Chapter Text
Morning. Ford stared up at the textured ceiling of the bedroom. Was it really morning again? It felt as though it had just been morning five minutes ago. The last time he’d felt like this was when he was a child with a terrible case of the flu and his mother had forced him to stay in bed for a week. As he’d drifted in between sleep and wakefulness, the days seemed to pass without him noticing. Ever since then, he’d been packing his days with nonstop activity, adventuring with his brother on the beach or studying for school or watching Star Trek or researching anomalies or building portals or exploring the multiverse or safeguarding the rift and…
Suddenly, all at once, all that excitement had been sucked out to leave an empty, pale shell behind. His mornings were quiet and soft and lazy. He stared at the textured ceiling and traced the Spanish lace with his eyes and grasped at the strings of a dream he’d had. In the quiet of the morning, with nothing to distract him, that was when all the halcyon memories washed over him and swept him out to sea on waves of regret.
He got out of bed not only to keep a routine, but to keep himself from drowning.
The first thing he noticed was that there was a new door next to his personal bathroom. It was a standard wooden six-panel door, with a very nonstandard and impractical triangular knob. He knew he would have to open it, and his stomach twisted unpleasantly. He sat on the edge of the bed and stared at it for what seemed like an eternity, but it must not have been that long in reality, otherwise Bill would have come to bother him again. He was supposed to drop Dipper off today. Was this nonlinear time progression?
Ford got up and paced back and forth in front of the door. Logically, it should be a closet, but it could be anything. This was Bill. He could make it a waterslide or a graveyard if he wanted to. In fact, weren’t those options more likely? Would Bill settle for something as boring as a closet?
Stupid. This is stupid. Just open it already. How many times was he going to have to go through this song and dance just to open a damn door?
A couple of times, he resolved to open it, grabbed the handle, then backed off at the last second. On the third try, he turned the knob and finally managed to push the door open. It swung inward to reveal… a walk-in closet. A surprisingly large walk-in closet, but otherwise normal. It was mostly empty racks and shelves. Only a few garments hung towards the back of the closet, bright splotches taunting him from the end of a long and lonely walkway. As he got closer, he realized one of them was the pink thing he’d worn yesterday. The familiar white and yellow half apron was folded neatly on a nearby shelf. Then there were a couple of maxi skirts and matching blouses hanging next to that. One was a cream-colored top with a plaid-patterned cream-and-blue skirt. The other was a burgundy button-up blouse with a white skirt and a red bow tied around the waist.
The cream blouse seemed suitable for his purposes. He grabbed that off of its hanger, buried his face in it and screamed at the top of his lungs.
This was his life now. He had been reduced to a doll in a dollhouse, because Bill thought it was funny. His only hope was that the dream demon would eventually get bored and switch to a different game, although Ford was sure whatever was next would be equally demoralizing and humiliating, or worse. So maybe it wasn’t a hope after all. Maybe it was just another of his many dreads.
Resigned, he hung up his robe and dressed himself in the cream and blue outfit, because at least this way he could dress himself at all and have some semblance of choice in the matter. He would rather this than Bill see him still in his robe and poof him into some random dress against his will. He knew that in doing this he was playing right into Bill’s game, but he just wanted to dress himself for once, like the adult man that he was.
He slipped into some low-heeled boots and walked to the kitchen to start the coffee and cook breakfast. He made scrambled eggs, enough for three, just in case Bill and/or Dipper would be joining him. He also started some toast and set the table with jam and a glass butter dish.
He felt like his mother.
He was just scraping some of the eggs onto his plate when Bill materialized at the table with a cheery “Morning, honey!”, and Ford decided it was Bill’s plate now. He walked the dish over to the table, set it down wordlessly and left to put together another plate for himself.
“HOH, someone’s chatty today.”
“……”
“Looks like you liked the new addition to your room!”
“……” Ford glanced at Bill over his shoulder as he reset the toaster with another batch of slices.
“You look nice in that. It really suits you.”
Ford stared into the sink. He imagined plugging the drain, filling it with water and sticking his head in with the toaster.
“Can you not think about killing yourself for five seconds? Talk about melodramatic. Aren’t you EXCITED to see your awkward, sweaty nephew today?”
“Yes, Bill.”
“So quit acting like a mopey teenager! Why don’t you show me a smile for a change?”
Ford turned away from the in-progress toaster to look at Bill with what was perhaps the furthest thing from a smile.
