Work Text:
The manic grin on Ford’s face spread wider as Bill used his body to open the closet door.
The storage space which held tools and hardware of various kinds held a veritable treasure trove of things with which he might try to persuade Ford. Thus far Bill had gone easy on him, holding back for reasons even he could not bring himself to admit.
He’d tried kinder things already. Waking Ford up with a cold shower to make him get the hint that he should take care of his hygiene and showering wasn’t keeping him away. Leaving notes alongside gifts like coffee or rattlesnakes in order to convince him to talk. He thought Ford liked snakes. He had even laid out supplies to treat the injuries he was causing. Unfortunately, a little sleep deprivation and his usual tactics had failed. He’d have to up the ante.
So here he was, faced with a plethora of choices. Bill picked up a pair of pliers and felt the weight of them in his hand. He could always go the classic tooth pulling route. Teeth were fun.
Bill ran Ford’s tongue along the teeth in his mouth, bared in almost a snarl as he opened his mouth to poke at a molar. Memories of his own tongue brushing against those teeth filled his mind, reminding him of a night full of 70s hits and myoclonic jerk.
He put the pliers back.
Bill ran a six-fingered hand through Ford’s hair, something he always found comforting in other situations. Truly it seemed he was going soft. His henchmaniacs had called him out on it, telling him he was spending far too much time with that human of his. He’d denied it, but now, as he hesitated even to pull a molar, he knew they’d been right.
“They just don’t understand what me and Sixer have,” he muttered, exasperated despite being alone.
-
Ford placed the golden idol of Bill on the makeshift altar he’d created in his private study. Tapestries lined the walls and glass prisms served as placeholders as he awaited further inspiration or commissioned works to be finished. It was all coming together quite nicely.
“‘You are to have no other gods before me,'” he said thoughtfully, admiring his handiwork. “'You are not to make for yourselves a carved image or any kind of representation of anything in heaven above, on the earth beneath or in the water below the shoreline. You are not to bow down to them or serve them; for I, your God, am a jealous God, punishing the children for the sins of the parents to the third and fourth generation of those who hate me.’”
“Whoa, Sixer,” Bill said, floating beside Ford. He’d planned on interrupting him, wanting to make him jump in surprise, but he’d been too enraptured by the words Ford was reciting. “I like the sound of that, what’s that from?”
“Hello, Bill,” Ford greeted him with a smile. He was glad to see Bill had opted to join him to see how much work he’d put into the shrine’s latest installments. “It’s just something I grew up learning, and I suppose it stuck more than I’d hoped it would. It’s part of the Book of Exodus, one of the Ten Commandments.”
“Well, clearly you’re a rule breaker like myself if you’ve got so many carved images of me lying around instead. Love what you’ve done with the place, by the way.”
“Thank you, my Muse” Ford flushed with pride at the praise. “Not to worry. I left those traditions back with my parents in New Jersey. I don’t follow them anymore.”
“Great to hear, Fordsy, but I think I’d like you to keep that rule, actually. For me,” Bill said, “I want you to promise to have no other gods before me and bear only my likeness…” He floated down in front of Ford, posing the same as the new golden idol Ford had placed down. “For I, your Muse, am a jealous Muse, and I will kill your family or something if you end up hating me.”
“You don’t have to worry about that,” Ford laughed kindly, finding his Muse endlessly charming. “I could never put anyone else before you, Bill.”
-
Bill glanced at the scars at the back of Ford’s hands and a pit of jealousy built in his - or rather Ford’s - chest. He knew Ford had been using that hillbilly’s gloves to cover the marks he’d left on him. He ought to find them and burn them the next time he took over Ford’s body.
Next he picked up a mallet. A bit cartoonish, but who didn’t enjoy a broken femur every now and again? But that might make it too difficult to get down to the portal. He tapped the tool into his palm as he pondered what the best way to hurt Ford might be without damaging him too badly.
It wasn’t like he enjoyed hurting Ford like this, exactly. He much preferred his reactions when he’d pleased him. Finishing equations and waking him with coffee, making him feel cherished and special the same way Ford did for him...
“Everything I’m doing is for you, Sixer,” Bill muttered, a blended form of his voice and Ford’s reverberating through his vocal chords. “It’s for your own good, you'll see.” One day they would laugh about this, he was sure. Ford would come around sooner or later and he’d understand why the portal was a good idea, for both of them. He should have jumped at the chance to fill the world with all the weird phenomena and strange creatures he loves. Strange creatures like Bill.
His grip on the mallet tightened.
He didn’t understand why Ford wouldn’t relish the idea of Bill entering the physical world. Wouldn’t that have been the best thing for them both?
Or perhaps Ford had just been using him as a tool the whole time?
Bill put the mallet back in favor of a much weightier, metal hammer along with a box of nails. After a moment of consideration, he grabbed a pair of wire cutters as well and brought them over to a workbench, scattering whatever junk had been on it. Something shattered on the ground. He was sure it was nothing important.
It wasn’t that far-fetched of a suggestion. No other human had ever truly liked Bill. They’d all only ever tolerated his company in exchange for the power and knowledge he could provide them. Was it so unreasonable that Ford was the same?
-
”My Muse!” Ford beamed up at Bill, delighted to see him. “I’ve been anxiously awaiting your return. I was worried, it’s been weeks since we last spoke.”
“Oh really?” asked Bill skeptically. Had it really been weeks? He hadn’t realized. “What were you so worried about, Fordsy? Think I’d elope with some other scientist?”
Ford balked at the very idea. “Wh-” he sputtered, “I- No, my Muse! You wouldn’t do that, would you? Surely not.” The thought that he wasn’t as special and valued to Bill as he thought devastated him.
