Work Text:
Click. Clack. Click. Clack. Heavy leather boots across the marble floors echoed down the hall. They moved at a brisk pace, never wavering in their steps. A man walking with clear purpose.
Tap-tap. Tap-tap. Tap-tap. Rushed soft footsteps rung out close behind. Frantically attempting to catch up, it took two of theirs to even attempt to catch up with the first set.
A heavy sigh could be heard soon after. “Muse, where could we possibly be going in such a hurry?” They asked, annoyed and slightly winded from the speed in which they walked.
With a smile in their tone, the first responded, “Make haste, my dear painter - we’re on in five.”
Before the latter could ask further questions, the pair stepped onto set as the lights raised. Bill’s eye widened in shock as the set around them truly sprung to life. Large video cameras were posted nearby facing the mock kitchen setup they now stood in. He turned to Ford for clarification, but instead he was rolling up his sleeves and moving various utensils around the countertops.
The kitchen was robust, filled with some devices Bill recognized and some he didn’t. Flipping open his sketchbook, he decided he ought to practice more with three dimensional shapes since his muse was intent on ignoring his confusion. He started with the ones he knew, plates, silverware, cups.
As he finished a set of tall glasses that were perched on the counter across from him, a bright red light flickered to life overhead. “What does that-?” As he began to ask, someone he couldn’t see past the fluorescents interrupted him.
“You're on in five…four…three, two-” They shouted but left one unsaid. Even if they had said it, Ford’s low timbre would have drowned it out as he looked directly into the camera.
Smiling wide, Ford gestured to the kitchen around them naturally. Bill could only blink up at him, awestruck as his voice filled his ears. “Welcome to my kitchen! It’s so nice of you all to join us,” his feigned pleasantries had a prominent enough tinge of insincerity to know there was something else afoot.
Somehow, the lights felt brighter than before - hotter. Bill looked between the piercing lens of the camera and Ford’s smiling face. “Muse, surely you’re not-” he started, but a hand held up in his direction with a pointed glare stopped him in his tracks. Blinking up at him, Bill was mostly surprised at his muse partaking in such a mundane activity. These pursuits are beneath him…
Instead of acknowledging him, Ford continued on, “Today, I have a special guest! Why don’t you introduce yourself?” He asked, giving Bill a sly look. His tone was verging on mockery and Cipher couldn’t let that slide.
Standing proudly, he faced the camera. “The name’s Bill Cipher!” He spoke with a certain flourish that made Stanford nearly look proud. “Now, are you going to tell me what we’re doing here?” He turned to ask Ford directly.
A stagnant pre-recorded laugh track rang out overhead and Bill glanced up before dismissing it outright. When he looked back, Ford suddenly had a set of ingredients in front of him. Everything was already prepped to be used even as neither of them had so much as lifted a finger.
“We will be making a personal favorite of mine - adobo!” Ford sounded genuine that time, it would be perplexing if the rest of the situation weren’t strange. In one fluid motion, Ford began to move things around. Shuffling ingredients in the way he liked until he was seemingly satisfied. Holding out a hand, he gestured for Bill to sit on the counter beside him.
Even if he had a lingering thought about doing such a thing as unsanitary, Bill hopped up and sat down anyway. Once he was poised to sketch out whatever Ford intended on doing, he looked back with a skeptical look in his eye.
Ford only returned it with a smile before rolling up his sleeves. He flashed the camera a smile before grabbing instruments and ingredients with extra flourish. Bill could only watch with a wide-eyed stare and his pencil hovering over the page. His muse began mixing something in a bowl as his voice talked through the steps, it seemed to come to him as simple as it was to breathe or blink.
It perplexed him thoroughly and so Bill couldn’t help but ask, “Muse, why would a god such as yourself stoop so low as to cook?”
With his sleeves rolled up like this, known determination in his eyes and a pan full of food in front of him, Ford almost seemed like a different person. However, there was still an edge of something that Bill couldn’t quite place, it was always there lingering in the background of every interaction.
“My dear painter…some pastimes are worth the trouble…” Ford replied, flicking his wrist to flip and toss the chicken and spices in the pan. His voice was fond if not a bit reserved, most likely on account of the cameras.
Bill shrugged before finally beginning to sketch in earnest. He paid attention to every fluid movement of Ford’s hands as he cooked and listened intently as he explained every step. At some point he had begun scratching notes in the margin of the recipe he was walking through. Then, he was hit with a question that hadn’t occurred to him until after Ford was halfway through.
Sitting back, he lifted his pen and gazed up at Ford, “How do you know how to make this anyways?”
Bill hardly bothered with such menial tasks so he was curious to know why Ford would bother, let alone why he would know all the steps without needing another guide of some sort. His muse moved as if he’d gone through the motions a hundred times over. The only thing Cipher had ever done that elicited such poise was creating his art.
