Chapter Text
~ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⃤ 🐟︎⋆⭒˚.⋆ ~
Though it be not a certified fact nor a doubtless truth, there is a universal understanding that strange things come out at night.
Such nebulous entities lurk in the day, cloaked under caliginous shadows cast by the sun, so all appears as it should be on the surface. Few would deny, though, that once darkness consumes the light and veils your sight, suddenly every impossibility feels a little more possible.
There’s nothing to disturb the natural quiet for nautical miles. The Stan O' War II barely bobs with the weak waves that break against its hull, gently see-sawed back and forth by the sea's hand. A swirling wind playfully skims over the ocean, imbuing itself with fine salt crystals. The slack sail luffs as the bow points into the wind, stuck in irons, as the anchor securely moors the vessel. There’s no better way to end the day in Stan’s humble opinion.
The temperature continues to rapidly drop without any land to retain the heat, even more so since the sun disappeared beyond the horizon hours ago. Subzero chills plague the air, a piercing cold that slowly leeches to his exposed skin and seeps into the aged, sinewy meat.
Stan leans over the icy metal railing, arms protected by his long trench coat, and puffs on a toasty cigar. Barely bothered by the frigid conditions as he cranes his neck up to stare at the sky. Twilight lathers the ether with a impenetrable coat of pitch black ink. Blending sky and sea together to birth a seamless void, one so dark he can barely make out his hand in front of his face.
The moon slowly creeps higher in the empty abyss to linger above the ship. It sits full and wide over the water, a heavy sphere dangling by a thin string that's just about to snap. From afar, pinpricks of bright stars poke tiny holes through to gleam a shining silver. There must be huge, godly hands in heaven painstakingly stitching through black fabric with a needle, embroidering patterns beyond the stratosphere for them to admire.
When he was younger, back when he and his brother were both convinced they would spend their entire lives sailing around the globe, he tried to learn about the constellations to navigate without a map. At least, he’s pretty sure that was the reason. He can’t come up with a better one if it isn’t.
Stars really aren’t that special, he concludes, raising a hand with the thumb spread away from the rest of the fingers. They all look the same from down here.
He tries to connect the dots along the length of his palm and fingertips according to some stupid pattern. Whichever ancient astronomer came up with the Zodiacs must be history’s greatest scammer if they got people to buy into this malarky. Centuries later they still take up the last couple pages of gossip magazines.
He follows the imaginary line as it intersects with another to form a small angle between the astral projections.
Why can’t he look away, then?
Stan’s so engrossed by his thoughts, lost within the solitude, that he doesn’t notice that he has company until it's holding something right underneath his nose.
“Tea, Stanley?”
The distracted man jolts with a strangled yelp and nearly swallows his cigar. He recovers quickly enough to force it out as a gruff cough, but it doesn’t fool the keen observer next to him who just chuckles.
Stan doesn’t care for the mellow drink. “Yeah, why not?” He puts out his lit cigar as the mug is exchanged from six to five fingers. The heated ceramic warms his numb digits and returns a bit of feeling to them as the sweet herbal steam unclogs his nostrils. He swirls the liquid a bit around the sides, watching as it ripples and reflects the moon back up at him. A miniature ocean cupped in the palm of his hand. “What kind is it?”
His nerdy brother clears his throat in response, and he knows that he’s in for another lecture. “This is a new blend that I have been experimenting with to maximize the medicinal effects of floral remedies. As you know, I've been collecting various plant life across the islands we have visited, but I've also been documenting their efficacy in brewing the ultimate neuro-regenerative tea.”
Oh. It’s just another dud medicine that won’t work. Whoopee.
Stan’s smile is swiftly swapped out for a dupe. “You sound like a middle-aged hippie who collects overpriced crystals and does yoga at sunrise.”
“I excavate my own crystals, and early morning stretching has plenty of benefits that you would enjoy, Stan! As for the tea, the main ingredient is—”
He hides the frown that wins against the pained grin behind the rim, peering down at the dark liquid as his brother’s didactic rambling fades into the background of his failing hearing. He appreciates the effort, of course he does, but trying failed cure after failed cure gets stale pretty quickly.
Still, he floods his mouth with a big sip and swallows. Then immediately regrets that he didn’t blow as the hot river scalds his throat on the journey down. “Ah– cough–thanks, S–Sixer. It’s just what I needed.”
Ford beams at him, and he knows he made the right call. “Of course, Stanley. I’ll give you the rest of the blend so you can drink it in the morning. It contains a rather hefty dose of caffeine.”
“Well, good thing I’m pickin’ up the first shift tonight.” Stan knocks back another gulp as if he’s taking a shot, performing a satisfied ahh once he’s done. “Pretty sure we got ourselves a slippery stalker screwing with the radar system. How much you wanna bet that it’s a hot mermaid tryin’ to get my attention?”
That quip earns him a disbelieving snort. “I’d say the odds are very low…but you were kidnapped by a tribe of frost giants to be their mate last week.”
