Chapter Text
In Stanford's defense, when Bill Cipher showed up on his doorstep with a child in tow, he had every reason to disregard himself as a potential father despite the clear similarities in their features.
His certainty wasn’t related to any kind of celibacy between the two, of course; oh no, they were quite sexually active during their heyday. Once that dam broke between them, and it broke quite early, Ford ended up servicing his Muse more often than not whenever they were in prolonged contact with each other. They were quite adventurous with their activities as well, and Ford found himself in a number of configurations—Flat on his back, down on his knees, face against the floor… whatever configuration they were in, however adventurous they got, there was always one shared theme; Ford was to receive whatever Bill gave him.
Not the other way around.
Happy as Ford was in this configuration, he couldn’t help fantasizing about the possibility of maybe, one day, with permission, gently, carefully, lovingly, carefully worshipping his muse in a… different way. After all, it seemed to him his worship was incomplete without this final act of devotion! Justification firmly in mind, these thoughts became frequent fantasies, especially whenever Bill was away for a long time.
Sitting in a shrine, surrounded by facsimiles of his Muse, Ford would imagine Bill returning to him in a flash of light. He would imagine Bill beleaguered from the work which keeps him occupied elsewhere with such frequency. Yes, Bill would be tired, though of course he would try to hide it, but Ford would notice, because he notices everything about Bill. He would take Bill’s hand, and assure him that Ford would take care of him this time. First he would kiss him, and if Bill was receptive, if he was tired enough maybe, Ford would take him in both hands and hold him gently, sweetly, firmly... Typically, this is about when he would become so flustered he could no longer pretend he was meditating until he either took a cold shower or...
Well. Or.
Naturally, his fantasies eventually became dreams. And when he was lucky, or perhaps terribly unlucky, those dreams were so vivid he would swear they were real until long after he awoke, which was slightly maddening. But it was nothing he couldn't handle, of course—and it's not like the idea of pinning his muse down being allowed to take the lead when pleasuring his Muse was constantly on his mind. It really was usually just a passing thought, just a fantasy when he needed to relieve himself, just a welcome dream when he was lonely.
Really. He was totally in control.
Still, when his Muse did return, he would guiltily try to hide these thoughts, sensing—or perhaps fearfully assuming—that Bill would disapprove. But enough time passed that Ford eventually assumed he was either successful in hiding these fantasies, or that Bill didn’t care about them.
He was wrong on both accounts.
They were sitting in the mindscape enjoying each others company, as is often the case. The mood eventually turned from casual to sensual—again, as is often the case. But when Bill put his hand on Ford’s chest and began gently coaxing him down, Ford hesitated. It was only a moment’s hesitation, a moment when he questioned Bill’s direction, and that was enough. Bill slips his hand up Ford’s chest to his jaw and holds him lightly. Ford knows this position; maintain eye contact. Don’t look away, not for anything.
“Something on your mind, Sixer?” Bill asked, and his eye flashed suddenly with snapshots of fantasies plucked straight from Ford’s dirtiest dreams. Ford flushed instantly and tensed up, unable to answer. This is it; this is when he finds out if this fantasy of his is acceptable worship, or blasphemy.
“Sixer, Sixer, Sixer!” Bill snickered, and Ford wants to relax at the sound of his Muse’s laugh, but this is not the kind, comforting laugh he usually shares with Ford, like they’re in on a joke. This… feels a lot more like Ford is the joke. Bill wipes at his eye, wet now as his laughter rises. “My sweet, sweet Sixer! I knew you were inexperienced, but... yeesh! Come on, kid. Look at me!” He'd laughed even harder, reaching out with a hand to tip Ford's face up to behold his muse's glorious form, growing in size to demonstrate his point—or perhaps to remind Ford of how very, very small he is. It’s an unnecessary visual demonstration, as the sinking feeling in Ford’s chest is enough to make him feel small as an ant before the sun. And yet his sun emphasizes the point, growing larger, brighter, more dangerous to touch.
Ford wanted to wake up, or die, or crawl out of his skin, but all he could do was look up with an ever-deepening frown he hoped very much didn't look like a 'puffy-cheeked pout' as Bill would sometimes put it.
“But why not?” He'd asked, an embarrassingly petulant whine clearly audible in his voice.
