Chapter Text
Stanford woke with no sense of how much time had passed. A day? A week? He couldn't tell.
Cold.
It seeped through his coat and into his bones. The stone beneath him was unnaturally smooth, too perfectly carved to be natural. For one blissful moment, he thought he'd woken in his bunker.
Then the cold metal around his ankle brushed against his skin.
The chain.
Reality came crashing back.
He kept his eyes shut for another moment, reluctant to face wherever Bill had left him. Eventually, however, he blinked them open. The room wasn't abnormally bright, but he still found himself squinting at the colourful light pouring through the triangular window.
A proper look around confirmed his suspicion. He was still in the penthouse, the topmost floor of the floating pyramid, sitting against the wall furthest away from the door, as far as his bound leg would allow.
He didn't remember much from before he had fallen asleep, and for some reason, his head ached. He didn't ponder that for too long. Instead, his eyes locked onto the chain.
Upon closer inspection, Stanford discovered that it really didn't have a lock. It had been perfectly welded together using a form of magic he was unfamiliar with.
“Fascinating.”
Had Ford been in his study, he would have started a journal entry on it.
But he wasn't in his study.
He was here.
Not wasting any more time, he made his way towards the faraway drawers in search of anything that could help him in this situation. Fate wasn't on his side. The chain only allowed so much movement, and it wasn't enough for him to reach the handles.
Frustrated, Ford tugged at the chain once more before giving up on it in favour of a more productive activity.
He decided to explore.
The bookshelves seemed like a good start, until he discovered that they were actually filled with books containing nothing but blank pages. Eventually, the door caught his attention. He had not thought to open it yet.
Curiosity, yet again, got the better of him.
After taking one of the empty books to use as a journal, he walked over to it. To his surprise, the chain was long enough.
His hand made contact with the handle, and he felt a cold shiver run down his spine.
Anything could lay beyond it.
He hesitated, letting his hand rest on the smooth knob. Before he could turn it, however, he felt another cold chill run down his spine and pulled away.
“Good morning, Sixer.”
A voice, one he knew all too well, made him freeze.
Bill had returned.
Stanford spun around to face him, a scowl already twisting across his face. He straightened his back, forcing himself to stand tall.
His hatred for Bill spiked all over again.
“Where is my family?”
“Good morning to you too, Bill,” Bill said for him, his tone carrying a hint of annoyance at the human's lack of manners.
Stanford's jaw tightened.
“Where. Is. My. Family?”
For a moment, Bill said nothing.
Then his eye narrowed into a crescent.
Delightful.
“Safe,” he said at last.
Stanford's shoulders loosened a little.
“-for now.”
The relief vanished.
“I want to see them.” Stanford took a step forward. “Right now. I want to see Stanley.”
Bill's grin widened.
“Stanley,” he repeated. “You know, you really do have a remarkable talent for making demands.”
“I'm not asking.”
“No?” Bill tilted his head. “Could've fooled me.”
Stanford's hands curled into fists.
“Take me to him.”
Bill simply brushed him off.
“Keep asking, and I might start wondering how much your family really needs to remain ‘safe.’”
His yellow eye gleamed.
The underlying threat took Stanford by surprise. He stared up at the dream demon with disbelief, waiting to see if Bill was serious.
Bill's expression gave nothing away.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Stanford searched that single yellow eye for some indication of what he meant. A flicker of amusement. Irritation. Anything.
Nothing.
Slowly, Stanford forced himself to suppress his anger. Arguing with Bill wouldn't help his brother and great-nieces. His hands, once balled into fists, gradually relaxed by his sides. His jaw unclenched, though he could still feel the tension lingering there.
Ford raised his head to look up at Bill with a more neutral demeanour. Intent on listening now.
Something about having Ford look up at him like that felt-
Bill's grin twitched.
Satisfying.
Then his eye crinkled upwards.
“There we go!”
He hovered closer. Stanford's shoulders tensed again. Bill's gloved fingers reached out towards him and Ford froze.
The hand brushed through his greying hair. For a moment, he didn't move. The touch was almost gentle. That was what made it worse.
Ford bit back the threat to tell Bill to get off him. Every instinct told him to pull away.
But Stanley was still somewhere in this building.
So were the twins.
He had to endure.
For their sake.
“They're not here, Sixer. I am.”
Ford cringed as Bill's fingers caressed the crown of his head. His entire body remained rigid beneath the touch.
Could Bill punish him for thinking?
The thought was ridiculous.
Wasn't it?
Bill's fingers lingered for another moment. Then, finally, he floated back out of reach. Ford didn't move immediately. He waited.
Only when Bill had put some distance between them did Ford visibly relax. His shoulders lowered, and a breath he hadn't realised he was holding escaped.
“You must be hungry by now, Sixer.”
Bill's eye crinkled into a pleased grin.
“All that demanding has to work up an appetite!”
Ford opened his mouth to contest the statement. His stomach growled. Loudly. The sound seemed to echo through the room. Ford stared at Bill and Bill stared back.