“YIKES. Looks like you need some practice. Here, I’ll help.” Bill snapped his fingers, and the muscles in Ford’s cheeks began twitching and pulling on their own. His mouth stretched into a forced, painful, wobbly smile. It was horrifying to lose control of his own face. It almost felt like being possessed all over again. He touched a panicked hand to his straining cheek. Only his eyes revealed the terror underneath. “Don’t you feel better already? I figure if you smile enough, eventually your insides will start to match your outside! There’s a nice thought for ya!”
A future where Ford was cooking eggs for Bill Cipher for the rest of his life, smiling and happy about it. It felt like a kind of impending death. Where would the rest of him go?
He found he could still move his mouth enough to speak. “Bill…”
“What?”
Ford’s hands shook. What was he going to say that would change Bill’s mind? He had to try. “Please, I promise to smile more, but please don’t force me.” His hands clawed at the sleeves of his blouse. “Please, it hurts.” He needed his body. Bill could have everything else, the furniture, the food, the clothes, but god, Ford needed to keep his body.
“It probably hurts because you don’t use your smiley muscles enough!” Bill reasoned. “How about this: If you fix your attitude, I’ll consider ditching your training wheels, sound fair?”
Ford stared, processing the arrangement. No, it didn’t sound fair, but when Bill raised a brow at him to prompt an answer, he found himself nodding vigorously, still with that uncanny grin plastered across his face. “Yes, my muse, yes, it sounds fair.”
“That’s my hubby!” Bill’s arm stretched across the room to ruffle Ford’s hair. “Your toast is burning, by the way.”
Ford gasped and whipped around to see smoke curling up towards the ceiling. He burnt his fingers snatching the slices of toast out of theirs slots. They made it onto his plate, but they were more black than brown at this point. He contemplated just throwing them away, but he wanted toast, and he didn’t want to do that all over again. He resigned himself to settle for mostly burnt. He ran his fingers under cold water from the faucet, then sat across from Bill at the kitchen table with his breakfast, smiling all the while.
“That was delicious, Fordsy,” said Bill, pushing his empty plate away and relaxing back in his chair. “Good job.”
The praise set a familiar warmth blooming in Ford’s chest. He tried to stomp it down as he trembled in his seat. “Thank you, my muse.”
“Well? Go on, eat. I’ll still sit with you.”
Ford’s eyes dropped to the meal in front of him. He’d completely lost his appetite, but somehow he still willed himself to pick up the fork and spear his scrambled eggs.
“You look like you’re enjoying that,” Bill laughed. Of course Ford looked like he was enjoying it. He couldn’t look any other way. By the time he finished his too-crunchy toast, his eyes were already watering, his cheeks aching from smiling so unnaturally wide.
“Bill,” he said, measuring his tone. “How long do I have to hold this for?”
“HMM. Let’s check in again at the end of the day.”
Ford’s stomach dropped. The end of the day? “It- It hurts.”
“Yeah, I heard you the first time.” He looked at his wrist as if he were wearing a watch. “Alrighty, just about time for Pine Tree to drop by.” He snapped his fingers, and Dipper materialized in a shower of sparkles. The boy accidentally inhaled a few and started hacking a lung up.
“Whoops! Don’t kill yourself already. You just got here.”
Dipper was dressed in blue slacks, a vest and a striped white and blue shirt. His hat was nowhere to be seen, though he was wearing a belt with a triangular buckle. For a moment there, he looked like the spitting image of a young Stanley. Ford could almost believe he’d gone back in time.
Dipper was still coughing. Bill’s hand ballooned to comical proportions and “patted” the boy on the back a couple times. “You good there, Pine Tree?”
Dipper stumbled forward and shuddered. “Don’t touch me!”
“Just tryin’ to help. What’s your problem?”
“What’s my problem?” Dipper sounded incredulous. “Are you being serious right now?! You’re my problem! You’re awful, and I hate you! You– You…” He trailed off as his eyes landed on his uncle and widened. “Ford?!” Ford must have looked as awful as he felt, like the muscles in his cheeks were tearing, his eyes full of pain. Dipper whipped around to glare at Bill. “What did you do to him?!”
“Attitude adjustment. Relax, or I’ll do you next, Anxiety Attack.”
Dipper couldn’t mask the horror on his face. Ford fought against the smile, but no matter how he twitched his face, it always snapped back to that default grin. He put a hand on Dipper’s shoulder to reassure him, and tried to ignore the way his nephew tensed at his touch. “It’s okay, Dipper. It’s just for today.”