“Because I'm BRICKS, Poindexter!” More laughter. “Go on! Look for a hole, anywhere you like!” Bill keeps his hand on Ford’s jaw and spins a full 360 degrees, somehow without letting go. “You won't find one.”
Perhaps Ford shouldn't have taken the obvious bait, but... well, if Bill was offering, Ford wasn't going to deny the opportunity to examine his muse, even if he was already humiliated enough to die. After all, he was an intelligent man; he’d considered this conundrum before, in great detail.
Great detail.
“What about...?” Ford asks hesitantly, glancing first down Bill's terribly smooth, uniform, hole-less bricks around before returning his attention right back to Bill’s eye.
“Oh, Sixer.” Bill’s voice was still amused, but with a serious note that Ford didn’t miss. “Trust me. If you stick anything in here...” Bill’s eye curved in a grin as teeth pushed at the edges of his eye. “You're not getting it back.”
Ford bit his lip, looking at Bill steadily…
And Bill looked back.
And then he blinked, as they both realized at the same time that Ford was definitely considering it.
“Jeez, Sixer.” Bill laughed, the sound a bit more forced as his teasing tone mellowed. He shrank back down to a more approachable size and sat down on his usual chair. “Dial down the freak a bit, will you? I need you in one piece…” Bill paused, the smile in his eye disappearing as he looked at the unreasonably horny human considering the pros and cons of getting to fuck Bill... once. “Or did you forget?”
Ford looked away, finally chastened. Of course he’s right; there’s nothing more important than the portal—to even humor an idea that would surely lead to serious setbacks is sacrilege.
And that was the end of it. Back to the portal. Business as usual.
For one of them, anyway.
The idea remained; the fantasy of Ford, inside Bill, claiming as he'd been claimed, only grew in complexity, swelled with want, transformed with desire that could only build and build until it was made a reality.
But this time, it wasn't Ford who was plagued by the possibility.
An invitation.
A drink.
A mistake.
Bill knew how to handle mistakes; memories were easy to change, and Ford would wake the next morning with pleasant memories of karaoke and a deep, nameless satisfaction. Bill wasn’t spared either; though he kept his memories, he would need to use some amount of his power to suppress the… physical consequences of his actions. It was the perfect plan, really; no consequences!
Until his power was suddenly stripped, and he was finally forced to face the consequences of one night’s indulgence, nearly thirty years ago.
It was hardly fair. Bill was loathe to ask for Ford’s assistance—he knew the human hated him deeply, and Bill had no desire to face that consequence. But as time went on, as food and shelter got harder to secure, he knew had no other choice. At least, that’s what he told himself—but sometimes, late at night, as he got closer to Ford’s cabin… some part of him felt that Ford, too, should bear some responsibility for that night. It takes two to tango, after all, and Ford hadn’t exactly been an unwilling participant, even if Bill had stolen the memories afterward. In fact, Bill is quite sure he would not have been impregnated if Ford hadn’t insisted on going again and again and again—
Ahem.
Either way, whatever Bill’s thoughts, she found herself on the porch of the Pines’ home, toddler in tow. She bore their scrutiny and accusations with silent acceptance. She was tired, the baby was hungry, and she knew anything she said by way of defense would only fuel their disbelief. She just had to hope that that fickle thing they called ‘empathy’ would swing Bill’s way. For once.
And it… did? Bill was hesitant to enter, especially with the way Ford glared at her; but he had been overruled by the children, and even Stanley had had been swayed—not by Bill’s plight, of course, but that’s alright. If they’re unable to feel for Bill, at least they can feel for her child.
Well, three-fourths of the Pines family does, anyway. Stanford was significantly more resistant. apparently fine with Jonathan starving in the forest if it meant Bill would be barred from entry. Luckily, he was summarily outvoted, and the callousness of his suggestion was enough to convince the others to simply let them stay. Bill is so relieved, he refuses to think about what he would have done if they hadn’t agreed to let them in; instead, she wants to think about how much warmer it is inside.
No reception could have been chilly enough to dampen Bill’s appreciation of the honest-to-God wood-burning fireplace. She wants nothing more than to curl up by it with Jonathan and sleep, but Stanford, of course, has more to say, and refuses to take his eyes off her for even a moment. Bill actually admires the restraint it must have taken him to allow Bill to tuck Jonathan in for the night before grabbing her unceremoniously by the arm and dragging her through the house.
