Archive of Our Own ^beta

Ford liked routine. Habits.

It was one of many traits, he knew, that was both a blessing and a curse. A good routine kept things predictable, stable, kept him focused, but not all routines were in that category, which had the odd occasional side effect of providing small comfort even in the face of certain negatives… which could be frustrating.

Still, routine was routine, and when he awoke at approximately 4:30 in the morning on a Saturday - the day after the arrival of his niece and nephew for their usual summer in Gravity Falls - the routine was no different. Up, out of bed, to the kitchen.

Then, however, there was the matter of using the things in the kitchen. In the multiverse, he'd had to become accustomed to a lack of routine (though not for lack of trying), having to adapt to various different societies and worlds and inhabitants and technology, but that didn't mean he had to like it - and while it was, admittedly, a relief to be back in his home universe (and breathing proper air - he swore he'd never take the right mix of nitrogen and oxygen for granted again), he found, to his disgruntlement, that adapting to the new technology of the human world felt an awful lot like the multiverse anyway.

Needless to say, that meant digging out his old stovetop kettle from the pantry. He wasn't touching the coffee maker.

As the kettle heated up, he almost missed the quiet mumbling - it's been 30 years, you idiot, that doesn't happen any more - and he hastily flipped the stovetop off, movements stilling, waiting.

And there it was again - a distant muttering from the living room. Ford shifted the kettle off the still-hot burner, then headed for the doorway, squinting in the dim light - Stan had probably left the television on, he supposed, and rounded the corner into the small room. No light illuminated the room apart from the dim moonlight through the adjacent windows, however, and in the low lighting, he saw something shift on the armchair.

Instinct told him to drop into a crouch. Paranoid, Stan called him, but habit - well, it was a hard thing to break.

It was at that moment that the figure in the chair jerked with a sudden inhale - eyes met eyes, and the figure curled in the chair let out a yelp, which was quickly stifled.

Dipper. Of course it was Dipper, Ford thought to himself disdainfully. Fool. What did you expect?

Dipper, meanwhile, flailed - he seemed to be caught in a blanket, and there was a loud thud as he toppled onto the floor.

Ford grimaced, then darted forward and tugged at the blanket. Dipper found himself nose to nose with his great-uncle, and shot backwards, whacking his head on the arm of the chair and knocking the yellow lamp off the side table.

"Easy, easy, Dipper, it's just me," Ford said quietly, raising his hands.

Dipper clutched the blanket to his chest, eyes darting around in the darkness. "Grunkle Ford?" he muttered blearily.

"Yes. It's just me." Ford leaned back on his heels. "I'm sorry I startled you."

"Mmm," Dipper said, blinking owlishly. "What the heck were you doing?"

"What?"

"Standing over me like that."

Ford huffed. "I wasn't. I heard you mumbling from the kitchen and I thought Stanley had left the television on."

"Oh." Dipper rubbed his eyes, still slightly uncoordinated as his sleepiness faded. "Sorry."

"Do you want to go up to your room? I can't imagine sleeping curled up in the chair was comfortable," Ford remarked, standing with a groan and an ominous crack of his spine. He'd have to check that later.

"Not really." Dipper pushed the blanket to the side and heaved himself to his feet, wincing slightly, then turned and stared at the lamp. "I think I broke it."

"I can fix it. Don't worry about it."

"What time is it?"

Ford glanced at the clock. "4:46 in the morning."

Dipper made a face. "Could be worse," he said - more to himself than Ford, he suspected, but before Ford could comment, he straightened up and continued. "What are you doing up?"

Ford paused. "Wanted something to drink," he answered finally - a neutral enough statement.

"Can I get something too?"

"You don't really need my permission," Ford answered wryly, taking a cautious step or two closer to the lamp, in case any glass from the bulb had broken and scattered on the carpet.

Dipper shrugged in turn. "Didn't want to interrupt if you're busy."

"Not at all. I was going to make some tea, although I don't know if you'd want any." Ford knelt - in the dim moonlight from the hallway, he could see the bulb was intact, but the socket where the bulb sat was cracked, and he tugged the power cord out from the wall.

"Nah, I'm more of a hot chocolate kind of guy," was Dipper's nonchalant answer, which drew a quiet chuckle from Ford.

"Fair enough. Come on, then." Ford stood, carrying the lamp, and led the way into the kitchen, setting the lamp down on the table. "I can make some for you, if you like."

Dipper hesitated for a fraction of a second before replying. "Maybe. If it's not too much."

Ford eyed him, but didn't comment on the hesitation, and pulled out a saucepan. "None at all."

Dipper sat and watched him. "You can probably just microwave it."

Ford grunted, and didn't say anything else, sliding the pan onto the stovetop's empty burner.

The two continued in silence, Dipper watching Ford as he heated up milk on the stovetop and finished his own tea, and after a few minutes, Ford had poured the hot chocolate into a mug and slid it across the table to Dipper, who mumbled a quiet thanks.

The silence stretched on, not uncomfortably; Dipper sipped his hot chocolate, Ford sipped his tea.

