Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Stanley, you cannot be serious.”

Yeah, this is about how he expected this conversation to go. “I’m just saying, it’d be a whole lot easier to keep an eye on him if you didn’t have to worry about him running off into the woods. Or crawling underneath the house again- you were just complaining about hearing him crawl around above the lab.”

Ford threw his hands up in a display that, by all accounts, was probably fair. “That doesn’t mean I want him in the house! Who knows what he’ll do in here!” Ford had begun to pace- a bad sign on an already rapidly descending talk. “It’s a ploy, I know it is- and you’re falling right for it! It’s what he does every time, the bastard-“

“Ford, hey, hey. Listen.” Attempting to reign Ford back in, he laid a hand on his shoulder, a firm but unthreatening grip. “I’m not saying he isn’t up to something. Hell, I don’t know if he is or not, you know him best- but we can’t find out when he’s crammed under the floorboards.” Though he was fairly confident, in the latter option, the sentiment seemed to settle his brother slightly.

“He hasn’t done anything yet, but he seems pretty… human, for lack of a better word.” He cringed at the phrasing, flashes of distinctly nonhuman features glancing across his mind. Still, he continued- finally getting to what had been nagging at him.

“I don’t know if he knows how to be one, though.”

It was Ford’s turn to take interest now, turning to face Stan. “What do you mean?”

Taking his hand off Ford’s shoulder, he waved vaguely. “I mean, have you looked the guy? I don’t think I’ve even seen him attempt to take care of himself. He barely eats as is, and I don’t know if it’s even about food scarcity,” A discomfort lodged itself into the back of his head as he spoke. He knew all too well what all that felt like, but on the other hand, it meant he knew what to look for.

Something about Bill’s behavior had been off to him this whole time, and he was only now picking up why: he didn’t know what to do with a real body.

Despite having inhabited plenty of bodies before, he visibly didn’t have much of a handle on his own. He stumbled and crawled like an animal, hardly ever speaking up past panicked hissing and yelling- most likely only eating because he knew he had to, having watched people, rather than a basic instinct. Not to mention that he seemed nothing short of terrified interacting with anyone.

Stan knew all too well he wasn’t going to survive like this, scarcely human in a world that demanded it. Even he still had the same sharp tongue and manipulative nature, it wouldn’t get him far if he didn’t even know how to pilot the damn body it was attached to.

“I don’t think he gets the whole.. human thing. And I don’t think we’re gonna be able to get rid of him when he’s like that- it’s a death sentence if anything.” Rubbing the back of his neck, he grimaced. “As much I wanna just pawn him off, until he actually can- y’know, be a person, he’s gonna be stuck here.”

As expected, this didn’t make Ford any less tense, as he rubbed his arm in a self-soothing motion, nails digging into the fabric of his sweater.

“But!” He forced a showman’s grin, as if selling an overpriced bobblehead to some gullible tourist, “The sooner we get him in, the sooner we get him out. If anything, you can run a couple tests, and send him right back out if it turns out he isn’t gonna be a problem. I’ll even ship him off for us- he won’t be a pain in our ass if he’s in, like.. some back-alley town in Michigan. Problem solved.”

Ford’s face scrunched; brows knit in frustration. “And what if he is up to something? What- what if he’s waiting for this, waiting for an opportunity to strike when we have our guard down. What if he tries to hurt the kids, or you, or-“ He rambled, hands reaching to tangle in his grey hair. Stan made quick work of stopping him, lest he yank it all off out of stress. Holding his brother’s hands with careful reassurance, he spoke.

“Six, I’m not gonna drop my guard around this guy, and I know you won’t for sure. If he tries a single damn thing, I’m putting him six feet under, no questions asked.” That, he meant with his entire chest. And with Bill’s frail, starved build, he had a feeling it wouldn’t be difficult. “But we can’t know until we try to find out. Do you really want him living under our porch forever? At least if we find out what his deal is we can figure out how to deal with him.”

Folding his arms, Ford sighed. Discomfort tugged at Stan’s insides, having to upset his brother like this, but God knows they wouldn’t get a single thing done if they kept letting him live out there. Something needed to give.

