Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When Ford dreams, he does so in half measures.

It isn’t that he doesn’t enjoy the in depth and overwhelming nature of lucid dreaming, of following a concept from beginning to end. It’s more that he cannot stand being an active participant, of having any agency in the scenarios playing out inside his head. He cannot stand the feeling of his mind being anything other than a jumbled mess of fear, desire, grief, and absence. He’s had too much agency in his mind, too much control. Less of it is better. Less of it means he can kick the can of guilt down the road just a little bit longer.

When he dreams, he is standing on a plush rug, clothes tossed to the side. He can feel his feet cushioned by the deep pile, toes wiggling in anticipation. He can feel the eyes pooling around them, the implicit threat in their gaze. He can feel the heat as he–

–opens his eyes and leans over the ship deck. He could vomit at any moment, but he knows this is a passing feeling, something he can control. There’s a vision of a dolphin, suspended in mid-air, looking at him from a distance. He opens his mouth and smiles, and the damn thing smiles back, it’s eyes wide, and–

–yellow light pours through the windows, casting shadows he cannot parse, voices he cannot understand trickling through. He is young now, but he was always young, and this isn’t him. He’s standing there, old as ever, and he is sitting there, curled in on himself, a young boy. He reaches a hand out, and something burns him, and the voices increase. He needs to be quiet, or else–

–he won’t get his reward, and for fucks sake, he’s been good, and he deserves a reward. It’s been an awful week, no progress has been made. He’s fucked up another perfectly normal social interaction, and it’s just… he needs this. He clenches up, biting back a desperate whine, hearing a soft laugh, hands threading through his hair; there’s an implicit threat to it that makes something in his blood burn–

And that image threatens to drift away, and Ford isn’t present enough to stop himself from reaching out and plucking it back into the forefront of his mind. It has been a bad week; he’s 60, not dead. He’s allowed a little indulgence in the privacy of his own mind. If he wants to play out this old fantasy – of fingers gripped around his neck, of body splayed out and begging, of hands, too many wonderful hands–

Ford shudders and takes a sharp breath. His fingers part, he lets it go, and the can gets kicked just a little further.

❖

“Well there he is.”

Stan’s voice is lumbering and raw, his eyes trained on the pan he is fussing with in the shared kitchenette of the rental home. He’s got the tell-tale stubble of not caring about the day and the lack of actual clothes to reinforce that perception. “G’mornin’ sleeping beauty.”

Ford laughs, though it comes out more like a cough with the sleep still stuck in his throat, before sitting onto a chair at the dining nook. There’s a newspaper Stan has thoroughly trashed, and Ford opens it to some random page. It’s in Spanish, a language he had spoken at some point, but that knowledge was traded away a long, long time ago on an alien planet for some particularly useful chemical compounds.

He could always relearn it, he supposes, but then Stanley would lose out on something to lord over his brother. That thought makes him chuckle.

“What’s for breakfast?” Ford yawns, giving up on reading and instead taking to begin folding the pages mindlessly. Edge to edge, corner to corner. There’s no final vision for the shape.

“Lunch,” Stan corrects, scraping the metal spatula against the pan, making Ford wince.

“Sh– really, Stan, you couldn’t have woken me up sooner?”

That response rips out a deep, round laugh, as Stan shuffles off whatever he’d been cooking to two different plates. He passes one off to his brother before settling into his own chair. Ford sets the paper aside, shape unfinished, and looks down at what has been presented to him.

“It’s just a mashup of whatever was left in the fridge. Some Chorizo, eggs, crushed up those leftover empanadas…” Stan grins, and Ford knows he wants there to be some sort of disgust reaction on his brother’s face. Unfortunately for him – and for Ford as well, he supposes – is the fact they’ve both had life train that response out of them. “Real good hangover food.”

“Not hungover.” Ford takes a bite, and the flavor is honestly fine. The texture is an issue – though, texture is always an issue.

“Well, I am.” Stan laughs, taking his own few forkfuls of food. “Between the two of us, still can’t believe I’m the lightweight. The hell kind of partying you done these past 30 years?”

Ford snorts. He doesn’t dignify the question with an answer.

They’ve been docked in Argentina for the last week now, working on repairs to the Stan‘O’War II after their most recent paranormal encounter at sea. He had hoped the damage was minimal, but unfortunately, the Mega Manatees were not so keen on letting them have a smooth trip out to the anomaly seen within the area. What he had hoped would be a day or two of work was looking to be more than a month of labor to resolve.

Damn sentient ocean creatures and their damn sense of self-worth. Can’t make a single comment about their weapons design without it starting a whole thing.

Stan coughs, taking a sip of his water, and looks pointedly at the paper on the table.

“Everything alright?” he asks. “Relatively speaking.”

Ford looks as well and realizes with a cold flash he had been folding it into the shape of an equilateral triangle. He sighs, running a hand along his face, pressing his tongue hard against the bottom of his molars.

“Yes,” Ford says, pushing the paper away from him. “Relatively speaking.”

Stan cracks a lopsided smile, and Ford is grateful he leaves it at that. This is just one of those things – the little manifestations of the past. They both have them; they each have their moments. Sometimes, Stan can’t remember the face of their mother. Other times, Ford can’t look in a mirror without seeing flashes of gold. Both leave them heaving in the sink, hands clenching porcelain until their knuckles blend in with it.

Stan grabs the paper, tears it in two, and tosses both halves to the nearest trash. Neither half makes the basket, but the brothers clink their glasses together regardless. They laugh, they chat about the day, they argue about who’s paying for groceries.

The can is kicked, and he feels it struggle to keep momentum against his body.

❖

When Ford dreams, it is staggered but strangely cognizant. Not that Ford is – simply that the images seem to know what shape to be, what space they’re meant to fill. So, he has no reason to stop this particular image of himself, sitting on the couch, 30 years younger and laughing at the air.

