Work Text:
The first he remembers from being set on earth with human feet is feeling itchy, something he'd never felt himself.
His ears rung as the giant axolotl beside him chattered. His vision had tunneled and his throat slowly closed up.
A slimey gilled hand had fallen on his shoulder but he jerked away.
He was put in a green shirt with a question mark coloured in darker green, one that Soos once wore.
He felt everything now. He felt what he didnt as a triangle. Everything had come tumbling at once, flesh, the aching thud in his chest, the air that shallowed and quickened in his lungs, his bones that would twitch, he would itch to scrape his nails against his knuckles.
The flesh he bore he wished would decay, the constant thud in his chest he wished would stop. He wanted to break every bone in his body and see if it would heal bent, he wanted to cut the soft tissue of his tongue off and see if it'd grow back. He wanted to carve marks in his skin, carve triangles and eyes, he didnt have colour markers here.
Point was, he had to work for the pines family now, the tables turned on him at his worst moment.
Blinking heavy and his mouth tasted like grated sand he looked around, he was on the porch outside the mystery shack. Eyes flashed down to the wood of the floor of the porch, unlaced converse protecting his feet from splinters, a heavy black bag leaking some green liquid hung in his hang a trash bag. He blinked dust off his eyes.
Trash, he was taking out the trash. Ford told him to.
Blinking up he was greeted by crisp night air filling his lungs instead of the stale morning one. How long had he stood out there?
Reluctant to move, he took a step off the porch, shoes meeting soft grass and pebbles.
Walking as fast as he could he moved to the side of the house, where two big bins stood, thirty years ago they stood by the mailbox.
Pushing open the lid he threw the bag in, it toppeled over a few other bags before it laid rest. Still holding the lid open, his non perpetually closed eye locked on something sharp, a slightly rusted and used knife laid on the side to one of the old bags.
He reached his hand in, fumbling with the knife he pulled it out while dropping the lid, nearly avoiding the lid slamming on his scraped hands.
Staring at his arm he turned it, palm staring at his face.
With the knife he dipped it from his wrist nearest the inside of his palm he dragge it cross his olive skin up to his elbow, creating a horribly deep jagged cut.
It hurt, but it made him feel worse, it made him feel shittier, and that felt right.
Ford stood at the kitchen sink, the kitchen unoccupied by anyone else until he heard padded footsteps place against the floor behind him, shutting the whirring faucet off and ending the cascade of water he turned around, his glare stopping Bill in his tracks, he was walking towards the upstairs bathroom.
He stared back at Ford, cradling his arm in his hand, a blotchy red spot stained his shirt at the medium he held his arm at, a peel of blood splattered on the floor just misisng Bills own untied shoe lace.
"What have you do to your arm?"
Fords glasses shone under the kitchen light.
"I cut it." Bills voice chalked at him, curling in on himself, glaring.
"Thats something immature, attention seeking people do." Ford crossed his arms over themselves, six finger hands hanging over and he rolled his eyes over themselves. "Did it give you relief?" He looked back at Bill, unimpressed.
"No." Bill stared at his arm, oozing blood.
"Did it relieve the tension?"
"No." Bills unnervingly shoulders trembled and he clutched his uncut arm right over his elbow, where the cut ended.
"Did it give you relief?" Blood splattered to the floor from his arm.
"Did it give you relief?" He repeated, emotionless and Bill shook his head.
"No." Bill squeezed his eyes shut, willing Ford to dissapear.
"I dont understand why you've done this."
"Then ask" Bill shouted at him, flailing his arms apart from where they cradled eachother and blood fell across the kitchen in both direction, Bills eyebrows knitted together and he grated his jaw together. More blood dribbled from his arm.
"Did it relieve the tension?"
Bill stood still, staring at his own arm he'd began to hold himself again.
"Can I look?" Ford brought his hands towards Bills arms and he would have swatted them away but instead he stood still. "No."
Ford pinched the bridge of his nose best he could with his glasses in the way.
"I'd like to look, to see if its infected."
Bill held himself, blood spreading across his shirt. "No."
"I knew you'd do it," Ford puffed air put of his lips. "Lots of people do, to, 'relieve the stress'", he made quotations with his hands in the air.
"Have you done it?" Bill hissed at him, drawing Ford from looking away to the sink again. Ford remained silent.
"No, goddammit," this time Bill ws the one to pinch the bridge of his hooked nose with his clean hand. "Far too fucking sane and sensible, I dont know where you read it but it does not relieve the tension." Bill looked away and his far taller and lankier figure hunched over himself.
Bill held his own hands up to himself, one stained with blood the other oozing it.
"Why havent you asked me why? Why havent you asked me why I cut my own arm?" Bill glared at him, arms flailing out and clenching into fists again at his last sentence, anger settling on his face opposing Fords heavily unamused one, he felt like father Filbrick.
"Would you like to tell me?" Ford tilted his head, left eyebrow making a sharp check as it clocked up at him.
"yes."
Ford stared at him, "Then tell me.", Ford said through heavy, lidded eyes.
Bill curled on himself. "Ask me why" he shouted.
"Why have you cut your arm?" Ford stared at him. Bill shook violently.
"Because it makes me feel like SHIT, mpre then I already do and I dont know why" He yelled, piercing eyes squeezing and he made gestures with his hands, flailing them up and down.
"Can I look?" Ford brought a single hand up towards him, acting as if Bill was another stray cat Mabel picked up off the street.
Bill clenched his teeth together.
"You can look,, but dont touch." He let his arm be picked up by Ford, with the pads of his fingers he pressed outside the wound nearest his palm.
"Do you not think your ill?" Ford said quietly, examining the harsh cut.
"No." Bill jolted and almost yelled it at him.
"I think you are,"
Bill frowned; displeased.
"Its not your fault," Bills heart squeezed and twanged and it made his stomach recoil, a bittersweet taste enthralled his gums.
"But you need to take responsibillity for your actions.
Please dont do it again." Bills heart twanged; hurt. He wanted to punch at his own chest, get the stupid thing to lay off.
A hyper girl in a colourful sweater tumbled into the kitchen, a fat pig in tow, she smiled then looked up, Ford still cradled Bills arm. Mabel gasped and shrieked her brothers name, Dipper came running.
Dipper gasped. "Ill get the first aid" he screammed at the two, running back out the kitchen when the blood began making him whoozy enough to get Bill cipher himself help.
Mabel frowned and waddles plopped down beside her.
"Ill decorate the bandages" she said through pity sobs for him. She doesnt even know what happens. She reacts off instinct.
Bill and Ford could have ruled over galaxies. But Ford suited himself.