Work Text:
At the sound of the tone, the time will be: 5:25 and 30 seconds.
Beep.
At the sound of the tone, the time will be: 5:25 and 40 seconds.
Beep.
At the sound of the tone, the time will be—
Ford swears under his breath, shoulder wedging the receiver firmly against his ear as he winds his wristwatch. He swears when his thumb and forefinger lose their grip on the little dial, and it slips. Swears at the balancing act he’s having to do with the receiver. Swears at himself for falling asleep last night because now Bill’s gone and fucked with every object in the house that can conceivably be used for telling time.
Every single one, from his watch to his alarm to the grandfather clock at the top of the stairs— even the damn microwave— the hands are pointing every which way, the numbers picked at random.
He lets the voice continue, times it just right for the hands to hit 5:26 right on cue, and… there. Now that he's ensured that the watch is as accurate as possible, he can move on to the rest of the house. He stands, causing the receiver to fall from his shoulder. It swings like a pendulum when the cord catches against the edge of the table, the coils of the wire stretching. He doesn't flinch at the noise.
Ford knows Bill’s laughing. Just the inconvenience of it all: waking up disoriented, not knowing if it’s morning or night and having to dial for the time of day, being made to waste his time like this— it’s hilarious in and of itself. That it delays him from doing anything about Bill or the portal is just a bonus.
When he reaches the kitchen he makes a beeline for the coffee machine. He doesn’t even pour into a cup before taking another gulp from the pot he brewed earlier. Doesn’t matter that it’s lukewarm, he needs the caffeine. Only then does he set the microwave.
He trudges up the stairs towards the grandfather clock, parks himself in front, takes out his watch, and gets to work.
Only he can’t find the winding key.
He gropes around up top. He opens the door housing the counterweights. He does a quick scan of the floor. The leather of his belt slides with a zip as it’s pulled through the loops and he uses it to fish around underneath the clock. It’s not there. It’s not anywhere.
He wants to cry out of frustration. He really, really does.
Ford doesn’t cry. Doesn’t wanna give Bill the satisfaction. Not that Bill needs to see him do it. Just knowing that Ford is on the verge of tears is enough.
It must be hilarious.
Ford grips the sides of the grandfather clock; the edges press painfully into the fleshy webbing between his forefinger and thumb, he’s clinging so hard. He inhales deeply through his nose, forces himself to breathe out. In… and out. Just breathe.
He can't do this right now. He can't think right now. Bill's done so much worse and yet for some reason this sophomoric shit is pushing him over the edge.
“Fuck,” he hisses.
He sighs, pushes away from the grandfather clock, and promptly abandons it. It’s not important. Damn thing can go take a tumble on the stairs, for all he cares. He makes a mental note to check in the drawers, replaces his belt and leaves to fix the alarm in his room. When he emerges he reaches into his coat for a cigarette. He nearly lights it before wising up and taking his pity session out to the porch.
Once there he picks up where he left off. Chronic sleep deprivation and the chill outside means his hands are shaking as he holds up the lighter and shields the flame. After that he leans over, rests his forearms onto the railing and looks off into the snowy woods as the sun climbs its way farther up into the sky. He wonders how he went from the starry-eyed researcher he was in ‘75 to the paranoid fuck-up he is now. How it took only six or so years for the wonder of those early days to disappear, for everything in his life to go to shit.
He let himself think Bill actually cared about him. Cared for him.
He was so goddamn stupid to fall for it.
Ford’s loathe to use the word ‘love’. At the time he wouldn’t have hesitated. Now, it just reminds him of his naïveté. Of his foolish desperation for any scrap of approval and affection.
But… he did love him. And somewhere deep inside, he still does. However much he wants to, he can’t just turn those feelings off. The memories and the emotions they evoke may be soured, but they won’t leave. Can't leave. The wider culture may make a distinction, with the coveted ‘true’ love— whatever that is— on one side, and simple adoration— call it puppy love, a mere crush, caring, whatever— on the other.
It’s all the same shit, neither more ‘noble’ than the other as far as Ford’s concerned. Either way it has your neurons firing off and you get fucked over. People just differentiate after the fact so it'll hurt less.
Yeah, Ford's bitter. What of it?
He takes another drag. Briefly he thinks he should’ve set another pot to brew in the meantime. He rubs his eye, and as he does so his finger brushes a thin caking of blood, a dribbling trail down his cheek; he couldn’t be bothered to take a damp towel to it when he woke up, and he still can’t.
Yeah, he loved Bill. Adored him. Worshiped him. Ford gave and gave and gave, and Bill took and took and took. And now Ford’s been left with sweet fuck all, and that’s still not enough for Bill.
It was never enough for him.
He couldn't see it at the time. Fiddleford tried to warn him, but Ford didn’t listen and now his only friend in this place— his closest friend he’s ever had, really— is gone. Because that’s what Stanford fucking Pines does best. Pushes everyone away.
Another drag. His fingers are trembling but he continues to brave the cold, not really wanting to end the brooding. Besides, maybe he deserves to feel uncomfortable. He’s been used and abused. What’s more abuse in the grand scheme of things if it’s coming from himself, anyhow? At least now he’s the one calling the shots.
He checks his watch again, as though the hands may have spun while he hasn’t been looking. It’s after six. Okay. Still, he’s gonna go dial the number again and— oh, he never did put the receiver back on the hook. Well, it’s long disconnected by now.
Ford wipes his nose and holds the cigarette back up to his lips. He ought to wrap it up and go back inside, he thinks. There’s still more clocks left. For a few seconds more, he watches the smoke fan out in front of him. He sniffles, a common side effect of the chilly air. Yeah, that’s what it is.
God, it’d feel so nice to cry right about now.