He’s chattering at someone, and Ford wants to turn his head to look, but his eyes are so drawn to the ceiling it feels like if he turns away from it, he’ll miss some wonderful thing. Something that will never again be seen, though it wasn’t meant to be seen in the first place. His face is warm, and his body is lax. There is no pain in his shoulders, no aching in his back. His fingers brush against themselves, and he lets out a sigh.

“I wish you were here,” Ford says and feels himself ripped out of his own body.

He is now in the ocean, the waves lapping at his waist, gently. He can see people on the shore – his family: Mabel, Dipper, Stanley, even Shermie is here. Oh, no wait, that’s Soos. Stanford laughs, waving to them. They don’t wave back, but that’s fine – he needs to tell them something, anyway, so he begins wading himself back to the shore. The water is thick and heavy, pushing against every motion.

His body strains, displacing the space in front of him, one leg after another. He calls out to them, speaking in a language he can’t recognize, walking forward, forward, forward. The waves begin to pull at him, hands grabbing at his waist, his thighs – grabbing and pulling, and he is walking, but he is not moving, and his family is no longer at the shore.

He cries out; he has something to tell them, and he feels the ocean hold him closer. He closes his eyes and his mouth, but the salt parts his lips, pushes past his tongue, goes deeper, filling every inch he’ll allow, fills him with salt, and bile, and a deep, unyielding burning.

“I wish you were here,” The ocean says, and he feels himself ripped out of that body.

He is now in his bed, in the house they’re renting for the next month. Stan had protested him renting the place, but it’s Ford’s money, and he honestly needs the break from his brother and his mess. It’s a joy to be with him, truly, but there are certain things you don’t need to be accosted with for months on end, and Stanley’s burping is top of the list.

It’s comfortable in a way, though the sheets are cheap and the bed is a bit too large for him. He’s never liked sleeping on anything larger than a twin bed; he’s not sure what to do with all the extra room, and it makes him feel exposed. For years, he slept with a wall against his back, head turned to the nearest point of exit. He was half-tempted to move this bed when he got here, but he also didn’t want to see Stan’s expression when he did.

So, he’s exposed. That’s fine.

Oh, and he’s also exposed – his body, anyways. That’s fine as well.

He lays there, staring up at the ceiling, and he realizes that it is made of the galaxy around him. He is talking to someone, just out of reach, and he is laughing, and he is smiling. The stars are plentiful, the same as he knew them as a child, so familiar. A guiding force, a constant presence. He reaches his hand out, tracing shapes he knows he shouldn’t, saying words that make his stomach churn.

There is a whispering in his ear. He wants to turn, to face him, but he knows if he looks away, he’ll miss some wonderful thing. There is pulling at him, touching, caressing. He keens, then sighs, curling his fist closed. Every inch of him wants to turn. Every inch of him wants.

He closes his eyes and whispers:

“I wish you were here.”

He kicks the can, and it

❖

Ford shoots up in bed, face hot, alone in the dark. There is a slight breeze coming through the window, and it gives him stark awareness of heat pooling between his legs. Ford shudders, reaching down, tentatively, hand brushing against his cock. He takes a stiff breath, and pulls away, looking at the ceiling. He begins to count the number of specks he can see, illuminated by moonlight, and rests his hands on his chest.

He knows he’s seeking out the dots that form a triangle. He knows this because a few years at sea won’t change 30 years of bad habits.

He really is quite grateful for some privacy, he thinks, grabbing a few pumps of lotion off his end table as he reaches back down and lets out a shuddering sigh.

❖

When he dreams, he does so in complete, coherent images. He is on his couch, and he is going through schematics that he just didn’t get the time to go through during the day. He’ll be paying for this when he wakes up, his imperfect access to his mindscape never quite as good at leaving him fully rested as actual dreaming does. But he’s sick of being docked in a country with a language he doesn’t speak, surrounded by people he doesn’t care to know. The food is great, but it’s not worth the social anxiety that has just been piling up over the weeks.

The ocean sounds like a goddamn dream right about now. He needs to speed up this entire disaster of a repair trip, even if it means he’ll be out of a warm, comfortable bed and back into his crappy top-bunk and dealing with every little irritating pun his brother can think up before passing out. Honestly, he misses the background noise. Ford’s beginning to think that privacy has made his mind a bit too bold for his liking.

“If we do that, we can probably cut out a half-days work…” he mutters, scattering his notes across the coffee table in front of him. “Though that risks… hm… the hull completely shattering…”

“Well, HULL about that!” Bill chirps.

Ford jumps.

Right. His mind is getting entirely too bold for his liking.

Bill Cipher, dream of a dream demon, slides in next to Ford, lounging back with stubby black legs crossed, eye trained directly on Ford. Ford looks back, putting his elbow on the couch's arm rest before placing his head in his hand. If tonight is going to be one of those nights, he’s got no interest in protesting it. It’s been a bad few weeks.

“I’m being serious. Catastrophic failure. Imminent death.”

“Oh, I’ve got it from some EXCELLENT sources that drowning is not imminent.”

“Yes, I suppose you’d just call it a good time.”

“HA!”

Ford earns a ruffling of his hair for that. He doesn’t fight it, but he doesn’t lean into it either. It’s neutral. Passive. He is not an active participant, and so he has no emotional claim to the delusions his mind decides to conjure up for him.

He wishes it would conjure it up a bit less frequently, but again: can’t control what he doesn’t control.

So, sometimes he dreams in half measures. Or partial images. Or staggered and broken up, choking its way down his throat. It’s either that, or he dreams of Bill. Always, always, always–

The hand has not left his head, and he can feel it trailing down his neck. It traces a line where the baby hairs disappear into soft, aging skin.

He does not respond. This has nothing to do with him.

