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One of Bill's biggest frustrations in life had always been eating. Part of it was the repetition and inconvenience, as any ordinary human would probably say. But more than that, over the years he'd had to eat pretty unconventionally, especially for his (former) fellow Euclydians. Granted, he wasn't even exactly like the rest of them to begin with, though he'd never been entirely sure about all the ways in which he differed.
But regardless of all that, there were new frustrations now. Being in a human-sized house, with a human-sized kitchen, there were a lot of things he couldn't do for himself. He had to climb just to reach the counter, for one thing, and if he opened the fridge or freezer (which could be difficult feats themselves) he could really only hope that whatever he wanted was in reach of his still-unpractised arms. He couldn't cook his own meals, either - he'd be running across the stovetop itself, or burning himself on pans for which he didn't have gloves to protect himself with. He hated that he, of all the creatures in the multiverse, had to worry about burning his hands - it was utterly embarrassing.
The real fucked up cherry on top was none other than Stanley Pines, of course - the man was fiercely protective of "his" kitchen. It was his heart and his hearth both, the centrepoint of his affections when it came down to it. And that? That meant no scaling, no extending, no nothing for Bill. He was convinced Bill would burn the house to the ground, and probably on purpose at that, even if he never went near the appliances!
So, Bill had come to mostly avoid anything more than just passing through, unless Ford was there with him to fulfill his requests. But sometimes, he was busy, or still asleep, or just not in good shape, none of which stopped Bill's hunger. This morning was one of those mornings - Ford had told him last night he was struggling and needed time alone. An uneasy feeling had washed over him, knowing it was almost certainly about him. So he thought it best not to disturb the man right now, then, even if it meant pissing Stan off. He already faced Stan's annoyance regularly enough for it to mean nothing, anyway, while Ford's anger was downright terrifying.
So, he made the trek into the kitchen, to see Stan sitting right there with his own breakfast. Pre-breakfast? Way-past-midnight midnight snack? Something or other. He rolled his eye as he took to the drawers, clambering up them not entirely unlike an unruly cat. He didn't make any effort to stay quiet, either - anything to annoy the guy, even if he knew he probably shouldn't be trying. He walked across the counter, making his way to the cupboard with the bowls, and grabbed one. Stan was disconcertingly quiet, but he was probably itching to blow under the surface, amusing Bill greatly.
But when even scaling the next cupboards, throwing down the box of cereal - the fruity one he technically shared with the kids, sue him, he had a sweet tooth! - and making a mess on the counter didn't bother Stan, he knew something was up. Narrowing his eye, he left his bowl where it was, hopping down and clambering up the table. "Hey. Hey. Hey."
"What," Stan said, flatly, "I'm busy."
"Ew, you really eat that shit?" Bill asked, ignoring the complaint and gesturing to the bacon on his plate. "Gross."
"Yeah. Guess so."
That put Bill off, for sure. Undeterred was one thing, but this... this felt like Stan wasn't even in the same room, somehow. Distant. But how - why - would that be? He marched up in front of Stan's plate, staring up into his eyes, looking for any sign of... of something. An episode, a bout of foul play, whatever - but all that stared back was the same dull green as ever.
"Aren't you gonna, I dunno, scream at me for getting cereal everywhere?"
"What's the point," he answered, "A mess is a mess. Who cares."
"...You know," Bill squinted, "Usually I wouldn't complain, but what is wrong with you?"
"Let me eat."
"No! I don't think I will," Bill huffed, stomping his foot on the table, "You're gonna tell me!"
"Nothing," Stan said. Before Bill could protest, he clarified, "It's all nothing."
"...What?" Bill asked, "What's all nothing?"
"Everything. You. Me. This food. This house. This world," he said, looking almost blankly down at Bill. "There's nothing, you live as nothing, and you die as nothing."
"I- Okay, time out, time out!" Bill waved his hands, pacing the little stretch of table directly in front of Stan's plate. "Nothing? Why would it all be nothing? Why would you be so- so..."
"So nothing?"
"Exactly! Why would you of all people be so... nothing?!"
"That's life, kid."
"No it isn't, and you know it!" Bill shouted, then laughed at himself. "Wow- ha. Ha, I- I can't believe it. I actually want the real you, for once."
Stan looked apathetic regardless. No protest, no counterargument, not even an acknowledgment. Just... looking. Bill considered what to do - back in Theraprism, he'd seen a few people in states like this during group sessions. They were... boring, usually, but if he could hit just the right spot... he could rile them up nice, get the whole room fucked up. Maybe Stan just needed a good kick in the dick, then.
"You know, your father never loved you," Bill said, slyly, "Always hated your guts!"
"Tell me something I don't know, why don't you."
He narrowed his eye, "Fine. The perpetual motion machine was doomed to failure, with or without you. How do you feel about that, huh? Bet it gets you real angry, you being fucked around over nothing!"
But Stan just said, "Figures. Even a genius can't work miracles."
