Chapter Text
Bill’s head whipped towards Stan “We have to go back to the shack. Ford should have something useful in his lab.” Stan scoffs “Should have? You don’t know? Aren’t you his lab partner or something?” However, looking back at the red blooming on the stark white snow, Stan unfortunately has to agree that it’s the best plan they’ve got right now. Surely Ford would fare better inside. At least then he doesn’t have to fight hypothermia on top of his bleeding.
“Or something…” Bill whispers, mostly to himself. Ugh! Focus Bill! Clenching his fist, he growls “Just grab him Fez!” Taking a quick second to get his bearings, Bill starts walking off towards the shack, using Stan’s fresh footsteps as a guide.Fez? Getting over his momentary confusion over the strange nickname, Stan scoops Ford’s limp body up. He glances back at the now stirring Fiddleford, scowling “I hope you get what’s coming to you, lunatic” before following behind Bill.
“Hey, slow down a little bit! Ford isn't exactly light ya know” Stan grumbles, trying to pick up his pace to not lose Bill with the snow coming down heavier now. Bill mostly ignores him, besides a small self important scoff, walking as fast as the deep snow allows just to spite him. He scans the trees, trying to find something familiar to make sure they don't get even more lost than they already are.
The light of the shack is like a beacon of hope for the three bloodstained, snow covered men. Bill sighs in relief when it finally comes into his view, taking a quick glance behind him to ensure Stan hasn't been consumed by the heavy snow. Stan looks disgruntled and shaken up, trembling as he trudges forward with Ford in his arms. “Oh yeah no take your time. It's only your brother’s life on the line!” Bill snaps while rolling his eyes and crossing his arms at the man. “Excuse me?! I’d like to see you carry him with your scrawny arms” Stan snarls.
Bill glares, ready to throw another snarky remark into the cold air before hesitating when Ford’s condition comes to mind. The longer they argue over this, the quicker Ford’s chances of survival dwindle. But his ego prevents him from being the bigger person and dropping it, so he squints and points towards Stan “Stop being so childish Stanley, your brother doesn’t have time to waste.” Turning back towards the shack, he walks with his head held high, a self confident smirk on his face.
Bill stomps up the stairs of the shack, slipping on the ice coating them in his haste. He barely catches himself before he busts his nose on the porch of the shack. Cursing under his breath, Bill is feeling grateful that the voice has been absent recently, he would never live that fall down if it saw that. Unfortunately for Bill’s ego, someone else did watch it happen. Hearing Stan’s low chuckling from behind him, Bill feels his jaw tensing trying to hold back his rage. Taking a deep breath and thinking about Ford he just barely holds back throwing an insult over his shoulder at the lesser twin.
He stumbles onto his feet and dusts the snow off his pants, taking one more second to curb his anger before reaching towards the doorknob. His fingers are shivering and stiff from the cold, barely able to get a good grip on the handle. Muttering about the fragility of human fingers, Bill yanks the door open and immediately heads towards the basement door. “I’m checking the lab so don’t let him die before that, asshole” Bill shouts to the man behind him. “Yeah, yeah. Do whatever you need to, you freak” Stan whispers, placing Ford on the couch as carefully as possible. Looking around, Stan starts to wonder where Ford keeps his first-aid kit, because there’s no way someone like his brother doesn’t have one laying around.
Bill bursts open the door leading to the lab, taking the stairs down two steps at a time. Once he reaches the bottom, he frantically looks around for something, anything, that would help Ford. He rips open drawers, skims over notes and diagrams, rifles through shelves and boxes. The more he searches, the more his confidence of finding something useful drains, and with it, the one thing keeping him going, his adrenaline.
Bill feels all of it happen in slow motion, his body starting to feel the effects of all the stress and strain he’s gone through recently. Suddenly, he’s drenched in sweat and his head feels so incredibly hot, his legs collapsing from under him as he gags. Bill’s mind races, What the hell is happening? Am I dying? Maybe the axolotl decided I failed. But doesn’t that mean Ford..? Shaking his head, Bill desperately tries to stop himself from thinking, but that sense of doom, the sense that he’s failed, sticks, no matter how hard he tries to shut it down. He curls in on himself, squeezing his eyes shut, as another wave of nausea hits him. Only after that wave passes and he successfully stops himself vomiting, does Bill open his tear filled eyes. This is worse than dying…The great Bill Cipher curled up on the floor and crying like a baby. Just perfect.
Finally blinking the tears out of his eyes, a silver shine underneath Ford’s desk interrupts his internal self-depreciation. Not trusting his shaking legs to hold him, Bill crawls towards the shine and as he approaches the shape of a small metal box becomes clearer. He stares at it for a few seconds, trying to will energy into his arms to reach up and open it. Bill finally gains control over his hands just enough and he clumsily pulls on the handle, having to use his whole body weight to open it. But when it pops open, Bill can’t help the small disbelieving laugh that leaves him. Inside the metal box, that Bill now recognizes as a fridge, are bottles and bottles of Ford’s own blood, each helpfully labeled with the date it was drawn. “Jeez Ford, I knew you were a freak but this is a new low, even for you.” Bill murmur, a grin cracking across his face.
After clumsily wiping his tear stained face, Bill reaches into the fridge, lifting each jug and bringing them up to his face to read the tiny wording on the labels to find the most recently drawn blood. Slamming his selected quarts on the desk, he stumbles onto his shaking legs using the desk as support, taking a few attempts to fully stand. He shoves one quart of blood under each arm and begins his trek back up the stairs, giggling thinking about how Stan would respond to something as stupid as this.