“I’ve been trying to think of ways to manage the moisture damage,” Ford says, ignoring the heat growing behind his ears, the way the touch shoots static down his body, how his tongue has grown restless, “beyond just the manual process. I’ve been considering creating something to speed up the process–”

“Hmm,” Bill hums, and the grin in his voice traces its way against his ear.

Ford blinks. His face is neutral. His tapping fingers are not. Bill's hand moves, running a line from his neck to the underside of Ford's jaw.

Ford swallows, but he does not look.

“Honestly, though, I can’t decide if it would be faster to build a new device to help speed up repairs or just forgo sleep altogether.” Ford resists the urge to lean in, as a thumb rubs against his jawline, hand cupping the underside of his face. He ignores the heat dripping down his throat, spreading out through his body. “I know that Stanley would complain, and so would my body, but it may just be worth it.”

“Oh, your body sure is about to complain, buddy.”

Ford snorts at that and clamps down on that, hard. It’s too late, however; the invite has been made, and he is now on the deck of his ship, back pressed against the wood, schematics etched into the air around him – like they were stitches of reality itself – and there is rope binding his wrists, rope which winds along the deck and ties itself to an anchor at the end. An implicit threat of something. And there are hands on his body, the same hand is still clenching his jaw, forcing his head up.

And he is staring at the ceiling, and it is the night sky. And he wants to look down, but he is not an active participant. He can’t be, and he won’t be, as fingers trace up his stomach, pushing under his sweater, brushing up against his sides. And he won’t let out a noise, and he won’t think how this feels, and he won’t think about how desperate his body is for this, because he can’t control this. He’ll ignore the tent in his pants, the way something warm and electric threatens to press against it, how badly he wants to buck his hips into it.

Whatever happens, happens, but it’s got nothing to do with him.

“Oh I don’t know about that, Fordsy,” Bill coos.

Ford’s face is forced down. He struggles to look away, but eyes catch on the golden shape, a perfect equilateral triangle, all hard edges and glowing angles and a deep, static fracture split across his body–

“Do this often, do we?”

Ford gasps, kicks the can, and he feels himself flying backwards.

❖

When he sits up in bed, he makes a solemn swear he is not going to jerk off to that. He’s hard, because of course he is – he’s a freak with a terrible lack of self control. He’s gotten hard when watching particularly nasty car crashes. He’d get institutionalized if he described half of what he got up to during his time through the portal. His libido should honestly be classified as the 8th wonder of the world, with how un-fucking-believable it can be.

There’s a nagging sensation that there’s something wrong, that that wasn’t normal, that he needs to do something – but what is there to do? It was just a dream. A shitty one, of course, but harmless.

…Relatively speaking.

Ford leans back and sighs, taking a deep breath, and his mind conjures up the feeling of being bound in such vivid imagery he chokes on it. The want for soft hands to turn sharp, to puncture deep, pulling slow, cutting open and–

Traitor, he thinks, and shoves his face into a pillow and screams. He can tell from the amount of light in the room that it’s not even midnight, and there’s no way in hell he’s going back to sleep, and he is not jerking off to this nightmare. He is not doing it.

Hopping out of bed, he moves to go use the shared shower to try and cool off. He fails at his earlier proclamation within seconds of hitting the cold water.

❖

He doesn’t sleep for several days, and the boat's repairs are done in record time.

If Stan knows, he does not say anything.

❖

When Ford dreams, it is crashing and overwhelming. He cannot control not being able to control it, and cannot force himself to be passive in observation. He is deep in a need to sleep, to dream as deeply and as vividly as possible. His body is his body, and his mind is his own, and his stomach lurches when what that translates to is a Bill lounging on the grass, flipping through his memories like they are movies on a TV screen.

“Boy howdy, you got some SICK PUPPIES stewing in here!” Bill laughs, lingering on a particularly involved fantasy involving staplers, some granite tiles, and liquids of dubious sources.

Ford groans. He’s stuck between a rock and a hard place, and not in the way he is in the vision Bill is cackling at.

Okay. So correction to previous dismissal of past paranoia. Something was wrong. Something is, currently, very wrong.

There have been many encounters with Bill in his dreams, of course, but he knows who this is. Dream Bill wouldn’t be observing his fantasies – he’d be actively making them happen, probably right now, probably with even more dubious liquids than previously imagined. Ford waves the dreams away, the ones he could have been enjoying right now if not for the unexpected guest, and Bill lets out a huff.

“Gotta say, was hoping for a warmer reception!” He twists his body to look at Ford. “I mean it! Fire, brimstone, catastrophic cock explosion – ANYTHING.”

Ford snorts, crossing his arms and observing the Bill in front of him. “And I wasn’t expecting you to be inside me.”

Bill’s eye quirks into a smile. Ford flushes, catching his flub.

“My mind – inside my– me. Mind. I–” He groans, settling onto the grass and laying on his back, covering his eyes. “Can you please just be dead?”

“No can do, baby. Too busy being tortured!”

“Oh, please. Some mandated group therapy and crafts time isn’t torture.”

“Oh, sure, but not being inside you sure is!”

Ford doesn’t look, but he knows Bill’s waggling his eyebrow. He’s always somehow waggling that goddamn eyebrow.

Ford realizes, maybe a bit too late, that the field of grass is the same one Ford slept in the day he made first contact. The grass pressing into his back feels as dreamy and wistful as it had that day. He swallows back a lump coming up his throat and clenches his eyes shut, willing the sensation to go away.

It doesn’t, because he knows that his want trumps his will, any day.

“Why are you here?”

“You tell me!”

Ford lolls his head to the side, staring at Cipher, laying next to him.

There’s a pang of dread in his stomach. Bill isn’t looking at him. Ford can’t say for sure that he’s looking at anything at all, but he can see he’s different. Tired, maybe, if that’s possible. Distant, despite being next to him. He isn’t actively trying to kill Ford, which tells him something, and his confusion seems genuine.