Ford's face grew warm.
Bill's grin widened.
With a snap of his fingers, a table appeared between them.
Ford instinctively took a step back, his eyes immediately travelling over the dark wood and the two chairs positioned on opposite sides of it, both already pulled out as though the scene had been prepared long before he had even woken up.
The sight made something twist uncomfortably in his stomach.
A second snap filled the table with food.
Ford stared at it.
There was far too much of it.
A bowl of steaming soup sat beside a basket of fresh bread, accompanied by vegetables, meat, and several dishes he couldn't immediately identify. The scents rose from the table, filling the room with a warmth that felt completely out of place in the strange, unnatural environment surrounding them.
His stomach twisted painfully.
Ford's hunger, which he had managed to ignore until now, had suddenly become impossible to ignore.
Bill floated around the table and lowered himself into one of the chairs, resting his arms casually against the back.
“Well, what're you waitin' for, Sixer? I didn't go through all the trouble of makin' a spread like this just to watch it get cold!”
Ford remained standing.
"I know you humans have "basic needs" ".
The chain around his ankle gave a faint metallic rattle as he shifted his weight.
The silence stretched between them.
“Where did this come from?”
Bill blinked.
“The food?”
“Yes. The food.”
“Kitchen.”
Ford stared at him. Bill stared back.
“What?”
Ford's gaze travelled across the room, searching for any sign of a kitchen. There was no visible door, no counter, no oven or refrigerator, nothing that suggested food could have come from anywhere at all. And yet the table remained between them, covered in steaming dishes as though it had been transported straight from a perfectly ordinary dining room.
Bill's grin widened.
“Don't strain yourself, Poindexter!"
“That is not an answer.”
He decided to ignore the comment.
Stanford couldn't tell if Bill was trying to be friendly. It confused him deeply. One minute, the demon was threatening him; the next, he was cracking jokes at the dinner table.
It was the sort of comment Bill would have made during their chess matches.
Before Stanford had come to realise that he was being used.
Back when he had actually looked up to the triangle.
Oh, how stupid he'd been.
“Sure it is! You asked where the food came from. I told ya.” Bill interrupted his line of thought.
Unfortunately, the smell of the food was making it increasingly difficult to think. Bill's grin stretched wider.
“Go on, Sixer.”
“Go on what?”
“Eat.”
The single word sounded less like an invitation than an order disguised as one.
Ford remained standing, refusing to give Bill the satisfaction of seeing him obey immediately, while the demon leaned back in his chair and waited. Another painful growl came from Ford's stomach.
“Wowee, that was a loud one! You sure you don't wanna introduce me to the little guy?”
Ford finally pulled out the chair.
The legs scraped against the floor, and the noise seemed far too loud in the silence that followed.
Bill watched him sit.
The demon looked pleased, as though Ford had done something he had been hoping for.
Ford refused to think about why.
He reached for the bread.
Slowly, cautiously, he took a bite.
The bread was warm and fresh, and the moment he tasted it, his stomach clenched with an almost painful hunger that made him realise just how long he must have gone without food.
Another bite followed. Only after he had swallowed did Ford realise that Bill was still watching him.
The demon's attention remained fixed on him with an intensity that made every movement suddenly feel deliberate, as though eating had somehow become another performance Ford was being forced to give.
He forced himself to slow down. The food wasn't going anywhere. At least, he hoped it wasn't.
Across the table, Bill said nothing.
That was worse than if he had spoken.
Ford could feel the single eye fixed on him, following every movement, every bite, every moment in which his guard lowered even slightly as the warmth of the food began to settle in his stomach.
His shoulders tightened. The longer he ate, however, the more difficult it became to remain tense. His body was beginning to relax despite his mind's continued insistence that he was in danger, the warmth of the food easing the ache in his stomach while the exhaustion he had been ignoring began to make itself known in his muscles. It was easier to relax right now.
He hated that the food was good.
More than that, he hated that Bill had known exactly what he needed.
What he craved.
“Did you prepare this?” The question left his mouth before he could stop it. Ford immediately regretted asking. Why was he making conversation with that cursed demon.
“Maybe.”
Ford looked up.
“That is an evasive answer.”
“Thank you!”
“It wasn't a compliment.”
“Still takin' it.”
Ford exhaled through his nose.
“Did you prepare the food?”
“Some of it.”
“Some of it?”
“I had help.”
“From whom?”
Bill's grin returned.
“Aw, look at you! First ya won't sit down, now you're askin' about my cooking staff. We're makin' progress!”
Ford's fingers tightened around his fork.
Why did Bill have to talk down to him so much? It was infuriating.
He was a scientist, with six degrees, no less! And here Bill was, making him feel like a dog who had learnt a new trick.
Bill was the only creature in the universe that could make him feel like either the smartest man alive or the dumbest.
“You know,” he murmured, “you've gotten a lot less friendly since we last saw each other.”
Ford stared at him. “I'm sure you can think of several reasons why."
“Oh, I can think of a few Stanford.”