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geniusboyy · 7 months ago

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Covenants and other Provisions

Chapter 21

Drop

Ford stumbled out of the shed, his breath fogging in the freezing night air as he hugged his bare arms to his chest. Tiny snowflakes drifted down, catching on his skin, their cold biting sharp against his flushed face. The wind blew through him, sending chills deep into his bones as he trudged forward. Every step felt like a battle; the rough gravel pressed sharply into his bare feet, his sore muscles barely able to hold him up as he moved towards the cabin.

Inside, warmth didn’t bring the comfort he’d expected. He felt colder, somehow. Shivers wracked through him as he moved, like his body hadn’t caught up to where he was. He entered his room and sank onto the edge of his bed, wrapped tightly around himself. His hands dug into his arms, rubbing them hard, trying to chase the shivers away, but his body refused to settle. His wrists throbbed from whatever Bill had him doing before regaining consciousness, the ache rousing his memory of the binds that had wrapped so tightly around them before.

His throat tightened at the thought. That searing passion, how he’d embraced the pain, lost himself in it—like he always did. But this time, the emotions pooled him, thick and sticky. He felt frayed, his skin sensitive and feverish, each point of pain tied to the recollection of being pulled, controlled, hurt. There was something hollow inside him, a space that felt scraped out. He rocked slightly, a small, desperate motion, seeking a comfort he couldn’t find. He squeezed his arms, but it didn’t stop the shaking.

The truth of it swelled in his throat, an unmistakable billow of shame, clawing at his tongue until it escaped his mouth as a whimper. His frame trembled, small gasps escaping his lips he trembled. He wanted Bill here—really here, just to be a steady presence, something he could lean into. But he knew better than that. Bill wouldn’t want this—wouldn’t take him this way. Embarrassment burned through him, stoking the well surging in his eyes. He swiped his hand roughly over his face, angry at the wetness there, the faint, traitorous sting that left him feeling like a stranger in his own skin.

Ford never thought he could feel like this; he’d prided himself on his resolve, his resilience. And yet, here he was. Wanting to be held—It was absurd. Just the thought made his cheeks burn with abasment—wanting something so… soft . But he was so cold, so blue, as if everything in him had been sapped. There was something about the dream, his night with Bill, that visceral euphoria—the way Bill had reduced him so effortlessly to that delirious, drooling mess. Only to be wrenched back to reality, left reeling and helpless, stranded in the aftermath of it all. Alone.

He shook his head, an attempt to banish the thoughts, but the heat of humiliation crept up his neck, searing into his skin as he stared down at his trembling hands. What kind of man feels like this?

The sun was already rising, spilling a dim light through the cracks of the blinds, scattering over the cold floor. Despite everything in him that wanted to crawl back under the covers, to hide from the weight pressing on his chest, he forced himself to stand, one shaky breath at a time. His limbs felt heavy as if he were dragging himself through water, but he dressed, straightened himself, did his best to tamp down whatever lingered from the night before. Today, they would either make history, or watch the work of months reduce to empty notes and discarded blueprints.

He met Fiddleford on the way to the lab, each step closer sharpening the edge of their purpose. They exchanged only a brief nod, both too worn out for anything more, words spent on days that seemed to bleed into each other. The lab was quiet when they entered, the hum of machines their only greeting. The exhaustion clung to them both, weighing down each movement, but Ford could feel something else stirring beneath it—a current cutting through the fatigue. Anticipation. They were so close.

They worked side by side, unspoken routines threading their actions together. Ford’s hands moved over the memory gun with a focus so complete it felt like he was moving by instinct. Fiddleford prepared the test and control mazes, placing small markers along the paths to gauge reaction time, repetition. The thought of failure weighed against the edge of Ford’s mind, a relentless tension he couldn’t name, but he ignored it, forcing his focus to sharpen on each adjustment he made, every turn of the screw, every spark of wire against metal.