Finally, Dipper set his empty mug down, but didn't make a move to head to bed, instead choosing to rest his elbows on the table and twist his fingers together.

Ford raised one brow in the dim lighting. "Penny for your thoughts?"

"I'm not sure there's much going on up there at the moment," Dipper muttered.

"Should you sleep?"

It was a neutral question, but Dipper's shoulders tensed, and he shifted in his seat. "Maybe."

"Seems something is on your mind." Ford set his own mug - not quite empty yet, but nearly - on the table. "Anything you want to talk about?"

Dipper twisted his fingers even more, straining his knuckles. "Maybe."

"I'm all ears."

Dipper mumbled something that Ford didn't catch, and leaned forward to rest his forehead on the table before speaking again. "I don't want to stress you out."

Ford frowned. "That is on me to handle, especially if I'm offering to listen - not on you to avoid."

Dipper gave a huff that was almost a chuckle. "I guess."

Ford let him sit in silence for a few moments, then sipped his tea and asked again. "Penny for your thoughts?"

"Where'd that saying come from?" Dipper asked idly, raising his head, and Ford smiled.

"The phrase is hundreds of years old, I believe. Probably tough to get a definitive etymology on that one."

"And you just know that off the top of your head?"

Ford shrugged. "I'm curious. Same as you." He leaned forward and gently ruffled Dipper's hair. Dipper grinned tiredly and halfheartedly waved his hand away.

"How much was a penny worth, hundreds of years ago?"

Ford snorted. "I'm not an encyclopedia." He paused, considering. "...Perhaps a few dollars' worth."

Dipper grinned at him; Ford returned the glance with a wry smile.

"You're avoiding my question, Dipper."

Dipper made a face. "Yeah."

"You don't have to tell me. You've always got your sister."

"No," he murmured, and Ford's brow furrowed.

"Not comfortable talking to her about it?"

 "More like… I think you'd understand more?" he said with a wince. "Maybe. I… I don't know."

Ford took a final sip of his tea, then frowned at the mug, debating about making more. "Try me."

Dipper took a deep breath, resuming twisting his fingers together as Ford stood, taking both mugs to the sink. "Are you sure?"

"Certainly."

Dipper watched him as he began washing the mugs. "Um… okay." He took another deep breath before continuing in a hushed tone. "Do you still, um… dream about… Bill?"

Ford's grip on the mug faltered, but to his credit, he caught it before it could clatter into the sink. "Ah." A beat of silence; Ford silently kicked himself for not anticipating the topic. "I see."

Dipper hesitated. "Sorry. Sorry, I'd tried talking to Mabel about it, but I don't think she really gets it, I mean, she kept teasing about the sock puppet incident, and I just - "

"Dipper," Ford said quietly, and Dipper faltered. "It's all right. My mind was just… elsewhere." He pressed his lips together, eyes closed as he ran a rag around the inside of one of the mugs and determinedly tried to put his own dream – and Bill's echoing laugh within it – out of his mind, then continued in a carefully neutral tone. "I can see how you'd feel uncomfortable with that."

Dipper didn't notice the measured tone. "Normally I don't mind the teasing - or, well, sometimes I do, but this is just… I…" He sighed. "It's awkward to talk about, and I just thought that, y'know, maybe… you'd understand a bit better."

Better. Ford mulled the word over, hands stilling over the sink. Better. You bested Bill at age twelve, whilst I… very clearly did not, at age 30. Bitter dreams.

"Bill?"

The small triangular being cracked his eye open from where he was lounging on Ford's desk - or appeared to be, as it were. "Sixer."

"I'm…" Ford groaned, pressing a hand to his face. "I'm getting a bit stuck."

"Gotta interrupt a guy's nap, don't ya?" Bill quipped, rising up a few inches and stretching his tiny black limbs behind him. "Whatcha doing?"

"Trying to figure out the energy differentials," Ford muttered. "Blasted things."

Bill idly floated upside-down over the paper. "Boo-ring."

"You were the one who said I needed to balance them again," Ford told him matter-of-factly.

"You've got a 6 backwards, by the way."

"You're upside-down."

Bill rolled his eye, then kept rolling it until his pupil slid out of view. "Right there." He pointed, still floating upside-down, and Ford supposed he must be staring through his own body to see the page. He glanced down, then groaned even louder, slapping a hand over his face before scratching out the tiny number.

"I've been staring at this for hours," he whined.

Bill shot up, his eye narrowing. "Break time?"

"What's got you so excited?" Ford grumbled, rubbing his temples.

"You've got leftovers in your fridge, Fordsy!" Bill cackled.

"Oh. Right. Damn it."

"You proooo-mised!" Bill sang while Ford winced. "Don't tell me you can say no to this face?" He batted his eye.

Ford snorted before jabbing a finger at the triangle. "Eat the packaging again and I will end you," he warned.

"Good luck with that, Fordsy," Bill told him with as much of a smirk as he could express with a single eye.

