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Chapter Text

Stanford blinked blearily, wobbling on his feet as a splitting headache struck hard like a stampeding herd of purple bird-beasts from the dimension with the pink grass that took him a week to find civilized people. There was a weird afterimage seared into his vision that he couldn’t seem to get rid of. Like he was just blinded by a bright light. Except he didn’t remember seeing any bright lights.

In fact, he… didn’t quite remember what he was just doing.

After decades of diving between dimensions, he was used to trying to figure out the important basics of his abrupt change in surroundings within moments, regardless of how strange or hostile to human life it might be. But he didn’t think that he’d suddenly ended up in a new dimension and he couldn’t think of anything else that would produce a sudden change like that.

Wasn’t he just on their boat with Stanley? Because even with his sight still in the middle of recovering and his head pounding, he knew he wasn’t on a boat. There was always a slight movement under his feet on board. Not even the calmest days at sea were perfectly still.

He blinked again and he could finally see properly. There was a smooth wooden floor, cardboard boxes with vague labels written in black marker, and some half-broken conglomeration of metal and glass that used to be a machine of some type laying at his feet. Something clearly knocked over or dropped from one of the boxes. Probably the one on its side. Did he bump into it or did he lose his hold and drop it? Despite his confusion and the pain throbbing in his skull, Stanford’s mind was already trying to put the pieces together.

None of what he was looking at quite lined up with what he last recalled. Certainly not his surroundings, which seemed to be a dusty room filled with boxes, old furniture, and random junk that had been stashed away to be forgotten. There was no similarity to the converted trawler than he and Stanley had been living on for a few months. But he strongly suspected that the confusion with his current state was likely connected to the broken machine.

“Sweet fancy Moses on buttered toast! That coulda been a disaster if Tate had been in here still. Forgot all about that prototype.” A nervous laugh followed the familiar voice. “A bit ironic, I reckon…”

Fiddleford scurried over to him, giving the broken pieces a thoughtful frown. His beard had been trimmed down to a more manageable length, his new hat and overalls were less threadbare and worn despite being similar in style, and he was wearing a blue-and-white plaid shirt. But still no shoes. Not quite the same as what he used to wear back in college or even those early days working together in Gravity Falls, but certainly an improvement over how his old friend looked during Weirdmageddon. He was proud of Fiddleford making that progress. But his presence didn’t explain how or why Stanford wasn’t on the Stan O’War II.

“But it coulda been a lot worse. At least the only ones in here couldn’t get affected,” he continued. Then, looking up and suddenly squinting suspiciously, Fiddleford asked, “Ya are all right, ain’t ya?”

Hesitating a moment, Stanford admitted, “Physically, I appear to be intact, but I seem to be a little confused. I don’t recall what we were doing in here… or why I am not on a boat with my brother.”

And that made him frown worriedly, peering closely at Stanford while stroking his beard. He even grabbed the taller man’s coat to pull him down to let Fiddleford look him in the eye properly. There was something deeply concerned and possibly guilt-stricken in his gaze as he studied Stanford intently.

“Now don’t take this the wrong way or nothin’ like that,” he said slowly, “and I’m hopin’ I’m wrong ‘cause… But I gotta ask. When exactly do you think this is?”

Swallowing uneasily, Stanford said, “Well, I will admit that it is remarkably easy to lose track of the exact date sometimes at sea, though Stanley and I tried to make certain that we contacted the children every Friday after they are out of class for the day. But I am fairly certain that it is still November.”

Judging by the way that Fiddleford winced and hissed through his remaining teeth, that was the wrong answer. December must have rolled around more quickly than he expected. And from there, he could work out at least some of the sequence of events. They must have returned to Gravity Falls to wait out the worst of the winter weather rather than risk the more hazardous seas. He and Stanley had discussed that possibility some as a potential precaution, but had intended to see how the weather developed as the seasons progressed.

Fiddleford carefully reached for one of the pieces of broken machinery, studied the attached dial, and muttered something that could have been a curse. Then he started herding Stanford towards what looked like a pair of old chairs. He barely reached the closest one before his old friend practically shoved him into it.

Rubbing the back of his neck, Fiddleford claimed the opposite chair. His knee immediately started bouncing. The quirk made Stanford briefly nostalgic; some things never really changed. After a moment, Fiddleford sighed heavily and shook his head.

“I’m awful sorry. That was a prototype of my memory gun. But I ended up startin’ over from scratch ‘cause it wasn’t… It wasn’t very precise. It was for wipin’ out entire stretches of memory instead of specific moments or memories. Just startin’ from the present and going backwards. Couldn’t pick and choose what to get rid of. And it had too much kick to it. Didn’t even get to the testin’ phase once I saw how much power it was puttin’ out. Way too much oomph to be safe. I went back to the drawing board to come up with somethin’ a bit less extreme.”

Frowning, Stanford said, “But I am immune to the effects of the memory gun. We’ve already proven that. The metal plate shields my mind.”

He nearly reached up to rap his knuckles against it as a demonstration. But considering his head still hurt, he decided against the idea.

“Eh, it’s complicated. My memory gun operated by producin’ a wave of radiation strong enough to disassemble the neurological pathways containing memory. I’m immune ‘cause I fried all those pathways too many times and can’t do much more damage to them. You were shielded from the worst of the radiation by the metal plate. It was enough protection for the proper memory gun, but the prototype’s higher output…”

He grimaced guiltily. Fiddleford held up the broken-off piece with a dial.

“It was already a lot stronger. More dangerous. And it looks like it was set at full-power when it went off. Anyone else that was in here when it went off, they’d have their entire life erased and probably a lot more damage too. They’d be lucky to remember how to talk or just about anythin’ else. At best, they’d end up like me at my worst, but instantly instead of takin’ a few years to get that bad. But it sounds like that metal plate still shielded you enough to only lose a little bit.”

“How much?”

“Well, it ain’t November. Right now, you’re back in Gravity Falls for the whole summer with your brother ‘cause the kids are here again. Tate found a few dusty boxes of my old stuff in here that they must have given him when I really went off my rocker. You said you’d help me sort through everythin’ in case any of your old stuff ended up mixed in. But I promise I didn’t know that old prototype was still around. I’m sorry that I got you mixed up in this mess.”

Stanford took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Several months of memory lost. That was a little unnerving. Or very unnerving, if he was honest with himself. It reminded him of Bill toying with his mind, making him briefly forget his mother’s face and his own name, just to prove a point of how much power he had over Stanford. He’d spent too much time unable to trust his own thoughts and mind. Losing his memories even in a limited capacity? He didn’t like it.

But he knew that it wasn’t necessarily permanent. Stanley lost far more than a few months and they’d managed to coax those memories back. He had rare moments when he first woke up where he needed a chance for them to settle back in place and they did occasionally find a missed memory that they hadn’t fixed yet, but it was still a miraculous amount of recovering in a week. The key was exposure to familiar and key visual images to stimulate the damaged neurological pathways. Photographs, videos, important people and places. And the more quickly that they started the recovery process, the more effective and swiftly it would progress. Though Fiddleford was proof that it was possible to recall those lost memories even decades later.

The situation was not ideal, but it was something that could be fixed. It would simply take time and patience. It could have been worse.

Smiling reassuringly at his old friend and trying to sound calmer than he felt, Stanford said, “Mistakes happen. I have caused far worse damage with mine than this.”

“Let me call your brother and tell him what happened. Don’t want to spring all of this on the family without warning. Then I’ll ask Tate about gettin’ a ride back to the Mystery Shack.” Chuckling nervously, Fiddleford said, “It is a lot easier to drive a giant killer robot than a normal pickup truck. I’m still out of practice with that one.”

In an olive-green truck that smelled a lot like lake water and fish, Stanford was wedged in between Fiddleford and his stoic son. He did feel awkward around the fully-grown Tate McGucket. He still felt twinges of guilt about how his invitation to Gravity Falls led to Fiddleford’s eventual mental destabilization and Tate growing up without a sane version of his father. But maybe their relationship had improved in those forgotten memories of the last few months.

The drive was mostly quiet. The only real noise was Fiddleford’s bouncing knee. It had been going almost constantly since they figured out what the prototype had done. The man riddled with anxious energy with nowhere for it to go because he couldn’t fix what happened.

Guilt was contagious.

As they followed the relatively familiar road, the Mystery Shack came into view. And if the warm summer weather didn’t already convince him about how much time had passed, the changes to the building would have done the job. An entirely new addition had been built onto it. There had to be at least a few new rooms, all of them away from the “museum” part of the building. So it wasn’t Soos trying to add extra exhibits. He did it to add more living space.

That would be admittedly handy if Stanford, his brother, and the younger twins had returned to spend the summer once more. The place would begin feeling rather crowded with everyone. And they could certainly use another bathroom.

Almost as soon as Tate parked and they started clambering out of the vehicle, Stanley was already marching off the porch; he’d clearly been waiting there for their arrival. His eyes raked their way up and down his twin. Searching for potential injuries and any sign of recognition. A faint amount of relief filled his expression after a moment. Apparently he was satisfied that Stanford hadn’t lost everything like Stanley did last year.

“What? Did losing memories look like so much fun that you wanted to have a turn too?” asked Stanley.

“I would say that it was not in the original plan when I left earlier,” he said wryly, “but since I no longer remember this morning…”

That made Stanley chuckle roughly and shake his head. It could have been far worse. But he remembered his family. He remembered repairing his relationship with his twin. A few months that they should be able to retrieve was almost nothing to worry about in the grand scheme of things.

Twisting his hat anxiously in his hands, Fiddleford said, “I really am sorry.”

“It’s all right,” said Stanford. “It is better for it to happen to me than anyone else.”

“Don’t worry, Ford.” Patting his shoulder, Stanley said, “You helped me when my head got all messed up. Time for me to return the favor.”

“It shouldn’t be that bad. It was only a few months. I believe that the memory loss only extends back to November.”

“Well, it’s June now. Not even our birthday yet. We can handle that much. I’ll tell ya about some of the supernatural critters that we ran into on our last trip, find some of the papers that you wrote about them so you can read them, see if I can find that picture of the northern lights that looked really nice… Of course, the kids will want to help.” Smacking his forehead, Stanley said, “Right. I told them I’d let them know when you were back so they’d stop hovering so much. Didn’t wanna risk crowding you ‘til I knew how bad it was. It can be a bit overwhelming when your memories are all out of whack. Kids!”

Stanford winced at the sudden shout. Then he heard feet stampeding down the stairs. And the door flew open, Dipper and Mabel practically tumbling out.

But they weren’t exactly as Stanford remembered seeing them last, on a computer screen during the weekly call as they talked about school and poking around Piedmont for potential minor anomalies. They were still easily recognizable. He knew them instantly. But they’d gone through a significant grown spurt. A light dusting of faint acne had spread across their faces in a few places. And they’d gained that awkward stretched-out look where their bodies were growing in uneven ways that would need a few more years to straighten out.

Dipper might still have the trapper hat that the Corduroy girl gave him, but he was wearing a white t-shirt with a blue collar and the same blue pine tree design that matched his old cap. His blue vest was gone. Instead, he wore a red flannel shift unbuttoned and with the sleeves rolled up. He’d also added some muscle mass to his long arms that suggested either Stanley had started teaching him some basic boxing, puberty was being particularly kind to him, or both.

Mabel still wore her colorful sweaters, this one pink with a purple rotary phone on it. But her headbands had been exchanged for a scrunchie to put her hair up in a ponytail. She’d also added some leggings under her skirt, which would probably be helpful whenever she wanted to use her grappling hook. Her quick smile proved that her braces had been replaced by what looked like a removable retainer. And despite the bagginess of her sweater, Stanford could make out hints of curves that his niece didn’t have previously.

Either there had been some rather extreme changes in approximately half a year or they’d aged more than that. Stanford realized belatedly that he should have inquired more into what year it was and not merely the season.

“Grunkle Ford!” they called in unison, twin teenagers abruptly half-tackling him in a hug.

His arms moved up slowly to return the group hug. They could be fourteen or fifteen now. That was a larger gap in his memory than he’d expected. Unease twisted in his stomach. But it was still manageable. And he was certain that Mabel would have a scrapbook available to help.

“I’m all right,” he said softly to them. “I promise that I am going to be all right.”

“You still remember us, right?” asked Mabel, her voice a little unsteady as she buried her face into his shoulder.

They’d gotten so tall. He knew that he didn’t technically miss it, but it felt like he did. He’d missed so much of their lives already. And the situation was clearly already bothering them, reminding them of the aftermath of Weirdmageddon. He needed those memories back.

Giving a sad smile, he said, “It isn’t like what happened with Stanley. It is only some recent memories, not everything.”

Perhaps more memories than expected. But that could wait until he finished reassuring them. They were already understandably anxious. Once they calmed down and everyone was certain that his situation was different than when they nearly lost Stanley, his very identity and sense of self erased, then he could address the issue of the extent of the memories that he needed help retrieving.

He heard the door open again. Stanford managed to look over their shoulders, but immediately frowned as an unknown stranger stepped out of the Mystery Shack.

His first impression was that Soos must have hired a new employee for the Mystery Shack. It was the same dark green question mark t-shirt that Soos always wore, along with a pair of caramel brown cargo shorts and something golden-yellow tied around the waist. A jacket or possibly a hoodie. Stanford couldn’t quite tell how old the stranger was supposed to be though. The lanky, gangly, and awkward limbs that didn’t seem to quite fit the scrawny frame gave the impression of a teenager just a few years older than the twins, but there was something about the face that felt older than that. Maybe thirties or forties?

Unlike most of Gravity Falls, he had more of an olive complexion. One that could point to almost any ancestry or could just be the result of a rather impressive summer tan, making his heritage ambiguous along with his age. But his skin tone did seem to sharply contrast with his mussed blond hair and bright amber eyes, adding to the mystery of his background. But Stanford’s attention was drawn towards the pale scar across his face. Almost white and an inch thick, it came down from under his hairline to go through his left eye, down his cheek, moving diagonally along his neck, and dragging down between his clavicles to vanish under his shirt. He couldn’t imagine what could have caused the injuries, but the wounds must have been serious to leave such a long and wide scar.

Whoever the stranger might be, Stanford could see the tense and uneasy expression on the younger man’s face. He stood at the door, shifting his weight back and forth on his feet as if impatiently waiting for his turn to approach the group. Which might be a while since Dipper and Mabel hadn’t loosened their hug. He dragged a hand through his hair anxiously, drawing attention to the multiple bandages and minor bruises scattered across his tan skin and the glint of a metal bracelet. He kept running his eyes up and down Stanford before flicking away to the surroundings and then returning. Then those amber eyes locked onto a target and filled with rage.

A familiar rage. Familiar eyes. Impossible, but familiar.

“Specs,” spat the gangly stranger. “What did you do to him?”

Stanford stiffened in the tight group hug. Cold dread pooled in his stomach at the voice. Not completely identical because it was limited by human vocal cords, but he would always know that voice. It had haunted his nightmares for decades. He tried to pry himself free as the newcomer leapt off the porch and stomped towards Fiddleford.

But rather than cower, Fiddleford waved off Tate’s concerned hand on his shoulder and drew himself up to his full hunched-over height.

“Now, don’t you start with me, you isosceles nightmare of a nuisance,” said Fiddleford, not backing down as the lanky young man crowded him. And if Stanford had any doubts, they were gone now after that description. “I already know its my fault. But it was an accident. Coulda happened to anyone. And I ain’t puttin’ up with nothing from you after all that trouble ya caused before. So calm down.”

“I am not calming down, you brain-fried madman. If you—"

The rant cut off abruptly as Stanford, having tore away from his niece and nephew, grabbed at his collar to yank him away from Fiddleford. Protecting his old friend from the newly-identified threat. Protecting his family.

Grateful that he clearly hadn’t stopped carrying his laser pistol in the last several months (or more), he jerked it out from his holster and shoved the barrel under the young man’s jaw. Ready to take his head off at the first sign of danger. Only holding back because whatever deluded fool that was being possessed didn’t deserve to die for their mistake. There were shouts of surprise, but Stanford had already dismissed it as unimportant in the face of the more immediate threat. Stanford shoved him against the hood of the truck, pinning him in place as he searched those widened and startled eyes for the final proof in the form of inhuman pupils.

They didn’t seem to be immediately obvious, but he still knew.

“Bill Cipher,” he snarled. “How are you here? Who are you possessing?”

Several emotions quickly flashed across his face. First were confusion, fear, and— laughably— hurt. Then came realization, shock, horror, and anguish. The last emotion one that must be fake because Stanford knew that would require more humanity than he was capable of experiencing.

“Specs,” said Bill quietly, though his wide eyes never left Stanford’s face. “What did you do to him?”

Chapter Text

It was a subtle possession. The amber eyes might be an almost golden shade of brown, but they were still a potential and realistic shade for humans and they weren’t glowing. And he couldn’t spot the telltale sign of the pupils shifted towards a more vertical slit in shape. The usual evidence that Stanford knew to look for were missing.

But he knew. He knew that the lanky young man that seemed to be mostly elbows and knees was Bill Cipher. The voice and something about his gaze were too intimately familiar. Fiddleford’s insult was too specific. And the minor bruises on his knees and spots on his arms, the colorful bandages around a few fingers and on his shins, and maybe even the extensive scar all hinted towards the triangle’s disregard for the well-being of the bodies that he would steal. Stanford knew that the monster had somehow returned and he couldn’t let that threat to his family remain a moment longer.

Bill wasn’t struggling or trying to escape the weapon digging under his chin. But someone was shouting. Several someones. And hands were grabbing at his arms, trying to pry him away. Stanford refused to be swayed. They didn’t understand, but they would. He was doing it to keep them safe.

“Finger off the trigger, Poindexter,” said Stanley, his hand grabbing at the wrist where Stanford gripped Bill’s collar. “Come on.”

“Let go. You don’t understand.” Stanford braced himself against the misguided attempts to stop him. “This is Bill Cipher.”

“We already know that,” said Mabel, a slight hint of confusion in her voice.

Anxious, apologetic, and guilt-stricken as he kept out of the struggle, Fiddleford said, “What in tarnation? This is lookin’ worse than I was thought it was.”

“Grunkle Ford, please stop,” she begged. “It’s not what you think.”

There were too many stubborn hands on him, pulling and prying him away. He couldn’t risk pulling the trigger. Not with so many loved ones in close proximity. The wrong jostle could cause him to fire at the wrong person by accident. But he also couldn’t bring himself to release Bill.

There was no fear for himself; that was something easy to control and he’d spent far too long expecting to die in the eventual confrontation to destroy the dream demon. Controlling his stress responses in the face of a threat was something he’d mastered long ago. But his heart and breathing had certainly picked up the pace when his family was threatened. And Bill’s very existence would always be a threat to them.

He couldn’t let them be hurt. Not again. Never again.

“Ford,” said Stanley firmly. “Trust me. Please.”

His breath caught in his chest. His twin was not one to lightly use that word when they were growing up, too blunt and direct to bother with such niceties. Or maybe he just didn’t like the implications of needing someone else’s help. “Please” was just not in his vocabulary. And from what he did remember of the recent past, that had not changed with age. Using it now was enough to catch Stanford’s attention.

He didn’t want to give Bill even the slightest chance to get away. Every instinct shrieked about the threat. But at his brother’s plea, Stanford took a deep breath and let his family pry him away.

Letting Stanley take away his weapon was more difficult.

“Okay,” said Stanley as the teenage twins dragged Stanford further away from the truck and the still-staring Bill. “I’m gonna guess that you forgot a bit more than what you told me.”

Not looking away from Bill— Stanford wasn’t going to risk him trying anything, even if the ruthless monster was still faking a rather devastated expression on his stolen face— he said, “My last memory was in November. But it is becoming clear that it may not have been last November. The children are older than that.” He let his expression sharpen into a glare at the motionless Bill. “Among other hints.”

“So November 2013?” guessed Dipper. “Further back, you wouldn’t recognize me or Mabel, you would still be mad at Grunkle Stan, and you would think you were still lost in the multiverse. And any sooner, you wouldn’t be surprised about Bill being here.”

Stanford gave a short nod. He’d lost track of the exact year a little while he wandered the multiverse since not all dimensions used the same calendar. But once he was back in his home one, he could at least keep track of the year again even if the exact date was a little more uncertain at times.

Bill’s expression darkened further at the confirmation. Stanford really could not believe that he had returned. And that none of his family seemed overly concerned by his presence. If nothing else, they should be worried about whatever poor and wretched fool allowed that monster to possess his body. Was it someone who already started working at the Mystery Shack or had Bill already been playing the part by the time he arrived? Because the shirt definitely hinted at a connection. A shirt that Bill’s hands moved up to grip with trembling fingers, possibly trying to restrain himself from immediately attacking someone.

The bracelet on his left hand was a little more noticeable when he did that. A smooth bangle, maybe an inch and a half wide and relatively flat. Not tight enough to be uncomfortable or dig into the skin, but tight enough that Stanford wasn’t certain how he would have gotten it on or off when there were no visible signs of a clasp or hinge to open it. Mostly it was the metal itself that was distracting. Mostly a gold-copper color, but there was distinctive molting pattern like rippling water that was so similar to Damascus steel. Within the pattern were hints of a more iridescent silvery color. Unless there had been some interesting advancements in metallurgy in this dimension within the past few decades, he suspected that the odd bracelet belonged to Bill rather than the human that he was possessing.

Which only raised more questions.

“Over two and a half years of memories… I am so sorry,” apologized Fiddleford, shaking his head wearily.

Rubbing the back of his neck, Stanley said, “All right. Ford, let’s go to the living room and we’ll explain what you missed. Mabel, please go find your scrapbooks from the last couple of summers. Dipper, go grab the contract and stuff from my safe. It’ll probably help reassure him.”

“He knows the combination to your safe?” asked Stanford quietly as the pair ran off to follow his directions.

“If he doesn’t, I taught him enough about picking locks that he’ll manage.”

“I’ll go back to the gift shop,” said Bill, his voice subdued and tight. “Melody could use the break. I… I should stay out of the way for now.”

Stanford didn’t want the dream demon around, but he certainly didn’t want him out of his sight. Bill could try anything. But his twin’s hand stayed firmly on his arm. Not trying to stop Bill. There had to be an explanation, but Stanford couldn’t think of any reason why his family would be so calm. He didn’t understand.

Gesturing behind him, Fiddleford said awkwardly, “I suppose Tate and I should skedaddle. Let you get this sorted as a family.” He hesitated a moment longer. “I really am sorry, Stanford.”

Bill didn’t go through the house to reach the gift shop. They would be taking Ford inside to… explain everything. And his presence wouldn’t… help. It was easier for everyone to keep his distance. So he decided to go around the building instead.

He only made it around the corner and out of sight before his legs gave out, causing him to collapse against the building. The world around him blurred as he sank down to the ground. He was breathing far too fast as he swiped at the tears on his face with one hand and tried to yank free his hoodie from his waist with the other. Bill managed to stuff the thick sleeve into his mouth just in time to muffle his scream.

He screamed into the soft material. And if the hoodie wasn’t enough to smother out the noise completely, the sound of the truck starting up and heading back the way that it came certainly would do the job. The hillbilly and his son were just leaving, as if they hadn’t just destroyed everything.

He was going to murder McGucket. He was going to beat his skull in. He was going to pop his eyeballs out with a spork. He was going to rip what was left of his teeth out, tie him to a rock, and toss him in the lake.

It wasn’t fair. How could he ruin everything? This wasn’t supposed to happen. Ford wasn’t supposed to… to….

He’d thought that he’d gotten better at handling the swirling mixture of hormones that came with a human body. It was still intense and excessive, but he’d thought that he’d gotten better about not drowning in them. But this? Bill didn’t have a chance of controlling everything bubbling up.

Bill screamed again into the yellow fabric. It wasn’t fair. He’d worked so hard. Ford was not someone who forgave or offered a second chance lightly. He did not easily trust. Especially someone that had already smashed that trust to pieces. Bill had clawed and fought and struggled to prove that he was trying to change. He slowly managed to earn back some of what he’d lost. They were… It wasn’t the same, but it was something. Maybe even possibly better.

And one misplaced prototype tore away every scrap of progress that he’d made. Gone in an instant.

He had to pull the hoodie away from his mouth. He couldn’t breathe. His chest felt too tight and the tears refused to slow down. Why did emotions have to reduce humans to walking bundles of fluids and goo? Breathing would be much easier if his nose wasn’t clogging up with slime. Or maybe it wouldn’t. His chest felt like it was being crushed. Bill’s hand ended up rubbing it in a futile search for an invisible clamp around him, but could only feel his soft t-shirt and the scars underneath it.

He couldn’t breathe. And the annoying thumping beating against his constricting ribcage and in his head was deafening. Tears kept running down his face. His vision was a blurry mess, but the edges seemed darker than they should be. And all of his limbs were shaking. His human body was betraying him and he despised it, but all that he could think about was that look of absolute fury and hatred of Ford’s face.

A look that he’d hoped to never see again.

It wasn’t fair. He might have settled into a tense truce with the hillbilly, but now he wanted to rearrange McGucket’s face. Because it was his fault that Bill had to start again. And he didn’t know if he would be able to succeed a second time.

He didn’t know how long that he sat there. Nowhere as long as he used to spend in the Solitary Wellness Void. But at least long enough for the tightness to ease to the point where he could breathe. He still felt miserable though. Physically and otherwise. Only when a curious Gompers tried to nibble on his shirt did he wave the goat off and reluctantly pull himself back to his feet.

Rubbing at the leaking tears on his face again, Bill pulled the yellow hoodie on over his head. Letting the oversized piece of clothing engulf him. Mabel always called it “Sweater Town.”

With the hood up and the excessive loose length draping practically to his thighs, it almost gave the illusion of being triangular. That and the color was part of the reason why he had it. He couldn’t make himself flat with three sides. But at least he could look down at himself and see something the right color and roughly the right shape. It helped when everything to do with being reconfigured into being essentially human became too stressful and overwhelmingly wrong.

Ford got the hoodie for him.

That thought only made the tears worse again. He swiped at them once more with his sleeve. Stupid emotional human body. It would be better if he could have stayed mad at McGucket instead of letting everything swirl around too.

“They can fix this,” he mumbled shakily. “They fixed Stanley. And this is Ford. His mind is brilliant and bright and…”

He smiled shakily at the memory of settling into that comfortable spot in that specific brain where he could observe everything. Not just the thoughts, the memories, the dreams, and the knowledge locked up in Ford’s mind. Even the more physical elements. The bright and flashing neurons of his brain and the complicated cocktails of chemicals and hormones that they triggered. The awe-inspiring way those sparks danced across his gray matter in new and beautiful patterns. His mind was fireworks seen through a kaleidoscope. And when he’d been really focused and concentrating on a problem that he wanted to solve, Bill would watch the way his brain lit-up like a star-filled night sky.

His mind had been something special. Bill had always felt a sense of belonging and comfort when he was in there. Ford’s dreamscape had made him feel like he was… More than anywhere else, it had felt like…

Well, it didn’t matter. That was something that Bill would never experience again. It would be out of his reach forever. He would never see those flashing neurons or settle into his welcoming dreamscape ever again. He couldn’t have that any longer.

But he could have something.

“Ford will be back to himself soon. He’ll remember. He has to.”

He dragged his hand through his hair before reaching down to rub at the smooth metal around his wrist. He could handle this. Maybe he couldn’t possibly earn Ford’s trust and forgiveness again. Bill barely managed it before. But the rest of the Pines family wouldn’t let Ford forget all of that forever. They had a tendency to fix things. Ford would remember eventually.

Bill just needed to be patient. Give him time to reclaim his memories. It wouldn’t be forever.

It hurt. Somehow that look of hatred and distrust caused physical pain in his chest that still ached. He didn’t know if it was something that could actually kill humans eventually. How literal was the phrase “broken heart”? Because it did feel like something was damaged in there.

But if he wanted Ford to trust him again, then maybe he needed to trust Ford. He would need to trust that the man would get those memories back. He needed to trust that he hadn’t lost Ford forever. It couldn’t be over.

Ford would stop hating him eventually. He had to.

There were more differences inside the house. Replaced boards on the stairs. Pictures hanging on the wall, the subjects ranging from the younger pair of twins to Stanford and his brother on their boat to what looked like Soos as a toddler. A new coat of paint in the stairway entrance and a less shabby wallpaper in the living room. An oddly floral loveseat crowded in next to the worn armchair.

But the biggest change was that it looked like the renovations and expansion to the entire building had resulted in the reconfiguration of the location to access the basement lab. The entrance had been adjusted to be in the living room rather than behind the vending machine in the gift shop. A rather practical alteration. Ford could certainly understand why they would choose to move it where only the family would be able to use it. There would be no need to be subtle about trying to slip behind the vending machine and avoiding the attention of tourists.

He vaguely wondered if he was the one that suggested the change.

Stanley gestured vaguely at the loveseat while claiming the armchair for himself. He saw his brother sit down heavily and drag a hand down his face wearily. Stanford sank into the sofa cushions while feeling rather awkward. Not to mention the buzz of frustrated energy under his skin, keeping him on high alert. He couldn’t relax while knowing that Bill remained close to his family. He hated knowing the threat was still looming over them despite everything that they’d risked to stop him.

Stanley nearly lost his entire sense of identity and every memory permanently. And it hadn’t even stopped that monster permanently.

“Okay, let’s start with the basics,” said Stanley. “The first thing that I want you to remember, even if you can’t remember everything right now, is that everyone under this roof loves you and wants to help you.” He paused a second. “Well, I’m pretty sure Soos’s grandmother doesn’t love you. She’s apparently immune to the Pines charm. No interest in either of us. Plus, you keep giving her extra work when you drag in mud, leaves, and junk from the woods on your boots. I swear I’ve heard her muttering in Spanish when you do that and while I wasn’t close enough to make out what she said, I know from experience that she mostly does that for death threats.”

“Stanley, focus please.”

“Right. Sorry. So, catching you up then.” He reached up, pulling off his knit hat off his head briefly to run his hand through his hair before replacing it. “The kids are fifteen now. The two of us will be sixty-five soon. We spent about… eight months straight on our boat at sea, having adventures and everything that we talked about growing up. And while it was great, it… it was a lot. We talked and came up with something a bit more reasonable for us. We do better with shorter trips, a few weeks or a couple months at a time, before coming back here. I missed the place and you hadn’t had a place to call home in decades, so yeah, we stay here in between trips at sea. Soos and Abuelita are living here full-time. Melody’s more recent, but she’s here too. The new additions to the Mystery Shack were the best investment ever. We needed more space. And bathrooms. Anyway, most of the year we’ll go out for shorter trips and to investigate whatever new stuff you’ve researched or I thought would be fun to explore. But not in the summer, ‘cause the kids come back to stay until their birthday.”

Eyes narrowing slightly, Stanford said, “As helpful as that might be, I feel as if you are avoiding a far more important subject. Why is Bill Cipher here? In our home, around Dipper and Mabel? How is he here? Who is he possessing?”

“That’s… complicated.” Rubbing the back of his neck, he said, “Remind me. Did Bill already send his stupid scrapbook to you by then?”

“Yes. Another trick. You and the others showed me that it was a desperate ploy for attention and further proof that monster had no power over me or anyone else unless we give it to him.”

Grimacing, he said, “Right. Well, after you tossed it in the Bottomless Pit, it took a while to come back. But it did. With a new addition that finally talked about where he actually ended up after I punched him out of my brain. A place called ‘Theraprism’ that seemed to be somewhere between a prison for weird dimensional monsters and a suffocatingly-cheerful mental institution. And he was supposed to be stuck there forever until he’s ‘redeemed’ enough to be turned into mold spores or something.”

“Sounds like a fate worse than death for him,” said Stanford.

And yes, the words came out a bit more vindictive than he intended. But that reaction was completely warranted after everything that Bill had done. To himself, to his family, to his dimension, and far beyond.

“He definitely hated it. Fought it kicking and screaming for a while. Apparently, time is,” Stanley wiggled his hand vaguely, “wonky there. He was gone a lot longer than it felt for us here. He’s been a bit vague on exactly how long, but he casually mentioned a few thousand years at one point, so it was longer than that.”

“That still doesn’t explain why he’s here.”

Walking into the living room with a stack of papers, Dipper said, “According to the weird glowing orbs that showed up two summers ago, Bill reached a point where he ‘might benefit from the innovative and less structured outpatient program.’ Honestly, it sounded a lot like house arrest when they described it.”

He dropped the paperwork on the T. rex skull that Stanley had been using for a coffee table for years. A quick perusal of the document showed that it seemed to be written in three different languages: English, an unfamiliar script that wasn’t anything used on this version of Earth, and what looked like strings of random colors. As far as Stanford could tell, they likely said the exact same thing and were simply translated into multiple languages so that all parties could be completely certain of what they were signing with minimal chance of misunderstanding. The contract seemed to be mostly a long list of conditions, requirements, responsibilities, and restrictions for all parties involved.

Though even skimming over the contract, the majority of the restrictions and limitations were on Bill Cipher’s behavior rather than anyone else. It was a very detailed document with sections about “compulsory obedience of custodial commands,” “non-optional therapy sessions for progress overview,” “restriction on extradimensional abilities outside of custodian supervision,” “required local dominant species physical embodiment for the extent of the out-patient treatment,” and “consequences for disobedience of established custodial commands.” Stanford would need to read the terms extremely carefully; he needed to know what Bill could do, what he could not do, and what loopholes that he would undoubtedly exploit.

“Bill is supposed to be under the ‘custody’ of someone that fulfills a long list of conditions that makes them qualified to supervise him and ‘guide him through this stage of his atonement,’” recited Dipper, his tone making it clear he was directly quoting either the contract or the person who explained everything when they dropped Bill off. “And apparently, between us being the ones who stopped him during Weirdmageddon and all the stuff you learned in the multiverse, our family qualified. Especially since he has to be in a dimension that he has ‘caused measurable harm, physically or otherwise.’ Not to mention that him not being able to escape Gravity Falls made it a more secure place for him to stay. He’s also supposed to be regularly having an assigned therapist come to check on his progress, but I don’t think they quite get human lifespans. So far, they’ve only shown up once a year. You just missed their last visit a couple of days ago.”

Still looking over the paperwork, Stanford asked, “And why would any of us agree to let him stay? We cannot have been the only people who qualified for their required conditions. I am certain that if they have used this program previously with their patients, they would have considered other prospects before approaching us.”

“Because you were too paranoid to trust anyone else to watch him,” said his brother dryly.

Stanford gave a slow and reluctant nod. When he put it like that, that did sound like the type of reasoning that would lead to him making such a decision. He knew how easily Bill could manipulate and convince people. A moment of weakness and he could be unleashed upon the multiverse once more. It would probably be better to know where Bill. Far better than trusting the willpower of some of unknown person and hope that they weren't tricked. Stanford could understand why they needed to keep the threat close, contained, and carefully watched.

That didn’t mean he was happy about it.

“But the important part to keep in mind is that when they dropped him off, the orb people took steps to ensure that everyone would be safe,” said Dipper reassuringly. “It’s all connected to why he’s human and not possessing anyone.” He gestured towards his wrist. “You saw Bill’s bracelet, right? It’s an orichalcum alloy with some other stuff. Lots of spells attached to it.”

Orichalcum would explain the gold-copper coloration. The metal was good at channeling most forms of energy, including magic. It also held spell-work better than most substances. That meant that someone could add a lot of different spells to whatever they forged the orichalcum into… or they could put a lot more power into those spells than other materials could withstand. The material wasn’t common in their dimension. Otherwise, Stanford would have likely tried to use it in the construction of the portal for various elements. But he’d encountered it a few times over the decades in other dimensions. The particular pattern he’d seen on the bracelet, however, was new. Perhaps the other metal in the alloy was responsible.

Stanford opened his mouth to ask what about the bracelet was intended to do. But there was an odd gnawing feeling of familiarity. Almost a sense of déjà vu. And out of his lingering headache came a brief memory to answer that question.

Chapter Text

“Reconfiguring our patients to match the native dominant species of the dimension that they will be staying in is not the same as proper reincarnation, though I can see how it would appear like that on the surface,” said the glowing orb that seemed to radiate warm and soothing light with every melodic word. “Memories and their sense of identity remains intact. They are merely reshaped into a new form. It causes less stress and fewer problems for the other residents of the dimension if the patient looks similar and not like their former aggressive form. Our intention is to help our patients, but not at the cost of creating more potential victims of their less-than-ideal behavior. Now, the process of integrating them into potentially very foreign forms incompatible with their former bodies and lives can be difficult for some patients. It can also put stress on their soul depending on the extent of the required changes. Normally the extent of his previous damage to his soul and the drastic transformation on a fundamental level required for conversion into your species would disqualify him from the program for his own stability, but we truly do think that the benefits to his spiritual recovery outweighs the risks.”

The way that they pulsed brightly as it spoke cheerfully (and reminded Stanford of a more loquacious version of his kindergarten teacher) gave the impression that the Orb of Healing Light was doing their equivalent of a polite smile. It might have been better in theory to invite the strange interdimensional being inside rather than have the unusual and occasionally aggressively loud conversation on the porch where any random tourist could stumble on them. But even if they’d calmed down enough that the Pines family were no longer yelling or trying to immediately attack, they were going to be continuing the conversation right where they were: outside the Mystery Shack on the porch. Even if it did strongly resemble a showdown at the climax of a western.

On one side, Stanford, his brother, and the barely-unpacked Dipper and Mabel. All four glaring suspiciously while the older twins remained armed with a laser pistol and brass knuckles respectively. Stanford kept his finger off the trigger and the barrel pointed towards the ground, but he could raise it back up again at a second’s notice if necessary.

On the other side of the porch was the floating orb of light that seemed unconcerned by both the weapons and the unease of their audience. Approximately the size of a wagon wheel and floating at face height, they claimed their name was #D-SM5 and that they were a representative from Theraprism. And alongside them was a gangly blond young man in an orange jumpsuit.

Bill Cipher.

Arms crossed, shoulders slightly hunched, and rubbing at his wrist occasionally, he didn’t look like the triangle. But there was something in the way that his gaze kept sweeping over Stanford as if taking note of every detail of his appearance and the way his expression darkened when he glanced at Stanley that made it clear who lurked behind those amber eyes. There might be something more subdued about him than before, his time away clearly having some effect, but Stanford knew in his heart that it was his former Muse. And Bill Cipher was incapable of true change. It was all surface differences, including the withdrawn unease.

“Our patient has finally made enough progress in his karmic rehabilitation that he’s been moved from Maximum Security and allowed a few more options regarding his path towards eventual reincarnation. This option seemed the best suited for his particular unique challenges and resistance earlier in treatment. And when the specific risks for himself due to previous metaphysical damage were explained in detail, he consented with full understanding of the potential consequences, signed a waiver, and an exception was made.” The Orb of Healing Light floated a stack of papers over towards Stanford, followed by a gold-copper bracelet. “But to ensure that our patients are not tempted to indulge in previous bad habits and regress while outside of Theraprism, any participant in the program are required to be outfitted with our carefully-crafted and extensively-tested outpatient bands.”

Tilting her head, Mabel said, “They look like jewelry.”

Finally looking a little more animated and uncoiling from his closed-up posture, Bill stepped forward. He raised his arm and turned the wrist back and forth. Showing off the bracelet. Not a single clasp, hinge, or line to indicate that it could open up. But it also didn’t look like it could be slid off and on, too tight to get over his hand.

“Nice accessory, right?” said Bill, some of his showmanship filling his voice. “It comes with a few tricks. Wanna see?”

He reached for it again and seemed to squeeze the smooth edges of the bracelet. And it abruptly opened up like there was an invisible hinge, letting him pull it off. Bill looked slightly more tense with it off, but kept a wide grin as he brought it up to his neck. And despite the previous size-difference, he snapped it on. The metal went around his throat like a strange necklace or even a pet collar with barely enough of a gap under it to fit a finger. Repeating the previous squeeze of the metal, Bill took the solid piece of metal off again and reached down to clamp it around his ankle. Once more, the band’s size immediately matched the new location. Too tight to come off accidentally and yet loose enough not to cut off circulation or hurt.

“I’m pretty sure I could do the same thing to make it into a ring. Or even a belt, but that might get in the way of how human waists bend,” said Bill before relocating the band to the opposite wrist that it started on. “Only me, someone from Theraprism, or the person wearing the matching bracelet can take it off. But at least I can move it when the mood strikes.”

“That’s amazing. Why can’t more jewelry do that?” she asked.

“But it doesn’t just look fashionable. It’s also functional. Dual purpose bracelet.” Grinning brightly with all his teeth on display while his eyes didn’t quite reflect the cheerfulness of his tone, he said, “Job number one. It works like one of those electrical power converters like they use to turn AC power into DC power so that your hairdryer doesn’t blow up when you travel to a different country. Getting a dead being of pure energy reconfigured into existing properly as a squishy physical human isn’t the same as puppeteering a body. Gotta keep my used and imperfectly-repaired soul communicating with my brand-new body correctly or it’ll keel over. Which even the overly-optimistic Theraprism idiots admit would be bad. That means I’ve gotta keep in contact with the bracelet or else, ensuring that it can also do job number two.”

Bill gestured towards the second bracelet, the one that was sitting on the stack of papers. It was the same general color as Bill’s bracelet. But there wasn’t the distinctive molting pattern to the metal. Instead, Stanford could make out tiny symbols along every inch, inside and out. He couldn’t translate them, but they were written in Fordtramarine and wouldn’t be visible to the rest of his family. Or most of humanity.

Their melodic voice trying to sound reassuring, but mostly sounding condescending, #D-SM5 explained, “To ensure our patients remain under control while under the custody of non-Theraprism staff, many of which are weaker and more vulnerable species from less-advanced dimensions—”

Stanley crossed his arms and rolled his eyes, but Stanford had seen enough over the decades that he couldn’t quite argue with the assessment of his home dimension.

“—and to ensure that everyone remains as safe as possible during the outpatient program, the corresponding custodian band allows the one wearing it to induce obedience of any commands given to the patient. It is a combination of a minor impulse to obey along with positive punishment when resisted. The patient’s free will is not technically hampered, but they are strongly encouraged to take the correct actions.” Still sounding incredibly cheerful and pleasant, they added, “In the case of Patient #323322 and his non-standard abilities, the custodian band extends over that aspect as well. Mr. Cipher is unable to access those powers without a direct command to use them.”

His suspicious expression gaining a hint of thoughtful consideration, Dipper asked, “So if someone is wearing the second bracelet, Bill Cipher has to do whatever they tell him to do?”

“Technically, I can resist if I really want to. Like if you plan to tell me to throw myself off the water tower, Pine Tree,” said Bill with his manic grin still in place, but almost a challenge to his tone. “It will just really hurt.”

“Like… ‘stabbing your arm with forks’ hurt,” he said slowly, “or…”

“Probably closer to… five hundred volts.” Bill turned his strained smile towards Stanford, his face an odd mixture of emotions that seemed to clash. “Theraprism loves having us put ourselves in the mindset of ‘the victims of our past transgressions.’ They aren’t going to pass up the opportunity with this one.”

Stanford’s scowl deepened at the reminder of Weirdmageddon, of being suspended by glowing chains and electrocuted repeatedly. He remembered the pain jolting through him again and again, resigning himself to dying before he would allow himself to give Bill what he wanted. Except Bill found the perfect balance between overwhelming agony and not causing actual harm that might risk killing him.

And maybe there was a rather vindictive part of him that hoped that Bill would have to experience every shock that he gave Stanford and more. If not for Stanford’s sake, then for everything that he put the rest of the family through.

“I still question whether or not this is a reasonable plan,” he said slowly. “And I am not saying that we agree to let him stay. But I suppose there is no harm in reading the terms of the contract before making a final decision.”

He reached cautiously for the second bracelet and the stack of papers—

—but only the contract itself was in his hands. And they were in the living room instead of out on the porch.

“There was… a second bracelet,” said Stanford slowly. “Wasn’t there?”

His expression lighting up, Dipper said, “That’s right. You remembered. It’s working already.”

“And it allows someone to control Bill Cipher.”

“Exactly. Which is why we weren’t too worried about him being around at first. The weird orb people left us a bit of a security measure when they dropped him off. And he can’t use any of his powers without the person wearing the bracelet telling him too. Plus, apparently it’s harder for him to do stuff as a human instead of a ‘being of pure energy,’ so even if he could use his powers, it’ll wear him out pretty fast. All of that makes him a lot less dangerous than he used to be, so you don’t have to worry, Grunkle Ford.”

Checking his own wrists in case he’d missed it previously somehow, he asked, “And where is it currently?”

“Oh, uh… I don’t actually know. We haven’t really needed it for a while. You put it away somewhere.”

Stanford was about to ask why he would do something like that when they obviously needed to keep any potential safety measures close. They’d clearly gotten too complacent somehow. He was extremely disappointed in himself for lowering his guard when there was a threat living under the same roof as him and his family. They needed to keep that bracelet close. They needed a way for his family to protect themselves if and when Bill decided to make his move or retaliate.

But before he could ask, Mabel came bounding down the stairs with her collection of scrapbooks.

“Sorry that took so long,” she said cheerfully. “Waddles was napping on my ‘Birthday Celebrations in Gravity Falls’ scrapbook and it took a while to find it.”

“You have a scrapbook specifically for birthdays spent in Gravity Falls? You’ve only been here for three birthdays,” said Stanley.

“Duh. It’s not just mine and Dipper’s birthdays. You and Grunkle Ford had birthdays too. And Soos since he doesn’t hate them anymore. Which meant lots of good pictures.” Mabel dropped on the loveseat and nearly buried herself into Stanford’s side, opening to an apparently random page in the middle. “Here’s our fourteenth birthday party. That was a fun one.”

Stanford looked at the photographs that she was cheerfully indicating. They weren’t particularly familiar. But when they started showing Stanley various pictures and such, not all of them immediately sparked a memory. Some took longer or had a delayed reaction. As far as they had been able to work out, some memories worked better when they didn’t push too hard and just let them spark naturally. But something in the photo did make him pause.

“What are you unwrapping in that photograph?” asked Stanford.

“Pink brass knuckles shaped like kitty-cats,” she said cheerfully, pulling them out of her sleeves and slipping them on her hands.

They did mostly look like bright and colorful brass knuckles. Not too dissimilar to the more traditional ones that his twin kept tucked away. But there were a pair of sharp spikes that did rather strongly resemble cat ears. Mostly though, they would cause some extra damage when landing a punch.

He did briefly wonder why she didn’t end up with some type of projectile weapon so she could protect herself at a distance. Stanford was fairly certain that he could put together a low-power laser pistol that would be easy for them to maintain and repair without much effort. Except as he considered it—

“Yeah, considering how much their parents bit my head off about the pig and the grappling hook, I don’t think that giving them sci-fi guns is the best idea,” said Stanley, wrestling with the wrinkled wrapping paper and tape. “At least wait until they’re sixteen. If they’re old enough to drive without having to lie to the cops about it, then they should be old enough to hide their weapons properly. Until then, let’s stick to stuff that won’t blast a hole in a wall. Now help me and start wrapping Dipper’s pocket knife.”

—Stanford abruptly realized that they’d discussed the idea and decided against it. Another snippet of memory. Shorter than before, but at least they were coming back.

Chuckling proudly, Stanley said, “Both of them turned out to be decent at throwing a punch once they got some pointers. I doubt either of them would be heavy-weight champions, but you’ll be impressed once you remember, Poindexter. But Mabel is the more dangerous opponent. No one ever expects the nice ones.”

“Pow pow pow,” she said, throwing some fake jabs. “Meow pow.”

Stanford smiled at her enthusiasm. That clearly hadn’t changed in the timeframe that he’d forgotten. He appreciated that small constant.

That smile faded as he spotted a lanky blond in the background of the next photo. As if Bill Cipher had any right to be near his family, inserting himself into personal moments. As if he deserved to be part of their lives.

Pushing open the swinging door to the gift shop, Melody stepped out and asked, “Anyone want to tell me why Bill crawled in looking like someone died?”

Stanford couldn’t say that he was extremely familiar with Melody. Mostly he’d glimpsed her when Stanley talked with Soos over the computer the same way that they’d both contact the younger twins. He did recognize her face. The same light tan, wavy light brown hair pulled into a loose ponytail, and pink lip gloss despite the time that had passed. But there was a rather drastic change to her figure. The type of change that Stanford was raised to believe was rude to inquire about directly unless the lady brought it up first.

“Oh, right,” said Stanley. “Another important update, Ford. Soos and Melody got married a little over a year ago and they’re expecting a kid by the end of summer. I have a feeling that when we’re not at sea, we’re gonna get conned into babysitting.”

“Right… Like you’re not looking forward to it. Assuming either of you can prove that you can be responsible enough to watch a baby.” Crossing her arms, Melody said, “But you still haven’t answered my question.”

“Old Man McGucket accidentally erased Grunkle Ford’s memories of the last two and a half years,” said Dipper with a tired sigh. “He didn’t react well when he saw Bill. Guess Bill isn’t reacting great either.”