Fiddleford finally broke the silence. “Courses are set.” His voice was low, tinged with the weariness that had settled between them over the past few days. He reached into the test maze, his hands steady as he grasped the small creature inside. The rat wriggled slightly, its tiny claws pressing against his palm, but he cradled it gently, scratching the soft patch of fur behind its ears.

“Our subject will be Stache,” he added, a faint smile breaking through the lines of his face.

“Stache?” Ford scoffed, his gaze lifting from the control panel. The faintest trace of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Yeah,” Fiddleford shrugged, holding the rat up for emphasis. “Seems only fitting. He’s got a little mustache of his own, see?” He chuckled softly, brushing a finger along the dark spot beneath the rat’s nose. “Besides, he’s got a knack for the maze. Smarter than most of ‘em, I’d say.”

Ford studied the small creature as it sniffed the air, its twitching nose catching nothing but traces of dust and their own sterile ambition. Its glossy black eyes glimmered in the light, bright yet hollow—devoid of recognition or fear, its trust not earned but innate, unknowing. Just an animal, a subject—ordinary, unremarkable. And yet, as Ford watched it squirm in Fiddleford’s hands, its tiny claws scratching against his assistant’s thumb, he felt the throng of something he couldn’t name, a sensation close to guilt, but not too far from fascination.

It was caught in a fate it couldn’t possibly understand, its life reduced to a sum of variables and outcomes, the arc of its existence written by minds larger than its own. They could shape or unmake this creature at will, its world no longer its own but theirs. His. There was something about the simplicity of it that unsettled him: the fragility, the ease, the dissonant illusion of stability. The thought was a weight in his chest, like a pressure he couldn’t expel. Is this what it felt like—to him? To subject something else to his design. To bend, to rewrite, to mold.

Ford blinked, breaking the thought before it could finish forming. He turned away sharply, pulling his attention back to the equipment. His tone was clipped when he spoke, though soft. “You really shouldn’t be naming them,” he said over his shoulder. “It’s not a pet.”

“Oh, quit.” Fiddleford’s drawl carried a hint of exasperated humor, his voice cutting through the tension that lingered in the air. He carefully placed the rat in the test harness, adjusting its position with surprising tenderness. “You don’t gotta be such a hard-ass all the time. ‘Sides, I like to think it makes ‘em work harder.”

Ford glanced back at him, watching the rat settle under the soft overhead light. He didn’t respond immediately, but the faint frown tugging at his brow deepened as he turned back to the control panel.

The memory gun sat secured in the custom holster, its slim barrel pointed directly at the rat’s cage. It was rigged to fire remotely, a crude but effective setup designed to minimize interference. The apparatus around it was equally utilitarian—a simple frame to keep the creature still, sensors positioned with clinical precision to monitor its vitals. Wires sprawled from the setup like veins, their ends converging at the control panel in front of Ford.

He hovered over the controls, fingers twitching faintly as they rested just above the final switch. There was something almost ceremonial in the act, the culmination of countless, relentless hours of work, narrowed down to this single moment. The room felt heavy with expectation, the quiet hum of the equipment amplifying the silence between them.

“Ready?” Ford’s voice broke the stillness, though it sounded distant, hollow in his own ears.

Fiddleford stood back, arms crossed, his brow furrowed in a mixture of focus and unease. He nodded once, his teeth catching his thumbnail as he mumbled, “When you are.”

Ford swallowed, flicking his gaze between the gun, the rat, and the monitor. He forced his voice to steady. “All clear,” he called. Then, with a sharp intake of breath, he flicked the switch.

The pulse fired with a soft hum, vibrating in the pattern they’d configured. A brief, colorless wave rippled outward, visible only in the faint shimmer of distortion that hung in the air for less than a second before dissipating. The rat flinched, its small body shivering with an involuntary spasm.

Then, nothing.

The room stood still, the silence now thick and oppressive, as though the air itself was holding its breath. Neither of them moved. Fiddleford’s eyes were fixed on the tiny creature, his jaw working soundlessly, while Ford’s fingers clutched the edge of the console. It felt sacrilegious to speak, to break the fragile pause that had fallen over them.

