#Bill cipher hates right triangles | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ckret2 · 5 months ago

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Chapter 84 of human Bill Cipher getting a day pass out of being the Mystery Shack's prisoner: so it turns out Bill and Pacifica have a lot in common! And it's not weird at all! It's—it's very normal. Their childhoods were so normal.

(Since this entire chapter is from the point of view of a character who doesn't know the person she's talking to is Bill, a PSA for those of y'all who missed it. Thanks.)

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"Okay, that's as much as I can do to help your hair without deep conditioning it," Pacifica said. "Now let's talk about styling it."

They were back in Pacifica's office, with Goldie seated in his folding chair and Mabel sitting in Pacifica's desk chair (slowly spinning it back and forth) as Pacifica lectured them. Pacifica had given Goldie a spare t-shirt to dry his hair with (you could never have too much spare clothing on hand when you were dealing with farm animals), but he'd just loosely wrapped it around his hair and promptly ignored it.

Pacifica said, "You've got this issue where the weight of your curls pulls the top of your hair down and makes it flatten out near your scalp—but your hair's all the same length, so it really flares out near your shoulders. It's called triangle hair and it is not a cute look."

Goldie and Mabel bit their lips and exchanged a look, and Pacifica got the distinct impression that she'd accidentally reminded them about some inside joke she wasn't part of.

Trying to ignore the feeling that she was being left out of something, Pacifica cleared her throat and went on. "So, uh—you can fix it with like, layering your haircut and stuff? But. I don't actually... know how to do that." All her knowledge of curly hair and its care—much less fashionable haircuts—came from fashion and beauty magazines, which covered things like shampoo and flattering styles but assumed you'd leave the actual hair-cutting to the professionals. "So. I can get your curls presentable, and I guess we can figure out a way to pin it that looks nice? But that's the best I can do without an emergency salon trip."

"You sure we can't leave the triangle hair?" Goldie asked innocently. "I think it's cute. It really feels like me." Mabel clapped a hand over her mouth and snorted.

Pacifica raised her brows. "Do you want to feel like you, or do you want to get the guy?"

"Right, of course," Goldie said. "I almost forgot what's really important!"

Pacifica passed Goldie her phone. "Here—I wasn't sure what kind of look you were going for so I saved a few pictures of curly hair styles, let me know if you like any of these." She searched through the collection of makeup on her desk for the bobby pins and hair ties she'd picked up earlier. "The trend this year is for slicked-back styles, braids, and buns—but your curls are so pretty, I'd hate to hide them."

Mabel leaned halfway across the desk to try to see the pictures too; Goldie's held out the phone to meet her halfway as as he scrolled—and scrolled, and scrolled, and scrolled. He said, "Good job narrowing down the list to a modest two hundred pictures."

Pacifica said, "Excuse me for wanting you to have options."

Mabel pointed. "Awww, look at that one with all the little butterfly hair clips!"

"It's like butterflies are eating her brain."

"And they look adorable doing it."

"Too juvenile for me. It looks like something Prisma the fairy would wear," Goldie said. "You should wear it."

Mabel's eyes lit up. "You've got to help me make fifty butterfly hair clips."

"You got it." He closed out of Pacifica's pictures, opened up the browser, and awkwardly typed in a search. "Hey, Alpaca, look at this one."

That was the second time he'd called her that. "Do you actually know my name?"

"Rapunzel." He held up a picture of some seventies movie star with thick, feathery hair that fluffed out around her face like the wings of a panicked swan trying to take off. "Think you can pull this one off?"

Pacifica grimaced. "You'd look like my mom." Except even worse and more old fashioned. (She kept that part to herself.)

Flatly, he said, "Oh no, how will I ever convince a male that I'm a prize worth winning if I literally look like a trophy wife."

That would be just about the only part of Goldie that looked like a trophy wife. (She kept that part to herself too.) "And we'd have to give you bangs."

As she suspected, Goldie grimaced and flipped to another image. At least he knew bang weren't for him. "How 'bout this one?"

It looked like a solid helmet of hair, with the ends uniformly curled outward like the embarrassing forced-whimsical hairstyle of the minions of an insane chocolatier. "Ew. That's about the only thing that could make you look even worse than you already do."

"Pacifica," Mabel said sharply. "Be nice!"

"Sorry!" She'd kept so many parts to herself that she didn't have any spare room to keep that part. "I can't do it, anyway. It would need a flat iron and a curling iron, and I don't have either."

"Can't we get some?" Goldie asked. "Any drug store should have 'em, it's a fifteen minute walk to—"

"I don't use them," Pacifica said sharply.

Goldie's stare was like a heat lamp—or maybe that was just self-consciousness heating up Pacifica's face as he scrutinized her. But after several long seconds, Goldie's gaze turned off her face. She quietly sighed in relief.

"Okay," he said. "Then this one." He showed her another picture. It had curly shoulder-length bangs, which wasn't really in style but fine, but behind them was a bouffant shaped like a deflating basketball with a wilting palm tree sprouting out of it.

Pacifica cringed. It was, unfortunately, doable. A note of pleading in her voice, she asked, "Are you really into this look? Really?"

("I think it's pretty," Mabel muttered.)

"Oh, no way!" Goldie said. "Look at that mess! That's way too much effort for a 'do that looks like she did it drunk in the dark in under two minutes."

(Mabel looked at Goldie like he'd personally betrayed her.)

"But," he went on, "it's what our guy is into, and that's what matters here. Right?"

Pacifica studied the picture dubiously. "You're sure?"

"He went through puberty in the 70s! When his libido opened its eyes for the first time, this is what it imprinted on."

Pacifica bit her lip. Well. At least Goldie didn't think it looked good, but. "Can I at least improve it a little?"

"Oh, please!"

She picked up the comb again and grabbed a couple of bobby pins. "No promises, but I'll do what I can."

Pacifica talked a big game, but in truth, she knew a lot more about the theory of hairstyles than she did about actually styling hair. You don't have to film a blockbuster to be a film critic. So at that point, all she could do was experiment with Goldie's hair as she attempted to approximate the picture he'd shown her. She circled around him as she worked—putting in pins, taking them out, occasionally asking him his opinion.

But although Goldie had previously been a non-stop chatterer, the moment she'd started working on his hair, he'd fallen silent.

He only glanced in the hand mirror she'd given him when she prompted him, and then only to give one-word answers—usually "fine." His shoulders were as tense and his mouth as tight as Pacifica's had been the first time she had to wash alpaca poop off the bottom of a boot. And Pacifica had nearly vommed, so, that was pretty serious.

Why? It couldn't be pain. Pacifica had gotten all the knots out of his hair earlier—and even when she wasn't using the comb, it was like she couldn't even move a lock of his hair without him wincing. She kept wanting to apologize even though she was just doing what he wanted her to.

There was something going on here. It wasn't just how uncomfortable he was with being touched. There was also the way he did an awful job of washing his hair even though he knew how to perfectly well. And how he'd rather let Mabel brush his hair into a frizzy mess than comb it out himself. And beyond all that, the first thing Pacifica had ever learned about him was that he'd gotten his hair melted off and needed emergency help to grow it back. "You... really don't like your hair, do you?"

"I like it fine. It's gorgeous." He was speaking through gritted teeth, and he had his legs crossed with his feet under his thighs, palms up in lap, eyes fixed on the blanket Mabel had made, as though having a staring contest with the triangle creep would help him endure the torture without flinching. "I just—don't like messing with it."

"Which is fine," Mabel cut in. "Because I like brushing it!" She quickly amended herself: "Combing it. We've got like a symbiotic relationship going on."

"Yeah! Star girl's my personal stylist! She does my hair and makeup. I wouldn't deprive her of that honor!"

Pacifica nodded slowly. Right—all that, and he was defensive about not taking care of it.

Not embarrassed because he didn't take care of it, it dawned on her; embarrassed because he couldn't take care of it. She had a sense for those sorts of things—a middle school queen bee had to develop that sense—because that was what you targeted if you really wanted to humiliate someone: something that they couldn't help. That was it, wasn't it? He'd said he was apathetic about his body; he didn't care that his hair was messy. Because if he did care that it was messy, he would have done something about it. Unless he couldn't. Like, a mental block.

As she tried for the eighth time to gather the bulk of his hair into an updo that looked sorta fun and casual without looking stupid, she turned over everything she knew about him—about his hair, his apathy, his shame... the things he'd said to her the moment they met, before they even got started.

It wasn't a logical deduction so much as it was an instinct, and just looking at Goldie it seemed impossible; but still she said, hesitantly, "Your mom made you do pageants as a kid, didn't she?"

Mabel sat up a little straighter, confused; but Goldie turned around to stare at her, dumbfounded. "How— What—makes you think that?"

Oh please. He wasn't fooling anyone, it was all over his face. "You're so weird about your hair. It's obviously trauma from your mom."

Beneath his sunburn, Goldie's burned cheeks somehow managed to flush even darker. He gaped at her, wide-eyed and terrified, like she was a psychic who had just told him how his own parents had died. He croaked, "What?"

Pacifica burst out laughing. "Oh my gosh, you should see your face! Listen, you're clearly familiar with pageant life. And I saw so many curly girls getting their hair mauled by their moms half an hour before going on stage. I don't blame you for being weird about touching it! I had it easy—" she flipped her naturally straight hair, "—but even at that, I can't stand using a flat iron to this day."

Goldie relaxed, apparently reassured that Pacifica hadn't read his mind. He settled back in his seat. "Oh, I dunno, I find the smell of burning hair comforting! It reminds me of home!"

"Ha! Okay, yeah, you do get used to it after a while." She started attempt number nine to gather up his curls. "I wouldn't have guessed when you came in. You don't look like a... I mean... you know. No offense."

"Well, duh, you can't tell now." He gestured at himself, "I lost my good looks. What I wouldn't give to have my old body back..." He sighed wistfully.

Pacifica held back a snort. Oh yeah. More than anything else he'd said so far, that convinced her he really was a former pageant kid. In her experience, every single pageant mom trying to relive her own beauty queen glory days through her daughter said things exactly like that.

Mabel said, "Aww..." She stretched a hand out toward Goldie, couldn't reach him across Pacifica's enormous desk, and with a grunt heaved herself up to lay across the top—knocking over a couple of the cosmetic supplies Pacifica had set up in the process—so she could pat his shoulder. "There, there."

"Thanks."

She slid back into her seat. "Did you really do pageants? You didn't tell me that." A note of betrayal crept into her voice.

"I didn't tell her either—" he jabbed a thumb at Pacifica, "—but here we are!" (Pacifica shrugged unapologetically.) "I've got a lotta backstory you're still catching up on."

"Well, yeah, but—you said you just did..." She grasped for the right words, and settled on, "build-y stuff with pageants."

"I didn't say that," he said breezily. Mabel scowled at him; but shot a look at Pacifica, and just sat back without saying anything, arms crossed, her feet audibly kicking at the inside of the desk.

He didn't seem as stressed about his hair while he was talking, Pacifica noticed. (Maybe that was why hairdressers were so chatty? Or maybe just because it was kind of weird to stick your hands in someone's hair for an hour in total silence.) She asked, "Which pageant systems did you compete in?"

"None you'd have heard about," Goldie said. "They weren't on this continent and it was like a trillion years ago." Before Pacifica could pry about which continent, he added, "Hey, fun fact! Didja know that the first beauty contest in Oregon was established here in Gravity Falls?"

"Pff, duh, of course I know that," Pacifica said. "It was established by the town founder, my great-great grandpa."

"Close, but no," he said gleefully. "It was established by the real town founder."

Pacifica grimaced. "Him? The crazy undead guy without pants? Ugh, no wonder we're the only pageant with a mandatory bird calls category."

"The first three competitions were actually won by birds! They only added a fashion category to balance out the birds' unfair advantage at birdsong. Quentin resigned from the judges' panel in protest."

"He should've taken the dumb birdsong requirement with him," Pacifica muttered. "They make the kids pageant do it too. I had to get a private tutor to learn how to whistle."

"That sounds fun, though," Mabel said. "I can do bird song! Grunkle Ford taught me some. Listen to this!" She let out an admittedly impressive moo.

"Not a bad cowl call," Goldie said. "You woulda killed it at the accompanying bird costume requirement."

Mabel gasped. "I can make feather wings. Hey, do you think I could compete?"

"Not unless you move to Oregon."

"Aww."

"We can still make wings, though," Goldie said.

Pacifica had never had to deal with the dumb bird costume requirement, thank goodness. That only started in the teen brackets. Which made her wonder—"How old were you when you quit? Pretty young, right? Like, no offense, but if you need teenagers to do your makeup..." If Goldie was living as a guy now, it'd make sense if he didn't wear makeup day-to-day; but if he'd stuck with pageants past like age ten, he would have at least learned how to do his own makeup.

"Ha! You're right. I started when I was young enough that my mom could dust glitter on my butt without getting weird looks! I quit around... equivalent to third or fourth grade in the States? She wanted me to keep going—so I said, 'You want me to perform? Fine then—I'll put on the best performance you've ever seen.' And that's exactly what I did!" Thoughtfully, he added, "But for some reason I didn't win the talent portion. I guess the judges weren't impressed that I could play the piano and set it on fire at the same time."

Pacifica cracked up. "Okay wow—I retired during the talent portion too, but how you did it is way more exciting. The year I was aging out of the 9-11 bracket, I kinda had a meltdown on stage over losing to some girl with a hula hoop? Yeah, I did not win supreme that year."

"You shoulda won talent just for that scream! You hit some impressively high notes." At Pacifica's odd look, Goldie said, "Saw it online."

Figured. That was probably coming back to haunt her in ten years. "It's weird. There's like... two ways pageant girls go—er, girls or guys or... whatever."

"Whatever," Goldie agreed.

"Yeah. Either they make it part of their identity? And keep up the makeup and fashion and everything, sometimes stick with pageants as teens or start modeling professionally? Which is what I did. Or they totally burn out, don't want anythingto do with the beauty industry, and just, like, wear sweats forever."

With a faint air of wounded pride, Goldie said, "It's the bedsheet sarong, isn't it."

"No offense! I'm just saying."

"I'll have you know it's laundry day and Jesús stole my clean clothes instead of my dirty laundry." (Pacifica decided to forgive him for the weird fish smell.) "You're looking at me at a low point, kid. I was actually a pretty snappy dresser up until... lllast summer."

Hearing Goldie call her kid gave Pacifica a little jolt of surprise. For a moment, she'd forgotten she was talking to somebody with an age; she'd started to feel like she was being visited by the immortal Spirit of Washed-Up Former Pageant Children. As if he'd died and stopped aging the same time he retired. "What happened last summer?"

Goldie looked at Mabel. "Yeah, what did happen last summer?"

"Um." Mabel froze. "He... lost it all in a... um... overseas parrot circus venture! Yeah—all the trained parrots escaped before the opening night of the circus and he lost all his money."

Goldie let out a shrill cackle. "I like that, I'm keeping that."

Okay, got it, it wasn't any of Pacifica's business. "I think... this is the best I can do with your hair." She stepped back. "Unless you want to pick a style that doesn't suck."

He gave himself a cursory glance in the hand mirror, immediately lowered it, and said, "Sucky style's fine!"

"Don't say that, you look so beautiful," Mabel said. "You look like a babysitter!"

"Well, it doesn't get much better than that." He dropped the mirror on the desk. "What's next?"

####

Next—finally—was the part they'd actually come here for: the makeup.

"Okay, I tried to get around the eyepatch while I was doing your hair, but you've got to take it off for this part," Pacifica said.

He groaned, but muttered, "Fine, I've put up with this tyranny so far," removed it, and looked at her with his previously-covered eye squinted against the light—which was the point at which Pacifica realized that he had eyepatch tan lines... around his other eye. How???

There was no fixing that before tomorrow. She bit her lips, shut her eyes, pressed her hands together, and took in a deep breath. Okay. She could handle this.

"Why do you even wear this?" She tossed the eyepatch to Mabel—it was one of those cheap costume pirate-y looking patches. "Is this one of the Mystery Shack's gimmicky touristy things? Both your eyes work! And wearing an eyepatch when you obviously don't need it is just tacky."

"I've got a neurological condition! Seeing through two eyes messes up my depth perception," Goldie said. "I get migraines if I don't keep one covered! Which is admittedly the most fun thing you can do to your brain without involving narcotics, but it makes it hard to keep down lunch!"

"Oh," Pacifica mumbled. Maybe she should just get to work before she shoved her foot any deeper in her mouth.

She started by slapping aloe vera on as much sunburned skin as she could reach, handed over the jar with strict instructions to apply more in the morning, and gave him an emphatic lecture on sunburns and sunscreen and skin damage that petered out when he cheerfully started telling her about skin cancer statistics. She changed the topic when he started listing his favorite kinds of skin cancer.

She stripped off the nail polish that Goldie had apparently gotten during one of Mabel's sleepovers, and repainted it with, at Pacifica's insistence, something more "mature." (She vetoed Mabel's suggestion to paint little hearts. She vetoed Goldie's request for gold. She gave him the choice between white French tips, pale pink, or solid red. He chose red.)

She hadn't anticipated that her customer would be in such dire straits that she'd need to shave him, so she didn't have any supplies for that; but she also ordered him to get his legs as smooth as the surface of a balloon as soon as he got home—"And do you think there's any chance this guy you're after will see your pits?" "He already has!" "Hm. Okay. Yeah, uh, get those anyway."—and informed him that she would report him to the police for vandalism if he "shaved" using whatever depilatory cream he'd previously used on his hair.

