Chapter Text
Bill will never forgive Ford for taking his apocalypse away from him.
Not that it’s all lost. The rift is still in Ford’s possession, safely tucked away in the basement of the Shack; soon, when Gideon will be paroled by the new, soft-hearted Mayor of Gravity Falls, Bill will have a competent minion in his hands who will be able to fetch the rift for him. But the fact Bill’s long wait for apocalypse turned out to be longer still is just unforgivable. He will have to put Ford into his place.
Luckily, he has just the right tool for that.
Watching though the birches, Bill observes as Ford and Pine Tree make their way back to their camp in the forest, both looking exhausted. Pine Tree is limping a little, his shorts slightly torn from the right leg; a goodbye gift from some critter that Bill couldn’t care less about, if not for the fact that Pine Tree is injured, and that means Ford will have to get a little physical with him. That gives Bill the perfect opportunity to take advantage of his and Pine Tree’s still active deal.
*
“Grand Uncle Ford, I’m fine,” Dipper says.
That’s such an obvious lie that it makes Ford raise his eyebrow at him, which makes Dipper look away, abashed. Not that he is seriously injured; his knee is covered in slime and there is heavy bruising forming on his thigh and calf both, but he’s not bleeding and nothing is broken. It’s his pride that is most hurt, and that’s the thing that he’s most desperate to soothe right now, but of course his great uncle sees right through that.
“Dipper, you just got attacked by an adolescent Kraken. It’s all right not to be fine.” Ford gestures to the stone that stands near their fireplace while heading for the tent himself, and Dipper obediently walks over to the stone, wiping it clean from twigs and other dirt before sitting on top of it. As he stretches his leg out before him, he hears Ford talk some more: “We’re lucky it was on its own! Lake Krakens are small but you still don’t want to deal one’s angry mother!”
“Of course,” Dipper agrees, frowning at the rips in shorts. He lifts his eyes upon hearing Ford approach, but lowers them again a second later when Ford kneels down before him, opening up the medicine bag.
“I will take a sample first,” Ford says. With a swab, he gathers up some of the slime and seals it away into a small plastic bag, tucking it away into the medicine bag. Ford then lifts out a rag, and grasps Dipper carefully from the back of his knee as he starts to wipe the slime off.
“Tell me if it hurts,” he says, not noticing the way Dipper has gone completely speechless.
Dipper can’t say he has ever given men’s hands much thought before, but then again no one he has known before has had special hands like Ford’s. All six fingers have a firm hold on him, and there is no ignoring the strength of those fingers; yet they are gentle on him, keeping him steady as Ford cleans up his knee. Ford puts the rag away and moves his other hand to Dipper’s knee as well, surrounding it from both sides.
“Is it swollen?” Dipper doesn’t think it is, but Ford probably knows more about medical things than he does; he is probably able to tell.
“I don’t think so, but we could use an ice pack on it just in case.” Dipper swallows a yelp when Ford’s hands move upwards, grabbing the hem of the torn leg of the shorts. “I’ll take a closer look.”
Ford rolls up the leg up to the thigh joint, exposing the full extent of the bruising on Dipper’s thigh. Ford takes Dipper’s thigh into his hands, cradling it like it’s a small animal as he rotates it a bit; Dipper feels sore, but to his relief it doesn’t really hurt. Obviously it’s just bruises, nothing is swollen or broken, or even strained; obviously he hasn’t been hurt seriously. He probably could have made it to the camp without limping at all, but now he acted all delicate about it and Ford is going to remember that.
It should be the main concern in his mind, that Ford has seen him act all weak, more like a burden than a partner in crime. But what he thinks about is Ford’s hands instead, the way they seem to enfold his whole thigh, their warm grip.
"Yes, I think ice packs should help you feel better,” Ford says. “Or do you disagree? Is there something you need to tell me?”
Dipper chuckles. “Nah, I think ice packs should be good.” He puts on his most carefree smile. “Thanks for taking such good care of me, Grunkle Ford.”
Ford blinks at him, and Dipper wants to die. But soon Ford is smiling, looking a little confused - or is that sheepish? - and saying: “Of course I do, Dipper, that’s my duty.”
The warm hands leave him, and Ford starts rummaging around the medicine bag again. Dipper tries to think of how soothing ice will feel on his sore leg soon, but instead he keeps wondering just what the hell in the world compelled him to say that.