Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

How long has this been going on for?

Ford had always considered himself quite adept at timekeeping - a skill he had acquired during his travels beyond the portal. Being able to tell the days apart from one another became an invaluable asset at times, keeping him grounded and sane. It is with great frustration that Ford finds himself unable to properly harness this ability at the moment. He's sure that he's been the unwilling public entertainment for Bill and his cronies for at least several hours now, but with Time Baby dead, the demon had long since twisted and warped Ford's sense of time to draw out every second into an agonizing eternity. The only thing stringing one torturous moment into the next is white-hot agony.

Ford's experienced a fair share of pain throughout his life - far more than the majority of the human population, he'd say - and as such, he knows he has an unusually high tolerance to it. He's been at death's door more times than he can count on his abnormal amount of fingers. However, being tortured by Bill is on a whole different level from anything he's ever had the displeasure of experiencing before - the difference between the most amount of pain he'd experienced before Weirdmageddon and the pain he's experiencing now is like night and day. He's always been able to shut off the animalistic part of his brain that bent to the pain and simply focus on his intellect, to endure whatever it is that the world had thrown at him. But here, now? It is a completely different story.

Whatever beam Bill had been blasting him with for the past few hours had succeeded in completely shattering his pain tolerance. Within the first few seconds, he had been bordering on hysteria, and yet it went on for hours afterwards - hours which Bill had so graciously slowed for Ford to the point where they felt like years.

Every moment that he is forced to endure this hellish agony feels like Bill has isolated each and every one of his molecules, pierced them with the heat of the sun and the intensity of a supernova, and incinerated them from the inside out until they melted down into nothingness. Then, in the nothingness that Bill had burned into him, searing excruciation flooded into the gaps and took the place of everything that had once been Ford. Bill hollowed him out and replaced every part of him with nothing but liquid torment that continued to boil him from the inside out.

It had only taken half an hour of this for Ford to break down in front of his mortal nemesis, a humiliatingly short amount of time that left him hating himself - even more than he hated Bill - for not being strong enough. When Bill brought the horrible shocks to an end, watching as Ford's battered form convulsed and then fell limp with a few spare jolts, it was like salt being rubbed into his wounds as he felt the sheer amount of joy emanating from the demon's pleased form. Ford knows that the bastard loved watching him splinter and break in front of him, because of him, and it was utterly mortifying - a fatal hit to his already fragmented pride.

"Ready to cooperate, Sixer?" Bill had asked cheerfully, the question smug and rhetorical. He already knew what Ford's answer would be, after all. He just wanted to break him all over again.

Ford had clenched his fists and grit his teeth, tried and failed to stop himself from trembling, and lifted his head to present his tormentor with the most furious and defiant glare his charred form could muster. Bill let out a huff of a laugh, his eye narrowing with a cross of fondness and mockery at the pathetic display, and promptly resumed the torture.

As unbearably horrible the pain had been before, Ford was sure that Bill had increased it tenfold after that. There was a heinous sound in the air, one that Ford did not recognize as a scream coming from his own mouth until his throat gave out from howling for so long. It was all so much; the humiliation, the excruciating pain, and oh, God, the pressure. The knowledge that he had to just keep enduring this. No matter what Bill would end up doing to him, he has no choice but to just suffer through it, for the fate of the universe is hinged upon his humble, exhausted shoulders.

He cannot give in. No matter what, he must never give into Bill! This in itself is a great motivator, but Ford notices with no little amount of shame that the sheer hatred he possesses for the demon is the real driving force behind his titanium-plated resistance. He will resist because he does not want Bill to succeed. He will defy Bill for every moment he lives as the smallest, most insignificant form of payback for the sheer amount of horror and heartbreak and trauma that he's had to suffer through at the hands of this insufferable monster.

Ford has no idea how much time passed between his last break and the next. To him, it was no less than eons, but in reality, it could not have been any more than a few hours. Ford openly sobbed with relief when Bill granted him a brief respite, as the jarring shocks that had rendered him completely scorched and blistered finally came to an end. Ford is sure he would have thrown up if he had any sort of sustenance in his body, but instead he went slack and dry heaved a couple of times, phantom shocks still wracking his trauma-inflicted form.

"Ready to cooperate, Sixer?" Came the jovial voice for a second time. Ford trembled. God, why? He knew that it was his duty to raise his head again and tell the demon 'no' - to subject himself to hours more of this torture. His heart pounded against his ribs, thrashing around in his chest, like a restless bird in a birdcage, at the thought of continuing. In that moment, he couldn't, he couldn't keep doing it! It was so much... it was too much, too painful, too agonizing, too much of everything that had ever been bad in this world, and he knew that if he just said yes, he won't have to- he won't have to-

No! No! Don't give in! Ford's hands clenched, he reminded himself of the situation, and he knew what he had to do. In the brief moments between Bill's question and Ford's answer, the human did his absolute best to compose himself, to pick up as many of the scattered pieces that Bill had broken him into as possible and try to piece some sort of a fragment of his resolve back together again.

I won't, Ford tried to tell him, but his ability to speak had been compromised by his nonstop wails of anguish. Ford took in a deep, shuddering breath, and then shook his head, denying the demon once again.

The electrocution resumed, and Ford came to believe that Bill had finally managed to break off a piece of him for good as he found himself disassociating from his body. He'd heard of this happening to people before - apparently a product of trauma - and he was ashamed of himself. How could he be cracking so easily? He's been so much further than any other human has, done so much more than anyone else, and yet he is so quick to crumble because of a little pain. He's supposed to be better than this! He's supposed to be stronger, and yet his momentary lapse in judgement had almost cost him the entire world! Could he even be trusted with the knowledge of the equation at this point? What if he does end up breaking and handing it over to Bill? Maybe it's better if he just-

No! He's going down a dangerous path with such thoughts. He'll snap out of this. He'll continue enduring just like he always has, and things will be fine.

Ford observes his own torture like he is a spectator within his own body, detached from himself, feeling as if he is doing nothing more than reading a book about his own life, or perhaps watching a movie. He wonders if this is really all that bad. He cannot feel pain right now, after all, and he isn't in hysterics any longer. He's safe here, in this space that is between himself and the void.

He does not feel as if he fully exists - it is like the whole world has been cloaked by a veil, his senses dulled and muted and his mind and intellect disconnected from his physical form. This probably isn't healthy, as a scientist, he knows that, but it is so inviting here. There is no pain, no terror, no scent of burning hair and flesh. No screeching, laughing, demented audience watching him struggle. No Bill.

No Bill.

He... must have passed out at some point.

Ford can't recall the last moments he experienced before he ended up here, wherever he is now. His entire body no longer feels like it's being consumed by flame and agony, and for a moment Ford dares to hope that he's been rescued. The thought, while more appealing than he would like to admit, is selfish. Ford knows that no one is coming for him, he had made sure of that during his last interaction with Dipper at the top of the town church.

He had just set down the suitcase containing the quantum destabilizer, Dipper kneeling behind him, radiating anxiety as he fidgeted with his hands. Ford huffed as he opened the suitcase and took a glance at his weapon. He only had one shot here. Bill was distracted for the moment, facing away from them, but he probably wouldn't be for long. He turned to his great nephew and regarded him solemnly.

"Dipper," he called, and the young boy's features lit up with curiosity upon being addressed. No matter how many times Ford spoke to the boy, it never seemed to get old to him; having his greatest idol right in front of his face. Ford swallowed the distaste that came with the realization that Dipper's admiration for him reflected that which he himself used to harbor for Cipher.

"Yes, Grunkle Ford?" Came his anxious reply. Ford sighed. He knew that what he was about to tell the young boy was likely not going to be taken well.

"In the event that this does not work out, and I am captured," Ford says as he begins setting up the destabilizer. "I want you, Stan, and your sister to leave Gravity Falls immediately. I want you to promise that you won't come looking for me."

"What!? Are you crazy?" Dipper reprimanded with a hushed shout, trying not to attract the attention of the demon about fifty meters away. He opened his mouth to continue, but Ford cut him off. There was no time for him to humor Dipper in that moment.

"I have a theory," Ford explained as quickly as he could. Dipper, luckily, had the foresight to bottle up his emotions and just listened. "I studied the weirdness of this town for years before I entered the portal. If I'm correct, there may be a chance that Bill's madness is confined to the physical barrier of this town."

"What are you saying?" Dipper asked, his voice shaky and small.

"I never recorded any of this information in my journals," Ford continued as he hoisted the weapon upright and peered through the lens, aligning it with Cipher's form in the near distance. "Bill has no way of knowing about this theory. My point is, you and the others will be safe on the outside. If I fail, please leave this town as quickly as possible. Evacuate everyone you can without getting caught by Bill. Once you're on the outside, maybe you can contact the government or something and devise a plan from there."

"But what about you?" Dipper started. "We can't just leave you here!"

Ford sighed. "Dipper, I need you to trust me. If Bill captures me, he will do anything, and I mean anything, to get answers about the force keeping him in. It's not beyond him to go as far as hurting the people I care about." Ford held the gun with as much steadiness as he could in his shaking hands and spared a glance at Dipper.

The boy looked horrified, betrayed, indecisive. Ford simply gave him a firm nod, prompting him to return the gesture. He knew Dipper understood. Ford's family was his only weakness. As long as they were accessible to Bill, he would use them as pawns in an attempt to force Ford's hand.

Ford would not allow that to happen.

"All of this is only a precaution," Ford said as he fixed his gaze back through the lens, watching Bill on the other side. "I have no intention of failing here, but if I do, promise me you won't come for me. No matter what Bill or I do or say, don't risk your life or the fate of the world."

Dipper had inhaled sharply with a pained sound. "I promise."

In the present, Ford feels himself beginning to stir. As he gains consciousness, he can feel the remnants of the earlier agony he was subjected to marinating in his skin, his bones, his blood. He twitches slightly at the recognition of pain flooding his senses, and he hears the telltale sound of chains as he does so. His heart sinks with the knowledge that he's still in shackles, and he can now feel the heavy weight of the cuffs around his ankles.

He's still in chains. Still in Bill's house of horrors... And no one is coming to save him.

No one is coming to save him.

Ford blinks a few times, clearing the blurriness from his vision as he examines his surroundings. He's in the middle of the room that Bill had described as tip of the pyramid - his penthouse. He attempts to lift his head and take a look at what his cuffs are attached to, but is punished with sharp, fiery agony as he tries to prop himself up on one arm. Hissing through his teeth, Ford realizes that his shoulders are, at the very least, dislocated. He had been suspended from the ceiling for so long, after all. It only made sense that sometime during that horrible experience his shoulders had simply given out and slipped out of their sockets.

It takes Ford an exceptional amount of effort and resolve to sit up. His entire body cries in agonizing protest as he does so, trying to dissuade him from doing anything but lying down, but if there is one thing that Ford will not do in front of Bill Cipher, it is lying down and groveling. So, he forces himself up onto his knees, grunting with a great deal of pain, and examines the damage his battered form has sustained.

He can't help but shudder as he observes his hands, which are covered in scathing burns. Even curling his fingers into his palm has him biting back a shout of pain, his entire body horribly tender. He knows that his hands did not receive even close to the worst of it; Bill's beam had been aimed directly at his torso, and he's sure his whole chest and the majority of his stomach looks far worse. He notes with vague interest that only his skin has been affected, his clothing and glasses remaining untouched. Even the pen he keeps in his coat pocket seems completely fine. He wants to check how bad the damage to his torso is, but as he goes to do so, the resulting pain demands that he refrains from making any movements that aren't completely necessary, and his arms slump back down to his sides.

Instead, he directs his attention to the glowing cuffs around his ankles, which have been perfectly tailored to the girth of his boots. How annoying - if they had even the most miniscule amount of give, Ford would be able to slide his footwear off and free himself. Each of his legs is chained to a different wall, directly opposite from one another, preventing him from moving from this exact spot. Frowning, Ford wonders what ungodly nightmare Bill plans on subjecting him to next, and how much time he has alone before the demon inevitably appears to continue his torment.

He doesn't have to wonder for long, because of course, Bill appears before him as dramatically as possible, having summoned a ring of blue flames. Even seeing the color blue associated with heat has Ford stifling a tremble after earlier. Damn it, he needs to stop - he needs to be stronger! The world is depending on him here, and all he can think about is himself, how terrified he is. He hates it.

Ford notes the portrait of Bill hanging above the fireplace, picturing the demon standing tall with one foot planted over the Earth. What ludicrous taste Bill has - has always had. He recalls once being fond of such a taste. How foolish. Bill's taste had never been endearing or comical, like he once thought, it's always been ridiculous and childish and Ford hates it. He must have always hated it - there's no way he ever liked it.

He figures the portrait on the wall is how Bill knew Ford was awake. He'd mentioned to the human once that every drawn interpretation of him functions as a peephole, allowing him to see the surrounding world through its eye.

Ford, battered as he is, has regained enough energy and willpower to set his jaw and glare at Cipher with renewed hatred.

"Good morning, sunshine! Did you miss me?" Bill starts, the overly cheery and loud nature of his piercing voice making Ford grind his teeth with annoyance. Of course, the triangle doesn't wait for a response, not expecting one. "Admit it, you missed me!"

Ford still doesn't respond. He's not sure if he is even capable of speech right now, given how much he had been screaming before he passed out. Not that Bill is worthy of a response anyway; anything Ford says to him would simply be a waste of words.

"Yesterday certainly was fun, wasn't it, Fordsy?" Bill continues, his eye fixated on his captive to drink up any reaction the human may accidentally let slip past his stoic front. "I can assure you today will be even better! I can hardly wait to see what kind of hilarious sounds you'll make when I break you in ways that haven't even been invented yet!"

Ford's eye twitches, the only indicator that he's processing what Bill's saying. He knows that Bill just wants a reaction out of him, and he's determined to not give him the satisfaction of seeing him cower. He's not even aware of the fact that he's trembling - how cute - but Bill is.

"Unless, of course, you've changed your mind! Just give me that equation, Sixer, and we can skip right past all this and get straight to-"

Ford's anger flairs, and he can no longer keep his mouth shut. "You seriously think-"

As soon as he begins speaking, his exhausted vocal cords catch, leaving Ford to double over - quite painfully - and suffer through a coughing fit. Bill watches with no little amusement as Ford heaves cough after dry cough, his lungs burning. Tears prick the corners of his eyes by the time the violent fit comes to an end, and Ford grunts, ignores them, and straightens up to continue glaring at Bill; angry eyes alight with cold determination behind the clear pain and exhaustion.

"Torture me all you want, Cipher," he growls, undeterred by how hoarse and weak his voice sounds even to his own ears. "It won't change a thing. You'll never get anything out of me."

There is a moment of silence save for his own labored breathing in which Bill is looking at him with an unreadable expression. Then his grating voice returns, jovial as ever. "I think you're forgetting one teensy, weensy, miniature, insignificant, dinky little detail, my six-fingered friend!" He starts, and then in the next instant he's grown to at least thrice his size, his eye blood red with fury and glowing, focused on Ford like a spotlight straight from hell. "I OWN you. I'll get WHATEVER I want out of you and so much more - it's only a matter of time. I have all the time in the MULTIVERSE, Sixer - can you say the same?"

Ford quickly bottles up the cocktail of emotions that Bill has unexpectedly stirred within him, nipping his impending breakdown at the bud before the boiling concoction can spill over. Fear, anger, hatred, and searing humiliation are all quickly shoved into their assorted containers and stored away in his brain, because it's not the time to unpack these emotions right now. Thirty years' worth of all sorts of negative feelings amalgamated with equally potent positive ones are boxed away and forced out of his head in an instant.

Ford's ability to stifle his overpowering emotions so quickly is quite impressive, Bill notes; most of the insufferable meat bags in this dimension let those trivial things control them. Boy, is he glad he doesn't have any! They seem like they must be a real inconvenience.

Stoic as ever, none of the emotions having been allowed to rise to the surface except for his anger, Ford yells, "The only part of me you own is my eternal hatred, Cipher! You have no control over me anymore! If you think you own me, you're deluded and a monster!"

Bill cackles, and floats over to Ford, now his regular size again. The human suppresses a flinch at his approach, the fear behind his eyes surprisingly well-hidden. He can't stifle the stuttering gasp, however, that is forced from his chapped lips as Bill sinks a small, inky black hand into his gray curls. The demon's fingers tighten possessively around a clump of hair when Ford tries to pull away, prompting another small, frustrated sound from the human. Bill drinks it up greedily, like sweet elixir. His obnoxious and loud voice drops to something akin to a whisper for the first time Ford's heard in his life.

"I look forward to proving you wrong, Stanford Pines."

Chapter Text

Bill Cipher is incredibly, inexplicably frustrated.

Ford is nothing but an inconsequential little human, incomprehensibly small in the grand scheme of things. So trivial compared to Bill himself - Bill's sure that if they were placed side by side, Ford's presence would be undetectable; snuffed out by the sheer greatness of his superior.

So why, why does he keep resisting? Bill knows that Ford isn't stupid, that he isn't illogical. Surely, two of the man's stray synapses have connected by now and relayed to him the fact that if he just gives in the pain will stop. Bill knows he's told Ford this information more than enough times to drive it into his brain. Pain is bad, and thus, the only logical thing to do in Ford's situation would be to surrender and allow the bad feelings to disappear.

But still, frustratingly, incredulously, Ford refuses him. Offer after offer, hour after hour. During any brief moment in which Ford cracks and Bill's sure by the look on his face that he's about to give in, he regains his composure just as quickly and pulls the carpet straight out from under Bill's feet with his continued resistance. It's beyond ridiculous, it's plain infuriating! At this point, Bill has concluded that Ford must be just as much of a freak as he is; there is simply no way that any normal human would put up with this for as long as he has without caving.

Bill isn't even torturing Ford for the equation at this point. Not solely for it, anyway; he does still have a dimension to conquer, and having that equation is a necessary part of the entire plan. But it's gone beyond just the need for that stupid equation because now Bill is angry. How dare a lifeform so far below him manage to worm its way underneath his skin! That isn't all, though.

Truthfully, Bill has been festering a thirty-year-long grudge against his incredibly headstrong captive. How dare Sixer, after all, for leaving him in the first place. How dare he, after everything they had worked for, shut down the portal and so easily shut Bill out of his life like he was nothing. Bill Cipher is far from nothing - he is everything! Especially to that flimsy, puny little mortal whose entire existence had revolved around him at one point. Ford's every thought had dripped with adoration, praise, longing, worship, admiration, devotion, and it was abundantly clear that it was all for him.

All of it was supposed to be meaningless and irrelevant. Bill's had countless devoted followers throughout his exceedingly long lifetime, after all, and all of them were pathetically devoted to him in one way or another. Ford was no different from them, it didn't make sense why his actions had an impact on Bill.

So how dare Ford turn the tables on Bill in the end. How dare he - the nerve! The absolute audacity of a mere worthless human to transform himself into the sole weakness of a being so incomprehensibly above him. Bill doesn't care about anything, he never has. In the end, nothing truly matters anyway; the multiverse will end in one way or another, so what's the point in caring?

Bill lives audaciously; takes what he wants, runs with it, and gets away with it every time. He has no regrets, no shame, no worries, and certainly no weaknesses. All of this had been nothing less than a plain fact until he met that six-fingered freak. Bill is supposed to be nothing less than perfection, and yet - somewhere, somehow - he screwed up.

Ford was nothing but a tool. Bill had this notion set in stone from the moment he first laid his eye on Sixer, a humble little human with a neverending hunger for knowledge, a human with too many insecurities and too many fingers. Ford was nothing more than something Bill would use to get what he wanted and then discard after his usefulness had run its course. Easily manipulated, so deprived of any sort of praise that all it took to convince Ford to devote his entire miserable life to the so-called muse were a few insincere compliments. Ford was nothing but a pawn, a lowly puppet. Bill knew this from the beginning.

So when, and how, had the plan gone from rule the world to rule the world with Stanford Pines?

How dare Ford, that worthless sack of flesh and bones and all sorts of insecurities, force someone as mighty as Bill to experience - ugh, the thought of admitting it makes him cringe - feelings.

Emotions are in no way logical. Their only purpose is that of a tool, a means to manipulate those who are lesser than you. Bill is above such trivial hindrances - he should be. Having them is nothing less than unacceptable; to experience emotion is to admit defeat. How could Bill be the ruler of the world if he had a weakness? Furthermore, for said weakness to be a mere human - unacceptable! Seriously, the damn fragile things live for a century, tops, and fall victim to all sorts of small inconveniences like plague or heartbreak or even just hitting their heads a little too hard. Their lifespans are so pathetically short, too; an entire human lifetime is practically the blink of an eye to Bill.

He had thought so, at least, until he was forced to wait thirty years to see Sixer again. Bill swears that multiple lifetimes passed in those few short decades.

Once Ford had been sucked in through that portal, Bill had laughed to himself and given that nerd three days, tops, before he succumbed to the inevitability that was human demise. Either he'd catch Ford himself, or the countless horrors beyond his mere human comprehension would do Bill's job for him. Bill was sure that his secret little weakness would promptly be taken care of, and then things would go back to normal, with the entire world being none the wiser. So what if he had to wait another century to find a new idiot to convince to build that portal? He'd waited before, it wasn't a big deal.

And yet, like always, Sixer went and blew Bill's expectations out of proportion, managing to survive by the skin of his teeth on the run for over three decades. It was absurd, and Bill hated to admit that he was damn impressed at the fact that some fragile little nobody who didn't even know how to order a drink at a restaurant had evaded his all-seeing, all-knowing grasp for over thirty years. To add insult to injury, it wasn't just Bill that Ford had avoided, but also Bill's bounty hunters, his subordinates, and the countless other dimensional terrors that would break a typical human's mind by simply exhibiting their presence. Ford had managed to survive all that on top of the fact that every new dimension he encountered had completely different rules dictating the very construct of reality; leaving him disoriented and confused and unable to discern up from down.

All of it had attacked Ford with everything it had, and yet, against all odds, he'd manage to escape every single horrible situation he found himself in. Even if he had to crawl his way out like a pathetic animal, riddled with wounds, Ford was always one step ahead, either by sheer luck or some otherworldly intuition. Boy, if Fordsy hadn't needed therapy before meeting Bill, he certainly needed it after!

Bill contemplates Ford's finesse with bitter indignation. It isn't fair, he decides. Life isn't fair, it never has been, but Bill had always been a being beyond fairness or consequence. And then Sixer came and ruined everything.

Fuck Ford. How dare he, that stupid, useless, inconsequential, mortal, insecure, isolated, worthless, half-broken human who should have been long dead by now. Bill will show Ford. He'll make that pathetic mortal love him and devote his entire miserable existence to him, just like he used to, and he'll make sure Ford loves every second of it.

Bill hovers before the object of his frustrations, who is glaring back at him with equal distaste, defiant as ever. He's been forced into a bowing position, prostrating himself before his former god. To achieve this position, Bill had driven stakes through his wrists and ankles, keeping them nailed to the ground. If Ford attempts to sit up at all, he is met with a crushing force that weighs him back down, disallowing any movement. The only part of him that is not subjected to this pressure is his neck, allowing him to look up at Bill angrily.

Bill enjoys having Ford like this, but he is not completely satisfied. After all, he wants Ford to willingly submit before him. It is much less rewarding to have him do it by force. Bill figures that they'll get there eventually. He just needs to keep chipping away at Sixer's stubborn nature.

Bill blinks once, having decided what he's going to do. The human just needs a little reminder as to who he belongs to. At Bill's slight change in expression, Ford's eyes narrow hatefully. If looks could kill, Bill figures he would be dead ten times over by now, but this doesn't bother him. It does not matter whether Ford looks at him with contempt or adoration. Either way, Ford is looking at him and him alone, and that's good enough. Bill's confident that he's still the center of Ford's universe, just in a different way than he was before.

At the end of the day, it doesn't matter whether Ford had risked his life installing a metal plate in his head, banishing Bill from his mind. It doesn't matter whether Ford went through multiple painful procedures to erase the various symbols of Bill that Ford himself had inked into his skin, banishing him from his body. None of that matters, because once a miserable fool decides to make a deal with Bill Cipher, there is no going back. Ford still belongs to Bill, he himself had promised that. "From now until the end of time" - his own words! Bill is determined to prove this neglected fact to him.

This process will begin with Bill restoring his presence on Ford's skin. His old tattoos are gone, but Bill knows he can just carve new ones into the stubborn human's flesh.

Bill disappears from in front of Ford and reappears behind him. He experimentally places his hand on Ford's back, right where the first tattoo he had gotten used to be. The human stiffens immediately at the contact, and he lets out a strained sound as he tries to overpower the invisible weight holding him down to shrug the hand off. The space where Bill's likeness used to reside is now void of his presence. Unacceptably, it's been replaced with various other scars and marks that Ford's acquired from battles with other, far less formidable foes. How infuriating. Bill supposes that he will just have to carve his presence over them, snuff out their existence with his own.

"No wonder you wear that ridiculous getup all the time!" Bill comments, eye examining Ford's scarred back and arms. "I would too if I looked like that! Really, the only saving grace your pathetic meat sack ever had was when it had my face all over it! I was doing you a solid, pal, and you went and kicked sand in my eye in return!"

Ford grinds his teeth in response, furious and helpless. He is incapable of moving at all, but oh, how he longs to lash out and attack, to rebel in any way. Still, he refuses to give Bill the satisfaction of seeing how his words affect him, so he does not reply. At the very least, Bill is behind him now, so he doesn't have to stare at his stupid face. Although Ford isn't thrilled at the prospect of having his back exposed to the enemy, there isn't anything he can do about it.

He hates this. Ford can handle the pain, the electrocution, the boiling of his skin and the mangling of his insides, but having Bill touch him without inflicting some sort of agony is a whole different form of torture to him. He'd rather be back in the throne room, being zapped within an inch of his life, than continue experiencing... whatever this is. The demon's mapping out the scars on his back with some twisted kind of mock gentleness that makes Ford want to throw up. He knows that Bill is the one behind him, but he's so desperate for comfort that he has to quite literally devote every ounce of energy he has towards not arching into the touch.

Focus. Remain defiant. Do not give in. If pain doesn't break him, then this shouldn't either.

Ford exhales in relief when Bill finally pulls his hand away, lowering his head to the ground since he isn't able to see Bill anyway. "So you can get rid of ink, eh, Fordsy?" The demon starts, his tone dripping with barely-concealed contempt. The way he speaks makes Ford think that if Bill had a mouth, he would be smiling in an attempt to cover up his blatant annoyance. "A couple little procedures and you think my brand is gone for good?"

Bill cackles madly, and Ford can only imagine the cartoonish way he doubles over as he does so. The human flinches when he feels Bill trace a claw along one of his more prominent scars. "You can't get rid of all these scars though, can you? Maybe I just need to give you something a little more permanent!"

"No," Ford finally snaps, unable to keep quiet without at least protesting a little. He's been giving Bill the silent treatment for a while now, not wanting to feed the demon's bizarre hunger for his responses and reactions, but he wants to make it very clear that he is not happy with what Bill is suggesting.

"You seem to have forgotten your place, kiddo," comes the chilling reply. If Bill carves his symbol into Ford, he'll be able to see through its eye, no matter where Ford is. No matter how far he runs, no matter how well he hides, Bill will be able to find him, and then it won't matter if he escapes. "You handed yourself over to me on a silver platter the second you shook my hand - no take-backsies! No matter how much you try to cover it up, the fact remains that you're my property, Sixer. You may have cheated and removed me from your skin, but it's only fair that I put myself back!"

Ford seethes, trembling with a mixture of rage and fearful anticipation. Not only is the idea of Bill being able to find him no matter where he goes incredibly distressing, but he also feels humiliated with how Bill refers to him like he's some kid's stupid toy. He is not Bill's damn puppet, not anymore. Even though Ford once would have been glad to fill up every inch of his skin with Bill's likeness if he so wanted, things are vastly different now. It still gives Ford the shudders to think back on how eager he was, thirty years ago, to be Bill's so-called "property." His manipulated brain had interpreted having Bill's symbol on him to be the highest honor - to know that his muse could watch him wherever he was made him feel safe back then. Now, this could not be further from what Ford feels at the thought of having Bill adorn him once more.

"Of course," Bill continues, his tone laced with smugness. "If, for some reason, you don't want that, you could always hand over the equation instead. I'm a nice guy, Fordsy; I'll accept it as an apology! Scout's honor, give me that equation and I won't mangle your back. Whaddaya say, IQ?"

Ford, unable to crane his neck to look directly at his tormentor, instead focuses all of his hatred into his tone as he spits out, "Burn in hell, Cipher."

Bill laughs, like he expected nothing less than what Ford has given him. "Mangling it is, then! You got a preference, Sixer? You want my face again so I can always keep you company? Or maybe something more simple, like my name? Ah, here's an idea: the date I broke your heart!" Each new suggestion causes Ford's anger to intensify. "There's no end to the fun ideas; I'm gonna need some help picking here!"

Ford doesn't give a response, but that's fine with Bill; the man's lackluster reactions to this whole thing won't bring down his mood one bit. After all, up until this point, Bill had never directly harmed Ford with his own two hands. Sure, he's done it indirectly while possessing him, and he's hurt him emotionally a whole lot (which Bill almost enjoys more), and, especially over these past few days, through various other means like electrocution or lashing or, most recently, driving stakes through his limbs to keep him pinned. But he never used his own hands for any of those things, since telekinesis is both easier and more convenient.

Ford, unsurprisingly, keeps quiet. He will not contribute in any way to this. Whatever Bill is going to do, he's going to have to think of on his own. Ford refuses to be an active participant in his own torture. It is silent for a while, like Bill is giving his prisoner ample chance to throw out a couple suggestions, but he doesn't receive anything from the stubborn man. Bill absentmindedly drums his fingers on Ford's back.

After a minute or so, the demon apparently makes his decision. "Aha! I've got it! No thanks to someone in this room. Seriously, Fordsy, you didn't help at all! That's okay though - I'm sure you'll love what I came up with!" Bill gushes, and Ford feels the blunt end of his fingertips sharpen into claws. He stiffens as he feels the razor-sharp talons drag slowly over his back in three slow, drawn-out strokes, tracing the shape of a triangle, not breaking the skin yet. Ford notes with distaste that he's probably enjoying drawing this out as much as possible.

Bill keeps Ford waiting for an obscenely long time, and when he finally sinks his claw into the human's flesh, it's almost a relief. The anticipation proved to be far worse than the pain itself. Ford wonders if his pain tolerance has increased, which he supposes, with detached bitterness, would make sense. It hurts, sure, but Ford is much more bothered by the fact that Cipher is staking his stupid claim on his back like the Americans did with the moon. He's certainly become desensitized to all of this nonsense by now, because the feeling of being sliced up is nothing more than a mere annoyance to him.

He tries to keep up with mapping out whatever demented phrase Bill's most certainly carving into his back, but every time he tries to focus, all he can pick up on is pain instead. How irritating. It's much more convenient to just disassociate, so Ford slips away without even realizing. Absentmindedly, he wonders about various, far more interesting things, like what his family could possibly be doing right now. If he had to guess, he'd assume they're outside of Gravity Falls. After all, if they were still here, Bill would likely have snatched them up by now. Maybe they're getting help from the government or something, but Ford isn't sure how well sending government agents in here would go. Bill would probably just disintegrate them all anyway if they weren't useful to him.

He wonders how many days it's been since this whole thing started. His sense of time has become increasingly more wonky ever since his imprisonment began, his scrambled mind unable to distinguish one hour from the next when all he has for reference is the pain and suffering so graciously bestowed upon him by the psychopath keeping him here. There's a grandfather clock in the corner of the room, which he had been relying on to keep track of time for a while. Then Bill had noticed him staring at it and messed with the thing so that it didn't work properly anymore. There wasn't even a need for him to do that, Ford thinks bitterly, the demon was just being an asshole at that point. What the hell was Ford even supposed to do with the time, anyway? It wasn't like he could escape simply by knowing that it was four-thirty in the afternoon.

Regardless, his sense of time has become skewed. Both from the lack of a reference, and from Bill purposefully fucking with it several times as a punishment, like when he would draw out moments in which Ford was in pain to make him feel it for longer. The demon seemingly loves his newfound control over time, having gloated to Ford a few times that he had killed an all-powerful baby or something to have gained it. What nonsense; it wasn't like Ford cared anyway. He's convinced that Bill just loves the sound of his own yapping with how often he will randomly strike up a one-sided conversation with his prisoner. He can't imagine that talking to someone who doesn't care a single bit about what you have to say is very interesting, but Bill keeps it up anyway. He chats casually at Ford between bouts of torture like they're old pals, something that he might have found amusing or endearing a lifetime ago.

Bill's obnoxious voice breaks Ford's foggy state of mind as he pulls away from the bleeding human. "All done!" He says, his tone all too jovial and cheerful. Ford can feel the stinging pain now, but the earliest incisions itch more than sting at this point. Completely tolerable, all in all, save for the uncomfortable, itchy feeling of drying blood covering the entirety of his back. Blood is sticky and annoying, Ford's never liked it. His body's been through so many traumatic and bloody injuries that wounds simply don't bother him as much as the feeling of blood clinging to his skin.

Bill circles around to the front of his captive, who simply looks up at him with an apathetic expression on his face. Sometimes, it's hard for him to even have the energy to be angry anymore, so he just puts on a stoic and aloof front. It's almost comical how Ford's indifference and disinterest in Bill's antics infuriate him more than his anger and spite do. At the human's detached expression, Bill fixates his stare with a force that would suffocate anyone else, silent and demanding and not unlike a cat that wants attention but doesn't want to admit it. Ford blinks lamely and still doesn't react in any way that's satisfactory, so Bill slides a large black tongue out from the underside of his eyelid and licks his claws clean of Ford's blood, unblinking. Ford's eye twitches once, but he does not do anything more.

"Well, that wasn't so bad, was it? You took it like a champ - not even one scream! I've gotta say, I'm impressed!" Bill praises, like his approval means anything to Ford, who still doesn't dignify him with a response. "Wanna see the final product? I think you'll love it!"

"No," Ford replies, which is not entirely true. While part of him would rather live without knowing whatever deranged thing Bill has etched into his back is, most of him is morbidly curious to see the product of his involuntary makeover. Bill chuckles, like he knows that Ford secretly wants to see.

"Come on, Sixer, don't be a party pooper! You don't wanna miss this aspiring artist's latest masterpiece, I promise! Take a look!" Bill insists, and shuts his eye for a moment. When his eye opens again, instead of his pupil, Ford is greeted with a snapshot of what his back now looks like.

It's... so bloody. It's hard to tell where the incisions are and what's just blood, and Ford notes with a morbid grimace that he is now more attuned to just how gaudy and gross the expanse of his back feels, covered in streaks of darkening crimson. It takes him a moment to discern Bill's work from the excess amount of blood, and then his aloofness gives way to chagrin and despair when he is able to make out what is now a permanent part of his body.

The lower portion of his back is occupied by a crudely drawn triangle with an eye, tophat, and bowtie - clearly representing Bill - apparently tapdancing with a cane. There's a speechbubble jutting out from it with the following phrase, 'That's me!'

The rest of the 'tattoo' is composed of large, spidery handwriting that is unabashedly Bill's, spanning the entirety of his upper back. Ford figures that it's intended to be read first.

IF LOST, RETURN TO BILL CIPHER!

The gang of interdimensional criminals and nightmares, or more simply put, Bill's friends, aren't thrilled with their boss spending so much time cooped up with that human prisoner. Gravity Falls is fun and all, but there's a whole universe out there, ripe for the picking! Whatever Bill's doing to that human clearly isn't working; it's been days and he still doesn't have that dumb equation or whatever. That's why, when Pyronica suggests she take a crack at torturing the thing, she's expecting Bill to be thrilled with the idea! Torturing mortals is fun and Pyronica likes being helpful, so why wouldn't Bill let her take a shot at it?

Bill's reaction to the suggestion is completely unexpected. He gets mad sometimes, everyone does, but not when the others are trying to help him! He gets even angrier at that offer than when he had figured out they were stuck in Gravity Falls in the first place! Pyronica guesses he doesn't want anyone else messing up whatever elaborate scheme he's enacting to get it to talk, but she's a little offended that Bill won't share some of the fun with the rest of them! She just wants to help, after all, and she can't help but think it's a little unfair!

But, at the end of the day, Bill is not only their friend - he is also their boss. They can make suggestions to him and influence his decisions, but they are still his subordinates. Bill's the only one really calling the shots here, but it's clear he at least cares a little about what they think and enjoy. That's why Bill tells them that he'll spend more time with them from now on, and everyone's real glad to hear it!

Bill takes the dumb little idea that he had come up with when he was conning Shooting Star and decides to create an actual time bubble. Basically, how it works, is that anything inside the bubble - in this case, the entirety of Bill's penthouse where Ford's being kept - experiences time at a different rate than anything outside of it. For now, Bill sets it up so that inside the penthouse, time passes much more quickly than it does outside. That way, he can visit Fordsy all he wants, for as many hours at a time as he feels fit, and his friends will be none the wiser.

Unsure how long he'll be gone for, he doesn't set the rate of time passage to be too high yet. He figures eight hours inside for every one hour outside is a good start. Some time alone might do Ford well, too; get him to mull over stuff a little. When he left, Bill had vaporized the stakes pinning him down and replaced them with the shackles he usually wore around his ankles so he'd have free reign of the small room. He could keep his eye on him at all times now, after all, no need to worry he'd somehow escape when he isn't looking. Hell, he'd even been nice enough to fix the holes the stakes had left in the human's wrists and ankles! Unsurprisingly, the ungrateful little worm didn't thank him, so he hadn't healed the wounds on his back. Maybe he will when he gets back, if Ford is good. By then, he should have learned his lesson.

Just to be sure that Ford doesn't die of hunger or something stupid like that, he pushes pause on the human's biological needs so that he doesn't need water or food or any of those other inconveniences.

Bill can't imagine being forced to eat and drink and sleep and all those other menial things mortals have to do just to stay alive. What a waste of time! He only really eats because some things taste good and it's a quick way to get rid of someone you don't like, he only drinks because it's fun to get hammered, and he doesn't think he's slept once in his whole life. The thought of having to do all of those things, every day, is absurd to him! So much wasted time! And, apparently, if you don't do it, you experience pain and your body breaks down just to rub it in your face? Seriously, how do humans not get annoyed with all that?

It's so much more convenient to be a god - just another reason he's got to convince Sixer to join him.

Ah, but enough about Ford - he'll surely be fine up there. Bill's got other things to focus on right now. His friends are getting impatient.

The whole event passes in a frenzied blur of laughter and chaos as the gang all hops into the Ciphermobile to fly around the entirety of Gravity Falls, wreaking havoc on everything they see. Bill's mostly been in the Fearamid for the past few days, and somehow he'd nearly forgotten how fun causing chaos outside is! There aren't many stragglers left, but any human they find is promptly strapped to the front of the vehicle like they're a part of Mad Max: The Road Warrior. Their screeches of terror as Bill purposefully maneuvers the car to make it seem like they're gonna crash just to swerve to the side just in the nick of time never get old! The pathetic mortals scream and cry and beg for Bill to stop, which just makes it more fun! Humans really are hilarious.

After remodeling the outer skirts of the town by turning all the trees into sentient monsters that all hunger for each other's flesh, leaving a bunch of bloody mulch where a forest once stood, they go to the center of town for Act II. Bill takes one look at the arcade across from the library and thinks to himself, what's one of those meaningless lifelong debates that humans are always arguing about? Books versus video games! So he asks the humans which they prefer. Only two are smart enough to answer, so he turns the others to stone and calls some eyebats to add them to the throne (which is coming along nicely, by the way!)

Bill transforms the arcade and library into fighting machines and throws one of the humans into each to force them to battle to the death. The entire spectacle lasts for a couple of highly entertaining hours - those buildings sure were durable! In the end, the arcade proves victorious, probably because it's a more recent addition to the town and older buildings tend to crumble more easily. Either way, Bill supposes that answers the question! The human who controlled the thing is completely traumatized from the fact that it had just killed another one of its kind, though, and Bill rolls his eye. So needlessly dramatic! So what if the other human was his mother? Bill did the same thing and it wasn't like HE was all hung up about it!

They take the victor back to home base and send in an eyebat to petrify the remains of the loser to add to the throne. Bill supposes that the human deserves a prize for winning, but when he looks at it he doesn't feel any incentive to reward it. It's meaningless to him. The only human who is actually capable of catching his attention is Ford. Bill wonders how he's doing - he'd forgotten to check up on him. He spares a quick glance and peers through the peephole he'd carved into Ford's back, and is relieved when he is greeted by the familiar view of the penthouse ceiling. He must be lying down on his stomach, sleeping. He can hear Ford's heartbeat, so he isn't dead.

At some point, someone - Bill doesn't remember who - suggests that the human party with them as a reward! After all, seeing the effects of the various substances that the group of interdimensional nightmares consume in order to replicate human intoxication on a mere mortal would be fun! It's a great idea. The human doesn't think so, but its opinion doesn't matter. Everyone drinks time punch to start, and the second they force some into the human's system, it's like its entire body starts to rebel against it. Fascinating! And hilarious. Most humans aren't exactly capable of consuming the stuff, after all. Fordsy's one of the only mortals Bill's met who is able to withstand its potency.

They don't even get into the good stuff before the human dies. Oh, well. They can still have fun without it. The party rages late into the night and early into the morning. At some point, Teeth had pulled a dozen or so frozen humans out of the throne and made them into a xylophone to provide the party with a live performance! Things are hazy and fun, but after a solid twelve hours of partying Bill decides to call it and leave the rest to the others. He is feeling pretty good, all things considered! Sure, he and his gang might not have the entire world yet, but they'd managed to have a good time within the small piece they've been allocated. He's also looking forward to seeing Sixer, further heightening all the nice feelings he's experiencing!

Drink in hand, he floats up through the floor of the penthouse and takes a look around. Ford's no longer in the middle of the room where he'd left him, and there's a trail of blood leading to the corner behind the flesh couch. Bill doesn't get why Sixer lays down on the floor all the time instead of the couch - it's not like the couch cares if he sits on it! Surely the cold hard ground isn't all that comfortable. The room is completely in-tact, which is interesting. Bill figured the second he allowed the human free reign, he'd trash the place as some pitiful act of rebellion. It's strange that he hadn't. His chains are slack and lay lamely across the floor.

"Hey, Sixer!" Bill calls with abundant cheer, swirling the glass he holds a little. He hopes his speech isn't too slurred. "How's it hangin'? Enjoying your makeover?"

It's silent for a while, which is nothing new. Whenever Bill appears, Ford does one of two predictable things: one, tells him to get out and insults him, or two: completely ignores him. Number two has become more commonplace as the days have gone on. Suddenly, a soft groan emanates from behind the couch. Bill blinks. Is it just him, or does the room smell like a hospital? Must be all the blood. Curious, he floats over to take a look at Ford.

He's crumpled in a miserable heap on the ground, facedown and looking absolutely awful. He's lying in a pool of his own dried blood. More concerningly, he looks like he's quite literally been attacked by some kind of rabid animal. He'd hiked his slacks up to expose his lower legs, and the skin around his ankles where the cuffs secure him is bruised and bloody like it's been beaten repeatedly with a stone in an attempt to break the shackles. Bill had been kind enough to give Ford his trench coat and turtleneck back after he was done marking up his back, but the man had apparently ripped them to shreds in some kind of manic episode. The trench coat was mostly fine, like it had been taken off normally, but the turtleneck was beyond ruined. Only a few bloody strands still stick to the open wounds on his back.

Speaking of his back, it looks very, very painful. Bill is certain that he did not look this terrible when he had left him. The skin is inflamed and his wounds are leaking a mixture of blood and other gross human bodily fluids. One of them doesn't look right, he's pretty sure there's no liquid in the human body that's pitch black. Bill wonders how these injuries appear to be even more dire than they had when he had first inflicted them.

Oh. It hits Bill then like a ton of bricks. He thought he had accounted for everything Ford needed when he paused his biological processes. After all, without hunger or thirst or other stupid mortal needs, it was impossible for Ford's condition to worsen or for him to die.

But he'd completely forgotten about infection.

An infection that Ford's been stewing in now for over twelve of Bill's hours. Twelve times eight, that's ninety-six, so that means Ford's been suffering with this for well over-

Four days.

This realization is almost enough to sober the demon up, and he quickly wills the drink he's holding out of existence as he floats closer to Ford to get a better look. He's able to determine pretty quickly that this isn't an ordinary infection. Everything this penthouse is made of comes from Bill's world, after all. The walls, the furniture, the air itself - it's all of the Nightmare Realm. Whatever's in Ford's system right now is a disease from another dimension. He grabs Ford and almost drops him instantly at how hot his skin is to the touch. His internal organs may as well be inside a slow cooker right now. Quickly, he rolls the man over to get a closer look at his face.

Ford's eyes are shut, his typically stoic expression contorted into one of extreme agony. His breathing is labored and shallow, and his typically pale skin is now flushed an unhealthy shade of red. His lips and chin are covered with a mixture of blood and the same black substance that was present on the lacerations in his back. He stirs slightly, like he's aware someone is there with him, and tries to say something, but it's so incoherent that Bill has no idea what he could possibly be trying to tell him.

Bill rests a hand on Ford's forehead. He thinks that's what humans do to determine precisely how fucked their loved ones are when they get a fever. His skin is clammy, his forehead soaked with sweat, and Bill's pretty confident that he would be able to fry an egg on the human's skull with how unbelievably hot it is. He hopes that this dumb fever hasn't had any sort of effect on Sixer's intelligence; Bill can't imagine that having your brain effectively boiled is a very psychologically healthy exercise.

"Well, would you look at that! The haughty Stanford Pines, Mister Immune-To-Pain and I-Have-No-Weakness, reduced to a braindead infant because of a little fever! How the mighty have fallen," Bill chides, hoping that he'll get a reaction.

He doesn't.

"Open your eyes," he tells the human. Ford just groans in response, but Bill doesn't sense any defiance when he doesn't do what Bill says. He's genuinely too out of it to understand what's going on. Even when he's reduced to burning meat that is incapable of operating his own flesh suit, Ford remains as annoying and uncooperative as ever.

Bill grows a third arm and pries the human's right eye open himself. There's not a trace of the fiery determination that typically occupies Ford's gaze in his glassy, blown-out pupil. Bill is in front of his vision, but with the way Ford is looking through him, he doesn't seem to recognize him at all. Sixer has the eyes of a dead man walking; eyes devoid of any sort of spirit.

He's about to snap his fingers and vanquish the sickness from Ford's system, since there's no way ol' Sixer is going to be able to give him the equation when he isn't even fully coherent, when the man weakly grabs his wrist, keeping it in place on his forehead. He's mumbling something, and it takes Bill a minute to understand.

It had taken Ford a little while to realize something was seriously wrong.

It started with a little discomfort in the back of his throat and nose, the same feeling that he typically got before the onset of a cold or flu. A little concerning, since he knew he had several open, untreated wounds on his back, but he never expected it to get that bad.

Within a couple of hours, Ford began to hallucinate. He lost feeling in the tips of his fingers and toes, an unpleasant sensation that was reminiscent of that which occurred after he slept on his arm all night. He began giggling uncontrollably, the walls contorting around him. He began to see colors that were unlike any he'd ever seen before. He thought he was swimming, treading water, so light and floaty. He wasn't sure how long that phase lasted, but when he came to, all of the lightness came crashing down into a suffocating heaviness that left him drained and unable to move. He was so disoriented, too dizzy and nauseous to keep his eyes open, so he shut them.

Then he broke out in a horrible sweat. He began coughing up blood. His numb fingers and toes began to spasm uncontrollably, and everything hurt. The tingling numbness spread to his hands and feet, and Ford went under again before he could try and take any preventative measures and stop the numbness from spreading further. In his next bout of coherency, it had already spread to the entirety of his arms and legs.

He was overheating way too much - he thought he might die! He shed his trench coat but his shoulders were still dislocated and he couldn't lift his arms above his head to take off his sweater. He doesn't remember ripping the thing to shreds but he must have at some point out of desperation just to cool down a little. Then he laid flat on the floor, trying to soak up any of the coolness he could from the ground, but it wasn't enough! He wasn't sure when he stopped becoming aware of his surroundings altogether.

There was a long time of just nothing. He couldn't open his eyes without feeling like he would pass out, so he had nothing to see. The room - he thought maybe he was in a room when this started - was too silent, so he had nothing to hear. He was completely numb now, so he had nothing to feel. The taste of his own blood, once disgusting and unbearable, had become stale to him. Even breathing hurt. There was nothing at all for many hours; nothing but the sensation of his heartrate slowing with each passing moment.

And then, after so much of that horrible nothingness, suddenly there was something! A voice was talking to him - "Sixer" - wait, that sounded familiar. What's a Sixer again? Ah, right - Stanley called him that all the time. Did that mean that Stanley had finally come back from school? Maybe he could help him, because Ford really needed help right now. Ford called out for his brother, asking him to open a window or something because it's so hot in here, but all the words he thought he was saying fell flat into a single, miserable noise.

Whoa. Suddenly, something had rolled him over. He didn't like that - he was comfy the way he was and now he felt all dizzy again. He didn't want to throw up on his brother, so he forced the nausea down. He tried again to ask Stan to open a window, because it was way too hot. Could he get an ice pack too if it wasn't too much to ask?

