and his limbs stretching as he grew and gained dimensionality. His colors warmed and intensified, his arms and legs going from black to radioactive yellow and his body becoming a smoldering red while his eye darkened. Fully pyramidal, his body split along two rows of bricks to reveal glowing maws lined with jagged teeth and extra arm after extra arm extended itself until he resembled one of the figurines Ford used to keep in his shrine.
Ford recognized the monstrous form; Bill had briefly looked like this during Weirdmageddon.
Eight arms held aloft like a spider about to pounce, Bill floated toward Ford.
“Too weird?” He asked, his voice reverberating from everywhere at once.
Ford shook his head frantically, not trusting his voice or his suddenly-dry throat.
“You suuure?” Bill loomed closer, black tongues slithering out of gaps between his bricks and fangs.
“Very… very sure,” Ford rasped, after several false starts. His pulse was going crazy, and he hoped distantly that his heart didn’t give out in his physical body.
“Yippee!” Said Bill gleefully, which somehow didn't ruin the mood, and he reached for Ford with four arms. Only one hand actually touched him, wrapping a finger and thumb delicately under his arms and bringing him up to dangle in front of Bill’s eye. “First thing’s first,” he announced, and one of the hands hovering nearby snapped.
Ford’s clothes vanished instantly, burning away like they had been made of flash paper, and he yelped in spite of himself, curling his legs up in an automatic attempt at modesty.
“Ah-ah-ah!” The hand that had snapped now wagged a finger at him in amused admonishment, and the hand gripping him was suddenly joined by two more, each taking gentle but firm hold of his ankles and pulling until his legs were spread wide. Bill leaned back on one elbow, lounging back like a Roman emperor feasting on grapes- a comparison that left Ford all-too aware of his own position as the intended snack.
A thrill of giddy almost-fear tingled up Ford’s spine, a heady mixture of uncertainty, curiosity and excitement that made him feel like a reckless thirtysomething again, facing a divinely sinister being and submitting wholly to its desires, fooling himself that it was for research or inspiration and that those desires weren’t aligned with his own.
Below him, one of the slavering, cavernous maws opened and a black tongue the size of a banquet table slithered up toward him, followed by three more in descending size. Ford made a very unconvincing show of attempting to kick with his bound legs as the largest tongue rose between them to cozy up against his underside with a squelch, his half-hard dick sliding over slick hot velvet as his thighs strained to accommodate the width of the thing.
Thankful to have his arms free at least, Ford clapped both hands over his mouth to stifle the pitiful whine that rose in his throat. That modicum of dignity was not to last, however.
“Nope!” Another two hands swooped in and took hold of his hands, tugging them away from his mouth and further, leaving him suspended spread-eagle and truly, utterly exposed.
The second smallest tongue- this one perhaps the circumference of his own arm at its widest- drew a line of thick saliva up Ford’s torso, circled his throat twice and, when he gasped, plunged into his mouth.
“That’s it, Sixer, open up for me,” Bill echoed at him, sounding distinctly breathless as the tongue began to fuck in and out of Ford’s throat, buzzing with each of his helpless moans.
The second largest tongue retraced the path the previous had made, this one taking its sweet time to lap at the hair trailing from his groin up to his collarbones before repeating, meandering across his nipples, into an armpit, back down to start over again while he twitched and shuddered. Finally, the smallest tongue insinuated itself between his buttocks, flicking delicately at first over the clenching pucker of his asshole, then more insistent, curling and pressing until it softened enough for the thin, forked tip to slip inside him in an even filthier kiss than the one his mouth was engaged in.
With all four tongues busy and apparently satisfied that Ford wasn’t going anywhere or holding anything back, Bill began to move him, using the hold on his torso to slide him forward and press his now achingly hard cock into the tongue underneath him, then back onto the tongue writhing into him from behind. Forward. Back. Forward. His eyes rolled back in his head and his hips tried to rock with every motion, greedy for each offered sensation and desperate for them not to end. The tongue behind him found his prostate and squirmed against it just as the one in his mouth withdrew- ostensibly to allow him air but they both knew it was so Bill could hear his stuttered, raw-voiced shout of, “Fuck- Bill! God, please- oh god-!”
