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Chapter Text

Ford strained his already expired prescription to its max as he kept his peripheral – almost out of habit – on his twin trying to balance on the swaying, boardwalk wooden posts, rotten away to an off-green by salt-water. The city claimed they were too expensive to replace, but Ford was privately convinced that city council was just going to ignore the problem until an even-more expensive accident forced their hand. 

He let his vision drop and refocused on Fiddleford’s excited babbles about the chance – however slim – of his proposal for the robotics club finally going through. They only had the three members so far; a real problem for the proposal, since clubs needed at least five members for a glowing (or more likely reluctant) stamp of approval. 

It was senior year – last chance for the as-of-yet-nonexistent club to become a reality. The way his classmates were acting it was the last chance for everything – like they all would die the day high school ended. Last chance to lose your virginity and prove you're not a loser bound to never experiencing the fairer sex. Last chance to throw the biggest rager and get your name cemented as a legend in the Glass Shard Beach's graduating class's eyes. Ford rolled his eyes at the thought, frustrated with his apparent lucidity compared to everyone else. Didn't they know they had a life after high school!?There was college for example, and even if he didn't pick higher education as his path he was sure adult life would be much more satisfying than the drudgery that was spending eight hours a day with such vapid people. 

He flicked his eyes back up to Stanley for the briefest moment before piping up with a suggestion to Fidds: "Have you considered asking the honors classes again? Surely we can get two more people to join."

"Oh! Yes!" Fiddleford pumped his fist. "We should print out flyers at the library to hang up in classrooms! You can draw 'em, Ford!"

"Guys..." Stan said, speaking up for himself. "I know I said I was in, but-"

Fiddleford groaned. "No! Oh Stanley, we gotta have you."

"I'm not really a robotics guy though, you gotta admit."

Ford felt a stab of irritation just below his ribs; this was the seventh time they discussed this, Ford had counted . Stan just didn't want to spend any more time bored out of his mind in a classroom than he already had to. It was selfish of him to keep getting Fidds’ hopes up and quite frankly Stan could use that time to maybe get some homework done he was neglecting. 

"Stan, we talked about this!!” Ford huffed. “All you have to do is show up to the meetings and be a number in a spreadsheet. It's just us, we won't force you to do anything. What are you so afraid of?" 

"I'm not afraid," Stan said, immediately threatened. "I'm not afraid of anything, I just don't wanna be there as an excuse for you two to hang out. You can talk about robots an' shit anywhere."

"Well, Ford an' I can try to find three people 'stead of two, right?" Fiddleford elbowed Ford hopefully. Ford and Stan seemed to have gotten more and more combative over the summer and the ripples in his otherwise calm social sphere unsettled him.

Fiddleford was giving Ford an easy out and he knew it; neither of them were confrontational people (hell, Fiddleford seemed allergic to it at times) but Ford didn't want to just drop the topic again . Fiddleford just didn't understand and in some ways Ford couldn’t fault him for that – it was Ford’s job to understand things. Fiddleford built, Stan radiated charisma, and he understood damn it. If Ford couldn’t understand even the social inter-workings of his small friend group, then there really was no hope for him at all. 

Ford stopped in his tracks out of pure frustration, refusing the line Fiddleford was throwing him. "Where are we going to find an extra person! It's already hard enough getting two and nobody else at this school seems to value intellig-" 

Ford threw his arm to the side in the middle of his rant and it slapped dead center into a poster nailed to the center of  the wooden stakes that made the railings of the boardwalk. In anger at the poster and the stake for daring to hit him , he ripped it from the post, barely registering BILL CIPHER & THE HENCHMANIACS written in bold, jagged handwriting across it, before crumpling it in his hand. 

Stan and Fiddleford stared at each other with looks that seemed to say something along the lines of, Who pissed in his cheerios? and Fuck if I know.

"Say, Ford," Fiddleford said, putting a hand on Ford's shoulder. "How's about we go get an ice cream or somethin'? Ya know, cool down a bit."

Ford deflated and nodded his head faintly before shoving the crumpled paper in his pocket for some reason he couldn't fathom. "Thanks Fidds, ice cream actually sounds delightful right now." He still refused to meet their eyes as the group kept walking.

Stan stayed quiet, feeling something that almost tasted like resentment. But couldn't be, because he and Ford were tight, right? Two freaks in a pod? He wasn't mad that Ford could be upset and he couldn't be, obviously. He was just... tired. He was tired. And he was certainly dreading going back to school, that was probably the issue. Senior year really couldn't be over quick enough and it hadn’t even started.

The sharp jingle of a bell signaled three new customers eager to consume sweet treats. The boys all slid into a booth, Stan and Ford on one side and Fiddleford on the other. The ice cream was a simple olive branch to smooth over lingering tensions, but an effective one, Ford thought as he picked at his skin, still hoping that nobody would bring up his outburst. He wasn’t an angry person – not normally – and with all the rage drained out of him he now felt the burn of embarrassment from such a childish reaction. The silence felt suffocating – usually Fiddleford tried his hand at small talk in these situations, but apparently not today. 

After they ordered – Stan with an orange creamsicle, Fidds with rocky road scoop, and Ford with coffee ice cream – he started to ramble, unable to help himself: "You know coffee ice cream actually has around thirty milligrams of caffeine in it. That's almost 1/3 cup of coffee. A person could theoretically eat three scoops of ice cream in the morning for their cup of coffee. Now the sugar content on the other hand-"

"Ford, you take all the fun out of ice cream," Stan said, rubbing his face. "Nobody's gonna have ice cream for breakfast cause they want coffee, they're gonna have ice cream for breakfast cause it's fun."

"I dunno, I'd have coffee ice cream for breakfast," Fiddleford said.

Stan gestured with his creamsicle. "That's ‘cause you're a nerd."

"Ain't nothin' wrong with bein' a nerd."

"The point I was getting to was that the sugar content means you shouldn't have it for breakfast at all. Except on rare occasions. Although I suppose if a person were to increase the amount of caffeine in the ice cream it would be analogous to one cup of over-sugared coffee, which people seem to be able to stomach somehow," Ford mused before he shifted to get out of the booth to throw away the poster he crumpled up in his pocket.

"Hey, what is that anyway?" Stan asked, perking up.

Ford stopped mid-shift as he glanced down at the ball dumbly like he just remembered he was holding it. "Oh, just some stupid band poster."

"Is that the band with the guy from high school?" he asked. "I think I've seen those posters around town, give it here."

"That's completely unnecessary- Hey!" Ford cut himself off as Stan snatched it from his hand. It wasn’t worth fighting though; he just slumped back down in the booth. "It's stupid, like I already said. Stupid name too. I don't see why you would be interested, it's the day before school starts we shouldn't be out anyways. Pa would kill us"

"Heh, ‘henchmaniacs’, that's funny," Fiddleford said to himself, looking at the poster over Stan's shoulder. 

"You know what?" Stan announced. "We should go."

Ford jolted up, astonished. "What? Why??"

"Cause it'll be good for you, ya dork," Stan said. "Fidds can come too, it'll be fun! Last day of the summer is one day closer to leaving this place, it's worth celebrating."

Ford's gaze darted to Fiddleford, giving him his best shiny eyed plea to take his side. "Come on F, you don't want to go to some rock n' roll concert, right?"

Fiddleford shrugged. "I dunno, I like hangin' out with you two. And I think Emma's into that stuff, she could come too! You should bring Carla, Stan."

The light in Ford's eyes sputtered out completely the second the girls were brought up. Now there was zero chance of Stan and Fiddleford not going. At least maybe they'd let him stay home though? "That's a great idea! Make it a double-date and I'll stay home. I'm sure I would just be intruding."

Both Stan and Fiddleford started to protest at the same time:

"Aw you gotta come, Stanferd!"

"Don't bail on us, c'mon."

"But school-"

"Fuck school," Stan said. "Live a little."

"Language!" Ford buried his head in his hand. "Fine! Fine! But I'm leaving once it gets too late."

"It only goes until 10:00," Stan argued.

Ford grumbled from behind his hands: "That's a lie and you know it. That attention-starved prick loves his encores.”

"Well I'm going and Fiddleford is going so you're coming too. You’ll like it, I promise!"

"We'll see. I will make an attempt to enjoy myself in good faith."

"You'd better," Stan said, with a little more bite than he'd intended.

--------------------------

"Aww you look great, hun!" Emma said. She grinned. "I'm so glad I made you try that thing on."

Carla twisted in front of the mirror to get a better look at her trusty red top, sequined with gold for flair. The blue bell bottoms – lent courtesy of Emma May – swished with her shifting.

"Thanks so much for the pants. I should learn not to argue with you when it comes to color! I’ve already lost enough arguments with costuming, you’d think I would know better by now.” She sighed and flopped on the bed next to Emma. “Sooooo, a last minute date invite right before school starts with barely any time to prepare. Stan hasn’t even messed anything up recently. It’s almost like he got his head out of his as- sorry bottom to actually remember he has a girlfriend.” A mischievous grin split her face even as her eyes screamed exhaustion as she rested her hand on her knuckles. “You think he’s jealous? Me and Thistle have been hanging out at rehearsals. I didn’t think Stan would notice, but maybe he’s actually panicking. Can you imagine? Him panicking over me! Not to mention that cowboy of yours is tagging along, thank God . We haven't had a proper double date in ages . How's it going with Fiddy boy anyhow?” 

Emma pulled her feet up on the bed, hugging her legs to her chest. "Hah, we're just fine. He's a busy hard worker, but that's just who he is. And honey, Stan oughta be jealous. If he's not he ain't payin' attention and you deserve better than that."

Carla blew hair out of her face with another sigh. "You know how men are. I know Stan's oblivious to that kinda thing and it's not his fault. But damn it we shouldn't be afterthoughts! I mean listen to yourself! What is that nerd working on over summer break that's so important?" 

"It's not like you can expect somebody to spend time with you all the time every day," she said. "He has a life, that's okay. That's a good thing, really." Emma did not want to talk about this – there wasn't much to talk about anyway, what was Carla worried about? 

"Well, what do I know, I'm not the one with the dating-since-childhood soulbond or whatever. I swear, you two are disgusting sometimes." Carla bumped Emma's shoulder trying to get her to laugh. "At least tonight should be fun, I'm going to get Stan to tear up the dance floor with me"

Emma grinned. "That's the least he could do. I promise I'll bring Fiddleford with me."

"Are y'all going to try to two-step to rock?" Emma said with a shit-eating grin as she badly imitated Emma's accent on purpose. She had a better southern twang for the stage. 

Emma rolled her eyes, but kept smiling. "We'll do what everybody else is doin'."

Carla's eyes drifted to the window as she heard the rumbling purr of a car approaching. A common sound in the daylight but at 8:00 PM could only mean one thing: the boys had arrived.

--------------------------

"What's takin' so long?" Fiddleford said, peering over the side of Stan's seat at the door. His knee was bouncing mercilessly, bumping up against Ford next to him.

"I'm not gettin' out to knock on the door, we're late already," said Stan. He sat back in the front seat, arms folded.

"Honk or somethin'. They know we're comin' right?"

"If you told Emma, yeah."

"I told her, I told her." 

Ford hissed to Stan, "Don't honk, it's late and we're not even supposed to be out. What if someone hears?"

"I think that's the whole point of honking, Poindexter," Stan said. Now he wanted to do it just cause Ford didn't want him to, but he managed to show some restraint.

"Oh I see 'em!" Fiddleford said, straining to look in the living room.

Fiddleford had to lean over Ford to see into the house and Ford pressed himself against the seat to give his friend room. He caught a whiff of the tobacco on Fidds’ collar along with some cologne spritzed on to mask the smell. It didn't really work and just created a heady mix of the two scents. Even so, such thoughtfulness was meant for Emma not for Ford. Ford banished the thought as he craned his head to look inside the house. "They're taking too long, it's like they want us to be late." 

"Why do you think I was late in the first place?" Stan asked. "Girls always take forever, it's in their blood. I plan for these things."

The two girls stepped out onto the porch and Emma waved at Fiddleford who bashfully waved back.

Ford could see the exact moment the girls realized he was there and how their smiles dropped imperceptibly in the dark before jumping back on in a practiced, poised manner. "Stan, you did mention I was coming right?"

"Uhhhh," Stan said, stalling before the girls came to the doors. It said enough. "Hey sweetheart," Stan said to Carla, giving her his best grin.

Carla's own smile was strained by a half-inch as her eyes darted quickly to Ford in the back. He looked like a scared deer, all wide-eyed behind those glasses. She could see Fidds all up in his personal space too, it looked cramped in the back even with a seat open. She did pity Ford – clearly he didn't want to be here – but here he was all the same and now it was her problem. She opened the car door herself (Stan didn't even get up to open it for her because of course). "Hey yourself, stud, you didn't mention this was a group activity!" she said with saccharine sweetness, like Ford's presence was a wonderful addition instead of an unwelcome surprise.

"Yeah, I had to get him out here, ya know? It's good for him."

Emma opened the door on Ford's side and gave him an apologetic smile. "Uh, hi there Stanford."

"Hello, Emma." Ford made direct eye contact with Emma as he resolutely ignored his friend still leaning over him like an idiot. He didn't know what to do – Emma was hesitating and he couldn't shift without Fiddleford moving first. Why didn't she walk around to the clear open seat on the other side! He felt Fiddleford scramble to get off of him like he was burned and in the rush Ford was able to slide to the middle seat with a sigh of relief.

Emma found herself sitting next to Ford and now that she'd strapped in it was too late to move and Stan was already leaving... She tried not to look as awkward as she felt but.... 

There was momentary silence. 

"Uhhh how 'bout some tunes?" Stan asked, already fiddling with the radio dial. The static briefly settled on a station, “-ports of demonic ritual or a simple board game? The answer might supri-”, before the next click switched to actual music. 

"How far away is this place anyways?" Carla asked. "Isn't it supposed to be like super abandoned so the cops won't bust the party for noise?"

"Yeah," Stan said. "Cool right?"

--------------------------

The sky was tinged with the swirled oranges of dusk, Jersey heat beating down on the group getting out of the car. Even from a distance the music could faintly be heard and the stickiness of the ground was evident as the bottom of their shoes struggled up with every footfall. The building itself was large, gray, and completely unassuming except for the colorful graffiti scrawled on the walls. It could have been an abandoned factory or maybe a mall, but at this point it didn’t matter. It was a large box – a canvas to some and to others empty space to fill with teenage angst, screaming guitar chords, and sweaty bodies bumping together.

Ford took one look at the building and turned around back to the car. He would have found it fascinating if it was empty and quiet; abandoned places always had the best secrets. However, the music, the clear scent of alcohol in the air, and the muggy heat more than convinced him to stay far away from even more body heat trapped inside that building. 

Before he could get far somebody grabbed him by the scruff of his collar.

"C'mon Ford!" Stan grabbed his brother in a playful headlock, giving him a noogie. "You'll have fun, I promise."

(Emma gave Carla a telling look. Something along the lines of: Stan's here for Ford, not you.

Carla gave her friend a look back as she tilted her head to Fiddleford and Ford. You’re one to talk??? Ford’s his brother of course Stan would drag him along. Why was your cowboy all over Ford in the car?

Emma lingered back close to Carla, letting the boys take the lead. The three of them really were tight... 

No, Fiddleford wanted her here, she had to believe that.)

Ford felt like he was being marched to the guillotine with how Stanley and Fidds took their places on either side of him practically herding him closer to the building. None of the boys noticed how the girls dropped behind until it came time to open the door and Ford watched as Stan veered off his side to open the door at the last second.

Seeing Stan take the door, Fiddleford fell back to hold Emma's hand. 

"Whaddya wanna bet something crazy happens?" Stan asked the group.

Carla moved to trail her fingers up Stan's arm. She felt almost bored as she played to Stan's ego like she'd done a million times. "Oh yeah? You'll protect us though if anything goes wrong?"

"You betcha honey." Stan picked her up and swung her around, giving her a kiss.

Ford stood awkwardly at the entrance to the building as he watched his brother woo his girlfriend and how Emma batted her eyelashes at Fidds leaning on his arm more. Fiddleford didn't seem to notice though; he was staring at Stanley for some reason that Ford couldn't put together. His friend's lanky frame was being jostled almost comically by how Emma was leaning on him. 

He cleared his throat. "Should we proceed inside?"

"Yeah sure," Stan said. Stan sounded like he was in heaven, clearly happy he had so many friends with him to have fun even if he was a bit oblivious to the many social cogs at work that evening. 

Emma held Fiddleford's hand tightly, but despite everything her confidence in him was starting to crack. That was something to acknowledge later though. Not tonight.

The five of them trickled into the crowded room where loud bass was thumping through the concert. It was obvious no clear song was playing; just noise until the real party could get started. Ford hovered near Stan so they wouldn't get separated in the crowd. There seemed to be some smoke effect in the back where the large stage was looming in the background of people chatting and getting drinks. 

A was a banner over the stage with ripped letters read:

Bill Cipher & the Henchmanics

It's the end of the WORLD

"Hey, uh. I'm gonna get some drinks if you wanna come with me," Stan said.

Ford dutifully followed to the drinks table, silent as he gazed off into space trying to ignore how the sound made him want to rip his skin off. 

Carla was getting a little creeped out. It was just Ford, but did he have to stare like that? She wanted to ditch him so badly but she felt a sinking feeling in her stomach at the thought of leaving him alone to get beaten up or whatever he did in his free time. God she wished there was a quiet room to shuffle nerds off to so she wouldn't be stuck babysitting... 

She finally cleared the sticky feeling in her throat by piping up with a compromise: "Hey Ford, maybe you should go find Fiddleford. Make sure he doesn't get lost." 

Ford blinked at her and then turned his head to the crowd. "I think it's a little too late for that!" he yelled over the noise.

Stan passed cups to Ford and Carla, scratching his head when he couldn't find either of the Christian teenagers in tow. "Think I should get some for Fidds and Emma just in case?"

Ford could feel the glare that Carla was suppressing against his skin. He didn't know what he did wrong but he never did well in social situations and he was starting to feel like he made a mistake – probably better to exit so he didn’t make anything worse. "No, no I got it! I'll get them drinks." He shuffled off to the drink table and resolved himself to find the pair. How hard could it be? 

Carla was delighted that her silent glare actually worked – Ford didn't understand what it meant 70% of the time. Stan looked worried though, which just wouldn't do ."Hey slick, do you want to go dance?"

Stan gave Carla his blushy stupid grin. "You betcha sweetcheeks! Maybe we should wait for Ford though? I don't want him getting lost and we still gotta find Fiddleford and Emma." 

Carla repressed a groan. "You are soooo thoughtful! But, they're seventeen too! Fidds and Emma are together and you heard Ford he's going to find them! So they all will be together in a group of three, perfectly safe. Now. Let's go dance ." Her grip on Stan's hand tightened. 

"Hah, okay okay, I hear you." He allowed himself to be pulled along, disappearing into the crowd with her.

--------------------------

Bill snapped the lid closed on his pocket palette of gold highlighter, eyeing himself in the make-shift-backstage mirror. 

Tonight would be one hell of a way to kick off senior year. 

He twirled around in his old squeaky swivel chair, lounging. "Whaddya think? Too much? Not enough?"

Bill’s secondary smacked her lips as she finished applying the gloss to her hot pink and black lips. "Honey you're never too much ,” said Pyronica – she hadn’t earned her way to the top without a little flattery. She squinted at the golden dust covering his dark complexion. "Add a little bit there though. It needs more sparkle."

Bill leaned back in his chair, seeing himself in the mirror upside down. "Good catch." He swiveled around again and opened the palette. "Is everyone else ready for tonight?"

Pyronica never got the chance to answer him.

A shaggy-haired blonde boy burst into Bill's dressing room in a frenzy. "Boss!! Boss!!!" All of the crew knew damn well that only the boss and Py were allowed in there except in case of an emergency, but Kryptos felt his standing was good enough to take a little risk – after all, his interruption regarded The Plan. "I have it!" he shouted, waving a few stapled pieces of paper together and offering a nervous smile to Bill and wary glances to Pyronica. 

Usually Bill might have gotten annoyed with someone bursting in right before a show, but these circumstances were... special . If Kryptos had done the job he’d been assigned correctly then Bill would be ahead of schedule for once. They only had a few months left before their plan needed to be put into action and Bill was buzzing with anticipation. "Well, bring it here! I've waited long enough already." 

Kryptos pushed the pages towards Bill's hand. "Go right ahead! I spent hours on it and I personally think it's my best work yet!" 

Kryptos received a pointed stare. "It better be," Bill snapped, ripping the pages from his grip. He leaned over in his chair, carefully yet hungrily looking over the musical notations on the page. At least Kryptos had legible handwriting... He'd had the sense to mark everything in pen too; the pages he had were probably a third or fourth draft. 

But they weren't enough. 

"Idiot!" Bill said, slamming the pages down on his desk with the palm of his hand. The impact made a lipstick bottle tumble over and Krypros jumped. "This won't do what we need it to at all!" He jabbed an accusatory finger at him. "Do you even WANT us to succeed?"

Kryptos's heart thud against his ribcage at Bill's reaction. "O-o-o-of course I do! What's wrong with it??!" He grabbed his pages back, desperately scanning for his mistake.

"If you can't tell me that, then clearly you didn't read the book I gave you. It doesn't matter anyway - you're off the job! I'll find someone who can actually write something worth hell's attention." What a way to ruin his mood right before a concert… Though honestly, what had he been expecting giving Kryptos such an important job?

Kryptos gave a hasty salute, trembling all over – though that was just the norm for him. “Yes boss, sorry boss!”

Pyronica wiggled her fingers in a catty goodbye and patted her pockets until she found a cigarette, lighting the tip of her finger with flickering pink fire (there were magical perks to being the boss’s favorite). She took a drag before offering it to Bill. "You need a smoke? Hah, there's enough coming out of your ears. C'mon, you knew that Kryptos is and always will be an idiot. It's not your fault you're a lone genius in a sea of normies and idiots. You'll find someone crazy enough to write that spell for you, I know it.”

Bill accepted the cigarette, the compliments easing his frustration somewhat. "I hope you're right. We're running out of time..." He took a long drag and forced himself to relax. "If tonight doesn't go perfectly I swear to Satan himself..."

Pyronica squeezed his shoulders. "Everything will go perfectly because you'll get up there and flaunt your stuff. We've all been practicing for the big day at the end of the year. I'm sure we can knock a simple concert out no problemo. You're putting pressure on yourself that doesn't exist." 

Py was right and he knew it. He was Bill Cipher - whatever he wanted he would get, no matter the cost. 

Bill took another drag of his cigarette, regarding himself and his pink-splattered secondary in the dusty old mirror. "Tomorrow at school - you and I will look for someone to do what needs to be done. Got it?"

Pyronica gave a lopsided salute. "Got it boss. I assume that means picking over the band geeks again?" 

"No..." Bill mused. He tapped his chin in thought with his purple-painted manicured nails. "Maybe we've been going about this the wrong way. It's not just about talent, it's also about picking a freak who'll be loyal to our cause. Someone talented, who won't half ass the job." He eyed Pyronica. "Take notes on anyone you pick out and I'll look closer myself. I know you won't fail me."

Pyronica nodded solemnly at the mission she was given. "Ah, we need to start poking around in lockers then. Plenty of freaks getting bullied in this school. We're bound to stumble upon one who is just too shy to show off their music skills" 

"I agree." He chuckled, only slightly manically. "We'll find them soon enough..."

--------------------------

Ford was severely regretting leaving his brother’s side.

He was jostled between other sweaty, hot bodies like crashing waves in a tumultuous storm. The drinks spilling on his shirt weren’t helping his wandering mind from imagining he was stuck in a hurricane with Stan by his side. He was supposed to be having fun ! Every other teenager on the planet can handle a simple concert. So why couldn’t… he? 

What was wrong with him? 

He felt the thrumming tension of mass in the air before another person hit his shoulder hard. It sent his much smaller frame careening to the side as his breathing stuttered. Was that on purpose? It couldn’t have been, right ? Right??? It was so dark they couldn’t have seen his hands. His pinky twitched up and down nervously on the red cup like it was trying in vain to conduct and control the pure dissident sound around him into recognizable beats and notes. Why had he even agreed to bring alcohol for Emma and Fidds? Now that he thought about it he was sure they didn’t drink.

Ford squeezed his eyes shut, focusing on his intellect. He almost could hear it in the din of conversation, a rhythm to it; a tide that swelled and lulled in and out that everybody else just seemed to… get instantly. That was ok. He was used to working for everything in life, this was no different. He took a deep breath and-

RRRZZZ

His eyes flew open as the power chord rang out in the room, pure vibration that punched to the bone, cheers in the audience rising to answer its call. 

Ford couldn’t resist looking to the stage where smoke was starting to billow out. Nobody could resist him . 

Ford heard his voice before he saw him, blaring over the speakers. "Laaaadiess aaaaand gentleman! All those in between! Welcome to the only night that really matters!"

Yellow lights lit up under the smoke, illuminating the speaker. He had a smaller frame than his confident voice suggested, but his overwhelmingly black and yellow outfit made up for it. Bill Cipher scanned the crowd, clearly thriving off of the attention and the cheers and the energy on being on stage. The other members of his band joined him, but they were hardly worth paying attention to, so clearly in his shadow.

Ford could sense the crowd rapidly drawing back like a taut pendulum ready to be released at the crest. He assumed that his ears must have given up and checked out of the building as they rang and rang – a small mercy, he supposed, as the sound dropped to a dull annoyance.

Ford found himself rooted to the ground. There was movement around him, sure, but he couldn’t find it in him to care or to move with the crowd as he just stared. At the sun on stage, at the eclipse, at the afterimage burned in his brain that sent spots dangling in his vision. At Bill. The man’s black skin contrasted with the stage lights so sharply that he could swear there was a halo above his long untamed locks. He was smiling, a toothy, manic, free smile that Ford only wished could grace his own visage, even though he knew he never would be brave enough for that dangerous, dizzyingly addicting freedom . 

Bill’s eyes swept over the crowd and Ford’s cheeks flamed pink when their gazes met. Bill’s eyes were glowing with golden radiance, sharp with intelligence, and Ford never felt more sure of the boring dullness that his brown eyes possessed in comparison. 

To Bill on the stage of course the crowd was just a dark sea of faceless admirers. The lights were blinding and that was how he liked it. He almost would prefer it was just him there alone, but he reminded himself that his loyal henchmaniacs were here to elevate his own glory. They started the music for him and he let out a whoop that the crowd responded to in turn. 

"I found 'im! Ford!!" Fiddleford shouted over the roar of the crowd, trying to snap his friend out of the near-trance he was in watching the stage. (Emma tried her damndest to shove down her disappointment.) Fiddleford had to physically tug Ford until his full body swiveled to face away from the stage to get his attention. 

Ford blinked dumbly at the pair – he looked like a mess with a soaked shirt, holding two cups lamely in each hand, cheeks so red he looked like he was sunburned. Ford kept blinking trying to catch his mind up to the perspective change in his vision, finally realizing that he’d accomplished his original mission of finding Emma and Fiddleford. "H-here, I got drinks." 

Fiddleford gave Ford a strange look, wondering what that blush on his face could possibly mean. He'd never seen his friend flustered before, so why... Fiddleford glanced towards the stage, just a twinge of jealousy flowing through him - he quelled this quickly of course, taking the cup from him sheepishly. 

"Aw, thanks Ford, but I'm good," Emma said.

"Oh, right, I forgot you don't- Uh, sorry!" Ford squeaked out as he withdrew the drink closer to his chest. Ford turned back to look at the stage still in a state of shock when out of the corner of his eye he saw Carla. She did not look happy – neither did Stan next to her.

Emma and Fiddleford followed Ford's gaze, the former uttering an, “Oh dear.”

As they drew closer, their conversation rose over the blaring music and crowd:

"...bring him up every five minutes! It's Ford this! Ford that! Last I checked I'm your girlfriend and this is supposed to be a date. Why did you even bring that freak along it's clear he hates parties and he thinks he's better than everybody. I bet he snuck off with Fiddleford outside to make-out and poor Emma's all alone! But you're never concerned about her feelings or hell my feelings! You're so obsessed with the men in your life."

"Carla, what the hell? That's my brother you're talking about."

The three of them grimaced, but they couldn’t get there fast enough to prevent the worst of it. Ford in particular felt a guilty stone drop in the pit of his stomach as his worst fears about tagging along were confirmed. Stan had a good thing going with Carla, he didn’t need his freak of a brother ruining the street cred Stan had desperately scraped and clawed together over the years. Ford knew intimately how much social currency a girlfriend could buy a young teenage boy from his lack of one. Stan, the idiot , was actively blowing all of his currency down the drain out of misplaced loyalty to Ford. 

In an ill-timed act of supposed heroism, Carla’s thespian co-star slid in front of her. Thistle folded his arms, probably hoping the height he had over Stan would make up for his bean-pole build. “Hey now, what’s goin’ on here? He botherin’ you, Carla?”

"Let's- let's go talk about this somewhere else," Stan said, giving Thistle a look that said he wasn't welcome.

"Woah dude, take a chill pill. It's your fault that the classy lady is upset. Not wining boyfriend of the year are you? Now Car-Car has said some things in drama class-" 

"Wait-wait." Stan looked at both of them, hit upside the head far too quickly with things to process. "You're gossiping about me?" Stan said, choosing to address Carla first. "You never said anything about being unhappy, were you looking for somebody else?"

Carla jerked her face out of her hands back to being pissed off at the accusation. "What? No! You'd seriously think I'd cheat? I'm allowed to have male friends!" With a growl of embarrassed frustration, Carla threw the remainder of her drink on Stan’s shirt and grabbed Thistle's hand. "You're better than nothing, but don't get any ideas, you hear me?”

Pure shock showed on Stan's face for a second until anger replaced it. "No, no. You don't get to just talk about my brother that way and then come for me like this. We're done! Stay away from me and Ford!"

“Fine!”

Emma – still a handful of feet away from the scene of the breakup with the boys behind her – sighed in resignation. “I'm gonna go help her,” she said, “don't worry about waiting for me - I'll get my own ride home."

"Uh- you sure, Emma?" Fiddleford asked. 

"Course." Emma gave Fiddleford a kiss and he blushed like a sunrise. "See ya at school tomorrow, cutie."

"Yeah, you too."

Ford grabbed Fiddleford's hand. He was not going to get lost in the crowd again.

(Fiddleford's blush deepened and he clutched Ford's hand. That was a good sign, right? He didn't look at him like he'd looked at the man on stage. But even then, maybe he'd imagined it, misinterpreted things.)

By the time the boys arrived, Stan was sulking - fuming? - by the drink table, sitting on the floor against the wall.

Ford rushed over, dropping Fiddleford's hand, presuming he would stay close, "Lee! I heard what happened. Are you ok?" Ford winced at how loud he had to yell over the crowd and he saw Stan's eyes gleam with hurt, hurt that was not meant for public gossip. He was sure some people already saw Carla storm out and that was enough information for the rumor mill in his opinion. "Maybe we should leave." Ford offered his hand to Stan so he could pull himself up.

"Yeah, let's go..." Stan muttered. The sparkle in his eye from earlier in the evening was gone now and though he wouldn't say it he was grateful that Ford made the sense not to make him talk about it here.

Breaking their way through to the freedom of the outdoors was a bit of a chore, but once they burst out of the building Ford's breathing evened out. It was late and much cooler outside even in the summer heat than inside. Retching hit his ears as some freshman puked her guts out in the grass and Ford winced in sympathy before he patted Stan lightly on the shoulder. Neither of them had ever gone through a break-up before and Stan was always the one comforting him after rejection so Ford was feeling quite out of his depth. "Do you want the TV tomorrow after school?" 

Stan shrugged. "Yeah, sure," he said, fishing his keys out of his pocket. He sighed heavily. "Sorry I made you guys come here, I shoulda known it would suck."

"Aww, it's alright Stanley," Fiddleford said. He hurried up closer to Stan to put a hand on his shoulder. "I had fun just bein in the car with y'all."

"It wasn't an entirely awful experience." Ford added as he fiddled with his hands. "I think Emma had fun.”

Stan didn't say anything and didn't offer up any conversation as he started the car.

Chapter Text

Ford tried to bury any lingering concern for Stanley underneath analytical steps for the first day of school, even as his brain fixated on how quiet his twin was as they got ready together. Stan was never quiet and Ford felt lost with the absence of chatter, the absence of any information on what more had happened the night previous. All he knew was that his brother’s behavior was due to one Carla McCorkle and it originated at that concert. God, the concert . Ford regretted ever going. He had a well-honed instinct for when he wasn’t welcome and it had screeched for attention last night – repeatedly. Maybe Stan would still be with Carla if Ford listened to his gut, instead of his well-meaning friends. 

The familiar laughter of bull-headed, destined-to-peak-in-high-school jocks hanging around the lockers snapped Ford out of his thoughts. He cursed under his breath and darted to a different hallway, resigning himself to taking the long way to class. He needed to space out less – it was too dangerous of a habit to pretend like Glass Shard High was safe for daydreaming freaks like him. No, he had a role to play in this ecosystem and he didn’t need another bruise as a reminder to stay in his lane. Or worse: have Stan swoop in and get hurt when he was already kicked down. Ford’s fists clenched around his textbooks, thoughts of Carla storming out with another man after insulting both of them like she had any right to spinning around in his angry, crowded head. 

At least there was one good thing to look forward to this morning though. 

Ford swung open the door to the first AP class in Glass Shard Beach history, gaze sweeping over the mostly empty classroom. Only eight chairs were devoted to the class; typical that none of his classmates took advantage of the opportunity to actually earn college credits. He couldn’t blame them though – it wasn’t like their parents would pay for it. Hell, he had no idea how he was going to pay for college. His father’s opinion on higher education was clear even despite his carefully formatted arguments and statistics he provided from research at the library. No, college wasn’t in the cards for any kid from the Lead Paint district. 

Except for one person: Bill Cipher. He had the money, clearly, he just didn’t care, which incensed Ford to no end. Confident, loud, annoying, attention-starved, popular Cipher ruining everything. It was Cipher’s fault that his brother was upset, not Ford’s. If they never went to that stupid concert, then Carla and his brother never would have gotten into a fight! Yeah! This was all his Bill’s… 

Fault?

The owner of one of the graffiti-covered desks was drumming his purple-painted nails in a quick staccato pattern. There was also only one man here brave enough to wear make-up in school. Bill Cipher was sitting in AP Trigonometry like he belonged there. Like he already owned the damn classroom. Like Bill and complex mathematics had every right to be correlated, entangled together instead of their relation being a torrid, brief affair. Maybe this occurrence was an outlier. Maybe he’d broken inside the classroom. Maybe he was babysitting the desk because he was bored and skipping a different class. Maybe Ford was dreaming. Yes! That was it! Ford subtly tried to pinch himself to wake up from the dream he was sure he was having. He just saw Bill yesterday at the concert, of course his brain would throw him in a random chemical cocktail right before the first day of school. 

His gaze darted to the side, blessedly catching sight of Fidds sitting at the front. Oh thank Moses. He could swear he felt somebody staring bullets into the back of his neck as he unpacked his things and his cursed imagination very unhelpfully provided the image of a spider being dropped down his collar. He whispered to Fiddleford, making the resolute decision not to grace Bill with a stolen look behind him: “Why isn’t the teacher here yet? Shouldn’t the classroom be locked without them here?” 

Fiddleford shrugged. "Who knows? I'm just hopin' it's not an omen that they'll cancel the first AP class they've ever offered here." He knocked on the wood of his desk, bouncing his knee impossibly fast the way he did.

"They can't cancel . The school already paid for fancy new calculators. They're not going to bail on that investment without at least trying a sub first." 

Thankfully the door swung open at that moment and an older middle aged woman stepped through along with two other classmates that filled out the remaining seats. Ford was waiting with bated breath for the moment she saw Bill and kicked him out for trespassing, but the moment never came – she just walked to her desk and picked up a clipboard.

"Hello and welcome to AP Trigonometry. This is a historic moment for the school and I hope all of your families are proud of you for testing into this class." She then went on to read the roll call sheet. "William Cipher?" 

"That's me," Bill said, giving finger guns to no one in particular. 

"Who let him in here?" Fiddleford muttered to Ford.

"I don't know, maybe he bribed the testing officer. Did you know his full name was William?"

Fiddleford shook his head, trying to keep relatively quiet.

Bill put one of his boots up on his desk, showing off his heeled leather footwear.

"Ryan Devens...." The teacher stopped her monotone reading as her beady eyes turned from the sheet with a sixth sense for misbehavior. "Mr. Cipher, feet down please. The desk is already defaced enough as it is without dirt getting on it."

"Aww they're clean I promise." He gave a winning smile.

"My point still stands. Feet. Down." 

Bill gave an eye roll for the history books and put his feet down, pulling out a toothpick to work at his teeth.

"Thank you. Now where was I... right, Fiddleford McGucket."

"Present," Fiddleford said, still bouncing his knee incessantly. 

In the back, Bill snapped his toothpick in half.

"Stanford Pines...."

"Here." Ford said, raising his hand meekly.

Bill perked up, catching just a glimpse of something decidedly, beautifully odd . He smiled. Let's get you closer, shall we? (And stop that awful knee bouncing while he was at it.)

He tossed one half of his toothpick at the back of the blonde one's neck.

Fiddleford put a hand to his neck, muttering an "Ow!" A glance behind him revealed Bill with his feet up on the desk again, hands behind his neck like he hadn't a care in the world.