Stan's hand was placed on his forehead. It's so nice and cold, it's nothing short of heaven compared to the blistering heat all around and inside of him. Wait - no, that's wrong, because Stan wasn't there anymore. He'd gotten kicked out after he destroyed Ford's project. Who is the one touching him? Ford recalled his mom checking for a fever in the exact same way a few times. This must be his mom, then.

Mom. He missed her. It felt like it'd been so long since he saw her. Could she maybe open a window? Get him an ice pack? He tried to say all of these things, but his mouth wouldn't open.

His mom started talking to him again. Ford knew that she was talking, but he grew frustrated as his exhausted brain failed to register what she was saying. It wasn't fair, why couldn't he understand? All he wanted was a little cool air, was it really so much to ask for? Why did everything have to be so damn complicated all the time?

Something was bright for a moment. Not good! Ford prefers the dark - not only does it prevent him from becoming dizzy again, but it's also easier to hide in. He figured that maybe he's had to do a lot of hiding in dark places, but he couldn't be sure. Doesn't matter now - the light was gone as soon as it came.

Then the cold hand on his forehead tried to pull away. No! No! Don't leave. Please, don't leave Ford alone again! He didn't think he could stand being alone in the nothingness again - surely, he'd die! It took all the energy he had been storing up from resting the past several days to grab his mom's wrist.

Help me, please. Don't leave me here. Everyone always leaves me - for once, can't you just stay? Stay here, stay here and help me!

The hand twitches when Ford thinks this, or maybe he says it out loud, he isn't sure. He isn't really sure of anything in the moment besides the fact that he just needs someone to be with him. His head is full of cotton and all he can hear is the blood flowing through his veins, but he thinks that having something to focus on besides the heat and the agony is helping to ground him a little. Weakly, he clutches his mother's wrist for as long as he possibly can before his energy reserves run out and his arm falls limply to his side again. He's done all he can, he just has to hope that she'll stay without him keeping her here.

He's overjoyed when his mom places a second ice-cold hand on his cheek, and follows it with a third on its opposite. If he had the energy, he would smile at how good it feels. He can feel a frigid coolness spreading outward from where his mom is touching him, providing him with more relief than he thinks he's ever experienced in his entire life. He's starting to feel like a person again.

Thank you. Thank you! Feels so good.

His mother's fourth hand reaches into his sweat-slicked hair to scratch at his scalp. That feels even better than the hands against his face. He's been longing for any form of human contact for so long now, having been alone with nothing but the fire boiling him alive from the inside out. It feels like it's been forever since anyone's given him any sort of affection, which isn't fair because Ford likes affection! Why does he never get any?

The coldness feels nice, but it cannot stop the despair that slowly blooms in Ford's chest as his thoughts wander. Why doesn't he get any attention? What did he do wrong to deserve so much pain? Why doesn't anyone ever love him?

It's okay, Fordsy! I'm here now. You don't need any of those worthless fools to love you when you have me.

Yes... yes, that sounds correct. His mom loves him, right? She may not have expressed it all that much, but at the end of the day, Ford knows that she still cares about him! Even if he hadn't grown up to become the millionaire that she had once thought he would be, he is still her son.

So why does that statement feel so... off?

Ford trembles. His mother feels so far away, like her love for him existed a lifetime ago. He feels so alone, all the time, and she's never there, is she? Where has she been? If she really loved him, then why does it feel like she's been gone for decades? Is it even possible to love someone if you've been apart for that long? Some part of Ford - a part that, for some reason, he tries to tune out - assures him that it is.

He's sad. Ford thinks that maybe he's always sad, but for once he's actually showing it by - oh, no, he's not crying, is he? He feels tears streaming down his cheeks. No, that can't be right - he isn't allowed to cry! He isn't allowed to show any kind of weakness, it's dangerous! He needs to get himself under control, but he can't stop himself; in that moment, the despair is too great for him to suppress.

Luckily, his mom is there with him to wipe his tears away and remove the evidence of his embarrassing weakness. She pets him as he cries and licks his tears away.

Wait, is that right?

People don't usually do that, do they?

And... when did his mother get so many hands?

There is a moment of whiplash-inducing horror that freezes him in place, and Ford feels like he's about to break free of whatever weird voodoo has been stifling his lucidity for a while now, but then the feverish haze rolls over him again and he forgets what was wrong in the first place. So what if his mom has a couple extra hands? He himself has extra fingers, and it would be hypocritical for him to think she's weird.

You don't need anyone else. You're mine, and you're wonderful. You're so good, Fordsy, do you know that?

Okay... okay, that makes sense. He supposes that he... Wait, he's good? He- he's always wanted to be good, to be enough. He thinks that maybe he was enough for someone once, but he can't remember, and thinking about it too hard just makes him sad again... Like subconsciously, he doesn't want to.

Yes, good. And smart, too. You're gonna change the world, smart guy. Do you wanna change the world with me?

Good. Smart. It hurts his face, but Ford can't stop the small, weak smile that quickly forms as he repeats those words to himself over and over.

Good. Smart. A hand rakes through his hair, delivering coolness straight to his brain alongside the praise. He's very happy.

Good. Smart. This feels familiar.

Good. Smart.

Do you want some water, Fordsy?

Yes. Yes, yes, yes! A million times yes! He would love some water - more than anything in the world! His heartrate increases tenfold at the prospect of having a refreshing glass of water; he thinks he'll cry of happiness! Please, please, can he have some water? It's been so long!

Ford murmurs a half-coherent sound of gratitude when he feels someone tilt his head forward and press a glass to his lips. It's actually happening! He's actually going to get something to drink! He's so thankful, what has he done to deserve this? He accepts the drink, and the second the cold water hits his tongue, Ford is sure that he's died and gone to heaven. There is no way that anything in the history of existence has ever felt as relieving as the feeling of having this very sip of water. He greedily gulps down the water he's so graciously given, but he must have done it too quickly because suddenly he starts coughing up blood and water and - not the water! He can't cough up the water, he needs that!

Someone assures him that it's alright, and he feels them press the glass to his lips again. This time, he's forced to drink it slowly so he doesn't cough or throw up, which Ford thinks is nonsense! Ford doesn't care if he throws up, he needs water and he needs it now! Now that he's had a sip, he can't stop until his thirst has been quenched completely. His mother clearly doesn't understand his point of view though, and doesn't allow him to drink any quicker.

Eventually, Ford finishes the water in the cup. He's become nearly loopy with happiness, but it's mixed in with dissatisfaction because he's still so thirsty. The water is good, but it's not enough!

You want more?

Yes, he would love more, please and thank you!

Ford smiles when the cupped hands are once again lifted to his lips and - wait, hands? Ford thought he was drinking out of a glass. At this point, Ford's beyond caring, though; he'd drink from a damn sewer if it means he can just have a bit more water to chase the fever away. He accepts the water without a second thought, savoring every last drop.

Ford chases the hands as they pull away. He's so grateful! He had wanted water for so long now, and having received it is nothing less than a dream come true. Thank you, Mom. Thank you! She does so much for him - she always has. He appreciates it very much. He doesn't get to say it much, but he loves her.

There is a brief pause, and then a snicker. Ford wonders what could be funny, then he smiles, too, because he wants to laugh! Then he giggles. He doesn't know what's so funny, but whatever it is, it's hilarious! He feels so giddy with relief, so content with the fact that he's not alone anymore. He hums happily and embraces the affection he's finally being given. He feels a little more level-headed now that he's got some water into his system. Not much, but a little. A tiny bit more like himself.

Is that right? You love me, Sixer?

Yes, he replies. The hand petting his hair suddenly coils around his curls with a painfully tight grip. Ford's a little unnerved at this - did he do something wrong? He doesn't think he did, he doesn't think -

...He doesn't think. The misty fog descends upon his brain again and all his anxiety is gone. All he feels is floaty and full of cotton. Pain and heat and numbness, too, but less now.

I want you to prove that you love me, Stanford, can you do that?

Yes, he supposes he can. He would like some more water, though. The fever has already burned through what he was given mere moments before, and he's starting to feel horrible again.

Of course! You can have all the water you'd like. I just need you to do one tiny thing for me.

Okay. Ford can do that. After all, they've done so much for him; it's only fair he does a favor for them in return.

"Give me the equation."

Chapter Text

Ford experiences a sensation of loss, like he is searching for a word which he knows the meaning of, but does not know its name. He knows that the word exists; it is on the tip of his tongue, on the brink of being formed. However, no matter how hard he tries to formulate it, it does not articulate.

The equation... that sounds familiar. Ford's submerged in a sea of haziness that does not allow him to rise up for air, suffocating him and preventing him from making connections. What equation?

He is supposed to know this. If he wasn't so out of it, he's sure he'd be frustrated with his inability to figure it out - his inability to formulate the word he's so desperately trying to convey the meaning of.

Time stretches for a few seconds, and there exists a palpable tension that Ford is capable of picking up on but one he cannot associate with anything.

And then it clicks.

In the very next instant, Ford is sure that the fever he has been suffering through for what has surely been no less than an eternity has completely, inexplicably vanished. It must have, because there is no other explanation for the way he feels as though the floor beneath him has suddenly disappeared, plummeting him directly into a pool of ice water that renders the blood in his veins frozen and his heartbeat stagnant. The icy sensation penetrates his skin and shocks him straight to the bone, enough of a shock that all of the suffocating heat that's been oppressing his intellect is abruptly wrenched from his system.

Despite the action of opening his eyes having delivered nothing but nausea to him ever since this whole thing started, Ford forces his eyes open, blatant horror adorning them, a horror so obvious that it may as well be written on his irises for his captor to read.

His vision is blurry and unfocused and everything is too bright, all shape and no form, but he doesn't need full clarity to be able to recognize the glowing silhouette of a familiar figure occupying the majority of his view.

Bill beams with smugness as he greets him, never ceasing his ministrations.

"Hiya, smart guy!"

Ford was sure a moment ago that he had expended all of his energy on grabbing the wrist of-... on lifting his arm, but it is with a sudden burst of sheer willpower that he musters everything he has to abruptly fling himself out of the demon's hold. He hits the ground hard, the numbness still afflicting his body preventing him from feeling the stabbing pain that comes alongside the movement which had reopened some of the lacerations on his back.

Surprisingly, Bill lets Ford go, watching as he rolls onto his stomach and heaves several painful breaths with the exertion such a sharp movement has cost him, coughing up some of the precious water he'd just - from Bill's hands -!

"Easy there, buddy!" Bill starts, and Ford doesn't hear the rest of whatever nonsense he's spewing over the ringing that assaults his ears. He grits his teeth and grimaces. That little maneuver really took everything out of him, but he does not regret it in the slightest. He will resist no matter what it takes, even as his traitorous body mourns the loss of the ice-cold touches he had been receiving moments ago.

Bill is asking him something, he thinks. It's too hard to focus. He's quickly slipping back under the feverish veil of fog that dulls his senses and degrades his mentality, and Ford can only hope to whatever god there may be that some primal part of him will remember that it's Bill who is with him and refuse to accept whatever twisted affection he offers next.

A snap of Bill's fingers, and Ford gasps as the fever dissolves instantaneously. The relief is so spontaneous and unbelievably potent that he cries out in sheer mitigation - he knew that he had been drowning, but he was not aware of just how far underwater he had sunken until Bill had pulled him up for air. He feels so much better now, more mentally capable, he's himself again!

Although, the return of his senses has brought with it the reminder that he is still in excruciating physical pain, the numbness having been sapped from him all at once. He is crippled for a few moments, falling limp as his body tries to readjust to the agony that was once familiar, and then replaced with a temporary reprieve that was equally hellish in nature. He takes a few moments to begrudgingly acclimate to the various distressing sensations that he thought he was rid of, focusing on the pain to bring it to the forefront of his mind.

He breathes into it. It wakes him up, sweeps the last traces of the disease from his system, and grounds him in his situation. The pain refills him with the cold determination and spite that has been fueling his will to continue ever since he first arrived here. His reunion with the pain is a bittersweet one.

Ford uses his newfound defiance to lift his head and glare hatefully at the creature occupying the room with him.

"Aw, don't look so sour, Fordsy! You can't blame a guy for trying!" Comes his infuriating response. Ford's fists clench with the overpowering want to tear the demon's eye out with his own twelve fingers. How dare Bill stoop that low! To make him feel happy for once, to feed him validation with the sole intention of using him - again! - it fills Ford with a type of anger that is so much different than that which he's held for Bill up until this point.

Ford's anger has always been cold in temperature. A type of anger that is deeply condensed in on itself, tightly compacted and firmly under wraps like a neutron star. An anger composed primarily of calloused intellect, but driven by emotion and spirit. Ford has heard that the majority of people compare anger to fire, to something that is red-hot and burning and beyond control. He had never understood such a thing until this very moment.

It's like his control is wrested away from him and replaced with this writhing, blazing ball of violent intent that spreads through his entire brain like a powerful infection. It takes over every single part of his mind. Everything that makes him a scientist burns away under the sheer heat of his deep-seated rage. Logic. Intellect. The ability to plan ahead and act accordingly. All of these things are things that Ford has prided himself with, and they are stripped from him abruptly and replaced with something that can only be described as sheer fury.

Ford becomes more animal than human when this wrath strikes him.

If his typical anger is reminiscent of a neutron star, then this must be a supernova.

Ford grinds his teeth, this sensation - it's - he can't control himself, and that terrifies him! He needs to calm down, get himself under control somehow. He has a bit of sense still in him and he uses it to fight the urge to give in as hard as he can, tries to keep himself from devolving into a boiling frenzy of pure rage. Be rational. Have some sense. He's a scientist - he didn't get this far by being some sort of primitive beast! He needs to focus - breathe, calm down, don't let him get under your skin - and not completely lose it.

"You are deluded," Ford begins through gritted teeth, each word punched out of him as he trembles with the effort to not snap. "If you think that you can butter me up and expect me to fall for your tricks again! I will DIE before I give you even one bit of that equation! It doesn't matter WHAT you do, Bill! Torture me, infect me, carve me up, I don't care! I'm never giving you anything, so you may as well give up, go back to your piece of shit dimension, and figure something else out!"

Bill chuckles mockingly, clearly unaffected by Ford's growing anger. "Sheesh, Stanford! A guy can't catch a break, can he? I mean, look at you! You were writhing around on the ground like a pitiful little animal until I came along. I fix you up nice and good and this is the thanks I get? You really don't appreciate all the effort I go through for your pathetic, mortal self," he chides as he hovers in place, lingering intoxication causing him to waver occasionally, and Ford grits his teeth and seethes.

Ford steels his nerves and takes a deep, controlled breath. He tends to his anger like a boiling pot of water that must constantly be stirred to be kept from bubbling over. "You seriously expect me to thank you for healing me? You- you are seriously deranged! You captured me, tortured me, and have kept me prisoner in this hellscape for God knows how long now - not to mention everything you did thirty years ago - and you think I'm going to be grateful for you doing the first decent thing in your life as some last resort to try and manipulate me!?" He's shouting now, his nails digging crescent-shaped incisions into his palms as he clenches his fists, drawing blood. He must not look very intimidating right now, half-dead and bloody on the floor, but he sure hopes that his words reach some part of Bill.

Bill laughs at this, and liquid fury shoots up Ford's spine. Still, the bubbling water does not boil over yet. "The way I see it, Fordsy," he starts, nonchalant as ever, "I'm giving you the opportunity of a lifetime here! You know, I really meant it when I suggested that you join me! What good has this lousy dimension ever done for you anyway, huh? It never wanted you! You said it yourself - nobody loves you here!"

Don't let him get to you. Ford repeats this, tries to drown out Bill's words with the ones he's repeating in his mind, but it isn't working.

Bill continues. "Nobody wants you here, Ford. You know that as much as I do - you're worthless. Your life here's been one disappointment after the other, hasn't it? All of the pointless stuff you think you're protecting by resisting me? Oho, none of it cares at all! I'm being kind enough to give you a chance to be something better, Sixer - just give me that equation and we'll show everyone who's boss! You and me, just like the good old days! I know you miss working by my side, IQ. Even though I'm not in your mind, I can still read you like a book!"

It's manipulation. Don't listen to him. Ford trembles, holding himself together as best he can, armfuls of self-restraint that are constantly slipping from his grip and forcing him to readjust. Each new word Bill utters adds more and more weight to what he's holding, making it harder to resist breaking entirely.

"I'll even let you in on a little secret, kid, because I like you a whole lot!" He continues, "Listen carefully, because it's the best-kept secret in the history of the universe!" Bill finally pauses his long-winded string of deplorable reasoning to give Ford a tense stare. His tone changes ever so subtly with his next sentence; a tinge of deadpan behind his typically high-strung, energetic intonation.

"Nothing," he states, "Matters!"

A beat passes, and Ford narrows his eyes.

"Don't you get it, Fordsy? It doesn't matter what happens after you give me that equation! It doesn't matter if the world is destroyed! It doesn't matter if you feel guilty afterward! It doesn't matter who dies! None of it matters!" Bill closes his eye and gives a light chuckle, the occasional falter in his hovering more blatant now. "It's all meaningless, Ford! The universe is gonna end anyway, and everyone you love is eventually gonna die! Everything comes to an end, so you may as well have as much fun as you can while it lasts! And trust me, you're looking at the king of fun-having!"

When Bill opens his eye again, he regards Ford with an expression that the human cannot read. "Give up, Stanford. The only thing you're achieving by resisting me is more suffering. You and I both know this dimension means nothing to you - hell, you've seen thousands of others! Stop fighting. Just give me the equation."

Ford does not even know how to begin to process everything Bill has just said to him. It's so much information in so little time, information that his hungry brain would typically be eager to break down and inspect if he were in the right state of mind right now, but he's still incredibly angry. Instead of taking the time to meticulously pick apart Bill's twisted reasoning, he simply responds with steady, controlled distaste.

"No," he states flatly. "This dimension may have mistreated me, it may have disappointed me, and I may have seen thousands of others. You are correct about all of that," he begins. Bill narrows his eye, clearly not having expected further resistance. "But this isn't about me, Cipher. You're selfish, so I don't expect you to understand, but this dimension means everything to other people. Innocent people, people who don't deserve to have their world ended. You told me yourself that you had your dimension destroyed by a monster. Do you think the people here want the same thing to happen to them?" He spits, hatefully.

By the end of his speech, the look in Bill's eye has changed entirely. It is one that Ford's never seen before, and it's unsettling. He's seen a lot of Cipher's looks, from mockery, to anger, to satanic glee, but he's never seen anything like the look he's getting right now. His skin covers in goosebumps. The only way Ford can begin to describe Bill's expression is to compare it to the eye of a hurricane, like he's just said something he shouldn't have and all hell is about to break loose. A deceitful front of calm, pasted carefully over crazed mania borne of barely-contained rage.

Uncharacteristically, the demon has not said a word. Then, he begins shaking, and Ford thinks maybe for a second he's stepped out of line - (how ludicrous a thought; he's stepped out of line? Bill's the one who's destroyed any sort of line in the first place!) but then he starts violently laughing.

Bill doubles over in laughter, sloppily summoning a cane to lean his weight on. It must be for show, because Bill does not need to support himself on anything when he's floating weightlessly in the air. The sight sends another bout of fury through Ford's form, why the hell is he laughing!? Ford's being deathly serious here, and he was under the impression Bill was too!

"What's so funny!?" He snaps, propping himself up firmly on his elbows despite how his shoulders protest with sharp pain. What could possibly be so funny right now? Ford is sure that he is being mocked, which is attrocious considering the conversation that they were just having!

Bill's laughter dies down eventually, and he regards Ford with manic cheer, his tone slightly forceful like rage drives each word from him. "What a cute sentimentality, Stanford - it's a shame I don't give a damn! You really think that I can't get that equation out of you? News flash, smart guy: I'm a god now, and not just the one you made me out to be!"

"You're all talk!" Ford snaps back. "Even your power has limits, Bill. You can lie and bluff all you want; I know the only way you can really get the equation out of me is through a deal we both agree to! If there were any other way, you wouldn't have tried playing dirty just now!"

"Oho, you sure sound confident, Sixer - it's real cute, considering the fact that you don't know anything about me or my power at all!" Bill cackles, looking vastly pleased with himself. "How's about I prove you wrong, huh?"

Ford narrows his eyes, he knows Bill is bluffing. If there was another way, then surely, there would be no need for all of... this. All of the horrific nonsense that Ford's been forced to go through for the past... week? Weeks? Surely, it's been more than a week at this point, but he cannot truly be sure. If there was another way for Bill to get the equation, he wouldn't have wasted all this time drawing things out. He would've just snatched it up by now.

"A snap of my fingers is all it'll take for me to pump enough truth serum into your bloodstream to get that equation a thousand times over! You wanna test me so bad, Fordsy? I'll do it right now!"" He remarks cheerfully, dangerously, and Ford glares at him.

Truth serum... He'd been subjected to that before, during his early portal years. It had very nearly ended disastrously, and so Ford had taken it upon himself to slowly build immunity to a variety of the things he predicted would prove to be troublesome down the line. Truth serum was just one of the many substances he had tediously incorporated into his system over months and years, building a decent amount of resistance to it in the process.

He knows he can withstand a lot - certainly more than the average human can, but there's no telling how potent Bill's truth serum is, whether it's even the same formula as the one he has immunity to, or how much of it he'll be forced to ingest.

"It won't work," Ford growls. "I have-"

"Immunity? You sure about that? Well then, why don't we see for ourselves!"

Truthfully, Ford is not at all confident in his supposed immunity; he's had the ability to test out his resistance against most of the other stuff he'd acclimated his body to, but never the truth serum. He worries, deep down - under a thousand layers of stony resolve and unwavering confidence - that perhaps Bill may indeed have found a way to one-up him.

He shuts his eyes as Bill raises an arm and poises his fingers to snap, preparing for a burst of the unwanted essence to flood into his bloodstream and render his only defense useless...

...Which, surprisingly, never comes.

There's a moment or perhaps three of dead silence, before Ford cracks open an eye warily to see what the hold-up could possibly be. Is Bill just toying with him?

No, he's... Bill is-...

He's looking at him with a look of pure, animalistic terror. He's looking both at Ford and through him, his middle finger atop his thumb, quite literally a hair's width away from snapping. Why... is Bill looking at him like that? What happened?

Ford knows that despite not knowing what's going on, he should feel accomplished and happy, because he must have done something that's messed with Bill's plans. If the demon looks this disturbed, then surely, something bad - and therefore, good by Ford's standards - must have happened to him. But he doesn't feel happy, he feels...

...Concerned.

Ford tries very hard not to acknowledge the part of him that wants to ask Bill what's wrong, and not in a smug, taunting way. He wants to ask him what's wrong so he can help - a question bone of genuine concern from the remnants of something that should have died thirty years ago.

Then he blinks and Bill is back to normal, all smiles and false bravado. The only noticeable difference between the Bill of the current moment and the one in the previous is that his speech has lost its slightly slurred quality, like whatever sort of alcohol he had consumed has had its effects spontaneously wiped.

Ford wonders if Bill was actually looking at him like that, or if he was just imagining things.

"You know what, I change my mind! I'd rather you give me that equation yourself after all. It'll be worth it to see the look in your eyes when you betray your entire dimension for me, just like I've always known you would!" Bill suddenly decides, crossing his arms and closing his eye with apparent self-satisfaction.

Ford is too weirded out by Bill's complete change in demeanor to respond, nor to say anything as the demon abruptly flies through the wall, apparently in a rush to leave.

What Bill does not mention to Ford is that he did try the truth serum on him.

He had snapped his fingers and instantly, it was administered into the infuriating human's system, rushing painfully through his veins alongside his blood. (It wasn't usually painful, but Bill added that in as a nice little treat since Ford had been so difficult.)

Ford doubled over (considerably more than he already was), wincing as he felt it breaching his system. It only took a moment for him to regain his footing and glare furiously up at the demon, twitching as his useless meat sack vainly tried to break down the compounds of the potent substance infiltrating his person.

"Now, Fordsy," Bill started cheerfully. "How does that feel? Are you still confident in your so-called immunity?"

"Not really, no," Ford admitted before he could stop himself. His eyes widened in horror. "I don't- you- I didn't want you to know that!"

Bill cackled - this was hilarious! As much as he wanted to drag this out as long as possible, humiliate Ford as much as he can before making him give up that equation, he'd already been waiting for days, rendering his already thin patience is near nonexistent.

"You should see the look on your face! It's priceless!" He commented between giggles, watching as Ford grit his teeth in frustration before he decided to get straight to the point. "Now, would you be a dear and give me the equation?"

Ford was resisting, he shut his eyes in concentration as he tried to focus on not blurting out the equation that was currently at the forefront of his mind. He began to sweat. "There are lots of equations, Bill. You'll have to be more specific."

He was trying to draw it out, the poor, pitiful thing. It wouldn't work, though. "The equation I need to break the barrier around Gravity Falls! The one keeping the weirdness in! You know that one, Fordsy, don't you?" He asked, enjoying this far too much.

Ford shook his head violently, trying to indicate that he did not. "Yes, I know it," he said anyway.

"Why don't you give it to me? I promise I'll make it worth your while!"

"I don't want to," Ford replied. He was trembling violently on the floor, focusing as hard as he can on resisting the serum, but his body could not break it down quickly enough.

While watching Ford squirm was fun and all, Bill's not known for his patience! He raised a hand and guided Ford's head off the ground so that he's looking at him. He wanted to watch his face as he gave up what he had been working so hard to protect.

"What is the equation? Say it out loud," Bill demanded, locking eyes with his captive.

Ford's face transformed into an expression of helpless panic as he began to do exactly as Bill requested. His hands instantly flew up to cover his mouth, but Bill snagged his wrists and yanked them away from his face, forcing him to continue.

The panic in Ford's eyes only grew for half a second more, before he did the only thing he could think of in that moment, and promptly bit his own tongue off.

Bill released his hold on the human's wrists and leaned back to cackle at the hilarious display. Ford lurched forward to catch himself on his hands, blood spilling from his lips as he spat out his severed tongue. His idiotic plan may have worked and delayed the inevitable for a moment, but that wasn't going to stop Bill.

"Wowza, I've got to hand it to ya, Fordsy - I wasn't expecting you to go that far!" Bill mused as he watched Ford's mouth continue to overflow with blood. The human scrunched his face in pain, flinching as Bill scratched his head with amusement, like rewarding a dog after it's done a cute trick. "But that ain't enough to stop me! Or yourself, in this case."

Bill snapped his fingers and Ford's tongue reappeared, good as new. The human, still in shock over what he had just done to his own body, was not able to react for a moment, only coming back to reality when Bill prompted him again. "Now, I want you to be good and repeat yourself from the beginning. What's the equation keeping me in?"

Ford followed instructions and started over. As expected, the second he opened his mouth, he once again attempted to cover it with his hands. And, once again, Bill grabbed his wrists and held them tight to his sides. Once again, Ford bit his tongue off, prompting an irritated sigh from Bill. He let go of his prisoner to pull away and observe Ford's desperate attempt to appear defiant despite being in excruciating pain.

"You know, I'm starting to get real tired of this, Stanford." With another snap of his fingers, Ford's tongue returned. This time, the human skipped the first step of their do-si-do, going straight to biting his own tongue off rather than covering his mouth. Fortunately, Bill had the foresight to get rid of his teeth this time, so Ford did not succeed in his pitiful attempt. He may have sounded a little stupid, but it was better than him not giving Bill the equation at all.

What happened next only took a second, at most. Who would have thought that a single second could hold the power to change so much? Certainly not Bill.

Ford seemed to come to a realization as to what had happened, and his expression morphed into one Bill had only ever had the pleasure of seeing once before; one of pure, utter terror and desperation. The only other instance in which Bill had seen Ford had wear this expression was when he was first being sucked into his own portal thirty years ago. Helpless, desperate, unable to do anything at all to prevent his fate.

Except Ford didn't give up then, and he sure as hell wasn't going to give up now.

His expression then transformed into one of determination, but it was vastly different from the determined looks Bill typically received from him. He'd come to know Ford's determined looks as ones fueled by hatred and adrenaline, spirited and fiery, all narrowed eyes and bitter frowns. But the look he wore now was vastly different; a look of cold resignation. The look of a pilot on the verge of committing kamikaze, taking out the enemy alongside himself.

Ford's arms reached up in a sad attempt to cover his mouth again. Silly Fordsy, wouldn't he ever learn? If that didn't work before, then why would it now? Bill's hands flew out to try and grasp Ford's wrists, but he faltered when it became apparent that Ford was not aiming for his mouth.

He was aiming for his-

A horrible sound rang throughout the small penthouse.

In that instant, Stanford Pines snapped his own neck. The uneasy flow of his hoarse voice citing the equation was replaced with a sickening crack - Bill never knew that a noise could sound so horrific - and then a thud as his lifeless body fell unceremoniously to the ground.

Bill blinked, dumbfounded. What just happened?

He had yet to process the whole ordeal, so he dumbly asked the still-warm body of Ford, "Huh?"

There was no response. Bill's eye was fixated on his captive, lying motionlessly in a pool of the blood which had been spilling from his mouth only seconds earlier. He could not detect a heartbeat, could not hear the blood throbbing as it flowed through his veins, could not taste the vicious mixture of fear and hate and pure spirit that had become commonplace in the air whenever he was in Ford's presence.

"Fordsy?"

Bill isn't sure what happened after that.

One second he was next to Ford's dead body, and then the next he was- he was-

Either two hours or two centuries had passed in the time it had taken Bill to regain his senses. When he came to, everything was mangled and unrecognizable beyond repair. Where the hell was he? Was this even Gravity Falls anymore? He couldn't even locate where the penthouse had been.

He vaguely recalled the screams of his friends as he incinerated every single one of them. He felt no joy nor sadness in doing so.

The landscape was unrecognizable. Had... had he done this? What happened? Where was everybody? What year was it? Where was Ford? There was blood on his hands, but he was unsure as to whose it was. It did not smell like Ford's.

There was no one around. He was alone... again. Then again, had he ever really stopped being alone? Sure, he had friends and millions of pathetic lifeforms who answered to him, but he was... It didn't feel any less lonely. The only time he didn't feel as terribly lonely was when he was- when he was with-

Nonsense! He may have been alone, but he was not lonely! There is a huge difference, and he doesn't need anyone! None of them mattered to him, right? He didn't need them. Bill succeeded in convincing himself of this, but then he remembered something:

He can control time.

If he were to go back and never give Ford that stupid serum in the first place, then all of this... It would never have happened. Everything would be back to normal, and no one would ever know. Ford wouldn't -

He wouldn't lose Ford again. He'd already lost him once before, but now, he could go back and prevent it from happening a second time. He had to, there was no other option, because he-

No, he does not need Ford, but-...

He had to stop. There would be time for him to think about all of that later. For now, he had to set things straight.

Shakily, Bill rewound time.

Chapter Text

Ford knows that he is dreaming.

When Bill had first invaded Ford's dream back at the Mystery Shack a couple weeks prior, (had it been that long yet? It feels as though it's been much longer...) the human had staved off sleeping for several nights while he researched a way to brew a dreamless sleep potion. While it was true that Bill could not inflict real physical damage in a dream, Ford did not want any contact between them regardless. What use would it be for them to speak anyway? Bill would only try to manipulate him - not to mention the abundance of complications between them which remained better off unsaid.

It had been difficult finding both the time and means to acquire the recipe and then the ingredients for the potion. Not only was he becoming progressively more sleep-deprived, but figuring out a way to seal up the crack that had begun to splinter across the surface of the rift took up much more of his time. It wasn't really a surprise to him that with all of that stress, when he did eventually get everything he needed to brew the potion, he must have botched the recipe somehow, because the dreams didn't stop after he took it. On the contrary, the only thing that the potion prevented was the scientist's ability to lucid dream.

Lucid dreaming was a skill that he had forced himself to learn in his early days beyond the portal. It was very useful; sleeping was a luxury that he did not often have the time for, and whenever he did sleep, he simply used his ability to continue his work on drafting up blueprints for a weapon to defeat Bill with while dreaming. Stan surely would have poked fun at him for not even giving himself a break while he slept, but it paid off. He was able to come up with several scientific breakthroughs during a time in which he typically would be accomplishing nothing at all.

Somehow, the potion had taken this ability from him. Since he'd consumed it, he had continued to remain aware of when he was dreaming, but frustratingly, he could not control anything. This, paired with the events occurring in reality, led to frequent nightmares. Despite Ford knowing that they weren't real, they terrified him and made him dread sleeping at all. Ford had meant to do some more testing with the potion, figure out exactly what he had done wrong and if there were any side effects, but he didn't have time to before Weirdmageddon began.

At the very least, Bill hasn't reappeared in his dreams since he created the potion. Given the demon's strange obsession with him, Ford's sure he would be haunting his dreams right now if he were able. Thus, he had concluded that, for whatever reason, the potion made his dreams Bill-proof. No matter how many nightmares he suffers through, at the very least, they are the products of his own psyche and not Bill's shenanigans.

For the first time in a long while, Ford finds himself having a pleasant dream instead of a nightmare. He's on a beach, the same one he and Stanley used to play on when they were kids so very long ago. He sits idly on a familiar old swing set, his hands, untouched by burns and scars, wrapped around the chains - don't think about the fact that you're the one in chains in reality - that connect the swing he's on to the bar up top.

It's a pleasant day out, feels like late summer, autumn mere days away. The sky is decorated with strings of clouds that stretch out and cloak the entire landscape with a faded, pastel gleam, like a polaroid from an old camera. The sun hangs low in the sky, unbelievably bright and beautiful after Ford hasn't seen it in weeks, and he can feel the warm rays upon his skin, which is no longer marred with the burns he'd acquired during Bill's shock therapy. If he had to guess, he'd say it must be four-thirty in the afternoon; only an hour later and he and Stanley would have been called back home by their parents.

He kicks off the sand, which feels just as coarse as it did sixty years ago, and the swing begins a gentle rhythm. There are so many lovely things to take in here; the sand under his bare feet, the slight sea breeze upon his exposed arms, (how long has it been since he's worn anything other than a turtleneck?) how he can smell the ocean in the surrounding air and taste salt on his lips. It's so convincing that Ford is tempted to just slip into the dream forever; forget about real life and enjoy the brief respite while it lasts.

The breeze flows through his hair and it feels amazing. He thinks that if he ever gets out of Bill's demented playpen, he'll go to the beach again. The feeling of the ocean draft caressing his hair, soft sand giving beneath him as he digs his toes into it... these are things that he took for granted as a kid. He promises to himself that if he ever gets to experience these simple comforts again, he will never undermine them again.

For once, Ford is grateful that he doesn't have control over his dreams anymore. It's a lot more immersive when he can't simply shift the landscape at will, like he's actually back to a happier time in his life. Like the seagulls chirping over the crash of waves in the distance are actually real. Like this place still exists and it is not one simply scattered across faded memories. A place devoid of pain, of impending dimensional doom, of B-

"Hey, Sixer."

Ford leaps to his feet in a flash, his heart nearly stopping as he whirls around so quickly he gets a minor case of whiplash.

It's... oh, thank God.

Before him stands his brother, giving Ford his signature slanted grin. He looks the exact same as he did all those years ago, reflecting Ford's own youth. They look like they must be teenagers again.

Of course, Bill cannot reach him here. And 'Sixer' was Stan's nickname for him before it became Bill's.

Sixer.

Hearing that name always evokes a whirlpool of emotions in Ford.

Nostalgia, for one. His brother called him that throughout their whole childhood, and especially as they got older. The Stanley that Ford is seeing before him still calls him this, so their whole falling-out must not have occurred yet.

Sadness, too. With the loss of his brother, his best friend, he had also lost the privilege to be called that nickname. A nickname that he had gotten because of his extra digits; a trait that often evoked name-calling. What a freak he is! A mutated anomaly of a person! A freak that no one could ever try to nor want to understand- except for me, Fordsy! No one else has ever tried to understand you, but there's no judgement here! I won't leave you like the others, I promise! You don't belong with them, you belong with us! With-

Shocked, Ford stumbles back and falls onto the sand. What the hell?

Stan's grin falters and his eyebrows furrow. "What's the matter? Everything alright, Stanford?"

Ford looks up at his brother, who quickly makes his way over to his side and extends a hand to help him up. Ford hesitates, looks between the hand and Stan, and is assaulted with another round of painful emotions. He bites his lip and looks away as he takes the hand and is heartily hoisted to his feet.

"It's nothing," is what he says as Stan looks him over.

"Don't give me that! It's something. What's bothering ya?" Stan presses, genuine concern bleeding through his rough-around-the-edges tone.

"It's nothing, Stanley. You wouldn't understand," Ford simply replies, still doing his best to avoid eye contact. He's scared that if he sees his brother's eyes once again filled with love and concern for him rather than whatever amalgamation of anger and hurt they have festering inside them nowadays, it'll be quite painful.

As he sits back on the swing, Stan follows suit and occupies the swing next to him. "Try me! You're my brother, I know you better than anyone in the world. Heck, I think I know you better than I know myself sometimes!" He responds with a chuckle, and Ford flinches when he feels a hand on his shoulder. "Even if I don't understand, I still wanna be there for ya, Ford. Would you please let me?"

Ford trembles. It's just a dream, but it feels so real. That's exactly something he would have said. Why must it hurt so bad? How pathetic would it be if he confided in this dream Stan, who is nothing more than a figment of his imagination? This Stan who still loves him. This Stan who no longer exists.

"There is a lot on my mind," he admits, unsure whether he fully wants to commit to telling him yet. He isn't sure where to start. His brother laughs.

"Well, gee, I could figure that much out, Ford! You're too smart for your own good; there's always something going on in that noggin of yours."

Ford smiles a little, unsure how to take the compliment. After all, isn't it just him complimenting himself? It is just a dream, Stan is nothing more than his imagination... but still, he smiles.

"Thank you." He says simply, but sighs, unwilling to continue without Stan directly asking him to. There's so much, so much, where could he even begin?

"What's up?" Stan asks, soft. Ford spares a glance up, away from the sand at his feet, and sees his brother - an illusion so convincing he's almost sure that he's no longer in his own head.

"I'm..." He starts, and then chokes on a word he has not even formed yet. He grips the chains tight, squeezes his eyes shut. To admit it is to be weak, but... No one is watching him here. He can be honest. Bill won't know. "I'm scared, Stanley."

Stan's eyes widen in disbelief, and then he asks, "What do you mean, Ford?"

Ford laughs mirthlessly, and he feels a couple unbidden tears streak down his cheeks all at once. He quickly becomes lost in his own words. "You aren't even real. All of this is just a dream. Soon, I'm going to wake up, and then I'll be tortured again and I'll have to keep enduring it, and you'll be gone and I'll be alone with him! I know that I can't keep doing this forever! One of these days, I'm just going to break! He's going to- I'll-"

He keeps talking until he cannot anymore, his words giving way to sobs that he desperately tries to cover up with his hands. And then he's quickly yanked out of the hole that he was quickly sliding into when his brother wraps him in an alarmed hug, tight and protective, an attempt to crush all of the broken pieces of Ford back together again.

"Easy there," comes his familiar, gruff voice. Ford is too shaken to even hug him back, knowing that if he gives into the comfort, it'll all be ripped away from him the moment he wakes up. Is it even worth it in the end? "I'm here, Ford, it's okay. Don't focus on all that right now. Just focus on this moment, 'kay?"

"It's hard," Ford murmurs, the flood of Stan's words finally breaching the dam of self-doubt he'd so meticulously constructed, as he finally hugs him back. He clutches his brother like he's a scared child, and feels how firm and warm he is, like he's actually physically real.

"I know, but you've gotta try. Just breathe, bro. Smell the sea. Hear the waves. Feel the sand. You're here right now, and you're fine."

Ford complies, following Stan's instructions. He breathes in the ocean air, buries his head in his brother's chest, and listens to his heartbeat. It's a melody that soothes him, even if it is not real. With time, he begins to calm down.

"See? You're alright. I'm here, and I'm not gonna leave you," Stan tells him, and Ford really, really wishes that he could allow himself to believe those words, even for a moment.

"I wish that were true, Stan," Ford replies glumly. "I wish... I wish that I was stronger. I need to protect you."

Stan chuckles loudly and pulls back, observing Ford's slightly crumbled state. The scientist wipes his eyes briskly, trying his best to recover in record time, and then looks up at Stan with a small expression. What's so funny?

Stan looks proudly down at Ford with eyes filled with adoration, like a mother would look at an oblivious child who has done something funny.

"Don't worry about me, Ford. I can assure you, I'm a heck of a lot stronger than you think."

Ford sighs. "You say that, but you can't begin to imagine the situation we're in. It's not so simple, Stanley. This is a true test of my strength- no, beyond that, it's a test of my endurance; how long I can hold out before I give in...?"

There is silence for a moment as Ford ponders his own statement, a chill raking its way down his spine. Is it truly a matter of if he gives into Bill's demands, or when?

"Alright, who is it?" Stan suddenly speaks up, dragging Ford out of his own thoughts.

"What?"

"You said that you're gonna be stuck with 'him.' Who is he? Tell me the name of the bastard that's hurtin' you. Who am I gonna have to kill?"

Ford gives a dry, humorless chuckle, smiling fondly at how Stan expresses his affection while he shakes his head. "I'm afraid it's not someone you can kill, Stanley."

Stan, undeterred, simply sits cross-legged on the sand at Ford's feet. "Well, who is he? Someone I know?"

Ford shakes his head. "You wouldn't know him." Not yet, anyway.

"How do you know him?" Stan asks. Ford's been trying not to say too much about his unconventional rivalry with Bill, both because he does not want dream-Stan to judge him and also because he...

Doesn't want to admit several things to himself.

"I..." Ford begins, then pauses. He opens his mouth to begin again, and yet, cannot decide on how to start. This wouldn't even make sense to Stanley, because it hasn't happened yet, right? But what does it matter, anyway? It isn't real.

Ford clears his throat. "I was his..."

Research assistant? No, it was more than that.

Friend? No, what they had was a mere mockery of friendship.

Disciple? Well, yes, but... how embarrassing to bring up his- devotion!- towards Bill, here.

No label fits properly, like a product which has a designated spot for a hallmark to go. 'Research assistant' does not fill the space completely, neither does 'friend.' Then there are some that are the right size but the incorrect shape, like 'enemy.'

"We were partners," he decides. "We worked on a project together - one that he told me would help create knowledge." Ford looks at Stan to try and discern any sort of disbelief in his expression, but locates none. Stan is simply listening, taking in and mulling over information, an impassive look free of judgement.

"I think, ever since you left," Ford continues, shakily. Stan shows no surprise at the mention of his departure, like he already knew. "There was... an emptiness within me. A place I tried to fill up with books and research. A place not unlike a pocket with a hole inside. Anything I placed inside slipped through this hole without me noticing, and thus failed to fill up the emptiness in the first place."

Ford takes a deep breath and continues. God, he hates to admit this, even within the confines of his own mind! "Then he came along and stitched up that hole so I was no longer leaking. Not only that, he succeeded in filling the emptiness that had been haunting me for so long. I found many things in him, not just a research partner. I thought we were friends - I worshipped him! My life had been so meaningless and empty, it was his for the taking! So... he took it. And... I let him."

There is a struggle as Ford tries to work through his discomfort. "You don't have to tell me all this if you don't want to," Stanley tells him, and Ford remains silent for a while, considering.

And then Ford suddenly continues, the words flowing through his brain and out of his mouth like a flash flood. "I was in over my head, Stan - I gave up everything! You don't understand, I let him possess me - I let him into my dreams, my mind, my body! I threw away my only friend for him after they tried to warn me about the truth, I gave up everything!- and it's not like I had a whole lot of 'thing' to give up in the first place! And it all turned out to be some sick joke to him, he was using me! He lied to me about everything, and I had very nearly caused the world to end because of my needy, gullible nature!"

Ford is very nearly on the verge of crying again, but this time it's not from despair, not entirely. He's angry, humiliated, grief-stricken from mourning something that never existed in the first place! Even after thirty years, these old wounds have not healed, and the thin bandage that Ford haphazardly slapped atop them is easily removed with a few delicate words.

"It isn't your fault, Ford," Stan tells him, soft yet firm, so sure of this statement that Ford knows is so obviously not true!

"No!" He shouts. "It is my fault! I was weak, I was foolish, I fell for his games so easily- you don't understand how easily I gave up everything I had! You would've seen through him, Stan, I know you would've. But me? I let him manipulate me!"

That gets Stan to stand up. "You didn't let him do anything," he growls defensively. "You said it yourself: you were manipulated. That isn't your fault. It's not your fault, Stanford. I promise you that, as your brother and your best friend. Whoever this guy is, he can get out of town. He's an idiot for getting the chance to meet someone as awesome as my brother and then throwing him out."

Ford grits his teeth and squeezes his eyes shut, furious, furious at Stan for not understanding that it is all his fault, furious at himself for being so foolish in the first place, and furious at Bill for causing all of this nonsense! He opens his eyes and the fury comes to an abrupt stop when Stan grips his hands loosely, trying to ground him.

"The worst part is- it's-" Ford chokes out, trying so hard not to cry. "It's... I- I don't understand."

"Don't understand what, Ford?" His brother replies, clutching Ford's shaky hands in his own.

"That after everything- after everything he did! After everything I went through, after all these years, I still... I still...!"

He can't say it. He can't bring himself to.

Stan sucks in a shocked breath, like he knows. "Still what...?" He questions, and if Ford wasn't so lost in his own thoughts, he'd be able to feel his brother's hands shaking as they hold his own.

He can't say it. To admit it- to say that word would be-

"Still what, Stanford?" Stan demands, loudly now. The grip he has on Ford's hands tightens exponentially, and for a moment, Ford swears that he sees Stan's eyes flash with something dangerously out of place.

He shrinks away, not liking the sudden pressure. He tries to pull his hands away from Stan's, but his grip is impossibly tight. What the hell? Even if it's a dream, he shouldn't have to say anything he doesn't want to! He looks up at Stan like a scared animal.

Upon seeing his expression, the other man loosens his grip and lets Ford yank his hands away. "You can tell me," he tries again, his expression back to normal.

Ford shakes his head - what just happened has freaked him out a little. "I... don't want to talk about it anymore. I'm sorry," he says plainly.

He looks down at his hands, fidgeting with them as he waits for Stan to reply. Bruises are beginning to bloom on the places where Stan caught his hands when he tried to pull away, something which causes unease to settle in the pit of his stomach. It's still silent.

Ford looks up at his brother, and a chill goes down his spine as he notices that Stan is staring at him, stock still, with an unreadable expression. There's almost a touch of mania behind his eyes.

Ford swallows, hard. He doesn't like this.

"S-Stanley...?"

Ford wakes up.

He bolts upright, adrenaline pumping through his veins as he heaves himself into a sitting position. He is able to remain this way for approximately three seconds before his body remembers how much pain it is in and he falls unceremoniously back to the hard ground. His head pulses unpleasantly as it smacks against the floor, chains around his ankles clinking as he lets out a displeased groan.

What a weird dream. Typically, Ford didn't have dreams with other people in them anymore. Sometimes monsters, or creatures from other dimensions, but not his family. Ever since he'd been taken prisoner, it was either nightmares (most commonly) or a quiet place where he was alone and allowed to relax, like the beach.

It was beyond odd that Stan had showed up.

He's more than willing to shut his eyes again and go back to sleep in the hope that it'll dissolve the headache he's gotten, and at least kill some time so that his battered form can heal a little. However, as soon as he closes his eyes and begins to slow his breathing, a jarring voice shatters any hope he had of falling asleep as it calls out to him.

"Hey, Sixer! Over here!"

All Ford can do in response is deliver a displeased sigh. Of course. He wonders if he's ever going to get a break from Bill's nonsense again.

For whatever reason, he decides to at least humor Bill a little today and spare him a glance. He's tired, he supposes, and doesn't really have the energy to start another one of their grueling arguments which will probably end in pain and lots of it. However, when he turns to look at his captor, his heart catches in his chest at the sight, overwhelming him with memories that he had worked so hard to shove down moments earlier.

In the middle of the room, occupying the typically empty space in front of the fireplace, Bill's set up a chess table. It looks different than the one he used to summon in the mindscape, this one being much more intricately crafted and ornate, like some kind of Victorian antique. Seeing Bill hovering above one of the seats he's set up (because of course he would rather sit in the air) and looking at him expectantly... It brings back unbidden memories of the exchanges they once shared in Ford's mind a lifetime ago; friendly, familiar conversations over chess.

Conversations about anything and everything - from the meaning of the universe, to the latest scientific breakthroughs, to the absurdity of some of the infomercials that played on TV back then. He remembers sitting across from Bill, hunched over their games of chess as he tried so desperately to make a play that would impress his muse, or maybe even win.

...Yet, even after dozens of games, Ford had never managed to win a game of chess against this particular opponent.

And these ever-abundant 'good' interactions had long since been drowned out by the tidal wave of 'bad' ones that followed.

"Bill, what is this."

The demon blinks, looks down at the setup, ponders it for a moment, and then looks back up at his prisoner. "A chess table, Stanford! I thought that was obvious!" He replies cheerfully.

Ford's sighs. "Yes, I can see that," he says, tempted to roll his eyes. "But... why? What is the meaning of this?"