Giving Stanford a vague shrug, his brother said, “So turns out sticking him in a human body with all sorts of squishy bits and hormones and stuff makes his feelings stronger than they were when he was a triangle. Stronger and…”

“More volatile?” suggested Dipper.

“Exactly. He has a harder time with them sometimes.” Stanley nodded briefly. “Basically, he’s got the emotional control of a teenage girl.”

“Hey,” complained Mabel, glaring at her grunkle sharply. But after a moment of consideration, she blinked and admitted, “No, you’re right.”

There was another flicker of something familiar—

“Whoever used the last of my shampoo is gonna be flayed alive!” shrieked Bill, his voice filling most of the shack.

Stanford was nearly knocked off his feet as Dipper dashed into the hallway. The boy gave him a semi-panicked look before sliding his fingers across his mouth in a gesture of zipping them shut. Stanford gave him a short nod in response; he didn’t see a thing and had no idea where his nephew might be.

Pausing only for a second to offer a grateful smile, Dipper took off running again.

—but it was also just a short snippet without much context.

After a moment, Mabel sighed, gave Stanford a tight squeeze around the middle, and slid back off the loveseat. She offered a small apologetic smile

“Okay, I am turning scrapbook duty over to Dipper. I’m be back in a few minutes,” she said.

The moment that he realized what she was doing, Stanford surged to his feet and grabbed for her arm. His worry and frustration with the entire situation immediately spiking. Along with a reasonable amount of paranoid protectiveness. His family had grown too complacent and perhaps he had as well. But that was over now. Bill would always be a threat. The lack of powers and a bracelet to control him was not perfect protection. Especially when Stanford had clearly lost his mind by not keeping it close at all times. They needed to remain on guard.

He wouldn’t let his family make the same mistakes and suffer the way that he did.

“Perhaps it would be best if you stayed here, my girl. And I would recommend no one else be alone with him either. Bill Cipher doesn’t need his powers to trick and manipulate people.”

“Grunkle Ford, you don’t need to worry about that. I promise.” Mabel gave him a sad smile. “And when you get all of your memories back, you’ll feel a lot better.”

Stanford wanted to argue further. But he saw the colorful brass knuckles still on her hands and considered that his family managed to survive Bill’s company this long. He didn’t like it. In fact, he hated the very idea of any of his family in close proximity to Bill. If it was up to him, he would send Bill Cipher back to that Theraprism in an instant—

A possibility to research when he had a chance to look over the contract properly.

—but he needed to at least accept that he was still catching up on the circumstances. Rash decisions could lead to unforeseen issues. He would try to trust his family’s judgement until he could get a better idea of the situation. For now.

Besides, Mabel wouldn’t be that far away and she could always knock Bill’s teeth out.

“Five minutes,” he said reluctantly, letting go of her arm and forcing himself to sit back down. “Any longer and I am coming after you.”

Rolling his eyes, Stanley said, “Yeesh. Forgot how paranoid you were when they first dumped him here, Sixer.”

“All right… You guys can figure out... whatever all this is,” said Melody, gesturing vaguely at everyone in the living room. “I currently have a baby playing soccer with my organs and have dibs on the bathroom.”

Mabel was not overly surprised to see Bill wrapped up inside his oversized hoodie. Like a bright yellow lump perched behind the counter. Firmly a resident of Sweater Town. The hood was pulled all the way up until almost nothing could be seen. If it wasn’t for the long limbs like a human spider, she wouldn’t have any way to identify him.

She crept quietly over to him. But Bill didn’t even react and they’d always gotten along. At least they did after they managed to get past that awkward “he manipulated her, tried to take over the dimension, threatened her family, trapped her in Mabeland, and nearly killed her” situation. They’d watched too many movies as “empathy practice” and worked on too many art projects of various mediums not to develop something resembling a bond.

But that clearly wasn’t going to be enough while he was wallowing in his misery. Direct methods were clearly required. Mabel finally reached over to poke him.

“Boop,” she whispered.

Bill reluctantly raised his head and she fought the urge to wince. Melody wasn’t kidding. He was a mess. His eyes were bloodshot and his face was blotchy. There didn’t seem to be any tears currently, but it was obvious that they were falling not that long ago.

“You look like a guy in need of Mabel Juice to drink your troubles away.”

That earned the faintest snort of amusement and a ghost of a smile. Mabel mentally patted herself on the back.

“I’d say that I need something stronger than that,” he said wryly, “but I think adding alcohol would actually lessen the potency of that stuff.”

Smiling encouragingly at him, she said, “Look, I know it seems bad now. But Grunkle Ford is already starting to remember a few things. It won’t be long before everything is back to normal. Trust me. I’ve got experience with this stuff.”

“I hope so…”

“And then I’ll invite all my friends over,” she said hurriedly, trying to combat the darker tone in his voice, “and you can join us for a slumber party. We’ll sing songs, play games, overdose on sugar, do makeovers on each other, read the different magazines that Pacifica brings over…” She nudged him. “Come on, Bill. You love a good party.”

“I appreciate the gesture, Shooting Star. And I’m sure that I’ll have loads of fun.” Rubbing at his wrist wearily, he said, “But… But right now… You saw how he looked at me…”

She patted his hand and said, “I know. It was hard when Grunkle Stan looked at us and didn’t recognize anyone. It hurts when you care about them so much, but they have no idea who you are.”

“That might be easier. It might be easier if Ford had no idea who I was instead. Just a completely fresh start,” he muttered, wrapping his arms around himself. “That would hurt, him not knowing me. But it would be easier to start over from the very beginning than trying to make him forgive me again.”

“Try to be positive, Bill. Me, Dipper, and the others are going to help him remember everything. He won’t have to forgive you again because he’ll remember that he already did.” She straightened up. “Just watch. I’ll remind him of everything that he forgot about how you’ve changed. I’m a pro at jogging memories by now.”

“I know.” Bill chuckled roughly, a rather hurt and miserable sound. “The Pines family don’t give up. It’s just hard right now.” He waved vaguely at her. “Go on, kid. Time to go work those miracles of yours. Question Mark will probably be finishing the current tour and bringing them in here soon. Gotta sell those idiots some trinkets.”

Chapter Text

Despite trying his best so spark further memories as he stared at photographs of everyone eating cake and the Mystery Shack covered in various configurations of decorations depending on the specific birthday being celebrated, Stanford kept mental count of the passing seconds. Because he had no intention of leaving Mabel alone with Bill for a moment longer than they’d agreed. And judging by the way that Dipper kept glancing at him out of the corner of his eye, his tension was noticeable.

But then Mabel came back through the swinging door. With forty-six seconds to spare. And Stanford immediately felt some of the tightness in his chest ease.

Not all of it. That wouldn’t fade until Bill Cipher was no longer under the same roof as his family.

“Well,” said Dipper, pulling up a different scrapbook, “maybe the birthdays are too similar and blur together. Let’s try a different holiday. There’s a pretty good Summerween picture that I remember…”

Judging by the way that Stanley immediately started chuckling, he knew exactly what Dipper was talking about. Stanford waited as they flipped through the pages. Eventually he stopped and pointed at a picture.

Perched on the stairs was Dipper and Mabel. His nephew was wearing a red turtleneck, a strap slung across his chest, a tan coat, gloves, and sturdy boots. Mabel was wearing a black suit, a red string tie around her neck, a very familiar red fez, an eight-ball cane, and an eyepatch. Both of them were grinning and posing together.

Stanford stared at the picture for a moment before laughing. He couldn’t believe it. They were dressed as—

“Twin costumes!” announced Mabel, her arm slung around her brother’s shoulder. “Literally!”

Because that was exactly who they looked like. Mable was dressed as Stanley in his Mr. Mystery outfit. And when Dipper pulled his gloved hands out of his pocket with his sister’s grappling hook (slightly safer than the magnet gun), it was eerily like looking in a mirror.

“I am impressed,” he said with a nod of approval. “I almost regret never participating in the local tradition of Summerween previously. It seems to have some intriguing elements to the celebration. Jack-o-melons. Horror movie marathons.”

“Free candy?” said Stanley, raising an eyebrow.

His brother’s costume was less creative in comparison to their niece and nephew. Greenish face paint and dark circles under his eyes, he called himself a zombie. Stanford had started noting the inaccuracy of the details until his twin reminded him that he knew exactly what zombies looked like and didn’t want to risk getting mistaken for a real one. And perhaps it was safer to sacrifice strict accuracy to avoid the possibility of a headshot.

“There is nothing wrong with enjoying the occasional treat in the name of participating in the cultural celebration for the region,” he said, tucking his hands behind his back.

“And it has nothing to do with your sweet tooth,” he teased.

Smiling, Mabel said, “We still need a picture for the scrapbook. Then we’re going for some early trick-or-treating before the Summerween party.”

“Costumes mandatory this year for the party,” added Dipper. “With a contest of the best ones.”

“Mostly ‘cause we told Robbie he wouldn’t be able to beat us and he took it as a challenge,” she giggled.

He smiled at them. Based on his childhood memories, Halloween trick-or-treating tended to taper off by the time that children reached thirteen. And those that continued did less “go to different homes to get candy” and went straight to “decorate people’s homes with eggs and toilet paper” instead. But if Mabel and Dipper still wanted to have at least a little bit of childhood fun, especially after the traumatic events from the end of last summer, Stanford was not going to argue. Nor if they wanted him and Soos to accompany them on the earlier portion of the evening before the party with their friends.

There was no need for them to grow up so fast. Let them be young while there was still time.

A knock at the door followed almost immediately by the doorbell. Stanley instantly got a mischievous grin as he picked up the waiting bowl of candy. It was actually rather nice to see his brother so excited about the holiday.

Though Stanford was a little uneasy about some of the… details.

“Places, everyone,” he cackled. “Time to cause some serious trauma for children.”

He opened the door to reveal a young boy wearing a cowboy outfit. He held up his jack-o-melon bucket, unconcerned about Stanley’s zombie costume.

“Twick-or-tweat! My name’s Gorney!” he called cheerfully.

Stanford heard something jump on the porch behind the child. The boy jumped slightly at the sound before slowly turning around. There was a thin figure with long limbs in a patchwork jacket, a broad hat, and a grinning yellow mask. The rest of the head and the exposed hands seemed to be a dark purple. Crouching down and leaning in close, the stranger reached for the boy.

“The Summerween Twickster! Don’t eat me again!” As the fingers wrapped around the cowboy vest, Gorney immediately slipped out of the costume to escape. “No candy is worth it!”

As the child took off, fleeing into the night while abandoning his previously collected candy, the lanky figure started cackling. His gloved hand pushed off the dark purple hood and the yellow mask enough to expose Bill’s scarred face. And he looked like he was about to tumble over from laughing.

“I still highly protest this entire idea,” said Stanford dryly.

Still chuckling to himself over the prank, Stanley said, “Oh, lighten up. He’s not gonna hurt anyone. I’ve got him on a short leash if he tries to go too far.” He tapped the bracelet that he’d borrowed for the night. “And kids are getting harder to scare. I figure that between me and the stretched-out former triangle, everyone in Gravity Falls will be traumatized by morning.”

“Come on, Sixer. This it the most fun that I’ve had in ages,” cackled Bill. “I mean, it’s not exactly drinks and karaoke, but it beats out group therapy.”

Stanford glared at Bill for a little longer. He didn’t like it. But in the weeks since his arrival, Bill had admittedly behaved somewhat better than Stanford would have predicted. Which did make him suspicious. He still hadn’t identified Bill’s current goal or what he hoped to accomplish by participating in the “outpatient program.” Because he knew that there had to be a hidden agenda.

But he knew it was hard to trick his brother… and there was nothing wrong with allowing Bill to contribute to the culturally-encouraged night of chaos and fear… Just as long as he remained supervised and relatively contained within the Mystery Shack with Stanley.

“Grunkle Ford,” said Mabel, tugging his arm. “Where’s your costume? You’ve got to get in the holiday spirit.”

Glancing down at his nicest turtleneck and tan coat, he said, “I am wearing my costume. I am going as Carl Sagan.”

“Not as good as a zombie,” muttered Stanley.

“Hey, Dudes,” called Soos from the other room. “Check this out. Couldn’t decide between a skeleton and a vampire.”

He came into view wearing a cape and fake fangs, but also a black shirt with a ribcage printed on it. There was also makeup to make his face look like a skull. Not the most accurate or realistic costume, but certainly an interesting glimpse into the young man’s thought process.

Chuckling, Dipper said, “Nice one, Soos.”

“A skeleton vampire. A skele-pire!” declared Mabel, beaming brightly.

“And when it drains the victim’s blood, you’ll see it splatter all over its ribcage as it immediately pours onto the ground,” said Bill with rather morbid enthusiasm.

“…Well, that got dark fast,” said Dipper.

Shrugging, Stanley said, “Eh, its Summerween. What do you expect?”

His laughter dying down, but still smiling, Stanford said, “I was Carl Sagan, Stanley dressed as a highly inaccurate zombie, and Soos was… a skele-pire.”

“Yes,” cheered Mabel, wrapping a hug around his middle. “That’s right.”

He didn’t mention Bill or his role in the memory. If he had his preference, he would ignore that part. He didn’t want to think about him during what had been a happy and fun moment with his family. At least he was still suspicious of Bill in that memory. He hadn’t let down his guard at that point. It was reassuring to know that he didn’t immediately give in despite being a well-established Cipherholic. He’d tried to resist. He’d remembered that he was a threat.

Stanford reached up to remove his glasses briefly and pinched the bridge of his nose. The headache was getting annoying. Did Stanley’s head bother him this much while he was trying to reclaim his memories? Or maybe it was the prototype being less precise than the later model that was to blame? Or maybe the surgery to install his metal plate made the post-memory erasure pain more persistent? Regardless, it was frustrating. He'd certainly dealt with far worse pain before, but that didn’t make it any less irritating.

“You doing all right there, Ford?” asked Stanley.

“You mean other than not remembering most of the last couple of years?” he snapped slightly.

And finding out that Bill was staying around his family. That was not helping his stress level at all. Because what he hadn’t forgotten was Bill threatening to murder Mabel or Dipper, playing a childish game to decide which. And he hadn’t forgotten the weight of the memory gun in his hands as he pressed it to his brother’s head nor the complete lack of recognition in his eyes afterwards.

Though that did remind Stanford that he shouldn’t be taking out his frustration on Stanley. His brother had lost far more than a couple of years when he experienced the same thing. He knew how disorienting and uncomfortable it was to try piecing everything back together, a few snippets at a time as everyone tried to spark those lost memories.

“I apologize. That was… inconsiderate of me,” he said. “I have a slight headache, but you didn’t deserve that tone.”

“I get it. Better than anyone here.” Nodding thoughtfully, Stanley suggested, “How about a break? Splash some water in your face and catch your breath a bit. I’m sure that Abuelita will be cooking dinner soon. We can try some more after that.”

Stanford gave him a smile of relief. He did appreciate the idea of resting a moment. It was not exactly the same as some of the all-nighters that he’d pulled off during college in order to graduate early or even the even longer hours that he spent working obsessively on the portal for “his muse.” He didn’t need to push himself. There was no deadline or test looming over him.

Yes, he would need a great deal of studying; photographs and scrapbooks rather than textbooks, but it was still the same concept. But he could take his time. He didn’t have to be perfect. His family would understand and be patient, giving him any help that he needed.

Learning to relax and trust that other people could handle things instead? That was something that Stanford had been working on while he and his brother were sailing the ocean together.

“Good idea,” said Mabel. “That’ll give us some time to plan out the best photos for this instead of jumping around randomly. We’ll do some reorganizing.”

No one could ever claim that she wasn’t enthusiastic and optimistic. Her previous worries hidden behind a confident and reassuring smile. That part of her hadn’t faded away with age. Stanford gave her a brief hug before slowly detangling himself from her and Dipper while trying not to dump the scrapbooks on the floor. But before he walked away, he paused.

“I know that there have been renovations since—”

“You still stay in your old room,” confirmed Stanley.

Another constant that he appreciated. With so many changes, it was good to know that not everything was different. Though it wouldn’t have been his first time that he needed to refamiliarize himself with a complete transformation of the building. This was easier than his return after several decades.

The Mystery Shack was admittedly not laid out in the most logical fashion. Stanford could admit that. It was a combination of his original design for the cabin that he put together as he came up with ideas about what he needed (almost forgetting the kitchen, causing him to squeeze it in at the last moment), the adjustments to his original plans that were made during construction to accommodate reality when his lack of education about architecture caused problems (or when someone realized that he forgot to add bathrooms at some point), and then thirty years of work by Stanley trying to make the place livable for him. There were mazes of hallways and numerous rooms tucked away. No wonder his brother ended up easily sealing several rooms over the years. When he returned through the repaired portal, Stanford could barely navigate his old home.

This time, his feet led him straight towards the short stairway that twisted around to where the rather elaborately-carved door was tucked between two shelves. Cleaned up and neater than he remembered, but that was probably a side effect of Abuelita living under the same room.

Taking a deep breath, Stanford tried to prepare himself for any changes and opened the door.

The general structure remained the same. A fireplace and mantle on the far side of the room. A small private washroom tucked to the left. The sloping ceiling. The exposed wooden beams in the corners. The kerosine lamp on the wall next to the washroom. The rectangular stained-glass window composed of colorful circles.

Some objects had disappeared in the interim. His experimental electron carpet, though he had rolled it up at some point anyway. The boards that had been sealing of the fireplace were gone. A yellow chair that used to sit in the corner, now replaced by a wardrobe. A formerly haunted portrait of a woman no longer hung on the wall. And the worn couch was gone.

In its place was an actual bed. The modest headboard right below the window, slightly resembling the carvings on the door. A couple of pillows and a few quilts were neatly arranged on the mattress. There was a faint scent of detergent, so the sheets and possibly even the blankets must have been freshly laundered.

There was something almost reassuring about the idea of having his own bed. Stanford could barely remember when he last experienced such comforts. The couch was functional, but this was different. More welcoming. A safe and warm space where he didn’t have to be on alert for threats. Everything soft and soothing. Solitude, but in a good way. He hadn’t even filled it with symbols of his “Muse” back in the day. He wanted to let himself relax in this private sanctuary, untouched by Bill’s presence.

Stanford was so tired from the long day that he didn’t even register the flickering light under the door. Not until he tried to go into his room. A warm and rather pleasant fire crackled quietly in the fireplace. It cast a warm glow that was only magnified by the tri-mirror reflecting the light around further. That was an almost pleasant surprise after a particularly long and cold day. There was nothing wrong with such creature comforts after spending decades without any reliable form of stability.

The less welcoming surprise was the lanky figure sitting on the foot of the bed. Showing a lot more skin and wearing far less clothing that normal.

Bill, despite the first impression when Stanford walked in and froze, was not technically naked. But the black silk boxer shorts— Bill didn’t go shopping in town very often, so they were most likely stealthily purchased during a trip to mall with Mabel that past summer— did not provide much coverage. Especially with the way that he sat there, legs slightly crossed, hands lightly folded on his lap, and his upper body turned just slightly towards the door so that he was posed like an old-fashioned pin-up model. The flames from the fireplace made the bracelet on his wrist shine and there was enough light to trace the extensive pale scar the rest of its way down his thin frame, beyond what was normally visible. It stretched its way down his sternum like an autopsy incision before forking, one running along the bottom of his ribcage towards his right side and the other cutting a jagged path to his hip on the same side. The other scar on the left side of his chest was much shorter and still red.

Everything from his lack of clothing to his provocative pose was clearly designed to intrigue, excite, and attract attention of a very specific nature. It was deliberately done and very obvious about the intended effect. But it was also Bill Cipher and nothing could be taken for granted. So despite there being a mostly naked man sitting on his bed in the middle of the night, he had to ask the rather obvious question. Mostly because, for one of the few times in his life, Stanford Pines wanted to be wrong.

“What do you want, Bill?” asked Stanford, keeping the uncertainty and unease out of his voice as he moved further into the room.

“No, what is it that you want? That is the question, Fordsy.”

He smiled and blinked slowly. Bill had apparently decided that the occasion warranted using his small make-up kit— a gift from Melody and carefully saved for days it wouldn’t be wasted on “tourists that don’t deserve it or other unappreciative audiences”— because his pale eyelashes were darkened and lengthened with mascara. Stanford could also see black eyeliner and even a faint hint of glittery gold eyeshadow. It was as if Bill was trying to recapture at least an echo of his former appearance.

“You no longer care about fame, fortune, and the accolades from your peers,” said Bill, his voice low and quiet. Practically tempting Stanford to come closer to hear rather than edging around the perimeter of the room. “You wouldn’t trust any knowledge that I might offer.”

As Stanford stopped so that he was facing the foot of the bed directly, Bill began unfurling from his previous pose. Uncrossing his legs and letting them slide open as he leaned backwards, his arms supporting him on the mattress as he made it easy to see every inch of his body. The presence of the black boxer shorts did little to disguise the blatant attempt at seduction as he displayed himself.

“I can’t give you power, riches, or a galaxy of your own. Not anymore.” His grin widened slightly. “So I’m going back to the basics. And by that, I mean humanity’s most base desires. You might be different from anyone else in this primitive dimension, but that doesn’t mean you don’t have the same foundation.”

Stanford shook his head violently, trying to banish the fragment of memory. Far too vivid. As if the scent and warmth of the fire were almost real enough to wrap around him. As if the far-too-human-looking Bill was still sprawled on his bed. Grinning as he tried tempting Stanford into…

He staggered into the small washroom and slammed the door shut. Blocking out the entire scene. Putting down the lid so he could collapse on it, burying his face in his hands. Breathing shakily as the entire sequence of events tried to sink in. Angry, confused, and unnerved.

He didn’t want any part of what he just remembered. It wasn’t merely that Bill’s human form seemed relatively masculine in structure, though that would have once been enough to upset him; even the possibility would have undoubtedly been enough to get him thrown out of the house as a teenager. Some differences were too much to accept during those days and everyone had at least heard of someone being disowned for that. It was simply not an acceptable option back then. And he could reluctantly admit that his failed attempts at connecting with girls might have been partially designed to keep rumors from developing. He’d already attracted enough attention for his oddities without giving people a chance to make other assumptions. But as much as part of him might have craved human connection (while denying it even to himself), his interests had never truly laid towards that particular form of “connection.”

Women, men, interdimensional beings of genders and sexes beyond human comprehension. It didn’t matter. Stanford had no desire for that particular form of intimacy.

Not that he hadn’t eventually… experimented a few times. Thirty years traveling the multiverse was a long time, some dimensions treated sex as a casual form of greetings the same way that others would treat a handshake, and he couldn’t truly consider himself a scientist without running tests. And yes, the act was relatively enjoyable and caused a pleasant mixture of chemicals to flood his brain. But there was no form of attraction or desire for it. And certainly not with a specific entity. There were easier ways to stimulate the pleasure centers of the brain that didn’t require the use of a partner. The offer of sex would never interest him enough to serve as a potential motivation for anything.

When Bill offered to have sexual intercourse, attempting to use his new humanoid shape to provoke some form of attraction and arousal, Stanford wanted to believe that he rejected the idea and threw him out of the room. He certainly hadn’t shot Bill for his brazen act, which was what he felt like doing currently. Not necessarily lethally…

He wanted to believe that his past self was wise enough to turn him away. There certainly hadn’t been any feelings of arousal or abrupt attraction in those memories, indicating that Stanford suddenly changed in the last couple of years or been drugged with some form of aphrodisiac during that encounter. But there had also not been the feelings of hatred and fury that should have been triggered instead.

Stanford couldn’t help worrying that his past self had been falling under Bill’s sway. He clearly made foolish decisions in the past by hiding the bracelet. What else had he done to indulge that monster?

If nothing else, the memory proved one thing above all else. Bill Cipher hadn’t changed. That memory showed Bill trying to manipulate him. He wanted something from Stanford. He was trying to bargain. Trading sex might be crude and clumsy compared to his past offers and manipulations, but he was still the same Bill Cipher. Dangerous and untrustworthy.

Stanford stood up and reached for the sink, splashing cold water in his face. Maybe the accident was a good thing. He could see Bill as he truly was again. No longer blinded by… whatever caused himself to lower his guard. Stanford was alert and paying attention once more. He knew that Bill was still a threat and if his family refused to remember that, he would have to be extra vigilant. He wouldn’t be manipulated and tricked anymore. He would figure out Bill’s ultimate goal, stop it, and keep those that he loved safe.

He wouldn’t fall for the innocent act again. He might be a Cipherholic, but he refused to fall off the wagon again. He would be stronger than his past self. He would remain firm.

Clearly killing Bill wasn’t enough to stop him— though Stanford would be more than happy to test that again— but he could at least ensure that he failed in his goal. Whatever he was attempting to do, convincing the Theraprism to allow him to come back to this dimension, he would not succeed. Stanford would make certain of that.

Retrieve the bracelet to regain full control over Bill. Search the contract for any potential ways to get rid of Bill permanently. And continue to reclaim the memories of the last two and a half years that he spent with his family.

Stanford always preferred to have a well-established plan in place.

Chapter Text

Dipper expected dinner to be an awkward affair. Mostly because everything had been tense, stressful, and at least somewhat uncomfortable since Grunkle Ford made it back to the Mystery Shack. Memory loss was not a fun topic for any of them. He hadn’t lost everything. But there was enough missing that Dipper had been mentally noting every minor hint of what was gone until his grunkle stepped away.

Most of the pictures were met with polite interest, but only occasionally seeming to cause him to remember the captured moment. There was a slight widening of his eyes when Ford would glance at Dipper or Mabel, clearly still partially expecting to see the thirteen-year-old versions of them. And there was a tension that had nothing to do with the scrapbooks or the changes to the house.

Dipper completely understood. It wasn’t exactly like he’d been thrilled when their family ended up as custodians for the evil tyrant triangle that tried to murder all of them at some point. The memories of having his body stolen or nearly being crushed to death with Mabel were practically etched in his skull. Dipper had been extremely suspicious of their houseguest for quite a while. And he admittedly might have been too enthusiastic to use the control bracelet; it wasn’t as bad as the mind-control necktie, but it probably fell under the same “morally questionable” category.

But he could admit that Bill seemed to be trying to be less horrible, though not always succeeding to be what could be considered “good.” And if Dipper wanted to be honest, technically Gideon tried to kill him personally more times than Bill did and they’d invited the kid to their birthday party at the end of summer. So it wasn’t like he was the first enemy to make an effort.

A version of Bill stuck as a nearly-powerless human that tended to bang his shins, elbows, and knees on everything because he couldn’t remember how fragile his body was now, kept stumbling on the stairs at least once a week because sometimes the depth perception from two eyes threw him off a little, and tried to hide a few panic attacks when not being a flat triangle got to him too much? That sort of thing reduced the obvious threat level quickly.

Then there had been a few other things that happened and Dipper eventually had to accept that Bill didn’t have revenge or conquest on his mind. He agreed to the outpatient program, with all its restrictions and risks, for a much simpler reason. Bill and Dipper weren’t going to ever be best friends (Wendy would always have that title), but they had settled into a relatively peaceful truce.

But as Bill shuffled out of the gift shop, drawn in by the smell of Abuelita’s cooking, Dipper knew that it was about to be extremely awkward. Because his grunkle didn’t remember getting past that initial suspicious stage of having Bill around. Dipper delayed and took his time, procrastinating what he needed to do. Trying to give everyone else a chance to start eating her arroz con pollo. But eventually he still had to go retrieve his grunkle.

It took a moment for him to respond when Dipper knocked. And then there was that split second look of sad surprise when Ford opened the door and Dipper wasn’t his short pre-growth-spurt nephew. He might be trying to hide it, but this wasn’t easy for him. From his perspective, it must feel like he just jumped to the future.

Stan had to recover everything because his entire life was blank; Ford was having to mentally correct everything being wrong instead.

“Hey, Grunkle Ford,” he said, forging ahead. “Dinner’s ready. Abuelita made chicken and rice.”

Adjusting his glasses as he came out to join him, he said, “I thought you were going to use the Spanish names for her dishes. You claimed that you needed the practice after Stanley teased you about your pronunciations.”

“That’s right,” said Dipper proudly. “But I only started taking those classes after where your memory stopped. Looks like you remembered something else.”

That earned him a small smile and a faint chuckle. Every piece that came back was a small victory. And it was another step closer to things going back to normal.

Relative normal. It was Gravity Falls.

“I have been getting better. Though my last teacher told me that my vocabulary is apparently a weird mixture of old lady phrases and someone from a crime ring.” Dipper shrugged slightly. “A side effect of practicing with Abuelita and Grunkle Stan during the summer.”

The faint chuckle became a full-blown laugh. With the tension and paranoia pushed back for the moment, he felt more like the version of Ford that left that morning. Relaxed, content, and happy. The one that might tinker in the basement for a few hours or would run off eagerly into the woods, but would welcome the company for either one and would happily pile into the living room for a family movie. Dipper wanted the moment to last a little longer.

But he could see it evaporate as they approached the kitchen, Ford’s brow furrowing.

“Yeah, the kitchen was renovated too,” said Dipper, hoping or at least pretending that was the reason for his grunkle’s shift in mood. “When we’re all here like this, that’s around eight people. Way too many of us to fit in the old one. So…” He gestured briefly at the expanded room. “Big kitchen.”

“How did anyone pay for all of these renovations?”

“Time Pirate treasure,” he said simply. At Ford’s blank expression, he quickly clarified, “It happened before we met you. You didn’t forget about it happening. Mabel and I ended up with a bunch of it and buried it in the woods for a while. We only told you and Grunkle Stan about it last spring.”

Ford gave a stiff nod before turning his attention back towards the kitchen. Larger than it used to be, it had nearly doubled in size by stretching out into a rectangular shape. They’d managed to replace the stove/oven combo with a newer one so now all the burner worked, but the fridge had still been in decent enough shape and the cast iron stove remained. Elongating the room added some more cabinets and counter space. The worn pine tree wallpaper that once covered the walls that weren’t bare wood had been replaced by a cheerful yellow with a floral print. Like the flower magnets on the fridge and the pink containers with hearts that now held their cooking utensils, the new wallpaper was clearly Abuelita’s influence on the decorating. But considering how much time she spent in there and how much of the cooking that she did, it was hard to argue against letting her have control of how the room looked.

But it was the far end of the room that had clearly captured his grunkle’s attention. They’d essentially turned it into a connected dining room. The long wooden table— that may or may not have come from McGucket after he moved into the former Northwest Mansion— looked fancier than the random assortment of chairs around it. The narrower end was tucked under the windows and stretched towards them. It was perfect for the chaotic and crowded family meals.

Unfortunately, it also had Ford’s normal seat waiting next to Bill. Which was clearly the problem.

Dipper quickly debated the possibility of grabbing that chair instead and letting his grunkle sit next to Mabel this time. It would give them a little space and that might make Ford feel less tense. Because the tension had absolutely returned to his stiff posture, just as the casual chitchat fell quiet when they’d arrived. They could all tell that Ford wasn’t comfortable with this. Or rather, with Bill’s presence. Keeping them apart might make it simpler for him. But considering how uneasy he was with Mabel along with Bill, that might make Ford worry about Dipper sitting next to the former triangle instead. Maybe his grunkle would be better where he could reassure himself that Bill couldn’t try anything by staying closer instead, leaving him in his usual chair. Or maybe they should try shifting everyone around so that Ford was directly across from Bill, letting him watch without being close enough to touch. Or—

Bill abruptly shoved himself to his feet, breaking the increasingly awkward silence that had crept over the table and had only gotten worse the longer that Dipper and Ford stayed by the doorway. His face twisted through several expressions before Bill managed to shove the cheshire grin in place. The separate eye and mouth thing apparently made it harder to coordinate facial expressions when he actually wanted to control them; it was the same reason why he closed his eyes when eating. There was a brief thump that made Ford fall into a combative stance, but it was only Bill bumping into his chair as he moved around the table.

“Didn’t have much of an appetite anyway,” said Bill, the brightness in his voice painfully fake.

With Ford and Dipper still at the doorway, the only way out of the kitchen brought him close to the pair. But he did his best to keep to the edges of the room until he was forced to squeeze through. That didn’t stop Ford from watching his every move. As if he expected Bill to yank open a drawer and grab a knife to stab all of them any minute now.

Dipper understood. He really did. But it was a drastic change from dinner the evening before.

After Bill was out of sight, Ford relaxed enough to finally move from the doorway and take his seat. Conversation didn’t immediately resume. The awkwardness from the renewed tension between his grunkle and Bill continued to hang over them.

“So,” said Soos finally, “Melody told me that you’ve got some amnesia, Dr. Pines? That’s not great.”

Picking up his fork, Ford said, “There was a small accident when I was visiting Fiddleford with a misplaced prototype. It could have happened to anyone. But I only lost fairly recent memories.”

“Two and a half years,” muttered Stan.

“But my memories are already returning gradually and I am certain that anything that actually matters to me will be restored in time. Mabel’s scrapbooks and my documented research should provide a solid foundation to reconstruct what was lost.”

Hopefully sooner rather than later. None of them liked seeing Ford like this. He’d finally seemed comfortable, like he could finally believe that he could stay. That he was home and it was permanent. That he was truly safe. He’d relaxed and settled in. But now he was tense, on guard, and paying attention to any potential threat.

Dipper knew his grunkle fairly well by now. Part of it was Bill’s presence, but part of it was the loss of control and lack of familiarity that the amnesia brought that left him feeling vulnerable and unprepared. Ford couldn’t identify or defend against threats that he couldn’t remember. Which meant that danger could come from any source. Old instincts from his decades of repeatedly diving into dimensions with no idea what might come next were once more on high alert.

But it was mostly Bill. He was the most obvious (supposed) threat and it was easy to latch all of that stress onto him. And that would continue until he regained enough memories to realize that Bill was harmless now. Dipper would prefer for that to happen before the tension and simmering hatred directed towards the former triangle caused Bill to snap with frustrated rage or burst into hysterical tears; it was honestly impressive that it hadn’t happened already.

Of course, Grunkle Ford couldn’t just be told that Bill wasn’t a threat. They’d already tried. And stories chosen specifically about Bill as the topic would be viewed with suspicion. They needed a way to spark the right memories while easing him into it, letting him relax before bringing up some of Bill’s better qualities.

An idea flickered in his mind. He might have a story that could help. Ford might not have been present for most of it, but hopefully the ending and aftermath that he did witness would be enough. Those memories would have to make an impression on him.

Taking a moment to swallow another bite of rice, Dipper said casually, “Hey, Grunkle Ford? I just realized. You forgot that there’s a Redcap colony in Gravity Falls.”

And just as he hoped, his grunkle perked up with interest. Scientific curiosity shoving aside the anxious and stressed energy. Another glimpse of the happier man that he was that morning.

“That… vaguely sounds familiar,” said Melody thoughtfully. “Have you mentioned them before?”

“We found out about them when you took Soos out of town for a weekend to meet your parents,” said Dipper, pulling out his slightly worn Pine Tree Journal and started flipping through the pages. “Apparently the Gravity Falls variety of Redcaps are a little different than the traditional European species. Rather than forming near ancient battlefields and ruins, they rely on logging accidents and even animals hunting in the forest. Wendy told us her dad mentioned an accident around the same time that we encountered some.”

“Fascinating.” Ford leaned in his direction. “And they must have been dormant during my initial research of Gravity Falls. Or perhaps I misattributed encounters to a different anomaly at the time.”

“So what exactly are Redcaps?” asked Melody.

“Original folklore portrayed them as goblins or particularly violent elves,” he described, slipping into a lecturing tone as he apparently forgot about his dinner, “but my research during college suggested that they might be more complicated than that.”

“You were right. Redcaps aren’t related to goblins at all,” said Dipper. “They’re actually a species of fungus.”

He turned his book around to show the relevant entry. His drawing of the vicious thing showed a short and thickset humanoid with sharp teeth, skinny fingers with talons, heavy boots, a spear-like weapon, and a large cap that resembled a mushroom. His notes next to the illustration mentioned their spongy flesh and the coppery scent. Dipper had borrowed one of Mabel’s markers to make sure that the cap on its head looked both vividly red and saturated. The ones that they’d dealt with had made a strong impression.

“There’s this fungus here in Oregon. Armillaria ostoyae. And there’s a specific colony of it that they call the Humongous Fungus. It’s possibly the largest living organism on Earth,” he described. “But most of it is underground as an interconnected colony of stringy rootlike mass that spreads out all over the place called rhizomorphs. Basically, they’re a lot like plant roots. The mushroom part that we can actually see is just the part that makes spores to disperse them and create new colonies.” Pointing at another picture, one that showed a bunch of squiggly underground strings that connected to the short humanoid-looking organisms poking out of the ground, Dipper said, “It’s the same concept. The Redcaps are only the mushroom part.”

“The species remains mostly dormant underground waiting for the right catalyst to form the fruiting body,” said Ford.

“Except the mushrooms in this case have legs and can go a lot further.”

Nodding eagerly as he clearly followed along with Dipper’s explanation (or maybe he was remembering it), he said, “And wherever they would collapse, their body should release the spores across the area to form a new underground colony until the cycle begins again.”

“A catalyst?” asked Melody.

“Blood,” said Ford cheerfully. “It’s where they get their name. Their caps are red because they soak them in blood.”

“When something happens that spills enough blood on the underground part of the fungus,” described Dipper, “the Redcaps sprout up, separate, and charge off. Occasionally stabbing people to get more blood to keep their caps soaked in it so they’ll last longer.”

“This is a charming dinner conversation,” said Abuelita.

Dipper was not certain if she was serious or not. It wasn’t the weirdest discussion that they’d ever had over dinner. And he couldn’t even guess what they talked about the rest of the year when he and Mabel weren’t around.

“The iron in the blood is also partially incorporated into their metal boots and the pike that they use for stabbing victims,” added Ford eagerly. “Their entire lifecycle is absolutely fascinating. And if there is a colony in Gravity Falls, then I might finally have the opportunity to study them in person.”

Smiling, Dipper asked, “Do you want to hear about the encounter?”

“Of course, my boy.”

“Well, I already mentioned that Soos and Melody were out of town. Abuelita was in her room taking a nap. You and Grunkle Stan went to pick something up. And Mabel was busy with ‘empathy practice’.”

“Empathy practice?”

“That’s what she decided to call it,” said Dipper.

Nodding, she said, “It’s my soon-to-be-patented method of teaching how to think about other people’s feelings through the power of fiction.”

Dipper could hear his sister before he could see her, Mabel continuously pausing the movie in the living room and asking questions about the different characters. Why would this character do this? How is this other character feeling? Why would another character be upset by what happened? Just various questions designed to force someone to consider all the different points of view. She did the same thing with the books that jumped around between different characters. Mabel hadn’t insisted on writing an essay yet, but she was taking her self-designed lessons seriously.

And strangely enough, Bill wasn’t shrugging it off. As Dipper came down the stairs, he could hear Bill answering her questions once again. Sometimes confidently. Sometimes hesitantly. But Bill stubbornly kept it up every time Mabel dragged him into the “empathy practice.”

He could understand Mabel’s enthusiasm. She liked to see the best in people and loved projects. Though she had confided in him that at the first sign of betrayal, she would shove Bill down the stairs. Or off the roof. After all, she hadn’t forgotten what happened last summer.

It was Bill’s seemingly honest attempt to figure it out that made Dipper suspicious. Empathy, sympathy, and caring about what other people felt were clearly new concepts for him. Or maybe old concepts that he’d long since tossed aside. Bill’s manipulative book made that much clear. So when he abruptly tried to learn how to consider how other people felt without needing to resort to poking around their minds? Dipper couldn’t quite trust that there wasn’t a hidden agenda.

The strange and a little unnerving Orbs of Healing Light could claim that Bill had changed and improved under their treatment, but Dipper knew that he and Grunkle Ford needed solid and undeniable proof of that before they would believe it. Something that proved that Bill wasn’t running a long con.

Until then, he could admit that there were some perks to the situation. A mostly powerless and human Bill that could be forced to obey them? Dipper couldn’t help smiling at the idea of knocking Bill down a few pegs whenever he got the chance.

“Hey, Mabel,” he said, not even looking at the lanky figure sitting on the floor next to her. “What are we watching?”

“‘The Cranky Girl Who Did Chores in Spirit Town.’ Wanna join us?” she asked.

Smiling, he said, “Sure.”

Then he finally turned his attention towards Bill. It was easy to be confident with the control bracelet around his wrist; Ford always insisted that someone remain in the Mystery Shack to supervise Bill and they had to wear the control bracelet. In this case, Dipper was in charge of it.

“Bill, go grab us a couple of sodas.”

Rolling his eyes, he said, “Your legs aren’t broken, Pine Tree.”

It wasn’t just enough to tell him. There needed to be the right mindset when they did it. It didn’t need to be loud or aggressive. There just needed to be a feeling of force to the command. Like they expected to be obeyed.

“Go get us a couple of cold sodas.”

Bill shuddered briefly before climbing to his feet, glaring at Dipper venomously. He dragged his feet the entire way out of the living room and towards the kitchen. Taking his time out of protest. He expected that.

Dipper didn’t expect Mabel’s sharp elbow in his side.

“Ow!”

“You didn’t need to do that,” she said.

Raising an eyebrow, Dipper reminded, “The first time that Grunkle Ford left us in charge of him, we both took turns ordering him around.”

It had been a bit of fun, trading the control bracelet back and forth while ordering Bill around like a puppet. It was cathartic after watching Bill run around in Dipper’s stolen body. It was compensation. Forcing him to do dumb, childish, or ridiculous things just because they could. It was also a useful experiment because they found out that taking off the control bracelet to trade could cancel out the current command, but it was mostly just some petty revenge.

“Yeah, but now it doesn’t feel that great doing it,” she said, wrapping her arms around herself. “I’ve been trying to think about other people after my mistakes last summer. The empathy practice isn’t just for him, Dipper.”

Dipper reached an arm around her shoulders and pulled his sister into a sideways hug. He considered what he could say to reassure her that messing with someone like Bill didn’t make anyone a bad person. But before he could try comforting her, he heard a noise coming from the direction of the gift shop.

He stood back up and poked his head through the swinging door. Dipper didn’t immediately see anything broken. But he did spot something short and red moving under the window. Which left him rolling his eyes.

Sitting down again, Dipper said, “Gnomes are getting into the garbage again.”

“They need to stop that,” she said with a small frown. “There’s not going to be enough for Sev’ral Timez to scrounge at this rate.”

Bill shuffled his way back into the living room, a pair of Pitt Colas in his hands. He practically shoved one at Dipper. Mabel was handed hers a little more gently. Then he flopped onto Grunkle Stan’s armchair, sighing loudly and scowling at the ceiling.

Dipper rolled his eyes at the dramatics. But he wasn’t ready for the loud hiss as soda spewed all over him as soon as he opened the can. Which made both Bill and Mabel cackle.

Swiping away at the sticky liquid now soaking his face and shirt, Dipper sputtered, “It’s not funny.”

“I don’t know, Bro-Bro. It looked pretty funny to me,” giggled Mabel.

Smirking, Bill said, “I might have to do what you tell me, but that doesn’t mean I can’t do it with my own style.”

Loopholes. Of course he would be an expert in those. No one had told Bill that he couldn’t shake up one of the cans on the way back.

“If you’re gonna be annoying,” said Dipper, “how about you try chasing off the gnomes eating our garbage?”

“Is that another order, Pine Tree?”

“I guess that depends on whether you want to make it one or not.”

A battle of the wills. Which one of them would back down first? Bill might have more patience in general (spending most of human history trying to get a portal built was proof of that), but their grunkles would be back eventually. Someone would have to give in before then. Bill stared at Dipper for a few moments, those amber eyes clearly debating the idea of rebellion and resisting further. Then he reluctantly climbed back out of his armchair.

“Question Mark wouldn’t want them messing with anything to do with the gift shop or museum,” he muttered.

When Bill vanished through the swinging door, Mabel nudged Dipper in the side. Smiling rather smugly at him.

“See? You don’t have to use the bracelet to force him. Sometimes you can just ask. Save the orders for really big things,” said Mabel. “Like stopping him from stealing someone’s teeth or something.”

“How would he steal someone’s teeth without his powers?” he asked.

Shrugging, she said, “I don’t know. He goes to school to become a dentist?”

Despite being faintly sticky, his current shirt stained, and smelling like soda, his day immediately brightened as Dipper snorted at the idea. Then he devolved into actual laughter. Reaching out to grab his sister’s shoulder for balance. He was almost certainly getting yarn fuzz stuck to his palm, but he didn’t care. He was laughing too hard.

That laughter wasn’t enough to drown out the yelp of surprise, a sudden crash, metallic clanging, and a frantic snarl of unfamiliar words. Languages from a different dimension. That was enough to send the twins scrambling to their feet.

The gift shop was in chaos. Shelves knocked over, snow-globes smashes, and bobble-heads scattered. There was a strong coppery smell that hit as soon as they entered. In the midst of the destruction and violence was Bill. A lanky figure in a Mystery Shack employee t-shirt, swinging a broom like a baseball bat at a trio of short creatures. They were the same height as gnomes and they wore red headwear, but they were clearly something different. Especially with the spear-like weapons that Bill was barely dodging and fending off.

“Bill?” shouted Mabel.

“Not a gnome. Redcaps,” he yelled back. “Murderous sentient mushrooms.”

Unfortunately, the strange creatures seemed to notice the arrival of the new prey. One of them broke away from the fray to charge at Dipper and Mabel. And despite the metal boots, the Redcap was fast. Hissing sharply, it launched itself at them. Fast reflexes and experience kept Dipper from being skewered. But they were now officially part of the fight.

Metallic clanging of heavy boots chasing after them spurred him through the limited space of the gift shop and the merchandise. Dipper managed a rather impressive move as he dove, rolled across the floor, and sprang back to his feet with a snow-globe in each hand; he would never do anything that cool again. Spinning around for just a second, he threw his improvised ammunition hard. But despite having glass and fake snow shattering in the Redcap’s face, it didn’t shriek or scream in pain. Merely hissed as it momentarily stumbled.

They needed a better plan.

“How do we get rid of them?” he shouted. “Any ideas? Weaknesses? Abilities? Anything?”

Smacking at the Redcaps from his new perch as he stood on the counter next to the cash register, Bill snapped, “My idea is avoid dying. Annoying ankle-biters, but unfortunately dangerous. Fast. Vicious. Strong as a grown human. Likes killing. Soak their hats in blood. They die when it dries out, so they keep killing more.”

One of the Redcaps stabbed at Bill. Spindly arms barely got the broom over in time to block it like the weirdest sword fight ever. The blade pierced into the cash register next to him. It didn’t matter that he turned over the Mystery Shack to Soos; Grunkle Stan would not be happy. A hiss of annoyance and the Redcap tore it free.

“Back off,” yelled Mabel, dumping a barrel of rubber balls that looked like eyeballs.

The closest Redcap to the twins slipped on the new hazard and hit the ground. But the other two were still upright and willing to take up the slack. One turned away from Bill and his increasingly damaged broom, lunging for the twins with its spear-like weapon. Dipper and Mabel twisted out of the way with mirrored shrieks. It was a close one though. The gift shop just didn’t have enough dodging room to keep this up. Especially with them wielding polearms.

Potential escape routes. Outside? Might be more of them. The museum? More obstacles and breakables. Back to the living room? They risked bringing them towards the napping Abuelita.

“To the roof,” said Dipper, gesturing towards the trapdoor in the ceiling.

Getting over to it would be a challenge though. Especially since Dipper had no interest of being turned into a kabob. But the Pines family were talented at pulling off surprises. And after last year, he was a lot more athletic and agile than he looked. And his sister—

Yanking it out of her sweater, Mabel shouted, “Grappling hook!”

—was a problem-solver.

She fired and managed to hit the trap door, knocking it open. Mabel practically flew up and vanished. Even over the clanging footsteps and vicious hissing, Dipper could hear her scrambling across the roof. Not waiting for him to catch up. Which meant she had a plan of her own.

Since Dipper was still trying to devise one, he hoped hers was a good one.

“Down,” snarled Bill, shoving Dipper to the floor as he jumped from the counter.

Wincing hard as he bit his tongue on impact, eyes watering at the unexpected pain, Dipper heard the sharp hiss of one of the Redcaps. Bill yelped in apparent panic or shock before a particularly sharp crack of wood against spongy flesh followed. Threat knocked back a little, he yanked Dipper back up and threw the teenager in the direction of the ladder.

“Move, Pine Tree,” he ordered tensely.

Dipper didn’t need to be told twice. He was across the room almost immediately, climbing the ladder before he even realized that he’d reached it. Survival instinct kicking in. A broom, multiple notches and nicks carved out of the handle by now, was shoved through the trap door next. Bill’s messy blond head followed.

“Keep going.”