So, Ford has done something that Bill has no control over. Something that Ford could undo, probably, which makes this treacherous territory for both of them. Though, Bill really should be better at pretending this is his plan, even if it isn’t, which means that may just be part of his plan, whatever that plan is?

Is there a plan? Does a chaos demon plan? If he does, that would explain a lot about Ford’s bodily reactions to him.

Ford blinks, and his eyes burn. He is running off of zero hours of sleep, and can feel it in how his breaths come out slow and shuddery. He will not be waking up rested from this.

“I brought you here,” Ford says, rolling his head back to look up at the stars.

“More like dragged me here. Painfully!”

“They don’t know about this.” Ford fights back the urge to think too deeply about the Axolotl, fearful it would draw unwanted attention to his mind.

“Hey, as far as they’re concerned, I’m enjoying a nice long bath in an infinite void for the next few non-existent centuries!” Bill laughs. “You know, because they ripped time away!”

This all tracks. This is all well within Ford’s wheelhouse. It was just an emotional response to a wet dream gone particularly intense, so much so he reached out across time and space to split a creature from one of the most tightly guarded secrets of reality, ripping him back just to have something to hold in the aftermath. Emotions are powerful. Ford’s emotions are particularly powerful.

If that’s the case, then the solution here is simple: shut him back out. Send him back to the hole he is rotting in. Muster up every bit of anger, and fear, and hatred he has within his body and rip apart whatever connection he has made here.

Let his mind be empty. Let his dreams come in stuttering, painful breaths.

He reaches out to the cord that is bound to Bill, that is pulled taught, keeping him here. He can see it’s tethering him to this space and easily broken. Ford strums it, not hearing it, but feeling the air around it warp. Bill shivers, visibly, and the sight makes something shoot through Ford’s body. Makes every hair on his neck stand on edge; makes his throat go dry from want, and need.

Bill is smiling at him, every smug ounce of his soul dripping from it. If Ford was going to send him back, he would have done it by now.

“So, Daisy,” Bill says. “Wanna make a deal?”

Ford swallows. He’s 60, not dead. He can indulge.

Probably.

…Maybe.

He winds up to kick the can, and when he swings, he realizes it's in his hands, with a label that reads ‘King Deluxe Mixed Nuts - 6oz.’

❖

Chapter Text

Stanford is sitting on his knees, head in hands, not particularly focused on any one thought drifting through his head. The soil is soft, and he can feel the moisture of the grass begin to seep through his jeans. The night air is warm. It reminds him of Summer, even though he knows they are well into Fall in the waking world.

He hesitates to take a peek through his fingers. He gives in to curiosity; head lowered, his eyes drift up to correct for the angle.

Bill is still there.

They really are having this conversation. Still. And Stanford has allowed this. Good. Excellent. Wonderful.

He sighs again and doubles down on his ‘holding his head in deep shame and despair’ efforts.

“Look, kid, if you’re not interested–”

“That’s not–” Ford stops, sucks in his lips. “Stop calling me kid.”

“Kid. Kiddo. Baby–”

“Bill.”

“–Babygirl. Daddy’s big boy. Son. Bucko–”

“Bill.”

“Sport?”

Ford has dropped his hands, and he and Bill are now making direct eye-contact. Bill’s expression is flat, but Ford can tell there’s some amusement there. Despite everything, Bill remains easy to read, impossible to understand.

“We can keep beating around the bush, OR you can let me back into THAT bush,” Bill says, pointing a finger directly at Stanford’s crotch.

That forces another deep groan out of Stanford and sends him back into head-in-hands mode, where he intends to stay for the rest of the night, ignoring the heat building in the base of his neck. He’s not sure he can do this.

At the same time, he’s fairly certain he doesn’t have much choice in the matter.

“I’m not making a deal,” Ford says, then pauses. He can feel the air shift to disappointment – another wonderful trait of Bill’s. “I would be open to an… arrangement.”

And at that, the world shifts. Suddenly, he is sitting on a couch. The shock of the change is enough to bring his hands back down, eyes adjusting to the scene. They are now sitting in his old parlor back in Gravity Falls, fireplace lit, open bottle of champagne on the table. Bill is smiling, if not for Ford’s indulgence in the conversation, then for the pure joy of being able to play around in the mindscape again.

The deep fracture sparks, and Ford has a hard time looking away from the red blotch in the lower left corner of Bill’s eye. It’s likely this is the first time he’s gotten to play in a mind like this since going in for… medical assistance.

Ford swallows.

“An arrangement, huh?” Bill says, lounging on the couch, sipping at the brain bubblies. “Gonna be honest, more a fan of spiritually binding, loop-hole-ridden, life-destroying contracts.”

“An agreement, then. It needs to be something either one of us can pull out of at any time.”

Bill hums, smile spreading wider. His triangle shape looks positively nestled in the couch at this point, legs threatening to spread out across Ford’s lap. Stanford scooches away a bit to avoid the contact, ignoring the small part of his mind pleading for him to do otherwise.

“Oh, I can pull out, alright–”

Ford laughs, despite himself, and cuts it off with a pained expression. Stupid jokes. Hates how cheesy he can be. Was it always this bad?

Oh yeah, he can feel his younger self say.

And we liked that?

Ooooh yeah.

Ford sighs. Reaches out for his glass, ponders the bubbles, and looks over at Bill.

“Just sex?” He’s not even going to bother asking if there are any ulterior motives. There obviously are. There’s no universe in which Bill is not going to try and angle this as a way to escape. He knows it’s that old arrogance of his that’s making him think he can manage this, that this won’t somehow blow up out of control. But for now, the thread binding Bill here is so fragile. It could be broken at any moment. So, theoretically, he should have all the leverage here. He just can’t rely on that being the case.

“Yup!” Bill sits up, tossing back the rest of his drink and eating the glass. “Just pure, nasty, filthy sex. No strings attached! Well, except one.”

