Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

One could call it a bold move to show up on the doorstep of the family you tried to gleefully murder after your subsequent death. Another would call it just some bullshit that of course Bill Cipher would do. Standing out in the middle of the lawn in some dirty prison jumpsuit, riddled with moss and leaves and God knows what, playing some poor me act just itching to get someone to make a deal with him. Stan knew a sympathy con when he saw one.

Problem was, this was… beginning to not look like one at all, actually.

Originally, just three weeks ago now, he thought his biggest issue to deal with today was going to be with Dipper, who was filled with a seemingly unending rage, chasing down what appeared to be a small, filthy convict in their front yard.

Suffice to say, it was all downhill from there.

Through a frankly horrifying set of events, between keeping Dipper from murdering a man on sight, then finding out said man was Bill of all people, to then keeping Ford from murdering a man on sight, he’d just about had his fill for the day. In all honesty, the only reason he was keen on stopping them was that he really, really didn’t want to have to clean blood out of the floorboards. He’d done it before, and he was certainly not the age to be doing it again if he could help it.

From there, things had gotten… interesting.

Corralling the rest of the family into the house, he’d settled with Ford taking the time to research Bill’s arrival- intending to find out whether he was truly powerless or not, as he’d claimed while cowering in the shadow of a fourteen-year-old. Ford, of course, wasted no time in doing this- setting up new security cameras, and altering the old ones. Stan was also nearly one hundred percent sure that he’d rigged up some security system to shoot Bill on sight if he got too close to any of the doors, but that’s neither here nor there.

No, what was here now, was Bill huddled underneath the porch steps like some feral raccoon, piercing yellow eyes staring out between the slats with disconcertingly intense awareness. As he’d been yesterday, and the day before, and the weeks before.

In all fairness, he’d made himself scarce as he could, given the fact he’d taken up living underneath their house. Every time someone stepped foot outside, he scampered out into the woods or right back under the foundation, a blur of yellow and orange that was almost comical to watch flee. Hell, the times he didn’t hide immediately were almost funny too; him fighting the local wildlife- cryptid and common- for whatever scraps of food he got ahold of, usually ultimately losing, or hissing like a feral cat at the unfortunate woodland creature that dared near the Mystery Shack steps.

Emphasis on almost.

Stan was sure he’d find it leagues more hilarious if he hadn’t been in Bill’s situation. But he had, and now he couldn’t fully push away that deep, underlying feeling of twisting discomfort every time he watched Bill struggle to find food, saw the way his eyes shot open if he so much as heard a creak, the way his jumpsuit became filthier and looser on him with each passing day.

He shouldn’t feel sympathy. He shouldn’t. It’s what the fucker deserved.

But the thought of having to yank a cold, skeletal body, hardly any bigger than one of the twins, out from underneath his home, after he’d eaten and slept inside in less than hours ago- it ran a sickening twinge through his whole body.

Sighing, he pushed himself up and off the outside couch, catching the slitted eyes watching him between the floorboards tracking him carefully as he walked to the door.

That was something he’s noticed as well- Bill appeared downright terrified of Stan. Despite the fact that, frankly, they were around each other the most often, Bill would practically crush himself into the smallest space possible, as far out of reach as he could manage without breaking his own neck, watching with wide, paper-thin pupils. On the rare occasion Stan chose to actually try to look at Bill, he seized with such intensity one would think Stan threw a punch at him, trembling despite the ambient heat of June.

Stepping into the house, he stretched out his back, yawning. It was far too early to be thinking about some other guy’s death, but it wasn’t like time had ever been normal to him anyways.

He sighed. Was he really going to try and help Bill Cipher of all people? Maybe that memory gun had more side effects than he thought. Common sense could be counted as memory, maybe he didn’t properly gain that back at all.

Alas, common sense loss notwithstanding, he still needed to deal with Bill.

A tiny part of his brain offered up animal control as the first option- and honestly, he wouldn’t put it past Gravity Falls to do that to an entire person, regardless of past demonic nature. But that didn’t exactly fix the problem, and he was sure Ford would lose it if Bill suddenly went missing.

In fact, giving Ford a chance to properly analyze Bill would probably be beneficial to this whole debacle. Given the fact that he could be up to something more in-tune with his previous shtick, it’d be more than helpful to find out what he might be hiding. Hell, they didn’t even know how or why he’d even gotten ahold of a human- well, mostly human- body to begin with. All he knew is that Ford was familiar with the form and got sweaty when asked about it. He… chose to ignore that last bit, for his own peace of mind.