The teacher glanced up again. "Mr. Cipher! What did we just discuss?"

"I think we discussed that my boots are clean . I'm sorry, my memory isn't always terribly reliable."

"The school already tolerates your fashion choices," she said, her eyes darting between his glittery nails and braided locks. "You could at least act your age!"

"Ma'am, I'm seventeen - I think you'll find most seventeen year old boys are like this. I would think someone of your profession would know that." 

"Do you see anybody else in this classroom disrespecting authority and causing problems on purpose? Just take Mr. Pines, he's been quiet and polite this whole time. Do not force me to give you detention on your first day."

"Oh no, detention," he deadpanned. "Maybe I just need some peer assistance. I bet Mr. Pines could help, since he's so great." 

"You know what! Maybe a good example is what you need! Mr. Pines, would you so kindly switch seats with Miss Lopez?" 

Powerless to stop it but loath to do what had to be done, Ford shot an apologetic, desperate glance to Fiddleford before grabbing his things. Bill had such a punchable face closer up when he wasn't on the stage with all the make-up and lights. Ford sat down with a tad too much force, wondering if the frown on his face was permanent now. So much for AP Trig being something to look forward to. Was he really going to have to sit by Bill all year long? The heartbroken expression that Fiddleford offered him – twisting around in his seat as though making sure Ford made it safely to his new designation – was a comfort at least. 

With the freak's booty now in the right seat, Bill obliged to take his feet down. "I'll be good," he said, smiling too hard. (It appeared he hadn't been imagining things after all - maybe Mr. Pines was the freak he needed. Sure he'd probably be sour about being forced to sit away from his friend, but Bill could fix that easy .)

Ford was still dead-set on ignoring his new deskmate even if his behavior made his stomach swirl with curiosity and slight dread. Why did Bill want him to sit here? He was convinced that Bill would keep causing problems until the sun set and school was let out but nope. As soon as Ford sat down, Bill kicked his feet back to the floor and even straightened his posture. 

Class began and Ford found himself drifting off quickly – not out of disrespect, he’d just already covered this chapter at home. That was the norm for him now, but at least this class gave him interesting material to daydream about. 

The sound of a page being ripped out of a notebook beside him drew Ford’s attention for a moment and he watched Bill scribble on it, fold it, and set it on Ford’s desk with a practiced nonchalance. Somehow, Bill resisted the impulse to watch his reaction. When no movement occurred out of the corner of Bill’s eye, however – Ford was most definitely not taking that note – Bill twirled his pencil in his finger, using the eraser to push the piece of paper closer to Ford in between writing notes.

Ford wasn't going to take the note. Ford wasn't going to take the note. Ford wasn't…

Well… he should probably snatch the note so they didn’t get in trouble at least. It was conspicuous sitting there on his desk. He just wouldn't read it. 

There. 

Still ignoring Bill. 

…..

Oh, but what if it had to do with Stan? What if it was a threat??? He needed to know about a threat! He subtly tilted it open from where it was resting in his lap so he could read it without the teacher noticing:

I like your fingers :) Sit with me at lunch we can talk and study

His brow furrowed. Was Bill being sarcastic? Was he inviting him somewhere only to bully him once he was alone? Ford gnawed at his lip. Deciding he needed more information, he wrote back: What's your angle?  

Bill smirked to himself and wrote back: Don't worry, nothing irregular. I just think we could be friends. He doodled a little equilateral on the paper, including the measurements of the vertices - they could absolutely be friends.

The stupid pun almost made Ford laugh aloud, but he made sure to stop himself. Bill was enemy number one right now. So what if he could make math jokes? Anybody could make math jokes. Although, that triangle was drawn perfectly without a protractor... Ford wrote back: You want a freak for a friend? What about your reputation? 

I am a freak Mr. Pines. I got my reputation by not caring what anyone thinks about that. We'll talk at lunch :)

--------------------------

Ford trailed out of his midday class to meet up with Fidds at their usual spot in the English Language Arts section of the school. It was close enough to the lunchroom for them to walk together to meet up with Stanley at their table. Ford had the exchanged note from Cipher clenched in his left hand, re-reading the words over and over (though he had long since memorized them) like they might reveal a secret hidden meaning if his eyes burned enough holes in the flimsy paper. He half wished there was a cipher (as their author’s namesake suggested) embedded in the margins. Codes were easier to crack than human social conventions. 

When he finally made it to their spot Fidds was already there and his knee was somehow jittering against the brick wall as he rested his leg against it. The mechanic looked almost physically ill. “Hey, are you doing ok F? Buddy?”

"Are you okay?" Fiddleford asked. His eyes were wide with concern. "What happened in trig today?"

Ford blinked owlishly. "Math?"

"No, I mean-" Fiddleford lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. " The notes. From Bill!"

"Ohhh, you saw that? It was nothing, he was just inviting me to lunch for some unfathomable reason."

"And you said no, right?" Fiddleford put his hands on Ford's shoulders. " Tell me you said no."

Fiddleford's grip was rather tight and Ford winced. "I didn't give an answer. I wanted to think on it, keep my options open. He and I would hate each other of course, but I don't know, he seemed genuine." 

When Ford glanced down at the note he was holding in his hand, Fiddleford's eyes tracked down to meet it. "Lemme see that," Fiddleford said - more of a demand than an ask, as he ripped it out of Ford's hand.

“Fidds!” Ford huffed and he crossed his arms protectively. "You didn't have to rip it out like that. I would have given it to you.”

"It might be cursed!" Fiddleford said. Indeed, he handled the paper gingerly. "I don't trust it." His eyes raked back and forth over the piece of paper. "Oh c’mon, you didn't actually fall for this didja?"

Ford's cheeks tinted pinker under the sun coming in through the windows. "I didn't fall for anything. And c'mon cursed? I know what cursed objects look like and ripped out college-ruled paper hardly qualifies! He got it out of his own math notebook and he seemed just dandy writing in it without getting afflicted with divine madness. Besides, why is it such a shock that maybe somebody wants to be my friend?"

"He doesn't want to be your friend . Ford-” Fiddleford sighed and leaned in closer to Ford, lowering his voice. “He was flirting with you. Now I'm not one to spread rumors, but I'm worried- I don't think he has good intentions, that's all!"

Ford's eyes widened and his head whipped around to make sure nobody heard. "You're being ridiculous. Bill has plenty of male friends - half of his band are men and I'm not gay. Why would he flirt with a straight guy?”

"I don't think he cares if you're straight or not.” Fiddleford crossed his arms. He needed Stan to back him up on this. "You won't see him at lunch, right? Please say you won’t."

Who did Fiddleford think he was, ordering him around and expecting immediate deference? Ford could understand the protectiveness, but he was his own person, surely Fiddleford could see that. "I'll sit with you and Stan as always. I'm not going to abandon either of you, especially after the night Stan had, but I'm not promising to never see him."

Fiddleford rolled his eyes. "I'm just tryna keep you safe now, that's all." Lord knew Ford wasn't the most observant - someone had to keep him safe from himself. He waved at Stan down the hall, trying not to run towards him.

Ford muttered, "I have Stan for that” but Fiddleford didn’t hear him, already a few feet ahead.

"Hey," Stan said. He put on the best smile he could manage, waving back. "How was that math class thing this morning?"

Before Fiddleford could tell the story for Ford – " Well , Ford-" – Ford cut in forcefully, giving Fiddleford a warning glare: "It was fine. I made a friend." 

Stan's eyebrows raised hopefully, but there was still an abnormal tiredness about him, his posture, expression, and his voice when he spoke. "Yeah? That's great." He took the note when Ford offered it and read it over, immediately picking up on the flirtatious tone. These were new waters and Stan knew it - his stomach flipped a bit. "Wow, that's- Who gave this to you?"

"Bill Cipher," Fiddleford said flatly before Ford could. He folded his arms. "Yes, that Bill. 'pparently he got into trig." 

"You shouldn't judge a book by its cover, Fidds,” said Ford. “Clearly, he’s at least decent at math. You saw the perfect equilateral he drew! Maybe he is looking for a study buddy, that’s what the note said. Nobody in his band seems like they could help with that." The pair looked at Ford dubiously. "What? I could be correct, both of you are assuming as much as me. At least my interpretation has textual evidence." Ford took a deep breath before saying in a wistful tone, "He said he liked my fingers..." 

Something in Fiddleford snapped at his friend's blush and sappy tone. "Ford, don't fall for it, c'mon!" He tugged on Stan's arm, begging for backup. "Tell him!"

"I-" Stan wavered, suddenly in the middle of a conflict he did not want to be part of. "Why don't I go over and talk to Bill with you?"

“What?!” both Fiddleford and Ford said at the same time.

"No, no, absolutely not." Ford thought of meeting Bill and all of his friends with Stan just hovering in the background. "I can take care of meeting one new person in my life. I don't see why this is such a big deal.”

Stan raised his hands in surrender with a heavy sigh. "Do what you want, I'm glad you have a new friend. Do we have to fight about this?"

"We aren't… fighting . We're discussing it," Ford said, a bit cowed at Stan's exhausted tone. "I still want to eat lunch with you two. I'm not- I just was excited, ok? This is rare for me." 

"I told you, I'm glad. Now let's just... yeah." 

The three of them sat down together, Fiddleford too moody to even say anything. He still thought it was a bad idea, but he knew by now that nobody wanted to hear him say that.

There was a brief moment of silence before Ford, trying to take the heat off of the argument that just occurred, asked, "Are you ok, Stan? We saw Carla storm out last night and you've been quieter than usual and I need to know if Fidds needs to build a death robot or not. I fear we may need to start gathering parts now.”

"I'm fine," Stan said tiredly. "I just need to get over it."

"So you and Carla are-"

"Yeah it's over," Stan said. 

"Aww, I'm sorry Stanley," Fiddleford said. 

"It's really not a big deal."

"We're not Dad Stanley, it was a long relationship and you're clearly not alright," Ford added.

"Can we just drop it? Please?" Stan's tone was more biting than it was before. "You just gotta move on from shit like this, I can't do that if you're breathin’ down my neck about it."

"I'm sorry, I was just trying to help."

"Well you didn't." Stan regretted saying that the moment after he did, but he didn't take it back. If it made Ford and Fiddleford stop talking about it then it was worth it.

Ford hunched in deeper into himself. He just wanted to disappear from another social blunder. Fidds was better at comforting people anyways, maybe he should let them be alone. "I'm going to go see what Bill wanted. I'll be quick." Ford got up from the table to try to find the rockstar.

--------------------------

"Ughhhhhhhhhhh."

Pyronica let out a long-suffering sigh as she flicked to the next page in her magazine, eyeing Bill in front of her draped dramatically over the table in a performance of agony. "That is the sixth time you've sighed in a row, Ciph. Over some boring nerd." 

"That 'boring nerd' might be able to send us where we belong," he shot back. "And even if he can't, I think he deserves a place with us."

"Why? You've known him for less than forty-five minutes and through three sentences on a note card.”

"I just know! Okay? Don't question me!"

"Geez, someone's touchy today…”

The closer Ford got to the table the more he felt like he was walking to his execution. There was a stunning girl thumbing through a magazine with wicked hot pink claws, curly bob dyed somehow impossibly pink to match, with clear 'don't fuck with me' energy and Bill right next to her slumped on the table. 

Who was he kidding? His shitty day would only get worse when this all turned out to be a massive prank. But it wasn’t as though Ford could go back now, he was in too deep. What would he say? That he chickened out? Both of them were already mad enough at him as it was, and it wasn’t like Bill could be any worse… right? He nervously tried in vain to smooth down his hair for some reason, feeling his traitorous heart speed up.

Hope flooded through him however when Bill’s eyes met Ford’s and the short young man suddenly lit up with delight. He raised his hand high and flagged him over, causing Ford to hurry over. 

Once he got to the table he didn't quite know what to say or what to do with his hands. He kept them behind his back out of instinct, staying standing just in case he had to make a quick escape. "Uh, I got your note. You said you wanted to study right?" Ford felt like his voice was too high and that his eyes were too wide, but it was too late now. "My trig textbook is in my locker right now, but if you have any questions I'm sure I could work off of memory-"

"Woah, slow down there Six Fingers. Can I call ya Six Fingers? Mr. Pines is so formal." He gave Ford a disarming grin.

Ford froze and tried his best to look normal and not like a kicked puppy, even as his eyes darted for exits. He really didn't want to assume the worst, he wanted Bill to be different so badly, so he gave him the benefit of the doubt. His voice got quieter though. "I prefer Ford.”

"Ford then." Bill's smile stayed frozen on his face and he offered his hand to shake. "Welcome to the cool kid's table."

Was this it? Where it all came crashing down? His mind flashed to Cathy Crenshaw screaming as soon as she touched his hand. But he had to touch Bill's hand, it would be worse if he just did nothing. He went for the handshake, but folded his pinky in his palm so maybe nobody else at the table would notice. Bill would certainly notice the bent pinky crushed between their hands. "I, um, I'm only visiting.”

"Oh I hope not." Bill moved his hand to Ford's wrist, flipping his hand over and examining him. Forcing Ford to show his freakish digits was a dominating move, but he looked him over reverently. "Stunning. Isn't that stunning, Py?"

Ford felt like a fish caught on a hook the second Bill grabbed his wrist. He certainly squirmed like one out of instinct to pull his hand back. But Bill's grip was strong and it was too late to yank it back now. He tensed up waiting for the jeers to start but they never came. Bill called him… stunning? Ford stopped fighting and just widened his eyes in pure shock, cheeks burning.

The pretty girl – Py – whistled. "You buried the lead boss. He's perfect for the group." 

Ford’s wrist was released and Bill tented his manicured fingers. "Trust me, you're in good company here. And yes, I would love to study trig with you."

Pyronica shifted, patting the open seat next to her and Ford took the cue and sat down. What the hell was happening?? Did he slip into an alternative universe somehow? His voice trembled with hope and slight awe as he spoke next: "Ok! Sure, yeah I'm good at trig. Whatever you need."

Whatever Bill needed: Bill's favorite sentiment. "Lovely! We'll set up a time to study later. In the meantime, friend - tell me about yourself. What are you passionate about?" 

"Uh science mostly. And math. I'm pretty good at drawing though too. Oh! I play the piano. You all like music right? Being a part of a band, that must be a prerequisite!" 

Bill lit up, clapping. "Oh that's just wonderful! Piano, piano... You, ah, wouldn't happen to write your own music, would you?" He kicked Py's foot under the table in excitement, cuing her to pay attention.

"Oh, um no? I'm not an aspiring musician like you all are. I've never written original music. It's a hobby, but ah, I can play rather rapidly." 

"But you know your way around sheet music, yes?" Bill said hopefully.

"Of course I do. Who doesn't?” 

"Excellent!" He kicked his feet with excitement. "Oh Py, isn't that excellent?"

Ford smiled awkwardly. "I'm sorry, I'm quite out of the loop here. Do you require the services of a composer?"

"Ah, don't worry yourself about that." He leaned across the table to ruffle Ford's hair, having to lay his chest down on it due to his height (or lack of it). "Whaddya say you come over to my place on Wednesday? We can study and you can show me some of your piano skills."

Ford felt his soul leave his body when Bill touched his hair, a stupid smile blossoming on his face. "Ok sure! As long as it's for studying I'm sure I can convince my parents.”

"Perfect!” Bill rolled onto his back on the table, smiling upside down. "I knew you and I could be friends."

--------------------------

Ford was wrong: Fiddleford was no better at comforting Stan than he was, at least not now. The tinker strained his neck to look over the heads in the lunchroom, following Ford with his gaze. Look at him... fixing his fuckin' hair for Bill Cipher of all people. "I'm tellin' ya Stan, we're gonna have to pull him outta deep shit before this is over."

Stan was broken out of his brooding thoughts by Fiddleford's complaining and he gestured vaguely at Bill. "Give it a moment will ya? Innocent until proven guilty and all that." Hopefully that would be enough to satisfy the southerner and he could go back to feeling sorry for himself.

"Oh, I'll give it a moment, just don't say I didn't warn-" He gasped, practically jumping out of his seat upon watching Bill take Ford's wrist and bare the boy’s fingers for his lecherous eyes to gaze upon. "Oh he did not ."

"What now -" Stan cut himself off when he saw what had happened and he tensed up. He was halfway getting up himself already seeing the future events unfold from past experiences dealing with assholes. "Damn it Ford,” he whispered under his breath. Why did his brother throw himself like a lamb waiting for slaughter at Bill? He usually was far more cautious. Unless… Stan grimaced at the thought. Ford better not be gay for both of their sakes. But the evidence against his brother had been stacking higher and higher up over the years. 

Fiddleford carefully watched Bill's expressions. "Oh that smug little bastard." But then... Ford sat down with them?? "What's he thinkin?"

Stan sat back down himself once he saw that Ford willingly stayed longer with Bill, but Fiddleford was still standing up like an idiot. At this point Stan was getting invested; this was a decent distraction from his thoughts. Andddd now Ford was doing the excited little gestures he only did when he was explaining something. Oh, Ford was gone . Stan glanced up at Fidds. "Woah don't pop a blood vessel."

"He's gonna get eaten alive!" Fiddleford managed to sit down, but he put his fingers in his hair, tugging hard.

"He looks fine. Happy even." 

"Did you see the way Bill grabbed him? He practically assaulted him!" Then Bill laid on the table - Fiddleford tensed - and ruffled Ford's hair. "Oh good heavens I can't watch." 

Stan grumbled, "We've both been assaulted before, that ain't it pal."

"Nobody should touch him like that..." Fiddleford muttered, looking away. He knew that was out of line, but... come on. The forced intimacy of Bill looking at Ford's fingers, touching them, counting them, probably salivating over them...

"I reckon somebody will eventually Fidds." Stan glanced pointedly at Ford. He wasn’t a complete idiot, he’d noticed Fiddleford dancing around Ford practically since the day they met. The unspoken if you don't first went unsaid.

"Wh-what's that supposed to mean? You really think Ford would let Bill touch him like that? Bill of all people? That Ford would sit with someone who did something like that? Stan, somethin ain't right, Ford ain't himself. I worry Bill mighta done somethin to 'im."

"Like what? Hypnosis or somethin'?"

"Yes!"

Stan glanced down at Ford again, assessing the postures of those at the table at the heart of the lunchroom, the way Ford was smiling. "Maybe it's just hormones. Bill was nice in that note." 

Fiddleford gave Stan a stern look. "What an awful thing to say about your own brother."

"I’m not- There are other hormones aren't there? Like ones that deal with platonic mushy stuff." Nice save Stan, great job.

Fiddleford wasn't buying that, not one bit. "Yeah, right."

Chapter Text

Fiddleford knew that when Emma asked him to come "fix something" it was really just an excuse to get him to come over – in fact, he wasn't unconvinced that, in the past, she had broken things on purpose just to see him. It was charming, really. 

Most of the time. 

It was 4:00 in the afternoon and Fiddleford lay on his back in the Dixon's garage, taking a look at their car – his mind, however, was elsewhere.

Emma rested her head on her hand, perched on a metal stool right next to the car so she could hand Fidds any tools he might need. She was hoping she'd get to view anything other than her boyfriend's legs for the past half hour but she was sorely mistaken. "Honey, I know you said you could... upgrade my car but is that really necessary right now? Ain't it fixed?" The intended, don't you want to actually spend time with me instead of being buried deep in a car's guts? went unsaid. 

Fiddleford jumped slightly at the sound of her voice, briefly pulled from his reverie. 

Ford's hand splayed out, held in Bill's grip. Ford's laugh, the way he lit up when had an idea, his flowing handwriting, the drawings he'd done of the two of them that he kept hung up in his room, the day they'd first met in 8th grade when Fiddleford had moved there, how Ford had made Fiddleford feel less alone than he'd ever felt in his life, how he was just going to throw all that away for a man with crappy triangle puns-

“I'm makin' it better, Em'."

"Yes, but you only get like this when somethin' is on your mind. All quiet and lost in those machines of yours. Somethin' happened to get you all riled up." 

He wrinkled his nose from under the car and thanked God his expression was hidden from her beneath the car. "I'm not- I can't just tinker a bit and not be mushy 'bout somethin?"

"I didn't say nothin’ about being mushy although it wouldn't hurt. I know you hon and I know when you're upset. Talk to me."

"Alright, maybe I am upset." He knew she wouldn't let it go unless he conceded at least a bit . But she didn't understand, he couldn't just talk about this. That wasn't her fault, she couldn't know that, but damn her, sometimes she needed to know when to let go. "That don't mean I wanna talk about it."

Her lips pursed from the sting of hurt that sent her back to sitting straight up like a gust of hard, cold wind and she sniffled. "Does it hafta do with me?" She knew that was a dirty trick but she didn't care, a little guilt would do him some good. 

Fiddleford sighed, kicking himself for getting to this point and idly wondering where in the conversation he'd miscalculated to get crocodile tears as a result. He pushed himself out from under the car and sat up. "No Em', course not."

"Then why don't you want to tell me!"

"Cause it's not yours to worry 'bout," he said, trying to stay calm for both their sakes. For as frustrated as he was, for as far in the clouds his head was, he didn't want this to become a big deal – he feared it already was.

"When we get married you're goin' to have to tell me everything! As your future wife I deserve to know."

Wife?

Fiddleford felt his stomach twist, suddenly picturing rings like manacles and her continuing to need to know.

God, he really couldn't keep doing this. 

But he also couldn't afford to lose her. 

He liked her. Hell, he liked her like that , she was pretty and he liked kissing her, he just... didn’t know if she was what he wanted . 

Fiddleford couldn't help but think that Ford would have been delighted that he was going a bit off the rails with his car repairs. 

 He rolled back under the car where he was safe, not saying anything. That was the safest option, he figured – saying nothing was better than saying something he’d regret when he hadn’t had time to craft a thoughtful response.

Emma waited for a beat for him to come back out again and when he didn't she felt like crying for real. What happened between them? What was she doing wrong? She tried so hard to be sweet and pretty and a perfect girlfriend, but apparently it wasn't enough. She dropped the tool she was holding on the stool and left the garage without a word. 

Dammit, dammit, what've you done now, Fiddleford? 

He scrambled out from under the car and after her, bracing himself for the hugging and the crying and the saying things without saying the truth. 

If he didn't want this, he thought, maybe he ought to be honest with himself about what he did want.

--------------------------

"Can you go over the essential points one more time, Lee?" Ford tapped his pen in a steady beat on his journal, staring off into space, curled up on Stan’s bottom bunk, attempting to focus and memorize.

Stan, sitting on the floor, shook the beat up piece of ripped out notebook paper, squinting at the plan they'd both laid out. "Uhh, asking is only suspicious if you make it suspicious... don't tell Pa much about Bill... emp- em ph asize the studying part."

"What if he asks questions about Bill? What do I do then?" They had already gone over this, Ford just liked the repetition of the plan drilled in his head. And maybe he liked letting Stan be helpful and useful in a way that didn't involve his twin taking a punch destined for him. 

"You look at it, it's the first bullet point under the Bill stuff." Stan chucked the paper at his brother and it - predictably - floated uselessly to the floor without making it very far.

Ford blinked and reached down over the bed to grab it. "Apologies, I shouldn't have written in cursive. That was unthoughtful of me." 

Stan shrugged, a little uncomfortable with the thought of Ford having to modify for him. He tried not to let it get him down though - Ford was going over to a new friend's house, that was big. He put on a smile and hugged his legs to his chest. "You're gonna do great, Ford."

"At asking Pa or socializing?" Ford looked nervously out the window at the car sitting in front of the pawn shop. "I still don't know why Bill is being so nice to me. Maybe Fiddleford was right." Ford didn’t want to elaborate on which part Fidds might be right about. Flirty notes and triangle puns and oh yeah Bill was an out and proud fucking homosexual. Why would one of them single Ford out?

Stan's smile widened to a grin and he scooted closer to his brother. "Poindexter, I've known you since the world spat me out and made me its problem. And believe it or not, I think you're worth gettin' to know. If Bill sees that, good for him. And if not... Well, Fidds is due for that murder robot you mentioned."

How was it that Stanley, for his limited vocabulary, always knew what to say, how to navigate the treacherous waters of sociality while Ford and his SAT prep words never could manage to assemble his endless word choices and synonyms in the right order to get people to like him? His heart twinged at how he’d failed to comfort Stan in his break-up funk yesterday and his smile slipped just a centimeter. "I should get going. Don't want to miss Pa's good mood before I can capitalize on it." Filbrick was always in a better mood after tallying up the profits at the end of the work day – it was a small window of opportunity and Ford had to take it.

After making his way down the stairs, Ford causally slid on a chair next to the glass display case, going over the points in his head again: don't make it suspicious, no details about Bill, emphasize studying. He didn't look at his father counting bills to his side and hoped his voice was steady. "Sir, may I borrow the car tomorrow to go to a friend's house to study for an upcoming trig exam?" 

Filbrick raised an eyebrow, peering over his thick glasses. "You can't study here? With your friend?" It wasn't like Ford had ever done anything like this and Filbrick knew very well that his sons got up to shenanigans on occasion.

Ford's grip on the chair tightened, but he kept his composure under scrutiny. "I made a new friend and he lives further away.”

"Hm. Your friend doesn't have a car?" Filbrick looked away from Ford, only half paying attention.

"I don't know if he does or not, sir." This was now entering the territory of untruths, a place that usually prompted unsteady hands. Ford had to steel himself. "I thought it would be easier if he didn't have to pick me up and drive me home." 

Ford's father let out a heavy sigh. "You better not have invited yourself over."

"N-no, he invited me."

"And you told him you could drive over."

"I told him that I would have to ask permission to drive over for a study session." Number three on the list, emphasize studying. "It's tomorrow after school."

Filbrick regarded his son again. "How long are you planning to be gone?"

Shit , Ford didn't ask Bill how long he was expected to be over. "I'll be home by curfew?"

"Studying," Filbrick clarified. There was tension for a moment before he rolled his eyes - Ford would study for that long, nothing wrong with that. "Alright, car's yours.”

"Thankyousir." Ford slid off the seat, retreating back to his bedroom to report his victory back to Stanley.

"See?" Stan said, observing Ford's smile and intuiting his success. "I knew you could do it."

Ford collapsed back on the bottom bunk, releasing all of his pent up tension as the bed sagged underneath him. "Let's just hope he never finds out who I'm studying with. He didn't even ask who it was. If you’d been asking, he would have been grilling you for hours ." Although he’d voiced it, Ford decided not to think too deeply about that discrepancy – he supposed that he was more trusted because he had earned it unlike his counterpart.

"We should come up with a lie then, just in case. Ya know, get the story straight and be prepared."

"How? If Pa knows his identity, that's a checkmate right, game over?" Ford tilted his head from where he buried his face in the sheets to look at his brother at his side. "It's not like there's a lot of other black kids running around named Bill."

"How's he gonna find out?" Stan tossed a figurine from one hand to the other. "Just make somebody up."

Ford blanched just thinking of conjuring a whole person out of thin air and keeping his story straight before considering it for a moment. It would just be like creating a DD&D character. He could do that. "Ok... I would have to make them a backstory…" He was already muttering aloud. To anybody else backstory would mean a cover-up, a lie, to Ford it was a character sheet and graph paper and fantastical worlds begging to be set loose on a bouncing Fiddleford McGucket and a groaning Stanley Pines. 

He could do this.

--------------------------

The sound of the El Diablo’s door shutting – and then the eerie silence afterwards – served to amplify Ford’s anxiety beneath the shadow of Bill’s home. He had to blink in awe of the sheer size of it, clutching his books close to his chest, his footsteps joining the humming drone of cicadas as the only sounds in the front yard. A snarling knocker on the black door loomed above waiting impatiently for his touch. It was clearly constructed specifically to make any visitor, no matter how confident, feel small. Ford was used to feeling small – he supposed that's why he got over the effect rather quickly. After all, he'd already repeatedly thrown himself into Bill's jaws waiting for a bite that never came. What was one more roll of the dice? 

He inserted his hand into the mouth of what looked to be an imp and pulled the knocker back and let it go. A loud bang echoed in the courtyard. Some birds flew from the trees in dramatic fashion and Ford shifted from foot to foot as he nervously waited for a response. 

Eventually, the door, instead of slowly creaking open like Ford imagined it would, flew open in defiance of any genre expectations demanded of it. Bill Cipher was grinning maniacally in the door frame, defying conventions himself with gaudy make-up and a top-hat on as the loud thumping bass of a party spilled out like smoke infecting the tranquil courtyard. Ford wondered briefly how Bill was able to keep the noise of the party trapped inside the building without a peep getting out, but didn't have much time to contemplate before he was yanked inside. He had to yell over the noise: "Bill, I thought you invited me to study!" 

"Oh I did!" Bill said. "But we have all evening, don't we? I wanna get to know my newest friend!" He ruffled Ford's hair again, having to reach up to do so - the top hat did make him look slightly taller, an impressive feat in and of itself. 

Ford clung to Bill's side, terrified of letting go and losing his only ally in the swarm of people, trying to comfort himself by observing his surroundings. The interior of the mansion was mostly black, with dark tile floors, high ceilings, black painted wood furnishings, and a chandelier above the entrance. He glanced behind him hoping to see the door but the crowd quickly obscured it. "Bill, I don't like parties,” he stated nervously.

"Hah! Who doesn't like parties?" He clutched Ford's six fingered hand like it was precious to him and dragged him to the far side of the room to a table of treats. Chocolate covered pretzels, mini cupcakes, cheese, chips and dip. Bill grabbed a handful of pretzels for himself. "Go ahead, have whatever you want," he said, bouncing back and forth on his toes.

Ford numbly grabbed some chips, hoping that Bill would soon laugh and lead him back to the entrance saying something about how he must have made a mistake trying to befriend Ford. Clearly he just wasn't cut out for Bill's lifestyle. Losers stuck with nerds and rockstars stuck with party-animals - it was an axiom of the universe. Why was Bill so hellbent on hijacking that Ford thought as he stared down at Bill's glittering eyeshadow and sharp eye-liner. He ate a chip to be polite, remembering that he was just holding a handful dumbly. Maybe if he stayed really quiet Bill would lose interest and flit away to play host, leaving him an opening to sneak out.

Bill seemed to light up watching Ford partake in the snacks, his usually sharp expression softening into something like... fondness? No, that couldn't be right. 

Even so, Ford’s peer slung a friendly arm around his shoulder, popping a pretzel into his mouth and leading him further from the nucleus of the party where it was at least a little quieter. "This is just the norm here," Bill said, throwing a thumb over his shoulder to gesture at the party behind them. "I don't even know half of those people, hah!"

"Isn't that exhausting?" Ford said, still shell-shocked. "Having so many friends? Performing for strangers?"

Bill shrugged. "It's fun!" He put the rest of his pretzels in his mouth and continued while chewing: "I geht ih's noht yer speed though. Come on!" he said, pulling Ford down a hall. "To the library!"

The faintest whiff of knowledge was enough to pique Ford’s interest. "You have a library?" It was almost comical how much energy returned to his previously glazed over eyes, before a stab of fear went through Ford's heart as he asked, mortified, "The party doesn't extend to inside the library, right?" The thought of throw up and booze staining pages and sleek bookcases made Ford shudder. 

"Of course not, Fordsy. Can I call ya Fordsy?" Bill pushed through a tall dark door - the noise ever-retreating behind them - and the two of them burst into an absolute dream. Floor to ceiling bookshelves with sliding ladders, tall windows with the curtains drawn aside, a couch and a cozy reading chair with a lamp beside it. In the center of it all, a sleek grand piano. "Tah dah!" Bill pulled away from Ford and twirled in the room, taking his hat off in a bow. 

"I don't mind Fordsy," Ford said, clapping politely at the bow and in reverent wonder at the library. It must have been triple the size of the high school's and it certainly was cleaner. Again he noticed how the sound shut off absolutely as soon as the door clicked shut. "How do you keep the sound out? You must have layers upon layers of padding inside your walls to accomplish such a feat!" 

Bill shrugged, replacing his hat and pacing as though he couldn't keep still. "How should I know? I didn't build the house, hah!" 

"Well, it must be advantageous for a partier like yourself to live in a house that blocks out sound like it does." Ford suddenly felt cold, Fiddleford's desperate warnings rattling around in his head as he watched the shorter man pace. "It's almost like it's magic." His heart beat faster at the thought of Bill actually being a Satanist warlock – not necessarily with fear, but certainly with curiosity. Most people either feared the supernatural or didn't believe it existed. Stan did at least, due to their experiences with the Jersey Devil as children, but even Fiddleford didn't want to hear about his encounters. His knee would always jitter up and down in clear agitation every time he brought it up. Maybe Bill would be different.

"Magic? Pfft. If there's any magic here it's the magic of pencil, paper, and trigonometry!" Bill sprinted to a ladder, rolling on it to a few shelves down where he selected something and tossed it to Ford. "And this notebook I got you!"

Ford yelped and flailed to catch the precious book that was thrown at him. It still fell out of his grasping hands, pages fluttering wildly as it thumped against the hardwood. He quickly snatched it from the floor to avoid any further embarrassment. Cracking open the sleek heavy cover revealed a dedication scrawled in Bill’s blocky handwriting and surrounded by doodles of triangles: 

To my friend Ford . 

A smile ghosted his face as he thumbed through the pages. Half of them were already filled out with notes and brilliant illustrations, but the other half of the pages were empty. "I don't know what to say. I suppose I should start by thanking you," Ford said with even more naked awe in his voice. "Why are you being so nice to me?" 

Bill hopped off of the ladder and collapsed onto the couch, putting his feet up with one ankle crossed over the other. "Should I not be?" he asked, grinning mischievously. 

"Yes? No? You're not supposed to be."

"Why not?" Bill asked. He pulled open a drawer beside him, pulling out a pack of cigarettes. 

"Why not ?" Ford repeated incredulously. "You know why. Don't blame dumb with me, Cipher. I know your secret." Ford walked closer, jamming his pointer finger in Bill's chest. "You're smart . Yet you've got the entire school thinking you're on the cusp of failing out for some reason I can't fathom. … Are you seriously going to smoke right now?" 

"Mm hmm. Want one?" Bill pulled out two, offering one to Ford with that indelible smile.

"Maybe I gave you too much credit, you're clearly still dumb enough to risk lung cancer." Ford's accusatory tone wavered. He hated that Bill wasn't explaining himself, was deciding to be cryptic instead of helpful. His questions were important to him, Bill needed to answer.

Bill frowned, sitting up a bit. "Didn't your parents ever tell you insulting your host is rude? Sit down," he said, nodding to the spot on the couch beside him. "I'll tell you why I like you, just lighten up a bit. I don't bite, not unless you want me to."

Ford flushed at the innuendo, realizing suddenly that he was far too close to Bill for comfort. He scrambled to the couch like it was a life-raft and made sure to keep a healthy six inches of space between their bodies. 

Bill lit his cigarette like they had all the time in the world, tilting his head back to blow the smoke up in the air before letting out a sigh. "You and I," he said, staring Ford down and gesturing with his cigarette, "aren't as incongruent as you think we are." 

Ford stared, unimpressed, at Bill's stylish outfit, lit cig, and relaxed posture before glancing down at his own sweater vest and slacks. "Clearly, I'm missing something here," he said dryly.

"You take a long good look at me, Fordsy; I'm just as queer as you. I just wear it better. And people, they care about that." 

"I'm not queer," Ford said automatically, almost desperately, sporting a cherry blush. "I'm straight."

"I didn't say you weren't," Bill said, offering Ford a sly smile. "But I don't know." He took another drag. "I'd say it's rather queer to have twelve fingers." 

Ford's eyes shot to his hands like he just remembered the mutation that plagued his entire life. "Yes, well, um," Ford stuttered, trying to get his tongue to cooperate with his brain. “You meant queer as in strange. Right. I knew that." 

Bill smiled, eyes glimmering with something knowing. "All my friends are like us. I think if you wear it the right way, you could really belong here."

"How would you suggest I go about 'wearing' my own fingers? They're not exactly a choice I can take off like-" Ford paused before he could insult Bill too gravely “-like clothing,” he finished lamely.

The glimmer in Bill's eyes dulled threateningly. In an instant his lighthearted demeanor disintegrated. "What's that supposed to mean?" 

"I just mean I already own my fingers don't I? I can't hide them, even if I tried to." 

With just the slightest change in his expression and posture, Bill’s air of tension faded. "You are trying awfully hard to do just that."

"Hide them? Of course I do!" 

"Yes. And it's a damn shame." Bill poked Ford in the chest, playful but with a more serious look in his golden eyes.

“Well forgive me for not painting a target on my own damn back."

"You're afraid, that's the problem. I understand. Some people are terribly ignorant. But what you need to understand is that they're afraid of you right back. If you own that and stop hiding they'll realize they shouldn't fuck with you." Bill reached for Ford's hand. "I'll protect you," he said, running his fingers over Ford's digits like they were holy. "And if you'll let me, I'll make you shine." 

Ford's composure disintegrated. The six inch space was looking more like four inches now and Ford leaned back. There was a beauty to Bill’s golden eyes from his angle that he couldn’t deny despite trying to – maybe ignoring would be more effective than denial. "Oh, um. I, uh." Ford cleared his throat. "I wouldn't be opposed to the idea."

"I'm glad to hear that, I really am." He smiled and leaned back again, the picture of nonchalance. "Now. Why don't you play something for me? Show off those piano skills you told me about." 