"I'm serious! I am not going to the ER at… uh…" He glanced around for a clock reflexively before rolling his eyes; there were no accurate clocks in the mindscape. "Whatever time it is. Point being, I am not going to the ER again because you ate something you shouldn't have."

Bill blew a raspberry at him before floating atop Ford's head and pulling at his hair. "Let me in! I'm hungry!"

"You're a being of pure energy," Ford informed him. "You don't get hungry."

"Yeah, but you do, and it's MY food."

"Which I bought," Ford added.

"Don't smartmouth me, smart guy," Bill told him, peeking over his forehead to stare at him. "You said it was mine. And YOU sure aren't going to eat it."

"With the amount of peppers you wanted on that sandwich? Absolutely not. I'd have smoke coming out my ears."

"Oh, it would be fun to watch you try," Bill announced - then paused. "Actually, hold on a sec," he said, his eye rolling back and flashing through a few images too fast for Ford to keep track of, and burst out laughing; Ford rolled his eyes.

"You have such strong clairvoyance that you can see millions of possible outcomes, and you use it for evil," Ford stated, exasperated, which only made Bill laugh even harder, raucous and loud.

"Sure thing, Sixer. You should take a bite of that sandwich," Bill finally said, wiping a tear from his eye. "I'd love to see that in person. Your face would be priceless."

"Absolutely not," Ford told him, then reached up and plucked Bill from atop his head, careful to avoid his sharp points. "But - fine. I did promise, and might as well eat it before it goes bad." Bill wriggled out of Ford's grip and zoomed around his head as he leaned down, memorizing the math on the page so he could recreate it later in the physical world. Then, he straightened up and gave Bill a weary grin. "All right. Come on in, you. Let's wake up."

"Grunkle Ford?"

The mug Ford was cleaning slipped from his grasp, and he didn't manage to catch it this time; it fell into the sink with a loud clattering, and Ford inwardly cursed. "Yes, Dipper?"

Dipper was tense. "I can… we can talk about this some other time, if you… I mean, we don't have to talk about it at all, if you don't want to - "

Ford steeled himself - inhale, exhale. "I'm okay, Dipper. Just tired."

"Do you need to sleep?"

You snooze, you lose, pal! Ford's face twisted; he was momentarily glad his back was turned to Dipper as he said, in a voice that sounded very distant, "No, I don't think that's a good idea right now."

He couldn't see Dipper, but he could guess at the facial expression as Dipper hesitantly said, "Oh. Okay."

Ford hastily finished cleaning the mug, then set them both out to dry on the counter. "I don't blame you, however, Dipper," he remarked, moving to sit down in a chair that felt a hundred miles away. "Possession - it's…" He sighed. "Not to be taken lightly." As I once did. Dipper was twisting his fingers again, looking hesitant, and Ford leaned on the table, steadying himself. "Was there something specific about it?" he found himself asking, to which Dipper shrugged.

"I don't know. Does it sound… silly to say I just had a bad dream? I mean, I'm fourteen," the kid muttered bitterly. "I'm not a baby."

Ford shook his head, a movement more disorienting than it should have been. "To answer your question, albeit belatedly… I do still have dreams with - with him in them, yes. It's a normal occurrence from something of that… magnitude."

Dipper was silent for a moment, staring at his hands. "Does it go away?" he finally asked. "If you still get those dreams."

Ford frowned, trying to subtly run a finger over the rough tabletop, trying to feel each and every crevice in the surface. "Dipper, I had dealings with Bill far exceeding the amount of time that you did," he said gently. "It… gets easier, over time."

Dipper slid down in his chair. "But there's no guarantee," he said glumly. "It's just… I'm stuck with it."

Ford pressed his lips together and glanced aside. "I wouldn't say stuck with it. There are ways to cope." Bandage on a stab wound, some traitorous part of his mind told him.

"Yeah, I've looked up a few. And Mabel's told me about others. Breathe in, breathe out, and listen to music, and distractions, and - " Dipper muttered.

"I take it you don't like any of those?" Ford asked dryly.

"They don't help!" Dipper exclaimed. "I'll sit down and try to read, and either I'm reading your journals, which have Bill written all over them - " Ford visibly flinched, but Dipper didn't catch it in the dim lighting - "or I'm reading something I can't focus on, and it doesn't get rid of the - the - " Dipper stammered. "The… I don't know how to explain it, it's like…" He pulled at the skin of his forearm. "Like…"

Ford shifted in his seat. There were certain side effects, he knew, of possession; he'd hoped Dipper could escape most of them, with his possession only happening once, but… "May I guess?"

Dipper's eyes flicked up to meet his, then back down to his fingers, and the boy gave a quick nod.

Ford leaned back, eyes closing, and pondered his next words. "I've… felt sometimes, in the aftermath, as if there's… something there. Something… alien, something you can't get at, under the surface." He gripped his hands together, feeling the rough calluses on his own palms. "Like your own skin doesn't fit quite right. Does that sound familiar?"