"The meaning..." Cipher begins, gesturing fantastically with his hands as he continues, "...is that we play! You and me, pal - just like old times!"

"No," Ford deadpans, his mouth shutting down the idea before his brain can even consider it. Even though it's been weeks since Ford has done anything remotely fun, and chess is one of his favorite ways to pass the time (so long as he has a worthy opponent), he will not partake in playing any sort of game with Bill.

He earns a chuckle in response. "I figured you'd say that! That's why I'm adding a little incentive; a reward, if you will!"

"I don't want it," Ford states. "I refuse to engage in any sort of fraternizing activity with the likes of you. Go back to torturing me if you must; I will not play."

"I'm afraid that's a no, Sixer!" Bill begins, leaning back in his imaginary chair to cross his legs casually. "You see, I realized something; I've been going about this all wrong! No matter how much I hurt you, you - stubborn little human that you are - refuse to budge an inch! It's almost admirable the lengths you'd go to just to make sure I never get my hands on that equation!"

Ford frowns. What 'lengths' does Bill speak of? Sure, he knows that he can tolerate a lot more pain than an average human, but he really hasn't done anything all that spectacular. He can resist, but he cannot fight back in the slightest.

"So I figured... let's take a break of sorts. Doesn't that sound nice, Ford? Wouldn't you like a break? Hell, sit down and I'll fix you up for real this time! Consider it what you scientists call positive reinforcement!"

"I am not a goddamn Skinner rat," Ford spits, narrowing his eyes. This is clearly some sort of strange manipulation, another one of Bill's psychotic games. He does not intend to fall for it.

"Just humor me, Fordsy! Sit in that chair and I promise you won't regret it!" Bill summons several large, flashing arrows pointing to the empty seat opposite him, complete with blinking signs with various encouraging messages like 'Sit Here!' The whole spectacle looks straight out of Vegas.

When Ford still makes no move to get up, Bill stares at him intently.

"I'll even get you some food and a drink to enjoy while we play!" He offers. "I know you're hungry, Ford. Starvation and dehydration won't kill ya anymore, but I'm sure they don't feel great, do they?"

Food. Drink. Those would be nice, and... Bill did say he would heal him, didn't he? Plus, how much could the demon really accomplish through a harmless game of chess? Was it really worth it to continue resisting when he could slowly be rebuilding his strength with food and water, and, not to mention, the prospect of being healed was-

No! No, whatever it is, whatever he offers him, Ford cannot give in. There's always an ulterior motive when it comes to Bill, and this is no exception.

Bill sees Ford hesitate. He's stubborn, but he's skimming the edge between saying no and saying yes. He just needs a little push.

"Sit down, Fordsy," Bill's tone drops low, "...and I'll let you know about the state of your family."

He knows he's got him once the human sucks in a shocked breath through his teeth. He stiffens in place, wavering for a long while, before he struggles to get on his feet and staggers over to the chair provided for him. Bill keeps his unblinking eye trained on him as he pauses next to it, hesitating. He looks expectantly at Ford as he slowly turns over to look at his opponent and fixes him with a glare as if to say, 'this changes nothing.'

And then he nearly collapses into his rightful place opposite Bill.

"Good choice!" He simply remarks, and then with a snap of his fingers, Ford's pain washes away.

The human's eyes bug out when the agony that's been plaguing him for so long abruptly vanishes. Instantly, he sits up in the chair, clenching the armrests as his gaze lights up with the spark that it's been missing ever since he came here. Bill decides that he likes this version of Ford better than the beaten down one.

Astonished, and in sheer disbelief that he's no longer in that fucking agony, Ford examines his exposed arms and marvels internally at how the blisters and burns that had been decorating them were no longer present. He looks down at his torso too, relieved that his skin is no longer singed and charred. Not only that, but- holy crap!- he can move his arms freely now! His shoulders are no longer dislocated!

Bill thinks it's cute how Ford's surveying his own skin like it's a new scientific discovery to him. His eyes are alight with wonder and relief, and it's like he's completely forgotten the situation he's in for a moment. Adorable!

He can't help but snicker though when - of course - the human soon utilizes his regained flexibility to reach behind him to feel the skin of his back. He's checking to see if Bill's 'artwork' is still there, could he be any less obvious? When he comes to the realization that it is, his temporary, wonder-filled expression quickly falls back into the stony one that Bill's more familiar with, and the moment is over.

"...Where's the food?" Is all he asks after a few moments of silence pass between them.

"Aw, c'mon, Fordsy! Not even a 'thank you?'" Bill teases, but complies with his request with another snap of his fingers. Just like it used to in the mindscape, the food and tea that Bill summons floats in midair next to him.

Ford shakes with restraint as he hesitantly grabs the cup first, peering into it as if untrusting of its contents. It looks to just be tea, but he raises the cup to his face to sniff it anyway. Then he looks up at Bill with confused, narrowed eyes. The sheer amount of restraint that it's taking him not to chug the entire thing instantly after the devastating thirst makes for an amusing show.

"It's just tea!" He reassures him, and that's all the clarification Ford needs to practically drown himself in the drink he was provided.

After all, if Bill wanted to drug him or something, he wouldn't do it through food or drink. He'd just snap his fingers and the process would be instantaneous. At least, that's the excuse Ford tells himself; it's not that he's simply too desperate to keep resisting, right?

Why is he even going through all of this effort to help Ford out? Does it matter?

Yes, of course it does! If Bill's being nice, that means he wants something from him - something Ford normally wouldn't want to give! He tells himself that he is allowed to indulge in things like eating or drinking, but he cannot give in if Bill demands something worse than playing a game of chess.

The cup is emptied of its contents within seconds, and before Ford can devour the food hovering before him just as greedily, a cuff snaps around his wrist and pulls his arm back. A look of betrayal briefly crosses his eyes, before he turns back to Bill and glares at him furiously, baring his teeth like some kind of animal.

The demon holds his hands up in a gesture of mock resignation. "Whoa there, tiger! All I'm asking is that we start the game first, and then you can eat to your heart's content!" He then places his hands on his lap, one atop the other. "Your move."

Ford's eyes narrow, before he makes a tch sound and yanks his arm away from the enticing plate of steak and pasta, allowing the shackle to dissipate. He looks at the table, observing the pieces before him with more concentration than Bill's seen in a long time. Even though Bill is no longer in his mind, it is obvious to him what Ford is thinking right now, his competitive streak flaring.

He could never beat Bill before, but would that still be the case?

After some consideration, Ford huffs out a sigh, plucks up one of the pawns closer to the edge and moves it two spaces forward. He's rusty; he hasn't played chess in a very long time. He never really had the time to while dimension hopping, and afterwards, he had wanted to play with Dipper but never got the chance. He supposes that the move he just made is as good as any, a choice he didn't think much of.

Bill's eye twinkles with mischief as he replicates Ford's move on his own side.

Chapter Text

As the sun sets on the seventh day since this madness began, Dipper Pines sits atop a small hill surrounding the valley of Gravity Falls. He isn't alone, his sister sits next to him, and together they watch the sun sink below the horizon like a deflating balloon.

"He means well, Dipper. He's just under a lot of stress - like all of us!" Mabel assures him, watching her brother chew on a ballpoint pen like he does whenever he's focused... or nervous. Right now, he seems to be nervous.

"It just... sucks hearing him talk about Grunkle Ford like that. Like his sacrifice didn't even matter." Dipper mumbles in response.

That earns him a frown. It does suck, but it sucks more to let it get you down! Mabel knows her great uncles care about each other, they just have a stupid grudge that prevents them from showing it. Before the summer's over, and if- no, when they get out of this mess, she'll make sure that the two get along just as well as she does with her own twin!

"We're running out of time, Mabel," he continues, "We need to find out some way to get Grunkle Ford out of there before it's too late. He told me before he got captured that he knew Bill's secret weakness. I don't know how long it's gonna take for Trembley to get our message, but if it's much longer, we're gonna have to do something ourselves."

After the twins had spent the first couple of days evacuating as many people as they could to a small bed and breakfast just outside the confines of the town, they'd tried to get ahold of Quentin Trembley. He was more than likely their best bet; not only did he have connections to the government, but he wouldn't dismiss them as some outlandish children with overactive imaginations like those agents did.

For some ungodly reason, probably because he was still adjusting to life outside the 1800s or whatever, the man refused to use any sort of modern methods of communication. So, it was with the help of the most ancient entity among them, McGucket, that they drafted a telegram of all things. But that must have been four days ago at this point, and they were beginning to get desperate.

All in all, they must have evacuated twenty or so people and about a dozen non-humans to safety. It was a small number compared to the entire population of Gravity Falls, but each person counted. It had become particularly risky to continue making runs back into town to find more people; now that Gideon had been whisked away by Bill, the main patrollers included eyebats and other dimensional horrors that would rather eat them than hand them over. Still, every day, they assembled a small group which did their best to run into town and gather as many survivors as they could to bring them to safety.

Today had been the first day in which they had returned empty-handed.

"After all, who knows what kind of horrible things Bill could be doing to him in there as we speak...?"

"Why are we still doing this, Bill?" Ford inquires during their third consecutive game of chess. They've been playing once per day, at least from Ford's perspective. After all, time moves much more slowly outside, not that the human is aware of this.

They've settled into a sort of routine. Ford wakes up to Bill waiting for him at the chess table. They have a back-and-forth, in which Ford insists he's not going to play, and then he ends up playing anyway. It's miniscule, but with each day that goes by, Ford resists slightly less than he did the previous before giving in. Bill wonders if eventually, he will get Ford to play with him without any coaxing.

So, they play. Inevitably, Ford loses. Bill gets up to leave, then pauses before phasing through the wall.

He tells Ford, "It isn't too late to join us, you know!"

Ford assures Bill that he would rather die than join him.

Then Bill snickers, shrugs, and departs.

Ford then spends the rest of the day alone, with whatever 'reward' he's been given for his compliance. On day two, it had been an on-suite bathroom so he could feel like a person again. He'd checked every inch of it, and, like the rest of the glamorized prison cell, it had no weak spot that he could escape from.

And, every time they play, he demands Bill give him an update on his family. So far, his answer has been the same.

"The truth is, I don't know, Fordsy! If I didn't know any better, I'd say you told them to get out of town!"

He isn't completely sure whether that's the truth; nothing the demon says can be taken at face value. However, he is inclined to believe it. After all, that was what he instructed Dipper to do, and if his family was here, they'd certainly have been used by Bill as blackmail by now.

It's irritating, having his only company be his obnoxious captor. He would rather be alone. He's endured months without any sort of meaningful contact before, and it was barely tolerable, but this is worse. So much worse!

He doesn't want to begin to enjoy the bastard's company again, which is beginning to become a legitimate cause for concern. The truth is, when he's alone, there is quite literally nothing to do here. He paces and fiddles with his shackles and inspects the walls and the floor over and over in an attempt to find some kind of way out, and that's gotten so horrendously boring over the days since his unwilling and unlawful inprisonment. At least when Bill's here, he gets to do something he enjoys, even if the company is less than ideal.

Despite all that, this new arrangement changes nothing. At the end of the day, there is still a firm line between them. Each of them stands with their feet firmly planted on their corresponding side. However, Bill has his arms out, trying to beckon the other to his own side with no intention of moving himself; a feat so disgustingly hypocritical that it only makes the other want to shy further away.

Ford reminds himself of the following: They are enemies. This is all part of Bill's plan. If he gives even an inch, Bill will try to take a mile.

He keeps this in mind, plays carefully and suspiciously, but plays regardless.

Bill plucks a piece from the board with his own hand for once, the movement bringing Ford back to the present moment. This is rare; typically, he resorts to telekinesis rather than physically grabbing anything. However, at the moment, both players are hunched over the table, deeply invested in their game.

"Doing what, IQ? Playing chess?"

"Yes. What exactly do you get out of this?" Ford questions, watching distastefully as Bill captures his bishop.

"Fun, of course!" Comes his vague reply. Ford sighs, looks over the board, and advances a pawn.

"I'm not sure I believe you," he remarks bitterly as he second-guesses his move. He's still rusty, but he's lasted longer this game than he did the first time they played after so long apart. Luckily, Bill doesn't capture any more of his pieces with his next play.

"Come on, Fordsy, you and I both know that chess is fun! Equal parts strategy and foresight; it's perfect for smartasses like us!" The response he is given is less vague, but no more informational.

Ford simply huffs. "Don't you have other 'friends' that you could be playing with?" He grumbles, contemplating his available moves. It is- used to be- fascinating how Bill can just instantly decide which piece to move and where without even thinking about it. Nowadays, Ford finds his opponent's quirk to be irritating instead; just like everything else about him.

"Nope!" Bill replies, crossing his legs and leaning back in the air. He closes his eye contentedly as Ford hesitantly moves his last remaining knight away from Bill's side of the board, a tactical retreat. "You've seen my friends, Sixer - they know how to throw a hell of a party, but chess just ain't their cup of tea! I could play with them, but why would I want such lousy opponents when I've got great competition right here?"

Ford watches as Bill's queen snatches up one of his pieces without the demon even opening his eye. "I'm hardly competition," he mutters bitterly, still trying to dissuade Bill from playing with him - despite the alternative probably involving pain. "I have yet to beat you."

"No one's ever beaten Bill Cipher, kid!" His opponent bellows cheerfully, opening his eye to observe Ford's concentrated expression. "At least you're able to keep a game going for more than three moves! Teeth can't say the same, you know!"

Ford blinks and doesn't respond, still considering his next move. Bill takes this as an invitation to keep yapping.

"Plus, I've gotta say, I missed our late-night games! I've never found an opponent quite like you, Fordsy!"

"Mm." The human gives a disinterested sound.

"Didn't you?"

Ford looks up. "What?"

"Miss having a worthy opponent for once? Someone who could actually give you a run for your money?"

Miss me?

The human blinks a couple times, then he makes a show of narrowing his eyes. "I don't see how that relates to anything."

Bill does not have a mouth to smile with, but the nefarious tone of his voice gives away exactly what kind of grin he would be sporting. "That's not an answer, smart guy!"

Ford gives no response as he moves a piece on the chess board.

"But it's the only one you've got, ain't it?"

That earns the demon a glare. "What exactly are you trying to say, Cipher?"

"I'm saying that, no matter how hard you try to convince yourself otherwise," Bill begins, watching the human's expression with utmost concentration to see whether it falters. "The truth is, you missed me!"

"I did not," Ford deadpans without missing a beat. It's so convincing that Bill is almost inclined to believe it. "In case you haven't noticed, I despise you. This arrangement of yours does nothing to change that fact."

"You can lie to yourself all you want, but I know the truth!" Bill insists, and with that, their game becomes more aggressive. Each time Ford advances a piece, he slams it down onto the board, making the table shake. His eyes are fixed on his opponent, an angry glare adorning his face.

"And what, exactly, do you know about the truth? All you've ever done is lie!" Ford responds, raising his voice. Bill didn't know it would take only one little accusation to get such a rise out of the human.

The demon cackles shrilly. "I know a lot more than you think, Fordsy!" His demeanor remains calm as he plays, a stark contrast to his opponent.

"You know nothing." Another forceful move accompanies this venomous reply. "Least of all about me."

"You know, Ford, for someone who claims I filled up that empty void and completed you, you sure don't act all that grateful!" Bill comments, his eye crinkled in manic joy, ready to drink up the man's reactions. He stiffens immediately. "Although, that's kind of a pattern for you, isn't it? You never even thanked that meathead for wasting thirty years of his life trying to drag you out of that portal!"

The human stands abruptly, so much so that the discarded chess pieces on the side of the board rattle and clamber to the floor. He has an incredulous look in his eyes. "What did you just say?"

"Oho, did I hit a nerve?" Bill teases, overjoyed. Finally, he's getting a reaction out of the stoic, emotionless Ford!

Ford blinks back his anger, inhales sharply, clenches and unclenches his fists. Don't let him get under your skin. He knows nothing of Stanley, he just wants to make you mad. Ignore anything he says about him.

When he reopens his eyes, Bill is glancing at him expectantly.

"...Where did you hear that? About the void." Ford demands rather than engaging in the argument Bill seems to be looking for, his tone low.

Ford does not get the response he is looking for, instead earning a manic cackle.

He points at his adversary, wishing he could smack the answers out of him. "Cipher, I'm serious, I don't know what kind of deranged mentality-"

Bill holds up a single finger, eye closed conceitedly, cutting Ford off. He then raises his cup of tea to take a long, drawn-out sip. When he sets it down in the air, he regards Ford with an expression filled with adoration, like a mother would look at an oblivious child who has done something funny. Then, the finger he has held up points down at the chess table between them. Skeptically, Ford's gaze follows it to observe their game. Bill's bishop slides across the board, knocking over the king Ford had failed to account for; his moves having grown sloppy and blinded by anger.

"Checkmate, Fordsy!"

Survival instinct drives him forward.

He's running, sprinting as fast as his burning calves can carry him through endless rocky dunes which are difficult to navigate under the dark night sky. The landscape is a swirling mixture of purples and blues, of sand and rock. He's nearing a cliffside, it's a straight shot there, he just has to keep pushing, keep going even though it feels like he cannot run at all.

Why is he running so damn slowly!? He's panicking, it feels like he isn't running at all! It takes all of his concentration just to move! He lets out a cry as he throws himself behind a structure made of equal parts sand and rock, panting as he tries to figure out what the hell is going on.

The demonic, maniacal laughter in the near distance comes to a stop, and for a moment, it is silent save for his heaving pants which he tries to keep under control. Is it safe? Is he gone?

Ford screams as Bill blasts a laser directly into the structure obscuring him, sending a mess of sand and rock and blood - oh, God, he's been hit - into the surrounding area and blinding the human for a second. His ears ring and he cannot even comprehend what has just happened as he scrambles to his feet and makes a desperate break for the first cover he sees: a cave.

He cannot run, it doesn't work no matter what, so he must hide. He skids to a stop at the edge and throws himself inside, coughing up dust and blood as he collapses. He manages to crawl a couple dozen feet in before collapsing, his body spasming in sheer shock.

He brings his left hand shakily over the bloody stump of where his right arm used to be, still not fully comprehending the fact that it is no longer there. Oh God, there's so much blood! He scrambles for the bag slung over one of his shoulders to grab anything he can use to put pressure on the massive goddamn hole where his arm used to be, his breaths uneven and his vision blurring as he struggles to grab gauze.

He grabs one end of it with his teeth and uses his remaining hand to wrap the bloodied stump - don't think about it don't think about it - as tightly as he possibly fucking can. He can hear Bill outside the cave calling for him, but he can't hear what he's saying over the sound of his blood throbbing against his veins in his ears as he wraps his arm like he's mummifying a damn pharoh in ancient Egypt.

The voice outside begins to fade - how the hell did Bill not see him scamper in here? - as his pursuer continues his search elsewhere. It is silent now, and Ford is made well aware of how loud his breathing is, how it boarders on hyperventilation as he gasps for air, tries to steady the shakiness in his remaining hand.

It's silent. Somehow, he is not in pain.

And then, quite suddenly, a blinding yellow light illuminates the entirety of the cave. Ford raises his arm to cover his eyes so he can adjust to the mysterious light source, and when he peers at the entrance of the cave through squinted eyes, his heart stops.

"Found you!" Bill cries cheerfully, one of his abundant arms flying out at light speed to snatch up Ford.

And then his assailant screams as he is obliterated by some unseen thing that leaves Ford even more traumatized. What the fuck? What could possibly kill Bill Cipher!?

Ford stares, shaking, jaw practically on the floor, as another much smaller and brighter Bill appears in the cave entrance. He looks annoyed, but his expression changes back to a passive one when his eye meets those of the terrified, cornered human.

"Yeesh, what a killjoy! You don't think I really talk like that, do ya Fordsy?"

This Bill feels... different. It's like comparing a lit candle to the light of the sun. This Bill is so undeniably him that it would be silly to consider the one he was running from to be in the same league.

Ford stiffens, clutching his bloody shoulder as he realizes what's going on. "You- b-but I-!"

He flinches as the demon laughs and floats closer to him. "Don't worry! I'm not here to finish what he started."

Bill stops in front of Ford and looks him over for a moment. A black hand finds its way behind Ford's ear, and he freezes. "Got something behind your ear, Fordsy!"

He pulls out Ford's severed arm. It is unbelievably bloody, strings of stray gore still attached, and it is still twitching, a horrific sight that makes Ford want to throw up. "I'll get that for ya!"

The human tries to pull away when Bill snatches up his bandaged stump, digging his blunt fingers into the packaged gauze to coat them in blood, before he attaches the amputated limb back to its shoulder like one would place a cap on a marker.

"Why are you here!?" Ford barks as Bill slowly begins to pull away, dragging the tips of his fingers over the expanse of the human's arm as he does so. Once the feeling has returned to Ford's arm, he shoves him away abruptly.

"I was curious, of course! You were thrashing around like a kitten in a microwave, I couldn't help but see for myself what you were dreaming about! What a pleasant surprise to see that it was me!" A chuckle accompanies this proud reply.

Ford grits his teeth. "You can't- I took a potion, you can't be here!"

Bill laughs and ruffles his human's hair. "Yes, Fordsy, a potion - not the right one! You must've really screwed that thing up somehow, 'cus it could only keep me out for so long! I'm surprised you didn't notice me sooner, I've been popping up in your dreams for a few days now!"

Ford bats his hand away like an angry kitten, one without claws. "You have not!"

Bill retracts his hand and gives a shrug. "You coulda figured that out a lot sooner if you just tried lucid dreaming!" He chuckles, watching as Ford pointedly smoothens over his curls to erase any trace of Bill's meddling.

Ford stands, the fact that he can control his surroundings occurring to him as he banishes the unpleasant sensations from his body to return to full strength. "Get out," he growls. Bill gives his equivalent of a smirk in return.

"Or what, smart guy?" He responds, infuriatingly.

For once, Ford is technically on equal standing with Bill; both able to quite literally will anything into existence. It is with practiced ease that he summons his quantum destabilizer into existence and blasts Bill into a billion pieces.

He steps on some of the more prominent shards, the resulting sound filling him with satisfaction. "Get. Out!" He repeats.

An arm grips his shoulder and whirls him around, disorienting him, and he comes face to face with the demon he just disintegrated. They are no longer in the cave, now in that same pale blue-purple landscape.

A battlefield.

Ford grits his teeth and aims his weapon at Bill's eye. In the next moment, he fires, and Bill does not dodge, instead opting to eat the oncoming blast. It then reemerges from the demon's fingertip, which he points at his attacker. Ford means to leap to the side and dodge, but the earlier pieces of Bill he had stepped on have morphed into dozens of hands which grasp onto his boots and pull him under, into a black void.

Ford clutches his weapon tight to his chest, but an unseen hand, camouflaged by the surrounding darkness, plucks it from him with ease. He is flipped upside down as the hands clinging to his boots vanish and are replaced by the familiar glowing shackles he's had around his ankles for weeks now. Bill tugs him up and out of the suffocating darkness by the other end of the chain, and Ford dangles upside down for a few moments.

Ford heaves himself upright, grabbing the chain just above his shackles. He summons a bolt cutter, but before he can free himself, Bill whips the chain around like a lasso before throwing him to the ground a dozen meters away. Ford lands in a tuck and roll, managing to successfully cut the chains in the process.

He grips the chain he has just cut and thrusts it at his opponent, who simply sways to the side to avoid it, but Ford twists the laws of reality so that the chain rebounds and wraps itself around his stupid twig arm. He then pulls, yanking Bill's arm off with a disturbing noise, who laughs in delight. Another arm materializes instantly, but the severed appendage does not disappear. Rather, another Bill simply emerges from it.

The original triangle turns to his twin. "Oho, hubba hubba! What a looker!"

"Don't make me blush!" The other responds, batting his eye.

Ford, who has no time for this nonsense, grits his teeth as he raises his hand, lifting a big piece of earth from the ground in front of him.

"I must say, the top hat really brings out your eye! And don't get me started on the bowtie!"

Bill Number Two waves his hand coyly. "Oh, you!"

The large hunk of rock smashes into them, interrupting their incredibly meaningless conversation. Ford squints as the dust settles, panting due to the exertion. When the debris in the air clears sufficiently enough for Ford to see, he is greeted with the sight of both Bills continuing to converse, completely oblivious to what has just happened.

Ford snarls, irritated. How dare he come here in the first place, rile Ford up, and then ignore him afterward! He eyes the chain on the ground, still wound around the second Bill's arm. He rushes forward and snags it, sending a burning sensation up the links from where his hands are settled to the lunatic at the other end.

When the heat does reach him, he lets out a shrill screech, which devolves into a mocking laugh.

"Hey, hey! Don't hurt my new pal here!" The original Bill scolds, and goes to snatch Ford up.

"Aw, but it tickled!" The other Bill pouts, watching as his propagator misses the deft mortal with his first swipe.

Ford kicks Bill in the eye when he draws near, blinding him for a moment. The temporarily injured Bill stumbles backward as he begins regenerating his eye (despite being able to do it instantly in dreams), and so his equally irritating accomplice takes matters into his own hands.

"You're like a fly, you know that!" He remarks cheerfully, regarding Ford. "Small and annoying!"

Then every single bone in Ford's body is crushed as he is smashed between the pages of a giant book like he is a bug. He collapses to the ground and lets out a hoarse sound of shock, willing himself to regenerate his broken form as Bill pulls the massive book away. He's on his feet again in a flash, infuriated, and he rushes at his attacker with the intent of using brute force. Then a snap of fingers is heard and Ford falls straight onto his face, tripping over the wedding dress that Bill has just forced him into.

The original Bill floats next to his clone and peers over his shoulder to inspect the book. "Oooh, I like that one!" He says.

"Enough!" Ford shouts as he clambers to his feet, and both of the obnoxious triangles lift their eyes from The Great Gatsby to look at the human in front of them. "This is madness! Get out of here! Can't I at least catch a break from your lunacy in my dreams!?"

The Bills look at each other, then both laugh.

"Sorry, Fordsy, but we can't take you seriously with that getup on!"

He looks down at himself and realizes what he is wearing. "That is not funny!" He shouts.

Both Bills go to laugh, but one is cut off as he is eaten by the other. "Come on, Fordsy! You've gotta admit you had at least a little fun!" The survivor remarks after the screams of the other have tapered out.

Ford glares as Bill shrinks to his relatively normal size and floats next to him. "I can tell you miss the action-packed adventures of the Nightmare Realm, Fordsy. There's no harm in reliving the good ol' days from time to time!"

He never really thought about it, but he supposes that he does sometimes miss his adventures. They were fascinating and expanded his mind beyond its original intended barriers, but it was also obscenely dangerous. Ford would not go back if presented with the opportunity, he had to fight tooth and nail to survive each day! For Bill to insinuate that he would want to go back to that is delusional!

He's infuriated! He grits his teeth and scowls at the invader of his dream. "What the hell do you want? What do I have to do to get you to leave me alone!?"

Bill's eye lights up like that's the question he's been waiting this whole time to answer.

"How's about this: I'll leave your dreams alone, but only if you manage to beat me in a spar! This was a lot more fun than I thought!"

Ford's eyes narrow at the demon's offer.

These so-called friendly spars have since become a nightly occurrence.

Their battles transform slowly from a desperate, animalistic, fury-driven power struggle into a dance of sorts as the days go on. As each of them learn and adapt to the other's capabilities and style of fighting, their moves become more coordinated. Now, when they clash, they do so elegantly; like flowing water, or perhaps more like flowing flames.

To an outsider, this would appear to be nothing more than a dance. The way Ford has learned to manipulate his form to move exactly like a liquid alongside Bill is near majestic in nature. When he places his rage to the side and focuses simply on his intellect, he is quite the adept and impressive fighter. He has to be; otherwise, he would not have survived out there for so long.

He is left exhausted at the end of each fight. He has never once won one of their spars, Bill always gaining the upper hand and leaving him tired and yet near sparkling with adrenaline. He does not want to admit that maybe Bill was more right than he gave him credit for; he had missed the adrenaline rush he gets from a good fight. He enjoys the feeling of being good at something, of being strong and powerful. Not in an arrogant manner, although it may appear that way to some, but rather... It's like he is finally proving everyone wrong.

Eventually, this nightly ritual culminates into their first battle in reality since the start of Weirdmageddon.

Bill has transformed the penthouse into an arena, and Ford stands across him, braced in a runner's start, jaw set and determined eyes unblinking as he stares at his target.

The main difference between dreams and reality is that here, Ford is not immortal. He is not untouchable, and his wounds cannot be healed with sheer willpower. As such, they cannot really go all out yet, so rather than a traditional battle, they are to play a game of tag.

The demon tells Stanford that if he manages to tag him, then he will leave him alone in his dreams. To make things more balanced, Bill will refrain from teleporting. Since this is reality, Ford's abilities are limited, and although he has been exerting himself in his dreams every night, physically he has not been able to run around for weeks now. This is just a test run of sorts, an attempt to get the scientist back into top shape.

Bill sounds the signal for their game to begin, which happens to be the noise of Ford's quantum destabilizer firing. In the very next instant, Ford is rushing at him at top speed, his eyes focused and crazed, not unlike a rabid animal chasing its prey.

Arrogant as ever, Bill stays in place as Ford rushes him, only swooping just barely out of the way the moment the human swipes at him. Then, the chase begins. Ford's fast but Bill's much faster, unhindered by a stupid heavy flesh sack weighing him down wherever he goes. Determined to test the mortal's strength, Bill raises several walls for Ford to brute force his way through whenever he gets relatively close.

"This is cheating!" Ford yells as he kicks through a wall.

"Your first mistake was expecting me to play fair!" Bill counters.

Bill leads him around in circles, hovering just too far ahead for the scientist's outstretched arm to reach. Then they're going up a ramp (Bill had made the arena more 'interesting' by adding obstacles; Ford thinks 'annoying' is a better word) and he knows he can reach him if he has a running start and leaps off the edge. He propels himself forward, jumping off the ramp with one hell of a running start, and he's just about to land on Bill and tag that bastard-

Bill snaps, and gravity reverses. Ford goes flying upwards- no, downwards?- and crashes into the ceiling. He gives a grunt, that hurt pretty badly, but any desire he has to rest for a moment evaporates when he hears that psychopath start laughing, clearly proud of himself.

In the opposite pattern of their previous battles, Ford's movements become less dignified, more animalistic as the chase goes on. Of course, Bill cannot resist taunting the mortal every chance he gets, pissing him off further.

A swing and a miss. "Come on, Sixer! You can do better than that!"

A hard landing and a pained wince when Bill flips gravity again. "Oho! So close, you nearly had me there!" (He did not.)

The inevitable slowing of his movements after thirty minutes have gone by, allowing fatigue to set in. "Is that really all you've got? I'm surprised you didn't die to me years ago!"

Ford's attempts to catch Bill morph from quick, practiced dashes and swipes to jerky movements driven solely by base instinct. He never knew that the demon could be this irritating! Bill can nearly taste the adrenaline flooding through the human's overtaxed system in the air. It culminates in rivulets of sweat that testify how hard Ford is trying. The demon wants to lick the sweat from his skin.

Ten more minutes go by before Ford finally succumbs to the burning fatigue screaming at him to take a break and he collapses on the ground, heaving. He pushed himself so hard and with so much anger that his vision has grown spotty at the edges.

"Time!" Bill calls and floats down next to the limp form of his pursuer, observing his state. He pokes Ford when he does not get up, earning a groan. He rolls the human over, who glares furiously at him, still mad from all his taunting, but this expression falters when Bill gives him a thumbs up.

Shakily, Ford returns the gesture, a bit taken aback by the apparent approval that he did not know he wanted. He feels better. Still exhausted and sweaty and gross and irritated, but better. Rejeuvanated, even if this escapade did not end in victory.

Yet.

The next time they play tag, Ford's muscles ache from the leftover soreness of their last game. They have battled in his dreams between this game and their last, and Bill had imposed the human's realistic limits on him during these scuffles. While annoying, it helps Ford remember how to conserve his strength.

One may consider it unfair that Bill's clairvoyance allows him to see any and all paths Ford can take to reach him, any and all maneuvers he can possibly try. It is impossible for Ford to catch his opponent off guard. If he wanted, Bill supposes he could stifle this ability or ignore it, but these battles are too much fun for him to risk losing! (Although he is confident that he would not lose even without his clairvoyance, he still refuses to discard this ability.)

This time, Ford manages to keep up for ten extra minutes. His stamina is definitely improving. This is good, Bill thinks. Soon, he will be ready for what he has planned.

When Bill once again calls out, "Time!", the human sinks to his knees, having managed to not collapse this time. Cipher hovers over to him and begins petting his hair.

Ford flinches and stiffens, but he does not pull away like usual.

"That was one hell of a workout, wasn't it, kid?" Bill asks the overexerted human, he himself being no worse for wear in comparison to when they began.

"Next time, I will defeat you," Ford promises with a growl.

Bill chuckles fondly. "I look forward to it!"

After a dozen or so chess games, Bill is adamant that they do something else for once. While Ford is perfectly content playing chess every day, it is no surprise that his captor has a much shorter attention span.

Ford had looked around the penthouse with an unamused look on his face. "And what, exactly, do you propose we do instead? It's not like there's much else to do here."

This is how they ended up at the grand piano. Ford sits cross-legged on the floor, watching as Bill plays for him a song which he apparently made himself. He calls it It's Gonna Get Weird. All things considered, it's a pretty good song, Ford thinks; even a little catchy.

"...It's decent," Ford mumbles when Bill enthusiastically asks him what he thinks.

Bill snickers. "Alright then, smart guy, let's see you play something better!"

"I don't play," he deadpans in response, taking a sip from the drink Bill had given him today rather than tea. It's good, a little alcoholic, he thinks. The demon's drinking the same thing.

"I don't believe you! With those extra digits, you could be the next Mozart if you put your mind to it!" The triangle responds encouragingly.

"What I meant is that I never learned to play."

"Wow, what a lie! I heard you playing Heart and Soul alone in here a while back!"

Ford rolls his eyes. "Everyone knows how to play that."

Ford is hauled to his feet by a strange, telekinetic force. Bill gestures to the piano. "Give it a shot real quick. I'd like to see what we're working with here!"

He sighs, and comes to the conclusion that there is no real benefit to declining. He sets his drink down and makes his way over to the bench, giving Bill a wary look as he sits down and runs his right hand over the expanse of the ivory keyboard. Eventually, his spidery fingers settle over the keys he thinks are correct. He presses one to make sure, and the resounding plonk is quite pathetic.

Then he retracts every finger except for his index and begins to play.

"That ain't how you play piano, Sixer!" Comes an annoying comment from behind him, and Ford glares back at his audience, ceasing his ministrations.

"I am well aware of that."

Bill switches his cocktail to his other hand and snatches Ford's hand up in his own. He bristles at the contact, but allows the more experienced piano player to manipulate the way his hand sits upon the keys.

The demon pulls back. "Take two: Action!"

Ford looks incredulously at the keys. "I won't be able-"

"Ah, ah, ah! I said action!"

The following attempt the human gives at playing is much slower and sloppier, but at least he is playing properly this time. On occasion, probably due to the fact that he is tipsy, he subconsciously tries to revert back to his old, incorrect way of playing using only one finger. Whenever he does this, Bill proceeds to make a bunch of random, loud, and headache-inducing noises to get him to play properly.

"You've got a gift here, Sixer - use it!" He insists when Ford voices his distaste with this new way of performing, a way he is unfamiliar with but one which is nevertheless correct.

Annoyed, Ford stumbles through the short melody that he typically would have been able to play with ease. This unpracticed method causes him to press the wrong key a few times or mix up his fingers.

When he finally finishes, Bill claps and demands, "Again!"

"I am never doing that again," Ford says with a scowl. Just like he does when he tells Bill he is not going to play another round of chess with him, he begins anyway.

He ends up repeating the melody twice more upon Bill's request. The second time, he does not make as many mistakes and is slightly faster, but it is obvious he is adjusting. The third, his speed of playing does not increase, but he makes no mistakes.

The hand that Ford had not realized was resting on his shoulder retreats as Bill floats next to him. "Scoot over!"

He obliges and Bill sits down on the bench next to him. Confused, Ford looks at the demon, who simply gives him a sort-of nod in response. This does not explain anything, but Ford supposes he should place his hand back on the keyboard regardless.

Their duet is sloppy, slow, and unpracticed as Bill tries to lead Ford's unpracticed motions through the tune. He plays the lower notes, complementing the chords which Ford shakily produces. At first, much like their spars, they are uncoordinated, but they adjust for each other and eventually produce a crude melody.

Playing the piano together is much different from their physical battles, Ford notes. However, strangely, it causes his heart to race just the same.

They finish their ballad, and Ford goes to stand up, but he is stopped.

"One last time," Bill tells him. It is not a demand, but a request, one which Ford does not refuse as he sighs and slips back into place.

They begin again, slowly, the notes almost second nature to Ford now. This time, as they play, Bill sings drunkenly to the tune. Ford is not a singer, not really, and yet he finds himself humming along without realizing.

Chapter Text

During one of their nightly battles, Bill sharpens one side of his cane and proceeds to wield it like a sword.

The demon is so insanely fast that he slashes off Ford's arms thrice in a row, giving him barely enough time to realize what's happened and will them back into existence. The man tries to kick him away, but ends up kicking a hole straight through his surface. He regenerates his arms within a quarter of a second, and once he has, he comes to a realization. This being that Bill has regenerated around his leg, trapping him within his own body.

He tries to pull away, but he's stuck tight, and the demon is immovable. He stumbles backwards, willing his preferred weapon into existence - a gun - and aiming it at Bill's center to try and blast him into pieces to free his leg. The thought of doing this is unaccompanied by the actual action, since Bill is scarily fast with a sword, somehow slicing the gun clean in half with his dinky little cane before Ford can even grip it correctly.

How the hell is he so fast? Attacking seems to be impossible; every moment that is not spent recovering is instead spent on desperately trying to block the borage of slashes that mostly succeed in cutting him anyway. Bill slices through his gun faster than he can think to respawn it, and Ford is forced to hop around on one foot to try and stay upright, pulling his opponent around with him like some deranged sort of tango. From an outsider's perspective, this odd manner of moving around must look pretty ridiculous.

Unlike Ford, Bill does not need to remain sturdily on the ground to remain balanced. Thus, the human is the only one whose movement is severely hindered by their compromising position. If he wanted, Bill could just stay in place, but he lets Ford pull him around in his pitiful attempts to remain upright. Why? It's funny.

The man's focus is not fully on attacking, a significant portion of it now being diverted to the strenuous task of not falling over. His attention is pulled taut between these two points, strained to the point of near breakage. It cannot handle a third focal point, and so, when Bill purposefully makes him lose his focus by asking him the answer to a math equation, it is with ease that he sweeps Ford's other leg with the blunt end of his cane.

Damn! His intellectual brain latched onto that like a leech, unable to resist the temptation of solving something internally. He falls backward, but right before he can hit the ground, Bill skyrockets upward, taking the human with him. He yells out in surprise as he bends backward, dangling from the leg stuck nearly halfway through the triangle, which is hinged at the knee.

If only he could manipulate Bill's appearance in his dreams somehow to make him let Ford go. Unfortunately, as the only two sentient beings in his dreamscape, the only things that they cannot directly alter are each other.

Once they reach an altitude of about five hundred feet in the air, Bill stops and peers down at Ford as he sways unsteadily, anchored at the calf to the demon himself. It takes him about a second to recover from the whiplash, and he summons his gun again, but before he can actually shoot the thing, it is hurled from his hands when Bill starts violently spinning around in place. Ford thinks he might vomit as he is whipped around in circles at an unbelievably fast pace, the dark landscape a muddled blur of shapes and colors.

His screaming tapers off into frantic panting when the dizzying motion finally comes to a stop. "For God's sake, Bill, this is ridiculous! Let me go!" He shouts angrily, completely disoriented by what he has just experienced.

He stiffens when he feels something hook around the back of his neck and heave him upward to look into his opponent's eye. Bill is holding the cane in one hand, the sharpness momentarily removed, and has curled it around Ford's neck to hold him in place. He is now helplessly caught in a grand total of two ways, hundreds of feet in the air.

He glares at Bill, meeting his intense stare with equal severity. It's always difficult to read Bill's expressions, and most of them are fake, anyway, but he's wearing one that Ford doesn't think he's seen much of before. There's something akin to hunger behind his gaze, something that makes Ford freeze up.

"You should learn to swordfight!" Bill says, expression back to normal that very next instant. Ford furrows his brow and crosses his arms, still being cradled by the cane and held up by his stuck leg.

"I have no need for that. I am perfectly good at hand-to-hand combat, and with my aim, I rarely miss a shot."

It's funny how confident Ford can be when he is simultaneously so deeply insecure. "I can think of a lot of occasions where you missed me, Sixer!"

Ford pulls a face. "That is a major exaggeration. The only time I can think of is at the church, and even then, an exterior force was involved. I was distracted, and-"

The man sure likes to talk when he's defensive! Bill cuts him off. "I wasn't talking about missing me with a gun, Fordsy!"

Ford opens his mouth to reply to that, and then suddenly the meaning of Bill's words appears to dawn on him. When this happens, his expression morphs from one of scorn to one of scandal and offense. He tries to form a word, but it catches midway through, and only half a syllable comes out as his surprise transcends into anger.

At this precise moment, his captive leg is released, and he gasps as he phases through both the cane and Bill's body and begins to plummet. Of course, he gets ahold of himself before he hits the ground, landing in a fighting stance. He glares up at where Bill is taking his sweet time moseying down to meet him, twirling his cane around one finger lazily.

Eventually, he settles a small distance away from Ford, letting go of the cane and snatching it with his other hand before it flies off and points it at the human.

"Use a sword!" He calls, and Ford rolls his eyes. He supposes there's no real harm in doing so, but he genuinely has no idea how to wield one. If Bill's going to be so insistent on him using one, he figures he may as well. After all, trying to ignore Bill is like trying to sleep while the fire alarm is going off.

Before he can think up a sword to conjure, Bill's done it for him. An ornate blade appears in front of him, rotating slowly in midair. When he reaches out to take it, it scoots out of his reach. He gives the demon an unamused look before grabbing at it again, only for the same thing to happen.

"Do you want me to do this or not?" Ford snaps, and Bill cackles shrilly, finally allowing him to snatch it up. He turns the weapon over in his hands, inspecting it. Of course, since Bill was the one who made it, it's as Bill-like as possible. The blade is his signature yellow, its edge serrated and made up of many small triangular shapes, with some strange runes that Ford cannot recognize engraved near the bottom.

He curls his hands around the handle, unsure exactly how he is supposed to hold it. He's pretty sure that nobody swordfights anymore. He's encountered some dimensions where it was still a fairly common practice, but why use a sword when a gun is more deadly and can be used from a distance?

He raises his hands to his shoulder, clutching the blade and bending his knees slightly. Is this stance correct? He supposes he's supposed to swing it like-

Bill, unhelpful as ever, bursts into laughter, causing Ford to drop his stance and straighten immediately. "What's so funny!?" He spits.

"This ain't baseball, Sixer! You looked like you were getting ready to hit a home run!" Cipher laughs, wiping an imaginary tear from his eye. Ford glowers.

"I don't know how you can expect me to know exactly what to do when I have never used a sword in my life! Need I remind you that you are the one who coerced me into doing this?" He replies bitterly.

"No need to piss on the parade, Fordsy - I was only joking! It was just cute to watch Mr. Know-It-All suck at something for once! I'll teach you, how's that sound?" Bill offers, his laughter tapering off but his eye still twinkling mischievously.

Ford pinches his mouth into a straight line, discouraged. "I'm not sure."

"Come on, it'll be fun! Plus, hey, it'll be another way for you to destroy me in your revenge fantasies! It's a win-win, am I right, Sixer?"

And that is how it began.

First, sword fighting. Ford mastered this skill in record time, and although he could not quite match Bill's speed, this was less a fault of his skillset and more due to the fact that he is only human.

Sword fighting is how it began, but it quickly extended to other weapons Ford was unfamiliar with. Cipher seemed determined on teaching him how to wield everything under the sun, or in this case, under the all-seeing eye. The most outlandish thing he learned to use were nunchucks. However, no matter what random, obscure, niche, only-useful-in-oddly-specific-situations weapon Bill threw at him, he got pretty damn good at using them, pretty damn fast.

Bill expected nothing less from his favorite human.

Despite his success during their dream battles, he still cannot catch Bill during their games of tag. These games have grown less common as time goes by. Not because they have grown stale, but because the two often find themselves busy doing other things. It is not uncommon for both of them to stay up for many hours, Ford putting off sleep to engage in debate after debate with his only company.

The demon can tell how much Ford enjoys their debates, even if he denies it. Ford's always been this sort of isolated genius, and having someone on his intellectual level to contest with for long periods of time scratches an itch that no one else could ever really reach. He's always been a man of words more than one of action, a true author at heart, and Bill can tell he finds their debates even more satisfying than actual combat.

Unless he's angry, and he still gets angry sometimes. It will flare up randomly, an unexpected bout of frustration that is not at all unwarranted. After all, he is a prisoner here. His cell may be unorthodox and he may begrudgingly enjoy it here sometimes, but this does not change the fact that he is a prisoner. Bill has taken his life from him once again, after he spent thirty years trying to get it back. Sometimes, they will be having a perfectly cordial conversation, and others, they will be in the middle of a heated argument, and then Ford will suddenly snap and try to harm Bill in some way or another.

These outbursts have grown rarer with time. Ford's not sure how many weeks it's been now, but he knows it's been quite a few. What he does not know is how sideways his sense of time actually is. In the outside world, it has only been eight days since Weirdmageddon started.

For Ford, it's been at least two and a half months.

It may be considered ironic how obsessed Cipher has become with his human captive to distort time to this extent. Falling into a rabbithole this deep is not something many can ever manage to crawl out of.

Progress has been slow, excruciatingly so. Ford's stony exterior is like packed ice, glacial in size and immovable. The only way it can be broken is methodically; to melt it so slowly that it is imperceivable to no one save the one holding the candle. Under Bill's blue flames, ever so slowly, the ice has begun to melt, revealing the vibrant life that is sealed away in the lake beneath the icy cover. Just one look into the infinite depths of the human's soul, teeming with color and life so fascinating and mesmerizing that it pulls a literal god in for more, is enough to get Bill hooked. He catches small glimpses of Ford's old personality through the small cracks he has managed to create in the icy covering.

A covering that is a direct product of his meddling in the first place.

Selfishly, the demon is glad that Ford has sealed himself away like this, so that it is only through meticulous methods one peer into his soul. After all, who else is going to dedicate the time and care to melting this ice besides Bill? He has no one else. He never has, and he never will.

He only has Bill, and Bill wants this human all to himself. This goal is beginning to become visible on the horizon, just like he always knew it would.

Ford is beginning to break.

He's ready.

The stubborn human is curled up on the rug, snoring softly as he sleeps. Stubborn as ever, to this day, he's refused to sleep on the couch Bill provided him; his pitiful human morals preventing him from being comfortable sleeping on something that may be sentient. What's the deal with those things, anyway? Some of them are logical like Bill, and don't care for anyone but themselves and getting ahead. Those humans, he can understand, but they often aren't as easy to work with. Sixer can be selfish sometimes, sure, but he's got this hero's complex that disallows him from doing things that just make sense logically to Bill.

Like getting a good night of sleep for once.

Maybe Bill should just give him a mattress or something at this point, because Ford's going to need a proper night's sleep if he has any chance of coming back from what is planned tomorrow in one piece. He looks so pathetic on the floor, small and helpless. It's deceiving, because if those resting eyes were to open and see the demon hovering next to him, he'd probably attack him.

Tch. Poor thing. It's his own fault, though! If he weren't so stubborn for once, maybe he wouldn't complain about back aches all the time!

Either Bill has no idea that watching someone sleep is considered creepy, or he just doesn't care. Begrudgingly, he summons a mattress into an unoccupied corner of the room, complete with memorabilia adorned with his likeness. Then he lifts a finger and telekinetically lifts the man up, transports him over to his completely unwarranted and unearned mattress, and lays him down gently. He stirs slightly, not waking entirely, but definitely aware that something has changed.

Bill tries not to laugh when he ends up grabbing one of the pillows and beginning to cuddle it. He'd forgotten that little detail about Stanford. When he was younger, he'd always cuddle things in his sleep. He had even kept an old childhood toy underneath his bed that he was certain Bill did not know about (he did, Bill knows everything). It was so pitiful and hilarious - seriously, how could one human be so entertaining?

Oblivious, Ford sleeps on.

Consciousness fades in slowly, and Ford is immediately made aware that something is wrong. Perhaps wrong is the incorrect word; something is different.

The first thing that he becomes cognizant of is the fact that he is not asleep on the floor - it feels like he is in a bed. The second thing that he realizes is that he cannot feel the familiar and degrading sensation of cold shackles around his ankles.

He does not open his eyes, his heart beginning to pound. Could it be that everything he has gone through has just been some sort of twisted nightmare, the product of his overly stressed subconscious mind frantically trying to find a way to patch that rift? Is any of the horror he's gone through for the past couple of months real? Is he... still in that spare bedroom in the Shack? Yes, that must be it. He's still in the Shack, and today he is going to take Dipper out into the forest to catalogue some rare moths with him.

