-Get distracted by jingling keys-(Part 2)

---

Ford was laying flat on his back in his bunk, staring up at the ceiling. He knew he would just toss and turn, unable to fall asleep, if he didn't finish doing what he knew he needed to do right now, but he also didn't want to give into the urge, either. Worse, the problem was that he was unable to fall asleep in the first place, not that he would have trouble staying asleep once he fell asleep. He hated to admit it, but the nightmares had stopped; he hadn't had any since Bill had-- and he had-- at his brother's bequest, and… really, that just made him even more upset by this whole situation.

It was both better and worse than it had been before, the root cause of all this. --Which was Bill, really, (and when was it not?) but…

...now, Bill had something to hold over Stan's head that he knew was going to be effective. Stan had nearly punched Bill in the face over it. Ford's ability to sleep and breathe properly upon waking was contingent largely upon Bill continuing to do something that he clearly wasn't required to do, and...

(...yes, he'd been fine sleeping when he'd fallen asleep right next to Stan on that couch in Mr. Harman's basement, literally side-by-side -- as Bill had implied was another workable option for whatever reason -- but…)

(...Ford still didn't quite know how Stan had gotten Bill to not say no, to instead start to do whatever the dream demon was doing to him again??? -- or rather, to continue saying 'no, but' over and over again to Stan, but do it anyway...)

(...and Ford had seen how difficult a time Bill had had at saying 'no' to Stan there, and… Stan had expected it, and… was what Stan had said he was trying to do to Bill... actually working?!?)

...and that brought Ford back to the thought of: why did the demons seem to listen to Stan at all in the first place?

(Ford would much rather have said 'no' and refused Bill's so-called "help", for a multitude of reasons. But Stan had been insistent, and he was trying to do the opposite of expectation sometimes, and… he had seen how Bill had been trying to use him as an excuse...)

(...Ford hated that he'd had to hold his brother back from attacking Bill, but, quite frankly, he hadn't wanted to see Stan die. Bill had used the kids against him during Weirdmageddon, which Ford had not thought Bill would do, up until Bill had realized that he cared about them, and vice-versa, and then-- but Bill had never gone after someone else that he, Ford, personally cared about before, in an attempt to get him to fall in line and do what he wanted...)

(...and Ford knew now that Bill was not actually above that sort of thing; his, and Stan's, "good behavior" towards him, as it were, were only having the mere effect of not prompting Bill to change his mind that much sooner, moving from 'playing with' them to hurting them instead… and they didn't have control over Bill's whims, and wouldn't have any sort of control over what the demon would do, once he decided that this particular 'game' wasn't interesting or fun anymore, and then…)

Ford did not want to be used as a pawn in Bill's game against Stan. But Stan had quite literally set him up to be just that. ...And Ford had gone along with it. (He hadn't expected to find it so difficult to say 'no' to his brother later, after he'd said 'yes' to what he wanted before…)

He should have said 'no'. He should have taken it back. (Bill already thought he was an 'inconsistent' 'liar' anyway; one more 'change of mind' and 'bad decision' added to the pile would hardly have fazed the demon at all, Ford thought.)

Ford pulled in a breath, and then let it out slowly.

...He could admit that up until today, he hadn't been sleeping all that well before -- not since Bill had come back to life -- but he'd also been unable to remember his dreams very well, either; during those first two weeks, his problem had been one more of waking nightmares than anything. When he had managed to fall asleep during that time, however briefly, he'd not remembered the exact details of what he'd dreamed, but he had awoken with feelings of overwhelming panic and persistent dread every time, feelings that had had him steeling his resolve, to drive himself even harder, to try and find a way to kill…

Ford breathed.

Stan had already fallen asleep on the other bunk, and Ford couldn't help but envy his ability to do so without intervention or fear of what might await him inside his own mind. (Hubris, most likely. Thinking that he could control Bill somehow...)

...Worse, Ford had to be careful with the amount of noise he was making. He didn't want to wake his brother up again -- not least of which because Stan would likely get on his case again about his restlessness and un-slumbering state so very late in the evening.

Ford glanced over at his brother, then reached down to feel his breast pocket (and a few items he'd slipped into there from his coat), as he rolled onto his other side -- back to his brother -- and tucked himself a bit farther down under the covers. And as he did so, Ford felt frustrated that even without the nightmares, waking or sleeping, he still couldn't calm his mind enough to fall asleep peacefully on his own...

...unless Bill or Stanley was sleeping right next to him...

(...unless someone was sleeping right next to him…)

...unless--

Ford kept turning over and buried his face into his pillow, grimacing. Damn Bill. --Damn Bill, damn his brother, and damn just about everything.

He wanted to go home.

Ford pulled his face away from his pillow, thinking he'd indulged himself in unproductive anger long enough. He had work to do. --Work to finish, really.

Under the covers, Ford pulled out from his breast pocket a small notebook, a pencil, and a penlight, and he flipped the notebook back to the last page he'd been writing on by feel, as he flicked on the soft, dim but visible light.

And, almost against his will, his thoughts drifted back to earlier that day, when he and Bill had gone to Mr. Harman's house while the younger twins and that man-eater had done their act at the beach at his brother's discretion and largely also at his direction.

---

Ford grimaced. He didn't like anything about this, The fact that the house seemed perfectly normal. The fact that Mrs. Harman answered the door like nothing was wrong, rather than their having to break in. The fact that Mr. Harman was in the house, downstairs, and seemed...

"Oh!" Mr. Harman said, as Ford not quite gingerly followed Bill himself down the staircase and into the basement room. "You're here! How was school today?" the man asked with a smile.

Ford sent him a very long look.

"That bad, hm?" Mr. Harman said, his smile slowly widening into a grin.

"That was not very well-done of you, Mr. Harman," Ford told him, crossing his arms. He didn't particularly like how jovial the man was being about everything, or how Bill was making a slow circuit of the room, seeming to focus on just about anything but the man he'd supposedly come here to evaluate the state of for Stan.

"Ah, well," Mr. Harman said, "Can you blame me? It was going to have to be a free study period otherwise, being so last-minute, and that sort of class without proper supervision would be..." he said, and Ford had to stifle a grimace at that (because he was right, and not least of which because Bill had been present in said classroom).

"It still wasn't a good idea," Ford said while trying not to think of what had nearly happened with his younger self attempting to break open the device that he'd made and activated, in order to--

"--You didn't burn down the building, did you?" Mr. Harman asked of Ford next, blinking at him curiously.

Ford stared at him. "...No."

"Hm," said the teacher. "You didn't fail at keeping the students from burning down--"

"--No!" Ford protested. "The school building is fine! --Why would you think that--?!"

"Well, you were being a bit reticent about it just now," Mr. Harman said almost breezily, as he turned away from Ford to pick up a pencil and scribbled a bit on a notebook page in front of him, "What else was I to think?"

Ford stared at him.

"I mean," the teacher said good-naturedly. "It isn't as though it hasn't happened before."

Ford was absolutely aghast. "Someone's burned down our school building before?!"

"Well," said the teacher, "Maybe not that particular school building." (That got a "HA!" out of Bill, and left Ford shooting the demon a glare.) "But I've no doubt it has happened before. You hear stories, you know?"

It was about that point that Ford realized that his teacher's other-dimensional counterpart was teasing him.

...Ford ran a hand over his face.

"Well, if the school's still standing, and nobody got hurt, I'd say you did a rather good job as a substitute teacher; don't you?" Mr. Harman told him. "Especially with a classroom full of advanced-study high school students."

Ford wasn't sure if he wanted to laugh or cry. (Not least of which because Sixer had nearly--)

...Ford decided to walk over to the opposite side of the room and sit down on the couch instead.

"You've used the room twice today," Bill noted, having made his way over to the control device he'd set up for the room.

"Oh, yes!" Mr. Harman said, turning towards Bill, as Ford lifted up his head in alarm. "Really, my wife is a genius," the man said almost reverently.

Ford realized with a start that Mr. Harman had said the same thing earlier today in the school's main office, and it hadn't made much sense at the time. So Ford asked him slowly now, "...What do you mean."

Mr. Harman looked over at him and blinked. "Well," he told Ford, "You see, my wife thought that it might actually be more useful to use this thing," Mr. Harman gestured around at it, "As something of a holiday retreat."

Ford stared at him.

"...I don't understand," Ford said. Because really, and truly, he didn't.

Mr. Harman blinked at him again. "Well, this room works on the principle of allowing two extra 8 hour 'shifts' every twenty-four, correct? So, in three days, that's another two full days, or forty-eight hours, added. In a three-day weekend, one can get a five-day break," Mr. Harman said simply, "And my wife was rather cross with me that I hadn't been taking care of myself, and I haven't really been spending as much time with our son lately as I would like, so…"

"You stockpiled food and water on the shelves," Bill noted, walking away from the device and over closer to in the general direction of Ford. (And then Ford frowned as Bill ended up coming to a stop at his right.) "You've spent almost a full day down here already."

"Yes," Mr. Harman said happily. "It's not quite the same as going to the beaches, but one makes do." He seemed quite proud of… his wife for this?

Ford tried to wrap his head around this, and failed. (Not least of which because not two days ago, the man had seemed...)

"You've been spending your time down here with your family… instead of working?" Ford said slowly.

Mr. Harman looked over at him. "Well, so far I have. And Mary thinks that it might actually be better that way; spending at least half of these 'shifts' together down here, where we won't be distracted, and my 'work time' upstairs when I can be more easily interrupted." (And Mary was very likely the name of his wife, Ford presumed.)

"...I would rather have thought that the opposite would be considered, ah, more ideal," Ford put out there, blinking.

Mr. Harman gave him an odd look. "Really?" The idea seemed as odd to him, as his (wife's) idea was to Ford.

Ford shook his head, trying to let go of it for now.

"How are your equations progressing?" Ford asked him next, because if Bill wasn't planning on properly evaluating the man himself...

"Ah!" Mr. Harman lit up at the mention of his work. (...Just and solely 'lit up'; the fanatic light Ford had been expecting to see in his eyes wasn't--) "It's been going splendidly, thank you."

And Ford waited.

And waited.