He strums at the only thing tying him here to Ford’s mind and gives a shuddering laugh at the sensation. Ford cannot fight back the rolling burn that bubbles up behind his ears at the sight. He wants Bill to make that laugh again – breathy, disoriented.

Ford sips at his glass, not looking away.

“And what do you get out of this?”

A pause as Bill looks at him. Then, he smiles, floating up to Ford, drawing their bodies closer and closer together. Ford can feel the thrum of his energy, as best he can remember it being the few times they were in person, and, oh, fuck, are those memories burned into his mind. He almost touches him, and it takes a surprising amount of willpower for Ford to pull back, to keep that distance, to not reach out like that small, young version of himself might have.

He tries to pull on the darkest memories – the torture, the trying to destroy his dimension, the trying to kill his family. That almost works, almost grounds Ford, but Bill is very, very close and – well, maybe the torture maybe wasn’t the best image to bring up given the several nights he’d used that as midnight company.

“Whadd’ya think I get, Stanford?” Bill asks, tilting his expression. “You really think I didn’t enjoy seeing all those different ways you’d debase yourself for me?”

And that does… something. For Stanford. Physically. Mentally, too, actually, now that he’s adjusting to the blood rushing through him, and, good lord, he’s fairly concerned how quickly he’s relapsing right now. Blood lust and regular lust are not seeming like that different of concepts right now.

Ford coughs. “Well, Bill, if my debasement is what you’re looking for out of this agreement, then you will be sorely disappointed.”

Bill laughs, kicking off the couch back and floating towards the fire. “FINE! You GOT me! I’m BORED, Sixer! That’s what I get out of it! You think arts and crafts time is gonna cut it? I may steal the show every talent night, but I used to steal GALAXIES. Destroyed ‘em, too!”

“Well, not sure that fucking an old man can quite live up to that.” Ford snorts, taking another sip of his drink.

“You sure used to think it did.”

Ford’s head snaps up, his gaze connecting with Bill. He is illuminated from the fire from behind, golden glow mixing with yellow. His expression is hard to read, the light producing a deep shadow across the volume of his shape. All hard edges, sharp angles. Sixty degrees, in threes, and it feels so terribly nostalgic. It also feels like every one of his worst nightmares, and it also feels like he’s back in the penthouse suite, the apocalypse raging around them.

He wonders, briefly, why Bill couldn’t have been like this then.

Ford wonders why Bill’s being like this now.

Stanford knows he’s being taken advantage of. It doesn’t really matter. He wants to take advantage of Bill, too. Mutually assured destruction. Either of them could bow out. Just pure, animal desires, taken out on what may as well be a blow-up sex-doll they’ve created of each other. No emotions. Just a breather from life, a quick game of chess, a brief moment to pretend.

Take a seat, have a drink, and try to ignore the inferno roaring around you. If only for a moment.

Ford sighs, finishing his drink and eating the glass. For him, it is candy and does not cut him up from the inside. This is his mind, and he can will what he wants into existence.

“Fine. Just sex. I tell you what we’re doing, you tell me if you’re on board or not.” Ford leans in his chair, looking over Bill, who is floating back to the couch again. “We both need to consent. No stupid tricks. The minute you cross a line, you’re out of here. Agreed?”

“Sure, pal. Agreed.” Bill reaches out a hand to shake on it.

That was way too easy. That makes Ford’s stomach lurch with dread. This is not a deal, Ford reminds himself, and there are no blue flames, but the image is enough to make Ford shuffle in his seat, clenching and unclenching his fists. He settles on keeping his hand clenched and placing that within the palm of Bill’s hand.

Bill blinks, processing the gesture, and looks honestly confused. Whatever embarrassment Ford might have felt at the gesture is washed away by the joy of doing something even Bill finds baffling. Ford forces a tepid shake between the two limbs before pulling away.

He ignores the way his skin tingles from the static Bill’s touch has left behind.

“Welp!” Bill claps his hands together twice, flames flaring with the soundwaves. “Let’s get this sick show on the road! What kind of pervert nightmares are you wanting to get subjected to? We doing our best hits, or, oh – maybe you wanna give me a lil tour of all the nasty alien BONING you got up to while RUNNING for your life?”

Ford blinks.

He honestly has no clue.

It’s been 30 years of– ok, well, no, that’s a lie for the family. It’s been 3 years since they last did anything; Weirdmageddon was weird and a bit of a blur of a bunch of different sensations. And there were the occasional hookups before getting the metal plate installed. So, it’s certainly been 30 years since he’s fucked a triangle without having anger and total touch starvation being the primary motivator. It’s been 30 years since he’s ever consciously made the decision to say, hey, Bill Cipher – wanna fuck?

It seems like it always just happened. Never had to ask. Always just something he had done to him. Always something to regret after the fact.

Ford steals a nervous glance, realizing he really did like just having it done to him. Maybe he could ask for that again, but truthfully, that’s a terrifying thought because Bill can’t just know what he wants anymore. Can’t do that wonderful thing of just grabbing him, forcing him, letting him play out that fantasy of just being taken. Ignoring the 30-years of hate sex, where boundaries weren’t really top of Ford’s mind, maybe the whole ‘getting hurt’ was part of the appeal.

Not that getting hurt isn’t still part of the appeal. Ford has several self-imposed scars and burns that would dispute that argument.

But he’s no longer a 30 year old boy with more of a chip than a shoulder, and he really can’t draw on the same well of hatred that propelled him through alien dimensions and traumatizing isolation. It isn’t that he doesn’t hate Bill – he does – but he also doesn’t particularly care that he hates Bill as much as he hates the way it feels to be around Bill.

What does he want?

There are a lot of intense, burning desires he has right now. Tentacles, anal fisting, asphyxiation – there’s a very, very, very long list of things Stanford’s body would love to have done to it at the moment.

It’s just, the thought of actually doing it makes his throat tighten and his heart beat increase. It feels like panic. It’s probably panic.