“Stanford—stop, I need to stay close in case Jonathan wakes up—!”
“Enough of that. I’m not letting you make yourself comfortable until I conduct a thorough examination.” Ford let go of Bill’s arm finally to punch in the code to the vending machine.
“...examination?” Bill repeats cautiously, as if he has a choice in the proceedings.
He has to go along with whatever Ford demands now, for Jonathan’s sake… For a moment, he wonders if leaving the Theraprism was a good idea. Ford really has her by the eyelashes on this one, and he knows it. Still, it seems like an oddly minor request considering their history. He’d thought Ford would want to make him beg, or worse—maybe he’d demand to take Johnathan from him and leave Bill to die in the forest alone. It was the kind of thing a hero would do, right? Save the child, defeat the monster? But no such demand came.
“I suspect this whole thing is a massive charade.” Ford finally says, his eyes cold and distant as he turns from the open lab door to look at Bill.
Bill hates that look in his eye; he at least wishes Ford would look at her with fire in his rage, the way he had in the fearamid—Bill at least knows how to handle that. He has no idea how to manage this coldness he feels from Ford, and that alone is enough to stoke fear deep inside his bricks.
“But you've convinced the others, so I have no choice. And of course, it would be immoral to conduct tests on the child—even a simple examination could be damaging, as I am not a licensed pediatrician.”
“What—how can an exam be damaging?” Bill asks and immediately regrets.
“Then you agree to let me examine him?”
“No!” Bill rejects immediately, then clears his throat and says more calmly, “You're... not a licensed pediatrician.” That's what they're going with, apparently.
“Right. But I am Earth's only trained oddologist. So, I'm confident I can reveal your trickery if I immediately implement regular examinations.” Ford steps past Bill and opens the door to his lab.
It’s a strangely gentlemanly gesture; the way he holds it open and waits for Bill to step through. Which is a useless, stupid thought. But Bill's ability to control his thoughts has diminished significantly ever since his powers were effectively muted by the frilly fuckhead. And so, he can't help the way his bricks feel just a little lighter as he's unexpectedly invited back into Ford's inner sanctum.
They have so many memories here. And though Ford would probably deny it, not all of them were bad. Still, this isn't some nostalgic hangout; he ought to to be on his guard, in case Ford is just trying to separate her from the others in order to enact some kind of revenge pla—
Click.
Whirr.
Flash.
Bill cries out in fear and confusion as the world around him suddenly goes from 'big' to WAY TOO FUCKING BIG. He whirls around, betrayal in his eye as he spots the shrink ray that he helped Ford build used against him. Again.
“You bastard—you rat bastard!” He shouts, and jerks backwards as Ford dives forward to grab him.
Horror sprouts in his chest as he thinks of what he could do to him down here; he knows full well how soundproof it is. What was he thinking following him down here?! What, just because he held the door open? Just because he asked him to? He’s so stupid, stupid, stupid—
“What are you planning?” He panics, scurrying backwards frantically, eye trained on Ford's hand as he swipes again. Bill leaps backward, heedless of what lay behind—he knows what’s in front of him, and what’s in front of him is dangerous. “You gonna shrink me down to the size of an atom and say I disappeared?” He prods, but to no avail; Ford remains terribly silent.
Bill needs to get to his feet, he can’t dodge Ford again like this, but in his panic he loses his footing, and falls again; furiously, he backs away from him, away, away—
“You gonna throw me in a hole? Seal me somewhere no one can hear me? What are you—ah!”
Bill screams as he suddenly becomes weightless, and he thinks this is it, Ford caught me and threw me somewhere and I'm going to die and Johnathan is going to be raised by people who hate me and he won't even remember me in a few years and all he'll know is my mistakes and Ford probably won't feel any guilt over it because this is what I deserve—
And that's the last thought he has before he loses consciousness.
-
“...always said she wanted a little brother that was actually littler, so I'm not surprised she's taken to Johnathan so quickly. Mason, at least, is showing some caution, though I expect he'll also—oh.” Ford pauses his monologue as he notices Bill's eyelash move. “Back again so soon? I was just starting to enjoy the silence. ”
“Wha....huh?” Bill's eye struggles to open, fluttering fetchingly before finally widening. “You... you tried to... to k...” Bill stutters, fighting to keep her eye open, and then struggling to move away from Ford (who must seem either worryingly close or even more worryingly big) as he peers down at Bill like she's just another specimen to be taken apart and documented.
