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Bill is captivated and awestruck the moment he lays his eye on Ford.
And Ford has perfected his body but he’s not ignorant to its reactions, to the bumps down his arms, the grin pulling at both sides of his face, to see such a small creature struggle to drink in the totality of him. It’s dizzying, the way a hit for an addict is. And Ford wants more.
This near-religious response from Bill diminishes by the eighth or ninth visit, with Bill adjusting to Ford’s looming presence. Ford misses his trembling, the anxious reverence. But he’s chipping away at Bill's true personality as he gets comfortable with Ford. Sometimes more comfortable than what Ford thinks he wants or is prepared to have.
They spend their time together lost in discussion, volleying questions. Equally curious about the other.
Ford educates Bill about the great beyond, hungry for an eager pupil. Bill is especially interested in the stars, in a nebula collapsing in on itself, destroying all that’s around and within it, and being reborn into something so radiant nothing can scratch it without incinerating. Bill presents his own theories on their true nature, and Ford is shocked by how much Bill correctly guesses. Apparently, Bill had spent some time in the scientific field trying to convince others of what he alone was burdened to see. He became an artist at his mothers’ side when he finally accepted the futility of it, no longer reckoning with the taboo of the third dimension in his world. Traded in my books and calculator for an easel and art supplies!
In return Ford inquires about Euclydia and the colorful denizens that float between its borders, like microbes in a petri dish. Their history, culture, biology. One time he watches with strange fascination as Bill provides demonstration for how they eat, his eye flipping over to reveal his maw as he bites into a wedge of cheese.
During his more generous moments, he asks Bill about his art. Giving this tiny, insignificant thing scraps of his care and interest.
“Are you a self taught artist?”
Ford breaks the silence between them. These oddly comfortable silences are commonplace too, and Ford tells himself they’re for observational purposes so he doesn’t feel like he’s wasting time. Watching Bill dart between projects, humming showtunes to himself, bouncing on fuzzy purple slippers. Euclydians don’t have visible genitals, or need for external covering to regulate body heat like humans do, so clothes are purely for aesthetic purposes. Making Ford especially amused with Bill’s choice in apron and beret.
“Nope! Got it from my mama as the saying goes!” Bill is dragging whites and golds through a dark backdrop with his brush when he answers. Ford is starting to realize what an absolute sucker of a mama’s boy that Billy really is. It annoys him, for Bill to have this strong connection outside of himself.
Bill continues, “But I guess every artist is kind of self taught. Oh, but I did teach myself piano!”
“..... so did I.” Ford admits. The honesty of it striking an unbalanced weight into his chest for some reason. Bill peers up at Ford, who hovers above his studio, but to Ford’s relief he only blinks, turning back to his work.
“I bet you were a natural! I mean, look at you! Six fingers! Bet you could play the crap out of any piano you saw. Though, I guess it’s a LITTLE less impressive when the rest of your species also has six fingers on each hand.”
That gives Ford pause as he realizes something. That he’s Bill’s only reference for what a homosapien is. That he would have no idea unless Ford told him.
Which he won’t.
Ford thinks about the ways Bill has happily presented Ford aspects of his life and who he is, and Ford decides to return the favor.
“Would you like to see them up close?”
Bill’s eye lights up. He drops his paints and brush, holding his hands up. “Boy, would I! But that’s up to the big man upstairs, and what do you know…. that’s you, my muse!”
“I wouldn’t have offered it if I didn’t want to show you, William. I can’t be made to do anything I don’t want to do.”
Nonetheless, Bill’s sincere enthusiasm for an up close and personal showing of his hand throws him off guard. The lack of meanspirited curiosity for his mutation. It’s only because he isn’t aware it’s a mutation, Ford carefully reminds himself.
Ford still slowly lowers his hand onto an empty spot in the studio. Bill, seemingly transfixed by the appearance of a three dimensional structure present in his two dimensional space, strolls up to a finger, and to Ford’s surprise, immediately begins needling and pressing on it with his own little digits. “Ha. Squishy,” he cheerfully notes, satisfied at finally being able to touch Ford. Something about the pressure of Bill’s fingers against his own, the warmth against warmth, numbs something in Ford’s mind. Quieting the echoes of school yard bullies long past.
Ford has always been aware of the discrepancy in their sizes, the way Bill is far smaller than him. But he’s so much more aware like this, how easily he could cradle him in the palm of his hand. Squish him flat if he wanted to.