Twisting around, Dipper started scrambling along the steep roof and grabbing at the sign for balance. He had far too much experience climbing on top of the Mystery Shack while various anomalies tried to kill him. From a wax Sherlock Holmes to a zombie horde. He knew where to put his feet, avoiding the patches of moss that would be slippery. But what he didn’t see was his sister; either Mabel used her grappling hook to reach the ground or she’d slipped through a window.

As he moved over the peak and slid towards the ledge with Wendy’s lawn chair, Dipper frantically went over everything that he knew about Redcaps. Trying to devise a plan. But he didn’t have a lot of information to work with. No Journal entries to consult. Only what Bill quickly shared. Which included one weakness.

Dry out their blood-soaked caps.

Following a little slower, Bill’s lanky form tumbled down to join Dipper. Sprawled on his stomach on the small flat section of the roof, long limbs a messy jumble when he slid to a stop. The sun glistened off the bracelet around his wrist. And an idea finally sparked.

“Bill,” he asked, “is your blue fire actually hot?”

Raising his head as he tried to climb back to his feet, he said, “Depends. It can be.”

Narrowing his eyes, Dipper ordered firmly, “Then use your powers and fry those caps dry.”

“Now that’s more like it,” cackled Bill, turning his back towards Dipper as he stood and focusing on the highest point of the roof just as the first Redcap made it over.

While Dipper had seen Bill’s strange blue flames before, that had been when he was an unnatural dream demon. Not a scarred scarecrow of a human. Part of him somehow expected something different to happen when the person with the control bracelet gave Bill permission to use his powers. Maybe a flashy transformation sequence with spinning and numerous impossible colors like from an anime. But that might be due to Soos’s influence. Instead, all that happened was that Bill laughed like the triangle that once haunted countless nightmares as he spread his arms out, his hands erupting in bright flames.

Sounding a little surprised and strained as the laughter eased, Bill muttered, “Okay, harder than I remembered.”

Dipper was about to anxiously ask if he could do it after all. Maybe it was too hard in a human body. But Bill threw a decent-sized fireball at the Redcap and the question died on his tongue.

Despite being damp with blood, which was not a traditional accelerant, the flat mushroom-shaped hat ignited like a tinderbox. The creepy hiss transformed into a horrified shriek. The Redcap shriveled and desiccated within seconds. The metal of its weapon and boots flaked and crumbled. The face sank in and its limbs withered until it resembled an unwrapped mummy. And as the flames extinguished, the Redcap’s body dissolved into a thick cloud of what was probably spores. Like from a puffball mushroom.

Seconds later, Dipper was coughing and spitting out a weird earthy-meaty taste as the sticky soda all over him glued on a new layer of particles to his skin and clothes.

“Ugh, it’s in my mouth. Dead Redcap is in my mouth.”

Flames still crackling around his hands, Bill threw more blue fire at the next one that tried to climb over the peak of the roof. But it clearly learned from the example of its unfortunate brethren. The second Redcap flung itself sideways so that the fireball missed, flying uselessly over the Mystery Shack. More blue flames lightly scorched the shingles as it continued to dodge like a murderous monkey. At one point, it ducked behind the chimney. Which was far too close.

“Stay still,” panted Bill, “you knock-off goblin.”

Unfortunately, with the rather long polearm, the Redcap wouldn’t have to get much closer to get in stabbing range. And Dipper didn’t trust Bill’s coordination and balance to try dodging while standing on the roof. So he grabbed the discarded broom next to them. As it lunged for Bill’s head, Dipper jammed the broom handle at the Redcap’s feet. It jerked away from the flimsy attack—

—by stepping sideways on a patch of moss.

The moss tore free of the roof and sent the hissing creature sliding helplessly off the building. It crashed to the ground in a metallic rattle. Dipper managed a brief sigh of relief before the heard a new sound. A car engine. Dipper risked a quick glance to spot the approach of the Stanmobile.

Back-up had finally arrived.

Though not before the third Redcap practically launched itself over the top of the Mystery Shack sign. Hissing sharply as it plunged down at them, spear first. Dipper and Bill jerked apart with twin shouts as the sharp tip buried into the roof between them. But despite the brief wobble as he tried to regain his balance, Bill’s long arm snaked forward. His hand grabbed the edge of the flat cap. Blue flames engulfed the entire blood-soaked hat, the creature shrieked as it shriveled up, and the Redcap collapsed into a cloud of dust-like spores. Bill was breathing hard as he let the fire around his hands extinguish with its demise, clearly satisfied that the danger was past.

“Kid!” shouted Stan as soon as the vehicle stopped and he flung himself out. Ford followed a moment later, both of them staring up at the roof. “Are you hurt? What happened? Where’s your sister?”

From his elevated position, Dipper had a better view of everything. And with his grunkles distracted, he spotted the danger first.

“Look out!” he shouted, unable to do more as the remaining Redcap on the ground charged.

Grunkle Ford was fast on the draw with his laser pistol and Stan’s reflexes were good. But the Redcap was faster at closing the distance.

Not as fast as an illegal firework fired at its head though. The grunkles scrambled backwards, half-blinded by the close-range explosion of red, blue, and green. If anything, the pyrotechnics made the Redcap's shrieking destruction more impressive. Everyone watched it for a moment before turning their attention to the side of the house where Mabel was half-dangling out the triangular window and cackling in a rather maniacal way.

“I am the God of Destruction!” she announced, still riding the pyromania high.

“I know a few guys who already have dibs on that title,” muttered Bill, sounding tired now that the threat was truly gone.

Still staring up at her, Stan said, “Look like you found my new stash, Pumpkin.”

“The cord on the hairdryer wasn’t long enough, so I had to improvise to dry out their hats,” she said.

“Was that a Redcap? Fascinating,” said Ford. “When did they arrive in Gravity Falls? Are they an invasive species or is there a long-established colony that I missed?”

Dipper chuckled at his grunkle’s excitement. He would probably want to study all of the spores stuck to Dipper. It would be cool to see what they could learn about them. At least when they weren’t actively trying to stab someone. But as he watched Ford excitedly theorize about Redcaps and Stan gave an affectionate eyeroll, Dipper did notice movement out of the corner of his eye. Bill stumbling clumsily towards the lawn chair.

“Bill?” he asked quietly.

“Gimmie a second, Pine Tree.” He was almost mumbling as he collapsed in the chair, practically limp as he sprawled on his back. “‘M tired. An’ cold.”

Dipper’s breath caught in his chest as he finally caught a good look of the front of Bill’s shirt. It was the first chance that he’d had since they made it to the roof. The entire left side of the dark green t-shirt was wet and almost black. The true color of the stain was difficult to judge because of the shirt’s original shade, but there was a diagonal tear in the fabric. A slash that moved up and out. And everything under the torn gap was the same vivid shaped as the hats of the Redcaps. The coppery smell in the air remained strong despite their destruction.

Blinking a little blearily and his brow furrowing, Bill mumbled, “Startin’ to hurt…”

That was a lot of coppery scent and a very large stain. And that fight-or-flight instinct was fading and all of the adrenaline was starting to crash. But he didn’t understand. When did—

When Bill shoved Dipper briefly to the floor. And out of the way of an apparent spear thrust. There had been that yelp. Dipper immediately felt a horrible and nauseating amount of guilt. He didn’t like the idea of someone getting hurt because of him.

Not even Bill Cipher.

Frantically trying to figure out how to get a pale and bleeding Bill off the roof without making things worse, Dipper shouted, “Grunkle Ford, get up here quick.”

Chapter Text

Stanford had to admit that the children were quite the storytellers. Dipper was telling the main part of the narrative with the details about the Redcaps, but Mabel was eager to interject with details that she thought were important or with demonstrations of her acting skills by reenacting various scenes at the kitchen table. Stanley chuckled at her overly-dramatic hissing that shifted into inhuman shrieking. That part did seem a little familiar—

A short, thickset humanoid charging them with a pike. Stanford reacted on instinct, yanking out a weapon. But the red-capped organism was abruptly swallowed up in a colorful and blinding explosion. He stumbled backwards. He could feel the heat as the air filled with shrieking and a strong scent of copper and burning sulfur from the fireworks rocket.

—but mostly Stanford appreciated hearing about their adventure. Especially with the clear evidence that they’d made it through unscathed.

He didn’t like the heavy involvement of Bill Cipher in the story. He was like a heavy shadow that continued to cover their lives in the darkness of his influence. Insidious, worming into every aspect of those forgotten memories. Stanford wished that he could excise that corrupting force from the last few years. Just a small incision and remove every trace.

He would admit that he was surprised to hear that Bill was injured during the attack on the Mystery Shack.

“While he looked like he was about to, Bill didn’t completely lose consciousness up there,” continued Dipper. “Otherwise, I don’t know if we would have been able to get him off the roof without breaking something. It was still hard though. He almost fell off twice on the way down.”

Nodding slowly, Stanford said, “I suppose he would be difficult to move in that condition. Especially with the steep slope of the roof.”

“Well, once we made it inside,” he said, “I went to shower the Redcap spores off my face—”

“You stole Dipper’s ruined shirt to collect samples since they were stuck all over it and you really wanted to study Redcaps,” interjected Mabel.

“—and you patched up Bill.”

And that actually felt vaguely familiar. Something that didn’t quite snap suddenly into place. More like pulling away a curtain to gradually expose a window.

At some point in the last several months, Stanley had clearly decided to stop asking why Stanford had a particular piece of scientific equipment and simply accept that his twin had either built it or “acquired” it during his time traveling the multiverse. He’d gotten rather skilled at storing his various belongings in small portable ways and brought home a decent collection. Not to mention the blueprints that he’d shared with Fiddleford for larger projects. Their boat and now the underground lab contained a variety of devices of varying legality (depending on the dimension that was asking). So despite past determination not to allow Bill anywhere close to the basement— it didn’t matter that the portal was dismantled; there needed to be precautions— Stanley didn’t ask any questions when his twin asked for his help moving a barely conscious Bill down there rather than simply using the first aid kit in the kitchen.

Stanford wasn’t a medical doctor. But he had experience patching up his own injuries whenever he found himself in a dimension without advanced medical knowledge or technology. He also had access to diagnostic equipment that not even the best hospital in this dimension could match.

If it would also allow him to get some detailed scans and examine Bill while he was in a state where he wouldn’t be able to conceal any hidden capabilities that they should be aware for safety reasons? That was simply a pleasant coincidence. There was nothing wrong with scientific curiosity. Or being cautious. Just because there had not been any major concerns so far did not mean that Bill wasn’t potentially playing the long game.

A thorough examination during treatment was the only logical choice. Bill would be too tired and weak to try concealing or distracting away from anything important. Such as an ability or trait about his new form that might allow him to loophole around the limitations in the contract. His main goal was to deal with the injury, but the safety of his family would always be the man’s primary concern.

He couldn’t let his guard down.

Stanford did his best to focus on that motivation. Scientific inquiry and keeping track of potential threats to his family. It was less uncomfortable than contemplating the amount of human-looking blood ruining his shirt or how Dipper’s explanation made it sound like it was spilt trying to protect his nephew from similar injuries.

While Stanford brought over his equipment and adjusted the lights that he’d brought down, filling the space where the portal once loomed, his brother started the basics for their patient. Cutting away the stained fabric and cleaning away the worst of the blood helped make Bill look less like he was dying. It allowed Stanford to get a better idea of the extent of the damage.

As far as he could determine, the pike tip managed to hit around the third and fourth rib just barely to the left side of the sternum. If it had gone between or broken through, it would have found the heart. But despite adjusting their aim rather admirably, Bill had not been the Redcap’s original target for that particular strike and the thrust had turned into a glancing blow instead. Carving up and out along the protective ribcage. Leaving a cut long enough to spread the blood across a wide surface area for maximum mess, but not deep enough to hit a vital organ or a major artery.

By sheer dumb luck.

Bill gasped in pain and lost consciousness when Stanford worked on thoroughly disinfecting his wound. After everything, it was apparently the straw that broke the camel’s back. And considering the connection between blood and the Redcaps, he didn’t want to risk spores and other infectious materials remaining behind. He used some rather strong stuff that he brought back from a different dimension and that, in hindsight, might not be exactly recommended for human subjects. But it never did permanent damage to Stanford, so it should be fine. And it was probably better for Bill to be unconscious for a while. That way, he wouldn’t feel Stanford stitching him up.

That was also the point where Stanley retreated upstairs. He wasn’t normally squeamish, but Stanford wouldn’t judge him. Perhaps it brought up unpleasant memories. He still didn’t know all the details of his brother’s life, but he knew that parts were rough. He might have needed to do his own stitches at some point like Stanford did after getting raked by the claws of a particularly moody crab-bear of Dimension TLM-91. Regardless, it gave him a small amount of privacy as he worked. More than he’d expected. And between studying the various screens now displaying different scans, measurements, and readings and trying to keep the stitches tidy, Stanford could make a few less… quantifiable observations.

Bill’s olive complexion had paled to something more ashen, the blood loss and shock being the primary suspects. He was also a little cooler to the touch than normal. This was the first time that Stanford had seen his human body without a shirt or at least the Theraprism jumpsuit. While he and his brother had taken after their father when it came to a decent amount of body hair, especially as they’d aged, Bill’s slightly more androgenous form didn’t seem to have much. Or perhaps it was a pale enough shade of blond not to be easily noticeable.

The lack of shirt also meant that he could see more of the pale scar as it ran down his sternum before moving towards his right. The new cut only missed intercepting it by an inch or two. And when Stanley had been helping to maneuver the cut pieces of fabric off his body, Stanford had also noticed that the scar was matched across Bill’s back as well. The original crack glimpsed near the end of the revised version of his book went all the way through his thin body, so both sides of Bill’s new body reflected that.

Stanford vaguely wondered if the scar tissue extended deeper. Perhaps it extended the entire way through the torso? A medical doctor would likely be a better judge of that. Through he would suspect that would cause some health issues that they would have already noticed.

He was finishing with the stitching and cleaning up the remaining drying blood when Bill began stirring again. Mostly in the form of groaning and shivering. The large metal worktable wasn’t the warmest or most comfortable place to lay down, but it had been best option available down there. It was closest to the lights and was long enough for Bill’s lanky form. Of course, the more that his diagnostic scans and readings revealed, the more that he suspected that there were other contributing factors to why Bill felt chilled.

“Try to stay still a little longer,” said Stanford evenly, reaching for the gauze and medical tape. “I need to cover up the cut. You don’t want the stitches to catch on everything and rip free, do you?”

“I don’t know,” he mumbled. “Ask me again later.”

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, he asked, “How do you feel?”

“Like a mushroom tried to shish kabob me.”

“Bill.” Carefully taping down the gauze and trying not to cause any further pain despite his annoyance, Stanford said, “I need to know any symptoms that I should be concerned about.”

“Concerned? About me?” Bill giggled quietly to himself. “Aw, you do care.”

“The other option is to find a way to strap you down and run more invasive tests.”

“Kinky.”

“Cipher, I swear—”

“Fine,” he said, sounding too worn out to keep up his usual antics. “I’m exhausted, even after that nap—”

“Passing out is not a nap.”

“—and I’m still cold. And everything hurts. Not just…” Bill tried to gesture towards his injury, but Stanford caught his rather limp arm. “Everything aches. This entire stupid body is worse than ever.”

Stanford wasn’t prepared for Bill to try shoving himself upright, most likely intending to storm off in a dramatic huff about the fragilities of humanity. But it was clear that Bill wasn’t prepared for the extent of his weakened state either. His trembling arms managed to get him sitting up, but then he wobbled badly enough that Stanford had to reach out to steady and support him. Otherwise, Bill could fall back and hit his head on the metal table. The potential concussion was the last thing that they needed to deal with.

“Easy now,” said Stanford. “You honestly shouldn't try moving very much right now.”

His voice rough and unsteady, staring down at his lap, Bill muttered, “I hate this idiotic defective body. Always breaking and leaking and— and the wrong shape and even the wrong stupid color and— and—”

“Hey,” he interrupted, not liking how close Bill sounded to tears and desperate to avoid dealing with a breakdown. Stanford immediately tried to distract him away from that direction. “I know that none of this is particularly pleasant. Blood loss is at least partially responsible for your symptoms. But… This was your first time using your powers in your human body, correct?”

“Yeah. Pine Tree is the first one of you to let me. And without direct permission, I can’t touch them.”

“Unfortunately, it is probably better to minimize their use. And not just because of my concerns about how you would use those abilities.”

Chuckling weakly, he said, “Can’t forget your lovely case of paranoia.”

“In this case, my primary concern is the strain it puts on both your body and your soul.”

Stanford glanced at one of the various screens, the machine connected to Bill by a few electrodes on his chest a little above the gash, on either side of his throat where the pulse points would be, each of his temples, and one nestled on the top of his head in the midst of his messy blond hair. While he and Fiddleford had tweaked the design a certain amount, the blueprints came from the Zoni Dimension. The inhabitants were extremely friendly, a little naïve, incredibly technologically-advanced, and one of the lesser-known energy-based species. A few minor adjustments and equipment designed to examine them could provide unique insight on less tangible elements for humans. Including the state of Bill’s soul and the way it interacted with his new body, the bracelet’s role as a converter easily observed.

It was proving to be extremely enlightening.

“The human body isn’t designed to endure the demands that your powers put on it, so there’s already a strain involved. It was always going to be more difficult and rougher on you than using them in your normal form. But then you have to consider the state of your soul…”

Bill gave a wide grin and asked, “Why do you think that they had me sign all of those waivers? Most of the dead guys in Theraprism were killed in physical form instead of a metaphysical state. Especially anyone applying for the outpatient program. The Axolotl might have put all the pieces back together enough to function, but… I’m not exactly in mint condition anymore.”

He gave a vague shrug. And immediately winced when the movement pulled at his new stitches.

“They had to go very slowly and carefully to reconfigure me into a human. It’s a rather big change and that can be… rough to handle. And whenever they decide that I’m ‘properly rehabilitated’ and ready for the next phase by ‘transitioning into new opportunities through reincarnation,’” he continued, the direct quotes spoken almost mockingly, “they’ll have to go just as slow and careful to drag my soul out of this stupid, mushy, blobby, leaking body. Otherwise,” his hand wrapped around his wrist and the bracelet, “I’ll probably go from ‘fair condition’ collectable to ‘extremely poor condition.’ And by that, I mean ‘most likely shattered into a trillion pieces as I fizzle out of existence.’ Not even enough of Humpty-Dumpty to try putting back together a second time.”

For a moment, Stanford didn’t know what to say. The Orb of Healing Light had made references to specific risks for Bill due to “previous metaphysical damage” when they originally turned him over. And a previous… confrontation had made it clear that his body dying wouldn’t simply send Bill back to the Theraprism. But this was possibly the first time that Bill was directly stating how vulnerable and fragile that his destruction had left him metaphysically. And how much of a risk the outpatient program was for him.

Why would he take that risk? What endgame could be worth it?

Stanford’s hands were still on Bill’s shoulders. Bracing him and keeping him upright. He could feel Bill wobbling tiredly and shivering.

Trying to reclaim a clinical tone, he said, “Well, the effort of using your powers in a human body strained and agitated your metaphysical injuries a little. Nothing that looks dangerous, but enough to be noticeable. And the damage has translated to the physical plane as fatigue, a lack of energy, a drop in your body temperature, general body aches, and I suspected a slowed heartbeat in the immediate aftermath. In normal circumstances, it might have been only slightly annoying and would have required a greater expenditure before getting this bad, but when combined with the blood loss…”

“Great,” he groaned miserably. Stanford tried not to yelp in an undignified way when Bill abruptly slumped towards him, face burying into the fabric of his sweater. “Pine Tree better appreciate this.”

Hesitating a moment, Stanford asked cautiously, “Why did you protect Dipper like that?”

Bill muttered something in response. But between his voice being quieter than before and the fabric muffling his words, Sanford couldn’t understand it. Not exactly a great example of a rational and mature conversation. And before he could ask Bill to repeat himself, Stanley decided to make his return.

“All right, I went through the stock and found another shirt to replace your old work…”

As Stanley trailed off, his twin belatedly noticed how odd the scene must look. Despite all the electrodes and wires, Bill was still a rather gangly and half-naked young man currently slumped against his chest. And in his effort to steady Bill during his change of position, leaning forward until his face was against Stanford, one of his six-fingered hands ended up resting against his upper back. He could see how that could be misconstrued as an embrace.

“Should I come back later?” asked Stanley, somehow managing to sound both amused and concerned.

Raising his head and reach out a trembling hand, Bill whined, “Gimmie the shirt first. It’s cold.”

And that was enough to return to more practical matters. Stanford carefully started removing the various electrodes from Bill’s upper body.

“Once you’re dressed, we’ll see if we can locate some aspirin or ibuprofen for the pain,” he said. “Then I recommend getting some rest in your room. There’s less chance of tearing the stitches if you don’t do anything strenuous and sleep should help you recover from most of the side effects of metaphysical overexertion and blood loss.”

“And it also lets you hide from the kids so they aren’t hovering over you ‘cause they feel guilty that you got hurt,” added Stanley.

“Grunkle Ford?” asked Dipper cautiously.

Stanford blinked a little wearily. The smell of rice and chicken replaced the sharper scents of blood and alien antiseptics. That memory had certainly been… informative.

“Apologies. My mind must have been elsewhere.”

“Did you remember something?” asked Soos.

Nodding, he admitted, “I did. I remembered that despite the rather gruesome appearance of his shirt, Bill’s injuries that day were less severe than they initially seemed. Though the shirt itself was a lost cause.”

“Yes!” cheered Mabel. “Progress!”

“I also remember that his blood was red despite his book suggesting it was more of an iridescent silver with flecks of color similar to television static.”

“Maybe as a triangle dream demon,” said Dipper. “But since he’s basically human in every way? That means he bleeds red blood like the rest of us. And he can be hurt just as easily.”

Stanford knew that he was not always the best at social cues growing up. And getting tossed through countless other dimensions with countless other cultures did not help his expertise in that particular field. But he still noticed the subtle request in Dipper’s words to be careful with Bill.

It was easy to see how that particular event could serve as a turning point. Stanford certainly felt relieved and even an understandable amount of gratitude that the memory wasn’t of him needing to stitch up Dipper instead. Or worse. Bill prevented that outcome. That was the type of actions that could inspire trust and a sense that there was no need to remain on guard around Bill after all. It pointed towards the idea that maybe he was actually trying to change for the better.

And maybe that was why Stanford didn’t fully trust it.

The whole “Bill saving Dipper” scenario felt a little too perfect. And Stanford wasn’t actually present for most of it. He was relying on his nephew for testimony. Dipper was a bright boy— nearly a young man, he reminded himself— but Bill was an expert at manipulation. He could have missed something or misinterpreted what he witnessed.

Stanford wasn’t quite paranoid enough to claim that Bill manufactured the entire scenario. He doubted that Bill snuck out to spill copious amounts of blood on the underground colony to produce the Redcaps. But he could certainly take advantage of an available opportunity.

It was easy to see how it could have unfolded. When Bill realized that they were Redcaps instead of gnomes, he could have purposefully let them into the gift shop. He could have intended to indulge in some manufactured heroics to earn their trust. Actually getting hurt in the process could have been a simple miscalculation.

Maybe it had been enough to convince his past self, but Stanford needed more than that. He needed proof that it was something real and honest. He needed proof that it wasn’t an act, Bill trying to manipulate them emotionally. Like that memory of Bill trying to seduce Stanford in his bed.

He refused to be fooled by Bill ever again.

Though he had to admit that all of those potential scans and readings from when he was patching Bill up could be useful. And he was certain that he wouldn’t have casually disposed of valuable data. Stanford would need to study it. He knew the importance of knowledge about his enemy.

Finding that data was added to his mental list. Along with reading through the contract properly. And finding where that control bracelet might be.

“All right, my turn,” said Stanley. There was a piece of chicken on his fork as he gestured. “I’m gonna tell ya about us finding that whole flock of sirens right before summer last year. And guess who those ladies couldn’t keep their bird-fish hands off of?”

Straightening his glasses, he said, “First, while a group of harpies could technically be referred to as a flock and mermaids could be correctly described as a school, the proper collective noun for a group of sirens would be a ‘chorus of sirens.’ Having both avian and piscine traits, neither flock nor school fully describe them.”

“Nerd,” he chuckled, enough affection in his tone to make it clear that it was a compliment.

“And second, if these were seawater sirens rather than freshwater, then they sirens would have been trying to get their hands on you specifically because they wanted to eat you. Not because they were attracted to you. Ocean-based sirens are more aggressive than those that dwell near lakes, ponds, and rivers.” Pausing a moment, Stanford admitted, “Though even those can be dangerous if you let your guard down. They are just more willing to listen to reason.”

“Yeah, but you also mentioned that it was mating season when were in the area, so they wouldn’t immediately kill me anyway. And I even snagged you some feathers and scales. You wanted samples and they were still good-looking, all things considered. It worked out.”

Both Dipper and Mabel grimaced slightly. They had probably already heard the story before. That didn’t mean they were eager to picture what Stanley was implying.

Burying his face in his hands, Stanford groaned, “How in the world did they not kill you?”

Because Stanley honestly sounded like every poor victim of their enchanted songs. Designed to hypnotize and enchant their victims with promises of what they desire most, but do not have. Most of the time, that turned out to be sex with a gorgeous partner. Especially during their mating season. They would make use of the men before tearing their throats out for a meal. But occasionally, the songs would promise something different. Like—

Stanford moved sluggishly, his limbs heavy and clumsy. Beautiful ethereal music filled his head. Exceeding even the most awe-inspiring songs from the dimension where every atom vibrated in perfect harmony to create the music of the universe. Nothing could compare to what he heard now. This song was special. It was worth tugging the ropes off with his teeth, breaking the lock to the cabin, shuffling up on deck, and stumbling onto the rock outcropping that they’d apparently docked at. He needed to find the source of the music.

The song promised him answers. Knowledge. Truth. Every mystery unfolded at his feet. The melody reminded him vaguely of journals and yellow triangles and muses. But those concepts were too complicated. Just like the familiar faces that flashed through his mind with feelings of “family.” He couldn’t hold onto them. He could only follow the music.

Dragging feet brought him to a pool of water. A deep tidepool with bit of white things in the depths that weren’t as important as what was waiting at the edge. A dark-haired woman floated in the water, feathers lightly mixed with her hair. There were dark fins along her back, shining black scales running down her body from her throat to where her lower body merged into a tail, and human hands ending in sharp talons. Her mouth was open in song. He couldn’t understand any words, but her melodic voice promised to answer any question and to allow him to study her as much as he desired.

But before he could tell if her tail shape more closely resembled a fish or an aquatic mammal like a dolphin, she pushed herself out of the water. The tail split into legs with taloned feet, black scales became dark feathers except for a few patches along the insides of her newly-formed legs, and the fins on her back extended into wings. Her singing never faltered. The beautiful song promised that he could investigate the transformation to his heart’s content. He would soon know everything about her. Her species’ behavior. The details of her unique biology. Mating habits.

Diet.

He didn’t even notice how close that he was to the fascinating singer, dark predatory eyes moving up and down him as sharp teeth flashed in a widening mouth, until someone abruptly yanked him back by the neck of his sweater. Then Stanford was slung over their shoulder as they abruptly ran away from the beautiful music. Not even his clumsy struggles made a difference. His desperation to return to her and that promised knowledge meant nothing to the man dragging him away at top speed.

Groaning even louder, Stanford muttered, “Correction. How in the world did they not kill me?”

“Eh, don’t blame yourself too much, Sixer,” said Stanley. “I had an advantage that you didn’t.”

“A lack of desire for anything because you already have everything that you have ever wanted?” suggested Mabel.

Laughing, he said, “Nah, nothing like that.” Stanley reached up and pulled out his hearing aid from his right ear. “Turns out that if you can’t hear ‘em singing, sirens are a lot less dangerous to deal with.”

Stanford couldn’t help chuckling. His brother wasn’t wrong. And classical literature about sirens depicted a similar solution, sailors plugging their ears with beeswax.

“If we’re doing stories,” said Melody, “there was the time that you helped Soos figure out what kept stealing his sandwiches.”

Nodding, Soos said gravely, “A plaidypus.”

“Yeah. Not exactly the longest story,” she admitted, rubbing her arm.

“We could tell him about the creepy doll collector that tried turning people into dolls for her collection,” suggested Mabel.

Looking at his sister, Dipper said, “But he wasn’t even involved in that. Grunkle Ford won’t remember it.”

“So? It was still a cool story. And Gideon was strangely adorable as a living doll.”

“I would not mind hearing it,” said Stanford with a smile.

The family meal wasn’t exactly the same as those weekly video-calls while they were out at sea (something that was only a few days ago from his perspective). But they were the closest thing that he had to compare this too. The casual and relaxed conversation, enjoying each other’s company as they talked about exciting adventures and ordinary events. It wasn’t as if they’d had similar pleasant dinners with his family prior to those video-calls. There had still been old grudges against his brother or a dread of what threat the interdimensional rift represented during their first partial summer together. All of that was gone now. Just light-hearted tales and smiles and affectionate teasing. A feeling of belonging and connection. He didn’t mind letting it continue for a while longer, even as the rice grew cold.

For a moment, he could relax, be happy with his family, and pretend that Bill was still just an old memory. Nothing that mattered any longer. That monster had defined his life for over thirty years. He shouldn’t be allowed in this new chapter. He didn’t deserve another second of Stanford’s life. He’d wasted enough time and energy on him already. Stanford deserved to have at least a nice evening with his loved ones where Bill remained forgotten.

He would deal with that issue later. And he would ensure that Bill never had a chance to be a danger, regardless of his past self’s obvious mistakes of being too lenient and relaxed. But right now, spending time with his family was more important.

So even if part of him wanted to worry about what he was scheming, Stanford forced himself to listen to the various amusing anecdotes instead. Simply blocking out even the memory of Bill from his mind as he should have blocked out that siren’s song.

Chapter Text

There was no diplomatic way to put it. When the staff of the Theraprism dumped him with the Pines family, they tossed him in a storage room like he was a random box of junk.

It could have been worse. The place was rather spacious (with enough room to once fit a small army of cursed wax figures). And despite being low enough in the building to require a couple of steps down from the door, there was a small rectangular window up high on the side wall at the far end. A window that was up near the ceiling, though the original design with the vague triangle and eye shape among the panels was long gone. He would have to be standing on something to be able to see out of the window at that height and the view wouldn’t be great anyway, but it offered some sunlight. There were multiple shelves on the walls and some venetian blinds that Bill had almost immediately torn down.

There were some nice aspects of the place. But it was difficult to forget that it was still originally a storage room. One that had spent years sealed up, bits of wallpaper and the wood wainscoting of the surrounding walls still attached to the outer surface of the door.

Originally, despite being opened the summer before, there had been a rather musty smell of dust, cobwebs, and melted wax. And, until they got rid of the heavily-chewed cardboard boxes of ancient merchandise, a scent of rodents. But even a thorough cleaning couldn’t change the fact that the room had bare concrete for the floor, exposed wooden beams on the walls and ceiling in the corners, and the dull drywall of an unfinished space. There was one overhead light with a visibly exposed wire that stretched from it across the ceiling and down the wall to the light switch by the door. All of these details indicated that it was a rather unpolished and forgettable space. Cold, impersonal, and a little depressing at first glance…

…unless someone had just spent a horrifying amount of non-time (and that was coming from a guy who survived a trillion years of existence and once casually wasted two billion years watching a barber pole go up) in Theraprism. Where his options were white padded walls with one utterly infuriatingly-condescending poster or an empty void where they sent him when he resisted or lashed out too much. Compared to that, a sad and unwelcoming storage room was a pleasant change. And making a list of complaints to deliver in the morning had been a very nice distraction during his first night reconfigured into an unnatural three-dimension human form.

Naturally, there had been a few changes since then. Two years was almost nothing for a practically-immortal dream demon, but a lot could happen in that time when someone was twisted, bent, and crushed down to a short-lived human perspective.

While technically not an official member of the staff— and even if he was, room and board would have made up the majority of his compensation for labor— Soos was too soft-hearted not to pay him at least something. Not a malicious bone in his squishy body. Since Bill ended up working in the gift shop or sporadically recreating interdimensional horrors with cheap craft supplies and taxidermy roadkill victims, he got at least a small stipend (which Stan occasionally called an allowance). Bill had used it the last few years to improve his living situation. And what he did not manage to save up for, the rest of the Pines household had gradually donated to the cause.

He'd started with an abandoned mattress from the laundry room. But after Melody moved in, and she and Soos bought a larger bed that they could share, Bill inherited her old bedframe. An old metal one that creaked when he moved, but sturdier than it looked. Several cheap teal bath mats that were on sale were scattered across the cold concrete floor served as rugs. A few changes of clothes (mostly Mystery Shack merchandise, but some that he obtained when Mabel “kidnapped” him for a trip to the mall) sat on one of the shelves. Other shelves contained a few books, some of his exhibits for the Mystery Shack that he’d made that were now “retired,” a cheap battery-powered alarm clock, a jar of glass eyeballs that amused him, and a colorful flock of origami birds that he and Mabel worked on one rainy afternoon.

A lot of art projects had made their way in. They were less frustrating when they weren’t mandatory activities with every detail being psychoanalyzed. If Mabel invited him to join, there was always the option to walk away. And papier-mâché sculpture of an annoying customer from that day that he immediately smashed afterwards? She would simply suggest filling it with glitter for a more dramatic “death scene.” No judgement. And there admittedly something soothing after a while about making things.

A battered old trunk at the foot of his second-hand bed held his collection of supplies like his notebook, a few drawing implements, safety scissors, an assortment of different colored yarn, and knitting needles. He’d gotten fairly proficient at it over the last couple of years. He ended up with a nice wardrobe of yellow knit hats, scarfs, and black mittens for the winter. There was a couple of blankets on his bed that he’d made: a bright blue one similar in shade to his flames from when he was first learning and a more colorful one that took a lot more work, but he could now use on bad days to reassure himself. He was also working on a pair of gloves, dark red and intended to be extremely warm. Bill had swallowed his pride enough to approach McGucket a few months ago to ask if he still had the design from decades ago when he made similar modifications.

He should have hit the old hillbilly in the head with a shovel instead. Maybe then everything wouldn’t be awful.

The walls were a group effort. After bluntly rejecting the offered motivational poster with a kitten (reminded him too much of being in Theraprism) and a second-hand mirror (he had a compact mirror tucked away, but some days he couldn’t bear seeing the wrong species in the reflection), Dipper and Mabel got creative. The teenage boy cut out pictures from magazines: the pyramids, the anatomy of the human tooth, weird carnivorous plants, strange landscapes that looked too alien to have been photographed on this planet, diagrams of the brain, old catalogues of formal attire with coattails and top hats, and blurry images that could be cryptids or could be a random log. And at the suggestion of his grunkle, Dipper also found several posters of optical illusions like impossible staircases, infinite waterfalls, and various types of architecture that could never exist three-dimensionally. Stan donated a mounted jackalope head to hang above the door. Mabel had gone a bit crazy with stickers as her contribution. But not simply any random stickers. She’d found bright and shiny star stickers like what teachers would use as cheap reward.

Then Dipper borrowed an astronomy book from Ford and Mabel found a huge package of plastic glow-in-the-dark stars. His ceiling and the remaining parts of the walls had some fairly accurate constellations.

The storage room had gradually been transformed into an almost comforting space. Bill needed that comfort. He was hiding in there like a coward, but he didn’t know what else to do.

He knew it was temporary. He knew that Ford would remember eventually. But that look of distrust and hatred felt like someone trying to carve out vital organs with dull instruments. Bill had gotten used to a warmer expression. The endless and unrelenting efforts of Theraprism had flayed open almost a trillion years of defense mechanisms and the gradually relaxing of the Pines household softened the rest of his mental and emotional shields. And he couldn’t seem to put his guard back up enough to keep Ford’s hatred from hurting.

Bill knew that he couldn’t help. Trying to help him remember would only make things worse. Ford couldn’t even stand to be in the same room as him. All that would happen would be that Bill might end up with another gun to his head. He would only make Ford’s paranoia, hatred, and fear worse. It would be better for everyone if Bill stayed in his room. His hoodie pulled up until he was swimming in the material and wrapped up in his colorful blanket.

He had worked hard on the blanket. Even Mabel had been impressed when he finished it. Four hundred forty-one squares in a variety of colors, arranged in twenty-one rows of twenty-one four-inch squares. A seven-foot square blanket. When he was stressed out, Bill could reassure himself by tracing his way across the different colors. That’s what he did now. Eyes blurring and trembling, Bill moved his hand across the fabric while reminding himself that the setback was only temporary.

Yellow, blue, pale blue, brown, red, dark grey, yellow, orange-brown…

“He isn’t gone. He won’t hate me forever,” he recited unsteadily. “It isn’t ruined. I’m not giving up yet.”

Bill rubbed the sleeve of his hoodie across his face. Human bodies were always leaking and dripping. All he could taste was salt and slime. It was miserable to deal with, but that was part of the price of being here. Reconfigured into a form that was still completely alien from what he was supposed to be. And the price was worth it.

At least, it used to be.

That thought only sparked off another wave of misery and dripping fluids. Bill scrubbed at the salty tears as his breathing caught in his chest. Clearly he would be better off risking nightmares by sleeping and hope that tomorrow would be less awful. Nothing else was helping. Maybe Ford would remember enough by morning that his gaze wouldn’t hurt as much.

The after-dinner scrapbook session went a little better. There were more candid shots in Mabel’s collection of everyday moments. Those almost seemed to come back in flashes and snippets easier than the louder, more crowded, and socially-intense birthday parties. Stanford could relax as his loved ones showed him photos of Mabel giving a muddy Waddles a bath—

“I would have thought that she would have been forced to keep Waddles outdoors by this point,” said Stanford as they watched Mabel wrestled a wet pig into the tub. He and Dipper were keeping watch from the doorway. “Most members of the species would be significantly larger by his age.”

Trying to aim the camera at the amusing scene, Dipper snorted and said, “Most pigs aren’t regularly shrunk fractional amounts with crystals. Waddles will be staying ‘huggable sized’ for as long as he lives.”

—a decent-sized bass held up by a triumphant Stanley in front of the lake while Stanford had a more modest catch and Fiddleford apparently caught a can of tuna—

“It’s still a fish,” he cackled. “Come on now. Ya not denyin’ me a good joke. Even Tate smiled.”

Shaking his head, Stanley said, “Don’t know how much of you is still bonkers and how much is you just pretending ‘cause that’s what everyone expects by now.”

“Gotta keep ‘em guessin’,” said Fiddleford with a grin.

—and a blurry image that looked like Soos and part of Dipper’s shoe as they ran away from something huge.

“Dude, I dropped the camera,” shouted Soos, all three of them dashing desperately through the underbrush.

“Leave it,” yelled Dipper. “We’ll get it later.”

Pointing ahead, Stanford said, “The trees are thicker there. The land orca will have difficulty maneuvering.”

But eventually the falling night and a general weariness began settling over everyone like a heavy blanket. Sleep beckoned his family towards their beds. Mabel gave him a drowsy squeeze around the middle before the teenagers shuffled their way upstairs; he was almost getting used to their new heights.

Stanford tried his best to follow their example. He retired to his room and changed into his flannel pajamas. He settled into his new bed. Or rather, the bed that seemed new currently. But despite his headache fading to something less annoying, sleep felt elusive and distant. His sleeping pattern had been rubbish for most of his life; late nigh study sessions for college exams, obsessive work schedules as he focused on the portal, caffeine-fueled bouts of paranoia where sleep was the enemy, and decades traveling the multiverse all established bad habits when it came to resting properly.

At first, he decided to read the contract. The lamp closest to his bed provided just enough illumination to look over the pages. He figured that he could spend the time productively while hoping that the dry material would eventually lull him into a more relaxed state. Stanford did manage to make a great deal of progress through it. The Theraprism was quite detailed and thorough. Not all of it directly relevant to their specific circumstances, but that was to be expected since their outpatient program would need to cover a wide range of dimensions and species. But eventually Stanford couldn’t bring himself to continue reading. He could only take off his glasses briefly, rub at his eyes, and set aside the contract.

Long periods of reading without a break after a long day was not nearly as easy as it was when he was younger. His eyes were no longer cooperating enough to keep going. Furthermore, there was nothing that he’d found was immediately useful for his purposes. No loopholes that Bill could exploit to his advantage, but also none that Stanford could use to force the Theraprism to take him back.

And there was a exasperating restlessness gnawing at him. He felt oddly antsy. Stanford glanced briefly at the closest clock, smother a groan of frustration, tossed away the blankets towards the foot of the bed, and slipped out of his room.

Apparently his insomnia was driving him to wander the halls like a heroine from a gothic romance novel.

Stanford didn’t have a particular destination in mind. Maybe it would be best to let muscle memory and instinct guide him. He might be able to coax a few more memories back that way. Muscle and procedural memory returned fairly quickly for Stanley, so it certainly couldn’t hurt.

His room was located away from most of the household. Or at least the original structure of the building. There might be a hallway connected to the renovations that he hadn’t located yet; a proper survey of the entire Mystery Shack to refamiliarize himself with every detail should probably be added to his growing list of useful steps for his recovery. But despite his lack of proximity to the main part of the house, he still tried to keep quiet to avoid disturbing anyone else. There were a lot more people under the roof than there used to be.

His slippered feet led him to a dark hallway. Next to a grandfather clock, Stanford paused. There was a door there. He remembered it from decades ago. And he could see the edges of it and the round doorknob. But most of the wooden door was covered by fragments of wallpaper and wainscoting that suggested that Stanley had likely tried to seal up the room in the past. He could also see some tiny holes—

Tightening the final screws in the latch, Stanford said, “And with that, we should be able to lock the door at night. I know that we’ll sleep better knowing that he’s contained.”

“Really feeling welcomed over here,” muttered Bill dryly.

“We could always cryogenically freeze you,” he said, eyeing the orange jumpsuit-covered figure.

“Pretty sure that goes against the guidelines in the contract. Gotta be able to work on my ‘rehabilitation.’”

“That would imply you are capable of change. You have long since proven that you are unable and unwilling to admit that you—”

—but the latch and the lock themselves were gone. They’d removed it at some point in the last two years. They’d stopped locking him at night to keep him from snooping or causing trouble. Further proof that they’d stopped treating Bill with the caution that they should. Every memory or clue that pointed to them starting to trust him only made Stanford more nervous. They were too relaxed and giving him more and more freedom.

And eventually Bill would take advantage of that leniency. Whatever his endgame might be, the way that they’d lowered their guard would give him that opening. Unless he was already putting the pieces of his plan into motion and they hadn’t even noticed yet. Stanford needed to work on reversing the mistakes of his past self.

He had to make sure that his family would be safe. They’d already paid for his mistakes enough. Mabel was tricked and trapped in an illusionary fantasy, carrying the guilt of the cost of Mabeland. Dipper had his body stolen and misused. Stanley sacrificed his mind and his sense of self, no one knowing that he would regain them.

Stanford wouldn’t let them be hurt by his connection to Bill ever again. He would take the precautions that his past self had refused or reversed.

He slowly eased the door open. The dark hallway didn’t offer much light to the dark room beyond. Stanford could make out vague shapes in the shadows and various spots of greenish phosphorescence glow. But there was a small window towards the far wall that cast some weak moonlight across the bed.

He could see a rather colorful blanket there. Numerous squares in clashing shades without any obvious pattern or design, though something about it nagged at the back of his mind. The blanket was pulled tightly around a figure. Long limbs curled in a small ball and back to the door, all that he could see of Bill was his messy blond hair. Stanford wanted to be suspicious, but the slow and even breathing suggested that Bill was honestly sleeping.

It was strange to see him doing something that ordinary. Something that vulnerable. Something that human.

They might have just returned from town not that long before, but Stanford had still borrowed the vehicle for a second trip. After everything that had transpired, it felt necessary. He brought his purchase to the worn door to the old storage room. And with a brief moment of hesitation, he knocked quietly.

After a little while, long enough for Stanford to start reconsidering his decision, a response finally drifted out.

“I’m sleeping, Shooting Star.”

Opening the closed door a crack, he asked, “May I come in, Bill?”

Another hesitation before a quiet response grumbled out.

“It’s your house.”

If Stanford wanted to be pedantic about it, despite the rather complex issues of ownership due to identity theft and Oregon’s adverse possession rights technically going into effect after the first decade of his brother’s occupancy, the current owner of the Mystery Shack (with the deed to prove it) was Soos. They’d made the transfer when Stanley made him the new Mr. Mystery and he and Stanford first headed out to sea. It was simpler that way.

But he bit his tongue rather than correct Bill. Instead, he pushed the door open the rest of the way and stepped down the pair of creaky stairs.

Okay, maybe they could have done more to make the space look less like a prison cell. The cobwebs and dust were gone, most of the cardboard boxes had been moved out, but there were still blank drywall and concrete in an empty room. Which was completely at odds with the chaotic and outgoing Bill that he’d always known. A change of uniform sat on one of the shelves, a notebook with some markers likely scavenged from Mabel sat on a different shelf, a paperback book titled “Wolfman Bare Chest” rested on top of the notebook, and there as a mattress on the floor against the wall, a nest of spare blankets and a pillow built on it. That was it. Other than the Mystery Shack souvenir pajamas that Bill was currently wearing, that’s all there was.

It made sense at first. Minimize the potential tools and weapons to use against them. But now it was a little sad and made him uncomfortable. Especially after that day’s events.

Sitting up gingerly and pulling a blanket around himself tighter, Bill muttered wearily, “What do you want, Ford?”

Stanford straightened slightly, hands still tucked behind his back. He couldn’t change his mind now.

“I want to thank you for protecting my nephew.” When that earned him a blink of surprise, he continued, “I should have said it before. It doesn’t make up for everything that you’ve done It doesn’t even make up for everything that you’ve done to him. But you kept Dipper from being hurt today and… Despite our history…” He reached to straighten his glasses briefly. “You did not have to put yourself in harm’s way for him, but you did. I am trying to do better at recognizing and acknowledging when someone at least attempts to do something to help.”

Like his refusal to thank Stanley upon his return. Yes, it was dangerous and reckless. But his final words to his brother as he fell through the portal was begging for help. Stanley then spent decades trying to provide that help in his own way.

“So thank you. I do appreciate what you’ve done.” Starting to feel a little uncomfortable with the rather stunned amber gaze, Stanford hurriedly pulled out the folded gift from behind his back. “You mentioned being… unhappy about your current shape and color. I cannot change your species, but it should at least be the correct shade.”

Stanford knew exactly what specific shade of yellow that Bill was as a triangle. It had haunted his dreams and later his nightmares too much for him not to know it intimately.

Bill didn’t immediately respond. But when Stanford tried to hand it to him, Bill did cautiously reach for it. He remained eerily silent as he unfolded and stared at the oversized yellow hoodie. It would probably be difficult to pull on without hurting the cut on his chest or tearing the stitches. Stanford almost second-guessed his idea entirely, except Bill slowly pulled the fabric to his chest in a rather possessive way.

Stanford slowly pulled the door back closed and stepped away. His emotions, past and present, churned uncomfortably in his chest.

It was easy to trace the likely path of falling back into bad habits. The gratitude and relief for Dipper’s safety were completely understandable. A perfectly natural reaction. Offering a kind gesture in the form of a gift in return made a certain amount of sense. A polite response that any decent human being might make in the same circumstances. No one would judge him harshly for that. But it gave Bill an opening. He had a foot in the metaphorical door by that point. All he needed to do was continue his careful efforts to wiggle into everyone’s good graces, coaxing them into getting used to his presence and even trusting him.

There were sayings about roads paved with good intentions. Offering some gratitude, a little kindness, and a chance to repair some bridges might seem to be the actions of a reasonable human being in response to his behavior. But it was still Bill Cipher. And those fledgling moments of trust and gratitude could easily end up as dangerous as listening to his flattery and compliments. A slippery slope that last time ended very badly for everyone.

Stanford rubbed his hand briefly. Tracing the small puncture scar on his palm and the back of his hand. Carefully positioned between the metacarpals, tendons, and major blood vessels. Not because of any kindness or concern. Ford was under no illusions about that. The exact spot that Bill chose to drive a nail through his body was specifically picked to avoid any permanent damage that might hinder his ability to complete the portal.

Any act of compassion or humanity that Bill might seem to demonstrate, Stanford had to remember that it was always designed to benefit himself in the end. There was always an agenda. There was a goal and a motivation behind everything that he might say or do. One that would eventually lead to a great deal of pain and suffering.

A former alcoholic shouldn’t go to a bar. And Stanford shouldn’t attempt to reach out to Bill Cipher. It could only lead to self-destructive behavior. He couldn’t afford to go down that path again.

His past self might have started to soften, but he would remain firm. He might be grateful that Dipper wasn’t harmed by the Redcaps, but Stanford refused to entertain the idea that Bill did it out of the goodness of his heart; he’d already long-since proven that there wasn’t any. It was always a trick. A manipulation.

If nothing else, these memories were showing him Bill’s latest strategies. Even if it was disappointing to see and feel how much they’d started working on his past self. But he would learn from those mistakes. And he would not repeat them.