Dipper winced empathetically. “It looks like it hurts…”
Something of a strained laugh bubbled out of Ford. “It doesn’t, surprisingly.”
“There, see?” Bill looked bored already, rolling his wrist. “Have fun, et cetera, et cetera, I’ll be back for dinner.”
He dematerialized, leaving an uncomfortable silence in his wake. Dipper fidgeted and rubbed at his arm. “Sorry, I’m not gonna lie, that’s really hard to look at…”
“I understand.” Ford didn’t blame him one bit. “Maybe I can cover it up somehow.” Would Bill not like that? He brought a hand to his chin in thought. “I could use one of the kitchen towels…”
“Uh, yeah, that might help.” Dipper wandered behind the island counter and grabbed a yellow waffle cloth that had been pinched over the top of one of the cupboards. “How about this one?”
“That works.” He sat patiently holding the fabric over his nose and mouth while his nephew tied it off in the back. Ford caught a faint, insulated whiff of clean lemon. He must’ve looked ridiculous, wearing a dishcloth like some kind of kitchen bandit, but it couldn’t be as ridiculous and unsettling as he looked with that horrible smile.
“Uh, so I’m guessing the dress is Bill too…?”
“That’s correct,” Ford sighed. “It’s all a part of his game.”
Dipper walked around the chair to face his uncle. He was rubbing at his arm again. “How long is he gonna keep this up for?”
“I- I don’t know,” Ford confessed. He crossed his arms over his abdomen, glancing at the floor and then back up at Dipper. “How are you? Yesterday, Bill said that he… that you and Stan…” Mabel’s pleading cries had been burned into his brain. Begging Bill not to suffocate her brother and her uncle to death. Dipper’s hand brushed over his throat.
“Yeah… That was slightly terrifying.” He pulled out one of the kitchen chairs and took a seat. He looked tired and pale. There were bags under his eyes like he hadn’t been sleeping. “Wasn’t it part of the contract that he wasn’t supposed to hurt us?”
Ford floundered. “Well, technically, he didn’t hurt you in the traditional sense.”
Dipper went quiet for a moment, staring at the table. “Well, it hurt, and Bill was the cause of it, so. He broke the contract.”
“Sadly, even if that’s true, there’s no going back on our end of the deal. Bill has my mind. He has the equation. He has the universe. We can’t hold him accountable for anything. The best thing we can do now is keep him happy and hope that he doesn’t actually hurt any of us for real—”
“Why are you talking like that?” Dipper caught his eye. “‘Even if that’s true’? It is true. He hurt me and Stan. He broke the contract. That’s a fact.”
Ford was getting irked. He understood that Dipper was in a terrible position, but he was missing the point. “Yes, he asphyxiated you and Stan. I know it must have been frightening and painful. It’s also not anywhere near the worst Bill can do. We should be grateful it wasn’t worse.”
“Grateful? You want me to be grateful that Bill almost choked me to death?!”
“That’s not what I’m saying, Dipper, please.”
“The contract doesn’t mean anything to him.” Ford could hear that familiar rising panic in his nephew’s voice. “He crossed that line, and he could cross another. He could torture any one of us at any time.”
“That’s not going to happen. I promise.”
“You basically just admitted that you can’t promise anything.”
“I can keep him happy,” Ford insisted. God, his cheeks hurt. “I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure you and your sister and Stan are okay.” That was what he had signed up for. That was all that mattered anymore, the only thing he could do. “That’s what I’ve been doing, and I’ll keep doing it until the end of time if I have to.”
“I don’t want to live like this until the end of time!” Dipper snapped, shoving his chair back as he stood. “I want my world back! I wanna see the stars again! I- I wanna see Wendy again! My parents! I bet if we put our heads together, we could come up with an escape plan before Bill gets back! It’s not over! We can still do something!”
Ford was trembling again. Dipper was in denial. He didn’t understand just how dire things actually were. How all-powerful Bill had become. Ford gathered the plates and utensils, got up from his seat, and paced over to the sink to start washing the dishes.
Dipper’s face fell. “Ford?”
The water quickly warmed to scalding temperatures. Ford adjusted the handle accordingly.
Dipper ran a hand through his hair and stared. “Are you serious?”
“I already told you why I can’t help you with your escape plans, Dipper.”