“That’s me!” Bill answered delightedly, furling and unfurling the smallest tongue to torturously vary pressure against Ford’s prostate while the one around his throat began to squeeze steadily, sending starbursts of color across his vision.
“Bill, please, please- I need- I’m-” Ford was all but incoherent, but the message apparently got across because Bill’s eye squinted up at him in an affectionate smile.
“Go on, then!” The hand controlling his movements sped up, obscenely wet sounds filling the void around them. “Your muse is feeling generous, lucky you!”
With a broken cry, Ford came across Bill’s tongue in several long spurts, painting the black surface white. His body jerked and shook in its restraints, overcome, his muscles burning and mind floating on a sea of endorphins.
The fingers holding his arms and legs released him, leaving him slumped bonelessly in the tender embrace of the hand around his ribs and the tongues which continued to stroke and lave at his fevered skin. Finally the tongues withdrew as well, and the hand holding him turned slowly so that he was splayed loose-limbed in the open palm, still panting, hair plastered to his skin with sweat and spit and god knew what other fluids. He wondered vaguely how the hell his glasses had stayed on during all of that.
“Thank- thank you,” he managed at last in a raspy whisper, his voice ragged from all the tongue-fucking and shouting. His eyes flickered open- he hadn’t even realized he’d closed them- and he saw that he had been moved again without noticing; Bill’s eye watched him intently from a scant few feet away, his reflection a debauched mess on the glassy black surface.
The eye scrunched up in another smile, this one devious rather than fond, and Ford felt another one of those little not-quite-fear chills run through him.
“Lucky, lucky you,” Bill repeated. “I’m feeling so generous today, in fact, I think we can do better than a measly two orgasms. Don’t you?”
“Uhh, I-”
“That’s what I thought! C’mere, stud!” The hand curled around him and brought him even closer to the horizon-curve of that gargantuan eye until he was pressed bodily against it. The sensation was- mostly wet, like hugging a blood-hot hillside made of half-set jelly. Erotic wasn’t exactly the first word that came to mind.
“Um, Bill-” He started to say, half-laughing as he peeled his cheek free with a sound like schlorp.
“Hmmmm?” Bill’s smug voice rumbled against his skin and vibrated his bones and that was. Well. He wasn’t going to pretend it didn’t affect him, a little.
Ford squirmed a little, ostensibly to get a better position to lean back a bit and make- hah- eye contact with the six-foot-tall dilated pupil watching him from a few inches to his right. “I- appreciate the, er, closeness, but I’m not sure this is-” He cut himself off with a yelp as the hand supporting him suddenly withdrew and left him with nothing to hold onto, and he slid down the slippery curve of Bill’s eye for a terrifying second, until his feet were met by the lower eyelid, just enough to prevent him from tumbling into the dreamscape below.
Balancing on the balls of his feet and forced to press closer to the slick, warm surface to keep from falling (and only once or twice letting his hips rock curiously forward, just testing), Ford’s hands went instinctively exploring to the sides- nothing but more of the gelatinous-firm texture of cornea, which he was very considerately trying not to dig his nails into. He did note the soft moan that shuddered its way from Bill and into him at the touch, and he slid his palms a bit more boldly up along the sclera, feeling for-
He froze as his hands met something hard and sharp, and he very slowly raised his head, aware of Bill’s gaze literally on him, to see the row of fangs that had descended from the upper lid like a portcullis. An electric thrill of pure animal panic flooded his system and his body’s response to that really shouldn’t have been to go from mostly-flaccid to more than half hard, but Ford had never claimed to be a normal man.
Bill had apparently clocked that reaction (of course he had- Ford was the entirety of his focus at the moment and ooh, boy, that thought was enough to get him the rest of the way to hard), because the shelf of his lower eyelid raised in a pleased grin, inadvertently bringing Ford closer to the jagged fence of teeth above him. The movement startled another yelp out of Ford and his buttocks flexed as he rolled his hips helplessly into an unsteady rhythm.