Instead he only measures his breaths as Bill’s fingers grasp for his own.
|||||| . ||||||
Bill had noticed Ford before Ford had noticed him, and this is a tip on Bill’s side of the scale that Ford is still left grappling with. How it had taken him weeks before noticing the triangle’s gaze flitted to him more times than what could be considered accidental, fixed in the center of his body instead of his sides like the others.
He’s more observant than Ford is careful to not give him credit for, probably more observant than he wants Ford to know. Yet it still sometimes startles Ford when Bill makes new points about his appearance.
“Growing your silver fur out, Sixer? I like it! Gives you a real rockstar look. Think you should keep it.” His eye pinches up, and Ford knows from studying Bill’s body language that this is his version of a smile. Ford isn’t sure about the new nickname (Bill loves using them, but muse is by far Ford’s favorite).
“I haven’t had the time to get it cut.”
“Don’t bother! You look great like this.”
Bill returns to his painting, and Ford recognizes it as the same work from his last visit. More stars have been planted, and Bill has flourished them in depth and detail. He’s about to comment on the piece, but Bill pierces him with something completely unexpected first.
“When are you destroying Euclydia?”
The shock of the question stretches between them for a long minute. Bill staring at him wide, expectedly. Ford nearly sputters, but catches himself. He gives Bill another chance to correct the course.
“I'm sorry?”
“When are you destroying Euclydia?” Bill repeats, as if Ford had simply misheard him.
It's quiet again. Ford smooths over any emotion in his voice.
“What would make you think I would do such a thing?”
Bill shrugs.
“It's what you all-black wearing interdimensional genius eldritch god types do, right? You destroy places. Or you rule them. Pick your poison! Just wanted to know your angle,” he explains himself casually, like he'd wanted to know what Ford's dinner plans were. “If I were you, I’d go with destroying over ruling. No offense to my kind, but most of their brains would boil out of their bodies if they saw you, let alone try to comprehend you. And boiled brains don’t make for the best kinds of subjects!”
Ford knows he shouldn't be feeding this. Should end this conversation now. Make short work of it and go. But something nags at the back of his brain. It’s Bill’s use of the word eldritch. That a part of Bill possibly sees him as something so hideous, incomprehensible, and destructive.
“You’re being very casual about this, if you believe it’s true.”
“What am I going to do? Stop you? My only attack move would be to throw paint into your eyes, and you wear those goggles!”
“They aren’t goggles.”
“You get my point.”
“Goodnight, Bill.”
This has gone on long enough. Ford decides to take his exit, but before he does so, Bill shoots up a hand. Motioning for him to halt.
“Wait, hold up, big guy! I just wanted you to know that….” he trails off, eye wide, hand still outstretched. “Look. If you do crumble this place into pixels, I want you to know you’re the most exciting thing that’s happened to me my entire life. It feels like…. I’ve been waiting for you. Weird, right?” He squints, his hand falling to his side.
Ford doesn’t answer. But he’s gentle when he tells Bill to get some rest. He’ll visit him again soon.
||||| . ||||||
Ford tells Bill the truth. Part of it, anyways.
He informs Bill of the other versions of himself that he’s met on his long journeys. Their ruthless egos, biting mouths, lonely natures. Fingers forever stained with the undoing of their own dimensions. Seeking power to fulfill themselves. Living long unstable lives before burning out and crashing, a meteor deteriorating into nothing before it can break through the atmosphere.
Bill listens intently. His pupil is round and smooth, a dark pebble, unlike the cat-like slits of his counterparts. Ford is certain that this will convince Bill that if anyone is a threat to his dimension, it’s Bill himself.
Bill shuts his eye for a good solid moment. No doubt soaking in the information Ford has rained down. It must be a lot to take in. Ford patiently watches him.
Suddenly, his lids blow open, and Bill jovially bounces on his heels and around the room.
“This is great news!” He spreads his arms out. “Thanks for telling me, Sixer.”
“.... It is?” Ford arches an incredulous eyebrow.
“Sure is! See, I won’t be a sad mopey monster like all those other assholes! Because you’re destroying my dimension. Remember? Hachacha!” Bill does a dance with a kick of his feet that makes Ford want to swat him across the room. “Burden’s all yours, baby!”
Ford pinches the bridge of his nose in utter bafflement.
“Bill, what makes you so sure this isn’t your destiny?”
“Look at me! I’ve got a thriving art career. I’ve got my community, my family,” Ford winces as Bill prattles, “and I’ve got…. you. Looks like I get to have my cake and eat it too. Why would I ever go and screw up a good thing!? Sounds like I’m way smarter than all those other dopes.”
