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Peace was a foreign concept for Bill Cipher.
Peace in the form of incompetent leaders shaking hands and smiling in front of a camera after years of trying to kill each other in reckless war was such a wild thought it has never really crossed his mind. Peace in the form of being happy with yourself, with your deeds, your every action is just frankly unrealistic, if you'd ask Bill. Peace in the form of being able to do the same things over and over, every day, becoming domesticated was the sort of thing he'd throw back his head and laugh at. No one could be truly happy with that.
So how was it, that right in that moment, watching the face of one Stanford Pines sleeping, there was no other word that could quite describe him, but peaceful ?
It had gone dark about five hours ago, and the only light came from the ever bright moon, shining through the colored glass of the smaller window right above the couch. The gentle rays touched the older man's face as if it didn't want to wake him up. The entire room was quiet, apart from a steady ebb and flow of breath from the sleeping man. Just quiet.
It was deafening.
When his apocalypse had ended, it seemed like all the gods he never had believed in bestowed him the cruelest of punishments for his transgressions. Death. But you'd think dying shattering to pieces and then burning was the worst part. Bill had thought so too, before that big reptile had arrived.
He'd been stuck in a limbo, neither feeling or seeing or knowing anything. He'd been there for less than a second or maybe a few billion light years. Whatever memories that were left of the place resembled how the television screen looked when it decided to give up. Black, white, every color fuzzing around with nothing concrete to focus on. It had been death. No hell or heaven, just a large space of nothing.
Then the clouds (clouds?) around him had cleared, a pair of wide set beady black eyes stared at him with no particular emotion. Before Bill had taken in the red frills crowning its head, the pale white body and tiny legs- there was pain. A heavy, slow pain as he felt something trapping what scraps were left of his soul. It was flesh and blood, muscles and a heart and a head and a brain.
He remembers screaming so much it actually felt in his newly formed vocal chords, (the Axolotl had said something. What did he say? ) and then waking up in a fairy circle in the middle of the woods, just outside the city of Gravity Falls.
It was embarrassing how quickly Stanford figured it out. Feeling like he'd just woken up with a massive hangover while also figuring out his new limbs, Bill had stumbled into town sporting nothing but the skin on his body and the long locks of hair falling over his shoulders. Whatever confused and somewhat disturbed townsfolk who crossed paths with him passed him by completely. The sun was too hot and his body was too heavy and his head ached something terrible.
However, seeing Ford walking out of a supermarket set him running. No way he was going to be the cherry topping his already horrible day. Of course, knowing his new found luck, it only took a total of five steps before his face had met the pavement. He'd actually have liked to stay on the solid and trusty ground, but a crowd had formed around him and of course Stanford had to push through preaching about his doctorate in medicine. Or whatever.
Bill had been on the brink of passing out but still sluggishly fought against the sixfingered hands trying to examine him. Stanford had taken one look into his eyes and stopped breathing for a moment or two. Then, he was pushing through the concerned crowd with a limp body in his arms muttering curses under his breath and much, much later, Bill woke up in the shack, under surveillance and unable to leave under any circumstances. Seemed like the barrier around the shack didn’t just keep demonic powers out, but also inside, if necessary.
That had been a week from now. 7 days of being trapped, pinned down, bound to a physical form that was as human as anyone else's. 7 days of itching, of feeling too much because this bag of skin wasn't barely enough to hold an ageless entity with unfathomable powers. 7 days of two-dimensional vision (which was incredibly overrated, if he had to say so himself), of feeling his nails growing, of sensing his blood flowing through his veins at speeds he used to be able to travel through dimensions at.
Some part of him was still screaming.
Stanford let out a short hum in his sleep and moved his arm to lie atop his chest. It temporarily broke the silence in the room, and died out just as soon. It would probably be the most exciting thing to happen during the entire night. Still, Bill's lantern-like eyes were trained on him.
What was the enigma around Stanford Pines? Why was it that every single way for Bill to not only a rise, but also a fall from power, was through this man? Every timeline, every single parallel universe Bill had picked apart to get his armageddon, every detail had in the end came down to the sleeping scientist in front of him. Here on earth, they'd have probably called it all “fate” or “destiny”. Bill called it annoying .
If the stars had aligned like he'd wanted them, he would have left this town long ago. He would have finally created the chaos he'd wanted. Bill would be free if it wasn't for Stanford Pines. But no, the man had to get his last word in and have his “vengeance” or whatever, in the form of never letting the demon leave his side, but comically barely speak a word to him either.