Bill’s laughter was perhaps intended to be mocking, but it hitched on its way out and trembled through Ford with adoring tenderness, gently teasing instead of commanding. “Better hurry. You don’t want me to get bored, do you?”
Biting his lip around a whimper, Ford shook his head and ground against the thick layer of slick soft membrane before him. He briefly flailed for something to grasp, trying in vain to stabilize himself, and he grabbed hold of the sharp point of a fang in each hand, gripping hard enough to prick his palms. The pain only made him rut harder and faster against Bill’s eye, and he pressed his face back against it to pant stickily, the sweat running from his forehead to mix with whatever fluids kept its surface wet- it was a wonder Bill hadn’t blinked, he thought hysterically as he humped the eye of a world-ending god-monster.
When he came again, mouthing sloppily at the glowing-hot pupil under his face, Bill’s tongue slid out from the lower lid and swiped away the spatter with great and obvious relish, then slithered around his waist and pulled him into that fanged void, the recessed eye watching him like a spotlight while all around him Bill’s delighted voice echoed, “That’s three! Whaddya think, should we aim for double digits?”
Ford whimpered wordlessly, open-mouthed and dazed already. His mindscape answered for him, chanting yes yes oh please yes I want it all I want I want I WANT-
“Great!” Bill’s tongue yanked and Ford found himself drawn through the void and out into his waiting palm.
Number four had him face-down in Bill’s hand, clinging to two of his fingers and sinking his teeth into the flesh-fabric below while Bill slowly and inexorably screwed a third finger into him, splitting him open until his hips ached and his spine melted.
For number five, Bill had shrunk down to his more typical size, leaving Ford flat on his back in an abstract field of curly-stemmed flowers that blinked like eyes, and he was riding Ford’s oversensitive cock, bouncing on it with single-minded determination while Ford could only whimper and stare up at him reverently. After the previous rounds, the intimate “normalcy” of this one was dizzying and intoxicating, and when he finished inside Bill and was immediately flipped upside down and dangled toward the lava-glow of a jagged-fanged eye he moaned and begged for more.
At one point he blearily realized Bill had multiplied, half a dozen triangles glowing golden against Ford’s skin as endless hands caressed and prodded and moved him. One behind him, slit opened so those strange tonguelike organs could pump into him. One in front of him, legs spread so Ford could sloppily move back and forth from tonguing his eye to eating him out while another Bill hovered above his shoulders and encouraged him with hands tugging at his hair. One crouched on his lower back, sliding a slim, balled-up fist into him alongside the first Bill’s twitching, slithering organs. Two below him, taking turns engulfing his pulsing, drooling cock in one eye-throat, then another, tongues laving over his balls and taint occasionally lapping at the stretched-out rim of his ass. Another hovering at his side, watching his reactions while reaching under him to rub and pinch at his abused nipples and tug at his chest hair. He moaned pathetically into the Bill in front of him as he was wracked by number- seven? Eight? God, he’d lost count!
“Good boy, Fordsy,” cooed Bill from all around him, and he moaned again, his jaw aching and body throbbing as he dove back in for more.
When he washed ashore to consciousness once more, it was to the firm weight of Bill atop his chest and the much less pleasant sensation of what felt like a dozen orgasm’s worth of cum slowly drying inside his boxer-briefs, all but gluing them to his skin. He made a face and shifted slightly, wincing again when the tacky substance pulled and pinched at hair in tender places.
“Bill,” he complained, jostling the shape in his arms. “I have to, uh. I need to get cleaned up.”
“Nooooo,” Bill grumbled, muffled and refusing to lift his face from Ford’s chest. Sluggishly, he raised one hand and waved it haphazardly, and Ford grunted at the very odd sensation of the mess in his underwear vanishing as if scoured by thousands of tiny bubbles. “There, problem solved.”