“What can I say? There’s not enough Stanley Pines to go around, and everyone wants a taste.”
Ford’s mouth scrunches into a grossed-out grimace. “Yes, that must be it.” The expression then refolds itself into concern. “But are you sure, Stanley? You could use some rest.”
A face mirroring Stan’s, save for less wrinkles and sporting a cleft chin, thoroughly inspects him. He squirms uncomfortably under the almost clinical examination, fingers tapping at the mug's glossy glaze. The aged scientist’s penetrating gaze is wielded like scalpel, delicately stripping away the outer layers to reveal what’s hidden beneath the surface. Stan's sure Ford won't like what he finds underneath. “You haven’t been sleeping well lately.”
“Huh? Sure I have! I’m in bed the full eight hours all the quacks on TV tell ya to get!”
“And just look at those dark circles!” Ford reaches for his eyes, but he ducks away as he steps back.
“Hey, leave my eyebags out of this!” Stan drains the last of the tea, roof of his mouth completely burned and tongue tingling. “HA! Now I’m full of caffeine! You know I can't sleep once I get the heart jitters, so I gotta take the first shift!”
Ford stares incredulously at the empty mug that’s forced back into his hands, peering down at the leaf speckles stuck on the bottom as if he can divine from them what’s wrong with his twin. “I guess it's either this or you staying up all night writing regency period erotica."
"A guy forgets to close his laptop ONE TIME and never hears the end of it!"
"No, he won't." Ford fondly rolls his eyes as he turns away. "Well, goodnight, Stanley. If you do get tired, don’t hesitate to wake me up early.”
Stan pats Ford on the shoulder before he begins the short descent down to the cabin. “You just worry about yourself and get some shut-eye, Poindexter. I know you’ve been stayin’ up, too, tinkering with your nerd projects.”
“Important research studies!”
“Same thing!”
The chuckles grow fainter as they bounce up the stairwell back to Stan, whose heart still warms at the sound.
When their bedroom door finally shuts with a firm click, he lets out a sigh of relief, sagging a bit. Usually, it takes more for Ford to trust that he’s fine. And he is. Fine, that is.
A wad of spit is hawked and spat out over the railing, but the floral taste keeps sitting unwanted in his mouth like a squatter. Stan focuses his sights above the Earth again, not quite sure why but giving into the urge anyway.
Despite the “rejuvenating” drink, about an hour later he finds himself fighting a losing battle. Fatigue is a longstanding opponent of his—one that's permanently settled into his muscles, bones, organs, every single cell in every single tissue that stitches his body together. It usually lays dormant when he’s up and about, but now it steadily emerges from that empty crater that resides inside him.
Stan blinks blearily, struggling to keep his vision in focus as the darkness somehow smears into itself. A particularly strong wave crashes against the boat and he staggers, rocking heavily into the railing. He leans a bit too far over for support, staring down into the rippling depths spangled with the interstellar lights shining down on him.
WOAH THERE, KLUTZ-O! DON’T WANT TO TAKE A POLAR PLUNGE LIKE THAT, DO YA?
Quickly jerking himself away from certain doom, Stan follows the telepathic voice up to the heavens. The constellation he was outlining earlier is somehow brighter than before, highlighting a shape with three equal sides and what appears to be a…is that a bowtie?! Oh, you got to be kidding him.
As if his realization was its cue, the celestial triangle flares with the might of a thousand exploding suns that colors it yellow. This huge, sky-bound being blinks down at him, eye opening to reveal a thin slit of a pupil. Four black limbs pop free its flat sides and stretch out wide across space. Even the moon is snuffed out by the blinding golden radiance that outshines all surrounding astral bodies.
It’s an obnoxiously grand introduction to the story, but what else would you expect from Bill Cipher?
BUT IF YOU WANT TO THROW YOURSELF OVERBOARD AND FINALLY END YOUR MISERABLE EXISTENCE, WHO AM I TO STOP YOU?
Stan rubs his temples as the words blare into him, pitchy and distant as though they’re cranked out from an old-timey record player. “And leave you high and dry with no one to torment? I would never.”
A disappointed sigh blows through his consciousness. He shivers from the nonexistent breath flowing along the grooves of his brain. A TRIANGLE CAN DREAM EVEN IF HE CAN’T SLEEP.
That ginormous eye flitters around before squinting at a nearby constellation. Cartoonishly long and loony hands pluck at it, and it wobbles from the disturbance. Emboldened, they grip both sides of the stick figures and pull in opposite directions until the connecting star breaks away from them both. The constellation splits into two fractured mirrored images, incomplete.
THAT’S BETTER! The entire plane of that flat body nods in approval. THOSE TWO WERE WAYYYY TOO CLINGY!
Stan stares, a disturbed shiver finally rattling his body, but he forces himself not to shake. Luckily for Earth and all her inhabitants, this is only an illusion. This is all Bill has. Let him play pretend all he wants.