Cool air filtered into the empty space between them when Bill drew back. Even without touching the man directly, Bill radiated heat like the sun. How did he do that, Ford wondered? The Billness that suffocated any room graced with the presence of the rockstar was overwhelming enough without body heat to be tacked on to the growing list of confused signals Ford’s body was sending his brain. One such signal was how his knuckles tingled where Bill's soft, slightly callused fingers had lingered for a tantalizing second. Ford flexed his hand in an attempt to rid himself of them, convincing himself that he was simply stretching his fingers out before playing. Nervous energy wasn't great for the fluidity required of a pianist after all. 

"I can play a couple of songs from memory. Flight of the Bumblebee was always a crowd favorite," Ford said – conveniently neglecting to mention that the 'crowd' he played for was a bunch of invasive doctors hemming about how his sixth finger was an evolutionary gift. He normally lapped up praise from authority figures to steady his fragile self-image, but those compliments made him uncomfortable even if he couldn't put a finger on why. 

Just as he was breathing a sigh of relief that leaving the couch pulled his traitorous body away from Bill, Ford came to stare down the sleek black piano and its plush leather bench. He supposed he wouldn’t find out whether or not it was the lesser of two evils until he played… Cracking his knuckles only bought him so much time though. He delicately set his fingers on the keys in a poised arch and took a breath, starting to play. It was a rapid song and even though he’d memorized it, he couldn't afford to lose focus with Bill watching. More than any time he’d ever played before, he felt pressure of perfection in his stiff spine. In how he barely let himself breathe. In how his eyes were fixated on his hands. Don't mess up. Don't mess up. Don't mes- 

Bill watched with interest, leaning forward on the couch. Ford really was good - even if he couldn't compose as well as he played, Bill was certain he'd found an asset to the cause. Pleased with himself for finding such a treasure, he allowed himself to relax and eye Ford's fingertips hitting the keys. He looked nervous - poor thing - but Bill admitted that nervousness looked rather fetching on him. 

Maybe anything would have looked fetching on his new prospect though. 

Even when he made an error - with a frantic, "Ah- uh. Sorry. I- Yes, um..." - Bill just smiled at the way he recovered. 

When Ford finished he clapped loudly, singular applause echoing in the large room to replace the piano's music from before. "Bravo! Oh, bravo!"

Ford beamed at the praise. He was used to validation of course from adults but this felt different. It didn't come with expectations or strings. Bill just liked him for some reason and Ford didn't know what to do with that information. He supposed gratitude would have to suffice. "Thank you, the extra finger helps!" Ford's eyes gleamed as he wiggled his fingers playfully, showing them off in a manner that he had previously only been comfortable enough for Stan or Fiddleford to see.

"That’s exactly what I was trying to tell you!" Bill leapt to his feet, putting out his cigarette on an ash tray beside the couch. "If I believe that, so should you.”

Ford found himself nodding along. Bill said it so confidently and with so much energy he couldn't help subconsciously dancing to his tune. 

Ford played a couple more songs and even actually cracked open his trig textbook like he promised his father he would. However, it was getting darker and darker and time rudely didn't pause for the two teens to enjoy just one more song or one more joke. Ford jerked to sitting up from the ground when he realized how late it was. "I have to go, I promised my dad I would be back before curfew. Thank you for inviting me and for taking a… chance on me, Bill. I think I judged you too harshly,” Ford said with a tinge of regret coloring his voice. 

"Plenty of time to make up for that, pal," Bill assured him, ruffling his hair once more. The two of them laid on their stomachs, still in the library surrounded by books. "I know I'm an acquired taste."

Ford playfully laughed. "Isn't your entire job to be as appealing to as many teens as possible, Cipher? It's my fault I was so pretentious I couldn't imagine a deeper world behind your cultivated image." Ford started to pick himself off the floor to find his gift so he could leave. 

"Oh you're not the only one, don't worry." He rolled over onto his back, placing his hands on his stomach. "I really can't blame you - I'm sure you've heard what people say about me, fame or no. Nasty people with closed minds."

"Yes, I have heard some...rumors," Ford said politely, not wanting to mention which rumors specifically he heard.

"Speaking of which, Ford... don't let anyone hold you back, understand me? Especially not the people closest to you. If you take anything away from our little study session tonight, take that. Don't let anybody tell you who you are, make your own destiny. Got it?"

Ford instantly thought of Stan. Of course he did. Their father ensured that the phrase 'holding him back' and Stan were conjoined in Ford’s mind the second he showed ‘potential’. Ford had attempted at first to resist the impulse to slowly sew Filbrick’s opinions stitch-by-stitch to Stanley, knowing that it would negatively color his perception of his twin irrevocably as a monster, a parasite . That’s what conjoined twins fought about he imagined: Who was the normal one and who was the monster? Maybe they drew straws to decide every morning who would take the mantle of monster that day. One of them had to be the parasite, after all. The other a normal baby that was cursed with a codependent, nutrient-sucking, unholy, freak attached at their hip. Ford wasn’t going to be the freak, not this time. 

Then Ford's mind drifted to Fiddleford, sweet Fidds who only wanted the best for him, but didn't quite understand that Ford was Jewish and not Christian. The southerner was polite enough to his mom, but still washed his hands after shaking her hand muttering something about tarot decks and evil spirits and sin . But Bill didn't know about any of that right? He was just giving general advice, no need to tense up. "I'll keep that in mind, Bill."

"Good. Oh! And Ford?"

"Yes?" Ford paused at the doorway. 

"Sit with me again at lunch tomorrow. We should do this again. Saturday evening?"

Ford swallowed. "I'll think about it. Can I have a way to reach you with my answer?" 

"But of course." Bill got up off the floor and smoothly grabbed one of the pens beside him to write beneath his note on the back of the cover of Ford's new notebook. "Gimme a ring. Any time."

Chapter Text

The natural gas under Mrs. McGucket’s good old fashioned southern cooking swished off with a sharp click of her right hand. She was on the skinnier side, wearing an apron and blue-bonnet sundress, her collarbone visible when she scooped the food onto each plate – Fiddleford had to get his lankiness from somewhere after all. Heaven knew he wasn’t hearty like his father despite the amount of food she cooked every week – he looked feminine and weak and like good parents they tried to nip that in the bud with farm work and casseroles. Though his body resisted, he had eventually gained some muscle in his arms. 

Fiddleford was picking at his mother’s nice tablecloth when she set down his plate right in front of him. It took him a couple seconds to mutter a quiet, “Thank you ma’am.” 

That was all she needed for her mother's intuition to kick in as she forced her hand on his forehead to feel for his temperature. “Baby, are you feelin’ sick?”

Fiddleford shook his head, but his mopey blue eyes told a different story. "I'm fine Ma, just tired."

She clicked her tongue. "That's how it always starts young man. You say you're just tired, then the next day you got yourself a fever and everybody in the household gets sicker than a dog."

Was that what was happening? Was he sick? People were missing from class due to flu season....

But what if it was more than that? What if this was intentional?

"I can't stay home from school tomorrow," Fiddleford said. He couldn't tell her that was because he had to protect his friend from Satanist magic. "I got a test comin’ up."

"Your forehead isn't hot enough for a fever I s’pose," she muttered to herself before she sat down. Fiddleford was an anxious child, maybe the test had him worried. "You goin' over to Stan's place to study?" She peered at him with concerned eyes.

"Stanley and Stanford, yes."

She waved her hand dismissively. "Yes, yes. You know I have a bad memory. They're not your real friends anyways, not like your friends from church. It's a good thing you're doin', tolerating Jewish sinners, givin' them a good example to lead them to the Lord. But it's been almost four years and they don't seem to be followin' if you catch my drift. "

That was a verifiable lie, but certainly not one Fiddleford felt comfortable correcting. Maybe Ford and Stan could be enriched by the gospel, but he had to admit he fit in better with them than any of the kids at church. He had to believe it was by God's design that things had happened this way – that Fiddleford had been placed specifically to support Ford through the trial of all this... Bill stuff. "I'm supportin' them, I promise."

"Oh bless your heart, I raised a saint, yes I did! But you keep your wits about you Fidds, ‘specially around the smart one, he might be why you're feelin' under the weather. If Jesus' hands could heal the sick, then it follows the devil's number, those six fingers-" she shuddered and crossed herself "-cause afflictions instead. It's not his fault. Poor boy. I'm still convinced he mutated because his mother's tarot infected him with evil spirits in the womb. You haven't accepted a reading have you?"

"No, ma'am." Fiddleford shook his head. He agreed with his mother on a lot of things, but he wasn't convinced Ford's fingers were any sort of curse. A social curse, maybe, but nothing more than a genetic accident. It was better not to argue with her about these things though.

"That's good… that's good. When you go over to study, take a bible with you. Get them exposed to a proper text."

Well that seemed a little much. "Ma, I-" Arguing wouldn't get him anywhere though, he knew that. "Yeah, okay..." 

Oh but there had to be a way to beat this, something that didn't involve bibles or holy books. He couldn't help but feel like there might be a way to get to Ford somehow, to break whatever spell he was under (because Ford was under a spell, Fiddleford was convinced of that now). But he didn't know any magic, he didn't know the first thing about how this worked. 

Was it childish that the first thing that came to mind was their VHS copy of Sleeping Beauty? A handsome prince fighting evil with the sword of truth and the shield of virtue? Waking a princess from a spell with a kiss?

"I'll do what I can, Ma," Fiddleford promised.

--------------------------

The red El Diablo drove off into the night, disappearing over the hill and out of Bill's sight. Ford would barely make it home in time for curfew. For both their sakes, Bill hoped he would – he wouldn't want any issue with Ford's parents, at least to begin with. Hell, Bill was lucky his own adoptive parents were as willing as they were to turn a blind eye to his exploits. They weren't happy with him per se, but they were more than willing to stay out of what he did so long as they continued to profit off of him. 

Bill turned his back to the large second floor window, looking over the individuals he'd called in for a meeting. "Everyone's been gotten rid of downstairs?" he clarified.

Xanthar nodded silently while 8-Ball said, "We did the sweep, boss." It was their job as muscle to control the crowd, man the doors, and keep Bill safe. The rest of the Henchmanics were trickling in – half of them hungover. But they all knew better than to voice their annoyance at the short notice or the late time.

With an impish giggle, Bill hopped onto the arm of his large throne-like chair by the window, laying his head down on the other arm. "I am thrilled to announce that I'm confident we're back on schedule! No thanks to you, Kryptos." He shot a pointed glare at the culprit.

Kryptos was hanging back – almost hiding behind Xanthar – but when Bill's focus lasered in on him he scuttled further behind the larger henchmaniac with a yelp. The rest of the crowd tittered excitedly. Nobody except for Py knew where the boss had disappeared off to, but the inner circle could guess it had to do with The Plan . The outer circle stayed blissfully unaware of course. For example, Teeth, the youngest in the group, piped up, "We're going to hell then?" like it was a family road trip that finally got approved by Dad (Bill). “Hell” was just a stupid name for the biggest party of the year to the boy. 

"That we are!" said Bill, pointing at Teeth like the boy and his braces had just won a hefty game show prize.

Teeth beamed, showing off his braces, he was excited for the concert at the end of the year. He couldn't wait to mosh and shred, maybe even get a girl if he was lucky! He was the most naïve crew member and Bill liked him that way. Every rockstar needed their groupies after all. 

Pyronica raised her eyebrow knowingly from her place at the wall. "It went well with Sixy then?" The rest of the group all murmured at the unfamiliar name. 

"We'll workshop that nickname," Bill said, wrinkling his nose a bit. "But yes! Which brings us to our next point of business this evening: very soon, I will be introducing a new member of our crew!"

There were differing reactions – some excited to mess with fresh meat, others lower in the social ranking seething at new competition. Kryptos in particular scowled from his hiding place. How dare this Sixy swoop in and steal the most important job without even working for it. He remembered the sheer hell Bill put him through before he’d earned his way to the lowest rung of the inner circle. Before he was trusted with The Plan , much less a job. He knew he was on thin ice, but his frustration (and a bit of whiskey) clouded his judgment and he popped out from behind Xanthar. "Shouldn't we vote on a new member? None of us have even met him before. What if he doesn't bring the right energy to the group?"

"That's for me to decide," Bill said icily.

Kyrptos scanned the room for any allies that might stand with him but he found none. 

Xanthar shook xir head silently and grabbed the blonde by the scruff of his collar. "Sorry, boss. There won't be any more interruptions. Continue." 

Kryptos sweated at the clear threat and went silent. He was eye-level with Xanthar's bicep as he dangled freely in the air.

" Thank you . As I was saying! Our new Sixy is one Stanford Pines. Real pathetic thing really, but I believe he'll be up to the task and loyal to the cause. Feel free to, ah, introduce yourselves to him this week. However you see fit." He chuckled and let his head droop over the side of the chair, running over Ford's nervous mannerisms and lovely freakish fingers in his mind. 

The crowd went almost silent. Nobody wanted to argue with the boss, especially with the example of Kryptos still dangling in the air, but they all had their own vague impressions of Ford as the smartest kid in the school and, oh yeah, a total wet blanket. 8-Ball was pretty sure he’d thrown him in a garbage can once. All eyes turned to Pyronica, the only person that could talk reason into Bill, but she unhelpfully kept chewing her gum. 

Hectorgon hesitantly spoke first since he’d known Bill the longest: "He'll do great I'm sure. Excellent choice boss, but um- Is he comfortable with underage drinking? He might go tell his parents or the cops, you know if he's feeling unsafe. Not that he would. Just that it might happen."

"He's comfortable with me and that's all that matters. You don't think I have this under control?" Bill sounded bored when he said it, pulling out his lighter and tossing it in the air and catching it. One day they'd learn to just trust him. They'd better.

Several people clamored to assure Bill of their loyalty and trust, their overlapping voices a blur of "Yes, Bill. Whatever you say boss. You're in control."

"Exactly!" He sighed and forced himself to sit up and set his feet on the floor. "Alright, Teeth, Amorphous Shape, 8-Ball, Xanthar, you guys are dismissed. The rest of you stick around for a bit."

Xanthar dropped Kryptos unceremoniously and the kid fell to the floor in a crumpled heap before brushing himself off and getting up. The room was less crowded now with only Pyronica, Keyhole, Hectorgon, Kryptos and Bill left. 

Keyhole spoke up first: "You wanna bug the new guy's house like normal, boss?" His job was to set up all the arcane eyes around town and manage them. It required a bit of breaking and entering which Keyhole reveled in.

"You read my mind!" Bill said with delight. "He lives at Pine's Pawns, I'll write the address down for you later." 

"Did you get any confirmation on how to handle Six? Especially in regards to his sexuality, you know we can’t get this wrong. He seems easier to spook than- Well, ya know," Pyronica said, her eyes lingering on Kryptos. That boy’s mood swings were in full force this evening, showcasing just another reason she didn’t trust him one bit. Sure, he technically was the most devoted, the masochistic eagerness he exhibited with past hazing proved that. He seemed to think that pain earned him a right to a job, to trust. There was value in a person that would jump off a cliff with just a pointed look and a raised hand. However, it was obvious that he was using enthusiasm to compensate for a complete lack of competence. The insecurity, combined with arrogant certainty that he deserved to be rewarded for his obedience made him volatile if he didn’t get what he thought he deserved. In other words, he was a spoiled brat. Somebody that would seek vengeance for perceived slights, real or otherwise. 

Six was for sure the biggest snub Bill could have inflicted on the kid. After all, their respective devotion to Bill was quite similar – Ford might be even worse since he had no ulterior motives, an all-natural naïve, awe-struck demeanor. Their only key difference? Ford was competent and valuable, while Kryptos had proven himself replaceable. He had to know he was rapidly running out of time – Bill’s patience only stretched so far, especially with Six’s fervent fire slowly proving who was worth more. Kryptos’s fire, in comparison, spluttered weakly, desperate for Bill to notice him, to give him fuel, the validation he needed to live another day. However, if, in the process of him slowly dying out, he set off a spark before they could deal with him… Well, Py knew the signs of an imminent explosion intimately. She would have to keep an eye on that one.

"Oh I have all the confirmation I need. Fordsy's desperate," Bill said. "It's not him we need to worry about, it's his meddling brother and that Fiddleford McGucket especially. They don't trust me, and if we're not careful they could pull our writer away from us."

Hectorgon piped up again: "I could send the brutes if they cause too much of a problem, but for now interception is the name of the game, yes? Tie them up, have desperate freshman looking for tutoring-"

Pyronica hummed, interrupting him with her own opinion, "Word on the street is that the brother's recently single. I could send somebody to comfort his broken heart. Thoroughly distract him for a while with a rebound." 

"Excellent idea as always, Py. Keyhole, you'll be getting as much information on the two of them as possible of course. It would be best if we had some sort of blackmail on them."

"Just slide the hick's address my way as well. I'll get it done." 

"Wonderful!" Bill rose from his throne-like chair, clasping his hands together and spinning on his toes on the black marble floor. "Pyronica stay behind, the rest of you get some sleep. I don't have to remind you, but these next few months are absolutely critical for our success. I expect to be followed to the letter."

The group shuffled out the door with mumbled “goodnight”s and yawns and stretches. 

The second the door closed, Pyronica pushed herself off the wall, her eyes glinting knowingly. "Sooooo, how did it really go? Come on, was he cute? Was he pathetic?" 

"He was," Bill gushed. He cackled. "All it took was a touch of his fingers, he's gone. Head over heels."

"Oooo!!! Do tell ."

"Well, he was nervous at first, but the library won him over. And so did the book I gave him. Oh yes! I gave him that book. Didn't explain it to him, but he already believes in magic, he'll figure it out himself. Besides, I thought going over dark magic in detail the first time he came over might be a bit much. He has a hopelessly inquisitive mind, this is the perfect way to exploit that. I want him to have questions and I want him to come to me with those questions."

"You- gave him the spell book," Pyronica said with far less enthusiasm. "No, that's- okkkk. Ok. Ok!" She took a deep breath. "I'm good, just took a moment to process. You trust him. That's good enough for me. We're getting eyes on his house soon anyways, we can retrieve it if anything goes wrong."

"Nothing will go wrong," Bill said, slightly biting. He folded his arms, pacing about the room. "I know what I'm doing, you'll see."

"Of course I trust you, Bill. I presume that little tid-bit isn't to leave this room correct?"

"Obviously. He'll need it to write the spell anyway. And I am confident that he can – he played for me tonight, he's capable."

"What did he play out of curiosity?"

Bill waved his hand dismissively. "Something about bees."

"Horrifying, I love it!"

"Exactly! A man after my own heart." Bill sighed, indulging in the romance of a teenage crush in the safe presence of his best friend. "I'll have him eating out of the palm of my hand, Py."

Pyronica tilted her head, the gift of their very precious secret grimoire, the sigh , the smiling . "Oh my Satan, you actually have a crush! You're not faking it!"

"Well I was at first ," Bill said in quick defense of himself. "He reminds me of myself and I think he's one of us."

Pyronica privately didn't see the resemblance at all but wisely chose to stay quiet on that front. "Personally, I can't wait until he lets loose. He's so tense all of the time, you know it's going to be explosive when he breaks out of that shell."

"Yes. He'll shine." Bill smiled, reminded of the conversation they'd had that night, thinking of threading his fingers through Ford's again. 

Ford wouldn't disappoint him – he just knew it.

--------------------------

It was late. Late enough that Stan had a flashlight under the covers so he could read his comics in peace without Filbrick complaining about how he should be in bed and the waste of electricity. He couldn't go to bed yet – Ford wasn’t home and the very thought of sleeping alone made his skin crawl. Stan shifted anxiously, peeking out of the covers and shining his light on the clock. Ford only had thirty more minutes until 11:00 PM curfew and it was uncharacteristic of him to skate this close to the line between keeping the rules and breaking them. Either he was having a really good time with Bill or he was getting sacrificed already. 

Man, Fiddleford must be getting to him. Ford getting sacrificed? That was a silly thought… Probably. 

After seeing how Ford interacted with Bill at lunch, Stan was convinced that his brother was head over heels. Eventually that would bite them both in the ass, but that was a for-later problem. For now it just meant that it really wasn’t a stretch of the imagination to think that Ford was having a really good time with his new friend. He didn’t have to fall into Fiddleford’s Satanist-conspiracy land to believe that. Fiddleford… Jesus what a shit show, he didn't want to deal with the drama of a gay love triangle with his very oblivious brother smack dab in the center- 

TAP TAP TAP 

Well speak of the Tennessean devil (or, well, angel as Stan was sure Fiddleford would prefer). No one else would tap on their window at this time of night.

Stan groaned as he rolled out of bed, knowing full well that he would have to be the one to explain where Ford was – and the one who had to hear Fiddleford’s bitching about it. Yes all of this was a ticking time bomb, but none of them needed Fiddleford’s anxiety about all this. Things were fine right now and that meant things could still be done to keep them that way. Ford was happy he had a friend, that was a good thing.

Opening the window, Stan was met with an out of breath Fidds holding… flowers. Damn it, that was bold. "Ford's not here," Stan said, (it wasn’t like Fiddleford would ever ask for him, the third wheel) but still held out his hand for the man to clamber through the window regardless so he wouldn't fall a story to the street. 

Fiddleford seemed to wilt, but accepted Stan's heroically outstretched hand and half-collapsed into the twins' bedroom. The flowers only looked mildly rattled from their journey here. "Well where else would he be on a Wednesday night?" Fiddleford asked, fearing the answer to that question.

Better to rip off the band-aid. "Bill invited him to study." He gestured to the flowers and decided to give Fiddleford the benefit of the doubt to begin with. "Those for Emma?" 

Fiddleford glanced at the flowers as if just noticing they were there, withdrawing his hand from the stalks like they'd burned him. "Uhh- No," he said nervously, avoiding eye contact.

"Right." Stan really didn't want to open that can of worms tonight. Enough was changing with his recent break up, none of them needed this right now.

With a heavy sigh, Fiddleford pulled his legs to his chest and let his back thump against the wall beside the window. "I thought- Ya know, maybe a gift might convince Ford to... I wanted to protect him. Guess I can only pray to the Lord I'm not too late."

Stan's forehead creased in confusion. "Protect him from what exactly?"

"From Bill," Fiddleford said vaguely, finally offering up nervous eye contact to Stan. He pushed his glasses up his nose. "C'mon you can't think all this is above board, can ya?" 

"The squirt hasn't given me a reason to punch him in the face."

"No, no, no, look past that. C'mon.” Fiddleford was shaking (though that was the norm), fists clenched. “Look me in the eyes and tell me you really think that this whole thing won't end in heartbreak for 'im."

Much as he hated to admit it, Fiddleford had a point. Bill wasn't a player by any stretch of the imagination – hard to be a heartbreaker when dating itself risked serious social consequences – but Ford certainly didn't need to go falling in love with him. Forget being gay, the two of them were in two different social orbits and Ford was going to get eaten alive eventually. But again: that was a for- later problem, not for tonight. "I'm not sayin' that, but Ford can make his own decisions. How was flowers supposed to help anyways?”

"I wanted to remind him," Fiddleford said, sitting up a little straighter. "Of the people who really care about him."

"Uh huh.”

"What's that supposed to mean, hmm?" Fiddleford crossed his arms petulantly, red to the tips of his ears.

"It don't mean nothin’, Fidds. Look, you gotta get out of here before my dad starts investigating. Give your gift at school or something' if it's so platonic instead of the dead of night in secret."

The blush on Fiddleford’s face deepend. God this all felt so stupid in hindsight. What made Fiddleford think Ford would even want him in the first place? He wasn’t Prince Phillip, he was just a skinny nerd. "Just- keep the flowers. Let 'im know I stopped by?"

"Sure, Fidds I'll pass them on for ya."

"Thanks." Fiddleford stood, still trembling just slightly. "You'll help me keep him safe, won't ya?"

"I always keep 'im safe."

Fiddleford nodded, at least somewhat comforted by that reminder. "Look... between you an' me, I think Bill mighta done somethin' to him already. I-I-I dunno what, but... I dunno."

"How’s about this, I'll keep an eye on him ok? If he's acting funny I promise you'll be the first to know."

Fiddleford gave a sigh. "Okay... I'll, uh. I'll see you at school, Stanley."

"See you at school."

Thirty minutes after McGucket’s unexpected visit, a second click signaled another person seeking entrance to the twins’ bedroom, this time from the actual door instead of the window. With just two minutes to spare until eleven, Ford carefully slipped inside and quietly closed the door behind him. The third click mutely echoed in the small room and Ford let out a sigh of relief before turning around to see Stan still awake watching him from the bottom bunk. His relief twisted to a subtle flinch and his glasses slipped out of place. Ford adjusted them out of instinct before whispering accusingly, “I assumed you’d be asleep. Curfew’s at 11:00.” As though he didn’t just almost break the rule himself. Ford had gotten the keys to the car back in Filbrick's hands a few minutes ago. His father hadn’t said a word – his disapproving stare was enough for Ford to stutter something about technicalities before fleeing to the safety of their shared bedroom.

"I'm supposed to be asleep?" Stan sat up in bed, looking at Ford with concerned annoyance. "Where the hell were you?"

"At Bill's! Where else would I be?" Ford said with forced indigitation like it was silly Stan was even asking.

"Yeah but what were you doing ?" Stan insisted. He knew Ford would stay up late to study but at a friend's house? "You've never stayed at Guck's house that long."

"That's untrue! I must have at some point..." Ford trailed off wracking his brain for any  DD&D sessions or theoretical physics discussions that stretched into the night, but came up blank. Girlfriends and schoolwork had always kept the hangs to reasonable times. Ford didn't like Fiddleford's house anyways, it was freakishly clean and had too many crosses up for him to feel completely at home. "I lost track of time, ok? We were studying." Not a technical lie, they did study a little bit. They got through at least two pages of the textbook. There! Studying.

"For seven hours?" Stan pressed. "Ford, c'mon, you just met the guy."

Ford's eyes darted to the ground. He never could lie to Stan and attempting to would just waste both of their time. "Fine, ok, we didn't really study. I played piano for him and he showed me his library. We talked a lot, just getting to know each other I suppose. That's probably why I stayed so long. Like you said, I just met him so we had a lot of ground to cover. He's really nice."

Stan softened a little at Ford's honesty. That did sound like a good time. Dammit, Fidds, you're getting to me. "I'm glad," he said. "Sorry I was pushy. I was worried, cause you never come home this late."

Ford clambered up to his bunk, feeling the tension drain out of his shoulders when Stan apologized. He didn't even know why he felt the need to lie to Stan; it wasn’t like he was doing anything worth hiding. He made a friend, that's all. "It's ok, I would have been worried if it was you." He didn't bring up how often it was Stan out late, doing god knows what. He flopped on the bed, present crooked under his arm. "Oh! He even gave me a present! Look!" Ford beamed as he shifted to show off the cover, black and gold with runes inscribed on the edges. "It has metal clasps too and a ribbon bookmark."

Stan squinted in the dark at the book dangled from the top bunk. "Oh, rad. I wonder how much that thing cost. Did he say where he got it?"

"Nope!" Ford said cheerfully, the origin of the book had never crossed his mind; he just unquestioningly accepted its existence. "Here, take it and flip through some of the pages, the illustrations are masterful."

Stan accepted the book and turned his flashlight on again to look at it. "Woah. Did he do all this?"

"I think Bill would have taken credit for it if he was the author. Check the front, maybe the author wrote his name down at the beginning."

With a few flips, Stan found himself looking not at the first page but at the phone number written on the back of the front cover. "He gave you his number?"

"What? Oh, yeah." Ford said a little too quickly before flopping over so he was laying down instead of peering over the top at Stan. "It was essential to coordinate future activities."

"Yeah okay. Oh, uh..." Was this the right time to mention this? "Fiddleford stopped by to give you something, it's on the desk." He pointed his flashlight at the bouquet.

Ford glanced at the desk from his high vantage point. He waited for Stan's flashlight to point at something other than the flowers it was illuminating like an eraser or a combustion engine. The light stayed on the slightly crushed bouquet and Ford's brow furrowed. "Why would he give me flowers?" Ford swung his legs over the top and hopped down to investigate. Maybe they were anomalous flowers or they were one of Fiddleford's inventions. He poked them cautiously with a pen.

"Fuck if I know," said Stan. "He's still worried off his ass about Bill, I don't see why he has any reason to. I'm glad you had a good time."

"What did he say about him?" Ford said testily. Now that he'd gotten to know Bill a bit better he thought it was closed-minded for Fiddleford to judge the man so harshly, despite the fact that he hypocritically did the same in the past.

"He wanted me to 'protect you' from him. I think he thinks Bill hypnotized you or some shit."

Ford’s hands clenched in frustration. Fiddleford really believed that he was so unlikeable, so socially inept that nobody else would want to be his friend except to use him? Losers stuck with losers, Ford didn't deserve anything better than Fidds and Stan. He wasn't allowed to leave them even if someone was offering a friendly hand out of the pit of ostracization. In that moment – whether he knew it or not – he made his decision about the lunch invitation. "He's just jealous that Bill's taking my attention of late. He'll get over it."

"Yeah, I think so too." Stan switched off his flashlight and set Ford's book on the ground, cuddling up in his blanket. "Night Sixer."

"Goodnight Lee."

Click.

Everybody was asleep by now. Knocked out on couches or the floor with various disgusting fluids dried on their clothing that reeked of alcohol and reckless choices. 

Click.

The thumps of dancing, the muffed chatter of socialization gone. 

Click.

It reminded Pacifire of strangulation. How the torrent of sound, powerful enough to even infect his little basement, grew weaker and weaker with time. A few stragglers always gasped for air by staying up far too late, a futile attempt to keep the sound of human connection alive, before they inevitably succumbed to exhaustion. After them, all the sound just–

Click.

–stopped.

Click.

And he was left with the symphony of changing camera angles of a grainy monitor screen, and the low hum of the air conditioner for company.

Click.

The duet cued him in to start and his back popped as he got up from a worn down chair to stalk out of the monitor room, abandoning the clicks to give them privacy with the air conditioner. He passed a room with a singular desk with messy paperwork strewn about. Transcriptions of private conversations, blackmail, pay-stubs… ritual pages. Bill was never organized. He had no reason to hide his dirty work anyways, only true faithful knew the entrance to the basement. 

He passed two more rooms, both identical. Both had prison bars instead of a door. Both had one chair with straps on the armrests and the legs in the center of the room. Both had a small alcove to eat food and a bucket in the far corner. Both were empty currently, yearning to be used.

Eventually, he made it all the way to the end of the basement where they kept the illicit substances for parties and rituals alike. Along with a cot and a little desk with his personal affects. Pacifier huffed from exertion, his bull nose piercing jangled from the movement, as he loaded a clanging barrel until it clicked into place on the roller. He pushed it slowly down the hallway and his black tee adorned with a pentagon symbol bunched up at the waist. The fabric rode up just enough to show off the All-Seeing Providence tattoo on his hip. He was proud of the design he created for Bill. It was a rite of passage now for the inner circle to receive the tattoo, an anchoring point for when the Plan will be unleashed. He was never given another symbolic job like that one again. But he was content with that, he knew his place, he knew he was dependable. After all, somebody needed to guard the basement. Somebody needed to gather materials. Somebody needed to roll barrels. And he was the perfect man for the job. He owed his life to Bill, he won’t let their prophet down.

Click.

When he had made it to the steep staircase at the entrance right next to the monitor room, he set the roller down and popped open the lid of the barrel. The dank smell of copper was always sharpest in the beginning and his eyes watered before he unholstered a paintbrush from his hip and dipped it in the red viscous substance. He dragged the brush over the swirling lines on the wall, reapplying the coat. They glowed faintly. He worked.

Cli-

Chapter Text

Even after just a few days the AP Trig classroom had a different tension, a thrumming energy that one could feel even if they didn’t notice it. Ford walked inside and sat down next to his new friend without even glancing at Fiddleford, thinking over Bill’s warning and the flowers still sitting in his room. The southerner had drifted from his upbringing since their initial meeting in eighth grade and he deserved credit for that, but it seemed he was slipping back into old behaviors. Of course telling his friend directly would cause another fight that Ford would rather avoid – thus petty ignoring would have to do for now. 

His simple choice rippled out and shifted moves in the chess game that Ford was unable to see from his vantage point as a pawn. However, Bill, as a player, observed his opponent, one Fiddleford McGucket. Who Ford would align himself with were crucial in the coming stages. Bill wiggled his fingers cattily at the current loser, knowing he was in the lead. He stopped when Ford finally peeked his head up from where he was grabbing his supplies from his backpack, his innocent expression communicated trust – that trust was something Bill couldn't afford to lose early on in the game. Right now Ford liked the hick. Awful taste but that meant that Bill had to pretend to like his other friends at least for now. 

His scheming was interrupted by Ford's soft voice. "I wanted to let you know that I accept your invitation to lunch. I didn't call you this morning and I apologize for the late notice. My mom was busy with the phone."

"Aww that's alright," said Bill, twirling his pencil between his fingers. "Glad you wanna be one of us." He gave Ford a wink.

Ford nodded along and he let his eyes drift to track the twirling pencil. "Yes, I can't wait to meet the rest of your friends. If they're half as nice as you, I'm sure we'll get along swimmingly. I never had a large friend group before. What's that like?"

"Hmmm..." Bill leaned back in his chair, lounging effortlessly. What could he say that Ford would respond best to? "Well, we're all freaks like you. Safety in numbers. You know, community. Shit like that."

"It's an effective strategy, nobody in school messes with you. I would give anything to be untouchable like that. You should meet my friend group too! If you need more numbers they're prime candidates." Ford privately hoped that meeting Bill would change Fiddleford's negative opinion. Not to mention it would be good for all three of them in the long-run. "My friend Fiddleford is starting a robotics club. You should join."

"Ah," said Bill. His eyes flicked to Fiddleford sitting up front, staring longingly at Ford and Bill behind him. When their gazes met, Fiddleford blushed furiously and quickly turned away. What to do? Of course he didn't want anything to do with the tinker but it would probably help his chances if he played nice at least to begin with. "Why not? Anything for my new pal!"

"Oh, that's wonderful news. We've been really struggling to get enough members to get it off the ground," Ford said, starry-eyed.

Yesssss. Hook line and sinker. Still got it, Billy Boy. "You're my friend now – I can make anything happen. Just say the word and it's yours."

Ford blushed. "I wouldn't want to impose, I won't make too many requests."

"Suit yourself!" Bill flirtatiously booped Ford on the nose – unable to see Fiddleford seething behind him. Oh Fiddleford would be having one hell of a conversation with Ford at lunch. If only he'd been able to give him the flowers in person!

Ford blinked at the boop, as his vision was filled with glittery sharp lime-green nails. But the tips didn't prick him, all he felt was the soft pressure of a finger pad. His own fingers drifted up to faintly brush his nose in shock. Bill was touchy and he was just… unused to it. That's why he was flustered, no other reason… Wait, flustered? He wasn’t flustered . Where did that thought come from? Ford jerked away to face the safety of his notes and made no further comments.

The bell for the first class rang and Bill cracked his knuckles. "I'll see you at lunch, Fordsy." 

Fordsy??? Fiddleford resisted the temptation to jump out of his seat and shout. He was now more convinced than ever that Ford was under a spell and he was prepared to do whatever it took to free him. 

--------------------------

When Ford met up with Fiddleford before lunch he had an inkling of the argument to come. However, he was not expecting the man to already be red in the face when he turned the corner. "Hello-"

"Stanford Filbrick Pines, what's gotten into you?!" Fiddleford had his arms folded, tapping his foot.

Ford hunched inward in an attempt to make his body smaller in the face of disapproval. “I haven’t the faintest clue what you are referring to.”

Instead of acquiescing to Ford's little game of feigned oblivion, Fiddleford skipped right to what he wanted to know. He was mad, yes, but he was mostly concerned. "What happened last night at his house, huh? You can tell me." 

Ford pretended to not notice Fiddleford’s outstretched hand and his knuckles turned white from gripping his book bag too tight. That was the problem with the southerner; he always had a hand stretched down to those he considered lower than him. Some would call that kind, but others would recognize that the gesture required a moral hierarchy with Fiddleford at the top. Ford loathed the pity. The concern. How it always put him in an awkward situation because social politeness demanded he accept the hand up and in the process accept his fated place under Fiddleford. 

After all, didn't Fiddleford have good intentions? Wasn’t he only trying to help? 

After a tense moment of silence, Ford finally said, “There’s nothing to tell. He has a library and we studied.”

Frustration twisted Fiddleford's features and he outstretched his hand more insistently. "Ford, I know you're hidin' things from me. I promise I won't judge you or nothin', I don't care. You're not actin' like yourself, I'm worried about you."

“Why? Why are you worried?” Ford said flatly, hoping that forcing Fiddleford to actually explain out loud his thoughts would convince the man he was being delusional.

"Because he's Bill Cipher? ‘Cause kids like him and kids like us don't mix? ‘Cause on Monday I saw him grab your hand like he owned you? ‘Cause you nearly missed curfew over at his house? He doesn't care about you, he's using you." Fiddleford sighed. If Ford really was under a spell it wasn't like he would listen. "C'mon, we'll talk about it at lunch with Stanley."

“I promised Bill I would have lunch with him today. We can talk about it tomorrow,” Ford said. He stormed down the hallway to avoid hearing Fiddleford’s response. He was already tired of the arguing, of the gnarled emotions in his chest. It felt so daunting to try to identify a single one when they were all twisted together – so he didn’t even try to understand them. For once in his life he was more than comfortable not knowing. Some frontiers just weren’t meant to be explored, some were too dangerous.