Dipper glanced up; Ford met his gaze evenly. Then, Dipper took a breath and nodded. "And like I keep expecting things to… to just do things on their own," he added slowly, back to twisting his fingers together. "Like I'm expecting my arm to just move off on its own every time I move it, or… that I can't move it." Dipper swung his legs idly. "Like… I don't know, it's only happened a few times, but I'll be trying to fall asleep, and I can't move anything, and I can… hear Bill."

Ford did the only thing he could, pressing his eyes shut tightly, hovering on the brink between wakefulness and sleep and his limbs unresponsive and heavy. Breathing felt like a chore.

There was a quiet murmuring in the back of his mind, but he couldn't make out the words - only voices, deep, rumbling ones that sounded like thunder, getting closer with each passing moment.

His eyes fluttered open again, and he tried to shut them quickly. Some part of him, some rational thought, kept telling him nothing was there - but even as he tried to hold onto that thought, his breath quickened, and he tried to ignore the wide, Cheshire-like grin above him, tried to raise an arm to push it off, but it felt like he was stuck in molasses; he could feel his heart rate increasing - 

Something settled near his shoulder, and he managed a sharp inhale. Usually these episodes didn't involve tactile hallucinations.

"Hey, Fordsy."

His Muse. He would recognize that voice anywhere - even distant and laced with static, as it was right then.

"See you've gotten yourself into quite the situation!" his Muse said cheerfully, and he felt the presence near his shoulder shift a bit. "Open your eyes."

Ford tried valiantly to shake his head, but barely managed to twitch his chin.

"I said, open your eyes."

No. He could still feel his chest weighed down, his arms heavy and unmoving, and that Cheshire grin would be there - 

"Fine, then." He felt a tiny hand grab his eyelid and pull it open, and he yelped, blinking rapidly at the abrupt onset of bright light - and suddenly, he could move, and shot up, stumbling backwards, only to trip over a few books floating by.

His Muse hovered before him, leaning casually on his cane as Ford's own mindscape began to fade into view, the galaxy backdrop a welcome difference from the bright, searing white from moments ago. His Muse seemed smug.

Ford swallowed. "What was that?"

"Half asleep, weren't you?" the triangular muse remarked. "I can't get ya to fall asleep faster, but I can startle you into the mindscape." He twirled his cane. "Neat trick, huh!"

"You…" Ford trailed off, a half-smile flitting across his face. "I… I've never - those episodes - "

"You've got more important things to do than hallucinate Alice in Wonderland on the ceiling," the Muse remarked impatiently. "Come on. Work to do."

Working wonders, this Muse. He stood, stretched, and followed.

"Grunkle Ford?" Dipper sounded very far away.

"Hm?"

"Are you okay?"

Ford rocked his head forward, elbows still on the table. "Sorry." He steeled himself, sliding a hand under the table to pinch his own leg, hard. "Sleep paralysis?"

Dipper shrugged. "Maybe. I dunno. It didn't happen before, um… Bill."

"Interactions with Bill can affect sleep quality and function," Ford said automatically. "I wasn't sure if sleep paralysis was a side effect or not, but it's possible."

"Do you get that too?"

Ford tried to breathe amidst the rising panic in his chest as the paper in front of him shifted and shimmered.

No. Can't fall asleep.

He tried to move to pinch himself, to startle himself awake, something, but his arms and legs felt as if they were weighed down with lead.

Can't alert Bill. Can't alert Bill.

There was a quiet murmuring in the back of his mind, as usual - he was used to hearing both, the rumbling and Bill's voice in the back of his head, the low noise cut through with Bill's higher, grating one that sounded like bright, bright yellow.

He once thought the yellow was fitting: like sunshine, or sunflowers, both mathematical and scientific marvels. What a fitting color for a being from the stars, a being that defied logic in such elaborate mathematical patterns. A being that made their own logic, crafted from the threads of infinite universes. Now it reminded him of yellow in the way a rattlesnake's eyes were yellow, or the poison skin of a tropical frog.

Stare at the sun for too long, and you'll get burned.

There was that Cheshire grin again, the paper in front of him morphed into a macabre mask; his breathing came faster, his heart pounding, and -

And he blinked, feeling his eye flare into a burning ache, and saw something dark splash onto the page, along with scribbled symbols. He shot up as the sound of laughter faded - he hadn't even noticed it - and in his haste, his ankle caught on the chair leg, and he went sprawling. Scrawled across the top of the page still clutched in his hand, the lettering eerily different from his own handwriting, was "See ya real soon, Sixer!"

"We don't have to talk about this," Dipper was saying. "If you're too tired - "

Ford made a half-gesture as if to reach for Dipper's wrist, but abandoned the movement halfway through. He inhaled through his nose, then slowly out through his mouth, cursing inwardly and trying to ignore the staticky noise in his ears. "Will you be able to sleep?"

He heard Dipper hesitate. "I can figure something out."

You shouldn't have to. If I had an ounce of your cleverness when dealing with Bill, we wouldn't be sitting here. He steeled himself, sliding a hand under the table to pinch his leg again. "Apologies. Did you have any other questions?"

There was another silence as Dipper hesitated again. "Are you sure?"