Yes, that sounds nice. After the nightmare he's had, he deserves to do something calming and enjoyable. He can think about the rift after he's cleared his mind.

Part of him knows that this is not the case. When he opens his eyes, he does not feel sinking disappointment, nor despair, nor self-pity when he is greeted with the familiar pattern of the penthouse's walls and ceiling. All he can manage to think is, 'oh.'

Is that a sign that he's already given up hope?

Never mind that, he must check something. He throws off the covers, wondering how the hell he ended up on a mattress in the first place. He cannot recall doing anything special. What is far more shocking than his new sleeping arrangement is the absence of chains entangled with his legs; the sight of his bare ankles for the first time in months.

...Holy shit.

He disbelievingly pulls one of his ankles towards himself to observe it. The dark wreaths of red and purple bruises and lacerations wrapped around the newly exposed flesh do not come as a surprise to him. Running a digit along the marred skin, he finds that it is still very raw and tender to the touch. The cuffs were removed recently, very much so. He cannot believe that he is actually not chained up for once.

What does this even mean? Does Bill trust him now? No, this is surely a test of some sort. He's probably watching to see whether Ford will immediately try to escape. Not that he can escape, anyway; he's tried everything in the book to break through the walls of this place. This new development should be a good thing, right? Not only is it a huge relief to not have something digging relentlessly into his ankles all the time, but this must be a sign that Bill is beginning to let his guard down a little. The more he lets his guard down, the greater chance Ford will have of getting away somehow.

He scrambles to his feet and rubs his eyes, feeling well-rested for the first time in quite a while. Of course, it is not ideal to sleep in a bed with your nemesis's face plastered all over everything, but Ford chooses not to think about that unfortunate detail and instead take advantage of how sharpened his senses are after an actual full night of sleep.

Ford begins to go about his morning routine. The penthouse has gotten a lot of new additions ever since Ford and Bill have become... cordial. Rather than being museum-like; everything within arranged neatly and seeing no use, the place appears much more lived-in now. There is a whiteboard on one of the walls that Bill set up in case Ford wanted to pass the time by doing math equations. Instead of using the whiteboard for its intended purpose, however, it's become a day marker. Every time Ford wakes up from his relatively regular sleep schedule, he adds a tally to the board. When he first got it, Ford estimated that he'd been around three weeks into his prison sentence, so the board started with twenty-one tallies.

Now, it has well over eighty.

He adds a tally to the board. Whenever something interesting happens, he uses a different color for that day. The vast majority of tallies are black, but today's is green.

It isn't a perfectly accurate way of measuring time. After all, there is no real way to confirm how much time has passed. It's just speculation. Mere speculation, Ford finds, is much better than being kept in the dark entirely.

He passes a couple more new additions to his room as he makes his way to the restroom. There is a stack of board games pushed against a wall that he and Bill have played half to death. There is still an in-progress game of Monopoly sprawled out across the floor from a couple days ago that they never got around to finishing. There are also an absurd amount of books on a triangular bookshelf that Ford had practically torn through. Mostly the classics that he's already read, but a couple that he'd never heard of. Both were a pleasure to read.

There's a sketchbook sitting on the couch. Ford always liked to include drawings whenever he journaled about Gravity Falls, something his captor must've picked up on. If one were to flip through the contents of this sketchbook, they would be able to catalogue the different phases of Ford's imprisonment, to see it visually like the rings within a tree stump.

When he first got the thing, he had taken to proclaiming his disdain with the situation by filling numerous pages with different drawings depicting him brutally murdering Bill. Unfortunately, this was seen as something funny and cute rather than anything serious, so he eventually switched to drawing things he missed from the outside world. Lots of landscapes, some activities, interesting lifeforms, people he knew. His family appeared in quite a few of these drawings, much to Bill's annoyance. After all, why would Ford want to waste his time drawing anyone else when the best person of all was right there with him?

One time, he had even offered Bill a page, and they doodled together. Ford had drawn one of their dream fights, and he was admittedly curious to see what kind of demented and deranged things Bill would draw. However, the demon never drew anything of that nature. He simply filled his share of the page with red and blue triangles, looking distant the whole time.

Ford didn't ask, and he wasn't sure that he wanted to.

Sometimes, despite everything, their routine was strangely domestic. Piano, drawing, playing board games. Laughing, drinking, debating.

Others, they fought, and they fought hard. They argued, they insulted each other, they competed to see who could piss the other off more, they mutilated one another in Ford's dreams. But it was like each day was a clean slate, whatever horrible things they had said or done to each other previously wiped away.

There's also a radio on a small table in the corner of the room. Ford remembers the first night he got it. They had danced in the middle of the room wildly. It started with Ford scowling on the floor as he watched Bill dance, and then after a lot of convincing and a few cocktails, he had gotten up and danced instead, and then they danced together. At one point, Bill was holding onto the straight end of his cane and swinging around with Ford holding onto the curved side, and the human's hands slipped and he'd crashed into the couch and knocked it over. He suppresses a smile thinking about how ridiculous that was.

Ford enters the restroom and there is a note waiting for him atop a pile of folded clothing. He plucks his glasses up off the counter and adjusts them on his face as he takes the note in his hands. It's covered in Bill's stupidly large, triangular handwriting. The note itself is just several small post-it notes stuck together, seeing as Cipher apparently did not want to make his writing small enough to cram everything onto one note. Bill, chaotic as ever, has ensured that each different note is a blinding shade of neon more vibrant than the last. The entire thing looks like a grandmother's patchwork quilt on LSD.

HEY SIXER! ARE YOU READY FOR THE PARTY OF A LIFETIME? I KNOW YOU JUST THOUGHT 'NO' TO YOURSELF AND I AM HERE TO TELL YOU THAT NO IS NOT THE CORRECT ANSWER! WE'VE GOT A BIG DAY PLANNED SO PLEASE WEAR THE OUTFIT ON THE COUNTER! PREPARE FOR A DOPAMINE EXPLOSION SO MIND-BOGGLING THAT ALL YOUR SORROWS WILL GO THE WAY OF EVERYONE WHO'S EVER OPPOSED ME!! (VAPORIZED AND FORGOTTEN)

P.S. I SAID PLEASE AND IT'S YOUR FAULT! YOU'RE GETTING YOUR SIXER GERMS ON ME! LOOK WHAT YOU DID!

One of the post-it notes flutters to the ground, and Ford picks it up and reattaches it gently, before setting the amalgamation on the countertop. When he unfolds the outfit that the note was rested on, Ford's eyebrows raise when he recognizes it as an exact physical copy of the one he typically wears during their dream battles. Does this mean that Bill wants to fight him for real? Is that what he has been so adamantly training him for? Or maybe... Bill's setting him up to fight someone else for some sick sort of entertainment?

Bill had gotten him a few different outfits throughout his time here, but he preferred to wear his typical red turtleneck and familiar trench coat. He'd even brought him the wedding dress that he had such fond memories with, only for the man to try and burn it in the fireplace. The demon took notice that he greatly preferred to wear clothing that covered him completely, leaving only his hands and face exposed. A bit silly - he isn't around civilization anymore, so he doesn't need to hide his scar-ridden form at all times. Bill figures that maybe he's insecure.

Ford feels a bit unsettled, standing here in his glorified prison cell, unshackled, holding out an outfit that he has directly associated with battle. Well, he does not have a choice in anything here, so he figures he may as well put it on. If he doesn't wear it, he's sure it would not be beyond the demon to force him into that damn wedding dress that he's hell-bent on casting into the fireplace one of these days.

After he's put it on, he straightens the collar of the black trench coat and observes himself in the mirror. Despite everything, he honestly does not look that terrible. The most noticeable difference in his appearance from before Weirdmageddon to now is how pale his complexion has become, a result of him not seeing the sun in months. He does not look unhealthily blanched, but especially when paired with the dark circles which have seemingly taken up permanent residency under his eyes, the lack of color in his face is quite overt.

His hair's longer, too. He isn't really a fan, he's always thought having longer, more untamed hair makes him look less civilized, but he does not have the means to cut it himself. Not that he's incapable of it, but Bill doesn't trust him with anything sharp. This, as Ford pointed out once, is ridiculous, because he is not going to be able to kill a chaos god with a pair of scissors. Still, Bill only lets him shave his face when he's watching him closely, and makes sure to always pick up the shards of broken glass that scatter across the floor whenever Ford throws his drink at him during an argument (which has happened more times than one might assume.)

It's demeaning, he isn't a child! Plus, it's clear he won't be able to actually hurt Cipher with such miniscule tools. As always, though, Bill doesn't listen to what he has to say. It's just another means of mocking Ford, if anything.

He finishes his brief once-over and makes his way back into the main room to pass the time with a book, and there's the demon himself. Lounging on the couch, one foot haughtily crossed over the opposite knee, looking down at an imaginary watch on his wrist as if Ford's taken much too long. Choosing to be annoying today, he does not acknowledge Ford until the human clears his throat loudly.

"Hey, Sixer! Looking good!" He comments lightheartedly, eye slowly and deliberately looking the human over in a way that makes him want to shrink back a little.

"What is all this, Cipher? What's going on?" Ford responds, crossing his arms tightly to his chest, slightly alleviating his sense of discomfort. This relief is shortlived when Bill gets up, floats in front of his captive, and proceeds to start messing with his collar and straightening his clothing like it is the most natural thing in the world.

He stiffens, pure shock rendering him motionless for a moment. When the senses that had abruptly vacated his mind manage to return, he swats Bill's hands away. "What do you think you're doing?"

"You wanna look your Doomsday Best where we're headed, kid! We're going out!"

Ford blinks owlishly, his eyebrows raising in surprise. "Out...?" He parrots, as if forming the word for the very first time; as if the possibility of ever going 'out' has not occured to him. He thrusts his arms outward in a gesture of surprise, and Bill grabs one and begins to button the cuff of his sleeve. Ford does not take notice, allowing this to happen as his mind races with questions. "Out of here? Out of the penthouse!?"

"Out of the penthouse, Fordsy!" Cipher confirms cheerily, patting the man's shoulder a couple times. Ford is flabbergasted.

"What's going on?" He demands. "Where are we going? Why are we leaving? Are we coming back? Am I-"

Ford's asking too many questions. He doesn't stop when Bill rolls his eye, the universal symbol for 'you're talking too much, please shut up before I vaporize you and mix your ashes in with my next shot of tequila,' so Bill slaps a hand over his mouth to make him be quiet. Interestingly enough, he keeps talking for a full sentence afterwards, before realizing what's happened and acquiring a blatantly offended look on his face.

"I told you it's the party of a lifetime, didn't I?" Is all he says, unhelpfully. He lifts his hand off the human's face, which has since morphed into a glare, and extends his other hand, palm up. "C'mon, let's go!"

"At the very least, you could provide some sort of an explanation," Ford glowers. He pointedly stares at the hand without taking it. The last time he took that hand, it was enveloped in blue flames, and it led to the beginning of the end.

A sigh, but it's not one of genuine irritation. "Are all humans members of the Fun Police, or is it just you?" He snatches Ford's hand up himself, interlacing six fingers with four. The human's hand swallows his own, its extra digit making up for the one Bill lacks.

He startles, alarmed, but of course, the rules don't work that way. They must shake hands to make a deal, not hold them.

...Is that what they're doing? Even though Bill's hand is smaller, it curls possessively around Ford's, and they stand in silence for what Ford believes is longer than necessary. What is even happening right now?

He opens his mouth to ask exactly that, but all that comes out is a scream when Bill snaps with his unoccupied hand, and a hole appears in the floor beneath them. In the next instant, blinding strokes of color whizz past his vision as the sensation of falling causes his heart to lurch up into his throat. A primal kind of panic intertwines with adrenaline and causes him to grip Bill's hand so tightly that if he had typical mortal bones and cartilage, he's sure it would be crushed in the process. Bill doesn't mind, he thinks it's funny. Don't human mothers do the same thing to their partners when they're in labor?

The precise instant before they hit the ground and Ford's body is rendered unrecognizable from the impact, Bill ceases their freefall and hovers them several feet above the floor. He watches amusedly as Ford trembles beside him, catching his breath as the adrenaline recedes from his body like the ocean from a wet shore. The second the human realizes just how tightly he's grabbed onto Bill's hand, he tears his arm away without a second thought. For that, Bill abruptly releases his telekinetic hold on Ford and snickers as he falls on his face.

He climbs to his feet, squinting his eyes. Has the outside world always been this bright, or has he just been inside for far too long? He cannot recall the sun ever being so brilliant, the colors ever being so vibrant. He has to shield his eyes with one arm as he gazes up at the sky, in awe. He'd gone longer without seeing the sky before when he was beyond the portal, but he always had other skies to glance up at. Some more remarkable, some less, but always, there was something there to look at.

The roof of the structure he finds himself in quickly closes up, the beauty of the sky sealed away once more. His eyes adjust quickly back to the familiar darkness of the lighting Bill's structures typically contain, and he looks around to examine where they have landed.

An expansive, pyramid-like edifice spans out all around him. He and Bill are stood upon a floating platform suspended directly in the middle of this odd structure. The walls, ceiling, and floor are all made up of the same brick pattern he has grown used to seeing in the penthouse. Within this pyramid, there are two looming fortresses situated on completely opposite ends. The space between them is vast and open, containing only a few stalagmites and obstacles which appear as if they could be used as cover.

A battlefield.

Bill claps his hands twice, drawing the man's attention. "Alright, fellas! Who's ready to get this party started?"

Alarm shoots up Ford's spine as he realizes that they have an audience. He peers off the edge of the platform and is greeted by a jarring sight; the group of freakish entities that had watched him get tortured on day one of this nonsense are here - gazing up at he and Bill eagerly, almost hungrily.

His eyes widen and he steps back from the edge of the platform to give Cipher a furious glare. Is Bill planning on throwing him to the wolves here? He has no idea what is happening, but he wants no part of it!

The demon, feeling Ford's agitated stare, turns to regard him with a tinge of amusement in his gaze. He reaches out a hand and begins to pet the human's hair to reassure him, a gesture which, over the months, has morphed into one that is not entirely unwelcome - but is completely mortifying and unwanted in front of others!

His hand is smacked away, hard. "Don't touch me!" Ford yells, thoroughly abashed. Not in front of them!

Bill shrugs, unaffected, and turns back to the gaggle of maniacs beneath them. He interlaces his hands behind his back as he addresses them. "Alright, kiddo, meet the gang! Sixer, The Interdimensional Gang of Criminals and Nightmares! Interdimensional Gang of Criminals and Nightmares, Sixer!"

He cackles as the crowd immediately starts booing his human companion, who crosses his arms and frowns angrily. Ford's frown deepens when Bill throws an arm around his shoulder and pulls him close. "500 points to whoever can guess why I call him that!"

Bill's other hand seizes Ford's and holds it up to show the crowd, an action which triggers a primal, insecure part of the human's mind, causing him to momentarily freeze in fear. It is only after his hand is released and he is able to conceal it tightly to his chest that the panic gives way to embarrassment and the present moment returns to him.

"Sixer here's never had the chance to have some real fun, so how's about we show him how we party around here?" Cipher continues, his grip on Ford's shoulder tightening as the man attempts to shrug his hand off. "I'm thinking we start off with an interdimensional classic, fun for mortals and our kind alike: Capture the Flag!"

The crowd cheers, their apparent dislike for their human guest momentarily forgotten. Then one of them says something in a language that Ford does not recognize, earning a few snickers from those around them. Bill cackles and responds playfully in the same language, finally removing his hand from Ford's shoulder just to ruffle his hair instead.

They are most definitely talking about him.

"Okay, boys, here's how this is gonna go! We're gonna play for five rounds, and each round the teams are gonna get scrambled like an infant in a washing machine! After all, I want Sixer here to get to know as many of you as possible!" Bill explains as Ford ducks away from his unwanted petting, choosing to stand a few paces away with an overwhelmingly irritated look on his face. "You all know how to play Capture the Flag, right? I'm assuming I'm not talking to a bunch of nitwits here! Looking at you, Keyhole!"

The crowd laughs at 'Keyhole's' expense, who Ford assumes is the one shaped quite literally like a keyhole. It twiddles its thumbs but laughs half-heartedly along with the rest of them, seemingly wanting to fit in.

Bill snaps, and Ford glances down to see that he now has a sword sheathed and a gun holstered at his waist. At the very least, he won't have to resort to using the flimsy human defenses of nails and teeth to fight these interdimensional monstrosities.

"Let's get started!" Bill shouts.

In the next instant, Ford finds himself on one side of the arena alongside four of Bill's minions. They seemed like they would dwarf him when he was looking down at them from the platform, but now that they are side-by-side, he guesses Bill must have shrunken them to be similar in size to Ford himself so he wouldn't be too disadvantaged.

He glances at what he assumes are his teammates. A couple of them look relatively harmless, but looks can be deceiving. After all, Bill himself does not look formidable - he's literally a triangle with noodle arms - but he's the most sadistic and evil creature Ford's ever had the displeasure of meeting. He's a bit intimidated by the tall pink creature and the barbaric looking one with broken shackles around a couple of its limbs.

"First up, we've got 8-Ball, Pyronica, Hectorgon, Teeth, and Sixer against Kryptos, Zanthar, Keyhole, Paci-Fire, and Amorphous Shape!" The demon announces from his platform. Ford supposes he is not participating in this game and acting more like a referee, which he's is a little disappointed about. Bill is the only opponent he's actually familiar with, the only one whose moves he can actually begin to read and predict. Fighting him, most of the time, ends up being fun. He's not sure about the rest of these monsters.

"Alright, kids, you've got two minutes to form a strategy before the forcefields around your forts disappear! And remember our one rule: there are no rules!" Demented laughter rings throughout the arena. "Okay, okay, I lied, don't kill me! There is one rule: don't rough up my human too badly! Go easy on him, it's his first time! And if I catch any of you trying to eat him, I'll disassemble your molecules, capiche?"

Ford presses his lips into a thin line. It is apparent that he is the only one receiving any sort of grace here; the others are allowed to literally rip each other to shreds, so long as they can put those shreds back together again for the following round. The same thing cannot be done for a mere human, at least not without Bill's influence, so he has to be allotted some form of protection.

A loud, piercing sound blares throughout the arena, and a couple of the nonhumans do the same thing as Ford does; wincing and covering their ears. When Ford looks over at the rest of the team after recovering, he sees that every single pair of eyes is fixated on him, and he can feel the stares of those without eyes just as well.

"So, you're the one keeping us in this dump, huh?" The one with the mustache starts, its tone dripping with contempt. Ford fixates it with a defiant stare, unintimidated.

The fiery pink creature leans down with a laugh, resting an elbow atop the other creature's form and resting its cheek in its palm. "Don't be an ass! Bill won't like it if we start picking on his pet!" She says cheerfully. Ford gets a vibe from this one that is similar to that of Cipher's.

"I am most certainly not Bill's pet!" Ford snaps, indignified. Is that seriously what these things see him as?

He is beyond scandalized when this earns a loud laugh from the creature. "It's so feisty! Cute," she remarks. "I'm Pyronica, by the way!"

"I'm Teeth!" Calls another. Ford... probably could have guessed that was its name, all things considered.

The dull green monster, probably the most intimidating in appearance out of everyone, gingerly raises a clawed hand and waves. "I'm 8-Ball," it says with a gavely voice.

The one Pyronica is leaning her weight on simply crosses its arms and glares at Ford, clearly not intending on introducing itself, so she decides to do it instead.

"This is Hectorgon. He's shy," she teases, and for that, Hectorgon teleports out from underneath her, causing her to fall onto the floor. She laughs mockingly and springs back to her feet.

Ford blinks - is he supposed to introduce himself to these things? He does not want to do that, but he'd rather them not call him Sixer; the name Bill had presented him under. Thus, it is with an indifferent tone that he simply says, "Stanford."

"Sixer, you are, like... the weak one, so... you should stay near the flag... defend it... You won't die..." 8-Ball grunts. It has a strange, choppy manner of speaking, one that fits its barbaric appearance well.

"It's Stanford," he corrects, slightly irritated at the thing's blatant disregard of his preferred name. He does not appreciate how much he is being underestimated, either. "I am hardly weak. I survived in your dimension for over thirty years."

Hectorgon scoffs and waves its hand dismissively. "Thirty years! Try thirty million, kid!"

"Thirty years is a long time for a human!" Teeth chimes in. "This one looks half-dead, so that's probably most of its lifespan!"

Pyronica chuckles and approaches Ford, clearly trying to intimidate him. He stands his ground, looking impassively up at her. "It spent that long running from Bill just to get caught in the end anyway! That's pretty sad, don't you think, 'Stanford?'"

Ford gasps as she starts ruffling his hair much rougher than Bill ever has, squeezing his eyes shut in discomfort as he tries to duck out of the way.

"Pathetic, really!" Hectorgon chuckles.

There comes a sudden slicing noise, and the irreverent hand that had been in his hair moments prior retreats. Ford opens his eyes just in time to see said hand drop to the ground in front of him, severed from its arm. He makes a choked, alarmed noise and takes a couple steps back, eyes wide as the fingers of the hand still wriggle, causing a strange, blood-like substance to gush from its laceration.

"Hands off my things!" Comes Bill's jarring voice, and Ford turns to see the demon spinning his cane around his index finger, one side sharpened into a blade. He's floating in front of a giggling Pyronica, who simply picks her hand up off the floor and reattaches it with a sickening squelching noise. A ring of flames encircles the wrist that had been cut, sealing off any open wounds.

A sudden bell-like signal alerts the group of the forcefield's dispersal. Bill gives his cane one firm swing to the side, flinging the remnants of Pyronica's blood to the ground, before tipping his hat to the team. "Later, suckers!" He flies back up to his platform in the blink of an eye.

With a series of whoops, everyone scatters at once, some knocking each other over in their haste. Watching from above, Cipher thinks to himself that this scene looks a bit familiar. With the fort evacuated, everyone else eager to begin battling, Ford supposes he should follow the green creature (8-Ball's?) advice and defend the flag. Leaving it unattended like this is definitely a poor move, so Ford accepts the role given to him and begins to jog toward where the flag is kept.

On the interior of the fortress, the flag resides in the middle of an elevated platform, firmly planted in a slot in the ground. The flag itself has Bill's symbol on it in black, contrasting its white background. Ford presumes that the other team's flag is an inverted version of theirs. Along the back wall is a small selection of some of the other weapons Bill had taught him how to use over the past couple of months, a sign above stating they are for 'HUMANS ONLY!'

There are about thirty seconds of relative quiet (save for the distant screams and laughter) before a rumbling noise begins to emanate from beneath him. He whips around to face the direction of the approaching sound, drawing his gun. He isn't sure what exactly a gun is going to do against creatures of this caliber; if they are Bill's direct subordinates, they certainly have a great deal of power. However, he supposes that Bill may have limited which sort of powers they can use as well as the amount of bodily harm they can cause to him.

Why has Bill orchestrated this, anyway? What merit is there in having his prisoner intermingle with his allies? To have them 'get to know each other,' as he put it. Ford keeps his gun steadily trained on where he believes the noise may be originating from as he tries to think of the reasoning behind this event.

Why all of this training? Why have him integrate with his own kind? Is he trying to-

Ford freezes, a chill rolling down his spine as he remembers countless nights of Cipher repeating one singular sentence before his departures.

"It's not too late to join us, Sixer!"

Suddenly, the ground bursts open and a demonic looking entity with some sort of pacifier in its chest surfaces from the burrow it has created. Ford and the thing make eye contact, and it looks pointedly at the gun which is aimed directly at it, before turning and gazing back into the tunnel.

"Coast is clear," it states, beckoning something within the tunnel to come out.

A smaller creature - the one Ford thinks is named Keyhole - pokes its head out, looking quite unnerved. The moment it sees Ford, it turns to its accomplice with a look of terror.

"The coast isn't clear! That guy is-"

Ford fires, and Keyhole screeches and ducks out of the way just in time. The other creature begins rushing him, and he fires once again, this time hitting it directly in the shoulder. This does nothing to stop the oncoming attacker, whose wound begins to mend itself immediately as it continues running at the armed human. The other creature scrambles out of the tunnel, looking like a frightened animal and chattering its teeth, and Ford realizes that aiming for an arbitrary part of this creature's body won't do much. If he wants to stun it, he will have to shoot at some sort of vital place - he knows from his dimensional travels that those parts take the longest to heal.

Before he can fire again, it readies to pounce him, and he skids to the side to avoid being tackled. Laser guns are annoying, they take time to charge up when they aren't in their home dimension, so he ducks to dodge a swing meant for his face as he waits, remaining unbothered. This creature is hardly difficult; it isn't using any kind of demonic power, it's just trying to hit him with its fists. Does that mean it is powerless, or perhaps it is just not permitted to use whatever ability it has against Ford under Bill's protection?

Training with the ringleader of this group has definitely prepared him well and refined his reaction time. He is able to continually dodge every swing the creature takes at him, and when his gun is finally finished recharging, he aims it at the thing's neck, pressing it against its skin before seeing Keyhole grabbing the flag out of the corner of his eye. Twisting his positioning, he re-aims at the cyan creature and fires at him instead, hitting it directly through the stomach.

He doesn't have time to check on the status of the flag as the attacks of this demonic entity he's currently entangled with continue. He manages to land a few hits on it, but its flesh is akin to solid rock, unable to be damaged by his fists alone. With bruised knuckles that he hopes are not broken, he grips his weapon tightly and aims at the center of the creature's face with his right hand, his left catching an oncoming arm and struggling to keep it from continuing its descent towards his face.

It takes Ford's mind a few seconds to fully comprehend what happens next.

His finger begins to press down on the trigger, but before he can fire, the creature has opened its mouth and proceeds to bite off his hand at the wrist, gun included. The crunch of bone and the feeling of blood slicking up his ruined forearm reach his head before the pain does. Having had his limbs lobbed off by Bill countless times in his dreams, he has become desensitized to this sort of thing, the shock not setting in yet.

It is a good thing Stanford is ambidextrous.

Keyhole has managed to retrieve the flag and begins climbing back down into the tunnel as Ford does a motion akin to a twirl, tearing the strings of gore from the creature's teeth and ducking under his remaining arm which is still holding onto his attacker's wrist to escape the situation. He tries very hard not to think about the sounds of mastication which follow the original amputation of his hand, instead unsheathing his sword and resuming their battle left-handed.

The sword is not nearly as effective as the gun had proven to be, unable to create large holes in the demon's flesh, but he is able to slice at it a few times before it manages to kick him, hard, and he is sent flying backward and crashes into one of the support beams holding the fortress upright. He takes only half a second to express how much effort it is taking him to suppress the physical pain he is in through one small grunt, and then he springs to his feet as fast as he can.

This battle is unnecessary - he needs to chase the thing with the flag down and ensure it doesn't manage to bring it back to its base! The one he's currently fighting is playing its role as the distraction very well. Ford needs to stun it somehow and make a break for that tunnel. As he makes to stand upright, searing pain alerts him to the fact that when he had been kicked, the impact of its foot with his ribcage had shattered several of his ribs. It is only through the adrenaline swarming him at this very moment that he is able to stand.

He cradles what remains of his right arm into his torso, trying to provide any sort of relief or stability to his stance, and is hurled back into battle when the creature resumes attacking him. His movements are lazier now; whereas before, each movement was quick and graceful and left lots of energy to spare, now he puts everything into blocking the thing's arms and legs which keep on aiming for him in a flurry of dark gray. No longer the offense, he continually retreats as the thing advances on him until they're nearly backed into a corner. Despite his injuries and sluggishness, he's still able to block the most devastating of the hits.

The arm cradling his ribs falls limp at his side when he does not block a punch in time; his shoulder is smashed beyond repair, rendering his right arm completely useless. He falters then, unable to continue standing up, and falls to one knee. However, he continues to fight, even if it is no longer with the chance of pursuing his team's stolen flag.

Despite his injuries, he remains silent. He has learned to never let an opponent know how much pain he is in, no matter what, don't let him know how much it hurts, he can't know any of your weaknesses if you just stay silent, don't show any sign of pain, don't give into him no matter what! He suppresses every pained noise that threatens to spill from his chapped lips, now slick with the blood he has drawn from biting down on them so hard in order to stifle these sounds.

Suddenly, a horrific screaming noise comes from the thing he's fighting, startling him as the attacks cease all at once. The creature has spontaneously combusted into violent, bright flames, and it staggers back and begins clawing at its own flesh. Ford watches with rapt horror as it proceeds to literally tear its own skin off, frozen and unable to look away as strings of flesh are dug into and pulled off it with its own claws. From these scratches, the thing begins molting like it's a snake, something equally as grotesque and disgusting that Ford is also unable to look away from.

Pyronica grins widely as she sees the human's expression. It must be the funniest thing she's ever seen! Well, not the funniest, but top fifty, for sure. In her right hand, she clutches the opposing team's flag, holding it directly above the slot she needs to place it into for a moment, enjoying the anticipation of victory and the telltale scent of burning flesh in the air. When she finally places it, earning their team the point, the same blaring sound as before makes her cringe at its intensity.

Paci-Fire is still molting its skin, and the human is completely blanched, eyes continuing to stare at the spot where his attacker was moments ago, as if transported somewhere else. Pyronica grins and rushes over to him just as he begins to topple over, catching him before he hits the ground.

"Not bad, Sixer!" She teases. He's pretty weak, but he did put up a good fight! It's funny how easily humans can lose their limbs, and apparently they never even grow them back without healing magic! She shakes him to try and get his attention, kneeling down to his level, but he isn't responding. He isn't even blinking.

Maybe he's broken. She snickers as she realizes Paci-Fire's probably going to get in trouble for this.

The smell of burning flesh. The horrific screaming. Being injured, helpless, cornered with no way out.

He hasn't had a panic attack in a long time, but suddenly, he had become overwhelmed with his memories of the throne room; of being in chains, the neverending pain of Bill shocking him until he shattered repeatedly, his own helpless, involuntary screams. He thinks he must be having a heart attack. He can't focus on anything around him, everything is going in circles, he can't escape. He's trembling violently, he can't breathe, his chest hurts, his heart is pounding, the blood in his veins is thrashing as it gushes through them, he needs to escape-!

There are hands on him. No, please don't hurt him! He can't take anymore! Please, don't hurt him, just this once!

And the hands do not hurt him. One is placed softly on his chest, the other grips the bloody stump where his hand used to connect to the rest of his arm, and then he feels a pleasant warmth, like gentle flames are licking his skin and restoring his body back to its uninjured state.

Slowly, the flames burn away the panic, and his vision returns to him. He's lying on the ground, and hovering above him is that pink demon, grinning down at him. He can feel and hear his heartrate returning to normal, and the trembling in his limbs dies down slowly as the flames banish the agony from his body. He blinks a couple times in surprise, did she heal him? What even happened a minute ago? He looks at her helplessly for a moment, and then she pulls away, his body fully restored.

"...Thank you," he says after a moment, disbelieving. He knows that he should not be thanking her, she's on Bill's side, after all, but he actually means it when he expresses his gratitude.

He did not know healing could be such a methodical process; perhaps she is not powerful enough to perform it instantly like Cipher can. The demon - he thinks her name was Pyronica - gives him a strange look, like she wasn't expecting politeness.

"Don't thank me! Just get better, then I won't have to heal you anymore!" She replies, before standing up, turning around, and skipping out of the fortress to meet up with the others, leaving Ford alone with lots to think about.

He grimaces. He does not like how easy it was to revert him back into such a state. He thought he had gotten over that, but all it took was... It was so easy to-!

There's no time to think about that now. He can think about that when Bill forces him back into his prison cell; he'll have plenty of time to think then, and he doesn't want to waste the limited time he has outside wallowing in self-pity and self-hatred.

Sealing away his thoughts, he climbs to his feet and makes his way outside to group up for round two.

Chapter Text

The rest of the rounds follow a relatively similar routine.

Whichever team Ford is assigned to is typically annoyed upon being stuck with him. He is regarded as the weakest link in an otherwise titanium chain, and whenever the team he is on racks up a loss, the blame is shoved onto him.

He's managed to 'get to know' Bill's goons a little, though. He's formed the following opinions on them:

8-Ball: Despite his brutish appearance, he appears to be quite intelligent; something Ford picked up on after they had a few more brief interactions. He doesn't seem to mind Ford much, but has made it clear that he does not necessarily enjoy his presence. He's exceptional in hand-to-hand combat, and seemed to have fun when he and Ford duked it out with their fists.

Pyronica: Out of everyone, she seems to mind him the least. As such, Ford likes her the most. Personality-wise, she reminds him a lot of Cipher; sarcastic, playful, and sassy. Her attacks are all fire-based, and it is quite obvious that she is a pyromaniac in the truest sense of the word. After she healed Ford, reaching a clawed hand into the violent waters he was drowning in to pull him out, Bill said something to her in their mysterious language, and she never laid a hand on him again.

Hectrogron: He's made it exceptionally clear that he dislikes Ford strongly. Every chance he got, he tried to provoke the man with rude comments and blatant attitude. Ford doesn't know much about this one, and he doesn't care to.

Amorphous Shape: Ford is not sure whether or not she actually exists. The others sometimes have the same question. Apparently, only certain people can see her; 8-Ball told him that at one point. Bill offered to pump him full of DMT so he would be able to comprehend her existence. He declined.

Zanthar: Ford's not sure whether this one is fully sentient. It is completely silent and only seems to enjoy stomping around and destroying everything it comes into contact with like some sort of untamed beast. Although, he has no clue why one of Bill's most high-ranking underlings would be akin to a feral animal, so there is the possibility it is just fooling around. Also, he was warned not to utter its name out loud or else he would melt into a puddle of sizzling bone marrow.

Kryptos: He looks the most similar to Bill. Ford wondered if maybe they originated from the same place, but then remembered that Bill told him once that he was the sole survivor of his dimension's destruction. He's not sure if that's even the truth, because all Bill does is lie, but he gets the vibe they aren't from the same place regardless. Similarly to Hectorgon, he blatantly hates Ford and got a sadistic thrill out of drawing his blood during battle.

Teeth: He seems to be the most down-to-earth out of everyone. The others treat him like their pet dog or something, but he doesn't seem to mind. Ford hasn't interacted with Teeth directly, but he seems pretty intelligent and to have a good sense of humor. He doesn't seem to particularly loathe Ford, but kept commenting that he wanted to eat him. Similarly to Hectorgon, he makes a lot of quips towards the human, but they don't seem as ill-natured.

Paci-Fire: Despite being the one that mutilated Ford during the first round, the man found a bit of respect for him due to his intelligence. He's not really suited for battle as well as the others, but his manner of speaking is similar to Ford's own. When they were on the same team, they had a brief interaction and found that they both enjoy Dungeons, Dungeons, and More Dungeons. Paci-Fire admitted that he hated Ford slightly less after finding this out.

Keyhole: Ford has come to the conclusion that he is the punching bag of the group. When something goes wrong, the blame is either passed to Ford or to Keyhole. Everyone loves poking fun at him, messing with him in battle, and treating him similarly to Ford. Unlike the human, Keyhole does not seem to mind this treatment. At least, not outwardly.

Ford is well aware that he should not like any of these creatures, even in the slightest. They are simply an extension of Bill, after all. However, at least in some cases, he cannot force himself to dislike their presence. He dislikes what they stand for, and he dislikes that they, despite being so much more powerful than Ford, bend to Cipher's will rather than doing the right thing, but after being alone for so long, any other living thing is a welcome change from Bill's suffocating presence.

He did learn something interesting after having to reintroduce himself as Stanford several times just to pointedly be ignored. Apparently, one does not choose their name around here. In his case, he is not Stanford, he is Sixer, because that is the name Bill assigned to him. These maniacs abandoned their own names to take ones given to them by their ringleader, something Ford finds absurd. While he's been in that penthouse, he feels he has lost a good amount of himself - a chunk dug out of him and stolen away by his captor, and then promptly refilled with parts of Bill himself. One of the only things that he has managed to hold onto up there, to remain absolutely sure of, is his name; Stanford Filbrick Pines. Does Bill plan to steal that away too?

At the end of four rounds, everyone regroups in the center for the fifth and final round. Ford is exhausted but jittering with adrenaline, begrudgingly admitting to himself that he does indeed find this experience fun. He reassures himself that this would not be the case under normal circumstances, and that he is only enjoying this because he's been trapped in one place for so egregiously long.

"This last round's gonna work a little differently!" Bill explains from his platform, absurdly high in the air so he can look down on everyone else. He points to the others one by one, each acquiring a slight blue aura as he 'selects' them. "All of you are on one team!"

Ford is the only one that remains excluded. Does Bill seriously expect him to fight all of them at once? He'll get torn to shreds!

He feels himself being picked up by the same invisible force he's grown used to as Bill releases his grip on the others. "And Sixer, it's you and me, pal!"

Ford narrows his eyes. "Two versus nine? Isn't that a bit unfair?"

Bill cackles in response. "You're forgetting who your teammate is, Sixer!"

"So! How're you liking our little outing, IQ? If I didn't know any better, I could almost swear you were smiling a few times back there!" Bill comments as they enter their grace period of two minutes.

Ford thinks for a moment. "I don't think your friends like me very much."

Bill cackles shrilly. "That's pretty normal, kid! They don't tend to like anyone outside of the gang!"

"That one with the mustache in particular - I can tell he hates me. I suppose Pyronica does not mind me as much as the others," he ponders.

Bill narrows his eye. "Oh, she hates your guts, Sixer! She's just good at hiding it!" He tells him, snaking an arm around the human possessively. They all hate you, except for me!

"I see," Ford responds. He does not seem too affected by that statement, which pleases his teammate.

In reality, Pyronica is entirely indifferent to the new member Bill is attempting to introduce to his gang. Judging by everyone's behavior, Ford's probably right in assuming that she dislikes him the least out of them all. However, the thought of his human beginning to get close to anyone other than Bill right now is beyond bothersome - it's infuriating! - so he discourages their interaction as much as possible. This is a bit counterproductive to what his initial plan was, but Bill has always been the impulsive type, with last-minute changes often accompanying his plans.

Seeing her heal him in particular, only to be thanked for it, almost sent the demon into a blind rage. He's healed Sixer dozens of times at this point, where's his thanks? He does not care to understand why he is so agitated by the whole thing, but he could rant for hours to a willing audience about how angry that made him!

"What's the plan?" Ford asks, and Bill returns to the present, releasing him as he calms down slightly. "Aren't I going to be kind of useless compared to you out there?"

"I'm glad you asked, smart guy!" He replies with a chuckle.

Ford stiffens when he feels a cuff clink into place around his right wrist. It is connected to a glowing chain which ends in another cuff around Bill's left wrist.

"What?" The man asks suspiciously, giving the chain a tug. There is only a few feet of it between them, disallowing much flexibility.

"Have you ever wondered what it's like to be a god, Fordsy? Ever wanted a taste of the divine?"

"No, Bill," Ford replies, his cuffed hand falling to his side. "I don't see what that has to do with-"

"Call me the sandman, kiddo, 'cause I'm gonna make your dreams come true!" He interrupts, completely disregarding the fact that Ford said 'no.' "I'm not a huge fan of the whole 'sharing' biz, but I'm willing to make an exception just for you!"

"I don't follow."

"It's called power sharing, Sixer! So long as there's a channel between us-" Bill raises his left arm and rattles the chain before the human's eyes, "I can send your little mortal brain into overdrive with even an ounce of what I can do! Wanna give it a shot?"

"What are you playing at?" Ford asks, suspicion tinging his tone. "What's going to happen to me if I say yes? Am I going to turn into some kind of horrible monstrosity?"

"What? No! Well, maybe," Bill replies, much too casually. "I haven't really done this sort of thing before - like I said, not a sharer. Humor me, Sixer! Why don't you do something like... oh, I don't know, fire a laser from your hand?"

Ford gives him a pointed frown. "How exactly am I supposed to do that?"

The forcefield surrounding them dissolves, and the blaring signal notifies them that the round has started.

"Just think about it and it'll happen - just like in your dreams! Kind of like walking; it takes some getting used to, but it'll become second nature to you in no time!"

"I don't know about this," Ford says, but he's much too curious, ever the pursuer of knowledge. He raises a hand and aims it at the ground a few dozen meters away, the movement hesitant and unsure.

Bill can feel it, the cuff around his wrist heats up slightly as Ford tries to channel some of his power. Lending enough of it to allow Ford to fire a laser is quite literally like giving him a drop out of an entire ocean. Bill can feel the intention behind it when Ford attempts to summon the power, can choose to either allow or deny him the ability to use it. He doesn't trust Ford enough yet to not try and use his own power against him, so he made that necessary adjustment.

In this case, the man's intention is pure in that it is not warped with any plan to hurt Bill, but he chooses to deny it, getting an idea.

"You almost got it, kid! I forgot to mention one thing though - you've gotta bawk like a chicken to get it to work the first few times!" Bill lies. He wants to see if Ford will actually do it - he really hopes that he will.

He does not, lowering his hand. "You can't be serious."

He places a hand to his chest in a gesture of mock offense. "When have I ever not been serious?"

That earns him one of Ford's infamous deadpan expressions. He's taken to calling it 'The Look' internally.

Bill shrugs, eye twinkling mischievously. "Hey, I don't make the rules here! Just try it out before we get jumped!"

"You quite literally do make the rules," Ford grumbles, before heaving an exasperated sigh and lifting his hand again. "If this doesn't work, Cipher, it'll be your funeral."

Bill stifles a laugh. He's actually going to do it. For someone so intelligent, Ford really can be an idiot sometimes.

"Baw-kawk," Ford calls out half-heartedly, and Bill can feel his intention; the chain attempting to sap a little power from his reserves. This time, he opens the floodgates and allows it to go through.

Ford looks absolutely gobsmacked when he witnesses a laser actually fire from his hand with his own eyes, landing exactly where he wanted. He inspects his hand disbelievingly, seeing that it has taken no damage.

"Now we're talking!" Bill cheers and gives a couple excited claps. "Let's get to it!"

He charges full-speed ahead towards the center of the battlefield, and Ford cries out in surprise as he stumbles over his feet in an attempt to keep up with the demon's inhuman speed. Inevitably, he trips and falls, but Bill doesn't stop, dragging him along carelessly.

"Hey! Bill- stop it!" Ford calls. The demon is undeterred, and for a moment, Ford worries that his arm is going to be lurched from its socket with how harshly he's being maneuvered.

He comes to a jarring halt near the middle, and before he can even pull himself upright, he notices that someone is approaching. Bill yells, "Sixer! Fire!" and he doesn't think - he clucks like a chicken and sends a ball of whatever chaotic kind of energy Bill is churning into him directly at the oncoming attacker, disintegrating them.

When he realizes what he has just done, he looks horrified. "Did I just-"

"He'll be fine! They regenerate, you know!" Bill assures him with a nonchalant swish of his hand. "Again, Sixer!"

Bill and Ford are so used to one another's moves, their styles of sparring, that it is with unequivocal ease that their separate manners of fighting fall in line; meld together into one flowing dance. It is so natural, the demon and his human fighting as one, each covering the other when they are briefly blindsided (well, Bill just pretends because it's cute to see Sixer try to protect him like a dog) and accurately able to predict how the other will react to every situation.

It's so perfect.

And the fact that Ford never stops making the stupid chicken noises is truly the cherry on top. The contrast between his idiotic bawking and the screams of those who fall victim to his attacks is hilariously striking. This connection, feeling the power flow freely between them, is not unlike when Bill used to possess Ford. It begins to become difficult to tell where Bill stops and Ford begins.

They've rendered the enemy team incapacitated in minutes, the whole affair a blur of interconnected chaos and energy and Bill and Ford, and they don't even go for the flag because Ford is laughing so hard at how profoundly stupid the whole thing is.

He's heard Ford laugh during his time here, but only when he was tipsy. Those laughs were brief chuckles; they were always reserved in a way. This laugh is different. The way Ford's unable to keep himself from guffawing at the absurdity of the situation is so him, it's the purest of all of Ford's laughs.

Bill doesn't realize that he's laughing alongside him, his high-pitched manic giggles complementing Ford's lower chuckling; he is the chord and Bill is the melody. Their mirth intermingles, harmonic like a tune on a piano. They look at each other, giddy with adrenaline, and in that moment, Bill is so close to having him, to being able to reach out into the space between them and-

He feels it, for a moment. He feels killing intent - he feels Ford attempt to summon his own power to blast him to pieces.

It lasts for only a split second. Ford aborts this process, decides not to do indulge in the brief lapse in judgement which passed just as quickly.

Oh, Sixer, Bill thinks fondly. I've got you now.

Their routine returns to its fairly regular nature after Ford is returned to the penthouse. However, there is something faraway in the human's eyes now - a distance that was not there before. After getting a taste of the outside, the man has been reminded of just how much he misses it in its entirety. He misses the fresh air of Gravity Falls (although, he supposes it probably isn't as fresh anymore.) He misses the choice that he used to have - one that he didn't often take advantage of - to get up early enough to watch the sun rise. He misses the presence of other people, something he never thought he would long for; the feeling of not being alone all the time. He misses the feeling of a nice, cool breeze combing through his fluffy hair rather than Bill's talons.

It is like he has gotten a fix of a drug that he has been deprived of for months; the withdrawal symptoms crashing into him with such intensity they threaten to drive him mad.

Cipher takes notice of his captive's decreased energy. Ford never outright admits how depressing it is being stuck in one small room is after exploring entire galaxies, but Bill can tell. He can tell by how the man's eyes sometimes look through him when he talks, how he seems less energetic and lively during their games, whether it be tag or chess, how the frequency of the outside world in his sketches has dramatically increased.

Whenever he asks what is wrong, Ford does not tell him. Stubborn as ever, determined to not show anyone what he is truly thinking or feeling, least of all Bill, he refuses. He keeps up this front of indifference which surely must be growing exhausting by now. He does his best to hide how much staying in here is affecting him, but the cracks that Bill has managed to slice into that thick sheet of ice give him enough of a glimpse into his soul that he can tell what he is feeling.

On the day that one hundred tallies accumulate on the board, Bill opens a hole in one of the walls for Ford to see the stars.

He watches the man's tired eyes light up with amazement at the sight of the night sky. The dull hue of those irises becomes a brilliant, rich shade of brown, enhanced by the reflection of the stars swimming in his gaze. It is a look that he used to get whenever he made a breakthrough, a discovery, or had a eureka moment when they used to work together. Bill has seen far more vibrant, more unique, more colorful, more profound eyes throughout his time alive, but none of them compare to Ford's when he is enraptured by something.

He silently walks to the edge of the platform, peering over the ledge at the ground hundreds of feet below. He is not shackled, he hasn't been for a while now, and for a second too long, he's staring at the dangerous drop that represents his only way out. Bill stops himself the moment before he can summon a chain and pull him back; to do that would to undo substantial progress. He just has to trust that Ford won't jump.

He does not. Instead, he slowly takes a seat, dangling his legs off the edge. He tilts his head up, admires the stars, enjoys the cool breeze. It is early September now, but Ford must be under the impression that it is an unusually warm November.

Bill watches the man in silence for a long while before he floats up behind him. He almost does not want to interrupt Ford's state of contentment, but selfishly, he does not want him to enjoy anything without inserting himself into the moment. Ford stiffens when a small black hand rests on his head and then begins to pet his hair, but he is so used to it by now that he does not remain tense for long.

It is a fact that Ford is incredibly touch-starved - he always has been. It was only a matter of time before he stopped resisting Bill's affection, just like he knew he would. Sometimes, subconsciously, he even arches into the touches; chases Bill's hands as he pulls away.

It is clear that Bill enjoys using affection as a way to demean and mock those he deems lesser than him, or to irritate a certain human. There is always a certain aggressiveness present whenever he casually throws an arm around Ford, flicks his nose, ruffles his hair. This time, though, there is no trace of any of those things.

When Ford feels the hand disentangle itself from his curls to trace along the nape of his neck, he inhales sharply and tenses with uncertainty. How quickly that same hand could choose to strangle him instead, could crush his windpipe with no effort at all. Bill's eye crinkles with amusement as he witnesses goosebumps begin to pepper what little of the man's skin is exposed.

Bill moves his hand to the back of Ford's right shoulder, eyeing the spot where his Henchmaniacs typically get his symbol branded into their skin.

Someday.

"What..." Ford starts, nervous. "What are you doing, Bill?"

He receives no response for a considerable amount of time. Eventually, Bill tells him, "When I get out of here, Stanford, I'm gonna rearrange all the stars in the sky."

Not knowing what to say to that, Ford remains silent.

"I'll make a constellation just for you, Fordsy. And then, when all the insignificant mortal flesh puppets of this dimension look up at their beloved sky, they'll see you the same way I do."

The goosebumps on Ford's skin increase in quantity. He does not say anything for a long time, and Bill wonders what kind of look he has on his face.

"...You're never getting out of here," Ford says, eventually.

The hand on his back disappears as Bill teleports in front of him. He places one hand on each side of Ford's face, forcing him to maintain eye contact. His touch is still not quite aggressive, but it has an edge of possessiveness that Ford did not pick up on moments ago.

"Neither are you," he tells him.

One time, Bill leaves the penthouse for thirty minutes to tend to some business. When he returns, he realizes that he had forgotten to pause time for Stanford, leaving him alone for over a week.