"Wait-! Ford!" Fiddleford hurried after his friend. "You're just gonna abandon me and your brother?" He put a hand on his shoulder.

Ford jerked out of his grasp. “I told you, I’ll have lunch with you two tomorrow. Not exactly  the definition of abandonment. I even got the last members you need for the robotic club.”

Fiddleford's eyebrows raised with shock as they entered the bustling lunch room. "You- invited him?" He grimaced, unsure how he felt about that. "I don't... Would-would he even-" 

Fiddleford was caught by the strategically outstretched foot of someone in the lunch line. His fall sent him tumbling not to the floor but into another student in line, much bigger than either him or Ford. 

"Hey!" Crampelter grabbed Fiddleford by the shirt, his force knocking Fiddleford's glasses loose. "Why don't you watch where you're going, huh?"

Ford scrambled to grab the glasses before they could break, stuffing them safely in his pocket before rushing to Fiddleford’s aid by trying to pull him out of Crampelter’s grip. He knew this song and dance all too well – once upon a time he might have tried reasoning with him, but at this point he knew apologies were useless. Their only course of action was to run or take the hit. Unfortunately, Ford’s arms were the weakest out of the friend group and Fiddleford didn’t budge. Ford craned his head to look for Stan, desperately drawing even more attention to himself at Fiddleford’s side.

Crampelter chuckled a bit at Ford's weak attempts to help, shoving Fiddleford into his friend beside him where his arms were held back. By now most of the lunch room had drawn its attention to the scene playing out in line, tense anticipating thick in the air. "What do you think you're doing, freak?" A second lackey grabbed Ford's backpack off of him from behind, tossing it to Crampelter when Ford turned around in shock. He waved the backpack to taunt him. "This yours?"

The gleaming black cover stared accusingly at Ford, he was supposed to keep it safe. He’d promised. “Hey! Give that back, it was a gift!” Ford tried in vain to swipe the book from Crampelter who only held it just out of reach.

"What, this?” He picked the book out of the front pocket and turned it over. “Some gift. Who's it from, huh?"

“Bill Cipher, not that it’s your business!” Ford tried to jump for it this time. He failed.

"Hah! He says he got that book from Bill Cipher!" said the lackey holding Fiddleford. The blonde southerner already looked crestfallen but it twisted him about to know Bill had already been giving him gifts. The flowers really had been too little too late. Who knew if Stan had even given them to Ford. 

"Bill Cipher, huh? That's either a lie or you stole it." Crampelter tossed Ford's backpack at his chest, keeping the black book for himself. "Which one are you, a thief or a liar?"

Ford bristled. “I’m not a thief! Look at the cover, he signed it.”

Crampelter and his two fellow football-playing buddies eagerly took a look at the inside cover, each genuinely surprised by the note and phone number scrawled there. Fiddleford's heart dropped. 

"What'd you do, suck him off or somethin? Hey, you charge for that buddy?" The three of them laughed and other kids walked closer to get a look at the signature.

Ford flushed crimson, “No! I never- Give it back!”

"Fuckin' creep. Think I'll keep this though. Who knows what his signature is worth." 

Just as he was tucking it under his arm, Bill finally pulled through the crowd. Bill may have been short, but a good handful of the kids around him (seven lackeys to Crampelter's two) were not – gym bros, punks in platform boots, all in loud bright colors. "What do you think you're doing with my friend's book?" he asked. "I believe he said that belongs to him."

Crampelter gazed cautiously at Bill now that he was outnumbered. His eyes darted to Ford on the ground, he was his favorite mark, he wasn’t going to let go of that joy without a fight. Not like last time, and the time before that. Cipher had a nasty habit of slowly siphoning off the freaks of the school into his friend group then protecting them. It was annoying as fuck. “Hey Ciph, cool party last week. I didn’t realize he was your friend.” He jerked his chin at Ford at the ground. “He’s a real piece of work though, keep your room locked up if you catch my drift.” Crampelter drops the book on Ford’s stomach before muttering to Bill as he walked by, “Stay safe man, I heard he’s tasted his own blood. Jewy freak.”

Fiddleford was released and pushed to the side, as though touching him was somehow suddenly taboo. 

"Stay safe yourself," Bill said, unamused. Pyronica helped Ford up and Bill stepped closer, somehow dominating the bully despite being a whole head shorter than him. "There's some nasty people in this school. Never know what might happen." 

Crampelter gritted his teeth at the clear threat. His ruddy face got even hotter when he saw Ford getting helped up. The message was clear: Ford Pines was now off limits. Even he wasn’t stupid enough to challenge Cipher. “Yeah man, I get you. Come on boys, let's go.” 

Ford watched as Crampelter just left, clearly humiliated and licking his wounds but not a threat anymore. Ford hadn’t even gotten punched this time! His gaze turned adoringly to Bill from his place on the floor. “Thank you, you’re amazing. I can’t believe you got him to back off so effortlessly.”

"I told you, anything for my pal." Bill offered him a fist bump, posture playful despite the tense exchange. The noise of conversation rose again in the lunchroom now that the show was apparently over. 

Ford bapped Bill back and let the shorter man pull him up. He stumbled slightly into Bill’s side and their shoulders knocked together. “Oh sorry, I’m a little clumsy, heh.” Ford was still smiling at Bill before he heard Fiddleford clear his throat by his side, standing awkwardly and waiting for his opportunity to get his glasses back from Ford. “Fidds, oh my gosh, are you ok? Here, I caught your glasses. They’re a little smudged but other than that no duck tape necessary.” Ford handed Fiddleford his glasses and wrung his hands as he glanced at the two boys to either side of him. “I don’t think either of you have been properly introduced to each other. Bill, this is Fiddleford. He’s a brilliant engineer, the one who wants to start the robotics club I told you about.” 

Fiddleford blinked with his glasses back on, practically blind without them. "Um, hi there," he said nervously, keeping his arms folded instead of offering a handshake. Just because Bill saved them didn't mean he wasn't still manipulating Ford – he wouldn't be surprised if he'd orchestrated this whole thing to look like Ford’s savior. 

"Ah, Fiddleford McGucket, a pleasure to meet you." Bill gave a wicked grin. "Ford's got an awful high opinion of you, ya know. Glad he has a friend like you taking care of him."

One of Bill's friends chuckled at the irony and another shoved them to make them stop.

Ford nodded and pushed Fiddleford closer to Bill. “Yes! I really hope you two will become friends. Bill is good at math too, Fidds. He’s better at the theoretical portion like me, so maybe in club meetings you could show him your welding skills?” Ford offered a patient smile at Fiddleford. See Bill isn’t scary, he saved us, please like him. 

Fiddleford grimaced a little bit, looking over Bill. "Yeah, yeah sure. You really wanna join?"

"Well of course I do!" said Bill. He gestured to his crew. "We all do, don't we boys?" There was a wave of head nods and mumbled assent.

Ford turned to Fiddleford beaming. “Isn’t this wonderful news, Fidds? Get out the paperwork so they can sign! We can go to the principal after school today.”

Since school started, Fiddleford had kept the paperwork in his backpack with him. It would be rude to say no, right? And maybe this would give him an opportunity to keep an eye on Bill, protect Ford. Yes this would mean Ford would be spending time with Bill at club meetings, but he'd also be spending time with Fidds and if he said no then he might push Ford away. He slung his backpack off his shoulders, unzipping it and looking through his folders. "Yeah, okay.”

Ford, still beaming, got out his own fountain pen and handed it over to Bill to sign first. Fiddleford was holding the paper steady on his knee as Bill crouched down to sign.

Fiddleford watched Bill carefully, shaking slightly. He didn't trust those glinting gold eyes – they were too knowing, too cold. More than ever before, he felt convinced that Bill was orchestrating all this. And it was Fiddleford's job to keep Ford safe from him. 

Bill took the paper from Fiddleford, passing it along to Pyronica first. Fiddleford still had to be dealt with, but for now he was right where Bill wanted him. The path to checkmate was all too clear. 

Once the paper was signed by the group and given back to Fiddleford, Bill steered Ford away from his friend with a hand around his shoulder. Ford waved at Fiddleford behind him. “I won’t forget, meet up after school ok!” 

Fiddleford waved back, watching Ford as he walked away. 

Bill sat back down at his table, crossing his ankles beneath him. "Glad to have you back with us cool kids. Crampelter didn't take your lunch did he? I can get you something if he did."

“Ah, no he only messed with the book.” Ford glanced around the group of kids around the table. Bill must be a saint to get this many people to be his friend.

"Can I see it?" said a kid with curly blonde hair. He was younger, hands clasped nervously. "Just to make sure it's safe." 

"Of course it's safe," Bill said, scowling. "Ford this is Krypros."

Ford gave a nod to Kryptos. "Greetings, I'm Stanford, it's nice to meet you. I suppose it wouldn't hurt if you just wanted to take a peek at it," he mused, already reaching down to unzip his backpack under the table. 

Kryptos reached for the book before Ford even got it out of his backpack and Bill slapped his wrist. "No touching, it's his." 

"Jesus, alright." Kryptos pouted, rubbing his wrist and keeping it close to his chest. 

"Anywayyyyy." Bill straightened in his seat, slapping his palms on the table. "You met Pyronica on Monday." He nodded to her and Py winked at Ford. She was sitting sideways on the bench, holding another member of Bill's group that Ford had noticed earlier – they had a mullet and long chunky earrings, hair died pink, green, and yellow. "And that's Amorphous Shape," Bill said. 

Ford nodded, dumbly this time taking in AS's appearance. They were the exact type of person he wasn't supposed to be caught dead with – too punk, too colorful, too queer. But Bill was the same wasn't he? And he was nice. He hesitated for a brief moment before quietly asking, "Stage name?" 

They shrugged. "We all use our stage names with Bill."

"Ah, ok, that's cool." Ford felt a twinge in his heart. He didn't have a stage name – of course he didn't, he wasn't a part of the band, it would make no logical sense for Bill to make one up for him. But it was an example of how he wasn't really part of the friend group. Always on the outskirts of society, even among freaks. His eyes drifted over to Stan and Fidds across the lunch room. He was comfortable over there with them, accepted. Even if Stan didn't get his science rambles and Fidds didn't get his obsession with the supernatural… they loved him, didn't they? 

"Yup," said Amorphous Shape. They blew a large bubble of their gum and popped it, remaining completely languid on Py's chest the whole time.

"And that's Xanthar, Hectorgon, 8-Ball, and Teeth" Bill said, going down the line.

Ford scanned down the line trying to keep up with the rapid introductions. He got a snapshot of different types of masculinity from Xanthar, Hectorgon, and 8-Ball. Xanthar, clad in a sweatshirt, seemed quiet enough, just tall, easily able to grab Ford from across the table with those long arms. 

Hectorgon actually gave a, "Pleasure to meet cha." and Ford stuttered out a, "Likewise" before having to move on to the next… person. 

He blinked at the pure muscle that was 8-Ball. Ford froze, remembering spilling a drink on his fellow senior and getting thrown in a trashcan for his transgression. It was strange, the larger senior looked awkward like he was trying to disappear in the ground before he muttered out, "Sorry for the trashcan, I get angry easily. I can throw someone else into a trashcan for you – free of charge. Next time, you owe me got it?"

Ford rubbed the back of his neck nervously, about to respond. But before he could, a blur launched himself at Ford once Bill called out "Teeth". The blur solidified into a young beaming freshman with braces who somehow snatched one of the hands Ford normally kept in his lap to shake it rapidly with two sweaty palms. "HiI'mTeethnicetomeetyou!" The movement jostled Ford in his chair as he glanced pleadingly at Bill for help. 

Bill frowned at Teeth, snapping twice for his attention. "Hey! Give the guy some space."

Teeth jumped back immediately. "Sorry boss! Just excited to meet the newest member." He turned to whisper to Ford, "I bet you can't tell, but I was the newbie before you."

Ford smiled weakly before registering Teeth's words. "I'm already a part of the group?" He glanced at Bill for confirmation.

"You can be!" Bill said eagerly. He rounded the table to sit in close next to Ford, putting an arm around him. "We'd be happy to have you, right boys?"

Everybody around the table nodded. Ford felt lighter, almost hopeful. Was this what social acceptance felt like? He did feel a little out of place, but maybe they didn't care that he didn't have a stage name or didn't know a lot about rock music. Maybe he could just run as “Ford” with them and they wouldn’t mind. It seemed like a pipe dream, but everything about Bill seemed that way – what was one more impossibility made real? 

"Now there are a few liiiiittle stipulations to running with my crowd, but you already saw the benefits just a few minutes ago. And that's only the beginning! I told you this morning I'd do anything for you and I really mean that."

"What stipulations?" Ford said with a hopeful lilt still in his voice. 

"TEETH! The contract!" Bill demanded.

Teeth saluted and slammed down a multi-page thick document in front of Ford. Ford blinked and thumped through some pages. Sentences flashed out with thick legal jargon all related to music rights, lyric ownership, and concert ticket prices. Even for Ford it was a lot. He stopped after three pages. 

(If he’d gotten to ohhh page 183 he would have seen more worrying sentences like William Cipher reserves the right to your immortal soul in the eventuality of a realm transfer so no member of the "Bill Cipher and the Henchmanics" gets lost in the process of... But Ford did not look at page 183 and turned to Bill instead.)

"Uh, why do I have to sign a music contract, Bill? I'm not joining your band." 

"No buuuuut, I am, after all, a public figure – you understand. This is all just a formality." He patted Ford on the back. 

"Very normal!" piped up Hectorgon.

Ford looked back down and read some more sentences related to copyright infringement. "Oh." He paused for a moment and beamed. "Oh! I'll be seeing under the hood so to speak? You need to protect yourself from theft, I get that." Ford patted around for a pen before signing the pages. He rationalized to himself that if so many people signed the contract it must be safe. 

"Precisely, yes." Bill watched him closely and snatched the contract from him when he was done, dumping the stack into Teeth's arms. "Wonderful, wonderful! Now you're one of us." He ruffled Ford's hair affectionately. 

"Great! What does that entail?" Ford let himself lean into the ruffling and praise just slightly. (He wasn't nuzzling, just adjusting his posture.) 

Bill's eyes lidded and he gave Ford a smirk. "What do you want it to?" 

Ford's breathing grew shallow at the smirk. "Uh, I suppose I want to come over again… Maybe borrow more books?"

A sharp clap of Bill's hands rang through the lunchroom. "Then I'll make that happen!"
While the two teens were in their own bubble briefly forgetting of the audience at the table, the rest of the henchmanics were snickering at the boss's theatrics. Sometimes he laid the flirting on thick. Didn't this 'Ford' know that Bill was way out of his league? Didn't he know not to sign a contract without reading it?
Amorphous Shape made a fake gagging sound at Py which made Pyronica laugh even if her eyes knowingly glinted at Bill. She still couldn’t believe that he was acting like such a sap for a nerd of all people. They were cute though so she'd keep the gossip to her chest for now. 

Her eyes flickered to Kryptos. Oh hell. The blonde was glaring daggers at Ford and she knew that he’d seen the book- the one Bill had entrusted with him previously. Damn it, damn it, damn it! They had too much dirt on the prick for him to be a real problem, but she knew somebody would have to confront him later, remind him of his place. Not her, not with Morphy so cute in her lap. 

She met Hectorgon's eyes and jerked her head at Kryptos. The senior sighed in understanding before getting up and clapping a hand on Kryptos's shoulders. "Come on kid, let's go for a walk."
Kryptos sullenly got up and followed him out of the room. 

"Why don't we have a little panel, hmm?” said Bill. “Go around the table. Now that Fordsy belongs here I think he should hear a bit about the rules and guidelines, how best not to step on any toes."

Ford sighed in relief – it seemed like most people just expected social rules to be known implicitly. How convenient to be told upfront! He got out his trig notebook to record what the group said for later reference. Always good to study!

Teeth piped up first. "Don't be a dick."

Ford winced and wrote down, Be nice. 

"Stage names only," Amorphous Shape said sleepily.

"I don't have a stage name."

"You'll get one," they replied. "Py's just been calling you Six."

Ford hesitated. Should he offer “Sixer” up? It was just a nickname, Stan had no reason to be possessive over it. Ford's six fingers were the inspiration behind the name anyways even if Stan was the one who thought it up. Ford basically owned half of the name from a certain perspective. He wanted to fit in the group so badly and if people were going to dilute him down to just his six fingers then he should have some control over the optics damn it. “Six” was so boring. Not a proper stage name at all, not like all of their names. "Uh, my brother calls me Sixer. Is that a good stage name?" Ford ignored the jealous thought that zipped through his head of anybody daring to call Stan “Lee”. It was different. He didn't know how, but it just was. 

"Brilliant!" Bill said, hearts practically jumping out of his eyes. "Oh that's just perfect." He took Ford's hand and raised it into the air triumphantly for the rest of the group. "I dub thee Sixer. From now until the end of time, that's who you are!" 

Bill's loud declaration distracted from Hectorgon and Kryptos sliding back into their seats. Kryptos's eye twitched as he forced a smile. He knew what would happen if he didn't have an 'attitude adjustment'. Their bartender made that crystal clear. 

(In the darkness of Teeth's bag the contract lit up briefly before simmering down then spluttering out. Nobody to witness Stanford's signature being warped to “Sixer” in pretty cursive.)

Ford knew he was probably supposed to turn to look at the assembled crew after that proclamation, but he couldn't tear his eyes away from Bill. He had stood up to lift Ford's hand, so for once he was taller than Ford. His teeth were radiant, his chin had a small bump, maybe a pimple that he hid with foundation. "Until the end of time," he echoed breathlessly.

"Uhhhh... hey boss?" said Xanthar. Xe nodded to Ford. "Doesn't he have to do a loyalty test?"

"Oh, oh right, yes." When Bill sat back down, he didn't release Ford's hands, playing with his fingers beneath the table and smoothing his thumb along Ford's palm and knuckles. "Hmmm... mmmm... Amorph!"

"Yup?"

"Sticky notes!"

With a heavy sigh, Amorphous Shape peeled off of Pyronica like velcro and pulled their backpack onto the table. They threw a stack of neon sticky notes across the table towards Bill and immediately flopped back into Pyronica. "Knock yourself out."

Ford shyly rubbed his own thumb on Bill's palm almost expecting for Bill to yank his hand away, but he didn't. He was jolted out of his reverie by the stack of sticky notes landing on the table in front of him. "Ok? What, um, what do you want me to do?"

A genuine smile crossed Kryptos's face, finally at least he would see – ugh – Sixer (god, the way Bill said his name. “ Sixer, Sixer, ” he repeated in his head in a mock cutesy intimation of Bill's voice) suffer a bit. Just like he’d done for Bill's affection. 

Bill snapped twice with his free hand. "Pen!" Within a few seconds he had four pens on the table for him to choose from, one of which he used to scribble a few unintelligible symbols on the top bright orange note. "Before you officially join," Bill said, peeling the sticky note off the stack, "you must stick this on.......... her!" He pointed at a blonde cheerleader sitting a few tables over.

Ford's face went white. "Um, what does the sticky note say?"

Kryptos’s eye went back to twitching. Seriously?! What type of middle-school hazing was that? And it looked like Sixer would chicken out of it like a damn baby. Maybe Bill would get mad at him for questioning his authority. 

"Umm... that's a violation of rule fourteen," said 8-Ball to Ford. "In the contract." 

Ford's brow furrowed. "What's rule fourteen?"

"Talking back to Bill Cipher is not allowed," a couple of them said in unison.

Ford's eyes drifted to Bill. Really? Bill let him talk back to him and even poke him in the chest when they first hung out. They had delightful, equal discussions. Maybe it was a band thing? You couldn't argue with the conductor; it would lead to anarchy. Bill was the band leader and he needed to be respected, that made sense to Ford. (Although he found it ironic that there was a singular authority within a group of punks.) But that was besides the point. Ford didn't want to embarrass Bill in front of his friends so he just quietly said, "I didn't know, sorry Bill." Ford was sure Bill would let that rule slide in private, so he didn't mind acquiescing for now. 

"Aww, that's okay buddy." Bill flashed his charming smile at him and patted Ford on the back. "Go on, do it."

“O-okay.” 

His heart pounded in his chest as he got up with the sticky note, orange paper bending between his fingers. The walk to the other table just a few feet away felt infinite, the tables and the residents at them turning into rocky obstacles in a sea – he had to do this, a current drove him forward, but he felt the danger all around him, a voice in his head screaming at him. 

The table Bill had pointed to was mostly girls with a couple of their boyfriends in some seats. None of them were people Ford had ever associated with – not the actively dangerous kind, but certainly the kind to avoid. The kind that stared, the kind that laughed, the kind Ford could never trust to be anything less than shallow and judgemental. These were the people that, if Ford was being honest, made him bitter. 

He knew what would happen if this were an ordinary day. He imagined a mob forming around him, being shoved to the ground and covered in stickynotes himself. Freak. Kick me. Faggot. Know it all. Mutant. 

But it was not an ordinary day.

Bill will protect me, Bill will protect me. 

Thank goodness the girl that Bill had pointed out didn't appear have a boyfriend to protect her or run after him. Ford went with a quick lunge, slap, and sprint away method instead of trying to be sneaky or subtle. He knew talking to her would lead to food getting thrown at him.

"Hey!" the girl said. She got up but when she saw that he sat back down at Bill's table she scowled and sat back down.

The adrenaline high was intense as Ford panted for breath in his seat. His eyes squeezed shut waiting for the inevitable vitriol and pain of violence… but none came. 

He cracked open his eyes and looked behind him. The girl had yanked the sticky note off and was right back to eating her lunch like nothing happened. Nobody was pursuing him. He could relax. A laugh bubbled out of his chest. "Wow… Is that why you had me do that, Bill? To really prove you could protect me? You didn't have to, I believed you the first time." Ford went right back to smiling like a love-struck fool at Bill.

"Fuckin' siiiiimp," AS whispered into Pyronica's ear, too quiet but anyone but her to hear. Pyronica chuckled. 

"Just the requisite loyalty test." Bill stole Ford's glasses right off his face, cleaning the smudges off with his shirt. "Which you passed! Congrats!"

There was a small crack at the top of the right lens and the frames were clearly not fitted properly considering how often Ford had to adjust them back on the bridge of his nose. All small details – along with his hand-me-down clothing and scuffed sneakers – that screamed his family was financially illiterate if Kryptos had to put it nicely. But he didn't have to treat Sixer nicely, he just couldn't let his digs be too obvious. He held back the worst of his sneer and tried for an upbeat, helpful tone. "You really should get contacts, less expensive to replace since you seem to have a habit of breaking them and you look better without those thick frames covering up your eyes! That's why everybody thinks you're lame, man." He smiled but it didn't reach his eyes, gesturing to all of Ford's body. "Not to mention, where do you even buy your clothes? I get trying to not stand out in this school, but now that you're one of us you should try to not be so… boring." 

Bill frowned as he handed Ford back his glasses. "Well I like his glasses," he said haughtily. "But unfortunately Kryptos does have a point." Bill dusted off the shoulders of Ford's sweater vest. "Presentation is everything, Sixer. We've gotta clean up your look." 

Ford glanced down at his clothing nervously. He knew he didn't have the money to get new clothes and Bill was already being too nice to him. He didn't want to feel even more in debt. "What's wrong with it? My clothes are practical."

"Yes, but your clothes wear you more than you wear them and that just won't do. Confidence, Sixer: if you want to be like us you have to find it and new clothes are a good way to start."

"I suppose you're right, there's been studies on how perception of yourself bleeds into how you act which bleeds into how others perceive you and treat you. Positive reception from others then increases self-esteem..." Ford knew he was rambling but he didn't want to admit that he didn't have money so he was stalling. 

"Pyronica, are you free after school?"

"I can be," she said. 

"Why don't you take Sixer here shopping for some clothes and Henchmaniac bonding time?"

"Of course!"

"Uh." Ford cut himself off as his evening was just planned for him. "I'd have to get money from my parents and I promised Fiddleford that I would go to the principal's office to drop off the paperwork."

"Not a problem!" Bill threw his arm around Ford's shoulders. "I'll pay for everything, Fiddleford can handle the paperwork himself, and you can just let your twin know you'll be home late! All taken care of."

Ford hid his face in his chest instinctively and his cheek hit Bill's jacket, noting the pleasant smell of nicotine and cloves. He tensed up before relaxing into the fabric and muttering, "You really don't have to… you already got me one gift." He let his eyes flick up to Bill's face. Getting new clothes did sound nice, but he was almost scared of his good fortune, waiting for the other shoe to drop, for Bill to take away his kindness. To laugh in his face. To tell him he was too much, asked for too much, talked too much. 

God Ford, don't you know that people don't care about scientific studies why are you still talking just shut up you're going to make them think you're weird. Accepting charity too? Eventually Bill will get sick of you, he's already sick of catering to your nervousness, why can you not just relax? Just be cool. 

"Oh but what are friends for if not spending large amounts of money improving the social standing of those close to them? I'll give you all the gifts you could ever want!" He booped Ford's nose again. "It's settled! You, me, and Pyronica will go to the mall after school!"

"But-" Before Ford could try to politely decline again he heard a chorus of, "Rule fourteen!" and "C'mon man we just went over this." So he chuckled lightly to himself instead. "Sorry, sorry rule fourteen of course. Then I suppose I accept the invitation out Bill. Thank you for your generosity" 

"No thanks needed, pal." Bill gave Ford a wink.

Chapter Text

After school, Ford trailed behind Bill and Pyronica through the hallway. He could hear the whispers – Bill had declared him off limits at lunch quite publicly and it was the gossip of the day. He didn't understand how Bill could shrug off the stares like they didn't exist, laughing easily with Py in front of him. For Ford, just the pinpricks of judgement seemed like real, solid pressure that made him want to hunch and tense and hide.

Bright sunlight greeted the trio in the parking lot. There was a cool breeze, a precursor to the autumn weather soon to be upon them. Parked in the front of the school was Bill's car, with spikes on the front and a custom exhaust pipe that could belch fire. The yellow and black paint gleamed with waxed perfection under the September sun. There were triangles that combined to form racing strips on the side. Ford furrowed his brow and leaned towards Bill. "Nobody's parked next to you." Indeed, there were no cars to either side or in front of the racecar despite it being located in the closest parking space to the school. 

"They're not allowed to," said Pyronica. She chuckled and pushed Bill playfully. "Remember when Jamie Adams took your spot and you-"

"Yes, yes, that was very funny," said Bill, cutting her off before she could continue. He didn't want to scare off Ford and he had a hunch he might not like to hear what happened to poor Jamie. Bill opened the front seat door for Ford. "All yours, pal!"

Before Ford could get in, Pyronica gently held him back by the shoulder. "Bill..." She let her head jerk to the crowd pouring out of the school after the bell. She knew Bill liked Ford, but there were already rumors about them dating and he didn't need to pour fuel on that fire. Despite Bill’s stunt this afternoon Ford was still practically a nobody and a public relationship with him now might damage Bill’s reputation. Everybody in school knew not to touch Bill's car and everybody also knew that only Pyronica had ever been seen riding shotgun. Except for Ford apparently. His complete obliviousness really was impressive. "Just let us switch once we hit a country road or something."

Bill sighed, expression souring. There were a lot of things his fame and fortune allowed him to do but while he was willing to take the heat for gay rumors, he should probably keep Ford safe from them. They weren't even dating - yet - anyway. 

"Fine. Fine fine fine. Both of you in the back."

Pyronica crossed her arms before hissing under her breath to Bill. "Shouldn't we try to keep up appearances, Bill? Won't people find it odd for the seat to be empty?" She glanced back at the crowd. Reputation was everything – she couldn't have it seem like Bill and her were fighting. 

Ford slid in the back as he awkwardly listened to their whispered conversation. He didn't understand the big deal, it was just a car seat. 

Bill paused. "Yes," he said. "And that's precisely why you should do it." He sat in the driver’s seat, not offering an explanation yet.

Pyronica stood in complete frozen shock. Why would Bill want to knock her down the social ladder? Were they fighting? Did she make a mistake recently? She had to take a deep breath before she could spiral down that path – she couldn't argue, she needed to trust Bill and snap herself out of the stun-lock. 

But before she could actually comply with the order she heard Ford's quiet voice hesitantly say, "Rule fourteen Py." 

It took everything in Pyronica not to growl at him. She did not need that pipsqueak to tell her about Bill's rules, especially when she suspected him of being the source of her recent demotion. … a demotion she didn’t yet know was actually a demotion yet. It was probably fine – Bill always had a plan, she just needed to stay loyal. Which, unfortunately for the moment, included being nice to Ford. She opened the car door and haughtily said, "I was just taking my time. I didn't break rule fourteen, there’s an ebb and flow to pushback. You can't just argue in the ebb, you gotta sense when he's in the mood for it." Then she slid in right next to Ford. 

The nerd blinked, trying to decipher her sentence. "You’re saying rule fourteen selectively applies depending on the situation?" 

"Exactly and I'm the queen of sensing his moods that's why I'm the favorite. Right Bill?" 

"Yes, yes, you're my favorite," said Bill. The car rumbled to life and they zoomed out of the parking stall. "Show him the BFF charm, Py."

She smugly pulled out a necklace with half of a triangle. 

Ford nodded politely, saying, "That's neat you two are so close."

"Sure is!" Bill piped from the front seat. He could tell Pyronica was stressed, but he also couldn't tell her why he'd made his decision yet, not with Ford in the car. "So Sixer! Got any ideas for your new wardrobe?"

"I always wanted a trench coat. For the pockets. Or a turtleneck like Sagan." 

"Consider it done, my six-fingered associate!" he called from the front. 

They stopped at a light and, when the person in front of them didn't move immediately in green, Bill honked twice.

Ford gripping the car seat tighter over the course of the drive – Bill passed people regularly, honked, and went over the speed limit whenever possible. To call him an aggressive driver would be an understatement, he practically bullied people into letting him merge. 

Ford called out over the wind that made his hair whip around, "Bill, how do you still have a license?" 

"Magic," Bill said, watching Ford's reaction in his rearview mirror.

A faint smile twitched at the edges of his expression. He still didn't know if Bill was just joking about his reputation or being coy because it was true. "Could you demonstrate this magic later? For science?"

"Hmm, why?" Bill asked slyly. "I didn't expect you to be the type to need to slide past the authorities."

"I'm not, but you never know when a trick might come in handy. Not to mention I already told you my motivation, it's for science. I do hope it's not a boring explanation like money." 

Bill grinned in the front seat, expression hidden but evident in his cheerful voice. "Well I couldn't deprive you of the satisfaction of your scientific curiosity! And you really should come over again anyway."

"I'll think about it. You haven't bored me yet, Cipher." Ford's smile twitched all the way up. 

Pyronica rolled her eyes at the banter, a ghost of a smile on her own face as they pulled up to the mall. "Hey Billy, I'm going to start in the women's and we can meet in the make-up aisle ok? Give you two some privacy." 

"Can do!" he said. He switched off the car and twirled his keys around his fingers before stowing away in his pocket. "Chop chop Sixer, we're hitting all the stores in the mall!" 

Ford happily stumbled out of the car and followed Bill like a lost puppy. It was strange to hear Stan's nickname in Bill's voice but Ford didn't hate it. It was growing on him, Bill's higher pitched, higher energy cadence. "That's unlikely we'll hit every store," Ford said playfully, bumping his shoulder with Bill's. "There are some useless ones in there for our goals." 

"Well duh, I was using hyperbole . I thought you were smart." From someone else it might have sounded like a jab, but Bill ruffled Ford's hair playfully and ran forward, clicking his heels before they made it to the front door.

Ford followed behind laughing at the race. "I take things literally most of the time. My apologies." Ford's smile was still up and his eyes sparkled before he opened the door for Bill like he saw his brother do for Carla countless times. "After the gentleman."

"Why thank you, thank you." Bill bowed before walking through the door and snickered. "Race you to the Dairy Queen!"

Ford blinked as Bill took off and he called out, "No fair! This is how you repay my kindness!?" before following him. Ford was quite fast – it was his strongest athletic skill – but Bill had a lead. Ford could see some adults shake their heads at the teenagers running around like children, but for once he didn't care about the adults in the room.

Bill slowed down just a tad, allowing Ford to win by a slim margin. He shook his head in apparent defeat, hands on his hips. "It's not a head start if it makes things fair."

"Oh, I don't think you're so short as to require an accommodation." Ford had a smug grin on his face before he pointed to the menu. "What ice cream do you like? I'll pay for this, since you're paying for the clothes." 

"You're not paying for anything," Bill said, poking Ford's chest. He walked up to the window and asked for a cookies and cream blizzard and "... a coffee crisp caramel macchiato." He turned to Ford. "You do like coffee ice cream, yes?" Ah the pleasures of knowing everything.

Ford widened his eyes. All the fake-psychic tricks were known to him from having one as a mother. If you could gather information on a target, you could throw out specific kernels of truth among complete vague bullshit to make it sound legit. There were numerous ways Bill could have known Ford liked coffee ice cream: gossip, his friends, even just a guess from his nerdy demeanor that he liked coffee. However, Ford desperately wished for the explanation to be fantastical. He wanted Bill to be magic. He already was magical in Ford's eyes with his confident stance and sharp boots and pretty golden eyeshadow. 

(And if he was actually, literally, magic it would explain away the magnetic attraction he felt towards the man. After all he couldn't be gay if Bill was a siren. He couldn't be blamed for dashing himself against the rocks. All his reckless decisions weren’t due to his traitorous fluttering heart but because he was under a spell.)

 "I do like coffee ice cream, yes. How could you possibly guess? It's not a commonly well-liked flavor." 

Bill waved his fingers and rocked on his toes while waiting. "Magic," he whispered pointedly.

"Right. Magic ," Ford whispered under his breath back to Bill like they were sharing a secret. 

"That's what I said, Braniac!"

Both their ice creams were served and the two boys walked out of the Dairy Queen to savor the sweet treat on the walk to the next store. Under normal circumstances Ford would have been skeptical that a new outfit could have done anything to change his social standing – even under the current, unprecedented circumstances his hopes weren’t particularly high. Still, this was an afternoon for magic which meant Ford would give shopping an honest shot. Bill was a freak, he reasoned. Rockstar fame aside, Bill had certainly gone the extra mile with his own clothes. Perhaps that was part of the secret?

"How did you go about figuring out your style anyways?” asked Ford. “It's so distinctive." 

"Great question! I thrifted most of my clothes at first - we should go thrifting sometime, it's fun. Lots of odd stuff and you know I like odd! Take my advice - you'll know what you want to wear when you see it. Anything you like we'll try on, got it?"

Ford nodded along. "Just like divine inspiration, hm? It'll just strike you?"

Bill gestured with his ice cream towards the JC Penny sign across the mall and up the escalator. "I suspect divine intervention looks like a JC Penny in your case. Up we go!"

It’s A Kind of Magic by Queen played softly over the speakers of the department store. Rows and rows of clothing stocked the racks around them - each one a possibility for Bill's newest crew member. Bill directed them toward the men's side of the store first where suit coats hung on display. "Know your size, Sixer?" He ran his fingers over some of the options.

“Oh, a suit size? I have no idea, I never had a need for a suit. My parents are going to get Stanley and I suits for prom at the end of the year.” 

"Then we'll just have to figure that out, won't we? Unless nothing catches your eye, then we'll move on. I won't make you try on the whole store, much as I wouldn't mind seeing that."

The suits didn’t interest Ford like they did Bill. However his eyes drifted over to the sweater vests and past that the turtlenecks. His eyes jumped back to Bill after a moment as he considered Bill’s appearance. “I really do like your jacket, with the custom patches and buckles. Maybe I could get a nice turtleneck and a jacket?”

"If you want it, it's yours! Completely up to you. Just get a nice one." 

“Ok, thank you again.” Ford smiled at his friend and ventured off into the store to pick out clothing. He was able to find a couple of nice slacks and sweater vests and one red turtleneck that he adored. 

While Bill was the one who found the leather jackets section, Ford was the one to actually check the prices. “Jesus, these are all $150 or more,” he said with a grimace. He put the black bomber jacket he’d selected back on the rack.

"But do you like it?" Bill asked, watching his expression.

"Yeah, it reminds me of your jacket and it even has extra pockets! Do you think I could fit my ghost-hunting gear inside?" Ford trailed off as he tried to check how deep the pocket was, discovering that it enveloped his whole hand. "Wow, it really is a bottomless pit down here." After a moment of hesitation, he withdrew his hand. "Ah well, I'm happy with the clothes I picked out. Come on Bill, let's go to a different section." 

"No, no, try it on." Bill pushed him back towards the rack. "I want to see it on you."

"Ok, ok! If you insist , Bill." Ford got the jacket off the hanger again and slipped it on, not bothering with the buttons or the zipper. He rubbed his arm subconsciously now that he was modeling. "Do you think it looks good?"

"Oh it doesn't matter what I think. In this case anyway." With an arm around his shoulders, Bill guided Ford to a mirror. "There. Now what do you think?" 

The moment Ford was presented with his reflection he straightened up instinctually, feeling his father's disapproving stare over his shoulder. He remembered on the day of their Bar Mitzvah Filbrick told them both to not slouch, to stand tall now that they were men. Ford privately hadn’t felt like a man that day. He still didn't, no matter how hard he pretended. Masculinity was a social science – Stanley's area of expertise, not his. However, the jacket did give him a certain debonair air, a quality most men seemed to possess. And Ford desperately wanted to be a man , men were respected. Men were powerful. Men were independent. Men were loved. Men had female partners. It was impossible for men to be attracted to other men.