No. "Yes. If I can help, I want to." Small price for your comfort. Ford glanced up and gave what he hoped was a reassuring smile; Dipper didn't look any more at ease. "Do you want to talk about it, or try to get your mind off of it?"

Dipper groaned, slouching forward to lean on the table again. "I don't know. I feel like I've faced scarier things than - well, not scarier than Bill, but scarier than him running around as me for barely three hours. I don't know."

"Don't diminish it," Ford reprimanded him gently even as the roaring static noise grew louder. "It may not have been a near escape from death, but it's a serious event. I don't think there's any shame in being affected by it."

Dipper winced. "I… don't know. I still feel like it's a bit silly."

"It's not," Ford said simply, jamming a finger into his own thigh. "Having someone walk around in your own skin is…" Terrifying. Exhilarating. Trusting. Foolish. "Insidious," he said finally.

"But it's done, it's over with, I have my body back and Bill's gone, but my brain doesn't seem to have gotten the memo," Dipper said, frustrated, tapping his own forehead. "Mom and dad even wanted to take me to a therapist - a normal therapist! - my sleep was so bad this year. Why does Bill bother me so much, but… I don't know, almost getting eaten by a pterodactyl doesn't?"

Ford felt himself tense, a cold feeling of guilt shooting through him. It shouldn't worry him so much - shouldn't it? he thought - but how do you explain to a normal therapist that you were possessed and survived an apocalypse that hardly anyone knew about, or were willing to talk about? That would raise a lot more questions than answers, and Ford inwardly cringed at the idea of Dipper, at age fourteen, being dismissed or worse, after already having been through so much.

"This armageddon wouldn't be possible without help from our friend, here! Give him a six-fingered hand!"

Ford hastily pulled the forgotten lamp nearer to him, yanked the lampshade off, and began looking over the light bulb socket for damage.

Dipper was still talking. " - thinking it's probably impossible. So I told them no. Mabel disagreed with me, but mom and dad weren't going to force me."

Ford's shoulders relaxed - albeit only slightly. "Good, good," he said absently, then grimaced, pinched his leg once more, and tried again. "I mean, that's… that's good they won't force you. I don't think it would be a bad idea to have people to talk to, but…" The two exchanged glances as Ford adjusted the light bulb in its socket.

"Normal people," Dipper said. Ford sighed.

"Mind turning on the light?" he asked, and Dipper reached up to flick the light switch; both of them winced in the brighter light before Ford turned back to the lamp. "If it's something you're willing to try, I can have a look around to see if there's someone who might be a little more… open to the idea."

Dipper sighed. "I… don't know. I still feel like it's a bit silly."

"I promise you, it isn't."

Dipper wrinkled his nose. "Do you think we could find someone like that, anyway?"

"It might not be someone human," Ford admitted, and Dipper immediately perked up.

"Like someone in the multiverse?"

"Maybe. I doubt there's someone here in Gravity Falls - if so, I suspect I would've heard about them by now." He frowned. "Although a lot has changed. I'll see what I can find."

Dipper was mulling over the idea. "An anomaly therapist," he said slowly, starting to grin. "That would be weird."

"We'd have to vet them quite thoroughly, and you'd need to stay on track," Ford added, plugging in the lamp to the outlet behind the kitchen table. "Leave the multiverse questions to you and me."

"Not if it's about Bill," Dipper mused. "I wonder if they would've heard of him."

"Likely. Bill is - was - " Ford rolled his eyes. "Was fairly well-known throughout the multiverse."

"Yeah, I guess that makes sense."

"Is it something you'd like to look into?" Ford asked absently, poking the light bulb; it still wasn't lighting up. Dipper shrugged.

"Maybe. I… don't know."

"It's okay to think about it," Ford replied, frowning, then distractedly started poking at the cracked bulb socket. "I have a few more ideas, too, if you'd like."

"Like what?"

"Lucid dreaming."

Dipper blinked. "Lucid dreaming?"

Ford nodded. "It's a skill one can acquire and develop. It isn't foolproof, but I've found it quite useful."

"Can you teach me?" Dipper asked curiously, and Ford shrugged.

"You have to be patient, and practice at it, but it's a useful enough trick to deal with nightmares." Ford nudged a wire aside, then twisted the bulb again; light flared out from it. "Ah. Contacts were strained." He nodded, satisfied.

"I want to learn." He glanced at Dipper, who returned his gaze with a careful but eager determination.

Ford chuckled, switching the lamp off and replacing the lampshade before standing, groaning as his back popped in the same spot as before. "Wait here," he said, and left the room. When he came back, Dipper had taken to kicking his legs idly and flicking the lamp on and off; he sat up straighter as Ford sat back down and tossed a thick journal onto the table.

"I don't remember there being lucid dreaming notes in any of them," Dipper remarked, raising one brow.

"There wasn't," Ford replied, flipping the journal over; Dipper grinned, his face reflected in the shiny six-fingered hand carefully affixed to the front with a stylized 4. Dipper's grin widened as Ford began flipping through pages.