Hands briefly tightening into fists at his sides, Stanford turned away from the door and the sleeping figure hidden behind it. He still didn’t have a destination in mind. But he allowed his feet to quietly guide him away from both Bill and the brief memory where he almost felt something other than distrust and hatred.

Chapter Text

He wandered the hallways of the Mystery Shack. Like a ghost haunting his old home. But Stanford allowed instinct to guide him. His memory of the last couple of years was still too much of a patchwork and there were too many changes, big and small, for him to decide on a specific route that might be beneficial to his mental recovery.

Clocks ticked quietly in the night. There really were an excessive number. But maybe the steady sound would cover up any potential creaky floorboards. Stanford could be quiet and light-footed when he needed to be. Stealth could be the difference between life and death at times, but he was also solidly built and floorboard noticed details like that.

With the location of one potential threat in the form of Bill established already, his restlessness led him towards the original bathroom. The one connected to his room meant that Stanford didn’t need it for most purposes. He certainly received fewer looks of concern when he shaved in his private washroom; one of the ongoing arguments during those few months at sea that he could remember was Stanley disapproving of fire as a shaving tool. But since his smaller washroom lacked a bath or shower (and both Stanley and Mable had strong opinions about regular hygiene), Stanford did need to use the main bathroom to shower.

At least the new renovations should include another bathroom somewhere. With the increased number of people in the household, Stanford could only imagine the lines—

Banging hard on the closed door, Dipper shouted, “It’s been two hours. Get out of there. Other people live here.”

That was enough to redirect Stanford towards his nephew’s location. Bill had been in their custody for a week. And while he’d displayed an odd combination of his normal bright exuberance and an unnerving amount of compliance at times, there had been a remarkably low amount of bloodshed. Stanford would almost believe that the Theraprism had an effect on him. Or else Bill was getting better at pretending.

But after a week of banging around the Mystery Shack, sweeping the gift shop, restocking shelves, and causing an increase in blood pressure to every member of the household, it became clear that Bill was clearly neglecting certain forms of maintenance for his new human body. Melody had handed over the little “new patient gift bag” that she still had from establishing with a dentist when she officially moved to Gravity Falls, which included a toothbrush and a pamphlet about oral hygiene for kids. Stanley had tossed a cheap comb at him from the drug store. Then they’d shoved Bill towards the bathroom and told him not to come out until he was clean.

And apparently Stanford lost track of time. Because even a novice at taking care of a human body should have been able to manage the rudimentary task in a fraction of the time. It was not difficult. And Bill had enough experience using Stanford’s body in the past that he should have been able to figure it out.

“Bill! Open the door,” he shouted again, Dipper banging harder. “I know the hot water ran out ages ago.”

Stanford frowned. His nephew was right. The ancient water heater needing to produce enough hot water for the numerous people who insisted on warm showers was another limiting factor when it came to sharing the bathroom and carefully timing everything. Bill should have been driven out by frigid temperatures over an hour ago. But he could still hear the water running on the other side of the door.

And when Dipper knocked again, hitting the door like he was driving in nails, a tight and forced voice said, “Go away.”

“If you drown in there, we’re dragging your waterlogged body out and burying it in the woods,” threatened the boy.

“Fine,” he croaked.

Rolling his eyes, Dipper shouted through the door, “Grunkle Stan will kill you again when he sees the water bill.”

“Good.”

Stanford took a deep breath and let it out slowly. If Bill wanted to be dramatic about the entire situation, he could at least do it in a way that didn’t block one of the few available bathrooms in the building. He was supposed to be in their custody. That implied at least a level of cooperation. Or at least not actively causing problems. One would assume that he would attempt not to antagonize those in charge, but Bill lacked the capacity to consider how his actions affected other people. Bill was too selfish for that. They only existed as tools or entertainment for him. Stanford knew that. He’d learned it the hard way and would not forget that lesson.

But at least Stanford could force better behavior if the situation called for it. The Orbs of Healing Light ensured that he and his family could actually exert their authority over him.

Knocking decisively, the bracelet on his wrist glinting in the light, Stanford ordered firmly, “Bill, turn off the water, get dressed, and get out of the bathroom.”

There was a moment where nothing seemed to happen. Then the sound of running water cut off. Faint shuffling noises followed, slow and almost reluctant. But eventually the door opened.

Stanford took in a lot of details quickly, a skill honed from years of studying elusive creatures. The dripping blond hair plastered to Bill’s head and numerous damp patches on his green shirt and brown shorts pointed to him barely bothering to dry off before dressing. A bluish tinge to his lips suggested that he had indeed been sitting under the stream of cold water the entire time. The reddish look to his eyes was unexpected. As was the glimpse of red lines barely visible above the collar of his shirt like something had scratched and clawed there. And the small marks on the exposed parts of his lower legs like tiny crescents, as if Bill had drawn his knees close and clung hard enough for fingernails to dig in.

“I’m fine,” said Bill breathlessly before either of them could say a word.

He was breathing rather fast for someone merely taking a shower. Fast and shallow. But Bill didn’t give them time for further observations, shoving past both of them and hurrying down the hallway.

Looking back into the bathroom, Stanford saw a towel thrown over the mirror.

He blinked in the darkness. Not exactly certain what to make of that memory. It seemed like a fairly ordinary moment of Bill being annoying, inconsiderate, and selfish. And yet something about it nagged at him. Not a threat or anything obviously dangerous to his family, but…

Stanford set it aside for now. Other than a demonstration of how to use the control bracelet, none of it seemed that important.

Rubbing his arms briefly to banish the odd feeling of unease that lingered from the memory, he turned away from the bathroom. Perhaps he would be better served if he went to the kitchen. A warm mug of hot chocolate might soothe and relax him enough to make another attempt at sleeping.

After spending a large portion of the afternoon and evening in that part of the Mystery Shack, it felt more familiar despite the changes. Maybe a little more comfortable and similar to how it felt prior to his amnesia. The stairway entrance, where he could see both the expanded kitchen and the living room, felt like he actually knew it again.

This was his home. And it was slowly beginning to feel like it again.

But rather than shuffling his way into the moonlight-bathed kitchen, Stanford felt his eyes drawn up towards the staircase. Another memory practically came tumbling down.

Several racing feet made Stanford look up from the game that he and Dipper had set up in the living room. They’d wanted to have an enjoyable evening while Mabel had her slumber party. Except it sounded like the entire group was stampeding down. Numerous voices chattering excitedly.

“No way,” said Grenda. “I have to see it.”

“It is not going to work,” argued Candy.

Sounding extremely certain, Mabel said, “He can do it. You’ll see. I bet a whole bag of gummy koalas on it.”

“High stakes.”

Unlike in high school, Stanford didn’t feel the urge to cringe and slip away from the sound of giggling teenage girls. The familiar dread of sharp gossiping tongues, cruel stares, mocking laughter, and the heavy judgement of societal expectations that he would never be able to live up to didn’t materialize. Instead, he merely felt curious about what his niece and her friends were up to.

Standing up with the all-to-familiar popping from his knees— not painful, but a loud reminder that he was getting older— Stanford met Dipper’s equally curious gaze. A silent agreement was formed. A short break from the game to investigate the situation.

The kitchen was filled with a swarming cluster of pajama-clad bodies and experimental makeup. Opening and closing cabinets while Mabel yelled that she knew she’d “seen some around here somewhere.”

Stanford had grown more familiar with the human inhabitants of Gravity Falls than he ever was in the past, but he had to admit that somehow he’d gotten better at recognizing the local teenagers rather than anyone closer to his own age. Candy and Grenda were close to Mabel and spent a great deal of time with her. Pacifica, on the other hand, seemed to be friends with her and Dipper equally. Despite wearing a night gown that both looked more expensive and too mature compared to the other girls, she seemed oddly happy to join the sleepovers and other visits despite her always spending the first fifteen minutes making rather mocking or bragging comments before she seemed comfortable in her surroundings. It took her effort to shuck her Northwest heritage and upbringing, but she kept coming and trying out a less restrictive identity for a few hours at a time.

And sitting at the table, surrounded by the sea of teenage girls, was Bill. Stanford wasn’t completely certain if his involvement in Mabel’s slumber party was originally her idea or his. But she’d claimed the control bracelet at the start and he’d been absorbed into the chaos. And he’d clearly been treated exactly the same as the other participants.

The makeover left him adorned like a carved idol. Sparkling and bright. His messy blond hair wasn’t quite long enough for ideal braiding, but they’d brushed it to a shine and found a rhinestone-covered headband that matched the color of his outfit. Gold eyeshadow, mascara, eyeliner, and potentially subtler forms of makeup decorated his face. Even his fingernails were painted a sparkly gold. He might have looked more impressive if the cheap olive-green fabric of his Mystery Shack pajamas wasn’t covered in question marks.

“Like what you see, Sixer?” asked Bill.

“I’m surprised that you didn’t have them dip you in molten gold to complete the look,” he said dryly.

“I figured it would be harder to beat them at board games like that.”

Still eyeing the chaos, Dipper asked, “What’s going on?”

A shout of triumph and Mabel emerged. She held up a black lump above her head.

“I knew Grunkle Stan had some charcoal around here.”

“Why does he have charcoal in the kitchen?” he asked. Then Dipper shook his head and said, “No, better question. Why does he have charcoal at all?”

Shrugging, she said, “I don’t know. I guess he planned to do some grilling at some point. Or maybe he was going to paint them and sell them as flammable phoenix eggs.”

“Okay, final question. Why are you looking for charcoal in the first place?”

“The creepy triangle guy claimed he could turn it into a diamond,” said Pacifica. Tossing her hair over her shoulder, she added, “We demanded proof.”

Smiling rather smugly, Bill said, “Honestly, when it comes to manipulating matter, it’s child’s play. Chemically speaking, they’re already the same. Pure carbon. But the molecules in charcoal are arranged randomly and the diamond molecules are stacked neatly in uniform lattices.”

“I don’t care about that nerd talk,” said Grenda, crossing her arms. “Are you gonna do it or not?”

As Mabel handed over the piece of charcoal to Bill, Stanford couldn’t help the mild twinge of unease with that plan. He was absolutely curious to observe and record the transformation. It wasn’t quite the same as the old alchemist goal of turning lead into gold, but the scientist in him could help wanting to study the process and ask several questions. But there needed to be some caution, even if Bill hadn’t tried anything suspicious and it didn’t feel like it could be part of some unknown plan. There was no need to ignore the possibility.

More importantly, there were practical concerns. Reasons why random matter manipulation might not be the ideal activity for a casual evening.

“The last time that you used your powers in human form, there were some repercussions,” reminded Stanford. “You need to be cautious about them. It puts a strain on you.”

Apparently trying to literally wave off his concerns, Bill said, “Yeah, but you also told me that blood loss made it a lot worse. And I’ve got a better feel for using my powers like this now. This is extremely small and simple, Fordsy. Just organizing and straightening up some molecules. No transmuting matter and no spontaneous creation of matter from nothing. Practically nothing. Think of it as careful testing in a safe and controlled environment. An experiment to help identify my limits.”

Even after thirty years of having and distrusting Bill, he still knew what to say to pique Stanford’s interest. A light bit of temptation delivered with an eager smile. Bill honestly looked excited about toying around with his powers on the physical plane. A rather tame bit of fun considering his past preferences for a good time. The enthusiasm was infectious.

And Stanford was curious.

“I suppose that it would be safer with adult supervision,” he said.

“Hey, I am an adult. I’m older than your entire universe. Even this ambiguously-aged fleshy bag of fluids and bones is at least some form of physical maturity.”

Crossing his arms, Dipper muttered, “The words ‘Bill Cipher’ and ‘maturity’ have never been used in the same sentence together.”

“Okay, don’t forget why we’re here,” interrupted Mabel. “There’s a candy bet in place. Are you ready, Bill?”

“You’ve got the bracelet, Shooting Star. Say the words.”

Grinning, she rolled up her sleeve enough to expose the orichalcum alloy and ordered, “Turn the charcoal into a diamond.”

Flashing a brief smile, Bill covered the black lump with both hands. Then he gained a look of concentration as he squeezed his hands together. That seemed like it was mostly meant for dramatics. There was no chance that he was capable of applying enough physical pressure to literally compact the carbon. At the end of the day, Bill was a theater kid at heart and needed to put on a show. But there was some form of effort involved because he breathed out heavily and blinked a couple of times before opening back up his hands.

At first glance, his hands looked empty. No trace of the decent-sized lump of charcoal. Not even black powder smudged on his skin. But then Stanford spotted something shiny. Barely larger than a reasonable piece of lint. And Stanford couldn’t help rolling his eyes at it.

Of course Bill created a triangular diamond.

“That’s it?” complained Grenda. “It’s the smallest diamond I’ve ever seen.”

“What do you expect? A diamond is a lot denser than a chunk of charcoal. If you want a bigger diamond, you should have given me a bigger piece of charcoal to work with,” said Bill.

Pacifica carefully picked up the tiny gemstone between her thumb and index finger. Then she dug into a small purse (likely chosen to coordinate with her night gown) and pulled out a jeweler’s loupe. Stanford’s admittedly-limited knowledge on the subject suggested that it was not standard sleepover equipment, but that felt like the type of observation that should be made by someone who didn’t currently have a laser pistol, binoculars, measuring tape, a vernier caliper, a dissection kit in a portable case, and a pair of high-capacity electrode-gloves stashed in his pockets. Pacifica placed the magnifying tool to her eye and studied the diamond.

Humming thoughtfully to herself, she said, “This is just a rough assessment, but… About 0.25 carats, flawless clarity, colorless, and a trilliant cut. Which is ridiculous to do with a diamond that small, but it could be a decent accent gem around a larger stone if you had more and a nice enough setting.” Noticing the stares as she put away the loupe, Pacifica shrugged and said, “My parents made sure that I could recognize the quality of jewelry. I’ve been identifying carats, clarity, color, and cut of diamonds since I was five.”

“I admit defeat. He has indeed created a diamond from charcoal,” said Candy. “I will pay my candy debt by noon tomorrow.”

Stanford carefully looked over Bill as he briefly rubbed his arms. He didn’t immediately look as pale and wan as last time. That added further evidence that the blood loss exasperated his condition. But he should at least check on Bill’s condition properly. That was the responsible thing to do while serving as the adult supervision. And besides, a good scientist collects data.

“How do you feel? Any pain or weakness?” asked Stanford.

Shaking his head, he said, “It’s fine. A bit of a chill like someone turned on the AC or something. And a little tired and sore, but not as bad as when I moved all of those boxes of merchandise for Question Mark early in the summer. It’s almost nothing and already passing.”

As far as Stanford could judge, he seemed to be telling the general truth. Maybe his body and soul were adapting better to the changes after some more time. Maybe a single reorganizing of carbon molecules was less strenuous than multiple acts of pyrokinesis in rapid succession against moving targets. Maybe the blood loss was a larger factor than he expected. There were several potential variables at play. But regardless of the reason, he seemed to be handling it much better. Future experimentation with his powers might be safe enough to attempt.

“And we all agree,” said Dipper, looking around the room briefly, “no one tells Grunkle Stan that Bill can make free diamonds, right?”

Stanford blinked away the memory. Leaving behind only the dark and empty kitchen. The one filled with teenage girls had been the smaller kitchen before the renovations. The construction must have happened outside of the summer break when the household was less crowded.

His past self must have also performed further tests on Bill after that. How could he not? Combined with his previous readings from the Redcap incident, Stanford could only imagine how thoroughly he’d studied Bill’s new form. The stability of his body and soul, the versatility of his powers while trapped in physical form, and the limitations of his powers. All useful when it came to assessing the threat that Bill presented.

His mind briefly turned that thought over. Where would his past self have put that research? Somewhere secure that Bill couldn’t easy access. Especially if he uncovered any form of weakness; Bill wouldn’t like that. His old study? Or maybe the underground laboratory in one of the secure lockboxes like he used for the infinity-sided die and—

“—more symbolic than anything. But I hope that it proves that I trust you. You’ve proven yourself worthy of another chance,” said Stanford, setting the control bracelet inside and locking it. “We don’t need that bracelet. And I hope that none of us will ever see it again.”

His voice a little unsteady and blinking his eyes rapidly, Bill said, “I won’t let you down, Ford. Not again.”

“I believe you,” he said, smiling warmly. “I know—”

He jerked himself out of that past moment of himself being played for a fool. No suspicion or feeling of being on guard. He’d been proud, certain, and happy. Absolutely naïve. Repeating past mistakes. Stanford couldn’t help feeling disgusted with that foolishness.

It wasn’t only the idiocy of locking away the most reliable tool to control Bill. It had been the emotions that accompanied the memories. The trust despite unforgivable betrayals. The lack of hatred and resentment. The fondness. And something that could almost resemble…

Stanford shook his head sharply. His past self clearly fell back into bad habits. It was a miracle that there wasn’t another shrine to burn. How could he have forgotten everything that Bill had done in the past? To him? To his family? To Gravity Falls? To countless other people and worlds, far beyond his comprehension? How could he have started to care about that monster? Bill was completely incapable of—

Before Mabel had gone home at the end of summer, she’d made her grunkles promise to continue Bill’s empathy lessons while she was gone. And for the most part, it wasn’t that hard to arrange movie nights. They might have leaned towards fewer animated features and more older movies. They did end up with a rather wide variety of genres, ranging from westerns to sci-fi to comedies to dramas. And if Stanford was honest, it was actually nice getting to watch various films that he hadn’t seen in decades.

Granted, they did try to curate their selections to avoid certain options. Anything that might give Bill too many ideas or might uncomfortable touch on familiar topics. For example, they’d decided that Bill should never watch “Terri.” A movie about a bullied teenager with powers that eventually snapped at a party and killed everyone while splattered in blood, the destruction being strongly associated with fire? No one wanted to risk exposing Bill to that one. He might get inspired.

Their current choice was an old movie even back when Stanford and his brother were kids. One that was made in black-and-white and was considered a classic. There were very few people who didn’t like “Everybody Comes to Rick's.” Not the most action-packed film or one with the flashiest special effects, but it would be popular long after they died of old age.

Stanley was in his favorite armchair, Stanford was on the small sofa, and Bill had decided to sit on the floor with a bowl of popcorn and his hoodie pulled up. They’d made it through most of the movie without much trouble. But just as they were in the middle of the one of the most iconic scenes in the entire film, where they are at the airfield and Rick reveals his decision, Bill apparently decided it was time to interrupt.

“I don’t understand.”

“Quiet,” hissed Stanley.

“"If that plane takes off and you're not on it, you'll regret it,” stated the actor on screen. “Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon, and for the rest of your life."

“Rick has the two letters of transit. He wants Ilsa and he has control of who gets the letters of transit. He can take Ilsa and go, leaving Victor behind. Or he can give one to Victor so he can escape and then Rick can tell Ilsa he’s only got one letter, meaning she’d stay with Rick. She even begged him to do that.”

“The Hays Code wouldn’t allow it,” said Stanford distractedly. “She’s married to Victor. She couldn’t end up with a different man while they were married.”

“But Rick loves Ilsa. He wants to be with her. And the letters of transit give Rick all the power. He has all the control,” said Bill a little frantically. His back was towards them, but it was easy to imagine his expression twisting up. “But he’s telling her to leave. I don’t understand.”

Throwing up his hands in frustration, Stanley complained, “And now we’ve missed the entire ending.”

“I don’t understand. Why would Rick do that? He loves her, but he’s telling her to leave him.”

“He’s telling her to leave with Victor because Rick loves her,” said Stanford.

“But I don’t understand. It doesn’t make any sense,” he said quietly, pulling his hood down further over his face. “I don’t understand.”

No, he wouldn’t understand. Because Bill was incapable of putting someone else’s needs ahead of his own. Some things never change.

Bill would never change. It was merely an illusion. A trick.

And Stanford would not be tricked again.

Moving the entrance to the basement from the gift shop into the living room was a smart decision. He took the elevator down before another memory could return to him. He’d seen enough for one evening.

Stanford didn’t turn on the light, letting the faint illumination of the control panels guide him. He didn’t look around for the differences yet. He simply walked straight to the lockboxes built into the wall. He would not truly feel safe with Bill in their home until he could guarantee that he was under control and unable to harm his family.

Chapter Text

Stan woke up in his ancient bed with a faint wince. Today’s random body pain was apparently going to be his left hip. Not too bad. Certainly better than his back. And it should improve once he stated moving and everything could loosen up. At his age, waking up without any pain at all would probably be a sign that he died in his sleep and just hadn’t realized that he was a ghost yet. Or maybe it would be a sign that some anomaly swapped his and Ford’s bodies because somehow his brother moved in ways that a man his age shouldn’t…

Oh, yeah… Ford…

Memories of the previous day carefully slid into place. His mind had mostly recovered from his attempted sacrifice. But over sixty years’ worth of memories was a lot to disrupt. Just like McGucket had his quirks and issues, the damage left marks. Sometimes in the mornings or when he was tired, bits and pieces of information would take a little while to settle back into place. Not always old memories. Ford had said it could be trace damage to the pathways or it might be a simple matter of age catching up on him. But Stan could generally hide those brief flickers where certain details slipped through the cracks for a moment or two. And they were fairly short incidents anyway. Nothing worth making his brother feel guilty over. It wasn’t like he was the only person that needed time for their brain to fully wake up in the morning.

But it did mean it took a moment to remember that Ford was currently dealing with his own case of amnesia. Two or three years’ worth rather than an entire lifetime. Between that and the metal plate to protect his brain, hopefully Ford wouldn’t end up with long-term side effects.

Short-term, however…

Stan slowly sat up, his back crackling and popping like a bowl of cereal. He rolled his neck briefly, rubbing the back of it. He popped his dentures back in, retrieved his glasses, and settled his hearing aid back in place. The last few years might have given him a better lifestyle and his family might have forced him to take better care of himself in general, but he was still an old man. The years had left their own mark separate from what the memory gun did to him. But with the daily routine nearly done, Stan stepped into his slippers and was one cup of coffee away from facing the day.

They were filling in the blanks in Ford’s memory at a decent rate. They’d learned from both Stan’s experience and even McGucket’s recovery. It was easy to see that his brother would get the last couple of years back. Stan just needed to make sure that Ford didn’t completely destroy things with his paranoia and grudges before then.

Because Stan saw the way that his brother looked at Bill at dinner, even after everyone reassured him that the former triangle was safe. And he knew his Ford. If things stayed tense, something was bound to give.

Stan could already see how it would play out. Ford would lash out or Bill’s emotional control issues would blow up, leading to a confrontation. And as much as he worried about his brother, Stan knew which would come off worse. Then Mabel would be upset about Bill being hurt, Dipper would feel conflicted, Soos would be uncomfortable with the tension…

Basically, it would be a mess that no one would like and Stan wouldn’t get to enjoy his summer at all. Which meant that it would be best for everyone if he kept Ford from burning any bridges. Especially bridges that he didn’t remember rebuilding in the first place.

Stan dragged a hand through his hair before settling his knit hat on properly. It was far too early for metaphors.

Despite it being the long way to the kitchen and the precious gift of caffeine, Stan made a detour towards his brother’s room. Unfortunately, there was no sign of Ford. Which, admittedly, was not a huge shock. Neither of them had the greatest sleeping patterns. They had improved and would at least try to get some rest now, but insomnia wasn’t an infrequent affliction. There had been plenty of times at sea where they’d retire to their berths for the night and yet hours later, they could tell that their twin was awake.

Continuing his indirect path through the Mystery Shack, Stan made his way towards the former storage room. This time, he had better luck. There was blond hair poking out of the miserable blanket cocoon on the bed. It was honestly impressive how small of a ball that Bill could curl into despite his long limbs.

“All right,” he said gruffly. The steps squeaked slightly under his weight. “Get up. You’re not sulking in bed all day.”

Somehow curling up even tighter, Bill mumbled, “Why not? What are you gonna do about it? Punch me to death again?”

“I wasn’t planning on it. Don’t like kicking a guy when he’s down.”

Bill muttered something under his breath. But rather than trying to decipher the soft words, Stan plowed straight ahead.

“Get up before I drag your scrawny hide out of that bed. You’re supposed to be earning your keep around here, remember? ‘Productive member of society’ and all that.”

“Bite me.”

“Sorry, Tortilla Chip. You’re not my type.”

The quiet scoff could have almost been a faint laugh. But trying to drag the pillow over his head was not a productive direction. So Stan grabbed it and smacked him, prompting Bill to sit up with a squawk.

“Hey!”

Stan tried not to wince. Bill might have gotten some sleep last night, but the dark circles under his eyes suggested it wasn’t nearly enough. And while dry currently, there was a certain amount of redness to them as well. If he had to guess, nightmares struck hard.

And while Stan might have awkwardly tried to ask about his brother’s nightmares, trying to repair decades of separation despite neither of them having much experience with the whole “honest and open communication” that Mabel always encouraged, this wasn’t Ford. This was Bill Cipher. And there were just some things that were not his place to ask. Checking on Bill’s nightmares was none of his business unless the former triangle brought it up first.

He would focus on more important topics for the moment.

“Look, you annoying piece of geometry homework. I get it. If anyone knows what its like to deal with Ford’s stubbornness and his knack for holding a grudge, it’s me. But you’re not hiding in here for thirty years.”

“Why not? Just wallpaper over the door again. Then everyone will be happy,” he snarled.

Smacking him with the pillow again, Stan said, “Knock it off. As the guy who actually has experience with memory gun amnesia, hiding in here all day is the worst thing you can do. Ford needs familiar stuff to help spark all those memories. Pictures and stories help, but everyday routines can also bring back big chunks because they happen every day. And you working around the place like you do every day will help remind him of having you around. He’ll also get to see you doing normal and not weird conquer-y triangle stuff, which might help get through his thick metal-plated skull that you aren’t trying to take over the entire dimension.”

Bill was quiet for a few moments. Stan could see him carefully considering his words, turning them over in his mind. He waited as Bill slowly wrapped his hand around his wrist and glanced down at his colorful blanket.

“Do you really think it’ll help?”

“It can’t make his memory worse.” Tossing the pillow back on the bed, Stan said, “Now get up and get dressed. I have a stack of wood outside that you can split. You’ll be close enough for Ford to get used to having you around, but hopefully not so close to make him nervous. And maybe the work will add some muscle to those noodle arms of yours.”

Bill groaned, rolled his eyes, and muttered about how it hadn’t so far. But he was climbing out of bed and reached towards his uniform. Which Stan decided to consider a success. With a satisfied nod, he turned and left the room.

As he half-expected the full morning chaos was already overtaking the kitchen. Since he was late, Dipper and Mable apparently decided to forgo Stancakes and break out bowls of extremely sugary cereal with bonus marshmallows added. Soos and Melody seemed to be following their lead, though she’d skipped the extra serving of marshmallows and added some fruit to her meal. Abuelita had a warm of bowl of oatmeal. Loud and excited voices chattered away, everyone talking over each other and the clink of spoons dipping into bowls. Soos and Dipper also seemed to be in a rather intense battle of rock-paper-scissors considering their ages and the fact that the prize was a cheaply-manufactured Duck-tective toy from the cereal box.

Stan couldn’t help the faint smile at the scene. He greatly preferred the loud and crowded kitchen after decades of silence in an empty house.

Of course, it would be even better if Ford was also at the table, eating breakfast and talking about his nerdy plans for the day. But apparently that was too much to hope for when his brother was reset to his maximum amount of paranoia.

Someone was kind enough to turn on the coffee machine already. They were now Stan’s official favorite. And because he was such a generous brother, he got out two coffee mugs.

“Drink some orange juice, kids,” he said half-heartedly. “It has vitamins or something. Your parents will complain if you get scurvy.”

There we go. Minimum responsibilities of a grunkle achieved.

Two mugs of hot coffee steaming slightly in his hands, Stan retreated from the kitchen. He briefly considered the possibility that Ford had barricaded himself in the underground lab. That would match his behavior a couple of years ago when stressed or worried about a threat. Specifically a Cipher-based threat. Because that was clearly what he’d reverted to seeing Bill as: a dangerous threat. But brotherly intuition told Stan to try the secret study instead. So that’s what he pressed on the elevator.

Thirty years living in the Mystery Shack, complete with repeatedly scouring every inch of the property for any hint of where to find the other two Journals and numerous repair work, and he still never found the room until Ford’s return.

The secret study was a long and slightly narrow room. Though part of that was due to the furniture that pressed against every wall. The spiral staircase suggested that the room was once more accessible, but at some point the openings were sealed up. They could go down the stairs to the basement, but the equipment for the portal had blocked that entrance up completely. And climbing the spiral staircase up would only hit the floor of the office. Not even a trapdoor left behind as access. The staircase was utterly useless except as decoration.

The walls were mostly lined with bookshelves and some cabinets. Random knickknacks like skulls with horns and crystal pyramids were scattered among the maps and an ancient chess set that had seen a lot of use once. Stan remembered helping carry out a lot of Cipher-related memorabilia and artifacts in the Weirdmageddon aftermath for a rather satisfying bonfire, so those were long gone. But the oversized machine in the back of the room hadn’t changed much. And the desk on the right side of the room was still there.

The desk also currently had someone slumped on a stack of papers and more recent journals from the last few years. Breathing slowly, glasses askew, and almost certainly resembling Stan during some of his late nights trying to figure out how to repair an interdimensional portal. Ford might be sprier than him, but his back would definitely complain if he slept like that for too long.

Setting one of the mugs on the desk, carefully positioned out of easily-knocked-over reach, Stan took a deep breath and prepared himself. After a few years back together and several trips at sea living in close quarters with one another, he knew the potential risks of what he was doing. Especially with his brother so tense.

The Pines brothers tended to come out swinging, literally or metaphorically, when badly startled.

“Ford?” he called quietly, hand landing lightly on his brother’s shoulder.

Instant reaction. Ford jolted upright, surging to his feet as his hand shot under his coat. But his sci-fi gun wasn’t there; Stan still had possession of it after disarming his brother the day before. Leaving the paranoid amnesiac with an itchy trigger finger armed with something that fired lasers felt like a slight safety issue. But the wild look in Ford’s eyes quickly faded as he blinked, going from aggressively defensive to confused and finally settling on recognition.

Taking a brief sip of his coffee, Stan raised an eyebrow and remarked casually, “You know, most people prefer sleeping in an actual bed, Poindexter. You’ve got one now. A real bed instead of a sofa to scrunch up on.”

In the imperfect lighting of the study, it would be easy to miss the faint color to Ford’s ears at the comment. Stan didn’t miss it. Mostly because he knew to expect it.

“I did not actually intend to doze off—"

“Despite the fact that sleeping is what most people are supposed to do in the middle of the night?”

Tugging at his sweater sleeve briefly, he said, “Initially, I was having difficulties falling asleep and merely intended to use the time productively since I was already awake. It was not an intentional effort to avoid—”

“Relax, Sixer. I was just teasing a little.” Stan nodded in the direction of the second mug, the one with some nerdy joke on it that he had no chance of understanding or finding funny. “Brought down some coffee.”

Proving that coffee was the ultimate peace offering, Ford smiled faintly as he sat back down and reached for the drink. Stan took the opportunity to glance at what his brother had been studying. He wasn’t that surprised to see that most of it seemed to be his research on Bill, his human body, and how it all worked. Ford’s obsession and laser-focus on full-display. But Stan did spot some journal entries about his and Ford’s time at sea.

“Found a good bedtime story?” he asked.

Sipping his own coffee, Ford said, “I am simply reviewing information that I have forgotten. I managed to jog a few more memories of our time at sea.”

“Really?”

Ford nodded before tugging a photo free from the pile. It showed them on their boat together, big grins plastered on their face as they squeezed in enough for the photo. Over their heads was a view of the ocean. And playing around in the water was a thick-furred creature with a saggy dog-like face, long whiskers, an elongated body, and a shark-like tail. Stan couldn’t help chuckling at his own memory of the encounter.

“Yeah, that sea ape was uglier than I expected. Like a pug married a fish. And it didn’t look much like an ape.”

“Georg Steller named the creature more for its playful nature than its appearance,” said Ford. “Though it was quite satisfying to confirm it was an actual cryptid and not merely a misidentified northern fur seal.”

“It was a troublemaker though. Took an hour to get my hat back because you wouldn’t let me go in after it.”

“Stanley, the water was frigid.”

“Mabel knitted that hat. I wasn’t letting some furry wannabe fish keep it.”

Ford chuckled and shook his head slowly. But Stan couldn’t help smiling. The entire conversation felt like a good sign. The last few years were making their way back. Now he just had to keep the pleasant mood going when Ford inevitably encountered Bill again.

And by “inevitably,” he meant “probably in a few minutes.”

“All right, Ford. I’m happy you’re making progress remembering stuff,” he said. “But you should come up for breakfast. Most important meal of the day and all that.”

Gesturing towards his desk, he said, “I’m sure that I have—”

“If you’re about to say ‘nutrition pills,’ the answer is nope. Tossed those out ages ago.”

“…I don’t believe you.”

“But you don’t remember enough to know for certain, do ya?” When his brother didn’t respond, Stan chuckled and said, “Come on. Let’s get you some actual food. It’ll be good for you.”

Ford grumbled faintly as he gathered up some of his journals and his coffee, but Stan saw the faint smile tugging at his mouth. He didn’t mind the interruption to his research nearly as much as he was pretending. He was perfectly willing to let Stan coax him up to join the rest of the family.

He did wince slightly as he stretched, popping his back rather impressively. At least his brother wasn’t completely immune to the symptoms of aging or the drawbacks of sleeping hunched over a desk. Stan shouldn’t be as smug about that as he was. But after watching Ford do a flip out of a second-story window, it was nice to see hints that it wasn’t just Stan that was afflicted by the horrors of a stiff back in the morning.

Everything seemed to be going smoothly on the elevator trip up. Ford was even asking what was available for breakfast. But like the night before, he stopped at the doorway to the kitchen. And for the exact same reason. Ford was glaring daggers at Bill taking a bite of his toast.

“Sixer… It’s fine,” he said quietly.

Bill hadn’t noticed them yet. Despite having a separate mouth and eyes as a human, he still tended to shut his eyes while eating or drinking. He couldn’t seem to break the habit. But he would notice eventually. And when he saw Ford’s expression, Bill would retreat and all of Stan’s hard work dragging him out of bed would be wasted.

Breathing out slowly, Ford said in a tight voice, “Perhaps it would be better if I took a shower first and have breakfast a little later.”

And then he was gone. Leaving Stan holding two coffee mugs.

Well, that could have gone better. On the other hand, it could have gone a lot worse.

Feeling pleasantly clean, his face tingling lightly from a quick incendiary shave, and with a warm bowl of oatmeal with cinnamon, Stanford felt almost normal. Only trace weariness from his late night, but mostly refreshed and ready to face the day’s challenges. And he certainly felt calmer. Almost as if the water had washed way the stress pulsing through his body.

For the moment, his family wasn’t crowding him in an effort to help retrieve his lost memories. He appreciated their efforts and he certainly wanted to remember. Not being able to trust his own mind brought back darker memories from decades ago—

—briefly forgetting his own name as a high-pitched voice mocked him, threatening to rearrange his senses in horrifying ways, making him feel the pain of being pulled apart despite being physically untouched, hearing the cruel declaration that Stanford was the monster’s property—

—but the quiet and calm was nice for now. It felt like he could breathe and relax. And thanks to the smooth metal under his sleeve, there was a feeling of security that was absent before.

When he finished his quiet meal and sorted out the dishes, Stanford began contemplating his next move. He had a few different ideas.

He could seek out his family to continue their previous work with the photo album. But since his memory loss wasn’t nearly as devastating as what Stanley’s had been, he could afford to approaching it more gradually. He didn’t want to disrupt their lives completely if they had other plans already for the day.

He could go back to reading his recent journal entries. They would cover time frames and locations away from Gravity Falls. Mabel was unlikely to have as much documentation in her scrapbooks of those portions of his life.

Or he could even go through the Mystery Shack to refamiliarize himself with the new additions to the building. Knowing the layout of his home was practical.

All of them were productive options. But as he left the kitchen, he caught a glimpse of Mabel in the living room with her knitting supplies. And the sight of her like that felt sharply familiar.

Stanford didn’t mean to lurk at the doorway, but he couldn’t help pausing at the oddly domesticate and innocent scene. One that did not seem to fit the Bill Cipher that he once knew. The dichotomy between the person responsible for Weirdmageddon and the one he was currently seeing was worth staring at.

Both of them sitting on the carpet, Mabel slowly and patiently showed Bill how to work a ball of blue yarn and a pair of knitting needles. Carefully expanding the tiny strip of fabric line by line.

“Your grip is wrong again,” said Mabel, trying to reposition his hands.

Voice tight with frustration, he muttered, “Stupid clumsy human fingers. And stupid human body.”

“Why does it bother you so much?” she asked. “You’ve possessed human bodies before. Like Dipper and Grunkle Ford. And your book mentioned other people.”

“You like driving a car, right?”

“I’m not old enough to legally drive yet.”

“Well,” continued Bill, as if he didn’t hear her (or the “legally” disclaimer), “there’s a big difference between driving a car and having someone jam a metal frame under your skin, tear off your limbs before bolting tires into the gaping holes, carve out your guts to replace with an engine, inject oil into your veins, and replace your eyes with windshield glass.”

Mable flinched and mumbled, “Sorry I asked.”

“It’s fine,” he said, grinning brightly even if the expression didn’t reach his eyes. “I knew what I was agreeing to, Shooting Star. I read the contract and the waivers before signing them. It’s not like they snuck in any extra terms or tricked me. You know, like I used to with half of my deals.”

“Still…”

The grin still plastered in place, Bill said, “I knew what I was giving up to be here. What I don’t know is how to turn this into a blanket. That’s what you’re supposed to be showing me, right?”

Stanford frowned with thought, an odd detail of the memory nagging at him. Nothing to do with the actual conversation. It had to do with Bill knitting a blanket. A fairly innocent hobby, though Stanford doubted anything that Bill did could be ever truly considered innocent; if nothing else, it could serve as an emotional manipulation. But there was something about knitting a blanket that felt like an answer to a question that he didn’t remember asking…

The unusual blanket of chaotic colors without an obvious pattern that he’d glimpsed on Bill’s bed the night before could have been knit by him. And when Stanford went through that accursed book of Bill’s, wasn’t there a color-based cryptogram?

He turned away from the living room to head back deeper into the Mystery Shack. It was a rather rudimentary plan, but at least he had something in mind for the morning now. There was nothing wrong with a thorough investigation of that possible mystery. Along with any other potential secrets that could be hidden. Investigating was simply a practical precaution. If no one else wanted to take the potential threat living under their roof seriously, then it fell to Stanford to recognize any danger that Bill might present.

Chapter Text

Splitting wood was not exactly Bill’s favorite chore. Not that he was fond of most forms of manual labor. Sweeping and stocking shelves wasn’t usually that difficult or strenuous, but there were still days where larger shipments came in that could get busy.

But that was nothing compared to swinging a large piece of sharp metal on a stick around and trying to hit a target just the right way to split a log rather than knocking it flying from where he set it up on a stump or even missing the target entirely. Honestly, it seemed like a really dangerous idea for someone that still banged into things because depth perception was weird. Even now, he strongly suspected that the first time that the Pines family gave him the task, they were hoping he’d cut off a limb in the process as some form of revenge while maintaining plausible deniability.

Apparently his initial attempts had been so insulting to her lumberjack heritage that, despite her grudge against the guy who caused Weirdmageddon, Wendy eventually took pity on him. After watching the ax bounce off the chunks of wood and nearly hitting his thigh with the blade, the teenage girl had yanked it out of his hands. She’d declared that she was confiscating the thing until he had the coordination and experience not to kill himself or someone else by accident.

After that, his log-splitting was primarily done with a sledgehammer and metal wedges. He swung the sledgehammer over his head and brought it down on the wedge, driving it into the piece of wood until the log split in half. The most basic physics. It was just as exhausting and bruising as his previous attempts, but with less chance of bloodshed. And the red-headed menace had continued to “teach” him how to swing an ax; unlike Dipper and Mabel, she was around all year and seemed to take malicious glee in making him practice under her supervision (and occasionally her friends).

Bill tended to end the day sore, tired, bruised, sometimes scratched, and always with splinters whenever she had insisted on ax-swinging lessons. But last fall, Wendy had declared that he was no longer a dangerous to himself or others. And thus, he could theoretically be trusted to split and chop wood with an ax instead.

He still disliked the exhausting chore, but he’d felt a flicker of satisfaction at the minor accomplishment.

…which was probably a sign of how far he’d fallen from his old status of ruthless interdimensional tyrant.

There were certain advantages to the task. It was hard, sweaty work. Not to mention time-consuming. Bill didn’t know how long he’d been out already that day. But between controlling the ax, doing his best to hit close to where he wanted on the piece of wood, and minimizing his injuries in the process, Bill didn’t have the energy to spare to think about anything else. He could just turn his brain off. And if he swung a little too hard occasionally…

Well, all that frustration and hurt needed to go somewhere. The Theraprism would probably talk about “finding healthy outlets for his aggression.” Bill mostly tried to remember that, as much as Ford might temporarily hate him, he would permanently hate him if he went across town to bury the ax in the hillbilly instead. Even if the amnesia was his and that stupid prototype’s fault.

There was a certain reliable and almost soothing pattern to the work. Bill didn’t particularly like monotony; that was the opposite of a great party and now it reminded him uncomfortably of the strict routine of Theraprism. But this was a pattern that he could control and even break if he wanted. That control made it all right. Just coordinating his long limbs while the ax regularly buried into the wood with a solid thwack.

Everything was fine. It would be back to normal soon. They would laugh about this brief miserable experience and move on. Because it wasn’t ruined. Bill didn’t have to start over again. He just needed to ignore the cold gaping void in his chest for a little longer. The absence of what he’d worked so hard to earn wasn’t permanent. Ford wouldn’t hate him forever.

Even if there was no sign of progress yet. They might be helping him retrieve his memories— Mabel had been more than happy to talk about it over breakfast that morning— but the hatred in Ford’s eyes hadn’t wavered yet. Completely unyielding.

The wordless shout of frustrated misery wasn’t actually necessary as he swung down hard, sending the split pieces of wood flying in opposite directions. But it was a little satisfying.

Realizing that he’d buried the ax deep enough into the stump beneath it to get the tool stuck was not nearly as satisfying.

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” he snarled, tugging and pulling hard on the handle of the embedded ax.

“What do you think you are doing?”

Bill jumped in surprise, but at least avoided an undignified shriek. Ford was stalking his way towards him, letting the door slam loudly behind him. His hands were tucked behind his back, but his shoulders were squared up. There were decades of fury and hatred in those eyes. Bill forced himself not to flinch or back away.

Twisting his mouth into a bright smile and maintaining eye contact— a sign of aggression in chimpanzees, but a guaranteed sign that everything was fine with humans— he said, “Exactly what it looks like, IQ. Fixing up firewood ‘cause the place gets chilly in the winter. Gotta start early.”

“I don’t think you should be doing anything that involves a weapon.”

“Relax. The redhead taught me how to do this,” said Bill, still struggling to wretch the ax free, “and if Ice says I know what I’m doing, then you should chill about it.”

The pun didn’t get an eyeroll and a chuckle. Ford completely ignored it, coming to a stop a short distance away. Looming in a way that only a man in a long coat that was wanted in multiple dimensions could loom. If it wasn’t for the cold and angry look in his eyes, Bill would have enjoyed Ford looking impressive a lot more.

Trying to ignore the twisting in his guts, Bill turned his gaze back down and focused on wiggling the ax loose. He should have just hid all day in his room instead. Simply pulled the blanket over his head and stayed there.

“Talk to your brother,” he said, his tone flat. “Splitting wood was his idea.”

Bill gave the ax one final yank. And suddenly the resistance was gone, the blade jerking free abruptly enough that only Wendy’s lessons kept him from whacking himself in the shoulder. The success made his grin a little more honest. He was not going to let a stump get the better of him.

“Drop the ax, Cipher!” ordered Ford sharply.

The abrupt brush of compulsion startled him enough to let go and jerk back as if burned. No hesitation, resistance, or thought. Just instant reaction. His chest immediately clenched at the sensation and the implications of it. Bill stared down at the discarded ax as his hand slowly moved up to clutch the front of his shirt, the other moving to wrap around his bracelet.

He hadn’t fought the order, so there was no physical pain. It still hurt somehow. Like someone shattered a pane of glass in his chest, letting the sharp and brittle pieces stab and slice into him. The sense of betrayal twisting those pieces around in there until even his weak and shaky breaths felt like agony.

This must have been how Ford felt when he learned the full plans for the portal. Look at Bill Cipher applying his empathy practice in real life. Mabel would be so proud.

It wasn’t fair. They were past this. Ford even said they didn’t need it. That he was willing to try trusting Bill again and he’d worked so hard not to mess it up again. To prove that… that… It wasn’t fair.

Except it was. In a way, it was probably completely fair.

After everything that he’d done, after all the ways that Bill hurt him, was it wrong for Ford to be the one with the power instead? To have all the control? To be the one that could force the other to obey? It was a reversal of how it once was, so it was just balancing the scales, right?

It was what he agreed to when he signed the paperwork for the outpatient program. Bill had a full understanding of the deal that they’d made; it wasn’t like his desperate plea to the Axolotl. He knew the purpose of the custodial bracelet. He’d known how it worked even before the Pines family. He shouldn’t be surprised that Ford reclaimed that bracelet. Without those memories, he didn’t trust Bill. It hurt, but it was more than fair and Bill had no right to complain about feeling betrayed.

He'd done far worse. This was nothing.

Steadying his treacherous facial expressions, Bill forced himself to raise his head. There was a certain amount of uncertainty to Ford’s face now. As if he didn’t expect Bill’s exact reaction to the order and the compulsion for obedience that accompanied it. A little hesitation as if he was reconsidering his actions. Not exactly the Ford that he’d lost to amnesia, but it wasn’t the cold hatred either. Bill grinned brightly at him as he hid away the misery and hurt.

“You could have just asked,” he said, somehow keeping his tone light. As if his stupid rebellious human body wasn’t fighting to melt back into tears, slime, and hormones again. “And resorting to last names? Someone is feeling formal, Dr. Pines.”

The uncertainty vanished as Ford’s expression hardened. Reminding Bill of when he stormed into the Nightmare Realm with his Quantum Destabilizer. Or between electrical shocks, glaring defiantly and refusing to break.

Because why shouldn’t Bill get some guilt-inducing reminders to make his day worse?

“I did not want to give you the impression that any hint of our previous working relationship remained intact,” he said coldly. “I accept that my past self came to the conclusion that the safest and most secure arrangement was to keep you here rather that risk someone less familiar with your manipulations falling for them. But make no mistake. Whatever leniency that you managed to wrangle through emotional appeals, lies, staged heroics, or… other methods—” Ford’s nose wrinkled slightly in distaste. “—that ends now. I may have forgotten a great deal, but I have not forgotten who and what you are.”

He kept his grin frozen in place. Not letting the other choking emotions show. Because it might hurt, but Bill knew that the hatred wasn’t permanent. The raw emptiness left behind wasn’t permanent. It wasn’t forever. He could endure the misery, just like he endured Euclydia burning, multiple eternities in the Theraprism, and Ford abandoning him to flee through the multiverse. Bill could keep going.

Ford would remember. He just had to trust that it was only for a little while. He came back to Ford for a reason. Bill wasn’t giving up yet.

Prying his fingers from his shirt and giving a faint shrug, Bill said, “Don’t want me splitting wood? Fine. I’ll check on the gift shop or something. But you can explain to your Xerox copy why we’re gonna freeze this winter.”

“I believe we have sufficient time to prepare,” he said coolly.

Bill had left his hoodie tied around his waist while he was splitting wood. He was already working up a sweat because it was hot out, it was hard work, and human bodies were always oozing in weird ways that his proper body never did. But as he turned and walked away, Bill untied it and pulled the hoodie back on. His grin never wavered.

He wasn’t going to break. He wasn’t going to fall apart. At least not until he could make a detour to hide in the bathroom. Just long enough to pull himself together in private.

Stanford tried to shake off the tension from both realizing the strange noise outside had been Bill Cipher with an actual weapon and the weird look on the former dream demon’s face when he used the safety measures that the Orbs of Healing Light provided. As if he never expected Stanford to use those methods in his current state. It was odd feeling that uncomfortable when he made Bill release his ax. But he knew that everyone would be safer if he started reasserting control of the situation.

There was no need to be feeling that twinge of guilt.

Circling the Mystery Shack, he found where his family ended up after breakfast. With Soos running the tours and the pregnant Melody in the shop, Stanley had apparently taken it upon himself to construct a few new exhibits. And Dipper and Mabel were clearly recruited for labor. From what Stanford could tell, his brother and Dipper were building a large papier-mâché sculpture of a snail on a frame of chicken wire and dowel rods while Mabel worked on gluing plastic jewels to what seemed to be a snakeskin wrapped around a hula hoop.