Bill knew it wasn’t an act. He filed that information away for later and rushed to reassure him. “I’m kidding, IQ, don’t get your undies in a bunch. No one in this century- no, this millennia, could ever replace you.” He fondly ruffled Ford’s hair and could practically feel Ford relaxing into his touch. “Time just moves differently when you’re immortal, that’s all. A few weeks is like a few hours for me, and I’m a busy guy.”
“Of course.” Ford’s relief was almost palpable. “That makes sense, I had wondered as much, but…” Ford’s voice trailed off, but Bill followed the thought. He knew Ford had been worried he’d been deemed inadequate in some way. “Well, I suppose I’m just grateful you’re here.”
“So what’s got you so eager?” Bill asked, intrigued and ready to change subjects to the topic at hand. Usually Ford only had a new mushroom discovery or some kind of moth to show him, so he wasn’t especially interested, but it was nice that Ford always thought to show him all the same. Surely, though, he must have something to ask of him this time around. “What did you need me for so badly?”
Ford seemed perplexed by the question. “Need you?” he parroted, then realized that Bill must only be summoned when someone wanted something from him. And here he’d been summoning him regularly for frivolous things like moths. “Oh. Well, this is embarrassing,” he continued sheepishly. “I suppose I just wanted to see you. I’m so sorry, I hadn’t realized.” He silently berated himself, though Bill heard every word.
It left Bill stunned to know that Ford truly did just enjoy his company.
-
Bill toyed with a massive nail, the type intended for wooden panel boards. Maybe he should just push him just a little further. Then he would surely see and admit his mistakes.
Bill’s gaze slipped from the nail to Ford’s palm.
“I warned you. I told you,” Bill muttered. He had warned Ford of the wrath he would incur were he to continue to oppose him at every turn. Bill balanced the nail between the two prongs on the back of the hammer to steady it before lining it up. He placed Ford’s palm flat on the workbench in front of him.
Really, it was Ford’s fault. He was forcing Bill’s hand. Ford was making him do this.
Bill brought the hammer down, fast and steady, careful not to damage the skin around the single puncture wound. The nail sunk into the back of Ford’s hand with a sharp, excruciating pain that would make any sane man recoil. Unfortunately, a sane man was not the one in charge at the moment.
Bill flipped the hammer around and brought it down again, harder this time, embedding the nail further.
The camera he’d set up earlier to show photos to Ford as part of his punishment shuttered and caught the point of impact, polaroid slipping out and onto the floor.
Bill laughed as he hammered the nail in, relishing the pain he knew Ford couldn’t feel in the moment, but would definitely feel soon and for a long time to come. Maybe the nerve damage would stay with him his whole life.
Why wouldn’t Ford just listen? Why did it take such desperate measures? Hadn’t he pushed him far enough already?
Bill hammered the nail deeper until it was flush with his skin, the tip of it embedded into the surface of the desk beneath his palm. It had gone clean through.
“There,” Bill said with a shaky laugh. He dropped the hammer on the floor with a loud clatter, his hand trembling heavily as adrenaline and cortisol pumped through Ford’s body more powerful than any drug. “That should keep you still enough for the next part.”
Bill grabbed the wire cutters.
Ford had always hated to bring attention to his hands. He’d despised being reminded of them, distracting himself from them or hiding them away in his pockets. Until Bill, of course. Bill had reminded him of how special he was. The longer they’d spent time together, the more confidence Ford had gained. Around Bill, he didn’t hide the things that made him feel out of place. He didn’t have to.
"You’re always complaining about how you don’t fit in.” he said, positioning the wire cutters above Ford’s hand. He spent extra time trying to decide which finger looked the most disposable. “I should take away the only thing that ever made you special," He finally settled on one of Ford’s ring fingers. The blades of the wire cutters were sharp enough to cut the skin as it brushed up against it. Fresh blood trickled to join the drying pool from his hand..
Bill’s breathing was heavily labored as he held the tool in his hands. It would be so easy to squeeze down and sever the connection they’d once shared. In one easy motion, he could rip away what made Ford different, what set him apart. What brought them together.
-
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-
The wire cutters clattered to the floor. Ford’s fingers remained intact.
Bill ran an uninjured hand over his face - Ford’s face - as if he could hold back the sudden sobs wracking his body. Stupid human anatomy was catching up with him. Ford’s body was weeping, he decided. Not him.
Why didn’t Ford understand? This was all for him. For them. If he would just listen, maybe things could go back to the way they were before. He stared at the nail embedded in Ford’s hand, his vision blurred over with tears. Sticky wet blood stained the wood grain beneath it as it slowly dried.
Bill feared he’d already destroyed too much to go back. Just like he always did with everything else.
The camera he’d set up to take photos at various intervals spat out another image.
Bill ran a hand through Ford’s hair, struggling to soothe himself even as his face ached from baring his teeth. Slightly more composed, he picked up the photo from where it fell. This wasn’t a photo he wanted Ford to see.
He fumbled around in Ford’s trench coat pockets, searching for the matchbox and pack of cigarettes he knew would be there. He set the matches on the table and pulled out a cigarette from the pack, dangling it between his lips before tucking the remaining box back into Ford’s coat.
Smoking was Bill’s bad habit that he’d forced onto Ford’s body shortly after he’d been allowed in it. Bill had blamed it on Fiddleford’s tobacco habits.
With a bit of effort, Bill yanked the nail out of the table it was stuck in, irritating the puncture. If there wasn’t nerve damage before, there certainly would be now.
It was a little difficult to do with a nail still in his hand, but he pinched the developing photo between his fingers. With his good hand, he struck a match, first lighting his cigarette with it and then, holding it up to the still developing photo. Bill watched the photo continue to change even as it burned.
In the photograph was Ford’s frame, crumpled pathetically against the wood, perfectly centered in the frame. He looked so small as the fire finally fully engulfed him.