“I don’t know,” Ford manages to squeak out

Bill barks out a laugh. And then he stops and looks at Stanford’s face.

And then, he deflates.

Oh.

Oh, he doesn’t know either.

❖

Ford takes to the day in a daze. He credits this to waking up at 3 PM, and Stan seems to buy that, since he refuses to let his brother anywhere near the ship to work on the repairs today. They’re gonna go out for a walk, do some sight-seeing, get some dinner, then go to sleep at a human hour for once.

Sleep. No, Ford is not particularly looking forward to that concept.

“Stanley.” Ford speaks up while the two brothers are walking through a busy market. “Do you ever feel like you keep making the same mistakes in life?”

Stan, holding up several bags of hard-haggled and swindled tchotchkes, laughs. “Every day, bro.”

Ford hums, fussing with the small animal trinket he had bought for the kids as a souvenir when they return to Gravity Falls for the summer.

“Why?” Stan asks, looking over at Ford. “Do anything especially stupid lately?”

“Maybe. Not yet.”

Stan doesn’t say anything at first, just looks at his brother, then he reaches his arm out and slaps Ford on the back, pulling him in for an awkward half hug as they make their way down the crowded streets. “Well, it’s never too late to stop.”

Some logical part of Ford knows that is true and is comforted by his brother's faith in him.

Another more cynical part knows that he couldn’t stop even if he wanted to.

❖

When he sleeps, he dreams – consciously dreams. He makes sure they are just dreams, just images of events and experiences. He lets them wash over him, lets them happen to him, lets them just be what they need to be at that moment. If his dreams stay chaotic, noisy, moving, he can sleep and have it just be sleep. No unwanted visitors. No unnecessary conversations. None of that messy nonsense he really shouldn’t be engaging in.

So, he is tying his shoelaces, but they keep undoing themselves before he can double knot them. They’re a bit slimy, too, and Ford realizes someone’s replaced them with chewed-on gummy worms.

And he is at high school prom, but everyone is ten feet tall except him. This isn’t actually a problem – it’s pretty great, honestly, and he’s getting several cheery laughs every time he asks how the weather is up there.

He is singing karaoke, and his thoughts feel thick and warm. There is a drink in one hand, a friend in the other.

And he is on the bar table, getting fucked by that friend in a way he didn’t think was physically possible–

Ford lurches at that, clenching his eyes, and sighs.

“Really, Bill?”

He pops into existence. “What?”

The both of them stand next to the scene; Ford chooses to render several censor bars over what would otherwise be a distracting number of limbs, fingers, holes, and liquids.

“Just thought I’d set the mood! It’s like home reno, you know?” Bill frames the scene with his fingers as though planning a photo. “Gotta have a mood board! But for penis!”

“But for penis?” Ford mutters back, mostly to the air. He shakes his head, taking another look back at the scene. Boy, his past self looked… way, way too excited about what was happening. There’s something gratifying about knowing everything wrong with him now was a then thing, too. It also has a special way of making Ford feel particularly doomed, given what was about to happen next.

Before he can become tempted to undo the censoring and restart the scene, Ford wipes the slate clean, and they are now back in the grassy field, a picnic blanket now laid out for him to sit on without getting grass stains on his pants. He sits down and gestures for Bill to sit as well.

Bill does not. So, this conversation is already starting out well.

“Fordsy, baby, what’s with the delay?” Bill has his hands on his hips, brow furrowed in genuine frustration.

Ford notices the crack seems to have spread across his body, in minor fractures near his eye. He’d ask, but he doesn’t particularly care to hear what nonsense Bill makes up about it.

“Lemme at it, sicko!” Bill says, rubbing his hands together. “Don’t tell me you don’t got a whole list of acid burn-related fantasies you’ve been DYING to whip out?”

“What? I–” Ford pushes his glasses up a bit, clenching his eyes, and sighs deeply. “Bill, I’m not going to just demand you dunk me in acid. That’s– I’m not doing that.”

“You said it, not me!”

That is true. God. Whatever.

“Look, last we spoke–”

“WHY are we speaking NOW?” Bill’s voice raises. “Thought we agreed! Sex! Boinging! The ol FRICKLE FRACKLE! You, me, your cock, and a hydraulic press! What’s the hold-up, pal?”

Ford frowns. It would be very easy to shut him out and kick him back to whatever the Theraprism has going on for him, take Stanley’s advice and just back out now. “I think it would prudent of us to really discuss the nature of our desires–”

“What is it? You just want a sad handjob or something, man?” Bill finally sits next to Ford as he says this, placing a sympathetic hand on his shoulder, voice shifting into something sincerely empathetic. “I can do that. The saddest. I bet you’d really like that.”

“A sad–” Ford clenches his teeth and hands, biting back a scream before looking at Bill directly. “No, Bill, I think I’d like something a little more advanced than that.”

And Bill looks genuinely, genuinely frustrated at that. Ford’s throat dries up. Christ, he really did just throw himself into the deep end with this one – some part of him wants to rise to the challenge, to come out the gate with this most fucked up, most mind-breaking sexual fantasy, the kind that makes even him sob thinking about.

And then another part of him thinks maybe the underpaid local counselor his family forced him to meet had a point about him never building up to things, always disregarding his own safety and comfort. Maybe he just needs to build up to things. Take things slow.

And then another-nother part of him feels red in the face mad that Bill would ever imply that just a simple handjob would be enough to get him off. That he’s that much of a virgin loser. That part ultimately wins out. “I’m 60, Bill. Not a god damn eunuch.”

Bill laughs and floats to face Ford. “Coulda fooled me!”

And before Ford can speak up, before he can make another biting remark, Bill has stretched an arm out, putting his hand directly on Stanford’s crotch, cradling his cock through the jeans fabric.

“This doing anything for ya, big boy?” Bill says, face smug.

Ford sighs, looking down at the scene below him.

It, unfortunately, absolutely does do something for him.