"I didn't know you were starting another journal."

Ford shrugged. "This one's a little more personal in nature than the previous ones," he admitted. "Ah, here we go."

"What's this?"

"Well, if you want to lucid dream, you've got to know how it works," Ford told him with a smile. "No time like the present - unless you want to go back to bed?"

"No," Dipper said hastily, scooting his chair closer. "No, this is cooler. What are we looking at?"

"I've been tracking sleep disturbances post-Weirdmageddon," Ford began, tracing a finger down a line of bullet points. "It's helping me keep tabs on any, ah, Bill aftermath, as well - so I've got some notes on sleep stages. There's four or five stages, depending on whether you count wakefulness as one."

Dipper followed Ford's finger as he read down the line. "N1, N2, N3, and REM. Oh, I've heard of REM sleep. That's when your eyes move, isn't it."

Ford nodded. "That's the one. That and N3 are both deep sleep, while N1 and N2 are light sleep." He flipped a page. "N1 is when you just recently have fallen asleep, and there's only some light changes." He pointed to a second paragraph. "N2 is when most physiological changes start to happen - decreased temperature, relaxed muscles, a slower heart rate - that type of thing. You'll go in and out of N2 throughout your sleep cycle.

"N3 has a unique brainwave pattern, so it's easier to identify in studies. This is deep sleep, when you're fully relaxed. There's some evidence that dreaming can occur in non-REM stages of sleep, so it's possible you're dreaming in this stage to some degree, but most dreaming happens in REM sleep, I believe."

"'REM sleep - increased activity like in wakefulness,'" Dipper read from the page. "'Stage most associated with temporary muscle paralysis' - is that when sleep paralysis happens?"

Ford glanced at the page again. "If I'm honest, Dipper, I'm not entirely sure. Sleep is a complex neurological phenomenon. Sleep paralysis itself can occur outside of REM sleep - that's characterized as a parasomnia. A sleep disorder, technically." Ford tapped his fingers on the journal. "I know sleep paralysis episodes can happen more frequently with narcolepsy, but I've not observed any other narcolepsy symptoms in myself - solely the sleep paralysis." He frowned, then pulled a pen from his pocket and scribbled a note at the bottom of the page. "Which seems to be persistent, even now that Bill is gone. I was hoping it would be a temporary thing."

Dipper sighed, sliding down in his seat. "So was I."

Ford frowned at the page for a moment longer, then shook his head and continued. "Four stages of sleep?" he asked Dipper.

"N1, N2, N3, and REM," Dipper recited.

"Good. Now, a typical sleep cycle goes sequentially between stages; N1 to N2, N2 to N3, N3 to REM, then back to N2. Most of the time - about half - is spent in stage N2, with REM and N3 being roughly equal. Younger children will have more REM sleep than adults. Our goal with lucid dreaming is to maintain that cycle, but create a habit that will alert you to when you're dreaming, even when you're asleep."

"How do we do that?"

Ford lightly tapped Dipper on the head with the pen. "Practice. Ideally, you want to maximize the chances during REM sleep, since that's most strongly associated with dreaming. One technique I know of is to get in the habit of asking yourself every few hours if you are dreaming, in the hopes that the habit will continue into your dreams. I had a little difficulty with this one," he added wryly, "since I didn't have a smartphone and had to set an egg timer to go off every few hours, which annoyed the daylights out of Fiddleford."

Dipper laughed. "Probably a lot easier with a pocket computer now," he remarked, and Ford nodded.

"It works best if you can check if you're dreaming in a more concrete way than simply asking, 'am I dreaming,' though. Something like looking into a mirror, looking for a clock, or simply observing how you're moving about, since dreams will often have some element or another that is unreal compared to waking life." Ford flipped a page, squinted at it, then flipped it again. "Another technique is purposefully waking up after four or five hours, doing something quiet like reading, then going back to sleep - but I found I often had a hard time getting back to sleep."

Dipper leaned forward, taking in the scribbled notes and absentminded sketches across the page. "What about this?" He pointed to an aside - the word MILD scribbled in all capitals.

"Ah, that's one that I never found very effective, at least for myself." Ford tugged the journal closer. "It's one that was only recently discovered - or, well, it was 30 years ago. You try to think of a recent dream as you fall asleep, identifying all the hallmarks that tell you it was a dream, and think about returning to that dream. Sometimes it's supposedly more successful if you reiterate to yourself that you want to remember that you're dreaming, but as I said, that one - I never found it as effective as the habit-checking method. If I think too much while falling asleep, I don't fall asleep," Ford said ruefully.

"I get what you mean." Dipper nodded. "Is there anything else?"

Ford grinned again, pulled the journal closer, and flipped to a different page. "Keeping a dream journal can help." He showed Dipper a page filled with what appeared to be random lettering - notes taken in cipher.

Dipper glanced over the page, then paused; his eyes widened; Ford met his gaze, his expression dropping into one of alarm, then hastily scrambled to slam the notebook shut. There was a sudden silence; Dipper seemed to shrink into his chair, while Ford sat still as a statue.