Finally, Fiddleford stepped forward, his movements slow and deliberate as he reached for the rat, lifting the animal carefully and setting it down in the entrance to the maze. He released it, stepping back as if giving the creature room to think, to process what had just happened.

Ford’s heart skipped against his ribs as he leaned in, his eyes tracing every small twitch, every slight shift of the rat’s body. At first, the creature didn’t move, just swayed slightly on its feet, its head bobbing as if disoriented.

Then it began to sniff. It took a cautious step forward, then stopped, turning its head from side to side as if searching for something that wasn’t there. Ford’s pulse quickened as the rat hesitated at the first turn, lingering, then retreating slightly before pressing on again. Its movements were uncertain, hesitant, its path meandering aimlessly through the corridors of the maze.

“Holy fuckin’ shit,” Fiddleford breathed, his voice barely above a whisper. He leaned closer, his hands braced on the edge of the table as he stared at the directionless creature.

Ford felt the weight in his chest dissolve, replaced by a thrill that crept in slowly, almost cautiously, until it surged all at once, a sharp jolt of disbelief and triumph. He pressed a hand to the edge of the table to steady himself. “It actually worked,” he murmured, his voice breaking slightly. The words felt surreal in his mouth, as though they belonged to someone else.

Fiddleford turned to him, his face slack with awe, the exhaustion of the past few days momentarily lifted. For a second, neither of them spoke. The realization hung between them, electric, fragile Then he let out a shaky laugh, running a hand through his hair. “We did it.”

Ford exhaled sharply, the sound somewhere between a laugh and a gasp as he looked down at the rat, who now paused in the maze, sniffing a dead end before turning back, its tiny frame still trembling slightly. His gaze flicked to Fiddleford, whose wide-eyed grin mirrored his own disbelief.

In that moment, the exhaustion that had weighed on them for days seemed to vanish. The fatigue was still there, a dull ache in their muscles and minds, but now it was drowned out by something sharper, something brighter. For the first time in days, they didn’t feel tired at all.

Fiddleford was the first to break, his grin stretching wide as a laugh burst out of him—sharp and unrestrained, like he couldn’t believe his own voice. “We fuckin’ did it!” he shouted, slapping the table so hard the rat startled. He turned to Ford, his face lit with a giddy mix of exhaustion and exhilaration.

Ford let out a low, disbelieving chuckle, his fingers running through his hair as Fidds grabbed him by the shoulder, shaking him. “Eureka.” he muttered. Then, he started to laugh—softly at first, then louder, until it rolled out of him in waves.

They spent the next hours in a haze of observation, their previous excitement tampered by the equally important task of cataloging every detail of the rat’s behavior, monitoring the slow ebb of his vitals, each shift in brain activity. So far, everything was normal. Ford tried to focus on the data, his attention glued to the flickering monitor, but a vague unease whispered at the edge of his thoughts.

As the time passed, the stillness of the lab settled in, dense and heavy, broken only by the sound of machinery and the soft, irregular clatter of glass against metal as Ford adjusted the setup. The light in the room had shifted, cold and stark, casting faint, trembling shadows against the walls. Ford glanced sideways at Fiddleford, who had slouched deeper into his chair, boots kicked up on an overturned crate.

A hand-rolled cigarette hung loosely from his fingers, smoke curling upward in uneven wisps as he puffed at it with quiet regularity. His other hand rested on a worn notebook balanced across his thighs, the nib of his pen pressed into the page, caught mid-scribble. His focus didn’t waver; his eyebrows were knitted tightly, his lips set into a thin line as he squinted at the monitors in front of him, as if willing them to yield some hidden insight.

“I forgot to mention,” Fiddleford said suddenly, his voice cutting through the quiet like a snap of dry wood. He didn’t look up, his pen resuming its scratching as he spoke. “There’s supposed to be a big snowstorm blowing through here in the next day or so. Folks in town say this place is notorious for power outages, what with us bein’ down in the valley and all.” He glanced over at Ford briefly, the glow of the cigarette tip flaring as he took another drag. “I can head into town later, stock up on some things, if you figure we oughta shut the machines down. Just to be safe. Hate to fry anything important.”