Unfortunately, the best way for his brother to keep an eye on Bill was having him in the house, as opposed to the difficulties of trying to track him down outside. Proposing this idea, however, could range anywhere from Ford being a little too onboard with it, to him having a full-scale meltdown over it. Not to mention the kids, considering they had taken up full residence in the shack at this point- he wouldn’t put it past Dipper to make an attempt on his life again, or Mabel trying to subtly poison the guy if he made her shit-list in this state. He’d honestly be surprised if he wasn’t already on it, not that he blamed the kid. If anything, he was proud the two of them took up such instant defenses, at the ready to take on whatever was thrown at them.

Dragging a hand down his face, his brain now occupied with exhaustion laced ideas, he made up his mind- logic and sanity be damned.

He was going to let Bill in the house.

God help them all.

Chapter Text

“Stanley, you cannot be serious.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

These sure were his kids, huh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Damn, he was getting soft.

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

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

“They’re pretzels.” Stan deadpanned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hard way it is, then.

Chapter Text

As it would turn out, trying to essentially kidnap a guy living ten feet away from you was a harder feat to accomplish than one would hope.

A rather unhelpful notepad sat in front of Stan, a smashed together list of chicken scratch that was more doodle than text. Since this whole ordeal had been his idea, he had let the rest of the household pitch ideas on how to get Bill inside in one piece, and the results had… range, to be sure.

Dipper, straightforward as ever, suggested one of those big dog catcher nets or a large version of a rat trap. The latter had been scribbled out on account of his drawing of Bill having his neck snapped in said rat trap.

Mabel’s also came with a drawing, this time in glitter gel pen, depicting a cardboard box and stick with a framed picture of Ford underneath for bait. A note had been left there, in neat cursive, that simply read “DO NOT.” If he already wasn’t pushing it with Ford, he probably would’ve tried that one. Although, he wasn’t too eager to see if Bill was still pining after his brother like he had before- then again, once he got him inside, he supposed he didn’t have a choice in that matter.

Ford had also unhelpfully written, once again in perfect cursive, “Gun.”

Maybe Bill was safer outside.

Groaning, he leaned back in his recliner, head resting against the soft blanket that now lived there, courtesy of Abuelita. At least there was something on his side in this.

Unfortunately, he’d most likely only have one shot at this, maybe two if he lucked out, or if Bill had a box of rocks in place of a brain. Either way, the idea had to actually be plausible if he wanted any real chance at making sure this guy didn’t die in the woods somewhere. But he was running out of ideas fast, which wasn’t great considering that he didn’t have many to begin with.

Food didn’t work as a lure, if the other night was anything to go off of, too distrusting of any of them to eat anything they handed off. He definitely didn’t trust any of them to get even remotely near him for any other luring purposes, which meant… Some form of trapping. Preferably of the non-lethal variety. And wasn’t that just the limit.

Regrettably, he wasn’t half bad at hog-tying a man in a stressful situation- he didn’t want to think about when he’d gotten good at that particular skill- but it didn’t seem all that helpful when he already accused him of wanting to commit murder. If anything, it’d more than likely make him even more distrustful.

So. Trapping, but in a nice, comforting sort of way. A warm, inviting kidnapping, if you will. Because that was so easy to come up with.

Moses. He felt like a serial killer.

Nevertheless, he’d at least narrowed down the options a little. Rope wasn’t an option, they probably didn’t make cages discreet enough to fit an entire person in them- if they did, Stan did not want to see them- and they basically couldn’t use anything as bait. Great.

Honestly, it’d be easier if he could just grab him and run. He wasn’t exactly a spring chicken anymore, but hey, it would be better than having to go through all the hubbub of setting up some convoluted trap, then waiting, and fishing Bill out of the damn thing. That is, if he even goes in it to begin with. But with how… animalistic, for lack of a better word, Bill was being, he wouldn’t doubt that just nabbing him would result in more than a few light scratches and who knows how many diseases.

Stan wasn’t above body bags, generally, but a zipper might have too many variables in the process. That, and once again, would more than anything freak Bill out beyond any form of reason. There had to be something in-between, right? Something that wouldn’t irreparably damage either of them, but quick- maybe something soft-

His mind screeched to a halt. Something soft.

Tilting his head, he reached up and brushed his knuckles against the pile of fabric that lay folded neatly just behind him.

No. It was so stupid.