While a hoop snake had an origin in folklore (albeit not normally portrayed quite that sparkly), he suspected that Stanley was inventing the snail from scratch.

“Hey there, Ford,” called Stanley, raising a hand in greetings. “Did you come out to see ‘Escar-Goliath’? He’s gonna really turn some heads when we’re done.”

Smiling faintly, he asked, “Do I often view your fabricated creations during the past few years?”

“Well… I think you tolerate them,” said Dipper carefully. “I mean, you seem to appreciate the creativity and you do occasionally chuckle now about the backstories, but I think that you sometimes still wish that Grunkle Stan would at least base them on something real to educate the public.”

“But since we’ve already proven that people either don’t believe in the real creatures or end up traumatized by them,” added Mabel, “or the townspeople start getting nervous about it possibly going against the whole ‘Never Mind All That’ Act—”

“We get a lot of leniency on that because of everything that we did to help, because Stan is basically the town hero, and because the Mystery Shack is supposed to have the weird and unexplained, but there are limits,” he said dryly.

“—you’ve mostly decided to let him, Soos, and Melody have fun and make up anything they want. It’s usually better for everyone. And tourists love the fake stuff.”

“I suppose that it would be a safer approach,” admitted Stanford. “And the purpose of the business is to turn a profit.”

“If you think that it would help you to remember,” said Stanley, adding another strip of newspaper to the frame, “I could get Soos to take you on a tour of all the more recent exhibits.”

Shaking his head, he said, “I don’t think that will be necessary. I merely wanted to check on a few things out here before I return inside to investigate a few topics. We can go over some of the photo albums later this afternoon when you are less busy.”

Dipper perked up a little at the idea of an investigation. But Mabel looked a little more curious and maybe suspicious. As if she realized that he was not sharing everything.

“Were you only checking on us?” she asked slowly. “Or other stuff too?”

His mood darkening slightly, Stanford admitted, “I noticed that Bill Cipher was in the yard. That was what drew me outside initially. He had an ax.”

“Yeah, I told him to split some wood,” said Stanley with an off-handed shrug.

“He had an ax.”

“Kinda hard to split wood without the right tools, Poindexter. And Wendy went to a lot of trouble to teach him how to use the thing.”

Trying to keep his voice calm— his brother wasn’t actually being obtuse on purpose, merely too complacent to see the problem— Stanford said, “I honestly do not think it is wise to literally arm him with a potential weapon. It is bad enough that—”

“Ford,” said Stanley firmly. He turned away from the project to look at him directly, his expression reassuring and steady. “I get it. I swear that we get it. I remember all of your precautious and warnings the first time around. You were just as tightly wound and it’s only been a day. And I remember what you told me about you and Bill in the past.”

Stanford saw his brother’s eyes flicker briefly towards the teenagers. The silent confirmation that he’d eventually told Stanley more than he’d shared with Dipper and Mabel. The manipulations, the isolating tactics, the cruelties when he’d learned the truth, and the violations of his mind when he tried to deny Bill. Part of him felt humiliated that someone knew the details of his lowest point, but another part of him felt almost comforted that someone understood.

“Now, I’m not gonna tell you that whatever they put him through in that Theraprism place erased everything that was wrong with that pointy nightmare,” he continued. “Even if I wanted to make a claim like that, which I don’t, you wouldn’t believe it anyway. The place did grind him down a lot though.” Stanley shook his head briefly. “But maybe you’ll believe this. First, I need you to really think about it logically. How much damage could Bill do with an ax? He’s built like a scarecrow and he’d probably trip and cut himself in half by falling on it if he tried chasing anyone. Not to mention that his arms are about as skinny as Dipper’s were back when he was twelve.”

“Hey!” complained Dipper.

“Besides, hacking people up with an ax isn’t his style. He has to put on a show. But more importantly,” said Stanley firmly, “do you honestly believe that I would trust Bill with an ax or anything else if I thought there was even the slightest chance that he could hurt the kids or even you with it?”

Stanford opened his mouth, but no words came out. Because Stanley wouldn’t. He knew that his brother would do almost anything to keep Dipper and Mabel safe. To keep Stanford safe. Make any sacrifice to ensure that his family wasn’t harmed.

He could still practically feel the weight of the memory gun in his hand as Stanley kneeled in front of him, wrapped in borrowed clothes as he waited for the destruction of his mind.

And Stanley would know better than to give Bill a weapon to use against them. Stanley would recognize the potential cons before Bill could use them. Stanley wouldn’t fall for his tricks. He was the one who would have recognized Bill as a threat from the start.

He knew that he could trust Stanley’s judgement, even when his own was questionable. And he knew that his brother would never risk their niece or nephew unless he was absolutely certain.

Letting out a slow breath, Stanford tried to let some of the tension melt out of him. They couldn’t trust Bill. But he could trust Stanley. If he didn’t think that giving Bill an ax was too dangerous to risk, then perhaps he overreacted.

Seeing that his grunkle was calming down, Dipper straightened up, brushed off his clothes, and suggested, “Maybe you need a break. Just… take an afternoon off and go do something fun away from everything.”

“And I suppose you have some recommendations in mind, my boy?” he said with a faint smile.

“Well, we could fire up the ADITS and see if there’s anything nearby that’s worth investigating?”

Frowning slightly in confusion, Stanford asked, “ADITS?”

“The ‘Anomaly Detection, Identification, and Triangulation System,’” announced Stanford, unrolling the blueprint across the table. “Fiddleford and I have been exchanging ideas and designs for months. You see, while I do have methods of detecting signs of anomalies already—”

“Like with your fancy hologram watch,” said Stanley before taking a sip of his Pitt Cola.

“—there are limitations. It won’t specify the type of anomalies, which could be anything from a temporal anachronism like a Stone Age paperclip to a flock of Eye-Bats. And even hacking into government satellites—”

“Wait, what?” asked Melody, looking up from washing the dishes.

“—it doesn’t offer very much precision,” he said. “There’s always a great deal of territory to search. And finally, while it is not a major issue when we are at sea, the heavy concentration of anomalous phenomena in Gravity Falls makes it essentially impossible to differentiate between individual examples. We were lucky that the lingering dimensional rifts from Weirdmageddon—” Everyone briefly glanced at Bill with a plate and a dish towel in his hands. “—could be detected by other means because the entire town and the surrounding area registers as just one giant anomaly. Which is less than helpful.”

Stanford looked around at his audience. With Dipper and Mabel back in Piedmont already for the past couple of days, it mostly consisted of his brother and Soos at the table with him. The distant sound of vacuuming somewhere in the Mystery Shack told him approximately where Abuelita was. And while she was in the kitchen listening, he suspected that most of Melody’s attention was on the dishes. Bill was the opposite: listening closely while drying plates on autopilot.

It was still a larger and more attentive audience than he had in the past. Normally he might end up with a single person who would listen to something that he cared about.

“The ADITS should solve all of those problems when we’re finished,” he continued. “Fiddleford is confident that he will be able to connect it to the laptop after it is finished in order to give us access to the information even while we’re at sea. And we should be able to make use of the remaining material from the dismantled portal for the more complex elements in constructing it.” Grinning eagerly, Stanford said, “Just think of the possibilities. Nearly constant up-to-date information on the location of various anomalies. That could be a real asset to our investigations. Not only could we prepare better for specific searches by having at least a general idea of what we’ll encounter, but we could potentially study things like migration patterns or shifting territories on a larger scale—”

“Sounds great, Poindexter,” said Stanley as he peered over the design. Clearly following it better than he would have decades ago. “Just wondering how you’ll power this thing. Pretty sure that if it doesn’t fry the entire electrical grid in town, the power bill will bankrupt the Mystery Shack a few dozen times over. And radioactive waste clearly draws a lot of attention and isn’t as easy to snag these days. Do you want the feds to come back?”

Waving off his concerns, Stanford said, “We have time before we need to figure that detail out.”

“Let Fordsy be excited about his new project,” called Bill from next to the sink.

“The Anomaly Detection, Identification, and Triangulation System,” he muttered to himself. “We were going to build it.”

“You did build it,” said Mabel.

“And it works?”

His face lit up with excitement, Dipper said, “That’s right. You were so proud of it and told us about your progress every time that we called. And when you finished, it was everything that you promised. It can differentiate between different types of anomalies. I mean, you have to have taken scans of past examples if you want precise identification, like if you want to know for certain that you’re detecting a siren or a harpy or a troll. But it can still narrow it down even if it is something completely new. It’ll tell you if it is a biological anomaly, temporal, gravitational, dimensional, mineral—”

Stanford tried to listen to his nephew. He truly did want to hear what he was describing. It sounded fascinating. But he could feel another memory vying for attention.

Trying to push down the feelings of unease, Stanford asked, “Are you certain about this?”

“Come on, Sixer. You used to be fun. Where’s your sense of scientific inquiry?” asked Bill, rolling his eyes. There was a wide grin on his face as he shifted the large metal orb in his hands. “We’re doing this.”

Perched on a stool, numerous sensors carefully positioned all over him for optimal monitoring purposes, and barely containing his impatience, Bill waited as Stanford made his methodical way through his checklist of preparations and reviews. He wanted this to go smoothly. Otherwise, the Anomaly Detection, Identification, and Triangulation System would be nothing more than a large piece of junk. But as far as he could tell, the plan was theoretically sound. He might be a little nervous and uncertain, but feeling a little anxious was probably normal.

Besides, if anything went wrong, it would likely be fairly minor. Probably just a complete failure to produce any results. And at least if it didn’t work, the sensors would almost certainly give them enough data to examine before planning another attempt.

“I’ve been looking forward to this,” said Bill, the grin widening a little more. “Ready to get your new gadget going?”

Pushing down the unease again, he said, “Just a few more sensors to test. I don’t want to miss anything important when we get started.”

“You were never this cautious in the old days…”

“You almost seem more eager about the ADITS than I am.”

“It’s important to you. I want to make this work for you, Ford.”

Stanford stiffened, only vaguely aware that Dipper was still talking. The memory felt far too similar to much older ones. It reminded him unnervingly of when he was working on the portal decades ago. Bill’s encouragement and enthusiasm for the project could have almost been word for word about the portal instead. Only the low-level feeling of unease that coated the memory was different.

He’d learned from his mistakes of the past. His pre-amnesia self might have started to slip into old habits and grown complacent around Bill, but he clearly hadn’t forgotten the dangers he represented. Not completely. He’d recognized that something was wrong.

He was right. Bill was up to something. Hiding, planning, and working towards some unknown agenda. Slowly lulling them into a false sense of security as he prepared.

The ADITS was involved. That much was obvious. It was important somehow. Did Bill spot an opportunity to use the machine when Stanford presented the blueprints or did he already have something in mind by then? Did Stanford even come up with the idea in the first place? Or was Bill already planting seeds in his head by then, making suggestions or guiding him towards the concept?

Was Bill so unoriginal that he merely adapted his techniques and plans from when he first manipulated Stanford into building the portal? And was Stanford so foolish that he fell for it again?

What if the ADITS was meant to help empower Bill or restore him to his reality-warping dream demon self? A slow siphoning of energy that no one would notice until it was too late?

Whatever Bill intended, Stanford needed to figure it out before it was too late. He was already investigating some potential clues and taking steps to lessen the threat that Bill represented. But he couldn’t delay.

Blinking as he tried to focus on the present, Stanford said, “I appreciate the offer, Dipper. But I have to take care of a few things first. Perhaps another time.”

Perhaps after he determined Bill’s secrets and he knew for certain that there was no threat towards his family. It couldn’t be long now. Stanford was on the right trail. He could feel it. Soon he would know Bill’s true objective.

Chapter Text

The slow drip of the faucet was almost soothing after a while. A quiet, steady, and reliable sound. Given enough time to really sink in, the noise could drive out all other thoughts. It wasn’t quite as effective as working himself to exhaustion chopping and splitting wood, but Bill did appreciate the privacy that hiding in the bathroom offered. He could just sit with his back against the cool porcelain of the tub, listening to the dripping faucet and the distant hum of a vacuum.

Seriously, Abuelita should give it a rest. With how frequently she cleaned, dust was an endangered species in the Mystery Shack. She was vacuuming up half the place’s charm.

Bill wasn’t technically wearing his bracelet. It was in his hands as he stared at it, twisting the bracelet carefully as he watched the light dance across the wavelike pattern to the metal. Keeping in contact even as he rolled it between his fingers and palms in slow movements. There was always a risk of losing his grip and dropping the bracelet when he took it off. At the moment, however, the potential consequences didn’t scare him.

A day. That’s all it had been. It made him miserable and it hurt, but it had only been a day. Bill had needed longer than that to earn his second chance. And it really hadn’t been that bad so far, right?

Yes, Ford hated him now. But other than his initial reaction with the laser pistol when Bill’s presence startled him, he’d kept his behavior reasonable. Mostly avoidance or hesitating to approach him. The response to the ax was a surprise, but it was… reasonable. He didn’t trust Bill and didn’t know about the agreement not to force obedience anymore. Why wouldn’t an amnesiac Ford use the bracelet? It didn’t hurt Bill. He deserved to feel safe. Ford should feel safe and Bill would just need to do whatever it took to make it happen.

Rick wanted Ilsa to be safe and happy. “Everybody Comes to Rick’s” made that point clear. Even though he risked being arrested or killed by either Captain Renault or Major Strausser, he did what was best for her. That was more important to him than what happened to himself.

But even if it felt awful, Bill knew it was temporary. He clung to that knowledge. No matter how much his emotions and hormones and oozing body made the entire situation worse, it wouldn’t be forever. Ford would remember. Bill wouldn’t have to face the impossible task of trying to regain the man’s trust yet again and try desperately to make amends for even a fraction of what he’d done.

Ford would simply remember. He would smile at Bill with a softer expression that would help fill the aching void, he would pull Bill close until the smell of sweaty sweater and burnt hair made his tight chest breathe easier, and—

A soft knock startled Bill out of his thoughts, his grip tightening on the bracelet in his hands. He pressed it to his wrist to return the bracelet to its more usual and secure spot. Then he shoved himself to his feet.

Cold water from the sink helped a little when he splashed his face. The redness and puffiness weren’t quite as noticeable as earlier. Maybe they’d miss the signs. Especially if he could get a realistic smile.

He tried, but immediately winced at the results in his reflection. That wouldn’t even fool the pig. Going without the smile would probably be better.

Another knock told him to stop procrastinating. At least Bill was fairly certain that it wasn’t Ford on the other side of the door. He and Stan tended to be firm even when they weren’t trying to break it down. He suspected it was either the teenage twins or possibly Melody. She had been spending a lot of time in the bathroom during her pregnancy.

Giving his hoodie a final tug, Bill opened the door. His prediction was correct. Wearing an orange sweater with a blue kitten on it, Mabel was staring back at him with a rather scrutinizing look.

“There’s a couple of plastic gemstones stuck in your ponytail,” he said.

Reaching back to tug them free, she said, “I was helping Grunkle Stan on a project. He borrowed us right before I was about to do some knitting.”

“Sorry?” he said with a vague shrug.

Rolling her eyes, Mabel said, “I just finished outside and I was trying to invite you to come knit with me.”

“I’m fine, Shooting Star. I don’t need a babysitter.”

“No, but you do need a sympathetic ear if you want to rant about this whole mess to someone,” she said bluntly. “Besides, you’re still working on those gloves for Grunkle Ford and fingers can be tricky if you’ve never tried knitting them before. And Dipper is busy.”

Pausing as if carefully considering her offer, Bill said slowly, “I should probably help Melody in the gift shop…”

“Why do you think Dipper is busy?” she asked. “Come on, Bill. We’ll make some popcorn and put on a movie as we knit.”

“Nothing with synthesized music?”

Smiling brightly, Mabel said, “That sounds like a yes!”

“Only if you pick out a good enough movie, kid.”

“How about ‘Flavor Pups: The Movie’?”

That managed to coax an honest chuckle out of him. There were so many reasons why that movie should not be around. It was a technicolor foreign movie based on the mascots of Smile Dip, which had been illegal in this part of the world for years already because too much of it caused hallucinations and visions of other planes of existence that were only slightly less chaotic than the Nightmare Realm. The Flavor Pups mascots were from the candy creators overdosing on their product and glimpsing powerful eldritch abominations through those hallucinations. But someone clearly decided to make an animated movie about the mascots in order to sell more Smile Dip in their original country, ended up dubbing it into a new language, and then released it somewhere the kids couldn’t even buy Smile Dip.

He was fairly certain the movie was mostly watched by college students while eating extra-special brownies, but Mabel loved it unironically and the lack of logic or coherent plot appealed to Bill at times. Even if it was unnerving to see the Beast portrayed like that.

“Sounds like a deal to me, Shooting Star.”

Giving him a deadpan look, she said dryly, “Bill.”

“Sorry,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Poor choice of words.”

While Mabel went to make preparations for their movie and snacks, Bill headed for his room. He wasn’t completely certain that he wanted to work on the six-fingered gloves though. They might make him think too much about everything that was wrong. Maybe he could knit a hat or another blanket. People kept giving Melody random stuff for the future baby. Maybe he could make a scarf for the kid so they didn’t freeze in winter. Or she could tie it around the baby like a leash, keep them from wandering off a cliff.

Of course, he would need to pick the right color for a scarf-leash. Obviously yellow would be the best color of all, but Bill hadn’t met the kid yet and thus didn’t know if the baby would be worthy of the color yellow. The kid needed to earn that honor. Maybe Mabel would have yarn the same dull olive green as Soos’s usual shirt.

Bill’s knitting contemplations screeched to a halt as he reached his room. He stumbled and nearly fell down the handful of stairs. His eyes swept all over, the reality slowly sinking in. He could only stare at the mounting evidence that someone had raided his belongings.

He gripped his wrist as he slowly moved deeper into the ransacked space. The posters and magazine clippings were missing from his walls. His clothes had been swept off the shelf onto the floor. The tiny origami birds were similarly strewn underfoot. Several glass eyeballs were scattered around, as if they were knocked out of the jar when someone dug inside for anything hidden in it. The taxidermy monstrosities that used to be exhibits were still on the shelves, but moved around from them being searched. His small make-up kit and compact mirror had also ended up on the floor, but his books were gone.

His trunk wasn’t latched closed. It never had a lock, but there was a latch that was normally flipped to keep it closed. Someone had opened it and gone through it.

The wave of anger that rose up was familiar. Sharp and burning. The type of anger that would have led to civilizations crumbling and his Henchmaniacs scrambling for cover. How dare they? This was his. It wasn’t much, but it was his and they just strolled in to— And why— And who would dare to do… this…

A cold shock of realization extinguished that rage. Because he knew exactly who would look through his room for signs that Bill was a threat. An amnesiac, paranoid, and hurting Ford that would do anything to protect his family would be the person who would do something exactly like this. Honestly, it wasn’t that different than burning anything with Bill’s image on it in the house or installing a metal plate in his head, right? Same motivation. It was practically restrained in comparison to some of his attempts to safeguard against Bill.

Bill took a shaky breath and tugged his hood, trying to vanish into the yellow fabric. It shouldn’t hurt. Nothing was broken. Some of it was knocked around, but undamaged. And he might have lost a few things from the walls and some books, but they hadn’t been important, right? Besides, everything that Ford took away from him? Bill knew that he would give it back as soon as he remembered everything. Nothing was ruined. It was temporary. Everything could still be fixed.

As his eyes blurred and burned, Bill swiped at his face with the sleeve of his hoodie. It was fine. Just like Ford using the bracelet against him, it wasn’t actually that bad. He was fine.

Except as he edged his way over to his bed, his breath caught in his chest. The sheets and his blue knit blanket were still tangled up there, but the other one was gone. The bright and colorful one, made as a subtle reassurance for when everything felt wrong and he was struggling to remember why he kept trying. It wasn’t there.

Ford took it away from him.

Somehow that was the straw that absolutely shattered the camel’s back into itty-bitty pieces before stealing a steamroller and running over the broken vertebrae to crush them further. Bill stuffed his face into the sleeve of his hoodie as the sobs from the day before returned to shake his bony frame. Choking misery threatened to smother him. The fabric quickly grew damp with salt and slime. He couldn’t breathe and at some point, he’d collapsed on one of the small rugs. And he couldn’t stop the wave after wave of sobs.

Human hormones were evil. Bill distantly knew that it was an overreaction. It was just a stupid blanket, regardless of what those colors told him when he needed encouragement. And losing that blanket wasn’t worth all of those tears. Not to mention that it made his nose and even his ears fill with gunk in the process. He could feel the slime running down the back of his throat. The sobbing also made his chest hurt, like something was crushing the air from his lungs until he could only breathe in shallow jerks that kept catching. Or like something was squeezing his racing heart.

And it wasn’t as if any of these involuntary responses made him feel any better emotionally or something. Bill still felt gutted and betrayed. He still felt miserable, hopeless, and lonely. He still felt this raw sense of loss and violation. Except the sobbing meant that he also had to feel slimy too. Not to mention that he ended up in a vicious cycle of crying because he was upset and being upset because he was crying.

The human body was poorly designed and in serious need of revising.

But eventually the sobs slowed and stopped. Leaving him tired and with a faint headache. Too drained to feel anything except hurt and resigned to that hurt.

It had only been a day so far. How long would it take Ford to remember? How much longer was Bill going to endure the hatred, distrust, and coldness? A few days? A few weeks? A few months?

Nothing for someone a trillion years old, but pure agony when compressed down to a human timescale.

Bill slowly uncoiled his drippy and oozing body and pushed himself back to his feet. It was fine. Ford would remember eventually. None of this was forever. He could endure until Ford didn’t hate him.

Maybe if he said it enough times, it would be true.

He made it over to his second-hand trunk. Bill came to his room for a reason and he needed to keep going. He wasn’t giving up yet.

He wasn’t surprised that his sketchbook had obviously been rummaged through. Undoubtedly searched for clues. Not that the geometric shapes would offer any insight on Bill’s current situation. But Ford must be trying to find evidence for why Bill would choose to be in Gravity Falls again. He would want to figure out why Bill took the risk of the outpatient program. Other than the sketchbook, a few other things were shifted around in the trunk. But after a few moments of looking Bill couldn’t help the unsteady laughter that tumbled out.

His knitting needles, his safety scissors, and even the stupid pencil sharpener shaped like an apple were gone. It was just like the ax all over again.

Obviously Bill Cipher couldn’t be trusted with anything resembling a weapon. Nothing sharp or pointy. He was lucky that Ford didn’t take the jar for the eyeballs in case he smashed it to get some glass shards to slit everyone’s throats in their sleep.

It took almost as long to stop laughing bitterly as it did to stop sobbing. Though both tasted salty and made the growing void in his chest ache sharply. But eventually he grew calm and quiet. And pausing only long enough to pull his hood down further and slap a broad grin on his face, Bill abandoned the ransacked storage room.

“Finally,” said Mabel when he reached the living room. She was already settled on the floor with her knitting, her half-empty bowl of popcorn, and a snoozing pig. “What took you so— Wait.”

She set her knitting aside and stood up, a frown on her face as she tried to peer under his hood. Bill did his best to twist away from her peeking.

“What happened? What’s wrong?”

“I’m fine, Shooting Star. Don’t worry about it.”

“Not buying it. Tell me, Bill. Otherwise, I’ll have to take drastic measures.” She narrowed her eyes. “Don’t make me break out the ice cream and sappy movies that always have the couple reconciling in the rain. No one can resist spilling their emotional guts from that combo.”

Giving a vague shrug, he said wearily, “I couldn’t find my knitting needles. I… guess I overreacted. Just leave it alone.”

Mabel didn’t look completely convinced. But she did slowly sit back down. Bill sat next to her and pulled his knees up towards his chest.

“Sorry about your knitting needles,” she said carefully. “With everything being weird and stressful, even something small can be too much. You can borrow some more of mine if it would help? Or we can go to town to buy new ones.”

“Maybe,” he said dully. “I just… I just want back what I lost.”

“I know.” Mabel’s tone made it clear that she knew that he missed something far more important than knitting needles. “Give it time. Until then, we can watch a movie and pretend everything is normal.”

“Normal? In Gravity Falls?” he asked quietly, the faintest hint of amusement in his voice despite everything.

Rolling her eyes, she said, “I get it. Poor choice of words. Now eat your popcorn and let eighty-eight minutes of brightly-colored animation make everything better.”

It wouldn’t fix anything. Bill knew that. But he’d also spent eons ignoring upsetting situations and memories by distracting himself, trying to drown it out and fill the emptiness with noise and chaos. Maybe he could brush off those old coping mechanisms. Watching an eye-searingly bright movie with a nonsensical plot and eating popcorn while Mabel’s knitting needles clicked steadily next to him wasn’t exactly a wild party that would involve a body count, but maybe it would help anyway.

Despite his brief detour outside after retrieving the materials under investigation— the repetitive thwack had warranted a quick search for the source and it did turn out to be Bill in the end— Stanford had returned to his study with high hopes. He’d found a few scribbled notes that he’d made previously about the color substitution code from Bill’s book, tucked away in the back of a drawer and half-crumbled. He couldn’t seem to locate the accursed book itself despite Stanley’s claim that it had returned with new additions, but it was enough to try decoding some of the colorful patches into letters.

Of course, there was no guarantee that it would be merely a substitution. That was why he’d also borrowed any written material from the room in addition to the blanket. If Bill had also incorporated a Vigenère cipher to further disguise his meaning, then Stanford would need a keyword or phrase to decipher it. There was a strong chance that the keyword wouldn’t be written down, but the random magazine clippings, the odd supernatural romance novel, and other assorted material was at least a starting point.

The next challenge was deciding how the color code should be read. The perfect square blanket didn’t have any clear indication of which side should be considered the top. Nor which side was the front or back. His only potential clue was how it was oriented on the bed when he originally found it. There was still a strong chance that he would need to write down all eight options and test them through various deciphering methods before he would be able to tell for certain which one was correct. But he would start with one and see how it worked out.

Each row was twenty-one squares. Using his incomplete notes, Stanford painstakingly worked his way through the top row. As far as he could tell, there wasn’t anything to indicate spacing between words or punctuation. Another challenge to the project. But uncovering potential threats to his family would be worth the effort.

Also, Stanford had always appreciated an intellectual challenge. In less dire circumstances, deciphering the potential code would have made for a fun puzzle.

Orange-brown, orange, neon green, sky blue, orange-brown, red, yellow, white, green, yellow, blue, blue, purple, yellow, pink, red, lavender, yellow, sky blue, orange-brown.

Stanford carefully recorded the individual squares of the first row. His initial notes had not done the best of indicating specific shades of the same color. It had been something that he’d been scribbling down as he went along and his later work on the cipher would have been more detailed. But he was fairly certain that he was making progress. Recording the specific yarn color and comparing it to his incomplete notes to the best of his ability. And when he finished the top row, he blinked in surprise, grinned briefly, and redid the letters with some appropriate and spacing and punctuation based on what it looked like.

My name is Bill Cipher. I am—

Obviously the second sentence was continued on the second row, but it was comprehensible so far. Stanford chuckled to himself at the simple substitution code that Bill employed rather than anything more elaborate. Almost as if Bill wanted it to be easy to read.

Maybe it was meant to be a way to contact an accomplish somehow? That would explain the need to identify himself at the start of the message and why he wouldn’t want it to be too complicated. Perhaps the plan was that the blanket could be hung out a window or on the roof at some point to send his message? Or given as a “gift” to the right target or an unsuspecting middle man? An overly elaborate and convoluted method of communication, Stanford could admit, but he couldn’t completely discount it. Bill would not be above something dramatic and mysterious rather than being more straightforward as a method of avoiding suspicion. Stanford could not discount the possibility until he had more data.

But he was clearly right about Bill encoding a message in the blanket. It was right in front of him. Stanford was obviously on the right trail.

Looking over the other twenty rows, he couldn’t help quietly considering other options. Faster options. His scribbled notes weren’t detailed enough for fast progress. It would help if he could find the book with examples to properly compare the different shades of orange or gray or…

Or he could retrieve the contract from his room. It was translated into three different languages, including the color-based one that he was staring at currently. That would be ideal for his decoding purposes. And that would hopefully speed up the entire process.

Then Stanford would read the message and finally know what Bill intended.

It still threw him off when the elevator took him up to the living room rather than opening up behind the vending machine in the gift shop. A practical and useful renovation that Stanford fully supported, but one that was still an adjustment. But far more unexpected was finding the living room occupied.

All of them sitting on the floor while a blindingly bright and colorful show played on the television (there were some dimensions similarly intense on the eyes, but they were generally inhabited by giant bees or shrimp), it almost seemed like a rather innocent scene. Mabel was absently knitting as he watched the program play, though she did look over at the sound of the elevator. Waddles was sleeping next to her in clear contentment, the pig's legs occasionally kicking slightly. It was the person next to her, almost completely hidden by the fabric of his yellow hoodie, that truly concerned him.

Face concealed by the hood and limbs drawn close, Bill looked as small as his lanky frame could manage. As if trying to seem harmless and unthreatening. Like the opposite of a cat poofing out its fur to seem larger and more dangerous. But Stanford had long since become too disillusioned to trust Bill at face value. It was far closer to a predator crouched down before pouncing.

Because that was what Bill ultimately was. A predator. A monster. A threat.

One that was alone with his niece.

— “Alright, Ford, time’s up! I’ve got the kids,” announced Bill, creeping back into the throne room like a giant pyramid-shaped spider, clutching Dipper and Mabel in h is hands. “I think I’m gonna kill one of ‘em now just for the heck of it.”

His eye changed to the symbol of a pine tree as the children struggled desperately.

“Eenie…”

The pine tree became a shooting star.

“Meenie…”

Back to a pine tree as Bill raised his hand, lining up his fingers to snap.

“Minee…”

The shooting star.

“You—”

“Stop,” shouted Stanford, sharper and a bit more desperately than he intended.

He certainly didn’t mean to make Mabel jump or Waddles abruptly scramble to his feet, fleeing the room and up the stairs. And he would absolutely apologize to her. Quite profusely. While trying not to think about how he briefly sounded like his father. But right now, Stanford was much more concerned with getting Bill away from her. He’d caused enough harm already.

Bill had flinched slightly at the shout like Mabel did, but he didn’t resist when Stanford grabbed his arm and hauled him to his feet. He only stumbled a few steps as Stanford marched them away towards the staircase entranceway.

“Grunkle Ford!” protested Mabel, untangling herself from her knitting project and bowl of popcorn.

“It’s fine, Shooting Star. ‘Bout time we talked anyway,” called Bill with too much brightness to his tone as he straightened up a little. “Go ahead and finish the movie.”

Something about that only seemed to raise Stanford’s hackles further. Reminding him of those distant days when he believed that Bill was his precious muse and friend. Like he was trying to build that comradery with Mabel now, full of false concern for her and isolating the girl from others until she had no one except Bill.

It didn’t matter that she was a half-grown fifteen-year-old with brass knuckles hidden in her sweater instead of the barely thirteen-year-old that Stanford remembered. He would not let her be used and betrayed like that. He would protect his family.

As soon as he dragged Bill to the short hallway on the other side of the staircase and out of sight, Stanford shoved the gawky figure against the wall. Pinning Bill in place with his greater mass. The hood kept most of his face in shadow, but the wide grin was impossible to miss. An unnerving rictus that was familiar somehow despite Bill not having a normal mouth in his natural state.

“What do you think you’re doing?” demanded Stanford, managing to both shout and keep his voice quiet in case Mabel tried eavesdropping.

“I was watching ‘Flavor Pups: The Movie.’ Not the best plot, but trippy visuals,” he replied flippantly.

“I mean,” he hissed, “what are you doing in Gravity Falls? Why are you in the Theraprism’s outpatient program? What are you planning?”

“There is no plan, Sixer—”

“Don’t you dare call me that.” When Bill fell silent, Stanford continued “You wouldn’t have done all of this unless it benefitted you somehow. You have an agenda, Cipher. A goal that you are pursuing.”

“Maybe I already succeeded. Maybe I had what I wanted,” he said evenly.

“Tell me,” he snapped quietly.

“A mistake that was never a mistake. A pawn that crossed the board. An impossibly bright star. An empty void of a black hole that finally filled.” Laughing quietly, Bill said, “The right gin-joint in the right town in the right world.”

“Enough games, Cipher.”

“What does it matter? Right now you won’t believe anything that I tell you. I’d be better off not saying anything until you remember more.”

And as much as Stanford hated agreeing with him, Bill was right. Even if he confessed every detail of his goal and plan to achieve it, complete with diagrams and bulletpoints, Stanford couldn’t believe a word of it. There was no point interrogating him for answers or demanding explanations for his (admittedly intriguing) riddle-like remarks.

“I’ll remember what is important to me,” he said finally. “My family. The life that I started building in this dimension with them. And if I didn’t need to know what you’ve done since returning for purely pragmatic reasons, I would prefer for the memories regarding your continued presence to remain forgotten.”

He felt Bill stiffen under his grip. Going still enough that for a brief moment, he didn’t seem to be breathing. He was more like one of the statues or idols that once filled this house than anything alive.

“You don’t mean that, Ford.”

“If I didn’t have to worry about the potential mental damage or how you’d undoubtedly take advantage of my blissful ignorance, I would welcome the chance to borrow Fiddleford’s memory gun and excise every trace of you from my mind,” he said venomously. “My life would have been much better if I have never met you. I never should have read that inscription.” He shook his head before giving a tired scoff. “I would be happiest if you were gone and forgotten in every sense of the word. But since that is not an option, I will settle for keeping you from your goals and from my family.”

Stanford let go of him. Bill didn’t immediately move away from the wall. He only bowed his head further down.

Knowing that he wouldn’t be able to concentrate on deciphering the code knitted into the blanket if he had to worry about what Bill might attempt in the meantime, Stanford firmly ordered, “You will not look, talk to, or approach any member of my family. You will return to your room and not come back through that door until someone comes to retrieve you.”

Bill took a shuddering breath and gave a small nod. And his head still bowed, he turned to leave.

“If that’s what you truly want, Stanford…”

Something about the quiet words made him uneasy in a way that he couldn’t describe or understand. But before he could react, Bill was gone.

He should go to his room. Stanford still needed to retrieve the contract. Instead, he backtracked to the living room.

On her feet in an instance, Mabel demanded, “Where’s Bill? What did you say to him, Grunkle Ford?”

“I asked him some questions and we had a discussion concerning boundaries and goals,” he said carefully. “I did not mean to interrupt your movie, my girl.”

She was eyeing him suspiciously, as if trying to determine what else the conversation might have been about. Because she was insightful and observant enough to know it was on serious matters. She was always better at understanding people than he was and he was willing to believe that trait improved with age. But she didn’t push further at the moment. Nor did she resist him when Stanford cautiously pulled his niece into a hug.

He wouldn’t let his family be hurt. Nothing like what nearly happened in the Fearamid would occur as long as there was breath in his body. He wouldn’t let Bill take them away. Whatever he was plotting, Stanford would figure it out and keep them safe.

Bill wouldn’t touch them. They wouldn’t be hurt like he was.

Chapter Text

Holding onto his niece for a little while seemed to help sooth the tight ball of anxious energy twisting in his chest. A bit like how Stanley managed to feel steady and reliable, cutting through the agitation by making him feel safe. Or how Dipper brought back a sense of normality by distracting him with descriptions of fascinating anomalies. His family’s presence helped. Anchors in the middle of swirling chaotic stress. Familiar despite the changes and forgotten moments of the last two-and-a-half years.

But hugging Mabel also reminded him of what was at stake. And as much as he would prefer to follow some of her suggestions of watching a movie together to see if he remembered it or talking to Dipper in the gift shop or even trying the scrapbooks again, he needed to finish what he started. He couldn’t protect them without answers. So despite her insisting, Stanford eventually retrieved the contract from his room and returned to his study.

Progress went much more quickly after that. It was actually a little impressive how close the yarn colors were to the ones in the document. Did Bill have to hunt through the local craft stores to find the right shades or was Mabel’s supplies already extensive enough to accommodate his needs? Did he cultivate a “friendship” with her specifically to gain access to her materials and experience at knitting? And how might all of this connect to the ADITS in the laboratory?

There were so still so many questions. But he might finally be on the brink of having some answers.

All of the colorful patches identified and his best estimation of where to separate the individual words complete (and he was grateful for the lack of contractions adding further complications), Stanford put down his pen. He’d cracked the code. Now it was time to put it together and see what Bill was hiding.

My name is Bill Cipher. I am a yellow triangle from Euclydia. I made many mistakes. I destroyed many lives. I hurt those that I cared about. I cannot erase the damage. But I can try to be better. It is not easy. It is hard work. Sometimes it feels impossible. But I will do it. People believe that I can change. I will do it for those giving me a chance. For myself. For Sixer. Because he deserves better. I will never hurt Ford again and I will do anything to prove it. Ford is all that I have left. I love him too much to ruin everything again. I will not give up. Keep going.

Stanford stared at his translation. That… couldn’t be right. Did he make a mistake somewhere in the four hundred forty-one patches of color? Separate the words in the wrong places or get a few shades of color mixed up? Maybe had started on the wrong side of the blanket? Or maybe the code was more complicated and needed a keyword after all? Except if any of that was true, then he would have deciphered pure gibberish instead of…

But it didn’t make sense. Especially… certain parts of the translation. Why would Bill make it? Why would he say that in the encrypted message? Why was Bill here? Why—

As soon as they were alone— the Orb of Healing Light disappearing in the same flash that brought them to their dimension, the kids to clean out a storage room, and Stanley to update the rest of the household and Mystery Shack employees about their new “guest”— Stanford grabbed the strangely-human Bill by the collar of his orange jumpsuit. He squawked slightly about being manhandled, but fell silent as Stanford slammed him back against the closest wall of the staircase entranceway. Amber eyes flickering up and down him while an odd chaotic storm of expressions flashed across his face. As if struggling to organize his facial muscles.

Stanford didn’t need further proof of how unnatural his current form was to Bill Cipher. How the strange bracelet on his wrist was the only way that his soul could properly interact with the new human configuration of his body enough to keep it alive. How he’d been utterly reshaped from the familiar triangle that defined Stanford’s life for far too long.

He didn’t need further proof, but he had it just the same.

“What? No quantum destabilizer?” asked Bill, finally settling on a broad grin. “I suppose you noticed the little clause about how custodians can’t ‘intentionally euthanize the patient in their custody except in situations where the patient presents an immediate physical threat to the well-being of the custodian or others or is otherwise in a position where such action is required to preserve the lives and health of others.’ Which means you can’t try to kill me unless I start it, Sixer.”

“Don’t call me that. And there’s a lot that I can do before it becomes lethal to the human body. We both know that, don’t we?”

Bill dropped his gaze and his grin twitched. If it was anyone else, the signs would suggest a sliver of guilt for what he did while possessing Stanford’s body thirty years ago. But he knew that Bill was incapable of guilt or regret. More likely it was old frustration that torturing Stanford back then didn’t work.

Then the momentary crack in the façade was gone, Bill’s grin widening. He raised his head and met Stanford’s eyes.

“Getting nostalgic? Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone. I miss the old days too. Though I personally would have preferred reminiscing about the two of us playing chess or working out the math for the portal or—”

“Why are you here, Bill?”

“Weren’t ya listening, IQ? The outpatient program is supposed to ‘guide me through this stage of my atonement—’”

“No,” he interrupted. “That is the Theraprism’s motivation. Why did you agree? What do you want? What is your purpose coming here?”

The manic grin tightened and Bill said flippantly, “Maybe I wanted to give you another chance. You’ve been a bit disappointing lately, but I’m a forgiving guy. And this dimension is a major fixer-upper, but I guess there’s a certain charm to it.”

Stanford gritted his teeth in frustration. His hands still gripping the sturdy fabric, he gave Bill a sharp shake. He didn’t even blink or try to pry Stanford off.

“For once in your life, give me a straight answer.”

“Can’t do that. My life ended last summer. Remember? You pulled the trigger.”

“Then why return?”

“To mock the pathetic existence that you chose over everything that I could have given you, Ford. And because I was getting bored with their idea of therapy.”

“Bill Cipher, tell me why you came back to this dimension and don’t lie,” he ordered sharply.

There was a flicker of something across his face. A mouth starting to open before snapping shut like a steel trap, lips pressing together in a stubborn scowl. And Stanford briefly thought that he was about to be stuck with a sulking teenager-to-thirty-something-year-old. Except he’d nearly forgotten the weight of the metal bracelet on his own wrist or the implications of its presence.

A high-pitched scream only partially muffled by clenched teeth rang out as Bill’s lanky frame slammed back against the wall. Neck arching, eyes pressed closed, and hands scrambling uselessly on the wallpaper. And when Stanford jerked back in surprise, Bill collapsed to his knees. Arms wrapping around himself, fingers digging into the material of the jumpsuit as he folded in on himself. His head bowed forward until blond hair brushed against the wood of the floor. And the entire time his body twitched from spasming muscles and the scream squeezed past his locked jaw.

The comparison to when he electrocuted Stanford wasn’t exaggerated. He looked exactly how Stanford had felt. “Positive punishment” felt like too clinical of a term for the price of disobedience.

But as he shook off the initial startled reaction enough for Stanford to at least try canceling the order, Bill abruptly shrieked, “You!”

The tension immediately fled his body, leaving Bill panting heavily and trembling quietly at his feet. A scene that might have once had a place in his various fantasies of Bill’s defeat over the years, during his darker moments when he dwelled on everything. But inadvertently causing it made him feel uncomfortably guilty.

“I’m here,” he continued dully, breathless as fingers slowly pried away from his jumpsuit sleeves and he tried to sit up a little straighter, “because of you. I agreed to come back here… for you.”

Silence settled over them for a moment. The only sound was Bill trying to catch his breath. The panting reminiscent of Stanford’s own attempts to recover from the electrical torture last summer. In essence, they’d traded places.

Apparently having similar thoughts, Bill said shakily, “How’s it feel? Being the one with all the power now? Having all the control? Does it help?”

“It would seem,” said Stanford carefully, not certain that he wanted to address the forced confession and not wanting to answer Bill’s questions, “the Theraprism can be rather… stern.”

Giving a rough, breathless, and bitter chuckle, he said, “It’s not all talking about feelings and scrapbooking. Like I told you before, they love forcing us to put ourselves in the position of the people we hurt before. It won’t be fatal, doesn’t even do any actual damage, and it won’t be worse than what we’ve done to someone else. But don’t think they are pushovers. That’s a dangerous mistake.” Using the wall to brace himself, Bill pushed himself up on shaking legs. “That place breaks everyone eventually. They have an eternity to try. Constantly and without end, never letting up. They break you down, drag out every flaw and vulnerability, take the bloody and broken pieces, and rebuild you into something ‘better’ that you barely recognize… And once they are completely satisfied that you’re the best version that you can possibly be, they murder what’s left of your personality and memories so you’ll reincarnate into mold spores or a grub. And they’ll all be nauseatingly optimistic and cheerful as they do it.”

“I suppose that would be enough for most people to desire the outpatient program,” he said evenly.

But Bill hadn’t said that he wanted out of the Theraprism. He said the reason that he was on Earth was Stanford. Maybe it was both reasons or there were numerous motivations or that Stanford was simply the least revealing answer. And there was no indication what he wanted for Stanford. Revenge or…

Regardless, the answer practically torn out of Bill only raised more questions. But a forced interrogation made him uneasy now. If nothing else, if Bill ended up screaming again and didn’t manage to smother most of it out, the kids would hear. They would come running and see a very human-looking young man writhing in pain as their grunkle stood over him. And that was an image that he didn’t want to sear into their minds.

“Believe it or not,’ said Bill, starting to sound like himself again, “even after that and everything else, this is still better than being back in the Theraprism sitting through another puppet show.”

“Then as the person entrusted with your custody, I am also responsible for ensuring that you will remain out of their facility for the time being,” he said. “Assuming that you don’t threaten my family or home dimension. Because if you do, I promise that I won’t hesitate to ‘intentionally euthanize’ you and send you back to the Theraprism the hard way.”

The broad grin returning, Bill said, “Sorry, but killing me won’t send me back. You’ll just have a dead and rotting corpse. I had to use a favor to end up there in the first place. I wouldn’t be moving on this time.”

“A little ambiguous. That could imply that you would remain here to haunt us as a ghost or—”

“—or complete cessation of existence? Go directly to oblivion, do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred disembodied screaming heads?” he suggested. “I know which you’d prefer, but I’m not telling you which one. Not that I plan to give you a chance to test it, Fordsy. I’m sticking with my best behavior.”

He took a deep breath, shivering slightly. Even if he considered Bill a threat, that reaction to resisting orders had been unnerving. The pain and helplessness made him seem so small. Nothing like the dangerous monster that had loomed over Stanford’s life for decades.

The memory also provided some answers. At least when combined with the memories of chronologically later moments.

Bill’s motivation to participate in the outpatient program, despite the risks, was Stanford. And as the memory of stitching him up and taking readings had proven, there were risks. He was metaphysically fragile. And it was clear now that, of the two possible outcomes that he’d suggested if Bill’s physical body died, it would not be the one that involved him becoming a ghost.

There was still a chance that Bill’s original plan was for revenge against Stanford. Or maybe he tried to get around the painful compulsion with a literal answer: Bill was in this dimension because he was in Stanford’s custody and that’s where he lives. There was always a chance that he was trying to use a loophole.

But if Stanford considered that memory with the message knitted into the blanket…

Ridiculous. The idea was completely ridiculous. This was Bill Cipher. He didn’t care about anyone beyond their usefulness to him and his own selfish desires. He was incapable of such feelings.

The message didn’t make sense. Stanford couldn’t believe it. He didn’t understand—

“I don’t understand,” said Bill.

“Quiet,” hissed Stanley.

“"If that plane takes off and you're not on it, you'll regret it,” stated the actor on screen. “Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon, and for the rest of your life."

“Rick has the two letters of transit. He wants Ilsa and he has control of who gets the letters of transit. He can take Ilsa and go, leaving Victor behind. Or he can give one to Victor so he can escape and then Rick can tell Ilsa he’s only got one letter, meaning she’d stay with Rick. She even begged him to do that.”

“The Hays Code wouldn’t allow it,” said Stanford distractedly. “She’s married to Victor. She couldn’t end up with a different man while they were married.”

“But Rick loves Ilsa. He wants to be with her. And the letters of transit give Rick all the power. He has all the control,” said Bill a little frantically. His back was towards them, but it was easy to imagine his expression twisting up. “But he’s telling her to leave. I don’t understand.”

Throwing up his hands in frustration, Stanley complained, “And now we’ve missed the entire ending.”

“I don’t understand. Why would Rick do that? He loves her, but he’s telling her to leave him.”

“He’s telling her to leave with Victor because Rick loves her,” said Stanford.

“But I don’t understand. It doesn’t make any sense,” he said quietly, pulling his hood down further over his face. “I don’t understand.”

“Bill,” said Stanford.

“I don’t understand,” he repeated, except his voice cracked in a way that immediately told both of the Pines brothers that there were now tears involved.

“Whoa,” said Stanley. “Calm down, Tortilla Chip. It’s just a movie.”

And with that acknowledgement of his excessive distress, Bill launched himself to his feet. Not racing towards his room, but stumbling and banging his way up the stairs in an uncoordinated attempt to flee. This was nowhere close to the first time that Bill’s emotional reactions were excessive. He was already intense as a triangle and human hormones only made it worse. But this time, it felt a little… off.

Climbing out of his chair, stretching briefly as his spine crackled and popped like breakfast cereal, and scratching himself with a tired groan, Stanley muttered, “I’ll go talk to him.”

“You don’t have to. He’s my responsibility.”

“Yeah, but I picked the movie that got him all worked up. Just stay down here, Sixer. I might have a guess about the problem and if I’m right, he’ll clam up if he has an audience.”

And now Stanford was curious. He watched his brother ease his way towards the stairs. When Bill wanted to hide or avoid everyone in the relatively crowded building, he had a few regular spots. His room and the bathroom were frequently chosen because they offered guaranteed privacy. But since the kids returned home, the window seat in the attic had also become a rather common choice. Stanford suspected that it was due to the familiarity of the spot since the stained-glass window (before being replaced) had depicted Bill’s image and thus let him view the world from there.

Stanford waited a moment before stealthily following his brother. Easing around the loose boards to avoid the worst of the creaks and keeping his steps light. Moving up the stairs just enough to listen as Stanley headed for the window seat up there.

Yes, he was eavesdropping. But it was for their own good. He was concerned. He couldn’t help either one of them if things went badly if he wasn’t properly informed of the problem.

“All right,” said Stanley with the faintest sigh that suggested that he was making himself comfortable on the window seat next to Bill. “I know you’re a bit high-strung, but you’ve gotta admit that was odd even for you.”

“I don’t understand,” he croaked in a tight and wavering voice.

There was a sniffle and a brief sound of moving fabric. Stanford could easily picture Bill swiping at tears with his hoodie sleeve. It was vivid enough that Stanford almost second-guessed his decision to listen in.