Ford was still for a moment, his hand lingering over the edge of the console. His eyes flicked toward the monitors, scanning the numbers absently, as if searching for an excuse not to answer right away. The hum of the machines felt louder now, crawling under his skin. “Did you let the wife know?” he asked at last, his tone even but edged with a subtle sharpness, remembering what Bill said about Fidd’s marital spat.

The pen in Fiddleford’s hand stilled, the tip pressing into the paper, carving a faint crescent into its surface. He exhaled sharply through his nose, a sound that wasn’t quite a sigh but something closer to defeat. “She ain’t concerned with the weather patterns way out here.” His hand drifted to his chin, his thumb brushing against the rough patch of stubble that had grown throughout the day, a restless, thoughtless gesture. “Don’t matter much anyhow—Em’s, uh… not been taking my calls lately,” he began, his voice low, reluctant, each word an effort pulled from him. “She’s… well, she’s not too happy with me after the other night.” He hesitated, pressing his lips together like he might stop himself from continuing, before giving in. “Had some, uh, choice words for me.”

He lifted his glasses, his fingers finding the bridge of his nose, pressing there like he could force the weight of her words out of his head. His hand lingered, the movement slow and deliberate, before he let the glasses drop back into place, the slight click of the frames settling against his face audible in the stillness. “But, uh, I won’t bore you with the details,” he muttered, his voice quieter now, his gaze drifting to the monitors, as if the glowing numbers could absorb him, shield him from Ford’s attention.

Ford didn’t look up, when he spoke. “What, because you called her late?” he asked, his voice clipped, dismissive, the sharp edge of it slicing through Fiddleford’s hesitance. He tapped the ash from his cigarette, the motion brisk, mechanical, the tiny ember falling to the ashtray below. “Seems a bit… derisive,” he added, his tone flat, detached, like he was commenting on an equation that didn’t add up. “You’re usually doing something important. You can’t always just walk away.”

Fidds leaned back in his chair, exhaling a long, smoke-filled breath that unfurled into the space between them, curling and lingering like the words he couldn’t quite say. “Well, she doesn’t see it that way, Ford,” he said finally, his voice low, steadying itself. “She just… misses me, I guess. It’s hard, being apart.” He turned the cigarette between his fingers, his thumb rolling over the paper like it held answers. The ember glowed faintly, then dimmed, its light fleeting, insubstantial.

“And I miss them too,” he admitted, the words tumbling out unguarded, halting. “My son—he’s growing up so fast. A-and I’m missing it.” His voice broke, just for a moment, and he disguised it quickly with another drag of the cigarette. The smoke left him in a long, uneven sigh, the exhale carrying something raw, unspoken. “Nothing beats this, really,” he murmured, gesturing vaguely at the lab, the machines, the endless stretch of work between them. “But… it’s a sacrifice, ya know?”

Ford nodded faintly, the motion small, his gaze pinned to the glowing tip of his own cigarette. The words hit him, but they didn’t settle—they floated, weightless with the smoke in the air. Fiddleford’s voice faded, becoming indistinct, part of the low hum of the room, the whirring machines and the faint tick of a clock. Ford understood the grief in it, the ache of absence, but it pressed against him strangely, differently than Fidds. He thought about the words he was hearing.

Sacrifice. What had he sacrificed? He didn’t have a family, no wife waiting for him to call at night. But there had been something else, hadn’t there? Something less visible but no less vital: control. The agency to shape his days, to decide who he was and where he stood. He’d traded it away, hadn’t he? Piece by piece, until the life he once claimed as his own no longer belonged to only him. And yet—what had been handed back was more than he’d ever imagined. Bill had taken him apart, stripped him down to his most basic elements, and rebuilt him into something stronger, something better.