He is pleasantly surprised to witness how much needier the typically headstrong man becomes after being completely alone for an extended period of time. He tries so hard to hide the despair in his eyes, to disguise the ongoing battle between his logic and his emotions, to not let Bill know just how much his absence affected him.

He hides it all so very well until Bill pulls him into something which resembles an embrace. Ford crumbles, indulging in the affection with no little amount of self-hatred. Bill can tell in the way Ford instinctively tries to pull away before melting into the touches that the man is rapidly losing ground in this war he is fighting against himself.

"Aww, Fordsy, did you really miss me that much?" He teases, petting Ford's hair lovingly. He feels the human tense and pull back a little, but when Bill tightens his grip on him, any resistance he displays evaporates.

Ford does not say anything for a long time, trembling and stewing in the loathing he is most certainly feeling toward himself. And Bill caresses him through it, gives him the attention he's been yearning for, reassures him that it's going to be okay.

"I have no one else," he finally responds, voice defeated and broken.

Yes... yes, that is true. Ford really does have no one else, does he? If something were to happen to Bill - a foolish thought, he is untouchable - then what would become of his human pet? He would be all alone up here, with no one to bring him food or keep him company or prevent him from going insane or make him smile or play tag with him or watch him while he sleeps. If starvation were not to claim him first, then certainly madness would instead.

How beautiful, Bill thinks, that if he were to face defeat, Ford would inevitably die with him.

Despite the fact that he left Ford unshackled, there is no evidence of him trying to escape at all. In Ford's perspective, Bill had left abruptly; he had left with no warning, reason, or guarantee of return, and yet the man had held out with the hope that Bill would come back for him.

He really does belong to Cipher now, doesn't he?

As he holds Ford, he sees that the tally marks on the board corresponding to the days he was gone are marked in red rather than the usual black. He counts eight red tallies.

Eight days. How could he have forgotten to pause time? If it weren't for the sink, Ford would have died of dehydration! He's had no food in eight days - he must be starving! Bill must be careful from now on.

"Where did you go?" Ford asks shakily, desperately, when they part. "What did I do? Why did you leave for so long?"

Bill takes the man's face in his hands, probes his gaze with his own. He fishes out all the helplessness that is usually disguised so well, places it on full display and drinks it in greedily. For once, Ford does not pull away.

"An honest mistake, Sixer! It won't happen again!" He promises, running his thumbs fondly along the dark bags that have accumulated under his worried eyes. "I won't leave you again, alright? Not like everyone else."

With that, the human fully settles his head into the hands cradling it and shuts his eyes.

"...Okay."

Ford fears what is happening to him.

He has studied this phenomenon before, and he is ashamed to come to the realization that he is experiencing it himself. He is fighting a losing battle, trying so desperately to keep the burning flame of defiance and hatred towards Bill alive. He exerts so much effort in chopping enough firewood to feed this flame, a flame that Bill is constantly pouring water over. It is a fact of nature that in a battle of endurance, fire cannot win against water. It is always snuffed out.

Things that used to amuse and endear him about his 'Muse' haunt him now, the ghosts of once familiar feelings attacking him when he least expects them. They are ghosts in the purest sense; they cannot be seen, predicted, or fought back against.

His laugh, the way he curls in on himself a little and shuts his eye when he gives a genuine chuckle. Ford found it cute once.

His outlandish metaphors and hyperboles, some of which are particularly morbid and jarring in nature. And then, the pleased expression Bill gets when Ford reacts in shock or disgust to a particularly gruesome one.

His sarcasm. It perfectly contrasts Ford's colder, more deadpan nature, the demon's sarcastic and teasing disposition; their opposing natures managing to somehow slot together perfectly like puzzle pieces.

His praise. No one has ever been able to stroke Ford's ego quite like Cipher had, and apparently, he still has this ability despite everything. With each uttered compliment, Ford reverts further back into his old self, his firm grip on the edge of the pit he is trying so hard not to fall into faltering.

The affection. It's become so gentle now, and it reduces him back to the small, awkward, eager-to-please man he was when Bill first came into his life.

The nicknames. God, the nicknames.

Sixer - this glorification of his deformity, something everyone else has always looked upon with disgust. How he says it so casually, Sixer, and oh - especially when he gets that dangerous undertone to his voice when he is scolding or teasing him. When that happens, Ford suppresses a shiver that isn't entirely of fear.

Fordsy - the name he is often called during lighthearted moments. Often, this nickname is accompanied by some form of affection or praise. This name in particular makes him feel like a pet more than anything, something which he no longer can muster enough an adequate amount of hatred towards.

IQ or Smart Guy - a reminder that he is the perfect image of intelligence, his mind sharpened to its zenith by Bill himself. Sometimes, Bill uses this name when he is being sarcastic, and Ford enjoys it just as much.

He has fought valiantly, but it is now past the turning point. Ford is losing, and it terrifies him.

He looks upon the monster who has stolen his life away from him and feels only a familiar fondness, a newly reawakened longing that he was so sure he had buried thirty years ago. He allows Bill to slice him open, carve out his insides, and fill him back up with false promises and empty praise, enjoying every second of it.

He doesn't resist when his hand is taken and interlaced with that of his nemesis. He does not complain when he falls asleep to the feeling of Bill petting his hair, caressing his face. He only smiles when he is called so smart, so strong, so good. He enjoys spending time with his companion - no, his captor! - to an unhealthy extent. Everything that he stood for has been swept out from under him, leaving him disoriented and confused, and then Bill comes along and guides him into the light of his unholy yellow glow.

Why? He fought so hard to bury these foolish emotions, this adoration towards the demon who had taken one look at the smooth surface that was Ford's life and proceeded to smash a hole into its once pristine surface in order to slot himself inside of that grotesquely empty space. Why and how is this happening to him?

Had he ever truly stopped feeling this way towards Bill...? He is not sure. He had all the reasons in the world to, but he is beginning to learn that the heart is a completely separate entity from the mind. He is a scientist, dammit, he should be logical!

Logic, he learns, is a fragile thing; it is so easily crushed out of him by a single embrace.

Please don't give in, Ford pleads with himself. He repeats this as a mantra as often as he can, those four words running through his head a concerning amount of times. Perhaps they have been repeated so often that they have lost their meaning. It certainly appears this way.

His mind has reverted to the place it was in thirty years ago. How pathetic it is that Ford cannot be broken with pain and torture, but he crumbles so easily under gentleness and praise delivered from his tormentor. He hates himself, he hates that he is allowing this to happen to him!

He hates it, but he loves it more.

"Come on, Pines! Faster!"

Ford's running impossibly fast, chasing Bill down in a relentless pursuit. His heart pounds, sweat slicks his skin, and he is determined to catch him this time; he feels it, today, he will win.

Bill is still not using his full speed, purposefully slowing his movement down so that the human eye can track him. However, he is slowing himself significantly less than he was when they first began their games of tag. Sixer must be nearing the level of an Olympic athlete at this point, a surprising feat given his age. He's been trained well, refined by the hands of a god, and is now able to chase Bill around for much longer periods of time without rest. Beyond the portal, he typically practiced either sprinting or endurance running, but Bill has forced him to practice both at the same time. It is difficult, but so invigorating.

His arms swing in practiced motions as he pushes himself to run faster, to get closer to the target. Bill watches him with a pleased expression, encouraging him at times, taunting him at others. He cannot get over the way Ford looks when he is this concentrated, how his expression is steeled with determination and driven by a competitiveness that he has been displaying less and less frequently as they have become closer.

Bill sweeps to the side right before they reach the edge of the penthouse-turned-arena, whirling behind Ford in an instant. Ford sees the wall straight ahead, but has no time to stop. Instead, he kicks off the wall, does an entire backflip, and lands perfectly on his feet facing Bill. There is a moment where he looks pleasantly surprised by his own action, like he was not sure he would actually be able to pull it off. Bill snickers.

"Cute stunt, Fordsy, but I've seen better!" The demon taunts, drawing his attention back to the fight. Instantly, his expression of wonder is gone, replaced with gritted teeth and a set jaw, and the pursuit continues.

A six-fingered hand swipes at him and he very nearly feels it brush against his golden surface. "That all you've got?"

Taunting Ford is one of the best ways to get him to push himself, the demon has found. Watching him get angry is a fun little bonus, too; the expressions he makes are so cute.

Another swipe, more aggressive this time, and Bill cackles as he misses again. He twirls around and continues to lure him around the arena. He's been leading him in a triangular shape for the past five rebounds around the room now, and he's pretty sure the man has yet to notice.

Bill stops. The thunderous footfall behind him has ceased. Is Ford done already for today? How disappointing, it hasn't even been an hour yet!

He turns to take a look at the human, and his eye widens when he sees that Ford is staring down at Bill's bowtie. In his hands. He'd managed to rip it off him without Bill noticing.

The human looks up at Bill with a surprised, hopeful look in those brown eyes. Surprised, the demon touches his hand to his chest and feels that his accessory has indeed been swiped up by Ford. How did he manage to do that? No, that won't do - Bill doesn't want to stop visiting his dreams yet! That cannot count as a win!

"I'm afraid that ain't gonna cut it, Sixer! You've gotta tag me, not the bowtie!"

Bill has to stop himself from bursting into laughter when he witnesses the look of pure betrayal cross Ford's features before it morphs into fury. Those eyes light up with unbridled rage as he lets out a scream and gives chase to his opponent even faster than before, clutching the stolen accessory so tight his knuckles turn white.

Bill knows exactly what Ford must be thinking right now, even without being inside his mind. The trainwreck of profanity and insults surely directed at Bill for being unfair and making up new rules after he finally got a one-up on him! The demon laughs, bathes in the human's misfortune and continues to taunt him by remaining a hair's width out of reach, riling him up as much as he can.

He does not realize it is over until it is too late.

In the joy he gets watching Ford succumb to anger, for a single instant, he does not maintain total concentration on his clairvoyance. A single instant is all it takes for Ford to undo the bowtie in his hand and perform the exact same action he had during their very first battle. He whips the unraveled, strangely stretchy material forward, catching Bill's small arm in its grasp.

That's all it takes for Bill to falter.

One hand keeping a firm grip on the fabric to ensure the demon cannot escape, Ford leaps forward, fueled by fury, and tackles him. Bill lets out a surprised cry as they both fall to the ground in a heap of adrenaline and tangled limbs.

The anger in Ford's eyes gives way to manic glee as he calmly places his hand on Bill's equivalent of a shoulder. He has an almost predatory grin on his face as he speaks.

"I win, Cipher."

There is a moment of silence, one which stretches out for eternity, that is unlike any other moment they have ever shared before. In this moment, their positions are reversed, Bill pinned beneath his greatest enemy, one knee digging sharply into his surface, keeping him flat on the ground. What a sharp contrast this is to their usual dynamic. He can feel the human's heart racing in his chest, can almost taste his pulse tunneling through his system alongside dopamine and adrenaline. If Bill had a heart, he's sure his would be pounding with equal fervor.

The moment passes, and Bill beams.

"You win, Fordsy!"

Ford is surprised upon falling asleep that night to learn that the demon was true to his word for once. Bill does not appear in his dreams at all to combat him. Ford is so relieved - finally! - after how many weeks, he's gotten that bastard to leave him alone. Now he can enjoy his dreams!

His... Bill-less dreams.

He finds himself wandering the landscape they often battled in. As he walks around the familiar space, he dislikes how off it feels to be here without being accompanied by the fighting spirit of his enemy. To be here alone is profoundly wrong - it feels like he is only one half of something meant to come in a pair. He and Bill are like a pair of wings; to have only one renders flying impossible.

"Bill?" He calls, fully expecting the demon to pop out from behind him, giving him a startle, and then laugh and tease him for being so gullible as to think he would leave him alone that easily.

But he doesn't.

Why is he so disappointed?

"I have not been sleeping well," he admits during a game of Uno in front of the fireplace.

Bill, mimicking the way Ford is sitting and clutching his hand of cards, does not seem to take the bait so easily. "I could tell! Your undereyes look just like your deepest thoughts, kid - dark with lots of baggage!"

He plays a plus-two. Ford frowns and draws two cards, absentmindedly playing as the forefront of his mind tries to figure out a way to convince Bill to visit him in his dreams again.

It's not like he can just ask him! He has his pride, after all! He has to devise some sort of plan to get Bill to want to invade his dreams again, but it's so difficult to think of a way to do that when he's so ill-rested. At least if Bill does it himself, then Ford won't have to live with the shame of knowing he admitted that he misses him - did he just think that? Does he actually miss Bill? That's absurd - he's right here! He's right in front of him, how could he miss someone who's literally-

Ford is hit in the face by an Uno card. He blinks a couple times, dumbfounded.

"What?" He asks, dumbly. Bill rolls his eye.

"Would you play already, Sixer? Seriously, the cremated remains of your beloved childhood pet could pick a card faster than you!" He chastises, annoyed.

"Ah, I... I wasn't paying attention. My apologies," Ford murmurs, trying to refocus his attention on the game, but he can't. None of his cards are the correct color or number anyway, so he goes to grab one from the pile.

A small black hand snatches his up before he can, and he flinches. "Why's that, Fordsy?" Bill asks, voice low like he knows exactly why.

Ford swallows, his hand freezing. He feels so nervous all of the sudden. "I suppose I am just tired," he manages.

"That right?" Bill pries, setting down his hand of cards face-up like he does not plan on continuing the game. "I wonder why that is!"

"I'm not sure," Ford backpedals, feeling cornered and embarrassed. This was a terrible idea. He wants to shrink into himself, to wilt away like a neglected plant.

"I might have an idea or two, Fordsy! Wanna hear?" Bill asks, but it is not really a question.

"You needn't trouble yourself with that. I think that it'll go away eventually," Ford replies shakily, earning a snicker. He worries that by not playing along, he is only digging himself further into the hole he has found himself in.

"Oh, you think? Well, you wanna know what I think, Ford?" The demon is directly in front of him faster than he can blink, one hand sweeping his newly accumulated bangs away from the eyes he is so desperately trying to hide while the other grips his chin firmly. "I think... that you miss me!"

When he receives no response, the man scrambling to formulate a believable excuse in his mind, Bill cackles. "It's alright, Fordsy! There ain't nobody else here to judge you! Besides..." He continues, and then his voice drops to a whisper.

"I miss you too, you know that?"

Ford's eyes bug out, and - oh God, no - he blushes. His thoughts are the epitome of chaos; so many clashing emotions pushing his mind to the edge of anarchy. What is he supposed to say to that!? He's positive Bill is just saying such nonsense to get a reaction out of him at best, and to manipulate him at worst, but for some reason, he can't accept that. He doesn't want to.

The small part of him that does is snuffed out when the hand gripping his chin releases it to place an index finger to his chapped lips. It runs over their rugged texture, before beginning to trace the shape of a triangle against his cupid's bow. The entire world stops on its axis when his lips are slightly parted with the third and final stroke. Ford thinks he might pass out for a moment.

And then Bill pulls away, and the sudden loss of contact gives him whiplash. Did that even actually happen? Was he just imagining it? He had to have imagined that, but why would his mind ever conjure something like that up!? What does it mean!?

He is given a smug expression and nothing else - no further explanation of what just happened. In fact, Bill never mentions it again, leaving Ford more sure than ever that he just made the whole thing up.

At least, after that, Bill returns to his dreams.

The whole thing began so innocently.

Ford is lounging on the mattress, back against the wall, the sketchbook propped up on his legs. He hasn't changed out of the outfit he slept in, and that combined with how messy his hair looks when it's longer makes him look incredibly relaxed; something that Stanford Pines is most certainly not.

Bill appears and greets him in his usual boisterous manner. "Hey there, Fordsy! Lazy day today, huh? I get it - it's not like you've got anyone to impress around here. After all, you've already managed to impress me!"

Ford doesn't reply to that comment. He has a look on his face that Bill has come to associate with his mind working overtime to figure something out. "Bill," he says.

"What's up?"

"What are these?" Ford asks, and turns the sketchbook to show the demon what he's referring to.

Bill floats a bit closer, taking a look at the page. It's the drawing that he and Ford had collaborated on weeks ago. Ford's pointing to Bill's contribution.

"They're triangles, Fordsy! What, do you not know your shapes or something?"

The human blinks and turns the page back towards himself to observe it once again. He brushes a thumb over one of the figures Bill had drawn. "Are they people?" He asks.

Bill barely manages to catch himself before he lashes out and burns the whole sketchbook to ash when he sees Ford daring to touch them. "Come again?" He asks instead, his tone remaining pleasant.

Ford looks up at him, points an index finger at the page. "Those are arms and legs, aren't they?" He asks.

The demon shrugs. "Gee, I don't know, kid! I was just doodling, I didn't really think about it!"

Ford blinks. He remembers the way Bill looked while he drew that day. He looked distant, like there was a part of him missing, a part that was located incomprehensibly far away and would remain there for all eternity. He's only seen him look that way once before, and it makes him so, so curious.

"They're people," Ford concludes.

Cipher's stare turns piercing, and suddenly the tension is too much for the small room to hold. Ford is sure that the penthouse has dropped several degrees in temperature.

Ever curious, he keeps going. "They're not part of your gang, are they? I've never seen them, and you have never mentioned them before."

Bill remains silent, unmoving. It's almost creepy, given how much he loves to move around, even if it's just hovering in place. Ford keeps going.

"Who are they?" He asks, carefully.

Bill knows everything about him, hell, he's literally been inside Ford's body, but he really knows nothing about the demon in return. It isn't fair, why can't Ford know things about him, too? For all the time they've spent together, does he really not trust him at all? It's not like he could do anything with any information he's given, anyway! There is no one else here to share it with.

He wants to know. He wants him to let him in.

For a moment, there is a lapse in tension as Bill returns to his typical lighthearted state. "I don't know, Fordsy; I made them up! Don't you ever doodle stuff from your imagination?" He asks, and god damn he's such a good liar that a part of Ford actually believes him.

Now Ford is beginning to get annoyed. He knows, he knows that Bill is lying to him, and he gets tired of Bill lying to him all the fucking time. He wants to prove it; he wants Bill to admit the truth - so he keeps going.

"You knew them, didn't you?"

This is a sentence that Ford is well aware he should not say, and yet he says it anyway.

Something snaps. Bill's voice lowers, but not in the cartoonish fashion it typically does where it drops a few octaves. No, this time, it becomes deadpan, something that would not be threatening to someone who did not know Bill. But Ford knows him; he knows him perhaps better than anyone else, and he knows that deadpan is something the demon is not.

"You should watch your tongue, Stanford, before I rip it from your mouth." He is dead serious.

Ford stands up. "I knew it," he starts, and he isn't exactly sure why he is so frustrated right now but he is. "I knew you were lying! You lie about everything, even something as arbitrary as a drawing!"

Bill stares down at him, ignoring him, thinking he can keep getting away with his lies like always. Ford knows that he's about to do something he's going to regret but god damn does he get tired of Bill lying to him.

"Unless it isn't as arbitrary as you want me to think," he continues, stepping far past the boundary that Bill had drawn between them. Why should he care? Bill never respected his boundaries!

The pieces fall together in that moment. The drawing. The resemblance between the figures and Bill himself. Bill's 'liberation' of the second dimension. What he had told him all those years ago about his home being destroyed by a monster.

"You killed them, didn't you?" He starts to say, but he does not get the chance to finish his sentence.

In a fit of rage, Bill's hands snap around Ford's neck, lift him up, and slam him into a nearby wall so forcefully that Ford is surprised nothing breaks. The hands curl tightly around his throat, strangling the life out of him, barely restraining themselves from crushing his windpipe entirely.

Frantically, Ford's hands fly up to the demon's wrists, trying to pry his hands off his neck so he can breathe. He squirms in Bill's grip, it hurts and he can't breathe, and whenever he struggles the grip tightens further - is he going to be strangled to death!? He feels pressure building behind his eyes, his head throbs and he's sure his brain is going to ooze out of his ears.

"You never know when to stop, do you, Stanford?" Bill asks dangerously, color changing to red with rage. "You insignificant, miserable creature. You're lucky I don't just kill you one of these days and be done with it. It's not like anyone would care if you died."

Ford can barely hear what he's saying, there's a muffled ringing sound accompanying the heartbeat in his ears. He can't do anything but squirm pathetically. He mouths the word 'Bill' frantically, no sound able to come out, Bill needs to stop! His head feels fuzzy when his attacker grows a third arm and slaps him, hard, across the face. His claws nick Ford's flesh, causing small wells of blood to spill from his cheek, and his glasses fly from his nose. At that, he stops struggling and goes limp in Bill's grip, learning his place.

Bill keeps yelling at him, but everything is fading away. The world is going dark, splotchy blackness bleeding from the edges of his vision into the forefront and accompanying strange colors. All he can hear is his own slowing heartbeat, and he feels sluggish, his tongue feels numb in his mouth. The instant before he blacks out, Bill throws him roughly to the ground.

He gasps - the sweet oxygen cannot flood his lungs fast enough as he gulps down mouthfuls of air. He tries to climb to his elbows, but Bill places a foot on his back, forcing him down into the ground. He collapses, unwilling to fight back with how little oxygen he has in his system. He can't even muster the effort to hate himself for giving in so easily right now.

"I'm getting real tired of you Stanford, you know that?" Bill says darkly.

Ford coughs and grits his teeth furiously. There are so many emotions running rampant in his mind right now, and it is difficult to think rationally through the hurt and the rage. Does Bill really expect Ford to apologize for making things difficult for him? He's the one who imprisoned him here in the first place! He tortured him!

"Then kill me!" He spits, enraged. "If you're so tired of me, then go ahead and kill me, Bill! You and I both know I'm never giving you that equation! Maybe in a hundred years, some poor bastard will wander into this town and you'll have a shot with a new puppet, but it sure as hell won't be me!"

"No!" Bill retaliates, louder and more forceful. "It's gonna be you, Sixer, I don't care how long it takes!"

"It will not!" Ford shouts. "I'll die before I give up that equation! Give up, Cipher, and accept that already!"

He is lifted telekinetically and hovered before Bill, who is staring at him with outright rage and incredulousness. "It has to be you!" He insists.

"It will never be me!"

"What is your problem!?" Bill shrieks. If he had hair, he would be tearing it out in sheer exasperation. "Do you even realize what you're denying yourself here!? Everything I could give you!? All the knowledge in the entire multiverse, your own galaxy, infinite power! Hell, we could even make six fingers the new norm so you aren't such a freak! I could give you everything you ever wanted, and yet you refuse every time! Do you know how happy I could make you!?"

"Go choke on glass!" Ford shouts, outraged. "I don't care about any of that crap! I'm never giving in, no matter what! Nothing you could possibly give me is worth sacrificing my dimension for!"

Bill backhands him as hard as he can, earning a pathetic sob. Then he grabs the human's hair and pulls it so he is forced to look into his eye. "Everyone wants something, Sixer! Just say the word and I'll give it to you!"

Ford is infuriated, he wants to lash out so badly, but his limbs are stuck to his sides by an invisible force. He cannot attack in any way, so he does the only thing he can do; he spits directly into the demon's eye.

Bill stares at him for a long moment, expression unreadable. Then a black tongue emerges from beneath his eyeball and slides along its surface, licking up the saliva. Needless to say, that did not go as Ford expected.

"You're so ungrateful, you know that, Ford?" He continues, tone lower at first before it begins to become angrier again. "After everything I've done for you, all I get is more resistance! Tell me, Sixer: do you really think anyone in this dimension gives a single damn about you? Anyone at all? Are you really deluded enough to think anyone here cares about you or your pitiful efforts to keep them safe? You and I both know the answer to that! I'm the only one who's ever wanted you! I'm your life, Ford! I'm your universe and your god and the purpose behind your entire miserable existence! Stop resisting and just join me!"

Ford does not think he has ever been more angry in his life. "Ungrateful!?" He starts, losing control quickly. His entire body trembles with pure fury. "Why would I ever be thankful for anything you've done to me!? Name one thing you've given me besides trust issues and trauma! My life would have been so much better without you in it, Cipher!"

"Bullshit!" Bill yells. "I am your life!"

"Do you ever think about what my life could have been like if I had never met you?" Ford cries hatefully. "I'm sure that you don't, but I do, every day! I could have had a family! I could have had a wife, kids, hell, maybe even grandkids by now! I could have had a successful career, people who actually care about me, and you took that away from me! You took away every chance of happiness I ever had, and you expect me to be grateful!?"

"A wife? Kids!?" Bill parrots, infuriated that he would even think of such things! "Don't make me laugh, Fordsy! You and I both know just how awful you are at social interaction! It's a surprise you survived middle school! You could never get a girl to so much as look at you, and even if you did, the second she saw those six fingers, she'd be running for the hills! At least I never threw you away for your deformity like everyone else! I made you feel wanted! The only time you didn't feel like total shit all the time was when you were with me!"

"That doesn't matter because our friendship was a complete lie!" Ford screams, his voice beginning to go hoarse from overexertion. "You never cared about me at all! Our friendship was worthless because it was never real!"

"That's not true!" Bill screams back, defensive. "It was real! Hell, I'll admit it, I didn't care about you at first - but things change, Pines! I want you now, doesn't that matter at all?"

Ford squeezes his eyes shut and looks as if he is in agony. He tries very hard not to cry, gritting his teeth. "No! It doesn't matter! You only 'want' me as some trophy to show off once you've conquered the world! That isn't caring about someone! Don't you dare tell me you care about me when you are nothing but a liar!"

"You're not a trophy!" Bill insists, tightening his grip on the man's hair with pure exasperation, desperate to prove to Ford that he isn't just a tool to him anymore! "You're my only equal, Sixer! The only one worthy of ruling by my side! Doesn't that sound great, Stanford? You and I, the kings of this dimension! Unstoppable together for all eternity!"

Ford looks so lost, so utterly exhausted from the whirlwind of hurt and confoundment and pain that's been eating him alive for months just to culminate in this very moment. "What do you want from me!?" He cries, overwhelmed.

The demon wants so many things from Ford that he does not even know where to start.

He wants to fight him, to scrape his stupid face across the ground for being the most irrational and stubborn human alive. He wants to provoke him, to see his stony facade give way to beautiful, unhinged rage. He wants to break every bone in his pathetic mortal body and then piece him back together again. He wants to tear him open, expose all the insecurities and vulnerabilities that he had been banished from seeing decades ago. He wants to shatter him into pieces, steal a piece of him to keep, and replace it with a piece of himself.

He wants to see Ford's eyes alight with worship when he glances up at him. He wants to sing karaoke with him like they did a lifetime ago. He wants to possess him, to inhabit one vessel alongside him, to know that everything Bill feels is also being felt by him. He wants to see his expression when outraged, when humiliated, when trying to suppress a giggle when he knows he should not be laughing. He wants to own him in every way possible. He wants him to submit. He wants to show him every galaxy, every dimension, every reality he knows and drink up his reactions. He wants to lick his tears away when he cries. He wants to hear more of the terrible corny jokes he used to tell Bill thirty years ago, so sure that he was being funny.

He wants to be referred to as Ford's god again, his muse, his anything as long as it's his. He wants to witness the look of joy he'll get on his face the day he finally beats Bill in a spar. He wants to watch him try to hide the way praise flusters him. He wants to collect every possible expression Ford is capable of making and catalogue them in his mind. He wants to keep him by his side forever and make sure he never leaves. He wants to see him reach his full potential. He wants to rule the universe with him, to be loved or feared alongside his equal.

He wants to finally allow himself to be vulnerable around someone, and he wants that someone to be Ford.

All of that represents not even a sliver of what he wants from the man. He cannot possibly voice everything he wants, so he carefully extracts the desperation behind every single one of these individual wants and molds it into one single word that sums up the entirety of it all.

"You."

That just makes Ford even more confused. He looks at Bill like he's not even sure what he's looking at. What does that even mean!? He is so utterly confounded that he cannot channel his earlier anger anymore. He is just confused, exhausted, too tired to fight anymore.

Bill sees his confusion, and he goes to elaborate, but the words catch in his non-existent throat before they can leave. He can't... say what he means directly. Ford never could, either. So, instead, he hesitantly clasps Ford's shaky hands in his own.

"All those years you spent trying so desperately to find my weakness? Turns out you didn't have to look far at all! Funny, right? You're my weakness, Sixer, and I want you by my side for all eternity."

Ford's mouth goes dry, his heart pounding. Instinctively, his hands hold tightly onto Bill's own. Despite the fact that they were on the verge of tearing each other's throats out moments ago, Ford's anger has evacuated in record time, replaced with a cold anticipation that is not unlike dread.

It's the worst possible timing, but he can't keep it in anymore. To have kept it in all this time is excruciating.

"I..." Bill starts, and then he shrinks away slightly. Ford has never seen him so hesitant before, so vulnerable.

Bill wants to say it. He wants to tell him so badly, to make him understand. But just like Ford could not admit to 'Stanley' in his dream, Bill cannot say the correct word. Pride perhaps, or maybe shame, or fear of vulnerability.

He isn't sure when it had happened; when the realization had dawned upon him that he actually felt something, anything, other than anger for the first time in forever. That his involvement with Ford had gone beyond just getting him to build that damn portal, and then beyond just enjoying their time together. Ford was the first person that Bill had even an inkling of trust for; the first he had ever shown what remained of Euclydia.

How ironic that the same thing Bill used to manipulate Ford would come back to attack him in turn. He fell victim to the exact thing that he saw in the human's bright brown eyes when they fixated on him; those eyes oozing with pure adoration, worship, praise, and longing. As much as Ford thought he was keeping his lovesick thoughts a secret, he really had no idea that they were on full display. Bill thought it was hilarious; seriously, how easy could the man make it to manipulate him? It became much less hilarious when he realized that he felt the same way.

He realized it after he lost Ford. He truly had no idea, under the impression that he had long since become immune to such trivial feelings, and the realization terrified him.

After all, it is a fact of Cipher's life that everything he has ever loved is lost to his own actions.

Ford had fallen into this pattern, but he got him back. He dug into the metaphorical bunker that the man had sealed himself into, snatched him up, and dragged him back into his arms as he fought tooth and nail to escape what he once lived for. He wouldn't lose him again.

He hadn't been sure what exactly it was that he was experiencing at first; this whiplash of loss, of reaching into the immense space that Ford occupied in his life and finding it empty, disorienting him and filling him with pain (and not the fun kind!) He eventually came to admit to himself (but never in a million years to anyone else) that he liked Ford's presence. Maybe he even cared for him a little. A lot. He looked forward to their meetings as much as the human did. Not to mention the cherry on top; how peering into his thoughts was like a drug. It intoxicated Bill each time even the smallest peep into Ford's brilliant mind revealed layers upon layers of ornately crafted praise, worship, and dedication directed at him alone. Ford's love was so blatant and profoundly obvious; the manner in which he laid himself bare and exposed it all was so pitifully naive.

How things have changed since then. Ford is no longer the man Bill fell in love with, but he wants him all the same.

Everything about Ford - he wants it. He wants to own him, to possess him in every way possible. The good, the bad, and especially the weird. He is not by any means a gentle being, but it is with the most amount of gentleness that he (crudely) proclaims the extent of his feelings.

"I adore you, Stanford Pines," he says instead. It is not a perfect substitute for what he means to say, but he cannot say that in particular. Not when everyone he has ever said that to has died.

There is so much emotion swimming in the human's wide brown eyes, a constant shifting amalgamation of different layers of pain. He shuts them tightly and trembles, hiding those emotions, doing his best not to let them bubble to the surface. Bill wants to steal his eyes away so he can observe those emotions forever.

Then he opens them and any trace of emotion is gone, replaced with stony indifference.

"I see that you have gotten better at lying," he deadpans. "But you cannot manipulate me so easily anymore."

Bill is floored by this response. This is the first time that he's been accused of lying when he actually isn't.

"Sixer-"

"Can it, Bill!" Ford yells, eyes filled with tears and rage as he rips his hands out of Bill's hold. "I cannot believe you would stoop so low to try and manipulate me! You disgust me! Just shut up! How dare you mock my feelings like that!"

Anger.

I'm not lying! He wants to say. For once, I'm actually telling the truth!

But he doesn't. He says neither of those things. Instead, he proceeds to let out the loudest, shrillest, most piercing scream he's ever managed to make; a sound so horrifically loud that it would put the Big Bang to shame.

He's sure that he's going to do it - he's actually going to kill Ford. If he does that, then his weakness will be gone and no one will ever be around to remember the one moment in time where Bill Cipher dared to be vulnerable in front of anyone, but- he can't!

He can't kill Sixer! He doesn't want him to end up like the others! Erased from existence by the cursed being that they dared to love and be loved by in return.

Forgotten by everyone by their killer.

He hears a sound and realizes that he'd begun strangling Ford again. Fuck, he didn't realize- he lets go of the man like he's burning to the touch. Ford crumples brokenly to the ground with a series of gasps. There are dark bruises forming around his neck, bruises that Bill put there. He is a trembling mess, his head down, face disguised by the length of his grown-out hair.

"I hate you," Ford tells him, his voice low, steady, and twisted with pure loathing. "I am ashamed I ever let you into my life in the first place. What a fool I was. If you really want to make me happy, Cipher, then why don't you go disappear with the rest of your worthless dimension? Go do that, and then we'll talk."

Ford is fully expecting to be killed when he says those words. He waits for Bill to snap his life out of existence, to tear him to shreds, to finish the job he set out to do with electrocution so many months ago.

He does not expect the silence, the terrible silence. He does not expect Bill to leave without a word, and for the weight of what he has just told him to settle heavy on his heart.

He does not expect himself to dare to believe that maybe, just maybe, Bill had been telling the truth.

The whole thing began so innocently.

What has he done?

Chapter Text

For a long time, Ford remains on the floor with an ugly feeling twisting and writhing around like a living being in the pit of his stomach.

He went too far.

Well, it isn't like Bill didn't have it coming. He purposefully pushed Ford until he said that - it isn't Ford's fault!

Regardless, he still went too far. An outburst like that is to be expected from Bill, but for Stanford to have caved to his anger as well? He is ashamed to have let his frustration get the better of him - he is a scientist! For the uninitiated, scientists are logical, rational beings who do not let their emotions control them. He can only recall one other incident in which he lost his cool like that, and it was thirty years ago when he and his brother were having the fight that led to the beginning of the end - also known as the rest of his life.

He went too far. Everything Bill said to him was something he could handle, a statement which could not be applied to the demon himself. Ford had kept pushing him in the first place; he had blatantly disrespected Bill's wishes, overstepped his boundaries, and provoked him repeatedly. It is definitely - at least partially - his fault.

After everything he's done to you, he deserves it.

Ford is startled by that tiny voice, one he has been trying to hard to stifle - the way that voice makes him feel. He has morals; they may not be perfectly pure at times, but he is still a creature of morality. At the end of the day, morals are one of the only things he has left in this place. Bill has snipped everything else away from him one by one - from his resolve to his sanity - but he's stayed true to his morals.

After all, if he didn't have those, this whole thing would be over by now. Bill would've won. Without his morality, he would've handed over that equation without a second thought.

After what just happened, Ford feels like he's directly violated himself; skewing his moral compass without Bill's influence. He's still angry, of course, but he is also feeling the embers of regret which threaten to flare up into a bonfire if left unchecked.

When he finally raises his head and looks around the room, it truly sets in that Bill is gone. Gone gone. There's typically this feeling that he's being watched, like eyes are staring at the back of his head, even when Bill is not physically with him. That feeling has vacated the room as well, leaving an empty chill in the air.

Part of him wants to apologize, but he also figures that after such a massive and intense argument, it's only natural that the demon needs some space. What a ludicrous thought - Bill Cipher, needing space! He hasn't given Ford a single inch of space in the thirty years they've known each other, but the man isn't going to try and beckon him back after that dumpster fire of an argument. His pride wouldn't exactly be too fond of him groveling and apologizing, anyway.

He sighs, stands up, and walks over to sit atop the mattress on the floor so he can think properly. Conducting a train of thought is not the most efficient process when one is kneeling on the cold ground.

He sits down cross-legged on the unmade bedding, and glances over at the sketchbook that had been cast aside during their fight. He picks it up, biting his lip solemnly as he looks over the drawing that started this whole mess in the first place. Bill's art style is profoundly him; all bright colors and jagged lines. He runs a finger over the figures, still wondering who exactly they could be, if he was correct in his assumptions.

Could Bill really have been telling the truth...?

In the beginning, his 'muse' had never put much effort into their budding friendship. He would pop into Ford's head sporadically, at odd intervals, throw him a few textbook compliments like he was feeding scraps of meat to a hungry stray dog, and then send him on his way to build that portal. If he was feeling polite enough, he would entertain him with chess and tea for a little while, but that was it. Ford did not mind - he had fallen so hard that he would gobble up dirt from Bill's hands if that was what he was offered.

At some point, things changed. Bill popped in more often, and they spoke about things other than the portal with an increasing amount of frequency. They spoke about anything and everything, from the most mundane trivialities to the most outlandish scientific and conspiracy theories. Their conversations carried over through multiple nights, and Bill seemed to become more invested, too. More of his personality shone through his musely persona, more for Ford to admire. Ford does not recall a specific point where Bill's demeanor warmed up more and he began to genuinely enjoy working with his so-called puppet, rather, he knows it happened gradually.

When his admiration towards his mysterious companion escalated into blatant worship - something that Ford cringes thinking about to this day - is when the ball really got rolling. If there was one thing Bill loved more than lying, it was himself, and so seeing someone so utterly devoted to him must've stroked his ego just as much as he did Ford's. God, what a fool he was; honored to be nothing but the dirt Bill walked on so long as he was in his presence.

He trusted Bill. He loved him. Apparently, that trust ran both ways (albeit very little) because Bill showed him what remained of his home dimension, the only thing he truly had in the entire multiverse. It was such a delicate thing, this trust between them; it was so easily shattered when Bill revealed the truth.

When his 'muse' revealed his true nature, the whiplash between his calm, angelic persona and the actual agent of pure chaos he had been all along was nothing less than dizzying. Ford thought he had been obsessed, but the way Bill reacted when Ford tried to shut him out was a whole new level of manic compulsion. It had not been easy to try and scrub his first love's influence out of his mind, his heart, and off his skin, and Bill made it so much more difficult by being an utter pain in the ass every chance he got.

It was disturbing, how deep the waters of the demon's obsession ran, but Ford would be a hypocrite if he were to comment on it. Still, Ford was under the impression Bill didn't care about him at all, he just wanted that stupid portal built. He looks back and wonders if that was really the case. He doesn't know what went through Bill's head after their little breakup. He just assumed that he was incapable of feeling anything, least of all care, so it had been a no-brainer that when Bill confessed his 'adoration' that he was lying. That is all Bill ever does, is lie.

But now, it's... different. From the first moment he had been captured by Bill in front of the church, he had been asked to join him - albeit in a demeaning manner. At some point between then and now, all of the 'give me the equation' requests were filtered out, replaced solely by requests for Ford to join him. How many months has it been since he last asked for the equation specifically? Several, for sure.

Bill admitted it himself; he wants him. He wants Ford, six fingers and all. The man in question recalls a time where he felt the same way about Bill; he wanted him, absurd demonic world domination and all. He'd pushed that aside for his own survival, not to mention the survival of humanity, but it never truly disappeared. It became a whisper in the back of his mind, constantly trying to reach him. In order to not give into that whisper, he must constantly drown it out with much louder noises.

Hell, even after Bill revealed the truth, told Ford that every compliment he had ever given him had been nothing but a lie, even after he forcefully possessed him night after night to leave him bloody and broken in the morning, he still loved him.

Because, truthfully, Ford hadn't fallen in love with him for his cheap compliments. They may have jumpstarted the process, sure, but Ford fell in love with his personality. His dumb, shrill, ear-piercing laugh. His over-exaggerated, cartoonish gestures and movements. His never-ending sarcasm and witty banter. His outlandish sense of humor. All of that and more had caused Ford to experience the famed sensation he had heard so much about and underestimated so greatly.

He truly had no idea what love was until he met Bill. He'd never felt an ounce of attraction towards anyone in his entire life. Sure, he'd spare a passing glance at the occasional girl and think she was pretty, but that was nothing compared to the over-sensationalized, world-renouned breaker of hearts known as love.

Those fleeting thoughts of 'they're cute' were like the light of a candle. Having a crush on someone, on the other hand, is like basking in the light of the sun; completely incomparable to a mere candle.

And to be in love? Oh, that is nothing less than a supernova.

Ford waits.

He waits for twelve hours. That in itself is eleven more hours than he thought Bill would ever be able to last without him, considering how persistent he is when it comes to inserting himself into every sleeping and waking moment of Ford's existence.

After twelve hours, he gives into a fitful slumber, unable to keep his eyes open any longer. Their fight had really taken it out of him, and he's surprised he managed to stay up for that long. He supposes it makes some sense; he'd done it while waiting for Bill, not for himself.

When he wakes up, he is instantly aware that there is a plate of food on the floor next to the mattress. Bill had come while he was asleep. He had brought him food. He had been here. He had been here, and Ford missed him!

He sits up, wondering if Bill is still around. Perhaps he's watching him. He calls out for his demon companion, reaching across the synapse that separates them, and grabs only handfuls of empty space, receiving no response.

It takes two more days of this pattern for Stanford to realize Bill is doing this on purpose.

For two days, he plods around this prison cell which has become his home. Without Bill here with him, it feels even more like a prison cell than it did when he was first taken here; any homeliness sapped away with his captor's presence. He hopes that maybe it is just a terrible coincidence that Bill pops in whenever he is sleeping, so he simply does not sleep for two more days after that. Instead of coming when Ford sleeps, Bill instead drops off food when he's in the restroom.

Bill is avoiding him.

What terrible irony - how immature! How are they supposed to talk things out like adults if Bill won't even show himself?

Then again, Bill has always been childish. It is astounding that he is an all-powerful interdimensional terror while simultaneously possessing the emotional maturity of a three year old.

Ford recalls something Bill did thirty years ago when they had their initial falling-out; how he placed post-it notes on Ford's head when he refused to talk to him, and that was how they communicated for days on end. Through dinky little post-it notes, of all things. Bill really was something - still is. Something quirky, and outlandish, and annoying and immature... in an almost endearing way.

He figures maybe the demon will be receptive to the same strategy. There is only one page left in the sketchbook - he had been meaning to ask Bill for a new one, but it isn't like he's had the chance to ever since their fight. He tears out the last remaining page, sets the sketchbook back down on the couch, and writes a message right in the middle in his incredibly neat penmanship.

He lays the note out in the place Bill typically leaves his food, and after a few hours of tossing and turning, manages to fall asleep despite the anticipation he feels; the possibility that he may get a response keeping him up for a good while.

When he wakes up, the note remains untouched; no response is written in the space Ford had left for him to reply. Even the pen he had laid out next to the note is undisturbed. There is a plate of food next to it, though, so Bill had certainly seen it.

He'd ignored the note.

Ford is disheartened and irritated, but mostly the former. He is incredibly lonely, and everything in the room just serves as a reminder of the memories he and Bill have made in this space. Every waking moment, their last conversation plays on repeat like a broken record in his head; a particularly gruesome earworm.

He misses him, goddamn it. He misses his stupid annoying voice. He misses the way he's always trying to get under Ford's skin. He misses their dream battles. He misses their chess games - their last one still remains unfinished; the pieces laid out in the same spots they had been when Ford became too sleepy to finish the game. Now every time he looks over at the chess table, he feels a lump in his throat.

Damn it! This isn't fair. How could Bill have wormed his way into Ford's life like this again? How could he make Ford miss him again? That damn deplorable demon, how dare he. How dare he fish these emotions out of Ford's subconscious, lay them out, and then leave them all scattered when he leaves.

Over the next few days, the note becomes increasingly filled with pleas and all sorts of nonsense Ford typically would not utter to anyone under normal circumstances.

As the days go by and his requests to talk are ignored time and time again, he becomes more desperate. More and more rambling fills the page in increasingly smaller and shakier handwriting; sentences that Ford can only hope are reaching the eye of his captor.

All of it is pointedly ignored. He knows for a fact Bill sees it; he leaves it in plain sight. He sees it, and he ignores it, childish as ever.

Ford is a scientist. Scientists are logical. They do not act upon their impulsive bouts of anger, or despair, or any other of those shitty, absolutely uncalled for emotions that Bill's departure has shaken out of him. Ford may be getting increasingly more upset as each day passes by, but he must remain calm. Their cold war cannot last forever. Eventually, Bill will cross No Man's Land when he realizes that Ford no longer has his weapons at the ready.

He is a scientist. He will keep calm. He must keep calm.

He can't keep calm.

Bill had gutted him. He'd slit him open with sharp talons and made him watch as he tore out handfuls of his insides at a time. Ford watched in horror, his hands tied, as Bill ripped out everything that made him up, hollowing him out completely. And then, in the empty space the bastard had created with his own two hands, he slipped himself inside, filling the man up with something that was blatantly not meant to be there, and zipped him closed from the inside.

And then, as soon as Ford finally began to adjust to this fact, this notion that this was his life now and acceptance was underway, he'd done something so stupid that Bill vacated him all at once, leaving behind a hollow cast that crumbled in on itself and the gaping hole he'd escaped from.

A horrible mixture of frustration, desperation, anger, and a bunch of other emotions he cannot process at the moment culminate into an utter loss of control.

It starts when he takes a look at that fucking chess table, and he feels that lump in his throat, and he just wants to get rid of it so he overturns the whole thing. Pieces scatter across the floor as the table falls to the ground with an absurdly loud slam. The chairs quickly follow, one smashes the glass protecting the inner mechanisms of the grandfather clock, spewing broken glass everywhere. This mess quickly becomes bloody when Ford proceeds to trample through it, trailing blood and bits of glass throughout the room as he makes for the other chair.

The other chair is slammed into the wall repeatedly as he screams with no abandon, trying to make even the slightest dent in this impenetrable prison. He doesn't have the intention of escaping, not really, but he wants Bill to think he does if he's watching, because surely then he'll come running. It makes no difference - he ends up breaking off a couple legs of the chair but making zero scratches against the uncannily strong surface. In his frustration, he throws the chair at the portrait of Bill above the fireplace, leaving it askew.

The couch goes next. He doesn't give a damn if it's sentient at this point - he flips it over, and then he's going back at the damn clock, punching the rest of the glass out with his fists. His knuckles split open but he realizes this no more than he realizes the fact that he has several shards of glass stuck in the bottom of his feet. He overturns that, too, and then he's tearing every single page out of the sketchbook without abandon, shredding his art into dozens of pieces. At least some part of him has enough sense left to not touch Bill's work.

He grips a piece of broken glass in between his fingers, inadvertently coating it in blood as he proceeds to absolutely obliterate his pillows, blankets, and the mattress with it, turning them to shreds; gutting them and throwing the abundance of feathers and cotton and fabric everywhere. By the time he's done, the room looks like a class of kindergarteners have severely failed a paper mache project.

So you can ignore me, Cipher!? Ignore that! He thinks triumphantly, standing in the middle of the trashed room and panting heavily, a deranged grin on his face. That was a lot of work, and he's proud of the sheer amount of destruction he's caused. He'll beat Bill at his own game if that's what it takes.

Then the despair begins to set in; the realization that he is trembling and bleeding from every limb and surrounded by the smashed remnants of his time with Bill, and it's like all the energy is sapped from his bones all at once. He collapses onto the floor like a puppet with its strings cut, too exhausted to even drag himself over to the ruined mattress, and cries himself to sleep.

When he wakes up, his whole body aching from his impromptu nap on a literal bed of glass, he notices that the penthouse has been put back together again. What the fuck? Did he dream all of that up?

No... No, he has dried blood on his hands and feet. The glass that was embedded in them is gone, though. Bill must have come and cleaned up after his temper tantrum.

He has never felt more like dogshit than he does in this one moment. Ashamed at his childish breakdown, exhausted and sore and alone, he stumbles to his feet to take a look around the room.

That's when he sees it. Undeniable proof that he had trashed the pace - that Bill had put it back together. The chess table is not the same as it was before; rather than placing the pieces back where they had been, they've have been reset to their default positions.

Seeing that just breaks him. The last bit of Bill that was still in here with him, the way that the chess pieces were arranged by his hand, is gone. Damn it! Damn it all!

He doesn't know when he starts screaming. His hands fly up to his obnoxiously long hair that he hates so much - he had voiced wanting to cut it but Bill said that it made him look cute - and begin to tear at its roots. What's the point of having hair anyway when Bill isn't here to pet it!? He screams so loud that the pieces on the chess board tremble from the resulting rumble that bounces off the walls.

He's screaming. He doesn't know what exactly it is that he is screaming at, but he's screaming at it with such intensity that his voice begins to give out. Whatever it is he's screaming at, it better be terrified. It should rue the day it was created!

His throat burns, but he refuses to stop screaming. He is not sure if he even can at this point. It's like all of the sanity that he has been trying ever so hard to keep a hold on throughout his time here has finally slipped from his grip. The only sound he can hear is the culmination of his own agony - a sound he last heard when Bill was electrocuting the life out of him. He would have done anything to get away from the demon in that moment, and now he thinks he'll do anything to get him back.

Hell, he'd endure the electrocution again if that's what it takes! That physical pain was eons more tolerable than this mental anguish!