But her struggling is useless; while she was asleep, Ford had restrained each of the (now VERY little) Euclidean’s limbs.
Ford can see the moment she realizes it, the way she tugs with all her strength against the bindings but doesn’t find even a centimeter of give.
“No, I didn’t try to kill you. But you made an impressive attempt at killing yourself—I didn't even know bricks could suffer blunt force trauma. This examination is already yielding significant results.” He says, feeling a bit smug as he leans against his hand, just looking at Bill, splayed like a pinned moth. Thirty years ago—hell, even yesterday—he couldn’t have imagined such a sight.
“Wha—no I didn't, I—you—Why are you so BIG?” She finally settles on asking, her eye darting around, no doubt trying to find something she can use for her escape.
Ford bites the inside of his lip, suppressing a snicker. Does she even hear how she sounds right now?
“What's that?” Ford prompts, his voice even. “I'm too big?”
“Yes—you're too big! Why are you so b—” Ah, there it is; the words hit her finally, and her pale bricks flush red. “Stanford! You evil, evil man—This is no time for—for dirty mind games!”
Ford scoffs, his mood shifting, and his smirk disappears. How dare she say that—to him, of all people?
“It's not?” His voice is even, but Bill notices the shift, and her attention snaps fully to him, her eye no longer wandering away to seek out escape. “But you taught me that it was always time for—what did you say? Dirty mind games? Isn't that what you did to me for years, first in this very lab and then as you chased me through dimensions? Oh, and let's not forget when it was you who had me chained up. You didn't seem to mind dirty mind games then, did you?”
Bill's flush deepens, spreads through her bricks one by one. It's delightful to watch—Ford may despise her, but he knows how beautiful her body is; how devastatingly gorgeous she can be, especially when she wants something.
Is that why she looks so…
Ford refocuses his attention. He can’t let himself be distracted, no matter how alluring her gaze. If he’s not careful, he’ll get caught up in her dirty mind games. He has to remain on guard; hhe's been so thoroughly tricked by her before, he must doubt anything she might say or do to manipulate him.
After all, decades-old lies are only now coming to light.
“What are you thinking?” Bill asks warily, her voice trembling as she watches Ford.
It's kind of funny; to other humans, Ford is something of an open book. He's often criticized for being too blunt, too insensitive. He was even more of an open book to Bill, who could quite literally read and even change his thoughts. But now, stripped of her power, he's suddenly become as inscrutable to Bill as she once was to him.
It's... disillusioning, to say the least. But he's not exactly disappointed by what remains as the illusion of Bill Cipher begins to waiver, leaving behind something a lot...
Smaller.
“Just that you look nice.” Ford finally answers, and Bill immediately scoffs.
“I'm filthy, haven't had access to real makeup in years, and I'm missing half my ensemble. If you're going to lie to a liar, you've gotta think of something more convincing.” Bill's eye narrows in suspicion.
Ford is taken aback; it wasn't the response he'd expected. Bill was always receptive to compliments—this is the first time one has ever been thrown back in his face.
What's even worse, is that it hadn't been empty flattery; he'd meant it. Having his words twisted and misunderstood at first makes him want to deny it forcefully, but then he realizes; this is the first time he and Bill are on a level playing field.
Ford could never play mind games with humans, and he never had a hope against Bill. But now—he knows Bill. This time, in a fair game... he might just be able to win.
“Fishing for compliments?” Ford scoffs, crossing his arms. “How very gauche of you, Bill.”
“Wha—gauche?” She practically squeaks. “How do you even know that word?” It works; Bill looks at him with extreme offense at the implication that she was simply trying to get Ford's attention. It's... it's...
It's adorable. Ford doesn't even have to say anything else; she just starts digging her own grave, all on her own.
“First of all, if I wanted compliments, I wouldn't go to you. You couldn't even flatter me properly when you worshipped the ground I walked on!” Bill sputters unthinkingly.