As she finished plucking his brows, she said, "Okay, I think you're finally in decent enough condition for actual makeup." She stepped back, took in his face, and said, "Barely." She grimaced. "I wish I'd bought a concealer with better coverage. I didn't know the situation was so bad."

To his credit, Goldie had taken her criticism (and occasional looks of horror) like a champ. He simply drawled, amused, "The body rituals of the Nacirema are as elaborate as they are bizarre."

She picked up a couple of the foundations she'd bought and held them up next to the eye that had been protected by the eyepatch tan line, trying to determine which one was a closer match for whatever his skin tone was when he wasn't burned. "Who're the Nacirema? One of the tribes that used to live around here?"

"They're still in the area. Look 'em up."

Pacifica thought the darker foundation was closer; she tested it on his inner arm to be sure. "So, how much makeup do you already know how to apply? Any?"

"I can do mascara, eyeliner, and mascara."

"Riiight. Okay, both of you pay attention to what I'm doing." She evicted Mabel from her desk chair and dragged it around in front of Goldie's folding chair. "Because I will not be coming over to do this tomorrow, so the two of you will have to repeat this yourself. Here." She handed Goldie a mirror so he could watch her work.

Mabel hopped up to sit on the desk next to Goldie. "You have one hundred percent of my attention!" She immediately looked away from Pacifica at the makeup brushes laid out on the desk, picked up a fan brush curiously, and started dragging it up and down her arm. "Ooh. Tickly."

"Emphasize my eyes," Goldie said. "They're my best feature. You can forget about everything else, but my eyes have to look good."

Pacifica looked at his eyes. Pacifica really looked at his eyes.

There was something wrong with his eyes.

She decided to stop looking at his eyes. "Okaaay, great great great, you've got suuuper long lashes, that's fantastic. We can totally draw attention there. You don't even need fake lashes. And you've got nice big prominent eyes. Kinda bulgy, but that should be easy to hide with eyeshadow. I'm thinking maybe a smokey eye?"

"What about metallics? Like gold?" Goldie asked innocently. "Kind of a retro 'secret agent villainess' look, don't you think! It'd bring out the yellow in my eyes!"

Pacifica said, "You do not want to bring out your jaundice."

"Don't tell me what I want."

"No gold eyeshadow," Pacifica said. "Period. If you want to experiment with color, we can try a smoky eye in burgundy. Burgundy is hot this year."

Goldie muttered something about welcoming a bottle of burgundy right now, then said, "Fine! Burgundy."

(As Pacifica looked through her makeup palettes for the burgundy, Bill leaned over to Mabel and whispered, "Do we have any leftover gold eyeshadow?" Mabel nodded and winked. Bill winked back.)

"What about the rest of your face?"

"Skip it."

"I'm not letting you go bare-faced aside from your eyes," Pacifica said. "But we can do a natural makeup look."

"That's so boring," Mabel said. She was dragging the fan brush over her lips now. "If it looks natural why's he wearing any makeup at all?"

Goldie said, "Because humans are insane about the most uninteresting things."

As Pacifica worked her way through the foundation, concealer—she decided his sunburned skin had enough of a sun-kissed glow that she could skip bronzer—and contouring, she said, "You are... really good at holding still when you try." He'd gone completely still, like a statue. A statue that was making direct eye contact with her soul. She felt a bead of sweat slide down her neck. She wasn't sure he was breathing.

"He's super good," Mabel agreed. "It's kinda creepy."

"Thanks!" And just like that, he was smiling and alive again. "I do a lot of meditating! Gimme a focal point to watch and I can go like two billion years!"

"You didn't learn from...?"

"Pageants? Ha! No way, I was the wiggliest little demon you've ever seen. It drove my mom nuts when she was trying to do my lashes. She used to say 'If you love me, hold still' to keep me in place—but you know how contrary kids are when they're mad! Eventually I got fed up and said, 'Well then, maybe I don't love you!' And she didn't speak to me for three days." Goldie laughed. "Ahh, I had the most dramatic mom."

"Wow, my mom would kill me if I ever tried something like that—especially if it was in public where people could see us," Pacifica said. "She hired makeup artists so I'd struggle against them��instead of her. Your mom did your makeup? Did she ever hire anyone?"

"Nooo way. We ran our operation on a razor-thin budget to maximize the profits from my winnings. The name of the game was efficiency!"

"My mom's sure wasn't," Pacifica said. "(Shut your right eye, I've got to get your eyeshadow.) We went through like, fifty makeup artists or something. Sometimes more than one while prepping for the same pageant." She lowered her voice a tad, "A couple times when the makeup artist was a creep, I messed up my own makeup just so Mom would fire them."

"Ha! Suckers. Yeah, that's probably how it woulda gone if my mom had handed me off to a makeup artist. I was not afraid to sic her on adults! We didn't have any hired help when I was that age, but the principal was terrified of her. And if another kid at a competition was getting on my nerves, I'd go crying to her that they pushed me and oh, man, she'd come down on their parents like the asteroid on Chicxulub."

"Me too! There was this girl in third grade who was so... I don't know, just—" she pulled a face, "eugh, you know? I complained to mom about her and got her family blacklisted by the whole town. They had to move out of the state just to get a job."

Goldie laughed loudly. "Now that is impressive!"

Pacifica's gut shifted uncomfortably. Was it? "Other eye now." She didn't speak for a moment as she tried to get both eyes matching. "Actually... it was... kinda scary?"

She'd asked her mom if she could puh-lease get this girl out of Pacifica's class. She'd just expected the girl to be switched to another teacher.

Instead, over the next few weeks, she heard about the girl's mother losing her job, then her father. Her older brother got kicked out of the local Future Lumberjacks of America chapter. One day the girl came to school in tears after being cut from the softball team. A couple months later, the girl's friends—the two that hadn't drifted away from her as her family became pariahs—threw her a tearful goodbye party during lunch with a mall-bought cookie cake; and the next day, she was gone forever.

After that first time Pacifica had complained about her classmate, her mom had never once mentioned the girl or her family. She never asked if Pacifica had any more trouble with her. Not even when they left town. It was as though, after her mom ground them under her heel, they were beneath her notice. Just four crushed ants.

But Goldie was staring at her, frowning in confusion, like she didn't make any sense. "What—scary for the other kid?" he asked. "Sure. It's supposed to be, isn't it?"

Pacifica didn't reply for a second. I'm afraid of how good she was at doing exactly what I asked her to do without realizing I was asking for it—that sounded stupid. Finally, she said, "Don't wrinkle your face like that, I haven't set your foundation yet. It'll make it cake up."

"Your moms sound insane," Mabel said. While they'd been swapping stories about their childhoods, she'd been staring at them, chin in one hand, chewing on the fan brush's bristles. "Were you guys tortured growing up?"

"Pfff, what? No, of course not!" Pacifica said. "My parents would never. You've only seen my mom's worst side, she's not really that bad. I mean—not to me. She's horrible to poor people, but that's different."

Goldie said, "Yeah, my mom was my biggest defender! If anyone tried to hold me back, she'd rip them a new one."

"But—forcing you to do pageants until you have a breakdown?" Mabel said, glancing between Goldie and Pacifica, mouth twisting up like the words tasted sour. "Guilting you into wearing makeup and attacking other parents and stuff? That's nuts."

"It's not like that," Pacifica said automatically, then tried to figure out what it was like.

"Now we're calling a kid's temper tantrum a breakdown? You've got a future career in propaganda, star girl," Goldie said wryly. "It's a mom's job to bring out a kid's potential, right? Sure, it drove me nuts at the time—but kids don't want their potential brought out, kids are lazy!" He shrugged, "Yeah, my parents weren't perfect—they didn't really 'get' me, they held me back from reaching my full potential because they couldn't see what it was—but I'd never have gotten on the road to unlocking my potential myself if they hadn't put me on the right path as a kid."

Pacifica nodded. "Totally! That's just normal mom stuff! My parents are exactly the same—they don't get my alpaca business at all—but there's no way I'd be running a business at thirteen if my mom hadn't pushed me to be the best I can be. Or supporting my alpacas through modeling if I hadn't learned how to present myself in the pageant system. Even mini-golf was just a hobby until my parents got me a coach and started taking me to competitions."

"And I wouldn't be the huge success I am today without those early lessons in public speaking!"

Mabel shot Goldie a meaningful look. He pointed at her. "Don't say a word. I've had a bad year, you can't judge me by that. Anyone could've lost their parrots in a freak accident."

"And some kids had it way worse," Pacifica said. "Some parents would hit their kids or scream at them for messing up their routines or getting distracted? Those girls never lasted long, you can tell if a contestant's just going through the motions because she's scared. I was never treated like that. My pageant coach taught my parents to use a 'warning bell,' when they rang it that was my warning to stop goofing off and focus on practicing or listen to them or whatever. They'd pay me in chocolate if I got back in line."

"Ha!" Goldie smacked the desk, "Oh wow, that's hilarious! Pageant coach Pavlov. My parents would have loved that when I was in the toddler competitions."

"Right?!" Pacifica laughed. "Now I'm like, wow, I used to be bribable with a piece of chocolate? Kids are sooo easy to manipulate."

"But hey, it's a good life lesson: the occasional reward and the fear of punishment is a lot more effective at keeping people in line than actual punishments."

Pacifica nodded thoughtfully. "Wow. That's so insightful."

"See?" Goldie beamed at Mabel. "Pageants teach kids all kinds of useful things! Ambition, poise, charisma, self-confidence, social skills..."

She grimaced. "Yeah, but... all the restrictions and pressure and trauma and stuff? That really sounds bad."

"I think you're just bitter that you can't enter the birdsong contest."

She kicked his arm. "I'm serious!"

He pushed back her shoe and waved her off dismissively. "It only sounds bad to you because you were never in the pageant world! It's got its own rituals and expectations, of course it looks weird to outsiders."

"And everyone judges pageants so much more harshly than other competitive sports—which is what pageants basically are," Pacifica said. "Like, pageants and competitive mini-golf took just as much practice, just as much coaching, just as much time and money—but in real life, knowing how to make myself look presentable and talk to adults has helped me way more often than knowing how to knock a ball into a hole. Mini-golf only saved my life once."

"Charisma will get you everywhere," Goldie agreed. "It's the most effective form of mind-control you can do without psychically rewiring someone's neurons."

"Basically! But getting a medal at the Sportlympics has everyone talk about how skilled and hard-working and dedicated you are, and getting a tiara in a national pageant gets people who have never even watched a pageant calling you a bimbo. Like, what?"

"Blatant double standards!" To Mabel, Goldie said, "Both your parents work in Silicon Valley. Their priority is intelligence and grades instead of looks and charisma, so that's why you and your brother get pushed in school—but it's all the same! Parents push their kids to be successful whatever way they know how."

Mabel stared into space. "Huh." She fell silent, gnawing on the fan brush's handle—pondering whether her parents worrying about her so-so grades was comparable to the pageant moms desperate for their daughters' straight hair to be straighter and curly hair to be curlier.

Smugly, Goldie went on, "If anything, the pageant circuit was more useful than school. I—"

"(Stop moving around, I've got to do your other eye.)"

Goldie obediently leaned forward and shut his other eye. "I went from pageants straight into public speaking. I had an entire career before I was out of school. Everyone loved me! I was a natural in the spotlight!"

"Really?" Pacifica said dubiously. She could buy that he might have been a competitor as a kid, but honestly, he seemed pretty creepy to her. Enough confidence could carry you pretty far, but...

He rolled his open eye. "Don't take that tone with me. It was before you were born! And like I said—I've lost my looks. I used to be..."

He trailed off, staring down at his nail polished hands like he didn't recognize them.

He muttered, "I used to be so much better than this."

Mabel reached out and rubbed his upper arm comfortingly.

Sometimes Pacifica caught her mom staring in a mirror, studying her face with an expression somewhere between nervous and depressed, gently touching her fingertips to the thin lines beginning to appear around her eyes and mouth as though she were examining gruesome wounds. Her mother had always said that looks are everything; and even though she didn't talk about her feelings directly, from the way she sometimes snapped at Pacifica to keep up her skincare—moisturizer, sunscreen, hydration, don't frown too hard—Pacifica thought maybe she wasn't worried about Pacifica's face so much as her own.

Goldie only had the faintest traces of the start of wrinkles, unnoticeable if Pacifica hadn't just spent the past few minutes plastering foundation on his face. She wondered how old he was. She wondered whether he had the same fear her mother did: that his body was letting him down, slowly dying all around him.

You don't go through the child pageant world without learning two things: everyone wants you to look and act older than you are; and the older you get, the less anyone wants you.

"I've got to do your lips," Pacifica said, picking out a couple of options: a red so bright it was nearly orange (totally in this year), a nice glossy nude that ought to be a close match to Goldie's natural lip color. "Did you want to stick with the natural look, or...?"

He glanced up from his hands at the offered lipsticks. "What the heck," he sighed. "Let's make it red."

Pacifica nodded. "Pooch your lips out for me, like this." And that was the last they spoke for a while.

####

(Here's your regular TBOB report: no actual plot was changed due to TBOB. I added in a few lines referencing it: the imagery of Priscilla grinding normal people beneath her heel is meant to be reminiscent of Pacifica's giant nightmare on TINAWDC; the "meditating" for specifically two billion years is a direct reference to the barber pole, although I'd already headcanoned that Bill can meditate/dissociate for absolutely vast quantities of time; I already had dialogue where he goes on the importance of charisma and how much everyone adored him as a kid, but I tossed in another sentence or two about charisma just because of how strongly he emphasizes it in TBOB; and originally I had dialogue where Bill went on about what big supporters his parents were, even though he privately feels like they didn't get him—all I changed was deciding to make him admit to some of those feelings out loud, since it's something he says outright in TBOB. I've imagined that he tends to swing between "they were the best/they were the worst" based on how he's feeling at the time with no neutral ground in between—whiiich lines up pretty well with what TBOB gave us.

And unrelated but I spent way too long researching makeup & hair trends in the 70s and in 2013. I had no idea orange lipstick was hot for a while. My idea of doing makeup is painting my nails once every six years.

Hope y'all enjoyed, and I'm looking forward to hearing y'all's thoughts! I've been eager to dive into this aspect of Bill's backstory and Pacifica's POV for a while.)

#bill cipher #human bill cipher #pacifica northwest #gravity falls #gravity falls fic #gravity falls fanart #fanart #my art #my writing #bill goldilocks cipher #(god i hate the chapters from the POV of characters who don't know they're interacting with Bill)#(calling him the wrong name the whole chapter is torture. I kept having to correct his name. ... un-correct his name?)

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tinfoil-jones · 6 months ago

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Jerk Ford AU: About

[Art by: @tearosepedall]

[Jerk Ford Not a jerk to his brother and only his brother The most hated Ford in the Multiverse]

[Doesn't need as much protecting Teen Jerk Ford: F#ck off Teen Stan: Ford! Don't do that!]

[Stan is a well liked guy Stan never ended up homeless, because Ford believed him]

Ford was the worst type of student because he's really good at everything that he does, just like any other version of himself. Like, the teachers were mad he was their best (academically speaking) student.

They'd prefer it if he was a delinquent who never did his homework and showed up late to class. But no, he not only did all of his assignments, but he also did extra credit that he didn't need, and showed up early to everything. Just like all of the other Fords.

He was the Chess, Spelling Bee, and Debate Team champion all four years he was in high school. He could have skipped several grades and only didn't because ya know, twin. And this continued while he was in college and got his 12 PHDs.

Stanley was his only supporter in all of that because everyone wanted him to fail. Some people (like their parents) even tried to pressure Stan into also hating his brother but one of the Universal Constants is that you can't make Stan hate his brother. People didn’t even bring up the fact that Stanley wasn’t the genius twin, people called him the ‘good twin’ because he wasn’t a jerk.

Stanley is just a regular guy in this AU. He was never a criminal or con artist. He went to Backupsmore University with Stanford and Fiddleford (Fiddleford would sometimes use Stan to pass messages along to Ford, because he did not want to talk to Ford if he didn't have to). He's a Chemistry Teacher who also helps out with Theatre.

[Bill: You tricked me!!! Jerk Ford: Skill Issue]

[Jerk Ford, to all other AU Fords: Wait! You all actually fell for that triangles flattery?! LOL]

He knew Bill Cipher was just f***ing with him with all of that talk of "I'm a muse" and "You're more special than everybody" (he already knew that he doesn't need a triangle to validate that). Ford just wanted to flip the script on him in the end in the most elaborate 1980s version of Jackass you've ever seen.

All of the other Fords hate him so much not just because he's a jerk (that's the majority of the reason though), but because of how weirdly competent and self-actualized he is comparatively speaking.

He didn't fall for Bill tricks. He's so sure of himself that he doesn't have the same hero (or villain, depending on the AU) complex. He doesn't want to take over the universe, or be the savior of it, or even be the one who kills Bill Cipher. He's just a jerk to everybody (except Stan) because he likes being a jerk.

Jerk Ford is one of the few Fords who maxed out his Charisma. He just uses that charisma to make people hate him instead of like him

Because charisma isn't just 'likability', it's your Presence and Force of Personality. His presence is so strong all he has to do is walk into a room, and you know he's an a**hole.

If you were to sum up what Jerk Ford is like around other Fords, it's like this:

"Every Stanford Pines in the multiverse reviles and despises that man."

Jerk Ford: You all want to be me so bad.

"NO WE DON'T YOU A**HOLE"

[Mabel: He's not actually THAT big of a jerk right?" Dipper: *wants to strangle him* Jerk Ford: Stanley who are these twerps?]