Through Bill, the universe split open, its secrets no longer cloaked in shadows but spilling forth in a kaleidoscope of brilliance, his world washed in color for the first time. It wasn’t children he had to carry his legacy, it was this. Possibilities that stretched endlessly before his eyes, the expectations Bill laid upon him with gilded chains. Meeting them, exceeding them, had become his purpose, an insatiable drive Ford had never known, clawing at him, day and night.

Thoughts of their nightly encounters pressed against his skull, unrelenting: the way Bill dissolved his pain into pleasure, the ache of euphoria that left him hollow once it faded, leaving space to be filled with the rush of discovery, knowledge and power. It rewrote the world’s order—tore it apart, rewired it, made everything else seem pale in its comparison. The high of being with Bill obliterated reason, obliterated him, until nothing else seemed worth grasping. And then came the mornings: waking to the jagged edge of reality where he could no longer feel his flesh, breathe him in, taste him. The solitude was like a chasm, growing wider each time his eyes opened and Bill was no longer beside him, residing only as a voice in his mind, a ghostly brush against his greedy skin.

Ford flicked the ash from his cigarette, his eyes following the soft drift of it before it disappeared into the air, weightless and insubstantial. Everything he’d given to get here, everything he still had to give—it loomed before him, vast and insurmountable. He couldn’t imagine a sacrifice too great, couldn’t fathom what he would set ablaze if it meant keeping this—keeping him.

Was there anything he wouldn’t immolate? It was as terrifying as it was captivating. How much he’d allowed Bill to take. It begged the question—how much was he willing to sacrifice? The answer came with striking ease; everything .

“You’re doing this for them, right?” Ford’s voice came soft, almost detached, as if he were speaking to the empty space between them. “To give them a better life?”

Fiddleford let out a laugh, thin and dry, a sound that barely reached Ford through the haze of his own thoughts. “Course I am.” The words were quiet but heavy, almost bitter, like they’d been carried too far.

Ford nodded faintly, his eyes fixed on the screen in front of him, though the lines and figures blurred under the weight of his wandering mind. His thoughts drifted to last night, the sting of shame that followed, pricking his spine, sharp and insistent. It wasn’t the surrender that haunted him—it was the ease of it, the desperation he’d felt in giving himself over, and the hollow that followed when he was done. He inhaled deeply, letting the smoke fill his lungs, as though it could displace the emptiness clawing its way through his chest.

“That’s what a man does,” Ford said finally, his voice steady, stripped of emotion. “Whether or not anyone understands—that’s not the point.” He flicked the ash from his cigarette, watching it spiral lazily to the floor. “You work. Devote yourself. Keep your head down, get the job done. Doesn’t matter if you’re thanked or not.” He paused, his gaze still trained on the screen, the flicker of green light dancing across his glasses. “Besides…” His tone softened, and he wasn’t sure if he was speaking to Fiddleford or to himself. “When you’re up there on that stage, accepting your Fields—when it’s your name printed in every science textbook, passed around in dinner conversations like it’s always belonged there. One of the greats. You think she’ll remember this?�� He turned his head slightly, just enough to glance at his friend. “Or will she remember that you bought her the nicest house on the block? The new car in the driveway? Sent your kid to the best school? That you were the one that got out. All because of this.”

Fiddleford didn’t answer. His eyes were fixed on the rat in its cage, its small body scurrying over the sawdust. The glow of the lab lights carved deep lines into his face, the sadness and shame there heavy and unspoken. Ford watched him from the corner of his eye, saw the faint tremor in his hand, the way he rolled the cigarette between his fingers as if the motion could steady him.

“Don’t dwell on it,” Ford said after a while, his voice quieter now, almost absent. “Won’t change anything.” He didn’t know if the words were meant to comfort or to simply state the facts. “She’ll come around.”

—

Ford and Fiddleford had spent the better part of the afternoon in strained focus, documenting Stache’s progress with the precision of men whose only remaining sanctuary was the cold, unfeeling order of data. The rat’s vitals were steady, its brain activity unremarkable, and, after hours of monotonous observation, they declared the day a success. Ford recorded the conclusion with an almost mechanical efficiency: No significant changes observed at this time. Further monitoring will determine long-term effects. Further tests will be repeated at later dates to determine effects of repeated use. Beside him, Fiddleford leaned back in his chair with a tired sigh, already eyeing the small cage where Stache scurried.