“Glad we're in agreement, then.” Ford shoots back, taking the upper hand Bill so graciously gave him. Is this how Bill felt, when he would easily win their little verbal spars in the past? “Since I'm incapable of flattery, I was merely speaking the truth.” He pauses, watching with secret pleasure as Bill's eye widens in surprise as her words are used against her. “You look nice like this, Bill. Cute, even.”
Wanting to see how far he can push this, Ford drags his finger down Bill's side, then presses his finger against a sharp corner, just to see how she shivers at the sudden warmth.
And then, just as it's getting good, something horrible happens.
“...stop it.” Bill looks away, averting her gaze from Ford’s once more, breaking the electric current between them Ford hadn’t even realize he’d been enjoying. She stops shivering, and the fetchingly flush color drains from her bricks back to a more neutral yellow. “You made your point. I misunderstood—you weren't trying to kill me, right? I'd be dead if you were. So just... quit it. Get on with whatever stupid nerd stuff you have to do to feel better about letting me and Johnathan stay with you, and let me get back to my son.”
Ford freezes.
He hadn't—he wasn't being serious. He wasn't lying—he liked how Bill looked, restrained, at his mercy for once. But he hadn't—he wasn't going to—he wasn't seriously considering—
But now it's too late. Bill thinks he was trying to start things up again, and now he's... being rejected?
She’s lying.
“...you don’t expect me to believe that, do you?” Ford presses harder against the corner, to the point of pain, to the point of blood, and expects her eye to well with aroused slick, just as it would in the past.
But instead, she flinches in discomfort.
She’s lying.
Discomfort? That's not what she's supposed to feel. She always liked it when Ford hurt himself against her corners—he must be reading her cues wrong.
He presses harder.
“Look, I...” Bill’s expression takes on some quality—something like pity—as she continues lying, lying, lying. “I wasn't sure if we'd actually have to have this conversation. I'd hoped you were over me, too, b—”
She doesn't get to finish. Ford suddenly slaps his hand over her eye, silencing her. But he already heard what she said, and the words cycle in his head on repeat.
I'd hoped you were over me, too.
“You're seriously trying to tell me you showed up on my doorstep with a kid in tow, begged for my help... but you're over me?” Ford scoffs. “You? You? The same Bill Cipher who spent a trillion years refusing to accept reality and instead worked to accomplish the impossible and transcended your dimensional restraints not once but twice? You expect me to believe you’ve let go of the grudge between us?” Ford isn't sure what this horrible feeling is welling up inside him, but it's hot and it claws at his throat.
The worst part is, she doesn't even gloat or laugh at him. She just lays there, at his mercy, and when he pulls his hand away to look at her expression, she has the audacity to look guilty.
Destroy a dimension? Who cares. Threaten Ford’s family, his safety, his sanity? All fair game. But apparently, letting him down easy is where she draws the fucking line?
The horrible thing in Ford’s chest transforms suddenly, and Ford laughs as he stands, his chair clattering to the floor behind him. He braces himself against the desk and he leans over her, blocking her view of the lab completely.
“I don't know what new game this is, Cipher, but you won't trick me.” Ford shakes with rage, even as an awful smile plays at the corners of his lips.
“I'm not—”
“You are.” Ford insists firmly, slamming his fist against the table. The vibration causes Bill to clatter terribly against the table, and she once again begins pulling at her restraints, her expression twisting in fear.
“Stanford, Please, I'm n—”
“You are. Because you are always lying, and manipulating, and playing games; it's what you do. I know it's what you do, and I’m not going to let you trick me again.” Ford grabs her by both edges and yanks her up, needing to see her closer, to peer into her very soul to find the truth beyond her facade. Her restrained wrists and ankles twitch in pain but remain fastened to the desk. “You bear the proof of your lies somewhere on your body. Because you made one huge mistake coming here, Bill. Because now I know.”
Each of Ford’s twelve fingers press into her bricks, intent on searching every centimeter for something that he now knows must be there—was always there. His hands are shaking, or maybe he’s shaking Bill, trying to make sure she understands the gravity of the situation—how stupid she was to lie to him, to take his love for granted, to betray him. He’s going to expose her; he knows she’s a liar, has always been a liar, and he’s going to prove it.
“I know you have a hole to fuck.”
He doesn’t recognize his own voice, the dark quality it holds; but it doesn’t scare him—not the way it scares Bill, who holds very, very still in his hands now.
“And you're not leaving this lab until I find it.”