And waited.

...And then realized that that was all Mr. Harman was going to say about it, which left Ford feeling a little… odd.

"...Did you want to talk about it?" Ford prompted him carefully, feeling as though there must be landmines here in this conversation somewhere, ones that he just wasn't seeing. (Ford hardly noticed when Bill wandered away from his side again, to peruse another part of the room.)

"Oh. You're interested in seeing them?" Mr. Harman said, with a slight frown.

"Please," Ford said with a bit of strain, feeling his chest constrict a bit as he stood up to walk over and--

--he ended sitting down on the couch again, as Mr. Harman scooped up the notebook Ford had seen him scribbling in and walked it right over.

And Ford felt a little odd as he sat on a basement couch with a person who was effectively his old science teacher, and watched the man flip past at least twelve pages of notes to--

"I didn't realize you were interested in this sort of thing," Mr. Harman said, as he landed on-- "Ah, here it is. Now mind you, I haven't made much progress since yesterday evening, but--"

Ford stared.

"--What did you just flip past?" Ford couldn't help but ask him, and the man looked up at him (stopping mid-sentence) and blinked.

"Oh, just those equations that the Miz-alien put up on the board," Mr. Harman waved off. "Now--"

Ford listened as Mr. Harman walked him through what he understood of what Bill had given him so far, and… oddly, he didn't quite feel like slapping his hands over his ears and screaming until his ears bled. (He also did not feel like... ripping the binder from John Harman's hands and--)

(Ford came close, mind you. But not quite far enough to actually feel the compulsive urge to do so.)

"--So, you see," John Harman ended, "I'm still working on defining the holographic nature of the universe, in order to be able to truly understand the 'camouflage' method that your Bill-alien is using for his suit."

Ford blinked down at the notebook, and then he rubbed his fingers against his eyelids for a moment, as he tried to think of a good way to put this.

...so instead, Ford went with the direct route (even as he cursed himself for doing it). "Do you want some help with that?" Ford asked the man, and braced himself for...

Ford blinked, as Mr. Harman blinked at him, then simply smiled and said, "Thank you, no."

...And Ford waited for the punchline. Or the 'oh, ha, I'm just kidding!' remark.

But there wasn't one.

"You… don't want any help at all?" Ford asked the man slowly, blinking owlishly at him. "Not even from Bill?"

The man blinked back at him and scratched at his hair. "Well…" he said, "I suppose if I get stuck again…?"

Ford stared.

Ford opened his mouth to… protest? He really wasn't entirely certain what to say, when faced with this. But despite his complete inability to determine what, exactly, to say to the scientist sitting there with a book full of Bill's equations in his lap -- let alone the ability to describe any of what he was feeling just then -- the teacher sitting at his side still seemed suddenly become enlightened as to what he was trying to say to him, somehow.

"Dr. Pines," the man said good-naturedly, with an undertone of amusement in his voice. "If it's all the same to you, I'd rather figure the rest out for myself."

"But… I…" could help him with it. Ford has seen fragments of information that would be helpful -- some of it had even been on those blackboards he erased, on some of those other, earlier -- and together, they could likely get much farther than if they each--

Ford let out a breath. Because that wasn't precisely necessary, under the current circumstances.

"--You do realize that Bill could simply give you the completed equations, don't you?" Ford said next. He knew, just knew that he should be leaving this alone, that what he was saying here was likely horribly dangerous, might even leave the man prone to a relapse of some kind, but-- wouldn't it be better to have that happen now while Stan was around than--

"But what fun would that be?" John Harman said next, and Ford startled in place, feeling rather uncertain all of a sudden at... "Einstein could hand special relativity to a caveman, but that would do him no good. I could hand a physics textbook with every theorem and proof fully filled out to my five-year-old son, and he wouldn't actually understand what he was reading." The man shifted in place and gave Ford a long look. "You do understand what I'm getting at here, don't you?" he asked of Ford. "--I'd like to understand it myself."

Ford couldn't help but give him a helpless look, and he saw Mr. Harman sigh. "If I don't figure it out myself, there's no point. I won't get it," he told Ford. "I want to understand this. Truly understand it," he told Ford. "Besides," he said with a smile, "It's rather fun to play around with the equations, and see what falls out of them."

"But…" Ford shook his head, then let out a sigh. He'd always found it far easier to start from the completed equations first, and then attempt to determine what they meant from the proofs and their further mathematical manipulation. Yes, he could generally work out the initial derivations and proofs on his own, but he'd much rather work with someone, to…

(And then Ford had to stifle a grimace and glance away from Mr. Harman, as he belatedly remembered Bill's words: 'The better ones like to figure things out for themselves.')

"...So you understand the earlier equations already, then?" Ford asked, trying to think of a change in subject that might not be so ill-received as to have the man--

"Hm? Oh," Mr. Harman said next. "No, actually. But that's all right," Ford was told. "I don't see how they're relevant to any of this work."

Ford not quite froze in place.

"...I think they might be," Ford said slowly, then kicking himself as he worriedly started to wonder if he was actually somehow doing Bill's work for him--.

"Oh, perhaps at some level, yes," the man told him, waving it off -- literally waving it off -- and Ford could not help but stare incredulously at the man as he was told, "But it's really not all that interesting. I'd rather focus on this."

Ford barely kept his mouth from dropping open.

"But-- that--" Ford blinked his eyes closed for a moment, then gathered himself and reopened them again. "...Might I see that notebook for just a moment?" he tried. "I myself am a bit curious as to what those equations say themselves."

Mr. Harman eyed him. "Well, perhaps you shouldn't have erased them off of all those chalkboards, then," he said almost leadingly, which left Ford wincing.

...But then Ford stared at the notebook that was being held out towards him.

Ford glanced up at the teacher, then gingerly took the notebook from him.

"Ah, thank you," Ford remembered to say, as he turned it over and flipped it back to the first page again.

Ford didn't read much of it. He stopped and literally closed his eyes rather quickly, in fact.

He closed the notebook, while he still had his eyes closed, and then said, "...Bill?"

"Hm," he heard.

Ford pulled in a breath. "Exactly what did your… 'sister' do in the classroom that these equations discuss?"

"Oh," he heard from the human in front of him instead, as he felt the notebook gently pulled from his hands. (Ford reopened his eyes.) "She did something with a 'viewing portal'; it was apparently supposed to allow one to see atoms in both this dimension and another one? She was trying to prove to me that antimatter here was simply matter from that other dimension accidentally bleeding over into this one," the science teacher told him. "She wrote a good number of equations on the board, which were then all almost immediately obscured by whatever she did to create the visual effect she then made; Bill rewrote them for me in a way that made a great deal more sense." (Ford swallowed, hard.) "It was somewhat interesting, I suppose? Not something I'd be able to do myself without mechanical help, not being an alien, I believe."

"...But you could make a mechanism to do it then, with these equations?" Ford asked slowly, staring at him.

And yet, Mr. Harman's interest in doing so seemed to be, as far as Ford could tell, completely nonexistent. --And that seemed to be even more evident when the next words out of the teacher's mouth were: "Well, perhaps I might be able to find a method to apply that 'camouflage' of your alien friend's to real clothing at some point, I suppose."

"Oh," said Ford. "Well…" He searched for something to say. "I suppose that pure theory is…?"

"--Oh yes!" Mr. Harman cut in, and he was off and talking on the subject, eyes shining brightly (but not feverishly) as he went, and...

And Ford couldn't help but to stare helplessly at him as he talked, because...

The man just didn't understand. He didn't understand, and he didn't seem to want to understand. All he seemed to care about was one single, miniscule aspect of one particular subject that was not even necessarily ever going to lead to any useful application of the concept, because he wasn't at all interested in taking his level of understanding of things even that far--

And suddenly, Ford realized that the man's thinking was small.

And then Ford realized what he'd just thought, and a chill went down his spine.

"...Is something wrong?" Mr. Harman asked him, somehow picking up on Ford's distress -- because that was what it was: distress.

"You… you don't care about…" Ford had to stifle a flinch as he kept going. "...the wider aspects of this… do you." He pulled in a breath. "That 'viewing portal'... isn't simply an unrelated theoretical construct, it's..."

Mr. Harman frowned for a moment, and then his expression cleared.

"Stanford," he said good-naturedly. "I'm not interested in absolutely everything. I do have my limits, and my preferences, you know." He gave Ford a slightly-lopsided smile. "I'm not you."

Ford shivered in place. He hadn't thought--

--suddenly, the scope of the man seemed so very small that it scared him--

--was this what Bill thought when--

"It's all right," Mr. Harman told him. "You don't have to be satisfied with just one topic, yourself." And the man gave him a smile as he said, "I don't doubt you found two, or even three specialties, to explore yourself at their true and full depth, when you attended college and earned your advanced degrees. You always were one of my best students."

Ford had nothing to say to this. He simply looked down and clenched his hands in his lap and remained silent.

---

Ford let out a shaky breath. He was still trying to understand.

(And what would the man say if he'd told him he had twelve Ph.D's? ...That he'd gone for nine or ten of them too many?)

It pained him, that Mr. Harman had seemed to be missing the most vital points of something that he was supposedly, apparently trying to understand. Miz (if she hadn't been lying to him, and the equations proved out) had made a viewing portal to another dimension -- which had been, quite frankly, just another type of visual 'illusion' similar to Bill's 'camouflage' in its own underlying aspects, if not the specifics, if what he'd begun to understand from those equations had been anything like correct. And yet, the teacher had completely disregarded the connection. He'd been almost completely turned off by it.

Ford himself had felt himself starting to lose himself in the equations at the beginning of the notebook when he'd first started to look through them. Yet Mr. Harman had no interest in them whatsoever. Would he ever read through them again?

And as Ford lay where he was in his cot, he hunched his shoulders as he made a few more notes to himself on his small notebook pad, as he continued trying to note the differences between Mr. Harman and himself and their reactions to all things science -- distinct differences that he'd never even realized had existed until now... but did they, really? Things in this dimension, the entire dimension itself, somehow seemed just a bit east of off, and--

But Ford couldn't help but feel shocked and almost… disappointed. That his old science teacher just… wasn't interested in anything more. In learning more. That maybe wanting to learn more, learn everything, wasn't quite… normal.