Against Ford’s terse warnings about attachments and distractions, Fiddleford had already begun making arrangements in his head—Ford could see it in the way he lingered, the way his hand drifted too close to the cage bars. He could imagine the conversation when it came: something about how Stache deserves high honors for his contributions, how it wouldn’t be right to cast him off now.

By evening, Fiddleford had decided to head into town, stocking up on supplies before the storm hit in earnest. The first drifts of snow had already begun to accumulate, gathering in soft, silent waves around the cabin. “I won’t be long,” Fiddleford had said, his voice light with the pretense of normalcy. But Ford knew better. His friend wanted space.

As the door closed behind him, the lab became still—The quiet pressing down on Ford like a weighted blanket, suffocating in its density. He moved mechanically, preparing for potential outages: checking equipment, testing backups, double-checking connections. It was the kind of work that should have brought a sense of order, satisfaction even. But instead, his hands felt heavy, dull and slow.

They had done it. They had reached into the sacred order of memory itself and rewritten it, bending nature’s rules to their will. It was the kind of breakthrough that should have made him feel invincible—glorious. Instead, all he could feel was the unyielding creep of melancholy laying like sediment in his limbs. Something was off.

Ford leaned against one of the counters, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. He was hot, his skin prickling with sweat that formed too quickly at his hairline. But then, just as suddenly, he was cold again, shivering as though the storm had broken through the walls of the lab. His body couldn’t decide how to feel, and neither could he.

The success they’d achieved felt hollow, like a perfect sphere—impressive but empty inside. Ford had known this kind of emptiness before, back when his ambition had carried him from lecture halls to research grants, from promises of fame to dead-end leads. It was the kind of emptiness that didn’t come from failure, but from the knowledge that success had demanded something from you that you could never get back. Overdrive wore his senses, leaving him crackling like a blown out speaker.

When the stillness finally became unbearable, he turned off the lights and retreated upstairs. In his room, he lingered by the window, staring out, watching the snow blanket the world in silence. It pressed against the windows, twinkling as it fluttered through moonlight. Ford stared at the frost forming in the corners of the glass, the thin, delicate patterns. It was still and peaceful. He let himself collapse into bed, his limbs heavy. His gaze was fixed on the ceiling as his eyes fought to stay open. He blinked once—then twice, then his eyes shifted, drawn back to the window. The heavy flakes falling just moments before had stopped.

He felt a shift at the foot of the bed, the faint creak of the mattress breaking the stillness. His eyes moved from the window, drawn to the figure now perched at its edge. Bill sat there, one leg crossed over the other with practiced ease, his usual sharpness muted, his glowing eye dimmed to a steady, low burn. The grin Ford knew so well was softer, less sardonic—its edges smoothed. Ford, a bit startled, but too weary to resist, pushed himself upright. His gaze darted briefly around the room, taking in its uncanny detail, a mark of Bill’s growing ability to thumb through and reconstruct Ford’s subconscious memory with an eerie exactness.

Bill observes Ford for a moment, tilting his head. “Tell me,” he started. “What is this feeling?” Bill asks, leaning closer. “It’s heavy. Kinda…gummy… I don’t think I like it.”

Ford hesitated, the question lodging in his throat. He looked away, his hands curling restlessly in his lap. “I-I don’t know,” he murmured, the words barely audible. “I just… feel bad.” His voice cracked, and he glanced at Bill, apologetic. “I’m sorry.”

Bill’s brows furrow, his confusion evident. “Bad ?” The word sounds foreign in his mouth, and his usual confidence wavers. His brow creased, a rare fissure in his usual smug veneer. “That’s not… helpful.”

Ford sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t know, okay? It just… is what it is.” He feels exposed, frustrated by his inability to articulate the ache in his chest.

