Work Text:
Clearly, the best way to start a morning is by collapsing to the floor the second he stands up because his stupid human legs won't hold him up.
“You need help?” Ford asks. Bill obviously woke him up seeing as Ford is rubbing an eye with one hand.
“Psh, no. ‘Course not,” Bill answers, trying not to make his voice sound pained. Keyword: trying . Even though he isn’t standing anymore, pain still shoots through his legs. Not that it's a surprise. Ford raises an eyebrow. The former triangle sighs in exasperation, “Fine Sixer, help me up already!” he bites back, although not unkindly.
Stanford walks around to his side of the bed and lifts Bill by his shoulders. Bill then maneuvers himself so he’s leaning against the headboard.
Ford can’t keep a smile off his face while looking at his roommate. When looking back, it was hard to believe it had already been two and a half months since the Axolotl had sent him to Gravity Falls. At first when the workers at the Theraprism had told him they’d be sending him back to Earth as an ordinary human being he’d been outraged. But just over two months later, Bill can safely say it was more enjoyable than most of the rest of his trillions year life. Chronic leg pain and all. Ford trusts him enough to share a room with him, and quite frankly, he thinks he deserves that trust.
“I’ll get dressed then bring you your wheelchair.” Ford decides, making his way to their shared closet.
“Hey, who put you in charge?” Bill argues, even though he doesn’t care much either way.
Ford pulls off his tee shirt and grabs his red turtleneck from the hanger. “How about I make you coffee and you don’t steal my eyes?” Ford jokes, but Bill only feels bad. He looks at the tattoos that he’d got while possessing Sixer. How was it that he tortured this man in so many ways yet he still wanted to date him? “Bill?”
“I’m not ready for you to joke about things like that…” His hand goes to his left eyelid. On the first day of him being here he’d burnt it on the stove in a fit of rage and frustration. It hadn’t opened after that. He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up to see Ford standing there. He had moved the wheelchair they had borrowed from the hospital up next to the bed. The man was fully clothed now and had even combed his hair. How long was he lost in thought?
“My apologies, I wasn’t thinking. I’ll have coffee for you in the kitchen by the time you’re done.” With that, Ford slipped out of their bedroom, closing the door behind him.
After transferring into the chair he went to pick out his clothes, choosing his yellow polo, black slacks, and black bowtie. Bill wheeled himself to the bathroom to fix his hair, it was curly and blond so he usually combed it when wet and he’d been borrowing Dipper’s curl cream. Soon he’s finished and makes his way to the kitchen.
Ford had moved one of the chairs against the wall to save Bill the hassle of moving it himself. The thought makes him feel warm inside and a grin is forming on his face. “Hey, IQ! Got any plans for the day?” He locks the wheels of the chair so it doesn’t roll away.
Sixer is adding creamer to one mug and sugar to the other. “Maybe a bit of reorganizing down in the lab,” He sets the second mug in front of Bill and sits in the seat opposite from him, taking a sip before placing it down on the table. “Oh, Mabel made muffins last night. Did you want one?” He gets back up to grab them from a plastic container on the counter.
“Sure, why not?” He responds, before taking a sip of his coffee. This is by far his favourite taste since becoming human. “Where did everybody go again? The lake?”
“Yeah, they'll probably be gone for most of the day.” The man handed him a muffin with chocolate and blueberries in it. Mabel was always a wildcard like that, those who don't know him would say it was something they had in common. But he realizes now that it was his way of denying and suppressing his trauma and guilt. That being said, he is a bit chaotic. Just not nearly as much as he’d convinced himself he was.
It is quiet for a good few moments after that, with only the sounds of them eating breakfast. “There aren’t any more painkillers left, are there?” His legs hurt like a million times more than yesterday, which made sense because he’d had a good pain day and decided it was a good idea to follow Ford through the forest on foot. They’d been tracking the hide behind and despite all this time they had yet to see one in person.
“I’ll text them to buy some on their way back from the lake. How bad is it, seven, eight?” He pulls out his cellphone to send said text.