[Stan: Oh! They are family poindexter, Shermies grandkids! Jerk Ford: I see *doesn't care*]

If I were to give Jerk Ford a unique design to set him apart from Fords of other AUs, his turtleneck and muddied boots are swapped with these:

The hoodie is the usual red colour, the font is probably the same gold colour as his zodiac symbol. The puffed croc boots are also probably the same colour as canon Fords.

He doesn't have any embarrassing tattoos because the tattoo artists of Gravity Falls would never service Ford. Because he's not just banned from every establishment in Gravity Falls, but if he enters any business you are legally allowed to and encouraged to shoot him.

In fact Bill gave up possessing Ford to ruin his reputation with the townsfolk early on because nothing he did was worse than anything Ford did by himself.

You know how Ford drew himself coming out of the portal with aura in Journal Three?

Most of the other Fords try to look cool, and you just have this dude over here who doesn't give a s*** because he already believed his own hype. He doesn't feel the need to be ✨Extra✨ unless if he's being mean or generally unpleasant to somebody.

[Previous]

#Jerk Ford #Jerk Ford AU #stanford pines #ford pines #gravity falls #grunkle ford #stanley pines #stan pines #grunkle stan #gravity falls au #au #dipper pines #mason pines #mabel pines #fiddleford hadron mcgucket #fiddleford mcgucket #old man mcgucket #bill cipher

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iammabelbrain · 9 months ago

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something stupid

a/n: well, I thought about it a bit and I think I'll try to write my ideas for bill cipher x reader, I love him so much, I can't wait to get his book ^^ (sorry if my english is wrong, it's not my native language, and I'm terrible at handwriting too)

warning: bill is the trigger itself, cringe, a little g0re, stalker

summary: bill can't say the words "I love you", so how does he show his love?

— Bill hates saying the words “I love you”, instead he prefers to hand you a bouquet made of guts, you don't know if they're made of human guts or... anyway, it definitely doesn't matter what they're made of, right?

— Bill hates saying the words “I love you”, instead he prefers to sing karaoke with you while you are both completely drunk.

— Bill hates saying the words “I love you”, instead he prefers to say stupid and some even silly pick-up lines, like:

“Do you come here often? what a coincidence, me too! Did you know that?" you two are in your house.

— Bill hates saying the words “I love you”, instead he prefers to ask how your day was, even though he already knows what it was like because he’s been stalking you all day. You can't blame him for enjoying hearing your voice!

— Bill hates saying the words “I love you”, instead he prefers to own rats and use them to spell your name on the door of his house, it’s cute in a way, but it’s extremely stressful to get all those dead rats out and he knows it.

— Bill hates saying the words “I love you”, instead he prefers to watch you sleep at dawn, he listens to your breathing and the beautiful beating of your heart, but don’t worry! He doesn’t do anything to you while you sleep… every now and then you wake up with a pen scratch on your face, lucky for you that pens aren’t permanent.

— Bill hates saying the words “I love you”, instead he prefers to spoil you and at the same time be spoiled (most of the time he prefers to be spoiled), this triangle is pure need juice, he is just a pre-teen.

— Bill hates saying the words "I love you", it's a stupid and idiotic phrase that humans invented, but sometimes he can't help but feel the urge to say something stupid like: I love you.

a/n: yes i made this based on the song "something stupid" let me be a stupid cringe

#gravity falls #gravity falls bill cipher #gravity falls bill #bill cipher gravity falls #gravity falls book #gravity falls angst #bill cipher #bill cipher gf #bill cipher x reader #bill cipher x you #bill x reader #bill x you #gravity falls x reader #gravity falls x you

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abeejasarts · 9 months ago

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I absolutely LOVE the Bill Goldilocks Cipher AU. (AU by @ckret2) I love it to bits. I think that its important everyone knows WHY I love it so much so more after the cut

I have recently gotten into reading the Bill “Goldilocks” Cipher AU, and I’m absolutely in love. (As an important note, I am on chapter 45) Not just because of the characterization and how it feels like how all the characters would act and adventures that could happen in the show, but also because specifically what Bill looks like. And I WILL INFODUMP!

Bill, for context, is stuck in this body. it’s not something he’s possessing, it’s his own body, but it was made by a computer. He created it instantaneously to escape the Theraprism (in an INCREDIBLE one shot I suggest fans of the Book of Bill read)

But then he got stuck. He couldn’t leave it, his soul was essentially stitched to the body with no powers and no way to escape. And he hates it. Bills body doesn’t look like him, not because it’s a woman, because it’s a human, and he wishes he was still a 2D triangle. The FACT that it’s a woman, the fact that it doesn’t match up with what we the audience imagine Bill would look like, let’s us imagine some of that “this isn’t right” dysphoria that is so essential to the story and Bill’s characterization. Of course we would imagine Bill to be a man, but he isn’t here. When he says he hates how his body curves and moves, we think, “oh, he means cause he’s a woman” NAW HE JUST WANTS TO BE 2D! It’s BRILLIANT!

But that’s not all!

Bills entire reason for escape is because he doesn’t want to stop being himself. He doesn’t want the prison to take away his memories or make him “perfect”, he just wants to be him and he’ll do anything to stay himself. He wants to be free.

and then when he escapes to try to stay himself forever, to “freedom”, he’s immediately trapped again. He’s trapped inside Gravity Falls, he’s trapped with the Pines, but worse; he’s trapped in a foreign body. He isn’t himself. The thing he wanted most cost him what he was fighting for to begin with.

This AU is so beautiful. It’s amazing. I adore it. And Author, if you’re reading this, your work has brought me many days of brainrot and joy.

Also, importantly, I haven’t read through the authors blog, so there’s a chance that they just think Bill should be a woman and that’s just what he would look like humanized, and there’s nothing deeper than that and I’ve made a fool of myself. If that’s the case, and the whole “the audience understands the dysphoria” part isn’t correct, I apologize, but if that is what you were going for, you did it perfectly and please never stop writing because it inspires me.

Also I have more fan art coming this AU really did give me serious brainrot like nothing else

#my art #gravity blorbos #gravity falls #bill goldilocks cipher #AND I WILL GO INTO DETAIL!!!#bill cipher

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legobiwan · 9 months ago

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Gravity Falls fic rec list...Part 2.

I should be grading writing right now, but in the spirit of procrastination, I'm going to instead post about my favorite new fics that have emerged in the post-Book of Bill era.

~~~~~~

Gen Fics

A Mariner’s Guide to the Unexplained by mariezies

Another fic that tackles the idea of Stan's criminal past coming back to haunt him as the elder Pines twins take to the sea. What I really like about this fic are Ford's inner monologues and in particular, the way he overthinks his interactions with his brother post-Weirdmaggedon due to the crushing level of guilt he feels. Bonus points for the incredibly adorable cat OC who joins the twins on the Stan o'War II. Incomplete.

We're Still Here by Simplistic_Apricity

What if Stan hadn't knocked Ford through the portal in 1982 and stuck around Gravity Falls instead? A bajillion fics have been written about this concept, but this one takes a slightly different approach as to the fallout from a Bill-possessed Ford attacking his brother as Ford slowly (slowly) comes to terms with what exactly he has wrought in that basement. The characterization and interactions of the twins and Fiddleford are incredibly grounded, avoiding melodrama while still being wildly effective. Incomplete. TWs for violence and medical trauma.

~~~~~~

Billford Fics

Not to sound like a 2013 hipster, but I do want to state that I hopped on this seafaring vessel pre-BoB and am delighted to witness the explosion of works exploring the demented, tortured relationship between these two absolute disasters. I've decided to let my cringe flag fly high and free here, with the caveat that I only indulge in triangle!Bill stories (accept no substitutions), as, let's face it, Ford is a freak (affectionate) and he loves his geometry.

Statement Abnegation by Anonymous

This one probably needs no introduction, but I'd be wholly remiss if I didn't include it on my list. A+ characterization of both Ford and Bill and it fucking nails the landing. Ford is taken prisoner during Weirdmaggedon, but this time Bill's playing for keeps. Complete. TWs for torture, death (temporary), Stockholm syndrome, and explicit sexual content.

apology tour by dolorous

There's something downright wistful about this story, which presents as "crack taken seriously" when Bill chooses Ford to be his keeper/chaperone as part of a Theraprism-mandated apology tour to those he has wronged post-BoB. Ford hates Bill. Ford sometimes doesn't hate Bill. Ford definitely hates Bill. And now they're stuck on the road trip from hell. Complete. Implied past (current/future?) relationship, no sexual content.

Then it becomes, it becomes, it becomes a problem by tempusedaxrerum

Takes place post-Betrayal but (so far) pre-Stanley arriving in Gravity Falls. Bill is determined to drag Ford into opening the Portal, kicking and screaming (limbs optional). Features an incredibly well-developed OC who is battling demons of her own when she has the misfortune of crossing paths with both Bill and Ford on a snowy evening in Oregon. Incomplete. TWs for violence, attempted sexual assault via possession, substance abuse.

Live, Laugh, Lather, Rinse, Repeat by ShibaIntuit

The conceit of this story is absolutely wild. Essentially, Ford eats a cursed piece of pizza and suffers from existential indigestion. The world-building once Ford is in the multiverse is delightful as an older Ford tries to renegotiate his past with a Bill Cipher of thirty years previous. Incomplete. TWs for violence.

as falls gravity so falls gravity falls by underwater_owl

A series of three stories that take a deep dive into Ford's subconscious while exploring the idea of the Axolotl placing Bill under Ford's mental power due to shenanigans you are better off reading about than me explaining here. Bait & Switch is the main narrative, which is a gen work featuring the whole extended Pines family plus Mabel and Dipper's mother, while Because & Despite and Cause & Effect explore the intense psychosexual relationship between Ford and Bill before and during the events of Bait & Switch. These last two stories really dig into the nature of Ford's deepest and darkest desires and the utterly twisted relationship between Ford and Bill. Incomplete. TWs for explicit sexual content (read the tags on those two last stories, folks! This author isn't, or is, I suppose, fucking around).

Snakes in the Garden by Miss_Ginger_Bread

Another Jimmy Snakes story! Because both Pines twins have terrible taste in men/demonic entities. A ghost from Stan's past shows up in Norway, prompting Ford to take matters into his own hands. Lovely interactions between the Pines twins, including a murderous, protective Ford and a Ford who is harboring a gigantic, triangle-shaped secret from his brother. Incomplete. TWs for abusive relationships.

#hello there #gravity falls #fic recs #okay now i'm going to work on *my* gf story #write write write!#stanford pines #bill cipher #stanley pines #billford

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big-robot-fan · 3 months ago

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God I just remembered my really dumb (Affectionate) "30 years later" AU for Gravity Falls. Soos still runs the Mystery Shack with Mabel acting as "Miss Tery" a fortune teller that can communicate with ghosts. Well, just one ghost, actually, Grunkle Stan. But the customers don't need to know that part.

Dipper is a scientist with a laboratory working with Ford (Now just a brain in a robot shaped like his head) and once he's done with an experiment/studying a magical creature he sends it upstairs to be an exhibit in the shack.

The (dum)best part is William Crypt O'Graham.

Dipper and Mabel are CONVINCED this guy is secretly Bill Cipher seeking revenge. Their evidence? (With Will's counter arguments)

He's shaped like a triangle/pyramid. (I'm just a bit bottom heavy, don't need to make fun of me for it. Jeez.)

He has one eye. (I lost the other in an accident as a kid.)

He has a phobia of Axolotls. (My parents had a pet Axolotl, and it bit me right in the eye! It got infected, and that's why I only have one eye left. I ain't giving them a chance to finish the job!)

He wears a tuxedo t-shirt and a yellow hoodie. (Can't a man dress just a little fancy? Plus I look good in yellow!)

His full name is literally Bill Cipher. (My parents love naming things after puns. My older sister is named Penelope Thersa O'Graham, aka Pen T. O'Graham, and my little brother is named Michael Richard O'Graham, aka Mike R. O'Graham. Also why is Bill short for William? Where did the B come from???)

He isn't actually Bill Cipher out for revenge. He's being tested by the Theraprisim to see if he's been rehabilitated after 30 trillion eons. Even if he got his memories back, he wouldn't want revenge. He'd mostly just keep living as William. He wouldn't even hate the twins more, he's over the whole " killing him and stopping him from taking over the universe" thing and even admits it was kind of a dick move on his end. William still kinda hates the twins tho, just because they're jerks to him.

#gravity falls #dipper pines #mabel pines #stanley pines #stanford pines #bill Cipher

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sharksfrommars · 1 month ago

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For the Reverse portal AU.

Say I wonder what does, Bill do to Stanley and what he thinks of him? He must obviously disregard him as a non threat because he wasn’t a genius like Ford or he tried to take him hostage to have Ford open up the portal again?

Little did he come to underestimate him, and be the greatest threat to him and his plans. I wonder when Weirdmagedgon happens he goes after Stanley for being the bigger threat?

basically, Stan ruins ALL of Bill’s plots and schemes. Number 1 bill hater fr

—-

When Stan fell through the portal, bill saw it as an opportunity. Ford’s inferior clone, full of self loathing and misplaced loyalty. He knew Sixer, knew that for whatever reason, he cared about him. That when push came to shove, he’d do anything for him. Well, the way Bill saw it, push really was coming to shove now.

The first thing Stan saw upon waking up in a land of living nightmares is this dorky looking triangle, Bill. He claimed to be a friend of Ford’s. Stan didn’t believe it for a second. His bullshit detector was going haywire, so when bill offered him a deal to help him get back home, Stan sucker punched him in the eye and ran in the opposite direction. And so began Bill’s unending hatred for Stanley Pines.

It was a few years later when Stan ran into bill again. It was a medieval dimension, where the king worshipped the “great triangle”. Something about it seemed familiar, but Stan didn’t remember. Not until Bill appeared in his dreams again, this time threatening him and goading him. Stan hated this guy. So, when he awoke, he destabilised the monarchy and set up a representative democracy instead. They voted to outlaw Bill (thanks to Stan’s meddling), and did some ritual to block him from the dimension. It was REALLY funny watching a yellow triangle crash out.

This kept happening. Every time Stan saw bill, he ruined his plans. Bill claimed absurd things that Ford was doing, none of which Stan believed. Then Stan would ruin his fun, just to annoy him. Bill kept getting angrier and angrier, eventually sending people after him. But Stan always escaped. The time he got closest was with Pyronica, with Stan sleeping with her then losing his arm to bill. But he still managed to make bill look like a fool. He even managed to stop weirdmageddon in the grasshopper dimension. He was well known across the multiverse for ruining Bill’s plans. People would hire Stan for that alone.

Stan eventually met with the oracle, who told him that he “had the face of the man who would defeat bill cipher.”

“That guy? The yellow dork with the top hat? No shit, I’ve beaten him like 12 times already.” Stan had said. The oracle rolled all 7 of her eyes, but also laughed. He learned a lot from her, about travelling dimensions and rifts, about Bill, his powers and his weaknesses. He got the metal plate, so Bill would stop bugging him for a deal.

By the time Ford got the portal open, Stan was the biggest pain in Bills ass. He’d already thwarted one wierdmageddon, even if it was just the stupid grasshopper one. Bill’s plans for this one were much bigger, that was just a practice run. This time, he couldn’t have Stan interfering. So he took him off the board, turned him to stone almost immediately. He didn’t deserve to be encased in gold. He figures that after all these years, Ford should be easily dealt with. He was still Bill’s toy, no matter what he did or said. Right?

#gravity falls #stanley pines #gravity falls au #asylum ford #reverse portal au #bill cipher

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matcha-milkies · 9 months ago

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MARRIED LIFE

Summary: Bill Cipher gets everything he ever wanted, including (especially) a “marriage” to his favorite human. Ford and Stan disagree about where to go from here.

Relationships: Bill Cipher/Ford Pines

Content Warnings: Forced Marriage, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, (Forced) Alcohol Use

Tags: Triangle Bill, Canon Divergence - Weirdmageddon, Bill Cipher Wins, Collars

Word Count: 1,556

Link to AO3: Here

A/N: I don’t know yet whether I’ll post a second chapter. Perhaps! These gay little cartoon characters sure are fun to write.

Ford looked out over the sprawling destruction that was Gravity Falls. One arm crossed over his abdomen, in the other he nursed a cocktail glass topped off with swirling golden liquid. Bill was none too pleased if he came back and there was ever any left, but Ford could only stand so much of the stuff in one gulp. Besides, if he drank too quickly, the toll on his body was nothing to scoff at. He still had no idea what was even in it. Every time he had asked, Bill’s eye had simply creased in silent amusement, or else he had gone on talking like the man had never said anything.

Little fires dotted the landscape all over. Well, they weren’t so little, were they? Ford always made himself sick with these viewing sessions, but it was the only stimulating thing to do around here, aside from pinging out notes on the piano. And besides, why should he be spared from all the misery? If he was sheltered from it, up in his obsidian tower, the very least he could do was feel bad about it. He took another sip from his glass and grimaced. Great Scott, that was disgusting.

“Sixer?” The name sent unpleasant ripples across Ford’s nerves, but when he turned and saw his twin’s face, he let himself relax. A little.

“Stanley, you’re alright.”

“I better be. That was part of the deal and all…” Stan dusted off the sleeves of his suit, looking around. “Wouldn’t want you, uh… suffering for nothing.” His eyes traveled from the painting over the fireplace and then to the lavish, dark red robe Ford had cinched around his waist.

“Bill had a different flavor of suffering in mind for me.” As if to punctuate that statement, he tilted back his drink and nearly coughed it up again.

“Yeesh.”

“It tastes like bitter defeat,” Ford explained. He saw the face his brother was making. “I’m not being poetic, Stanley. He somehow made it taste like the actual poignant sting of failure. I would offer you to try some if I didn’t think it was slowly poisoning me.”