“I… suppose, if we knew exactly where he was, he’d be less of a threat. But if he’s coming in here, we’re keeping him under lock and key. I’m not risking anything.” He drummed away on his arm; a frown still set on his face.

Releasing him with a pat on his shoulder, Stan stepped back. “Oh, hell no. We’ll do whatever we need to keep him out of trouble. Like I said, six feet under.” With that, he saw some of the tension fade out of Ford’s posture. “So, you’re good with going through with this?” He asked- making sure was key here, he wasn’t going to deal with any other blowout arguments if he could help it.

“Give me some time. I’d.. like to speak with the children first, if you haven’t already. I just don’t want them getting hurt.” His gaze averted, adjusting his glasses.

Shit, the kids. He’d have to get them on board too. “Right. Yeah.”

As Ford settled back down at his desk, Stan gave a weak wave, turning to head to the elevator- a murmured “I’ll leave ya to it then,” leaving him on his way. Ideas sluggishly began to pile up in his head, attempts at how to phrase the whole shebang again to children, when he noticed the intercom by the elevator.

It’d been a pretty nifty way to get ahold of Ford since they’d installed it, but lately it had been on the fritz- Ford, of course, blamed Bill for the newly sticking buttons and interference. The only real issue it’d been having was staying turned on when it shouldn’t be.

Judging by the faint red glow of the light next to the speaking button, he could assume that the problem hadn’t been fixed yet.

“Hey Poindexter, you didn’t happen to have turned off the intercom before we started talking, did you?”

And by the way Ford whipped around like he’d heard a gunshot; he could also assume that whoever was nearby had heard their entire exchange. He pinched the space between his eyebrows and heaved a sigh. “You might not need to have that conversation after all,” He grumbled. Time to find out just how much of the household had decided to eavesdrop on his and Ford’s talk.

Stepping into the elevator, he leaned against the back wall, briefly shutting his eyes as he prepared for the second difficult conversation of the day. Joy. The rumbling against his skull was sure to give him a headache, but that didn’t mean much when he was sure to get one from just getting out of the elevator.

The telltale bing of the lift reaching its destination sounded, and he opened his eyes just in time to watch the doors open, welcoming him to the sight of Dipper with his arms crossed, an unimpressed look planted firm on his features. Mabel stood but a foot behind him, cheeks puffed indignantly.

Stepping out, he rubbed the back of his neck. “Gonna take a guess and say you were listening in?”

“Grunkle Stan, seriously? Bill?” Dipper piped up first, fingers digging into the sleeves of his flannel. “You’re just gonna give up that easy? This guy turned the town inside out and you’re just gonna let him in?” His voice was beginning to raise, agitation overflowing in his words.

“Look kid, I said this to Ford, and I’ll tell ya again- I’m not gonna let him hurt anyone in this house. Period. Not you two, not Ford, no one.” At this, Dipper tapped his foot angrily, eyebrows scrunched in frustration. God, he looked so much like Ford sometimes it made his head spin. “If I thought he could, he’d already be gone.”

Mabel, not one to stay out of a conversation, stepped forward. “How are we even gonna do that in the first place? He doesn’t even want to be in here. And we all like it better that way, anyhow. Can’t we just… I dunno, set some live trap and release him out into the woods?”

“Doesn’t have to be live.” Dipper jumped in, and got a quick elbow to the ribs from his sister.

“Dip, be reasonable- we can’t kill a guy in our first summer living here. We can at least get one under our belt before that.” She explained, causing Dipper in turn to sigh and nod with a mumbled “yeah, you’re right,” fully conceding as if it was the world’s most common knowledge.

These sure were his kids, huh.

“I can think something up. Bottom line is that your sister is right- we’re basically gonna be doing a whole catch and release thing anyways, just with a couple more steps to.. y’know, make sure he doesn’t start the apocalypse business up again somewhere else.” Closing up the elevator gate, he fluffed the two’s hair. “Besides, if he does try to pull something, you guys can get a turn in beating him into the dirt.”

They exchanged a look, the ever-recognizable stare of silent twin conversation, before looking back up at him. “I’m not convinced, but…”

He knew that tone of voice all too well. Fine, if that’s what it took. “Twenty bucks to both of you if he tries something. How’s that?” Folding his arms, he leaned against the doorway as Dipper shot back at him.