He proudly rests his hands on his sides, waiting for a reaction. Ford merely sighs through his nose.
“You are a strange one, William.” Never in his life had he encountered someone, let alone a version of Bill Cipher, with such a perverse and insistent commitment to remain so thoroughly simple.
“That just leaves me wondering. There are these other versions of me it seems like you could have a real party with! Get together, cause a little chaos, play pool with some planets in some solar system. So…” his eye is darting, he’s avoiding looking at Ford, his voice suddenly unsure, “....why not stick with them? Why are you here with me?” Ford realizes, with delighted clarity, that Bill is anxious about the possibility of him leaving.
There’s no answer Ford has that would satisfy them both. No answer that isn’t too sweet, too bitter, to not choke on. Maybe he likes this one a little more. Maybe he doesn’t want a contemporary, or an adversary, but a friend. Or something like a friend.
“Because I can only be your muse,” he replies.
|||||| . ||||||
Bill’s simplicity is challenged during his next visit.
Ford watches two triangles, red and blue, isosceles like Bill, speak to him. His parents. He’s inherited their shape, and they’re both a smidge taller than him, yet they feel so dim against Bill’s glow.
Murmuring niceties, and exchanging small talk. Bill being a gracious host and good son, showing how his latest project is shaping up. Ford catches a bright turquoise spot that wasn’t there before, hanging in the corner of the painting, distant from the other stars.
Before they leave, Bill’s mother, what Ford assumes to be the blue one, hands Billy a concoction of some kind. A tall cup of glaring, swirling colors, lid holding a silly straw. Bill stiffens as he accepts it, but keeps his eyes squinting in a mimicry of joy.
Once gone, Bill drags himself to a corner of the room, and unceremoniously dumps the drink to the ground, cup clattering after it.
“How long have you been watching me?”
Ford’s throat feels dry, though he isn’t sure why. He doesn’t answer. Bill already knows.
“What is that elixir that they gave you? The one you just poured out.”
“.....My medicine,” he responds numbly, “so I don’t see things that I shouldn’t anymore. Things like you.”
“And does it work?”
Bill finally looks up at Ford. Gaze intense with something Ford can’t identify but wants to press his finger against.
“What do you think, wise guy?”
Ford can’t help smirking, the cruelty coming so easily. Flooding his chest with hot satisfaction.
“These are the parents you wouldn’t destroy your dimension for? These are the people you see worth saving? The kind to try and numb what makes you special. What makes you precisely capable of holding their lives in your hands to begin with.”
Bill glances down again.
“My parents love me.”
Ford keeps pressing.
“They’d love you more if you were a little less strange though, wouldn’t they? If that medicine actually worked.”
Bill clenches his fists, starts to shake, and his yellow flesh burns a hot crimson Ford’s never seen before. The transition in color would be fascinating, a note for his journal, but Ford’s interest is absorbed by the outburst of his little friend.
“What do you want from me!? What if I did destroy my own dimension? What then? Out of spite. Leave you scrambling for what to do with me, now that I’m like all the others. Now that I’m like YOU! Is that what you want from me?” He presses his hands into the top of his head, knocking his beret off, his eye distressed and wide, speech hoarse with rage.
As enraptured as Ford is in this new emotion that’s consumed Bill, he isn’t sure about this tug in his leash. He needs to be in control again.
“William, calm down–”
“Where were you? Before the medicine, and the bullying, and the loneliness? Before I had to find a fucking way to trick people into seeing what I saw. Where were you when I needed someone who understood? You think of yourself as a God, don’t you? Where were you when I prayed for one!?”
A blinding blue flame sweeps up from the floor, and in seconds swallows up the piece Bill had been painting for weeks. They both watch the fire dance in silence, radiant in its destruction. The whole of Bill’s efforts seared into nothingness.
This is no spontaneous combustion, and it certainly isn’t Ford’s doing. The fire comes from Bill.
Bill’s body slumps forward, he cools to his usual yellow.
“You should go home, Fordsy. I need to clean up this mess.”
For once, in a very long time, Ford obeys a command someone else has given him. Though he has no home to return to.
|||||| . ||||||
This is not an apology.
It would simply be inconvenient to lose the one test subject from this dimension that can actually interact with him. And he can’t afford such inconveniences.
He could torment Bill into speaking to him again, as he’d been giving Ford an impressive cold shoulder during these last weeks, but flies and honey and whatnot.
