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Bill growls, digging his nails into the flesh of his left shoulder. It stings with an utterly delicious pain. Even for just a moment all the noise in his head is muffled; and he pauses. Seriously..? THIS was all he needed to calm himself? The most OBVIOUS solution was RIGHT IN FRONT OF HIM THE WHOLE FUCKING TIME?!
He slams his fist down with rage. It hits the wall hard enough that spikes of pain shoot through his arm, echoing in his flesh. It’s not enough. It’s never enough. It never WILL BE enough. The feeling of inadequacy makes Bill antsy. He NEEDS to make it all stop somehow, or else he’s going to go CRAZY. He NEEDS it gone. He NEEDS it GONE. HE NEEDS IT GONE.
Bill races across his room. He rummages through drawers and cabinets. Tears through stacks of objects that were never returned to their “homes”. The moment something catches his foot or distracts him it’s destroyed in cold blood. ANYTHING that even DARES interrupt this important process WILL be ANNIHILATED.
Eventually the demon-turned-human lays his beautiful eye on a small box-cutter. The blade couldn’t be any larger than his finger, yet it looked sharp enough to slice skin. Bill joyfully pushed the sliding mechanism to release the blade before drawing it along the length of his left arm.
The sudden pain is euphoric; a delicious sear that burns along the grain of his flesh. All the eternal NOISE in his head starts to blur, turned to static by the glorious sensation. Bill can’t help but groan in pleasure. He adds another cut, and another, slicing shapes into his skin.
Bill carves triangles of all shapes and sizes, glimmering stars that remind him of home, crude messages, all into the soft flesh of his arm. Blood pours from his various wounds and he gleefully laps it up. Excess is poured into a glass jar he’d stolen from the kitchen a few days back. Can’t let any blood go to waste, after all! Not only is it a precious resource, but Bill really doesn’t want to make more work for himself by cleaning stains later.
Soon his eyes droop and flutter, his head suddenly light as a feather. Bill giggles at the strange feeling. It’s almost like he’s levitating again! He drifts from his bedroom to the hall, then to the kitchen to wash off his wounds. Luckily it’s too late for anyone to catch him like this.
Bill shakily reaches for the cold knob. At this point, he’s hardly even capable of turning it very far, but he persists. A comfortable lean lets freezing water run over his wounds. For anyone else, this may be a sign to fix the temperature, or at least make it quick. But Bill doesn’t even care anymore. The chill is just another part of the fun.
He grabs a nearby bottle of dish soap, popping the cap and squeezing out the contents onto his arm. Only as much as needed to cover the whole thing. Admittedly, it burns with a less fun pain than the process of making these cuts; but pain is pain, anything will do. Bill rubs the soap into his skin. He froths it up until his whole arm is covered in bubbles. One more rinse, and the cleaning stage is over.
There’s a faint nausea deep in the vessel’s gut; one that Bill long ago began to call the human body’s alarm signal. Had it been ringing the bell this whole time? Who knows! It’s not like Bill cares much, considering what he’s done.
Cabinet doors are slammed open and closed with careless jittery motions as Bill begins the search for a first aid kit. Humans tend to keep those in their restrooms, don’t they? Keep all the ‘nasty biological process issues’ in one place, he imagines. Soon enough the blonde finds what he’s looking for and snatches the gauze.
One loop, two loop, three loop… Bill wraps his arm, counting as he goes. He wants 18 cycles. It has to be 18. Any more, any less, and he’s going to let the wound get infected. Hell, he might make the wound get infected out of spite for this stupid fleshbag’s existence.
He’s just finished putting cutesy star stickers along the wrap to hold the gauze down when a startled gasp shakes Bill from his euphoric trance. Before him is Stanford’s nephew. The pawn. Pinetree.
“Bill..? What did you do?” Dipper asks, his voice low and already exasperated. “Why are you using the first aid kit..?”
Bill rolls his eye dramatically before crossing his arms with a pout. “Wouldn’t you like to know, weather boy?”
“..What?”
“Whatever. Forget it. It’ll make sense in a few years or so.”
Dipper, now purely irritated instead of concerned, pushes past Bill into the bathroom. “Well get out. I need to be in here for a second.”
If this were any other situation, Bill would mock and ask why the boy needed to enter the room so forcefully. This is, however, the ‘nasty biological process’ room, and Dipper’s intentions are obvious. He heaves a dramatic sigh and closes the door to give him some privacy.
“Don’t die in there, Pinetree!”
“Hah. Very funny,” the boy grumbles. It’s clear he just wants Bill to fuck off now. And fuck off he does!
Bill slips back into his shared bedroom. Stanford remains out cold; the lucky bastard. On the mention of cold… He would rather not be cold. The rather thin knitted blanket Mabel made is nice, but it’s got holes galore and hardly reaches his feet. Ford’s fold-out couch bed, however…
Thus the choice is made. Bill snuggles up next to his favorite scientist. Ford, ever the fussy sleeper, notices his presence but doesn’t push him away, instead opting for wrapping his arms around the demon-turned-human. Oh, he’s so going to regret this when he wakes up…
But Bill hardly gets to marinate on this glorious blackmail before he passes out in his favorite human’s arms.. Warm, safe, comfortable… It’s the most at home he’s felt in billions of years.