“Yeah, pass on that one. Why don’t you just dump it out in the sink? You do have a sink in here, don’t you?”

“Ah, yes, of course, why didn’t I think of that?” Ford’s expression softened, and he sighed. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be snippy. It’s just… He would know. By the time I’m to the bottom of one of these, I’m… different. For quite some time.”

Stan seemed to be snapping these pieces together in his head, the drink, the robe, the golden “wedding band” around Ford’s throat. Clearly, it was forming a picture he didn’t like. “Okay, so what’s the plan?”

Ford eyed him and then let his gaze drop.

“Poindexter? You’ve been thinkin’ up a plan, right?”

“Of course I have! Every second of every hour, and I just keep hitting dead ends. He’s virtually omnipotent. I’m bound by contract to him, and even me thinking of ways to get out of it could give him a reason to renege on his end of the deal and hurt you! Or worse, the kids!”

“So that’s just it?! We lie down and roll over?!”

“I-I don’t know, Stanley. I’m mated.” Off his brother’s look, he added, “That’s a chess term.”

“I-I know it is! But could you not use it next time?”

Ford sank down onto the flesh couch. He hated that it hardly bothered him anymore. “Maybe this is it. Maybe… I’m meant to accept this fate, as punishment for—”

“Stop! Stop that! Do you hear yourself?” Stan strode forward until he was in his brother’s face. “You’re this pathetic? You hand the universe over to Bill Cipher on a silver platter and then give up?! You’re probably the only one smart enough to think up a way out of this mess, so how about less wallowing and more scheming?! Who cares what happens to me?!”

Ford screwed his eyes shut as he was berated. “I do! What kind of idiotic question is that?”

“And the kids, you want them to grow up in a world where Bill Cipher is king?!”

“Of course not, but you don’t know the things he’d do to them if I acted out, Stan! He’s not going to spare them because they’re children! He will torture them!”

Stan smacked the glass out of Ford’s hand. It shattered on the floor. Ford gaped. “Stan, you shouldn’t have—”

“I don’t care what he thinks! Neither should you!”

“Stop framing it like I’m on his side!”

“Aren’t you, now?!”

“I’m only trying to be pragmatic about our options! And thank God I am, or who knows where we’d all be right now?!”

Ford froze then, his muscles tensing at a familiar presence in the room.

“YIKES. Who knew the family reunion would get this VOLATILE?” Bill circled them with glee, his eye trained on them all the while. “HEY, I guess I’m part of the family now too, isn’t that right, Fez?” He looped an arm around a growling Stanley and wiggled his ring finger. “We’re brothers-in-law! Ha! Who would’ve thought?”

“Bill.” Ford’s breaths were painfully shallow. “I—”

“And Sixer!” Bill was suddenly in his face, his eye taking up the majority of Ford’s field of vision. “I had NO IDEA you thought about me this much when I’m away! That’s so sweet!” With no warning, his eye turned to a mouth and trailed saliva up Ford’s cheek and temple, leaving his glasses askew and his face scrunched up in distaste. The demon’s eye blinked back to normal. “WELL? Where’s my WELCOME HOME KISS?”

Once he had gathered himself enough, Ford leaned in and planted a chaste kiss on Bill’s face, near the corner of his eye. Bill giggled like a little schoolgirl.

“OH NO. It looks like somebody was REAL CLUMSY! Let me refresh your drink, doll!” The shattered glass reassembled itself and floated into Ford’s hand. The liquid leached out of the carpet, pouring itself back into place. “You hardly drank any! Here, let me help with that.”

“Bill—” was all Ford managed before his head was tilted back and about half of the glass’s contents were dumped down his throat. He gagged and almost choked, but somehow got it all down. When he was allowed to hold his head upright again, he found it quite the effort to do so. His brain felt fuzzy and full of cotton. There was a weird glittery filter over the world. He felt far more relaxed, despite the pounding point of tension persisting at the back of his mind. Any worry was now faint, like a distant star.

“Ford!” Stan shouted, but it was difficult to care that that was happening.

“Mhm,” was all he said in response, finally letting his head loll and his eyes close. “Mmm.”

“He’s just so TENSE all the time,” Bill explained casually. “This is how I get him to LOOSEN UP. And hey, I guess it makes it harder for him to YELL at you too. You’re welcome.”

“You’re sick, you three-sided freak!” Stan shook his fist, almost like a threat, as if he could do anything to the dream demon. “I’ll end you!”

“DOING AWAY WITH THE PRETENSE, HUH?”

“Pretense,” Ford laughed for some reason, stretching himself across the full length of the couch and propping his head up with his forearm. This seemed to delight Bill, who began petting through the man’s hair.

“IT IS A PRETTY FUNNY WORD, ISN’T IT, IQ?” The demon swirled the drink a little and then brought it to Ford’s lips.

“Mhm,” Ford agreed, his response partially muffled by the glass as he sipped down more of the mysterious golden liquor.

“SEE? I enjoy the MENTAL SPARRING, don’t get me wrong, but sometimes that big brain of his gets in the way.” Bill affectionately tapped the side of Ford’s head as he let the quarter-full drink hang in midair. “ANYHOO.” He rotated to face Stan head-on; the movement was uncanny. “You should get back to the twins! Cook up another adorable scheme that’s doomed to fail! Sixer and I will watch from up here!”

“S’anley,” Ford slurred, shaking his head in protest, but he didn’t get very far in his thought before Bill pressed the rim of the glass to his lips again. “B- ill– please- I-I can… can’t…” The room was spinning now, violently, and he felt like he was going to be sick. It was like he was speedrunning a very bad hangover.

“SURE YOU CAN! Don’t worry, I won’t let you throw up.” Another pat on the head, and Ford groaned his distress as his throat bobbed and the last of the liquid disappeared down his esophagus.

“Unh… S’an… Stan…” His head dropped onto the couch, eyes struggling to focus.

“Sixer.” Stan started towards his twin, but before he could make it more than two steps, Bill snapped his fingers and Stan was gone, returned to where he’d come from. The demon sank onto the couch and arranged Ford until his head was on his lap (however much of a lap Bill had), fingers continuing to card through his hair.

“Come on. Don’t look at me like that, Fordsy. The relatives can come to visit another time.”

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thatsodapopgirl · 4 months ago

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Bill Created Alastor au: Bill kills two birds with one stone + Yandere Lucifer

Bill Cipher can be described as very petty and vengeful. He was known to hold a grudge when wronged and would pay it back tenfold. Also very calculating and observant; that he was able to catch the red flags of Lucifer’s actions towards Alastor.

Surface level it be seen as cute and overprotective . But the angel was already showing signs of possessiveness and jealousy. It caught Bill off guard when Lucifer agreed to Charlie’s request for a truce between the two. But the tension was still there. Bill could feel the angel’s piercing gaze when his back was turned. This gave the dream demon an idea.

Bill would send Alastor to run small “errands” and he did this very frequently. Sure he’ll probably ask questions, but Bill was a good liar and he’s known Alastor for so long to know how to trick him.

Something so tedious that everyone wouldn’t notice how it would affect Lucifer. So much that he cornered the triangle and demanded to know why he continued to send out Alastor from his realm to run “errands”

Bill would play all innocent and mention since he’s not as powerful as before, he needs Alastor’s help. But before Lucifer could call him, Bill mentions that Alastor does take a long time to return. And the place he sends him holds special memories.

Lucifer: Special memories?

Bill: Well I should say, special someone.

Bill could see Lucifer falling into his trap; now to the next step. He pulls out a photo from his top hat and shows it to Lucifer. In the photo it was picture of Alastor in his human form with another human man. The picture seemed innocent enough, just showed the two at a bar drinking together.

Bill: Alastor has been going to a town in Oregon called Gravity Falls because my vessel is there.

Lucifer remained quiet as he continued to study the photo. He tried to reason with himself; telling himself that Alastor has never been interested in romantic relationships before and even if he did, why would it matter. Why would Cipher even show him this

Bill: The man in the photo is called Stan Pines and he lives in Gravity Falls

Lucifer: And why does that matter?

Bill: I suspected that him and Alastor were more that just “friends”

Lucifer: What are you implying you demented freak!

Bill: Lucifer, I created Alastor. I at least have an idea on what he gets up to. He could be with Stan Pines right now and you wouldn’t be the wiser

Lucifer: Even if that’s true, why would you even tell me this? I thought you hated me

Bill: Haha yeah, I definitely do! But I hate this guy even more!

Lucifer contemplated the information he was given. This could be one of Bill’s schemes to drive another wedge between him and Alastor. But as he looked at that photo, he couldn’t help but feel the rage boiling inside. Yes he loved Alastor’s genuine smiles, but to see it aimed at someone else was unbearable. And the way this other man had his arm wrapped around Alastor’s neck, pulling his lover closer to him made him want to skin this intruder.

Lucifer decided to created a portal to the mortal realm and walked through it.

Bill could barely contained his cruel laugh. That dumb angel fell for it! It was a stretch but to think that a being so ancient could fall for something that was an obvious lie?!

Now Bill can just sit back and wait for the domino effect he created. Lucifer will most likely kill Stan Pines and when word gets out that he killed a living human on earth; heaven is going to lose their shit. Bill just wished he was there to see the agonizing death of Stanley and punishment Lucifer will receive for the murder. All he can do is imagine

#bill created alastor au #hazbin hotel #gravity falls #hazbin hotel alastor #hazbin hotel lucifer #bill cipher #gravity falls bill #book of bill #radioapple #appleradio #alastor the radio demon #lucifer morningstar #crossover

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shybasementkid · 6 months ago

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To convince the hated

warning: again, this is an au. implications and hints of sexual trauma n repressed trauma. also bill

a/n: ill leave WHY ford waited up to interpretation but ill say that he didnt want the outcome. this is kind of random but bill and stan never canonically makes a DEAL. bill just convinced him that he deserved it. i just thought bill having stans soul was a cool idea. ykw feel free to ship billstan in this au too. ok ill stop yapping, enjoy folks!

Stan could barely see anything. His head hurt. He could feel himself bleed from the left side of his face. Everything was dark.

Quick, last things he remembered. That usually worked in states like this. Letter from his brother after ten years. Showing up. Being asked if he was gonna... steal his eyes? By Ford? And then, two fatal shots to his eye and head. Being pulled up on the outside couch. Ford ran up to the house. But he didn't.. come back out.

Was this it? Was he dead? Was he gonna spend forever in a dark void, cold, bloody, and alone? Well, the alone part wasn't exactly new, he supposes. Then, he heard a maniacal laughter that was almost comforting in that situation in the distance. And the one eyed-triangle appeared in front of him.

"WELL, WELL, WELL, WELL, WELL, WELL, WELL! ISN'T IT THE MAN OF THE HOUR, STAR OF THE SHOW, STANLEY PINES? LET ME TELL YA, SIXER'S TOLD ME ABOUT YOU!"

".. What the fuck even are you."

Stan said, backing away. His one functioning eye looked at him with a look of anger, shock, and a dash of shock.

"I'M YOUR NEW BEST FRIEND! NAME'S BILL, BILL CIPHER! AND CAN I ASK YOU IF YOU'VE LOOKED IN A MIRROR RECENTLY?"

He popped a mirror into existence and held it towards Stan. The look in his.. well, eye, twisted into horror. Half of his face was bloodied, with an arrow through his eye and head. He touched his own face.

".. No.. he didn't."

"OH, YES HE DID! AND LET ME TELL YOU SOMETHING! SIXER HAD EIGHTEEN MINUTES BEFORE YOU FINALLY KICKED THE BUCKET TO SAVE YOU, BUT HE DIDN'T USE A SINGLE ONE!"

Stan looked down. His look could only be described as unreadable. Everything that ever happened to the twins flowed through his mind like a waterfall.

The nerd he shared a room with for seventeen years had ten real years to hate him and put an arrow through his head. And left him to die, it seemed.

Bill's eye iris turned into a dark blue, as the rest of it turned pitch black. He was hatching a plan.

"TELL ME, KID. DO YOU EVER WANT REVENGE?"

The word revenge seemed similar to the arrow in his eye at that very moment. No. He had only wanted his brother and family back. He never felt.. deserving of more than that, or even just that. Never even felt deserving of an 'I'm sorry' from anyone.

".. No.. and I'm not gonna want it now. He doesn't deserve vengeance upon him.. especially not from me."

"IF HE WAS IN YOUR BOOTS RIGHT NOW, YOU'D ALREADY BE DEAD! HE HATES YOU, GUILTLESSLY, AND YOU'RE SCARED TO WANT REVENGE?"

The look in his eyes twisted into an repeessed anger he's had, deep in his gut for ten years.

Ford did get to hate him. Guiltlessly. He's hated him for a stupid school project for ten years. It sunk in. He might not have gotten into his dream college, but he got thrown out of the house because of it. And yet, he was hated. For ten years.

"WHAT ABOUT SOME OTHER FELLAS? FILBRICK, THE ONES FROM TIJUANA, HELL, YOUR CHILDHOOD BULLY? DON'T YOU EVER GET ANGRY? WELL, MY FRIEND,"

Bill's hand reached forward towards Stan, seemingly catching on fire, in a blue ember.

"YOU GOT THE RIGHT GUY! JUST SHAKE MY HAND, AND I'LL GIVE YOU EVERYTHING YOU NEED!"

".. What's the catch?"

"ALWAYS A CATCH, ISN'T IT? BUT YOU'LL SEE WHAT THE CATCH IS. ONE DAY. DEAL OR NO DEAL?"

Stanley looked down at his hand. Was he really about to do this? Make a deal with the devil?

A devil like the one they warn you about in stories when you were a kid.

.. Fuck it.

Stanley put up his hand and shook Bill's. He heard as he cackled, and when he opened his eyes, he was in a dark, shitty trailer. It was HIM.

The one with the coke back in Tijuana. He was smoking a cigarette, without a trace of remorse or anything. Like he didn't hurt Stanley in such a matter.

And he laughed.

Just low enough for him to view it as far away, but just loud enough for him to look around.

Now he'll know what it's like to be the smallest thing in the room.

Now they'll all know.

#levity falls #gravity falls au #stanley pines #bill cipher #stanford pines #but like not really hes just mentioned

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serendark · 9 months ago

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Too Many Triangles

Summary:

Stanley Pines never knew what to make of that creepy cult room full of triangles that he found beneath his brother's house. Decades later, as the portal turns on, he thinks about what he's seen in all three of his brother's journals. He thinks about the note that Bill left behind for Mabel. This demon triangle has been harassing his family. There’s entirely way too many triangles in this house and in this family’s lives. Hours later after the worst reunion Stan's ever had, he steels himself and travels back downstairs, back to the portal basement. He needs to talk to Ford about Bill. He needs to protect his family. Even if that family apparently includes someone who hates him now.

Word count: 8,717

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Category: Gen

Language: English

Characters: Stanley Pines (major), Stanford Pines (major), Bill Cipher (mentioned repeatedly), Dipper Pines (brief), Mabel Pines (brief)

Tags: Implied/Referenced Suicide, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Self-Harm, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Sibling Bonding, Guilt, Minor Violence

Spoilers: Season 2 (canon divergent: s02e11 "Not What He Seems"), Journal 3 (lore reference), The Book of Bill (lore reference)

Read on AO3.

Glistening rainbow shimmers of long-abandoned pyramid prisms were indiscernible from the flutters of stale dust motes that fell around Stanley’s shoulders like a hideous ceremonial scarf as he tore pallid drapes down from the walls to the floor beneath his feet.

All too suddenly the room was all too small, walls caving in and seizing the man’s lungs while tumultuous needles pinned his frozen legs in place. He didn’t know where to look, but there was only one place he could, washing over him in waves of deep, dark, terror: Dozens upon dozens of eyes gazing back at him, staring right through him, every inch of his soul torn open and laid bare to see, to be chewed and drank by these confusing triangles… By the absurdly gaudy golden statue that might as well have winked back at him for all that it deigned.

Stan stumbled backwards, backside and hands meeting the floor as he struggled to process what he was beholding. This did not feel like something he should have seen, and he couldn’t shake the gross feeling bubbling under his skin that there was no taking it back, no undoing the fact that he is now privy to this awful, terrible room of goddamn cult secrets. He has become a part of this and he cannot scrub that away.

“What the hell, Sixer…?”

He never knew what to make of this room, and after scouring the piles, drawers, and corners for anything that might help with the portal he never once returned, preferring to forget about it entirely if he could. Unfortunately, forgetting was rather difficult since he passed the place every time he went down to the basement and he kept finding more of those damn prisms in random rooms in his brother’s home.

Sometimes he wondered if he should care more about this discovery, but it’s not like he had a lot of leads to work with. The journal in his possession didn’t mention anything about it and neither did any of the papers scattered around the room or lab, so other than the obvious similarity with the shape of the portal, Stan doubted if there even was more for him to learn, anyway. He just needed to fix the portal, get it running, and get his nerd brother back home. That’s all that mattered. No creepy geometry could alter the path which Stan has stitched into his very soul.

He will fix his greatest mistake or he will die trying. If this house does not see the two brothers reunited, then it will bear witness to the disappearance of both instead.

It’s the least Stan can do.

—

An extensive, wavering exhale rolled over Grunkle Stan’s nerves as he sat on the edge of his bed, head in hands and mind whirring over everything that had happened today. Finally, Stanford Pines was home. The real Stanford.

… Home? What was ‘home’ to Stanley Pines, now? Certainly not in his brother’s arms like he had hoped. Apparently not in the Mystery Shack, either. Not for much longer. A dark chuckle wheezed through his lips as he gingerly massaged the bruise on his temple.