Bill was losing ground. He tried to think like Stan, tried to summon up everything he knew about the man, every point that might hurt - but so many of the insecurities Bill knew about just didn't mean anything to Stan anymore, the years that had passed turning them to strengths. Then, he snapped his fingers, "I fucked your brother! Yeah! While you were struggling, scraping by to avoid death, he was at the top of the world, with me! How's that one feel, you--"
"That's not news."
Bill, taken aback, shouted, "What?!"
"Already knew that. The day I killed you."
Bill groaned loudly. Of course. Of course he would remember that blunder, his over-confident lust getting in the way of all rational thought. And of course, even if he hadn't, Ford would have probably said something - or more likely many somethings - about their relationship anyway!
"Well... Well!" he huffed, then sighed. "Forget it." He walked out from in front of Stan, crossing his arms. "You win. You win! Whatever's going on with you, you win. And if- if this is really just you, well... guess I kinda respect it. Not putting up with shit, I mean."
"...You. Respect."
He rolled his eye, "Ugh. The 'not taking shit' part. Nothing else."
"Don't think those concepts even go together, Bill Cipher and respect. Terrible joke."
"Of course they do!" Bill snapped, "I-I respect plenty! I- ugh..." he sighed, squeezing his eye shut. "Okay. Maybe, a little bit, I respect the... ruse. You know, a few thousand years pass, and- and I still wanna be angry, I still am angry, don't get me wrong, but. It was... clever."
Stan just scoffed, "Tch. What's your point."
"Well, I should've noticed, obviously. The empty finger in that glove, that weird little bump in your nose. No gold in the eyes, can't believe I missed that," he grumbled. "But, whatever. You fooled me then, and you've stumped me now. Much as I should hate you for it, I kinda respect that. The one person in the family who stayed a step ahead."
"...Huh," Stan said, "Didn't think you'd ever say anything like that."
"Yeah, well, neither did I. So," Bill huffed, "don't get used to it."
A chuckle slipped past Stan's lips, "Heh. I won't."
A sense of dread filled Bill, then. It was small, but unmistakable, wasn't it? A chuckle - the hint of a real chuckle, of Stan feeling something again. If that was the case, would he come back to all his feelings right now?
Reluctantly, Bill asked him, "...How are you feeling now?"
"Eh," Stan shrugged.
Somewhat luckily, he finished his breakfast in peace, though Bill felt stuck by his own fear. Even if he did get up and run away, he knew that an angry Stan would chase him down, convinced of him having done this - that running would practically be an "admission" of guilt, so it'd be pointless. Then, before he could even think to stop Stan from getting up, he had already moved, putting his own dish in the sink. That was when he noticed the mess on the counter - the bowl almost over-filled with cereal, small piles of grains that had been deliberately mispoured, and the newly-dented box.
"You..." Stan blinked, then shook his head in bewilderment. "You...!" he hissed, turning back to Bill, "What are you, some kind of animal?! What was I..." Fire in his eyes, he stomped over to Bill, picking him up by the arm as he tried to back off. "Tell me what you did to me, this instant!"
"I-I didn't!" Bill winced, struggling, "I didn't do shit!"
"Oh, like I believe that! You're a terrible liar, you know that?"
"I'm not lying!" he shouted, vision crackling lightly. "I tried to help you!"
"This is what help looks like to you, huh? Leaving a great big mess, leaving me to clean it up, leaving me without my memory!"
"You- you were dead inside! I-" he tried to wriggle free, failing at anything but annoying Stan more. "I tried pissing you off, okay? To get you back!"
"Yeah well," Stan scowled, "You piss me off just by existing. Got any better lies up your sleeve there?"
Bill's vision pulsed darker and darker, trying to grip at Stan's hand to coax his fingers free. He was panicking, near babbling, "I- I mean it, I didn't know what else to do, but then I said I- I respect what you--"
Stan cut him off with a laugh, "You could never respect anyone."
"I-I'm sorry!" Bill cried without warning, "I mean it, I mean it, I'm sorry, Stanley!" Panicked, he pleaded, "Please- please don't give me those meds!"
"What?" Stan asked, caught off guard. "Sorry? 'Those meds'?"
"I..." Bill's voice shook, "I- I don't know why I said that..."
With a heaving sigh, Stan put Bill back down on the table, making a mental note to wipe everything down very well later. "The sorry or the meds?"
Bill took a moment to catch his breath, still panicked and near-blind. He hesitated as he spoke, "The- the meds. I meant the sorry part, okay? I didn't do it, but I still said things to piss you off."
Stan huffed, "I still don't believe you."
"F-fine! Fine, don't believe me, just-" he shuddered, scratching at his arm as its blood flow returned to normal. He wanted to plead again, no meds, no meds, as if it made any sense to the man, "Just..."
"No just anything. Take your breakfast and go."
"...I can barely see," Bill answered quietly. "I-I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I-"
Stan groaned, "Fine, I'll get Ford to help. Need to talk with him anyway."
Bill sat stewing in feelings he couldn't begin to express as the sound of Stan's footsteps retreated from the kitchen - the very thing he'd been trying to avoid, thwarted by another fucking incident. He wondered how many more there could possibly be, and just why they were happening...