Bill shifts closer, studying Ford as though trying to solve a puzzle. “You humans and your flippant emotions,” he mutters, though the usual edge of arrogance in his tone is absent. Ford glances at him, noticing the confusion in his expression. “I figured you’d be more… excited. After today.” he admitted. “But you’re all sticky inside, what gives?”

Ford looked away, ashamed of the lump forming in his throat. His hands fidgeted with the blanket, his chest tightening as the words threatened to choke him. “I’m satisfied with the outcome of the experiment, yes. I just…” He hesitated, then forced the request out, each syllable feeling clumsy and fragile. “Can we just… lay here? For a bit?”

Bill blinked, clearly caught off guard. The question seemed to linger in the air between them, strange and unwieldy. “And do what?” he asked.

“Nothing,” Ford answered, though the word stumbled on its way out. He could feel the heat rising to his face, a flush he couldn’t control. Bill’s puzzled gaze bore into him. He shifted uncomfortably, his fingers curling into the blanket. “I just want to… lay here. With you.” His voice dipped into a whisper, the words catching in his throat. “I’m…tired.”

Bill’s expression twitched—something close to skepticism, an instinctive scoff building behind his teeth—but it didn’t come. He studied Ford’s face instead, searching, his usual sharpness tempered by a hesitation Ford hadn’t seen before. Slowly, he nodded, though his body remained taut, like a spring waiting to recoil. “Will that help?” he asked, his tone light but his eye narrowing. “The sticky feeling?”

Ford shrugged, the motion heavy with weariness. “I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice soft, his eyes fixed on the blanket as though it could offer answers. “Maybe.”

Bill’s eye flickered, faintly narrowing as if weighing Ford’s words. Then, slowly, he nodded, his movements deliberate, cautious. “Alright, Six,” he said, though his voice lacked its usual sharpness. There was no mockery in it now, only a strange quiet. “We can try your way.”

Ford barely registered the reply before Bill shifted, moving with that familiar serpentine ease, his limbs too smooth, too precise. The mattress dipped beneath his weight as he crawled forward, deliberate, almost calculated. He hovered above Ford for a moment, studying him, his gaze unreadable. Then, with slow precision, he lowered himself, his body pressing lightly against Ford’s.

Bill’s weight settled, grounding but not overwhelming. His hand reached out, tentatively finding Ford’s shoulder, his grip light, exploratory, his fingers barely curling around him. His head rested against Ford’s chest, the gesture hesitant, as though unsure of its reception.

“You’re shaking,” Bill said after a moment, his voice subdued, the faintest whisper of curiosity breaking through. It was softer than Ford had ever heard it.

Ford nodded, his breaths uneven, his muscles trembling under Bill’s touch. The tension in his body began to unravel, though slowly, painfully. He swallowed, his throat dry, before forcing the words out, each syllable an effort. “I know,” he murmured, his voice quiet, laden with nerves. His pulse thrummed in a nervous staccato as he teetered on the line. “Just… hold me.”

For a moment, Bill didn’t move. Then, slowly, his arms circled around Ford, the embrace loose at first, unsure, like a stranger feeling their way through the dark. The weight of his touch grew firmer, the pressure steadier. Ford felt the strange warmth of it seep into him, unfamiliar but not unwelcome. Bill’s fingers brushed over his shoulder, his touch still light but growing curious, almost reverent, as though he were cataloging this peculiar act of comfort.

Bill’s fingers continued their path, trailing over Ford’s skin with the faintest pressure, the movements unhurried, measured. Each touch was a question, each stroke a hypothesis. He explored Ford’s body as though it were an artifact, a fragile specimen from an unfamiliar world. Beneath his hands, Ford’s body began to settle, the trembling subsiding, his nervous system untangling itself after hours wound tight.

“Fascinating,” Bill murmured, his voice low, almost to himself, as he noticed the shift—the muscles softening, the steadying of Ford’s breath, the rhythm of his heartbeat evening out.