He isn't just screaming about the current situation anymore. He screams as he allows himself to fully mourn the loss of his sanity, of his family, of his entire fucking life, for the first time since he was taken prisoner. He screams because he has Bill's likeness carved into his back, all around him, into his soul. He screams because he has no one, because everyone he's ever had was pushed away due to his own actions. He screams because he is a mutant among humanity. He screams as a way of mourning the relationship he and his captor never had.

Everything, every single insufferable thing he's been through in his entire miserable existence, ranging from minor inconveniences to literal torture, culminates into his deranged screams. Rage. Frustration. Helplessness. Pain. Despair. Loneliness. The unfairness of it all.

At some point, his screams devolve from just animalistic sounds to Bill's name. As per usual, he gets no response. He falls to his knees, legs too shaky to contain his overwhelming expulsion of agony. The screaming does not stop.

His voice breaks, and at times, no sound comes out, but he continues screaming regardless. He's hyperventilating. Tears fall from his eyes, and his vision blurs at the edges, his glasses doing nothing to sharpen it. He cannot breathe. He is so frustrated! So overwhelmed with everything there possibly is to feel! He screams until he feels something tear and he begins coughing up blood, and then he keeps screaming.

He wants Bill to come comfort him, to tell him lies like 'it will be alright' so he can at least get ahold of himself. It doesn't matter if it isn't true, he wants to hear it anyway! He wants Bill to come in here this instant and chastise Ford for being so silly, to mock him for crying over him when he's supposed to hate him in the first place.

The animalistic screaming continues for an ungodly amount of time, broken only by violent coughing fits where he hacks up blood, incidents which are becoming more frequent. He is nearly on the verge of passing out due to the panic attack that has intertwined with this complete psychological meltdown. The sounds of his own distress fill a room once alight with witty banter and fond laughter - a room where he and Bill have shared so many memories. A room where they have shared countless conversations and small moments. A room where he felt himself falling in love all over again.

Fuck!

And with that thought, the screaming intensifies even more than it already had been - an astounding feat worthy of no less than global recognition. His screams are completely broken; they skip over and cause physical pain that is horrible but does not compare to his mental state to flare up in his throat. He coughs up so much blood that, if he were fully coherent, he'd be seriously concerned about the medical emergency he is most definitely having.

He does not breathe. He does not think. He does not process anything around him. He does not do anything but continue to scream.

He is incapable of registering the sound of his name being called. He keeps screaming. He doesn't recognize the figure floating in front of his vision as it proceeds to shake him, gently at first, then more and more aggressively when the sound does not stop. He keeps screaming. If he were able to make out what it is he is looking at, he'd be able to see a deeply disturbed expression. He is being spoken to, but he does not process any of what is being said. As far as he is concerned, there is no one else here with him. He keeps screaming.

He looks through Bill, screams at him, bloodshot eyes wide and crazed and desperate. This, combined with the blood streaking down his chin and neck, staining his hands and feet, makes him look like an uncivilized beast.

The voice trying to get through to him becomes louder, more frustrated, more concerned, and yet it still does not reach him. He is shaken back and forth violently, and he does not snap out of it. He coughs up blood, splattering it on the demon in front of him, and does not relent.

Ford is slapped across the face. Snap the hell out of it! He keeps screaming, unaware that he's even been smacked. Bill tries to cover his mouth. All that accomplishes is getting blood coughed up directly onto his hand. Fucking delightful. The man will not stop screaming.

What the hell is Bill supposed to do? At a loss, he starts screaming back at Ford, louder and more shrill. The combination of their incredibly loud, agonized screams would shatter the skulls of any undead in a thirty mile radius if only they had one more part to their perfect harmony.

"What is wrong with you!?!?" Bill screams at Ford as he shakes him, frustrated and exasperated. He won't stop making that godawful noise, like an infant on an airplane, and Bill is not keen on dealing with infants. If he does not stop making that atrocious sound within the next thirty seconds, he thinks he's going to string Sixer up on a meat hook.

The horrible sound only begins to waiver when two hands cup Ford's face and pull it close to an intensely staring eye, thumbs brushing against the bags under his eyes in a familiar motion. Only then do the screams begin to taper off, giving way to hyperventilation and pain and more tears that Bill swipes away with his thumbs.

Ford thinks he is being spoken to, but he cannot hear. Everything around him is muffled and indecipherable, his senses dulled like he is underwater. All he can do is weep and listen to the words Bill is saying, words that he cannot discern the meaning of. He cries until his tear ducts run dry, and only then does he realize that he's grabbed onto Bill's wrists like they are his lifeline. He clutches them with a grip so strong they would be broken if they belonged to a human.

"Sixer," Bill says, and it's the first word that Ford can actually make sense of. He must be calming down.

"Bill," Ford rasps - well, he attempts to - before coughing up a bit more blood. He loosens his grip a little and tentatively adjusts it a few times around the demon's wrists and arms, as if he is checking to make sure he is real.

Bill then makes to pull his hands away from Ford's face, but the man won't let him - tightening his grip as he is overcome with a look of terror - so instead he grows a third arm to give a resounding snap, fixing the man's torn vocal fold.

Ford is so exhausted. He is so drained that he feels like he is about to pass out. He slumps forward into the hands holding his face, weakly clutching onto black wrists, murmuring Bill's name over and over like he is trying to assure himself of something.

The demon is almost at a loss for words. He's never seen Ford so... broken. Between the two of them, he is always the more composed, the more collected, the more calm. For it to be the other way around is just profoundly wrong.

"Sixer." He begins to pet his hair.

"I'm sorry," Ford practically chokes out, sobbing as he strings several broken apologies together. "I'm sorry, Bill! God, I'm sorry- I can't even begin to- I was upset, I understand that I overstepped- I kept provoking you- it's my fault, Bill, and I'm sorry!" He cries.

He wants to say more, so much more, but he has started hyperventilating again and he can't speak properly. The sight of Bill in front of him is almost too painful to take in, yet he hopes that it never vanishes. He cries and feels like a pathetic child, crumpled in the arms of his mortal nemesis, the person trying to destroy his dimension. And yet, Bill's inhuman hold is more comforting than that of any human he's ever known.

Bill has not the slightest idea as to how to console someone this far gone. He'd never been able to do it to himself, and as for anyone else he'd witnessed get to this point, their suffering had just been funny to him. Watching Ford scream his lungs out had been funny at first; he deserved it after what he said, but once it got to the point where he was coughing up a scary amount of blood, Bill had to intervene.

Ford slowly begins to calm down, feeling a difference in Bill's touches now compared to their usual nature. The typical aggressive sort of possessiveness is completely absent, replaced with a solemn kind of gentleness. Or, as close to 'gentleness' as Bill can manage. Neither of them say anything, the only sound filling the room being Ford's uneven breathing as the panic subsides.

"Sixer." Bill repeats himself, tilting the human's head up. Ford looks up at him with red-rimmed, puffy eyes and he knows he can't keep it in any longer. He has to make him stay.

"I adore you," he whispers, cutting off whatever it was that Bill had been about to tell him. He feels the hands clutching his face tighten, the one petting his hair stutter in place.

The typical possessiveness slowly creeps back into the touch which had been perfectly gentle a moment ago.

"Say that again."

Ford swallows. "I adore you, Bill." His refocusing vision is now able to capture the unreadable expression on Bill's face.

The shock that caused his movements to stop for a moment apparently wears off, because suddenly Bill is petting him with twice as many hands, an extra pair seizing him by the collar to keep him in place.

"Again, Sixer."

"I adore you..."

Ford's sure that if Bill had a mouth, he'd be sprouting a crazed, nefarious smile right now; a smile borne of satisfaction thirty years in the making. The look in his eye is unhinged and wild, something that Ford isn't entirely sure he fears anymore.

"You do, huh? You adore me, Sixer? Am I hearing that right?"

Ford nods, slightly nervous, but mostly desperate - desperate for Bill to believe him. There is a hint of worship in those exhausted brown eyes that Bill thought he would never see again.

Bill shouldn't push it. He knows he really shouldn't push it. But he's Bill. If there is a big red button that says 'DO NOT PUSH' on it, it is an indisputable fact that he is mashing the hell out of that button. It is the nature of Bill to push things he shouldn't, sometimes with terrible consequences.

He pulls away from Ford to place his hands on his hips, drinking up the cute little expression of betrayal Ford makes when his touch is revoked.

"Prove it. Bow to me."

Ford's eyes widen and he looks a little shocked, like this was not how he had been expecting their reunion to go. He looks hesitant, his pride and stubbornness flaring up even as he sits in crumpled pieces on the floor. Bill wants to show him that he is so much more important than Ford's dumb pride, but it turns out he doesn't have to.

Ford looks at the ground with wide eyes, pinching his lips together as he slowly leans forward, still on his knees. He presses his forehead to the ground and places his arms palms-down above his head. Where his hands meet, he parts his thumbs from his index fingers to form the shape of a triangle with his fingertips.

It's the same exact position that Bill had forced him into many months ago as he carved his presence into the man's back. And now Ford's doing it willingly. It's possible that every single bad thing that's ever happened to Cipher before are being made up for in this singular moment. There is nothing in the whole multiverse more satisfying than the sight of Ford prostrating himself before him.

Damn, that's good. Nothing's better. Nothing.

"That's real good, Sixer." Bill praises, and he watches as the human's hair stands on end.

"I'm sorry," he repeats into the floor, his voice muffled. "I'm sorry."

Bill rolls his eye. Way to kill the mood! Isn't it clear he's over it at this point? "Yeesh, kid, lighten up! I'm here now, aren't I? You've apologized enough for one millennium, you can stop being such a buzzkill now!"

Truthfully, he isn't really over it. He'd been deeply affected by the whole thing, outraged and hurt and betrayed, because he'd trusted someone for once and look where it got him! Of course he was hurt, and because he's Bill, hurt automatically translates into anger, and so he gave Ford the cold shoulder so he wouldn't end up murdering him on impulse.

When he saw that Ford had obliterated everything in the penthouse, it was like witnessing a set straight out of a horror movie. The worst part was that he'd gotten blood in the carpet - does he even know how long it takes to get stains out of such an ornately-crafted rug? It was easy to clean up after his little temper tantrum, but then when he woke back up, he started screaming bloody murder.

Bill let him scream for a while, because serves him right after what he did. How dare he! He could scream and suffer and cry all he wanted in there; Bill would come when he felt like it and no sooner. Ford screamed with such intensity that it would put the screaming head to shame, and every time he thought it couldn't get any worse, it would reach a new peak in decibels that Bill was under the impression no human could reach. But then things got disturbing when he started coughing up blood, lots of it, and all the thoughts of 'Sixer deserves this' translated into 'Sixer is going to die if he keeps that up and I need to save him' real quick.

"I..." Ford starts, and clears his throat. "My apologies."

He is beginning to calm down completely now, the logical part of his brain seeping back into his skull, bringing with it the humiliation that typically comes alongside realizing you are willingly bowing before your greatest enemy.

"Look at me, Sixer."

Simultaneously relieved to rise from his mortifying position and nervous to look Bill in the eye, he sits up on his knees. His still-puffy eyes flicker hesitantly to Bill's own.

Bill inspects his expression thoughtfully for a moment before saying, "You don't look so good, IQ. How's about we get you cleaned up, huh?"

"That... would be appreciated." Ford had not really been aware of the sheer amount of blood coating his hands, feet, and face, but now the sensation of the drying substance sticking and caking onto his skin was beginning to become irritating.

Bill pinches one of Ford's index fingers between his own and raises his hand up to eye level to inspect the amount of blood staining his knuckles and fingers. Ford watches, still exhausted, as Bill stares intently at the hand. Yeah, he should definitely go wash-

He startles when he watches Bill begin to lick the blood from his fingers with a newly-sprouted tongue, looking directly into Ford's eyes as he does so. Despite his exhaustion, he feels a jolt of alarm, one strong enough to wake him back up.

"What..." He starts, watching with morbid transfixion as the black appendage curls around each of his fingers, tasting the blood straight from his skin.

"Human blood is valuable! Do you know how much the stuff goes for in other dimensions? Enough of it and you might even be able to haggle for a galaxy or two! Can't let it go to waste!" Bill chirps, able to speak despite the fact that his tongue is entangled with Ford's hand.

"I-I can just wash it off, there's no need for all that," Ford stammers, unable to tear his eyes away from the sight despite the fact that his mind is screaming at him to do exactly that. He suppresses a shudder at the odd sensation, heat rising to his cheeks.

Bill pulls away, leaving Ford's hand clean of blood. "And deny me such a great snack? Boo, you're no fun. It's the liquid proof of mortal suffering - a classic!"

He's looking at Ford very intently now, and the human stares straight back at him. Something about the way Bill then runs his tongue over the surface of his eye has him suppressing another shudder, feeling like a deer caught in the headlights. Why is Bill looking at him like that?

A clawed hand suddenly grips his jaw and a thumb runs over the still wet blood dripping from his bottom lip. "You don't mind, Fordsy, do you?"

He draws a blank. Despite having the largest IQ on the entire earth, his draws a blank. "Mind...?"

Bill hovers close. Another hand settles on the other side of his face. He's close - very close. He's so close he's blurry.

It occurs to him what Bill is about to do the precise moment before it happens. This premonition does nothing to stifle the shock that overtakes him when he feels him drag his tongue along Ford's lips and chin, his entire body freezing as his brain short circuits at the impossibility of what is currently happening.

He can only manage an involuntary squeak as the foreign sensation trails down from his chin to his jaw, and then his neck, where the drying rivulets of blood pool at his jugular. He had no idea he was capable of making such a pitiful sound - how humiliating! He instinctively flinches away from the touch, sensitive, it's overwhelming, but Bill's grip steels and keeps him in place.

Bill can feel how much the man's pulse has accelerated as he draws his tongue back up to his chin to taste the freshest drops of the crimson nectar straight from his lips. Ford stays stock still throughout the entire process, unable to move, unable to breathe. He is sure that his cheeks - no, his entire face, is on fire. All he is aware of is Bill's tongue dancing along his slightly parted lower lip, delivering an almost tickling sensation that sweeps goosebumps across his entire body. How easily he could lean forward and-

As soon as it started, it comes to an end, and Ford's gotten his personal space back. He is too dumbfounded to speak for a few moments, experiencing dizzying whiplash, especially when Bill closes his eye to lick his 'lips.' When he opens it again, he looks innocently at Ford like nothing happened.

"Welp! How about some tea? Your throat probably feels like sandpaper after screaming for three hours straight! I've gotta hand it to you, Sixer - that's probably a world record! For humans, at least; dunno if you know this, but I can scream for hundreds of years without stopping! I'd show you but it'd rupture your eardrums, which would be funny, but then how would you be able to hear my jokes?"

Ford is flabbergasted. Gobsmacked! His brain still has yet to catch up to the current moment. All he can manage is a breathy, "What?"

"Something the matter, IQ?"

Ford blinks. Bill blinks back.

Yes, of course something is the matter! What even just happened!? Did he just- did Bill really just-

"Did you do that on purpose?" Ford stammers, stupidly.

"Do what, Fordsy?" He inquires innocently.

Ford is too flustered to even voice what he thinks just happened out loud. He does not think he's ever been so stupefied in his entire life. What does he mean, 'do what!?' Does he seriously not comprehend-

"This?" He questions, and Ford feels his heart lurch up into his throat when Bill resumes his- his motions!- which are completely unexpected and called for, by the way! Not that he hates it, it's just- he's scandalized!

"Yes, that!" Ford somehow manages to choke out, feeling this strange, unfamiliar heat beginning to obscure all logical thought, causing him to squirm in place.

Bill pulls back, probes Ford's vision hungrily for all the emotions swimming within. "I like the way you taste." He says this in a low, uncharacteristically quiet tone; as if it is a perfectly normal thing to say to someone.

Ford's jaw drops open so quickly that if it weren't hinged on his face, it'd have fallen to the floor in an instant. What a comical sight! Bill smells him beginning to sweat more. A lot more. Wowie, a brand new flavor, completely for free! He's tasted Ford's sweat before once when he was possessing him, his body had wracked up quite a lot of the stuff after Bill spent a full night clawing, punching, and ramming it against the door he'd installed to prevent Bill from getting into his lab. It was a curious substance. What're those light fixture things humans sometimes put in their homes that they can also lick? Himalayan salt lamps? Yeah, Ford may as well be one of those right now; salty and hot as a lightbulb.

He leans back in but Ford jolts backward, a terrified expression on his face. "That's- enough, please."

Bill obliges, pulling back. He does not look offended or disappointed, just smug. This is a great relief to Ford; he was not entirely sure whether or not Bill would respect his wishes. If he continued, Ford felt like he might've lost control; he might've surrendered to this strange heat that threatens the logistic workings of his brain. "Sure thing, Sixer! How about that tea I promised you?"

After their mutual confessions, things return to normal, for the most part. As 'normal' as the situation allows for, anyway.

Their routine continues, but now there are moments that simply did not exist before. Moments in the middle of their spars where something charged exists between them, particularly when Bill has him pinned down or bested in some way or another. Moments during their games where Bill will reach across whatever board they're hunched over to snatch up his hand and just hold it for a while, possessively, like his life depends on it. Moments where they will lay on the rug and Bill will open up a hole in the roof for them to stargaze. Moments where he'll just suddenly grab Ford and pull him close aggressively, overtaken by the need to just have him.

Ford has a newfound gratefulness for his captor's presence. He will never take him for granted again, ever. There is just one thing that he wishes Bill would compromise with him on.

They don't talk about their... relationship, for lack of a better word. They do not say 'I adore you' again. Bill seems fine with this, but Ford... isn't. He wants to talk about things, to clear some stuff up, but whenever he tries to, Bill just isn't receptive.

"Bill," he starts one night as the demon shakes dice in his fist before casting them onto the Monopoly board between them. They're seated in front of the fireplace, on the ground, and the atmosphere is cozy and dim, giving the illusion that it is nighttime. It is not, but Ford doesn't know this. If he had a window, he'd probably be confused by how each day-night cycle seems to last for weeks.

"What's up, Sixer?" He replies cheerily, lifting his finger to telekinetically move his piece - the tophat, of course - one space further than he actually rolled in order to avoid landing on Ford's property. The man does not notice.

He looks deep in thought, brow creased slightly. Absentmindedly, he takes the dice and gives them a halfhearted shake before dropping them unceremoniously onto the board. "If you had to choose between me and this dimension, what would you do?"

"I'd take both, next question!" Bill responds without an ounce of hesitation.

"Having both isn't an option," Ford clarifies, moving his piece without cheating.

"Anything's an option when you're a god, Sixer!" Bill says, satisfied with his own answer. He then takes the dice and tries to mimic the movement Ford is able to do when he's in a good mood, weaving it between each finger, but because he only has four it is not nearly the spectacle Ford effortlessly makes it out to be.

"I'm serious, Bill."

Bill rolls his eye. "What, you want me to tell you that I'd give up world domination for one measly human? Please."

Ford clenches his jaw. That hurt. Maybe he did want to be told that, even if it was unreasonable and probably a lie. "So you would choose this dimension."

"No, Fordsy - I'd choose both! It ain't a one or the other scenario!"

"You aren't getting the point," Ford huffs, irritated. "I suppose it's my own fault for expecting anything else from you."

"Sixer." Bill says, and stands up to float across the board until he's right in front of Ford's face. He's smaller than usual, about two and a half feet tall, so it's easy for him to stand on Ford's crisscrossed legs and be at eye level with the man. He places both his hands on his shoulders, and the man looks away grumpily. "I adore you."

Hearing those words again makes a familiar lump appear in his throat. "We can never be anything other than enemies so long as you are trying to conquer my dimension, Bill."

One of the hands on his shoulders is relocated to cup his chin and tilt his face up to meet Bill's teasing gaze. "You're cute when you're trying to be all foreboding and serious!"

Bill isn't taking this seriously. Of course. And yet, Ford continues to feel desperate, he wants reassurance of some kind. "Isn't there another way? Another dimension you could relocate to? Why does it have to be mine?"

"This one is perfect! There are others, but they just ain't ideal, if you catch my drift. Plus, this one has you, Fordsy - what could be better than that?"

"Can't you just settle for another one? I'm never going to let you wreak your havoc on my home dimension. There are people here, innocent people! They don't deserve-"

"Oh, and there aren't innocent people in other dimensions?" Bill counters coldly, his eye narrowing slightly and his grip growing a bit painful. "You love to play the hero, Sixer, but only when it comes down to your own dimension, huh?"

"That's not-"

"Real hypocritical of you, wise guy! Hey, maybe you do have a little evil in you! Maybe I'm finally beginning to rub off on you!" He begins to pet Ford's hair fondly, frustrating the man further.

Ford huffs out an irritated sigh. Can Bill stop fucking interrupting him?

"Bill, if you'd just find someplace else. If you'd just leave here, then I could come visit you, and we could... we could be- ...together." Ford offers, blushing slightly despite his frustration. He wants to just try and negotiate - they adore each other, after all, don't they?

"We're already together!" Bill dismisses him easily, as always. "I own you, Sixer, how much more 'together' can ya get? And please, visit me? That ain't good enough, kid! Stay with me twenty-four seven for a couple centuries and then maybe I'll consider your offer!"

He's not listening. He's just dismissing Ford, like always, viewing himself as some kind of god that shouldn't have to reason with a dumb inferior mortal like Stanford.

"I cannot allow myself to love someone who wants to destroy the world," Ford deadpans.

"Wow, I smell bullshit! You did thirty years ago, genius, and you do now!" Bill scoffs, looking at Ford with what appears to be smug admiration in his gaze.

"I don't." It's not true, they both know that, but he's frustrated, dammit, and he wants Bill to know that.

"You do, Sixer." Bill states this like he is completely sure of the statement, and it just pisses Ford off further.

He's about to give this bastard a piece of his mind. "I-"

Bill kisses him.

Ford gasps, his eyes shooting open as two hands grip the back of his head tightly and pull him close, smashing his lips against Bill's. Do they even count as lips when he's turned his eye into a mouth? He cannot ponder the logistics of this as his heart beats feverishly in his chest, as Bill practically devours him with how forceful he is. Ford has no clue what the hell he's supposed to be doing. He's never kissed anyone before, especially not someone who's so blatantly not human!

He had no idea that his lips would be so sensitive. Slowly, hesitantly, when the initial shock wears off, he finds it in him to lean into the kiss, allowing his eyes to flutter closed. He thinks that's what people do when they kiss. It would probably be creepy if he kept them open, right? He feels a tongue prod against the seam of his lips and he parts them hesitantly, allowing Bill to bulldoze his way into his mouth, overtaking all of Ford and replacing it with all of himself. The sensation is so strange and foreign and it feels oddly good. Are all kisses like this or is it just Bill? There are more hands now, they cup his cheeks and tug on his hair and he reaches up without thinking to place his hands flat against Bill's back, pulling him closer.

His face is burning. He can't help but make a couple soft sounds whenever his hair is tugged too hard or the glide of their tongues becomes just right. He always thought doing something like this would be gross and unappealing, but surprisingly, it is not. It's overwhelming, if anything. He's getting overwhelmed, and fast.

Bill pulls away suddenly, leaving Ford to gasp for air, flushed and panting. The demon blinks and his eye is back, staring down at Ford with an absolutely obscene amount of smugness.

"Fuck," Ford curses, alarmed and offput by the way he's feeling. It's unfamiliar, and thus, terrifying, it's left his brain clouded by a potent heat haze that prevents all logical thought from entering it.

He thinks that action might've shattered some sort of a barrier within him, unleashing a primal part of him that he wasn't aware existed until this moment.

"You sure you don't, Sixer?" Bill asks, and Ford looks up, confused and still trying to compose himself.

"What...?"

"You sure you don't love me? It seemed an awful lot like you were enjoying yourself there!"

Ford blinks owlishly. "That- you- you did that to prove a point!?"

Bill shrugs innocently, casually, and that infuriates him. Did he seriously do that to prove a fucking point!?

"Do you even- do you even know what that gesture means!?"

"Of course I do! I know everything, Fordsy!"

Ford sweeps his arm across the Monopoly board, scattering the pieces everywhere. He's become increasingly more prone to these little outbursts ever since he's become Bill's prisoner. Surely, his much more composed past self would be put off by his behavior. He stands up and stomps across the room over towards his mattress, away from Bill.

"You don't just kiss someone to prove a point! That's not how it works!" He shouts, infuriated.

"Oh, and how would you know that, smart guy? Have you ever kissed anyone before?" Bill taunts, hands on his hips. Ford grits his teeth.

Ford whirls around. "Screw you!" He shouts.

Bill simply shrugs, infuriating as ever. "Maybe you humans just have different standards when it comes to swapping bacteria than the rest of the multiverse. You are pretty low lifeforms on the cosmic scale, after all!"

It's silly, but Ford grabs the closest thing to him and chucks it at Bill out of sheer anger. That thing happens to be a pillow. Bill just sways lazily out of the way, eye still arrogantly closed. Ford then bundles up the sheet on his mattress and throws that at him, too. This time, it hits him square in the face, and Ford has to try very hard not to laugh when he witnesses Bill fail spectacularly to disentangle himself from the fabric, only getting himself more stuck, to the point where he eventually grows frustrated enough that he just shreds the thing with his claws and eats it.

He is supposed to be angry, he is not supposed to be laughing. He should not be holding back his laughs at the sight of the almighty Bill Cipher becoming immobilized by a blanket. Eventually he can't hold it in and barks out a guffaw, pointing at Bill who is slurping up a piece of shredded fabric like a noodle into the underside of his wide, enraged eye.

His laughs suddenly come to an end when Bill teleports in front of him in an instant and shoves him off his feet. He lets out a shocked cry as he falls back onto the mattress. The moment he realizes that he has not fallen onto the ground but rather landed on his bedding, he forces the angry pout back on his face.

"You really think you're intimidating anyone when you make that face, Sixer?" Bill taunts, and Ford narrows his eyes. "Ha! What a joke!"

"You are so irritating." Ford scowls, propping himself up on his elbows. "I have never met anyone who is more of a pain in the ass than you are."

That earns a tsk and Ford smacks a hand away when it goes to ruffle his hair. "Yeesh, no need to be such a drama queen - I think it's cute!"

Ford bares his teeth, offended. "I am not cute! Don't call me that!" How demeaning! How dare Bill call him cute when he's the only one who's ever gotten close to killing him!

Bill looks down at him fondly. "You're so cute, Sixer," he insists. "And the pathetic sounds you make when I do this prove my point."

Ford feels him grab a handful of his hair and he yanks, hard, pulling him up onto his knees. Despite the fact that he had been prepared for something to happen, he fails to bite back the pained groan he makes.

Bill snickers. "I wonder what other pitiful little noises I can get you to make! I doubt it'll be hard considering how responsive you are!"

That comment is- the implications are- it's too much for Ford. He cries out and tries to pull away, humiliated and angry and strangely wanting from that stupid kiss, but Bill keeps him anchored in place with the iron grip he has on his hair.

"Oho, that was a cute one! You should do that one more often!"

Cute. If Bill keeps calling him that, he doesn't know what he'll do, but he'll do it. He doesn't understand why part of him enjoys being called something so demeaning! What's wrong with him!?

Stay angry. Stay defiant! Ford is intimidating and strong and a force to be reckoned with - he is not cute!

He blushes crimson, and Bill's other hand settles along his cheek. Ford's pointedly avoiding eye contact with the bastard, and he flinches when he feels the demon's thumb brush against his lips, parting them to drag his bottom lip downward. What the hell is he doing? His eyes shoot up to meet Bill's when his jaw is forcibly gripped and he feels two black fingers slip into his mouth.

He jolts, shocked, and looks up at Bill with a helpless, confused expression, huffing out several shallow breaths through his nose. Bill's expression is unreadable, providing no explanation. What is he doing!?

The demon can't help but shiver slightly at the sight before him; of Stanford on his knees, looking up at him with helpless brown eyes, his cheeks flushed bright red and his drool coating Bill's fingers. He slowly draws his fingers in and out of the man's mouth, watching with a mesmerized expression as Ford somehow manages to look even more gobsmacked. Control is such an addictive thing, and Bill has it all here. The utterly powerless expression Ford's wearing is just the cherry on top.

"Atta boy, Sixer."

That's it. That is the comment that finally proves to be too much for Ford. He feels overwhelmed, too warm, this unfamiliar feeling threatening to consume him, and he lets out a cry and tries to pull back, his mind and heart racing in tandem. He can't, not with Bill keeping his head in place. "Stop!" He shouts, panicked, around the fingers in his mouth.

Bill obliges, pulling his fingers away, much to Stanford's relief. The demon inspects them, scissoring them apart to observe the drool coating them winnow into connective threads. Ford can't even look, he sucks in a shocked breath and redirects his vision to the floor, blushing madly.

Then the hand holding his hair retracts as well, and he lets out a whimper at the loss of contact. He figured that Bill taking his hands off him would make it better, would be a relief, but it just made it worse! Now he wants Bill to come back, to continue what he was doing, but he can't just ask him that!

Bill looks down at Ford fondly, observing the conflicted and wanting look in the human's eyes when they flicker back up to meet his. Sixer is seriously inexperienced with this kind of stuff - one look at him and Bill can tell exactly what's running through his mind. He doesn't even need to be inside Ford's head to know what's going on in that trainwreck. Has he seriously always been too involved with his dumb research and menial things like trying to survive in alternate dimensions to ever spare this stuff a thought? That's pretty unusual for humans, isn't it? Those freaky bags of meat are always frothing at the mouth at the thought of copulating with one another, and here's old Sixer who probably hasn't had a sexually explicit thought about another person in decades.

Ford, on the other hand, feels like he is dying - like he is going up in flames and the only way to extinguish the fire is to pile on more flammable material. It's counterproductive, and yet it makes perfect sense. He lets out a displeased noise and squeezes his eyes shut in humiliation as he forces himself to coerce Bill to continue. "Wait, I... I'm sorry, you don't have to stop."

He hates this. He hates how he feels like he's going to die if Bill doesn't touch him again. He presents the demon with his best puppy eyes and only receives a blatantly unimpressed expression in return. Of course he isn't going to make it easy for him, when has he ever?

"Bill, please."

That finally gets him to move. Ford trembles with want and leans into the touch as his chin is tilted up by a small black hand.

"You're so cute like this, Sixer. You know how adorable it is when you submit?" Bill tells him in an uncharacteristically low tone, and Ford practically crumbles into dust on the floor right then. Or maybe a more accurate description would be that he's melting into a puddle. "You know how bad I wanna see you completely helpless under me? How bad I wanna taste those pathetic little sounds you make straight from your lips?"

Ford thinks he's gonna die. He's biting his lip so hard that his teeth are beginning to break the skin. Everything Bill's saying to him is just fueling this fire that threatens to consume everything around him, but strangely enough, he wants to burn in its flame.

The grip on his chin tightens exponentially. "I own you, Pines. You're mine. I wanna make you fall apart. I wanna hear you cry and plead and whimper like the pathetic little animal you are. I wanna watch the look in your eyes as I take you. By the time I'm done with you, you'll have lost your grip on the English language and the only thing you'll be able to whine out is 'Bill Cipher.' Doesn't that sound nice, Stanford? Wouldn't you adore that?"

"Oh, fuck." Ford murmurs, and suddenly everything clicks into place. He realizes what's happening now, what it is that he's feeling. His slacks are suddenly far too tight, and he places his hands in his lap to try and hide his aroused state. Surely Bill wouldn't take kindly to Ford getting off to him like this. How insulting for a menial human to have such- thoughts!- about a god like him! His brain is completely clouded with potent heat, and he's terrified that he's going to lose any semblance of logic he still has if Bill keeps going.

As painful as it will be to disengage from this interaction, Ford needs to excuse himself. He can't let Bill see him like this, he needs to-

His wrists are grabbed and Bill tries to pry his hands away from his lap. Ford's eyes widen and he desperately tries to keep them firmly in place.

"What's the matter, Sixer? You look a little flustered! Are you trying to hide something from me?"

Bill's stronger. He has stupid twig arms and he's stronger. He pulls Ford's hands away from his lap and slams the human against the wall behind them, pinning his wrists to each side of his head. Ford freezes, terrified, as Bill slowly - as if savoring his fearful anticipation - slides his gaze down the man's trembling form.

Ford blanches. Bill knows. "I'm sorry, I-"

"Well, well, well!" Bill begins, and Ford panics, needing to explain himself.

"I'm sorry! Please don't be upset, it's not-"

Bill drops his wrists suddenly. "Upset?" He parrots, and he seems genuinely confused. "I'm not upset! You think I was saying all that crap to you just to hear myself talk? While that is one of my favorite pastimes, that wasn't the reason, bucko!"

He presses himself close to Ford, eye staring intently at the man's flushed features. "No, Fordsy. We're on the exact same page here."

Oh. Oh. He gets it now. His face somehow turns an even brighter shade of red as he realizes that Bill actually wanted this; he isn't upset at all.

"You..." Ford stammers. "Y-you want to..."

"Would you like that, Sixer?" Bill asks, tone low. "Would you like for me to take you?"

Ford shivers. He wouldn't just like it - he needs it. No, wait, he can't! This is- this is wrong; that's Bill and he's Ford! He shouldn't be considering doing something like... that- with his- with Bill fucking Cipher!

But... would it really be that bad? What's all that terrible about it? It's not like he's never thought about-

No! He needs to get ahold of himself! This will just make it easier for Bill to manipulate him in the long run! He needs to think about the future!

What future? What kind of future does Ford have anymore? Certainly not one where he sees anything outside of these four walls! Bill already knows the extent of his adoration for him, it's not like this would be the end of the world!

Who knows? It might be! It might be!! He must get ahold of himself!

Cipher is delighted to watch practically an entire Shakespearean play worth of emotions flicker across Ford's typically stoic face. He's going back and forth, arguing with himself, Bill can tell. And he's losing. It's hilarious. Should he intervene?

Yes. He should. He caresses his pet's cheek once, ever so gently, and Ford jolts out of his own head and back into the present moment.

Ford gulps and decides to cram all of the self-hatred he's going to surely feel upon agreeing to this into a shoddy container and shove it into his subconscious for him to mullinate over later. He's in too much of a state to think about that right now. It's too tempting to say no. How could he when Bill knows exactly what to say to make him tick?

"I... Yes." He allows himself to admit with no little self hatred, leaning into Bill's touch.

"Yes, what?"

"Yes... please." Ford tries, not even sparing the request a second thought.

"No," Bill scolds. "Try again."

"Yes..." Ford pauses. What is he supposed to say? "...Sir?"

Bill's eye widens with a pleased expression. He wasn't expecting that, he honestly just wanted to see what Ford would come up with. He was expecting his name or something, but that's good. He wasn't expecting that to sound so good coming out of the human's mouth.

"Good. Good Fordsy."

Ford lets out a small sound at that, and Bill gives his equivalent of a smirk. Ford's always had a thing for praise; god knows his ego needs it. He wonders just how much he can fluster the man from words alone, until he's begging to actually be touched.

"What... are you going to do?" The human asks hesitantly. He blushes deeply at his own thoughts - at things Bill could do.

"What do you want me to do?" Bill's eye drinks in the expression Ford wears, the way he looks almost pained.

Ford doesn't know, and even if he did, he wouldn't be able to bring himself to say it out loud. He bites his lip. "I'm not sure, I'm-... I've never..." He starts hesitantly, and then swallows. "I-I'm..."

He's what? Ford can't bring himself to finish that sentence. A clawed hand runs along his cheek, the talons raking across his skin. If they pressed a little harder, they'd draw blood, which is incredibly tempting. "You know what you are? You're mine, Sixer, and I'm gonna corrupt you."

Bill doesn't miss the way Ford shudders slightly when Bill calls him 'his.' Does Ford... enjoy belonging to him? For all that backtalk and resistance, does he actually get the same sense of enjoyment that his possessor does when he refers to Stanford as one of his belongings?

"Say it." He demands, and Ford looks confused for a moment. "You're mine, Stanford. You always have been."

The man tenses and looks away, flustered. He's unsure if he can bring himself to say something like that - something so utterly humiliating.

A hand grips his hair and forces him to look up into the all-seeing eye. "Admit it, Pines. Tell me who you belong to."

Ford doesn't respond, but there is no defiance in his eyes, only uncertainty and slight shame. He isn't refusing out of spite, simply because his own pride won't allow him to comply so easily. Or maybe he just likes it when Bill takes charge and forces him into doing it. Probably wishful thinking.

Bill really wants to hear it. The grip on Ford's chin tightens, the tips of Bill's claws slightly breaking the skin, and the resulting wells of blood that appear from the small nicks make the human look even more appealing. "Say it."

"I..." He hesitates, squeezing his eyes closed. When the words finally leave his mouth, they sound physically painful coming out. "I belong to you."

Bill smears the small amount of blood across his chin, watching as Ford's adam's apple bobs when he swallows thickly. He looks absolutely mortified by what he has just said, avoiding eye contact to look at the much more riveting floor, his entire face beet red.

"That's right, Sixer. And who am I?"

He looks up at the demon now, as if he realizes that doing nothing but staring at the floor makes him seem more docile. "Bill?" Ford says.

"I like the way you say my name, kid. You used to say it like it was something holy, and then you started saying it like it's something unholy. And just now? I heard a good mixture of both. I think that's my favorite!"

"I'm... glad." Ford replies shakily, trying to keep a composed tone.

Well, Bill can't have that, can he? He mentally flips through all the different ways he's been able to provoke a reaction out of Stanford over the years, and one trick rises to the forefront with relative ease.

"You're so good for me, you know that, Fordsy?" Bill tests, and he watches as it pays off immediately when the human shudders. How easily affected he still is by praise! He's always craved compliments so desperately, needing something to fuel the swirling mess of self-righteousness and crippling insecurity that was - and still is - his ego. The man is practically addicted to praise; it's how he was so easily fooled by Bill in the first place.

"It's no wonder I picked you, Sixer; you're not like any other pathetic skin suit on this planet. You're smart, talented, strong, attentive, and all mine. Only you can change the world with me, Stanford. You're special."

Ford scrunches his eyes shut and inhales sharply, trembling. Like a fish to a hook, he latches onto the praise and tries so very hard not to show how much he loves it. With each honeyed word that Bill directs at him, it becomes more and more obvious how hard he's trying to keep his reactions concealed.

He can't keep in a shuddery, humiliating sound when Bill caresses from his jaw up to the shell of his ear with a mocking sort of tenderness, and his eyes flash open when he hears himself. A hand flies up to cover his mouth, but Bill catches his wrist before he can do so.

"Hands off," he says dangerously. "Don't try and hide those sounds from me, IQ. I deserve to hear every single one."

He flusters madly, clearly not keen on letting Bill hear the pathetic sounds he had no idea he was capable of making. Slowly, he lets his arm fall back to his side, although he doesn't seem too happy about it.

A thought comes into Bill's mind. His hand trails down from the human's ear to his chin to prop it up, to stare into those beautiful helpless brown eyes brimming with the vulnerability that he's tried so hard to hide for decades now. "I wanna chain you up, Sixer."

Ford looks up at Bill, waiting to feel the familiar coldness of the shackles that he'd worked his way out of wearing secure around his wrists, but it never comes. Bill just stares down at him meaningfully, and then Ford blushes as he realizes - he's waiting for permission. Bill's giving him a choice here. Now that's something Ford wouldn't have expected in a million years, and it colors him pleasantly surprised.

He never really thought about it, but as he does now, the prospect of being restrained and completely at the demon's mercy is... well, it isn't exactly unappealing, to say the least. Surprisingly, he feels himself heat up at the idea. He licks his lips nervously, and then proceeds to nod slowly, giving Bill the permission he requested.

His heartrate picks up when he feels his arms being forced behind his back and then hears cuffs clink around his wrists, securing them in place. At the very least, he had been expecting that, but he jolts when he feels a collar snap around his neck as well, the chain to which appears in one of Bill's hands. He looks nearly manic as he stares down at Ford's flustered, shackled form; powerless. At his mercy. Willingly.

He can't help but just admire Ford for a minute, drink in his victory. He finds this situation... erotic? He's not sure, is this that feeling that humans always yammer about before they screw each other's brains out? He wants to possess Ford in every way imaginable, to own him entirely.

"You look good like this, Sixer," Bill tells him, and Ford sucks in a shaky breath and shuts his eyes. "You're the only mortal worthy of my attention, you know that? The rest of the world threw you away because you were too weird for them, but you're just right for me."

When he hears that, Stanford makes a sound that is akin to a sob, wanting Bill to keep talking but at the same time it's not enough and he needs his hands on him. The demon stifles a snicker and floats behind Ford, in the space between him and the wall, to slide a hand down his jaw. He traces his fingers along the exposed part of his neck so he can feel the human's pulse thrumming against his fingers. It picks up more with every word of praise Bill delivers to him.

"I can feel your pulse here, Sixer. I know just how much you're enjoying this, how much you love it when I call you all sorts of nice things. You love being good for me, don't you, Fordsy?"

Ford stammers, suddenly so flustered it's becoming difficult for him to even speak properly. "Y-yes, Bill..."

He stifles a whimper when he is rewarded by the sensation of the demon sinking his claws slightly into the flesh of his neck, then licking up the several resulting drops of blood. Logically speaking, this should not be attractive to Ford, but it is.

Bill starts shamelessly feeling him up after that, and Ford can no longer bite back the blatant moans that are fished from his lips by too many black hands - hands which slip under the hem of his turtleneck to caress the overheating, sweat-slicked skin. The same fingers that have marred the human's flesh irreversibly in the past now trace along his abdomen so gently, feeling how the defined muscles beneath them tense and relax under the touch.

It's fascinating how heavy and frantic Ford's breathing has become so quickly. The fingers trail down, and the human throws his head back, hair brushing against Bill's glowing surface, trembling. He can't get enough oxygen in his system, his heart overclocking itself with how fast it's beating, with how much blood is scorching its way through his veins, tingling its way all the way to the tips of his toes. He lets out a small whimper as soon as Bill makes contact through his slacks.

"Fuck," he shudders, bucking up into the demon's hand.

Bill can't resist the urge to taunt him. He worked so hard to get Ford like this; he has the right to humiliate him a little.

"Look at you," he sneers, and takes in the resulting shiver. "The great Stanford Pines, crumbling in my arms. Ain't that pathetic?"

Ford really wishes he could cover his mouth right now, self-conscious of all the noise he's making. He shudders and can't help but whisper Bill's name like a prayer as he feels him unbutton his slacks, lifting his hips so he can slide them halfway down his legs. The demon's warm, smooth hand caresses his inner thigh, and he trembles violently as his touch skims the edge of where he really wants it.

"Worship me." Bill demands.

Ford doesn't think. He just complies. "Bill, please, my Muse- I- I adore you, please touch me, it would be the highest honor to- aahh-"

His pleas are answered when Bill slowly wraps a hand around Ford, holding him loosely at first. He's inclined to reward the man for good behavior, and he'd quantify him accidentally referring to him as his 'Muse' again as very good. His thumb caresses the trembling human at the tip, and the resulting rattle of his chains as he gasps and trembles in place is quite cute.

"Bill please- Bill please-"

"You're pathetic, you know that?" Bill whispers, continuing to softly caress him. Ford strains against his chains. "You act so tough all the time just to become this the second I touch you."

He cries out and twitches in Bill's grip; an interesting development. Ford himself is a living contradiction, so he supposes it isn't completely unexpected that he would respond this way to both praise and degradation. What a freak. It's a good thing, though, because Bill is a sadist at heart.

"Is this all I had to do to get you to give in?" Bill continues, tone dark. "Maybe I should have just fucked you into building me that portal all those years ago. You would have loved it, Stanford, don't even deny it. You worshipped me. I was your god. It was obvious how much you wanted me to just take you every time I possessed you. I could feel it, you know - all the things you thought you hid so well from me."

Ford cries out, overwhelmed. He would have loved it. Fuck, he would have loved it so much - the thought of Bill doing that is nothing less than exquisite torture. He can't control the way he starts squirming and pleading, no longer caring how pathetic is sounds. He needs him. "Please, Bill... p-please... Please touch me, please..."

"I am touching you, Sixer," Bill replies sternly. He gives the man a firm squeeze, eliciting a broken cry. "Is this not good enough for you?"

"N-no, it's- hh, it's perfect- thank you... Thank you, Bill, my Muse, thank you, thank you-!"

Ford's close. Bill hasn't even moved his hand, simply cradling him and feeling him twitch in his grip, and he's close. It would be a hilarious display of power to get him off with words alone, but Bill wants more than that. He knows for a fact no one's ever had his human like this before; he wants to be the first and only to observe the look of ecstasy on his face when he is forced over the edge by Bill's hand. All of Ford's ecstasy will belong to Bill.

Ford whimpers as he feels a tongue trail down the side of his neck, and he cranes his head to the side to allow the demon greater access. Humans are vulnerable near their throats, especially to monsters like Bill, yet Ford is baring himself to him completely; trusting, wanting.

The chains rattle as Bill slowly begins moving his hand along Ford's length, causing the human to tremble and cry out. Tears streak down his cheeks at the overwhelming amount of pure goodness being delivered through the torturously slow physical sensation, heightened by the way Bill just knows how to say all the right things. He pants and tries to piston his hips forward, but Bill snakes an arm around his chest to hold him tightly in place.

"Shh, Fordsy," The demon whispers. "You're doing so good. You always do so well for me."

"Bill!" Ford cries, overwhelmed and dissolving into a mess of wanting and needing and all he can think about is Bill. All he's ever thought about is Bill. How could he have ever thought about anything else? There's no room for any other thoughts inside his head. "Bill! T-thank you, thank you!"

The way that Ford can't do anything but thank him, crying out his filthy name like it is the holiest of prayers, is so unbelievably satisfying. Bill rewards him by pumping his hand faster, drawing out a variety of obscene noises from both the motion itself and the man's throat.

"I- Bill, I- fuck! I'm close, I'm gonna come, Bill-!"

"Not yet," Cipher demands, and the human lets out a pained whimper when he shows no sign of slowing his motions. "You're gonna come the moment I say so and no sooner, got that?"

"Y-yes, okay, yes, sir," Ford stammers, eager to please. Bill tightens his hold around the human's torso to one that is near bone-crushing, doubling down on his efforts to really get Sixer to squirm. Ford doubles over and cries out at the increased attention, his hips jerking and his entire body quivering.

"Good Fordsy."

Ford sobs, and more tears cascade down his red face. He is so incredibly overwhelmed, so sensitive, and Bill can't help but wonder whether all humans are this reactive or if it's just his human. The man's typically expansive vocabulary seems to have dwindled down into two things: 'thank you' and cries of Bill's name. He can't stop voicing his graciousness, how thankful he is for his god to be touching him so intimately, to be delivering him and him alone this type of pleasure. It's punctuated with occasional profanity and absolutely filthy moans that are quite unbecoming of the typically composed scientist; moans that Bill just wants to devour. He wants to drink up every single one of Stanford's cute involuntary noises, they're his, after all; he's making them for Bill, because of Bill, so they belong to Bill just like the entire rest of Ford does and always has.

"Bill!" Ford cries, prompting the demon to give the chain connected to his collar a firm yank. Ford lurches backward and sputters on his words, the extra strain on his throat adding a hoarse quality to his voice - one that Bill finds very attractive. "Bill! Thank- ahhn, fuck! Thank you, Bill! Bill! Thank you, ah- fuck, thank you!"

It's so difficult to keep himself from finishing without permission. The way Bill's smooth hand glides along his most sensitive area at an absolutely perfect pace is nothing less than torturous. God, it feels so good. He's losing his mind, Bill's forcing it out of him more and more with each sleight of his hand. He feels so weak, so powerless, and it's addicting.

"Keep talking, Sixer. Let me hear you."

Ford can't even keep track of the words tumbling out of his mouth anymore, it's all just a mess of praise and gratitude and pleasure and lust. The sound of his own broken voice only adds to the intensity of what he's feeling.

"Bill, I- I adore you, I'm so grateful- fuck! Thank you, thank you Bill- hhah- thank you! You're everything, y-you're so- you're the whole world, I adore you, I adore you Bill- thank you-!"

"You're so fucking cute, Sixer." Bill mutters possessively, coaxing a full body shiver out of Ford.

"Oh, fuck!" Ford cries, being called cute and hearing Bill swear like that doing him in. "Oh god, I- Bill, please, I can't- fuck! Fuck! Please, I can no longer-!"

The cuffs around him tighten and the collar begins to properly strangle him, and Bill gives him permission. "Go ahead, Sixer. Go ahead and come for your god."

Bill drinks up the expression on his human's face and his adorable sounds and the way he thrashes and trembles in his restraints as he obeys. His hoarse scream, the way his eyes screw shut and his brows raise and part in ecstasy, how flushed and red his face is, slick with sweat and tears. He cries out Bill's name as he coats the demon's hand with his release, panting and trembling and cursing his way through his unsophisticated climax. Bill strokes him through it, watching intently, too fascinated with his reactions to say a single thing. When finally his thrashing tapers off into mere twitches and the suffocating pleasure ebbs away, Bill releases him and he collapses limply to the mattress, panting.

"Good job," Bill praises, "You did so well for me, Sixer."