By the dim illumination of his penlight, Ford frowned as he flipped back a page and read over his earlier notes to himself on the subject. --Primarily, on some of the things that he'd heard Bill say before.

...and secondarily, on what he'd begun to realize about Bill beyond what he'd known about the dream demon before, because…

Ford had thought that what Bill did to people was just how Bill was. But… Mr. Hartman wasn't reacting anything like the same way now as he had been before when Bill had been pushing him -- not anymore -- and he didn't seem likely to fall right back into the same 'trap' of addiction as he had before, either. Not without Bill explicitly pushing him. Which meant that Bill had to have done it purposefully.

...and likely hadn't gotten it right the first time, either. Mr. Harman hadn't been interested in Miz's equations, but it looked like those had been the first things that Bill had put on the board. Ford had never seen any of Bill's victims right at the start of things with the dream demon; he'd only stumbled across the aftermath of it all, what had seemed to be very far into whatever Bill had done to them, when they were already far too far gone to be saved.

...So did that mean that Bill had had far more impact being unanchored and able to influence them from the Mindscape first for whoever knew how long, directly? Or did that mean that Bill had just hit, and missed, and kept on going until something had finally stuck?

(...Or had Bill used those first equations in that different form -- however differently that he had written them from how the other demon had presented them -- written them in a very specific way to prime whoever was reading them, in order to use them as a springboard to begin the process of--??)

Personally, Ford was starting to wonder if perhaps it had been a bit more 'hit or miss' than anything else this time, given Mr. Harman's reactions and complete disinterest to some of those very things now. (And, from the state of the board, and when Mr. Harman's handwriting had started figuring into things.)

And Ford thought this now, not least of which because he remembered how Bill had not quite 'shotgunned' him the morning prior, in figuring out at least part of what his nightmare had entailed. Bill hadn't been able to read his mind directly -- there was that, at least -- but while Ford hadn't been in the proper frame of mind to really think about it at the time, Bill's eyes had tracked left slightly, multiple times while he'd been cycling through topics. It reminded Ford a little bit of what Stan had told him once about how to 'cold read' someone, except… it was clear that Bill had been looking at some set of readouts from the sensors of his suit, rather than determining things from Ford's own facial expressions.

...Which meant that Bill could still track human thought processes, at least indirectly, and adjust what he was saying and doing to try and push someone to a point which he wanted them to be pushed. It was, and had always been, intentional.

Ford pulled in another breath.

Bill couldn't read his mind directly -- not through the plate in his head -- but between whatever sensors the dream demon had in that suit, and whatever the metal plate in his head had (apparently) been purposefully designed by Bill to leak out at times...

Well. If Ford's mind wasn't necessarily off-limits, then his thought of potentially gaining some mean sort of advantage against the dream demon (while said dream demon was anchored down to a body and not able to move into his Dreamscape) by trying to keep all of his thoughts inside of his head -- to write absolutely nothing down, to prevent Bill from finding it out -- was and had been largely a futile effort. ...And it had made it far harder for him to think his way through problems. (He realized a bit more consciously, now, after talking through more than a few things with Dipper, that while Dipper needed to write things down for himself to… well, to feel better, to get things out of his head and -- seemingly -- to lower his own anxiety levels…)

Ford might not have the same pressing need or drive to write things down as his grand-nephew did, precisely, but he enjoyed doing so, and he'd found over the years that it did help somewhat when he did so and he did feel better afterwards…

(He'd rather gotten used to Bill, as part-and-parcel of his existence, violating his privacy at every turn by reading anything he'd written and laughing at him over it later: taunting him, attempting to defile his personal musings with his own scrawlings, and more. He was perfectly capable of putting up with Bill writing all over his journals himself, but... the derisive commentary that the demon had usually made later on most of it in the Mindscape (and then Dreamscape) had been-- well, frustrating and enraging to say the least!)

(He'd gotten used to Bill knowing things -- knowing everything, really. Knowing everything at all, except him. That didn't mean that he had to like it, or put up with it silently without a fight, though. And--!)

...Writing things down now did have a potential horrible effect, though. Now that Bill was beginning to use other people -- other family members -- against him, it was entirely possible that, if he wrote down something that Bill read and didn't like, that Bill would then take it out on...

Ford stopped himself and forced himself to pull in a deep breath. To let it out slowly. (He couldn't quite meditate for calm or peace anymore; Bill had ruined that for him a long time ago, but controlling his own breath had always been…)

...It wasn't doing him any good not to jot down notes to himself on the things Bill had said, in order to properly decipher them. It wasn't helpful not to record his own thoughts on paper, so he could look at them together more objectively, and look for the patterns in them.

It was still hard to determine what might be 'safer' to write down or not. He didn't want to give the demon a ready-made excuse to hurt the niblings or his brother over something he didn't like. But he was going against old habit of not doing that, though. Ford was used to writing down everything, regardless of potential 'impact'; Bill seemed to treat all things equally when it came to his derision, even things that Ford considered to be of dire importance. --He wished he could say that he'd updated his third journal once he'd returned home and retrieved it from his grand-nephew as an act of defiance of some sort, but the truth of the matter was, he'd been tired and weary and angry, and nothing he'd written down had been anything that he'd thought that Bill himself had not known already, or would care about. Bill had not escaped the Nightmare Realm yet, and it had been almost a petty act that was the equivalent of figuratively spitting in Bill's face -- his most common and usual one on the other side of the portal, really.

Bill didn't think his writing was any good, or useful in any way. And still Ford continued to do it anyway.

When Ford had gotten back, he'd consciously dove into all his old habits again, and that had been one of them. He'd left his last and most-recent journal behind in the 'Better World' before making his suicidal attack run on the Nightmare Realm, and Bill Cipher himself. He'd thought to leave it behind as something that might speak to his legacy, to let it be one last thing that Bill would never be able to get his hands on, no matter what might happen next.

And once he'd gone through Stan's rather untimely portal? Once he'd seen that swarm of demons racing for it, made his choice, and made his way back instead of attempting to finish Bill off, once and for all? --He'd wanted to feel as though he was back home again, that things were normal again in some small way. He'd wanted to recapture some feeling of safety, in having returned to Gravity Falls, after all those years away from home and on the run. Even though it was the worst kind of lie. Except then he'd tried to make it true, despite all odds and Bill's further taunting that he couldn't do it. And so he'd Bill-proofed the Shack, and taken his journals back, and he'd tried to engage in his own research into the weirdness of Gravity Falls yet again...

...running after some semblance of normality, after years on the run and never staying still in one place for very long...

He hadn't been sleeping very well at the Shack, either. And, admittedly, at this point, he looked back on how he'd been acting back then, before Bill's Weirdmageddon had hit, and he cringed -- and not just because of his treatment of Stan. Because the way he'd been acting...

...he'd almost been playing a role.

And he hated that. He hated admitting that. The very thought was-- Some of the things Bill had said, multiple times to him, over the years, had been about--

He felt like he was finally starting to wake up again, after years and years of--

Ford pulled in a quick breath, and nearly choked on it. He closed his eyes for a moment, even as he was already under the covers, already unseen, as he felt them begin to burn.

Ford regulated his breathing.

--Bill had used to LAUGH at him for 'playing the hero'. And now, the role seemed so very large when Stan had 'played' it -- really, had taken it on and taken Bill on -- but… when Ford had been trying to do it, tried to take on and 'play at' that role...

Bill had used to laugh at him over it. Called him a flat caricature of himself, on more than one occasion, in the middle years of his interdimensional travels. And that particular laugh? Had been incredibly derisive.

Bill had thought it had been cute, what Ford had been trying to do.

Bill didn't laugh at Stanley, though. Not Stanley. Never Stanley. Only at him.

--His right-hand man.

Ford let out a shaky breath and reopened his eyes. He jotted down a few more notes to himself, on the topic of 'hands', with slightly shaking hands as he tried not to think about--, then flipped back a few pages...

...to a list of things that Bill had been avoiding talking about. A list of things that Bill had actively prevented the demon 'Miz' from talking about, as well.

Namely, a list that all boiled down to two things, really, now that he was staring at it all down on the page: the science fair project and whoever and however it had been sabotaged, and what Bill had actually wanted out of his Deal with him and the portal.

Ford wasn't particularly inclined to try and dive into the specifics on his Deal with Bill, to try and answer that last one. He couldn't imagine that that sort of discussion would go over well with the demon -- it certainly hadn't the last time -- and Ford doubted things would go any better if he tried to bring it up again now, even if he managed to get Stan to potentially try to 'run interference' for him on it. The very thought of discussing his Deal with Bill at all -- let alone in front of other people -- made him highly uncomfortable, and he doubted that Bill would say anything more useful now than he already had on the matter -- with quite a good bit more of the usual cursing and anger, besides.

But that didn't mean that he couldn't try and figure out what was so very wrong about what had happened with the science fair project himself.

And it wouldn't stop him from bringing either of these things to Stan's attention before they left.

Because it wasn't as though Ford had forgotten what Stan had told him: there was something that they needed to figure out here, before they went back home again. Otherwise… something would happen there that would… lead to Bill causing what precisely?

Ford didn't know. But what he did realize now, at the end of this -- the fourth -- day, was that when Bill had said 'three days' to the other demon at the start of everything that was going on in this dimension, Bill hadn't been referring to anything here.

Because today was the fourth day. He'd been with Bill nearly all day that day, and Bill...

---

--Ford felt something shift in the room, and he stood up abruptly at the sound of--

"--What...?!" Ford exclaimed, looking all around the room to try and determine what had just...

He glanced over at Bill, who had lifted his head up and blinked.

"What did you do," Ford said slowly, with no small dread, as Bill turned around to face--

--the device that controlled the room. Not him.

"...Bill?" Ford said, feeling an odd wave of uncertainty, as Bill outright ignored him and strode over to the device that was sitting on the corner of the desk on the other side of the room from them.