No matter. His twin hates him now, but that won’t change what Stan needs to do. He’s almost tempted to hate himself for his own stubbornness, at this point, but that won’t change the facts. Ungrateful bastard or not, a sad 30 years of daring to hope only for it to leak down the drain… And Stan still knows what path he has bound himself to. He is going to protect his family. Even if that family now includes someone who, once again, is trying to send him away to never see his sorry mug ever again. Even if that family now includes someone who he himself disowned as family merely an hour or two ago.

…Shit, he really regretted that. He idly wondered if Ford might be regretting that whole conversation too, but Stan just shook his head before he got lost in that train of thought for too long.

Bill Cipher. It’s been a long time coming: Stan finally needs to confront the damn triangles with their damn eyes.

He still didn’t know what to make of the private study he found beneath this house all those years ago. But what he did know is that, whatever the geometric eyesore is, it’s dangerous. Stan has scoured every page of the second and third journals lately, blacklight included, and it was all… a lot to take in. Despite what Ford had said, Stan isn’t an idiot. He knows that triangle is bad news. He knows Ford was real chummy with the guy once and then fell out of line, with some rather disturbing pages in Dipper’s journal to prove it.

This demon triangle has been harassing his family. There’s entirely way too many triangles in this house, in his brother’s journals, in the kids’ dreams, in this family’s lives. And Stanley Pines is going to do something about it.

—

He swallowed down the static in his head and the cotton ball in his mouth as he waited for the elevator to carry him down to Hell. He was hoping beyond hope that this wasn’t a mistake.

Well, even if it was, he was doing it anyway. He’s pretty good at that. He’s sure Ford would be more than happy to remind him, even. Safest bet he’s ever gambled.

Once more partaking of their familiar 30-years-long song and dance, the elevator rattled and released Stan into the maw beneath this home for yet another time. Cautious feet stepped forward as he peered ahead, trying to locate his brother.

Stanford was in the portal cavern. Hands busy, head ducked down, sparks flying. The room was still a mess from the gravitational anomalies that had preceded the worst reunion in Stan’s life, though it looked like Ford had pushed some things into comparatively tidier piles. The portal was in even more pieces than it had been after the chaos earlier.

Alright. It’s showtime.

Stan wasn’t looking forward to it.

“We need to talk, Poindexter.”

The speed with which Ford whipped around, choking back a yelp, would have been impressive, perhaps funny, even, if Stan weren’t so anxious. Ford had damn near fallen over, peering towards the source of the sound with too-wide eyes as he dropped what he had been doing and reached beneath his coat towards his gun―

“Wh… Stanley–!”

Stan just shrugged. “Yeesh.” He felt as tired as Ford looked. It’s been a long day and now he’s come back down to this accursed old basement to make it even longer.

Before Ford could finish stringing together his thoughts or lacing his tongue with venom, Stan wagered to jump right into the train directly, disregarding the nausea settling in his stomach: “We gotta deal with that Bill Cipher guy, right? I don’t exactly understand what the sitch is but–”

He saw the ceiling rotate over him and felt his back collide with the floor before he could even blink, world spinning and stars infiltrating his vision as hard as his lungs hissed. He swallowed against the muzzle of Ford’s gun pressed to his neck, those angry owlish eyes boring mere inches away from his face, the man’s full body weight keeping Stan pinned flat; knees digging into thighs and wrists scrunched in a vice grip by an impossibly firm six-fingered hand. Ford growled. Oh sweet Moses, yeah this was going about as well as Stan figured it would.

Panic. Gotta say somethin’. “Oookay, uh, Ford… Stanford, care to explain why ya just came at me like a damn cheetah pouncin’ a bison?” A gruff cough betrayed the grin he tried to steady his heart rate with.

One second. Two seconds. Three seconds–

Confusion crossed over Ford’s eyes like a delayed signal, eyebrows furrowing as the gears in his brain turned. Stan swore he could see smoke coming out of this nerd’s ears. He blinked, spluttering, leaning back slightly with his grip on Stan’s wrists slacking. “Cheetahs and bisons aren’t even on the same continent, Stanley!”

Stan simply offered him a million-dollar grin and the best shrug he could in response. Which was difficult, by the way, thank you Ford. “Get off me, dammit.” Ford leaned back, letting Stan sit up, but frowned at him the entire time with his gun still primed and waaaay too close to Stan’s face for comfort. Was that a snarl? Seriously?

He was seconds away from figuring out what he was going to say next when an offensively bright light beamed into his eyes and shocked his mind to blankness, Ford’s hands gripping Stan’s face as he forced each eye open in turn before the light disappeared as suddenly as it had come. Stan swore furiously, waving his arms in front of his face and trying to scoot away, only succeeding once Ford finally backed off and let him free.

When Stan finished rubbing his eyes and pulling himself back onto his feet, he saw that Ford had returned to his earlier position of crouching by the ruined portal. Okay, seriously? All that bullshit that just happened and you’re desperate to shove your nose back into some busywork like I’m not even here–

“...How do you know about Bill, Lee?” Ford was back on his feet, body facing Stanley though eyes downcast as though the floor could answer his questions instead. Stan hesitated, the bite of his anger gradually receding as his eyes took in his brother for what might truly be the first real time since he walked through that luminous, ephemeral, triangular frame of metal. His eyes drank in the deep, dark circles under Stanford’s cracked glasses, the pasty color of his skin, the patchy stubble on his face, the sweat sliding down his forehead from his mop of greasy mussed-up hair…

The way his closed fists were trembling as if taut with tension, just like his brow and his lip, presenting a portrait of a Poindexter who was teetering on the cusp of erupting into his own flaming supernova where he stood. Stan knew that feeling. Had partied with it multiple times. He was intimately familiar with the way it burrowed a hole in your chest in place of your heart: a fear that was all-consuming, an anxiety that buzzed beneath one’s skin; a frantic, off-kilter energy that kept a ragged man going on his feet when he had nothing else yet couldn’t bear to simply not care.

This was a man who was running on fumes, no fuel left in the tank, and ready to collapse into non-existence the moment the strings puppeting him forward decided to stop yanking him along.

A man with one reason to live, yet even that reason is barely enough. The worst buried secret in the world; a heavy weight plain as day upon his shoulders and carving out the marrow of his bones.

Stanley recognized pretty easily the poorly-hidden tells of devastated fear and utter exhaustion in his brother’s body language. Because he had lived like that, too. Because he still struggled to remind himself when it wasn’t one of those days.

Sixer had never looked so… small.

Stan heaved a deep breath, slow and rickety enough for him to feel it vibrate down his limbs.

“Read ‘bout him in your journals.” Ford’s head lifted slightly, eyes flashing to Stan’s face. “...‘Nd the kids had the misfortune of fightin’ him.” Stanley might as well have punched Ford directly through his core for all that the words, hanging in the air, impacted this man and hung despair on his face. “‘Course, they don’t know that I know that.”

“... What happened?” His brother’s voice was barely a whisper, almost a keening whine from his lungs as he ran his hands through his hair and down his face, fingers creeping under his glasses to push into his eyes as he massaged his temples. It was like his eyebrows hadn’t left his hairline in minutes, the creases in his forehead deep enough to age him by another few decades.

Stan hobbled over to the ruins of the portal, taking a moment to stretch his lower back before sitting on the cold stone and patting the ground next to him. Ford didn’t immediately follow, but kept his eyes trained on him the whole time. Stan just started talking anyway.

“Alright, without talkin’ to the kids about it I don’t got the whole picture, but I got enough. Some rascal kid that was freakin’ Mabel out tried to take the Shack. Same kid who found your second journal, wherever the hell that was.” Ford had carefully stepped closer, hovering over Stan before letting himself sink into place on the floor beside him. He looked like he didn’t know what to do with his hands and was awkwardly twiddling all twelve of his fingers while he listened, muscles in his face twitching.

“Mabes and Soos saw this kid, Gideon is his name, summoning the guy. Bill, I mean. Made a deal with ‘im to go in my head ‘nd find the code to my safe, so he could steal the deed to the Shack.” Ford raised an eyebrow, making his posture straighter for a moment as he prepared to speak before Stan just continued and cut him off. “The kids used that spell in yer third book to go into m’ head, uh, my mindscape, and fight him out. Whatever they did, it worked, though that piece of geometry didn’t seem to amount to much compared ta what that Gideon did next anyways. Kid had a plan B that didn’t involve Bill.”

“You weren’t there for this.” Ford said it like a statement, but with an intonation to his voice that made it an inquiry. Stan shook his head. “I was out cold. Not sure I even dreamed that night.” Ford nodded.

Silence chilled the air between these old men as Stan cracked his neck and began popping every one of his knuckles in turn, only releasing his breath once he was finished. Ford wanted nothing more than to break this silence, to urge Stan to continue, but it felt… sacred, somehow. Once Stan was ready, he balled his hands into fists and snorted. “S’next part really pisses me off.” He didn’t notice Ford gulp and tentatively hover a hand in his direction before changing his mind.

“I dunno what was said, I dunno what it all looked like, but that bastard got in Dipper’s head, got in his body.”

He suddenly turned to look at Ford, eyes wide. “He hurt him. Gave him scars. Gave him nightmares. Gave Mabel nightmares, too.” Stan’s mouth opened and closed, hanging strangely for a moment while his eyebrows knit together. “...Bill left a note, Stanford. For Mabel to find.”

One shaky inhale later, he continued. “Was gonna… jump off the water tower. Invited Mabel to the same.” He turned away from Ford, leaning back against the portal again and flexing his fingers, shoulders tense while he cracked his neck again. Stan’s gaze was forward and distant, a hollow feeling taking over his face and posture.

A loud slam startled him back into awareness.

Ford had sat up and punched the piece of portal he had been leaning against, struggling with growled breaths of air and trembling shoulders. He grit his teeth and punched it again. And again. Then he tottered to his feet and slapped both open palms into the metal, dipping his head forward and colliding against it. He hissed, rearing his head back like he was preparing for a larger blow―

“Woah― hey, hey, Ford! Stanford!” Stan was on his feet in no time and shoved Ford away from the portal, digging his hands down into Ford’s shoulders to hopefully keep him immobile. Ford wobbled and refused to meet his eyes, but Stan managed to keep him rooted where his feet stood. “What the hell was that about? Ford, buddy, are–”

Ford growled again and yanked himself backwards out of Stan’s hands, but made no move towards the portal. Stan’s hands floated, the man hesitating while he tried to put together what to say while his brain was still buzzing from whatever the heck it was that just happened.

“...My fault…”

Stanley froze, unsure if he heard that right.

“It’s my fault! I’m the reason why the kids are hurt, I’m the reason why they can’t sleep in peace. This is my fault, damn it!” Stan couldn’t entirely understand the next few words Sixer spoke, like some kind of foreign language, but he didn’t need to. His brother slumped over to the portal, giving it a half-hearted kick before leaning one shoulder on it and crumpling down to the floor. He tucked his face into his knees and wrapped his arms around his bent legs in a gesture that Stan well and truly understood.

Seeing his brother like this gave him flashbacks of a different time, of back when two young boys had spent the sweltering afternoon venting about life on a beach with grains of sand and glass between their toes. The shade of a patched-up wooden boat enveloped them in comfort much like the warm, salty air did the same. Stan needed to punch what was making Sixer feel this way. Stan needed to hug his brother. Stan needed to protect him and take care of him and make sure he never felt like this ever again. Down here in a stuffy basement in Oregon, Stan could have swore he smelled the ocean for just a moment. He licked his lips and tasted salt.

But when he reached a hand out to Stanford’s shoulder this time, his brother slapped it away and glared daggers at him. “It’s your fault for interrupting me during my fight! You should not have turned the portal back on!” Stan gaped at him and reeled back from the outburst of rage and accusation, his head feeling like an out-of-control jackhammer of confusion and pain.

He saw a nerdy little boy shaking his head, shoving his twin’s chest, and running out of the shade, running out of the sand, his snot-nosed face poorly hidden in the crook of an elbow.

“This was an insanely risky move, restarting the portal! Didn't you read my warnings?!”

“Stanley! Stanley! Do something! STANLEY!!”

Memories and voices from hours to years past spun a cacophony in his brain, a terrible chokehold that rattled the old man and stole his tongue. The room felt as though it were trying to take the air from his chest, twisting and swaying and becoming smaller around him. The broken portal sneered at him, trying to scare him away with taunts of his mistakes, with visions of a brother who pushed him into a burning hot panel 30 years ago and would gladly shove him out of his life today. It felt boiling, perspiration rolling down these walls of stone while sweat poured down his face and his burnt shoulder throbbed, stung, and scarred just like yesterday.

There was a painful pressure between his ears that urged him to leave, to escape, to find safety in a dark corner out of sight and as far away from here as possible like he failed to do three decades ago. If he stayed here then this grisly room, no, this ghastly portal, were going to squeeze his guts out inch-by-inch and break his bones one-by-one, the lightest punishment they could sentence him with. The eye of the portal would be judge, jury, and executioner, even from the floor as it was. He thought the laughter coming from the elevator behind his back sounded like his brother’s… only, higher-pitched and strangely distorted. Something off-putting, much like how he is out of place and out of his league in this basement. He was the one who willingly came back down here, letting his feet bring him to Hell. He was the one who dared to talk to Stanford. He should flee Oregon, he should ditch his name again, he should take Ford’s journal and go back out through the blitzing snow and leave and―

Stan closed his eyes, eyebrows scrunched as hard as humanly possible while he thought about why he came down here in the first place.

Bill.

Bill Cipher.

Right, that’s right.

That triangular devil.

The ruckus in his head slowed down all at once as he pictured Ford’s intricate drawings and written warnings, his mind’s eye blocking everything else out as it tunneled in on what mattered the most. A glowing triangle seated amidst a blackness that blanketed the cavern around him in an act of grace which smothered his fevered thoughts. A white hot fury in Stan’s chest that radiated outwards in this dark, musty basement, encouraging him forward. The portal was nothing more than piles of scrap, tape, and screws. The elevator was silent with only rust and age to its name. His brother was home. Stanford was here. Ford and Bill. His brother punched him in the face.

Stan huffed and abruptly spun away from Stanford, stomping over to the control hub area of the lab. Upon returning to the portal chamber moments later carrying one of those clear pyramid prisms, he made eye contact with Ford and then roared as he chucked the pyramid into the stone floor with all the might he could. Unsurprisingly, unfortunately, it did not shatter or break. Stan knew it wouldn’t. He’s taken out his stress on it before.

Ford was startled by Stan’s sudden violence, jumping at the impact noise and cringing as the prism rolled an echoing clatter across the floor. He swallowed when Stan whipped around to face him, his brother’s eyes searing a fierce unforgiving flame into his retinas as he glowered.

“Let me make myself clear. I’ve READ yer nerd diaries, Stanford. I KNOW ya have that really damn creepy room down here with this triangle bastard all over the walls, ‘nd I also know the last things you wrote about him were ugly as all hell.” He crossed his arms, turning his head to look real hard at the shadows in the corner. “I get it, whatever, you think it’s a mistake that I saved ya, you think it’s just another worthless screw-up from Stanley Pines. I don’t need a reminder of how much ya hate me.”

“Stanley–”

The con man snarled, meeting Ford’s eyes again. “What’s important right now is this guy is messin’ with our family. I dunno how you know this guy or what all happened between ya, but if you care at all about protecting the kids then let’s just go find some unicorns or whatever the hell and take care of this weirdo already! Then I’ll be outta your hair just like you wanted ‘nd we can pretend this all never happened.”

He shoved a finger at Ford, stepping closer. “‘Nd I don’t wanna hear it outta your mouth that any of this is your fault. I won’t stand for you badmouthing yourself, and I don’t wanna see you hurtin’ yourself again.” His eyes flickered to the portal frame briefly. “I am gonna protect this family from that demon monster and that includes you no matter how much you make it clear you don’t wanna see my sorry face. So DEAL with it, Poindexter, and stuff it.”

With that, Stanley stomped his foot and went to lean against the portal a little farther away from Ford. Ford couldn’t seem to swallow the tension in the air down enough no matter how hard he tried, sheepishly keeping his head turned down towards his feet.

The only sound that hazarded being heard now was the ever-present hum of resting machinery in the nearby control room. Red, white, green, and blue lights slowly blinking in and out of existence. Dark screens and large windows reflecting blackness and the distant visage of two upset twin brothers. A glossy, framed photograph of Dipper and Mabel smiling at the camera; Dipper giving Mabel bunny ears while she stuck her fingers in her mouth and stretched her face into the silliest, widest smile she could.

Twin siblings sharing the moment together like nobody else could do it better.

A captured memory of two kids being kids.

Happy memories from the beginning of an Oregon summer that supervised the final stretch of Stan’s very long 30 years, now bookended at last by the portal finally turning on.

Happy memories from nostalgic summers on Glass Shard Beach that safeguarded Stan through his shivers in the sleepless night, jacket pulled tight around his shoulders while he waited out the bite of winter in his car.

A worn photo of two boys that burned a hole in Stanford’s chest where the pocket of his black coat rested.

Dust hung in the air for minutes, fluttering in a draft so small it might have been imagined. Silence that built itself into a fortress, brick by brick. Tension that polluted the very air, threading it into thick, inedible cotton and dry tongues.

Breaking the silence had never felt less appealing. It would have been preferred had a chasm opened up and swallowed him instead.

Ford wiped his hands down his face again and sighed. “Alright. I can accept that I need to tell you about Bill. You are the other adult here and the primary guardian of these children. You’re already involved, anyway.” In his peripheral he caught Stan looking at him in the corner of his eye, clearly listening.