The bones and veins under his skin felt and itched and wouldn’t stop being so incredibly alive again. Bill roughly dug his fingernails over the inside of his wrist.
He couldn't answer to why exactly he came down in Stanford's room at this hour. (What “hour”? Time is an illusion, remember?) His inhabited body didn't seem to cooperate in the sleeping department today, so he had wandered around the nether floors, gone in the kitchen to see if he could find any forks. (Ford had locked them all away, to his dismay.) He'd opened the fridge to… honestly, he's heard Stanley do it so many times in the middle of the night he was starting to wonder what the fuss was about. What hid inside this cold box? The recipe for dark matter? An impressive collection of carefully marked toenails? A minor black hole? Even more of the, now probably trademarked, Pines secrets? Bill had been testily disappointed when he found nothing but a week old piece of pizza and a funky-smelling packet of milk. After this he'd rummaged the cabinets, stopped and stared at a crisp bag of triangle-shaped snacks. After a small moment of an impending existential crisis, he shrugged and ate the whole thing. Then he found the flight of stairs leading to Ford's dusty red door.
Which led him to where he was now. Sitting legs drawn up to his chin while challenging himself not to blink for a considerably long time before his eyes started to sting, all the while never letting his gaze trail away from the sleeping man.
Oh, if the damn thing would stop itching .
Nearly tearing up his week-old skin in anger, the thought crossed his mind that this was probably the longest time in the same room he'd been with Ford during these days without being harshly told to “mind his own business”, or to “shut up” because he was “working”. Or to “put the- the- machine down - gently, please . Touch that red button and you'll be sorry afterwards - or you will not be getting any dinner tonight”.
Aside from this (and a few short worded sentences about him having to sleep on one of the child-sized beds left on the attic. While this form wasn't the tallest going by human standards, his feet still hung out in the cold air when he laid down. Oh well.), he had barely spoken a word to Bill.
And right now, the loveliest gift Bill would have received from the non-existing gods and maybe even some real ones, would be the unbridled and complete hatred of Stanford Pines.
He could say the words. Easily. Spit them in his face when he put up the barrier around the shack again to keep Bill inside. He was a good actor. Ford and his past mistakes was a proof of that.
But he would still lie.
There where he sat with the outside world scaled away with only the one sleeping man in his focus, Bill was overcome with the feeling of wanting something he couldn't have anymore. Which was stupid, logically. Until the end of time doesn't mean Until maybe I go all pissbaby because you had other plans that were larger than me and you. The previous had been Stanford's words, not his.
No. What Bill Cipher wanted, he took. No questions asked, no one around to give some unnecessary second opinion.
So naturally, he scooted closer. Closer, closer, until he could touch the elderly man's face without any stretch.
Actually…
Bill didn't think he'd been this close to Ford his entire time in this form. Didn't think he'd been this close to him without his face being twisted in disgust and hatred for a long time. Back before, Stanford's face had been smoother, younger. Not filled with worry lines and an unkempt stubble. Bill remembered absently how Ford would look at him back then. Like he had finally found the center of the universe, and that it was all so much more than what he'd expected. Would smile at him for jokes that weren't even funny, would speak to him so softly, so filled to the brink with admiration and adoration of his precious muse.
Lightly, so lightly (humans sleeping patterns were so fragile, that was the one thing Bill had learned from having a nice 9 o'clock tea in the dreamscape when his guest had suddenly disappeared. Ford later blamed it on Fiddleford, who had barged into his room in the morning a tad earlier than expected.) Bill pressed a fingertip to the distinct line starting at Ford's nose sloping down to his mouth. Mine , Bill thought. This is still all mine. The skin could have been softer if not for a stubble and the feeling of worn covering every inch of him.
Ford didn't stir. Still asleep, still looking so at peace Bill was almost close to waking him up just to see the hate coat him again. How could he be allowed to feel any different if his horrible arch-enemy was in the room? How could Bill allow him to feel happy or even indifferent while he was literally living in his house??
Because Stanford hated him, but that didn't mean Bill had to take distance. Bill traced another line above Ford's eyebrows with the pad of his thumb and thought This is also all mine.