When Bill takes the opportunity to run a finger along the length of his member, this only reinforces this embarrassing fact and forces a sharp breath out of his lungs.

Bill clicks his tongue condescendingly. “Oh boy, you really are desperate, aren’t you?”

Ford grabs Bill’s arm and pulls it away, reaching forward to grip the thin thread coming out of Bill’s body. He leans in, close, voice coming out as a low rumble. “Careful,” he threatens.

Bill’s body does that wonderful shiver it does, and his voice comes out as a breathy laugh. That does something for the both of them, then; Ford feels his cock twitch, his body growing hot at the implication of it all. There is control here. There is fear, mutually. He can most definitely work with that.

Ford lets go. He doesn’t really mind that Bill plays with boundaries, that he dances on a razor's edge, just so long as he knows he’s the collared dog in this situation, and, oh – fuck.

Probably shouldn’t have thought of collars.

Ford sucks in his lips, bending in on himself, desire shooting hot down his body as he pictures the sensation of binding, neck constrained, held in place and choking on the pressure–

“That’s a nice thought,” Bill says.

Ford looks up and around and realizes the image is there, projected in the sky like they’re at the goddamn IMAX. Embarrassment burns his cheeks as he sees the movies play out, some combination of memory and imagination. Either way, he’s on his knees, he’s naked, he’s under a heel, he’s getting fucked through his clothes – all with his neck held in place, made to heel, made to be good–

Fuck, he wants to be good.

And then Bill’s hands are threading through his hair, but Ford isn’t looking at him, can’t look at him, some part of him terrified he might do something stupid like cum in his jeans like the 16 year old kid he feels like right now. He might actually just kill himself if he does that, bite his own tongue off and choke on the blood, and fuck – that image appears too. Somehow he’s naked in that one, somehow he’s made that a sex thing too.

Bill cracks up at that. “Jeez, man, you really are desperate for somma THIS GUY.”

Ford doesn’t have to look to know Bill is pointing at himself with two thumbs. Ford can’t really muster any sort of reaction. His mind feels hazy. God, he’s turned on. He wants this. Wants it in a way he hadn’t even realized before. This is dangerous – this is fucking dangerous – and Bill’s hands are grabbing his hair. There are so many wonderful hands, and they yank–

Ford lets out a moan, deep and guttural. He wants this, he wants this, he wants this –

“Hey, you know the agreement,” Bill says, pausing.

He has to tell Bill what he wants.

He has to ask for it.

Bill has to agree.

Fucking... actual goddamn informed consent. Or some bastardized version of it he learned from some underpaid staff worker. What a stupid idea past Stanford had. What an absolutely braindead, useless, pitiful, dumb idea – fucking… fine, he’ll pick something, anything. Consent is stupid. Asking and waiting for an answer is stupid– fuck, why did he ever agree to those stupid counseling sessions–

“Fine. Just a handjob,” Ford says. That should be fine – start off slow. It doesn’t make him a loser to set some boundaries, build up to things. Nothing embarrassing about that. Just keep it simple, easy, and–

“BOOOORING,” Bill sings.

Ford feels the fingers pull away and it burns. He can’t help but whip his head around, eyes blazing with anger, something he knows looks like him throwing a tantrum but, goddammit, Cipher, this was such a stupid idea. What a terrible agreement. What a terrible decision this all had been. His mind has a thousand complaints that all just boil down to his cock begging for contact, begging to be grabbed, to have something hot and wet wrap around it and–

And now Bill is sticking out his tongue, just a little bit, and Ford has to bury his head in his hands to not scream.

He could just grab Bill now and make him fuck him. He does have all the control here, and that thought makes the friction in his pants all the more agonizing. Oh, lord, he could make that mouth do something other than yap for a change. He could force his cock down Bill’s throat, force that tongue to lick, could feel Bill’s teeth scrape against it, and– his head burns at that vague realization that he’s– uh… never actually been brave enough to ask for that.

Or stupid enough. He doesn’t know. Fuck. Fine. Whatever. He doesn’t need Bill. Never should have even asked for him.

Ford looks up, peeking through his fingers. Bill is thrumming, getting slightly brighter like he always does when he’s enjoying himself. So, he’s having fun with this, of course. He’s enjoying mocking Ford, playing with him, acting like he’s a neutral third party to this. Ford’s always just taken Bill at his word when he says he gets nothing out of sex, his body’s not really made for it – except Ford knows he’s not the only person Bill’s ever had sex with; the demon’s lived for a trillion years, and Ford’s met with Bloody Mary for brunch.

Not that he particularly likes to think about all the other partners Bill’s had. That’s fine, though – it’s… that’s fine. Ford’s not that same kid from 30 years ago who would have been sent into a jealous spiral at the suggestion Bill even talked to other people. He can certainly handle it now, he doesn’t care, he…

Actually, you know what, no – fuck Bill for having had other partners. He hates that Bill’s had other partners. Hates it in a way that he can’t hardly process, head foggy from an awful blend of heat and arousal.

“Then watch,” Ford spits out, snapping his fingers and twisting the scene. He is back on the couch, back in the parlor, or maybe it’s the penthouse – who cares, it doesn’t matter. Something is burning, and it feels amazing. Ford sits, and Bill is watching from the floor –and, boy, is he watching. The sight of him below, with no choice but to stay, makes something thick pool inside Ford, makes his hips cant forward just a little.

There is something very funny about going through this whole ridiculous process to essentially just jerk himself off, but whatever. He’s going to make Bill want to give him a sad handjob whether he fucking likes it or not. That, or he’s just going to cum in three minutes and call it a night. Ford likes either outcome.

He slips his hand under his sweater and closes his eyes. Maybe he gets off to this, maybe he doesn’t. He just wants to make Bill feel something other than in control. His fingers brush up against his stomach, and he shudders, the hitch in his breath sincere. He wants this to be Bill. He wants it in a way that hurts. He holds that thought close, moving past and digging his fingers in.