“Please, Uncle Ford, I can’t do it on my own. I need you.”
Ford didn’t answer. This wasn’t worth it. Every time he resisted, every time he thrashed against Bill, he made things worse. He didn’t want his loved ones to pay the price for his arrogance any longer. This existence would only be bearable for the four of them if he read his lines. Bearable was the best he could do.
Dipper slowly went slack with disbelief. “Wow. Uh. Okay. Really didn’t expect that from you.”
Ford finished washing the last of the utensils and set them out to air-dry. He moved off to collect the cleaning supplies that he would need for today’s chores. He couldn’t find them where he had left them. This was agitating. He searched the living area until he came across another door that hadn’t been there previously. Ford agonized over this for a time. Why couldn’t Bill extend the courtesy of leaving them ajar? He stood in front of the portal, eyes glazed over as he endured this paralyzing ritual for the umpteenth time. Dipper was audibly having a look around the kitchen in the other room, opening cupboards and drawers. Ford listened enviously while he stared at the closed door, inaction seizing his limbs every time he tried to lift them.
“Uh, Grunkle Ford?” Dipper poked his head into the living room. “Are you… Is everything…?”
“I’m fine. Everything is fine,” Ford insisted. This time, he actually managed to get within a few inches of the doorknob before retreating.
“What’s wrong? Is something behind that door?”
“I don’t know,” Ford admitted. “The probability is nonzero.”
“Well, whatever it is, we can handle it. Look, I got us weapons.” He hefted a couple of frying pans. Ford might’ve smiled if he wasn’t already.
“Thank you, Dipper.” He accepted the one offered to him. Dipper reached for the door and flung it open. Ford braced himself.
It was a cramped little cleaning closet, nothing weird or nefarious about it. Neatly stocked on the shelves were all of Ford’s spray bottles and rags. Mops, brooms and the like were propped up in the corner, next to a metal bucket and sponge. Dipper looked from Ford to the supplies. “So… this is it?”
“I know. It surprises me every time I open a door and find that it’s a normal room.”
“No, I mean… this is what you do all day? Just… scrub floors and dust furniture, and… do it all again the next day?”
“Apparently.” Ford sighed. “Bill told me it was to help keep me sane. As if there weren’t a million other activities he could have provided for that purpose. Really, it’s about his own amusement.” He glanced at his nephew. “But it’s… not so bad. Especially not when you or your sister are here.”
“Still, it isn’t right…”
“I hate to admit it, but it is relaxing, in a way. You don’t have to clean if you don’t want to. I can manage on my own.”
“That’s okay, I’ll help.” Dipper lowered his frying pan and peered into the closet. “Where should we start?”
The chores proceeded in much the same way they had yesterday, although the air was decidedly tenser. Ford tried to keep it light with the occasional anecdote about his adventures in the multiverse, but ultimately, every story left a hint of melancholy in its wake, a yearning for those hopeful days. It was bittersweet, to think that they might never taste freedom again. Ford couldn’t even look forward to death. When he had signed the contract, Bill had made it clear to him that he wouldn’t be dying of old age anytime soon. Physically, he had stagnated, frozen in his 60s forever.
God, his cheeks hurt.
Over lunch, Dipper talked about how he spent his time these days— journaling about Weirdmageddon, mostly, but Bill had also given him puzzles, books, board games and the like to keep the boy from going insane. Ford tried his best to stymie his pangs of envy. He was glad that his family had better entertainment than he did. They deserved it more, Ford having caused this entire mess in the first place.
Dinner seemed to come later than Ford expected today, rather than sooner. Again, he wondered if there was some kind of time dilation at play, or if it was just his mind stretching the days on its own. The steak, carrots and mashed potatoes lay covered on the table where Dipper and Ford sat across from each other. Ford didn’t know whether or not they should eat without Bill. The food was getting cold, but he feared the consequences of starting early. In the end, he opted for the safer option.
“So, I assume Bill took your old clothes?” Ford asked. Dipper lifted his eyes from the steak that he wasn’t allowed to eat yet.
“Yeah. He gave us closets with new clothes that he picked out. All of Mabels headbands and my belts have triangles on them. And the pants are a little big on me, so, I need the belt… otherwise I’d trash it.” He stood his fork up so that the utensil was caught between his forefinger and the table, the tines pointed downward. “I think he’s using them to watch us.”