“Bill is… a dream demon made of energy who possesses no physical form in our world. He must manifest through dreams–projecting into our mindscapes–to interact with our realm. Or… make a deal that gives him control of a human body. Like… Like a puppet.” It didn’t escape Stan’s notice how Ford cringed, shame and fear washing over his face instantaneously.

“The purpose of the portal is to enable Bill access to our world in the flesh with his own physical body. Then he can use his god-like powers to take over and wreak havoc upon human society as we know it, bringing the whole of planet Earth, nay, Dimension 46'\, to pure chaos and ruin.”

As Ford continued to speak, Stan carefully came back closer and sat down on the floor again, trying not to grimace at his back as he did so. He was careful not to touch Ford. For but a moment he felt dizzy as he lowered himself, swimming colors in his vision putting his knees in sand before he blinked and was back on the stone floor.

“I… There is a deal between Cipher and I that is still in effect, but I have a metal plate in my head now that nullifies his influence over me. So I am safe.” At Stan’s raised eyebrow, Ford knocked his knuckles against his forehead. Sure enough, Stan heard the metallic echo.

Stan licked his lips, trying to choose his next words carefully. “If ya got that while in sci-fi sideburns land, then… you didn’t have it when ya asked me to come here, back in the 80’s.”

Ford seemed surprised, but nodded, looking at him.

“Is this guy the reason why you looked so god-awful back then?”

“...Indeed. I had only recently found out about his true intentions and was trying to thwart his efforts with the portal. He… was not happy about that and tried everything to get back at me, to sabotage my efforts, to win, and to punish me for even trying to resist.” Ford swallowed, glancing away while his fingers tapped at each his knuckles, eyes somewhere else and filled with long-buried memories. Was each word he spoke making him seem smaller, or was that Stan’s imagination?

Stan knew he was receiving the sanitized version of the story. It was written all over Stanford’s face: he was trying to be detached, objective, clinical. Like he was relaying scientific information from a formal paper and not reluctantly spilling secrets about his traumatic personal life story. But Stanley couldn’t find it in himself to blame him, not really, not when he knew he’d do the same if he had to talk about… Rico. Ford had created what might be the most acceptable version of events to present to Stan, the extent of what Ford himself could swallow, the most he could face his own shame and torment. It chilled Stan’s heart as he felt the cold sorrow creep into his nerves. This was just one more miserable thing that Stan wished he couldn’t relate to his brother about. Ford should never have gone through this, no, Stan should be the only one, and yet…

“...Stanford, in the days after I lost ya, I cleaned up a buncha junk in this house. Nonsense scribbles ‘nd piles of paper, old dishes, shards of coffee mugs, sticky notes covered in eyes, weirdo science books.” This time Stanley didn’t hesitate to put a hand on Ford’s shoulder. “There was a lotta blood. Random messes of it on piles ‘nd notes. Bloody bandages in the bathrooms. Bloody handprints on wrecked walls ‘nd doors with broken locks. Bloody clothing under your bed, crammed into piles of laundry...”

Ford leaned his head back against the portal and took in a large, stuttering inhale. His motions were slow, hesitant, like the pins and needles in his limbs were pinning the cavity of his chest open and revealing himself to Stan; the flayed pages of a tattered open book against his will. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew he had to talk about this eventually, but he always hoped he could just ignore it and handle it on his own. His brother didn’t deserve to be roped into this burden. This was Ford’s problem, Ford’s pain, and Ford’s mess, no one else’s.

Yet, hearing the truth that Bill had been winding his spindly claws into the kids, into Lee, during Ford’s absence… made the gut-wrenching scope of this plague undeniable. The plague Ford unleashed upon not only this world but his family. He swore he could feel the sticky wetness of his great-niblings’ blood on his hands.

Ford noticed a question in Stanley’s wide eyes and, while hesitant, nodded. This was all the answer he needed to give. His brother simply understood. But Ford forced it out of his throat anyway. "Yes… The blood was Bill's doing."

This time, Stan was the one who punched the portal, cursing and sneering at what remained of the triangular structure. “I was so far up my own ass that I couldn’t even protect my own twin brother after he reached out to me for help… All I did was yell, fight, ‘nd shove someone who was hurt, someone who was scared ‘nd needed me to do something and I didn’t…!”

Ford’s reaction was immediate: clumsy and unfamiliar yet harkening back to what Stanley had thought was long gone and left beaten and buried in the sand. “Stanley, no… No, no no, you didn’t have a clue. Because I didn’t tell you enough, you could not possibly have known. I escalated the argument with you and I fought back. I don’t… think it would be right to fault you on that.” His hands were held up, fingers curled and loose and unsure what to do but yearning to reassure Lee, hankering to clarify and correct about Ford’s mistakes and where the blame lay so someone else need not falsely feel that vice.

Stan stared at him, shoulders rising and falling as his breathing returned to an even and steady rhythm. He didn’t really know what expression he had on his face, and judging by the look on Ford’s, that genius had no idea, either. He exhaled something fierce, erratically rubbing his hands up and down his face. He settled back down after a while of de-stressing and slouched against the portal debris again, looking like he didn’t really care about how he landed or if he were sitting comfortably or not.

One inhale. One exhale.

He twisted his torso to face his twin.

“But you think it’s right to fault me on other things.” Ford averted his eyes. Stan clicked his tongue. “Whatever… So what do we need to do? Make that unicorn barrier crap, smash this ugly piece of work back into scraps,” –he rapped his knuckles on the metal over his shoulder– “and then what? Anything we gotta do to the kids? Ya better not suggest installing metal into their skulls, Sixer, or so help me god.”

His brother spluttered at that, staring at Stan incredulously. “No, of course not! Besides, I wouldn’t trust anyone in this dimension to successfully pull off such a surgery.”

“Oh yeah? Aliens got it that much better than us?”

“Eh…” Ford shrugged his shoulders and made a so-so gesture with his hand. “It depends on where you look. I cannot say that consistency is a term the multiverse is particularly familiar with…”

Stan leaned closer and clapped Ford’s back as he laughed. “Ha! Not so different from us, huh.”

His brother could only just muster up an awkward chuckle alongside him.

“That aside… Yes, I believe you have the correct idea about how to tackle the… Bill problem. I intend to review my journals again for the sake of verifying my old memories pertaining to some key details, and then I will take care of it. I will disassemble the portal and erect a unicorn hair barrier–”

Stan cleared his throat in the most obnoxious way he could. “Ahem. You ain’t doin’ this alone, Poindexter. We’ll destroy the portal, and we’ll put up the barrier.” He raised a hand when it looked like Ford was going to protest. “Uh-uh, I’ve read those diaries more than you have at this point, or one of ‘em anyway. Ya can’t keep me out of this ‘nd you are not gonna do this alone, do I make myself clear?” He wiggled his fingers and flashed a well-practiced salesman’s grin.

Ford’s face contorted through a few different emotions before he finally hung his head and sighed, crossing his arms. “Fine.” He straightened to his feet and gestured over his shoulder for Stan to follow him to the control hub room, not looking back once.

This was going better than Stanley had dared to let himself hope. It still felt like Ford was at risk of exploding if Stan said the wrong thing, but his brother apparently didn’t have as much fight in him as he had earlier that day. Or when Stan first came down here, for that matter. He rubbed his wrists and winced his left eye toward what surely must be a fully formed bruise on his face by now.

He wanted to say he was happy, but as he swallowed around the rough feeling in his throat he knew he couldn’t fool himself about that. This sucked balls. His earlier attempt at levity seemed promising at first, but it was like trying to hold back the might of the entire ocean when Ford slipped right back into trying to exclude Stan again. This dense pressure surrounding his brother was suffocating, impenetrable, and something in Stan’s chest that he tried not to think about hurt like a raw wound at the realization that he didn’t really know how to broach this wall of Ford’s like he once used to.

Something in his chest chafed even more when he thought about how he didn’t really know how to talk to Ford like he used to, either. In fact, Stan didn’t feel like he had managed to actually talk to Stanford straight for once during this entire confrontation. He was being tolerated and he knew his brother was probably silently pleading for him to go away and leave him to his misery so he could mope around until this awful day finally came to a close. Would they repeat this song and dance tomorrow? …Would it be worth it to?

But despite all the eggshells, they had managed to connect just a little bit about their shared concern for the kids. He tried not to think about their shared pains from the past decades, something which was undeterred despite both twins living such wildly different lives.

Maybe Stanley doesn’t need anything else. Just think about the kids.

This is fine. This is surely fine.

Don’t think about the end of summer.

Don’t think about a rickety old boat casting shadows on the beach.

He entered the control room just in time to be shaken out of his daze. He watched as Ford arranged all three journals on the desk… and suddenly collapsed, holding onto the desk’s edge for dear life before he hit the floor.

Ford raised a hand to keep Stan away, fingers wiggling something indecipherable, limbs visibly shaking as he forced himself into a seated position on the nearby desk chair. He immediately staggered forward, elbows hitting the hard surface and his face sinking to hide in his hands, glasses falling down to land haphazardly on Journal #2.

Stan felt like he was watching his brother crumble into pieces.

Pieces of glass smothered in sand.

After another moment, he cautiously approached his twin, unsure what exactly happened.

“My apologies,” Ford rubbed his eyes, swallowing and bouncing his legs on the balls of his feet while he sat. “I’ve wasted so many decades of my life on that accursed charlatan.”

His sunken eyes glanced over at Stanley through his fingers like that was all he had the energy to do.

“I was one trigger away from having finally wiped myself clean of him before I was unceremoniously forced back here.” He scrunched his eyes closed, teeth grinding as he grimaced. “I shouldn’t be here, my life should have been spent on taking him down, on redeeming myself for being so big a fool as to fall for his schemes!” His arms swung to hang limply down at his sides as he leaned back, face staring up at nothing on the ceiling.

Like a doll with no control of its limbs. A puppet left to rot somewhere without strings.

“And yet he and I both persist, continuing to unjustly live, and it simply isn’t enough that he has me wrapped around his fingers, but now I find out that fiend is harassing the kids as well!” Ford’s words tapered into a roar, the spike of energy pushing him to lean forward far too fast while his round eyes located Stanley in the room’s dull light. He ground his hands against his knees, needing some kind of anchor.

“That’s personal, Stanley, I can’t help but fear that it must harken back to his gleeful torment of me all those years ago where he knew I was trapped and was toying with my psyche. He’s happy to hurt my family because he’s happy to hurt me, because he knew I wasn’t here to stop him, and he can laud his power over my head and rub my own powerlessness and failures back in my face, and… a-and…”

Stan’s arms were wrapped around his brother before he even finished registering that Ford’s voice tripped into a broken choke.

Ford cried out, “And when… when I saw all three of my old journals laid out bare here, I felt heavier than ever the monumental weight of my mistakes and how wretched my life has been. How, just how, could I have gotten my niece and nephew caught up in my disaster?”

The raw wound in Stan’s chest throbbed as he took in those words, the weight of them carving a home where he was already torn asunder and bruised.

Stanford’s full body lurched as he sobbed in his brother’s arms and gasped throttled breaths of air, returning the hug and scrunching the material of Stan’s shirt beneath all twelve of his fingers. “I’m so tired, Lee, I’m tired of Cipher! I’m tired of forcing those around me to continually suffer from my mistakes! I’m tired of running, I’m tired of being a puppet, of.. of being his toy, his property that he can jostle around the board as he pleases…!”

Stan began to rub small, gentle circles into Ford’s back while he thought over what he’d just heard, the motion so natural to him and so ingrained in his muscles that he didn’t need to think about it twice. For his brother to expose his heart like this… It was truly serious. It set Stan’s face in a grave expression. Not that long ago a rekindled relationship between the two of them had seemed impossible, and yet Stan now held the delicate reins of responsibility, an instinct burning inside him that made him want to protect his twin. He didn’t want to mess this up. He wanted to be there for his twin the way he should have been three decades ago.

He kept rubbing his brother’s back as the two of them sat there on the sand with their eyes closed, sniffles being carried away by the ambience of the ocean and tears falling down to the beach beneath their feet. Wet droplets left dark marks in the sand as though they could become sea glass.

Soon the sky was awash in pink and orange, and the cold shadow of the Stan o’ War stretched longer and longer, reminiscent of young boys chasing after the last remnants of dimming sunlight.

Once Ford’s sobbing diminished to but a few sniffles, Stan made his decision.

He picked up his twin’s glasses and gently sat them back on his face.

“I know this isn’t what you wanna hear right now, but, let’s get ya in the shower, and I’ll cook up some warm food for ya before we get ya to bed.” Ford lifted his head off Stan’s chest just a little, quizzically raising an eyebrow. “You need rest, Sixer, or else you’re gonna keel over ‘nd die before ya can do anything about Bill. It’s been one hell of a day.”

“But… The kids. Bill is too dangerous to ignore.” Ford’s voice was small and pathetic, yet as determined as he could make it. The familiar scared face of an insecure little boy standing on the edge of help and hurt. On the edge of where the tides meet the sands.

“I know, I know. You said the metal plate makes ya safe, right? The portal’s non-functional ‘nd in pieces that woulda taken me months to fix, ‘nd the kids are in the attic, prolly pretendin’ to sleep, so…”

“So…?”

“So I think we can afford to spend a lil’ time on makin’ sure you don’t fall apart first, brainiac. We’ll need that bright brain of yours runnin’ on something more than ten cups of alien coffee, right?”

Ford was struck with a look of astonishment following that comment. “Coffee… I can have Dimension 46'\ coffee again! Oh how I have missed it terribly; nothing else ever compared.”

His eyes glittered like Stanley had just hung the stars in front of an aspiring child.

Ford leaned back from Stan, using the collar of his black turtleneck to wipe the wetness from his cheeks. “I… do not like it or feel entirely comfortable with it, but I will concede that you have a point that’s hard to argue. I’ll freshen up my hygiene if you include coffee with whatever food you make– I do not care what time it is right now.”

“You’re s'posed ta go to sleep, knucklehead, but sure, I’ll make ya a mean coffee,” Stan chuckled as he swapped his hands over to patting Ford’s shoulder a couple times before stepping back to give him some space. The soothing lull of cool waves echoed and receded from farther and farther away. “Ha! I am unsure even coffee could keep me going on my feet tonight, as much as I would prefer it to.”

They both turned towards the elevator and had managed to take a single step before Ford abruptly stopped. He turned back towards the portal room, glancing between it and Stanley, his brows set in a worry. “I need to check something…!”

Stan just shrugged. “S’long as it won’t be too much work.”

“Excellent! Now, if you’ll excuse me.” His coat billowed behind him as he rushed out into the cavern.

Stan didn’t follow him all the way, but did hover near the entrance, leaning against the doorway with his arms crossed. “So what’s got ya in a tizzy?”

“It is of crucial importance that I check for any possible rifts.” Ford looked over his shoulder to verify where Stan was before he continued. “During my travels between dimensions, I had to track where potential rifts might form in order to continue my journey. While some rifts were man-made, or should I say alien-made, others simply occurred as a natural consequence of the unnatural frayed fabric of reality. Like a hole in a piece of cloth whose threads weaken, loosen, and allow additional holes to form.”

“So in other words, yer lookin’ for smaller holes near the portal?” He couldn’t help but smile like an idiot just a little bit. It was nice to hear his nerd brother again.

“Precisely! Seeing as our shiny punched hole in reality here was designed to lead to the Nightmare Realm, also known as Bill’s domain, I fear that any rifts will follow in those footsteps and do the– Aha! Stanley, could you bring me a borosilicate jar?”

“Come again?”

“Laboratory glassware! I need a resealable container, such as a jar. I used to have some spares sitting around here somewhere…”

Stan disguised a chuckle with a cough as he watched Ford crouch near the far corner, legs and hands splayed far apart, before turning to go fetch what was needed. When he returned, Ford was several feet away from the corner and busy with his hands on the portal instead.

He jumped when Stan suddenly slapped his shoulder. “What did I just tell ya about takin’ a break? Anyway, here’s your jar.”

Ford sheepishly nodded and retrieved it from him. He inspected it for a few moments, removing and replacing the lid a few times, before going back to the corner. Stan tried to stand on his tippy toes to peer at what the heck a rift might look like without getting any closer to the corner. He observed as Ford swung his arm in wide arcs and seemed to be capturing… floating blobs of spacey stardust? He thought they’d make for a cool alien lava lamp. I bet I can sell that.

His brother turned back to face him, sealed jar clasped between his hands.

“There we have it! It is but a small thing for the time being, but we will need to seal it and monitor it in case of any changes. I believe I know just the thing and can have this taken care of…”

Stan gave him a look. He put a lot of work in making sure that unimpressed eyebrow was as judgmental as it could be.

“...We’ll take care of it tomorrow.” Ford looked a little dejected as he changed course, sighing wistfully.

Stan gave him a thumbs up. His brother just snorted, shaking his head and smiling as he walked past and back into the control room. He seemed ponderous, one hand on his chin while he considered whatever it was he was thinking about, and then he opened a cabinet on the wall and locked the jar away inside.

“Ready to head upstairs now?” Stan was back by the elevator.

“Yes, I believe so. Well, no, but I accept that I should.”

For a short while, the tension between the twins had disappeared. But the elevator felt suffocating again.

Ford kept fidgeting and looking everywhere except at Stan. When Stan caught his eye once, he cleared his throat. Ford took in a deep breath.

“Stanley… It is very difficult. I do not have the words for everything it is that I am feeling, and everything that I want to say to you. I am still unsure of a lot of things, not the least of which is myself. But… I am glad to be home.” The wrinkles on his face were the softest Stan had ever seen them.

