Archive of Our Own ^beta

‘Twin Bed Motel’.

Stanford found himself unable to take his eyes off the words on that sign as he collapsed into the parking lot just outside of the establishment. He’d been running for so long just trying to escape that diner. Those sadistic golden eyes. He couldn’t take being there! Being watched! 

He couldn’t trust anyone in this town! Anyone! Who knows how many others Bill was in contact with? How many others could be working alongside him or serving as his puppet? 

He’d come to the terrifying conclusion the moment he’d left the diner. In Gravity Falls there is no one you can trust. 

‘Twin Bed Motel’. ‘Twin Bed Motel’. Twin.

He started reluctantly forming a plan.

His brother. Stanford had reached out to his brother. That’s how you know he’s desperate. Losing it. Exhausted every other resource. He would never be foolish enough to reach out to Stanley unless he had no other options at hand, and he really had no other options. 

He’d hidden journals two and three already. As much as it pained him to abandon his research he knew he couldn’t just keep it around where it could so easily fall into the wrong hands. There was too much valuable information within them. The study of various dangerous creatures. Knowledge on how to summon his ‘muse’, and worst of all, instructions on how to restart his portal! He couldn’t risk keeping it around, even if losing it felt as though he was losing a piece of himself. It had to be done.

The final step to this admittedly overcomplicated sleep deprivation-induced ‘plan’ was to give journal one to Stanley. As the untrustworthy charlatan he was, there was no doubt he’d been to the most remote back alleys in existence, the perfect place to hide his final journal as Ford set to work on finding some way to defeat Bill in the meantime.

He’d contacted him a few weeks ago at this point, so he could arrive at any moment. All he had left to do now was wait. Well, that, and not to- 

His ‘body’ lurched forward suddenly. Without his intent. His consent. It was the oddest sensation. One of fragmented intangibility and weightlessness. Disconnected levels of almost maddening dissociation. Television static.

He was dreaming, wasn’t he?

Seventeen cups of coffee and blasting his radio at the highest volume imaginable clearly wasn’t enough. He was asleep. Again. Oh, joy.

The man would’ve been groaning in some mix of fear and anger right now at his human body’s sheer weakness if he had any control over his actions, but of course he didn’t. This wasn’t the mindscape. It was just a normal dream. He hadn’t had one of these in a while. At least none that he could recall.

The few times he’d drifted off recently aside from that disgusting encounter at the diner, he doubts he’d even reached the REM sleep cycle, drifting off so lightly and for such short periods of time dreaming would be near-impossible.

This was bad. This was really, really bad. If he was sleeping this heavily Bill could be piloting his body right now. Doing god knows what to him! Restarting the portal! 

He’d already fallen prey to more of Cipher’s possession, witnessing various bizarre codes and drawings the being had written in his third journal the few moments he’d drifted off prior to when he’d hidden it. There was nothing stopping him from doing that again!

Panic was setting in now. Panic that wasn’t at all reflected in the near complete stillness of his subconscious vessel. He hated this. God, he hated this, but unlike in the mindscape he had no choice but to just submit to whatever lay ahead. 

That in-between dream dimension had opened his mind in such a way that he could remain conscious while asleep, yes, but that didn’t mean that outside of the mindscape he still had that level of control while sleeping.

It felt almost like reverse possession. He was in what loosely resembled his own body. He was aware of the actions taking place no matter how intangible. And he was fully capable of thinking for himself; of reacting internally to his own subconscious, yet the will to move his body wasn’t there. The ability to make choices wasn’t there.

He was a slave to his dream, all the while remaining fully aware he had no control to stop not only this mental projection, but even his physical body from just lying there in the living room, awaiting commands from an unrecognizable puppeteer. Either way, he had no control.

Fuck. Ford’s anxiety went up tenfold the second he registered the dream setting. His study. He was in his study. The version of it that hadn’t yet been covered up entirely in old tablecloths. The version that was still filled with Bill, Bill, Bill- 

His dream self looked around the room, taking in what only loosely felt like a breath before shutting his eyes, forcing the real Ford’s vision, too, to be taken from him. Yet still, he could tell what was happening, vaguely feeling his legs cross. He was in the position he sometimes took when he used to summon Bill into his vessel.

No. No. No! He didn’t want this. Dream or not, he didn’t want this! He didn’t want to relive even a fake recreation of Bill overtaking his body.

And- he didn’t, though perhaps that was for the worse.

“My Sixer.”

The voice wasn’t coming from his own form, but rather from- behind him?

If he had any bodily autonomy right now his eyes would’ve shot open. He doesn’t want to look at Bill, but he would need to see in order to run out of this room and get as far away as possible, and maybe while he’s at it, shoot that monster the coldest glare he’s ever seen!

None of those things happen, though.

“Bill-” Ford heard his own voice reply. Not with fear, or pain, or anger. The tone felt soft. Pleased. Perhaps even a little excited. The exact opposite of the emotions the real Ford trapped within was experiencing.

It isn’t really him, he reminded himself. It’s just a dream. Just my inner turmoil projected into my resting visions.