It was a silly notion though and he knew it – Ford didn't have to try to be a man, he already was one. His biology proved it. The jacket just helped solidify that fact to society and to himself .

"I like it, Bill. I really do. But I'm not supposed to own a jacket like this. Hell, I'm not supposed to even be at this store right now. I saw how the clerk looked at me when I walked in. Usually it's just my fingers, but this time..." Ford trailed off again as he remembered the employee trailing his eyes up and down Ford's body before landing on his roughed up sneakers. Ford glanced down at Bill's polished leather boots. The contrast was stark. 

"Forget that. It's all yours if you want it," said Bill. His voice was softer than usual, perhaps in recognition of how much this meant to Ford. He knew very well how big of a difference clothes could make and dammit, Ford deserved to feel that difference.

"I won't be able to repay you. You know that right?" Men don't accept charity.

"Ford." Bill put his hand on Ford's shoulder. "You don't have to repay me. You do that well enough by being my friend."

Ford wasn't listening, his pride was at stake. "Let me help you study every week. A-and you could copy from me, if you get hung-over or something the night before. I know how to tilt the page just right. We won't get caught, nobody suspects me of aiding academic misconduct." 

"My grades are fine, Ford. It's okay. Just say you'll come over again and I'll call it even. Deal?"

Frantic, Ford said, "I didn't mean to imply they weren't fine. You're not stupid, I've realized that. As for your other point, my offer still stands for the rest of the school year if you require it. However, if my presence is truly all you desire from me then you have yourself a deal."

"Deal." Bill offered his hand to shake, smiling without his usual edge of slight insanity.

For once, Ford shook someone’s hand back without even thinking of his six fingers. He was too focused on Bill, the way he effortlessly destroyed any mistrust left in Ford's fluttering heart. After all, Bill could have only befriended Ford to use him for his intelligence, but he didn't take Ford's offer! He just wanted his presence. "Gosh your smile is pretty," Ford thought. Or- Wait, did he just say that out loud??! "Uh, I mean from an objective standpoint, your teeth are aesthetically pleasing."

"Gotta look good for the camera," said Bill, widening his smile comically. But he beamed. "C’mon, lemme go pay for this."

"Ok!" Ford said quickly, thanking the heavens Bill didn't comment on his slip up.

It was a small gesture, but Bill threaded his fingers through Ford's when they walked out after paying, feeling lighthearted while half running out. "Pyronica should be in L'Oréal, we'll meet her there."

Ford squeezed Bill's hand tight. He didn't want to seem needy, but the truth was he didn't want Bill to let go. As with the handshake before it, he didn’t think about his two extra digits, he really didn’t think at all. He just felt… normal. Ford wasn’t sure he’d ever felt normal before.

Unfortunately, reality hit him out of his whimsical stupor when they got closer to the makeup store, reminding him that they were in a very public mall. Just two men holding hands walking into a makeup store - nothing gay about that! 

He quickly pulled his hand out of Bill's, missing its warmth immediately. "I think I see her already," he stammered, power-walking ahead of Bill to avoid his expression. 

Out of Ford's view, Bill's expression fell just slightly . 

It was fine. Bill understood. But that didn't mean he had to like Ford literally escaping his grasp. 

He waved to Pyronica and ran over to her, giving her a hug. "We got Sixer some good stuff."

Ford nodded. "He did, I'm incredibly grateful for the afternoon out. Did you find anything, Pyronica?"

She frowned. "I can't decide." Pyronica held in her hands a wide selection of lipsticks, varying in shade from electric blue to bubble gum pink. 

"Why not get 'em all?" said Bill. 

"I don't need all of them. I just thought it would be fun to have something new for the next concert."

Ford spaced out, glancing around the store. His only memory of a makeup store was when his mom had taken him and his twin inside one when they were thirteen. She’d been in a rush running errands and let them come in as long as they promised to behave themselves. He remembered her slapping Stan's wrist when he reached for a tube of red lipstick, the same shade she would always wear. She’d hissed something about how, "He'd better keep his grubby hands to himself if he knew what was good for him. Her baby boy didn't want to be a pervert, right?" 

Staying quiet, Ford tried to not let his eyes linger on any particular product lest his curiosity somehow alerted his mom. It was hard though. All the women in the advertisements looked so happy and… pretty. He chalked up the flustered, guilty feeling in his stomach to hot-blooded straight attraction. He was a man now after all and men were attracted to women. Not because he wanted to be pretty himself. 

"... outfit you want to match the lipstick with?"

Bill and Pyronica's conversation came back into focus.

"Not really, I kind of wanted to let the makeup inspire the outfit, not the other way around."

Bill shrugged and started walking towards the lipstick aisle himself. "Go with your gut, Py. I've rarely known it to be wrong!"

Ford trailed after Bill, keeping his eyes down like he was a child all over again. The floor had an interesting black and white polka dot pattern he observed. 

Two sharp finger snaps drew Ford's attention. "Hey, I need your opinion, Sixer."

Ford jolted to attention. "Uh, I don't wear makeup. Why don't you ask Pyronica?" 

"Maybe you should wear makeup," said Bill. "And anyway, you have eyes don't you?"

"Straight men don't wear makeup," Ford said bluntly before wincing. He wanted to be helpful to Bill especially after everything he'd done for him. "But maybe I could help with color matching? I always had an eye for that in art." 

Bill internally resisted the urge to roll his eyes and say, "straight men don't look at me the way you do either" - a tall task. "Who says straight men can't wear makeup? Who made up that rule?" He looked up and down rows of lipstick while saying this, tone cool and nonchalant.

"I don't know. They just don't." Ford's hands were sweating at having to defend a position he knew was illogical. "It's not masculine. I imagine that's why."

"Why is it not masculine?"

"Because men don't do it and women do?" Ford's voice cracked with uncertainty. 

"And why don't they do it?" Bill continued. "Why shouldn't they do it? For that matter, why do women do it? Do you think they should do it?" 

"Because- because." Ford took a deep breath, trying to prepare an actual argument. "That's just the way things are, Bill. Straight men don't wear makeup because they don't want to be seen as gay. It would be social suicide and people are pack animals at heart. Not to mention they aren't gay, so there's no point in communicating that to the world for negative social cost at their expense. I suppose women and gay men wear makeup to attract men. I don't have any real opinions on if men or women should wear makeup or not. I guess if it makes them happy then I don't care." 

"A solid argument, I admit, but all of what you just said rests on one flawed idea: that the status quo is based on reason. It's all made up, if you'll excuse my pun. You admit your position is based on 'how things are' but fail to prove that there's any reason why the way things are is the way people 'should' behave, and thus why it should continue to be the norm. And I say there isn't. I've taken a look behind the curtain, Sixer, and there's nothing there but prejudice." Bill stood, having selected a sleek tube of lipstick. "And a total lack of style if you ask me." 

"Right as always, Bill," said Py. 

Ford pouted in embarrassment, the clear loser of the argument. "Well, it doesn't matter, I don't wear makeup. I would be no help to you from my lack of experience in the matter."

"And I disagree. As I said - you have eyes."

Ford threw his hands up. "Fine, how may I be of service then?"

Bill snapped again. "Arm."

Ford held his arm out. "Why do you need my arm?"

"Swatching, ever heard of it?"

"I do it all the time for art. Normally you do it on a piece of paper. However, there seems to be no paper around for us... ohhhh ."

"Yessssss, you're getting it." Bill opened the tube of lipstick and inspected the color on the brush first. Then he gently took Ford's wrist. 

Bill's gentle warm touch disarmed Ford completely. Bill had such soft skin except for the calluses on his thumbs. "Wait, shouldn't you test the lipstick on your skin… because, you know, um. We have different skin tones."

"Well maybe it's not for me, maybe I have another white kid to put it on, ever think of that?" Bill's tone was playful.

"Oh, ok I guess that makes sense. You do have a lot of friends.”

"Hmm." Bill fluttered his fingers looking at the color. "Not the right color is it, Py?"

"Nope," she echoed. 

"Ah well."

The back of Ford's neck prickled from paranoia and he resisted the urge to jerk his head around to see if anybody was around to witness what he was sure was a profane, forbidden act. Of course searching frantically for other shoppers with darting, guilty eyes would only bring attention to the small isolated aisle. So Ford held his breath and did his best to relax into each drag of colorful lipstick against his skin. Each one marked him, proclaimed to the world a lie truth that he was the faggot they all assumed him to be. He was teetering on the edge of perversion. After all, if simply reaching for a metallic tube was enough to corrupt the soul, surely letting the sticky, flamboyant substance stain his skin was enough to jumpstart a full-on shove off the slippery slope that newscasters always raved about until he crashed and burned as a homosexual sinner. 

The only thing Ford had to cling to in the moment was the certainty- no, the axiom, that he was straight. He did have a crush on Cathy in grade school didn't he? He never looked at another man with burning desire in his soul. Well he’d never looked at a woman that way either, but that just meant he was a late bloomer! It was a curse of his intelligence, he was less emotional and thus less… lustful. 

Right? 

Ford was broken out of his thoughts by Bill tilting his arm for more space. His tongue stuck out of his mouth as he worked, reminiscent to Ford of a snake tasting the air. It was cute. Bill was cute. And his friend. 

Just a friend . 

By the time Bill was done, Ford had six different colors on his arm. Bill pursed his lips and looked at them, still holding Ford's arm like it belonged to him. "That one," he finally declared, pointing at a shade of mauve that was closer to purple than pink. He selected the bottle it came from and put the rest away. 

"Good choice," said Py.

Ford jerked his arm back as soon as Bill was done with it. "Is there a place in here I can wash this off? It's sticky."

"Yeah, they have makeup wipes over there," Pyronica advised. "... while we're here though Ford, you might want to look into some foundation." She grimaced.

Ford grabbed the sample of wipes Pyronica gestured to and scrubbed, turning his skin pink and raw. "Why would I wear foundation?" He jerked his head up to look at her when he spoke but kept scrubbing, showcasing his sunken eye-bags and acne spots he earned from the lack of a skincare routine. The frantic look in his eyes as he desperately tried to get the color off did not help his disheveled appearance. 

"Because eye bags?" she said bluntly. "Foundation can also hide bruises which you might find appealing." 

"She's right," said Bill, arms folded and leaning on one hip to stand. "The lighting in here isn't doing you any favors – and that's a problem ‘cause in a store like this it's supposed to."

"Being attractive isn't high on my priority list. No girl will date me in this high school anyway, unless we get a blind exchange student who's bad at counting," Ford grumbled as he threw the wipes away.

"Yeah, but you're one of us now. Keeping up appearances is why we're at the mall, right?"

"That is true… Do you really think foundation will help my reputation?" 

She nodded. "Yeah, you'd be surprised."

"Couldn't hurt," Bill added.

"Ok, and the whole point of foundation is to make it look like you aren't wearing makeup right? Nobody will be able to tell?"

"Not if you do it well," Pyronica said. "I can teach you. Or Bill can."

"I know Bill better so I'd prefer him." Ford's fingers trailed over the foundation choices in the next aisle. He picked one that he thought matched his skin tone and showed it to the other two. "Does this one work?”

Pyronica frowned and walked further down the aisle. "I use this brand," she said. After looking through some shades she found one she was confident about. "If this doesn't work you can always buy a different shade, it's always hard to get your first one."

Bill wagged a bottle of setting spray and a pack of contour sponges. "Might want these too."

"Those are also for the foundation?"

"Yup!" said Bill.

"This feels like a scam. Why are there so many products for just one step?"

"Do you want to look nice or not?" said Py.

"Fine, fine." Ford raised his hands up in defeat. "Do your worst." 

Bill gave a chuckle and accepted the bottle that Pyronica had chosen so he could pay for it. "Should we look at cologne too or is this too much?" he said to Ford.

Ford's face twisted up. "Cologne reminds me of my dad."

"Alright, alright. Just try to shower every day. Maybe buy a nice soap," said Bill.

"I shower often enough," Ford lied. 

"Ehhhhh," Bill said. 

"That's a bald faced lie," Pyronica said, scrunching up her nose. "I had the displeasure of sitting next to you last year in English class, trust me I know." 

“They’re an inefficient waste of time! I’ll look into better soap, that’s all I’m promising.”

"That's why nobody wants to date youuuu," she said in a quiet sing-song voice as they made their way up to the register. She and Ford held back while Bill paid.

Ford hunched into himself and his eyes darted to the floor before he said bitterly, “Dating is another waste of time. It’s better I don’t have a girlfriend to distract me like Fiddleford does.”

Pyronica rolled her eyes, privately questioning Bill's taste in men. "Whatever," she said bitterly. "Dating is weird, but being liked by people isn't a waste of time."

"Easy for you to say, everybody loves you. All the men in school trip over themselves to get a date with you - not that any of them have been successful." 

"Yeah, and that means I have power. Do you understand that?” She turned to Ford, hands on her hips. “Everything social is power dynamics. The reason Bill and our crew don't get bullied to death is because we exploit that. It's eat or be eaten and right now you're getting devoured. Bill likes you for some reason and he's being really nice by taking you out and offering you tips - don't fuck that up by being stubborn."

Ford fell silent, frustration painted on his face as he realized the validity in her words. He wanted to argue, but she was right and he knew it. He owed everything to Bill right now and he didn't need to mess it all up by getting on the bad side of his best friend. "I apologize if I seemed ungrateful this evening. This is all very new."

"Yeah, I can tell," she said, rolling her eyes. 

Bill returned with a bag for Ford and Pyronica replaced him at the register to purchase her own things. "All yours, Sixer," Bill said fondly.

Short though their conversation had been – the longest conversation Ford had held with Pyronica at all, he realized – the world felt like it had shifted after it. Pyronica's words rattled around in Ford's skull and he felt nauseous as he looked down at the bag of items that Bill purchased for him. Not even Bill’s best friend knew why he liked him? Ford didn't have anything to offer the rockstar, he had no money, no social power, and Bill was intelligent enough on his own. He didn't need Ford, but it appeared Ford certainly needed Bill. Ford spoke up quietly as he gingerly took the bags from Bill's arms: "Do you purchase gifts for your friends often, Bill?"

Bill shrugged, leaning on his hip again and tapping his foot. "Yeah, I guess."

"Right." Ford stared at his beat-up shoes, all his real questions sticking to his throat in the cowardice growing thickly there.

"Hey, you okay pal?" Bill's brow furrowed his uncharacteristic concern. "You better not be feeling guilty for getting gifts."

"I'm ok." Ford looked pointily away from Bill. "Just tired. Thank you for inviting me out… again. And for paying for everything."

"You're welcome, Fordsy," said Bill. "Now we'll have to meet up again so I can show you how to fix that face of yours, haha!"

Ford smiled weakly. "You are quite adept with makeup yourself. I would trust you with my face." 

"Oh I know. You really couldn't have a better teacher!" 

Pyronica nodded at Bill's statement, inserting herself back into the group between the two boys. "Let's go home," she said.

"Yeah, home." The word tasted like ash in Ford's mouth.

Chapter Text

The tall doors to Bill's house - his mansion really - closed shut with a thud. 

Bill sagged from shooing away all the evening’s party guests by himself, allowing himself to rest against the doors for a meager moment. He’d started late and ended early tonight, much to the annoyance of the riff raff that made their way into his house with regularity. Boo hoo for them, Bill Cipher actually had a life and needed people out by 8 PM .

Usually he enjoyed the hustle and bustle of constant partying in his house, but he hadn’t been able to calm himself this evening. Something was wrong and he knew it. Trouble was, he didn't know what and that was a problem. 

Lucky for him, such eventualities had been planned for. 

Shedding his leather jacket on a hook on the wall, Bill pulled out some keys from his pocket, keying into an inconspicuous closet door down the hall. The closet contained the shoes and coats one might expect to find in such an alcove, but Bill was interested in the back wall. Like a child searching for Narnia, Bill shoved past the coats and pressed his hand against the bricks there. 

A red glow lit up the closet. When the bricks parted, a soft breeze blew through the small space, bringing with it an unnatural cold. 

Not bad for a secret entrance, he thought, imagining Ford by his side, his face lighting up upon seeing real magic. The old wizard who'd written Bill's books had some clever tricks up his sleeve and Bill was sure Ford would want to see all of them. 

Of course that couldn't happen if something scared him off first. 

"Pacifire!" Bill yelled, footsteps clacking on the cement stairs to the basement. Behind him, his secret entrance closed with a rumble. "Pull up Pines Pawns!!"

The hurried footsteps put Pacifire on high alert. His shoulders tensed up and he swung his feet over the cot to deal with the potential intruder, but it was only Bill. 

"On it boss!" he called back. The twenty year old rushed over to meet Bill in the camera room. Bill beat him there, already hunched over at the desk clicking frantically. The boss never did anything himself if he could help it. 

"How many bugs do we have on the pawn shop?" Bill asked. The cold glow of several screens lit up the dreary place. "Did Keyhole get to it yet?”

Pacifire pushed the large chair out of the way to make space for both of their bodies at the desk. His voice, scratchy from smoke and disuse, rang out in the empty room: "If it's a new bug it will get thrown in the back. Keys hasn't been down here to alphabetize in a month. It'll take a while to click through." His eyes were wary and his hands hovered ready to help, but he didn't dare take control away from Bill. "Do you want audio too?" He turned away to grab blocky headphones stored in a cabinet on the left. 

"Yes." Bill grabbed for the headphones and surrendered the controls. "Just click through until we see Sixer."

"Who?" Pacifire said while he dutifully followed Bill's instructions. Flashes of bedrooms bathed in green light from the night vision filter flickered on their faces. 

Crampeltor's football trophies.

Thistle’s framed ukulele.

Cathy’s vanity desk.

Devon’s wax figurines.  

All bedrooms Pacifire knew like the back of his hand. 

Bill waved his hands in dismissal. "Nerdy kid with glasses and six fingers. Hangs out with his twin, like him but bigger."

"He has a nickname." Pacifire noted. "Is he one of us?"

"He is now. As of today." Bill's eyes were glued to the screens, searching. Ford's face - all full of concern and something scarily close to heartbreak - was burned into his mind and he needed to fix it, he couldn't lose him. He needed him, his plans wouldn't work without him. 

Pacifire didn't comment on Bill drumming his fingers on the desk on beat to their new hit song during the wait. After five minutes of silence, they reached the end of the extensive catalogue. He made the four camera angles full screen and pushed the chair back in its rightful place for Bill to rest on. Just in time too; a car was coming to a stop in front of the pawnshop. 

A kid with messy brown hair and thick glasses got out, shivering from the evening cold. He held the two bags he’d acquired at the mall and stood for a long time, just staring. His head was craned up to the upstairs window like he was considering scaling the fire escape, but eventually he entered the building instead. 

"That's him, that's him!" Bill put the headphones on and sat down, quite literally on the edge of his seat. 

Ford was trying his damndest to not breathe as he made his way deeper into the dark pawnshop. His dad always liked to retrieve the keys himself and confirm that Ford made it home on time, but all the lights were out. Maybe his dad already retired for the night? It was too early for that, only eight at night, but Ford had stumbled upon a lot of luck recently. It was possible his streak would continue. All he had to do was drop the keys on the counter and sneak upstairs with the bags without encountering Filbrick.

After creeping through the shop in the front, he got through step one easily – the keys only made a small clink against the glass as they were set down. Sure, it sounded loud, but that was only because the world was so quiet – obviously a small sound like that would stand out. Ford breathed a sigh of relief, clutching his bag close so as to mitigate the sounds of the plastic.

But Ford’s luck couldn’t last forever. 

Like the subject of a nationwide manhunt under a spotlight, Ford froze as a light switch clicked on behind him, flooding the room with light.

It was okay.

It's ok. 

He hadn’t done anything wrong. 

Don't act guilty. Don't-  

Ford turned around and moved to clasp his hands behind his back before realizing that hiding his shopping bags behind him would look suspicious. "Hello, the keys are on the counter as you can see. I'm going to go to bed now." 

God Sixer was bad at this. Bill turned up the volume on his headphones.

"How was studying?" Filbrick asked flatly, face as impassive as ever. To Ford’s credit, his father really was an imposing figure, Bill thought. He seemed to fill up the room, making it clear that Ford would have to make some skillful maneuvers if he wanted to get out of this. 

Maneuvers he clearly wasn’t prepared for.

"Great!" Ford's voice cracked. "It went great." His eyes darted down to the bags. "We went shopping afterwards. For more books! To study!" Ford was slowly inching his way out of the room. 

"For books," Filbrick repeated. He folded his arms. "Can I see the books you got?"

Ford was fully sweating now. It would be bad if he was caught in a direct lie so he pivoted. "Oh, um- I left the books at his house, since we bought them for him to study while I'm not there. We went for books, but while we were there I thought I'd pick up some other things. Useful things. Like… clothing?" Ford winced. For how long he’d spent outside of the house dreading this very moment he might have thought to come up with a better lie. 

"Stanford, I'll give you one more chance. Where were you after school today?" 

In the camera room, Bill tensed – if Ford didn’t respond in the right way this would become Bill’s mess to clean up. 

"The mall," Ford said quietly, sagging slightly.

"And why were you at the mall? Were you with McGucket?"

"No, I was with my other friend. The one I told you about yesterday? We went to buy books like I already said. But while I was there it made sense to purchase other essential items."

"Give me the bags." Filbrick said it softly, but it was clearly not a choice.

Ford had been smart enough to rip off the price tags before coming home – and to slip the foundation in his pocket. But he wasn't smart enough to realize how suspicious it looked that he’d ensured they would be impossible to return. He relinquished the bags to his father, begging in his mind for Filbrick to not question where he got the money to pay for the clothes. 

Bill recoiled, feeling an immediate surge of protectiveness. Those clothes were rightfully Sixer's, how dare anybody take that away from him? This was robbery, theft. Bill would do whatever he had to to get the clothing back to him. Clearly Ford’s father didn’t realize who he was stealing from.

With a sigh of disappointment, Filbrick combed through the brand new clothing items Ford had bought. "Where in the hell did you get the money to pay for this?"

"My friend paid for it. As a gift."

"Your friend paid for it?" asked Filbrick, more inflection in his voice than anything he'd said before. He gave Ford a stern look of disappointment. "I raised you better than that. And ya took the tags off too, what's the matter with you?"

Ford wilted further; he had no reasonable explanations left other than the truth. "He insisted on paying,” he said, desperate. His voice continued, hurried. “And I took the tags off because I fit in them and didn't plan to return them."

"Ya took the tags off cause you knew it was wrong." As before, Filbrick’s voice was biting. He shook the bag of clothing in a fist. "How much did this cost anyway? All this new shit. You already got clothes."

Ford could only continue with the truth. "250 dollars." He wasn't going to cry. He swiped at his eye but he wasn't crying.

"Are you fucking-" Filbrick hissed in frustration, giving Ford a hard slap across the face. Bill flinched. "I dunno what's got into you, but it stops now. You got clothes, wear 'em. I know you think you're better than us, but you're not. Get clothes like that when you earn 'em, not before."

"Yes sir." There were tears now in his eyes from the pain but he blinked them away. "I'm sorry." 

"I hope you are. Go to your room, Caryn and I will discuss this. You're not getting these clothes back, understand?"

On the other side of the cameras, Bill was seething. He didn't have to imagine how he'd feel in Ford's place. That powerless feeling, that gut-wrenching helplessness. If it were up to Bill, Sixer would never feel that way ever again.

"I understand, sir." Ford rubbed at his check as he walked to his room and carefully shut the door behind him. He was such an idiot . He never should have let Bill take him out in the first place. 

Bill tapped the desk urgently. "Go to Sixer's room."

Pacifire clicked past the next few angles, his own fist clenched. Nobody messed with Bill's crew – other than Bill himself of course.

The lived-in, boyish clutter of the twin’s room filled the screen, catching Stanley mid-sentence. "-you okay?" he said. Stan was sitting on the floor, working on a diorama for their earth science class. Glue dripped from an unattended brush, one of numerous art supplies scattered around him, but the project itself was surprisingly detailed. 

Clearly Ford was not fine. His posture was weighed down by hopelessness and his cheek was an angry red. He had all sorts of reasons not to want to talk about tonight, perhaps most of all this evening’s intrusion on his sense of identity: he was supposed to be the smart one. The one who didn't get in trouble. 

"I'm fine,” he lied. “That's really coming together. It looks great."

Surprised by the mention of his project, Stan looked down at it and noticed the glue, muttering an "oh shit," softly to himself and cleaning it up. "It would be better if you'd been here to help me work on it," he said. 

"You did fine without me it looks like."

He shrugged his big boxer’s shoulders, a little uncomfortable with the praise. Stan didn’t pursue Ford’s omission of the truth – it was his business whether he was fine or not and honestly Stan didn’t really want to talk about it either. However, there were other matters to discuss. "Fidds was pissed when you didn't come to the principal's office with him."

The mention of Ford’s broken promise sent a shockwave of anger through the tectonic plates of his mind, disrupting the already-uneven landscape. How dare Stanley invoke a world in which Ford had kept his promise and witnessed Fiddleford jittering with the triumph of fulfilling what a week ago had seemed impossible. Maybe Fiddleford would have convinced Ford to study with him instead of hopping in a rockstar’s death trap of a car to purchase things forbidden to poor kids like him. Maybe he wouldn’t have gotten to hold Bill’s hand and eat coffee ice cream with him, and maybe now he wouldn’t feel so sick and angry. 

"It was a sheet of paper,” Ford muttered. “He's built a pterodactyl robot by himself, he was probably fine. I'm allowed a night out." 

"The hell, that's not the issue. I'm glad you're hanging out with Bill, but Fidds said you promised him and you didn't even tell him you weren't coming. That's not cool."

"How often do you go to the mall, Stanley?"

Stan wrinkled his nose. "What does that have to do with anything?"

Ford wanted to explode. He wanted to yell at Stan that he was allowed to misbehave and goof off and the second Ford stepped out of line all of sudden everybody needed him. Oh help me with this project, hold my hand to take a paper down to the office, earn your clothing, don't accept charity Stanford, damn it! But Ford was tired and much too close to crying for comfort so he swallowed it down like that bitterness entering his system would cure his nausea instead of worsen it. "Nothing. Forget I said anything. I'm going to bed. I'll apologize to Fidds tomorrow."

"Okay, whatever," Stan said, shocked by how bitter he felt. What was Ford's problem?

Bill looked away from the screen – he'd seen enough. He still had no idea why Ford had been upset when they'd parted ways, but he doubted he would get any more information from the cameras tonight. 

"That's all I needed from you," he said, projecting control over the situation while he stewed over what to do about Ford's father - and if there was anything he needed to do to encourage or shore up the divide between Sixer and his twin. "Have a good night."

"Goodnight, boss."

--------------------------

Caryn knew her husband prided himself on routine and punctuality. The shop always closed at 8:00 PM on the dot. It took him until 8:30 to finish counting the money. Then he would watch the news for thirty minutes before coming to bed at nine. The alarm clock read 9:04 in glaring red light. Ford was out. That was unusual in of itself and ten minutes ago she heard muffled yelling. Lord knows what he got in trouble for, he grew out of his mischievous phase in his tweens. She actually hoped Filbrick caught him with a girl, he needed to start actually living life instead of having his head buried in those textbooks of his. 

At 9:05 she finally heard Filbrick's loud boots stomping to their bedroom door and she sighed in relief. The door swung open and he stepped inside holding a large bag? Her eyes squinted in the darkness and she turned on her bedside lamp to make sure. The light exposed his tired expression. "What do you have there dear?" 

"Clothes." He let the bag drop to the floor by the door, finally letting himself feel tired. "Fuckin' expensive ones too. Stanford let a friend spend 250 bucks on him. 250! Took the tags off too. Dunno what the little idiot was thinkin'."

Caryn paused and said incredulously, almost in awe, "250 dollars? Stan ford, not Stan ley, made a new friend and convinced them to spend money on him?" She was slightly impressed. Maybe he was taking to scamming better than she thought. "Was this friend a girl by chance?" He really shouldn't let a girl pay it was ungentlemanly but she wouldn't knock the hustle. 

Filbrick scoffed. "I doubt it." He rubbed his eyes. "I'm gonna have him take the clothes back tomorrow morning before school. "

"Back where? You said the price tags were ripped off. Can't exactly return without a receipt either." 

"Back to the friend, Caryn," he said. He didn't sound angry, just tired.

She held her arms open to beckon him to bed when she saw his expression. "C'mere you big oaf you had a long day. You're absolutely right of course, Stanford went behind our backs and disrespected us. We're providing clothing, he already thinks he's too good for Jersey, he doesn't need fancy city clothes to back that up. Not to mention how will Stanley feel if Stanford got new clothing and he didn't. Sometimes that boy just doesn't think of other people I swear."

"Yeah." He sat down next to Caryn. "I can't imagine what happened to 'im. Here I am thinkin' I got a handle on one of our kids and then he goes and does this. Stanley I'd at least expect this from. Stanford's a pansy but this just..."

Caryn looped her arms gently around her husband's neck and ran her fingers through his hair. He wouldn't ask for affection himself he was too much a man for that! And she loved him for it. It was her job to provide comfort. "Maybe that new friend of his is a bad influence. You know how Stanford is with… people. He's not the best judge of character."

"I guess we'll see tomorrow. I know nothing about this kid, just that Stanford went over yesterday."

"Yes, you'll get to the bottom of this tomorrow - see what crowd Stanford fell into. You're being a good dad, looking out for him like that, even if he won't thank you for it right now. This will be good for him I think, a little discipline. He needs a healthy dose of reality to keep him grounded here with us. Now! You need to rest up since you're planning to go out early with him." 

Filbrick grumbled and turned out the light.

--------------------------

Ford's racing thoughts didn't allow him to get much sleep that night. 

What would he tell Bill tomorrow about the clothing? Would his parents ban him from seeing the rockstar? By Moses, and Fiddleford! What would he tell him? That he blew him off to go shopping for clothing he didn't even have anymore? What would the henchmanics think about Ford now that they had confirmation that he was poor and lame? Not to mention Stan. Stan, beneath him snoring away in the bottom bunk. Stan had tried at some point that night to restart their conversation - maybe clear the air - with a whispered, Sixer, hey are you awake, but Ford pretended to be asleep until Stan gave up. 

In the end, Ford had fallen into a fitful sleep around 3:00 AM through sheer willpower, with forced-shut eyelids and the trusty digits of pi. But he didn't stay asleep for long. He woke up every hour for no discernible reason, each time focusing his foggy vision on the red alarm clock until the numbers swam into focus. All they communicated was TOO EARLY GO BACK TO BED. 

All those factors combined led to Ford waking up with just one rough shake on his shoulder. This time his blurry vision focused immediately on the silhouette of his father. Ford groaned and reached for his glasses, reading 6:00 on the alarm clock. The red digits made Ford's head hurt. 

"Dad? It's too early for school." 

"Yup," said Filbrick. "Get your clothes on."

Ford already had his clothes on from yesterday. He was too scared to change with the foundation in his pocket and Stan in the room. "Yes sir," Ford stammered, and he threw off the sheets. He didn't have his shoes on though and he decided to focus on that. He quickly tied the laces while Filbrick tapped his foot impatiently. "Where, um- where are we going?"

"You're gonna drive us to your friend's house to give back those clothes." Ford's father left the room and grabbed the keys, expecting to be followed.

Ford's heart dropped to his stomach, but he followed his father obediently. 

The walk to the car was silent. 

Starting up the car was silent . 

The entire drive up there was silent. 

The silence didn’t even break when the car rolled to a stop at Bill's gated mansion. Ford looked nervously at Filbrick, but found no emotion on his impassive face. After a beat, Filbrick reached for the passenger door and Ford scrambled to get out himself. His stomach lunched as the car doors slammed shut with two gunshot-esque bangs that destroyed the silence – only for a second though. It settled back over them like a thick fog immediately after. Ford shifted his feet as he glanced at his father again.

The sunglasses countered his second attempt to glean emotional information. He could already envision the magic item in his head: Veiled Glass of Stone , plus two to deception, gives disadvantage to any creature performing an insight check against you. However, daydreaming could only get Ford so far. They still weren’t moving and Ford just couldn’t take the silence anymore. Anything would be better than Filbrick’s disappointed gaze trained on him. So Ford meekly said, "You don't have to come with me if you don't want to." 

More silence. Ford winced and he instead reached ambitiously for the bag.

"I'm holding these," said Filbrick. "You tell your friend we don't take charity, understand?"

Ford nodded and he let his hand drop limply to his side. They both walked up the long driveway but Ford was the one who rang the doorbell. He was sure he looked like shit with the bruise on his left cheek and his too-pale complexion and bloodshot eyes. He didn't even comb his hair. But why did he care if he looked like shit, it didn’t matter, he shouldn’t care what a boy thought of him, he really shouldn’t.

It was a looooong wait before Bill opened the door. The doorbell reached him up in his second floor bedroom, but no one else lived in the house - his legal guardians, as usual, were away in some tropical location leeching off of Bill's royalties. 

The teenager who finally answered the door was at least a little more put together than Ford - wearing a gold silk robe and fuzzy slippers, arms folded and frowning. As usual, his short stature didn't keep him from looking rather intimidating. 

Bill hadn't expected to see Sixer and his father at the door, but the sight of them made his blood boil. Ford's crumpled, baby deer appearance, the bag of Ford's clothing clutched in someone else's hand. 

"What do you want?" Bill asked, placing his hands on his hips and staring right at Filbrick. 

Filbrick nudged Ford. 

The nudge pushed Ford forward slightly and he took that as his cue to start with a shaky voice, "Um, thank you for taking me out yesterday Bill, but-" Ford's breathing stuttered and his lip trembled. "-I don't need charity, I already own functional clothing. So we just came to return your clothing back to you. I'm sorry for bothering you at such an early hour." 

"Those aren't my clothes," Bill said flatly. He folded his arms, pulling his hands inward instead of reaching to take the bag.

"I didn't pay for them, Bill," Ford said pleadingly. He didn't want to draw this mortifying conversation out. "I didn't work for them. You did, so they're yours." 

"My son doesn't need clothes," Filbrick said. "He can get his own."

Bill looked between both of them and there was silence for a tense moment, birds chirping in the September morning. His golden eyes looked more piercing than normal. "Fine," he said. Bill briefly walked out of the door frame, coming back with a wallet. He opened it and handed Filbrick a crisp $50 bill. "Keep the clothes," said Bill. 

Ford and Filbrick paused. 

".... we-"

"Wow, really ridin' me arentcha?" Bill pulled out a one hundred, handing it over with the fifty. "Keep. The clothes."

Ford was about to hyperventilate, his dad hated being pitied. "We don't need more money, Bill. Please just take the clothing. I made a mistake going out yesterday in the first place."

Filbrick, however, was not as quick as Ford to back out. He took off his sunglasses, eyeing Bill with his full, scared visage. "Who are you?" he asked.

"Bill Cipher, singer/songwriter. As in Bill Cipher & the Henchmaniacs Bill Cipher. As in Ford's friend Bill Cipher."

"He wrote Rapture Bliss," Ford added, trying to be helpful. He honestly was unsure if his dad was up to date with hot new young music. "It was the song of the summer."

Bill held out the $150 again, but Filbrick still made no more to take it. Cipher gave an exaggerated sigh. "Alright, so I paid him in clothing, Ford still earned it. Your son is a good tutor, Mr. Pines. He didn't tell you that was why he was coming over?"

"He did not," said Filbrick.

"I did? Um, I mean yes, we did study together but we never agreed that it was transactional."

Bill rolled his eyes. Sixer, play alonggggg. "Well, I decided it was." He offered the bills to Ford instead, urging him with his eyes. "For your troubles." 

"Ah, right. I forgot we decided that yesterday," Ford said lamely before looking at his dad for direction. 

"I didn't realize this was a business transaction," said Filbrick. He handed the clothes back to Ford. "I'm glad you two worked something out. We're sorry to have bothered you."

"Aww, don't worry about it," Bill said, one of his smiles splitting his face for the first time during their meeting.

Ford took the clothes back with a small oomf as they hit his chest. His eyes widened. What just happened? Did Bill just get Filbrick Pines to back down? Filbrick ? Pines?? Bill might really be a warlock. He just performed a bonafide miracle after all. 

"What's the, ah, rate you're paying my son?"

"There's no rate," Bill said. He leaned against the doorway. "The rate is he can use my credit card when we go out. It was my suggestion, not his."

Ford just nodded along for dear life. None of this was discussed before and he was an awful liar. Thankfully his dad wasn't paying Ford any attention at all anymore. The adults were talking.

"As I said: those clothes belong to Stanford." 

"Alright," Filbrick said with a sigh. He finally swiped the $150 from Bill. "Have a nice day at school, young man." 

"Oh please, call me Mr. Cipher. Buh-bye now." With a campy wink, Bill closed the door. 

Dead silence. How was one supposed to react to magic like that?

Ford let out a sigh of relief and they both walked back to the car. "Does this mean I can keep the clothing?"

"Yes, but don't get a big head about it; don’t get a big head about any of this. And don't fuck up what you got goin' here, understand me? We could use this. You get him paying you a rate if you can, none of that credit card business."

"Yes sir." Ford paused and decided to not push getting the $150. This time Filbrick took the keys to drive them home and Ford got into the passenger's side.