“Nine,” he answers with zero hesitation. Honestly it is hard to focus on chatting and eating at the same time. Which is annoying because they should be mind numbingly simple tasks.
“Why the heck did you try to get up earlier, then?” Ford is not looking for an answer, he already knows why Bill keeps overexerting himself. He stands up, presumably to search for the non-existent ibuprofen.
“Fordsy, sit down. We both know there isn’t any left.” Bill rubs his good eye tiredly, taking a long sip from his coffee.
“How do you do it?” Ford drinks some of his coffee before continuing, “You’ve been in regular pain for over two months. Before you didn’t really feel pain, I just don’t know how I could cope with it if I were in your situation.”
Usually he doesn’t think too hard about responses to these questions, but right now he’s debating with himself whether or not to say this out loud. Eventually he decides to, “You make a pretty good painkiller Brainiac.” Bill Cipher isn’t able to keep from blushing and from the looks of it neither is Stanford. He looks surprised, which is understandable because this is the closest Bill has ever come to talking about his feelings towards Ford.
“I… I mean that much to you?” Ford is looking straight into his eye and Bill never wants to look away.
“Don't make me say it again, Sixer,” Bill laughs. It isn't like one of his crazy laughs from a few years ago (at least a few years for Ford, it had been a lot longer than that for Bill.) It is softer and genuinely happy.
“How about a game of chess?” They have both finished their meal and Ford stands to gather the dishes and wash them.
He doesn't like to admit it, especially when Ford seems to be excited about the game but it's better to say it now than after starting. “I'm gonna be honest Ford, my focus is shot.”
“How about we find a TV program then?” He suggests instead.
“No one calls them that, old man.” Bill teases.
“You're older than I am!”
“Not in this body, I'm not.”
“If we go by that logic, I'm nearly double your age.” Ford finishes rinsing the dishes and begins drying them.
“Eh, it's weird by any logic. If we go by my real age I've got several trillion years on you.” Maybe it’s best not to think about it. Besides, it's not like there are any other beings even close to his age. Ford finishes putting the dishes away and leads the way to the living room. Bill hastily unlocks his wheels and follows him.
They end up putting something on but he doesn't pay attention to it. He is too lost in his thoughts. Sixer speaks up suddenly, surprising him. “You've been rather quiet.” the man remarks, eyes still on the screen.
“Well excuse me! Do you want me to complain instead? My legs are killing me,” his tone is sharper than it has been in a while. He had softened considerably since becoming human, venomous retorts extremely rare and no longer seeking to torture others just for the heck of it.
Ford sighs and Bill is immediately apologetic, he clearly hadn’t meant for him to interpret it that way. “No, it’s something else. Even on a bad day you’ve always been talkative. Something is bothering you, more than usual at least.”
It is hard to admit it even to himself, as most human emotions are still new and difficult for him. Axolotl knows it had taken him forever to open up and be vulnerable to his therapists back in Theraprism. He feels pathetic… trapped inside his own defective body. Before he was a being of pure energy ignorant to the world of pain (true pain, not the muffled and disconnected imitation that he got when possessing others) and exhaustion. Now he was constantly in pain that often made it hard to sleep. There was too much of a difference.
“It’s almost like I’m broken,” he finally says. Sixer had been patiently waiting for him to speak and is now waiting for him to continue. He takes a breath, “I was so powerful before. Now I’m just this.” Bill gestures at his legs and the wheelchair he nearly always used now. It was difficult, almost too difficult.
Ford took one of Bill’s hands in his own, five fingers and six interlacing in a way that felt like the warm feeling in his chest whenever he smiled at him. He met his gaze and spoke softly, “My Muse, you are not broken. I promise. And even if you were, you wouldn’t be unfixable.” He helps his muse out of his wheelchair and pulls him close in that yellow armchair.
And sitting there, cuddling with his favorite person in the world. Bill feels like he could one day believe that. For now he trusts that Ford knows what he’s talking about.