"He turned the shift on with a delay," Bill said, as Ford walked over almost cautiously, to stand behind him and look down at--

Ford frowned. The display was counting down from eight hours, and--

Ford almost asked, 'what? why?' of Bill. The only reason he didn't, was because Mr. Harman hadn't said anything to either of them before doing what he'd done, so asking the question would be rather inane and unhelpful at this point. (...neither of which were things that Bill tended to react to all that well.) So instead, Ford moved his train of thought on to a question Bill could potentially answer, and said:

"Are you telling me that we're stuck in here for--"

Bill blinked up at him, and Ford held back a groan at the thought that they just might be. (He also held back something of a scream, because he'd only thought he'd need to spend the next two hours or so following Bill around; four at the most. And now? Now that time had increased by a factor of four--)

"No," said Bill. "We're not STUCK in here. I could crash it EASILY."

Ford nearly let out a breath of relief, until the frown on Bill's face and the lack of immediate action from the dream demon caught up with him. ...And also the specific wording.

"...Then why aren't you 'crashing' it, then," Ford said slowly, in descending tones.

"Because I'm not an IDIOT," Bill said. "And I don't feel like spending the next eight hours after THAT making a new one."

Ford watched as Bill poked at the interface for the time-shift control device, then glanced around the room.

...Frankly, he couldn't believe that Mr. Harman had ditched them down here. Let alone...

"I thought this was only supposed to allow for two activations in a twenty-four hour period?" Ford not quite demanded out of Bill. Had his science teacher actually managed to find a way to outsmart--?

"--Not while I'm down here," Bill said. "And it's in debug mode." He sounded more than a little annoyed, as he pulled his hand away from it.

"So we really are stuck down here," Ford said, feeling like he'd just heard a death bell toll for him. Because he was stuck down here together with--

"No," said Bill. "I told you; I can crash it whenever I want, if I have to. We can also use the stairs."

Ford stared at him.

"What?" said Ford.

And then he had to watch as Bill turned around, rolling his eyes at him, and said, "The base of the stairway and the upper-door act as a two-door airlock." Ford's brow furrowed, and Bill let out an (annoyed, what else would he be with him) sigh at him. "The staircase is a transitionary zone. You walk in down here, it's at this 'speed'. You walk up to the top and open the doorway, you're at the outer-everything 'speed'."

Ford frowned at him. "You didn't tell any of us that before." And that seemed like it would be very pertinent information that would have been excellent to know before this!

"I explained it to Stanley so he would understand it, and I explained it to that teacher so he would understand it," Bill told him, hands on his hips. "It's not MY fault YOU'RE--"

"--then why are we still standing… Is that why we heard the door slam?" Ford said to Bill, thoughts shifting abruptly as he realized what he'd just heard earlier.

...Bill was giving him that long expressionless look (that Ford always hated and dreaded because)...

Ford glanced over at the staircase (empty all the way to the top, with the door closed) and struggled with himself for a moment, not quite torn between demanding Bill explain how opening the door wouldn't just freeze the person traversing the distance in place (relative to the basement-time, until the 'shift' in the basement had ended) -- and how said person could move into the kitchen at the top of the stairs without getting 'stuck' in the doorway as part-and-parcel of that -- and...

(-- was the lack of a 'freeze' avoided due to some sort of delayed slow-down process as they ascended the stairway and exited the door? was there a transitionary 'airlock zone' right outside the doorway that acted in a similar fashion to the staircase? but how did that account for the door actually closing again? --)

...alternately, marching right up that staircase and-- and--

"I see," said Ford. And with that said, Ford turned on his heel and marched right up the staircase.

He was at the top of the stairs, frowning furiously to himself about Bill's lack of priorities in the order in which he gave out important information during proper discourse (as usual) and had his hand on the doorknob, when he glanced over his shoulder and--

--realized that Bill was not anywhere behind him. The stairwell was empty.

Ford paused.

He waited a moment, then two, then three. Bill failed to materialize at the bottom of the stairs, and he didn't seem to be making his way over across the basement room to do so; Ford couldn't see him--

Ford slowly, carefully, removed his hand from the doorknob.

(It occurred to him that he'd nearly exited the room and left Bill all alone and to his own devices, for eight hours of time. Ford didn't want to think of what Bill could do in eight uninterrupted hours--)

Ford pulled in a breath, and it took him a moment before he slowly, step by step, began making his way back down each and every stair of that staircase, all the way down and back into the basement. Where Bill was.

And when Ford re-entered the room, it took him a moment before he realized that Bill was sitting on the floor, leaning back against the wall, with his eyes closed. He had one leg tucked almost under him, and one leg pulled up close to his chest with his arms loosely wrapped around it. He looked (almost) relaxed. (Almost.)

Ford stared.

"...What are you doing," Ford said slowly.

"Thinking," he was told by Bill, without the dream demon even so much as slitting his eyes open even a millimeter, or turning his head towards him in any way.

...Ford was at a loss.

He stood there for a long moment, awkwardly, and then...

...He looked away. He'd told Stan he was going to keep an eye on Bill, that he would follow him around that day, watching him, and... he'd nearly left him alone for eight hours of time just now. And the only possible way out of this would be to… somehow convince Bill to... (but since when had he ever been able to do that?!?)

Ford shook his head slightly, and looked back to Bill. "Can't you think outside of here?" he asked him somewhat peevishly.

"'Out there'," said Bill, "Things just keep on HAPPENING. --In here," Bill said, his eyes still closed, "I have a little less than eight hours to think about WHATEVER I WANT."

'...without interruption' was the implication there, Ford knew. Bill had been -- and likely still was -- fully expecting him to leave the room. He didn't want to be around Bill, and Bill knew that. And the dream demon certainly hadn't called out with any sort of taunting 'hey! where are you going, Sixer!' or similar, to try and stop him from doing so.

Bill was wearing a cybernetic exoskeleton-bodysuit with (at minimum) further defensive armaments, advanced sensory features, and built-in life-support enhancements. If the demon didn't want him to leave, Bill could quite literally have used a small portion of those miniature 'robots' that he'd used in science class today to completely immobilize him and drag him back downstairs before he'd even gotten two steps up the actual staircase, never mind the door at the top. --And that was if Bill didn't feel like getting up and physically grabbing hold of him and bodily dragging him back down the stairs himself. ...Not to mention the magic Bill had at his disposal at-present.

But Bill hadn't done any of those things when Ford had ascended the staircase. He'd simply sat down against the wall and closed his eyes, instead. Which meant...

...Bill didn't want him there.

And Ford most certainly did not want to be here.

Ford turned on his heel and began marching right back up the staircase. Step by step.

After all, Stan had said it himself -- he didn't have to deal with, or handle, Bill if he didn't want to.

Stan had said that, because Stan had promised to take care of that himself.

Ford didn't have to try to do it all himself. Not anymore.

Stan hadn't stopped him from going off this afternoon, alone with Bill. He'd known that Ford was going to follow him around today after school; it was entering the school and engaging with him directly that Stan hadn't known about or expected, and neither had Ford. And Stan hadn't told him to even so much as keep his distance from the dream demon.

Ford came to a stop on the top step of the staircase, facing the closed door in front of him.

He and Bill both wanted the same thing, for once. Why shouldn't he get what he wanted?

(Stanley wasn't here to intervene. This was the safest and best option, wasn't it?)

As long as he got what he wanted, did it really matter if it seemed to be something that Bill wanted, too?

Ford raised his hand up to the doorknob.

Did it really matter? Did he really have to fight Bill and each and every single turn? Was it so terrible a thing, that by doing this, Bill might just be getting something that he himself wanted, too?

Ford's hand tensed against the doorknob--

...and then slowly went slack.

Yes. Yes, it was.

Ford let out a tired, frustrated sigh, and he let his forehead bump against the door in front of him, as he let his hand fall back to his side.

He closed his eyes for a moment, and breathed, as he tried to push back the burning sensation of tears in his eyes.

(It wasn't fair, really. That he had to do this...)

Ford leaned back, and he took a moment to compose himself, before he turned away and slowly walked his way back down those stairs again.

He glanced around the corner as he walked past it. Bill was still sitting there, eyes closed, looking less tense now. ...Actually, the dream demon seemed relaxed, almost.

Ford felt his jaw clench. He absolutely hated that Bill got to feel-- even sometimes--

Ford stopped himself, unclenched his fists, and shook his head from side-to-side roughly.

And then Ford took those two steps forward and sat down right next to him, refusing to acknowledge the danger of doing so, of staying down here, just as he refused to give in an inch.

---

Ford let go of his pencil, to rub his hand across his face. He knew it was stupid, to have (and follow) that knee-jerk 'must oppose him at every turn' reaction to the demon, every single time Bill was there, and present (in any way), and seemed to want something. It was a knee-jerk reaction, to want to oppose him. To try not to give in to him, to not let Bill get what he wanted. To attempt to stymie the dream demon in some way.

It was stupid not to think things through in more detail than that. --Especially when Bill had, yet again, changed up the script on him yet again, just to make things that much more difficult all over again for him.

(It had been even more stupid, Ford realized now, to have given in to his brother without really thinking that through, either.)

---

Bill said nothing as Ford sat himself down next to him. He didn't move, and he didn't acknowledge Ford's presence in the slightest.

Ford felt increasingly uncomfortable and wrong-footed about this -- more than a little off-balance -- but he still stubbornly continued to sit beside Bill. And if the demon didn't like it, well, tough! Ford would stay right here and…

...and what exactly? Annoy the demon with his presence? Distract him from thinking for eight hours straight? Bill didn't seem annoyed or distracted by his sitting there in the least. And purposefully antagonizing him would likely only lead to Bill then acting out while Stan was not around to stop him, and then--

--Ford was starting to see why Stan had looked at him like he was an idiot, when he'd 'volunteered' to watch Bill for the day. (What he didn't quite understand was why Stan hadn't tried to stop him. Because Bill--)

Ford felt even more uncomfortable as he sat there, as Bill continued not to say anything.

Several times, Ford pulled in a breath to say something, and… didn't. Largely because he simply could not think of anything non-inflammatory to say to him.

After about five minutes of discomfort, and false stops and starts, Ford finally told himself he was being completely ridiculous, and simply said, "Bill."

...Bill didn't respond.