He makes sure his sweater is lifted up far enough so Bill can see his tummy poke through, makes sure he can see the way it twitches, can see the way his six fingers run through his happy trail as he reveals more and more skin. He knows Bill likes his fingers. He lets each one drive the show as Ford presses them into his ribcage, along the ridge where it presses into this sternum. He feels his thumb brush along the ridge of a scar, a small triangle, nestled in the space where fleshy organs join with hard bone.

He stabs into it, just a bit, letting the sensitive skin sting. Ford takes in a sharp breath and holds it. There is a sensation of static in the air, and Ford laughs – Bill definitely liked that – then lets out a breathy sigh. That one’s just for show.

Well, this whole thing is for show, but whatever.

He lifts the sweater further, taking the path that hints at the most of his markings, revealing the history of his body, the different ways he cut and marked himself in the past – for him. His brain hiccups on that thought. He lets his thumb brush against his nipple, gentle, and feels the way his body shivers at that. He could hold back the gentle gasp, but he thinks about the way Bill’s eye must be trained on him and the embarrassment makes his skull feel like static. His hips buck a bit at that, and he pushes his thumb in hard.

He needs more. This is too much. He can’t tell if this is working, can’t tell if Bill cares, if Bill wants this, if he wants this, please want this. Maybe he’s making himself look like a fool in front of him, like an idiot – and the shame is so fucking wonderful. Shit. Shit, shit, shit, he must look like such an idiot, such a little whore right now. Maybe the heat in the room is just him. Maybe he’s the only one who wants this, and he wants this, he wants this –

He lets his hand brush his cock, and it’s fine. It’s not much of anything, honestly, but he’s putting on a show, so he lets his head rest on his chest, opens his eyes, and grins.

“Bill,” Ford moans, with every bit of mocking disdain he can manage.

And it takes Ford’s mind a moment to process what it’s seeing, to realize that Bill has had several hands out, all waiting to touch, to grab, to feel. The visual of everything he could do, everything Ford wants him to do– please just fucking do it, don’t make me say it, you know what I want, you stupid son of a–

“Just a handjob, huh, Sixer?” Bill asks.

Fuck, no.

“Yes,” Ford responds.

Ford feels Bill’s arm slide onto him. Hands palm at his crotch, contact muffled by the fabric of his pants, lace through his hair, pulling on his curls – it’s not enough, but Bill is touching him, pushing up against his cock, undoing his pants and pulling his clothes away just enough to free his ass, allowing small beads precum to slip down his shaft, and it’s something, but it’s not enough, it’s not–

And he wants, he fucking wants, and Bill is touching him again, and fuck–

Fuck, it’s not enough.

Bill is stroking him, slow and hard, the way Ford’s always liked it, and it’s not enough. And he’s watching Ford, and he knows, but Ford can see Bill’s dissatisfaction too, his own desperate need for more. He can feel it in the way his fingers pull against him, the way in which he can’t quite commit to doing any other thing than just a methodical up and down stroke.

They’ve both really decided to make ‘boundaries’ into yet another stupid game of chess, haven’t they?

The thought makes Ford want to laugh, but instead he moans, and he lets Bill help him finish.

It feels good. It’s fine. It’s what he asked for. It leaves him wanting in ways that remind him of his first few tries at this in high school with whoever was willing, and that’s fine. The problem is now there is the aftermath, because he has just shot cum onto Bill Ciphers body. A thing he has done before, for sure, but at this point in his life he dreads how he knows his body always reacts to that sight.

Bill laughs. “Disgusting as ever!” he chirps, letting go of Ford’s penis, which is flaccid.

Then the cum begins to drip down the triangle’s body, which is such a stupidly cartoonish visual, slipping between the cracks, filling in the little spaces. It shouldn’t get to him like it does, but Ford has to close his eyes when he feels his body react in such pathetic little ways to that. It should be weird, and it should be funny; like crusting Mickey Mouse in your sperm.

Ford snorts. Okay, so, he finds it funny as well. Whatever.

“Sorry for the mess,” Ford snarks, sitting up, rubbing his hands against his eyes. He’s going to need some sleep to recover from this sleeping.

“Wanna see me lick it off?”

Yes, Ford’s eyes shoot up, and he just barely catches his body from doing the same, fuck yes.

“No.” Ford frowns, relaxing back into the couch as he wills a tissue box into existence. He begins the process of cleaning his own dream self off, pulling his pants up, and trying his best to emulate a person relaxing in a chair. The emulation is greatly hurt by how much he cannot look away. “Don’t be disgusting.”

Bill makes a soft, low laugh, not breaking eye contact with him.

Bill swipes some of the liquid onto his finger. Ford feels his head swim, his body growing warm, regretting pulling his pants up already.

Bill lifts it to his eye. Ford swallows, clenches at the couch again. He’s realizing maybe his plan to just white knuckle it through this encounter might be the death of him.

And Bill flicks out his tongue. Threatens to taste. Ford thinks some very, very horrific things about Bill's tongue.

Raises closer, and closer, and closer, and Ford–

❖

–snaps awake in bed, his body is a sweating mess, and he has the sense he just avoided getting hit by oncoming traffic. Or going for round two of getting hit by oncoming traffic – whichever metaphor holds up better. Pulling the ripcord like that might feel like admitting defeat to a smaller man.

Fortunately, Ford is an average-sized man.

He’s still hard, which is a great indication of how that whole lame scenario went. He takes to the shower to finish the job and wash away the evidence, and it feels terrible. Just an awful, no good, solo jerk-off session in the shower. Alone, hot, needy, and feeling stupid in a way he hasn’t felt in a long, long time.

Ford cums, and he sighs, and he cleans his hair, and then his body, and he swears he hears a voice in his head laughing as he gets ready to face the rest of his day.

❖

❖

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