Ford smiles giddily, floating in a dazed sort of high following what they'd just done. He leans eagerly into the hand which pets his sweat-slicked curls, panting heavily and practically oozing love and affection and trust and the need for approval. God, he looks so good like this; so cute and pliable, yearning for Bill's touch. The demon licks his other hand clean, curious as to what the liquid proof of Ford's enjoyment tastes like. Enjoyment that Bill had given to him, by the way. The taste is not the most appealing thing in the world, but because it came from Ford it may as well be the taste of heaven on Bill's tongue. Anything that comes from Sixer is automatically bumped up a few tiers simply because it's his.

"...Adore you..." Ford croaks out weakly as Bill continues to pet his hair. He seems so exhausted, so small and helpless compared to normal, and Bill dissolves his restraints in order to allow him to settle into a comfortable position so he can rest. He looks completely drained, there is no energy left in his eyes.

"I adore you too, Sixer." Bill replies. Looking down at his small, exhausted human that he's just staked his claim on in a way that he's never done with anything else before, he feels that this statement has gained yet another layer of truth to it.

That entire incident has opened the metaphorical floodgates, in a way. Ford and his demon explore this newfound side of their relationship with great intensity over the next few days. Bill can never seem to keep his hands off Ford for long, greedy to make him fall apart over and over again. It's like an addictive exchange of power for him; he'd never really been interested in such a trivial process before, but Sixer changed his perspective on things, and not for the first time.

Most of the time, their coupling is rough, almost violent. It comes from an incessant need to just have the human, to chain him up and force the pleasure from him. In these cases, where Bill restrains Ford and fucks every single thought from his oversized brain, it's almost beaten from his body. He's rendered completely helpless, overstimulated, and wrecked by the time Bill's through with him, making for an immensely satisfying scene every time.

On occasion, Bill is gentle. It is rare that he has the patience to tend to Ford so slowly and gently, but his reactions are almost better that way; it's clear he almost enjoys these instances more, but they just aren't enough for Bill. Not yet, anyway.

They never say the L-word. They say lots of 'I adore you's - particularly on Ford's part - but that other word is still something frightening and unconquerable at the moment. Even as Ford thinks it over and over in his head while far too many warm hands tangle in his hair and Bill's tongue down his throat, he never says it aloud. That would make things too terrifyingly real for both of them.

When Bill visits, Ford bows to him, pressing himself flat against the floor in an undeniable gesture of worship. Worship is rare currency around these parts, and Stanford's is artificially inflated by how much Bill adores him. Getting it from the man is as potent as a drug. For all the grit and effort that Ford had been determined to put into resisting, it is undeniable how much he loves submitting before his master; to be in his rightful place before him, on one knee with Bill's extended hand at his lips. It's addictive - for both of them - and with each passing day, the small voice that is desperately trying to get through to Ford's logical mind is drowned under more and more of Bill's praise and touches.

As is the natural course of things, days progress into weeks, and with the passage of time, Bill is able to weasel more and more things out of his human lover. He becomes addicted to the tang of his sweat, the salt of his tears, the sweet flavor of his blood when Ford gives him permission to harm him. All of it is a new level of intoxicating power; a type of power no one else has ever been able to give to him. He's able to convince Ford to let him brand him with increasing frequency during their encounters. Ford's been trained like a Pavlov dog to enjoy the pain; every time Bill carves his signature into the man's forearm in a different alien language, he delivers praise and compliments until Ford's pained expression morphs into one of agonized pleasure.

Eventually, both of Ford's arms become covered in dozens of variations of Bill's signature, some in earthly languages, others in ancient tongues that are unrecognizable to any human. Ford's old scars are replaced by new ones, better ones, ones with Bill's namesake letting the entire multiverse know exactly who this human belongs to. It's perfect.

Stanford's pinned to the mattress, far too many hands feeling him up as he trembles and whimpers. Bill is insatiable, watching his human fall apart beneath him has devolved into nothing less than an obsession at this point, a highly efficient way of staking his claim on him. Ford gets something out of it, too; Bill touches him in places he didn't know existed and expertly fishes noises from his lips he didn't know he could make.

As one of Bill's excessive amount of hands begins to make quick work of his jeans, Ford stops him. "Wait, Bill, hold on a moment, please."

Bill looks up at him with an unamused expression on his face. What's with the interruption?

"What is it?" He asks, tone impatient but concerned.

"I..." Ford begins, and then blushes. "I want to make you feel good, too."

That earns him an unreadable look. His blush deepens and he squirms a little as he tries to voice his request.

"Can I... I mean, is there any way for me to..."

"Are you saying you wanna jerk me off, Sixer?" Bill asks, stifling a laugh. "I don't know if you've noticed, buddy, but I'm not exactly built for that kind of thing!"

Ford turns bright red at Bill's unabashed crassness. "Bill, don't just say it like that!" He scolds, embarrassed.

Bill cackles, unaffected. "You're a real riot, Fordsy! To think you're normally so composed - it's cute seeing all that virginial fluster! Although I suppose you aren't one of those anymore, am I right?"

Ford is mortified. "Bill! Stop!" He thinks he's going to implode from shame. He's not really sure why this topic in particular makes him so shy and embarrassed, but Bill finds it hilarious.

"Yeesh. No need to be so dramatic, Sixer. Now do you want me to keep going or not?" The demon asks with false chagrin, watching as Ford struggles to recover.

The man thinks to himself for a long moment, composing himself, before looking up at Bill and hesitantly raising a hand and placing it on his surface. He gives no reaction. "When I touch you, it doesn't... you don't experience any sort of...?"

"Nope!" Bill says cheerily. "Like I said, not built for that kinda thing! But getting to watch you is just as fun!"

"You've never... felt it?" Ford asks carefully.

Bill shrugs. It must not bother him. "Nah! Pleasure's overrated anyway! Now pain, I can get behind!"

"What if-" Ford starts to suggest, and then he snaps his mouth shut in record time, his eyes widening in horror as he realizes exactly what he was about to propose they do.

That expression is intriguing to Bill. "What if what, Sixer?"

"When you..." Ford starts again, and he can't. He shouldn't. This is a bad idea. He needs to stop this train of thought right now. He needs to not continue that sentence.

He most definitely should, never in a million years, continue that sentence.

He shouldn't. He can't. He'd better not continue that sentence!

Ford continues the sentence.

"When you possess someone, would you be able to..."

He can't finish it, but Bill gets the idea. He's staring down at Ford with a mostly unreadable expression, but there is definitely mania that is barely disguised behind his eye.

"I don't see why not!" He responds in his typical boisterous tone, but the intensity of his stare gives away what he's thinking.

"Is it..." Ford swallows, nervous, so nervous. "A separate process to let you into someone's body than it is to let you into their mind?"

"You already know the answer to that question, smart guy. We had to make a different deal for me to possess you, remember?"

Oh God. He's actually going to ask him. "So if we... What I mean to ask is, if you-"

"No, I wouldn't be able to see your thoughts," Bill clarifies, tone suddenly dark with hunger and impatience. "I wouldn't be able to see a single thing about that equation, Fordsy."

"Do you promise?" Ford asks.

Bill's promises shouldn't mean anything.

"Scout's honor, Stanford!"

"...Okay." Ford says, steadily, as if trying to convince himself of something. "I'm going to trust you. This is most definitely a terrible idea, and I know that I shouldn't even be thinking of such an absurd-"

Bill's patience runs out. "Just let me in already, Sixer."

A dangerous blue flame encases Bill's outstretched hand, an expectant look in the demon's eye as he stares at the human kneeling on the ground in front of him. Ford takes a deep breath, his hand trembling as he holds it halfway between himself and Bill's, asking himself for the hundredth time that day why exactly he is doing this.

He directs his gaze up at Bill, who is staring at him silently. Suddenly, Ford isn't so sure he wants to go through with this. Despite the fact that Bill claims he wouldn't be able to read his thoughts, and logically he knows sharing a body is much different from sharing a mindscape, he's still scared.

He'd promised himself thirty years ago that he would never make a deal with Bill again.

"You gonna leave me hanging here?" The demon asks, eagerly.

Ford remembers the way Bill always requests his permission before doing anything he may be uncomfortable with. He wouldn't lie about this, right? No, Ford remembers being possessed by Bill in the past. It was different. He couldn't read his thoughts unless Ford was in the mindscape, watching over him as he piloted Ford's body with increasing amounts of carelessness as the months went on.

Slowly, he extends his hand out and he feels the warmth of Bill's flames lick against his skin as their fingertips brush. The demon does not snatch his hand up and force them to shake on it. He waits for Ford to initiate it.

He does. He takes Bill's hand, and they shake on it.

Bill clutches his hand tightly long after the flames extinguish, having fluttered up both of their arms in a small lightshow to seal the deal. Ford tries not to reel with terror at what he has just done.

"It works a little differently when we're not in the mindscape!" He reveals, and Ford's heart drops. Oh no.

"When I possess you, my physical body will turn into stone. Since you won't be able to inhabit the mindscape either, it'll be the both of us piloting the same skin suit. You were banking on that anyway though, weren't ya?"

Ford sighs in relief. "Okay," he replies, and Bill's hand caresses its way down his lovingly as he pulls away.

"Ready?"

Ford closes his eyes and braces himself - steels himself for the sensation of another presence forcing its way into his skin, for Bill to inhabit his body for the first time in thirty years. He squeezes his eyes shut and trembles. Bill used to make it painful during their battle for control over the portal. Would it hurt now? How badly?

But when Bill enters him, it is far from painful; more akin to the feeling of being gently scooted over on a bench so someone can take a seat next to him.

He opens his eyes, suddenly aware of being... full? There is no other way to describe it. It is like all the empty space between his atoms has been filled with another presence that is distinctively not him. He raises his head and takes a look at where Bill had been a moment before. He's turned to solid stone, his hands forming the symbol of a heart, his eye closed in a front of mock innocence.

Okay.

"Bill, are you-"

"WowIE! It is good to be back!" Ford's interrupted by his own mouth, Bill's voice spilling out, as he springs them to their feet. He recalls being told once that only the person being possessed can actually hear Bill's voice when he speaks through their body. To everyone else, he would just sound like Stanford Pines.

Ford watches as Bill flexes his hands. Right now, control is split evenly between them, but with enough brute force, one could overtake the other. His vision is dragged across his own form as Bill inspects his newly carved up arms, at the signatures he'd placed on Ford's form, familiarizing himself with his body for the first time in so long.

"I forgot how heavy human skin is!" He comments.

It's okay, Ford assures himself. He's only in my body. Not my mind.

"So! What was it you wanted to do again, Sixer? I seem to have forgotten! Would you be a doll and enlighten me?" Bill teases as he pilots them to go sit down on the mattress, stumbling around in a cartoonish, exaggerated manner, similarly to how he moves in his own body.

"Uh," Ford says, his face heating up. Right. He'd kind of forgotten about the original purpose of this. "I... We were..."

"You wanted to jerk me off, right?"

"Bill!" He slaps his hand over his lips, which are stretched into a shit-eating grin. He cannot believe he said that with his own mouth! Well, Bill said it with his mouth, but still!

He retracts his hand when Bill licks it. "What's the holdup? Don't tell me you've gotten all shy on me now, Fordsy!"

"I-"

Ford's eyes inadvertently catch on the Bill statue on the other side of the room, and suddenly, the darkest thought Ford has ever had invades his mind and begins to spread like a cancer.

At this very moment, Bill is within the confines of Ford's body. He's weak here. He's mortal.

Does that mean...

"Well? Fordsy?" Bill prompts, but he can't hear the demon over the pounding of his heart in his ears.

Ford truly has the power to end this madness, doesn't he? He could finally do what he'd set out to do thirty years ago. It would be easy, all he would have to do is snap his own neck, and he's sure he's able to do that. It would take Bill off guard and then they'd both-

"Fordsy?"

His heartrate has skyrocketed, his whole body having gone into fight or flight mode. There is no way Bill hasn't noticed it. Had this thought even occurred to Cipher? If it did, had he really trusted Ford enough to not kill the two people he hates most with one motion?

He clenches his fists, feels how sweaty his palms have become. His breathing becomes shallower, more frantic. His heart races. His mind is quickly overwhelmed with darkness, the voices of everyone he's ever known telling him to just-

He can't do it, it's Bill, he adores him, he can't-

But it's Bill! He trusts him, he can't just-

He feels himself take a deep breath, feels oxygen flood his deprived body, feels someone gently push him to the side a bit to settle the shakiness in his limbs. Bill's taken control of his breathing; he's slowing it down to make sure he doesn't hyperventilate.

He taught him this method before, back when they worked together on the portal. He'd overwork himself half to death and then get frustrated with himself for being unproductive due to his sleep depravation. Then Bill would collect his focus and guide him through a first few shaky breaths. In for four seconds, hold for four seconds, out for eight. Then, when it inevitably worked every time, Bill would ruffle his hair, tell him to get some rest, and they'd get back to work the next day.

He exhales for eight seconds, slowing Ford's rapid heartrate. The man thinks he's going to break down in tears. This decision should be easy, why is it so hard?

Bill raises Ford's arm to pat his own head like he does when he's not cohabiting a body with him, and with that, his resolve crumbles.

"I adore you, Bill," he murmurs softly, feeling a part of himself die with those words.

Bill grins using his mouth. "I adore you, Sixer!" He beams, blissfully unaware of what Ford had just been about to do.

He feels so guilty for what he almost did to Bill, and simultaneously like he hasn't done enough. He hates himself so much, and, as per usual, it is up to Bill to drag him out of the pit he's dug himself into.

"So how's this go, smart guy? I'm usually the one pulling the strings, but I'm kinda going in blind here!" He then props a hand up to his chin in a thinking gesture. "Actually it's the opposite! I've got twice the eyes now! I'm anti-blind! You get what I was trying to say though, right?"

Despite himself, Ford lets out a halfhearted huff of laughter. "I..." He clears his throat, getting back on track. "You just try to relax, okay?"

He's grinning, and his whole body is stiff. Both of these things are direct indicators of Bill's presence, and neither of them indicate relaxation. Ford's nervous, unsure how to start. He wants to please Bill, to blow his mind like he's done to Ford so many times, but he doesn't know where to start. He needs a push.

And Bill, like always, gives him that push.

"Sixer," he calls, tone sweet and mocking all in one.

"Yes?"

"Give it to me."

The way Bill said that was- dear God- it makes Ford swallow hard and goosebumps prick his skin. Combined anticipation flows freely between them, and it's like with those words, Bill'd placed a spell on Ford which makes it impossible not to comply immediately. He feels Bill lounge back in the passenger's seat smugly, giving Ford the floor. He licks his lips and pulls himself free from his jeans, taking a deep breath.

The second he actually makes contact, Bill jolts and there is a split second where he feels him aggressively shoving Ford out of the pilot's seat in an attempt to gain back the control that one touch made him lose.

"Are you okay?" Ford asks.

"Golly, I wasn't expecting that!" Bill replies, sounding a bit winded. "You humans weren't kidding comparing it to fireworks in all your frilly literature! Does it really feel that good whenever I touch you?"

"Well... Yes."

"Keep going," Bill demands.

Ford feels himself swallow, hard, and for one of the first times in his entire life, Bill is silent. He begins a steady motion, closing his eyes and imagining what kind of expression Bill would be making. Whenever he did this sort of thing before, it was kind of disconnected; detached from anyone or anything, just a means to an end in order to get a rush of endorphins and move on with his day. The difference between that and actually doing this with someone he wants in mind is nothing less than night and day.

"Sixer," Bill says, suddenly, and his voice has a small tremor in it that Ford latches onto greedily. "That's good. That's real good, keep going."

Ford does. He keeps the same languid pace, drawing a small noise from his mouth, one that he thinks might've belonged to Bill but he isn't sure. He feels his face begin to flush, feels Bill digging his nails into his palm as he clenches their free fist tight. The physical sensation alone is divine, but knowing that he's also making Bill feel it is a whole new level of pleasure. Knowing he's doing... this... to Bill is almost better than feeling it himself. In fact, he thinks it must be. Their shared pleasure bleeds together, intermingles until Ford can't tell whose is whose anymore. He feels Bill buck their hips up into his hand and let out a shrill moan.

"Okay?" He pants, checking on his copilot.

Bill's got control of everything but his hand, and Ford notices that his legs are trembling quite a lot. He supposes it makes sense; this is an entirely new sensation for him. Of course he's going to be extra sensitive.

He isn't responding though, so Ford stops his motions. He wants to make sure that he's okay, that he's not overwhelming him or pushing any boundaries.

He is rewarded with his thoughtfulness with hoarse, enraged screaming. How delightful.

"Don't stop, you insufferable moron! Don't stop for anything!" Bill snarls at him, anger flaring as he slams his fist into the mattress below them.

"Sorry!" Ford startles, and he continues like the fussy demon wants, each stroke drawing a pleased gasp or moan from his companion.

Where Ford is quite, Bill has always been loud, and it seems that this pattern extends to the situation they find themselves in now. Bill's making all kinds of noise that Ford has never heard him make before, and goddamn if it isn't hot. Knowing that he's the reason Bill's making those sounds has him more turned on than he's ever been in his entire life. He has power over Bill here. Control.

"Sixer," Bill pants, their body seizing up a little. "Sixer."

"Y-yeah, Bill?" Ford manages to reply. Forming a cohesive sentence is becoming more difficult the more they lose themselves to their collective pleasure.

"Fuck, Sixer. Give it to me. More. If you stop, Sixer, I'll kill you, got that?" He's so loud. So blatantly demanding. Ford lives for it.

Ford now understands why Bill is always so obsessed with hearing him moan his name. It's so satisfying hearing his partner hiss out his given nickname in such a helpless, sultry tone.

He speeds up his motions a little, drinking in the pleased cry Bill makes as a result. He can feel himself trembling due to the demon's oversensitivity, all he can hear is Bill's unabashed loudness and the slick sounds of what he's doing to himself - what he's doing to Bill.

"Bill-... I adore you," he chokes out, panting air for the both of them around Bill's shrill whimpers.

"Keep talking," Bill demands, although it's more of a request. He loves being in control, and despite the fact that he's handed the reigns over to Ford, it doesn't stop him from pretending like he's the one pulling the strings. "Don't- fuck, Sixer- don't you dare stop."

"Y-you-" Ford whines. It is becoming difficult to talk through the blinding pleasure, but he wants to praise him, to worship him. "You're so perfect, Bill- I-I adore you, hah, so much-"

"Sixer-" It seems like the word 'Sixer' is quickly overtaking the rest of the demon's vocabulary. "Ah- fuck, Stanford- this has to be- hh- the best idea you've ever had, you goddamn genius-"

Ford thinks he's going to lose his mind. Hearing Bill so hinged, because of him, is just too good. Ford is in control here, he realizes, and this time the shudder his body gives is not because of Bill. He wants to push him over the edge. What are things Bill likes to hear him say? Worship, mostly, he does love hearing praise as much as Ford does, but he also has an undeniable obsession with 'owning' the man. If anything will help him along, it'd probably be that.

"I'm yours, Bill," Ford begins the second his mouth is not currently being occupied by Bill's pleased gasps and whines. Instantly, he feels a difference. Bill starts frantically bucking their hips up into his hand while Ford speaks, unabashedly making absolutely obscene moans. "From now until the end of time- oh, fuck, Bill, I'm yours-"

"Yes!" The demon hisses, possessiveness oozing from his tone. "Mine. You're mine, Sixer."

That worked well, perhaps too well, because he can feel them nearing release rapidly now. Ford's losing it, words tumbling from his bleeding lips that Bill had been busy biting at, words that he doesn't think about, they just flow freely out of him as they pass the point of no return.

"Bill! Bill! Fuck, you're everything, I- I love you-"

Bill lets out a cry when he hears those words, and suddenly the tightly wound cord snaps. Ford hears himself scream, but it is drowned out by Cipher's infinitely more loud and obnoxious counterpart, and the entire world whites out for a moment. He's sure that the entire earth has stopped on its axis to allow this moment in time between the two of them to last for a little longer. Everything falls apart around them and he knows that when it is put back together, it will never be in the same order again.

It's like an indefinite stream of white-hot pleasure burns between them, looping from Ford to Bill and back in an infinite loop until they manage to break out of the cycle, panting and limp and completely exhausted.

"Damn," is all Ford can manage between pants, and Bill shivers.

"You're telling me..." He begins, and it's up to Ford to catch their collective breath since he won't do it himself. "That it feels like that every time? That's what I've been missing out on all these centuries??"

Ford swallows and smiles softly. "Only feels like that when you're here."

Bill moves their arm to swipe up the evidence of the whole ordeal, earning a flinch, before popping his finger into their mouth.

Ford scrunches his face up and pulls the arm away. "Gross! Bill! I don't like the taste at all!"

Their face splits into a grin. "I do," the demon says matter-of-factly.

The two of them lay sprawled out on the mattress, staring up at the ceiling, for much longer than necessary. Bill, nestled under Ford's skin, within the same vessel, the two of them just exchanging endorphins like a joint at this point. It feels to Ford like he's found the estranged other half of him, one that he hadn't realized he'd been missing all along. Having Bill here with him is just... completing.

He won't stop grinning. It's Bill who's smiling, of course, and Ford isn't sure why Bill's so happy, but he's glad regardless. It used to be quite the opposite - like a sea-saw; when one was happy, it meant great misfortune for the other. Now, when Bill's happy, Ford's happy, in tandem rather than in opposition.

Ford doesn't know why Bill's so happy, but he accepts it. He fails to realize that, while caught up in the moment, he'd broken their unspoken promise of never saying 'I love you.'

Everything's eventual. Everything comes to an end at some point.

Ford's sleeping when it happens. Not dreaming, not quite in REM, but sleeping regardless. An obscenely loud noise that is unlike anything he's ever heard before, almost akin to a balloon popping, disturbs his peaceful slumber. He frowns and turns over in his sleep. Whatever Bill's doing out there, could he keep it down?

After the brief disturbance in his sleep cycle, he hums contentedly as silence settles over the room once more, snuggling happily into his bedding. He can feel himself drifting back into dream land when-

A second noise, somehow even louder and more obnoxious than the first, followed by a cacophony of other unsavory sounds, attempts to drag Ford out of his slumber once more. Seriously, what is going on? Can't he catch up on some sleep? Bill'd kept him up the whole damn night! And why is it so bright in here all the sudden? He pulls the blanket that Bill had replaced over his eyes.

Stanford!

He hears his name, he thinks, but he's so sleepy that he can't be sure. Bill is always dramatic, so whatever it is, it can surely wait until morning. For now, Ford requires sleep.

Stanford! Are you in here?

Where else would he be, the bathroom? Ford lets out a half-coherent grunt to distinguish his presence, and he hears footsteps rush to his bedside. Huh, that's weird.

That's weird, isn't it? He thinks that it's weird to hear footsteps, but he's too sleepy to think about it right now.

Ford!

Someone starts shaking him. Okay, now he's properly pissed off. Is Bill seriously that determined to interrupt his sleep?

"Fuck off," he slurs, half asleep. He shrugs the hands off his shoulder and turns back on his side to dip back into the land of nod.

He is abruptly grabbed and rolled over onto his back again, provoking an annoyed grunt.

Ford, wake up!

"'M sleeping," he clarifies, although that won't be the case for much longer if Bill keeps harassing him like this.

He is smacked across the face.

"God dammit Stanford, wake the fuck UP!"

He opens his eyes in a flash, about ready to give Bill a piece of his fucking mind, what in the hell does he think he's doing waking Ford up when he's the reason he's so exhausted in the first place, what in the seven fucking seas could possibly be so important that it can't wait until the morning, why is-

He freezes.

Because the person hovering over him is most certainly not Bill.

"Stanley!?"

Chapter Text

His brother's concerned face slowly comes into view, eyes alight with frustration which quickly dissolves into relief once he realizes Ford's awake.

"Stanford!" Stanley cries, tone almost gleeful as he takes in his twin's confounded expression, and then his tone changes to a completely different one when he asks, "The hell did Bill do to your hair?"

"I... What? Bill didn't do anything to my hair! Stan, what are you doing here?" Ford asks frantically, rising panic overtaking the temporary joy of seeing another human being for the first time in so many months. If Bill finds him, he'll- he'll-

"I came to rescue you, brainiac! Again! You still haven't thanked me for that first time, by the way!" Stan reminds him with a frustrated tone, concerned eyes taking in the state of his twin.

"You can't be here, Stanley, if Bill sees-"

"Bill's distracted, alright?" Stan cuts him off, urgency painting his tone. "Don't worry about him! I'm gettin' you over the boarder, alright? Trust me, I've done this with tons of pugs before."

How can he not worry about him!? This is what Ford had been trying to prevent all this time - he can't let Bill set his eye on anyone he could use as leverage! Stanley stands up and gives the room a brief once over, bottom lip curling downwards into a frown at what he sees. "We'll figure out what to do from there. Dipper said you knew the thing's weakness or somethin'."

He extends a hand to Ford, offering to help him to his feet, but Stanford is frozen. He can't leave. The thought of leaving hasn't even crossed his mind in weeks now! He looks up at Stan with a lost expression, then looks down at the hand being offered to him, and then looks back around at the room.

"Stanford, come on. We don't have much time. I'm not sure how long they'll be able to keep that monster distracted for," Stan presses, frustration audible in his tone.

Ford swallows. Hard. His hands begin to tremble, his palms begin to sweat, and his body enters fight or flight mode. Can he actually do this? Leave the penthouse? Something he's been wanting to do for so long now?

...Leave Bill?

This choice is apparently made for him when Stanley's patience runs out. He reaches down to throw the covers off his brother in order to grab his hand himself, but before he can do that, he stumbles back with a horrified gasp. "Holy shit. What the fuck. Ford, what the fuck."

"What?" Ford demands, looking up at his brother. Stan's looking at him like he's discovered he has six fingers for the first time. What is it? What's wrong? He follows Stan's eyes down to himself and - oh shit. He's wearing a t-shirt. Not a turtleneck. His fucking arms.

He blanches almost as much of Stan does. "What the fuck, Stanford. What the fuck." Stanley looks like he's going to throw up at the dozens upon dozens of different variations of Bill's signature adorning Ford's arms.

He quickly pulls them into his chest. "Stan, it's not- it's-"

"What did he do to you!?" Stan demands, eyes flaring up with rage and horror. "What the hell, Stanford!? What are those!? Is- how badly are you hurt!? And why are they-"

At this precise moment, Stan's eyes reach the whiteboard that has become Ford's day marker in their attempt to look anywhere but the disturbing amount of scars on his arms, and the look in his eyes flickers from confused to horrified.

"What the fuck is that," he breathes, and Ford follows his eyeline to take a look at the board that looks like the wall of a decrepit prison cell. It's nearly completely full of tallies now, several rows of them overlapping due to the lack of space.

"It's... my calendar," Ford replies, shrinking into himself a little. He feels like he's being judged for some reason, a reason other than his arms. "There was no real way to accurately keep track of time here, so-"

"What do you-" Stan interrupts, and then it hits him like a ton of bricks. The implications. His brother's hair is long. Everything in this room has the quality of being well-used; well lived-in. There appear to be well over one hundred and fifty tallies on that board. "Stanford, how long have you been in here for?"

Ford blinks. "I..."

"Don't answer, actually." Stanley looks pale, like he's trying not to throw up... for some reason. Why does this come as a surprise to him? Has the outside world gotten that bad? "Please don't answer that. We're gettin' out of here, now. Get up."

Ford swallows thickly, his heart hammering against his ribcage. He can't just leave! He can't leave Bill, not after everything they've been through! Doesn't his brother understand that!? Well, no, clearly he doesn't - and it's not like he can just tell him! He doesn't even want to imagine what Stan would think of him if he knew everything that's happened over the past few months. How his fighting spirit had been expertly chipped away at until all that remained was a lovesick child that Ford was under the impression he had left in the dust long ago.

He watches as his twin sets down a satchel that he'd had slung across one half of his body and unzips it. He digs through its contents for a moment before producing a sweater and flinging it at Ford's face.

"Put this on." He instructs him as it hits in right in the nose, leaving him to flail in place for a moment before he lifts it from his face to take a good look at it.

"What is this?" Ford asks shakily, examining the fabric which appears to have his face hand-stitched into its front with the words 'Our Hero' surrounding it. It's uncomfortably itchy to the touch.

Stan zips the satchel back up and throws it over his shoulder again, adjusting it so it's on his back. "Mabel knitted it," he explains. "With whatever unicorn hair voodoo you and Dipper did to the Shack. Smart, ain't it? It'll protect you from Bill in case something goes wrong."

Ford's hand is gripped and he's tugged to his feet in a sobering gesture - one which allows the reality of the situation to finally cascade over him. This is his chance. He can actually leave. Someone's come to save him. He thought that he would never live to see the day. Stan looks at him with a focused, firm expression, pointedly avoiding looking at his arms.

"Let's go. Now. I don't wanna be in this place anymore. Gives me the creeps," he mutters as he makes his way towards the hole in the wall he'd made while breaking in. There is an ungodly amount of bright light leaking inside, and Ford finds he must shield his eyes even while in the room since they are so ill-adjusted to sunlight.

He scrambles after Stan and pulls the sweater over his head, relieved to have some sort of cover over his arms so his brother won't look at him like he's a wounded animal anymore. The fabric is irritatingly itchy, but protection is protection, he supposes. He takes a brief look around the room - his home.

The grandfather clock is working again.

His traditional trench coat is folded and sitting on the piano bench to make it more comfortable to sit on. He isn't leaving without it. He hastily snatches it up and unfolds it to tie it around his waist before joining Stan at the edge of the platform.

There are faint crashes and screeches in the distance, but it appears they are facing away from whatever sort of action is happening outside. Ford squints and peers over the edge, at the ground hundreds of feet below.

"How are we going to get down there?" He inquires, heart still racing. He is terrified that at any moment, Bill will burst in here and catch them. That he'll hurt Stanley.

Stan turns to him, relieved to see that there is a bit more life in his brother's eyes. It's like there's a fire now that had not existed moments ago - like he's been snapped out of a coma of some sort. He holds out a keychain and dangles what looks like a whistle from it, watching Ford's brows furrow in confusion.

"That freak Gideon had a whistle on him that calls those eye bat things. They're a little hard to control, but that's how I got up here. I rode one," he explains with a self-satisfied grin.

"Eye-bats," Ford whispers, mostly to himself, as he presses an inquisitive hand to his chin. "Who is Gideon?"

Stan sighs irritably, like he doesn't particularly like whoever Gideon is. Then he promptly blows the whistle before continuing. "The little skunk that helped me figure out how to get to you. He was on Bill's side and betrayed him or something, I don't know. Said he saw you getting electrocuted in the throne room a few days back and that Bill took you up here afterwards."

"Days?" Ford parrots, confused. "You must be mistaken. That was... Bill hasn't hurt me in months now." Well, not without my permission. He decides not to let his brother in on this tidbit of information.

Stan stiffens again, and Ford knows he must've said something wrong. Maybe he shouldn't be defending his captor... He most certainly does not want Stanley to know about even half of the things that he and Bill have done in this room. Stan turns around to regard his twin with a look in his eye that Ford's sure a psychiatrist would wear when they are about to diagnose someone with chronic depression.

"Listen, bro. I don't know how long you think it's been since this whole weirdness bullshit started, but it's only been ten days for the rest of us. There was some sort of physical barrier I had to break through in order to get to you. Maybe that's got somethin' to do with it, I don't know." He steps forward and claps a hand over the stunned scientist's shoulder, trying to provide even a menial amount of comfort. "Once we get to the other side of the boarder, we'll meet up with the backup just outside of town. We need you to help us with Bill's weakness. Dipper said you knew it, so we're kind of banking on that right now."

"Ten-" That can't be right. It's been months. Maybe even half a year at this point. Ford's positive that he's been keeping track of time meticulously; there's no possible way it's only been ten days! Before he can vocalize his shock, Stan abruptly slings an arm over him and pulls him into his side.

"Here it comes. It won't hurt the whistle bearer, so stay close to me and it won't recognize you as a different person, okay?"

There is so much overwhelming information flooding Ford's brain that for a moment, he worries he may pass out. He watches with a detached sort of fascination as Stanley produces a grappling hook from a holster in his belt, aims it directly at the incoming creature, and fires. The creature begins flailing around in place once it realizes something is digging into its cornea.

Like a worm rider straight out of Dune, Stanley somehow expertly wrangles the thing close enough to the hole in the wall so he and Ford can jump onto its back using only one arm. Ford is surprised that his brother has become such a badass during his thirty-year absence. He certainly doesn't look the part. One arm still slung around his twin, Stan maneuvers them over to the edge of the platform while he struggles to keep the thrashing creature steady using the grappling hook in his other hand.

"Get ready," he tells Stanford.

He nods in response, adrenaline flooding his system. More adrenaline than he's ever felt during his fights with Bill. This sweater is itchy. Really itchy. It's becoming incredibly difficult to focus on anything aside from the sensation of the scratchy fabric irritating his skin. What kind of thread did the kid use to make this, sandpaper?

He's jolted forward and nearly trips over himself, having missed his brother's signal under his own thoughts. This damn sweater is too much of a distraction! By the grace of a god he doesn't believe in, they somehow both manage to jump on board despite Ford's slipup. Since he's been training so well, he is able to steady himself on the thing with relative ease, and ends up helping Stanley do the same. He's in shape, something that earns a slightly surprised look from his twin.

There's a brief struggle in which two grown men attempt to maintain balance on a creature that can barely hold one of them, and eventually, Stanley ends up gripping the wings of the creature and yanking them backward. Having given his brother absolutely no warning, Ford yells as he nearly goes flying into the air, managing to grab onto Stanley in a last second moment of forward thinking.

He really wishes he could cover his eyes - it's so bright out! - but both of his arms are wrapped firmly around Stan in order to avoid becoming completely airborne just to splatter to the ground in an unceremonious and premature death. What a grand finale to this whole fiasco that would be.

All he can do is squeeze his eyes shut to avoid them spontaneously combusting into flames from the wrath of the sun. The wind is whipping past his ears, almost loud enough to disguise the blatant screams and thunderous crashes in the distance. He isn't even sure if he's screaming at this point or not. Despite how terrifying it is to be uncontrollably flying around at mach speed like they are on a particularly intense rollercoaster ride, he cannot deny how nice it is to finally be able to be in close proximity to a living human being again.

"Shit!" He hears Stan shout, and then the bat they're riding does a sudden divebomb and collides with the ground too quickly for either of them to process, causing Ford to go flying off regardless of all the effort he'd put into doing exactly the opposite. He hits the dirt hard, landing on the same shoulder that he'd dislocated all those months ago in the throne room and dislodging it from its socket once again. The creature, taking Stan with it, skids across the landscape and crashes into a tree before going limp.

Ford's ears are ringing, and his eyes haven't yet adjusted to the brightness of the outside world. That was one hell of a tumble. He's not too sure how many more of those he can handle at his age, grunting as he takes his weight off his newly dislocated shoulder. He's sure that if there were any judges to witness that landing, he would most definitely not be receiving any 10's.

At least nothing's broken. The sweater's still itchy, though.

"Aw jeez, are you okay!?" He faintly manages to catch Stan's concerned shout over the ringing in his ears as he rushes over to his brother. Ford shields his eyes from the sun with his one good arm to get a look at his twin, who seems surprisingly unharmed.

"I'm fine," he grunts, allowing Stanley to help him to his feet. Whatever part of him didn't believe this was real moments ago certainly does now due to the familiar pain flaring up through his dislocated joint.

"Your shoulder," Stan points out, reaching out to touch his arm. Ford swats his hand away impulsively.

"It's fine, alright? How close are we to the edge?" He manages between a couple coughs, dislodging the dust from his throat.

"Right." Stan pulls away and takes a look around, frowning. "A couple miles, I think. We're gonna have to leg it. Originally we had a car, but some giant sweaty one-armed head thing ate it on the way over, so we're runnin'."

Ford blinks. Well, that certainly isn't the most outlandish sentence he's heard today. That honor would probably go to 'I came to rescue you.'

Stanley reaches out to take Ford's hand, but he shakes his head, instead using his free hand to clutch his injured arm in an attempt to discourage the joint from dislodging any further. Then they set out on foot towards the horizon, each step Stanford taking jostling his shoulder uncomfortably. He can barely focus on that pain over how fucking itchy this sweater is, though. He wonders absentmindedly if he's having an allergic reaction to it somehow.

Stan used to be faster than Ford, always having been the more athletic one, but that's no longer the case. On autopilot, Ford quickly overtakes his brother's speed, not thinking about what he's doing and just going.

"Slow down, would ya!? You can't always be the best at everything, you know!" Stan scolds between pants, and Ford slows his running speed a little.

It itches. This sweater itches. It's most definitely getting worse. Half of his mind is consumed by this irritation, and the other half is consumed by a burning question.

"Where's Bill?" Ford huffs, hesitantly, as if uttering his name will somehow cause him to appear in front of them. He slows his pace even further to allow Stanley to catch up and fall in line, sprinting alongside him.

"Distracted!" Stan reiterates. "I'll explain everything once we're out!"

"Explain now!" Ford insists, impatience searing his tone. He needs to know where the hell Bill is, what's going on, and why the fuck this sweater is so goddamn itchy.

Don't get short with me, Poindexter! Don't forget who's rescuing you here! Stan wants to say, but he stops himself in a rare moment of forward thinking. He has no clue what his brother has been through. If his arms are any indicator, he's been tortured to hell and back, and so he can say whatever he wants - lifelong brotherly rivalry aside. Although, it'll be a bit difficult to talk while gasping for air.

"Sure, Ford," he says instead, tone a little shaky. "There's a big group of survivors hunkered down just outside of town. Yesterday we got the chance to investigate Bill's castle since his whole gang was busy doing God knows what in some other pyramid we'd never seen before."

Ford's mind is working overtime with this new information. What pyramid could Stanley be referring to? What would require every single one of Bill's henchmaniacs' attention? Bill hadn't mentioned any of this to him, but he supposes that shouldn't come as much of a surprise. He's been kept entirely in the dark as to what's been going on in the outside world.

He desperately wants to put everything together, to know just what's been happening over the months - no, days?? - that he's been... incapacitated. He'd briefly been under the impression that he had stopped caring about the state of the outside world, but now that he's back in it, he realizes that old habits die hard.

Stan did not want to go.

He certainly didn't want those kids going, either. It was dangerous, didn't they know that? Did any of the idiots they'd gathered who'd managed to survive Bill's wrath have any idea what kind of trouble they were getting themselves into by going out to investigate that place? All for his dumbass twin? The one who caused the apocalypse?

He had tried everything he could think of to convince the kids not to go investigate that place. They should've listened to him, he is their guardian, after all; but of course they were as stubborn as he was. Apparently, his brother had the answer when it came to defeating that monster, making him even more important than he already was. Figures. Of fucking course he did, it's always Ford. He's always the better one.

Stan's sure no one would have batted an eye if he was the one Bill had captured.

What the hell did he owe Ford? Nothing! He already worked his ass off for thirty years to drag his ungrateful, stuck-up ass back into this dimension, and for what? To get punched in the face? To be ostracized by his own family, again, in comparison to the oh-so-mighty, do-no-wrong Stanford? Even their father had referred to him as the 'extra Stan.' He owed Ford nothing!

He had no reason to feel guilty when the massive group of stragglers all left without him to go investigate. Fine, they could be that way. They could all go risk their lives for someone who wouldn't even thank them for their service. It didn't make sense why he so desperately wanted to be included, but it wasn't like he was gonna throw in the towel and go after them. He had his pride, after all, and he wasn't gonna just give it up for his ungrateful 'superior' twin.

He'd always be stuck living in Ford's shadow, wouldn't he? That's just a fact of life. The sky is blue. The ocean is wet. Stanford is the only worthwhile twin.

Imagine Stan's surprise when they all returned, alive, with well over a hundred more survivors than they had left with. Their heist had been a resounding success, no thanks to him. Somehow, they had managed to infiltrate the main castle, and from what he gathered, a captured Gideon helped them figure out how to tear down the frozen human throne in the middle of the place, freeing everyone from a stony eternity. How in the hell did Gideon end up being more helpful than him? All he'd done was sit on his ass and feel sorry for himself while everyone else managed to get some actual work done around there!

He was angry and bitter, something that he knew was a bit childish and completely unhelpful, but it's not like his behavior was completely unwarranted. Not in his humble opinion.

Unfortunately, they didn't manage to find the star of the show, but Gideon seemed to have some knowledge as to where he could be. Stanley had been there when the kid explained what he knew to the group in his stupid southern accent, lounging back in a half-broken lawn chair a small distance away from the others. It was past dusk, the only light aside from the waning embers of the sun being a bonfire the group had thrown together to keep warm in the surprisingly chilly night air. The amount of people they'd managed to recover had long since exceeded the carrying capacity of the bed and breakfast they'd set up as home base, so their meeting took place outdoors.

His oversized ears had perked up at the mention of his name.

"StanLEY? You mean to tell me there's two of 'em?" Gideon had suddenly brought up. Stan hadn't been listening to whatever they were talking about before that, so he had no idea what the context of that was.

"The one back there," Dipper replied, jabbing a thumb in the direction of his lesser uncle, "is Stanley. Stanford is the one that Bill captured. Last I saw him, he'd been turned into a gold statue."

Stan flickered his eyes over to the group then, suddenly interested in whatever it was they were talking about. Although he would deny it, he was interested in his brother's whereabouts. If that rat had any information regarding the status of Stanford, he was inclined to listen. Deep down, he wanted reassurance that Ford was okay.

Gideon had a pensive expression on his face, like he was struggling to connect the dots. "Stanford... huh. Now that you mention it, Bill was carryin' around a golden man for a little while. I didn't even realize it was a real person until Bill unfroze him. He had uh, glasses and a trench coat?"

Dipper nodded. He'd been unfrozen? That was promising. "Yeah, that's him, alright. Do you know what Bill did with him? How long ago did you last see him?"

Stanley watched as Gideon huffed a conflicted breath, looking a little unnerved. "Well, ya'll ain't gonna like this, but I do know what happened to him. I... was there when it happened."

Stan felt a chill come over him with those words. Why did the kid sound so hesitant to tell them? Was... was Ford dead? Surely he wasn't dead, right? He survived for thirty years in alternate dimensions while running from that monster, there's no way he'd gotten himself killed in one week back home. There was no way Ford could be dead. Right?

It certainly seemed like that same atrocious thought had crossed Dipper's mind, judging by the way he rasped out, "What did Bill do...?"

"I'd say it was a week ago now," Gideon winced, stalling a little. He looked highly uncomfortable, like he was about to deliver terrible news. "He, uh..."

The kid swallowed. What? What was it!? What did he do!? Spit it out, kid!

"He tortured him, Dipper."

Silence. It was like everyone was to stunned to speak, like the information hadn't quite processed yet. That was, until Stan let out an enraged roar.

"He WHAT!?"

"Wh- well, don't get mad at me! I couldn't do nothin' - I was stuck in a cage!" Gideon squawked as Stan stood up so quickly that he knocked over the shitty lawn chair and stormed over to the annoying runt sitting next to his nephew.

Stanley picked up the insolent child by the collar of his shirt, enraged. "What do you mean, he tortured him!? What did he do to my brother!?"

"Grunkle Stan, stop it! Put him down!" Mabel leapt to her feet and rushed over to tug on her uncle's suit to try and free Gideon, who seemed to have his priorities in the wrong place when he started smiling when he saw Mabel come to his aid.

"Answer me, you little gremlin!" Stan shouted, shaking the boy back into the present.

"Electrocution!" Gideon blurted out, frightened. "He was electrocutin' him in front of everyone! He was trying to get him to talk or something, I don't know! When it didn't work, Bill took him up to the tip of the pyramid! That's the last I saw of him, I swear! I haven't the slightest idea as to what happened afterwards!"

Stan tossed Gideon to the side and stormed back inside, barely able to control the despair he'd transformed into anger to deal with it better. Goddammit Stanford! What had he gotten himself into this time!?

"Dude," Soos muttered, still in disbelief. "I hope Mr. Pines is okay. Like, both of them."

"Well, I'm not okay!" Gideon screeched, scrambling to his feet and dusting himself off, before noticing a stray hair was out of place and letting out an offended cry. "That man is insane! He ruined my hair!!"

Stan didn't stick around long enough to hear the rest of the conversation. He needed a break from all those people. Typically, he was more of a people person, but the nonstop presence of the obnoxious townsfolk of Gravity Falls for days on end had grated away at his social battery. The place they'd been using as their home base was small enough with the small group they'd collected before, and now it was practically unbearable.

The only place he could go that provided some peace and quiet was his trusty car, which he'd parked a small distance away. He needed some time to think about everything; namely his conflicting feelings, and what he was supposed to do now. As much as he resented his brother, the fact that he had sat there and done nothing while Ford could have been suffering irked him. His deep-seated bitterness towards his brother had stemmed from a lifetime of oppression; of always having been the lesser one. After all, isn't Ford the one who started this madness in the first place? He'd built the portal!

Although he couldn't say he was aware of the full story, he knew enough to piece some of the puzzle together. Reading through his brother's writing as he flipped through the journals, he had been able to tell that he and Bill went way back. It seemed like Ford had attempted to remove most of the information he had about the demon from his writing judging by how much of it was crossed out, or ripped from the journals entirely. Sometimes, it had felt like he was reading a horror novel, observing as his composed, stoic brother slowly declined into utter madness. There were entire pages of just pure nonsense, sleep-deprived ramblings of a tortured mind. It was disturbing.

Stan hadn't really put the fact that Bill and the portal were connected together until after his brother had returned. It was then that he realized that apparently, that thing was supposed to bridge their dimension with Bill's. That was when all the warnings Sixer'd dumped into his books began to make sense; all the deranged ramblings suddenly had a reason behind them. His brother's infuriated reaction to the portal's reactivation did make a lot of sense, looking back. He still wasn't forgiving him for punching him in the face, though. Or for refusing to thank him! After all, it's not like turning that thing on was the reason Bill finally took over! Right?

Stupid brother. Stupid brother with his stupid secrets and stupid pride. Maybe if he hadn't kept everyone in the dark about everything for so long, they wouldn't be in this situation in the first place. It was the nature of Ford to push others away, to build up walls and not allow anyone to know the true thoughts running through his oversized brain.

He had been grumpily staring at a spider skittering along the car ceiling when a tentative knock came on the window, and he turned to regard his great nephew with a displeased frown.

"What?"

Dipper pointed down, requesting Stanley roll down the window so they could talk. Heaving a heavy sigh and rolling his eyes, he cranked the window down halfway so the kid could speak.

Rather than saying anything, Dipper handed him a piece of paper, one which Stan took with little interest. "What is this?"

"Read it. It's important," the kid told him, fidgeting nervously with his shirt.

Stan sighed, really not in the mood for whatever this was at the moment, but adjusted his glasses and began reading the paper.

It was a telegram from what's-his-face. That president guy that the kids claimed had been frozen in peanut brittle.

"This from that guy you've been tryin' to reach?" He inquired, eyes scanning through the writing, not really paying attention to its wording.

"He's willing to help us out. If you'd read it, he says he could get backup to arrive as soon as tomorrow." Dipper explained as his uncle properly read through the letter with some difficulty. Sheesh, this guy had a weird way of wording things, and not just because he was from the 18th century.

"Great," Stan deadpanned, pinching the paper between his index and middle finger and feeding it back through the window.

"You aren't going to read it?" The kid asked as he took the paper back.

Stan leaned his seat back and propped his feet up on the dash. "Nah. Why should I care?"

"What do you mean, why should you care?" Dipper asked with no little frustration. "So we can rescue Grunkle Ford?"

Stan gave a careless swish of his hand, forcing down his conflicting emotions and covering up the pit with nonchalance. "My brother's on his own. If you kids wanna go play wild goose chase to try 'n find him, that's good for you. I'm stayin' here."

Dipper looked offended, incredulous. "What's your problem?" He threw his arms out to his sides in exasperation. "Grunkle Ford is literally the only one who knows how to defeat Bill! Plus, Gideon saw him being tortured! How can you just not care about that!?"

Stan's frown deepened, the beginning of a headache forming. "It's his own fault, kid. Maybe if he wanted me to come play knight in shining armor again, he should have thanked me the first time."

"How is this his fault!?" Dipper doubled down, becoming increasingly more upset. Of course he would - the kid practically worshipped the ground Sixer walked on, just like everyone else.

"Who built that portal in the first place?" Stan snapped, irritated. "Who let that monster into our dimension in the first place? For once, the screwup certainly ain't me!"

Dipper clenched his fists, crumpling the telegram in the process as he tried to explain. "He was tricked, Grunkle Stan, and I was too! You don't blame me for the whole sock puppet thing, right? Then why do you blame him?"

Stan let out an irritated sigh. The headache was definitely in full swing now, and he raised a hand to rub at his temple. "Well, maybe he should've smartened up enough to realize he was bein' conned. Since he's such a wise guy, why didn't he just think of that?"

"Ugh! Can't you just put your stupid grudge aside for once?" He seethed. "He's in danger! Do you even know what Bill's capable of? Do you even care that he could be torturing Grunkle Ford right now??"

"Of course I care!" Stan snarled, sitting upright to glare defensively at the kid. "It's just complicated, alright? Somethin' you kids wouldn't understand!"

He felt a little bad for snapping like that, especially upon seeing his nephew shrink away slightly and go quiet. Neither of them said anything for a moment.