Ford looked over at him. Bill just kept breathing, and purposefully ignoring him, and--

Ford clenched his jaw and looked away from the demon. He closed his eyes for a moment... and tried not to shiver in place, because the very worst of his nightmares about Bill had generally entailed the demon ignoring him as he--

Was the demon just ignoring him now as some sort of play? Just to get a rise out of him? Just to make Ford feel like he was unworthy of notice? Like he was--

--Fine. Fine! Two could play at this 'game' of his! Ford wasn't required to speak to the demon to watch him. He could simply sit where he was in silence, himself!

...And not purposefully antagonize the demon that was sitting next to him. And not have to listen to Bill say something that antagonized him right back. Without Stanley around to stop either of them.

It occurred to Ford, as he glanced off to his side, away from the demon, that perhaps sitting in silence for the next eight hours was possibly the best of a set of horrible circumstances. ...Because, really, the only alternative was for Ford to either leave himself (and leave Bill to his own devices for eight hours) or to purposefully try and 'mess with' the control device for the time-shift, break it because he was trying to mess with it (because that had been one of Bill's built-in 'safeguards', that it would break if someone tried to alter it in a way that might actually work)... and then have a very annoyed and angry triangle demon on his hands, because Bill had already made it clear to him earlier that he did not want to spend the next eight hours (in normal-time) working to fix it again.

Ford let out a breath. He'd made a decision; he should simply commit to it. (He always felt better and more secure when he did that.)

So Ford settled in place, into a more comfortable seated posture (while trying to ignore how similar to Bill's own posture it was), and pulled out a small notebook and pencil.

...Because if nothing else, this should get a rise out of Bill now. If his writing something in front of the demon didn't get the demon speaking and annoying him, then it was likely that not much else Ford could do, short of enacting physical violence, would get a rise out of the demon for the duration of this eight-hour period.

Ford grimaced slightly as he flipped it open -- it was blank; he'd only gotten it (and the pencil) the day prior from one of the Cottonworth's stores that Stan had insisted on visiting for little bibs and bobs of odds and ends, for some reason -- and tried to determine what, exactly, he should start writing about.

After a while, he tried simply moving his pencil around near to and in front of the page without actually touching the paper, almost as a test, deliberately not looking at Bill as he did so.

Bill didn't stir.

...And Ford let out something of a tired sigh.

Antagonizing and taunting the demon to draw his aggression (with the equivalent of a bright red flag) being out, Ford shook his head at himself, and stopped trying to think so hard on the subject of Bill Cipher. (Because that never ended well...)

Ford instead put pencil to paper and just started doodling and writing anything that came to mind, to get around his slight case of stress-induced mental writer's block.

...which really meant that Ford defaulted to sketching and writing commentary on everything and anything that was physically surrounding him. And after not too long awhile, Ford started making short sketches of parts of their surroundings -- the desks, the shelves with their supplies, the control device for the time-shift spell...

...Oddly, the longer he doodled and jotted down nothing in particular, the better he felt, and the more he relaxed -- despite Bill sitting next to him.

It was after a good while -- ten minutes, at least -- that Ford realized that he'd actually forgotten that he was sitting next to the dream demon, when he was startled out of his thoughts and writing when something bumped up against his arm.

And then Ford remembered.

Ford stopped moving his pencil across the notebook paper. He held himself in place, and he closed his eyes and pulled in a breath.

He let it out slowly. Because of course Bill would not leave him alone. Why would he ever think that--

...and...

...Bill wasn't saying anything...

Ford realized he was waiting for the demon to say something that just wasn't coming for some reason.

Ford reopened his eyes and slowly moved his arms down, with his hands' contents, to his lap.

"Bill," Ford began. "If you're going to say something, just say it."

No response from the dream demon.

Ford clenched his jaw, then unclenched it, and turned his head away from head-on, to face the demon that was leaning up against his side. "Bill--"

Then Ford stopped and blinked.

...because Bill wasn't actually looking at his notebook. Bill was...

Ford stared down at the dream demon. Because Bill… was slumped up completely against his side. Bill's head was practically tucked up against his left arm; it was at completely the wrong angle to view…

...And yes, Bill's suit's sensors could likely reproduce the contents of his notebook for his perusal, no matter which way he was facing, but...

Ford carefully ducked and craned his head to the side, moving his arm not at all, and realized…

...Bill's eyes were still closed.

The demon was… asleep???

--No, he couldn't be! This was just some sort of--

Ford felt half-frustrated, and half-repulsed by this. (And admittedly quite angry as well -- just because Bill was wearing a protective suit that would prevent Ford from actually doing him any real physical damage did not give him free-range to impose upon his personal space in such a manner, or to--?!?!)

Ford had the sudden and nearly overwhelming urge to shove Bill off him immediately--

--and he actually started to raise his arm to do so, to elbow him off of him, when Bill stirred a little at his side, in a way which made Ford freeze. And in that time, the demon simply repositioned himself and settled back down, and…

This wasn't some form of play or play-acting. The demon was actually asleep. Ford had seen this sort of thing on-camera enough, and out on that roof and the deck of the Stan O' War, for long enough that he recognized the restless almost-discoordinated limb movements. The odd head-neck shifts. And… Bill was actually asleep.

Ford let out a breath in disbelief as he settled back in place, arm held steady.

And Ford considered the greater aspects of this situation which he'd found himself in.

Bill was asleep. Ford could either shove Bill off of him, or let him stay where he was.

Ford's first inclination was to shove the demon off of him. If he did that, Bill would likely wake up, feel antagonized (and rightfully so, since that would rather be the point of performing the action), get aggressive with him, and it would lead to a fight that Ford would almost certainly not win, in any respect of the word.

If Bill did not wake up right away, performing such an action might potentially set off some of his suit's defenses. That would likely go even less well.

If Ford didn't follow his natural inclination to push Bill off of him, though, then what would happen?

...The demon might sleep for several hours before he woke up, leaving Ford alone for the duration. And if the demon didn't like the fact that he'd fallen asleep on Ford, well… Bill would only have himself to blame. And Ford could quite calmly point that out to him, giving the demon no excuse to start something with him without 'breaking' the rules of whatever 'game' Bill was playing with Stan with this 'agreement' of theirs.

...Despite what some demons might say about him, Ford was not a stupid man.

Though Ford did carefully raise his arm up and away from his side -- not willing to surrender an entire arm to the demon for hours at a time -- and carefully watching as Bill… still didn't wake up, just settled in at his side a bit more fully instead, right up against him.

Ford let out a half-annoyed sigh. If Bill wasn't going to wake up to that and leave him alone…

Ford carefully lowered his arm a bit, though still kept it raised up enough to keep his elbow and such largely above Bill's head.

He switched knees and held his left arm (and his notebook) to leaning up against that, as he picked up his writing again, Bill breathing slowly at his side.

...It wasn't as entirely uncomfortable as he'd been expecting it to be. Bill was a slightly cool presence at his side, and...

...Stan had said something about Bill 'running cooler' than most, hadn't he? And Bill had said… he'd only agreed to sleep next to him on the floor of the living room that first time because...

He'd called Ford a living space heater.

Ford frowned down at the demon.

Because that… wasn't quite right, really. Not for human bodies.

Ford moved his pencil to his left hand (along with his notebook) and slowly, and rather experimentally, moved his right arm and hand down and around, to carefully and lightly--

--Ford froze in place and stiffened as Bill literally collapsed up against his side, making a soft 'burr'ing sort of sound as he did so.

He'd… he'd only been trying to take his temperature, moving his hand in towards Bill's temple. He hadn't--

Ford stared down at this in pure disbelief, wide-eyed at how Bill was… was practically snuggled up against his side, now.

This.. this couldn't be… This...

...And then a thought slowly came over him.

And Ford slowly lowered his hand to the top of Bill's head.

Bill unconsciously let out a soft huff of breath, but he didn't move much. Just did that odd head-neck movement again and made a sound that--

Ford felt a slight chill go through him. He'd heard that particular set of chittering noises before. Bill himself had made them.

...But it hadn't been the set he'd made for his own name. No. It had been the set he'd used for...

Ford swallowed, and he carefully removed his hand from Bill's head.

He heard Bill make an odd sort of clicking-cheep under his breath that sounded more like a soft protest than anything, and...

Ford tilted his head back and closed his eyes.

...And he thought on what Dipper had told him.

Bill couldn't have a brother. He couldn't have had one. He didn't know the first thing about having a sibling, what that was like.

He wouldn't have treated him, or Stan, or the niblings anything like how he had, if he had any sense at all of what he'd be destroying if--

--The only thing that made sense was that Bill was confused on the issue, somehow.

And Bill had said something about that, too, hadn't he. He'd outright admitted it, once before. --He'd said he'd Seen something, and 'gotten confused' for a very long time...

It would make sense, if Bill had Looked into another two-dimensional dimension at some point, and Seen something that had mirrored his life enough that...

Ford let out an breath, and pulled his head back down to level, turning it away from Bill. --It would make sense that Bill might be confused on more than one thing. The demon was certainly confused about him, and what he wanted. It only stood to reason that-- well.

Of course, when had Bill Cipher ever made sense. --Never, that's when.

And of course, there was also the fact that Bill was insane.

So, if Bill thought, was confused enough to be convinced that… he might have, at some point had a brother...

Well. That would leave Bill with the idea of having a 'brother' without ever having had to cultivate or understand the responsibility of having one, wouldn't it.

...and that had likely led to Bill considering 'having' a sister and actually thinking he might be able to do it. Stan had given him the idea and the other demon had latched onto it. And now Bill was… actually trying to be a proper sibling to the younger demon. And yet--

Ford let out a tired sigh. --It wasn't going to work, and Bill should know that. Demons didn't act like...

Except that sometimes the two demons did almost seem like they really did care about each other, and--

--the dream demon was going to get burned by this badly, wasn't he. And Ford couldn't even say that he was looking forward to it, because...

Bill was well and truly asleep. Ford grimaced and ran his hand over his face. ...Bill wasn't actually a 'demon' from the Outside, was he. --Ford had heard stories of Outsiders before, monstrous larger-than-life individuals who did as they pleased, nations rising and falling at their pleasure, and simply…

Ford sighed. In retrospect, the figures on those stories sounded quite a great deal like demons in general, but he'd never actually quite made the connection before.