“That couldn’t be. The windows only work if there’s an eye in the center. Although I wouldn’t doubt that he’s hidden a peephole somewhere else on your clothes, or even your body. The belts and headbands could be red herrings.”
Dipper grimaced. He pushed away from the table and hopped off his chair. “Welp, as long as we’re waiting on Bill, I’m gonna, uh, go to the bathroom.”
Ford watched Dipper disappear through the door and waited patiently for him to return. He knew the boy must have been checking himself for hidden symbols, and he was going to be thorough, so it would presumably take a while. Ford also knew that there were plenty of ways for Bill to hide an eye such that Dipper would never find it. There were colors completely invisible to the human eye, after all. Hell, Ford probably already had at least one or two on him that he didn’t know about. But it was better to let the boy believe he could somehow prevent himself from being watched. Better for his sanity, better for morale. Dipper should be able to feel like he had some semblance of control over his life. He deserved that much.
Dipper was still in the bathroom when Bill rematerialized at the table and kicked up his feet. “BOY! You would not BELIEVE the day I’ve had!” Ford startled and yanked the kitchen towel off of his face.
“Bill! You’re back!”
“Yeah! Me and the boys were filling the Grand Canyon with teratomas. Man, the smell’ll be something when they start to decompose! Well, not all of them will. I granted some of them sentience and eternal life, because I’m just a nice guy like that!”
Ford pushed his plate away, still grinning like a madman. “Really?”
“Yeah, I’d bet you’ll be able to catch a whiff of it from all the way up here. You’re welcome!”
“That’s… impressive,” Ford marveled through clenched teeth.
“I know, right? Of course, not everyone will appreciate the artistry. Did you know that some Bills are real flesh snobs?” Bill rolled his eye. “They just won’t shut up about quality flesh. They gotta know where it comes from and whether it went to college and whether or not it’s vegan and blah blah blah blah. Who cares? Some of us have better things to do than curate Harvard-educated skin.”
“That’s… vexing.”
“You’re tellin’ me. Anyway, how was your day, honey? Where’s Pine Tree?”
“Oh, he’s, ah… in the bathroom. He should be back soon.”
“He better be, if he wants in on this steak!” Bill lifted the cover and his eyelid sank. “Hey, aren’t homemade dinners supposed to be hot?”
Ford’s smile twitched. He’s right. Don’t argue with him. He’s right. “I’m sorry, Bill. I wasn’t sure what time you would be home.”
“Obviously I would be home at dinnertime! SIGH. Well, at least you actually cooked something this time.”
Ford got up from his seat and grabbed the serving dish. “I’ll reheat it.”
As he was moving to the microwave, Dipper walked into the kitchen, straightening his clothes. He didn’t offer any greeting to Bill, merely eyed him sourly as he paced to his seat and flopped back into it.
“Hello to you too, Pine Tree.”
Ford stood by the microwave and watched the dish turn. The wider he smiled, the deader he felt inside. He kept his back to Dipper, dreading the moment when he would have to turn around and show his face. The time on the microwave seemed to skip and rewind at places. 00:20. 00:48. 00:39. 00:01. 00:37. The red seven-segment display looked like it was malfunctioning.
“My muse? Do you think I could— I would like to stop smiling for a while, please.”
“What? But ya look so pretty when you smile, doll!” He turned to Dipper. “Doesn’t he?”
Dipper didn’t answer. He was glaring daggers at Bill, arms crossed. The microwave beeped, startling Ford. He hadn’t had any idea when it would go off. He huffed a quiet sigh as he pulled it open and retrieved the steak, which thankfully was steaming again. Time to do it again with the potatoes and carrots… Dipper wouldn’t look at him as he set the table with the serving dishes one by one.
As it had been with Mabel’s dinner, Bill did most of the talking. Ford affirmed him when prompted, and Bill cooed over his husband, and Dipper looked ill the entire time. Every bite of steak looked like it was a fight for him to get it down. When everyone’s plates were clean, or at least half-finished in Dipper’s case, Ford got up to clear the table. Bill side-eyed Dipper.
“Hey, Fordsy, aren’t we supposed to give him a speech about starving kids in Africa now?” The demon tapped a finger under his big eye. “Seems pretty ungrateful of him not to eat everything on his plate. You worked hard on that, you know!”
“I know, I helped make it,” Dipper complained. “And maybe I’d feel more like eating if you weren’t such a gross monster.”
“THE KID FLATTERS ME!”