"I understand more than you think," Dipper muttered. "If you really do care, if you really want Grunkle Ford to thank you, then you should give him something to thank you for and come with us tomorrow."

"What's going on tomorrow?"

"That's when we're planning on a rescue mission."

Stan was quiet for a moment, pursing his lips in thought.

Then he leaned back in the seat again with a roll of his eyes. "I'm sure Ford's fine playin' Spin the Bottle with Bill up there. In case you hadn't noticed, he spent thirty years in whatever sci-fi weirdness dimension was on the other side of that portal while that thing was hunting him. If he really wanted my help, he should've thanked me the last time I went through a bunch of effort and risked everything to get him back. This time, he's on his own."

There was silence between them again, one of a thicker quality this time. All that could be heard were distant crickets and cicadas in the humid night air.

"Not cool, Grunkle Stan," Dipper finally huffed before turning and leaving into the night.

He didn't sleep much that night.

When he finally did manage to nod off, all he could dream about was his brother's screams as he was violently mutilated in front of him, ripped limb from limb.

Stan found himself unable to move, unable to react or feel anything at all as he stood in front of the horrific scene, watching Bill ravage him until he was nearly unrecognizable.

"Stanley, help me! Please!" He heard him cry, looking up at him with desperate brown eyes that mirrored his own. "Help me!"

Stan didn't react. He wasn't sure if he even could. He just watched the whole display with morbid fascination and a blank expression, watched as Bill shredded his twin into pieces, cackling all the while. He watched until Ford's screams died down into nothing and he stopped moving entirely.

And yet, he still heard his voice, even as he laid lifeless and broken on the ground. Help me, Stanley! Please save me! Why won't you help me?

His surroundings began to fade away. The sight of Ford's corpse, the sound of Bill's laugh, all the color in the surrounding environment, but not that voice.

Please help me! Don't leave me here! Please save me, Stanley!

Why couldn't he feel anything?

No, he did. He did feel something - he just repressed it. He wanted to help. He wanted to, right?

Stanley, can you hear me? Please save me!

Would Ford do the same thing for him if he was the one being tortured? No. Definitely not. His brother made it very clear that he doesn't care for him at all.

Why did that hurt to think about? It shouldn't hurt to think about that after knowing it was true for practically a lifetime. He shouldn't care what Ford thinks. They've been estranged for decades, and Ford sucks anyway.

Someone! Anyone! Help me!

Everything faded away and he was left in an infinite black void for a moment. He must have closed his eyes, because when he re-opened them, he found himself on the deck of a ship of some sort. A vast night sky appeared overhead, completely starless. He glanced over the ledge at the dark water lapping below, confused, before he heard a familiar laugh emanating from behind him.

He whirled around and came face to face with who appeared to be a different version of himself and Stanford. They were hunched over a crudely crafted wooden table drinking Pit Colas and playing cards, an oil lantern faintly illuminating the otherwise completely dark expanse of the deck.

What was going on? He slowly approached the table, unaware that he was dreaming. However, neither of the men seemed to notice him standing there. Stanford was grinning at this other version of him with a fond look in his eyes that hadn't been directed at him in nearly half a century.

"Stanford? You're okay?" He asked, disbelieving. That earned no reaction; Ford just let out a chuckle at something his other self said before standing up.

"Excuse me moment, Stan. I need to use the restroom." Stan watched his other self nod absentmindedly as his brother made his way towards the captain's quarters of the deck, feeling several things he couldn't quite put his finger on.

His alternate self proceeded to scoot his chair to the side a little where there was a clear space on the table, pull out a pocket knife, and begin playing pinfinger. That was something Stan was unsure he could do anymore; his hand-eye coordination wasn't at its best. Stanley watched him for a while, observed the smug and contented smile on his face.

Was this what things would have been like if he'd never have messed with Ford's stupid science project? The two of them, sailing the seas, just like he'd always wanted?

"Could ya stop starin' at me? Makes a little hard to focus when someone's breathing down your neck," his other self suddenly spoke up, not looking away from his task.

"You can see me?" Stan questioned.

"Of course I can." His other self flipped the pocket knife closed, bored. Neither of them spoke for a moment, until, "What are you doin', Stan?"

Stanley blinked. "Uh. Just watching."

"No," his other self turned to regard him with a frown. "What are you doin' letting our brother get tortured out there like that?"

He knows about that? Stan crossed his arms and pulled into himself defensively with a grumpy frown on his face. As if this guy knew anything about the situation.

"What are you doin' bumming around in your car while everyone else risks their lives to save him?" His other self chastised him with progressively more irritation.

"What good would I do by being there?" He grumbled in return.

"You think seeing a familiar face would be a bad thing for him?" His counterpart replied.

"He hates me," Stanley scoffed. "And for good reason, too. Heck, I'd hate me if I ruined my own life like that time and time again."

First the project, ruining his brother's chance for a bright future. Then leaving him alone long enough for Bill to get his grubby hands on him in the first place. And then, after all that, pushing him through that portal and sentencing him to a lifetime on the run. He really had fucked his life up, hadn't he?

"Dad was right about me," he murmured sadly, mostly to himself. "I am a screwup. It's no wonder Ford hates me."

"Then do something about it, idiot!" His other self snapped. "Don't just mope around! Go help him! Don't sit here and feel sorry for himself when you can be getting him out of that freakfest!"

Those words were what motivated him to get his act together. When he woke up, he knew he had to help his brother, no matter how big of a grudge he had against him.

He's in the middle of giving Ford a quick summary of what's happened when he notices that Ford is no longer running with him. Stan slows down his sprint, confused - just a second ago he'd been running right next to him! He turns around and spots Ford trying to keep up while simultaneously taking off the protective sweater he'd given him.

"What're you doin', Ford?" Stan asks, exasperated. "Stop that!"

"It itches, Stanley!" He replies, struggling to pull it over his head, one-armed, while running.

"I don't care if it itches, you're keeping that thing on!" Stan rushes over to his brother and starts trying to tug it back over his arms, when he notices that any exposed skin which had brushed against the fabric is irritated and red. "The hell?"

"Stan, stop! It's uncomfortable!" Comes his brother's muffled voice as he tries to pull away. This leads to a slight struggle, one which Ford would have won easily if he had both his arms, but Stan won't stop trying to put that damn thing on him. "Can you stop!?"

"It's for your own good!"

Ford, in a moment of blind panic, kicks his brother in the stomach, sending him stumbling backward into a tree.

"Ow! Hey! What the heck is your problem!?"

The man practically tears the thing off him and throws it at Stan's face, like he's possessed by some sort of rabid animal. As soon as it's off him, he begins scratching at his irritated skin until his nails come away bloody.

"Stop that!" Stan tucks the sweater under an arm, disturbed by how his brother's skin reacted to the fabric that was supposed to protect him. That was a consequence he didn't see coming; did Bill do something to him? "Ford, what are you doing?"

"I'm fine!" He huffs in response, his eyes wild and foreign for a moment before he seems to regain a bit of sense. "Sorry that I kicked you, it was an instinctive response. I just needed that thing off me."

Okay, whatever, it's fine, don't focus on that right now. They've almost made it to the boarder, and once they cross it, he won't need to wear the sweater anymore anyways. He snatches up a bloodied six-fingered hand and tugs Ford in the direction they've been running in. "It's alright. We're almost there, okay? Just hang in there!"

Ford gives a grunt in response, trying to use his other hand to scratch himself but his dislocated shoulder makes that impossible. Stan doesn't take notice to this, all his focus on getting them on the other side of that barrier. He can see it now. He can see it! It's there! Not much longer now, and they'll be on the other side!

They'll be on the other side. They'll be safe. Ford will be okay. And then from there, he can help the rest of them figure out Bill's weakness. Then save the world. Easy! Just one small step at a time - or large step in this case, with how long their strides are. His brother's keeping up just fine now. They'll be fine.

His lungs are about to burst. Running for so long is no longer easy at his age, but they're almost there. They're close. There it is, the cutoff - the place where the off-colored plant life returns to a vibrant green, where the sky above them becomes blue, an ever so slight iridescent shimmer giving off the fact that there is a force field in place.

It's there. It's there! It's happening! They made it!

Stan's feet cross the threshold first, and the change in environment is almost instant. The air is a thousand times fresher on this side, and it is like a great deep-sea pressure has been lifted off his shoulders. Yes! They made it! They can-

A loud, agonized scream rings out from directly behind him. From Ford.

He turns around and watches in awe as his twin stumbles back into Gravity Falls, away from the barrier, terrified.

"What!?" Stan demands, exasperated. He reaches out to grab Ford's hand and pull him across, but he steps out of the way with a look of horror, shaking his head. "Come on, Ford! What is it?"

"It- it-"

Stan steps back into Gravity Falls, back into the danger zone. Ford looks like he's in pain, pulling into himself defensively. One of his arms is dislocated and bloody. Maybe that's it. "We'll call a doctor once we get outside, alright? Let's go."

"Stanley, wait-"

He grabs his brother's good arm and decisively tugs him through the barrier, only for him to start screaming in immense pain the second they cross over. What is happening!? He lets go of his arm out of sheer alarm and watches as Ford scurries back into Gravity Falls like a dog with its tail between its legs, collapsing to his knees in pain the second he makes it through.

"Stanford, what are you DOING!?" Stan cries, exasperated. "It's not safe there!"

"I can't cross!" Ford cries miserably, and then his eyes widen and he covers his mouth in horror with the realization of what he's just said. "Oh my God! Stanley, I can't cross!!"

"What are you talking about? Yes you CAN, dumbass! Come on!" Stan storms back through the forcefield to grab Ford's arm for a third time and pull him through.

"No, Stanley, you don't understand - let go! - it BURNS! It hurts whenever I cross over! It hurts to an intolerable extent!" Stan manages to pull him to his feet, and Ford quickly tugs them backwards, away from the barrier. Stan does not relent, pulling him the other way. "That means that it hurts really badly! It's like my skin is splitting open!" He tries to explain.

Ford continues trying to squirm out of Stan's grip, and the two of them continue to struggle. Ford's stronger, but only has one arm, so he's fighting a losing battle. "Stan, let go of me!"

"I'll get a doctor, alright!? We have to cross, so just bear with it for a little while!" Stan shouts, frustrated, as he tries to restrain his flailing brother's arms without hurting him in order to lug him across easier.

"No! No, you don't under- stop it! I'm serious, it's really bad! It's worse than when Bill electrocuted-!" Stan succeeds in restraining Ford's arms and he cuts himself off, focusing his efforts into increasing the violence of his struggle tenfold. It's like he's a panicking animal that's unaware of what's best for its survival.

"Jesus, Stanford, calm down!" Stan shouts through the pain as Ford manages to kick him a couple times in the shin, slowly gaining ground towards the barrier. "You'll be fine! I've got you!"

"Stan, don't make me cross, please! It's the worst pain I've ever felt! It's like I'm burning alive!" Ford insists, trying as hard as he can to resist being pulled across. "Let go of me! Stop!"

"Are you crazy, Ford!? We have to cross! If we stay here, Bill's gonna catch us!"

"Let me go!"

"No!!"

"It burns, Stanley!"

"I'll get a doctor!"

"That won't help!"

"How would you know!?"

At that precise moment, it hits them. An infinitely louder, more agonized scream than the one Ford had been making moments ago. It is followed by something that is almost like a gust of wind, something that causes goosebumps to skyrocket both of the brothers' spines. Then, at near light speed, the sound becomes louder, flattening all the remaining trees in its path. Oh, shit. Time's up.

He's here.

"Come ON!" Stan screams, and with one final burst of strength, he flings both of them over to the other side of the boarder and they fall to the ground in a tangle of limbs. Ford begins wailing in pained agony just as Bill reaches them, colliding loudly and painfully with the barrier, producing a noise that is not unlike the thunk! of a bird flying into a window.

Ford instantly tries to climb to his feet and leg it back through, almost like he is unaware of the consequences, but Stan swings a leg out and trips him, causing him to fall onto his face. He'll feel bad for that later, right now, he needs to make sure he can't get to the barrier! He ends up having to straddle his brother, who is face-down in the dirt, in order to prevent him from getting up. His screams of agony are the second most disturbing sound he's ever heard.

The award for first place would be the deafening cry of frustration, rage, and pure despair that comes from Bill when he realizes he can't get to them. That sound is one that will haunt Stan's nightmares for decades to come.

Chapter Text

The madness had begun in the middle of the night. Well, at least by Stanford's standards; in reality, it was at the break of dawn.

Bill had been watching the man sleep when he got a ring on his bowtie, interrupting his unconventional pastime. Ugh, seriously? Who was calling him at this hour, and what the hell did they want? He quickly left the penthouse so as to not wake Ford up with the incessant ringing, about ready to disintegrate whichever poor soul (or lack thereof) was on the other line.

"If this ain't something important, Keyhole, I'm turning your intestines into a necklace and giving it to 8-Ball as a belated birthday gift!" He bellowed with no little annoyance, his tone of voice remaining cheerful despite his irritation.

"Sorry, boss, but there's- there's a bunch of mortals in the Fearamid, and we can't really do anything about it!" Keyhole stammered from the other end, clearly distressed. The coward appeared to be hiding in one of the side rooms somewhere rather than facing whatever tussle was going on.

Seriously? What the hell does he even have Henchmaniacs for if they can't kill a couple of humans? Bill rolled his eye. How dramatic. He's busy. He's a very important figure doing very important things right now, like watching his human sleep. "Whaddaya mean, you can't do anything about it? Just get Teeth to eat the damn things!"

"Boss, you really should come down here, it's like we can't touch them at all!" Keyhole insisted.

Bill sighed as he inspected his would-be nails apathetically. "Dunno what to tell you, buddy - I'm busy. Sounds like a skill issue to me!"

With that statement, a bout of unholy screams and crashes emanated from the other end of the call. Ughhhh. Does Bill have to do everything around these parts? What was keeping the others from just taking care of it? It was literally their job description; take care of the shit Bill didn't feel like doing, and cause chaos.

Bill rolled his eye again, irritated. "Yeesh, fine. I'll be down in a sec."

He hung up and floated back into the penthouse to check on Ford before he left. The human was still sleeping, having not even stirred.

Honestly, Bill had been expecting an attack like this to happen, even without using his clairvoyance. He'd been too busy up here to really interact with the outside world much recently, though, and apparently they couldn't handle things for a single day without him. That would be a nice boost to his ego if it weren't so irritating.

Apparently, when they had all been busy playing Capture the Flag yesterday, the dumb hicks of this town had invaded the Fearamid and disassembled his throne. He was already a bit pissed off because of that; he'd spent a while arranging all those statues into something he could sit on, and they'd just defaced his artwork! Annoyingly, that dumb kid who he couldn't remember the name of was gone as well, which had the possibility of posing a problem. He hadn't revealed too much information to that boy, so he wouldn't be all that much of a threat, but still. He was busy serving his sentence of endless jigs! Bill had been merciful, and they'd thrown that mercy back in his face!

He stared down at Ford, watching his chest steadily rise and fall. If Keyhole wasn't exaggerating, then there could be some sort of minor inconvenience occurring down there, one that might take a while for Bill to diffuse. He figured it may be wise to lessen the time dilation between the penthouse and the outside world while he'd be gone; he didn't want another situation in which Ford nearly starves to death on his hands. Then he could come back without much time having passed and the man would be none the wiser.

Ford slept on peacefully, snoring softly. His breathing was even, his fluffy hair framing his face messily. Some of it had managed to fall into his mouth, making for a portrait of inelegance. An imperfect polaroid, one which the demon found much more endearing than perfection. Bill brushed the hair out of his mouth to make him look a bit more distinguished. At the sensation of something touching his face, he scrunched his features and stretched a little in his sleep in a manner quite reminiscent of a cat.

"I'll be back, IQ," Bill promised, not that Ford could hear him with how deeply he had succumbed to slumber. "Be good."

With the time dilation having drastically decreased, Bill floated down to the Fearamid to see what, exactly, was going on. The scene that greeted him upon entering the throne room was certainly a sight to behold; there must've been a few dozen pesky little mortals running around causing all sorts of chaos.

Bill rolled his eye. What in the hell was everyone even doing? Teeth was running around on fire somehow, 8-Ball was being chased around by a couple of those weaklings who were wielding pitchforks, and don't even get him started on the rest of those idiots. Seriously, why were they all making such a big deal out of nothing? All it would take Bill to incinerate all of them in a single instant is a snap of his fingers.

He raised a hand to do exactly that, producing a resounding snap which echoed throughout the entirety of the complex. Normally, when Bill did something like that, time almost stopped on its axis; the moments before and after the action briefly parting like Moses parting the Red Sea.

This time, though, nothing happened. No one even batted an eye.

Instantly, he was prone to fury. He tried again, and still, absolutely no incinerating took place. What was going on? He could not detect anything off regarding his power, so it must've been something the mortals were doing. His eye flicked down and locked onto one of the pitiful things which was running at him, and he extended a massive fist to snatch them up and crush them. However, when he went to close his fist around the human and squish them like a grape, he found that some sort of physical barrier had manifested around the thing; a forcefield of sorts with strange runes engrained in its surface, rendering him unable to lay a finger on the human.

Despite the fact that he could not touch the human, they most certainly were able to touch him. This fact was made apparent when it proceeded to chuck its pitchfork directly into his eye.

He let out an enraged scream - damn it! What a nuisance! Didn't it know how much time and energy it takes Bill to regenerate his eye!?

A combination of Mabel's unicorn hair sweaters and the incantations Dipper had been able to recall from when they protected the Shack was certainly proving to be a success, for they were able to distract Cipher long enough for the rescue team (which initially consisted of multiple people until Stan insisted it only be him) to retrieve Ford and transport him to the barrier.

Sure, a couple things may have gone wrong; all their vehicles had been eaten by some one-armed monstrosity, and eventually, Bill had just locked them all inside the Fearamid to deal with later once he felt Ford nearing the barrier, but it would be worth it. Backup was waiting for them just outside town, and Ford was safe.

Ford was safe.

Right?

All Ford can process is pain. It feels like every one of his senses has been shut off and replaced with the horrible sensation of every cell in his body being doused in particularly potent kerosene and lit up like a fireworks display. He's struggling, trying to squirm his way back to safety, but something strong is holding him down. He can't help but scream in both frustration and agony, trying so hard to claw his way into Gravity Falls, but the sheer amount of pain he's experiencing makes it impossible for him to concentrate this effort into strength.

He thinks he can hear yelling, but he isn't sure. Over the throbbing pain, there is a ringing in his ears that prevents him from making a whole lot of sense of his surroundings. There are definitely some booming sounds accompanied by lots of yelling, but that's all he can make out. He cranes his head up to try and get a look at what's happening, trying to focus on anything but the pain, but his vision is blurred and blackening at the edges.

Stan feels terrible about having to keep his brother restrained painfully in the dirt like this, but he cannot allow him to cross back over. The demon on the other side of the barrier has summoned about a dozen arms and is currently wreaking havoc on the forcefield separating itself from the two of them, directing some enraged screaming at Stan in a variety of alien languages that he cannot understand. This display is alarming, but the man knows that it cannot touch them from over there. Stan just watches the thing scream and curse at him with a detached type of fascination and no little anger, struggling to keep Ford down. He knows his brother is physically stronger, but the pain he must be in right now is preventing him from using his strength.

Eventually, the demon seems to gain enough sense to speak in a language it knows Stanley can understand.

"Hand him over!" Is the first coherent sentence it says after it has given up on screaming at him in countless alien tongues.

Ford's screaming has dwindled into mere whimpers of pain as Stan continues to hold him down, teeth gritted. Who exactly does this bastard think it is? No way in hell is he giving it his brother after everything it's done to him!

"Go fuck yourself, asshole!" He bites back, furious. He doesn't think he's ever been angrier with anyone than he is with Bill at this moment.

"Hand! Him! Over!!!" Bill screams.

"Never!"

Bill's furious - his shape having shifted into some sort of eldritch being without his control, and he tries to regain a hold on his anger to attempt to reason with this mortal. Clearly yelling is going to get him nowhere; he isn't much of a threat when he can't lay a hand on him, after all. Curse this stupid barrier!

He shrinks back down into his more unassuming form, but there is still clear rage marring his features. "Don't you realize what'll happen if you keep him out there, you sad sack of misery? Give him to me!"

But Stan isn't even listening. He's trying to console Ford, whose struggling has died down into uncontrolled spasms and jolts. He looks like he's beginning to have a seizure, something which is alarming to both witnesses. Ford looks absolutely terrified, a staticky substance dripping from his mouth like blood, one which is unfamiliar to Stan but Bill knows exactly what it is. Damn it, he'd been so close! If only he'd have been able to possess Ford one more time, then-

"What did you do!?" Stan barks, terror and anger prevalent in his tone as he glares furiously back up at the monster on the other side. "What's wrong with him!?"

Bill cackles, brushing aside his despair to put on a front of nonchalance and control. This is his one chance; he's got to convince Sixer's meatheaded brother to give back what's his before it's too late. Even if he were to rewind time, since Ford is on the other side of the barrier, he would remain unaffected. That thought, the knowledge that he really has no power here, causes his front to slip a little and his cackles morph into more deranged, rage-fueled laughs. He struggles to keep his anger under wraps and his voice drops several octaves as he glares at Stan from the other side of the barrier.

"Do you know what you're doing, Stanley?" He sneers hatefully. "You're killing him! Every second he's outside my domain is a second you're pushing him closer to his premature death!"

Stan stiffens, tightening his grip on his twin, who has stopped struggling completely now. If he were to take a look at his face, he'd notice that the substance beginning to pool beneath him is now leaking from his eyes and nose as well.

"Can it, demon! I know a liar when I see one! Now what the hell did you do to my brother!?"

Bill rakes his claws along the barrier shakily, watching the situation unfold before him. He isn't lying, goddammit. Why do all of these Pines fuckers accuse him of lying in the most dire situations possible? If he had just managed to possess Ford one more time, he's sure he would have gotten enough of his weirdness in his system to prevent him from crossing the barrier entirely!

He started feeding Ford his weirdness during Capture the Flag through lending the human some of his power. Every time Ford channeled even an ounce of the stuff, he was simultaneously allowing Bill's weirdness to flood his system. It wasn't much at first; if he overwhelmed the man with it too quickly, there was a high chance of unintended consequences occurring. Bill had been able to continue accumulating his weirdness into the man's system when he possessed him, knowing that if he got enough of it inside him, he wouldn't be able to cross over at all.

That time Ford was on the verge of killing him? Bill had felt it; his killing intent was off the charts. If he attempted anything, all Bill had to do was channel the weirdness he'd pumped into his blood to take control and stop him. Ford had been under the impression that he had any semblance of power, but Bill had been pulling the strings all along.

If only he'd let him possess him one more time. Just one more! He's sure that's all he would have needed to ensure Ford was weird enough to stay in Gravity Falls. How close he had been - how terribly unfair life is! Now he is on the verge of losing his pet forever!

"You think I'm lying?" He sneers, contempt lacing his tone. "Take one look at Sixer and tell me he looks healthy to you!" He's beginning to tremble with rage and barely capped despair. This idiot has to listen to him, he has to hand Ford over. "Hand him over, Fez, unless you want your brother's premature death on your hands!"

Stan, eyes narrowed with distrust, climbs off his twin to roll him onto his back and observe the expression he's making. Ford has a permanent look of terror in his eyes, seizing uncontrollably as every orifice in his face leaks a strange staticky fluid. He looks somewhat coherent, like he is aware of what is happening, but is unable to speak due to his severely compromised state.

Stan looks furiously up at the monster on the other side. What should he do? Is Bill telling the truth? It certainly seems that way. Surely a doctor can fix him, right? Should he just grab Ford and book it? He's not sure how easy it'll be to carry the deadweight of a grown man all the way back to base so he can call a doctor, and even then, would one arrive in time to save him? Or, worst case scenario, is Bill the only one who can undo whatever curse he's placed on his brother?

Bill's patience is running thin, and he slams a fist against the barrier. "Give him here, you glorified hairless ape!"

The human on the other side grits his teeth and lifts the upper half of his brother to hold him close, protectively. "No way! I'm never letting my brother go again, you one-eyed freak!"

"You'll kill him, you idiot! Give him back!" Bill screams, reverting back to his original strategy of brute force as he pounds against the barrier with his fists. He knows it won't do anything, but he can't just sit there and watch his human die.

Okay, this thing is deranged. I'm outta here, Stan thinks to himself as he attempts to gather Ford up to run back to base with him. It is certainly an immense struggle to pick him up; not only is he practically deadweight, but he is also still thrashing and seizing violently.

Is this guy stupid? Sixer's gonna die! There's no way a human so dumb is related to his pride and joy Stanford! He has to get Stanley to stay near the barrier - if he carries Ford away, then he's doomed for sure!

"Stop it! Don't you dare, Stanley! Do you want him to die, is that it!? You really wanna kill your brother that bad? Go on then, carry him away and you'll get your fucked up wish! You'll kill him!"

"You'll be the one killing him! Let's not play the blame game here when you did this to him in the first place!" Stan bites back, furious as he continues to struggle with lifting his twin. As much as he wants to continue to yell at that monster and curse it out, he has priorities here. "Come on, Stanford, we'll get you to a doctor-"

"YOU IDIOT! NO DOCTOR CAN CURE HIM! IF YOU TAKE HIM AWAY, HE'LL DIE!" Bill screams, beginning to ram himself into the barrier over and over like some sort of wild animal trying to escape its enclosure. Stan subconsciously takes half a step back, a disturbed expression crossing his face at Bill's sudden loss of control. "GIVE HIM TO ME! YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT'S GOOD FOR HIM! YOU ABANDONED HIM WHEN HE NEEDED YOU MOST, LEAVING ME TO PICK UP THE PIECES! THE ONE GOOD THING YOU CAN DO FOR YOUR BROTHER IN HIS ENTIRE LIFE IS TO HAND HIM OVER!!"

Stanley just grimaces, severely perturbed by this unforeseen overreaction. He adjusts his grip on Ford, kneeling down and clutching his head to his shoulder, wracking his brain for a solution. Ford is burning to the touch, overheating as his body fights to remove whatever foreign contaminant is overwhelming his system. He's way too hot; this isn't good. He holds his brother close for the first time in forty years, trying to soothe the uncontrolled spasms and jolts that are wracking his form, but it's no use. Dammit, why can't he be the smart one!? Why can't he think of a way out of this!? What should he do!?

"GIVE HIM TO ME, YOU INSOLENT FLESH CAGE! HE'LL DIE, DON'T YOU UNDERSTAND THAT!? I'LL LOSE HIM! I'LL LOSE HIM FOR GOOD!" Bill screams, growing ten sizes bigger to pick up a tree and try to bash through the barrier with it. This does nothing; when he throws the tree at it, it simply phases through and narrowly misses Stan Pines' head.

"Then undo it!" Stan yells back, choosing not to dissect the demon's oddly possessive wording at the moment. "Undo whatever you did to him!"

Is Sixer's lesser clone really that stupid? He can't! Ford's on the other side, untouchable - Bill can't do anything to him! He couldn't undo it if he wanted to! He lets out a cry and shrinks down to his normal size as he continues relentlessly trying to break through the barrier.

"I can't!" Bill snarls, voice shrill like he's on the verge of a breakdown. "I can't reach him over there, you idiot! Just give him to me! You weren't ever there for him anyway! You left him! You think he wants to go with you? What a joke! I'm the one he wants! I'm the one he needs! And I need him! He's MINE!"

Stan is rendered severely disturbed by Bill's wording, a grimace once again contorting his features as he shudders a disgusted sound. The way it's talking about Ford is nothing less than horrific - the ramblings of a madman who has succumbed to a deep obsession.

"What's your obsession with my brother, you demonic freakshow!? He's not your anything!" He spits, thoroughly irked by the way Bill is trying to stake some sort of claim on his twin.

"Shut up! He is mine! I own him, you worthless, insignificant, fleshy piece of mortal garbage! You know nothing!"

"The hell is wrong with you?" Stan replies, backing away a little with Ford halfway in his arms, eyes wide and brows furrowed. "Are you demented? Why are you talking about him like he's your lover or somethin'?"

That causes the demon to stop its manic assault on the barrier and stare straight ahead with a wide-eyed, unreadable expression.

Cold, horrible realization creeps up Stan's spine at the thing's reaction. Suddenly, he thinks he's going to throw up. He'd only said that to try and piss Bill off, but the fact that it's silent speaks volumes. He isn't sure if what he's thinking is even correct, but the sheer possessiveness this thing displays over Ford, the way it's carved what appears to be its name and symbol all over his arms-

He shakes his head back and forth, trying to dispel the thought from his mind. "Oh my God," he breathes, blanching. "There's no way. There's no way."

"Hand him over," Bill says with a cold, even tone.

"No! You're insane!" Stan pulls the half-conscious Ford closer to his chest.

"If you really care about Sixer, you'll hand him over."

"If you care about him, you'll let him go!" Stan barks, enraged.

"That's not how it works!" Bill screams in response.

"Yes it is!" Stan shouts insistently. If this monster is really under the impression that it cares about Ford, then Stan has to use that to convince it to let him go. "When you care about someone, you let them go when they need to be free!"

"He doesn't need to be free!" Bill responds, frustrated. "He needs me! I've already freed him from his mundane, meaningless existence! He's happier with me!"

"Are you kiddin' me? You tortured him! Look at his arms, for Pete's sake!"

"He let me do that to him! You don't know anything!"

"My brother would never 'let' anyone do somethin' like that to him!"

"Oh? Oh?" Bill huffs, irritated. "Wow, you really are stupid, aren't you? You know nothing about Sixer, and yet here you are, trying to tell me what he would and wouldn't want! In case you didn't notice, smart guy, he was fighting for his life to crawl back to me! It's clear what he wants is to FUCKING LIVE!"

The conflicted man looks down at his twin. His eyes are shut now, brows furrowed in pain. He appears to be crying, but the 'tears' are clearly not anything that is supposed to be in the human body. He's shivering violently, teeth chattering, every part of him seizing slightly.

What should he do!? Is Bill telling the truth? Is there really no way to fix him? Will he die if Stan doesn't let him go back to Gravity Falls? Looking at him now, that certainly seems to be the case. He's never seen his brother look like less of himself before.

But there's a chance Bill is lying, and if he gives him back, then Bill will continue torturing him! If he gives Ford up, then who knows what could happen? Bill could do something much worse! He could just straight up kill him before Stan's eyes, or torture him, or worse!

He just spent so long getting his brother back... AGAIN! Does he actually have it in him to just give him up like this? Is that what Ford would want? This should not be Stan's choice to make, but it is now, because apparently Ford is dying!

He has to make the choice here. This realization fully douses him for the first time, and it is horrifying. Ford is too far gone to speak right now; he cannot tell Stanley what he wants, what the right thing to do is. Should he still try to get him to a doctor? Is there even time anymore? Surely he does not want to go back with that monster after everything it's done to him. Then again, during his last seconds of coherence, he had been trying to crawl his way back over the barrier, despite knowing the consequences.

Bill watches Stan's expression closely, sees it morph into one equally as despairing as his own. It's clear he is stuck, unsure what to do. Almost there. More pressing, a little more getting under his skin. Maybe he can use his own care for Sixer as a motivator.

"Sixer wouldn't want to die here," he reiterates. "Give him to me and I'll make sure he lives."

Stan holds his brother protectively, trembling slightly as his mind races. This isn't fair! Why is this happening!? It wasn't supposed to go like this! He was supposed to reunite with Ford, they were supposed to save the world together! Then everything would be good between them again, and they'd go sailing, just like he'd always wanted!

Don't cry. DON'T cry.

"Ford wouldn't wanna be tortured for the rest of his life, either!" Stan chokes out. "You think you know everything about him, but I've known him his whole life! He's my brother! And I know he wouldn't want that!"

"You haven't known him in forty years, Stanley!" Bill screams, frustrated. "You're kidding yourself here! Every time he needed someone, it was me who was there! Where were you, huh? Answer me, Pines! Where were you!?"

Stanley's mouth drops open as he struggles to defend himself, unable to even process the blatant manipulation that Bill is spewing. He wanted to be there for Stanford, it wasn't his fault! It was a misunderstanding! "I was- I couldn't-"

"You left him! You ruined his life! You threw away his entire future! Do you seriously wanna do that to him again!? You wanna ruin it for GOOD this time?" Bill trembles with pure rage. "Make yourself useful for once in your entire meaningless existence and GIVE HIM TO ME!"

Stan grits his teeth and seethes defensively, "How can I trust you!?"

"You-" Bill is exasperated. He can't, that's the long and short of it. He can't trust Bill. "You idiot! Don't trust me, trust Sixer! He was trying to crawl back in here, wasn't he!? Isn't that proof enough that he wants to live!?"

Stan looks incredibly pained as he peers down at his dangerously pale brother, and then back up at Bill to observe the most pathetic expression a demon could have on its face. What should he do? What's the correct thing to do here? When Ford was trying to crawl back across the barrier, was he even in the right state of mind? What will that demon do to his brother if he gives him up?

Ford's eyes flutter open, and for a moment, Stan has hope that perhaps he will be able to speak, especially when he opens his mouth. However, rather than speaking, the man proceeds to throw up an abundance of the horrible substance all over both of them, causing Stan to shove him off with a disgusted cry. The sight of Ford vomiting what may be literal nightmares sends Bill into an absolute state, and he decides to throw caution to the wind and begin using his last-ditch, most humiliating approach: pleading.

"Listen!" He cries, proceeding to drop to his knees on the other side of the barrier. "If you'll just hand him over, I'll give you whatever you want - money, fame, riches, infinite power, your own galaxy! Please! Just give him to me, you idiot!"

He's lying, Stan knows he's lying, and the last thing he wants to do is bargain with that monster, but Ford is- he's-

What do I do, Stanford? What do I do!? What do you want? Give me a sign! Something, anything! Tell me what to do!

Stanford does not, in fact, give him any sort of sign. Is he even conscious at this point? His eyes are half-lidded and he's gone from stiff to completely limp, save for the frequent spasms violently assaulting his prone body.

The demon has a desperate, rage-filled look in its eye, hands pressed together as Stan's terrified gaze flickers between the two of them.

"God dammit!" Stanley cries, glancing down at his twin. There is zero coherence left in his eyes - he must be out cold. Even if he were conscious and Stan asked him what he wanted, he would not be able to hear him. He can only imagine the pain that Ford must have been experiencing up until he blacked out.

He looks back up at Bill. His brother's tormentor. Possibly the only one who can save him.

What is worth more, Ford's life or his freedom?

He looks down at the man in question. He is still seizing, even while unconscious. What's worth more? Does he really have the right to take Ford to safety if it comes with the risk of his death? If it means he will suffer like this for however long he lives?

He feels like Mabel must have when Stan begged her to just trust him and not shut down the portal, no matter how bad it may have seemed.

Bill had said that it is not a matter of trusting him, but rather, one of trusting Ford to know what he wants.

Ford had been trying everything in his power to get back into Gravity Falls.

Stan purses his lips and sets his jaw as he proceeds to make one of the toughest decisions he's had to make in his life.

I'm sorry, Stanford. I hope I'm doin' the right thing here.

Stan kneels down and gathers as much of his brother's upper body in his arms as he can, before approaching the barrier with an inelegant stumble. He half-drags Stanford's limp body all the way to the cutoff, stopping directly in front of the despairing demon. He slowly sets Ford down on the ground, grabs his forearm, and slowly allows one of his six-fingered hands to pass through the barrier.

The reaction is instant. Instantly, numerous black hands grab onto Ford and yank him the rest of the way across, pulling him with such ferocity that Stan must let go to avoid being pulled over as well. He stumbles back a little, terrified that he's made the wrong decision, that he's just doomed his brother to a lifetime of torture, as multiple sets of arms all wind around Ford, pulling him close possessively without another word.

However, mere moments later, Ford seems to completely and spontaneously recover. The first thing he does once his consciousness returns is gasp for air and wrap his arms around Bill in return without a second thought, seeking comfort. Stan's eyes bug out at the display; of two sworn enemies clutching to one another shakily like they are the only thing keeping the other tethered to this Earth. It is like witnessing a car crash; disturbing, and yet Stan cannot find it in himself to look away.

He wishes he could see his brother's expression, but his back is to him when Bill pulls him back slightly to give him a once over.

"I've got you, Sixer," he tells him, one of his many hands stroking Ford's hair. That should not be comforting, Stan thinks scornfully, but Ford seems to be put at ease with those words. "I've got you. You're mine."

"I'm sorry!" Are the first frantic words that leave Ford's mouth, rendering Stanley stunned. What in the hell is he apologizing for!? Ford has done nothing wrong! "I shouldn't have tried to leave, I'm sorry, Bill! I didn't want to, but-"

"Shush." Bill places a finger to Ford's lips, smothering his apologies. He looks unbearably pleased with himself, with how well he's managed to 'train' his human. "I know you didn't want to, alright Fordsy? I ain't mad." The demon then gives Stan a look out of the corner of its eye, a look that is overwhelmingly mocking, before turning back to Ford with a relieved, almost loving expression.

"Stanford!" Stanley chokes out, needing to snap him out of whatever stupor he's in. His brother whirls around to look at him with a shocked expression, like he'd completely forgotten he was even there. Bill does not seem too pleased with Ford giving anyone else his attention, but he allows it. "What are you doing? That's- that's Bill! You know that, right? Bill Cipher!"

"Yes, I know that," Ford replies, looking a bit shameful. "Why wouldn't I be aware of that?"

"The guy who's been- you know! Torturing you! The one who wants to take over the world! That Bill!" He reiterates, his arms flying out to his sides in exasperation.

The demon in question appears to be satisfied with that statement. "The one and only!" It comments, shutting its eye haughtily.

Stan ignores it, only wanting to get through to his brother. "Ford, don't you wanna leave this place?" He tries, feeling a lump in his throat. "C'mon, bro - we can fix it. If you'd just come with me, we can set things straight, alright?"

He offers a despairing smile, but it falters when Ford just stares back at him with a wide-eyed, faraway expression, like he does not believe that could ever be the case. He looks so lost, so unsure of what he wants.

"Stanford, come on," Stan continues, his tone having acquired a near pleading undertone to it. He has to be gentle here - Bill is fucking manipulating him! If he's forceful in any way, it'll just give that demon more leverage against him. "Let's leave this place, alright? You and me, just like old times, okay?"

Ford looks so very lost. "I can't," he breathes, and that is true. He will quite literally die if he tries.

Stan steels his face. Does he seriously have to convince that thing to let his brother go? Would that even work?

"You. Demon," Stan addresses the thing, which cracks open its eye in annoyance to glare at him like he is a mosquito interrupting its picnic date.

"The name's Bill! Use it!"

Stan grits his teeth, swallowing his distaste. "Bill. If you really give a damn about my brother, then you'll let him decide what he wants to do."

He isn't sure if it's even possible to compromise with this monster, but he has to try. For Stanford.

Cipher tightens his grip on Stanford at those words, possessiveness flaring up in his suddenly offended expression, eye narrowing. Ford doesn't even shrug him off, just looks at the ground with a war waging behind his eyes. It's disturbing. Bill had been referring to Ford as 'his' throughout his argument with Stan, and that truly seems like it may be the case here; a thought that renders Stanley more than a little ill. What in the hell had it been doing to his brother all those months up there to make him comply like this? The Stanford he knew was full of fighting spirit - this isn't right! This isn't him at all!

Bill can see that Ford is slipping from his grasp, ever so slightly, with each word his brother utters. It is like some trivial, primal part of him knows he wants to leave - what a ridiculous notion. He's got to do something to pull him back into place, to wake him up and remind him of who matters here.

He's got to do something.

"Fordsy," he calls, and Ford simply hums in response to the nickname. He brushes a hand along the man's cheek to turn his gaze back to him, purposefully putting on a show to really twist the knife he'd already plunged into Stan's stomach. Ford unconsciously leans into the touch, and Stan thinks that he is most definitely ill. He struggles not to fall back to his knees out of sheer disbelief.

"You remember when you asked me about the other dimensions?" Bill continues. He needs to make Sixer stay with him, to seal the deal. He can't let him go. Stanley can't be right. No one can take Ford from him. Ford is his. His!

The man perks up instantly, giving Bill a confused look. "Yes...?"

Bill's clairvoyance has always been unreliable. For someone who claims to be all-powerful, he does indeed have a variety of limits when it comes to his abilities. However, his clairvoyance has proven, time and time again, that an outcome in which Stanford gives him that equation simply does not exist. There is no outcome in this timeline where he can have both Ford and this dimension - a hard fact that he's battled against for months now; a fact that has remained firmly in place no matter how deeply Ford succumbs to his adoration.

The hard truth is that he cannot leave Gravity Falls. The two of them are stuck in a neverending dance - a stalemate. Bill still remains on his respective side of the line, and Ford on his own, neither willing to make the first move to jump ship.

Weirdmageddon cannot become a global affair; Ford has long since proven that he will sooner become a martyr than allow Bill to conquer this place. That option is one which Bill has already lived through the consequences of, and it is not one he can allow to reoccur. And, although he definitely could restrain Ford entirely and prevent him from killing himself so he could give Bill the equation, he knows that would mean giving the man up entirely. That leaves two remaining options: to stay here in this limbo with Sixer forever, or to admit defeat and explore the rest of the multiverse.

The notion of 'admitting defeat' sits sourly on the demon's metaphorical tongue; no, to search for other dimensions would not be a defeat - rather, a compromise. The only feasible option at this point in which he can have the most of what he wants. Every good conman knows how to compromise when worst comes to worst, and Bill considers himself to be a very good conman. The best in the multiverse, even!

Those other dimensions may not be as ideal as this one; it may take more time, and effort, to whip up as fantastical of a party as the one he'd been cooking for this dimension, but they'll be a hell of a lot more ideal with Ford by his side.

"Come with me," he tells Ford, clinging to the man's every expression with a level of devotion he's only ever seen from Ford himself. He does not want to elaborate, but he does not need to; Stanford knows what it is he is trying to say.

"Go with you?" He breathes. "What... does that mean?"

"It means we've got the entire multiverse to explore, kiddo," Bill tells him.

Ford's eyes widen, and he swallows; utterly enraptured by Bill's proposal. Is he serious? Is he implying what Ford thinks he is implying? All the times in which he had been asked to 'join him, Sixer' had been accompanied by the equation silently looming alongside this surrender; a joint obligation. As such, this option had never actually been considered by Stanford; this option where he becomes one of Bill's subordinates. No, he would be more than that - Bill had told him that he wanted them to rule as equals.

"What... else does this mean?" The human proceeds to ask with a surprising amount of nerve. Bill is surprised to hear his ego flare up now, of all times, but it's to be expected, he supposes. What a sinfully prideful and egotistical human this one is.

Bill simply narrows his eye, knowing what it is that he wants to hear and unwilling to deliver. He isn't ready yet. Not here, not now. The moment isn't right, and Ford already knows that what he wants to hear is true anyway, so why waste it on a moment like this?

"Don't push it, Sixer," he warns with a playful type of danger in his tone.

"Ford," his brother calls him, pulling them out of the moment. Right. Bill'd almost forgotten about the other one. He flickers his gaze over to him to take in the deeply betrayed look in his eyes. "Don't listen to him, Ford. He's lying!"

Ford stares at Stanley, sees the very real pain in his eyes; that stubborn Pines type of pain that very rarely is allowed to be on full display. This man had put his life on the line to save him, and even now, he sits a hair's width away from Cipher's wrath just to try and 'protect' him.

But... does Ford even want to be 'saved' at this point?

Bill has drilled so much of his own words into Ford's head that being 'saved' hardly sounds appealing to the man anymore. What has this dimension ever done for him? What has Stan ever done for him? He doesn't owe anything to anyone here. Any ties he may have had to this place were sliced thirty years ago. Nothing here has ever made him feel as appreciated, as adored, as Bill has.

He is an oddity, a statistical outlier; he does not belong with the normal. Bill has shown him that he does not belong among humanity, that all he needs is Bill himself.

Perhaps it is the Stockholm Syndrome taking the wheel, or the abnormal amount of Bill's weirdness circulating throughout his system; but right now, it feels as though he is in so deep that swimming down is the only reasonable option.

If leaving Bill is what 'saving' entails, then no, he does not want to be saved.

Stanford Pines and Bill Cipher are impossibly entangled with one another, like a knot beyond unraveling. To break the bond between them would require cutting the knot out entirely, severing a large portion of each of them in the process. They will succumb to whatever fate lies in store for them together; from now, until the end of time. Ford turns back to his lover.

"Okay," he states simply.

"Okay?" Bill inquires, lighting up a little. Yes! YES!!

"If we leave this place, then it will undo all of the damage you've caused here," Ford states, fairly sure that this is the case from what he has observed.

The demon blinks slowly. "Well, yeah! That's kinda how it works, smart guy."

"Okay," Ford repeats, pursing his lips in thought. He thinks that perhaps he should be regretting this, that he should be having second thoughts, but he does not.

"Okay?" Bill parrots, again.

Ford gives a curt nod. "Let's go."

He gives Bill an exhausted, fond smile, which is returned with the ruffling of his hair. Stanley had mentioned that there was backup coming or something, and presumably, Bill had already taken care of the forces sent to distract him. Leaving would ensure everyone remains safe; that no more people are killed, and that whoever Bill had just been dealing with are not resigned to the fate of being a frozen human throne for all eternity.

"Just allow me to speak with Stanley for a moment," he tells Bill, who narrows his eye, but gives no protest.

Stanford pointedly avoids looking at his brother's expression as he stands up and makes his way over to the barrier with Bill trailing directly behind him. Once he reaches the edge, he kneels down in front of Stan, who has fallen to his knees, looking like he may be frozen in shock. Bill shrinks down to perch himself on Ford's shoulder, one leg haughtily swung over the other as he observes their interaction with astounding smugness.

"Stanley," Ford begins.

That seems to break him out of whatever disbelieving spell he had momentarily been under. "Stanford, what are you doing? Are you crazy!? Don't go with him! He's insane! He hurt you, you can't go with him! He's manipulating you, Ford, can't you see that!? He's evil! Don't go with him! Don't leave me again, bro!"

Ford simply unwraps the trench coat from around his waist, straightening it to reach into one of its inner pockets to produce something from within. He offers it to Stan with a sad smile, who takes it but pays no attention to what it is. He is too invested in trying to make his brother stay, dammit! He couldn't care less about some stupid slip of paper or whatever that is!

"Please!" Stan cries. "You're not thinkin' straight here! I promise we can find a way to fix things, alright? Don't just give up and go with that monster!"

"I want you to have that, Stan," Ford simply says. He'd kept it in his pocket all these years; no matter how many dimensions he traveled through, no matter what hell he'd been through, he'd held onto it the whole time - not that Stanley is even sparing a look at it right now. "There is also something I want to tell you."

"Stanford, you aren't thinking clearly right now! We'll figure something out, 'kay? Use your head here, Ford - I know you've got a big brain! Be logical, don't go with this maniac!" Stan continues, beginning to fumble over his words a little.

"Stanley, would you listen to me?"

"No, you listen to me! You're throwin' your life away here! You're putting yourself in danger, you can't go with this guy! I don't know what he's said to you, what he's done, but you've gotta come home with me! You aren't leaving me again!" Stan climbs to his feet suddenly, distressed. "I'm not lettin' you go again, you jerk!"

"This is my choice, Stan," Ford says. He hasn't seen his brother cry since they were little kids, but he looks like he's on the verge of bursting into tears. He wishes he could understand; not only does Ford want to go with Bill, he really has no other choice, anyway. He is trapped within the barrier, for one. Bill won't leave this dimension without him, either, and once he leaves, all of the damage Weirdmageddon causes will be reversed. It must be done. "Please respect my wishes."

"I can't respect your wishes if you're going to get yourself killed! Don't you get it, Ford? This guy's a psycho, he'll kill you! You can't go with him!"

Bill's just kicking his feet, batting his lashes, and clasping his hands together like a schoolgirl while perched on Ford's shoulder; the splitting image of innocence. Ford sighs, looking down at Stan with an almost fond expression, reminiscing. Stan won't ever understand, but that's okay. He doesn't need to.

"Thank you for bringing me home," he simply tells him, and watches as the man's eyes widen and fill with tears.

Stan cannot say anything else, too overcome with emotion to move as Ford pulls back and Bill dismounts from his shoulder, growing back to his normal size.

He can't hear what they're saying over the sound of his heart hammering in his ears; he can only watch, as if paralyzed, as Ford dons his trench coat and turns to Bill, who is waiting for him expectantly. The demon has his arm extended, offering it to Ford like a gentleman would escort a lady on a dark night. The second Ford goes to take it, Bill winds his smaller arm around Ford's, interlocking them tightly.

Stan can barely see the two figures as they descend into the forest over the sheen of tears blurring his vision. He wants so badly to call out to them, to get up and run after them, fully aware of the danger, but it is like his body is not agreeing with his brain and is keeping him firmly rooted to the spot, unable to move or speak.

Clutched in his right hand, unacknowledged, resides the photograph given to him by Ford. It captures Stan and his brother as children decades ago, situated on their longtime boat project. Now Ford goes on a new adventure, one far more profound than the two of them could have ever imagined; leaving behind a dimension that never wanted him in the first place.

How perfect.

After all, Bill has always wanted someone to show the stars.