It wasn’t a thank you, but it was close enough for now. Close enough for Stan’s face to beam into a great big toothy, giddy grin. “Glad to have ya here.”

When the elevator reached their destination at the top and Ford made a motion to leave, Stan held him back with a hand on his shoulder. Ford turned to him, eyebrows raised questioningly.

Stan averted his eyes and coughed into his free fist. “I, uh… Sorry. For earlier today. You’ll always be my family, ya nerd.”

Ford gave him a small smile. “Me too… I apologize for punching you earlier. I am not entirely sure why I did, honestly.”

Stan shrugged, then wrapped his arm around Ford’s shoulders in a hearty embrace. “Eh, stress ‘nd nerves probably. ‘Sides, you sound like ya could use somethin’ to punch!” He gesticulated dramatically with his free hand as though he were painting a picture for Ford to see. “Maybe we can pull out that boxing dummy from storage tomorrow ‘nd draw a triangle on it!”

“Oh that isn’t necessary, Stanley…” Stanford snorted, leaning into Stan as his laughter made him less steady on his feet. “Nah don’t worry about it Sixer, I wanna punch it too. And if that guy ever shows up here again, I’ll punch him for real!”

Stanley grabbed both of Ford’s shoulders as his laughter died down, turning his brother to face him. “I really mean it, ya know. Don’t gotta ask me twice. Easiest sell of m’ life, even. No one messes with my family like that ‘nd gets off scot-free, ya hear me?”

Ford visibly swallowed and gave a tiny nod.

“... Thank you. I appreciate it.”

They shook the sand off their shoes as they stepped out of the elevator.

They held each other for support as they trekked through the ocean, waves lapping at their calves as they climbed the stairs one step at a time.

When they stepped through the vending machine, the nostalgic laughter of two twin little boys wrapped around them like a scarf before evaporating into ocean mist.

The vending machine had only been closed for a second before Mabel bounded right up to her Grunkles and planted herself right into their legs, trying to wrap her short arms around them both in a hug. Stan gestured for Dipper to come over as he and Ford crouched down to Mabel’s height, apparently already knowing that the little dork was nearby. Ford watched as Dipper meekly came from around the corner and joined them, repeatedly glancing between Stan and Ford all the while.

Stan spread his arms wide and trapped all of his family in a big bear hug, laughing and feeling weightless and the most alive he has in years. “I knew ya little knuckleheads wouldn’t be asleep! Tell ya what, I was about to make some Stancakes ‘nd coffee for my nerd brother here. How ‘bout I make a few ‘nd some hot chocolate for the two of ya, ‘nd then you can head to bed this time?”

Dipper’s guilty smile fell sideways into laughter as Stan broke the hug to noogy him and his sister, but Mabel was undeterred by her hair getting ruffled. “You better give me extra marshmallows and heaps of glitter!”

“Yes Stanley, and I better have no less than four tablespoons of sugar in my coffee.”

“A-and I want four Stancakes, Grunkle Stan!”

Stan broke out in a belly laugh and clapped Ford’s back as he stood up straight. “Sheesh, no wonder none of ya can sleep!”

He couldn’t remember the last time he felt this positively about the future. The spring in his step and the healing salve on his heart nearly made him feel like a new man. As he pulled out the flour and baking soda and opened the fridge to grab the milk and butter, he couldn’t help but feel like no matter what may happen, things would work out just fine.

#seren's writing #gravity falls fanfiction #gravity falls #stanley pines #stanford pines #ford pines #stan pines #this is my first gravity falls fic and my first time crossposting on tumblr like this #i don't have a lot of writing experience in general but i hope this is enjoyable #oh boy i hope i didn't mess up the ao3 page or this post haha #for some reason the italics for the summary are scuffed and no editing this post seems to fix it

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ckret2 · 2 years ago

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Chapter 24 of human Bill Cipher being the Mystery Shack's extremely inconvenient prisoner, featuring: the Pines figuring out a way to chase off Bill's ex-girlfriend... who happens to be a giant eyeball with bat wings.

It kinda goes like this.

(A head's up before we get going: this chapter is a bit more mature than prior ones, so I feel like a warning's in order. There's no sex, and nothing here is erotic or sexy (unless you, too, happen to be attracted to eye-bats), BUT there IS some academic speculation on the logistics of alien sex, and some very filthy-sounding dialogue describing acts that, to humans, aren't sexual at all. Plus some dirty humor and toilet humor. And nothing here is what I'd call billford quite yet, considering Ford still very much hates Bill's guts—but like, he's definitely a little too obsessed with the anatomy of triangles for it to be normal. If any of this is too spicy for you, skip this chapter and come back next one. We'll be starting a new "episode" then.)

####

It was past midnight. In his search for the eye-bat repellant recipe, Ford had flipped through every notebook he'd used during his initial interviews of the residents of Gravity Falls, flipped through them a second time, torn apart half his bookshelves looking for any reporter's notebooks he might have accidentally sorted in with his larger binders, and now he was exhausted, frustrated—and, worst of all, bored out of his mind.

Which made it hard to avoid thinking about more interesting topics.

And for the last hour he'd been unwillingly plagued with the question of how an eyeball and a triangle had a "casual physical thing."

If that didn't mean sex—and you never knew with aliens—then it was still something close enough to fill the same social/recreational niche. It certainly meant sex on the eye-bat's side, Ford had fully documented the reproductive cycle of eye-bats, that was sorted out—but triangles?

It had to be something that would work in the second dimension. Ford had visited a two-dimensional universe populated by geometric shapes, he knew roughly how their bodies functioned: a shape's perimeter was its external surface—its "skin"—and its internal organs were inside that perimeter. So if Bill was still configured the way he had been in his home dimension, any external reproductive anatomy would have to be somewhere on his perimeter, right? Maybe at one of his corners? Or camouflaged where the seams of his brick pattern reached his edges?

But then if Bill were a normal two-dimensional person, he'd have his eye on the edge of his body, not right in the center of his "internal organs." So he'd been rearranged to some extent. Who knew how the rest of his body worked now? His top hat contained flesh and a skeletal structure; maybe it was a removable reproductive organ that could be passed to a partner, like some cephalopods' detachable tentacles—

Ford flinched as he realized Bill was staring at him.

To aid in his anatomical speculation, Ford had drawn a diagram of Bill in his journal and labeled various points on the triangle that might be concealing reproductive anatomy. He quickly scratched out the drawing's staring eye and slammed his journal shut.

He'd happily gone thirty years assuming that Bill had no sex life—Bill was an energy being who presented himself as a floating featureless triangle, his hobbies involved cheating at chess and discussing multidimensional transportation, he probably wasn't designed for "physical things," and if he was designed for it then surely he wasn't interested. Ford was not pleased to have his assumptions disputed.

Because the thing was—Ford knew more than any living human about the mating rituals of unicorns, werewolf/mermaid couples, stomach-faced ducks, and tentacled warrior piglets. (Did he ever know about tentacled warrior piglets.) He had the only photos of a gnome mating ball, which he didn't need, because that horrible sight would be forever seared into his long-term memory. He knew the names of twenty obscene acts in siren sign language, and knew how to use his extra fingers to make them extra obscene. This wasn't unfamiliar territory to him. He was curious about how strange, supernatural creatures functioned; and those functions included how the reproductive drive influenced their behaviors; and a living triangle that had escaped from the second dimension was certainly a strange supernatural creature.

But, unfortunately, it was also Bill Cipher. And Ford did not want to think about what Bill did in bed. ... Assuming he used a bed. Really, at this point the only thing Ford knew was that Bill's only admitted partner was capable of flight. Maybe he just hovered while he—

Ford slammed his journal shut again to stop himself from scribbling down more theories, then stuffed the journal in a desk drawer for good measure. Did normal people think like this? He had no idea. He didn't even know who he could ask.

Enough of this. Back to searching for that eye-bat repellant recipe, and this time he wasn't stopping until he found it.

####

Like a vast eye in an upside-down triangle, the circular center of the portal lit up so bright blue it was almost white. The four energy vents glowed in sympathy. A rainbow constellation lit up in twirling patterns around the central light.

Bill watched with bated breath, a second-dimensional shadow waiting for his door to the third dimension to open. The cavern walls shook; the ground quaked and rumbled ominously; Bill didn't care. The portal was stable, the lab was somebody else's problem, and Bill had a party to get to.

The steel beams supporting the cavern rolled like a wave, and Bill's stomach roiled with them. They weren't supposed to be able to move like that. But he knew what he was doing, the portal was stable, he was not here to destroy this world, he'd come here to save it, whether it wanted to be saved or not—

The whole world undulated. Bedrock and steel were not built to undulate. Bill bobbed on the energy wave like a toy boat on a choppy sea; but the steel shattered, rock crumbled, shrapnel and rubble sprayed out. There was a peal of deafening thunder as the world below him cracked apart.

####

Bill woke with a gasp.

Oh. Right. Dreams.

Dream diary. With a groan, he sat up, checked to make sure no humans were coming by in the next few minutes, and pulled his stolen journal out of its hiding place.

The guide on lucid dreaming had recommended writing down his dreams in full, vivid, rich detail—any people or scenes or events, anything he could detect with his five (?) senses, as much as he could recall.

He drew a portal—gray inverted triangle with a center circle, four circles around the triangle, all five circles filled in yellow green—and then a yellow green line trailing out of the portal's side that grew progressively wigglier like a seismogram. He labeled his doodle, "this." He'd remember the rest.

After a moment of thought, he wrote, "Don't remember if I was a human or a shape. My organs were doing things a shape's shouldn't." (He wrote "human" as 人; there was no translation for the word in the language Bill wrote in. The two angled strokes stood out in Bill's rows of Morse-like dots and dashes.) "Being around so many humans who are CONVINCED I'm trying to destroy their world must be getting to me. Sixer pitched another hissy-fit about the portal yesterday. Enduring all that negative talk can't be healthy for me. I know I'm just helping their boring little planet, but maybe their accusations are getting lodged in this stupid brain's subconscious."

Maybe he should meditate a bit—go think positive thoughts, drown out the mortal voices that insisted they knew his plans better than he did. He'd had enough dreaming for one night, anyway.

Beneath the note to himself, Bill added in English: "Everything would have been fine if you'd just let me finish, Fordsy." If the humans ever did find this journal, Bill was determined to get the last word in.

Then he stowed away the stolen journal and shuffled downstairs.

He wondered how much was left of Ford's portal.

####

Old man bladder. Stan dragged himself out of bed. The other guest room bed was empty. Stan hoped Ford was sleeping in his study—he'd mentioned once he kept a cot down there. Better than pulling another all nighter studying alien sorcery or whatever.

He skipped his glasses, groped his way to the downstairs bathroom, and, yawning, lined up with the toilet.

The toilet said, "Pretty forward of you, Stanley."

Stan screamed.

He stumbled backwards out of the bathroom and hit the wall. Bill flipped on the light and leaned out to grin at him. "Careful! You're due for a broken hip any day now."

"BILL! What are DOING!"

"Trying not to get urinated on."

"Jsh—shut up!" It had dawned on Stan that if he could hear Bill without his hearing aids, then half the house probably could too. He hoped no one had overheard that. "Why are you sitting on the toilet in the dark!"

"It's a free country, Stanley Pines."

Stan raised a fist. "GET OUT!"

Bill bolted from the bathroom like a scared rabbit, then caught himself, rolled his eyes, and raised his hands over his head in mock surrender. "You could have asked nicely!"

Pointing at Bill as he retreated, Stan added, "And stop being so darn creepy! Lurking in the dark and sneaking around silently all the time, like a... some kind of—burglar ninja assassin!"

Bill turned to shout back, "What, do you expect me to make a peace cry every time I walk around? Make sure I can't sneak up and stab you in the back?"

Stan had caught about half of that. "YEAH, smart guy! It might help!"

Bill flung his hands out in defeat as he rounded the corner.

Stan finished his business, went back to bed, and glared angrily at the ceiling another ten minutes.

####

It had taken half the night, but at last Ford had disassembled the filing cabinet and found a few notebooks that had gotten stuck behind the bottom drawer, including the one with Old Lady Sprott's eye-bat repellant recipe. Ford copied it down, left a list of ingredients on the gift shop cash register for Soos, and finally dragged himself into the house to sleep.

And paused in the entryway.

Bill was sitting in the kitchen, staring out the window; Ford had seen him like this before. Usually, he could make himself walk by.

But he couldn't tonight. Maybe it was yesterday's conversation still weighing on his mind, the loose ends they hadn't tied up tangling around his throat. "What are you doing up?"

Bill's voice was inappropriately calm: "Dying."

Ford's guard went up. "Do you... Literally or metaphorically?"

"Literally," Bill said. "Hey—how many decades do you think this body's got? Probably not even a century, right?"

Ford's guard went down. Just moping. But it was an interesting question, one he'd put some thought into himself—what age had Bill's body been made at? How had his body been made that age? How long would the body last? Ford had wondered whether studying Bill's freshly-made-but-already-adult body might reveal anything medically useful about how aging affected the human body; but the odds of convincing Bill to participate in any medical studies—much less finding someone to conduct the study who believed their story—were nonexistent.

Ford said, "At a loose guess, I'd put you around... fifty, maybe? A very spry fifty." Bill's hair was a shockingly vivid gold, not a hint of gray, and when he was in a good mood Bill bounced about with an enviable lack of joint pain; but Ford had seen faint, delicate creases around his mouth and eyes that spoke to age. And the look in his eyes... Ford hated the phrase "old soul"—he'd been called that by some of his school teachers, and it only made him feel the distance between himself and his age peers all the more strongly—but with Bill, it was uncannily fitting. His eyes aged his whole face.

"You think this thing looks fifty? Wow." Bill took a deep drink from a cider can. "Shooting Star's best guess was half that. Thanks for shoving me twenty-five years closer to the grave."

Half that? When Ford had been a child, he'd had a harder time guessing adults' ages, and he supposed Mabel might be the same; but it was difficult to mistake a 50-year-old for a 25-year-old. Maybe there was something else going on. He'd have to ask her later. "With exercise, a healthy diet, and a little luck, you could still live another fifty." Ford nodded at the two empty cider cans already sitting on the table. "With your current drinking habits, I'll give you five."

Bill cackled—loudly enough to make Ford tense up, afraid someone would catch them talking. "Cheers!" Bill finished off the can and slammed it down with the others. "Ugh. Finite lifespans. Awful."

"Welcome to being human," Ford said dryly.

"'Welcome to death row,'" Bill said. "Ha! What'm I doing, worrying about decades. Let's be real, I don't even need to worry about the next five years. If I haven't found a way out of this body before then..."

Bill left the thought unfinished. An uneasy weight formed low in Ford's stomach.

"Ah, whatever. Like you'd let me live that long. Right, Sixer?" Bill pushed himself up unsteadily, keeping his balance first with a hand on the back of the chair, and then on Ford's (suddenly very tense) shoulder as he passed him. "I'm going back to sleep before that last can kicks in."

The way Bill was walking, Ford wasn't sure he'd make it up the stairs. "Why don't you sleep on the folding bed in the living room?"

"No window," Bill said. "I've g—" (He stumbled on the stairs.) "I've gotta see the stars."

Of course he did. When Bill said it that way, it was so obvious Ford didn't know why he hadn't realized that himself. Where else could Bill sleep but as close to the sky as possible?

Ford listened as Bill stumbled his way upstairs, creaked across the floorboards, and collapsed onto his makeshift bed.

Ford had thirty years left. Exactly thirty years. Don't have a heart attack, you're not ninety-two yet! Ninety-two was a good, old age. Older than his father had been. But thirty years felt too soon. And yet it felt fitting, somehow, for his life to be divided so neatly in thirds.

If Bill lived another fifty years in this body, and Ford lived thirty, who would stand guard over him? Would he and Stan have to pass that burden on to their gniece and gnephew? Or to Soos and Melody?

Why was he wondering—what made him think they wouldn't find a way to kill Bill before then? What made him think he wouldn't kill Bill before the end of this very summer?

What made him so sure Bill hadn't been lying about when Ford would die? Thirty years felt too soon; but ninety-two felt flatteringly optimistic.

Ford sighed, and picked up the cider cans to recycle.

He wondered whether Bill—hiding from his ex, fretting about death, sleeping on his enemies' floor—regretted how he'd spent his life.

####

Bill's second entry in his dream diary started, "Wet dream about Iris."

He filled most of a page with an extremely graphic summary before he sighed in frustration, stowed the journal away, and stared at the ceiling as dawn crept in. Well. Terrific. He was pretty intimately familiar with how humans coupled, but he didn't have much practice with the solo act. Plus the humans would give him heck if they caught him at it. He'd just have to suffer.

So here he was, all riled up and nowhere to go.

Who else could he make miserable?

####

Stan was startled awake by a heavy pounding on his door.

"Heeey Fisherman!" Somehow, Bill's voice was even more grating at dawn. He rattled the door several more times. "Just passing by! Wanted to let you know! Here I am! Right here!"

Did that demon ever sleep? And, follow up question, could Stan knock him out for a few hours?

Ford—who must have come up after Stan went back to bed—groaned and muttered something.

Ford wasn't nearly as loud as Bill. Stan reluctantly sat up and put a hearing aid in. "What?"

"What the devil is he up to now."

"No idea," Stan lied. "Go yell at him about it, he listens to you."

Ford sighed, but got up and left the room.

A minute later, Stan heard Bill exclaim, "I can't win with you people!"

He smirked.