His voice oddly careful despite his casual tone, Stanley said, “I think you do. Maybe once that was true, but you get it now. The idea of caring for someone so much that you’ll do anything for them? Even if it hurts? Even if you don’t get what you want because of it? Even if you have the power to get what you want instead and even if no one would ever know that you took the selfish option? Even if it is dangerous or will cost you everything? I think the movie upset you because that kind of love for someone? You understand it far too well now.”

Stanford rubbed his arm as he stared at the floor. Both of them were familiar with that overwhelming, all-encompassing, and limitless love that outweighed everything else. He’d been willing to sacrifice himself and the entire world for the chance to keep his family safe. Stanley was willing to lose his memories, his mind, and his entire sense of self for their niece and nephew.

Bill should be familiar with that form of devotion. He was killed by it.

“But Ilsa left Rick. He could have— Why didn’t— They— He ended up alone. He could have been killed and he knew that. Major Strasser or Captain Renault could have arrested or killed him. He would have died alone—”

“Yeah, but the person that he loved would be safe and happy,” explained Stan patiently. “That mattered more. As long as he could make sure that specific person was all right, even if he couldn’t be part of that happy ending, it was worth it to him.”

Things fell silent for a while. Long enough that Stanford wondered if he should start easing his way back down the stairs before someone noticed his presence. Then Bill spoke again. His voice low enough that it was barely audible, fragile, and strangely vulnerable.

“I want him to be happy…”

“Scary, isn’t it? Understanding why Rick would do that?”

“Does it… hurt less? Letting them leave instead of losing them when you try to keep them? You’re alone either way…”

Hesitating a moment, Stanley said thoughtfully, “If you love them that much, where they matter more than yourself… Then yeah, it’s worth it. That makes it hurt less.”

Stanford thought about giving up decades of his life to work on the portal, all to bring his brother home. He thought about sacrificing every shred of memory for twin twelve-year-olds and an old man who was on the verge of throwing out of his home and life once more. He thought about how Stanley never seemed to regret what he risked or gave up for his family.

Losing some of his more somber tone, Stanley said, “But listen, it doesn’t always end like that. I know Mabel showed you some cheerier movies. Ilsa might have flown off with Victor, but being willing to put the other person ahead of yourself ends up with everyone happy together plenty of times. Of course, I’ve got several ex-wives, so what do I know?”

It sounded like the conversation was winding down. Stanford slowly started creeping back down the stairs. But he was still close enough to hear when his brother spoke again.

“Bill,” he said in an unrecognizable tone, “if you’re considering… Just… don’t hurt my brother again. Please.”

“I don’t want to. I… I’m not… I don’t know if I…”

“I get it. Best you can do is try to think about what he wants and needs instead of just yourself. And at least don’t hurt him on purpose.”

Stanford shook his head. The beginning was familiar, but the fragment of memory took on a very different tone once it continued further. No long definitive proof that Bill was incapable of empathy or caring about anything beyond his own selfish desires. Instead… it almost felt like evidence that he was trying. That he was putting in effort to do better even if it didn’t come easy.

The memory felt like Bill might be capable of change. And that he was motivated to put in the work.

He seemed uncertain, emotionally overwhelmed, and vulnerable. Nothing like the all-powerful muse or multiversal tyrant that had loomed over his life and filled his thoughts for decades. It wasn’t like anything that Stanford had seen. The closest was that evening where Bill shared the fate of his home dimension with him.

It was something raw and honest.

And then there were Stanley’s subtle implications about Bill’s feelings. Subtle enough for his past self not to realize what he was hinting at. But with a similar message knitted into the blanket in Stanford’s hands, it was easier to put them together.

His brother was always better at figuring people out.

He took a shaky breath. It couldn’t be true. He did his best to steady his hands. Because none of this made sense. Stanley had to be wrong back then. This was still Bill Cipher. And Stanford didn’t matter to him beyond his general usefulness and gullibility.

He’d never mattered to Bill. A fact that he’d come to terms with a long time ago. It hurt, though that initial pain was buried deep under the general horror about what Stanford’s hubris and mistakes was about to unleash on his dimension. But even if the realization of how little he mattered hurt, it was true.

Stanford was a means to an end. A pawn. A tool. A way to reach this dimension and nothing more. Bill only cared about himself when it came down to it.

There had to be an ulterior motive at play. A goal that Bill was manipulating him towards. Why else would Stanford remember him making such a bold move, sprawled on his bed in an intentionally provocative way and flat-out asking what Stanford wanted?

And as he mentally brushed against the reel of reclaimed memory for that night, it began to unspool further.

Chapter Text

Late autumn and early winter in Oregon brought colder weather and, more importantly at the moment, earlier sunsets. Add in heavy cloud cover and a surprise snowfall to the mix and darkness arrived sooner than expected. Stanley had tried to claim the driver’s seat after they finished securing their boat and taking final steps to ensure that it would be fine if they decided it was the final trip for the season. But between his brother’s cataracts, the darkness, the inclement weather, and Stanley’s rather reckless driving style, Stanford insisted on handling it and traveled at a more cautious speed.

All of these factors led to them arriving long after they originally planned. The Mystery Shack was already dark and quiet; it was not the time of year where tourists were common and it wasn’t apparently unusual for the inhabitants to retire early for the evening. And after a long day, Stanford and his brother were rather inclined to follow their example. Unloading only the bare minimum from the vehicle and leaving the rest for morning, they slipped quietly into the familiar building.

Stanley did pause briefly to add a piece of wood to the cast-iron stove to keep it slowly burning through the night, ensuring that it would be a little warmer in there by morning. And Stanford did retrieve the bracelet that Soos or Melody left for him on the kitchen table, slipping it back onto his wrist with his return to the Mystery Shack. Then they silently retreated to their respective rooms for the night.

Stanford was so tired from the long day that he didn’t even register the flickering light under the door. Not until he tried to go into his room. A warm and rather pleasant fire crackled quietly in the fireplace. It cast a warm glow that was only magnified by the tri-mirror reflecting the light around further. That was an almost pleasant surprise after a particularly long and cold day. There was nothing wrong with such creature comforts after spending decades without any reliable form of stability.

The less welcoming surprise was the lanky figure sitting on the foot of the bed. Showing a lot more skin and wearing far less clothing that normal.

Bill, despite the first impression when Stanford walked in and froze, was not technically naked. But the black silk boxer shorts— Bill didn’t go shopping in town very often, so they were most likely stealthily purchased during a trip to mall with Mabel that past summer— did not provide much coverage. Especially with the way that he sat there, legs slightly crossed, hands lightly folded on his lap, and his upper body turned just slightly towards the door so that he was posed like an old-fashioned pin-up model. The flames from the fireplace made the bracelet on his wrist shine and there was enough light to trace the extensive pale scar the rest of its way down his thin frame, beyond what was normally visible. It stretched its way down his sternum like an autopsy incision before forking, one running along the bottom of his ribcage towards his right side and the other cutting a jagged path to his hip on the same side. The other scar on the left side of his chest was much shorter and still red.

Everything from his lack of clothing to his provocative pose was clearly designed to intrigue, excite, and attract attention of a very specific nature. It was deliberately done and very obvious about the intended effect. But it was also Bill Cipher and nothing could be taken for granted. So despite there being a mostly naked man sitting on his bed in the middle of the night, he had to ask the rather obvious question. Mostly because, for one of the few times in his life, Stanford Pines wanted to be wrong.

“What do you want, Bill?” asked Stanford, keeping the uncertainty and unease out of his voice as he moved further into the room.

“No, what is it that you want? That is the question, Fordsy.”

He smiled and blinked slowly. Bill had apparently decided that the occasion warranted using his small make-up kit— a gift from Melody and carefully saved for days it wouldn’t be wasted on “tourists that don’t deserve it or other unappreciative audiences”— because his pale eyelashes were darkened and lengthened with mascara. Stanford could also see black eyeliner and even a faint hint of glittery gold eyeshadow. It was as if Bill was trying to recapture at least an echo of his former appearance.

“You no longer care about fame, fortune, and the accolades from your peers,” said Bill, his voice low and quiet. Practically tempting Stanford to come closer to hear rather than edging around the perimeter of the room. “You wouldn’t trust any knowledge that I might offer.”

As Stanford stopped so that he was facing the foot of the bed directly, Bill began unfurling from his previous pose. Uncrossing his legs and letting them slide open as he leaned backwards, his arms supporting him on the mattress as he made it easy to see every inch of his body. The presence of the black boxer shorts did little to disguise the blatant attempt at seduction as he displayed himself.

“I can’t give you power, riches, or a galaxy of your own. Not anymore.” His grin widened slightly. “So I’m going back to the basics. And by that, I mean humanity’s most base desires. You might be different from anyone else in this primitive dimension, but that doesn’t mean you don’t have the same foundation.”

Trying not to let his discomfort and lack of interest in the rather unexpected offer show, Stanford let his eyes move across the lean and gangly figure. Searching for subtler hints about what was going on.

Bill wasn’t always the best at hiding his emotions and reactions as a human, so when he tried to bluff or conceal his feelings, he would attempt to use a broad grin as a default. It gave him fewer facial features to concentrate on manipulating.

And with his general discomfort with his body and especially the messier parts of being human, Stanford couldn’t see Bill actually wanting sex. It was an act that would involve far too many strange fluids and would make him focus too much on how different his current body was to his triangle form. Even if he did occasionally like the strange physical sensations that came with his new shape and that might hold some appeal, Stanford suspected that there was a different motive at work.

But if this was what he was trying, then Stanford was willing to call his bluff. He could play this game just as well. At least long enough to see where Bill was going with this.

“This is certainly an unexpected offer,” he said evenly, taking a few steps forward until he was looming over Bill. “Of course, that assumes that you are actually making an offer. Past experience has taught me the importance of exact words with your ‘deals’ and you haven’t actually said even a single word yet about what type of deal that you are proposing.”

There was a flicker of something in those amber eyes. A silent swallow that Stanford would have missed if he wasn’t watching his reactions closely. Then Bill’s resolve seemed to harden.

A bluff for a bluff. Neither of them backing down.

“You’re right, Fordsy. Deals need precise terms. Even Pine Tree knows that, though he learned it the hard way. So let’s spell it out then. What I’m offering is me.” He gestured towards his lanky and nearly naked form like Bud Gleeful trying to sell a used car. “The whole package. Body, mind, and soul. It’s all available to use however you want without limits and with zero restrictions. Do anything that you want to me. I’ve been inside your head countless times. Do you want me inside you in a more physical way? Or maybe you’d rather flip the script? Be the one slipping inside someone else’s body for a change? Or try both. Or get really creative. Up to you.”

“And you do understand what you are suggesting, correct?” asked Stanford, trying to maintain a poker face of his own. He took another step closer to the bed so that he stood between Bill’s spread legs and he leaned over Bill’s gangly form, his hands landing on the mattress on either side to bracket him. “Because if you don’t—”

“I’ve been watching your species since before you figured out fire. Humanity didn’t exactly hide their favorite pastime and the mechanics aren’t that complicated,” he interrupted. “Insert Tab A into Slot B, C, or D, depending on personal preference and factory default equipment. Continue until orgasm occurs. Even complete idiots figure it out. I think I can at least do better than the bare minimum after all that time spying on people.”

Bill would have almost sounded dismissive and bored as he spoke. Except Stanford could see the way his hands were digging into the blanket under him and his breathing was a little faster than it should have been. That could be nerves or anxiety, but not necessarily reluctance. Because he certainly didn’t seem to be backing down.

And there was a small part of Stanford that was mildly intrigued by the possibilities of what Bill was offering. More for the knowledge such an experience could provide than anything else. He wouldn’t be able to document an authentic example of what was essentially an extinct species’ mating habits; that would almost certainly require Bill to be in his original form. But those long-lost mating habits might influence Bill’s methods enough to make theories about the original versions. And as he pointed out, his time observing humanity might make him uniquely knowledgeable on less standard methods of sexual intercourse.

As long as Bill was offering, maybe he should at least consider the one-of-a-kind opportunity. For no other reason, it could be interesting to see how Bill would approach the subject. Not to mention that Stanford’s past experiments didn’t involve partners with completely standard human bodies; that’s what happens when said experiments take place across the multiverse.

Eh, if Bill ended up calling his bluff, he might go along with it. He’d done stranger things for curiosity. But he would only decide after determining what Bill wanted from his deal.

Voice low and steady, Stanford said, “Your body, mind, and soul to use however I see? Quite the offer.” He leaned a little closer until Bill was laying flat on the bed with only a few inches between them. “And if I accept, what do you want in exchange?”

His breathing stuttered slightly, but Bill didn’t look away. His grin didn’t disappear. No sign of backing down.

“Nothing that would threaten you, your family, your dimension, or anything else in the multiverse,” he said quietly. “Nothing dangerous. Nothing that would restore my power or my original body. Nothing that anyone else in all of existence can give me. Only you. It has to be you.”

“That’s not an answer. Tell me, Bill. What do you want in exchange?”

“Another chance.” Bill swallowed and said, “A chance to… Or if I can’t have that, a lie that I can believe.”

Bill’s hand wrapped around Stanford’s wrist and guided him down to the waistband of his silky boxers. Which seemed like an encouraging move straight from a romance novel or film. Except Bill’s grin was too strained, his eyes were getting too distant, and Stanford felt the full-body shudder that Bill could not suppress. This was not something that he wanted and was already stressing out, but he was too stubborn to admit it. Scientific interest would have to wait. Stanford needed to be the reasonable one.

“You clearly aren’t comfortable with this—”

“It’s fine. Practice makes everything easier, right? I can keep up my end of the bargain. Promise.” His trembling hand tightened, the metal of the bracelet on Stanford digging in slightly. “Tell me what you want, Ford. Tell me what to do and I’ll obey.”

And that was like a splash of cold water to the face, all thoughts of investigations or calling bluffs immediately gone. Because regardless of who and what Bill might have once been, the power dynamic had flipped. Stanford had complete control over him. Bill was essentially their prisoner and could be ordered to do anything at the risk of pain. And that was not even considering more mundane forms of power over him; his food, shelter, clothes, and ability to function in society all connected back to Stanford and his family. He depended on them for everything and could be forced to do anything that they wanted. Stanford would never use the control bracelet like that, not in this sort of context. But the possibility hung over them.

Bill might have proposed the deal and pushed the idea of sex. But between the power that Stanford held over him and the increasingly obvious body language that even the socially-awkward scientist could see, anything resembling consent right now would likely be very questionable.

When someone depended on the goodwill of someone else for everything and they had a way to compel obedience, was there even a point of trying to say no? Or would they just agree to anything?

And was it better or worse than taking someone’s body for a joyride after Stanford offered full permission, but only because Bill hid so much about his goals?

Regardless, as long as the Stanford was wearing the control bracelet, and as long as Bill looked like he was struggling not to disassociate or have a panic attack, this would not happen.

Carefully prying Bill’s hand off and straightening up, Stanford said, “A charming attempt, but I am not interested in having sex with you or anyone else. It isn’t quite the universal motivator that people believe it to be.”

An odd mixture of relief and anxiety briefly crossed Bill’s face as the grin faltered. Then the grin was back as he scrambled across the bed to grab something from the small table next to the bed.

“No sex? Not a problem. Lots of other options. You can pick out something you’ll enjoy more. I told you. No limits.”

Bill crawled back across the blanket to press something small, long, and thin into his hand. Stanford opened his hand and immediately froze. Laying across the tiny puncture scar was a nail. Not a tiny one meant for hanging up a picture frame. A long and thick piece of metal meant to be driven into wooden beams. There was a slight not-exactly-coppery coating most likely intended to slow rusting and a faint twist in the metal that would almost certainly make it more difficult to dislodge once driven into a piece of wood. Stanford didn’t need to be a carpenter to determine that this nail was designed for more serious construction projects. He was still trying to figure out where Bill would have gotten one when a hammer was placed in the same hand.

“I have a whole box of them if you need more,” said Bill brightly, sounding more certain about physical torture than sex. “Or if you’re worried about blood stains…”

He pressed something else into Stanford’s other hand. Somehow it was more startling than the nail.

“Where did you get a taser?”

“Deputy Durland is really bad at keeping track of his belongings,” he said dismissively. “But it’s all charged up and ready to go. Or you can pop in the nails before the electricity to get some nice sparks.”

Setting the torture implements aside, Stanford said, “No.”

“Not good enough?” Bill chuckled unsteadily, the grin slipping again as honest distress came peeking through. “Well, you probably have some scalpels in the basement somewhere. A midnight vivisection? Or maybe you’re tired from the drive? That’s fine. You can sleep while I go stand up on the roof for a few hours. It should be cold enough—”

“Bill, stop,” said Stanford firmly, grabbing both wrists to ensure that he didn’t go searching for scalpels. “I don’t want any of that.”

He lost the grin entirely, his face miserable and desperate. Bill’s eyes dropped as his shoulders rose. And his breathing grew faster and unsteady.

“Please. This is all I can offer. It’s all I have,” he said quietly, the trembling returning. “I don’t have anything else. I essentially don’t have any powers. My Henchmaniacs abandoned me. I am out of favors to draw on. I have nothing. All I can give you is myself. My reconfigured body, my utterly insane mind, and my barely intact soul. Please let it be enough because I have nothing else left, Ford.”

There were tears accompanying the vulnerable pleading. The carefully-applied makeup was smudging. All that effort to dress up his only bargaining chip in the hopes of convincing Stanford to accept a desperate deal for…

“You wanted a ‘chance’ or… a ‘lie’?”

Nodding weakly, Bill said, “I can’t erase… I messed up. I hurt you. And I can’t… You tolerate me. Sometimes you’re nice to me, but you’re also waiting for me to… hurt you again. I know you are. And I know it can’t be like it used to be—”

“Because it was all a lie to manipulate me thirty years ago. None of it was real.”

Bill gave a ragged laugh that dislodged a few more tears. His ruined makeup left dark trails down his cheeks. The one across his scar looked particularly awful.

“I might have kept secrets, tricked you, and manipulated you, Sixer, but you saw the realest and most authentic version of me that anyone has in over a trillion years. I scared myself with how real it was. So many times, I wondered if it was a mistake to try using you as a pawn because… It wasn’t like with anyone else. You liked me. Not Bill Cipher, the most powerful entity in the Nightmare Realm. Me. But I didn’t understand, I didn’t— I ruined it and no amount of brute force could fix it. I ruined it and I’ll never get it back. I always destroy what I l—” another ragged laugh, Bill shaking his head. “I’m sorry. This was stupid. What was I thinking? I—”

“Bill,” he said evenly, disrupting the emotional rambling. “What do you want? What are you trying to ask for?”

Stanford was still holding his wrists. He felt the tension as Bill braced himself, his hands tightening into fists. Preparing himself even as he expected immediate rejection.

“I want another chance to try. A chance to earn even some of it back. What we used to have. Even a speck of it,” he said shakily. “Or if you can’t, I want you to lie to me and convince me that someday you might more than tolerate my presence.” Bill closed his eyes. “If I can have that, you can do anything you want to me. Whatever makes you happy.”

The impossibly fragile and vulnerable request hit harder than it should have. Stanford took a shuddering breath. Giving anyone a second chance was difficult for him. Betrayal, real or assumed, cut deep and scarred badly. And he especially had trouble with the idea for someone who had caused as much pain as Bill Cipher. But he’d seen the changes over the last several months. He’d seen Bill putting in effort to be better.

And he wasn’t asking to be forgiven or for everything to go back to the way that it was. He wanted only a chance to earn it. And in exchange, Bill was willing to let Ford to whatever he wanted. To use his body or harm it however he wished.

Almost like when Stanford promised full access to his mind until the end of time. Except that had been an act of trust that Bill would not abuse that freedom. Misplaced trust, as it had turned out in the end. But Bill made his offer with clear expectations that he would pay dearly. He expected to suffer in one manner or another.

But he made the offer regardless. Because he thought it was worth it.

Still holding Bill’s wrists, Stanford dragged his thumbs back and forth a couple of times and asked slowly, “Would you like to assist me in the lab?”

“What?” asked Bill softly, raising his head and meeting his eyes for the first time in a while.

“You said that I would not trust any knowledge that you might offer. If you want to earn that trust back, you would need the opportunity to do so. You are asking for a chance. Trusting you to help me on my projects in the basement…” Stanford took a deep breath. “It will be difficult. It might be too similar to when we worked on the portal together and I might ask you to stop. Or there might be certain projects that could come up that I would prefer not to have you involved. But if you are willing—”

“Yes,” he said immediately.

“—then we can both take a chance on this. We can see what happens.”

Slumping with relief, Bill gave a small and far more honest smile. The tension of the entire conversation melted away.

“You won’t regret it, Fordsy. I’ll do everything possible to make sure your projects go right.”

Finally letting go of him, Stanford said, “We can work out the details in the morning. For now, please get some clothes on and go back to your room so I can get some sleep.”

His headache was returning. No doubt from multiple flashbacks in rapid succession stressing the previously disrupted neurological pathways. It served as a nice counterpoint to the new tightness in his chest and the odd mixture of uncomfortable emotions.

That… wasn’t what he expected. The memory didn’t go the way that he assumed from the glimpse before. Not a suave or calculated attempt at seduction as a form of manipulation. Instead, it was part of a desperate bargain for…

A chance. A second chance.

It seemed like a steep cost for something so small. Not just the offer of sex that clearly stressed Bill out, but also the permission for cold-blooded torture. Did Bill honestly think that Stanford was the type of man who would demand such atrocities? That was more the sort of cruelty that Bill Cipher would rain down on his former betrayers. Only a monster would expect such a high cost to earn a chance to try again.

Except hadn’t Stanford remained distant from his brother until he saved the world at the cost of his own mind? Why wouldn’t Bill extrapolate from that and assume that it would be similarly difficult? Why wouldn’t he believe that Stanford would demand far more from someone who hurt him to an even greater extent? Why wouldn’t Bill think that Stanford would want to see him suffer?

Bill was not wrong that he had nothing left. His powers restrained. His allies and minions gone. His triangle shape taken from him. The only thing that he could offer was literally himself. And after everything that he’d done, Bill had no reason to believe that anyone would do something for him without demanding something in return.

Something in Stanford still screamed out that Bill was a threat. That he couldn’t trust any of it. The blanket, the trembling, the tears, the pleas for another chance— Lies. They had to be lies.

Except more and more evidence was piling up to the contrary. His excuses were becoming flimsier and more farfetched. And he was growing more uncomfortable with how his paranoid fears were making him act.

Stanford swallowed briefly. In the memories, it seemed that Bill assisted with the Anomaly Detection, Identification, and Triangulation System. Maybe he should take the elevator to the lab and see it for himself. See if there was any evidence that Bill’s influence had seeped into the design. See if there was any sign that he adjusted the machine for other purposes.

And if not, he might have to consider the idea that Bill was capable of change. That his past self wasn’t foolish to lower his guard. That maybe it was possible to trust him.

That maybe— just maybe— Stanford was wrong and the message carefully knitted in brightly-colored yarn was true.

Chapter Text

When Stanford visited the night before, he didn’t turn on the lights or look around. He had enough flashes of memory at the time and he wasn’t prepared for more changes to what had once been familiar. He’d focused solely on retrieving the bracelet and retreating. This time, he was more attentive.

He remembered dismantling the portal during that summer before the events of Weirdmageddon. But he hadn’t done much with the space before setting sail with Stanley. But he’d clearly made use of the basement in the years since. The control panel had been reconfigured, rearranged, or even completely rebuilt to serve a new purpose. Not to mention taking advantage of the advances in technology in the past few decades. As far as he could tell, at least some of the controls and instruments were meant for the ADITS.

The viewing window to the former portal chamber was still in place. Stanford could see the large space filled with a variety of equipment. During the memory where he was putting stitches in Bill’s gash, he’d seen some of the new additions. He could still see several of the same pieces of equipment crowded around a metal worktable in a now-more-organized fashion in what Stanford mentally labeled as the medical corner. He suspected he’d performed similar scans to keep an eye on Bill’s condition. Both for science reasons and possibly because of actual concern for his well-being.

He could also make out other workstations arranged around the large room. Individualized by the equipment, tools, and sensors to serve different purposes. He could easily study a creature dragged in from the forest, test magical components and artifacts, or even work on weapon maintenance, depending on which workstation that he headed towards. He couldn’t help the faint smile of pride at the sight.

It wasn’t quite the International Institute of Oddology that his alternate dimensional self had created, but it wasn’t that bad of a setup.

While the monitors and controls for the ADITS were in the secure control room, the machinery itself was in the lab. He could trace the cables and conduits that ran along the edges of the room towards the far side. That’s what drew Stanford out towards the rest of the lab.

Despite being underground, the large and bulky machine had multiple antennas and satellite dishes. Four relatively large rectangle shapes encircled a taller cylinder. Some of them seemed to house an elaborate web of wires and cables. The more that he looked at it, the more familiar the design felt. He traced his hand along the warm metal. Stanford found a screen on the machine, saving him from returning to the control room in search of information. A few buttons presses and he could see the current power level.

Stanley was right about the energy requirements. It was impressive. Which raised the question of what exactly they were using as a power source.

“Scarletite,” explained Bill, sketching out an atomic structure that didn’t make any sense with what Stanford knew about the periodic table. Or chemistry. “That’s the best translation of the name. A bright red metal. Color gets compared to flames a lot and seems to almost shine in the right light. Comes from a dimension where the laws of physics are more of a ‘suggestion’ than anything concrete. That whole conservation of energy thing is ignored almost constantly. Scarletite is especially useful for our purposes because, in addition to being fantastic at conducting all sorts of energy, it can also generate energy. When its formed, whatever energy is put in during the process— heat, pressure, magical, metaphysical, whatever— the scarletite will spit the same amount back out and keeps spitting that amount out constantly until you completely destroy the metal. Meaning that if you put enough energy into it, you’ve got your perfect power source.” Looking up from his diagram, he said, “And unlike your sample of NowUSeeItNowUDon’tTium, you won’t need to dismantle your quantum destabilizer to get it.”

“While it might make an ideal energy source,” said Stanford carefully, “there is the issue of obtaining the material. You are right that it wouldn’t be in any of my weapons or anywhere else accessible. You claim it comes from another dimension. We do not currently have a way to access any other dimensions.”

“Because someone tore apart the portal,” he muttered.

“What about the crashed saucer?” asked Fiddleford. “Didn’t ya say that those Pan-Dimensional Beings existed in seven to eleven dimensions at the same time? I reckon that one of those dimensions might’ve had that whatchamacallit.”

Shaking his head, Bill said, “If they did, I would have directed Sixer to pick some up ages ago. Much more stable and less hazardous than the toxic waste that powered the portal. But we had to work with what was available at the time. But you’ll still need to pick up some stuff from the crashed ship. A big solid chunk of metal. Maybe part of a Security Drone?”

“What for?” asked Fiddleford, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.

Stanford wasn’t surprised. Bill and Fiddleford might have both agreed to work on the ADITS with him, but the pair weren’t exactly the best of friends. They hadn’t come to blows or anything. But there was some type of tension.

“Because that stuff is probably the closest structurally to scarletite that exists in this dimension.” Looking rather smug, Bill said, “It should be easier for me to change something similar into scarletite than trying to make it out of charcoal or something.”

Stanford’s brow furrowed slightly as he pulled his hand away from the machine. He even gave his head a brief shake, as if the motion might jostle free a little more information.

He vaguely remembered hearing about scarletite during his time traveling the multiverse. Rumors and legends. But everything that he’d heard lined up with Bill’s description. And the memory about creating a diamond proved that he could change matter like that.

Except other memories warned that using his powers was strenuous—

Trying to push down the feelings of unease, Stanford asked, “Are you certain about this?”

“Come on, Sixer. You used to be fun. Where’s your sense of scientific inquiry?” asked Bill, rolling his eyes. There was a wide grin on his face as he shifted the large metal orb in his hands. “We’re doing this.”

Perched on a stool, numerous sensors carefully positioned all over him for optimal monitoring purposes, and barely containing his impatience, Bill waited as Stanford made his methodical way through his checklist of preparations and reviews. He wanted this to go smoothly. Otherwise, the Anomaly Detection, Identification, and Triangulation System would be nothing more than a large piece of junk. But as far as he could tell, the plan was theoretically sound. He might be a little nervous and uncertain, but feeling a little anxious was probably normal.

Besides, if anything went wrong, it would likely be fairly minor. Probably just a complete failure to produce any results. And at least if it didn’t work, the sensors would almost certainly give them enough data to examine before planning another attempt.

“I’ve been looking forward to this,” said Bill, the grin widening a little more. “Ready to get your new gadget going?”

Pushing down the unease again, he said, “Just a few more sensors to test. I don’t want to miss anything important when we get started.”

“You were never this cautious in the old days…”

“You almost seem more eager about the ADITS than I am.”

“It’s important to you. I want to make this work for you, Ford.”

A faint smile tugged at Stanford’s face, but he did his best to focus on checking over the final few sensors. He did want it to work. And there was no reason why it shouldn’t work. Bill would be transmuting the material into scarletite while Stanford monitored the process. They would go slow to give it time to absorb the energy during the transformation and to hopefully be less of a strain for Bill. It would certainly be more difficult than organizing a few carbon atoms. Not to mention the greater mass involved; the orb of metal was much larger than the piece of charcoal that he turned into a diamond. That was why there were multiple sensors ready to monitor Bill’s physical and metaphysical state along with keeping track of the rest of the process.

It was the same reason that they had a blanket sitting not too far away. In addition to weariness and general aching, the main side effect of using his abilities was a drop in body temperature. Some minor precautions should help with the aftermath.

“Can’t believe Specs doesn’t want to watch,” muttered Bill as Stanford finished. “I seriously question his commitment to the project.”

“Bill,” he said warningly.

Holding up his hands in surrender, he said, “Sorry. No undermining the hillbilly about his work.”

“He’s my friend and a brilliant engineer. And he’s also understandably nervous about you using your powers and would rather spend the day with Tate instead of being around this part.”

Bill rolled his eyes as he carefully pulled on his hoodie, trying not to dislodge the sensors stuck on him. But he didn’t seem too annoyed. Just going through the motions while waiting for permission to start.

Directing a couple of scanners towards the metal sphere, Stanford said, “Remember to take your time.”

“Worried about me or worried you won’t get enough useful data?” he teased. “I know what I’m doing. This is my part of the job. And I’m ready whenever you are.”

“Very well then.” Glancing down at the bracelet on his wrist, he ordered firmly, “Convert the material into scarletite.”

Permission finally granted, Bill smiled, closed his eyes, and bowed his head with a clear look of concentration. There was no immediate outward sign of anything happening. But the screens monitoring the metal immediately reacted. Stanford flicked his eyes briefly over the displays concerning Bill’s state for a moment to make certain that he seemed relatively stable, reassuring himself that there were no alarms or flashing warning signs, before focusing on the transmutation.

He hadn’t been completely certain how the process would work. Perhaps the metal orb changing from the inside out or maybe the outer surface near Bill’s hands would turn bright red before moving out from those contact points. But the data seemed to suggest that it was more of a uniform change. The entire structure of the metal was gradually shifting. It was actually quite fascinating. Ancient alchemists dreamt of such things, converting matter between different elements. But it was more impressive than simply turning lead into gold. At some point, the orb seemed to be both the original metal and scarletite at the same time.

The neighboring screen displayed the amount of energy that was being poured into the sphere. Steadily climbing as expected. And as the transformation tipped further towards the scarletite, Stanford could see signs of it starting to radiate energy back. Proving that the plan was working perfectly.

The various machines monitoring proceedings were relatively quiet. Only a low humming from a couple of them. Which meant that Stanford didn’t miss the half-smothered wheeze. Like someone was trying to stay quiet, but the need to breathe winning out.

He snapped his head around, spotting several screens flashing warnings— why didn’t the alarms go off like they were supposed to? — as he turned to face Bill. In the short time his attention was elsewhere, the orb had gained a bright red color that practically shone. But far more important was that the olive complexion of the hands keeping it balanced on his lap had gone unnervingly ashen. Fingers slipping across the smooth surface as Bill struggled to keep hold, wobbling badly on the stool. Eyes opening slightly, but out of focused and rolling in their sockets. And the weak wheezing was more noticeable, shallow and struggling.

“Bill!” he shouted, his heart jumping into his throat. “Bill, stop!”

He didn’t know if the transmutation was complete or not, but the sphere fell to the floor at Stanford’s panicked order. And Bill almost immediately tried to follow. Stanford barely caught the awkward collection of long limbs as consciousness abandoned Bill and he tumbled off the stool. He managed to at least ease him to the ground gently enough to avoid cracking someone’s skull open.

Despite having sensors still wired to Bill, Stanford frantically pressed a pair of fingers to his neck to find the weak and unsteady pulse. His breathing sounded exhausted and the chill was already settling in. Skin slightly cool to the touch as he started to tremble. But after a few seconds, the pulse fell back into an admittedly slow rhythm. Only when he was fairly certain that Bill was only unconscious from the strain rather than actively dying did he risk glancing at the still-silent screens. He could see where Bill’s heart rate, body temperature, soul stability, and countless other signs of life had fallen severely. But they mostly seemed to have plateaued for the moment.

Fear and dread shifted to a more general unease and worry. More controlled and rational. When Stanford patted his cheek, light and yet firm, Bill didn’t immediately stir. But he continued while also calling Bill’s name. And after a few moments of trying to coax out a response, he managed to earn a weary groan as Bill’s brow furrowed. That was enough to let Stanford relax further.

“Bill, can you hear me?”

Groaning again, he mumbled, “Ow… Stop hittin’ my face. Already hurt...”

“I wasn’t using much force,” he said, though he did stop patting his cheek.

After a minute or so, Bill eventually pried his eyes open. Clumsy limbs weakly tried to push himself up even as he gritted his teeth. That would be the weariness and body aches kicking in. Stanford used one hand to slip behind Bill’s back to support and steady him, but the other hand reached out to grab the blanket.

“Did it work?” asked Bill blearily.

Stanford didn’t answer as he wrapped the blanket around Bill, vaguely noting that his eyes were focusing, he seemed aware of what was happening, and didn’t seem to be suffering any neurological issues from the attempt. That was a good sign. Despite the dramatics, it didn’t seem much worse than the aftermath of the Redcaps encounter, though without the blood loss complicating his condition and making it difficult to tell which one was causing which symptoms. But Stanford would like to know why none of the sensors monitoring Bill’s condition alerted him before it became serious. Clearly they detected the change, but—

“Did it work?” he repeated, trying to look for the misplaced orb.

A suspicion nagging at him, Stanford asked, “Did you mute the alarms on the sensors when I wasn’t looking?”

Bill hesitated. And that was all of the answer that he needed.

“What were you thinking?” he demanded.

“I didn’t mute the important ones,” muttered Bill.

“The ones that provide warning that your heart was losing its rhythm and you were starting to tear back open the old damage to your soul were important. You could have been killed if you kept going. There was no need to take that risk when we had safety precautions already in place.”

“If the alarms went off, you would have stopped me before I finished transmutating the scarletite,” he explained evenly, as if Stanford was a child.

Bristling at the condescending tone, he said, “Then we could have adjusted our approach. There is no deadline involved or even any consequences if this project didn’t work at all. So why was it worth risking your life?”

Bill looked away. As if he didn’t intend to answer. Stanford fully expected him to sulk in exhausted silence for a while. But as he pulled the blankets tighter around himself as he shivered, Bill mumbled a hesitant response.

“Because it mattered to you. It makes you happy.”

“Bill,” he said slowly. “That’s… I don’t understand.”

His shoulders hunching slightly, he continued, “You have always been different. Important. I couldn’t— I didn’t—” Bill swallowed and pulled the blanket even tighter. “My home dimension burned a trillion years ago. I was alone for… too long. Forgot what it was like not to have an inescapable emptiness inside. Like a black hole. Nothing would fill it. Destroyed everything trying. The best I could do was distract myself. Chaos, loud music, wild parties, violence… Keep it going and pretend that everything was fine until I believed it. Lie long enough that something was what you want, you’ll forget it isn’t true. Except then you summoned me and I— I didn’t mind the quiet with you. I didn’t have to be…”

Bill shivered harder. He tried to stand up, but his legs gave out and forced Stanford to catch him for the second time. Despite being a gangly and awkward tangle of limbs that Stanley had compared to a human-sized spider (but apparently not a “hot lady spider like that one time”), Bill wasn’t actually that heavy. Just stretched out. It took a little maneuvering, but Stanford managed to get Bill back on the stool. It had to be warmer than the floor.

Stanford had compared Bill Cipher to a black hole before. Dragging in everything bright and good. Pulling in everyone and everything, completely inescapable as it swallowed them whole. An empty void that where all surrounding light vanished. But he never considered the idea that Bill would use the metaphor for himself.

“You were like an impossibly bright star,” continued Bill quietly. “I didn’t even realize how much better I… The emptiness was gone. You made the void disappear. It was terrifying and wonderful. But then you were gone, you left, and it was my fault and I’m sorry, I messed up, but the emptiness returned worse than before because now I remembered what it was like not having it there. I tried to make you stay because I hate that black hole inside me. But I only ruined everything worse because that’s what I always do. I hurt you.”

“You did,” he said evenly. “You hurt a lot of people. More than I can comprehend. And you tried to hurt more and would have kept hurting them if we didn’t stop you. But yes, you hurt me. Physically, mentally, and in every way that you could.”

“I did…” Raising his eyes reluctantly, Bill said, “Did you know I almost forgot your face in Theraprism? Reacted badly when I realized that it wasn’t as sharp in my memory as it should have been. Badly enough I was in the Solitary Wellness Void for… a while. And they’d suppressed my powers further after I sent my book to you, so I couldn’t even try spying to remind myself.” He fell silent for a few moments, hunching in on himself in a way that might be an attempt to warm up or might just be pure misery. “My parents are already indistinct blurs. It’s been so long and I can only remember their rough dimensions, approximate colors, and their screams. It didn’t want to— I couldn’t—”

His eyes fell again. Bill looked so small, folding in on himself and bundled in a blanket. Small, tired, in pain, and resigned to an extent.

“I came here because I wanted to be with you again. But I can’t keep you. I can’t make you stay. It doesn’t work. Rick couldn’t trick or force Ilsa to stay with him. But if I can give you what you want or need… If I can make you happy…”

“Then maybe I will stay?” finished Stanford.

“Or you’ll let me stay. You agreed to give me a chance. I just… I can’t waste it. I have to make sure…” His voice was barely a tired whisper. “I can’t be alone again. If I mess up with you again… If you don’t need me… If I fail you… I can’t do it again.”

Exhaustion was obviously loosening Bill’s tongue. But he sounded painfully honest and desperate. And yet partially resigned to failure being inevitable.

It reminded Stanford of Bill’s conversation with Stanley that he overheard, the one about “Everybody Comes to Rick's.” But it also reminded him of the conversation in Stanford’s room, Bill practically naked and offering himself over.

And maybe it reminded him of his own careful words to his twin in the aftermath of Weirdmageddon and nearly losing him, half-inviting and half-apologizing, when he invited Stanley to go sailing to investigate anomalies together.

Following an impulse that would have been completely unthinkable less than a year ago, Stanford carefully wrapped his arms around the shivering Bill. He pulled Bill against his chest in a sturdy embrace. Bill briefly stiffened in surprise. But then he practically melted into Stanford’s sweater. His breathing hitched as he buried his face into the soft material and his own hands were almost skittish as the moved up, as if he wasn’t certain if he was allowed. Stanford felt them settle in place on his own back. Only then did Bill seem to completely relax in the impromptu hug, the tension pouring out.

“You are trying. I’ve seen it,” he said firmly. “But you don’t have to risk yourself to earn the privilege of not being alone. And being wanted… being liked… It isn’t a transaction. It isn’t something that you must keep paying in order to keep.”

It was a hard lesson to learn. That he didn’t have to earn acceptance by being the best, the smartest, and the most successful. That people could and would care about him for just being himself. He didn’t have to be normal or perfect. Stanley, Dipper, Mabel, Fiddleford, and so many others in this strange and wonderful town had made him realize that. He didn’t have to be alone.

People cared about him. They accepted him. They loved him.

Laughing roughly, Bill said, “They always want something from me. If I couldn’t give my Henchmaniacs the best party… they clearly abandoned ship without hesitation. And if I couldn’t give you knowledge and the ability to see a new color and a boost when you were tired and dead rats and karaoke and—”

“And I would still have liked you back then,” said Stanford. Hesitating a moment, he admitted, “And despite everything, I still like you now. Not because you can create scarletite. But because you’re you. No more and no less.”

Bill shook a little harder in the embrace, fingers digging into the fabric. Part of Stanford’s sweater felt damp. He didn’t mention it. Maybe it wasn’t his extreme emotional reactions. Maybe it was simply the aches and pains proving too much. They could pretend it was physical discomfort only and let Bill keep a little of his pride.

“You were worth it,” mumbled Bill wearily. “All of it. Even getting stuck in this messy, stupid, weak, and unnatural human body was worth being with you.”

Smiling faintly, he said, “I appreciate the compliment. It might be the kindest thing you’ve ever told me.” He rubbed Bill’s back slightly before reluctantly ending the hug. “You haven’t recovered, but your condition seems relatively stable. How about we take a break for now? Perhaps a warm bath will help with both the chill and body aches. You can soak in the tub for a while and I can go over the data.”

“That… might be nice, Sixer,” he admitted. Bill subtly rubbed at his face with the edge of the blanket. “Don’t forget the orb. Can’t just leave it on the floor after all that.”

“Very well. Give me a moment to see where it rolled off to and then we shall see if you are steady enough to make it upstairs.”

Chapter Text

The emotions that accompanied that memory nearly took his breath away. The worry, the relief, the sympathy, and the undeniable affection. They all combined into something that Stanford couldn’t ignore. Especially when combined with the rest of the evidence.

It didn’t feel like more lies or a trick. The knitted message in the blanket was the honest truth. And Stanford—

“There you are. Should’ve known you were hiding down here. You were supposed to be looking at the kid’s scrapbook this evening. Not to mention we’re not ordering pizza until you’re upstairs.”

Stanley came wandering into the lab. He was scowling, but there was concern in his gaze. Stanford suspected that Mabel said something to his twin to make him worried. He couldn’t blame Stanley. Because he was forced to admit that his behavior had been increasingly paranoid and the returning memories made it seem more and more unreasonable.

“I apologize,” said Stanford. “I was remembering something.”

“Oh?” Eyebrows rising, he asked, “Remember anything good?”

“It was…”

Stanford trailed off as he walked over to the closest stool. Not the same one from the memory. The one next to his microscope. He sank onto the stool with a weary sigh.

“I remembered enough to admit that… I might have made a mistake.”

“You? A mistake?” said Stanley with a thick layer of sarcasm. “Wanna narrow it down, Poindexter?”

“The way that I reacted and treated Bill since I lost my memories. If I could not trust myself, I should have at least trusted your judgment more.”

“You were scared and disoriented. We get it. Amnesia isn’t fun.”

“I still should have listened to you and the children more. Bill’s not… trying to manipulate us or trick anyone or hurt everyone that I love. You and the children aren’t relaxed around him because you’ve been fooled. He’s… changed.”

Leaning against the worktable, he said, “Yeah, the Tortilla Chip has really turned things around. Guess he finally had a good reason to do better. Still a pain at times, but he doesn’t seem interested in hurting anyone.”

Thinking about those flashes of memory and the colorful patches knitted into a blanket, Stanford said, “I think that, as impossible as it sounds, Bill Cipher might… He might…”

“He might what?”

The words should not be that hard. But it was difficult to wrap his head around the idea fully. He was struggling to accept it as true. And somehow staying it out loud would make it… feel impossibly real.

“Bill might… believe that he… loves me,” he said finally.

Silence followed the admission. Stanford risked a glance towards his brother. He didn’t even look that surprised by the revelation. Then again, Stanley was always fairly insightful when it came to people. Not to mention that conversation that he and Bill had about “Everybody Comes to Rick's” practically confirmed that the man had his suspicions even then.

It was hard to believe that the idea that the living triangle that had tortured him and threatened his family might love him. Bill Cipher wasn’t capable of such feelings. It had been an undeniable and steadfast fact that Stanford had clung to for decades after the truth came out. Bill was a heartless monster and nothing more. But the evidence had piled up too high to ignore. And he knew that it was easy to hurt those that you love.

“Love can look a lot like obsession,” said Stanley after a moment. “And both of you were pretty obsessed with each other for decades. Not completely shocking that he turns out to love you, even if he’s not great at it. Don’t even know if he’s actually told you yet. Any love confessions going on between you two, you’ve kept it quiet.”

He took a deep breath and Stanford admitted, “The memories that are more recent… It’s hard to accept, but… I might have…”

Stanley looked at him with a knowing expression. A little of the twin familiarity leaking through. He clearly understood what Stanford couldn’t quite confess. He understood and didn’t judge him for it.

Stanford couldn’t help judging himself.

He couldn’t quite believe that he might feel… Especially after he’d been burned badly before by putting his faith in Bill Cipher. The betrayal cut deep. Allowing himself to feel anything resembling…

But he could accept the idea that Bill had really changed. That he might have misjudged the current situation. And that meant that everything that he’d done recently—

The control bracelet, the blanket, the order to stay in his room and away from everyone.

—had been too extreme. Too far. Too cruel.

“I’ve messed up, Stanley. How I’ve been treating Bill… Maybe once he deserved it, but clearly not for the last two years. I’ve messed up badly.”

Smiling reassuringly, he said, “Amnesia makes everything messy. Everyone here gets it. Promise.”

“Yesterday when I got home,” he said with realization, “you told me that everyone under this roof loves me and wants to help me. You were—”

“—including Bill?” Stanley smirked. “Yep. Couldn’t tell you that directly ‘cause you wouldn’t believe it. Had to wait until you remembered enough.”

That didn’t make him feel any better. Stanford rubbed the back of his neck as he did his best to shove down the bubbling guilt.

“Look, if you messed up with how you’ve treated Bill, seems like the place to start would be to apologize,” said Stanley carefully. “He might sulk about you avoiding him, glaring at him, and interrupting his chores, but he’s crazy about you. At most, he might make you grovel a little for show.”

Stanford slowly rose to his feet, straightening up. His brother might not know everything that he’d said and done over the last day. But he was right. An apology was the ideal place to start.

He wasn’t particularly good at forgiveness. Stanford could only hope that Bill was better at it.

He didn’t immediately rush off to make his apologies. Stanford made a small detour back to his hidden study. If he intended to make amends, he knew that he would need to bring a peace offering. That was the socially-appropriate gesture for his circumstances, right? He would bring back the books, the posters, and the magazine clippings later. After everything calmed down. But he could return the blanket.

“Holy Moses,” muttered Stanley behind him as he neatly folded the blanket, because of course his twin accompanied him. Peering over everything, he asked, “What did you do?”

Smoothing out the wrinkles, he said, “I believed that he was hiding something. A coded message. I retrieved everything that might have been relevant to decode it. I made a mistake.”

“So you snuck into Bill’s room, tore stuff off his walls, took his books, and stole the blanket that he spent months working on, covering the living room in little knitted squares the whole time?” asked Stanley with his typical bluntness.

“I also removed his knitting needles and anything else sharp that could be considered dangerous,” he admitted, his face growing warm.

Groaning under his breath, Stanley said, “You’re lucky the two of you were stuck in the ‘can’t admit nothing’ stage. Otherwise I’m pretty sure you’d be sleeping on the couch and you just got used to an actual bed.”

“It should be ‘can’t admit anything,’ Stanley. Otherwise, it would be a double-negative,” he said, choosing to focus on the grammar than the rest of what he said.

“Don’t care,” he said. Tossing the folded blanket into his brother’s arms, Stanley grabbed his shoulders, and practically shoved Stanford back towards the elevator. “You’ve got some groveling to do, Sixer.”

He truly did. The more that he looked at his actions with a different perspective— that Bill honestly meant no further harm and that he’d changed drastically— the more that he regretted those actions. He’d wanted to protect his family. And the monster that had haunted his nightmares for decades both metaphorically and literally had invaded his home once more. Nowhere had felt safe. He wanted to believe that he took rational precautions based on what he could remember. But Stanford could admit it was also fueled by fear, paranoia, and trauma. And with further context to the situation, he could see that he went too far.

Stanford would apologize thoroughly, rescind the last order, and return Bill’s belongings. It was the right thing to do.

As soon as the elevator door opened, he was immediately crowded by his niece and nephew. Worry etched on their faces. But there was something hidden in their expressions. A different type of concern. They were worried about him, but also what he would do. He hadn’t exactly hidden his more paranoid state. At least not enough. In addition to the guilt that he was already combating, Stanford also felt bad that he might have disappointed them with his behavior.

“Grunkle Ford, are you okay?” asked Dipper carefully.

Smiling faintly, he said, “I’m fine, my boy. I lost track of time. But I have managed to retrieve a few more memories.”