“Seriously though, why all this?” the boy demanded. Ford held his tongue and started the kitchen faucet. “You already have everything you want, the entire universe. Why don’t you just let us go already? Are you really that scared of us?”
“Aw, he thinks he’s scary! That’s adorable!” Bill floated up to Dipper to pinch one of his cheeks, and Dipper tried to swat him away unsuccessfully. “Scared’s got nothin’ to do with it. I happen to like having Fordsy around. The rest of you I could take or leave, but you’re a package deal, so.”
“If you like having him around, then why don’t you treat him better than this?”
“Whaddaya mean by that? He wants for nothing!”
“You don’t even let him go outside!”
“For your information, I OFFERED to take him out, and he wasn’t exactly jumping at the opportunity.”
Dipper crossed his arms. “Probably because your version of an ‘outing’ involves torturing people.”
“Only some of the time!”
“Hasn’t he already suffered enough?” Dipper demanded. “Can’t you just leave him alone?!”
“Dipper,” Ford warned. As a family, they had nothing to bargain with. The fact that Bill had spared them was a mercy.
“It’s okay,” Bill cut in, looping an arm around Dipper’s shoulder and cinching it tight until the boy was crushed against his side. “Let the kid make his case! Why should I just leave you guys alone, Pine Tree? Huh?”
“Because— Because—” Dipper grasped.
“Oh, I know!” Bill flickered to full brightness like a light bulb. “It’s because you want free rein to plot and scheme against me!” He patted Dipper on the front of his vest and pulled a metal can from it. “Exhibit A! What do we have here? Some canned unicorn? Aw!” Bill took on the cadence one assumes when talking to a dog. “Were you hoping to find some stray hairs in here? You honestly think I’d keep that in my own penthouse suite? Even if there were hairs in here, they wouldn’t be unicorn hairs. This is imitation unicorn. Didn’t you read the microscopic print?” The lid ripped itself off. The can levitated and flipped over, dumping its iridescent contents onto the floor. It looked something like if spam were made out of a pearly substance, with a light blue tinge. “Don’t ask what it’s ACTUALLY made of! Ha ha.” Dipper was fixing Bill with a murderous glare. Bill clutched his sides as he laughed.
“Did you seriously think this would in any way work? How stupid do you have to be? Ah, look, Fordsy, isn’t this rich?” Bill burst into another round of laughter, which abruptly curdled into a bloodchilling shriek. Ford’s head snapped up. A kitchen knife handle was sticking out of Bill’s eye, and some sort of black ichor was leaking from his socket onto the floor. Dipper wasted no opportunity. In the next instant, he was on top of Bill, driving the knife down into his captor’s already gushing wound over and over without relent. His screaming clashed against Bill’s to create a hellish cacophony. Ford stared, sponge in hand, water still pouring full-force from the kitchen faucet.
“Ford, help!” Dipper shouted. “Grab another knife!”
No. This wasn’t right. It couldn’t be this easy. Even if they did overpower Bill long enough to run away, there was nowhere for them to go, no way out of the Fearamid besides a plummet from hundreds of feet in the air. If Ford went along with this, it would only be making things worse for everyone. He had to be logical. For his family’s sake.
“Ford!” Dipper yelled, wrestling with a barrage of arms. He kicked and swatted and chopped them away, then tumbled off of the still-blind Bill and made a mad dash for Ford’s side of the kitchen, half stumbling. “Why are you just standing there? He’s vulnerable! We can do this!” Dipper didn’t stay still for long. Bill’s black cluster of arms chased after the sound of his voice, looping around corners and over counters. Dipper rummaged around in a drawer next to Ford and produced a larger knife, which he used to cleave the arms into wriggling stumps. Somewhere on the other side of the kitchen, Bill was bellowing in a fury, beaming like a great red giant, and Ford began to tremble.
“WHEN I FIND YOU, PINE TREE!”
“Ford!” Dipper pleaded. Eventually, he couldn’t keep up with the barrage of arms anymore, and opted to flee instead. But every time he tried to run in a new direction, he skidded to a halt, blocked by an increasingly complex and all-encompassing web of limbs. One managed to catch him by the ankle and started reeling him in. He scrabbled against the freshly polished floors, shoes squeaking and desperate for traction. “Ford!”
Bill’s eye had fully regenerated and was glaring down at Dipper like a nebulous void. “I should VAPORIZE YOU WHERE YOU COWER, PINE TREE.”