Dipper mimicked his pose. “Forty. It’s a demon in our house.”

“Twenty-five. Two of the people in this house let him in at least once, I’m not letting that one get held above me.” A low blow, but true nonetheless.

“Thirty-five. I still claim insurance on the bubble thing.” Mabel chimed in, a grin now forming on her face.

“Not what that means, but I like your moxie. Deal.” Extending his hands, he let each give a handshake, before trapping them in headlocks for noogies. Both yelled and shrieked in surprise, before breaking into laughter as they tried to escape. But after a moment’s mandatory torture, he freed them and gave them gentle shoves down the hall. “Alright, quit botherin’ me and go find something more interesting to do than listen to old guys talk.”

With that, the twins eagerly ran off into the shack, off to do who knows what. Following suit, he went off to his office for an attempt at taking his mind off the whole situation. That, and he’d promised he’d finally show Soos how to code the old safe in there, considering if you so much as looked at it wrong it’d lock you out for the rest of the week.

Finally, the evening rolled around, and despite the worst part of the day so far going… shockingly well, he still felt like a crushed soda can. Maybe it was a symptom of all those stupid emotions everyone yammers about, who knows. Either way, he needed to unwind.

So, to remedy the feeling, he fished a fresh soda out of the fridge, along with one of the little snack packets the kids had insisted he buy when they came back for good this year. He’d called it Grunkle tax for the two now being permanent contributors to the grocery list, and that hadn’t changed a bit. Though, he couldn’t say he minded.

Reminiscing aside, he took his spoils and headed out to the back porch for some much-needed relaxation.

As he approached, he only now took notice of the torrential rain that had begun beating against the shack’s old walls, the cool grey of the evening sky peeking through its triangular windows. Pushing open the door, the noise boosted to tenfold, sounding exactly like one of the noise makers Dipper kept in their room. It’d thankfully cooled down some of the raging summer heat, making the temperature exactly right to settle into as he sunk himself down onto the sofa.

… And it would’ve been the perfect way to spend his evening, if it wasn’t for the sounds of desperate sifting and shuffling through the trash only a few feet away.

He hadn’t even gotten to pop the tab on his cola before already feeling a mounting unease, left to bear witness to Bill’s rain-soaked search for whatever food had made it into the bins today. A few murmured curses could be heard as he threw emptied wrappers and boxes into a wet pile on the ground, the rain sticking his jumpsuit to his pallor, dirty skin. With a haphazard attempt, he jumped up for better reach- but his poor balance and short stature got the best of him- taking both him and the can down to the ground with a crash.

He winced, grimacing as he watched him hit gravel like a tossed sandbag, before laying still and defeated, hiding underneath the attached lid like a makeshift umbrella. It was almost cinematic, in a pitiful sort of way. Like a dog dying in an alleyway.

The bag crinkled in his hand as he shifted it around in his palm, drawing his attention.

He could always walk in and grab another from the pantry. Just like any other snack or meal in the house. A luxury Bill didn’t possess.

Damn, he was getting soft.

Getting up, he walked over to the railing of the porch- giving a short whistle to grab Bill’s attention. It did so, maybe a little too effectively, as he startled so hard that he slammed his head against the lid, skittering back against the wall. His eyes snapped to Stan, frozen in place.

Raising his hand, he flashed the bag of mini pretzels, showing off a makeshift peace offering and not whatever projectile Bill thought he was going to launch at him. It did the trick, as he locked onto his hand, and watched it get tossed limply over the knocked over can. The packet landed with a soft pap in front of Bill, laying indifferent to its fate on the gravel. Despite its inoffensive appearance, he eyed the snack as if Stan had handed him a bottle of cyanide. Slowly, cautiously, he nudged the packet back towards Stan with his foot, recoiling when it flipped over as if it had caught fire.

“They’re pretzels.” Stan deadpanned.

Even at his comment, Bill’s face scrunched in distaste. A mumbled “Yeah, sure,” escaped him as he huddled towards the bins.

That was… odd. Nevertheless, Stan shrugged, popping his drink open and taking a sip. “Your loss. Those ain’t half bad.” Still, Bill didn’t budge, staring down the snack with starved contempt. Even over the rain, Stan could hear his stomach growl in protest to whatever complex Bill was choosing to uphold.