"And another thing," Filbrick said once they were in the car, now far enough away from the house. He leaned over to Ford before he started the car. "You better just be tutoring that knucklehead. He asks you to sell your body, you run. No money is worth degrading yourself."

"What?" Ford said blankly. The comment was just so out of left field of what he was expecting he didn't have time to react with embarrassment. "Why does everyone think-?" Ford cut himself off before saying that dangerous pronoun ‘we’. "Bill? Me? What?" 

Filbrick started the car and turned away. "There are scary things out there, Stanford. I'm not saying your friend is one of them, I'm just saying you be careful." He scoffed. "This sex, drugs and rock and roll nonsense will kill us all one day."

Ford's sweaty hands twitched towards the foundation in his pocket. He settled for rubbing his jeans instead. "Bill's not like that dad. He cares about his future. That's why he's paying for tutoring."

He grumbled. "I hope so."

Chapter Text

Even thirty minutes after the encounter between his father and Bill, Ford’s body still thrummed with adrenaline. It refused the order to stand down, disbelieving that the threat had been so effortlessly neutralized by his friend. Of course, he could still get in trouble, he was still lying after all. Maybe that was why he was so jittery, he thought as he shut the bathroom door behind him and clicked the lock in place. 

The small metallic container of foundation felt heavier than before in Ford's pocket, like a super-dense stone of guilt. He slid it out and set it on the counter, regarding it. It looked so innocent; how was this paste the harbinger of sin and depravity in men? It was absolutely illogical to think it would make him amenable to debasement and homosexual prancing. Still, he shuddered at the body horror of him in full glam. He knew who he was; he was practical , intelligent, and had self-respect . 

His gaze drifted to his face in the mirror, to the dark circles and the blossoming bruise on his cheek. No man with self-respect would let another man hit him. Ford nodded to himself resolutely, satisfied with his rationalization as he opened the container with a sharp pop. It took a couple tries to balance the amount he should put on his skin to sponge rubbing ratio. He caked it on initially and no amount of rubbing with the sponge would get it to smooth out, so he washed his face and tried again. 

It only took four times for Ford's perfectionism to declare good enough, just in time too as sharp knocking sounded at the bathroom door. Ford scrambled for the foundation as he called behind him, "Just a minute!" 

"You've been in there forever," Stan said, muffled from behind the door. "I gotta go." 

Ford glanced at the bag of clothes on the ground next to him. No time to mull over an outfit like he’d wanted to do. No matter - he just threw on the first combination of clothes at the top of the bag, the red turtleneck and leather jacket, before unlocking the door and shuffling out. "Sorry, it's all yours," he said, purposefully not mentioning his new look. He vainly wanted Stan to comment on the outfit, especially the jacket. 

"Woah," said Stan. He chuckled. "What happened to you?" He peered behind him as though trying to find some sort of transformation machine in the bathroom. "Did the concept of cool throw up on you or something?" 

"Bill happened to me," Ford said smugly, his chest puffed out. "I don't even have to lie about him anymore. Dad met him this morning and loved him." 

Stan's face twisted with confusion. "It's like 7:00 in the morning, when the hell did he meet him? And since when do you wear foundation?"

Ford's face drained of color. "I'm not wearing foundation." A beat of silence passed. "Ok, yes! I am. But I thought I did it correctly! You shouldn't be able to tell !" 

"It's a little patchy... You- Never mind." Stan shouldered past Ford into the bathroom. "I'll be down in a bit."

"Yes, yes. I'll be waiting downstairs." Ford grabbed his backpack and swung out of the room, grumbling under his breath, "What does Stan know about makeup anyways?"

The second Ford entered the kitchen he realized his father would know about the bruise – the bruise that was now covered up. God, Ford could be such an idiot sometimes. Filbrick knew and was sitting right there reading the newspaper. Ford ducked his head and passed his mom making breakfast, snagging a banana and some toast. "Thanks for breakfast Ma, but I have to go to not be late for school!" When he passed her again he kissed her on the cheek as a goodbye and hurried out of the room.

Caryn jolted in surprise from the quick peck. "Oh! Slow down Stanford, you're going to trip!" she called out after him. "I swear he moves too fast through life, Filbrick. And are those his new clothes? I thought you took those back to the friend." At that moment Caryn saw Stan peek his head in the room searching for Ford with his eyes. Caryn sighed. "He just left baby, you can catch up with him if you eat fast."

Stan frowned, further convinced that something was wrong. He shrugged and looked in the cabinet for a pop tart.

Filbrick tilted the newspaper down just far enough for the black rim of his sunglasses to glare at the top. "Stay back Stanley, we need to have a family discussion about your brother." It wasn't a request. 

"What'd he do?" Stan asked, now more worried than ever. What the hell had happened yesterday at the mall?

Caryn muttered under her breath, "What didn't he do?" before sitting down at the table with two full plates of eggs and toast. She pushed one towards Stan's seat while Filbrick folded up the paper. 

"Your brother’s been lying to us. Picked up a new bad influence - other than you. However , that bad influence is also rich ." Filbrick took the one hundred and fifty dollar bills and set it on the table. "Rich and dumb . Apparently Stanford's been tutoring his friend in exchange for joyrides at the mall. I don't like it, the entire thing is fishy, but money is money. We just don't need Stanford screwing this up." Filbrick looked pointedly at Stan. "Or drifting down a dangerous path." 

Stan blinked at the money. "What's- what's that gotta do with me?"

"You're the social one ain’t you? It's the only thing you're good at - other than punching. Keep Stanford from pissing this kid off too much." 

Stanley fidgeted in his seat. "I'll try... Ford's got his own life, but I'll try."

Caryn sniffled as she took a bite of her eggs. "Now that's just unfair. Stanford should be getting paid in cash not in mall trips." Her eyes glanced guiltily at Stan's beat-up clothes. "If he's working it should benefit the entire family, not just himself. It's selfish is what it is."

Filbrick grumbled, "I'm working on that. He made a shitty deal, kid’s inexperienced." 

Stan stayed silent, unwilling to speak ill of his brother or offer up any information he had about the specifics of the situation. "Can I-? I need to get to school."

Filbrick got up. "I'll walk you to the car, see you off."

Stan nodded, shoving a piece of toast with egg on it into his mouth.

When they made it to the car Filbrick grabbed Stan's shoulder. Stan flinched.

"We're not done talking. I didn't want your mother to hear - it would break her heart." Filbrick glanced up at the empty sidewalk before dropping his voice to a whispered hiss. "Bill's a homo, I need you to keep Stanford safe , you hear me? The second you catch wind of any relations between the two of them you come tell me." Filbrick gripped Stan's shoulder tighter. "You. Tell. Me." 

"Yeah, yeah, okay," Stan said. Hopefully the worry in his eyes was interpreted as an understanding of how serious this was. Ford, what the hell'd you get yourself into? "I'll keep 'im safe."

--------------------------

The clock wasn't moving fast enough. Fiddleford glanced up every few seconds at the minute hand, knee bouncing mercilessly. In five minutes his IT class would get out for lunch, and unless Ford broke with their four year tradition they would meet by the library and they would walk together. They needed to talk . Talk long and hard. 

Things were getting worse. 

Ford had pointedly avoided him in trig this morning, refusing even eye contact. He and Bill seemed inseparable - the teacher had even chided them for giggling in class. Giggling! Someone needed to save Ford's soul and fast. 

Honestly, it wasn’t even just about Ford’s immortal soul or whatever. It was obvious Bill was dangerous, yes, but for all his parents and the preacher talked about the dangers of hell, Fiddleford wasn’t so certain that kind of thing was his responsibility. That still was between an individual and the Lord and he trusted that God would make decisions in line with justice. No, Fiddleford just wanted his friend back. 

He wanted the robotics club to be just for them, he wanted to study AP trig with his nerdy friend like they’d planned, he wanted Ford to look over blueprints he scrawled on napkins at dinner. He wanted everything to go back to normal. 

If he saved Ford’s soul in the process and made him realize that Bill wasn’t good for him and Fiddleford had been here all along then that was what happened.

Just as his knee bouncing reached its peak capacity for speed, the bell rang. Releasing a sigh of relief, Fiddleford pushed his books into his bag, shoving other students out of the way to get to their meeting spot. As he turned a corner, his rule-following speed-walking that was just barely below the line of what was walking and what was running almost slammed him smack dab into some scrawny freshmen. She seemed to be waiting there, standing still as stone with nervousness, with thick glasses and a high ponytail. 

"Hey!” she said, catching his gaze. “Are you Fiddleford McGucket?" 

"Umm..." He furrowed his brow at her, nervously looking past her. Students poured from classrooms on either side of the hall. "Yes'am."

"Great!" She shoved a worksheet and full notebook in his face, the sound of fluttering pages almost overtaking the sounds of pre-lunch hallway conversations. "Can you tutor me just real quick? I'm really struggling with number three." 

"Number-? Do I know you?" he said, looking her and the worksheet over. His memory wasn't that bad, who the hell was she? The worksheet appeared to be from an algebra class he’d passed out of.

"Ah no, I don't believe we've met but a friend of a friend recommended you!” A too-wide smile stretched across her face and she rocked back and forth on her heels, still planted squarely where she was. “They said you were patient and charitable. Good at math too! Pleaseeeeee, I really need this." 

"I-I-I-I really gotta get to lunch now, maybe after school?" he tried to walk closer to the library. "I'd love to help, really, but you caught me in the middle of somethin' that's all."

She sidestepped to block him and, if it was possible, her smile widened – but didn’t quite reach her eyes. "It's urgent. Just one question and then I'll be out of your hair." 

"Oh, I-" He huffed, thinking it over. "Lemme look at it again."

"Oh joy! Thank you!!" She shoved the worksheet against his chest. 

Only five minutes later, she snatched it back. "You know what, IthinkIgotitnow, thanks again! You're a saint!" With that she just disappeared down the hall and lunch was in full swing. 

"You're, uh, you're welcome." Fiddleford looked at the clock again. "Shit!!" He took off down the hall.

--------------------------

It was odd for Fiddleford to miss their meetup. The southerner must be more upset at Ford than he had predicted. With a heavy heart, Ford made his way to lunch alone. He could just apologize at lunch, right? Something like… Hello Fiddleford, I’m sorry I didn’t come to the office with you after school yesterday. Like I said I would. Things got away from me and- 

No, no, he could do better than that.

Hello Fiddleford, I know you’re upset with me and I don’t have any excuses. I should have come to the office with you after school, but I didn’t. Is there any way I can make it up to you?

Yes, that was better. 

As Ford mulled over his apology he traversed far more distance than he initially assumed thanks to a forceful stride and a trained down head. The only thing that jolted him out of his anxious-fueled reverie was the empty lunch benches hitting his knee. That was... odd. Stanley always arrived first, his class was closer. It was the second strange thing to happen today. Well third if Ford counted Filbrick and Bill meeting.

It took ten minutes of sitting alone for Fiddleford to arrive, sweaty and out of breath. Stanley was right at his heels but he was far more physically composed, if a little bewildered. The second they both sat down Ford winced. "Hello Fiddleford, I know you’re-

Ford's earnest apology was cut short by a loud, "Hey Sixer! What are you doing over there, ya nerd?" Hectorgon was walking over from Bill’s “cool kid’s table”, coming to collect Ford apparently. "You're one of us now, boss doesn't like it when the pack drifts apart. You're missing essential team bonding." 

Ford's eyes darted between Fiddleford, Stan, and Hectorgon then guiltily down to his very new, very expensive clothes. "Um- Tell Bill I'll be a second."

"Bill's not here right now, he doesn't actually eat lunch at the school if he can manage it. Which means it's up to us to properly induct you! C'mere." 

Ford couldn't tell if Hectorgon's grin was evil or welcoming, but he was practically lifted out of his seat all the same. Eight-Ball quietly gathered his food as he was herded away.

"Ford!" Fiddleford called. "I'll call you after school?"

Ford was too far away to hear him.

Fiddleford growled. "Dammit!" he shouted. He laid his head on the table in despair.

Stan hesitated before patting his back gently. "You too huh? I haven't gotten to talk to Ford all day. He rushed out at breakfast and I was stopped by some chick in the halls. She was comin’ on too strong for me to believe it, but she was pushy. Made me miss the beginning of lunch with Ford."

"This is madness!" Fiddleford lamented. He turned his head on its side to look at Stan but didn't sit up, hands in his hair. "Even you can't deny things are different now."

"Doesn't mean you're right about Bill being some kinda warlock, but yeah... I'm worried about him, Fidds." 

"Me too," said Fiddleford, watching Ford from a distance. "He wouldn't even look at me in trig, Stanley. He's too good for us now."

"I don't know ‘bout that, Ford wouldn't leave us behind on purpose. You know how he gets with a new project. Hell, you remember the first robot you two built together? You were all he yapped about for a month." 

It was true, but honestly that only made it hurt more. Sure, Ford used to care. If he still did, then what was all this? The ignoring, the exclusion, the obliviousness. It had been four years, was Fiddleford doing something wrong? What did Bill have that Ford could want ? Popularity? Ford wasn't that shallow. 

"You're sure he's not actin' weird?" Fiddleford asked. "Like under-a-spell weird?"

"I-" Stan hesitated. " Ford's not acting weird. He has his head in the clouds like always. It's everybody else around this that's got me scared. Bill met my pop s, Fidds. And my dad didn't instantly ban Ford from ever visiting the twerp again. Apparently Ford's ‘tutoring’ Bill and it's good business for the family."

"Hypnosis!" Fiddleford lifted his head off the table. "Magic, I'm tellin' ya! Stan, if Bill can do that to your Pa there's no telling what he could do to Ford - if he hasn't done anything already." He furrowed his brow. "I know you think I'm crazy, but this? Bill magicking your Pa and sendin' folks to distract us so he could steal Ford away? Something's wrong, real wrong. He has to want Ford for some reason, I dunno what."

Stan crossed his arms, thinking over what everybody seemed to assume Bill wanted. Even Filbrick was convinced the two were… gay. Stan assumed that too, but this was weirder than just a crush, right? Bill was isolating Ford on purpose, there was no doubt about that, but it just didn't seem fathomable that Bill was insecure enough to warrant that level of extreme jealousy over Ford . It was far more likely that Bill was stringing Ford along for some reason. But Stan really didn't want Bill to be an evil warlock, he was inclined to see the best in people. Not to mention it would rip Ford to shreds. No, it would be better if it was just innocent fondness motivating Bill. Maybe then he could be convinced to chill out his death grip on Ford's time. 

"Do you think I should go just... ask Bill what's up?” Stan suggested. “Maybe this is all one big misunderstanding." 

Fiddleford pursed his lips, shaking with nervousness. "That sounds awful dangerous. Then he'd know we're onto him... What if he puts you under a spell? No, no... This calls for somethin' else. Besides, he'd probably just lie to you anyway. We need another way to find out what he's up to that's more reliable." 

Stan snorted. "Like what? Nobody in this school is going to help us get dirt on Bill, even if we were popular. Which we're not . Bill's just a kid, maybe he gets overzealous too with a new friend and all that money makes him a weird control freak with affection. I'm sure if we just explain that he's taking up a lot of Sixer's time-" 

Stan cut himself off, that henchie that plucked Ford out of the table called Ford Sixer. Ford gave up that nickname to Bill like it meant nothing to him. Like Stan meant nothing. The snappish tone Ford had last night. Ignoring Fiddleford. The new clothes. The foundation? Maybe he's just too good for us now. All flashed in his head. Stan swallowed, ok maybe Ford was acting a little weird. 

He spoke up again, quieter: "Do you have a plan at least? One that doesn't involve explosives?" 

"I resent that - the explosives are plan C at least. Plan A is sneakin' into his house." Fiddleford moved his pointer and middle finger as though they were walking legs for effect. "Get the dirt right from the source."

"Yeah, ok, yeah."

Fiddleford lit up. "You're in?"

"Just a quick look around. I'm curious anyways, Ford says his house is massive."

The laugh that Fiddleford let loose was only slightly maniacal. "A challenge then! You an' I will meet up at 2 AM at my place, we'll bike over to Bill's to scout out the place, then break into the place when Cipher holds one of his big house parties. We'll need night vision goggles, probably a camera. Wouldn't be bad to have a couple-a flashlights for backup. You know howta pick locks, right?"

Stan only looked slightly offended. "Course I do."

"’ Course you do ," Fiddleford repeated. He chuckled and gave Stan a hug. "I knew you'd come around, I just knew it!"

"Ok, ok, cool your jets." Stan patted Fiddleford on his back gingerly. "You still haven't convinced me of your little magic theory."

"Oh I will, you just wait. And then we'll get our Ford back."

--------------------------

Ford glanced behind him again to make eye contact with Fiddleford between the two henchmanics steering him to Bill's table. He needed to apologize. He knew he was neglecting his two closest, most loyal friends and it made him sick. But refusing anything from Bill made him feel worse. Guilty, with a twinge of fear that he refused to investigate the source of. This morning the clothes had felt like a God-send; a completely selfless gift to boost his self-confidence. But now they felt like Bill marked him as his . Everybody in school had to know where the clothes came from, they had to know he was in debt to Bill. 

But Ford knew that was irrational. Bill didn't think like everybody else, he saw the clothes as a gift . Ford had no reason to feel so guilty and scared. Bill wouldn't hold a gift over his head like that.

Right? 

He chanced another glance behind him, but a sea of students blocked his view of the table he’d been hurried away from. Maybe he could apologize after school? That way he could appease Bill and Fiddleford. There had to be a way for Ford to keep everybody happy without this swirling unease in his stomach. Balancing social responsibilities was like balancing a class schedule; there had to be a method to the madness, this was just new to him.

When he glanced a third time Hectorgon sighed and pushed his cheek forward with the arm slung around his shoulder. "Look kid,” he said, “you have bigger fish to fry then wringing your hands over your old friend group. Emphasis on the old ." 

Ford furrowed his brow at the senior's phrasing. They had made it to the table where all the henchmanics were assembled. Most of them seemed to be working on creative projects - tuning instruments or drawing posters. "Is everybody preparing for a concert? I was unaware there would be another one so soon."

Amorphous Shape scoffed, raising a judgemental eyebrow. They put their hands on their waist where their stomach was exposed, letting their guitar hang around their neck. "Not a concert; the party. On Friday? C'mon, you can't be that oblivious."

Ford bristled. "I'm terribly sorry, I don't have every party listed on my calendar. There seems to be one every three days considering the flagrant lack of studying in this school." 

Kyrptos snorted and coughed under his breath. "Prissy square,” he muttered.

Ford felt Hectorgon's grip on his shoulder tighten as the man glared at Kryptos. "Now, now, no need to get all defensive, Sixer. You know now, plenty of time to prepare." 

"I'm not going," Ford said automatically.

"Awww, but you have to go!" Teeth said. He looked up from his drawing - his poster was shockingly impressive, with bold lettering in bright colors. "You're one of us, you have to!"

"Yeah, do you want to be one of us or not?" AS asked.

"I don't do well at… parties," Ford said, spitting out the word 'parties' like he had swallowed something vile. "Besides, I'm most likely not invited. Who's even hosting?"

"... Bill," said a few of the henchmaniacs, in various states of disbelief. Obviously it was Bill, who else would it be? Sure Sixer was new, but it seemed like Bill really liked him. Were they wrong?

"You haven't been invited?" Teeth asked, brows furrowed with concern. 

"No, should I have been?" Ford said with palpable anxiety in his voice. The thought that Bill was only using him and this was all a very elaborate – not to mention expensive at this point – prank reared its ugly head again. All of a sudden his cold lunch didn’t sound particularly appetizing.

Kyrptos was badly hiding a smile behind his hand. "Maybe he was just being nice. You said it yourself, parties aren't really your… thing. You wouldn't even have had an outfit before you met Bill." 

"Oh my God, did you do something to piss him off?" AS asked eagerly. They leaned forward. "You can tell us, we won't judge."

"Yeeeeeah," said Keyhole. "I've always wondered what Bill was like behind closed doors. What'd you do, Sixer?"

"Nothing! At least I don't think I did. Oh God." Ford tried to think back to their last interaction. Maybe Bill was upset that he had to bail Ford out of trouble? It was rather pathetic. Was Ford annoying? Too needy? He didn't think he was needy. "What is he like when he's mad?"

"Loud," said AS. 

"Personal," said Keyhole. "He'll get you where it hurts."

"If he's mad at you, you'll know it," said Teeth. "No bullshit from Bill!"

"He didn't act like that at all. He seemed chipper the last time we talked, he winked and waved bye like, um." Ford demonstrated the catty wave stiffly but it got the point across. "He was himself."

"Yeahhhh, no domestic issues there." AS pouted, resting their hands behind them on the table and lounging, blowing their bubble gum. "Pity. I love the drama."

"Sixer doesn't have a persona," Xanthar said. Heads turned toward xem. The largest henchmaniac rarely spoke, but xir words were usually worth listening to. 

There was silence for a bit before Teeth responded: "OHHHHH! Yeah, you need a persona before you can come to a party as a Henchmaniac!"

"A what?"

Hectorgon sighed and pushed Ford towards an empty seat. "A persona, kid. You know, like a party personality. Think of it as an extension of your stage name. Nobody wants boring Ford, they want Sixer ."

The rest of the henchmanics (except for Kryptos) started up a chant of Si-xer, Si-xer, Si-xer by pounding their fists against the table on beat. 

"Yes, exactly everyone, thank you for demonstrating the power of a nickname to our new inductee. Only problem is that the name is all you have right now. No batshit stories. Not even a party trick to distinguish you from the normies. The clothes are a good start at least ." 

"Bill's parties are a big deal," Keyhole explained. "Think of your attendance as... an extension of the boss's brand."

"You gotta make him look good!" Teeth added.

"Oh," Ford said weakly. "Maybe it is better he didn't invite me then. I don't fit the brand. He's just looking out for his reputation, I understand that." Ford was not moping. He was not disappointed he didn't get invited to a random party. He hated parties.

Kyrptos's face twisted in disgust at the pity party Ford was throwing for himself. If he were in Ford's shoes he would have done anything to get Bill to like him again. "Seriously, you're just giving up? Make a persona and change all of… that ," he said gesturing to Ford's whole body, "and you'll win Bill's affection." 

Ford spluttered. "I'm not trying to win his affection. I just want to be part of the group, that's all." 

"Hey, we all had to make a persona, buddy," said Keyhole. "You signed the contract just like the rest of us. Trust me, if Bill wants you here he has a reason. You're already part of the group. There's nothing wrong with you , only how you present yourself to the world." 

"Ok, that does make me feel better. What's the first step then in creating a persona? Hectorgon mentioned party tricks? I can, um-" Ford reached into his backpack and got out a single D20 from DD&D and rolled it over all of his digits a couple times before catching it. "Is that a party trick?"

"It's-" Keyhole paused and reminded himself to stay polite. "It's a start."

"Can you deal cards with that kinda style?" AS prompted. 

"Yes actually! I know thirty six different card tricks," Ford said proudly.

"That's a better start," said Keyhole. 

"Oh! Oh, oh!!" Teeth bounced in his seat. His gesticulations showed off multiple ink and paint splatters on his arms – from the poster and his studio art class before this. "When Bill helped me with my persona he asked me to picture what I wanted to be like. In a perfect world. Do that!"

"Yeah." AS perked up, remembering the creation of their own persona. "Forget who you are, who do you want to be?" 

Ford puffed out his chest proudly. "I want to be a scientist. An important one that graduated from a prestigious college with 4 PhDs in theoretical physics, engineering, chemistry, and quantum mechanics. Eventually, I'll earn a Nobel Prize. I'm actually working on a machine right now to get a scholarship for the end of ye-"

Kyrptos cut him off: "Dude, we said a party persona, this isn't school." 

"Yeah, yeah," Keyhole said. He leaned in encouragingly, but his face showed some concern. "What at a party might involve... that stuff you said?"

"Science is everywhere," Ford said solemnly without a lick of sarcasm. 

Keyhole blinked. "I got nothin'," he said after a beat. "Amorph, you're better at the science shit than I am, you take this one."

"Anybody would be better at science than you, you failed chemistry." 

"I did not," he said, folding his arms. "I got a C in chemistry."

"Dude, that's because you broke into Mrs. Brown's files."

"Well don't say that out loud ." He looked around nervously.

“Didn’t you already get in trouble for that? You got suspended last semester for like-”

“That was for other stuff,” he said, cutting them off. “We don’t talk about that in public.”

"Ughhhhh.” AS rolled their eyes. “Okay, okay... um. Sixer. Try thinking about the science stuff, but like. Cool."

"I guess, ummmm-” Ford chewed on the inside of his cheek, fiddling with his hands nervously and trying not to think about how much it felt like was riding on this. “Alcohol is technically a chemical substance. Like I said, science is everything. I don't really see what I could do with that."

Hectorgon perked up. "You like bartendin'?" 

Ford winced. "I'm not great at customer service." 

"You will be if people like you," said AS. "You can get away with a lot of shit if you're cool and alcohol is cool."

Ford hesitated. Opened his mouth, then closed it. A few years back, Stan had convinced him to make alcohol with stolen chemistry supplies that Stan nicked from the school. Filbrick had locked the beer up after Stan had stolen it too many times and Stan was desperate; the party he was going to required that they bring drinks. He practically begged Ford to help, so Ford acquiesced. He’d sworn never to do so again – the process sucked and he didn't even think it was that good when he tasted it. To be fair though, he didn't love beer despite their father’s insistence it was a man's drink. 

His eyes shifted to the ground and he quietly said, "Um, I might be able to chemically create alcohol. I've only done it once before. And I might be able to do it in front of people as a custom order, but I would need supplies." 

"That's cool as shit, dude," Keyhole said, eyes wide. “Why didn’t you lead with that?”

Ford was surprised, he had never been called cool before and his chest felt warm. "Thank you. I suppose it is cool. I would have to practice, but I think I could get good enough before the party on Friday." 

"Okay, that is cool, but you need like. A vibe," said AS. "Ya know, a theme . An aesthetic."

"Oh that’s easy. I'll be a mad scientist. The chemistry supplies I'll be using will corroborate the 'vibe'. It will look quite strange, a mini lab set up in the back of a party with an impatient line in front of the table. I do hope that is ok."

The group nodded at each other. "Cool," AS said and a few others echoed it.

Hectorgon nodded his approval. "Strange is Cipher's middle name. It will be nice to halve the customers at the bar anyways, it can get hectic at night. Just don't take my regulars and it's all right by me. I'll ask the boss about getting you those supplies."

Ford nodded, Bill was strange. He was safe here, he was among friends. Among freaks. Even if they were brash, abrasive, rude, bad-inflences and… colorful , pretty, artistic, talented, and cool and qu–

The point was that he had no reason to be afraid. After all, this was his first real chance at acceptance. They all seemed to want him to succeed with the persona, they were helpful. He didn’t need any negative ungrateful feelings ruining his chances with Bill. He needed Bill to like him.

He… wanted Bill to like him. And Kryptos was right. They all were right. Bill would like Sixer better than Ford. He knew that in his bones. And it didn't even make him upset, he stated it to himself like it was an impersonal fact of the universe. There was no use screaming at facts to change their nature.

Sixer was fun and cool and colorful and que-

No.

Sixer was strange , like how Bill was strange.

Not queer like how Bill was–. Well Bill was gay , didn’t make him queer. There was a difference. Everybody knew that. 

Sixer wouldn’t drift that far away from Ford. It was still him . Sixer was just a confidence-booster and people found confidence attractive. Ford was sure Bill would be attracted to the performance like how Ford was attracted to Bill’s strangeness . He just wanted to even the playing-field. He wanted for once Bill to be in awe of him. Nothing more. 

Sticky foundation stained the back of Ford’s hand as he rubbed absentmindedly on his cheek and a tiny almost – almost imperceptible speck of purple bloomed anew on his face. 

Chapter Text

Ford clutched Bill's invitation to his chest as he entered his shared bedroom. The urge to just move and squeal in an unmanly way had been difficult to contain in front of the rockstar but now that he was alone he practically vibrated with happiness. Ford was officially invited to his first ever party on purpose. His hands twitched and he hugged the invitation tighter to assuage the urge. Nobody liked when he gestured with his hands emphatically or sometimes flapped them. His father said that it made him look nervous which Ford supposed he agreed with. Fidgeting hands were a common sign of liars – even if nervousness was the furthest emotion Ford was truly feeling when he flapped. (When his hands were still and hidden, that's when he was anxious.)

Stan was the only one who picked up on the tell. Everybody else praised him for his posture in that position or for his well-behaved stillness. Stan encouraged him to move sometimes when they were alone. Ford acquiesced with laughter more often when they were children, but as they got older he found the habit distasteful and actively tried to push it down. 

But not today. Today was special. He needed to pick out an outfit, one that Bill would adore and compliment him on. 

Ford pushed open his closet door just in time for him to process Tesla's visage before magazine pages thwapped him in the face. Ford blinked as the pages slid off to the floor revealing Stan crouched in all black in their closet, throwing random things out of the way as he searched for something or other. 

Both of them froze. 

Ford didn't have time to question what the hell Stan was doing, he would be late if he got dragged into it. So, Ford walked further in and tried to step over Stan to get to his clothes.

"I, uh, need to get by. I'm going out tonight with Bill."

Stan's face flushed and he cleared his throat. "You're going out with him?" he pressed. He knew about the party tonight - hell, he knew Ford was going - but damn that was bold wording. Didn't mean Ford was confessing though, he was Ford and sometimes he didn't know what the hell he was saying. 

"Yes! There's a party at his house tonight and he actually invited me." Ford let the invitation slide outwards towards Stan. All it said was:

be there <3 
- BILL CIPHER

Ford winced sympathetically. "Oh, I tried to get you and Fiddleford an invite too, but he said that he didn't know either of you and was uncomfortable with strangers in his house. You already seem to have… plans anyways."

"Oh- What? Pshh, no, nah, not really, just lookin’ for the Polaroid." Stan's eyes lingered on the rockstar's blocky handwriting, the scribble of a heart. "You wouldna seen it around, would ya?"

"I think it's in one of the nightstand drawers. Are you doing an art project?"

"No just- Ya know. Senior year." He mimed taking a picture and shrugged. "Memories!"

"Oh." Ford furrowed his eyebrows. Stan’s excuse made no sense but he really didn't want to be late. What had happened to them lately? Stan used to tell him everything. "Well, have fun with… that." 

As Stan pushed off the floor and left to search for the Polaroid in the other room, Ford breathed a sigh of relief. His leather jacket resided on a hanger in the closet, newly upgraded. The henchmanics had helped him stitch on constellations on the sleeves, chemical formulas on the inside, and Sixer on the back. Pyroncia was the one who suggested stitching “666” underneath “Sixer” – she’d explained that Bill loved inside jokes like that since he got painted as a Satanist for just being a homosexual rockstar. Ford didn't really mind. Numbers were just numbers after all. It even stuck to the theme on a technicality. He slipped it on. Next were the gloves. Oh the gloves. Ford's eyes glazed dreamily just thinking about that moment with Bill. 

"You know what would make this perfect, right?" Bill had asked, looking Ford over with a proud, sharp eye.

"What?" Ford said eagerly. 

"Gloves!" he said, wiggling his fingers. "Gotta highlight your best feature."

Ford's excited expression immediately fell. "Ah, they don't sell six-fingered gloves Bill and I'll be working with chemicals. The chance of an accident drastically increases for me if I wear ‘normal’ gloves."

"When will you realize that I think of everything?" Bill pushed a box into his hands. "Custom made, for you."

Ford opened the box and gasped in shock. Inside were dozens of six-fingered black gloves stacked on top of each other. The material was soft, much more like heat resistant gloves than true latex lab gloves but they would work. "Bill… I don't know what to say. How much did this cost you? How did you even get them made so quickly?"

"Magic," said Bill. He booped Ford on the nose. "Don't thank me, just come to the party." 

Ford came back to himself in the present day and pulled on the first pair of gloves in the box. He didn't know what he’d done to get so lucky, but he would not lose Bill as a friend tonight – that included keeping all these excited emotions under lock and key. They weren’t cool. Not to mention people kept getting the wrong idea about them. Ford was quite annoyed with all the assumptions and whispers that they were dating. It was untrue, first off. And besides that, if Ford found them simply annoying then Bill must find those rumors disgusting. If he wanted to date Ford he would just ask him, Ford reasoned! He was too confident not to. Ford was just lucky that Bill seemingly hadn't had anyone suggest to him that they were dating – Ford would surely get kicked out of the friend group for being creepy even if that was never his intention. He was “creepy” already due to his fingers, he didn't need “pervert” added to that list. 

Stanford took a deep breath, clutching the sides of his jacket. Everything would go perfectly tonight. 

--------------------------

Even though it was Ford's third visit to Bill's mansion, the grandiosity of the building still shocked him. He didn't know if he would ever get used to the sheer scale of the house, especially compared to the single, short occupant who called it home. Maybe that's why Bill threw so many parties: to not go mad from the absolute silence and emptiness. 

Bill didn't greet him at the door this time – Ford was thirty minutes early and Bill must still be getting ready in his bedroom. At least that's what Ford assumed as 8-Ball opened the door for him with a confused squinched up forehead crease. Nobody was early to Bill's parties except for Hectorgon and the muscle. Hell, even Bill was sometimes fashionably late to his own parties. The taller man didn't say anything though and Ford passed through with no trouble. There were random people passed out on the floor and the couches already, people Ford didn’t recognize. 

He moved on further in the house until he reached the bar. Hectorgon nodded at him while cleaning a shot glass. Ford waved back and pushed on to the back of the room where the mini-lab was set up. He trembled in excitement. Beakers and chemicals and pipettes, all his to play around with. He sat down and started pulling chemicals out of the cabinets. Hectorgon was staring at him with an inquisitive, wary expression as he paused his cleaning to watch. Ford beamed back at the bartender with a sort of manic joy. "Do you have any requests? I need a subject for the first batch and you already know what most alcohol tastes like I presume. You could give me notes." 

Hectorgon gave Ford a shrug that was meant to be encouraging, but may have inadvertently revealed some of his wariness. He trusted Bill, but he was more worried than he'd admit about the newest henchmaniac. Sixer's little mad scientist thing was... well, he didn't even know what it was, that was the problem. "Do what you want, kid, be yourself," he said. 

"Soooo is that a yes or a no on trying the alcohol?" Ford smiled wider. "It would go a long way to make everybody comfortable if you endorsed it. I understand it seems rather unsafe."

Seems rather unsafe was putting it mildly. Hectorgon had looked over what Bill had provided Ford with for tonight and he had some concerns. The boss knew Sixer better, but from what Hectorgon had seen, Ford was a teen on the lowest rungs of society who thought he was better than everyone else and that kinda shit could mix up grudges. Deadly ones. 

Wasn't his place to question Bill though. 

"Listen, long as you don't kill anyone I really don't care what you serve people tonight. And trust me, Bill has endorsed you plenty. You'll be fine."

Ford crossed his arms and slumped in the chair. "Nobody is going to try it without proof that someone drank it and survived."

"I'll try it!"

Like an angel from the heavens, Bill slid down the banister, landing gracefully on his feet beside the two makeshift bars. He was as dressed up as ever, with bold jagged makeup and his top hat, wearing his baggy leather jacket with a skin-tight black shirt covered with white fishnets. In the dark lighting, the outfit provided the illusion of him being shirtless. "Whatever you make, Sixer, will be great!" 

Ford's breathing hitched and he pushed himself back up eagerly. He made sure to avert his eyes from Bill's basically naked chest – out of politeness! Man, that top hat was so whimsical and interesting! Yep. "Ah, Bill, wonderful! What drink would you like to try? I made a little menu last night," Ford said. The menu read: 

• Big Bang
• Bloody Erythrocyte
• Death in the Laboratory
• Ethanol
• Gravity Twister
• Hydrofluoric Acid
• Ionic Blast
• Space-Time Fashion
• Spritz of Antimatter
• Sterile Shot

He pushed the menu closer to the end of the table and flicked his eyes down for a brief moment to Bill's chest. He was eye-level with Bill's nipples when he was sitting down like this… He quickly darted his gaze back up to the rim of the top hat, clearing his throat. "You look… dashing. We have matching jackets! Heh." 

"We do!" Bill hopped onto one of the stools and kicked his blocky boots back and forth, giving Ford a dreamy grin, lips and nails painted gold. "Let's seeeeeee." He ran his eyes over Ford's menu. "I will have your Spritz of Antimatter if that's alright with you." 

"Coming right up!" Ford said cheerfully. He began measuring some kind of dark liquid before pouring it in the beaker and mixing it rigorously. The entire process took about ten minutes. At the end he tossed salt inside. He poured the substance into a shot glass and beamed at Bill. It smoked slightly and Ford leaned on his knuckle to sigh. "It's not real antimatter, thankfully. Your protons wouldn't like that." 

"They sure wouldn't!" Beaming at the way Ford looked at him, Bill threw back the shot and shuddered. "Whoooo! That's good stuff, Sixer!"

"I'm glad you think so, maybe I should name a drink after you. It is your party after all and it should be your favorite drink." 

"Awww, would you?" Bill batted his eyelashes at him. "You little rascal, hah!"

"It's the least I could do since you won't accept actual tutoring." Ford sighed in disappointment when he saw guests trickling in. "We'll workshop it later. Go play host. I'll be here if you want to try another drink."

"You know I will!" Bill gave Ford a flirty wave goodbye and spun off his seat.