But he’d done significantly dumber things with less, and it was a pretty safe option for the both of them… He’d have to find a different blanket, of course- he wasn’t about to use the lovingly knitted one, lest he face the wrath of the tiny woman who had made it. However, something thick and heavy might just be perfect for what he wanted to do, if a little barbaric.

Still, he’d always been a hands-on kind of guy, and his streak certainly wasn’t going to end here.

… Which is how he ended up by the back door not two days later, an old comforter slung over his shoulder like a shield, standing in front of his very unimpressed brother.

“And you’re sure this is going to work.” He deadpanned; arms folded across his chest.

He shrugged, readjusting the blanket loosely. “I didn’t see any better ideas,” he watched Ford open his mouth in protest, “that didn’t involve murder.”

Ford shut his mouth.

“I’m just gonna nab the skinny thing and toss him in, and we’ll go from there. Ain’t like he’ll have anywhere to go once he’s in here.” He kept his voice carefully casual, watching Ford’s expression close.

He huffed, rolling his eyes. “I’m still barricading the living room. If we can keep him contained to one area, it will be incredibly more efficient for interrogation. I’d rather him not be running around like a wild animal.” Adjusting his glasses, he glanced back to the room- Stan guessed that he was already mapping out what he wanted to do with it.

“Whatever floats your boat, Poindexter. You got… as long as it takes me to get him in, I guess.” Patting him on the back, he stepped to the door and gave a salute. “Alright, say a prayer for me or whatever.”

He turned the knob, and off into the fray he went.

Granted, it wasn’t hard to find Bill- he’d picked up a few regular locations over his time back, usually off to the edges of the shack where there was low foot traffic. Logical, if nothing else. This, however, made him vulnerable to easy targeting- unfortunate for him, but definitely not for Stan.

As expected, when he quietly rounded the corner towards the very back of the building, Bill was slumped against the rickety siding, fast asleep in the afternoon sun, tangled blond hair blocking his face from view. The picture-perfect image of someone who no idea what was coming next.

Alright. He had one shot at this before things got ugly.

Pulling the blanket from his shoulder, he secured the edges in tight fists- creeping along the edge with a level of stealth he hadn’t put to use in years. The twigs and dried grass crackled threateningly under his shoes- his sailing boots, specifically, since he figured that running may be a problem to deal with in a few moments. It was shockingly well going- having approached him about halfway, he hadn’t so much as moved an inch.

That was, until Stan caught on a root and stumbled, catching himself with a much louder step than anticipated. It sounded, to him at least, like a damn tree falling, and he froze- breath caught in his throat as his heart tensed.

He watched as Bill stirred gently, shifting his head to the other shoulder towards Stan- before he let out a small “mmn,” and settled back into his slumber.

Thank God. Careful to not make a noise as he let out his breath, he continued his march. The fact he actually managed to get in a few more steps in was nothing short of a miracle, but regrettably, he was still a gambling man.

Risking another step just a little closer to Bill, his luck appeared to run out as a hidden piece of glass crunched under his weight, and Bill twitched with whatever weak survival instinct was still intact in him. His eyes prying open to the sight of Stan, mostly obscured by an old floral design blocking his view of the pathway, was more than enough to set the next event into rapid, disastrous motion.

Suffice to say, it took all of a second for all hell to break loose.

Stan hissed through his teeth at his blunder before lunging forward, managing to swipe an arm around Bill in a flurry of limbs and shouting. This, however, was short lived, as Bill clawed and thrashed his way out of the insecure hold at a moment’s notice, smacking Stan more than a few times in his rush to be free- even slashing a few shallow cuts into his cheek with bitten, uneven nails. The moment his feet hit dirt, he was shambling away with the motivation of someone getting hunted, kicking up dust and rocks in his wake.

Making a mental note to wash those out- God only knows what diseases Bill had picked up out here- he followed hot on his heels, far more equipped for a chase even with his aching joints.

Luckily enough, Bill was easy to keep an eye on; with his bright orange clothes and wild blonde hair making for a perfect tracker amongst the greenery of the forest surrounding them. Why Bill didn’t make a mad dash for the woods was beyond him, knowing full well he wouldn’t be able to keep up- but he wasn’t going to take it for granted.

Despite this, he still managed to duck and weave through Stan’s attempts, batting and struggling away from every brush with the fabric, tripping over himself to barely out-pace Stan’s approach. Every near successful attempt was met with clacking teeth, a clear warning with the sets of very visible fangs that he bared back on the few occasions they made eye contact. A little surprising, if Stan had to admit- both his ability to keep up with someone half his size, and the fact that someone half his size was struggling to stay out of his reach. Or maybe that latter half was a little embarrassing, who knows.