Rolling his eyes, he leaned against the railing. “Hey, if you ain’t gonna take that, I got somethin’ else for ya. How’s a deal sound?”

That, too, snatched up Bill’s interest. Though it were some sort of sleeper word, he was suddenly all too focused on Stan, his hunched posture and darting eyes betraying his suspicion. “Whaddya want?” He borderline shouted when he spoke, but there was still a slight, present shake in his voice.

“Just for you to pop into the house for a couple days. Ford’s looking to see if you’re really all that, or- well, if you’re not all that, like you said. Think of it as your vacation from the elements.” He took a swig, sliding easily into his salesman persona, “Then you get to go back out and do whatever the hell you want. So long as it’s not around the shack.”

Confusion hit Bill, clear as day. “Vacation- what- what are you playing at?” His limbs curled in toward him, shivering under his clothes.

“You heard me. You haven’t done anything- yet- so, I’m giving you an olive branch, or whatever they call it. I’m thinking probably, ehh, three days?” He tilted his hand in an evening gesture, before waving it off. “Something like that. Long enough for Poindexter to get his shit together.” He’d have to apologize for throwing Ford under the bus, but he could do that later.

However, before he could continue to attempt to sweeten the deal, Bill’s posture went ramrod straight. His eyes widened with a manic gaze, stretched open to show the reddening veins as laughter began to bubble from his mouth. “I- I know your game, Stanley,” he drug out his name, unsettled giggles weaving between the syllables. “What, and I’m just supposed to believe you? That, that I’m just supposed to walk in and be all kumbaya with the rest of you, is that it? You think I’m stupid like that?” He held himself rigid, poised to bolt at any second, never taking his eyes off Stan.

He opened his mouth to answer, confusion muddling what little prepared words he had planned, but Bill didn’t relent.

“I know what you want, I know the moment I cross that threshold it’s gonna be locked doors and- and who knows what torture you set up for me! You just don’t want my body out here, not where the brats can see it- did Brainiac put you up to this, or was killing me once not enough for you?” He snapped, pupils darting to the side in an almost unnoticeable movement- but Stan knew the look all too well to miss it. Sighing, he raised his hands slowly in a placating gesture.

“Listen, Bill. All I want is to get you out from under my house and leave us the hell alone. I don’t know why you picked this place to settle down, or how you even found it, to be honest, but I don’t really care how it happens. Besides, I’m getting too old to do the whole ‘hiding a body’ thing.” Alright, so it was a bit of a lie. Sue him. He just needed to get this over with- and the fact that Bill wasn’t jumping at the opportunity was more confusing than anything. The idea of shelter, food, maybe even clean clothes? He’d have leapt at the chance if he was back in Bill’s place.

“But if you’re gonna fuck off without Ford hunting you down for the rest of your… I dunno, demon days?” He shrugged, “He’s gonna want actual proof that you aren’t gonna do anything. Ya pop in, do a test or two, and pop out. Easy as that. Hell, probably get some bag lunch from Soos while you’re at it.”

Though still obviously being set in survival mode, Bill’s face twisted at Stan’s words. “This isn’t proof enough?” He snipped, “You think I wanted this, being some sewer rat rooting through the trash? This stupid shack wouldn’t even be here if I had come back the way I was before.” A strike of lightening struck in the distance, briefly highlighting the golden eyes that glared at him between wet locks.

Stan grimaced, the familiar sense of annoyance that came along with trying to talk to this nightmare creeping up his spine. “It’s plenty good enough for me, but you know it ain’t gonna be for Ford. You know that better than anyone.”

Any mention of Ford made Bill falter under his poorly stitched together façade, that much he’d noticed. Today wasn’t any different, with how his hands trembled, his mouth stretched into an unsure frown. But blinking away whatever residing feelings had attempted to surface, he took a testing step back.

Stan shrugged, “It can go the easy way or the hard way, Bill. Choice is yours.”

The flicker of an expression passed over his face- too quick to decipher what it truly was- before shaking his head, murmuring newly panicked words below his breath. And with that, he turned heel and darted off into the dark around the side of the house, slipping around on the mud as he went. Stan chose to not call out that he had left empty handed.

Hard way it is, then.