SO! Bill starts up when he receives no response from his only conversational partner. WHAT ARE YOU DOING BESIDES TRYING TO BECOME A FATTY PIECE OF KRAKEN BAIT?
Stan shrugs, smirking at the peeved edge lining the otherwise peppy tone. “I was just takin’ in the nice view before something really big and ugly popped up and ruined it.”
Bill's lower eye lid spasms with badly restrained ire. WELL, AREN’T YOU GETTING SENTIMENTAL? YOUR HEART IS AS MUSHY AS YOUR DEFORMED BRAIN.
The three-sided shape then appears to shrink in dimension, no longer looming oppressively as he hovers down to join the human on the boat. Both take in the same view.
For someone so chaotic and loud, the picturesque night sky seems to soften the harsh spark gleaming within the lone, wild eye. Stan quickly averts his gaze, unsure what to make of it. A calm Bill is an unpredictable Bill.
This rare moment of tranquility washes over them, weathering the flow of time as it streams along whichever route it follows. The future is just a bit away, already rushing towards them.
IT COULD BE WORSE, Bill admits, and Stan nearly balks at such an agreeable remark, let alone Bill agreeing with him. TOO BAD YOU’RE HALF-BLIND AND CAN ONLY SEE A SMIDGE OF THE FULL COLOR SPECTRUM WITH YOUR WEAK MEATSACK RECEPTORS.
Theeeere it is. The little wise guy never knows when to quit it with the quips. It’s like listening to a squeaky chihuahua bite at your ankles without any teeth.
WANT ME TO REWIRE YOUR OPTICAL NERVES FOR THE LOW BARGAIN PRICE OF LENDING ME YOUR FAT GRANDPA BODY FOR A JOYRIDE?
“You’re already in my head. The last thing I want is you messin’ around with anything else you could get your grubby little hands on,” Stan scoffs. “No deal, pal.”
Bill sneers, or at least Stan thinks that’s what’s happening as the yellow “skin” wrinkles at the corneas. HEY, IT’S YOUR LOSS, NOT MINE!
The silence returns, but Stan doesn't let it linger for long. “Well, are you ready to help or what? You got nothing better to do, don't cha?”
‘NOTHING BETTER TO DO’? AS IF! I HAVE PLENTY OF OTHER EXCITING PLANS THAT I GOT SCHEDULED ON MY DAILY PLANNER! HAVING TO DEAL WITH YOU IS JUST ANOTHER TEDIOUS APPOINTMENT TO CHECK OFF MY TIMETABLE!
The angular asshole then clears his throat, if he even has one, and redirects the line of questioning. YOU DOWN TO PICK UP WHERE WE LEFT OFF? WE GOT SOME CATCHING UP TO DO TONIGHT IF YOU WANNA STAY ON TRACK.
That they do. It’s already taking far longer than Stan expected, but there’s only so much they can get through at a time. “Is it gonna take more outta me than it already does? Ford’s startin’ to suspect that there’s something wrong with my sleeping habits, and I don’t wanna give him more to work with.”
Like every other time he's mentioned his brother, anger rapidly imbues that onyx pupil, reflecting all the hurt resentment that’s been stirred up from the murky bottom. OH, LIKE HE WOULDN’T BE WORRYING ALREADY! SIXER LOOOOOOVES TO SOLVE PROBLEMS, AND YOU’RE THE TOUGHEST PROBLEM HE’S YET TO CRACK. GOOD LUCK GETTING HIM TO PAY ATTENTION TO ANYTHING ELSE UNTIL THEN!
Stan grits his faux teeth and doesn’t respond, instead walking to one of the lounge chairs squished onto the small deck. He drops himself onto the cushioned seat, slings his feet over the edge, and lays back with his arms crossed behind his head almost defiantly. “Let’s get this over with.”
GEEZ, LOVE YOUR ENTHUSIASM. REALLY LIVENS UP MY NIGHT.
The dapper triangle rises over Stan's face and slowly—hesitantly, as if reaching into the fiery maw of an angry dragon—places a small hand on each temple.
Here Stan is, face to face with the devious trickster that had tormented his family. The cruel monster that had nearly overthrew reality. The desperate loser that continues to stick around even after his embarrassing loss. That all-seeing eye is all Stan can see, and he’s all Bill can see, too.
Bill Cipher is truly the worst, but the worst is exactly what Stanley Pines needs right now.
He can't feel a thing as the triangle's small fingers brush against his skin, but his neurons hum as if galvanized, buzzing with a potential voltage that’s ready to shock him.
LET’S BEGIN, SHALL WE?
Gears of time come to a screeching halt, teeth grinding as their rotations rapidly reverse. The future is flung further away into the distant beyond. The past is hooked and reeled back to the present. Temporal dimensions shrink and expand and collapse upon themselves like dying stars streaming across the galaxy of his mind, and all Stan can do is surrender to the brilliant, baneful blaze.
Strange things come out at night, indeed.
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