He was psyching himself up for the moment his dream vessel would open his eyes to greet the imposter. He didn’t want to, but like those intangible kisses in this same fabricated study or that unrecognizably vague dance they’d once shared entirely in his mind, Ford had no say in this matter. Bill had burned himself so far into the mortal’s mind that a subconscious fabrication of himself had become commonplace in his normal dreams when he wasn’t seeing the real being in the mindscape. Why would that change now?

The question goes unanswered as the clicking sound of heels hitting the floor fills his ears, growing ever closer, and that’s when he felt it. Ten slender fingers creeping across his face and covering his eyes. Not in a painful way, but it was definitely still strange. This wouldn’t be a normal feeling, even if it weren’t so vague due to the nature of dreaming.

“Bill, what are you-?” His dream self begins to question, but before he can finish he gasps, feeling the vague pressure of the figure leaning against his back upon the floor, kneeling with his thighs perfectly spread to accompany his body. “Ah-”

A third hand joins the other two to rest on the dream-human’s face, before brushing past his lips, down his chin, and across his throat, the feeling uncannily flickering in and out of its imagined existence like a dying ember.

He couldn’t help but be reminded of when Bill had tightened his grip around his throat in the mindscape all those weeks ago. Of delicate yet strong hands and coiling tendrils both serving to restrict his flow of air. Nonetheless, his dream self seemed to pleasurably shudder at the touch, even despite Ford’s real internal revulsion and fear.

“Such a talented mortal. So perfect. So obedient.”

The words dream-Bill was speaking were undoubtedly flirtatious in nature. The kind of compliments that would’ve made Ford fluster and the kinds of touches that could’ve made him melt. He doesn’t want this, though. Not anymore, no matter how his subconscious self may be responding.

No matter if he can feel those imaginary breaths hitching. The way he’s leaning into all of Bill’s unreal caresses. The content hum that escapes his lips when fingers thread through his hair and the warmth spreading across his cheeks at just hearing Bill’s voice. This wasn’t how Ford would be reacting if he had any choice, right?

“Ah, thank you-” His dream voice replies.

Ford can’t help but recontextualize a lot of events from this interaction. It may be a mere internal visualization this time, but it’s nearly indistinguishable from the real thing. He really does feel more foolish with every passing moment when he thinks of his supposed ‘muse’, and the way he’d been treated by him.

How could he have ever seen such clearly performative compliments as a genuine show of affection? Of touches this light and teasing in nature as anything more than a game? How could he have viewed these sickening moments as a gift? 

“My muse,” his dream voice whispered like a plea. “Please, let me look at you.”

He still can’t see the dream-Bill, but knowing that bastard, he can picture the smug grin that would undoubtedly be crossing his face at a desperate request like that, something which was all but confirmed when he just chuckled in response.

“Wanting to bask in my glory?” 

Ford would roll his eyes and scowl if he could, but instead, he just felt his dream vessel's face grow hotter. “I do.” The human wanted to gag at that forced response.

The dream chuckles just continued, the sound muffled like a record player playing in another room just as Bill snapped the fingers of his third hand.

He was seemingly in front of Ford now, the remaining two hands still covering his eyes as he pushed him backward into what felt like a pool?

No, no, it couldn’t be a pool. It was wet and cold, but it wasn’t behaving entirely like a liquid should. It felt- alive somehow. It felt like-

Something thin and slimy coiled around his chest and soon his throat, and all at once Ford understood. No! Stop it! He thought, but his dream-self doesn’t say a word as more and more of the literally nightmarish appendages gripped onto him.

“One of you meat sacks once said that ‘the eyes are the window to the soul’, Fordsy, but I have to disagree.”

It isn’t really him. It isn’t really him. It isn’t really him! Ford reminds himself, just as another tentacle wraps around his head from behind, winding across his lips in such a way that even his dream self could no longer speak. And yet still, he can vaguely feel the pleasant reaction his dream body is having. It’s a feeling of fondness and excitement that the real Ford is starting to wonder might not just be a side effect of the ‘weirdness’ of dreaming anymore.

His own subconscious is causing this, so what if- what if-

“Human vision is such a ridiculous thing. Faulty light-sensitive receptors that build up a perception of reality based only on whatever it is you think you’re seeing, yet even with your eyes you remain so, so blind.”

The intangible things which once felt at least a little like hands are lifted away from dream-Ford’s face, yet to the real Ford’s utter shock, he still couldn’t see.

“That’s why I’ve taken them from you. I want you to see me without them for a while. To just hear me.” The words reverberate around him endlessly. “Feel me.” The ‘hands’ and tendrils coil tighter. “Want me.” His imagined heart pounds. “That’s why I’ve stolen away your sight, my little disciple. You’ve always been blind, so it’s those conflicting desires within you that are the real window,” he hears Bill say, and for a moment, he can no longer tell if that voice is just his subconscious.

All he knows for sure is that that knock isn’t.

Ford bolts upright, vision finally restored even if his sanity sure wasn’t. He’s overcome with pure terror at that sound, instinctively grabbing the crossbow he’s taken to keeping by his side at all times and swinging open the door, sleep-deprived state unable to overpower his paranoia.

“Who is it?! Have you come to steal my eyes?!”

The familiar visitor pulls back, eyes wide from the shock of the weapon pointed directly at him, but eventually, he calms down, brows furrowing in a way Ford hadn’t seen in over ten years. “Well, I can always count on you for a warm welcome.”