He didn't like to think about it, but demons were capable of great 'good' as well as great evil. They could spend centuries building up a race of people, making them rise to soaring heights...

...but the problem was that, sooner or later, they grew bored. And when that happened, they knocked down everything they'd helped to build, like a toddler gleefully knocking down a tower of blocks that they'd built up for the sole purpose of being able to do just that.

And hadn't Miz mentioned she'd had worshipers? And a planet of people that she'd created and looked after until they turned their backs on her? And were subsequently destroyed?

Bill was the same. Only Bill did such things in far larger scope. Ford had seen--

Ford let out a breath. Bill hadn't knocked over any of the ones he'd showed him in the last thirty years yet , at least. (Not as far as Ford knew, and news like that -- especially news about Bill Cipher -- traveled fast through the multiverse.) But the way the denizens of Bill's galaxies and dimensions acted towards other demons... in many cases, just letting them kill them without issue or protest...

--smiling about it as they died, so fanatically devoted to Bill that they looked forward to enjoying the experience of dying at the hands of--

Ford swallowed hard, trying to keep down bile.

He closed his eyes and forced himself to wait until his stomach settled, focusing on his breathing, and the color of concrete under his boots, the heft of the weight of his feet when he moved them slightly, the smell and taste of the air in the room around them...

Slowly, his stomach settled. Slowly, he reopened his eyes.

Stanley had no idea what he was trying to control and bring to heel. And Ford couldn't explain it to him. Not without damning himself in the process.

And, at this point, Ford was too tired from fighting for so long to tell Stan the truth. To try to warn them all properly, and then lose his family and his friends over it as they questioned him and realized how and why he knew all of these things.

--what he'd done--

(--what Bill had done--)

(--what Bill had made him do--)

--what Bill had used him to do--

Ford shivered in place.

And then he glanced down again at the dream demon at his side.

And Ford had another, absolutely terrible thought.

He shouldn't do it. Really, he shouldn't. But...

Bill had messed with him so badly over the years. Wasn't it just fair to try and get at least a little of his own back?

Ford got a slight, slightly mean smile.

...And he carefully pulled the left side of his trench coat back, out from under the demon.

And once he'd gotten it loose, and the demon had fussed and finished curling up right against his sweater-covered side, he slowly pulled it back into place.

And he wasn't quite whistling to himself as he went back to his drawing and writing, and the demon at his side slowly began to restlessly stir in fits and starts...

---

Ford sighed ruefully. ...In retrospect, he should have remembered how the niblings had told him about how Bill had kicked off those covers on the deck of the boat, when the other demon had tried covering him with them. Stan had said something to that effect before, Mabel had let him know the details of when Bill had complained to her about such earlier, and… it was rather clear that Bill still wasn't quite over it yet.

Bill had woken up rather abruptly after that, and gotten very annoyed with Ford for having 'tried to smother him with his coat'. Ford had taken it with what he believed had been quite a great measure of aplomb.

He'd calmly responded to Bill -- apologized for waking him up, in fact. It hadn't even been a lie, quite -- he hadn't been trying to wake Bill up, in doing what he'd done. He really had been trying to make the demon a little warmer.

And frankly, he'd been looking forward to seeing whatever confused and off-put response the demon might make at finding him in the (rather, incredibly) compromising position that the demon had put himself in, that Ford had only partially-enabled by his silent non-uncompliance.

It had turned out both better and worse than he'd expected.

Ford grimaced and let out a breath. Bill hadn't fallen asleep right after that again, settling down again elsewhere to curl up into that loose-ball sort of posture that he'd taken the last time that he and Stan had been down in that basement with him, to fall asleep. No, Bill -- after his initial ranting at Ford for trying to smother him (which he hadn't) -- had stopped and stared at him for a good long minute of time.

And then Bill had intoned how that had been INTERESTING, and tricked Ford into holding his hands up in such a way that...

Ford shivered under the covers. He never should have listened to his brother. He never should have agreed.

He never should have said yes.

Ford quietly lay in place for awhile, thinking about what had happened.

...And then he flipped back a few pages in his notebook to what he'd written there, after Bill had finally fallen asleep yet again, and stayed asleep through the next several hours of time until the time-shift had ended.

'Zodiac'. 'Left-hand, facing inward'. 'Right-hand, facing outward.'

'Facing inward' was like... facing Bill, right in the face, facing the Zodiac Circle from the outside. Looking at it on the cave wall.

'Facing outward' was like... facing away from the cave wall, with Bill at your back. Looking out in the same direction that Bill's Eye was gazing, looking...

Looking outward, as if you were on Bill's side, at his side, right there along with him…

Looking outward, at and on Bill's side. Hands-up, pressing out as if you were trying to escape the wall. Reach up your right hand, to press out, to push out, and...

Looking inward, opposing Bill, standing and staring at him head-on. Raise up your left hand and try to push back against him, to stop--

...It was all a matter of perspective, wasn't it? --Except it wasn't. Not for Stanley, and not for Bill.

Are you on my side or aren't you?

You're supposed to be on my side! --Which was really just another way of saying: you're mine, so why don't you act like it? Why won't you do what I want? Why won't you do what I tell you to do--

Ford was on his brother's side. Bill was, ostensibly in some way, on Stan's side.

And when Bill had grabbed up Ford's hands in his own, lacing their fingers together and frowned in concentration--

--they'd both lit up blue.

Ford had jerked back, and Bill had let go immediately himself. He'd looked surprised.

He'd called it interesting. He'd walked away from him and begun to pace.

--He'd started making chittering noises to himself, working his hands and fingers, and downright looking confused at times as he'd muttered to himself in fragments of languages that--

Ford had stared.

And then another realization had hit him with the force of a semi-truck.

(--Not the realization about left- and right-handedness, or Bill's frustration and lack of insight into the matter. Thinking Ford was supposed to be his 'right-hand' man because he'd refused to think that Ford was and could or should be anything but 'on his side', whether he liked it or not -- no, that had come later, after Bill had fallen asleep again and Ford had sat down to resume his writing, left along with his own thoughts…)

No, the realization that had hit him then had been…

...that there was a seventeen-year-old female human girl with short, two-tone black- and blue-colored hair, standing and pacing back and forth in front of him, in that basement, muttering to herself as she paced, looking confused and frustrated and...

Ford had never seen Bill look confused before. And when that had happened...

Ford hadn't known what Bill was supposed to look like. What that would look like -- confusion -- in his Eye, on his front face, his limited expression, the arrangement of his thin stick-like black limbs, how he would be floating...

Ford had realized what he had, and hadn't been seeing.

And he realized what Stanley had been seeing for all of this time, instead.

Stan had been seeing a teenaged boy, and then a teenaged girl; he had no idea what Bill was supposed to look like, in each and every one of his various and mercurial moods.

Ford had encountered Bill enumerable times on the other side of the portal, and not just in the Dreamscape or Mindscape, either. Sometimes, he'd had the unfortunate luck to encounter Bill when the demon had been inhabiting the body of one of his many, many (far far too many other) puppets of his. And, over the years and decades, Ford had gotten used to visually (and automatically) mapping what he was seeing when Bill was inhabiting those bodies, to what Bill actually looked like. --What Bill would be doing in the Mindscape, what he would look like, how he'd be moving around and gesticulating, if he hadn't been bound by a more-rigid physical body instead.

Ford hadn't actually been seeing what Stan and the others had been seeing, whenever they interacted with and talked to Bill. Not in the same way. Not in the slightest.

They had all seen a teenaged boy-or-girl, moving around and acting largely in teenage-boy-or-girl-ish ways.

While he, himself, had seen...

--It was terribly dangerous, his family being exposed to Bill when he looked like this, for long and extended periods of time. Not least of which because Bill was not a teenager, not a girl, not a human being, and the demon had no sense of decency, morality, anything like approaching human empathy (for humans or anyone else), and simply no concept of restraint.

But Bill looked like he did. Because he looked like they did, now.

Ford had actually spent some time after that, down in that basement, trying to sketch Bill as he saw him. Realistically, as he physically was right now. ...And yet stick-thin arms and single too-large eyes kept sneaking their way into his sketches.

He wasn't quite there yet, but he would be. He realized that he'd need to be able to pay attention to what Bill was 'actually' visibly doing, in order to properly combat it in the future, the impact it might have on his family, on anyone else who was seeing his as… something that he wasn't.

And it was of pressing and dire importance that he did work to combat the effects of that, of that image of Bill, mentally and physically.

Because humans were pack animals. They grouped. They bonded, and tried to find similarities in each other, the longer they simply lived in close proximity to each other. And when the 'fear of the other' didn't get in the way… (and it wouldn't, with Bill looking human enough that the sight of him wouldn't inspire anything but a sense of familiarity, over a long enough period of time...) They generally tried to get along. And when a sociopathic individual entered their midst, the first and most natural basic instinct of most humans was to placate, capitulate, and conform to their wants and demands...

...because sociopaths were highly dangerous individuals that would lash out and injure or kill on a whim -- not caring about the physical damage or personal cost most sane individuals cared about having inflicted upon themselves in the interim, so long as they doubled-down until they overpowered you, got what they wanted, and won -- and the common basic survival instinct that most humans had to that was to stay below notice, give them what they wanted, and hope that they passed you over without paying the least bit of attention to you, to not harm or to at least not actively hurt.

But attempting to placate Bill wouldn't work. Bill wasn't going to leave them alone. He'd only demand more, and worse, over time.

And Bill, by any measure of the word, was a sociopath by human terms and measures. He had no empathy for humans; Bill and his own wants were all-important to him, he didn't care about pain, and other human beings were nothing more than objects or toys to him. Bill didn't treat people like people, with their own autonomy and their own self-actualization -- worthy of respect and a right to have and control their own existence without his terrible interference, simply for being alive.

Bill had to be stopped. But Stan… when Stan looked at Bill Cipher now, he saw a kid. A teenager that was lost and didn't know how to function in human society, and...