Finally, Ford cleared his throat. "You can read cipher," he said evenly, "can't you."

Dipper nodded feebly. "I… yeah. I taught myself a while ago."

"Ah," Ford said. "Well." He cleared his throat again.

"I'm sorry," Dipper blurted out. "I didn't mean to - "

"No, no, it's fine," Ford said, holding up a hand. "I - that one's on me. I should've known."

"...I didn't read much."

Ford glanced up; Dipper looked distinctly nervous, and he quickly tried to relax his posture. "It's okay, Dipper. I'm not upset." He leaned back in his chair, one hand on the journal, the other pinching his nose. "I'm sorry. I should've been more mindful, and it's not like it's…" He hesitated. "Well, it is personal, but it's okay."

"I'm sorry," Dipper said hastily. "I'm sorry - I - I shouldn't - that's just not - "

"Kid. Kid. Dipper." Ford leaned forward, pressing one hand to the table and reaching for Dipper's shoulder, but allowed plenty of time for Dipper to pull away, should he wish. "You're okay. You've done nothing wrong."

"But that's your journal!" Dipper said, his voice rather higher-pitched than usual. "That - I shouldn't - "

"Dipper." Ford kept a grip on Dipper's shoulder and raised his other hand. "You haven't done anything wrong."

"But - you wrote - it's just - it's probably out of context, I just read you missed - "

"I know," Ford said quietly. "How much else did you read?"

"Not much else," Dipper said thinly; Ford stood and walked over to the sink, poured a glass of water, and slid it across the table to Dipper before sitting down again.

"Will you let me explain?" he said with as much patience as he could muster, and Dipper nodded weakly.

"Yeah. Yeah, I… yeah."

Ford settled his hands on the table, interlacing his fingers again. "I want to clarify one thing first, however," he said calmly, "and that is that I do not miss Bill. I…" He paused, pondering his next words. "I did once think he was a friend," he said quietly. "For a prolonged period, too. I spent two years in contact with Bill." He inhaled deeply, then exhaled through his nose. "Does that make sense? I do not miss Bill. I never truly knew Bill." He glanced at Dipper, who took a long sip of water and nodded. "I knew what he wanted me to see - a work partner, a brilliant mind, but also a friend, a confidante, and a source of validation." His tone was bitter. "I didn't want to be swept aside or overlooked - I despised being dismissed or ignored, and Bill knew it, and provided me with a steady source of approval and promise. I assumed we were equal partners, and…" He flipped open the journal, finding the page in question, reading a few lines, his expression pensive. "I don't miss Bill. He was cruel, dishonest, and manipulative - I can't miss him because I never truly knew him, and the real him was… reprehensible." Ford pulled the journal closer again, eyes roving over the cipher text. "But I do wish many things could have been different. That's what I was musing about here - see?" He slid the journal toward Dipper, pointing to a few lines. "I…" He gritted his teeth, then continued. "I think it's reasonable to wish things could have ended differently." He closed the journal with a snap and set it back on the table.

Dipper silently sipped his water as Ford spoke. "I… yeah, okay," he said finally, once Ford was finished. "I don't… I don't know."

"You never saw Bill at his most manipulative," Ford sighed, rubbing his face with both hands - then he winced at his own phrasing. "Not that that excuses it, but he didn't have a vested interest in keeping you compliant - merely throwing you off the trail and inconveniencing you."

"Possession isn't really an inconvenience," Dipper muttered before he could stop himself; he glanced up nervously, but Ford merely inclined his head.

"It's not. Poor word choice on my part. Apologies."

"I… think I get that, though. That Bill wasn't really trying to be my friend."

Ford nodded.

"Can I… ask something?" Dipper asked nervously, and Ford raised one brow.

"I suppose. I can't guarantee I'll have an answer."

"What… was that like?" Dipper asked haltingly. "I can't even imagine - "

Ford shifted in his seat, then interlaced his fingers on the table. "That's one of the areas where our experience differs," he said evenly. "When I initially agreed to let Bill into my mind, it wasn't flat-out trickery. I knew that it would entail Bill being able to control my body, and I agreed to it anyway. I trusted him fully."

"He must've been pretty convincing," Dipper murmured sourly, and Ford snorted.

"In retrospect, I think he was rubbing it in my face," he stated. "He knew what I was susceptible to, and I have to admit, I think I, er, glossed over the rest. I've… well, Stanley has always been the social one," he muttered. "I've not generally been the best with… people."

Dipper nodded, staring at the now-empty water glass before hopping up and going to refill it.

Ford watched him. "Do you want me to keep going?"

"Yeah." Dipper returned and sat down. "If… if you're okay with it."

"I am. I'd rather you be more at ease."

Dipper looked up, expression conflicted, as if he wanted to protest - but thought better of it, and nodded. "If you're okay with it," he repeated. "Um… thank you."

Ford nodded again. "It was… peculiar. He was free to move in and out of my mind at will; that got us into a number of, ah, escapades, if I'm honest. I thought it was camaraderie."