Stan slumped in his chair, lost in thought as Ford helped Bill to gather up his breakfast and mitigate some of the mess. Respect? Sorry? Why should it mean anything coming from Bill Cipher of all beings? Maybe if he was just some small fry, if his worst crime was being kinda kooky. But that just wasn't the case. He'd tried to kill them all, tried forcing them to make horrible choices, all on a mission to "remake" the world. Everything he had worked for, everything Ford had worked for, the lives the kids had ahead of them, everyone, everything, everywhere - just one snap and it could have all been gone. Would have. What could a couple words do in the face of the horrible memories and nightmares he'd left behind? It didn't matter if he claimed he was powerless, or using it all for good instead of evil - he was a true monster, rotten to his core. No amount of forgiveness or kindness would ever change that.
Ford came back into the room, then, with a sigh. "I appreciate that he didn't want to impose on me knowing I was unwell, but now... now you?"
"Yup," Stan grunted, "No clue what's going on, just know I want it over."
Ford sat beside Stan, lost in thoughts of his own. He wondered what would drive some unknown entity to torment the family like this, leaving Bill himself unscathed, the centre of his own heroic stories. It was nice to know he was making the right choices, an assurance that he was actually changing, but it had already gone too far from the first incident with Mabel. Maybe there was a chance Bill wouldn't be acting this way without some kind of a "push", that this was some sort of Theraprism thing - but did that push have to come at the cost of everyone around him, without even seeking anyone's consent? Or maybe this was more sinister, maybe this entity intended to take them out, and Bill was just stumbling into lucky solutions. He didn't know what to think might really be the case - and for as much as he should hate Bill, as much as he'd been hurt, a bright-eyed, hopeful part of him wanted to believe.
Neither one spoke, for quite some time. They were at an impasse, no secret to either of them - Ford trusted Bill more following these incidents, yet Stan trusted him even less. The one thing both of them wondered, though, was what would happen next. Who might be hurt next. If they looked to the pattern so far...
"So..." Stan finally broke the silence. "Why are you helping him out here?"
"...It's my obligation, isn't it?"
"I guess," he scoffed, "But there's more to it than that, I just know it. I mean, why haven't you just told them to take him back? Bet if you did that, he'd be right out of your hair. Our hair."
Ford sighed, "Even if I knew how to get ahold of the Theraprism... Stanley, you know well what it's like to still love someone who's hurt you. The kind of love you wish you could shake off, that hopes to see them better regardless..."
"Oh," Stan groaned, "Don't start with this, Ford..."
"I know how absolutely ridiculous it is. But he's- in just these few weeks, he's opened up with a depth he never dared before. I don't feel like I'm just taking care of him, trying to keep him out of trouble. I feel like I'm... getting to know him again. Seeing what he was meant to be."
"You can not be serious..."
"...I am," he answered, "He showed me heights I'd never seen before, that I might never see again, and I have to live with that, with the hole he left behind. He also showed me depths I'd never seen before, measures of cruelty I couldn't even begin to imagine. I know what it's like to be in truly horrific states of mind and body alike, because of him."
Stan took a deep breath, "Look, I- I know abuse is hard. Real hard," he chuckled sadly, "But- I'm worried about you. Just because he's saying sorry doesn't mean..." he sighed, "Isn't that all proof you shouldn't be doing this? Shouldn't be trying to- to reach out, to fix him?"
"It is," Ford nodded, "It really, truly is. But, then... I feel it's also why I have to."
"He doesn't own you, you don't owe him jack or shit--"
"I know. I know that, I promise. But I can't help but wonder," he tapped his fingers against the table, "Would it really help anyone that he's hurt to know that he's suffering? Would his destruction simply undo all of the harm he's caused?"
"It'd sure feel better," Stan shook his head, "Safer. Wouldn't have to worry about him hurting the kids. Wouldn't have to worry about him manipulating any of us. Wouldn't have to worry about whatever these freak incidents are, because you know he's behind them. No matter what he's doing or saying now, he deserves it. Justice and all that."
Ford went silent, then, mulling over Stan's words. "Of course it'd be safer, to us. But, justice?" he sighed deeply, "I- I don't know, Stan. He's served thousands of years in Theraprism, and... I do think he's changed in all that time, as much as he might try to deny it, to say that therapy did nothing. Beyond that, he's powerless. He can still hurt us in other ways, but- has he, actually, without then trying to understand and resolve the incident?"
Stan took off his glasses, rubbing his forehead with a grimace. This... this was impossible.
"And... think about it, in times that he's had clear opportunities to make the kids suffer... he hasn't. He's- he's gone out of his way to help. That..." Ford took a deep breath, "That means more, I think, than whether he deserves a taste of his own medicine."
Abruptly, Stan shook his head, standing from the table. "Alright, Ford," he sighed, "Play the good Jew if you want. I- I need some time."
"Wait, Stanley-" Ford called out, trying to stop him from walking. He didn't answer to the call, merely continuing. Just before he could round the corner, though, he spoke.
"Just... please don't forget I love you. Always will. And if that monster ever lays another finger on any of us, ever again, he will pay for it. I'll make sure of that, even if you won't."