The party kicked off fast. One moment the room was only sparsely populated, and the next, getting from one side of the room to the other would be a chore. Music started playing somewhere from a disembodied source, the lighting lowered, the sound of a thousand conversations overlapping filled the air. Bill himself flitted around the room, accepting compliments, laughing at jokes, spreading gossip, denying requests to sing, and responding to comments about his newest recruit as best he could:

"Oh he goes by Sixer now."

"Of course the jacket was my idea."

"No, the twin isn't one of us."

"He's really great when ya get to know 'im."

"Go try some of his drinks! You probably won't die, HAH!"

Slowly but surely Bill's gossip - and similar gossip planted by Pyronica and Keyhole - drew the braver invitees to Ford's table.

Ford sweated as he frantically mixed another drink. He wasn't expecting such a long line so quickly. He supposed the novelty was enough to warrant the overwhelming response, but he still wished things would slow so he could breathe. His only saving grace was that at least he could drown out the sound of the party with work.

Another kid ordered Spitz of Antimatter – Bill's influence most likely, or it was the only drink people weren't scared to try. Ford handed off the drink and took a gulp of air to respond to the next person. "Hello! The menu is right here. Yes, this is safe. How many shots do you want..." Ford trailed off.

Crampelter, shockingly, seemed as surprised to see Ford as Ford was to see him. Maybe it was just the lighting, but he seemed to pale for a split second, vividly remembering the last time they'd interacted. He nodded at Ford, acknowledging him with a terse, "Pines. Whatcha got, huh?"

Ford pushed the menu closer. "It's right here, I trust you can read it yourself. You did pass English, right?" 

His eye twitched, but he managed not to rise to that. Unfortunately his lackey did not. 

"Yeah he did, he passed with a C." 

"Hey, shut up, Tommy," Crampelter growled. He glared at Ford's menu. "What, you don't just have beer on there?"

"If you wanted beer you could have gone to Hectorgon. That isn't the point of this experience. Pick a drink."

"Fine, that one," he said, stabbing a finger at one of them at random. He wanted this to be over as soon as possible and he wasn't about to get in a different line to wait all over again. 

"Oh, you're brave! Nobody has tried Hydrofluoric Acid yet. It has a kick to it!" Ford ducked out of instinct for the fist coming his way and also to grab more chemicals from the cabinets beneath him. He mixed it quickly, pouring it in a shot glass. The liquid bubbled ominously. 

"Yeah, whatever..." Crampelter mumbled, folding his arms and tapping his foot. He regarded the glass warily when it was done, second guessing whether he should actually drink it when he had no idea what it actually was.

Ford grinned evilly. "You're holding up the line, what are you waiting for? It's just a drink."

"Yeah, c’mon," Tommy chided. 

Crampelter glared at him, snatching up the little glass. "Fuck off, dude," he snarled, gesturing with the thing. "I'm not scared." Trying not to think about it, the jock threw back the shot and his eyes bugged, letting out a few coughs.

Ford muttered under his breath just loud enough for Crampelter to hear: "Have fun tonight, prick."

The boy's eyes burned with hatred, but he couldn't do anything and he was shouldered out of his place in line not a moment later.

With his eyes on the ground, Crampelter's shoulder bumped into another kid on his way out of line. He didn't even bother giving them a glance, or else he might have wondered what on earth Fiddleford McGucket was doing at Bill Cipher's house party.

Fiddleford's shoulders raised to his ears and he cringed, freezing in place for a moment before the danger passed. How could Ford stand it in here? He sent another longing glance towards his friend at the bar, wearing his fancy new clothes, enjoying the attention of all these mouth-breathers that wouldn't have cared a week ago if Ford had jumped off a bridge. Stan may not be convinced, but Fidds would bet his life on it - it was magic. Something about this whole house felt off. He repressed a shiver and turned his eyes away from Ford. His friend was safe, which meant he needed to complete the next part of their plan: making sure Bill was here in the main room so he wouldn't interfere with Stan's part in things this evening. 

He scanned the room for anything particularly Cipher. Yellow eyes, whatever shade of nail polish he was wearing, that insufferable grin. Where was that little gremlin? Fiddleford found a handful of other henchmaniacs - Pyronica's pink hair stood out like a fluorescent beacon and 8-Ball and Xanthar's huge frames were hard to miss - but where was-

Ah. 

Bill lounged in a chair talking to a kid Fiddleford recognized from his chemistry class last year. Keith? Fiddleford had gotten him caught for cheating off of him during a test, what a dunce. There was no way that kid had passed. 

Fiddleford wove through the crowd to find a place that was marginally quieter where he could still keep an eye on Bill. He pulled a two-way radio from his pocket. "Eyes on target, I repeat, eyes on target. Operation triangle is a go, over."

Static crackled over the radio in Stan's pocket, but he could still hear the southern's voice loud and clear. “I copy, over.”

It took Stan a while to locate Bill's room – Ford was right, this house was massive. The party was mainly located downstairs, where the amount of rooms blurred in a sea of lights, people, and darkness. Upstairs though? It was empty room upon empty room collecting dust, the faint thump of deep bass echoing from underneath. This place was creepy as fuck, Stan decided. 

Eventually, he found a door with a yellow neon sign spelling "CIPHER" in glittering lights. Kid was dramatic as fuck, he expected no less. Stan crouched down, readied his lockpick, and spoke into the radio: “I'm in position. Lock looks simple enough, should only take five minutes, over.”

Fiddleford sighed, folding his arms and tapping his foot. No one had said anything about him not belonging here, but he sure as hell felt it - it seemed that every less-than-sober, cool-kid’s eye was on him, that they sensed instinctively he hadn't gotten an invitation. Fiddleford McGucket would never get an invite to this vile place and Ford shouldn’t have either. 

This plan would work, he was sure of it, but Stan had better work fast. 

So much was riding on this working out. 

And unfortunately for Fiddleford, his plan was about to hit a roadblock. 

Bill got up from his seat, giving some excuse that was unintelligible from Fiddleford's position. Was he joining the rest of the party? Noooooope, shit shit shit he was heading towards the stairs. 

"Code red, the target is on the move. Headed your way, over." 

Stan swore. Damn it, no time, he did not want to be caught in Bill's room anyways. He abandoned his post, scrambling up to hide behind a weird decorative bust a couple of feet away. It had a triangle scratched into the side… which was weird graffiti but whatever. Just in time too; he could hear heavy boots on the stairs.

The far-away, uneven thumps got closer and closer to his hiding spot. What if Bill wasn't going to his room and he passed right by Stan? What if Bill had two rooms? Stan cringed and pressed himself closer to the wall. Thankfully, the steps paused a foot away from Stan and he carefully peered around the bust to get eyes on Bill. 

The rockstar fumbled for a key in his pocket, unlocking his room and stumbling inside with the uneven gait of someone who’d had plenty to drink. Stan got a flash of an opulent canopy bed with golden sheets, Bill Cipher & The Henchmanics promotional material on the walls, and a desk covered with paper. Lyric drafting perhaps? Only a few moments later, Bill stumbled out with a jet-black snake wrapped around his neck. The snake's tongue flicked out to taste the air for intruders as Bill re-locked the door, its golden, slitted eyes connecting with Stan’s brown ones. Sweat beaded on Stan’s brow and he reminded himself a few times over that snakes couldn't talk – it would take this secret to its snake grave. 

Did people bury snakes? They must, right? Ford would know. Ford would have loved the walkie-talkies, too, and all the code names. Stan could almost imagine a different reality where all three of them were breaking into Bill Cipher's together to prove he was a warlock. Fiddleford could have gotten Ford onto the idea easily and Ford would babble about it until Stan inevitably agreed to investigate. 

Ford wasn't meant to be here. Not at this party. Not in this opulent mansion that was too good for the three of them. No, the only way any of them should have made it inside this damn building was if Stan had to break them all in. But this evening, Ford got invited into the den of snakes like it was normal.

That’s why they were doing this, Stan supposed.

"Target just left,” Stan murmured into his radio. “I'm going to try again, over."

 --------------------------

Bill's platform boots stomped down the hallway and he hummed one of his songs as he walked drunkenly towards the stairs. He'd been stealing glances over at Ford's little station all evening and he really was proud of how his new recruit was doing. After all, that long line was equally Bill's doing. Little ol’ Fordsy was really coming up in this world. 

"You're an artist, Cipher, you really are," he said, shooting finger guns at a mirror as he walked by. 

What a perfect Friday night, and it had only just begun. 

Party noises flowed from the ground floor the moment he set foot on the stairs, descending like Cinderella attending her first ball - done up, the star of the show, glittering with magic. Looking for a prince... His eyes met Ford's and he waved, jumping the last three steps onto the floor. 

"Heya, Sixer!" he shouted over the music, fingering his snake's tail to draw attention to it. Multi-colored lights and waves of sound crashed over them. "Whaddya say you take a break with me?"

Ford's haggard, overwhelmed expression switched to pure glee when he saw Bill. He exclaimed, "You own a snake???!" and glanced at his long impatient line, then longingly back at the snake. He dumped the last drink in a shot and slid it over, then called to the rest of the line: "We're closed for the night. It's an early bird experience! Go to Hectorgon to satiate any more booze-related cravings." Annoyed exclamations came from those who’d just been doomed to stand in another line, but Ford couldn’t care less – he promptly jumped up, snapped off his gloves to dispose of them in the biohazard container, then abandoned his post to dutifully follow Bill. "What’s its name?" he asked in pure delight.

"His name is Apophis," Bill said, grinning his nerdy little ass off. The crowd seemed to part for Bill as he walked, leading the both of them to one of the more secluded areas of the party with nice seating. 

"Like the god of chaos and darkness in Egyptian mythology?”

“Duh. Wanna hold him?"

"Yes please!!!" Ford sighed happily as Bill draped Apophis around his neck. “Should I be worried about this little guy eating the sun?" He scratched under Apophis's chin to address the snake directly. "You're too cute and tiny to eat a star though, yesyouare." He paused and glanced back at Bill with shiny eyes. "Do you like the stars, Bill?" 

"Who doesn't like stars?" said Bill, smiling wistfully. "You like stars, I noticed." He nodded to the constellations sewn onto Ford's jacket.

"Yes! Do you, uh, like the jacket?" Ford asked. He shifted to show the constellations better and the easily missable Ad Astra Per Aspera stitched vertically along the zipper. "Are you familiar with the phrase? It's quite dear to me." 

"To the stars through difficulty," Bill recited. "We should toast to that! I saved you these!" He slipped behind Hectorgon's bar to steal two glasses of something or other, momentarily leaving Ford without someone right beside him to protect him from the pounding noise and flashing lights.

"Ah, I don't know Bill… I have to drive home later."

"Oh, c'mon." Bill threw an arm around Ford's shoulder. "You can have a few shots, you'll be fine. Besides, it's Friday, you're at a party. You're with me, you gotta live it up!"

Ford hesitated, but picked up a shot glass. The liquid swirled around sluggishly. He squeezed his eyes shut – the sound was so loud he couldn't think.

"Aww, I know you're nervous, pal." Bill ruffled his hair. "That's why I suggest it. Help you relax a little."

Coming from Bill, Ford didn’t need any more convincing. He kept his eyes shut and knocked the shot back. The burn was intense and he coughed and spluttered, but when he opened his eyes Bill was smiling at him with approval that said, You made the right choice. Ford wiped his mouth and grabbed the other shot and knocked it back, his heart fluttering. Too fast. The room spun slightly.

"Woah there, buddy." Bill chuckled and patted Ford on the back, gingerly taking his snake back. Apophis loyally curled around Bill's arm. "We'll make a party animal of you yet, Fordsy."

Ford wanted to ask if he did the shots wrong. He wasn't aware there was a right or wrong way to do shots, but what if there was and he’d screwed up? His cheeks burned hot from embarrassment and the alcohol. He wanted Bill to smile. He wanted Bill to think he was cool. "S'fine, I'm not drunk. Who gets drunk from a couple of shots? Not me! Umm- Stars, right! Why do you like them, Bill?"

Bill chewed on his cheek in thought, threading his snake-free hand through Ford's. They just held hands like it was natural, like Ford’s fingers were going home. "I dunno. They represent greatness, I guess." 

Ford's breathing hitched when they held hands, but he didn't pull away – he didn’t want to. "You must get called a star a lot. Ya know. RockSTAR." Ford flushed. God that was stupid. He was being stupid. "I just mean you already seem to have reached greatness. I want to be great. Important. I don't know." 

"You're important to me," Bill said idly, sitting on the side of the couch he’d taken them to. He lounged effortlessly, a picture-perfect image of material wealth and social currency. The sound was slightly less overwhelming here, in a little alcove facing away from the main room that felt private despite still being adjacent to the center of things.

Ford let himself be pulled onto the couch next to Bill and quickly reached for another shot on the coffee table to hide his face from that eviscerating statement. He was being reckless. He was going to get drunk and he’d promised that he wouldn't get drunk around Bill and embarrass himself. At this point, he didn't care. "You're perf- perfect.” Welp, that one sure came out didn’t it? “You've been so nice to me." Ok. Ok. That was fine, that was normal. Not something creepy like you're everything to me or you're my star. 

Bill felt his cheeks get hot, face falling just slightly. He wasn't perfect and he almost wanted Ford to know that. Wasn't that something? Ah, what the hell. He knocked back another shot himself. "’Course I'm perfect," he said, boldly yet easily laying his head up against Ford's chest. He could hear his heart beating rapidly, thumping like it might crawl right out of his ribcage to be closer to Bill. Now that would be devotion. 

Ford didn't know where to put his hands. Somewhere away from Bill, naturally. And he didn't know what to say?? He didn't know how to carry a conversation. Surely he’d possessed that information at some point, where had it gone? "What- what else do you like about stars?" he decided to say. That was as good as anything else.

"They're pretty," Bill mused, uncharacteristically quiet despite the torrent around them. Ford smelled nice. He felt nice. Bill wanted more of him. He sighed, letting himself muse for Ford’s sake. "I dunno. They're all far away, but- We all think we can't reach them, right? Us freaks. But I'm going to. One day. I will, I promise you. You can come with me, Sixer." His eyes flicked up to Ford's face, gold irises almost seeming to glow in the low lighting. 

"That sounds wonderful, Bill. We- we should toast. Yeah. Toast to reaching the stars together, no matter how difficult it is." Ford squeezed Bill's hand as he grabbed yet another shot. 

Bill clinked a glass from the table up against Ford's, a chill running through him. He'd found his writer, alright. This man, this six-fingered freak, was Bill's way out of here. He felt it in his bones, it made no difference that he was drunk. "Ad astra per aspera, Sixer."

"Ad astra per aspera," Ford breathed out reverently, before downing the shot like it was some all-important, soul-binding ritual. How many was it now? Four? Five? Ford had lost count. He let his head slump on Bill's shoulder. "You know what I loveee about the stars? That there could be hundreds- no! Thousands of alien civilizations waiting out there for us to discover. They could be trying to communicate right now and we just don't know the signal to tune into." Ford let his hand hover above them like he was reaching out. "Maybe we could be normal there. I don't know." 

Bill reached his hand out to clasp Ford's fingers and Apophis slithered around Ford's arm too, tying them together. "I'll show you the stars. Every nebula, every astroid belt. You'll have your own galaxy if I have anything to say about it."

Ford giggled. That proposal was outrageous, impossible. But why not let himself dream? He didn't know if he really believed Bill – despite the somber, promise-like tone he’d adopted – but that was ok. He was content with the outlandish lies and the magic and the glamor, he just couldn’t get too close, otherwise the illusion would be ruined. He pulled their hands back in closer to the both of them, staring into Bill’s eyes. "What would we do first? Hm? If you could go aaaaaanywhere in the whole dimension, where would you take me?"

"The boomerang nebula," Bill said without skipping a beat. "It's shaped like- You like moths, right? Like that." 

Ford exhaled in shock. Bill remembered? 

It had been a throw-away comment on the first real day they hung out – some time during the several hours they’d spent together he’d mentioned that he loved moths. Not in any remarkable way, just as a little bite-sized fun fact about Stanford Filbrick Pines. And Bill remembered. 

Ford remembered everything about Bill. Bill's sharp eyes. Bill's smirk. Bill's voice. But Bill remembering anything about him – six-fingered, too-smart, too-poor him – was- was-

 Ford's body moved before his brain could process. All he knew was want. And Bill. And Bill was pretty, and stars were pretty, and Bill loves stars, and oh god he was gripping Bill's jacket to close the distance to kiss those golden lips. 

He wanted that damn lipstick smeared on him. He wanted to be marked. He wanted to be queer if that's what it took for Bill to love him. He wanted- 

Oh god, where was Apophis? Where was the snake? Was he crushing the snake? 

Ford panicked and drew back, but he saw Apophis had slithered out of the way and was curled on the couch at a safe distance from the PDA. 

He barely had a moment to breathe. Only two seconds after Ford pulled away, Bill pulled him back in, mashing his lips up against Ford's. The snake was fine, it was fine. Some people would see and that was fine too, they might not even believe it. Bill let his jacket slide off his arms and then climbed into Ford's lap, grabbing the sides of his jacket for leverage this time.

“Mother of Christ!”

On the other side of the room, Fiddleford – who had spent the last few minutes searching for the demon to keep an eye on him – let out a gasp that sounded more like a shriek of horror. His instincts screamed at him to look away, but he couldn't. Train-wrecks were hard enough to keep eyes off of when they didn't involve some light stripping and nauseatingly passionate kissing. Dear God, shouldn’t somebody say something? Didn’t Ford know who that was he was making out with? 

Fiddleford cringed, shoving down his instinct to run over there and rip Bill off of Ford and give him a piece of his mind. He should have done as much that day in the lunch room when Bill had signed himself to robotic’s club. Ford was Fiddleford’s friend, Bill had no right. No right to invite him over to this hellscape, to steal him from Fiddleford, to give him a nickname and new clothes, to plunge his fingers in his hair and sit in his lap and grind on him while they-

It was too much. He couldn’t take anymore, there was already far too much burned in his brain that would take bleach and prayers to remove.

Covering his mouth to keep from throwing up or making any more sounds of disgust, Fiddleford fled through one of the doors closest to him, into the Cipher's kitchen. The party still continued on in this room, but it was smaller at least, and the music was quieter.

On the couch in the main room, Ford instinctively gripped Bill's waist to stabilize him. He wanted to squeeze down, but barely refrained himself as Bill tugged him closer to devour his lips. Ford couldn't breathe. He didn't want to breathe unless it was through the taste of nicotine and cloves mixed with alcohol. "Mm- Bill, wait-" he managed to gasp against the rockstar's lips. He was aware of a growing… problem between his thighs and he tried to tilt his lap away from Bill while gripping Bill's hips tighter to keep him at a distance.

But Bill wanted none of that distance. He scooted closer, as close as he could, bestowing open-mouthed kisses and grinding into him. 

Ford really tried to not buck into Bill's grinding but it was basically impossible to ignore the heat bubbling his spine. He gave in with a low groan. Bill… Bill wasn't- Ford was rutting into the rough fabric of Bill’s dark jeans but he didn't feel a bulge. Bill must be completely soft. Ford's kissing slowed as he flushed a deep crimson from embarrassment. His eyes stung and his chest hurt. Of course Bill wasn't actually attracted to him. He was just acting – he was a performer, his whole job was to act. 

Ford pushed Bill off of him, refusing eye-contact. His voice trembled as his words spilled out in a rush: "I have to go, it's getting late." He squeezed his eyes shut to blink away tears and fled the room.

"What- Ford!" Bill stood up, keeping himself from running after him. Even drunk, he knew making the wrong choice now could destroy both of them. He sighed and scooped up Apophis. 

Ford just needed some time.

--------------------------

“You’re not supposed to be here. If Bill catches you, you're dead meat.”

Fiddleford flushed, cringing with surprise. The fear didn't come close to drowning out all his other emotions, but it was a distraction at least. His eyes searched the kitchen briefly before coming to rest on a disgruntled young man leaning against the counter, equipped with the same angry-heartbroken expression that Fiddleford was wearing. His red face was wet with fresh tears. 

"I- I'm sorry, I-” Fiddleford fidgeted uncomfortably, trying and failing to bring to mind the blonde’s name. “You're- I was just-" 

"Kryptos. One of Bill's top ranking henchmanics," Kryptos said coolly to mask a voice-crack. He took another drink from his glass without looking but missed and spilled some on his shirt, prompting a mumbled curse. An attempt was made to rub it out with shaking hands, but that was about as useless as trying to simply forget what was going on in the other room. "Point is!” Kryptos said, forcing a smile. “I got a lotta dirt on Bill. If that's what you came to the party to search for."

"Oh, I'm not- This isn't what it looks like." Lying was never Fiddleford's strong suit. "Look, alright, I'm leavin’, okay?"

"No!” Kryptos spilled some of his drink yet again frantically gesturing for Fiddleford to stay. A strange shine of desperation filled his grey eyes. “Don't leave yet! I have information to offer! Useful information." 

Fiddleford's brow furrowed in suspicion, backing away. "Why would you wanna help me, huh?"

"Bill doesn't value those closest to him. That's all you need to know,” he snapped. “Now, all of Bill's power comes from a book. Steal the book, you topple his throne. Currently he's entrusted said very important object to Sixer, our, ugh, newest member. I think you, like, know him, or whatever. You never got this tip from me. Got it?" 

Warily, Fiddleford nodded. "Okay," he said. 

“Now get out of here!” Kryptos said. He grabbed Fiddleford by the collar and started dragging him towards the door, ignoring his yell of confusion. “Nerd.”

Maybe Kryptos was telling the truth, maybe he wasn't - regardless, he was right about it being time to leave. He did not want to be anywhere near this place right now. Bill was probably leading Ford up to his bedroom right now…

"Stanley,” Fiddleford growled into his radio, holding back tears of his own, “we need to leave. Now."

A fourth pick broke in the lock just as the radio crackled to life again. “Damn it! I had it that time, I had it!” Stan darted a desperate glance down to the long hallway where the staircase and Fiddleford were waiting then back to the door. The lock was simple. Stan knew locks. Locks knew him. Loved him even. But this one was just weird. There was no other word for it. For each attempt he made, the lockpick would get close to releasing the mechanism and then just snap in half. It didn’t matter how gentle Stan was, he somehow used too much force every time. He was running out of picks and clearly was out of time.

Stan swore again and glared above at the blinking neon sign that taunted his failure with gaudy, eye-sore yellow light. It reminded Stan of bile and of poison and of… Bill.

The hairs on the back of his neck flared up. He was being watched. Whatever was sealed in the bedroom was deceptively well-guarded, like Bill wanted to see who would attempt a break-in, and that gut-feeling alone was enough for Stan to know that whatever was inside was not worth the pain of investigation. He needed to get out of here - preferably with both friends in tow, but he knew he would have to settle for just Fiddleford.

Stan’s gruff voice crackled over the din of the party after a too long beat of empty static: “I’m comin’ cowboy. I’m comin’. You’re right, we’re in over our heads here. Bill’s a fucking warlock.” 

Chapter Text

The twins' bedroom was too quiet. 

It had been too quiet all weekend, which Stan more or less expected after Fiddleford explained what he’d seen, but now it was 7:30 AM on Monday and Ford should have been up. He was always up at 7:00 bright and early, practically pulling Stan out of bed to start another miserable week. 

Not this morning. 

Stan pulled on a shirt and pants at random in the quiet dark, stalling for time. Maybe Ford was still asleep? Maybe he was sick? Maybe Ford had created a dummy of himself and was out somewhere else already? 

Nope. His back was moving with breath. 

"You awake, Sixer?" Stan asked. He knew Ford was awake, but what else was he going to say? Carla dumped my ass and I still went to school the next day. You've had all weekend to mope. What happened at the party? You know it’s really rude not to tell your brother you’re dating a warlock.

Ford burrowed deeper in the blankets and didn't respond. He wanted nothing more than to be a coward, to be weak. He could claim he was sick, but that would only delay the inevitable. Not to mention ruin his perfect attendance; did he really want Bill to affect his studies like that? The rockstar had already done enough damage to Ford's lucidity apparently.

"Yeah...'m awake.” Ford forced himself to sit up in bed and grab his glasses. “You go ahead,” he said as he climbed out of bed. “I'll catch up." 

Ohhhhh no, Stan was not going to let Ford continue to dodge him. "You sure? We got Fiddleford's robotics club after school, thought we might wanna plan for that." 

Without foundation, Ford's dark eyebags and puffy eyes from crying emphasized the exhausted, middle-aged divorcee look he rocked. It was quite impressive for a seventeen year old, especially one with no provable romantic relationships under his belt. The mention of Fiddleford made Ford's dead eyes glaze over. "I'm sure Fiddleford has something planned already. You don't even like robotics." 

"No, but I like you and I like Fiddleford. I'm not gonna just not go now that it's a thing. That would be a shit thing to do to him." Was that a little underhand? Yeah, but right now kinda called for that.

"I didn't say you shouldn't go," Ford said. "We're both going to be late for school, if we keep arguing about something so inconsequential."

"I'm not arguing with you," Stan said, face falling to a frustrated frown.

"Then we're in agreement," Ford said. He grabbed his backpack to shove folders and a textbook inside. "See you at school."

"Okay, what the hell is going on with you?" Stan asked, balling his hands into fists. He jabbed a finger at Ford's chest. "You've been mopey all weekend and ya haven't even told me why!"

Ford batted Stan's finger away. His words to defend himself got caught in his throat and he tried to summon the anger he felt to the surface to force it out. Stan got to mope about Carla and Ford didn't pry! Stan got to have a normal relationship with a girl. Stan wasn't a freak, Stan would never understand.

But Ford couldn't say any of that, because that would mean admitting he kissed Bill. Ford kissed Bill. Everything was Ford's fault. He’d prioritized Bill over his two best friends, he’d practically abandoned them. And for what? For a whirlwind gay romance that was never even real? That Ford failed at?? That Ford was too stupid and blind to see was a lie??? Fiddleford and Stan had picked up immediately that Bill was bad news. And oh god, why didn't Ford just listen to other people for once in his life?

Ford didn't even want to date Bill. He wanted to keep the overly nice, fake flirting going on forever and never address the elephant in the room. Never commit, deny deny deny. But Ford couldn't deny anymore, he didn't even have the heart to blame the foundation for turning him into a faggot. He did throw it away, immediately after the party – he’d been too drunk and too hurt to want anything to do with Bill's presents – but he wasn't able to convince himself that the paste had any power to transform him, or that Bill was a siren. It was Ford's own fucked up brain that was ruining his life.

He was too goddamn tired to be having this conversation right now. It didn't even matter, Stan would learn soon enough what happened at the party. After all, Bill had surely already told the entire school, with that snickering, cute laugh of his.

Ford swung his backpack over his shoulder and pushed his way past Stan. "Nothing has been going on. I'll see you at school, Stanley."

Stan caught Ford's wrist. "Nuh uh. You don't get to just lie to me. I'm starting to think Fidds is right about you and Bill." Whatever that meant. Let Ford interpret that one.

"Well he's wrong!” Ford yelled, jerking his hand out of Stan’s grip. “Bill doesn't like me, ok? He was lying! You two were right. I never should have visited his lunch table. I never should have become friends with him. I never should have gone to that party!" 

"Okay, so tell me what happened!" Stan shot back. "Tell me what the hell is going on!"

"I don’t have to tell you anything, it's none of your damn business!"

“Except for the fact that I’m your twin. Through hell and high water right, Sixer? Or is Bill only allowed to call you that? Now tell me-”

“You can’t force me to-”

“Stanford, I am only trying to help you! Please-”

“I kissed him, ok!” Ford finally choked out. “I kissed him and I'm a faggot and Dad is going to kill me and Bill doesn't even like me back."

"What do you mean he doesn't like you back?" Stan asked, softening a little bit. He was still upset, of course he was - Ford had still been ignoring him and Fiddleford for well over a week now. One crush and he realized that Stan was trash. That didn’t mean Stan was going to abandon him. 

Ford flushed. He was not going to explain that part. "He just doesn't. I don't want to talk about it. I should have seen it coming honestly, I'm awful at romance." 

"...so it's over then?" Maybe Stan and Fiddleford wouldn’t even have to do this business about stealing the book Ford kept in his backpack. Of course that would also mean that Ford just broke up with a warlock who could ruin their lives, but if that was the price Stan paid to get his brother back then it was worth it.

"Yeah..." Ford looked miserable. "I'm sorry, it's going to be worse for us at school now. He probably told everybody already…”

"Hey, if anybody tries anything it's lights out for them," Stan said. He slung an arm around Ford’s shoulders. "I got your back, Sixer, always. And I won't tell Pa, promise." 

Ford sniffled and faintly laughed, hesitating. "You don't care that I'm gay? It doesn't disgust you?"

"Ford, I could have told you you were gay in middle school." 

Ford looked genuinely confused. "Since middle school?"

Stan shrugged. "Yeah, but hey! Look on the bright side! My brother's a real stud, you kissed a rockstar! You’ll be able to say that for the rest of your life.”

"I suppose I did." Ford smiled faintly. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you earlier. I should have known you'd have my back. Fiddleford on the other hand..." Ford trailed off, his mind floating to the crosses in Fiddleford’s kitchen. "He's going to hate me, isn't he?" 

Fiddleford would be overjoyed, but that wasn't Stan's to tell. "He's your friend, it'll be okay." Stan pulled Ford into a hug. He didn't do that as much now that they were older, but it felt right, if a little awkward. He pulled away and affectionately slapped Ford on the back. "Okay now we can be late to school." 

--------------------------

The bell rang and Ford was not there. 

Bill drummed his fingers against the desk, first anxious and then annoyed at himself for being anxious. His stupid heart needed to stop pounding, this wasn't the end of the world. Of course he couldn't fix anything if Ford wasn't around to fix things with... Maybe Ford was just sick. Or maybe he'd run away from home? What if the government had snatched him up in retribution for their gay little Friday night and were coming for Bill next? 

When Ford did walk through the door a few minutes after the start of class, Bill's heart did not stop pounding - if anything, Ford's presence made things worse. Both Bill and Fiddleford looked up to watch Ford walk through the door and Ford kept his eyes down away from both of them. 

Sixer wasn't wearing his jacket. 

What was that supposed to mean? Was Ford saying they were done?

Oh ho, they weren't done if Bill had anything to say about it. Sixer did not just get to kiss him and then pretend it didn't happen like a fucking coward. He scribbled blocky letters on his page of notes and covertly put the folded up note on Ford's desk while the teacher's back was turned. 

Can we talk?

Ford slid into his seat, absolutely silent. He didn't know when Bill was planning to tell everybody and it was cruel to make Ford wait. He numbly took the note, but immediately crumpled it up once he read its contents, repressing a scoff. What did they even have to talk about? 

The crumpling of the paper sounded like nails on a chalkboard, making Bill cringe. His eye twitched and he tore another paper out of his notebook a little less silently than before. 

meet me in the bathroom after period 3

Ford crumpled that note too. Really? How stupid did Bill think he was? Surely Bill wanted Ford to imagine Bill shoving him up against the wall and mashing their lips together. But bathrooms were prime places for make-out sessions and swirlies: Ford wasn’t going to put himself on the line for a risk like that. Ford could already imagine Bill apologizing sweetly to reel him in while the henchmanics were hiding nearby with a camera, laughing their asses off.

Bill wanted to scream. Who did Ford think he was? For that matter, who did Ford think Bill was? He didn't get to just ignore him. He'd had all weekend to stew, they needed to talk goddamn it. 

don't blow me off

That note was crumpled with the most force and Ford actually jerked his head to hide in his notes. What the hell kind of word play was that? All the ways Bill could have demanded Ford to pay attention and he chose to not-so-subtly insert obscene imagery. To worm his way into Ford’s head and make fun of him. But Ford saw right through him. He got the message loud and clear and there would be no gay make-outs, no gay blow-jobs, no gay sex. 

Bill tore another page and this time the sound drew the attention of the teacher. "Bill Cipher, are you passing notes in class?" 

"What, I can't take a page out of my notebook?" Bill snarled.

The teacher sighed. "Mr Pines, did you see Bill pass a note?"

All eyes in the classroom turned to Ford. 

"Ah, no Ma'am, he was, um, writing lyrics." Ford stared straight ahead – he did not want to see Bill's face as he covered for him. They were not on the same side. 

Bill relaxed considerably. There was still hope. Not that there needed to be hope, he was Bill Cipher and he could do anything - there was no question of whether or not he could get Stanford Pines to get over his gay little self and kiss him again.

It was impressive how quickly Ford packed up and sped out of class once the bell rang. He didn't even have to sprint (as he abided by the no-running rule) the distance he gained in fifteen seconds was enough to get him to the end of the hallway.

Fiddleford and Bill couldn't get out fast enough, only coming out of the classroom in time to see Ford speedwalking, leaving both of them in his dust. Bill glared at Fiddleford and a smug smile slid across Fiddleford's features. 

"Trouble in paradise?" Fiddleford asked, folding his arms. 

Bill snarled. "Fuck yourself, McGucket." 

--------------------------

"No sign of Sixer, boss," said Hectorgon, joining the rest of the henchmaniacs at their designated lunch table.

Bill massaged his temples, repressing a groan. "Did you check the parking lot? Is his car still here? He doesn't just get to skip lunch."

Pyroncia took another long sip of her vodka – she needed a pick-me-up, since she was developing a headache herself from hearing Bill complain about Sixer. She tilted her drink so Morphy could take a sip in her lap. It was clear that Sixer was a coward who panicked and got cold feet from one little kiss. She didn't say that though; Bill had to be handled delicately, especially in matters of the heart. So instead, she smiled sympathetically and patted Bill's hand. "You know Billy, he's probably intimidated. Give him a couple more days." 

"He's had a couple days!" Bill said. "He won't even look at me."

"Didn't you say that he lied to the teacher on your behalf? That's, like, nerd-speak for undying loyalty," Pyronica said. 

"I say forget him, boss," Kryptos said. "Ya know. If you're free this Friday, you and I could-"

"Shut up, Krypros," Bill hissed.

"God, shut up Kryptos," Pyronica chimed in cattily. Once the two leaders said as much there was a chorus of 'be quiet man' and 'yeah, nobody asked you!'

"He'll be at McGucket’s club meeting after school, he'll have to be. Who wants to come with me?" Bill said.

Everybody (except Keyhole and Hectorgon) raised their hands. Nobody wanted to miss out on prime, grade A drama.

"Woah, okay." Bill wasn't about to take everybody. "It's robotics. Ya know, engineering."

About half the group put their hands down immediately at the concept of – ugh – math. Kyrptos stubbornly kept his hand up and Pyronica sighed before she pushed it down for him while, surprisingly, she kept her hand aloft. 

Kyrptos sneered. "Since when do you like nerd shit, Py?"

Amorphous Shape flipped Kryptos off over Py's shoulder. "Fuck off dude. Let her explode shit in peace." 

8-Ball quietly kept his hand up. He had hobbies other than punching. He built Xanthar a mechanical wind-up mouse just last week which xe appreciated deeply and kept on xir desk.

"Okayyyyyy..." Bill tapped his chin in thought. "Pyronica, 8 Ball aaaaaand... Keyhole."

"What?" Keyhole groaned. "I'm doin' stuff after school, boss."

"Yeah, you’re doing robotics club. I want you there. We can go get donuts after."

"Fine... Man, the one day I don't have detention."

"It's settled! The three of you will help me clear things up with Sixer, make sure it all goes down smooth. Meet up at room ten after school." 

Across the lunchroom, Fiddleford set down his hot lunch next to Stan with a look of concern. "Ford didn't meet me at the library. Do ya know where he is?" 

"Nope," Stan said with a popped 'p'. He didn't know exactly where Stanford was, but he could make an educated guess. There were only a few spots in school to hide from Bill, the kid could pay off anybody to track you down. 

"He was acting weird in trig," said Fiddleford. "I think he and Bill musta had a fight or something, neither of them looked too happy. Did Ford mention anything to you?"

"Just that Bill and him might not be seeing each other for much longer. I’m sure he’ll tell us more at robotics after school.”

Fiddleford lit up. "By golly! He didn't tell ya why?"

"Yeah, he was real cagey about it too," Stan said as he picked at his food. That one detail worried him – he didn't actually know why Ford was convinced Bill didn't like him. He trusted his brother in a lot of things, but Ford had a habit of shooting himself in the foot in romantic encounters. But oh well. Stan wasn't going to pry too hard now that things were almost back to normal.

"I wonder what happened..." Fiddleford chewed at his nails, imagining Bill taking Ford back to his bedroom at the party, the horrors he might have seen in there. "Maybe Ford got a glimpse of his evil magic and hightailed it outta there and now Bill wants him back! No wonder he's hiding..." 

Stan hesitated. "Why do ya think Bill wants him back? What happened in trig?"

"Well... He musta been passing notes and not getting a good response. Bill and Ford are behind me so I couldn't see, but the teacher called Bill out on it and Ford defended him. When I looked back both Bill and Ford seemed real cross with each other, Ford practically ran out of the classroom when the bell rang and then Bill cussed me out. He was pissed as all hell.”

"Huh," Stan said thoughtfully. He pushed himself off the lunch table. "I'll be right back, Fidds."

"Oh- okay." Fiddleford shrunk in on himself, nervously looking towards Bill's table.

It didn't take long for Stan to find the trigonometry classroom. The lights were out, since the only people willing to take A.P. trig were all at lunch. Stan tried the handle and… Yep, door was unlocked. Man, the teachers did not care about security at this school. He rummaged around the trash bin and found… three notes. 