The seconds stretched on, and Bill’s movements shifted, still soft but more deliberate, like an artist lingering on the finer details of their work. His fingers traced the faint ridge of Ford’s collarbone, the hollow of his throat, brushing lightly along the curve of his neck. There was no hunger in his touch, none of the sharp-edged dominance that usually defined him. This was different, quieter—gentler, even. The reverence in it surprised them both.

“This is helping,” Bill said at last, his voice soft but uncertain, the words hovering somewhere between a statement and a question.

Ford nodded, his eyes closed. “Yeah…” he murmured, the response barely audible, as though the effort to speak might break the moment.

Bill’s fingers stilled for a fraction of a second, then resumed their path, slower now. “You’re so fragile,” he said, almost absently. A faint laugh followed, though it lacked its usual sharpness. “So sensitive to every little thing. Shifts in temperature, the press of a hand… I can feel it all. It’s…” He hesitated, his voice dipping, quieting. “It’s maddening.”

Ford’s breath hitched, though he kept his eyes closed, letting the words wash over him.

Bill’s hand paused, then rested lightly against Ford’s chest, his fingers splayed. He closed his eyes, listening—not just to the steady thrum of Ford’s heart beneath his palm but to the sensation of Ford’s emotions rippling through the connection they shared. “They’re so… complicated,” he said finally, his tone softer still. “Your spirit and passions. Changing all the time. Twisting and tangling.” His brow furrowed slightly. “How do you live with it? Doesn’t it drive you crazy?”

They fell into silence, not the quiet kind, but laden with something stretching taut between them. Ford opened his eyes to steal a glance at Bill, only to find him already watching. His glowing gaze was insistent, and Ford couldn’t look away. It tethered him there. “Yes,” He finally said, the word quiet but certain.

And then it hit him—that ache in his chest, blooming into something he didn’t want to acknowledge. It wasn’t lust, wasn’t power or submission. It was just for Bill, simple and undeniable, and it scared him.

Without thinking, Ford’s hand moved, his knuckles brushing against Bill’s cheek in a gesture so light he barely felt it. The touch lingered there as their gazes locked, and for a moment, Ford thought he might fall apart under the weight of it.

He felt the thought rising, twisting through his heart with a clarity he couldn’t bear. Don’t think it. Don’t let it in. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing it away, remembering the consequences of letting it get the better of him. But it stayed, stubborn, insistent and unwelcome.

“Ford.” His name came softly in Bill’s voice, drawing him back.

Ford blinked as Bill’s hand lifted, mirroring his own. Fingers brushed against his cheek, careful and deliberate, as though testing a fragile surface. “It’s okay,” Bill whispered, and for once, his words were steady, reassuring.

Ford didn’t reply. He couldn’t. But he didn’t need to. The way they looked at each other was enough.

Bill moved first and Ford met him halfway. It wasn’t a demand, wasn’t a claim, wasn’t even a question. It was just a kiss—gentle, unhurried, and startling in its softness. It caught them both off guard, a moment suspended in its simplicity. Their lips brushed lightly at first, slowly. For once, there was no gambit, no undercurrent—just them.

Ford pulled back first, his breath catching in his throat. The weight of what they’d shared hit him all at once, a vulnerability that burned. “I’m sorry,” he breathed, his voice tight with the apology.

Bill didn’t answer—not with words, at least. His hand came to Ford’s jaw, his touch firm but not harsh, guiding him back, steadying the trembling between them. He kissed Ford again, slow and deliberate, as if to dismantle the apology before it could take root. This time, there was a quiet persistence to it

Ford’s hand drifted to the side of Bill’s face, his thumb tracing the smooth planes of his skin as their kiss deepened. It wasn’t frantic or hurried but steady—anchoring. He lost himself in it. It felt like flying. A weightlessness that made him forget the world beyond this bed. They moved cautiously, as though deliberation might stretch the edges of time and hold this fragile moment intact, forever.

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#covenants and other provisions #my writing #stanford pines #bill cipher #billford #gravity falls #billford fanfic #fiddleford mcgucket #ford pines #already severely emotionally repressed man experiences sub drop #and asks the demon that did it to him for a cuddle #pathetic sissy #with peace and love

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