Either way, Bill was losing momentum fast- the way his chest heaved as he turned, taking longer to recover from stumbles, the thin sheen of sweat reflecting the afternoon sun. Turns out that nap didn’t do him much good when he was doing laps around the shack.

Not that he was doing too hot himself, of course, the fire in his muscles had long since ignited and set its course through his veins, an impromptu workout so sudden it had him wishing for once in his life that he’d done stretches beforehand. That, and he could’ve sworn that he’d seen the ever-familiar glint of Mabel’s camera in one of the windows, really making sure to capture the indignity of the situation as a whole.

But it looked like he finally reached the finish line of this frankly dumb plan of his, as Bill darted for an unexpected spot right into a dead end.

Unfortunately for Bill, he had managed to wedge himself in the corner by the gift shop entrance- the only corner of the shack with no easy out. Stan watched as he made an attempt at squirming under the house’s foundation again- alas, as expected, the gap was too small even for his tiny form, unlike the one he’d nested under by the back porch. He was too busy clawing at the dirt, mumbling frantic words in a language Stan didn’t recognize, to even notice his approach, cornering him off entirely.

Taking the opening, he dove forward with about as much grace as a sixty-year-old wielding a comforter could, and enveloped Bill up to the neck in one fell swoop.

Two things happened in this moment.

The first thing being that Stan finally got a good grip on him, the blanket secured over his limbs made sure he wasn’t able to claw or bite his way free this time.

And the second being that Bill began screaming.

He’d expected protest of course, which Bill was giving him plenty of- still thrashing and wiggling within the confines of the fabric. But the sound he was letting out was nothing short of a horror movie- desperate, wordless yowling so visceral and loud that he almost dropped the writhing thing.

But he wasn’t biting yet, so Stan made his attempt to rush into the house. The demon- human, he corrected himself- made an attempt to claw his way through, feeling his stubby nails dig into his side through the blanket.  He was a fighter to be sure, he’d give him that. He’d just really appreciate if it wasn’t directed at him, when he was in the process of trying to not let him starve to death.

Hauling it to the steps, Stan watched as the last dregs of air left the damned thing’s lungs, petering out into a thin, breathless wail.

… He then watched as Bill took in a massive, gasping breath, and started the whole process all over again.

It was a bit less startling the second time, but it wasn’t any more pleasant given the fact that he was still right next to his ear. He wouldn’t be surprised if his ears were going to be ringing for the rest of the day after this. Wobbling up the first few steps, his back protesting against Bill’s desperation, he managed to get to the top step before Bill made a last-ditch effort to escape.

Using his entire body weight- which was not much, Stan had noticed- he hauled back and lunged forward, trying to take Stan with him to the floorboards. It rocked him on his feet, nearly knocking him over as he stumbled his way to the door. And maybe it was the adrenaline of the chase wearing off, or just how this whole day was going, but Stan’s patience had worn thin.

“Would you quit it-“ he growled through clenched teeth, before briefly freeing a hand to pound on the back door. “Ford! Open the door!”

Thankfully, Ford hadn’t let him down, as the door swung open so quickly it rattled on the hinges, slamming into the wall behind it. The next few seconds were a blur, with Ford securing any entrances or exits out of the living room, trapping Bill inside. Bill, to his credit, had stopped fighting- but it came with a new, equally troubling reaction, which was complete, stone-cold stillness. Even through the comforter, he could catch the faint sensation of Bill’s heart hammering, his chest rising and falling in such a manner that Stan briefly wondered if he’d accidentally given him a heart attack.

Shooting a glance back at Ford, his brother nodded, an affirmation that he was free to let go of Bill- which he did with glee, considering his back was aching before the man had started writhing like a worm in a vice. Heaving in a breath, he lowered Bill to the ground, unwrapping the blanket from his tangled limbs. Mumbling a small “there we go,” he stepped back, mentally preparing himself to lunge again if need be.

He sat motionless for a moment atop the blanket, his head turning with a slow, jerky motion to stare at the pair of twins observing him. Silence swallowed up the room as his eyes darted over the two, seemingly searching for something. Twitching, he reached a dark, burnt hand out toward the floor- the motion making both men tense. Yet, they didn’t swipe or pounce at him, letting him make the first move.

Sensing the opening, Bill snatched up the opportunity with remarkable speed.

In what Stan could only describe as a scuttle, Bill fled behind the couch, squeezing and wedging himself into the cramped space in a display that was both unnerving and horrifically pathetic.