“Really?”

“I have indeed. Though I am certain that you and your sister will be able to help me recall more.”

He stepped out of the elevator. Stanford saw Mabel’s brief frown as she glanced at the folded blanket in his hands. But she didn’t say anything until he maneuvered around Waddles and bypassed the sofa to head for the doorway. That’s when she perked up with a suspicious question.

“Where are you going?”

“Where are you going?”

Stanford paused on his way towards the door, turning back towards the living room. Bill came the rest of the way through the swinging door from the business half of the Mystery Shack. His hoodie tied around his waist, he was supposed to be restocking the gift shop. But Stanford also suspected that he was trying to avoid Abuelita after he dumped a bucket of glitter on Stanley’s head yesterday, which took forever to clean up. His twin was still complaining about finding pieces stuck in his dentures.

It was frustrating, but oddly reassuring. Bill had been too quiet and tense lately. Despite it only being the second time, Stanford felt confident with his assessment that the yearly visits from the Theraprism-assigned therapist stressed Bill out a great deal. As soon as they had an expected date, he turned into an anxious bundle of nerves. Hiding in his hoodie and being uncharacteristically cooperative. As if a single mistake might give them the excuse to drag him back to the Theraprism. And as soon as the therapist was gone, Stanford had needed to herd Bill to the sofa while everyone else made excuses to be away from the living room so he could weather the resulting panic attack in relative privacy. An annoying Bill that was messing with Stanley was an improvement.

“Fiddleford invited me over,” he answered.

Brow furrowing slightly, Bill asked, “Why? What does Specs want?”

“Apparently Tate found some old boxes of his father’s from back when…” He trailed off, not wanting to dredge up everything that happened thirty years ago. “Fiddleford wanted to know if I would like to help go through them in case any of my old belongings ended up mixed in.”

“Yeah, he did leave in a rush back then.” Crossing his arms, he muttered, “Honestly, one tiny glimpse of me when I wasn’t fit for company and he—”

“Bill,” he said warningly.

“Fine.” He rolled his eyes. “No complaining about your friend having a breakdown over nothing. Honestly, if I was vain, I would be hurt by his reaction.”

Chuckling, Stanford said, “As if you weren’t flattered when someone screamed at you.”

“Only when I was aiming for a scream.” Drawing closer until he could groan dramatically and lean against Stanford, he grumbled, “I was going to ask you to play chess later…”

“I’ll be back this evening, Bill. I’m going across Gravity Falls, not the Pacific,” he said, smiling affectionately as Bill behaved like his bones had been replaced by wet noodles. The lanky and sulking figure practically hung on him until Stanford dumped him in Stanley’s empty chair. “How about you warm up by inviting Dipper to play a round or two? He’s improving, but he could use the practice.”

Sprawling limply in the chair, Bill whined, “It’s not the same, Sixer…”

“I think you’ll survive a few hours without me.”

Bill glared at him half-heartedly. But eventually he sighed as his expression warmed, sitting up straight again.

“You’re lucky that I’m such a generous guy.” Waving dismissively, Bill said, “Go on then. I’ll share you with Specs.”

Catching the waving hand and giving it small squeeze, Stanford said, “I wasn’t asking for permission, but thank you for not complaining too much. Perhaps we can share a game after dinner.”

“That,” he said quietly, “sounds perfect.”

“Good. Try not to pout the entire time that I’m gone,” he said, slowly releasing Bill’s hand. Hesitating a moment, Stanford added, “And don’t balance any more buckets on top of doors. I won’t be here to save you from Stanley if you prank him while I’m with Fiddleford.”

The bright and fairly unhinged laugh would have once sent a chill down Stanford’s spine. Instead, the playful sound and the warm look in Bill’s eyes brought an affectionate smile to his face. Almost like old times. But without the worship, the lies, and the increasing isolation from others, but with more realistic expectations. Not forgetting the painful past that they shared, but finding ways to work around it.

It was… nice.

“Stay out of trouble. Please?”

“It’s like you don’t know me at all, Fordsy,” he cackled.

Swallowing down the warm feelings and affection from the memory that he realized must have happened yesterday before he lost his memories— the emotions weren’t helping the guilt regarding his behavior at all— Stanford answered Mabel, “I am going to speak with Bill.”

“Are you sure about that?” asked Dipper uneasily.

Tugging on the sleeves of her sweater, Mabel said cautiously, “Last time you spoke with him, he disappeared. I haven’t seen him since the movie ended. I think he’s hiding again.”

Not exactly hiding. Just compelled to remain in his room. But Stanford wasn’t quite ready to confess that part of his mistakes yet. Not to his niece and nephew. He would after he settled things with Bill first.

“I understand your concern, my girl,” he said gently. “But that is why I intend to speak with him. I was hoping to apologize for my recent treatment of him.”

Mabel’s expression lit up and Stanford was forced to brace himself as she threw herself at him in a hug. She wasn’t as small anymore. There was enough mass now for her affectionate tackle to make an impact.

“I knew everything would go back to normal when you got your memories back. Take that amnesia,” she cheered. “Pines family, two. Memory gun, zero.”

Chuckling slightly at her enthusiasm, Stanford admitted, “I do not have all of my memories back quite yet. I still require your assistance in retrieving the rest. But I have remembered enough to provide some context. And I remember enough to see that my concerns about Bill were currently unwarranted, at least to that extreme.”

“We tried to tell you,” muttered Stanley.

“After I apologize to Bill, we can consider dinner plans. I believe there was discussions about pizza?” he continued.

Nodding, Dipper said, “Grunkle Stan will have to go pick it up though. They refuse to deliver to the Mystery Shack after the… Incident last year.”

“The Incident?”

“Apparently the Giant so-called ‘Vampire’ Bat that you caught and were bringing back for study, in case it was a separate subspecies to the ones that you’ve seen before, really liked the pineapple on your pizza,” he explained, shaking his head slowly. “It broke free and the pizza guy ended up… Well, he was fine after we found where the bat left him, but I don’t think there was a tip large enough to make up for the experience.”

That felt vaguely familiar—

The sound of loud flapping wings and shrill screaming. A large dark shape soaring towards the tree line while a flailing figure dangled from it. The mouthwatering scent of Italian seasonings and the hot cheese of fresh pizza. The warm feeling of Bill as he gripped Stanford’s arm, trying to steady himself as he nearly fell over laughing.

—but he couldn’t let himself be distracted. Stanford couldn’t put it off any longer. He needed to fix his mistakes.

“Then after I make my apologies, perhaps Stanley could pick up the pizzas while we look through the scrapbooks further?”

“Forget that. I’ll make Soos pick up the pizza,” said Stanley. “He should be almost finished closing up the Mystery Shack for the night.”

Leaving his family to work out the details, Stanford retreated from the living room. The orange-red light coming through the windows in the kitchen told him that he’d been in the basement for longer than he intended. The afternoon had melted into evening, which was soon enough going to bleed into night. He’d left Bill trapped in his room for hours after some rather harsh words. The apology was long overdue.

The emotions from his flashback of the previous day haunted his steps. He’d suspected and wondered in a few of the other memories while he was downstairs. But the most recent memories of all? The ones from just a little over a day ago? The emotions in that memory were impossible to ignore. Not simple sympathy. Not a vague affection. But also not the misguided adulation and worship of his youth.

He cared about Bill. Truly cared about him.

The blanket in his arms carried the message that Bill loved him. Whether that meant he was in love or he felt some other form of it, Stanford didn’t know. But Bill claimed to love him. And even Stanley believed him. And while he couldn’t be certain what form his own feelings towards Bill might take, especially with their rather fraught history, it felt like… something.

He loved Stanley. He loved Dipper and Mabel. He loved Shermie and the rest of his family that he was gradually getting to know. He even loved Fiddleford as one of his oldest friends. And perhaps…

Well, if he did, it only made his actions over the last twenty-four hours worse.

Stanford followed the maze-like hallways until he reached the correct door. His hand briefly brushed the frame where the tiny holes from an old lock stared back at him in an accusatory fashion. He tried to reassure himself that he hadn’t reattached it during his paranoia. But why bother with a physical lock when he could use a bracelet to force Bill into obedience instead, unable to use the door until given permission again?

Swallowing, Stanford knocked gently on the door. But other than the faint creaking of the building settling, he didn’t hear anything. No voice and no approaching footsteps. He could easily picture Bill curled up on his bed, purposefully ignoring him.

It was the least that Stanford deserved.

“Bill?” he called, trying not to cringe at how uncertain his voice sounded. “Can we talk?”

There was once a post-it note with that same message. Bill left it in the horrifying aftermath of Stanford learning the truth of the plans for the portal. The note came before everything turned dangerous, painful, and cruel. As if a calm and rational discussion about the invasion and conquest of his home dimension would convince Stanford that everything was fine. A completely ridiculous notion.

Was his own effort to speak to Bill, to apologize for his actions, equally doomed to failure?

Knocking again, he repeated, “Bill?”

Silence answered him. Guilt twisted in his guts as he continued to be ignored. Stanford sighed as he leaned forward, letting his forehead rest against the door and squeezing the folded blanket to his chest.

An apology. A proper apology. That’s what Bill deserved and what he would give him.

“I should not have ordered you in there,” he said quietly. “Nor ordered you to drop the ax. There was no need for that. You were right. I could have at least attempted asking first. There was no need to escalate that quickly.”

There was still no response from the other side of the door. Though Stanford could practically hear his brother scoffing about the rather weak attempt at apologizing.

“I should not have gone into your room without permission. I should not have taken your belongings. That was rude and disrespectful.” Shifting the blanket in his grip, he continued, “I would like to return them. Starting with the blanket. Stanley said that you knitted it yourself?”

He’d hoped that would be enough to catch Bill’s attention. Even if he didn’t open the door, he could say something. The continued silence reminded him of how back in the earliest day of their association, Bill would vanish for weeks or even months at a time. No doubt a manipulation tactic back then. But this time, it was far more likely hurt feelings.

Raising his head to stare at the door, Stanford said firmly, “I should not have treated you the way that I have since losing my memories. I recognize that my behavior was hurtful. I kept my distance and distrusted you because what I did remember from prior to my memory loss depicted you as a potential threat to everything that I care about. I also said some rather cruel things when we last spoke. I— I won’t lie and claim that I didn’t mean it. Because at the time, I did mean what I said to you. But with more recovered memories and better context, it is clear that I did not feel that way prior to the amnesia. And I… do not believe that I feel that way now. I regret saying any of that to you. For now on, I will refrain from any hasty decisions until I regain the rest of my memories and try to trust the judgment of my family instead.”

Stanford sighed heavily. There it was. All the proper components of an effective apology: an admission of mistakes, acknowledgment that his actions caused harm, attempts to make amends in some fashion, an assertion not to repeat the same mistakes in the future, and active steps that he would take to prevent them. It was certainly more organized and coherent than his attempts to repeatedly apologize to Stanley in the aftermath of Weirdmageddon and for weeks afterwards. That had been messy, confusing, jumping around between topics, and often resulting in him repeating himself. This one felt more effective. More certain and easy to follow.

But it still wasn’t enough to draw Bill out.

Maybe he was asleep? That felt more optimistic than believing that he upset Bill enough to maintain the cold shoulder through his entire apology. If Bill was sleeping, then the best that Stanford could do would be to wait and try again later. Maybe he could use the time to revise and edit his words a little. Make the most of his time to plan out improvements for his next attempt.

And yet he hesitated to leave. If Bill wasn’t awake for his apology (or actively ignoring it), that was no reason not to make at least some form of amends. He could still return the blanket. Simply open the door just long enough to set it on the steps inside.

But as he opened the door slowly, half-expecting Bill to yell at him, Stanford couldn’t help the slight wince at the state of the room. He could have at least tried to be more careful when ransacking the place. The state of disarray only added another layer to his guilt. Even with the light turned off, the window illuminated the room enough to see how he’d knocked everything around.

Stanford frowned slowly. The high and narrow window was open. The bed had been moved slightly to make it easier to reach the window. And far more importantly…

…he didn’t see Bill.

Far, far, far too late, Stanford remembered that Bill was both clever and good at spotting a loophole when he wanted to. It was how most of his deals worked. Stanford had ordered him not to come back through the door until someone came for him. But that wouldn’t stop Bill from taking advantage of his long limbs and scrawny frame to wiggle his way out the small window.

As much as he didn’t want to admit it because the realization made his stomach drop, Stanford couldn’t deny the very clear lack of an olive-skinned blond with gangly limbs in the room. Bill Cipher was gone.

Chapter Text

Stanley had made it very clear in the aftermath of the portal reactivation and Stanford’s return to the dimension that cursing wasn’t allowed in the Mystery Shack.

Or rather, cursing wasn’t allowed if there was even the slightest chance that the children might overhear. And it was best to assume that they were always present. His brother would be the first to admit that he wasn’t exactly the most responsible guardian in the world. But he’d come up with a few hard lines that he refused to cross: while the kids were around for the summer, no smoking, no drinking, and no cursing. He could at least try to set a (somewhat) good example for them on those three things. And Stanford did try to respect that.

But as it truly sank in that Bill was gone, Stanford couldn’t help the curse that slipped out. Loud and sharp. But since it was in a language not spoken in his home dimension, it was probably fine.

He dragged a hand through his hair as he quickly retraced his path back through the house. A few hours ago, he would have been worrying about what Bill might try after sneaking away like that. Undoubtedly devising numerous scenarios involving betrayal. Now he could only worry about where Bill might go in his miserable state. Night was approaching and certain parts of the woods could be dangerous in the dark.

“He’s gone,” announced Stanford as he returned to the living room, dumping the knitted blanket on the chair.

Turning around with a confused frown, his brother asked, “What do you mean he’s gone?”

“I mean that he is not in his room and there is evidence that he escaped by climbing out his window.”

“Why out a window?” asked Mabel. “I know he’s dramatic, but there’s half a dozen doors leading outside.”

“And why would he need to ‘escape’?” asked Dipper, narrowing his eyes.

Stanford couldn’t help the slight wince. He was hoping that he could simply apologize to Bill without having to admit the full scope of his mistakes to his family. But he wasn’t going to lie to them.

Pushing up his sleeve to make it easier to see the glint of metal around his wrist, he admitted, “Because I attempted to order Bill to remain there. But I clearly did not choose my wording carefully enough and he figured out a loophole.”

“Ford,” sighed Stanley, trying to pinch the bridge of his nose without dislodging his glasses.

“I’m aware.” Shaking his head wearily, he said, “It was part of my intended apologies. And I still intend to make them. I merely need to locate Bill. I’m not certain how long he’s been gone. If he left shortly after I tried to confine him to his room, then he could theoretically be almost anywhere in Gravity Falls or the surrounding forest by now.”

“Don’t panic—”

“I’m not panicking,” he interrupted. “I am calmly concerned.”

“—because we’re going to find the annoying pointy pest,” continued Stanley. “The Weirdness Magnet Thing means he can’t exactly hitchhike to Florida or something. He can’t get that far. I mean, he’s bound to come back when he gets hungry.”

“Grunkle Stan, he’s not a stray cat. We can’t let him wander around all night,” said Mabel firmly. “We have to find him.”

“And how do you plan to find him? Because wandering blindly in the woods after dark is how I end up calling your parents to tell them you were eaten by a bear.”

Pulling out a notepad and clicking his pen, Dipper said, “Let’s be logical about it then. Where would Bill go?”

“It’s a long walk to the mall for some retail therapy,” said Mabel.

“He doesn’t go anywhere much. He just wanders around the Shack, helping in the gift shop and stealing my snacks,” said Stanley.

Hands tucked behind his back, Stanford started to pace. None of his memories depicted Bill away from the Mystery Shack. At least, not since Weirdmageddon. But there must be somewhere meaningful or perhaps soothing that he might retreat towards while upset.

The cave with the inscriptions about him? Maybe the library, its role as a source of knowledge offering comfort? A bar to try drowning his sorrows, so to speak? Or—

He wasn’t completely certain that this was a good idea. When Bill first arrived, Stanford would have never considered it. He would have called it too great of a risk. Except his recent visits to the location had shown all readings and signs of the previous increased improbable statistic anomalies had faded until it matched the background weirdness of Gravity Falls. There was nothing scientifically significant about the site.

And it wasn’t as if Bill could gain anything from the location. After all, he still had his powers. He simply required an order to be able to use them and it was rough on him, physically and metaphysically. And if Bill wanted to try inhabiting his old body to escape the various restrictions that the Theraprism put on him, that would require the use of his restricted powers to achieve. A bit of a Catch-22.

Keeping Bill away from the petrified remains of his previous physical form didn’t actually make them safer. And while morbid to consider, maybe seeing it would be good for Bill somehow. A form of closure on that part of his existence, perhaps? A chance to come to terms with how far he had progressed?

And yes, a small part of him did wonder if he would get some interesting readings if he brought Bill’s soul within close proximity to his former body.

But it was not as if Stanford dragged him out there without warning. He’d asked Bill if he would like to accompany him and where they were going. Bill had accepted the offer with a full understanding of what it entailed. So even if Stanford wasn’t completely certain it was the best idea, Bill must not have any qualms about it.

It was later in the evening than he would normally make the hike. But autumn was beginning, the younger twins had just returned home after their third summer in Gravity Falls, and Stanford had gotten distracted making various preparations for when he and Stanley would be setting sail for a couple of months. But there was still some light lingering for a little longer and they weren’t heading into a particularly dangerous section of the woods. They would be fine.

Besides, he was armed.

Still, it was a rather pleasant walk. The weather was still warm, but with just a hint of crispness in the air. Unlike in the past, the birds kept singing as they made their approach. The golden-orange light streamed down through the trees in a rather picturesque way. And the scent of pines was strong on the breeze.

He was familiar with the path by now. Stanford had visited the site multiple times over the last few years, both before and after Bill’s return. He’d memorized the various details of the place and noted the changes over time. A new patch of mushrooms. Moss trying to gain ground on the petrified remains. Ferns spreading along his usual route. A tree had fallen last spring and opened up a large section of the canopy. And during his last visit, Stanford had cautiously removed some of the previous protective spells and unicorn hair; the lack of reaction from Bill when he returned to the Mystery Shack afterwards proved that they weren’t doing much currently anyway.

But just because he’d made the journey multiple times a year didn’t mean it didn’t affect him whenever Stanford saw it. The familiar triangle shape. Even drained of color and essentially a lifeless statue, it always stirred up a lot of mixed emotions. He’d long since stopped trying to figure out how it made him feel. He simply accepted that they were coming and braced himself for the impact of the metaphorical wave.

He tried to prepare himself once more. Because they moved around a particularly large pine tree and there it was. The gray stone version of Bill Cipher left behind when he tried entering the wrong twin’s mind. Half-buried in the ground, undoubtedly from the impact of falling from the disintegrating Fearamid, the familiar brick-lines and the bowtie weren’t visible. But the top hat remained in place and one hand reached out. Patiently waiting to make a deal and shake it. And the last few years of the changing seasons might have tried to weather the strange stone surface, the large eye kept staring across the forest.

It still sent a chill down his spine despite everything. Reminding him of darker days. The reddish tint of sunset didn’t help, strengthening the memories of Weirdmageddon. But Stanford forced that unease aside. Things had changed since then. The biggest change was standing next to him.

The very human-looking Bill stared at the stone shape silently. He’d been fairly chatty at the start of the hike, but had grown progressively quieter over time. He’d vaguely assumed that Bill had merely gotten winded by the distance and rough terrain that they’d traversed. But there was something about his gaze that felt off. And Stanford found himself staying silent as well.

After staring for a little longer, Bill slowly took a step forward. Reluctantly approaching the empty husk until finally sinking down to his knees directly in front of it. A cautious hand reached out. But he didn’t reach for the offered limb of the statue. Bill timidly brushed his fingers along the hat. When the contact didn’t immediately lead to disaster, Bill slowly started brushing away the moss growing along the brim.

It didn’t seem particularly difficult to get the moss free and the hat seemed to be in good condition underneath the growth. Bill moved further down. His hands grew frantic as he tried to get the moss off the petrified remains. But he also seemed to be just touching the flat plane and the straight edges of the statue. Stanford felt unease creeping in as Bill’s breathing grew faster and unsteady.

“Bill?” he called cautiously, stepping closer.

When Bill’s hand brushed against the large unseeing eye, he made a wordless sound of distress before turning those frantic movements against himself. Abruptly clawing and scratching at his arms, his shirt, his neck, and his face. Stanford immediately grabbed at his wrists to stop him.

“Easy,” he said, trying to twist Bill away so he wasn’t facing the statue anymore. “Don’t do that.”

“Wrong, wrong, wrong,” he whimpered, quickly moving towards hyperventilating.

Wrestling a panicking, gasping, and long-limbed Bill enough to pull the yellow hoodie free from his waist and then wiggle the garment on him was tricky enough, but keeping Bill from trying to tear apart his human body at the same time added an extra challenge. But the longer sleeves and hood covered enough skin that he couldn’t do much damage with his short nails. And the yellow oversized garment always seemed to help settle him. At that point, Stanford could gather him up in his arms enough to pick up the lanky figure.

Bill wasn’t too heavy. Just long and gangly enough to be a little awkward to manipulate. But Stanford managed to carry him the short distance to the fallen log. But as soon as he sat on it, the self-destructive fight practically evaporated from Bill. He just curled up as much as possible in his arms and went relatively still. A slight shift in his grip and Stanford abruptly had Bill’s face buried in his sweater, his shallow breathing still too fast as it hitched in his chest.

“I know you’re upset,” said Stanford softly, one hand reaching up to rub Bill’s back slowly. “But you need to try to get your breathing under control again. It will help your emotional state. Can you follow my lead?”

Stanford had long since learned a few ways to manage stress, anxiety, and emotional distress in slightly healthier ways than Bill’s lifelong strategies of repression, denial, distraction, and disassociation. Control and focusing on breathing patterns was one of the more reliable options.

“Inhale for the count of four through your nose,” he said, quiet and yet firm. “Hold for seven. And then breathe out through your mouth for eight.”

He demonstrated, still rubbing Bill’s back encouragingly. A slow, steady, and predictable pattern. Initially, Bill struggled to find the rhythm; his body clearly rebelling and refusing to obey the attempts to follow Stanford’s example. But he gradually carved out longer and deeper breaths. There were still moments where his breathing hitched in a rather sob-like way and there was a faint dampness to Stanford’s sweater that he ignored. But the tension slowly uncoiled and the breathing evened out. And the stiff fingers unlatched from their tight grip on the fabric of the sweater.

“There you go,” he said quietly. “You’re all right now. I’m sorry, Bill. I didn’t mean to upset you. I shouldn’t have brought you out here.”

His voice half-muffled from his refusal to move his face from the way he curled against Stanford’s sweater, he said unsteadily, “Not your fault. This stupid, mushy, bulky, and useless body is just wrong. Nothing is how it’s supposed to be.”

“I know.”

“I’m supposed to be that.” He gestured blindly back towards the petrified husk. “Straight edges, perfect sixty-degree angles, flat, my eye… Not this awful leaking mess. This is wrong. It’s not me.”

Not knowing what to say to help, Stanford said, “You’re right. You are, at least in some ways, not the same Bill Cipher that you were.”

“Gee, thanks…”

“The Bill Cipher that you once were? He was a monster. He wasn’t someone who would let a teenage girl teach him to knit or would watch old movies and cartoons with us or would do his best not to hurt me or my family. He wasn’t someone that would try to be better. He wasn’t someone that would put anyone ahead of himself, even in small ways. He wasn’t someone that I would give another chance. He wasn’t someone that I could trust. Those changes matter far more than if you look human.” Squeezing Bill briefly, he said, “But if it helps, when I look at you, I still often see the same yellow equilateral triangle that I know you to be.”

He didn’t reply to that. But some of the tension faded from his lanky frame. And perhaps that was good enough for now.

Time passed. The sun set, shadows spread, and Bill slowly uncurled. Eventually he went from being pressed against Stanford’s chest to slowly sliding off the man’s lap to sit on the log next to him. He was almost completely enveloped by the yellow hoodie. But even in what little of his face that was exposed, his awed expression as he turned those amber eyes towards the sky was impossible to miss.

Away from the town and even the lights of the Mystery Shack, there were far more stars visible. Enough to make a rather breathtaking sight. Especially with the semi-recent gap in the canopy. Stanford could easily trace a few constellations and spot numerous fainter stars lighting up the darkness.

They sat together in relative silence for a while— not complete silence because the local wildlife still existed and Stanford could swear that he heard a boy band practicing their scales somewhere in the distance— but he knew that it wouldn’t last forever.

“I always loved the stars,” said Bill softly, sounding calmer than before. “Always. And even with weak human eyes that can barely see any colors… they’re beautiful.”

Smiling faintly, Stanford agreed, “This is a rather nice view of them.”

“So many people in so many dimensions don’t appreciate being able to see stars. See them and even show them to other people.”

Bill was older than any of the stars visible above them. He was older than this entire dimension. They were probably staring at stars that had been dead for all of human history and their light was just now reaching them, but even those extinguished stars would have been younger than Bill Cipher.

And yet his tone was still so humbled by the view of those stars. It really did make Stanford think about them.

“I can admit it is easy to take them for granted. People get used to their presence and stop thinking about them as special. They are simply an ordinary part of their lives. Something always there and easy to enjoy whenever the mood strikes. That doesn’t mean that they aren’t beloved.” Thinking about it a moment longer, he said, “I suppose it is like the difference between two people who have recently fallen in love with each other and a couple who have been married for most of their lives. One couple are more exuberant and excited about spending time together and the other couple are subtler, but no less in love because of that familiarity. It’s merely a simpler and quieter love.”

Stanford couldn’t help his mind briefly going to his teenaged niece and nephew. Dipper and “Shooting Star.” Nicknames that connect to the concept of stars. Coincidence or more prophecies? Regardless, he certainly appreciated those precious “stars” in his life. He was looking forward to their return in the summer.

And if he was honest, he was fairly certain that Bill was looking forward to it as well.

After a moment, Bill asked, “Can we stay a little longer?”

“I don’t think anyone will be upset if we spend some time stargazing.”

Swallowing briefly, Stanford said slowly, “I might have an idea of where to find him.”

“Really?” asked Mabel, spinning around to face him. “Then let’s jump in the car and go.”

Holding up his hands, he said, “It might be easier for me to go alone to speak to him. For… multiple reasons.”

“Like?” asked Dipper.

“Like… I ordered him not to speak to or approach any of you,” he admitted, the words tumbling out.

They didn’t have to say a word. Stanford could feel the incredible amount of judgment practically radiating from them. Or maybe it was his own guilt.

“You know what? Fine. Whatever,” said Stanley, throwing up his hands briefly. “Mabel, give Ford your phone. He can call us when he finds Bill and apologizes. Or we can call him if Bill stumbles back here. If we have to, Soos and Melody can talk to him until we sort the mess out.”

The walk was further than he remembered. Or maybe it only seemed that way because he was making the hike alone. Or maybe it was his miserable state making each step a herculean effort. Branches and brambles grabbing at his hoodie and scratching at his bare calves. Stumbling over roots and rocks. But eventually he dragged himself to his chosen destination: a semi-clearing with a fallen tree a short distance away from a gradually-eroding triangular chunk of lifeless rock.

It felt like the appropriate place to go.

Bill barely spared a glance at the empty husk. Instead, he settled himself on the log so that he could stare at the sky instead. He watched it gradually change colors and darken, twisting the bracelet between his hands as he watched the stars slowly appear. But for once, their bright light offered no comfort.

Ford hated him. He didn’t want to remember. He would rather completely forget every moment of Bill’s presence, except he didn’t feel safe enough to risk it. He would never feel that safe as long as Bill existed, but he wanted that. He wanted all traces of Bill erased from his life. Ford claimed that he would be happier if they’d never met. He claimed his life would be better without Bill’s influence on it.

Honestly, he was probably right. Bill couldn’t think of a single person who missed him when he died. Even his Henchmaniacs celebrated in the aftermath. Everyone celebrated and then did their best to move on. To forget about him as if he never existed. Because they were happier without him. They didn’t want or need him.

Bill twisted and spun the bracelet between his fingers, fiddling with it aimlessly. His vision blurred slightly, the stars going in and out of focus until he blinked and the tears cut down his face. He didn’t bother reaching up to wipe them away.

He was selfish. Electing to participate in the outpatient program was selfish. Bill wanted to see Ford again. He wanted to stop feeling alone. He wanted a chance to do things right and maybe have a little of what they used to be back. It was all about what he wanted. Not what Ford and his family wanted. They’d certainly not wanted him back and Ford made it absolutely clear that he didn’t want him now.

Maybe they’d… started tolerating his presence. The rest of the Pines family, Soos, Melody… Even the old woman didn’t threaten him in Spanish much anymore. But it didn’t matter because he wasn’t allowed near them any longer. They’d probably be relieved not to deal with him being underfoot all the time now. They would celebrate and move on.

He took a shaky breath and let it out slowly. He didn’t really want this. He wanted to be sitting at the crowded kitchen table, all of those overlapping voices talking, teasing, complaining, and laughing together. He wanted to be half-squished between the teenaged twins and the pig on the floor of the living room while Ford and Stanley claimed the actual furniture. He wanted to chase Melody out of the gift shop to take a break because she wouldn’t want to kick up a fuss by asking for someone to take over, but everyone could see that the pregnancy was wearing out the friendly woman and she always smiled in relief when he offered. He wanted to climb on the roof the Mystery Shack with Ford, Dipper, and Mabel because, even if it wasn’t quite as dark there, it was still clear enough to see plenty of stars.

But Rick did not get to stay with Ilsa; he sent her on the plane and accepted the consequences for himself. Stanley described it as caring for someone else enough to do anything for them to be happy and safe, even if it was dangerous or cost everything. Loving them enough to want that for them, even if they couldn’t be part of that happy ending, because that person’s happiness was worth it.

And monsters don’t get happy endings.

Eyes locked on the beautiful stars overhead and his left hand clutching the bracelet hard enough to probably leave an imprint on his palm, Bill stood up. He vaguely noticed crunching leaves and pine needles in the distance. Probably a badger or a gnome scurrying around.

He knew what would make Ford the happiest. He told him directly: Bill Cipher gone and forgotten in every sense of the word. Ford would be happy, he would feel safe, he would have his family, and he could pretend that Bill never existed. And he would be brilliant out there, shining like the brightest star in the multiverse without worrying about the black hole ruining everything.

That black hole destroyed so many lives over a trillion years. It destroyed all of Euclydia and everyone there on accident. But at least that bright and brilliant star that was Stanford Pines would finally be free of that destructive pull.

It was so simple. It was the obvious choice. What else could he do? His very existence always ruined everything eventually. He’d already hurt Ford enough. And Bill couldn’t even manage to convince himself that things would get better. When Bill’s denial failed, there really was no hope left.

It was best for everyone. They would be happy and he wouldn’t have to see that coldness in Ford’s expression.

He reached his right hand and briefly rubbed the sleeve of his hoodie. Trying to draw some comfort from the soft fabric. Ford gave it to him, so it was almost like his embrace, right? He was enveloped in his yellow hoodie and staring at a gorgeous star-filled sky. Nothing could be better than that, right?

Okay, tears were running down his face, his heart was pounding hard, and his hearing was filled with a dull roar of staticky screams and crunching leaves of some predator moving through the underbrush to undoubtedly eat him. And that agonizing pressure in his chest hadn’t disappeared since the moment he realized that Ford had forgotten the last two years. But other than inadvertently tightening his grip on the bracelet in his hand, Bill didn’t let it faze him. He was fine. Just keep his eyes on the stars like when he was a child. Ignore everything else. Especially that stubborn, stupid, hopeful, and selfish thought that maybe…

But in the end, it didn’t matter how hard he’d tried to change or be better. It wasn’t enough. There was no forgiveness, no second chances, and no happy endings. He was destined to always be alone and it was always going to be his own fault that he ended up alone. The best that he could do was give everyone else a happy ending.

Let Ford metaphorically get on that plane. Give him the letters of transit and let him go. Let him forget about Bill.

And if there was only one way that Ford would feel safe enough to finally forget him and move on…

Closing his eyes, he took a breath to steady himself. His fingers ached from how tightly he had them clenched. And his misery remained tightly curled in his chest. But he forced his stiff fingers open, the bracelet falling—

“Bill?”

—and hitting the ground barely before he did.

Chapter Text

Stanford knew that he must have made this trek dozens of times though he only remembered a couple of the trips. And he’d explored almost every inch of the woods during his younger days. But thirty years was a long time for the terrain to change. He also knew that most of the time, he would have made the journey during the day. The light was almost gone by the time that he left the Mystery Shack, greatly transforming the surroundings. The flashlight helped minimize the chance that he would walk into a low tree branch and skewer an eyeball, but he still ended up trapsing through the forest at a slower pace than he would normally prefer.

There was an uneasy feeling of urgency that he didn’t like. But running blindly through the forest would only lead to injuries that would only slow him down further. Besides, there was no need to hurry. If he was right and Bill had decided to slip out to the forest for more stargazing until he felt better, he should stay there for a while. There was absolutely no reason to believe there was a rush. But Stanford just couldn’t seem to shake the feeling.

He'd learned a certain amount of stealth during his time in the multiverse. It was a matter of survival. But that gnawing sense of urgency haunting him made him focus more on maintaining as much speed as he safely could. Crunching leaves and snapping twigs under his boots was a lesser concern.

It still took too long to catch sight of his destination. But the glimpse of the bright yellow hoodie in the darkness brought a faint smile to his face. He’d guessed correctly.

As he kept trudging closer, he could tell that Bill had his back toward him and his hood pulled up. Undoubtedly staring up at the stars. Maybe that would help things. If they could sooth or comfort him somehow, perhaps Bill would be in a more accepting mood when Stanford made his apology.

Stanford had a feeling that, after his recent treatment of Bill, he needed all the help that he could get.

He was still a short distance away. But Bill hadn’t reacted to his approach, clearly not noticing his presence in the forest. He didn’t want to risk startling him by sneaking up on the former triangle.

“Bill?” he called cautiously.

But just as Stanford spoke, the beam of his flashlight caught a brief glint off something shiny falling from Bill’s hand. And just as abruptly, the lanky figure crumpled to the ground. Like cutting the strings of a puppet.

Most people would freeze in shock, at least for a brief moment. But in certain parts of the multiverse, hesitation could get him killed. Stanford broke into a sprint before his rational mind could catch up.

“Bill!”

He practically threw himself to his knees next to the limp body, flashlight landing on the ground. His hands flew, straightening and rolling Bill onto his back. Stanford’s eyes swept over him in search of crimson stains or injuries even as his fingers moved. Seeking the soft spot to the side of his windpipe where the carotid artery ran. His other hand splayed across Bill’s chest. Stanford found dampness on his slack face that made his heart ache with guilt. But he didn’t find any blood or broken bones. Nor did he find the pulse that he was searching for or feel his chest rising as he breathed.

Sharp panic trying to claw its way up his throat like in those earliest days roaming the multiverse, Stanford shoved it down as best as he could and yanked the sleeves of the hoodie up. Bare skin. No bracelet.

“But it doesn’t just look fashionable. It’s also functional. Dual purpose bracelet.” Grinning brightly with all his teeth on display while his eyes didn’t quite reflect the cheerfulness of his tone, he said, “Job number one. It works like one of those electrical power converters like they use to turn AC power into DC power so that your hairdryer doesn’t blow up when you travel to a different country. Getting a dead being of pure energy reconfigured into existing properly as a squishy physical human isn’t the same as puppeteering a body. Gotta keep my used and imperfectly-repaired soul communicating with my brand-new body correctly or it’ll keel over. Which even the overly-optimistic Theraprism idiots admit would be bad. That means I’ve gotta keep in contact with the bracelet or else, ensuring that it can also do job number two.”

Cursing breathlessly in multiple languages, Stanford fumbled half-blindly among the decaying leaves and loose pine needles. Bill needed that bracelet. He’d seen the glint of metal falling. And while it was probably light enough to bounce, it shouldn’t have gone that—

There. His frantic fingers brushed against something smooth and curved. Stanford closed his hand around it, picking up the bracelet. He pressed the metal against Bill’s wrist and the same physics-bending trick let it snap back into place.

Bracelet restored, Stanford immediately returned his focus to pressing his fingers to the side of Bill’s throat and the other hand to his chest. Searching for the return of those signs of life. But his face remained slack, his chest didn’t move, and there was not a single beat under his fingertips.

The broad grin returning, Bill said, “Sorry, but killing me won’t send me back. You’ll just have a dead and rotting corpse. I had to use a favor to end up there in the first place. I wouldn’t be moving on this time.”

“A little ambiguous. That could imply that you would remain here to haunt us as a ghost or—”

“—or complete cessation of existence? Go directly to oblivion, do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred disembodied screaming heads?” he suggested. “I know which you’d prefer, but I’m not telling you which one. Not that I plan to give you a chance to test it, Fordsy. I’m sticking with my best behavior.”

Stanford pushed down those churning emotions. They wouldn’t do any good. It wasn’t too late. It was just taking a little while to recover. And if there was a delayed reaction before Bill could stabilize properly, then he needed to stay calm and buy him some time.

There had been no chance that Stanford would have decided to spend months at sea along with his brother without ensuring their safety. Between finding an appropriate boat and getting it outfitted for their explorations, they’d taken first aid courses. He wasn’t going to risk losing Stanley to something as mundane of a danger as drowning.

Heel of one hand in the center of the chest, interlace fingers, position shoulders above hands, lock elbows and keep arms straight. One hundred to one-hundred-twenty compressions a minute, which averages to two compressions a second. Each compression of the chest reaching at least two inches deep. Thirty compressions and then two rescue breaths.

Stanford quickly got into the correct position and started the compressions on the limp figure. Simple, but hard work. The force of the effort, the speed, and the vital rhythm that must be maintained. At least until the bracelet allowed his soul to interact with his body again. Buying some time until his breathing and heartbeat resumed.

Because it would. It had to.

“They had to go very slowly and carefully to reconfigure me into a human. It’s a rather big change and that can be… rough to handle. And whenever they decide that I’m ‘properly rehabilitated’ and ready for the next phase by ‘transitioning into new opportunities through reincarnation,’” he continued, the direct quotes spoken almost mockingly, “they’ll have to go just as slow and careful to drag my soul out of this stupid, mushy, blobby, leaking body. Otherwise,” his hand wrapped around his wrist and the bracelet, “I’ll probably go from ‘fair condition’ collectable to ‘extremely poor condition.’ And by that, I mean ‘most likely shattered into a trillion pieces as I fizzle out of existence.’ Not even enough of Humpty-Dumpty to try putting back together a second time.”

That wasn’t what happened. He refused to consider it.

The silent count in Stanford’s head hit thirty and his hands moved away from Bill’s chest. Tilting his head back and pinching Bill’s nose shut, he pressed his mouth against Bill’s. Stanford forced his breath into those still lungs once. Twice. Bill’s chest rose briefly with each attempt, but immediately fell again when he pulled away. Not even trying to continue on his own.

Stanford’s locked hands returned to his chest, resuming compressions.

Thirty compressions, two deep breaths, and then repeat. Not complicated at all. But in horrifyingly little time, his arms were shaking with effort and his own breathing came out in desperate gasps. The required strength and speed quickly drained his energy. He knew that he couldn’t keep it up forever.

At one point when he raised his head from forcing air into the limp frame, Stanford’s eyes briefly flicked across the semi-clearing. The flashlight beam had fallen on the petrified triangular remains. Still and silent as a statue. An empty husk without any hint of the larger-than-life person that used to inhabit it. Completely lifeless. And far too similar to the motionless body under his hands.

Why would Bill do this? The question fluttered through his mind, just below his stubborn counting and the sea of churning emotions that he couldn’t afford to acknowledge yet. Why would Bill take off his bracelet? Because he had to have removed it on purpose. The spells on the metal meant that it literally could not fall off accidentally. And Bill knew what would happen if he took it off. What was he thinking?

Why? Why would he— He couldn’t survive without the bracelet. His body and his soul couldn’t interact properly. Why, why, why—

A sharp crack under his hands, felt more than heard, nearly startled Stanford enough to stop. But he managed enough self-control to keep the compressions going. A cracked rib was something they warned about during the first aid course. It was preferrable to death.

Because death was what Bill was actively courting. His heart pumping only because of the force from Stanford’s throbbing arms. Stanford’s air filled his lungs. Fully dependent on Stanford to keep him alive. All because Bill chose to take the bracelet off. But why would he try to—

“If I didn’t have to worry about the potential mental damage or how you’d undoubtedly take advantage of my blissful ignorance, I would welcome the chance to borrow Fiddleford’s memory gun and excise every trace of you from my mind,” he said venomously. “My life would have been much better if I have never met you. I never should have read that inscription.” He shook his head before giving a tired scoff. “I would be happiest if you were gone and forgotten in every sense of the word. But since that is not an option, I will settle for keeping you from your goals and from my family.”

Stanford fought to swallow down the choking guilt. He needed to focus. He couldn’t afford to succumb or his compressions might faulter. And it was already hard enough to catch his breath enough to fill Bill’s empty lungs without his throat tightening up.

Because he was panting and gasping hard enough with the effort that Stanford began to legitimately worry that he would have that heart attack before his nineties after all. But he couldn’t stop. He couldn’t. Not with Bill so lifeless and empty.

He needed Bill to wake up. He needed to hear Stanford’s apology. Stanford needed to return the blanket. He needed to get to know the Bill that he kept glimpsing in those flashes of more recent memories, a version of Bill that was trying to be a better person and who almost felt like part of the family somehow. He needed to tell him that he didn’t want Bill gone and forgotten.

But mostly Stanford needed him to breathe. He needed Bill’s heart to beat and his lungs to draw in air on their own. He needed Bill’s fragile and damaged soul to hold itself together well-enough to convince his human body to live. He needed his efforts not to be in vain.

He needed this to work because somehow the idea of being responsible for Bill Cipher’s death, his only goal for half his life, filled him with a gut-wrenching horror that he couldn’t accept.

His arms were screaming at him, his back was stiff, and his lungs burned. Stanford knew his body’s limits. And he knew how far he could push past them. He wouldn’t be able to keep going for much longer.

And when he was forced to stop, if Bill’s body still refused to resume those fundamental biological processes for life…

His mental count drawing close once more, his eyes burning nearly as much as his chest, and his rough voice barely audible, Stanford ordered breathlessly, “Breathe, Bill.”

Then, taking a deep breath of his own, he bent back down. He hoped it was his imagination, but those slack lips truly felt cooler than when he started. Each breath that he poured into Bill now made his head swim. He’d lost count of how many times he’d tried. But yet again, Stanford somehow made his chest rise once. Twice. And then he pulled away, wobbling badly as he gulped air for his own struggling body.

Because of his own gasps, Stanford almost missed the weak sound. Almost.

For the first time since he started his desperate and increasingly futile efforts, he stopped. A few pounding heartbeats later, he heard it again. A quiet, fragile, shallow, and far too weak inhale.

Hands shaking with adrenaline and nerves, Stanford laid one back on Bill’s chest and returned his fingers on the other hand to the carotid artery. Holding his breath and hoping.

Bill’s chest barely moved. And the thready beat was too slow, too weak, and too unsteady, the pause between each one far too long. But he was breathing. His heart was beating.

He was alive.

His own breathing still a little heavy and shaky, Stanford pushed himself back. Sitting on the ground next to Bill instead of crouched over him. The pounding beat in his ears began to slow as he caught his breath. His muscles twitched and spasmed slightly now that he was no longer making impossible demands of his weary body. He simply sat there, trying to calm down as all of that adrenaline crashed. But before he had fully recovered, Stanford’s hand was already reaching for Bill’s wrist. Slipping just past the bracelet to find and keep track of the weak and unsteady pulse.

Slow and faint. Barely there at all. But he could feel it. Stanford focused on the feeling of the fragile beat as everything that had just happened finally sank in.

The guilt that he’d been pushing down in order to concentrate on the crisis? The fear, the horror, and regret? Not to mention the impending grief and loss that had loomed over him, waiting for him to fail? It came rolling in now that the distraction was gone. Choking him with emotions too intense for his limited memories. Stanford dragged his free hand through his hair as he pulled his legs up towards his chest, trembling for multiple reasons.

That was close. Too close.

How did it come to this? Him, sitting in the middle of the woods at night after needing to resuscitate Bill Cipher. Of all the people in the multiverse, he had found himself trying to save Bill. And more importantly, it had been his fault. He’d somehow managed to drive Bill to the point where he’d tried to kill himself.

A few hours ago, Stanford might have been disappointed that Bill didn’t succeed in the attempt. His death would have been a comfort. But even if he was still regaining the memories of the last couple of years, the emotions from those lost memories were clearly seeping in. Because the idea that he pushed Bill to that state? The idea of Bill destroying himself like that?

It hurt far too much. Like someone had reached into his chest to squeeze his heart. His shaky breath kept catching in his throat.

Stanley had warned him. At the very beginning, he warned him that Bill’s emotional responses were more intense. A side effect of a human body with human hormones. “The emotional control of a teenage girl” were his exact words. Stanford knew that he was more volatile than before and then he pushed him too far with his paranoid actions.

“I came here because I wanted to be with you again. But I can’t keep you. I can’t make you stay. It doesn’t work. Rick couldn’t trick or force Ilsa to stay with him. But if I can give you what you want or need… If I can make you happy…”

“Then maybe I will stay?” finished Stanford.

“Or you’ll let me stay. You agreed to give me a chance. I just… I can’t waste it. I have to make sure…” His voice was barely a tired whisper. “I can’t be alone again. If I mess up with you again… If you don’t need me… If I fail you… I can’t do it again.”

Stanford made certain that he was alone. He took away what little that Bill had and cut him off from everyone. Was it that shocking that it an emotionally intense and volatile Bill took extreme actions in response?

Even during those dark days decades ago, Bill had always leaned towards destructive responses when upset. The only difference was that those impulses were turned inwards, becoming self-destructive instead.

The shallow and weak breathing was barely audible, but it kept going. A faint wheeze that felt like an exhausted struggle. And the fragile beat against his fingertips still couldn’t seem to find a steady rhythm. But Stanford was grateful for even that much life. It was a hard-earned prize that he’d managed to claw back. And no amount of self-admonishment and uncomfortable emotions would distract him away from monitoring those faint signs of life.

He didn’t know if Bill started breathing again because of his desperate order somehow working despite being unconscious or if Stanford had successfully bought him enough time for the bracelet to get the body and soul interacting properly again. But whatever the cause, he was breathing and his heart was beating again. Perhaps it was better not to question it.

But was it enough?

Doubt gnawed at him quietly. Even with CPR, Bill had gone a worryingly long time without a heartbeat or breathing. There could potentially be side effects. And that was not even considering potential metaphysical damage. Did removing the bracelet result in his body attempting to forcibly reject his incompatible soul from it? Everything that he knew about the state of Bill’s soul told him that such an abrupt ejection would tear him to pieces. What if his body survived, but only as an empty shell?

Despite his best efforts to remain calm and rational, everything was jumbled in his head and his emotions were undoubtedly as uncontrolled as Bill’s typically were. It took far too long for Stanford to realize that he’d stopped shaking from adrenaline and stress. The trembling that he felt while grasping Bill’s wrist wasn’t his own. The weak wheezing and slow breathing were no longer the only signs of life. Bill was starting to shake instead, reacting to the drop of body temperature that seemed to always accompany stress to his metaphysical injuries.

Silently cursing himself for not taking care of that already, Stanford grabbed the misplaced flashlight and clipped it to his belt. Then he started shedding his coat.

Bill’s hoodie might offer some warmth, but those shorts weren’t doing him any good against the cooling evening air. Stanford carefully wrapped his coat around his lower body like an improvised blanket. Slipping his arms under Bill’s knees and back, Stanford stood and lifted him in one unsteady move. Then he sat them both down on the fallen log, settling Bill in a fairly comfortable hold: draped across his lap sideways and leaning against his chest. Essentially cradling the lanky and limp figure like he would Mabel or Dipper if they fell asleep in the living room and he wasn’t ready to take them up to their room yet.

Not that he’d ever had the chance. They’d already been half-grown by the time that he made back to this dimension.

Properly bundled up and held close enough that Stanford’s own body heat should help, Bill’s intermittent shivering gave way to constant trembling. Stronger shivering. Which was potentially a good sign because his body had the energy to actually try resisting the drop in temperature. And with his head against Stanford’s shoulder, he could feel the slight warmth of Bill breathing as it brushed against his neck just above his sweater. It felt a little steadier than before. Slow and yet fairly even. He tried to take comfort in those small signs of progress.

He should dig out Mabel’s phone from his coat pocket. He should call Stanley and the others. But he didn’t. Stanford didn’t want to risk it. If he told them that he found Bill, he might have to tell them about how he… And what if he hadn’t actually saved Bill? What if it still went wrong? He couldn’t raise their hopes first, telling them that he’d found Bill, and then have to call back later because it turned out that it was already too late. That he’d failed and his body only lingered a little longer, his soul shattered to pieces or his mind essentially dead from lack of oxygen.