Ford began to drain the excess sauce mixture from the pan as confliction flickered across his face. It was there for a fleeting moment but gone in an instant, Bill almost wondered if he truly had seen that crack in his stoic armor. He then pulled the pan away from the stove.
Bill almost thought Ford would outright ignore him, but as he brought the pan over to the counter to move the food over into another container, he answered him, “It’s an old recipe…I suppose I was just feeling nostalgic today.” There was a sadness in his eyes that faded back into his usual disposition before he continued with his instructions. “Now, it needs to cool in the refrigerator for thirty minutes–we’ll be back after these messages!”
The lights overhead cut out, as if the sun itself had been extinguished and Bill had to blink harshly to adjust to the change in brightness. He sighed in minor irritation and stood to watch Ford place the container in the fridge. “Do we really need to wait thirty minutes?” He asked impatiently.
Chuckling lightly to himself, Ford replied, “No, it’s a set - that means everything has already been prepared for us. However, that does give us a bit of time to relax. Feel free to look around, see if anything inspires you.” He waved Bill off over his shoulder as he slinked off backstage.
Bill attempted to bolt after him, scrambling to catch up. “Wait! If I’m wandering, then where will you be?” He called after him. Despite his quickened pace, he couldn’t seem to catch up with Ford.
“Don’t you worry about that, just find something inspiring to pass the time. Perhaps if you do so, I will answer your query,” Ford replied easily and turned the corner.
Standing in the dimly lit hallway, Bill was at a loss for what to do with himself. The desire persisted to follow after his muse, but his proposition was enticing. Interested at what this presumed reward may be, Cipher turned on his heel to wander off back toward the kitchen. It looked much more eerie now that the blinding lights had ceased. There was a sea of seats for an audience that didn’t exist, cameras and equipment for a crew that wasn’t there and a kitchen primed and ready to cook with.
Cipher had never been one to do such things before. It just wasn’t his style and he truly couldn't be bothered. Not to mention, such tasks were beneath him–all that cooking and cleaning. Just then as he gazed over at the cutting boards and pans in the sink, Ford's words earlier replayed in his mind.
My dear painter…some pastimes are worth the trouble…
It wasn’t the first time Ford had shared such a sentiment for manual labor but for some reason this instance was more striking. His mind wandered to recall the care he had put into the meal he was preparing earlier. All those measurements and additions to the recipe he had noted, those were personal not simply clinical. Bill glanced at the notes he had scribbled down, he had written them beside a detailed sketch of Ford flipping the contents of the pan.
In the sketch, the small smile he had fully reached his eyes, leaving wrinkles as he did so. Bill didn’t see him that way often. So even the gods can feel something as genuine as joy… Bill mused to himself, refining the sketch as Ford wandered back into the kitchen.
Abruptly, Cipher realized he had spent more time daydreaming than drawing. Setting the sketchbook aside, Bill watched Ford set up a different container with the same food just cooled properly. “Did you find anything interesting?” Ford asked nonchalantly.
Feeling his face heat up, Bill pushed the sketchbook a bit further away. “Something like that, yeah…” He mumbled, feigning confidence.
It was thwarted by the hum and Ford’s follow up question, “Is that so…so what did you take inspiration from this time?” He raised an eyebrow and tried to peek over at the sketchbook.
Even with his heart beating rapidly, Bill scrounged up enough courage to be confident. You’ve sketched him plenty of times, this time isn’t any different. Keeping things casual, he slid the journal in Ford’s direction. It was opened to the page with the sketch and his messy notes off to the side. Bill averted his gaze, he fidgeted with the pencil in his hands and waited for Ford’s appraisal.
Ford paused in what he was doing to look over the page, his thumb gently brushing over its edge as if it may otherwise disintegrate beneath his fingertips. It then ghosted over the recipe, caressing over each line of Bill’s handwriting. “Not a step out of place…” he whispered, sounding somewhat reverent.
Surprised at his tone, Bill’s attention snapped back to him. “Of course…you were giving explicit instructions after all,” he replied, leaning back on one of his hands. “Although, I don’t understand why you kept adding things that weren’t in the original recipe.”
“What?” Ford was broken from whatever trance he’d put himself in to finally look back at him.
Bill shrugged and continued, “You added other spices or changed a few measurements–you had called it out while cooking, that's what the star icons are for.” Bill used his pencil to gesture to what he was referring to.
Bristling a bit, Ford lightly pushed the sketchbook back over to him. “I suppose those changes were a force of habit…from the person who taught me that recipe originally…”’ He then resumed his preparations as the lights began to rise and a countdown started up.
Bill sat up straighter, a question on the tip of his tongue, “Who taught you the-”
Before he could finish, an invisible cameraman called out action and the blinding lights returned. Ford resumed cooking and whatever vulnerability had been there before was a long distant memory. Even after they called out cut and the show came to a close, Bill never did get the answers to any of his questions. However, he did get to enjoy a great life with someone he admired.