...no. No, that wasn't quite right. Stan knew at least some of the dangers, but… Stan thought he could handle them. Likely because Stan had encountered other dangerous individuals in his past and survived them. Ford remembered what Stan had yelled out at him, so very long ago, before being shoved into the portal. He'd spent time in prison in three different countries. What he'd had to deal with there, and what his brother might have been involved with to get himself tossed into jail before that...

Stan had never talked about it, and Ford had never pressed him. But he knew that Stan believed that he could handle most everything, after surviving what he had for those ten years before Ford had contacted him, and he'd shown up on his doorstep in the middle of winter, answering his call for help.

Stan was playing a very dangerous game here with Bill, for stakes he didn't truly understand. Ford hadn't even understood them, until Bill and that other demon had started talking about time travel and time- and age-reversal and bringing people back to life...

Bill wasn't going to let them go. And Stan couldn't handle Bill like he had any of the human criminals he'd known. Bill wasn't human. He didn't react like a human did. Didn't think like humans did.

Patting Bill on the head a few times might be slowly training or teaching Bill's current body to become used to the sensation and react to it accordingly in a human-like manner, but that wouldn't have any effect on Bill himself. Bill was a being of Mind, a being of pure energy. Bill didn't let little things like what was happening to the body he was currently sitting and squatting within, like a spider pulling puppet-threads in its web, impact him in any meaningful way.

(And Ford still wasn't sure how that younger demon reacted to things, she seemed to take more stock in physical sensations, but it could all be an act to seem more human, to trick them into giving her sympathy.)

Ford himself wouldn't fall for any of that, though. He knew what Bill was, and did. And he also knew what Bill wasn't. Bill wasn't some human teenager deserving of his basic needs being met, and the demon knew it. He was--

Ford blinked.

And then he flipped to another page and wrote that down. And stared at it.

And then he wrote down what Stan was doing for Bill. And he stared at that again.

...Bill knew that he didn't deserve any of it. The demon wasn't stupid; he knew that Stanley wasn't meeting his basic day-to-day bodily needs, just because. Bill knew, just as Stan knew, that Stan didn't have to do it.

In fact, Stan had every reason in the world not to do it. After what Bill had done, and tried to do, to his family...

And yet Stan was doing it all anyway. He'd practically forced it on the demon, and Bill had… taken it, yes, but…

This wasn't… this wasn't placation. Bill never would have thought to demand such from them in the first place. Which meant...

...This wasn't placation, and it wasn't some kind of offering, peace-full or worshiping or placatory or otherwise. This was more of a… favor? From Stan? That could be rescinded at any time, except...

Stan had said that, no matter what, he was still going to do this for Bill. Food, clothing, shelter, and schooling. (And yes, Ford had realized not too far into things that Stan had made the definition of 'schooling' flexible enough to account for punishments in the form of 'penalties' when Bill acted out in ways that not a one of them liked, but…)

...Was the 'game' that Stan was trying to play with the demon one of, 'try to act like a human kid, and I'll treat you like one?'

That didn't make any sense, though. Bill clearly did not want to play such a 'game' of any sort with Stan or anyone else, with the way that the demon had continuously -- and repeatedly -- protested the label.

Stan was giving Bill something that the demon wanted, and could go out and get himself, but had not and would not have asked for himself.

...No. No, actually. That wasn't quite right. Bill didn't quite want it, even if his body needed these things in order to keep working properly, for Bill to continue to survive, and Stan...

(No, that wasn't quite right, either. Technically, Bill could quite possibly change the 'ruleset' acting on his own body, couldn't he? If he could make it so he, Ford, didn't have to breathe to survive, then...)

Ford pulled in a breath, and jotted a few more thoughts down, as he mused over these things in more detail, all over again.

And it finally occurred to him, as he took a step back from everything, that maybe it was… a similar sort of problem as Bill had apparently been dealing with, with Ford's own Deal with him, prior.

Ford hadn't wanted just and only someone to act as and be his 'friend', as part of some deal -- not some simple transaction, 'you'll give me this, and I'll give you that'. Friends weren't something that you paid for, to have around you. No. --He'd wanted someone who clearly wanted to be his friend, Deal or no Deal in place. Bill had been right about that, embarrassing as it was.

And Ford hadn't realized that that could be a transaction, too; he'd thought he'd just been solidifying something they'd already had, making it official, at the time. Not...

And that was the problem. Bill didn't just want his Zodiac; he wanted them on his side. Bill already considered all of them to be wholly and uniquely his. ...But that didn't mean that they had to like him, or want to get along with him. And Bill knew that. Bill realized that.

The demon knew full well the difference between willing, and unwilling, help. He knew the difference between willing and unwilling interference in his affairs. Ford had seen people loyal to Bill work with and for other demons, sometimes at Bill's bequest, sometimes not as they were forced into servitude instead--

--and then turn around and stab those demons in the back the very first chance that they got.

Bill knew the difference, Bill wanted his Zodiac to be working for him with him? -- for whatever reason -- and Bill… had seemed excited down in that basement at the prospect of Ford now being 'on his side', because they were both on Stanley's side in things, now.

(They'd both been 'aligned' in not wanting something. Stan had convinced told them both to do it anyway. And they'd done it. --Ford had said 'yes' to something, to Bill, because he hadn't said 'no' to Stan. He should have said no. And now…)

Ford flexed his hands.

Bill had only been confused, and then frustrated about everything, about how it had come about, because he didn't understand how Stan had done it.

...Because apparently, Bill had realized that that was going to be the 'deal'-breaker for the agreement: Ford remaining outside of it completely, and not coming over to Stan's (and thus his, Bill's) side, also. That was apparently what Bill had thought that Stan was not going to be able to pull off. And...

...Stan wasn't just giving Bill things grudgingly. Stan was actively making sure that Bill was being given food, clothing, shelter, and schooling. Stan was acting, by all accounts, like he wanted to give Bill these things, not just like he was merely giving them because he thought he had to… and would then be looking for a way and a reason to stab Bill in the back as soon as he could later.

...And refusing to perform the circle with the rest of them likely fed further into that.

Stan was likely trying to convince Bill that he, and the rest of his family, were not a threat to Bill, by doing this. By showing this willingness to… get along with him.

...It wasn't going to work. Bill had expectations for his 'friends', and they were demonic in nature. Stan wasn't going to be able to live up to any of it, and he wasn't going to want to do any of it.

Ford let out a breath, and jotted down a few more notes. He was going to need to remember all this, for the next time he got a proper moment alone with his brother. He didn't want to leave anything out.

You're supposed to be on my side! --Which was really just another way of saying: you're mine, so why don't you act like it? Why won't you do what I want? Why won't you do what I tell you to do--

Ford shivered in place under the covers.

And then he froze in place for a moment (and nearly held his breath), as he heard Stan shift in place under the covers, across the cabin from him, in his own cot.

...Ford slowly let out a breath, as he heard Stan settle back down again.

'Just a little more...' he silently promised himself, and his brother. 'I just need to write a little more down, and then I'll be able to fall asleep, Stan. I promise.'

Bill might want them 'on his side' (or apparently, potentially 'on Stan's side with him' -- something which Bill had not seemed to be lying about for the moment, and that Stan would need to know almost immediately when a good moment alone with him arose), but… Bill hadn't actually needed anyone to be 'on his side' before: not any person or thing, and not any demon -- singular or horde of them or otherwise.

Bill had done perfectly fine for himself in the past without having anyone actually 'watching his back' without being willing to stab him in it, and Ford doubted that such had changed at all in the slightest with this latest 'return' of his, human'-ish' body (that Bill also complained about incessantly) or not.

Bill didn't need them, or anyone, to be wanting to work with him, in order to do anything or get anything he'd wanted to get done done in the past or present, and Ford doubted that that would change in the future, far-flung or otherwise. No, not in the slightest.

So what was Bill doing with all this, then? Ford couldn't imagine that Bill actually cared about the long-term consequences of his actions, demon or not. In Ford's experience, if Bill wanted to do something, he simply did it; if Bill wanted something, he went out and got it, willingness of whoever was involved in the situation or not be damned.

...And the fact of the matter was, Bill could obtain food, clothing, shelter, and schooling for himself, he didn't need to rely on others to do it, and Ford could not imagine Bill putting up with Stan, or the niblings, or himself, and all their own various wants and demands, for those things, when he could simply expend a slight amount of effort to obtain all four of those things for himself, and not have to deal with any of them on their own level, by any ways or means. It didn't make sense.

Bill didn't make sense.

Then again, when had he ever?

'I ain't surprised. The kid's emotionally stressed,' Stan had told him two nights ago along their own personal timelines, during that night they'd all spent down in the basement together. Stan had said it in response to Ford's surprise that Bill had fallen asleep almost immediately upon Stan managing to half-order, half-convince the dream demon to take a nap first, prior to working on that specialized 'time-stop' spell-device of his...

Stan hadn't really explained it beyond 'the kid' being sure that he was right (well, of course Bill thought so), and being told he was doing it wrong and could do better (though why Stan would think Bill would care that he'd been told anything like that, was beyond Ford…). And that 'the kicker' had been that Bill… had actually acted almost as though maybe he had begun to realize that he'd been doing something wrong? (...Not that Bill actually cared about anything like that, either. The idea was simply ludicrous. Ludicrous.)

Ford severely doubted that the idea of doing things less well than he 'should have been' doing them (really, he shouldn't have been doing them at all!) had (or would ever truly have) had an impact on Bill Cipher in the least. --Frankly, Ford thought it far more likely that Bill had been feeling a similar strain on his own 'human-ish' body during that session with the teacher, as Mr. Harman had been feeling himself, and that that was what had tired Bill out.

But what was true about this whole situation was that Bill was holding back with them. He wasn't being 'as bad as he could be' with any of them; he actually seemed to be even holding back with the niblings, at times. Ford knew what being 'played with' by Bill was like, and it was NOTHING like--

Ford pulled in a hard breath, and he resisted the urge to curl into a ball under the covers, even as he did shift in place slightly, unable to stop himself from reflexively curling in on himself a little bit. ...Purely for physical comfort and warmth, of course. The covers weren't that thick, after all...