With a soft grunt, Ford pushed himself upright, noting how loose and noodly his arms felt. Bill peeled off his torso like a sticky toy and flopped downward toward the bedding with a series of annoyed noises to lay there face-down and limbs akimbo. “Spoilsport,” he accused, his tone suggesting he was half-asleep again already.
Ford stood, intending to move to the bathroom all the same, and was so swiftly overcome by a simultaneous wave of wooziness and full-body weakness that he all but collapsed back onto the bedding.
“Whoa!” Bill popped up instantly, concern written across his expression.
Jelly-limbed atop the blankets, Ford burst out laughing. “Sorry, I haven’t- it’s been thirty years since I woke up feeling quite so wobbly.”
“Oh, yeah. I might’ve gotten a little carried away,” Bill said, not sounding the least bit remorseful. “Got excited, y’know? You should probably re-hydrate.” He snapped his fingers and a glass of water appeared, which Ford gratefully downed, followed by another when that one was empty.
“I think perhaps,” Ford said, laying back down once he’d finished that glass. “I’ll stay in bed a bit longer. At least until I’m able to walk with slightly more stability than Bambi. All in favor?”
“Aye!” Bill crawled up his torso once more, settling into the crook of Ford’s shoulder like a puzzle piece. Without missing a beat, he began to wind his hands into Ford’s hair, toying with the silver curls. “Soooo, aside from the dehydration, no complaints? Dreamscape sex is still a go?”
Ford considered. “I think we’d better keep most of our conjugal activities in the real world, if only because I think having ten orgasms a night-”
“Eleven!” Interjected Bill, graciously choosing not to comment on the phrase “conjugal activities”.
“Eleven orgasms a night forever might put a bit too much strain on my body; I’m only human.”
Bill blew a raspberry, somehow.
“But yes,” Ford continued, ignoring the outburst. “I’m certainly open to more of that. It was wonderful.”
“Good.” Bill relaxed slightly, releasing tension he hadn’t been aware of holding. “I mean, yeah, of course it was. Master of the mind, like I said! I thought about getting a little freaky with your structural integrity, but I didn’t want to throw too much at you at once, y’know?
“My structural integrity? How do you mean?”
Bill shrugged, trying to sound unaffected as he explained. “Oh, more abstract stuff- unraveling your perceived physical form and doing some tessellation, maybe explore fractals if you’re into that.”
“I could be into that,” Ford said dreamily, lightheaded with arousal at the sudden rush of ideas. “Is that- would that be something similar to how it would go on Euclydia?”
When he didn’t immediately receive a response, he turned his head to look at Bill, finding him staring back.
“What?” Had he said something wrong? Perhaps he shouldn’t have mentioned Euclydia; they’d talked about it a few times but it could still be a sore spot for Bill.
But Bill wasn’t upset; his eye curved up in a slow smile and he took hold of one of Ford’s hands, leaning into the palm. “You’re my favorite freak in the whole multiverse, Fordsy.”
Ford laughed, curling his fingers around Bill’s edges and bringing him close. “The feeling is decidedly mutual.”
Notes:
MORE STEM ART MORE STEM ART!!! I have been SO EXCITED to get to this chapter if only for the art... I'm sad to end the story but the gorgeous drawings make up for it in my mind.
EDIT: looks like the image links are a bit wonky sometimes, so here is the bluesky where you can see both images, just in case! https://bsky.app/profile/triangledump.bsky.social/post/3luogiydvws2a
I can't believe this is the last chapter, holy shit... thank you all so much, from the bottom of my heart, for reading this silly story. I started writing it on a whim and I can't believe what a wonderful, amazing response it's gotten over these past months. Thank you, thank you.
I may come back later and add a little extra if the mood strikes (mostly thinking the holiday trip to California), but for now this is it!
I'll be taking a little break to do some writing and editing but I plan to start posting my next fic, Hell In A Hatbox, very soon! If you enjoyed Take A Chance, I hope you'll give Hell In A Hatbox a read too!
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