####

The kitchen reeked that morning. When Stan came in for breakfast, the window was open, a fan in the entryway futilely directed fresh air into the kitchen and a fan on the kitchen table directed the noxious fumes outside, there were bags of groceries on the counter—he noticed hot sauce, peppers, cheap perfume, and an entire bag of raw onions—and Ford was standing at the stove, stirring a pot of vile-smelling brown liquid. The moment he saw Stan, Ford put him to work stirring the pot so Ford could start dicing onions.

While they worked, Ford explained the situation with the eye-bat harassing the tourists and the solution he'd hit on to drive it away. Soos had collected the necessary ingredients this morning, but couldn't help cook because he was busy finding a way to block the bottomless pit—

####

Outside, Soos scooted a trampoline up to the pit, carefully lined it up with the edge—the trampoline and the pit had nearly the same diameter—and shoved it in. It plummeted into the dark. After a short wait, Soos chucked a baseball down the pit. It disappeared, then bounced back up.

Soos pumped his fist triumphantly. "Aced it."

####

—so, Ford was working on the repellant, and in the interest of public safety and the greater good he was drafting Stan into helping too.

Which Stan supposed he couldn't argue with, but considering the smell he would've preferred dicing the onions. "Is all this really necessary for one eye-bat? I usually just swat 'em off with a tennis racket."

"This eye-bat happens to be large enough to carry off a first-grader," Ford said. "And Bill claims it's his ex-girlfriend, so I don't want to risk them meeting."

"Huh." Weird thing to date, but then Stan didn't know what he did expect a triangle demon to date. "Somehow I figured he was tangled up in this."

Ford laughed ruefully.

After a moment of chopping and stirring, Ford said, "Speaking of Bill—he claims that you ordered him to announce his presence? And that you tried to pee on him."

"I did not and he's a dirty liar! He made the whole thing up!" Stan didn't expect Ford to believe him. Stan also didn't expect Ford to believe Bill. Ford knew they were both liars. What Stan expected was for Ford to side with the person he liked best.

"Uh huh." Ford didn't question Stan further. Ha. Pines solidarity.

Even though he'd already won, Stan went on: "All I did was mention how quiet he is! I can never tell where he's lurking. Sometimes I almost forget he's here." In Stan's mind, Bill had been rapidly demoted from "active existential threat" to "annoying houseguest who blends in with the shadows." Watching him help Mabel cut pretty pictures from fashion magazines with plastic safety scissors drained away most of his intimidation factor.

Ford gave Stan a funny look. "Really? I can't forget he's here for a second. Sometimes I swear I can tell where he's been in the house—like a cold spot left by a ghost."

Stan tried to figure out how to ask whether that was a reaction to decades on the run feeling like hunted prey—which Stan knew how to cope with—or a lingering magical side effect of Ford and Bill's alien possession deal—which Stan did not. Then Ford added, "It's probably because I hear him bumping into the furniture all the time."

"Oh. Yeah. That's probably it. You've got better hearing than me." Case closed. Stan turned back to the stove—

A deafening buzz made them both start. Stan splashed boiling brown stink across the stovetop. "What—!"

Standing in the doorway with a kazoo, Bill said, "How's that, Stanley? Do you like that better?!"

"YOU!" Stan flung the stirring spoon to the floor.

Bill bolted from the room with Stan in hot pursuit. "Whoa! Mercy! Truce! You can have the kazoo! It's not even mine, I'm just holding it for a fr— Ow ow OW ow—"

Stan hauled Bill in by the back of the neck and didn't let go until he was in the middle of the kitchen. He pointed at the spoon, then pointed at the pot. "Pick it up. Get stirring." He grabbed another knife and joined Ford chopping onions. Whew, what a relief.

Bill gave Stan a perplexed look, but picked up the spoon, gave the pot an experimental sniff, and got stirring. He didn't even wince at the smell. "Is this the gnome wizz? What is this, punishment for not letting you use me as a urinal?"

"Whatsamatter, I thought you were the one who thinks pee belongs in the kitchen."

"You're both too old for toilet humor," Ford snapped. "Bill, this problem is your fault, the least you can do is help prepare the spray, and you're not getting a knife, so you're on pot stirring duty. Deal with it."

Bill rolled his eyes dramatically. (At the moment, they were both uncovered; but one was already half squinted shut against the morning light.) "Fine, but only because I like hanging out with you."

Ford scoffed.

"And I don't see how this is my fault just because we happened to date. It's not like I invited her over," Bill went on. "If anything, you should be grateful she's my ex, or else I wouldn't be helping you chase her away—"

"Hey, that's what I wanna know about this," Stan said. He gestured toward the window; the ex in question was currently circling above the gift shop entrance, like a vulture waiting for something to die. "Exactly how do you 'date' an eye-bat? Just—how does that work?"

"Well, it depends on the eye-bat, doesn't it," Bill said, a touch patronizing. "They don't all have the same tastes, you know. But she happens to like art films and water parks. Easy date."

"I'm not talking about that! You're telling us you slept with an eyeball with bat wings—right? That's what we're talking about, right?" From the corner of his eye, Stan saw Ford giving him a sharp look, but he didn't tell Stan to stop. Yeah, the nerd was curious, too.

"Yes, Stanley." Bill's condescension was almost more overpowering than the kitchen's stench. "That's what we're talking about. I 'slept' with an eyeball with bat wings." He exaggerated the finger quotes around the euphemism. "Any more prying you want to do into my personal life, or...?"

"You look at that freak out there and think it's appealing?"

Bill stopped stirring and squinted out the window. Flatly, he said, "Yep. She's still drop dead gorgeous. Thanks for asking."

"How do you even know that's a she! How can you tell a girl eye from a boy eye?"

Ford said, "Technically, Stanley, all eye-bats are female." He held up an onion and used his knife tip to gesture at it like it was a model eyeball, "They're parthenogenetic parasites that reproduce by attacking other species' faces and depositing egg-bearing spores on their eyeballs, which swim to the tear ducts to begin incubating. Over the next few weeks, the infected eyeball grows wings and develops its own nervous system while the host slowly goes blind in one eye, until the new eye-bat is mature enough to emerge from the host's socket and seek out her mother's colony—"

Bill let out a strangled scream. "Enough!"

Stan and Ford stared at him.

"Would you stop talking about eye-bat sex?! I'm already riled up! I don't need help making it worse!"

He slammed the stirring spoon down and started pacing. "I'm losing my mind. Do you know what it's like to be randy for something you don't have the right body for?!" He gave them a pleading, slightly crazed look. "I need to feel her pupil contracting against mine. I'd lick her hot, salty tears off her sclera. I'd bite deep enough to taste her retina. I want to look like I've got pinkeye from all the bat spores coating my face. I'd give my right eye just to have one of her wings fingering my eyelid again—but if I cave and go that far I know I'd lose my head and give her the left one too, and then I've screwed up, because STUPID HUMANS BODIES can't regrow their STUPID EYEBALLS—"

He kicked the wall so hard he lost his balance and stumbled back into the stove. "Ow. I'm going insane. I can't take it. I need to kill somebody. I need to set something on fire."

Stan and Ford were petrified. Stan's jaw had dropped.

Bill was panting from the exertion of his outburst, arms trembling, face flushed. His shoulders slumped. The picture of a broken man, he said, "I'd do anything to rim her optic nerve again."

Ford let out a strangled noise.

Bill took several deep breaths. He rubbed his forehead. "Sorry! Wow. That was... I think the fumes are getting to me." He shook his head. "The fumes and the hormones. Human hormones. You know, your species has very insistent..." He gestured vaguely toward the doorway. "I'm—think I should lay down."

Stan and Ford nodded. Bill trudged from the room. A few seconds later, Stan heard springs creak as Bill flopped his full weight on the living room sofa.

Stan and Ford exchanged a look. Stan said, "I shouldn't have asked about..."

"You shouldn't have asked."

"You should have skipped the science lesson."

"I should have."

They lapsed into silence. After a moment, Ford stood up to take over stirring the pot.

Stan resumed chopping onions. "Say, d'you think he staged all that to get out of stirring?"

Ford didn't reply.

"Sixer?" Stan glanced up.

Ford had turned away from the stove, and was staring at nothing with a faraway, troubled look. It was the look he got when he'd just latched on to some mystery that would haunt him until he solved it.

"Ford—?"

Ford slapped down the spoon and stomped into the living room. "But you hate losing your eyeball! So how did you two— I mean—! The spores—?"

"Incompatible biology." Bill's voice sounded muffled. "It's why we never got serious. She wants kids and my tear ducts can't incubate wings."

"Ah! Of course. That makes perfect sense." Ford returned to the stove with a look of triumph.

Stan didn't know how Ford had recovered from that fast enough to ask follow-up questions. Weird nerd. Stan shook his head but said nothing.

####

In Ford's journal, he scratched out most of his speculation about the anatomy of Bill's species, scribbled over the diagram, and added, "I severely underestimated how much his eye is involved."

####

At one point, during Weirdmageddon, when Bill had been torturing Ford for information, Ford had spat in his eye. Bill had licked it off. He'd seemed eerily undisturbed.

Ford would probably wonder how Bill had interpreted that act for the rest of his life.

####

Outside, dressed in a homemade hazmat suit consisting of painter's coveralls and a scuba mask, Soos faced off against the eye-bat, a spray bottle strapped to each hip like a cowboy's revolvers. Dipper and Mabel stood behind him, armed with a rake and a golf club, wearing a bicycle helmet and a football helmet with tree branches taped on. The eye-bat stared them down warily.

Leaning on his elbows over the kitchen table so he could stare out the window, Bill said, "Bet you a hundred bucks she steals Questiony's hat."

Stan snorted. "I'm not taking that bet. You don't have any money."

Bill grunted and turned back to the window, just in time to see the eye-bat dive for Soos's face. Soos whipped out one of the spray bottles, dropped it, ducked down to retrieve it just as she swooped past where his head used to be, and lifted it in time to spray the eye-bat when she circled back to attack him again. She reeled off screeching, eye watering, pupil contracting. Bill winced in sympathy. Poor gal. And she didn't even have an eyelid for protection. But, hey—better for her to suffer than for Bill to risk getting caught in this body. He'd take someone else's pain over his own embarrassment any day.

"It seems to be working the same as it does on any other eye-bat," Ford said. "Good. Once she's gone, Soos and the kids can spray the rest on the roof. That should drive her off while keeping the worst of the scent away from the tourists."

Streaming tears, the eye-bat dove at the kids. They yelled in alarm. Dipper threw his rake at her and missed. Bill flipped up his eyepatch to squint at the battle with both eyes.

"What, do you see something?" Stan asked.

"Just appreciating her sphericality." Bill sighed wistfully. "That spray's gotta be excruciatingly painful—but, I've never seen her that wet before. Sure, we've fooled around with a little hot sauce a few times, but even then—"

"I'm sorry I asked."

Outside, Soos shouted, "Hey! My hat! Give that back!"

Bill wordlessly held a hand out toward Stan.

Stan smacked it away. "Nyeh."

As the eye-bat retreated toward the forest, Ford sighed in relief. "She's gone. It worked."

"You sound surprised," Bill said.

"Frankly, I can't believe that you gave us accurate information on how to get rid of her."

"What! You wound me! Why would I lie about that?"

"To trick us into doing something that strengthens her? To arrange an opportunity to meet her?" Ford suggested. "After all, as one of your Henchmaniacs, she could have helped you escape."

Bill's blood ran cold.

She could have helped him escape. SHE COULD HAVE HELPED HIM ESCAPE! He'd been so worried about not looking stupid or losing his eyes, when all this time—! He could have signaled Iris from the window, and—and the bottomless pit was right there, she could have carried a message to the gang—at the very least, she could probably open doors for him—and instead he just—when he could have—

He watched in despair as Iris's pretty little optic nerve vanished behind the trees.

No, Bill decided—no, getting her help was a terrible plan. If it was a good plan, he would have done it; so it was terrible. He had a better plan. What was his better plan?

"Come on, you think I need her? I've got all the pals I need right here—whether you're ready to admit it or not." He elbowed Ford. Bill had decided he'd wheedle Ford back over to his side, and he would. His survival depended on it. Now more than ever. "I've got a way out, don't worry about that—it's only a matter of time—and she's not part of the plan."

Ford scoffed. "Really. Last night you were moaning about being on death row."

"Wh—Hey! That was..." Not fair. He scrambled to revise his story.

"You're lying about something," Ford said. "If it wasn't how to get rid of her, then it was why you wanted to get rid of her. For all we know, maybe she wants you dead as much as we do."

"Yeah," Stan said, "the 'girlfriend' story sounds crazy enough to be true, but you seem like the kind of guy who has a string of exes who'd love to kill you." (He did, as it happened, but it wasn't his fault he kept falling for petty jealous psychos who hated seeing him thrive.)

Ford said, "If she hadn't been a danger to the tourists, perhaps I should have invited her in to talk."

Unbelievable. Even when Bill did exactly what he was supposed to, he was still the bad guy. "Fine, she was a notorious black widow and you saved my life, happy? Do you like that story better? I made it up just for you." He jabbed a finger in Ford's shoulder. "You know what your problem is? You're too paranoid. You can't trust anything anybody says. You'll only hurt yourself like that—"

Ford shoved Bill's hand away and stepped out of poking range. "I spent years unlearning the paranoia you gave me. And when I finished, do you know what I figured out, Bill? All along, there was only one person I shouldn't have trusted: you."

It stung, but only in a distant, impersonal way; like a hard slap on a numb cheek. Bill turned to give Ford a sour look. "At the lengths you take it to, I could tell you the sky is blue and you'd have to check."

Ford's gaze automatically flickered toward the window.

"Ha!" Bill angrily shoved the table against the wall as he stood up. "Thanks for taking care of my pest problem, boys." He stormed upstairs, flipping his hood up as he went. Ingrates.

####

The view out the attic window was more interesting than usual, mainly because there were three humans traipsing around on the roof spraying eye-bat repellant. From time to time Mabel came by to make funny faces at Bill through the glass; he did his best to one-up them. Once, Soos nearly fell off the roof and died; Bill hadn't laughed that hard since he was murdered.

Their return indoors was heralded by Mabel shouting, "Dibs on the shower!" and Dipper replying, "I take shorter showers, let me go first!" They pounded up the stairs. Mabel tried to take them two at a time, tripped near the top, and by the time she recovered Dipper was already in the bathroom. She groaned. "Augh! Not fair! I don't want to smell like onions and gnome pee!"

"Neither do I! I need it more, I haven't showered in two weeks!"

Bill wondered why Dipper got to go so long between showers without getting dumped in a cold tub in his sleep. (He knew why.)

Bill whistled to catch Mabel's attention. "Consolation prize." He waved a cheap perfume bottle toward Mabel. "We had leftovers after mixing the repellant. It smells like strawberry candy."

"You're my hero." Mabel took the bottle and sprayed it all over herself, in her hair, and under her sweater. "You need a shower too, you know."

"Sure, but until Dolores fumigates the kitchen I'll just blend into the background stink. I can put it off til tomorrow without anyone complaining."

"You're grossss." Mabel emphasized the hiss by poking Bill's arm. "Once I'm clean, I'm not talking to you until you've showered too."

"I'll be devastated."

"Those are my terms!" She kicked aside Bill's cushion-bed so she could sit under the window without stinking the cushions up, and settled back to wait for the bathroom. After a (very short) companionable silence, Mabel said, "It's too bad we had to chase off your ex. I can see why you like her."

Bill gave her a surprised look. "Can you?"

"Iris was so graceful!" Mabel said. "And murderous, but mostly graceful. Like an evil swan."

Bill laughed. "Yeah! Yeah, she is. Floats like a dream. If you think she's graceful in the air, you oughta see her in the pool. She's the only person I know who can make a cannonball look elegant."

Mabel gave him a sly grin.

"What?"

"Look at you. Yooou still like heeer." Mabel propped her elbows on the edge of the window seat and balanced her chin in her hands. "How did you meet Iris?"

For the last couple of days, almost everyone in the house had talked about Bill's ex like she was some kind of malevolent creature, rather than a person. He was used to outsiders talking about his friends that way—heck, most of his friends were malevolent creatures—but it grated all the same. (He missed home.) Just hearing Mabel call Iris by her name was a breath of fresh air. No one else had even asked if she had a name.

"I met her at a party," Bill said. "I'd just gotten a piano and was showing off, and she came by to ask about Earth music. She wasn't in my crew then—but the party was open invite, and everyone in that corner of the Nightmare Realm knew that if you wanted info on Earth, you came to Bill Cipher. So, we talked about waltzes and tarantellas, I played a little Beethoven, we hit things off..."

They talked until the bathroom was free and Mabel went to shower. Sweet kid. Hopeless romantic, though.

When Bill got out of this place, he was gonna find the first boy who would break her heart and kill him before they could meet. It was the least he could do for her.

####

The third entry in Bill's dream diary: "Shooting Star's cartoon is getting to me. I dreamed about the wolf and the cat arguing over who had to host someone's birthday party. The wolf refused to let guests into his enormous mansion, but the cat's house was burning down. They asked me how to resolve this. I told them the cat should execute the wolf as punishment for his inhospitality, take over his mansion, and wear his skin as the party host. The animals were so in awe of my wisdom that I was deified as god of the jungle."

That was not what he'd dreamed. The animals were so horrified at his suggestion that they'd tied him to a stake and forced him to watch as they threw the cat into the flames of her own house. He couldn't remember whether he'd dreamed that he was a triangle or a human.

He preferred his version. Once he'd regained control over his dreams, he could replay this one and make it end properly.

He'd get the hang of this in no time.

####

(You're legally required to tell me if you had a reaction to this one. Even if it's horror. Especially if it's horror.)

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