Ford spends a week scouring for artisanal cheeses from several corners of the universe, threatening to burn down a dairy farmer here and there to take what he needs. He finds a beautifully woven basket, gold and blue ribbons looping its handle, and uses his own technology to make the basket of cheeses 2D-compatible.
Bill gratefully takes the basket, laughing mirthfully.
“You’ve really outdone yourself with this one, my muse!”
Ford smiles, watching Bill place the basket down. He makes a note that placating him with gifts works. He has so many questions about what Bill is truly capable of, about the fire, but they can wait.
“That reminds me!” Bill snaps his fingers, “I have a gift for you too!”
“Oh?” Ford tents his hands together, rests his chin on them.
Bill strolls over to an easel with a sheet draped over it, and whips the sheet away with a flourish. “Tada!”
It’s a painting of Ford, outlined in darkness. His hair is shoulder length and silver, contrasting the cerulean that runs like veins through his clothing, the stars that glitter down his cape. Bill has captured him mid-smile, mysterious and imposing. He’s as he appears to Bill, larger than life, towering over him.
Ford wants to crush Bill between his hands. He wants to see Bill engulf this place in flames, leaving only the painting untouched. He wants to torture Bill for a thousand years and still have him look at him this way. He wants to give Bill human form, explore his flesh, every orifice, leave him gasping and begging for it. He wants to take Bill far away from this place, give him his own planet to rule over, where everyone has to fall to their knees at the sight of his art.
“May I take it?” he asks, coolly.
“Of course! It’s all yours.”
And so Ford hangs it on a corner of his desk in his lab. Next to a faded photograph of a boy who shares his face, minus two fingers.
|||||| . ||||||
Bill wants to see the stars.
Ford reminds him that he already can, but no, Bill clarifies. He wants to see them the way Ford can.
Ford is in a good mood, and he enjoys how easy it is to give Bill a bite of the pie. How he can make him happy. How he alone shares this with him.
He creates a bracelet that will protect Bill from crushing and suffocating in the merciless density of space, a bracelet he tugs on his tiny wrist.
“One lift, please!” Bill quips, climbing onto Ford's palm and holding on tightly to his finger as he's elevated above his art studio, above his father's beloved city, above all of Euclydia. Bill is light, and his fingers pinching into Ford remind him of a songbird perched on its master's hand.
He clings, even after Ford has finished moving him. But once a moment of stillness passes, giving him certainty that Ford won’t accidentally drop him, he's energetically swiveling his body left and right. Ford can see the galaxy reflected in his little artist’s eye. Bill is stunned to be surrounded by the black curtain haunted by shimmering ghosts he's been so close to, but so far from, his whole life.
“This is incredible,” he exhales, and then turns to Ford.
Ford has been holding his palm steady, studying Bill's reaction, and he realizes this is the first time they've seen each other at near eye level.
Bill must have this revelation too, because it instills in him the courage to climb up Ford’s arm and onto his shoulders, like a friendly cat, sitting himself right next to his throat. Ford swallows.
“Ain’t this something special, Sixer? Hey, if you still plan on killing everyone, including me, you should do that tonight. It's a perfect night.”
They look out to the stars, and the stars gaze back. A million eyes in the sky, ancient and lonely. Ford feels Bill drifting off, head against Ford's neck, hand twirled around a stray lock, drunk off the cosmos. Ford lifts two fingers and gingerly runs them down Bill's back.
|||||| . ||||||
Bill wants Ford to see the stars the way he sees them.
This is a troublesome request, one Ford dodges each time Bill throws it out. For some reason he remains adamant, stubbornly believing that Ford needs to change his perspective. That Ford needs to remember what it’s like to have to look up.
He’ll throw Bill this bone, a distraction that will feed him for just a little longer.
Ford uses a device, one he’s pilfered from a crew of pirates who’s ship he’s disintegrated, that will alter his size, giving his own tweaks and adjustments so the process isn’t arduous or painful for him.
It works surprisingly fast, the sky disappearing, flying upwards and away from him, walls rising in its place, and then
Oh.
He and Bill, face to face. They’re close enough that he can feel Bill’s eyelashes tickling his face when he blinks.
And then face to sky, as he follows Bill’s direction and turns upwards.
Ford marvels about how stars are the same anywhere, from New Jersey beaches to the flat lands.
“I really don’t mind dying,” Bill says, after minutes transpire of the two staring into the universe, “I mean, what could be worse than death, right?”
“The things you’ll have to live with,” Ford whispers, and Bill places his hand over Ford’s, squeezing his fingers.
AD ASTRA PER ASPERA