"Escapades?"

Ford chuckled. "Everything from simply getting lost in the woods to landing in the ER."

"He put you in the hospital?"

"Multiple times," Ford admitted, and Dipper stared; Ford suddenly felt rather awkward. "I - yes. Rather big red flag. I should've tried to…" Tried to what? Set clearer boundaries? The day Bill respected a set boundary simply because Ford had set it was the day Waddles would take to the sky.

"No, that just sounds… awful," Dipper was saying. "I mean, you were okay, obviously, but…"

Ford nodded slowly. "Not fun, although… honestly, Bill and I sometimes had a little laugh at the absurdity of it. I had to talk my way out of a number of odd situations."

"Sounds more nightmarish than a friendship."

Ford grimaced. "In retrospect, yes. At the time, I thought I'd just found a kindred spirit - albeit one a bit more hell-bent on chaos than I was."

"I'm glad you were okay."

"Me too." They both sat in silence for a few moments.

"He still just sounds like a menace." Dipper ran a finger around the edge of the glass.

Ford sighed. "Yeah, he does, doesn't he," he said quietly. "Lots of red flags I ignored there."

"You caught on eventually, though," Dipper reasoned, but Ford shook his head.

"Nowhere near fast enough."

"Maybe don't put yourself down so much," Dipper said wisely, and Ford chuckled wearily.

"I'm supposed to be giving you advice," he said, reaching out and flicking Dipper's nose; Dipper let out a quiet laugh.

"Does it help to talk about this stuff, though?" he asked.

Ford considered. "I… haven't talked to anyone about this," he admitted. "About the false friendship."

"Just journaled about it?"

"Yes."

Dipper kicked his legs. "Maybe you should. It helps me to talk about things."

"I don't know about that."

Dipper paused. "Grunkle Ford, if it helps, I think you should."

"Very few people want to hear me ramble about being conned." Even fewer people I'd feel comfortable admitting that to.

Dipper shrugged. "I'll listen."

Ford met his gaze. "I don't mean to be rude, Dipper, but you are fourteen. While I don't doubt your capability - I don't doubt that for a second - I don't feel it's appropriate to tell everything to you."

"Oh." Dipper considered for a moment. "Grunkle Stan?"

"I don't know if Stanley would be willing to listen."

"You should ask him."

"...Maybe."

"You should," Dipper said matter-of-factly. "He's a good guy, underneath… well."

Ford chuckled.

"Is there, um… anything else you want to talk about?" Dipper asked, and Ford sighed.

"I'm not sure how much I should be putting on you," he murmured. "And wasn't this to put you at ease?"

"Did you have a nightmare, too?" Dipper asked plainly, and Ford opened his mouth to reply, but didn't actually say anything - and shut his mouth after a moment with a click of his teeth. "I thought so," Dipper added.

"Perceptive," Ford grunted.

"I have my moments," Dipper said modestly, and Ford laughed again.

"That you do." He considered for a moment. "I don't think I have anything to add."

"That's okay." Dipper leaned forward on the table. "Can I say something?"

"Sure."

"Thanks for talking with me about things."

Ford blinked. "Of course, Dipper. Any time."

Dipper shook his head. "I don't just mean about my stuff."

"Hm?"

Dipper reached over and tapped the journal. "You should talk more. Even if you're not talking to me. It does help. Mabel keeps telling me to talk more, and I keep ignoring her, but then when I do, I feel better."

Ford smiled. "Your sister is quite the clever one, isn't she."

"Mystery twins," Dipper said, as if that explained all, and Ford let out a weary laugh.

"I do like that you've adopted that title," Ford admitted, and Dipper grinned.

"It's fitting."

"It is." Ford glanced at the journal, then shut his eyes and rubbed his face again. "I think it might be about time to head back to bed," he said grudgingly.

"I want to try the lucid dreaming trick," Dipper said, hopping out of his chair and wandering to the sink. "I know it might not work tonight, but I've got to start somewhere." He set his empty glass in the sink with a quiet clink.

"True." Ford inhaled, then exhaled as he stood, and groaned again when his back popped in the same spot once more. "I've really got to check that," he muttered, rubbing the offending spot.

"Grunkle Ford?"

"Yes, Dipper?"

"Thanks for the lucid dreaming tips, too."

"Any time, kid. Now." He picked his journal up and riffled through the pages again. "Before you go, one last thing."

"Yeah?"

"Do you know how to wake yourself up?"

Dipper raised one brow. "You can do that?"

"Sometimes, yes." Ford flipped a page. "Something like increasing movements, trying to read things in your dream… I've found yelling in the dream to be effective, but it does have the side effect of occasionally causing you to talk in your sleep." He nodded and shut the journal. "Just wanted you to be aware of that as well. I've gotten stuck in a lucid dream before until my alarm went off."

Dipper made a face. "That still sounds better than nightmares."

"True." Ford stepped forward and settled a hand on Dipper's shoulder. "Ready to head back?"

"Yeah. Bed, this time, though."

"Sounds good to me."