And that was why Bill would do a lot to actually hate Stanford in this moment. Because then maybe he would be thinking of an escape plan. Because then maybe he would have grabbed the sharpest object he could find in the kitchen and then plunge it into Ford's chest until he couldn't feel a heartbeat anymore. Then he wouldn't get that burning anger in his gut every time Ford ignored him or wouldn't speak to him or acted as if he was a bothersome fly that wouldn't leave him alone.
Then he wouldn't be sitting here in the dark, observing the unchanging face of the man who had trapped him in a rotting house with only himself as a lonesome company. Then he wouldn’t feel like he was waiting for the shoe that would never drop.
His fingertips found soft, graying locks of hair. Also mine.
Bill couldn't come up with a single train of thought that didn't involve the man in front of him. A tiny version of his previous, triangular self was laughing at him in the back of his head.
Back when Bill had still been on his high ground, he'd always talk about his little Fordsy as if he were a price waiting to be won. How Ford had sworn his eternal devotion, always been faithful to every word Bill had uttered, how underrated being worshipped really was. The first few times his henchmaniacs had thought it hilarious, but Bill hadn't been kind on ignoring the stifled sighs upon the human’s mention by the time Weirdmageddon came around. They were probably just aching to get Bill over with. Let him have fun talking to an unresponsive golden figurine all day while they actually went out to party . They were all selfish and crude criminals, Bill couldn’t have expected less.
Ah, another thing he hated about his now limited, human and one track minded line of thought. Starting to doubt you own credibility. Starting to think maybe if I would’ve done things differently I wouldn’t be here. Maybe it would have been as it should have been. Maybe I would have won in the end.
Either way, it was all Stanford’s fault. Obviously. Stanford was the one who tricked him in his own game. Stanford had been the one to pull the trigger. Stanford killed him in cold blood.
In that context, being resurrected by a floating reptile in between space-time felt a little better. Come back just to spite Ford. Just to be that one final spit in the face before going into his grave. One final showdown, just the two of them. Yeah, that felt much better.
...of course, it would probably feel even more better if Ford would actually look him in the eye and such.
The sinking, coiling feeling in his chest felt again, incredibly unpleasant. He grimaced and buried his nose into the crook of his elbow.
And there was something else. There was a thought. An idea that had developed all on its own, completely out of Bill's control.
What if Ford had simply stopped caring?
After the cataclysmic event that was Weirdmageddon, Bill had died, plain as day. A death is something you in the end put behind you. After half a life dedicated in one way or another to Bill, the death should have been like a glowing exit sign to a new life.
Stanford was a smart man. Maybe he'd taken that route already.
Bill now recognised the feeling racing, bubbling through him as panic.
This wasn't how it was supposed to be. Oh no. Stanford Pines had been his , his human to care for as he pleased, throughout all universes, every timeline in existence was bent to them. To just up and leave a was out of the question. It wasn't a goddamned part of the equation.
But - always a ‘but’ nowadays, always something to ruin everything with “rational thinking”, or whatever - what sort of
say did he have in it anymore? How could he with his new, disgusting and feeble body dictate what Ford would feel and do anymore? This form was useless, ugly and so so limited. Nothing worthy of worship anymore, not even worthy as an opponent.
If Ford had degraded Bill to someone unworthy of his attention, there was very little to do to go back into it. Bill knew the scientist enough to know that as a fact.
And then he was angry. Seething, thinking about how nice it would feel to wake him up now, scream and yell until Ford noticed him again, and then maybe scream even more, hit him in the chest and the face and claw and scrape and draw blood anywhere just to state that he was there and he existed and he was still the center of Sixer’s universe and-
His hand had risen in the air without much processing of his own actions.
Stanford was still sleeping. Not a spec of dust had moved from him, completely unaware of the war going on in Bill's head right next to him.
If he'd truly lost the previous obsessional attention, Ford would be bothered about being woken up, but he'd go right back to sleep after that as if nothing happened. It didn't matter what road Bill took to get things back as they were before if the objective was apathetic.
Bill lowered his hand with a slump. When did he become so boring ?
He stood up, cracking the joints in his knees uncomfortably, and walked back through the shadowy house to his designated bed, still not rid of whatever had rooted itself heavy in his chest.
-
In Stanford's dreams, he's being chased by a flood of liquid gold. He's running, but his breath is failing and his legs are giving out. Not today, but one day he might be swallowed up by the gilded waves. And, oh, what a day that might be.