'Emotional stress', really. Ford shifted in place under the covers. It was far more likely that Bill had tired himself out, and was moving back to his 'old' habits of sleeping for at least twelve to sixteen hours a day. (And yes, Ford had timed him from the video feed. Bill either spent that much time supine per day, or seemingly asleep --though now, Ford was starting to believe that, during those times, Bill was actually asleep. Because he'd seen Bill on the deck of the Stan O'War, and that rooftop, and down in the hold, and now for a second time on the concrete floor of the Harman's basement, and… he had, in fact, been asleep.)

And as far as Ford could tell, Bill sleeping did not actually translate to Bill being able to move outside of the confines of his current body, potentially due to the anchor he apparently had on his back.

...which, according to Dipper, Stan apparently had a strikingly similar-looking tattoo of, on his own back -- one that Stan apparently also denied having, but definitely knew that he had, and wouldn't let anyone look at. Ford hadn't quite had the opportunity to ask his brother about it yet -- though he'd meant to on several occasions before; he tended to become distracted in the moment when he was already in something of a bad mood, and every time Stan had accosted him to talk lately, that had been his state of mind at the time -- so Ford made himself another note in his notebook to remember to discuss it with him.

It would likely be easiest to manage before they left here, since they were sharing a room again, but… now that he thought on it, even when they were on the Stan O' War, Stan had been careful not to show him his back. Even when they'd been swapping clothes in the Fearamid, Stanley had...

Ford frowned. then mentally shook it off. He'd just ask Stan directly. He'd determine how to proceed from there, once Stan told him whatever he thought and felt about the matter..

Ford let out a sigh, and flipped forward in his notebook. He quickly jotted down a few points next, on the status of the health of Mr. Harman -- good enough, considering what Bill had put him through, though apparently his mental state and capabilities still needed some time to recover. Given that apparently the man had thought that he (Ford) and Bill ('the alien') might have somehow needed or wanted the 'alone time' together down in that basement, to work something or another out together amongst themselves, as his excuse for doing what he'd done with setting up that delayed-activation third time-shift there…

Ford let out another sigh, finished jotting down what were more mnemonic notes to himself than actual explanations of anything that had occurred, and then moved on to quick notes on what had happened in the next two and a half hours after that.

...Really, it had been almost a whirlwind tour of the globe, courtesy of Bill and several portals with green-colored event horizons. Apparently, they were 'scientific' in nature -- science-based, not magical -- and thus Bill had felt perfectly justified in using them to jump himself (and Ford, who was following him) all over the globe as he picked up fruit preserves and black tea in England, mandarin oranges and green tea fresh from China, blini and sour cream from Russia, dijon mustard and Savora and charcuterie (among other cheeses) from France, some sort of lingonberry spread in Sweden, several different types of cookies and breads from a bakery in New York (of all places), several different types of beverages from an open-air 'bar' in Hawaii, and (rather unbelievingly) matzo crackers and matzo ball soup from a deli tucked in the corner of a city in another part of New Jersey not too far away from Glass Shard Beach.

Ford had pointed out that Bill didn't eat most of these things himself, and after the second time that he'd tried to point that out, Bill had given him a look that had Ford resolving to just let the lunatic demon buy whatever he wanted, 'inedible' as he liked to put it, or not.

Bill had paid for it all with gold out of his hat, the goods he'd bought (in rather significant quantities, no less) had all disappeared right back into it, and no-one -- not a single, solitary person -- had complained to the fact that Bill was decidedly not using the proper coin of the realm in any single country that they had visited. Not a one.

(Yes, Ford knew that there was some truth to the fact that gold was the closest thing in the multiverse to a universal currency, but even this had been ridiculous to see, and have to watch.)

Bill had been nothing but polite to each and every one of those bakers and craftsmen. He'd spoken with a native-speaker's fluency in the language being used at each location, and… really Ford was hardly surprised by any of it.

What was surprising was that Bill hadn't been trying to show off. (Ford knew what that looked like, and it always turned out horribly for him.)

He had followed Bill on his portal-enabled 'jet'-setting little shopping trip (Ford could hardly call it an adventure, as it hadn't exactly been exciting), to locales that he and Stan simply hadn't gone nearly as far inland to see, and...

Frankly, if Ford had been spending the time with someone who he'd actually liked, he might have actually enjoyed it.

Once the impromptu 'shopping trip' had been over, Bill had 'science'-portaled them off to Egypt next -- for a meal-break, apparently. Given the Mediterranean diet at the hotel where they ended up lounging on pillows as they ate (well, Bill lounged; Ford 'just sat'...), it wasn't much of a surprise once Ford saw what Bill had ordered: all fruits, vegetables, and legumes, and no meat (or mushrooms) whatsoever.

Bill had spoken to him hardly at all during any of this. And he hadn't spoken much more as they'd finished their drinks (tea, in Bill's case, of course, and something called Qasab, in Ford's, that had been quite sweet, cold, and energizing) and then they'd both taken what would be their next-to-last portal to...

Ford had to set down his pencil and notebook for a moment, and cover his eyes as he let out a sigh.

And after awhile, he was able to reach out and pick them both up again.

...Bill had taken them to Gravity Falls, Oregon. Not the town, but somewhere quite specific in the forest, underneath it: the spaceship crash site. Because apparently one existed in this dimension, too.

Bill had, quite frankly, spent no time in absolutely decimating the site. They'd simply shown up in the hallway outside the control room, Bill had explained as he'd walked, and then… Bill had done what he'd intended to do. And Ford hadn't stopped him.

...Frankly, if Ford had thought of it, he'd have done it himself. But he hadn't. Bill had.

It had been something Bill had wanted to do, wanted as an outcome, and Ford hadn't been able to bring himself to stop him.

...Because Bill hadn't wanted the local Stanford Pines to ever have access to the proper technology to potentially be able to put together a working interdimensional portal at any point. Ever.

And Ford couldn't help but agree with him. The Stanford here was… wrong in some way. The way he acted... He made Ford feel uncomfortable, just being around him, now. There was something… that… That younger him was NOT him.

And when Ford had declared that, finally, straight to Bill's face, expecting an objection, or perhaps a laugh… "Yes," Bill had said, instead, while not even looking at him, as he'd continued doing whatever he'd been doing with the alien panel he'd been working and tapping away at. And Ford had been stunned into silence.

"It's a different dimension, Sixer," Bill had told him. "Don't expect everything to be the same."

"...Because you weren't really here?" Ford had said slowly, wrapping his arms around himself and feeling slightly lost. Because really, the only main difference Bill had remarked upon as being a difference between their dimension, and this one, had been...

"Yes," Bill had said, again without looking at him, as he'd yanked off that panel. "I wasn't really here."

Ford had felt a terrible mix of relief and confusion and dread at what Bill had just told him. And as a result, he hadn't tried to talk with Bill for the rest of the trip. (...Not that he'd been trying to strike up a conversation, civil or otherwise, with Bill at any point really, before then. But...)

Bill had finished what he was doing, which Ford really couldn't find it in him to argue with, and then they'd green-portaled right back to an alleyway at the corner of the far end of the boardwalk of Glass Shard Beach.

...It had been the near-end to the boat, though. And then they'd both simply… walked up to the boat with the others, and been met with the sight of the other demon on-deck, and...

'Well. Not quite,' Ford thought dourly, as he added one last line to his notebook, before quietly flipping it closed and tucking it, the penlight, and his pencil, back in his breast pocket.

Because the one thing that Bill had said to him, almost as a parting shot, as they'd made their way to the boat...

...in response to Sixer's snark-filled and under-the-breath comment to the two of them, asking who had been looking after whom...

...had been for Bill to say that he had been babysitting 'that Stanford', because apparently Ford was so very low on the totem-pole of the 'hierarchy' of the priority-list that the two lowest on it (Dipper and Mabel) had been taking care of him and worrying about his health...

...and that because their health and well-being was dependent to some extent on his, and Ford was under their care and protection...

Ford had protested rather strongly under his breath at Bill. Bill had merely replied that he shouldn't have been surprised at the news, since Melody had really been called in to babysit him, and not Bill. Bill contested that he himself was wholly capable of not missing sleep or forgetting to stop and eat at mealtimes without prompting, unlike Ford himself...

Stan had cut in with a sigh, telling them both that Melody was looking over them both, but… It had still left Sixer giggling, Lee looking more than a little bit concerned, and Ford feeling more than a little snappish, as they'd all gotten themselves back up onto the deck.

(The quick rejoinder-slash-'report' by Bill -- to Stanley -- that Ford hadn't slept much again that afternoon, or eaten very much of the 'light snack' Bill had made sure that they'd both sat down and ate afterwards, as they'd been climbing the ladder one after the other, also hadn't helped Ford's mood all that much.)

Ford knew that it was wrong, as he burrowed himself under the covers a bit better -- head poking out a bit this time -- but he'd still felt an uneasy yet almost heady kind of satisfaction, as the last thing he'd written down in his notebook, as confirmed by Bill:

This local 'Sixer' IS NOT ME.

Ford let out a breath and closed his eyes.

And he carefully tried to keep himself from dwelling on the fact that, apparently, it was Bill's interference that had somehow made a difference, to make him different, in his own dimension, to make him far more different than…

---

Saturday morning came early, and as Miz and Stan had planned together to have happen the next morning, after they'd all had breakfast together -- and to several exclamations of glee from Miz, upon seeing what-all Bill had bought for her to be able to scan, use, and eat (from somewhere, the kid was being not quite cagey about it by carefully not-saying anything, but when Stan looked to Ford, his brother just shook his head slightly where he was standing with his arms-crossed, leaning up against the countertop by the doorway, so he figured it couldn't be too much of a problem)...

...the boys were left to run the 'attraction' to charge tourists to get a photo of the dragon for the day.

Stan wanted to see how well Lee could sell it, how well he'd be able to handle himself and others -- dealing with customers, charming the schmucks into parting with their cash, all of it. Stan figured he could step in or give more lessons if he needed to, but… hey, you learned by doing. And Stan wanted to make sure that he got the good stuff that actually worked down early, just in case...

---