Can we talk?

meet me in the bathroom after period 3

don't blow me off

Stan groaned. Goddamn it, Ford was ruining his one shot with a rockstar no less. A rockstar warlock who could curse all of them probably. Stan really didn't want to get involved. If he didn't, there was a chance he would get his brother back. Stan missed Ford. But Ford would also be miserable and heartbroken if he never talked to Bill again. He was used to putting Ford's happiness above his own though, and it would stop all of them from getting turned into snakes or some crap.

Emerging from the classroom, Stan's eyes met the boy's bathroom sign a few feet away. ... why not indulge a hunch?

--------------------------

Ford hunched his body in so the least amount of flesh touched the cold toilet seat. Up until now he’d never had the exhilarating experience of eating lunch alone in the bathroom, mainly because he always had a twin to sit with at lunch. But there was a first time for everything. It was a rite of passage he supposed; could you really say you were ever bullied if you never gagged from the smell of urine as you carefully tried to balance a lunch tray on your lap? 

Ford ensured that Bill wouldn't be able to find him by picking his stall wisely. It was the one with 'Stanford Penis is a fag' written in scrawled permanent marker on the stall wall. Nobody would suspect he would pick one humiliating him; he did, after all, avoid this stall for three straight years. It was rewritten several times and eventually the school had given up on cleaning it. That proved that the teenagers in Glass Shard Beach were primarily fueled by hatred or boredom, maybe both in equal measure. He supposed they weren't wrong now which made him stab a fork into his chicken harder. He just wished Stan were here. 

Apparently some wishes did come true.

"Hey Ford? I know you're in there, I can see your shoes."

Ford tensed up when he heard the bathroom door swing open, but he relaxed when he heard Stan's voice. He carefully shifted the lunch tray against his hip to hold it before he unlocked the stall door with one hand.

"What are you doing here, Lee? It's not safe."

"What are you doing in here? All alone instead of with me and Fidds. You've cornered yourself real good, ya know."

"I didn't want to be at lunch when Bill starts the rumor. It makes sense, everybody condensed in one area. He's smart like that." 

"Bill hasn't said anything at all," Stan said. He glanced around at their dismal surroundings. "You know Fidds and I would have eaten lunch with you outside or something.”

Ford's eyes darted to the stall door guiltily like he was caught in a forbidden indulgence of self-flagellation. "You two shouldn't have to pay for my mistakes. I already got all of us in an awful mess." 

"Ford..." Stan chewed on his lip and took a seat on the bathroom floor himself. "Look, I took a look at Bill's notes in the trash in trig. I ain't so sure you're right about Bill not liking you." 

"You rummaged around in the trash can? How did you even know that Bill tried to pass me notes?" Ford deflected. 

"Fidds told me at lunch, it's not a big deal. He was worried about you so he told me. And I didn't say anything about this morning by the way. Ford, I dunno what happened on Friday, but I'm kinda wondering if maybe you read things wrong. I mean... c'mon, you're not exactly great at de-Ciphering people. Hah!" 

Ford groaned from the pun, even if normally he would quite enjoy a silly bit of wordplay. "This is serious, Stanley! I did not read anything wrong. What about the notes informs you that he likes me? He obviously was ridiculing my… my attraction," Ford spit out venomously. "He asked me to meet at the make-out stall, Stanley," Ford said like he was gravely communicating a dire piece of information to save the world. 

"Okay, okay, but- What if he does like you? Right? If he does like you, then you were just refusing to talk to him and being a jerk. Maybe he did really wanna make out with you."

Ford scoffed, and was about to open his mouth with a retort, but the bell signaling the end of lunch cut him off. The small moment of silence forced Ford to think through his response as he worried at a piece of loose string on his shirt. "I will consider that possibility. If he really wants to talk, he will come to robotics club. But he won't be there, because I'm right and he's not attracted to me." 

"Five dollars says he is," Stan said with a smirk. He helped pull Ford up. 

"I'll take that bet, Stanley."

--------------------------

Each set of allen wrenches had a centimeter of space between them, except for this particularly stubborn set. It must have been defective, slightly off measurement from the rest of the wrenches in the room exclusively for the purpose of driving Fiddleford crazy. He doubted Bill would show up to the first club meeting, but if he did maybe he'd give him this table. That's what the warlock deserved; karmic justice for his evil magic. Bill just lost Ford and he would get shitty wrenches all in one day. Oh, God was good indeed.

Fiddleford just hoped Ford would show up today. He missed their silly debates and his friend's nerdy smile. Their last one was what exactly constituted a droid vs a robot. He could easily bring to mind Ford laughing, using his hands to emphatically explain that a droid had personality and a robot only carried out tasks. Fiddleford would drawl back that technically couldn't a droid be considered a subcategory of robot? Which only made Ford throw his pencil at the southerner in playful disgust. 

Oh gosh, that was almost a month ago. How had time flown by so quickly? How had his friend changed so radically in such a short window? It must be magic, there was no other explanation. He was just glad that Ford found some way to break free of the spell himself, even if it meant that Fiddleford now worried for his safety. It was okay. The three of them would figure out what to do about Bill later. Maybe they could come up with a plan today, since surely Bill wouldn't dare to show his ugly, pompous, smug-

"Well hello there, Specs. Fiddy-boy."

Bill arrived framed by three of his colorful associates - the pink haired seductress, a tall one in a green tanktop, and Keith from chemistry, who immediately began picking over the things Fiddleford had set out. 

"Let's make with the robot stuff, shall we?" said Bill, leaning on one hip with his characteristic nonchalance that had been missing this morning. Pyronica took a seat in one of the chairs and popped her bubble gum and 8-Ball stood motionless and imposing by Bill's side. "Say, where's Fordsy?" 

Fiddleford crossed his arms and looked warily at the group. "I don't rightly know, he's been attached at your hip for the past month. Why don't you tell me where he is?" 

"He's liberated, he can go where he wants. I just expected to see him here, that's all. Considering it's your club and he's your friend."

"He'll be here," Fiddleford said testily. He really shouldn't start a fight, since he was outnumbered, but he couldn't resist stirring the pot if only to wipe that smirk off the demon's face. "I heard through the grapevine that you two aren't on speaking terms. Maybe he's avoidin' you." 

"Oh really? Why wouldn't we be on speaking terms?" Bill asked, half to poke at Fiddleford and half out of genuine interest.

Fiddleford shrugged. "How should I know what you did to spook him? But the signs are there, clear as a coke bottle. Rippin' up your notes… ditchin' the jacket. Where was he at lunch? Certainly not at your table." 

"Wasn't at yours either."

"Oooooo, snap," Pyronica said. She popped her gum again, lounging. The girls were fightinggggg.

Fiddleford shot a glare at Pyronica. It really wasn’t fair to bring a supporting entourage to a verbal sparring match. Honestly it was a mark of cowardice in Fiddleford’s opinion – easy to have people backing you up, harder to stand on your own two feet. "And that's your fault too! Scarin' him so much he couldn't even show his face. What do you do to him? Hm? Answer that, Cipher." 

"What did I do to him? Pfft. I showed him his potential. You seriously think he belongs with you? At the loser's table?"

"He don't belong with you, that's for damn sure. You don't even really know him. Not like I do."

"At least I'm not spying on him at parties," Bill dropped, hands on his hips. He smirked knowingly.

Fiddleford spluttered as his vivid memory of the kiss forced itself to the front of his mind. "Why I don't even- Accusin' me of-" He took a deep breath fists clenched at his side. That was it. Ford still hadn't showed up, things had not gone back to normal. Oh dangnabbit, he wanted to punch Bill. He wanted to make it hurt. He snapped, "You need to take a hard long look at your soul, Cipher. I'm sure he just got wise to the rot festering underneath that flamboyant, caked-on glitter. You fiendish warlock."

At that moment the door swung open and the twins walked in. Ford looked like a kicked puppy dog with too-sad wet eyes. Stan winced, giving the southerner a sympathetic look that communicated "you're on your own, man.”

Keyhole looked up eagerly at the free entertainment from his inspection of the tables and Pyronica chuckled. "Damn, hick's got a temper on him." 

How could Ford’s best friend basically call Bill a freak?  Is that how he saw Ford? Just a waiting charity case to convert to normality, while Bill was a lost demonic cause. Ford’s speechlessness only lasted a couple seconds, and that precious time was all he needed to recycle his personal hurt into red hot anger. "Fiddleford H. McGucket, I did not just hear you call my friend a warlock! Why? Because he wears make-up? Because of his skin-tone? Because he's in a rock-band? You of all people should understand what it's like to be judged. To be cast aside!"

"Now that's unfair! I'm not-" Fiddleford looked between Bill and Ford. Had they planned this? Provoking him to make him look bad in front of Ford? Oh when he found a way to expose them, all hell would break loose, he could promise that much. "I'm standing up for you! I thought you and Bill were on bad terms!"

"I didn't ask you to protect me!"

"Well clearly you need protecting!"

"Boys, boys," said Bill. He tented his fingers. "Clearly there's been some miscommunication. It was a long weekend, things happen. Besides, we're here for robots, not bickering!" He extended a hand to shake. "I forgive you Fiddleford." 

I don't need any forgiving! Fiddleford wanted to scream. How could he do this? How could Ford not see? "Yeah, robots, right." He shook Bill's hand loosely.

The rest of the meeting passed without incident. The atmosphere was tense, but it was an enjoyable hour. 8-Ball much preferred his own desk at home, but the boss needed protection. Plus the southerner getting all red in the face was funny. He did manage to make progress on the stem of a mechanical flower despite the conditions. Stan doodled in a notebook with some stray colored pencils he found in the classroom. Fiddleford worked on his current project with Ford’s help and a shocking amount of interesting input from Pyronica. Keyhole managed to pocket Pyronica’s packet of gum and one of Fiddleford’s wrenches while he flitted from seat to seat, taking all the staples in the stapler for good measure. Bill, meanwhile, kept to himself, writing and rewriting a series of symbols in a notebook and stealing glances up at Ford and the clock at various intervals. Tick tock, tick tock. Scribble scribble. Not for the first time, Bill wished he had a spell to make time move faster.

Eventually,, inevitably,,4:15 did arrive. 

"Oh goodness it's that time already,” said Fiddleford. “Um... thanks for coming. Um... I'll see y'all at the next biweekly meeting."

Chairs were pushed in, tools were put away. Pyronica wiggled her fingers at Fiddleford on her way out the door. "Thanks for a good time, Specs."

He blushed.

Ford stepped out of the room and paused by the door to wait for a certain rockstar, chewing his lip nervously. Bill deserved a chance to explain himself at least. He had been treating Bill unfairly and after what Fiddleford said… oh God. Ford just hoped that Bill still wanted to be friends with him. 

Or, ya know. Not-friends. Being not-friends would be good too. 

Bill’s eyes scrunched into a warm, satisfied smile upon seeing he was being waited for. "Ready to talk now?" he asked, swinging his backpack over his shoulder.

Ford melted in Bill’s smile and leaned against the red lockers. "Yes. You deserve an apology for my recent… behavior. You got the sharp end of my paranoia and that was unfair of me. I'm sorry, Bill. And what Fiddleford said about you… I can't imagine how you must feel right now. Er, well, I can imagine." Ford weakly wiggled his six fingers. "You know, his mom screamed when she saw my hands. Crossed herself and everything, heh." 

“I've had my fair share of that too. I'm just glad you don't hate me," Bill said, leaning into his wounded pride. Ford would have sympathy for him, even if that meant allowing himself to be a little honest. "Look, I don't know why you ran out on me on Friday. I mean, I do, I get it, it's a lot. But. We're okay, right?" 

Ford let Bill take his hand and wished Bill would pull him closer. But why wait on Bill? He took a shy step closer, voice soft. "We're ok. Um, about Friday. I just got scared, I guess, that you didn't like me. I don't know."

"Why wouldn't I like you?" Bill asked, genuinely confused.

"I mean romantically. Do you, um, like me in that context?" 

Bill giggled and gave a nonchalant look around the empty hallway just in case before saying, "Sixer I was in your lap, what about that says I'm not into you?"

"Um." Ford's cheeks burned a darker shade of red. "I was drunk and I wasn't in my right mind, don't worry about it."

"Alright, alright you lightweight." Bill punched his shoulder affectionately. "Look. I do like you. I like you a lot, okay? In that context." 

Ford giggled like he couldn't believe his luck. "Okay?? Oh Moses, I've been such an idiot. How ever can I repay you back, Bill?" 

Bill shrugged. "Ice cream on Wednesday?" he said with a wink. He threw finger guns at Ford.

"Okay!! Sure, yeah that would be, um, excellent!”

"Perfect! I'll take you after school!"

"Oh! One more thing Bill… are you expecting that we will be public? Because my parents would, um… I'm not comfortable yet being out like you are." 

"Don't worry about that; remember, I plan for everything. I have an idea, we'll make it work." 

"Oh, ok then. You and your schemes." Ford sighed dreamily.

"Exactly!" Bill ruffled Ford's hair and started walking down the hall. "See ya 'round, nerd!"

Chapter Text

Behind the register in Pines Pawns, Ford fidgeted with his damp hair, attempting to will the water molecules in his keratin to dry faster. This is why he didn't take showers; they were incredibly inconvenient. However, Bill deserved a clean, romantic first date. Ford had even borrowed some cologne from Stanley. The smell wasn’t quite to his liking, but hopefully it would be to Bill’s. Stan said chicks digged it at least. Bill wasn't a chick, but he was attracted to men so he must like masculine cologne, Ford reasoned. 

Taking his reasoning further, he found it could even be argued that Bill liked Ford for his masculine presence. Yeah! Strong, manly man Stanford Pines... 

Ford glanced down at the lack of musculature in his arms and his slightly chubby stomach. No, not even Ford was that good at deluding himself. That was ok though. He just needed to trust that Bill liked him, even if it was a mystery why. Maybe he’d find out some day. Maybe one day he’d even feel like he deserved it…

If Ford was going to date a rock star, he figured he ought to have some contingencies in place so their date wouldn't go like the party. Now that he was fully sober, he’d made sure to brush his teeth twice and had packed ten emergency breath mints. He’d also packed one condom after an agonizing hour of, What if he finds it and thinks it's weird?? But what if we do end up having sex and I don't have the condom and he doesn't have the condom, because he's a rockstar and he lives life on the edge and I get AIDs and die at twenty-three and- and so forth.

Ford decided to just pack the condom and was prepared to lie that Stanley put it there as a prank if Bill ever found it. 

Yep, he was ready. His pa hadn’t even questioned the ice cream, he’d just grunted and waved his hand and said something about how if it got Ford to stop moping about the house like a lazy bum and actually earn the family some money then he could go! At any second there would come a knock at the door and Ford would open it. He could envision Bill leaning against the doorway on one elbow, giving Ford his rakish smile. He would twirl the keys and maybe he would wear that black shirt again with the fishnets, and- 

Ford jolted from the actual knock at the door. He scrambled out of his chair to go answer it, but paused when he reached the door, one hand already on the door knob. You waited at least five seconds to not seem too eager, that’s what Stan had said. Ford counted onetwothreefourfive in a rush and then twisted the door knob roughly anddddd…

He made eye contact with Pyronica? Well, she had sunglasses on, so he made eye contact with her shades. She had one hand over her face like she was ashamed to be seen in this part of town. 

Ford bristled, demanding, "Where's Bill?”

"He's at the ice cream place," she said, and popped her bubble gum. "C'mon, get in the car." She gestured with her head at a custom hot pink Volkswagen Beetle parked next to the shop. 

"Why are you picking me up?" Ford in a slight panic. He hadn’t told Filbrick anything about a girl. A girl with heavy make-up, gum, and a pushup bra no less. Ford pushed his way out of the door and glanced behind him like he was ashamed to be seen around her in turn. 

Pyronica's stiletto heels clicked against the sidewalk, her hips swaying as she made her way to the driver's seat. "Bill's orders," she said, waiting for Ford to get in before getting in herself. Her keychain had a little pink clay grenade on it.

Ford clasped his hands in his lap on the passenger's side. "Oh..." 

The car started and death metal immediately started blasting over the stereo. The car had a sleek black interior with pink fur on the steering wheel and a cherry charm hanging off the rearview mirror. It smelled almost nauseatingly of bubble gum. 

"We're officially fake dating," Pyronica said clinically after backing out. Ford snapped out of his silent review of the car. "You don't want the mess that comes with being gay, now you get the mess that comes with dating me instead. Just publically anyway."

"W-what? Nobody is going to believe that!" Ford yelled over the music and the car. "I never even agreed- Wait, are you ok with this? Don't you have, um- Nevermind, don't answer that. I don't want to know. We aren't going to have to kiss, right?" 

She grimaced. "Ugh, no. Look, I'm doing this for Bill, but also because I want people to leave me alone. Maybe dating you will finally get Crampelter off my ass. Fuckin’ dickhead. I swear to god, I have no idea where he gets his confidence." 

"Crampelter tried to date you?" Ford said bewildered and vastly more panicked. "Isn't he dating Kelsey? Not to mention- Oh no, no, no, no. I am not getting on his bad side again. He's going to kill me." He stared at the window, hunching down in his seat. Just like Cipher, Pyronica drove like a maniac. As trees whipped past them in a blur, he desperately wanted to yank on the car door for a Free Exit Out of Crazy: Only penalty scraped elbows and a chance of instant death! He refrained – barely. 

She rolled her eyes, somehow calm despite going fifty in a thirty-five zone. "He broke up with Kelsey like a year ago. And anyway, he's not gonna do shit. If he does, Billy's gonna make him wish he was never born, he knows that. Look, Bill's doing a nice thing for you, okay? He didn't have to hide your sexuality like this but he did ‘cause he likes you a lot. Maybe give him a little trust."

Ford wilted. "I do trust Bill. I do. But that doesn't mean I'm not allowed to ask questions. And yes, I know rule fourteen, but Bill likes it when I ask questions. I should be informed of the actual details of this operation at least."

"You're dating Bill Cipher, not some rando hick like your friend." Pyronica gave him an annoyed side eye as they pulled into the creamery. "Do you want to date him or not?" 

"You know what, no, fuck you." He jabbed a finger on the dashboard. "You have no right to order me around like this! Bill does like me; that's right, me! That makes me second-in-command, right? I mean I don't have to follow half of those stupid rules in the contract! I haven't seen him take anyone else out on shopping trips. And it is not unreasonable for me to know the details of a scheme that involves fifty percent of my participation! Stop treating me like I'm trash, I'm a henchmaniac just like you!"

Pyronica stared at him with a flicker of hatred in her eyes, debating what to say to him. She wanted so badly to call him out for his entitlement, but this was not a boat she wanted to rock too much lest she end up in the water right alongside Bill's pet nerd. "We're gonna walk into that building and pretend that we like each other,” she said in a soft yet dangerous tone, “and then you're gonna sit down with your boyfriend and have so much ice cream that your stomach hates you. And you better say thank you to him for making you better than you are. That's what he's done for all of us. Got it?" 

"My problem isn't with Bill, it's with you. We need to settle this if I'm going to have to act all lovey dovey with you later. Am I really a henchmanaic to you or just a freak that caught Bill's fancy? What do I need to do for you to respect me?" 

"I'll respect you when you earn it, and right now you haven't. You want me to be honest?" Pyronica took her keys out of the ignition, gesturing with the sharp end. "I have no idea why Bill likes you. I'm gonna wait, I haven't shut myself off to the possibility that you'll surprise me. But I don't get it. He's better than all of us, he's certainly better than you. We're all freaks, Stanford. But even sitting next to you in English class, you just think you're better than everyone else. You're smart, but you're not special. You've got two extra fingers, so what? Try not being the gender of the body you're born in, try being sexually harassed for wearing a short skirt." She shook her head. "I shouldn't have said anything. Forget it." 

"That fucking sucks and I'm sorry that happened to you!" Ford said emphatically. His brain just steamrolled over the whole gender thing; he didn't have time to question that. "That doesn't mean you should take it out on me. I don't think I'm better than everybody else, I just- Being smart is all I have. That's it. It's the only thing that's going to help my family, it's the only reason why anybody would want to talk to me. It's the only reason why I think Bill likes me. I don't know why I can't be normal, act cool, I don't know. I thought that maybe I could be myself here, but it's clear that other than Bill, nobody likes me! So I'm sorry that you have to fake-date me. I'm sorry for whatever I said that made you uncomfortable. I'm sorry you had to drive me here. I'm sorry that if my parents found out I was gay I'd get kicked out of my house. I'm sorry that Crampelter still scares the shit out of me and I can't just go 'Yes Bill, you have all under control Bill, of course I can just date the girl who hates my guts that's a wonderful plan!'" Ford slumped in his seat after getting that all out. "God, what am I doing? I should leave."

"Amorphous Shape likes you a lot," Pyronica said gently. She tapped her claw-like fingers against the steering wheel. "Teeth thinks you're great, Keyhole was talking about how cool you were at the party. They're all getting used to you, okay? I will too, I just really don't like most boys. That's not your fault. Bill is important to me, I don't want you to break his heart. You're dating my best friend so sorry if I'm a little- protective." She let out an uncomfortable sigh. 

"They all said that about me?" Ford let out a shaky exhale and stared awkwardly at the dashboard. "No, you're fine… You didn't do anything wrong. I was the one picking fights. You want to call a truce?" Ford lifted his hand warily to shake. "I promise not to break Bill's heart." 

She nodded her head, clasping his hand. "Yeah," she said solemnly. "I hope you and Bill work out, I really do. Like I said, he really likes you. He's excited, I’ve never seen him like this. Ready to go in?"

"Yeah, yeah I'll get out of your car." Ford got out of the passenger's side and hesitated. "I hope you and Amorphous Shape work out too, and for what it's worth I was excited to talk to you at robotics club."

She gave him a small smile. "Thanks. Have fun."

Ford returned the smile and he raised his hand in a faint wave as the hot pink car squealed out of the parking lot, tire marks and all. He turned to face the creamery's glass door and took a few calming deep breaths. Time for the date. Ford’s date with Bill Cipher.

As he took a step forward a mint slid out of his pocket, crushed under his perfectly timed step. He lifted the sole of his shoe and winced at the sight of an innocent cracked mint on the dirty sidewalk. Didn't even die being used, what a waste. Oh well, that was fine, he had nine left. Always had to be prepared for such eventualities!

With that hopefully-completely-random event-of-the-universe and not-an-omen-of-the-ruinous-future out of the way, Ford confidently swung the door open in a manner unbefitting of his freak-out with Pyronica just a moment ago. That was another tip from Stan: act confident even if you aren't. He scanned the room for Bill and, predictably, found the rockstar in the best booth, with a nice window to the ocean and no rips in the black leather seats.

Ford's fake, too-wide, "confident" grin eased into his natural boyish lopsided smile when he saw Bill. He scurried to the booth when he felt he was still for too long and people were staring and, before Bill could talk first, he stuttered out what he’d been practicing in the mirror: "Greetings, c-come here often?" Another Stan tip. 

Bill barked out a laugh, slapping the table. "Oh, Sixer! You're a rascal! Slide on in! Py treat you alright?"

Ford obeyed. "She's… nice, no complaints there! Heh. But, um, she mentioned on the car ride over that you want her and I to pretend we're… dating?" Ford paused and sucked in a sharp breath. "Care to elaborate on that?"

"Didn't I tell you I'd make all this work out?" Bill gestured with his paper-wrapped straw. "Poof go the gay allegations! You're not dating me, you're hanging out with your girl's best friend!"

"Right..." Ford thought privately that most straight guys would not be mutual friends with their girlfriend's besties, but in this instance at least he thought it might be better to obey the coveted rule fourteen. "Is it believable though? I mean, nobody is actually going to buy that Pyronica fell in love with me." 

"Of course they will! Those suckers will eat anything I feed them. I've started planting rumors already! Trust me, this is the perfect solution. Nobody will question it!" Bill slid a menu towards Ford. "Pick something for us to share, my treat."

"Oh!" Ford briefly looked over the bold cursive on the menu and located a safe option to share. It was a banana split with chocolate, vanilla, and strawberry scoops. He turned the menu around and pointed it out to Bill. "Next time I'll be paying, because I'll take you out on a date. Then it will be my treat to share."

Bill rolled his golden eyes. "Alright, alright. Gotta let you feel like a man somehow, huh? Hah!" He waved down a waiter and pointed out the banana split. "Extra fudge topping, two spoons, two cherries," he instructed. "And rainbow sprinkles if you got 'em." 

Ford’s eyes darted to the sticky ground under the checkered table the second rainbows were mentioned. Ford waited a beat, and eventually the waiter drifted out of earshot. Then Ford whispered to Bill: "Is it obvious that we're on a date? Maybe we shouldn't share."

"But it's fun to share, Sixer. Part of the magic, am I right?" He gave Ford a comforting smirk and leaned back. "Relax, babe. I'm Bill Cipher."

Ford tinged pink at the pet name. "Nobody has ever called me that before." Ford leaned closer over the table and sunk into his seat, letting himself relax. "You're right, everything will be fine. You make things… okay. I trust you." 

"I'm glad to hear that, Sixer, I really am." His smile softened to something warm and loving. "I'm glad you took me up on this. It takes balls, I know how scary this is."

"I'm not a brave person by nature." Ford's blush deepened, even blooming over his ears as he reached over to lace their fingers together. "But you're worth being brave for, my m-muse." Ford winced – he wasn't even positive he wanted to use that pet name, or if it was too intense of a moniker for an early relationship. He had tested a lot the previous night and knew he wanted something unique, something that spoke to Bill's creative talents. By tradition the artist wasn't the muse, but that was fine – Bill inspired Ford plenty. 

"Awww, you." Bill rested his cheek on his hand, running his fingers over Ford's. "I may be worth being brave for, but don't forget, you caught my eye. I know what future greatness looks like Sixer, and you've got it."

The waiter returned with a heaping pile of bananas and ice cream with whip cream caked on top. He sat it down in front of the couple before hurrying away to the next customer.

"You're talking like a talent scout for artists,” said Ford. He chuckled to himself as he picked up a long, slim metal spoon to twirl it lazily. "Heh. ‘Greatness.’ Is that how they talked to you?" 

Bill shrugged, popping one of the cherries into his mouth. "Not really. I had to fight a lot for what I have. That doesn't matter though. While we're on the subject... how would you feel about officially joining the band?"

The spoon clattered to the table dully as Ford dropped it in shock. "What? I was joking, Bill. I can't just join your band willy-nilly like that! I can't even play an instrument other than the piano." 

"So? I could have you on keyboard. Or you could sing! Always gotta have good back-up vocals."

"Well true, but I have plans. Plans that involve me going to my clubs, getting a 4.0, getting a scholarship, and then going to college. I don't have time to practice, much less perform."

"Pfft, don't worry about that." Bill waved his hand, digging into the strawberry scoop. "You don't need a scholarship, I'll pay for your college."

Ford’s mouth dropped open and stayed open. Bill could see his uvula for a brief moment. "You- You can't just- Bill, you-" Ford swallowed and gathered himself. "That isn't the same as buying me clothes at the mall. Absolutely not. You're very kind, but I can't accept that kind of generosity."

"Why not?" He shrugged and took a spoonful of the whipped cream covered in sprinkles, gesturing with the spoon once he’d licked it all off. "I'll just pay for it in return for you playing keyboard." 

Ford groaned. He didn't even know why he was protesting so much. Pride? He looked down at the ice cream, also free of charge, and felt sick. "I suppose if I work for you it's different... But I'm not just going to be banging out some stupid bullshit and then collecting a check. I want to really pay you back. I can help you with lyrical writing, composing, art, I suppose yes the keyboard, vocals, um, um, I'm sure I could learn how to fix any technical issues."

"Great! It's settled! You work for me and I can get you into any college you want."

"You mean you can pay for any college I get into?" Ford asked while he finally dug into the ice cream.

"Yeah, that," Bill obliged.

Satisfied, Ford continued eating. Their conversation drifted to more frivolous topics: New patch ideas, when their next test would be, Star Trek cosplays, their shitty teachers who they were both too good for, how Apophis recently shed his skin. 

The specifics they would forget in a month, but the warm feeling of connection would stay for much longer. It didn't really matter what they were talking about – small-talk was just an excuse for them to be together. To see each other smile and laugh. Ford liked how Bill's canine peaked out his lip when he slyly smirked, an imperfection in his otherwise perfect teeth. Bill liked how Ford’s whole body shook when he laughed, how he had to use his hands to animatedly gesture. Everything Ford did took 100% of his energy and care. And Bill desperately wanted that attention focused on him, without meddling old friends groups making Ford guilty for being happy. 

Eventually, all the ice cream was consumed, leaving a thin layer of milky, melted liquid in the glass bowl alongside the two cherry stems and spoons. Ford twiddled his thumbs under the table and looked at the clock. He didn't want to leave yet and couldn't bring himself to open his mouth to say goodbye. 

"Hey," Bill said. He leaned forward, chin in his hand, eyes mischievous, and gestured with his head towards the door. "Wanna get outta here?"

"Yes!" Ford exclaimed. He got up from the table with a bounce in his step and offered Bill a hand up too (because Caryn taught him to be a gentleman, damn it). "Where are we going?"

"A place," Bill said. He fished his keys out of the shallow pocket of his short shorts, white fishnets covering his legs. "A cool place."

"I thought every place became cool when you entered the room, Cipher."

"True, but this place is special," Bill said, blushing at the praise. "Come on, you can man the radio."

Ford practically skipped out of the establishment with that proclamation.

If the two boys stayed for a moment longer they would have heard the old CRT television set crackle onto the local news and all the occupants gasping inside. One person, mid-lick, dropped their ice cream cone on the floor and ran inside the bathroom to puke. 

However, safely (as safely as he could be with Bill at the wheel) in Bill's car, Ford was not concerned with the local news. Instead he focused on the fact that this was his first time in the front seat of Bill’s car. He was in the front seat, alone with Bill because they were dating. He felt like doing something stupid like snuggling up to the rockstar, but reminded himself that doing so would distract him from his already-reckless driving. Ford contented himself with fiddling with the radio dial, chill autumn wind whipping through his hair. He wondered if he should put one of Bill's songs on… No, Bill was probably sick of his own music. He switched it onto a station playing Sweet Dreams (Are Made by This) and let his hand drop back to his lap, proud of his music choice. He looked at Bill out of the corner of his eye for approval. 

Bill tapped the wheel to the beat, nodding along. "Nice one, nice one. Did you like the ice cream?"

"Loved it." 

The car ride took them out of the small town and into a bumpier country road. Bill flicked on his headlights a few minutes before they reached their destination, the waning sunlight making the air crisp up. Ford briefly wondered, when the car rolled to a stop in front of a weathered green sign that stated in chipped white paint “Pines Barrens,” if he was about to die or get kidnapped. Or get sacrificed. Orrrr maybe Bill wanted to make-out somewhere cool and private. Maybe he would even reveal his deepest darkest secret that he was a warlock. A nice warlock, Fiddleford, Ford admonished in his mind, that would teach him magic. Somehow, both possibilities seemed equally as likely as they were exhilarating. 

Ford glanced out at the wooded tree line behind the sign and shivered, cold even with the jacket. Bill was already getting out of the car, not willing to coddle Ford's nerves apparently. Not that Ford had any nerves, of course, that was absurd. No butterflies in his stomach, no siree! 

Bill lit a cigarette with his characteristic nonchalance, the flame of his lighter briefly providing a small but fervent warmth, and marched forward into the unknown. Well, known to Bill, unknown to Ford. Ford did the same, because Ford was going to be a future scientist and scientists weren’t scared of the unknown or of the dark. 

They silently walked down a beaten, almost invisible walking trail. Ford could see on his left, if he squinted, a hill in the distance. The hill had freckles of gravestones, sloping down into presumably a flat clearing that was just out of sight. Welp, at least he knew where he was. There was only one graveyard this close to home. Did the presence of graveyards do more to symbolize the likelihood of a warlock ending or a demonic sacrifice ending?

"Here, take a hit," Bill said, offering his cigarette to Ford. His eyes seemed to glow faintly in the dwindling light, boots crunching against the plant life. 

Ford gently took the cig, careful not to drop it and cause a fire. He hesitated only for a second before deciding, what the hell, one drag couldn't hurt. He ended up coughing out the smoke – it tasted awful and the sensation of the burn was not nearly pleasant enough to warrant a second go. "Ugh. I think I'll stick to kissing you." He handed the cigarette back. 

Bill showed his teeth in his grin, threading his fingers through Ford's. "I'd like that." He took another hit himself and stopped in place, looking out over the trees. "Right here," he said confidently, and sat down in the grass. Ford followed suit and curled his knees underneath him. The grass was only a little itchy and Ford perched himself up to make sure grass stains didn't get on his nice jacket. 

He glanced around. It was quiet, nothing but the sounds of insects and animals hiding in the woods desecrating the dusk. Fireflies glowed and faded. Ford looked at Bill, waiting for a show, for the rockstar to perform and dazzle him with whatever this evening’s fated twist ending would be. 

Like he had at the party, Bill fell into Ford's shoulder. "Thanks for coming out here with me," he said, voice a little quiet. "It means a lot. You mean a lot to me."

Ford found it natural to pull Bill into his chest. Bill was smaller after all and Ford wanted to cradle Bill in his sudden, uncharacteristic vulnerability. It was a fragile, beautiful gift that Ford was terrified of shattering. What should he say? Something romantic obviously, but Ford didn't know the first thing about romance. He settled for mirroring Bill's somber tone by quietly commenting: "The fireflies are stunning at this time of time of day." 

"Yeah," Bill said. He forced himself to slow down his breathing - Ford needed a performance from him this evening, something to really sell what he so desperately wanted Sixer to buy. "There's something I need to tell you," he said. "Something I can't tell anyone else."

"Yeah?" Ford's breathing picked up in contrast. "You can trust me with anything Bill. I'll lo- like you, no matter what." He squeezed Bill's hand reassuringly.

Bill squeezed back and looked up at Ford, giving him a small smile. "I'm working on something big, something secret, and I want you to be a part of it. You said you trusted me at the ice cream place, did you really mean that?"

Ford nodded mutely, his eyes pleading with complete shiny innocence for Bill to believe him.

"Good. Do you believe in magic, Sixer?"

"Yes," Ford said matter-of-factly. His heart fluttered. "I know as a man of reason I'm not supposed to, but you can't deny proof. I had an encounter with the Jersey Devil as a child and ever since..." Ford trailed off. "Well, at least Stanley believes me."

"I believe you too!" His grin deepened and he sat up a bit. "I gave you that book for a reason, Ford. Have you looked through much of it?"

"No, I haven't had the time." That was a lie and Ford knew it – he’d barely refrained from scouring the book from top to bottom – but he wanted Bill to admit it himself. Whatever "it" was. "You told me to bring it tonight though and I did!" Ford pulled the tome out of his jacket pocket and rested it on his knees. 

"This book is a spellbook written by an ancient wizard," Bill said, crossing his arm over Ford’s lap and flipping through the first few pages. Illustrations and scribbled codes flashed on the old paper. "I've been studying it for years and there's a spell in it that I think can take all us freaks somewhere safe. But I need help. I need your help."

Ford flushed pink. "Bill, I don't know what to say. I'm flattered that you-"

"I know it sounds crazy!" Bill assured him, scooting closer. Their legs pressed up against each other, side by side. He could not let this one get away, they were running out of time. "But I can prove it to you, I promise!"

"Okay, okay!" Ford said with a faint chuckle. "Prove it then."

Bill pulled the spellbook away from Ford, flipping to a page that had a diagram of an eyeball and scribbles in code. "Close your eyes," Bill instructed. "Don’t open them until I tell you.”

Ford took a moment to commit to memory the image of the twinkling lights of the fireflies, then let his eyelids flutter shut. He wouldn't be easily tricked by a fraud. 

Bill put his hand on the page and whispered softly in a language Ford didn't recognize or understand. His voice sounded strange, echoey in a way that defied the physics of the remote clearing. A cold breeze swept over the pair, ruffling their hair and the grass, and, out of Ford's view, the glow in Bill's eyes brightened. An imperceptible tingle ran up Ford's brain stem directly to his occipital lobe. He surely would have panicked if he noticed it, but instead he subconsciously rationalized it away as the aforementioned breeze. As a result, his only reaction was restless, impatient shifting, instead of blood-curdling fear that could only come from having one’s mind meddled with without their consent. 

"Alright," Bill said. "You can open them now."

Ford’s eyes flew open instantaneously like they were foot-soldiers primed for Bill’s command.

He gasped in shock. 

The fireflies glowed brighter, lighting up the two boys’ solitary spot like dozens upon dozens of fairylights or wil o’ the wisps. They flickered all the colors of the rainbow, another bug lighting up as soon as one went out. The deceptively warm color whisped in streaks as the insects flew past him, and Ford almost felt like he could touch their scarf-like ghosts. He raised a shaky hand to connect with that warmth and coziness, but he was bit with empty, cold air instead.

He recoiled and he glanced back to Bill's eyes, seeking another type of connection after being rejected. Had they always been that radiant gold? He couldn't tear his gaze away. How could those beautiful eyes hide evil secrets behind them? No, Ford couldn't fathom that world and he pitied that Fiddleford could. "I believe you and I'll help, my muse," he said with absolute devotion. 

The warlock leaned forward and kissed Ford, rainbow lights glowing all around them.