The couch creaked as it was pushed forward, forced to accommodate Bill’s squashed form. Stan had difficulty feeling bad for the guy, but.. this was just a whole different level. It was one thing to watch him struggle outside, but he had assumed that he would’ve been right back to his obnoxious, cocky self the moment he was let in the door.

Clearly he’d been wrong, considering he was now watching the sickly-looking thing hyperventilate behind the furniture.

The rest of the house had now gathered in the living room to watch through Ford’s barriers- made of some reinforced plastic wrap he’d whipped up the night before- each staring with varying levels of disgust and uneasiness. Of course, the twins had gathered behind him after Ford let them slip through- Mabel, her hand in his, and her grappling hook in the other. Dipper, standing close but wielding a baseball bat in an iron grip. He’d taught them well.

Despite their readiness, the twins seemed to share his hesitance- glancing up at him with confused stares. Ford, on the other hand, had directed his unwavering attention to Bill, an embittered glare carved onto his face.

Mabel was the first to speak, idly swinging Stan’s hand. “Well, he’s… um.” Her face had twisted slightly in discomfort at the scene.

Dipper, however, had a scowl to match Ford’s. “A mess?”

“… A little different than I thought he’d be.” She finished, inching closer to observe. This was clearly the wrong move, as he managed to cram himself further in what could only be a remarkably painful position. She winced as he let out a yelp, probably hitting one of the exposed springs that had worn through the fabric with age.

Overall, it was just getting hard to watch, and he wasn’t going to stand here and torture the guy for fun. He didn’t stoop that low. “Alright, everybody back it up a little.” He called, ushering Mabel along with him as he walked back a few feet. Dipper complied, glare still set on his face, but Ford stood stuck in place, trained on Bill as his hand rested on the bulge on his hip. He really probably should tell Ford to stop carrying in the house, but that was far past a futile effort.

“Ford.” He called, though it was far more of a warning than anything. For God’s sake, the shivering thing was skewering himself on furniture springs- he could be left alone for a second.

Glowering, Ford kept his hand securely on his hip, but backed up slowly at Stan’s wishes.

“Gimme a second, pumpkin,” He patted Mabel’s head before stepping towards his brother, pulling the begrudging man to the side and lowering his voice down to a whisper.

“Alright, I know I said he’s yours to deal with once we got him in for the whole.. testing thing, but are ya sure you want to deal with this? I was already thinking I’d have to set something up, but…” He loosely gestured in Bill’s direction, grimacing. “I didn’t think he’d be this bad. I don’t know if we’d even be able to get him into a different room if we wanted to.”

Glancing back- only to catch the twins approaching with a mini golf club, ready to prod Bill like roadkill, he sighed. “Oi, knock it off! We don’t know if he’s diseased yet, I don’t want you two catching anything.” He called, earning two defeated “aww”s before they retreated back. Pinching his brow, he turned back to Ford, who wore an expression a little more prideful than he was hoping. “Anyway- as much as I don’t want to barricade off half the living room, we might just be able to keep him here until we get something else figured out. Or at least until he stops acting like we put him in a torture chamber.”

Staring towards his (alleged) ex, Stan could hear the cogs turning their way into some convoluted plan in Ford’s head. A few expressions flickered over his face, brief flashes of conflict and intensity. But after a few moments’ consideration, he sighed and turned back to his brother. “I can manage. Just don’t let him roam outside of the main floor and I should have things at least somewhat handled by tomorrow.”

The vagueness was less than comforting, but Stan knew better than to attempt to negotiate at this point. If Ford wanted his turn in wrangling Bill, that was fine by him. So long as he didn’t find one of Bill’s limbs lying around the lab on a later date, that is.

“If you say so, Poindexter. Just let me know if you need any help with-“ his eyes darted to Bill, who now had managed to push the chair far enough forward that only his muddy shoes stuck out, “… That.” Leaning in, he let a devious, lighthearted grin slip. “I’ll give him the ol’ one-two if he starts giving you trouble.”

This seemed to soften Ford up a little, as his shoulders fell with relief, expression loosening. Huffing a slight laugh, his hand relaxed off of his hip. “Yes, I’ll call upon your noble efforts if needed. Thank you, Stanley.”

Brotherly comradery achieved, he let himself relax ever so slightly. Maybe this wouldn’t be as awful as he expected. Now, all he needed was Bill to be convinced of that same fact- but that would come with time.

Until then, maybe he could get the guy to actually sit on the furniture instead of crawling under it. Baby steps.