“Go ahead then!” Dipper dared, though the tremble in his voice was evident. “It’d be better than living like this for the rest of eternity!”
“Bill, please!” Ford interjected, shutting the water off and moving to stand over Dipper. “He’s… still adjusting. This is a big change for him.”
Bill paused to consider that, angry scarlet rays dimming. “… You know what, Sixer? Since you’ve been so good today, I won’t incinerate OR torture your nephew.”
“Thank you, Bill.”
“I’ll let YOU decide what his punishment should be instead!”
Ford swallowed. He despised these games. Of course, he wanted to pick the most lenient option available, but if he was too lenient, Bill would likely be dissatisfied and take matters into his own many hands. Ford could feel Dipper’s wide eyes on him. The boy had no idea what was going to happen to him. He put on a show of bravado, but he was frightened. He was only 12 years old. No… he was 13 now, wasn’t he? Ford never should have tried to rope him into all of this in the first place.
“We could… put him in time out?” He winced, as much as he could in this state. Bill would probably find a way to make that horrible, but he would find a way to make anything horrible.
“You want to give your nephew a time out for STABBING ME IN THE EYE MULTIPLE TIMES?”
“… Well… when you think about it, that’s fairly tame, isn’t it? Dipper is hardly an expert troublemaker like yourself. Stabbing someone is so uninspired and mundane, and shouldn’t the punishment fit the crime?”
Bill lifted his finger to say something in response, but no words came out. His arm fell back to his side. He seemed confused. Gradually, he shrunk and faded back to his usual yellow.
“Okay, Sixer. I’m picking up what you’re putting down. Sure, give the squirt a time out. Throw him in the cleaning closet, we’ll lock him in there for a while.”
“How long is ‘a while’?” Dipper ventured, when he finally found his voice again.
“Oh, relax. Not that long,” Bill answered, waving the question off. In the other room, the door to the cleaning closet swung open on its own. “In ya go!”
“What?” Dipper’s eyes darted back and forth between Ford and Bill. “No! I’m not going in there!”
“That’s fine! If you don’t, your uncle will make you!”
“That’s crazy!” Dipper shot his uncle an incredulous look. “Ford?”
Ford looked away, his hands balling into fists at his sides. Damn Bill. It was certainly this or something worse. “Dipper… we have to.”
The boy shook his head. “No! We can fight him! We can beat him!”
“Please don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”
Being forced to do this to Dipper was torturous in itself. The boy wouldn’t move from his spot, so Ford had to grab him by the arm and pull him towards the closet. Dipper tried unsuccessfully to brake against the floor with his shoes. He tugged and pulled at Ford’s arm. The boy wasn’t thinking about this rationally. He was kneejerk reacting to a punishment that he didn’t deserve. That was okay. Ford would bear the burden of logic, so that the rest of his family didn’t have to.
“Enjoy Narnia, Pine Tree! Be sure to look for Shooting Star while you’re there, ‘cause I’ll be shoving her in a closet too!”
“What?!” Dipper exclaimed, right before the door slammed in his face, trapping him inside. Muffled shouts accompanied loud banging. “Bill!”
“Bill, Mabel has been nothing but obedient since yesterday morning,” Ford desperately tried to reason with his husband.
“YEAH, but twins do everything together, don’t they? Pine Tree misbehaved, so Shooting Star gets punished too, and vice versa. That’s the way the cookie crumbles.”
“Bill, don’t punish Mabel!” Dipper demanded from behind the closet door. “She had nothing to do with this!”
“I don’t know what to tell ya, kid. Maybe next time, think about the consequences before STABBING ME IN THE EYE.” At his bellowing, he grew to full size again, leering down at the closet. A cartoonishly large padlock and chains wrapped themselves around the door with much fanfare. “Be good like Sixer, and you’ll get rewarded instead.”
He snapped his fingers, and something in Ford’s face shifted, some rubber band snapping out of its abusive shape. Despite this, Ford didn’t immediately stop smiling. He’d held the expression for so long, it no longer felt like his muscles knew how to do anything else. Slowly, agonizingly, he massaged his cheeks back into a neutral, relaxed form. He sighed in shaking relief. “Thank you, my muse.”
“You’re welcome, hubby. You seem to have learned your lesson. Boy, that day could’ve gone better, huh? Sure hope you don’t donk it up with Fez tomorrow.”
Bill disappeared, leaving in his wake the sound of Dipper’s muffled screaming and a twisting dread in Ford’s gut.