No, he wouldn’t call them quite yet. He had to be sure. He needed to wait and see if it was enough.

Stanford would stay with him there for a little longer. Keeping Bill warm and give him some time to stabilize. That’s all he could do for now. Wait and observe Bill’s state for possible developments, go over the potential issues that could result from the incident, and choke down the overwhelming guilt.

How did it come to this? How could Bill do this to himself? How did he end up in a situation where he actually cared whether Bill Cipher lived or died? How did the idea that Bill may never wake up become something that terrified him?

Chapter Text

Pain wasn’t exactly new.

Granted, it wasn’t always the most common sensation when he was an all-powerful being of pure energy without physical form. It was why he enjoyed the novelty of it when he possessed a body. He could indulge in the rare experience without repercussions for himself. And novel sensations were always welcomed in order to avoid boredom.

But there was more direct, intense, and unpleasant pain. The sharp tearing of repeated assaults on his eye. The burning of the memory gun. The absolute agony of shattering apart from a punch in a dying mind.

And then, after being reconfigured into a flimsy human form, pain was a frequent companion. Cuts, scrapes, bruises, and random Redcap stabbings. Not to mention his occasional attempt to use even a fraction of his powers. He liked to think he was becoming an expert on pain.

Part of him hoped that it would be too quick to hurt. Just sever the connection immediately and the nerve endings wouldn’t have time to send a message to the brain as it went dark. But he knew that there was a chance that his fractured soul wouldn’t splinter apart instantaneously. Stanley’s fist broke him fast, but he was already falling apart in the man’s mind; the destruction had been slow enough to call on his last favor.

Not that it did him much good in the end. It bought him barely any time at all. He would have been better off letting himself vanish back then and save the Axolotl the trouble. The end result was the same either way.

But even if he hoped for immediate oblivion, he was prepared for pain. Perhaps the shattering agony of his previous demise, but ending in a complete cessation of existence rather than fragments being pulled together somewhere outside of time and space for the Axolotl to make an offer.

He wasn’t disappointed.

Blinding, suffocating, and tearing pain that seemed to pull, twist, and yank him in every direction for a brief instant before hurtling into a waiting abyss. Too late for second thoughts. Just oblivion.

Except a muddled awareness slowly crept back when it shouldn’t have. Along with the pain.

The pain and exhaustion weren’t that surprising beyond the fact that he shouldn’t be able to feel (or think) at all by that point. But the intense cold didn’t make sense. Death wasn’t cold. Dead bodies could be chilly, but death itself…

Death was burning. The destructive flames of the memory gun incinerating the old man’s mind… The staticky scream of all of Euclydia on fire…

He wasn’t burning. Not this time. He was so cold. The type of cold that sank down to the bones that he shouldn’t have, the misshapen body shaking violently in a way that made the pain worse.

Everything throbbed and ached sharply. Every shiver made the pain spike, reminding him of resisting orders from whoever was wearing the bracelet. His joints felt like someone jammed glass fragments in them; moving seemed like a bad idea, even if he didn’t feel impossibly weak. Even breathing was exhausting and painful. Somehow his chest hurt worse than the rest.

But it almost felt like he was against something warm that eased the bitter biting cold. And every struggling breath brought a soothing scent. A unique and comforting mixture of sweat-soaked wool, burnt hair, and pine trees.

Oh, now it made sense. He was having one of those dying dream things. Yes, it was lasting longer than he would have expected. And if he had his preference, he wouldn’t be in pain or twisted into a human body. But he was dreaming of Ford. He was dreaming of when Ford didn’t hate him because why else would he be close enough to smell the man. There were worse ways to fade from existence.

He would pretend it was real. Not like he would linger much longer. He would die and everyone would be happier to have him truly gone, but he could trick himself into believing that Ford was there.

Except now he could make out more details. Like something wrapped around his lower limbs. He could feel Ford’s steady arms supporting him and the familiar fabric of his sweater against his cheek. He could hear the breeze making the trees shift and sway. Shouldn’t everything get less distinct as death approached?

He didn’t want to think about it. He didn’t even want to think about dying. He didn’t want to think about the pain, cold, or heavy exhaustion. Bill decided to just focus on the familiar and comforting scent. A soothing reminder of what he’d had, if only for a little while.

Bill tried to take a deep breath of that scent. But the pain in his chest intensified, like being stabbed. By a lightning bolt. The sharp flare of pain dragged a weak whimper out of him as a flinch joined the involuntary shivering. Which only made him hurt worse. But despite his increased misery, he still noticed Ford stiffened.

Voice carefully even, he asked, “Bill? Are you conscious?”

Doubt slowly crept in. Maybe this wasn’t a dying dream. Maybe he messed up and didn’t do a good enough job. Maybe he fell on the bracelet when he collapsed, putting him back in contact with it.

Swallowing, his throat dry and not in much better condition than the rest of him, he whispered roughly, “Hiya…?”

“‘Hiya’?” repeated Ford, the neutral tone melting away towards something tighter and strained. He wasn’t shouting, but it felt like he should be. “That’s all you have to say for yourself? What were you thinking? How could you do something that incredibly stupid?”

Bill squeezed his eyes shut tighter. He was already cold enough without seeing that cold and hateful look on Ford’s face. He wasn’t supposed to be there and Bill certainly didn’t intend to make him more upset.

He’d thought that it would be better to go somewhere else. Not just so he could get a last glimpse of the stars, but he’d thought it would be easier for them. No one would have to drag his body out of the Mystery Shack and get rid of it. But clearly using a loophole to leave when Ford tried to force him to stay in his room was the wrong decision. Bill’s absence probably fed into his paranoid fears rather than allowing him to finally feel safe again. It would have been better to just let them see proof that he was gone instead. That’s why Ford was angry now.

Or maybe it was because Bill failed. It was hard enough to force himself the first time, but it still felt easier than facing that empty void in his chest and Ford’s hatred. And it wasn’t about him.

Rick did what was best for Ilsa. He wanted her to be happy and safe.

“Do you realize how— If I had been any slower,” he continued, his voice still sharp and tense, “or if I had guessed wrong on where to find you—”

“Sorry,” mumbled Bill wearily.

As expected, moving was a new level of agony. But Bill gritted his teeth and tried anyway. Fumbling blindly and clumsily. Ignoring the sharper pain radiating up his arm as stiff fingers scrambled weakly for his bracelet. Inexplicably back on his wrist again, but not for long.

Except the arms supporting him abruptly moved, jostling him unpleasantly as a six-fingered hand wrapped around Bill’s wrist. Keeping him from being able to reach and, more importantly, remove the bracelet.

“Don’t. Please, don’t,” said Ford, his voice dropping and turning gentler. “I’m sorry. I didn’t— That was not how I planned to respond.”

Bill stilled at his words. Or at least stilled as much as the involuntary shivering would allow. He was relatively certain that this wasn’t right. Bill should be the one apologizing, shouldn’t he? That’s how it worked, right? And Ford didn’t quite sound angry now. There was some type of tension, but anger didn’t seem exactly right. Fear?

Maybe he was still muddled from everything.

Ford very slowly and very carefully rearranged his hold on Bill. Trying to get them both comfortable while ensuring that he kept a hold of Bill’s wrist, keeping him from bothering the bracelet. But all the caution wasn’t enough to keep him from hissing in pain.

“I’m sorry. I know it hurts,” he murmured.

The quiet and gentle tone made Bill’s chest ache in a different way. He managed to turn his face towards the sweater, trying to hide as his eyes burned. It wasn’t fair. He knew it wasn’t, but it almost felt like his Ford for a moment. He wasn’t certain what was going on, but Bill wasn’t going to be tricked into raising his hopes. He couldn’t bear it.

The most terrifying and dangerous entity in the entire multiverse, the former ruler of the Nightmare Realm, was scared to look at a simple human scientist. Pathetic.

Ford’s thumb brushed back and forth briefly where he held Bill’s wrist. He didn’t know if that made everything better or worse.

Breathing out slowly, Ford muttered, “Limited evidence so far, but mental faculties seem intact. The significant drop in body temperature, the lack of apparent energy, and the obvious pain point towards metaphysical damage, but I’ll need my equipment to determine the extent. And while the proper treatment for rib fractures would include periodic deep breaths and applications of ice to the injury, it may be better to wait on the latter until the drop in body temperature reverses.”

“Why?” mumbled Bill into the warm sweater.

“Because as important as reducing the swelling and pain might be, that is no reason to risk inducing hypothermia in June. Once your body temperature—”

“No,” he interrupted. Even putting a little force into his words was exhausting. “Why…? You want… gone and… forgotten…”

Bill was breathing a little harder, though he tried to keep it shallow enough not to worsen the pain. He wanted to shove himself out of the warm arms and stomp off. Or rather, that’s what he should do instead of stay in the rather comforting hold. Because it wasn’t real. But moving was impossible. Speaking was almost too exhausting. He could only shudder against the cold and keep his eyes pressed closed.

Maybe Ford was worried about the Theraprism being upset if Bill expired in his custody. He shouldn’t be. The contract only specified Ford killing him unprovoked was forbidden. Nothing said that Ford had to save Bill from himself.

Ford took a deep breath and let it out slowly. His arms tightened slightly.

“I did say that,” he said softly. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have… I was… I thought I was facing a threat to me and my family.”

Drawing his shoulders up despite the pain, Bill mumbled darkly, “Aren’t I?”

He was certainly a threat to his happiness. And he didn’t have the best track record when it came to not hurting those that mattered to him. He was a monster that would eventually kill them. Just like his family.

Bill was so tired. He was tired, cold, in pain, stuck in the wrong shape, and… And Ford hated him and Bill knew he wouldn’t be able to earn another chance. He barely convinced Ford last time before it was completely wiped away in an instant. There was no point trying again. He didn’t want to die, but it was the only option that would leave Ford safe and happy. And wasn’t that better than everyone being miserable? Because he was just so…

What was the point of continuing to try? Let the empty void inside himself destroy the one person that deserved it. Let it destroy himself instead of anyone else.

“Maybe once you were,” admitted Ford. “But you’re not a threat anymore. You’re…”

Ford fell silent. Undoubtedly realizing that he couldn’t make that lie believable. Honestly, Bill didn’t know why he was bothering. An attempt to make it seem kinder when he relayed the story to Dipper and Mabel? Probably. Any moment now, Ford would rip the bracelet off, dump the body, and walk away. Celebrate Bill’s demise and move on.

“Your name is Bill Cipher,” he said finally. Firm and intentional. “You are a yellow triangle from Euclydia. You made many mistakes. You destroyed many lives. You hurt those that you care about. You cannot erase the damage.”

Bill flinched, the reaction almost blending in with the exhausted shivering. His rebellious body was losing control of the stinging tears, letting them escape to soak into the sweater. It wasn’t exactly new information. But even in his hopeless misery as Ford laid out the reasons why they would be better off without Bill, he couldn’t help thinking that the words felt familiar.

“But,” he continued just as firmly, “you are trying to be better. It is not easy. It is hard work. Sometimes it feels impossible. But you are doing it.”

He stiffened in Ford’s arms. His blanket. His colorful knit blanket. Bill recognized the message that he’d carefully crafted for himself. He knew that Ford took it, but now he was reciting it?

“People believe you can change. You have been doing it for those giving you a chance. For yourself. For—”

“—Sixer,” interrupted Bill. The words slow, unsteady, and struggling to form, he continued, “Because he deserves better. I will never… hurt Ford again… and I will do anything… to prove it. Ford is… all that I… have left…”

He trailed off for several reasons. Because he was too worn out to try continuing. Because he felt like he was raising his hopes too much. And because he remembered what came next.

The version of Ford that didn’t remember the last few years would never accept or believe it. He would only see an attempted manipulation. A lie. But…

His voice still steady and firm, not a single hint of doubt in his tone, Ford said, “You love me too much to ruin everything again. You will not give up. Keep going.”

Bill stopped breathing. Not caring how weak his body might be or how much it would hurt, he somehow shifted his head slightly. Just enough that when he finally risked opening his eyes, he would be looking up at Ford.

Everything was still dark. But the stars were shining overhead and there was enough light to make out Ford’s face. Guilt, worry, and fragile hope were etched in his expression. Maybe fear as well. Far more important, however, was what Bill didn’t see. The cold hatred and distrust weren’t in his eyes.

Bill wasn’t an idiot. He could tell that Ford’s memories weren’t still incomplete. There was something off in his gaze that told him that everything wasn’t back to normal. But he looked closer now. It was almost right. Like he could glimpse the man that he was supposed to be in those bright and observant eyes.

Tension melting away as he smiled in exhausted relief, Bill whispered, “Missed ya, Fordsy.”

“I’m sorry. For so many things. I’m very sorry. But I’ll fix my mistakes if you give me the chance.”

The quiet and fraught apologies barely registered. All he cared about in that moment was that Ford was starting to act like his Ford again. He was remembering. And more importantly, he was holding onto Bill. He seemed to want Bill around.

He wasn’t alone.

The tears and shaky breathing plaguing his useless human body was solely from the pain and exhaustion. Anyone who claimed otherwise was a filthy liar who lies. Bill was not crying. That didn’t even make sense. Human hormones were weird, overwhelming, and didn’t make any sense, but tears were supposed to be connected to negative emotions. What he was feeling was the opposite of negative. So he was absolutely not quietly crying as his defective body shivered and shuddered in the man’s warm arms. He was fine.

But if Ford wanted to carefully hug him a little tighter against him, Bill wasn’t going to object.

Stanford knew by now that Bill reacted strongly to his emotions. His brother warned him. He’d glimpsed it in his recovered memories. And Bill’s recent suicide attempt proved it rather thoroughly. But it didn’t exactly prepare him for the quiet and exhausted tears as Bill stared up at him as if Stanford was something precious rather than the man who spent the past day-and-a-half being paranoid towards him.

Maybe it was the human appearance, how young he looked, or maybe it was how small Bill looked in his arms, but it was harder to remember him as the all-powerful monster threatening his family in the Fearamid or tormenting him thirty years ago. That knowledge was there, but mostly smothered out by guilt and relief.

Bill seemed far too accepting of the clumsy and improvised apology. Stanford knew that he would need to make a proper and thorough one later. But right now, he could only whisper “I’m sorry” over and over again. And yet Bill smiled through the tears at his words. An honest and real smile rather than the broad grin that Stanford was learning was his attempted poker face.

But not too long after regaining consciousness, Bill slipped back to sleep. Unsurprising, all things considered. Their brief conversation must have drained what little energy that he had left. Not to mention the pain and the obvious chill. Bill hadn’t stopped shivering despite Stanford’s attempts to keep him warm. He was alive, his mind seemed intact, but he was nowhere close to recovered from his stunt with removing his bracelet.

He needed to get Bill back. It might be summer, but the forest still cooled at night. And Stanford would feel more confident about his prognosis if he could get some readings about Bill’s state. Not to mention some ibuprofen or aspirin might help with the body aches.

And everyone was still waiting for an update.

Taking care not to disturb the exhausted Bill— his breathing slow in slumber, but reassuringly steady— Stanford carefully stretched his arm until he could slide his hand into his coat pocket. He’d always kept a wide variety of useful tools and resources stashed away inside his pockets; when he never knew what he might face in the next dimension or if he would need to leave in a hurry, it paid to be prepared and carry as many of his belongings as he could. Clearly that habit hadn’t faded over the years despite no longer wandering the multiverse. But after a few moments of searching, his fingers brushed against the relatively familiar shape of Mabel’s phone.

He didn’t know if it was nostalgia or laziness, but the phone number for the Mystery Shack was the exact same as when Stanford lived there alone decades ago. Stanley never changed it. And even after all this time, Stanford remembered.

Picking up partway through the first ring, Stanley’s gruff voice greeted, “Sixer, that better be you. Otherwise, whatever ya selling at this time of night, I ain’t buying.”

“First, ‘ain’t’ is not an actual word—”

“Ford.” There was an audible sigh of relief over the receiver. “You were starting to worry the kids. Do you know how long you’ve been gone? I finally had to send Soos to get some pizza to keep them distracted. And because we were starving. Please tell me you found the pointy pest.”

“I did find Bill,” he confirmed.

“Judging by your tone, I don’t think the kids should start celebrating yet,” he said, his voice dropping low.

“He’s alive. I promise that he’s alive.” Stanford paused, watching his chest briefly rise and fall reassuringly. “And as far as I can assess from a rudimentary exam, Bill is not in any immediate danger of dying.”

“But?”

Swallowing, he admitted, “I am fairly certain that at least one rib is fractured. At the moment, he’s also unconscious. And I do not believe that, even if he was awake, he would be capable of standing on his own, let alone walk back to civilization.”

Stanley muttered a quiet stream of nonsensical syllables. Undoubtedly resisting the urge to curse where Dipper and Mabel were likely attempting to eavesdrop. None of this was close to ideal.

But considering how close they came to the alternate, Stanford found himself preferring Bill in rough shape. They could fix that in time.

“I might be able to carry him back, but I would rather make the trip as easy on him as possible.” Going over his mental map of Gravity Falls, including his admittedly limited knowledge of the changes from decades ago, Stanford asked, “If I head to the closest road to my position, could you come pick us up in your car? I believe that we shouldn’t be too far from Greasy’s Diner as the crow flies, to borrow one of Fiddleford’s colloquialisms. Maybe a mile southwest further along the road? I am fairly certain that I can get us to that point without much difficulty.”

“Yeah, I can meet you there. Do you need me to bring anything? Sounds like he’s a bit banged up.”

“A blanket might be appreciated, but anything else can wait. He’s not bleeding, nothing else seems broken, and… I believe he’s stable. Physically, he simply drained of energy and struggling to keep warm.”

There was a pause. Stanford couldn’t help wondering if his brother was putting the pieces together and realizing the problem. He was smarter than most people gave him credit for. Including himself. He’d undoubtedly read the same contract as Stanford and heard the same explanations when Bill arrived. And Stanford remembered his twin’s involvement in patching Bill up after the Redcap encounter. He might have enough information to figure out at least a rough idea of what happened.

“Sure,” he said finally. “I can grab a blanket for him. Give me a few minutes and I’ll head out.”

“There’s no rush. I still have to walk out to the road.”

“It’s fine. See ya soon, Poindexter.”

As soon as the call ended, Stanford tucked the phone away in his pants’ pocket. Then he worked on rearranging Bill’s shivering body. A bridal carry might be similar to how he was already positioned. But it wasn’t the most stable or comfortable way to transport someone over a longer distance across rough terrain. Leaning forward to keep him balanced, Stanford draped Bill across his back. Limp arms slung over his shoulders while Stanford supported his legs to keep Bill from sliding off. He didn’t know how it might affect his cracked ribs, but he had to risk it. With his coat on top and Bill pressed against his entire back, there should be plenty of body heat to warm him.

And if their position should look like he was giving Bill a piggyback ride, then his dignity would simply have to accept the small blow. Stanford deserved far worse than a slightly silly appearance when the only person who might witness it would be Stanley. And it was the most practical way to transport him.

Stirringly weakly, Bill mumbled, “Ford…?”

“Don’t worry. Just rest,” he said quietly, starting the careful trek out of the forest. “We’re going home.”

Chapter Text

Stan did find some amusement in the fact that this was far from the first time he’d parked the Stanmobile by the side of a dark and empty road, waiting for a man to walk out of the woods carrying an unusual load of questionable origins. It was actually an almost routine occurrence at various points in his life. The biggest difference was that he wasn’t smoking as he killed time; Stan had forced himself to break the habit right before that first summer with the kids and he wasn’t destroying that streak now.

He had to find amusement where he could in the situation. Because there wasn’t much about any of this that was worth smiling over.

Arms crossed and leaning against the side of the car, Stan tried and failed not to dwell on the situation. When he told Ford that Dipper and Mabel were worried over how long he’d been gone, it was true. But they weren’t the only ones concerned. Stan knew that his brother hadn’t shared everything that he’d said or done lately. There was too much guilt in his expression and posture as he left. Then they didn’t hear a word for hours. It wasn’t exactly a promising sign.

And when his brother finally did call, it wasn’t enough to reassure Stan. The guilt, exhaustion, and stress in his voice was bad enough. Ford’s need to confirm specifically that Bill was alive was even more concerning. The admission about the cracked rib was almost a relief compared to the careful avoidance of the problems looming over everything.

Stan wanted to assume that Bill tripped and tumbled off a small cliff. The terrain was rough and there were plenty of small rises and edges that were easy to miss in the dark. He’d stumbled off a few of the less steep ones at different points over the decades during his search for the other journals. And Bill was clumsy enough for it to be plausible. Such a fall could bang him up enough to break a bone. It was a reasonable explanation. Completely mundane and ordinary.

Except the comment about Bill being weak and cold suggested another possibility. That was exactly what happened when he tried to use his powers and pushed himself too far. But he shouldn’t be able to use any of his powers without a direct order. And according to Ford, he only ordered Bill to stay away from the family and not to leave his room (with an apparent loophole he exploited to escape out the window). Stan couldn’t imagine his brother in his paranoid state giving him an order to use his powers in the middle of the woods at night. He didn’t know what might have happened, but Stan didn’t like the possibilities.

Watching the fireflies flicker and listening to the sounds of the night, Stan knew that he looked relaxed and unconcerned. But he was still paying attention to his surroundings. Even with his hearing aid, cataracts, and his brother’s relatively light steps, he wasn’t surprised when Ford emerged from the forest a little further along the road. Mostly, Stan was impressed at how closely he’d guessed the spot where his brother would show up. He waited by the car, but that didn’t stop him from taking note of the pair as Ford approached with his burden.

Ford appeared to be carrying Bill on his back, his dramatic action-hero coat draped over the lanky figure and making his brother look like hunchback. All that was missing was a bell tower for him to hide in. His twin’s expression was stubborn and determined, but it didn’t hide the impressive amounts of worry and guilt. Stan knew what the combination looked like on Ford after his own case of memory-gun-induced amnesia. And Bill was too limp to be conscious. He was also trembling and pale in a way that the headlights made impossible to miss. Honestly, they both looked awful. Ford just happened to be an emotional wreck with a controlled veneer and Bill looked more like someone scraped him off the ground in a particularly seedy alleyway.

And yes, Stan knew exactly what that looked like from experience.

Opening the back door, Stan asked, “Need some help?”

A conflicted look flashed across Ford’s face. As if his guilt demanded that he fix everything on his own, martyr-style. But after a moment, he seemed the consider the more practical aspects of getting a limp body into the backseat of a vehicle. Ford sighed slowly and gave a short nod.

Easing Bill off Ford’s back without him falling on his face involved going slowly. He was all gangly limbs and no help. Stan briefly thought that he might be about to stir, his brow briefly furrowing and a quiet groan as they maneuvered him. But there was no other reaction. He did notice that Bill’s skin was cool to the touch. If it wasn’t for the shivering, he would have assumed that he was helping his twin move a dead body.

As soon as they had Bill curled on his side in the backseat, Ford practically tore the control bracelet from his own wrist. Stan didn’t expect his brother to shove it at him.

“I clearly cannot trust myself with that,” he said, his voice tight.

Rolling his eyes at the slightly melodramatic tone, Stan said, “We can sort it out later.”

He opened the passenger door so he could toss the blanket into the glove box. Then Stan grabbed the colorful blanket in the seat. Ford’s eyes widened as he caught sight of it.

“You brought this blanket?”

“You didn’t say which one you wanted and it was already in the living room where you left it. Besides,” said Stan, handing him the blanket, “Bill made it and he likes it. I thought it might make him feel better.”

Ford didn’t immediately respond. Instead, he worked on carefully covering Bill with the blanket. His hand briefly drifted towards the seatbelt, but Ford seemed to realize the impracticability of it with Bill’s current position. So he slowly drew back, hand bracing against the door frame as he continued to stare down at the limp figure. Watching him sleep and shiver in the backseat. His expression grave and focused on Bill.

“It’s fine. He’s not going to stop breathing if you look away, Sixer,” said Stan after a while, keeping his tone gentle.

Stan didn’t expect his brother to flinch. Ford did turn away though. Leaning his back against the side of the car for support. His eyes were going distant and horrified in a way that Stan didn’t like at all.

“He did,” said Ford unsteadily.

“What?”

“He stopped breathing.”

Arms wrapping around himself, Ford slowly sank down until he was sitting on the ground. He took a shaky breath of his own that did nothing to hide the brief tremble. Knowing that his back and knees would make him pay for it later, Stan slowly sat down next to him. Leaning back against his car and pressing his shoulder against Ford’s in a supportive way.

Taking another shuddering breath, Ford said slowly, “I messed up. When I… The last thing that I told Bill before ordering him to his room like a prisoner was that I didn’t want to remember him. That I would have been happier if I never met him. And that what I wanted most was for Bill to be gone and forgotten.”

Stan couldn’t help wincing. Yeah, that wasn’t great. Especially with how incredibly obvious Bill’s feelings towards Ford were. His brother unfortunately had a talent for saying the exact wrong thing. The phrase “I’m giving you a chance to do the first worthwhile thing in your life and you won’t even listen” sprang to mind. But somehow Stan managed to hold his tongue. Ford was clearly already beating himself up about it. He didn’t need Stan telling him how badly he’d messed up because he already knew.

“He snuck out to where his petrified remains are,” he continued.

“The statue from when he was a triangle?”

Ford gave a weak nod. His head was slightly bowed, his shoulders hunched. And maybe it was a trick of the dim light, but there seemed to be a slight shine to them that could be tears. That set off all sorts of mental alarms in Stan’s head.

“Then he… I suppose he was attempting to give me what I claimed that I wanted,” said Ford bitterly, the self-loathing thick in his words. “Just as I located him, Bill was in the process of removing his bracelet.”

Whistling low, Stan muttered, “Holy Moses…”

Because even if he didn’t pay close attention to all of the details of how the Theraprism managed to mold a triangle into a human shape like a lump of clay, Stan did know that he needed to keep the bracelet on. Bill’s new body didn’t work without it. And it wasn’t as if Bill wasn’t aware of that. He knew how important that piece of metal was.

Bill taking it off was essentially a cleaner version of slitting his wrists or a simpler version of trying to overdose on sleeping pills.

His voice breaking slightly despite his clear efforts to remain in control, Ford continued, “By the time that I reached him and put his bracelet back on, he wasn’t breathing. His heart had stopped. That is the definition of clinical death.”

“But he’s not dead now—”

“You don’t understand, Stanley,” he interrupted miserably. “If I didn’t find him right then… If I made a mistake with my attempts to resuscitate him… It took so long. I didn’t know if my efforts would be enough. And all of it was my fault. My paranoia, my stubbornness, my refusal to listen and trust my family’s judgement…”

“Hey,” said Stan, turning in his brother’s direction. “None of that nonsense. Come here.”

He pulled at Ford until his head leaned forward to rest on Stan’s shoulder. The unsteady breathing and shuddering became a more recognizable pattern of silent sobs. Six-fingered hands grabbed tightly on Stan’s coat. He responded by sliding his own hands up to rub comforting circles across his brother’s back.

It was obvious that Ford had needed to remain calm and focused during the crisis. He’d held it together to make certain that Bill would be all right and taken care of. Now he needed a chance to feel safe facing all of those emotions— guilt, fear, relief, regret— and fall apart for a while. Stan could give him that opportunity and protect him. At least until he was ready to put himself back together again.

Ford helped him through his amnesia after Weirdmageddon. And while this felt a little more complicated, Stan would help him through this mess too.

When some of the tension left his frame and Ford’s breathing calmed down, Stan said, “I’m not gonna say that you made the best choices lately. You probably could have handled your case of amnesia better, but you still beat out Old Man McGucket. No giant killer robot rampages, right?” When that didn’t earn the slightest chuckle, Stan sighed quietly. “I get it. Bill scared you with that close encounter. We’ll keep an eye on him in case it wasn’t a one-time thing. But the guy already had issues before the last couple of days. He was in therapy for a reason. Not just because of trying to take over our dimension. So him having some dark moments and trying to kill himself isn’t completely your fault.”

“Enough of it is,” he muttered, slowly pulling out of the embrace. “I care about him. I have enough memories back now to see that. Despite everything, I care about him and yet I drove him to attempt suicide.”

“Well, ‘attempt’ is the key word. Because he’s alive and breathing and sleeping in the car right now.”

“But he came close to—”

“Close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades.” When Ford blinked owlishly, Stan grimaced and rubbed the back of his neck. “Heard McGucket say it once.”

“I thought it sounded familiar.”

“My point is that, whatever happened or how bad it was, it turned out all right in the end,” he said firmly. “Bill is alive, you’re remembering things, and we can fix everything, right? Driving yourself crazy with ‘what ifs’ won’t help anyone. All it’ll do is make you feel awful enough to do something stupid too.”

Stan didn’t mention how close he’d come to doing something stupid at different points over the decades. Desperation, the feeling of being trapped, and hopelessness could drive a man to consider a lot of possibilities that he shouldn’t. Sometimes it seemed like a kinder fate to die on your own terms than to be killed by someone who would choose the cruelest method possible. Sometimes it seemed easier to give up rather than continue to fail forever. Sometimes it didn’t feel like your life was worth anything.

But there was always a reason to drag him out of that dark and hopeless state. A postcard. A portal to fix and a brother to find. A young boy eager to be a handyman. A pair of twins that he would protect with his life.

He’d had his moments in the past where it seemed like he only had one real option. But he’d fought through it stubbornly. Stan kept going. And he intended to keep going. The Grim Reaper would have to fist fight him to drag him away.

But now was not the time to tell Ford about how close Stan came in the past to making his faked death a real one. Right now, his brother needed to focus on what was important.

Everyone was alive. And anything that was wrong, they could still fix. That’s what mattered. Everything else was just details.

Slowly pushing himself to his feet— smothering out the groan of pain because he was stiff— Stan reached down to help pull his brother up. Stan considered the weak smile that he received for the gesture a sign of progress.

Patting Ford’s shoulder briefly, he said, “Let’s get back. We’ll get Bill checked over and settled, we’ll get you a slice of that freaky pineapple pizza you like, and we’ll calm the kids down and show them you didn’t get eaten by gnomes.”

“We are highly unlikely to be devoured by gnomes, thought there are predatory species in the forest that could cause concern,” corrected Ford. “Both anomalies and more mundane creatures.”

Stan couldn’t help smiling. If his brother could correct him, then all hope wasn’t lost. Ford would be all right.

Bill almost woke up a few more times, but not quite. He was content to drift. Consciousness only brought pain and he was exhausted and weak. And when he did start to stir, a deep and comforting voice urged him to rest. Who was he to argue with that?

The world came through only in fragments. Being moved and repositioned a few times, his body aching despite the obvious care. Small pills and a straw pressed to his mouth, voices murmuring “take these” and “it should help with the pain.” That stirred up memories that he didn’t want to consider, but didn’t resist. Tepid water washed everything down. Soft voices said things too quiet to hear. Bill caught bits and pieces of these various moments before inevitably sliding back down into true unconsciousness again.

But eventually Bill couldn’t avoid drifting up towards the surface, slumber falling away. His limbs were heavy. His body still felt impossibly weak. But the pain had dulled. As long as he stayed still, it wasn’t that bad. And more importantly, he didn’t feel as cold anymore. He wasn’t shivering and he felt like some steady source of heat was pressed against him, radiating warmth.

It was actually rather nice.

There were voices. Actual voices and not the staticky screams of long-dead Euclydians. Bill knew the difference by now. But he did know the voices. They were extremely familiar. The most prominent one was Mabel.

“And this is from last summer. We managed to convince you both to come fishing with us.”

Dipper snorted and said, “We practically had to drag Bill along at first. He barely leaves the Mystery Shack. And as Mabel’s picture shows, he was clinging with all four limbs when I tried to shove him in the car and she wasn’t helping because she had the camera!”

“I was recording memories. And it’s a good thing that I did.”

“You still left me to try wrestling him alone. He’s like an octopus. Look at him.”

“Come on, Dip-Dop. It wasn’t that bad. And Bill stopped struggling as much when he realized that Grunkle Ford was joining us.”

“Tate had to loan us an extra boat to fit everyone,” said Stanley. “Otherwise we’d capsize under the weight.”

“It was fun. Dipper caught a fish,” she continued cheerfully. “Grunkle Stan stole someone else’s catch and his boat got chased around the lake for a while, so I mostly helped him evade pursuit. You talked about weird creatures that live in and around the lake. And Bill…”

Her voice trailed off and then there was a distinctive sound of a page being turned. Then some smothered laughter followed. He could even feel the soft warm surface that he was against shaking slightly with silent chuckles. Bill knew exactly what they were looking at.

While the boat didn’t capsize, that didn’t mean that everyone stayed in the boat. Bad luck, bad balance, and trying to get out of the way as Dipper yanked his fish up all led to Bill tumbling out. Ford and Stanley had insisted on life jackets for everyone, so he’d bobbed back up to the surface quickly. Hacking and coughing, but physically intact. But it was a heavy blow to his dignity. The words “drowned cat” were used to describe him.

As that embarrassed snapshot had everyone chuckling, Bill cracked open his eye. He seemed to be in the living room. Specifically curled on his side on the small couch, carefully bundled in his blanket. He could make out the bright patches of color. Something in him relaxed at the sight of the carefully knitted fabric. He could also spot Waddles scrunched up near his feet, a living space heater. There weren’t any windows in the room pointed towards the outside, but the light coming from the stairway entranceway suggested it was day now.

Bill also blearily noticed several wires vanishing into his blanket cocoon. They stretched down from the sofa and onto the floor before connecting to a clunky laptop-like device that his sluggish mind recognized as the portable monitor. Not quite as sensitive and detailed as all the more specialized sensors available in the lab downstairs, but it was easier to lug around and could provide some rudimentary insight into a subject’s physical and metaphysical condition. Bill tried not to look at the screen. He didn’t want to know how badly he’d messed himself up.

Judging by the directions of the voices, he knew that Stanley was probably in his armchair. Bill also realized that his head was resting on Ford’s lap, the man’s upper body leaning towards the arm of the couch; that was where they’d balanced the scrapbook and the younger twins were standing over it, pointing out the pictures and sharing stories.

Everything about his situation was rather nice. If it wasn’t for the monitor connected to him, Bill would almost assume that the last couple of days had been nothing more than a bad dream.

Well, there was also the weariness, general weakness, and the dulled pain all waiting for him to make the mistake of trying to move. Those were pretty big hints too.

“Let’s see… What else?” mumbled Mabel, flipping through the scrapbook. “I might have one from Bill’s first day learning to knit.”

“Maybe something less humiliating?” he asked, his dry throat rasping.

The multiple shouts of his name at close range weren’t unexpected. The Pines household was not a quiet one. That didn’t keep him from wincing at the volume. Maybe it would have been better to pretend to be unconscious still.

Then Ford’s hand lightly touched Bill’s arm and the decision didn’t seem as bad anymore.

“How do you feel?” he asked.

Prying his eyes back open, Bill said, “I’ve felt worse.”

Maybe that would calm them down. It wasn’t even a lie. But considering that he’d literally died previously, it might not be quite as reassuring if they thought about it too much.

Gritting his teeth, Bill forced his sore and shaking limbs to slowly push himself up. He didn’t expect Ford to support and steady him, but he did. Which kept him from collapsing partway through the effort. And while moving hurt and he was breathing hard afterwards, he could at least have any potential conversations sitting up. His rather trampled dignity appreciated it.

He did notice a lot of worried looks being directed towards him. Then Ford cupped his face with his hands. Turning Bill’s face towards him, his gaze sweeping over him with a serious expression. Studying him as Ford moved a finger in front of Bill’s eyes, pressed carefully around his throat, and mostly confirmed for himself what the monitor was already telling him.

It felt a little vulnerable, being inspected like that. But the concern woven into the scientific investigation felt a little reassuring. There was a sense of care to the examination.

“I’m fine, Ford,” he murmured. “Better than earlier. Promise.”

Hesitating a moment, he said, “Your body temperature is much better. But I suspect you’re still experiencing body aches. You could probably take another dose of medication to help with that, but it would be better if you don’t take it on an empty stomach. I don’t know how you’re feeling after all of that, so maybe we should start with something light like dry toast or—”

“Leftover pizza?” suggested Mabel eagerly.

Only now realizing that part of the awful weak feeling was due to being completely famished, Bill said, “Pizza sounds great, Shooting Star.”

“Be back in two minutes,” she shouted, grabbing Dipper’s hand— because operating the microwave was clearly now a two-person job— and running towards the kitchen.

Eyeing him from his armchair, Stanley said, “You know you really scared those kids by running off and coming back half-dead, don’t ya?” When Bill didn’t respond, he added, “And my brother.”

“Stanley,” began Ford, but his twin waved him off.

“Don’t scare them like that again or me and you? We’ll have a problem again. Got it?”

Staring down at his blanket and slowly shifting around the fabric, Bill muttered, “Yeah, you’re the only one allowed to murder me. Don’t get to die any other way. Got it. Won’t happen again.”

“It better not. I just got used to you wandering around here.”

One arm carefully sliding around to squeeze his shoulders in a sideways hug, Ford said quietly, “I am sorry. For everything.”

“I know,” said Bill, trying to rearrange his blanket.

He managed to pull out one arm and then he froze. A scarf had been wrapped around his wrist in a rather thick layer before being tied in a complicated-looking knot. It wasn’t so tight it would cut off circulation, but it didn’t look like it would be easy to get out of. And he certainly wouldn’t be able to reach his bracelet very quickly. That scarf, and thus the bracelet underneath, were not going anywhere.

Okay, he probably deserved that precaution.

Chapter Text

His room was starting to look back to normal. The floor swept and his belongings picked back up. An apologetic offer to paint his walls, but he couldn’t decide on a color and declined. But his posters and magazine clippings were carefully returned to their proper places. His books and other belongings were replaced on the shelves. A new crystal pyramid found its way into his room. His bedding was freshly washed, his pillow was fluffed, and his knit blankets were neatly folded. His knitting needles were back in his trunk.

It was almost as if nothing had happened.

Bill took his time walking down the short steps into his room. He’d rejected Soos’s friendly offer to tack up some type of railing for those couple of steps. He wasn’t always perfectly stable, but he was recovering and wasn’t as much of a fall risk now. He wasn’t as weak anymore. In the immediate aftermath, he had needed support whenever he tried to move around. Someone was with him constantly.

And not only to keep him from falling on his face.

The scarf wrapped around his wrist to keep him from reaching his bracelet? They didn’t undo the complicated fisherman’s knot until a few days later when the smell started getting distracting. He couldn’t really complain too much. In hindsight, it was not one of his better plans. But it wasn’t like he planned to try again. The recovery was too frustrating to repeat. And his main motivation to do something that drastic…

Well, he didn’t have to do it again. None of them wanted him gone and forgotten.

Apparently, Bill was taking longer to make sure that he was steady after making it down those two steps than he realized. Or maybe he was too distracted appreciating that his room was back to normal. He heard an awkward shifting behind him.

“Are you all right?” asked Ford from the doorway. “Do you need to sit down?”

Turning just enough to see him over his shoulder, Bill said, “It was a short walk across the shack. I’m not a complete invalid.”

“Technically—”

“Ford,” he whined. “I’m not about to collapse. It’s fine. Let me enjoy spending a night in my own bed.”

While they’d only made him wear the portable monitor for about a day— Ford almost obsessed with ensuring that the metaphysical damage had stabilized and his soul wasn’t on the verge of complete structural collapse— Bill had been sleeping on the couch since his near-death experience. It was the compromise. They could keep an eye on him in case of any problems and he didn’t have to stay wired up. The teenaged twins talked about sleepovers and brought down sleeping bags to take turns watching over him. But in the end, Bill knew that Ford ended up keeping an eye on his recovery almost constantly. There had been little to no sleep during that time. By now, Bill was an expert on the dark circles under the man’s eyes.

Maybe he would sleep properly now. Either that or he’d hover outside Bill’s door all night. Guilt and worry were a potent combination.

Other than maybe a few minor memories that they just hadn’t managed to stumble on yet, Ford’s amnesia seemed to be mostly gone by now. And unfortunately, the restored memories had only served to make him feel worse about his behavior. Mabel had to eventually flop on the man’s lap and put a smiley sticker on his forehead to stop him from moping.

“I am merely concerned about you pushing yourself too hard and causing a setback in your recovery,” said Ford. “Granted, most of the damage was to your soul rather than your physical body—”

“Except my ribs,” he interrupted. “Those are still a bit tender. I can’t believe that they take weeks to heal. That doesn’t sound right. Are you sure that you and Pine Tree aren’t pulling my leg?”

“—but it might still exasperate those injuries somehow. There is nothing wrong with being cautious.”

Rolling his eyes, Bill said, “Then maybe you should get in here. Standing in the hall isn’t going to make you less stressed. You’ll have an easy job making me be ‘cautious’ if you’re closer.”

Ford’s eyes briefly flickered towards the floor. His hands tucked themselves behind his back. He always tried to hide them when he was uncomfortable.

“After what I did previously in your room, which is your personal space that I had no right to invade,” he said quietly, “I did not want to risk overstepping your boundaries.”

“You’re not overstepping if I’m asking. I want you, Fordsy.”

He hesitated a moment. Then Ford gave a small nod and followed him into the room. Some of the tension seemed to melt out of him when Bill didn’t reject his presence.

Of course he wouldn’t. He just got his Ford back. Bill certainly wouldn’t push him aside now.

“Looks like you guys straightened up pretty well in here,” said Bill, trying to pull Ford out of the awkward guilt.

Shifting slightly, he said, “It was mostly Stanley and the children who put everything to right. I was mostly preoccupied supervising your recovery.”

“Maybe, but I’m pretty sure that you’re responsible for the new crystal pyramid.” He gestured vaguely in the direction of the new addition to the room. “Admit it. You had Question Mark order it over the internet.”

“It’s not my fault that it is nearly impossible to navigate that disorganized mess,” he muttered, essentially confirming that suspicion as he crossed his arms. “If they would have established a more sensible framework for standard layouts from the start, the internet would be far more educational and practical than—”

Chuckling, Bill slid in close and pressed himself into Ford’s side. Which thoroughly ended the building rant. Ford briefly stiffened before letting a hand shift to rest against Bill’s lower back. That combined with the comforting scent of the man’s sweater was actually really nice.

And Bill absolutely didn’t need anyone to keep him upright anymore, but he wouldn’t complain in Ford was essentially steadying him. If it made the man feel better, he would go along with it. For Ford’s sake, not because his endurance was still recovering.

“The crystal pyramid was nice,” he said. “A great ‘get well soon’ gift. When I got stabbed by a Redcap, I got a hoodie out of it. Wonder what I’ll get next time?”

The light-hearted remark did not go as planned. Ford stiffened again worse than before and the supportive hand moved to become more of a tight embrace. Fingers digging into the fabric. His ribs complained, but not strongly. Bill turned his head enough to avoid squishing his nose into the sweater.

Human noses were impractically designed. Not to mention so punchable. No wonder they broke so easily.

“I would greatly prefer for there not to be a ‘next time,’” said Ford a little unsteadily.

“I mean, it wasn’t exactly a picnic for me either. I’m certainly not eager for a repeat. But while I can’t promise not to break a limb falling down the stairs, I have no intention of trying to destroy myself any time soon.” Thinking of the blanket folded on his bed, he said firmly, “Got to keep going, right? And I will, Ford. Even if it means being stuck in this uncomfortable shape, I want to stay with you for the rest of your life.”

Bill left it unsaid that the moment that Ford was gone permanently, there was no force in the entire multiverse that would stop him from pitching the bracelet into the Bottomless Pit. Assuming that the Theraprism didn’t decide that he was ready for reincarnation and drag him off before that point. But based on recent events, Ford would not be comforted by that. So he kept his mouth shut.

After a few moments, Ford loosened his death grip on Bill’s shirt. Then he slowly eased away enough to turn his attention back towards the rest of the room.

“I had Soos order one other thing. He should have put it under your bed,” he said.

Well, now Bill was curious. Pulling away from the cozy spot against Ford, he moved over towards the bed. Kneeling down on his knees was manageable, but he almost leaned down too quickly as he pulled back the edge of the quilt. But the smothered gasp and his complaining ribs weren’t enough to distract him from his investigation. Though he did end up blinking in surprise.

There was a safe under his bed. Not a huge one like the one in the office. Sturdy, but not much bigger than a shoebox. A number pad and a handle took up most of the front. It didn’t seem to be the fanciest or most expensive or most high-tech model; Bill didn’t have to be an expert to guess that much. But it seemed relatively secure.

Straightening slightly, Bill asked, “What’s with the safe? Don’t think that my pocket change is enough to warrant it.”

Ford crouched down on the floor next to him, digging into his pocket. Bill had no clue what he expected him to pull out, but the bracelet wasn’t it.

Not Bill’s bracelet, still safely on his wrist. The other one. The custodian’s bracelet. The control bracelet. The bracelet that Ford had exactly zero reason to be trying to hand over.

“While the chances of losing my memory like that a second time are practically negligible, it is extremely clear that the only person that should have access to it is you,” said Ford firmly. “You can loan it to one of us if you want to use your powers. Otherwise, it stays with you and no one else. The safe is just a precaution. No one here will touch it without your permission ever again.”

Swallowing, Bill whispered roughly, “You don’t have to do this. I trust you.”

“Right now, I don’t fully trust myself. I have caused enough harm lately.”

Bill gave a breathy laugh. If they got into a competition on which of them had hurt the other worse, that was not something that Ford would ever win. The man could purposefully torture him for months without rest and never come close.

But he wouldn’t. Because things had changed. And Ford didn’t want to hurt him.

Bill stared at him for a moment. Searching that familiar face. Almost basking in the care, concern, and warmth in Ford’s eyes that were impossible to deny. Then he gave a short shrug.

“If it makes you feel better,” he said with deliberate casualness, “then I suppose I can keep a hold of it.”

He took the bracelet from Ford. But rather than immediately going through the trouble of setting up a new code right then, Bill snapped it onto his other wrist.

Immediately afterwards, the idea that wearing both at the same time could be bad crossed his mind. But it was already too late to worry now. But since he didn’t immediately explode, Bill decided it was probably safe.

Bill was relatively certain that he would be able to climb back to his feet on his own without falling on his face. But he didn’t get to test that theory because, as soon as he tried to stand up, Ford immediately moved to help. The guilt-fueled overprotectiveness wasn’t going to disappear quickly. He managed to move Bill enough to sit on the edge of the bed; it felt better sitting down than he wanted to admit. Ford did seem surprised when Bill tugged on his arm to encourage him to sit next to him.

“Take off the boots, Sixer. I don’t want muddy footprints on my bed.”

“What are you talking about?”

Fighting back a yawn, Bill said, “You’re sleeping with me.”

The guilt and concern on Ford’s face was immediately replaced by a completely flabbergasted expression. Bill couldn’t help the tired chuckle that slipped out.

“I mean literal sleeping,” he clarified. “You’re exhausted. And we both know that you’ll stay up all night worrying in your room. So I’m going to make you stay in here and actually sleep.” When Ford still seemed uncertain, Bill added, “I’ve been napping all over you like a rag doll lately. Doing it on a bed instead of a couch really isn’t that different. Just probably better for your back.”

Ford hesitated a little longer, but Bill went ahead. Rearranging himself and the pillows into a comfortable position. He’d already learned that leaning back or sitting up was easier on his ribs when he clutched a pillow to his chest, making him ache less with the movement. But he tended to forget about it until he was already in motion.

As Bill started laying back, Ford abruptly pressed a pillow against him. Because he wouldn’t forget.

Once Bill was settled in place, the sturdy boots and coat came off. Then Ford crawled over him to the far side of the bed. Pressing himself in the space between Bill and the wall. The man almost seemed settled and comfortable, but then he abruptly sat up.

Bill started to ask what he was doing. But then his knit blanket was covering them both up. Soothing and warm. His eyes swept across the bright colors and let the message comfort him.

Despite still being on the road to recovery, it wasn’t Bill that drifted off first. Ford’s breathing gradually slowed and deepened. He shifted slightly, knocking his glasses askew. His hand eventually migrated over to rest on Bill’s chest. And since it didn’t seem to bother his ribs, Bill left it in place.

This was what it was supposed to be like. This almost felt right. Bill felt himself relaxing, everything quiet and calm even while he wasn’t alone. With Ford’s warmth and burnt hair scent and impossible-to-describe Ford-ness.

They would both get a good night’s sleep. There would be breakfast in the morning, filled with chatter around a crowded table. Bill would work on those six-fingered gloves or watch a movie with Mabel or tease Dipper with another conspiracy theory or maybe finally play chess with Ford like promised. He would keep trying to be good enough to deserve this chance to have Ford’s affection. He would treasure the impossibly happy ending for a monster, never taking it for granted.

But mostly, once he got his strength back, Bill was definitely tossing that hillbilly in the Bottomless Pit.