Work Text:
Ford was in his lab, slouched over the desk, sneaking glances up at the half-finished portal through the glass window between notes in his journal, documenting an odd behavioral pattern that the Gnomes had been exhibiting during the colder months. It was silent in the room; Fidds had gone out to get groceries at the store, and he hadn’t seen Bill in almost an hour, which he didn’t think much of. Bill had a tendency to wander off on his own when Ford was “being too boring”. Currently, he was lost in thought, pen excitedly moving against the paper of his journal, until he heard Bill calling him in the distance;
“SIXER!!”
He jolted, nearly knocking his chair over with how fast he stood up, racing towards the direction of the sound. He eventually tracked it down to Fiddleford’s room, and when he opened the door, he was met with…a quite unexpected sight.
His Muse, Bill, tangled upside down in one of Fidds’ multicolored dreamcatchers, limbs twisted in an awkward position that seemed impossible to achieve without deliberation. His form was tinted slightly red, resembling blush, and Bill was glaring at him. “…My Muse?” Ford questioned, a hand rising to attempt to hide the growing amused grin on his lips. Bill was silent, the red growing more potent as he sat there unmoving. Thankfully, Ford knew what he was asking, and walked over to untangle the triangle. “…How did this happen??” He snickered, carefully undoing a knot tied around his leg. “Shut up,” Bill huffed in response, “I told you to make Hillbilly get rid of these.” Ford gave a little half-shrug. “He thinks they combat nightmares, which was an idea popularized in—“ His fingers brushed over Bill’s side, and the triangle jumped, a sputtered gasp escaping him.
They both froze.
…
“What was that?”
…
“…Nothing.”
Ford ran his fingertips over the same spot, now extracting a shiver. Then he did it again, and again, and again. Bill gradually got redder, trying his best to contain his reaction to the featherlight touch. Once he’d suppressed himself to barely a hitch of his breath, Ford got more insistent, nails running up and down the length of his side.
“Ford- F-Ford, quit it. Right now.” He stammered, bright cherry by now. “I’m just freeing you, Muse.” He answered back, not bothering to hide the devilish grin on his features. “Sh-shut uhuhuhahahap!!” He cracked, soft giggles spilling freely from him. Ford’s eyebrows raised, his own cheeks going rosy from the sound.
“Hm, interesting.” He hummed, using the voice he used when documenting a new finding.
“I- I hahahate- no- d- Fohohohohord!” The tracing turned to light scratching, now migrating to the lower half of his body, following the lines of his brick pattern. Bill squirmed away from his touch like a frightened worm, eye squeezing shut to avoid having to look at that stupid smug expression. “The subject seems to have trouble forming legible sentences. I wonder why.” Another bout of humiliation washed over his poor Muse, blush flaring angrily.
“Nonono!! NahahahAHA!” He protested, yanking on his trapped arms futilely. He inhaled sharply and nearly died of embarrassment when the breath resulted in a snort. A snort. “Fascinating, it can mimic a pig.” Bill was going to kill him.
“Fohoho- Fohord staHAHAP let me GOHO!!” A growl slipped out with his words, warning Ford it was probably time to stop. He fixed his glasses, easing back up to gentle tracing. “Subject seems to be agitated, it’s wise to end the experiment.” He quickly documented to his imaginary audience, before he took his hands off of Bill altogether, retreating a few steps in case of spontaneous combustion due to rage.
There was no fire, thankfully, and instead, Bill went back to trying to free himself after a brief period of catching his breath, dead silent and vivid red. “…I’ll get it, Muse. I’m sorry.” Ford chuckled, a fondness to his voice. Bill didn’t object, so he returned to untangling him from the yarn, getting him out fairly easily this time — the squirming had loosened his binds.
Once freed, the triangle flopped forward into his palm, sitting up and glowering pointedly at the human. “I said sorry, Bill.” He reached out to pet him, and his hand was swatted away. “I hate you.” Bill grumbled curtly, though Ford could tell he didn’t mean it. “Well, I have discoveries to journal, so you can tell me all about how much you despise me while I work.” He then turned on his heel and walked off, closing Fiddleford’s door with his heel. As he walked, he made a mental note to himself; ask Fidds where he got his dreamcatchers when he returned from the store.